#if i had more spots i would have added in one for the history of communications exhibit and

[inthehexcore]

pages and books

summary: The quiet Enforcer stops by your quiet library. Multiple times.

content: STEB! librarian!reader gets sick, fluff, can't think of much else! probably ooc

wordcount: 2.397

a/n: i love Steb so much... inbox/requests open!

⠂⠄⠄⠂☆

The sun in Piltover shone as bright as it always did. It lit up the entire library, and you could not help but hum as you pushed the cart of books around. The warmth of the rays only made the building look more beautiful, something which you were not aware was even possible.

The high ceilings with curved windows and hand-painted images, detailed golden pillars, royal blue seats with dark wooden tables. Not all of your fellow students liked the library. To be fair, there were tons of other stunning places all around Piltover, but yours was here.

You spent so much time surrounded by the books that you just ended up taking a side job as the assistant. It meant pouring coffee and putting back books, but it also meant reading when everything was cleaned and drinking the sweet tea that was technically only meant for the professors.

With the library not being the most popular spot, it also allowed you to brush up on skills and even pick up new things to learn. The history of Piltover, Professor Heimerdinger's autobiography, varieties of plants, but most recently, you found a book about sign language. It was interesting for sure. Every time you put the loaned books back in their spot, another one got added to the stack of other books that you still wanted to read during your breaks.

So, as per usual, you sat at the window near the counter. Even with it being your break, you still liked to be close to your workspace, just in case someone came in.

A steaming cup of tea stood beside your book as you flipped through the pages, admiring the photographs of Piltover's 'ten most beautiful buildings', occasionally stirring the cup of tea and taking a sip out of it. Stuck in your own world, though your gaze moved to outside the window ever so often. From here, you could see the main square - the market, Enforcers, students.

The watch around your wrist kept ticking away, reminding you that your break had already stopped a few minutes ago. A neat bookmark got placed between the pages of the book as you turned around, nearly dropping the hot beverage that you were holding.

Right in front of you stood a tall Enforcer. His face was blank and his hands were clasped behind his back. You were nearly jealous of his posture - you must have looked idiotic with how hunched over you were sitting.

"Oh, Officer! I hope I didn't keep you waiting for too long."

The man slowly shook his head, his eyes set on you as you moved back to the counter, placing the book that you were reading back on its space. He took a step closer, his arms still behind him.

"What can I help you with today?"

He held out his hand, a small note hidden in the grip of his glove. A short list with some of the most specific books you had seen in a while. Even though you did not dare to ask him why he needed all of these, you could not help but try to theorize.

Maybe he was working on a weapon, or what if he went off into the wilderness and build a house out of nothing but sticks and mud?

"Ha, this might take me a moment to find. Would you like some tea, Officer?"

Quietly, he stared at you for a moment before shaking his head. He just had his break - after bringing these books to Commander Kiramman, his day was basically over. Patrol for an hour, and then it was time for him to relax. Finally away from all the loud sounds of the city. But being in the empty library was not unwelcome, either.

"I will be back in a sec!"

It was much longer than a sec.

With every minute, you got more and more anxious. How could you keep an Enforcer waiting for this long? There was no one in the entire library! Your footsteps sounded heavy and you felt like every breath you took was one too loud. But, after fifteen minutes and lots of going up and down ladders, you finally found all the books on his list.

"And... Phew! This should be all," you wiped your hands, "Do you need help bringing it to... your office?"

Silently, the Enforcer shook his head again, reaching for the stack of thick books as he held them in his hands.

"Oh! What name can I put these on? That way I can remember, for next week!"

Next week? Oh, to return the books.

The man looked around him for a moment before his eyes fell on the small notebook next to you. He glanced at it as he looked back at you. You furrowed your eyebrows for a moment before going 'aha!', reaching for your notebook as you opened it on a blank page, handing him your pen. If you could have, you would have chuckled. A strong officer writing in your sparkly notebook with a neon-coloured gel pen.

He put the pen back down, nodding before taking one step back.

"Thank you so much. Till next time, Officer Steb."

Even with the interaction being a little under a week ago, you still had not moved on from it. His intense, blue gaze, his straight and confident posture. His handwriting even - it was immortalized in your notebook.

You found yourself looking for him through the windows, and while walking through the square, you would keep an eye out for his tall figure. 'He still has two days to return the books,' you thought to yourself. Most people even turned their books in late. But he was an Enforcer, so you highly doubted that he would.

Humming again as you placed the books back on the shelves, your cart now empty. Except for a few students in the far corner of the library, you were all on your own. You didn't mind - it left you with some time to finish up the essay that was due for tomorrow. So, with a sigh, you pushed the cart back to the counter.

There, in front of the small spot where you always sat, stood Officer Steb. It seemed to immediately lift your spririts as the cart suddenly felt much lighter.

"Officer Steb!"

His ears slightly moved back a little, not expecting your voice to suddenly pop up, but as he saw you, he gave you a nod.

"And, how did you like the books?"

He only nodded in return, placing the stack of books down on the counter. All of them had been put in alphabetical order - he must be an organized man. You pulled up his page, making sure that you had all the correct books as you nodded, scribbling down all the extra information before handing him the handwritten receipt.

"Could I do anything else for you, Officer?"

Steb was quiet - he was quiet often times. Out of his pocket, he fished another note with a few more books on it. The Undercity's History, a cookbook, 'Haircutting for Dummies!', and some more titles. You glanced up at him, trying hard not to let chuckles escape from you.

"Are these… All for you?"

You spot the tiniest shape of a smile as he shook his head. He tapped his Enforcer badge as you nodded, an 'oooh' as you looked back at the list.

"Be right back!"

This time, you found the books much faster. Not that Steb minded if you took a while - he enjoyed the library. He liked the books, the smells, the sun - you. Maddie offered to bring all the loaned books back to the library, but by the time she could even think about standing up, Steb was already out the door. The rest of the Enforcers shrugged it off as the man just wanting to spend some quiet time on their own. It was what he did.

But you.

How… Happy you always were. Cheery, but not overwhelmingly so. A bright flash of the sun through dark clouds. A stark contrast to his stoic demeanour, fire and water.

"There we go," you hummed, brushing a strand of hair out of your face as you pushed the cart back to the desk, "Can I put it under Officer Steb again?"

Hearing his name coming from you felt new, refreshing. He nodded, reaching over for the stack.

"Well, if you use the haircut book, let me know."

Steb snorted with a smile before clearing his throat, quickly standing back up straight before nodding. He was looking forward to next week.

For months, he came every single Tuesday, always around the same time. It must be during his break, or during his patrol. Only once had someone else shown up, Officer Nolan, as she introduced herself. She was nice and very talkative, so the two of you spent quite some time at the desk, chatting away. The week after that, Steb had written something extra on a note that he had stuck in a book.

'Sorry for Officer Nolan'

It had made you laugh.

Every week, the list of books would be different from the one before. Not only that, but the topics of said books could not be further apart. It was after a month of wondering that Steb answered the burning question that you had in mind. 'They are for the entire squad. They make a list, I get the books.' It made sense. So now, every week, you would try to guess which of the Enforcers would be reading which book. A fun little game, and thankfully Officer Steb would humour you, nodding or shaking his head depending on if your guess was right.

Over time, it felt like a friendship. More details of Steb came to the surface, and he would ask about your day. Favorite foods, hobbies, things you both hated. Officer Steb did not speak much, but he was comforting company. If bringing the book was his last task of the day, then he would stay at the library for a moment, starting the book that was meant for him. The last few times, you also placed a cup of tea next to him when he wasn't looking. It was like a challenge to see if he noticed you sneaking up on him - he did, but he would have never told you.

Today had been a bad day.

You slipped on your way to the library, there was a group of loud kids in the library, your head was pounding and you were not sure if you were feeling hot or cold. With a pack of tissues in your hand, you sniffed, squeezing your eyes shut.

The large windows and bright sun felt like a curse as you wished for nothing more than it to be dark outside. At least the group of rowdy teenagers had finally left.

When you heard the door open again, you nearly groaned in annoyance. If they returned, then you would have had no other choice but to hide in the back, away from the noise.

But after the creaking of the door, there was no other noise. You raised an eyebrow before lifting your head out of your hands, being met with no one other than Officer Steb.

"Oh, Officer Steb," you sniffed, your voice hoarse and odd-sounding due to your blocked nose, "I nearly forgot the date."

While usually dressed in his Enforcer uniform, he now wore something much more casual. You had never seen him outside of the dark blue and gold - the black and dark green suited him. Without his beret or helmet on, you could also see his hair. You wondered if he used the 'Haircutting for Dummies' book for it all those months ago. According to Steb, the book was not for him. His eyebrows creased as he scanned you, squinting his eyes.

"Yeah, not the best day," you shrugged, wiping your hand on your shirt, "But there is no one else to run the library, so… Me it is."

He quietly stared at you for another moment before gesturing to your notepad again. The sparkly cover held many pages of his handwriting - so many that it might as well have been his. You silently hand it over, your head aching with every move you make.

'Stay here, be right back'.

Steb turned on his heels, walking right down the hall and out the door. You only raised an eyebrow before looking over the stack of books and writing down all the information you needed. After what felt like an eternity, you finally sat back down in your chair, your fingers rubbing at your temples.

The Enforcer came back not long after, a small bag in his left hand. He placed it on the counter - as quietly as he could - which made you look back up.

"You're free."

Steb's voice was so different from what you imagined.

"I-" you frowned, "Excuse me, Officer Steb? I'm not sure what you mean."

"Just Steb is fine," he looked away, "Commander Kiramman has contacted the owner of the library, your boss, and you have permission to leave now."

How had he done that?

Your bag was still packed, resting against the side of the counter, almost jumping in excitement that you got to go home.

"You are sick, yes?"

"I mean… Sadly so, I'm guessing."

He nodded, slowly reaching out to you before slightly raising an eyebrow. You breathed in, nodding as his hand made contact with your forehead. Cold, so cold. Your eyes almost closed at the sensation, the feeling of his cool fingers nice against your burning face.

Sadly, the moment ended all too soon as Steb reached into the small bag, pulling out an assortment of different painkillers and medicine.

"Once a day," he held up one of the packets, "Maximum of three a day, six hours inbetween."

He had gone out to get you medicine? You nearly wanted to start crying, your tired eyes and heavy limbs glad that they would almost be able to rest. Not to mention the bursting and pounding of your heart. Despite feeling horrible, a smile still formed on your face.

"I… Steb, thank you. I can't believe this."

He took your bag off the ground, waiting for you to lock everything up before exiting the library, side by side.

"Thank you again," you said, though it came out not nearly as loud as you thought it would have.

"Have to take care of my favourite librarian," his comment nearly made you fall over, though he would not have let that happen, "I bring you home, you take the medicine, and I see you next week?"

[miedei]

so many hills to die on

a case has you re-evaluating your tenuous relationship with spencer, coming to a head when the unsub triggers a confrontation.

cw: fem!reader, soulmate!au, angst/fluff, lighttt miscommunication trope, canon level violence and gore, descriptions of being bound and kidnapped, descriptions of stalking behaviour

a/n: this is probably my most ambitious fic ever, has been in my drafts for sooo long but I rallied and wrote it finally! merged these two requests about a soulmate au from this prompt list, and I definitely went overboard with the concept. title is from $20 by boygenius (lol), unsub name and picture of spencer from loml @siriuslylantsov

prompt: b...ody art (doodles that a person draws on themselves appear on their soulmate’s skin).

wc: 11.3k (holy shit)

mlist

(reblogs are the only way to promote fics on tumblr! please reblog if you enjoyed it :) )

Spencer Reid could say a lot about the phenomenon of transcorpal connections. The incidence of a level of mental connection between two individuals that manifests itself in the melanocytes in a person’s epidermal layer to reflect the markings that another person has exacted upon themselves. 

Or, if Prentiss forced him to speak ‘like you’re a human 27-year-old, please’, it was the instance of two supposed ‘soulmates’ where drawings or tattoos on one person’s skin are reflected on the others. 

Soulmates weren’t something Spencer took much stock in, to be honest. 

A fated partner that some amorphous being has assigned him is not something he really believes in, not just as Dr. Reid, man of science, but also as Spencer, the guy who’s had to watch every loving relationship he’d ever seen end. 

He’d seen his parents fall out of love, the little messages his father would write for his mother always there, until one day he’d seen his father write a to-do list on his forearm, the words never arising on his mother’s skin. He’d had whatever that was with Ethan, where he’d desperately hoped that his incoherent scribbles would eventually pop up on his friend-not-boyfriend’s arm, but never did. He’d seen Hotch, the last ‘Jack misses you’ message that Haley had written him still on his upper arm, no matter how long it had been. 

The connections between people’s skin wasn’t anything he aspired to, not anymore. He could rattle off facts and musings about the instances of ‘soulmate connections’ in history for hours, but it held no more significance for him than it did as a profiling tool.

Hence, Spencer never really held out for anything to show up on his skin, not until it did. 

You had spent years with your body, the parts of it you saw on the daily, and the parts you preferred to avoid in the mirror. The expanses of skin, littered with marks and scars from years of living, are familiar to you. Too familiar. 

You’d spent years watching your friends, acquaintances, and even strangers' skin change. Like the first time, in secondary school, whenever you saw lines begin to form on a friend's hand, it always filled you with a strange sense of melancholy. 

Of course, people lived whole, fulfilling lives without ever having a soulmate connection, and you’re sure your life wouldn’t be any different, but there was always that little thought in the back of your mind, every sighting of a couple on the street adding feathers to its wings. 

What if. What if all that skin finally changes? What if you’ll finally experience the life-shattering love that soulmates are supposed to be?

You had always been holding out for something to show up on your skin, but it wasn’t until you’d least expected it. 

Being the newest profiler in the famed BAU was more than daunting. It was terrifying, like hyper-aware-of-every-bone-in-your-body terrifying. Your transfer from Domestic Trafficking had been a long time coming, your experience in psychology and previous work under David Rossi making you the ideal candidate for the spot. You knew all of that, but somehow it didn’t dampen the nerves that coursed through your body every time you walked into the bullpen. 

It’s your third case as an official agent on the team, and your fear of messing up the biggest leap in your career hasn’t waned. In a lull in the briefing that Hotch gives on the jet, you refer to the case file, questioning the tiny Garcia shown on the screen set on the surface in front of you.

“And this witness who wasn’t present? What’s that about?” You point to a name noted on the case file, which has very little information listed next to it. 

“Yes, my love, that is a little strange.” Garcia’s slightly tinny voice floats through the interior of the cabin.

“She is a Mrs Amaya Walker, not technically a witness, seeing as, you know, she lives and works two hours away from the crimes, but there is a pickle.” As she speaks, Spencer slides into the seat across from you, and you flash him a quick smile as he slides a mug of coffee over the table to you.

“Our lovely Mrs Walker here saw a list pop up on her forearm, right when the last murder happened. Initially she didn’t think it was anything, but later she saw the press conference that the local P.D. did after the second murder-”

“Against my advice, by the way!” JJ pipes up from her spot on the sofa.

“Yes, against JJ’s advice, but once she saw it, she thought her little list might come as useful to the investigation.” Your tablets chime, a picture of a forearm you assume belongs to Amaya Walker popping up on the screen. The fax machine set up under the table whirs, and you pull out the printed version and pass it wordlessly to Spencer. The brown skin of her forearm is marred by scratchy handwriting, a list of household points of interest:

“Bedframe

Edge of coffee table

Light fixture

Oven door

Nightlight

Garage door

Silver spoon”

Your eyes widen, picking up your case file to compare.

“These are all…”

“Where the unsub left smears of the victim’s blood.” Spencer finishes your sentence, his eyes meeting yours with lines of confusion between them. The seemingly random smears of blood had been a point of confusion for you all when you did the initial walkthrough of the two murders back at the office. Each very far from the site of the murder, the team had concluded it had to be part of the unsub’s signature, although they were different for each murder. 

This was part of why JJ didn’t want it released to the public, on the off chance that the publicity causes the unsub to escalate or double down.

“Yes, wonderful profilers, you’re correct. The list correlates with all the different spills of blood and…” Garcia shudders, “gore left at every crime scene. Her husband has refused to speak to the police, and she insists he has nothing to do with it, but the police are working on a warrant, they should be getting them both to the station tomorrow.”

“Yes, that is strange. Reid, L/N, you two go to the ME’s office, figure out if there’s anything we can get out of the method of killing. Dave, you go with Morgan and JJ to the most recent crime scene. Maybe we can get something more out of it. Prentiss, you and I will head to the first crime scene, see what we can see. Hopefully we can correlate that with whatever we get from Walker tomorrow.” Hotch’s stern, no-nonsense voice cuts through the confusion, and you all straighten up, ready to get to work.

The medical examiner’s office is chilly, and you regret forgoing a blazer as you step into the bright building from the warm evening air. Spencer laughs softly next to you, and he nudges your shoulder. 

“Cold?”

“No.”

You speak resolutely, but the sparkle in his eye indicates he knows your lie. Grabbing the distinctive purple scarf from around his neck, he wraps it around yours, smiling when he meets your eye. The moment is only broken by the clip-clop of shoes coming down the hallway, and you both turn away hastily.

The ME walks up to you, his voice clipped and curt.

“You’re from the FBI? Come with me, please.”

You follow him into a room that smells overwhelmingly of formaldehyde. Two examining tables stand in the middle of the room, white sheets covering the bodies.

“The methods of killing were very different for each case, so much so that we didn’t put together that they were related until the police did.”

Spencer nods from beside you, accepting a clipboard from the doctor. Not bothering to read it, when he can do it in a fraction of the time, you converse with the doctor.

“Yes, we saw that one of the victims was stabbed, and the other strangled? That doesn’t track with any evolution we’ve seen before. Stabbing’s generally much easier than strangling, we usually see them go the other way around.”

He nods, pulling back the sheet on the second victim. You can see mottled bruises around his neck.

“Yes, the most recent victim, John Coulhain, was strangled. By the angle of the bruising, it’s clear he was attacked from behind, and by something that has both leather and metal in it. You see here, there’s a larger imprint from the metal segment.”

Spencer raises his head.

“It says here that he had just gotten out of the shower after work?”

“That’s right. He was found in only a towel. His clothes weren’t found.”

You frown, turning to Spencer.

“Leather and metal… that sounds like a belt to me. Coulhain was a lawyer. He wore suits to work.”

He picks up on your train of thought, continuing where you leave off.

“His clothes weren’t found. The unsub might have used his belt as a murder weapon, so he took the rest too.”

You turn to the medical examiner

“The first victim, Cohen Gibson, what sort of knife do you believe was used?”

He walks you over to the second table, drawing back the sheet so you can see the seemingly random pattern of wounds.

“They’re varying degrees of shallowness, but the shape of the wounds makes me think it was something medium-sized, probably stainless steel.”

Spencer leans forward, inspecting the wounds closely as he muses.

“Stainless steel isn’t the sort of knife you buy with the intention of violence. 54% of stainless steel knives are purchased for everyday purposes, like cooking.”

The ME walks you through the rest of the details of the murders, but the randomness of the methods of killing and the missing clothing stick with you.

An hour later, when you and Spencer walk out of the building into the dusk, it’s still on your mind.

“Reid, why would an unsub use a perfectly good knife for his first murder, but forgo bringing it to the next scene, and use his victim’s belt instead? That reads like a devolution, and this guy is still ramping up.”

“Maybe he’s relishing the deaths? Strangling takes longer, so maybe he realised that stabbing wasn’t going to give him the time with the body that he wanted.” He offers, but you can tell he’s not convinced.

“The scenes don’t show any sign of him lingering. And even if that’s the case, why not bring your own strangling equipment? A belt doesn’t give him the precision he needs in order to control the rate of death, especially one he just snatched off the floor.”

Spencer nods slowly as you approach the car.

“He doesn’t hesitate at all in killing them, but he doesn’t come prepared. It’s like he’s obscenely confident in himself, and doesn't think he needs to plan in order to pull it off.”

You slide into the car as your phone begins to buzz in your pocket. Fishing it out, you pick up the call.

“Hey Emily, you’re on speaker.”

She speaks immediately, forgoing any greeting.

“The first victim, Cohen Gibson. Was the weapon a stainless steel knife?”

You exchange a look with Spencer, replying quickly.

“Yeah, it was. Why do you ask?”

“Gibson’s wife just confirmed that their knife block is gone, along with six stainless steel knives.”

Spencer leans forward to speak into your phone.

“That makes sense. We think the unsub is showing up with no preparation because he believes he doesn’t need it. He’s a narcissist.”

She makes a distracted sound of affirmation.

“That sounds right. Okay, Hotch wants you to meet us at the hotel, we’re going to compare notes there.”

You go to hang up, before she speaks once more.

“Oh, one more thing, the local police department got the warrant to bring in Amaya Walker for an interview tomorrow. You guys should do that, she’ll be more relaxed with younger people there. If her husband has something to do with it, you have to get it out of her.”

Stepping out of the SUV the next morning, you and Spencer walk through the sliding doors of the Decorah P.D.'s office, greeted by the captain of the precinct. 

“Hi, I’m SSA L/N, this is Doctor Reid.” You shake his hand, chuckling under your breath as you watch Spencer awkwardly avoid doing the same. 

Once you’ve set up your things in the conference room they’ve allocated to you, Spencer turns to Captain Peretti. 

“So, is Mrs Walker here? We’d like to ask her a few questions.”

Spencer is sitting in the chair across from Mrs Walker in the interrogation room, while you are leaned against the desk next to him. 

“We really appreciate you coming in like this, I understand that this is a stressful time for you. Mrs Walker, what can you tell us about your husband’s whereabouts when the list showed up on your skin?” She’s being cagey, not answering your questions and clamming up whenever you mention her husband.

“Eric had nothing to do with it. I’m telling you, it was a mistake for me to come in, I’m sure it’s unrelated.”

She motions to the words on her arm, and you sigh. It looks like straight questioning isn’t going to get you anywhere. Spencer leans his elbows on the desk, looking at Mrs Walker, his brown eyes seeming larger in the dim light. His shirt sleeves ride up his arm a little, and a flash of dark lines shows before it’s covered again.

“Let me ask you this, have messages like this come up on your skin before? Whether they’re lists or not, have you ever seen anything show up on your left forearm?” She shakes her head mutely, eyes trained on the steel surface in front of her. You sigh, motioning discreetly at Spencer, and you both rise, walking out to the viewing area where Hotch and Emily are standing. 

“She won’t say anything?”

“Only that her husband has nothing to do with it. But…” Spencer trails off, and you take the opportunity to finish his thought.

“But, she clearly has some hangup about the messages. When Spencer asked whether they’d showed up before, she said no, but it’s clear there’s more there.” Hotch nods thoughtfully. Lost in thought, you spin a pen in your hand, tapping the uncovered tip against the inside of your wrist, accustomed to the ink blotches that appear on the skin there. 

Your eyes wander aimlessly as you do so, and land on Spencer, who is scratching at his forearm. It causes his shirt sleeve to ride up a little again. That’s when you see it. 

Small marks are on his skin, more muted than you usually see them, but you’d recognise them anywhere. Your eyes widen, looking down at your own wrist. A constellation of ink dots and lines are scattered across the delicate skin, identical to the ones on Spencer’s wrist. 

Is this really happening? Reid? Of course, you’d never been able to convince yourself you weren’t attracted to him, but he’s your coworker. He’s a large part of why you’re so nervous at the BAU. He’s not your soulmate… is he? 

Hotch’s unflapped voice breaks through your racing thoughts. “Okay. Head back in, press about their relationship, not the list. Let’s see if we can find a weak spot.”

Well. Looks like you’ll have to contain this revelation until you’re done for the day. Your head reels with the discovery, but you have to put it aside in favour of the case.

Your mind made up, you snatch the pen off the table before following Spencer back into the interrogation room, steeling yourself with a deep breath.

“We’d like to get to know you a little more, Mrs Walker, if that’s alright with you. How long have you been married?”

She shifts in her seat, uncomfortable, but answers readily. “Fifteen years. And no, there’s never been any red flags that make me think he would ever be capable of something like this.” 

From his spot next to you, Spencer nods once.

“Okay, we understand. In your relationship, do you guys have any rituals to do with your connection? Like writing to each other throughout the day, or a code system or something with your skin?” 

Her cheeks flush, eyes trained on her lap. You press further.

“What is it Mrs Walker? Whatever it is, we really need you to tell us.” No answer. Spencer leans forward.

“Mrs Walker, two men are dead. We’re doing our best to find whoever did it, but we need all the information you can give us in order to do that. You can help us prevent any more deaths.” She wraps her arms around her middle, but still doesn’t say a word. Following his lead, you slam a hand down on the metal table.

“Mrs Walker! I understand that, whatever this is, it’s personal, but this is not the time to be hiding information from us. Men are dead, and it's starting to look like the perpetrator had some connection to you. The local police have a warrant for your husband’s arrest. I want to help you get your family out of this mess, but you need to tell us everything you can. Now.” Her shoulders slump, and finally, you feel like she’s telling you the truth.

“I… I started getting the messages in September. They’re not- not from Eric.” A wordless conversation passes between you and Spencer. That was 4 months before the first murder. You turn back to her, nodding encouragingly as the words seem to spill past her parted lips.

“I never expected to have a soulmate. Or at least… to be able to speak with them. My husband and I, we’re happy! I didn’t care that we weren’t soulmates until…”

Spencer prompts her, leaning forward. “Until?”

“Until the first drawing showed up. It was just a doodle of something, I barely remember now, but we started writing to each other. In places that no one would see, the underside of my arm, or my ribcage. I didn’t- I never did anything! I love my husband, I do, and I would never-” She cuts herself off, holding up a hand to ask for a little time. A few minutes later, she pipes up again.

“I don’t know his name or anything. We talked about surface level stuff, you know? Favourite books, shows, things like that. I was never going to do anything about it, so I didn’t tell anyone.” You can’t help but raise your head, flashing a look at the one-way mirror, hoping Hotch will read the urgency on your face. 

“This is good, Mrs Walker. Thank you for telling us. It’s going to take us some time to deduce whether this is related to the murders or not, but I hope you won’t object to helping us further.” Wordlessly, Spencer slides your notepad and pen over to her.

“I’m going to need you to write down everything you can remember from your messages. If there are any still on you, I really need you to write them down as clearly as you can. In a few minutes, one of our teammates will be in, and they’ll walk you through a cognitive interview, try and see how much we can recover.” The two of you rise, nodding to the officer stationed inside the door, but you pause when she calls out to you.

“Do you- do you think that it’s wrong of me? To stay in this relationship, when I know there’s a soulmate out there for me?” You go to speak, but Spencer beats you to it.

“Mrs Walker, the phenomenon of connections like these doesn’t necessarily mean that the relationship would be perfect. You love your husband, and you have loved him for years. A ‘soulmate connection’ doesn’t mean you should even be in a relationship. Many people don’t even believe it has anything to do with compatibility, those relationships are just as flawed as any other. Honestly, I sometimes think the expectations could hinder a relationship.” 

It startles you a little, the emotion behind Spencer’s eyes when he speaks. Does he really not believe that a connection means anything? Your eyes can’t help but flick down to the faint marks on your wrist.

By the time you look up, Spencer is already in the doorway, looking back at you with concern in his eyes. 

“You okay?” His voice is hushed, intimate, but it’s all you can do to brush it off. Walking back into the conference room, the team is already hard at work. 

Spencer’s confused. Something clearly rattled you in the interrogation room, but despite his attempts to meet your eyes, it’s like you’re purposely avoiding his gaze. 

He hasn’t taken the time to think about it, but whether that’s because he’s busy or because he’s worried, who knows? 

What he does know is that you have quickly become one of his favourite people to work with. Hours spent hunching over maps together, inspecting crime scenes and interviewing witnesses have endeared you to him faster than he thought was possible. It’s this unexplainable fondness that leaves him reeling when the comforting smiles and shared looks are lost all of a sudden. 

He attempts to push it to the back of his mind as the team runs through the case once more, Garcia’s tinny voice streaming through the room. However, he’s not fully in it, and the team notices. By the time they’ve concluded that a reinspection of the crime scenes and interviewing Eric Walker was necessary, Emily is eyeing him weirdly, and Morgan all but frog-marches him out to the precinct’s kitchenette. 

“Kid. What’s going on?” The elder man braces his hands on Spencer’s shoulders, eyes blazing into his. 

“You’ve been acting weird ever since the second interview with Amaya Walker, and so has L/N.” A sense of relief floods through Spencer, and he speaks earnestly.

“I don’t know! We interviewed Mrs Walker again, and it was all fine, but the moment we left the room it’s like she can’t look at me anymore. It’s making me feel all awkward.” 

Morgan sighs, his fingers unintentionally digging into Spencer’s shirt. 

“What did you say when you left?” Spencer bristles a little at the implied accusation, but can’t help but run through the last few parts of the interview.

“It was all normal, but then she- Mrs Walker, asked if she was wrong to stay in her relationship when she has a ‘soulmate’ out there.” He nods, prompting Spencer to continue. 

“I told her what I think she’d agree with, that I don’t know if a connection would make a relationship stronger. I thought that was right, it felt like it soothed the witness.” A troubled look passes over Spencer’s face. He’s always struggled with social cues, but he thought he’d improved. Mrs Walker looked much calmer after he said that to her, and that was protocol. 

Calm the witness, make sure they think you are in their corner. Gideon’s voice rings through his head.

“And that was it! We left the room, and then she started acting all…”

Morgan’s features are unreadable, but his hands relax on Spencer’s shoulders. 

“Sounds like you need to figure out why she’s bothered. But, kid… Don’t let this affect the case.”

With that, he pats Spencer’s shoulder and walks off, leaving him pondering his words. Figure it out. 

Spencer Reid is good at figuring things out. Maybe he can’t tackle this like Spencer, your bumbling coworker, but as Spencer, the profiler.

You’ve been at the first crime scene for only a few minutes, but the awkwardness is thick in the air between you. 

Spencer has that infuriating look on his face, all furrowed brows and piercing gazes and so attractive it makes you want to pull your hair out. It’s making it so hard to try and detach yourself from him.

In an attempt to distract yourself, you sidle over to the evidence markers that tag the blood smears in this crime scene. 

“So we’ve got… A side table in the master bedroom, a heart pillow that was in the living room and an elephant painting on the wall in the landing. All far away from the site of the murder in the kitchen.”

Spencer steps up next to you, still gazing at you unreadably, but opens his mouth to follow your train of thought. 

“The blood spatters indicate that the attack began in the hallway, and the final blows in the kitchen. No blood anywhere else, nowhere near the smears.”

You nod, trying to run through the details of the case in your mind.

“The attack is rushed, hasty. All the stab wounds indicate a blitz attack and a lot of overkill, but the smears are calculated.” 

He smiles, and it’s all you can to not turn and reflect that back to him.

“Right, no blood dripping anywhere outside of the murder, not even when he takes some to the different areas of the house to smear. The murder itself is charged with anger, but this is something more. It’s deliberate, it’s…”

You meet his eyes, finally, and voice what you know you’ve both concluded.

“It’s a message. But to whom?”

He holds your gaze, going to reply to you, but is cut off by the shrill sound of his phone ringing. With a sigh, he fishes it out of his breastpocket, holding the brick-like device to his ear. 

Whatever he hears has him tensing, and you feel like a coiled spring, bracing yourself for whatever grim news is awaiting you.

“Okay Hotch, we’re leaving now, get Garcia to send all the photos to us.” He sets down the phone, looking at you.

“There’s been another murder.”

You stand at the clear whiteboard, surveying the images tacked on to it. The blood smears of the newest crime scene are pinned up next to those of the two previous ones, and it’s driving the two of you crazy trying to decipher what the patterns are. Spencer fiddles with his fingers, the marks on his wrist flashing as his sleeve shifts, sending your mind spiralling every time you notice them.

“A painting of a tree, and an orange. Let me ask you this, do you think the things themselves are significant or the locations of them?”

You shake your head slowly, trying to clear the fog from your mind. The both of you are silent, standing in front of the board with puzzled looks, when Morgan bursts in, waving around some papers.

“Got the pictures of Mrs Walker’s newest message.” He grabs a magnet and pins a picture of Mrs Walker’s calf to the centre of the board, two things listed there.

“Tree painting

Orange”

“Ok kids, we really need you to work your magic this time,” Morgan taps your shoulder.

“The cooling down period has gotten shorter and shorter. We can’t expect to get to tomorrow evening without another murder.” 

You sigh, rubbing your wrist absentmindedly. The marks and your newfound realisation about Spencer haven’t left your mind, but have been pushed to the background for the time being. However, the frustration brings it back up. The connection. Does it mean nothing to him? Does he not think that it would do something for a relationship? You’ve always thought it would indicate that you belong together, wouldn’t you…

Your body moves without your go-ahead.

Eyes widen.

Shoulders tense.

Your arms reach forward, haphazardly grabbing and moving the lists until three pictures sit side-by-side on the board in front of you.

One is printed, a crude attempt by the CSU team to catalogue the items marred by blood. Two are images, words on skin. Words, the first letters of which spell out…

You grip Spencer’s arm, pointing at the first image of Amaya Walker’s skin, the second murder.

“Belongs. Spencer, the second crime scene.” 

He doesn’t even acknowledge your use of his first name, leaning forward like you are. He zeroes in on the newest image.

“To. The third one. It’s an acrostic. The first letter of each item spell out his message.”

You move forward, writing the words ‘__ BELONGS TO’ on the board. You are feeding off of each other, thinking aloud in a way that has Morgan sighing to himself.

“She didn’t get a list for the first one.”

Spencer nods. “She didn’t notice. He had to show her.”

You grab the printed list of the items smeared in the first crime scene. “Side table, pillow, painting”

He leans over your shoulder. “He’s more specific than the crime scene techs were. Heart pillow, elephant painting.”

You turn to him, stomach dropping. “She. She belongs to…”

He writes in ‘SHE’ next to the two other words. “He’s possessive, something happened to make him think he doesn’t have her.”

“Narcissistic. Driven by ownership.”

“Eric Walker was here when the third murder happened. Who else would want to lay claim to her?”

You straighten up, meeting Spencer’s eyes, not looking away even as you address Morgan.

“Derek, where’s Eric Walker?”

“They released him from questioning an hour ago, he went home.”

You and Spencer spring into action, scooping up your abandoned holsters. 

“We need to get to the Walkers’ house, now. Our unsub is taking out what he sees as competition, and Mr Walker’s all he needs to get rid of.”

In the SUV, you are jittery. Morgan sits in the driver’s seat next to you, and Spencer in the back. As you fiddle with your vest straps, you can’t help but think of Mrs Walker, the woman who never wanted a soulmate. And now her soulmate is trying to kill the love of her life.

Maybe Spencer was right?

Hotch is barking orders at the gathered agents when you step out of the vehicle. Nodding along, you fall to the back of the group, your designated role until you’re called to enter the house. 

Your vest is uncomfortable. The straps are always too long or too short, and you have to get it right before you storm the house, but your thoughts are so loud, and Rossi on the phone with the unsub is so piercing, and it feels like you will never get comfortable.

Finally, you feel like giving up, until warm hands find purchase on your shoulders. Looking up, you see Spencer, standing before you with a slight, nervous smile. His hands gently move yours away from the straps, and he looks at you questioningly.

“Can I?” You nod dumbly, unable to tear your eyes away from him.

The touch is soft, tentative. He pulls at the straps dangling over your shoulders firmly, tightening the vest until it sits snugly over your chest. As if acting on instinct, he slips a finger under the kevlar, brushing the thin fabric of your shirt over your collarbone delicately. It makes you shiver.

“Is that good? Too tight?” His eyes are devastatingly soft, head tilted down to face you fully. 

“No, it’s good. Thanks, Reid.” You have to get yourself away from the magnetic pull of him, stepping back and letting out a sigh of relief. 

You walk away, heading Emily’s way, completely missing the look of confusion he aims at you as you brush past him.

Joining the circle of agents and officers, you tune into Morgan’s run down of the plan. 

“Hotch and JJ will take 5 officers and break down the front door. Now, we know there are two other doors that the unsub will probably make a break for once we enter. Prentiss and I will be at the northfacing one, Reid and Rossi at the westfacing one. L/N, you and Captain Peretti should be stationed in the land behind the house, secure the outbuildings before the unsub can think to rush to them and destroy evidence.”

You nod, exchanging a glance with the police captain. 

“Remember, this unsub is severely narcissistic and delusional. He won’t stop at anything to get what he wants, including opening fire on us. Do not engage him in a confrontation. Challenging his goals and views will push him further, and we don’t want any more casualties at the hands of this man.” 

With a decisive nod, Morgan breaks away from the group, the people beginning to station themselves at their posts. With the captain at your side, you walk around the house to the field behind it, directing officers to each of the small barns and outhouses dotting the land. 

With the captain, you stand ready at the large wooden door of what you think is a stable, when the crackling of your earpiece alerts you to JJ’s voice.

“We’re heading in on 5, 4…” You can hear a crash and a shout, and JJ’s voice turns hurried. “We head in now!”

A few minutes have you tapping your index against the side of your firearm, worried. 

“He’s not here. We have Mr Walker here, multiple stab wounds but a relatively steady pulse. House is clear.”

Emily starts speaking. “He hasn’t gone through our door. Rossi?”

Rossi crackles out a negative response. Bringing your wrist to your mouth, you speak into the mic embedded there. 

“If Walker’s still bleeding out, the unsub has to have just been there. Are there any other possible exit points?”

There’s silence for a second until Reid’s voice comes over the comms, frantic. 

“There’s a northwest facing window that’s unlocked! Footsteps leading away from it, into the field.”

Immediately you spring into action, autopilot taking over as you direct multiple officers to search the surrounding woods, and the rest to clear out the outbuildings. 

Counting down, the police captain kicks in the stable door, and you flick on your flashlight, advancing.

The large room is drafty, the old wood planks creaking with every gust of wind. At first glance, the dark room seems quiet and empty, and each movement of your flashlight seems to confirm this. 

The only thing of note you see is the row of stalls along the left wall, the angle of the opening making sure that you can’t see into all of them. 

Silently, you begin to walk towards them, signalling for the captain to follow. Despite the first few being completely empty save for some hay, a chill runs down your spine, bracing yourself for a confrontation that hasn’t happened. 

As you begin to inch your way to the second-to-last stall, you hear a shout from outside the building. 

“There’s someone in the woods!”

One of the officers rushes past the open door to the stable, and the captain raises her head immediately, dropping her defensive stance. 

“That must be him. Let’s go!” Without waiting for a response, she turns, running out of the stable, as if she can’t hear your hushed whispers. 

“Captain! This building hasn’t been cleared—” She’s gone. You can hear the rush of officers running past the building, towards the wooded area to the back of the property. Despite the high probability of the unsub being the person spotted there, you know you can’t leave this building without clearing it. 

You really should wait for someone to do this with you. Never enter a potential crime scene without backup. Rossi’s voice rings in your ears. 

But there’s only two stalls left. The rest of your team are still securing the house and the victim. The officers are gone. 

You can clear two stalls on your own. They’re probably empty anyway. 

Having made up your mind, you straighten up, tightening your grip on your gun and flashlight, and advance. 

Slowly walking to the first stall, you turn the corner, quickly flashing your light in the small space. Empty. 

One more.

The floorboards bend slightly as you walk across them. The wind rushing past the walls ruffles your hair. The metal of your gun is warm under your palm. 

The wall of the final stall comes closer, closer, until you’re stood behind it. One step forward and a turn to the left, and you’ll be at the doorway. 

It’ll be empty. They’ve all been empty.

You take the step, right foot planting in front of you, and turn on the balls of your feet, flashlight and gun extended in front of your chest.

“Hello, agent.”

Not empty.

The house is finally cleared, and Mr Walker loaded into an ambulance. As he watches the vehicle retreat down the road, Spencer hears the chatter over the comms. 

“Is it him?”

“The woods are thick, how did he get here without us seeing—”

“—in pursuit of the person we saw—”

“He’s a white man, late 60s—”

“It’s not him! You hear me, officer? That’s not him, do not arrest that man!” Morgan’s voice cuts through the jabbering, voice stern. 

They haven’t gotten the unsub? Spencer turns on his heels, striding back into the house, where Hotch, JJ and Rossi stand around the blood spatter on the floor. 

“Spence. Doesn’t look like the unsub could’ve gotten to the woods in time, not before we were stationed in the field he’d have to cut through anyway.” JJ stands with her hands on her hips, irritation clear on her face. 

“The other buildings on the property?” He comes to stand next to Hotch.

“I saw Captain Peretti. She said they were all cleared. CSU’s sending more units to secure all of them, but we’re not considering any of them crime scenes as she says it’s clear he hasn’t been in them. It’ll take a while for them to get here and secure them all.” Hotch replies, brows furrowed. 

The door opens, and Morgan and Prentiss walk in. 

“Everything okay?”

Emily huffs. “The locals almost arrested the elderly neighbour, but other than that, the woods are seemingly clear.”

Morgan adds, “There’s some trampled plants in the cornfield to the west of the property, so we’ve got officers searching that now, but that field backs up onto a major road. If he made it through that, he could be anywhere by now.”

Rossi sighs, shoulders slumping. 

“I’m getting sick of this son of a bitch slipping out of our hands.”

“I agree. Rossi, go with Prentiss and Morgan to the road by the cornfield. Canvass anyone you find, ask neighbouring homes if they saw anyone emerge from the crops onto the road or lone cars idling. If he took that way out, he'd have had a car waiting for him there.” They nod, shuffling out. 

JJ pipes up, her brow furrowed in thought.

“The smears were on a milk carton in the fridge and an envelope. Me. His message is finished, isn’t it? ‘She belongs to me’. What’s he going to do now?”

Spencer’s not sure. Hotch shakes his head exasperatedly.

“JJ, let’s go find Captain Peretti. We’ll head back to the PD and see what we can make with the old clues now that we think he had an intricate exit plan. Reid, stay here, get updating the geographical profile with the information from this crime scene. We’ll send L/N here to work on it with you.”

Spencer nods, heading to the SUV to grab his map, and settling at the Walkers’ dining table to get working. 

It’s hot, sweltering. A throbbing pain thuds in your skull, the feeling of dry hay against your face making your cheek itch. Instinctively, you attempt to bring your hand up to brush it away. It won't move.

You jerk your wrists, but find them bound, and a dull pain pangs in your thigh. It’s clear you’ve been out for a little while, your eyes feeling crusted shut. 

With a little effort, you prise your eyes open, feeling your pupils adjust to the darkness of the room. You’re still in the final stall, sprawled against the far wall. Another experimental tug on your wrist and you realise that they’re bound together, the coarse rope wound around your right thigh, forcing you to stay hunched over. 

It all comes rushing back. Losing the unsub. Peretti leaving. The empty- no, not empty stall. The raspy voice that met your ears before the resounding blow to your head.

Twisting your hands awkwardly, you begin to pick at the rough rope, trying to map out the knot that keeps you in your uncomfortable position. Sweat drips in rivulets down the back of your neck as you crane your neck.

Your position ensures that you can’t survey the entire stall, but he’s got to be close. The property’s crawling with officers. 

“I’m still here, sweetheart.” 

The voice rings out from somewhere behind you, dark and smug. Your hand automatically makes for your holster, but the rope digs into your skin, leaving you unable to reach it. 

“Don’t bother. You think I’d let you keep your gun?”

You can hear the bastard smirk, anger and fear running hot through your veins. Your gun is your lifeline in situations like this, as not only a means of attack, but a grounding feeling. Without it you feel unmoored. 

The only thing you have in your arsenal is your knowledge of the case. Of him.

“Why don’t you come stand here? Don’t tell me you’re afraid of showing me your face.” Your voice is low, cracking with dryness. 

Prodding him just enough should… there it is. You hear his footsteps, walking past your bent head until you can see his feet and legs, standing in front of you.

“That enough for you? You can see me now?” He crouches, squatting by your calves to show you his face. 

He’s surprisingly handsome, flushed from the heat, dark eyes boring into yours. Dressed in a suit that’s slightly too large for him, he looks out of place in the grimy stable. He’s playing the role of a businessman, save for the gun dangling from his left hand, and the telltale bulge of another— yours— in his pants pocket.

This unsub is severely narcissistic and delusional. Morgan’s words come back to you now. 

“You- you outsmarted us all. We were sure we’d catch you.”

A smile spreads over his face, his ego clearly swelling. You can see his shoulders relax slightly. 

“You thought so, huh? I guess even the FBI has hubris.” His lips form the word hubris with some effort, pronouncing it as huh-brus. It’s clear he’s putting on airs. 

You need to get the others here. You could wait it out, until the crime scene techs eventually make their way to this building towards the back of the Walkers’ land. 

But he has two guns, and he wants Amaya Walker, not you. Who knows how long he’ll be content to lord over you, until he inevitably gets tired of playing with you. He has two guns.

How do you get a message to them? There’s no way he’ll let you have your phone, and this guy has no reason to contact anyone but Mrs Walker. He doesn’t need a phone for that, just a pen, probably in his jacket.

A pen. Spencer. That’s it.

“So, you and Mrs— um, Amaya. Are you guys going to meet in person soon?” 

That does the trick. His eyes glaze over with an expression that would look love-drunk, if you didn’t know about the blood on his hands. 

“Soon. There’s nothing keeping us apart now. I’ll go to see her as soon as I’m done here.”

“That’s why you’re dressed up? I think she’ll like that suit.”

His voice is deceptively soft, almost tricking you into forgetting how dangerous he is.

“I think so too. I borrowed it from a friend, John. She’ll like it.”

John Coulhain. The second murder victim, the lawyer. You resist the urge to gag.

“Yeah. It’s- it’s hot in here, isn’t it? Maybe you should take off the jacket and save it for when you see her. You don’t want to sweat through it.”

His metaphorical hackles raise, and you can tell he’s getting ready to stand and walk away from you. 

“No, I don’t mean it in an insulting way, not at all. It’s just really- really warm in here. I’m sweating. Maybe Amaya would like to hug you when you meet her. She won’t want sweat on her.”

Your voice is wavering, eyes unable to move from the gun still in front of you. 

It takes a long minute before he speaks again.

“Maybe I should take off the jacket. Just for a little.” He’s clearly loathed to admit his perceived fault, muttering to himself rather than speaking to you. Straightening up, you hear rustling above you, until the jacket falls in a heap in front of your bound wrists, part of the fabric falling on the tips of your fingers. You grasp it in your hand, wincing as the rope rubs the sensitive skin on your wrists raw.

As smoothly as possible, you hunch over further, settling in the foetal position, pulling the jacket to cover your hands a little more. 

Seemingly not noticing your movement, you see his legs walk out of your eyesight, padding around you until he comes to a stop somewhere behind your body. 

“Now, we’re going to wait here until your police friends are all done at the house. Then I’m going to take you with me, and we’ll go see Amaya. You’re going to be our witness, and then I’ll get rid of you, got it?” 

His voice is unnervingly slow and deliberate, as if he’s fully convinced this plan will work. You wish you had that same conviction, but you’re sure you know how this is going to end. The stress of hiding out will surely break him, sending him into a spiral where he will either kill you and then himself, or kill you and let the police kill him. 

You have to get them here before that happens. Heart pounding, you slowly inch the jacket closer to you, until your hands are fully buried in the folds of fabric. Feeling around blindly, you trace the inner lining of the expensive fabric until you feel a lip of material. The inner pocket is welcoming to your aching fingers, and you sigh, nearly delirious with relief when your index brushes against a pen. You were right.

Thanking whatever deity there is, you grip the pen, shoving it between your bound wrists, out of sight. 

Tugging once more, you’re resigned to the fact that you don’t have the range of motion to write legibly on your forearm, hands laying uselessly against your clothed thighs. The nearest exposed skin is on your ankle, and you have no hope of contorting to reach that without him noticing.

Chancing a look behind you, you can see him hunched over his knees, muttering to himself. You don’t have much time left. 

Deciding to make a rash decision, you grip the pen once more. Shifting so your left leg is hiked up, your wrists shoved between your legs, you take the pen, jabbing harshly at the fabric of your pants. Without being able to see, your aim is sloppy, but after a few minutes of brute force, you’ve ripped a jagged hole in your pants, near where your left calf meets your knee. 

Tension runs through your body, shifting the pen in your hand so that you can write. 

‘Spencer’

Spencer is stumped. Standing over the large map spread over the dining table, he can’t think of a reason why the unsub would ever leave the scene. This was his endgame, his final target until he could have Amaya Walker to himself. Why would a narcissistic sociopath flee after that?

Garcia’s voice comes crackling over the comms.

“My good doctor, it’s a little ridiculous that I had to use the PD’s satellite phone to get in touch with you. Do any of you pick up the phone anymore?”

He huffs out a laugh.

“We’re in the middle of farm country, Garcia. None of us have signal. Have you got anything?”

“You know I do. I took a look-see into Mr Walker’s history to see if he’d been stalked, and in multiple stretches of CCTV footage he’s being tailed by a white SUV. Including two hours ago, when he was on his way home. The car followed him on the main road, and pulled into their private road after Walker.”

“The car probably belongs to our unsub then. Do you have a name?”

“Do you even need to ask? Name’s Randall Slater, seems to tick most of the boxes of the profile. I’ll call back when I have more, Garcia out!”

Spencer slumps back in his chair. Sure, they have a name, but until he gets anything else from Garcia, it does nothing to help him with the geographical profile.

Wracking his brain for any possible lead, he doesn’t hear Hotch and JJ walk back in, not until they stand at the table with him, the police captain in tow. 

“Reid. Where’s L/N?” Hotch speaks in a low and measured tone, but Spencer can tell that he’s worried. 

“She’s not here yet. I thought you guys were going to send her here?” He raises his head, meeting JJ’s concerned eyes. 

“She wasn’t with Captain Peretti.”

“When we were pursuing the neighbour in the woods, I lost her. I figured she’d come back to find you guys.” Peretti’s voice is tight with worry, and a tinge of something else that Spencer doesn’t have the time to decipher right now. 

“Morgan and the rest haven’t heard from her?” 

Hotch shakes his head no. 

“Her comms have gone silent.” JJ brings a hand up to rub her temples.

 “Captain, inform your officers that we are looking for Agent L/N as well. Hopefully there’s nothing wrong, but we can’t rule out the possibility that the unsub found a way to get close.” 

Peretti nods stiffly, striding out of the room hurriedly. 

He can barely wrap his head around it. You’re not checking in? If there was a word stronger than worried, he’d find it, but his brain seems to be wading through sludge at the moment. He hadn’t realised how untethered he feels when you’re not there, until now, where it feels like the only thing he can think of. 

He can’t just sit around. Spencer straightens up, snatching his FBI windbreaker off of a chair and beginning to put it on.

“Okay, I’ll head out into the crop fields. If he took her as he fled, there’s got to be evidence of it.”

He’s already halfway across the room when Hotch calls out after him. 

“Reid, no. You need to stay here. Work on the geoprofile.”

Spencer can feel the irritation bubbling up inside him, his voice straining with the effort of not yelling. 

“Hotch, I’m not going to sit around here and do nothing when the unsub could have Y/N with him. If I can find—” Hotch cuts him off. 

“We. Reid, I know you’re emotional, we all are, but you cannot forget that this is a team. We’re all prioritising this. You know that you are best used here. If the unsub took her, we need to locate that secondary location immediately, that’s what you need to be doing.”

Incensed, Spencer can’t help but raise his voice. 

“Do we even know that he left? We profiled him to be a delusional narcissist, why would he ever leave? Hotch, I’m telling you, something is wrong here!”

Hotch’s eyes flash with emotion, and he opens his mouth, presumably explaining why Spencer shouldn’t leave. It’s all a moot point, however, because in that moment, he feels a burning on his left calf. 

The one-sided conversation goes over his head as Spencer can’t help but tug up his pant leg, itching at his skin as he runs through possibilities in his head. The unsub could’ve done what they’d now theorised, taken you and dragged you through the cornfield, into a car that was waiting by the main road. But why? 

He huffs, sitting down in a dining chair as he continues scratching at his leg. Hotch falls silent, but he doesn’t notice, lost in his thoughts. 

“Spencer. Spence!”

 JJ’s voice snaps him out of his haze. 

“What, JJ?” He snaps, irked that he’s been pulled out of his thoughts.

“Spencer, your leg.” He follows her pointed finger to the exposed skin of his calf, red from his scratching. It looks normal, smattering of hair covering the dark moles and lines covering his skin. 

Wait. Lines? 

He shifts, hooking his ankle over his right knee so he can see his calf more clearly. Shaky lines are forming on the skin in jerky motions, spelling out words in a familiar script. 

‘Spencer 

unsub in stable 

west edge

2 guns

wants amaya’

The handwriting is slanted, letters running into each other and words misspelled. And he knows it’s yours. 

“Y/N. It’s her handwriting. She’s writing to me.” 

He feels like he’s in an out-of-body experience. He can hear JJ’s gasp, but it feels as though it’s coming from miles away. Hotch is saying something, but the words don’t register as anything more than misshapen sounds. 

Graphology is one of Spencer’s specialties, but now he wishes he’d never learned about it. He wishes he didn’t know that the harsh angles of your writing indicate that you have adrenaline pumping through your veins. He wishes he didn’t see the way your letters jumble together, a physical manifestation of your fear. 

He slowly comes back to his body, finally understanding what Hotch is saying into his comm. 

“—a stable on the west edge of the property. We need the three of you back immediately, JJ, Reid and I will coordinate with the locals to have the building surrounded. Reid, can you hear me? Reid!”

Spencer nods, looking up at Hotch. 

“We need to know what’s happening in there. Is she hurt? Can she overpower him?”

He agrees, snatching up a pen and wracking his brain on what to write.

‘Are you hurt?

Are you armed?

Can you talk him down?’

He writes carefully, focusing on the drag of the ballpoint pen on his skin rather than the pure fear riddling his body. Once finished, he doesn’t set down the pen, fiddling with it in an attempt to stop himself from running to the building immediately. 

JJ sets a hand on his shoulder, and although he’s grateful for her support, he can’t bring himself to look at her. He can’t look away from his leg. He has a soulmate.

You’re laying at an awkward angle, neck craned and back hunched over so that you can read what Spencer’s written. 

Are you hurt? Your head hurts like hell, and the rope has irritated your skin to no end, but nothing that impairs you. You write a shaky ‘N’ next to the question.

Are you armed? You chance another look behind you, looking longingly at your gun in his pocket. Another ‘N’.

Can you talk him down? Can you? You remember the many times Rossi tutored you on interacting with narcissistic unsubs. Learn what they want, promise they will have it, and don’t challenge them. What does he want?

You decide you can, writing a small ‘Y’. Next to that, you scrawl hurriedly, hearing him shift around. 

‘bring amaya’

With that, you stuff the pen in your sock, relaxing your body and hoping you don’t look like you’ve been up to something.

The unsub is unsettled, and you can hear him oscillate between standing and sitting repeatedly. 

If you want to take control of the situation, you need to act quickly. He’s losing patience with you and the officers outside. If you wait too long, he’ll snap, and then you’re done for. 

A final peek at your calf finds the words ‘5 minutes’ etched there. 

Five minutes to talk him down. You can do it for five minutes. 

You croak out lowly, vocal chords rasping against each other. 

“I— I spoke to Amaya. When we were investigating. She told me about you. About the two of you.”

You can hear him stop moving abruptly, and then the patter of his feet as he walks quickly to you. He comes to a stop right in front of your face, your eyeline taken up by his feet and ankles. He speaks in a hushed tone, as if tasting the words carefully before speaking.

“She did? What did she tell you?”

“She said you’d been talking for a while. That it started when you drew a flower on your upper arm? She drew it for us.”

His voice has regained some of its smugness as he replies. His feet are tapping softly, as if he has all the time in the world.

“Of course she did. She loves me.”

You nod jerkily, continuing with your waffle.

“It's clear she does. I'm— in the FBI, I'm a profiler. I'm an expert on human behaviour, and I could see it, despite…”

You trail off, hopeful that he'll take the bait. He does, voice gaining a dangerous edge.

“Despite? Don't let me stop you from speaking your mind, agent.”

“Well, she was scared when we spoke. You know, suddenly there were all these dead bodies that were linked to her. She was pretty shaken.”

His tapping stills.

“Because of the bodies? I did that for her. For us!”

“Yes, I know. It's romantic, really. But, it scared Amaya a bit. It's all so sudden, you see. She was a little freaked out, especially because you hadn't told her about it.”

He's silent for nearly a minute, breathing heavily.

“She's angry about what I did for her?”

“No, not angry. I know she'll understand. You did it for her, she'll love it. She just… wanted to know from you, instead of the police.”

There. You've set your trap, and hopefully he'll fall right in it. Rossi's good-natured lectures play out in your head. 

Never challenge a narcissist directly. Make them worried, but never tell them outright that the object of their desire isn't going to be theirs.

He feigns nonchalance, but you can hear in his voice that his narcissistic possessiveness  is warring with the uncertainty you've introduced.

“Your friends had better be leaving. I've got to get Amaya, and if that takes too long, it's on you.”

You fall silent, hearing him mutter to himself as he begins to pace. If you push further you might be toeing the line too far.

The five minutes are almost up, you've got to believe that you've done enough to help them talk him down. 

As if on cue, you hear the familiar crackle of a megaphone. Rossi's voice, albeit muffled, comes booming towards you, sending a shiver down your spine.

“Randall, we have the building surrounded! Let the agent go and we can end this peacefully!”

The unsub, Randall, you suppose, straightens up, and you see him walk cautiously away from you. He walks to the far wall of the wooded building, and you catch a glimpse of him peering through the wood planks. He swears, shoves his gun into his waistband and paces hurriedly back to you.

“You bitch. Did you tell them? Huh? Did you?” He grabs a hold of the rope binding your wrists to your thigh, tugging you up to face him. The rope cuts harshly into your skin, forcing your right leg up at an unnatural angle to follow your wrists.

“I didn’t! I didn’t tell them, I don’t have my phone!”

Wrong thing to say. His eyes darken, and you see his hand twitch toward his gun.

You’re so close, you just need to show him what he’s here for. You hope Spencer got Amaya here.

“I can get you to Amaya! I swear it, if you let me talk to them, I can get them to give you Amaya.”

It works. He doesn’t let you go, and you whimper at the feeling of the rope cutting you, but he pauses, and you can see him thinking it over in his head. It takes one long minute, but he seems to make up his mind.

“No funny business. I’m going to be right there, so don’t even try sending them any messages, got it?” 

You nod, and he whips out a pocket knife, using it to slice through the rope. You let out a deep sigh of relief, your right foot meeting the floor so you can finally stand alone. Blood seeps from the cuts on your wrists and thigh.

He grabs you by the throat, pressing himself to your back, and you register the cold barrel of a gun pressing against your side, where your vest doesn’t cover.

As he half marches, half drags you to the large door, he hisses in your ear.

“I don’t want to hear anything other than Amaya, got it? You say anything that doesn’t have to do with getting her here, I shoot you.”

You nod wordlessly, stumbling towards the door. He comes to a stop right behind it, and maneuvers around you to shove it open, thrusting you out into the fading light of the evening.

Blinking rapidly, you slowly focus on the cavalry in front of you. Multiple SUVs are parked at a three meter’s distance from the stable, doors flung side open so the officers and agents can huddle behind them. A few steps away from them stands Rossi, the sight of him sending a rush of comfort through you.

Rossi clutches the megaphone tighter, and you notice he’s speaking to someone by the SUV in front of him— Oh. Spencer is crouched at the car right in front of you, silver revolver glinting in his hand, and his eyes trained on you as he speaks to Rossi.

It feels rather stupid, but you can’t help but note how pretty he looks, hair tousled and jaw clenched.

You’re pulled out of your reverie when Randall jabs you in the side with his gun, making you yelp.

“Now.” He warns. You straighten your neck, making eye contact with Rossi.

“He’s demanding to see—” Another jab. “—to have Amaya Walker. Please bring her out.”

As you speak, you take your right hand, which was dangling at your side, and bring it up to your pants pocket. Making a gesture that resembles a gun, you slip it into your pocket softly. There’s no significant signal that they’ve understood, but you see the skin around Rossi’s eyes pinch, and you hope you’ve gotten the point across. 

If they can get him to move just a little, you can retrieve your gun from his pocket and incapacitate him. And the only thing that will get him to move now is Amaya.

Rossi brings the megaphone back up to his mouth.

“We can get her here, but we need a guarantee that you won’t harm this agent. Randall, can you do that? Give us Agent L/N, and we can get you Amaya.”

Incensed, Randall hits your side harder with the barrel of his gun. You see Spencer and Morgan twitch forward slightly.

“No! I want Amaya here, now, and I’m not letting your girl go until I see her!”

Rossi nods quickly, signalling to someone behind him. At that motion, JJ emerges from who-knows-where, Amaya Walker in tow. The older woman is wearing a bulletproof vest, her face ashen at the sight in front of her. 

They walk forward until they’re standing by the cars.

At the sight of her, Randall relaxes slightly, but not enough to where you can easily maneuver to your gun. Shaking your head slightly, you see JJ prompt Mrs Walker.

Her voice is shaky and quiet, but you know Randall is hanging on to every word.

“Randall. That’s your name? I’m—” She chokes back a sound. “I’m so glad to meet you.”

Randall makes a pitiful noise from behind you.

“They said you were scared of me.”

JJ prompts her again. 

“I- I could never be afraid of you.” 

At that, Randall lets his hand fall from your throat, and you move. Whipping around, you shove his gun away, diving into his pocket and retrieving yours. You straighten, pointing your gun at him as steadily as you can, with the wobble in your right leg.

He attempts to run to Amaya, but JJ’s already swept her away. 

“Randall, surrender now! You’re surrounded!” Rossi’s voice booms, but it only serves to madden him further.

With a roar of anger he begins to charge to you, and you squeeze, before collapsing. The bullet hits his thigh, the last thing you see before you pass out.

It feels like hours later when you come to, but it's clearly only been a few minutes. You’re sitting on something hard, cold metal, but your back is being supported by something warm.

Only a few beats pass until the sounds come rushing back. You hear the chatter of multiple people around you, but three voices come the clearest. One is deep, interjecting intermittently to the conversation.

The other is calm and melodic, speaking in a steady rhythm that doesn’t falter at all. 

The last is hurried, speaking so quickly that it feels as though it all runs into a pleasant hum. They’re clearly asking questions to the second voice, but you can’t fully understand what they’re saying. 

You want to know who it is. With an immense amount of effort, you prise your eyes open, blinking blearily at the lights. 

“Hey, there she is.” There’s that deep voice. Turning to it, you see a familiar face. Derek smiles at you softly, his hand coming up to rub your shoulder.

“You had us worried there, sunshine.”

Looking around dazedly, you can finally take in your surroundings. You’re sitting in the open doors of an ambulance, the evening having given away to the darkness of night. Headlights from multiple cars light up the area, leaving you spaced out.

There’s a medic standing next to Derek, tending to the cuts on your thigh. Who’s the last voice? 

You twist around, much to the chagrin of the medic, but their protests fall away when you see him. 

Spencer sits next to you, your back leaning against his side. His eyes are worried, pinched together, but still lovely. 

“Hey.” 

It’s simple, but the word seems to mean something more, when it’s coming out of his mouth, and when he’s looking at you like that.

You’re frozen, unable to speak. The medic pats your knee, saying that the rest of your patching up should be done at the hospital. Derek walks away after kissing your forehead. You can barely say goodbye to him. 

It’s only once you’re relatively alone that Spencer speaks again. You turn to face him, immediately missing the heat of his torso against your back.

“Was… this why you were acting differently?” He raises his leg, pulling up his pant leg to show you the words on his skin.

You nod.

“You said you didn’t think it was real. I didn’t know how to tell you yet, and then— it was the only way to contact you.”

You see his hands raise slightly, but refrain from touching you. You want him to touch you.

“I don’t know if I believe in it. But… Even without it, I wanted this.” His words are achingly sincere, and his hand comes to rest over yours. 

“Wanted it since we met.”

Your breath hitches slightly, and you turn your hand to hold his, your wrist with pen marks meeting his.

The words don’t come to your tongue, but you’re sure he knows. He figured it out.

[hana-no-seiiki]

𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓’𝐒 𝐔𝐏 𝐃𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑 ?

╰┈➤ [ CH 02.1 ] LEAP OF FAITH

pairings: yandere! various (batfam, spiderverse) x miles morales! reader

tw/cw: mild yandere themes, stalking, spoilers for the spiderverse movies (this part covers a majority of the first one) and spiderman games. VV LONG PART!! Lots of canon divergences!!! reader gets called a kid multiple times but they’re an adult.

status: severely unedited

a/n: although i included spanish and uncle aaron, please be reminded that [y/n] looks however you’d like! you may even alter how unc looks since i don’t describe his appearance anyways. i’ll also be adding stuff from the spiderman games to expand on some characters so everything is not one to one from the movies.

wanted to get this out sooner for you all so this part will be divided into two or more depending on how far i get into the movie

[previous] [masterlist] [next]

The dark, putrid alleyways of Gotham was a place that should never be treaded by a small, weak kid like you. You cringed at the sound and feel of your favorite shoes sinking into the water with every step, and then frowned at the thought that your mom wouldn’t be the one washing these later now that you lived in a dorm. Still, even if those criminals didn’t capture you for ransom, or maybe your favorite vigilantes didn’t accidentally kill you, you were sure your dad would — no absolutely will. Maybe having a new home to go to wasn’t so bad.

“I’m gonna get in so much trouble.”

You muttered with a massive grin on your features. Fear always treated you a little differently. If anything it made you walk a little faster. It had been a while since you and Aaron had little fun together, and you definitely wouldn’t let a future sermon get in the way of such a rare opportunity.

Your uncle, his hands tucked into his puffer jacket-hoodie hybrid nudged you with his shoulder. Your much smaller, younger frame almost toppled over.

“Hey man, tell him your art teacher made ya.”

“How’d you know about this place?”

“Did an Engineering job down here.” Whew, even hearing the word Engineering from your Uncle made you shudder. “What?” He asked, you couldn’t tell if he was concerned, weirded out, or just chillin’. He was always hard to read.

“Nothing.” You took a deep breath in, “Dad wants me to get into Engineering.”

You two stop at some metal fencing with a door, which was conveniently climbable. Your uncle quickly demonstrated how with a few swift moments. Damn, it was almost as if he was used to breaking and entering.

“And you?” He smirked.

“I-“ You took a deep breath, It wasn’t as if you weren’t used to getting into shenanigans and sneaking into places yourself. You jumped, barely able to reach the door’s height, awkwardly heaved your body upwards to the gap between the fence and the ceiling, before not so gracefully squeezing yourself and your backpack through. “augh — don’t know yet.”

“Whassup?” You looked at your uncle, a huge and crooked grin of triumph in your features.

“Hahaha— I knew we were related. I’ll tell you something though. Just make sure you can pay the bills and sort out your taxes.”

You groaned in response to his advise. You definitely weren’t ready to be a proper adult yet.

You two then proceeded to the best spot you’ve ever seen in Gotham yet.

“Whoa!” Your mouth was so wide open in awe that it almost hurt. You yelled, “Gothaamm!!” Jumping giddily at the echo.

“There’s a lot of history on these walls.” Your uncle let his hand graze across the old graffiti, tracing each line with a soft, yet proud look on his face.

Excited, you swiftly dropped your backpack, taking out a few cans of paint. “This is so fresh.” And so you did your thing. Letting your instincts guide you as you got back into the groove of spray painting. It had been a while, your hands were shaky at times, but nonetheless you were in your element. Free. Unafraid of mistakes or the far future.

You smiled, truly, for once since your enrolment. There was just a few last touches.

“A little help?”

“Wow.”

“Too crazy?”

“Nah, man. [N/N] I see exactly what you’re doing here.” Aaron patted you on the back before he wrapped an arm around your shoulder. “You know, your dad and I used to do this back in the day.”

“Stop lyin’! A guy a like him? I bet he snitch on ya right after.”

“No, no, it’s true! But then he took on the cop thing and . . . I don’t know.” Your uncle had a tense look appear on his face. As if he tasted something bitter. And then, a distant, yet sweet nostalgic one replaced it as the words escaped his lips, “He’s a good guy . . . just . . . you know what I’m sayin?”

“Speaking of good. You don’t have to act all strong when you’re with me.” He gave you a light punch to your arm. “I knew you two were close. Heck, I made a couple of bets that you two would get married in the future. Didn’t know I’d lose to nature of all things.”

“Wait. Hang on— bets?!” Blood rushed to your face. You feel warm and cold at the same time. Were you two that obvious?

“I didn’t know him that well. But what I do know is that he put a huge smile on your face. Bigger than any of the ones I could ever draw on ya.” His rubs his thumb to the corner of your lips, “So feeling bad that he’s gone? That’s a given, kid.”

“Thanks, unc.” You leaned into his touch, “But it really isn’t Miguel. It’s—“

His phone rang. Damn.

“Sorry, [N/N]. I gotta roll.”

“No problema.”

A grave look flicked across your uncle’s features. Must have been the stress from work you supposed. Being called at this hour? You were dreading Engineering even more.

“[Y/N]! We gotta go.”

Turns out spending most of the night outside in the cold right before school was a bad idea. It was as if everything was irritating you. Your clothes felt tighter, your sweats… sweatier. Wait. This could only mean one thing.

“I think I hit puberty!” You exclaimed. Finally you could be as tall as those other kids in school.

Realizing you yelled that out loud and startled your roommate was a tad bit embarrassing though. “. . . Ehehe. . . sorry.”

‘I gotta get new clothes.’

‘Wait, why is the voice in my head so loud?’

“Watch where you’re—“ Of all the people you bump into . . . “[L/N].” Damian’s beautiful green eyes would have been great to stare at if he didn’t use them to glare at everyone. You almost shriek at the random tingle you feel behind your neck. Why were you getting goosebumps all of a sudden? I mean he is hot but not that hot.

“You know my—“

“Yeah. I know everyone’s.” He quickly overtook your attempt at a conversation. “6pm. Weekend. Don’t be late, 42.” And there he goes.

Wait, wasn’t that your raffle number?

“How does he know— He- He really has some issues.” You shook your head. Your mom often brought you around the community to help and whatnot, as such you weren’t that fazed when people just knew stuff about you without knowing who they are.

“Talk about it.” In anycase, you know who’s actually that hot?

“Gwen!”

“Hi. You called me by name for once.” Her eyes traveled all over your body, and it took everything in you not to grin like an idiot, scream and turn red all at the same time. “Are you alright or . . ? You’re sweating, like a lot.”

Shit. Damn your body for betraying you! “I am?”

“Hang on.” She brings forth a face towel, a little damp to the touch, but useful nonetheless.

“Sorry, it has my own sweat on it.”

“It’s great, I mean fine! Thank you.” Holy shit you just sweat melded with Gwen. Laughing awkwardly you give it back to her. Or at least attempt to.

“Uh, you can let go now.”

“I think . . . I think it’s stuck to my hand?”

“What?”

“I- It won’t come off!”

You suddenly feel a static, and judging from Gwen’s face, you know she felt it too.

“What was that?!”

“Okay, [Y/N] listen. Pay close attention. I need you to calm down.”

“Calm down?! How does calming down help?!”

“It’ll be much more helpful for you to be calm rather than panicked at the very least!” Gwen slowly inhaled and exhaled. Damn was she good at everything she does? How is she not panicking like you were? “Breathe in, and out.”

In anycase, a couple of breathing exercises later and a horrid excuse to not make your crush — and hence why your nerves were on end despite the calm atmosphere of a library — that obvious. You two part ways.

Well not without a final word from her.

“We have to talk later” She says. The lighthearted, calm tone turned serious.

You don’t know how you got to this moment. Somewhere, sometime when you were running away from the school guards because of your new found powers — you found yourself in a middle of a fight between Spiderman and The Lizard.

“Dr. Curtis, listen to me! You cannot open up a portal to another dimension. Gotham is not zoned for that. We’re barely surviving here in the first place!” Geez harsh dig, but man was he right. You don’t know how many days your mom spent crying wondering if your dad would come back after being sent to fight Joker of all people.

Still your dad never fails to intimidate you. Despite your powers being oddly similar to Spiderman, you think it’d be best if you left before your parents started calling—

“It’s not up to me!”

You gulped, perhaps the lizard looked a little more imposing than a sermon.

“Why won’t you quit?!”

“I guess I like Gotham not being sucked into a black hole?! Metropolis maybe, not Gotham!”

You gasp as the floor beneath you disappears, you find yourself free falling.

THWIP!

“You’re cute. And your shoes are untied.” As if you weren’t already out of breath, Spiderman just had to call you cute while you were basically heaving from all the physical activity and the anxiety of having a giant lizard on your ass. “I’m basically wearing a onesie so I don’t really have to worry about it.” The man makes it worse and approaches you, holding up your Air Jordan’s and tying it laces.

You feel a tingle down your spine that flows down your limbs. One that looped over and over like some sort of feedback. Same as Gwen’s but somehow stronger.

Spiderman snapped his head from your shoes to your face once more. The white eye-like part of his mask widened.

“You’re a Spider, too? Damn.” Spiderman mouthed the last word breathlessly, though it didn’t seem to be out of being tired. He seemed quite . . . relaxed almost. He was in his element.

You shook your head, “I don’t want to be . . .” And clearly, you weren’t being good enough for it if you couldn’t handle even half of what he’s doing.

“We don’t have a choice.” The unyielding nature of his statement took you aback. You weren’t sure if it was out of awe or fear for the future.

“Got a lot going through your head I’m sure. You’re gonna be fine, I can help you. Show you the ropes? I just needta destroy that big machine before the space time continuum collapses. Try not to move around too much.” He gives your shoes one last tug, and you see the mask shift a little around his mouth area. He’s smiling.

He then styles on you by backflipping unto a rail, doing the classic “hero stake out” pose before he saluted, “See ya.”

“Crap.” Spiderman mouthed as the entire contraption collapsed.

“What happened there?! Are you alright?!" You ran to his frankly, horrid state of self. On the floor, bruised and beaten. His mask torn on one of his eyes, revealing a brilliant blue.

“Talk later, escape now.” He coughed, spitting out some blood.

“Right. Where do I. . .?” Crap. Were you really going to learn about Spiderman's real identity just like that? You wondered were such a man lived. Prolly up town where all the socialites were. Dude's probably neighbors with the likes of Bruce Wayn-

“ . . . Gotham Visions Dormitory.”

“I can’t believe Spiderman just slept next door and he’s a senior in my school!”

“Sshhhh! And yeah, well. The world is a small place. Gotham’s even smaller.” He puts a finger on your lips. A sigh escaped his. Seconds pass before he continued, “I just can’t believe Papa’s kid would be my protégé.”

“You-You-Y-You heard that?!”

“I hear a lot of things.”

You nodded at him. You too have heard many things since your powers first manifested. You wonder how he can handle so much stimuli every single day while going to Visions and being a badass hero.

What were you supposed to do again? Right - ! You had a spider to save. You swiftly shuffled through his belongings. Strangely enough you don't see any pictures of him lying around. Not that you wanted to sneak a peek as to how those pretty blue eyes fit into the picture. Not at all.

After a minute or so, you find a first aid kid and begin mending the most damaging areas of his body. Thankfully you don't spot nor feel foreign objects stuck inside him and it seems as if he's already healed many of the minor wounds.

Superheroes man. So cool.

“You seem pretty experienced with handling this kind of stuff. Should I be concerned?”

“Had a friend that got beaten up quite a lot. Picked it up for him. May I?" You gestured to his mask.

“I . . . see. And go ahead. I need a breather and this thing ain't helping."

You patted his face and neck for any indication of where to pull, finding a slit underneath his chin. Gingerly, you tugged on the latex like fabric.

Your [e/c] meeting those baby blues once more, only more clearly now.

And the fan blogs about him were so right, he is blond!

That would make him the second blondie you've had the feedback loop with now that you thought about it. You were about to mention Gwen but -

“Harry!” Spiderman covered the rest of his body with blanket so quickly that you barely even processed the new person by the time he finished making his move.

What the heck- why'd he even let you- was he just making fun of you- using you-

“Pete. Woah. You look . . .” 'Harry' looked at your new Spider tutor with a mildly concerned glance. Not even moving to help you with the first aid.

“Yeah yeah. You know the drill."

“And you . . .” Harry's eyes drift to your spot. You look away, scared of making direct eye contact. Great, another hot guy.

“Papa’s kid. I know.” You mumbled. A rising sense of resentment for your father ebbed and flowed within your spider venom infested veins.

“No no. There is that yeah, but I mean. You’re the one Peter kept—“

“Harry!” 'Peter' groaned. Huh, you never expected Spiderman to have such a nerdy name.

“Fine. Though, he wasn’t lying. You really are cute.”

Peter groaned even louder this time, an achievement considering his face was buried in a pillow for this round.

“You called me cute earlier too, why are you hiding now?”

“That’s different!”

“Woah, Peter called you cute? To your face? Who are you and what have you done to my friend?”

“Shut up.”

You sense an upcoming wave of awkward silence. As such, the kind person that you were, you quickly finished helping Peter with the injuries he had exposed and stated, “That should be it. My room is just next door. To the left. I’ll be there if you need me.”

You silently return the first aid kid where it belonged and sneak your way to the door as if the two men weren't staring at you at this moment. "Goodbye um- sir Peter. Sir Harry."

And then you were gone.

“You don’t mind if we share right?”

“Harry. Could you not? I’m serious.”

“Woah. What’s with the attitude and volume?”

“I. . . like them. A lot. You know this already.” Peter suddenly had this longing look on his face. Equal parts in hopeless romantic and obsession.

“Clearly I didn’t truly comprehend the extent of your yearning ‘til now. Sheesh. Okay, they’re all yours.” Harry paused for dramatic effect, “For now.”

“Harry!”

“Hey, uh — Gwen. Got caught up in something. I’ll talk to you after I’m done with . . . everything. I should be free just before next week starts. See ya.”

Click!

You were never really good with excuses. Your mind raked through everything you knew just to give Gwen that message.

In anycase, overwhelmed as you were. Your feet took you to one place the anxiety and stress seemed to melt away (aside from Uncle Aaron’s crib).

“This week just keeps getting worse.” You sighed, slamming the window to your room shut after sneaking in.

Well, getting in and getting caught right after.

“Police! Put your hands up!” Your father exclaimed. But his voice doesn’t alert you at all. If anything you were bracing yourself for the sermon right after.

“Wait a sec. [Y/N]?” Your mother appeared from behind him with a frying pan in hand.

You took a deep breath. Facing them both.

How could you say that you were afraid? Scared? Unbelievably crushed underneath all this pressure about going to Gotham Visions and possibly becoming a hero of your own soon.

You'd have to fight giant lizards. Giant sandstorm creating men.

And all you had was you,

and your family.

“[Y/N]—? Why aren’t you at—“ You rushed to hug your dad. Encasing the old man with your arms so tight that it almost took the wind out of the poor officer. “Woah woah. It’s okay. It’s okay.”

“. . . No. No it’s . . . “ Not. Everything is not okay. You were about to take on the responsibility of a lifetime. Something you couldn’t – shouldn’t — escape even if you all you wished was to run away from it all.

“[Y/N]? Qué te pasa? Is it the earthquake?” Your mother joined in the hug. Rubbing your back as her other hand held her husband (frying pan put aside).

“Can I sleep here tonight?” You asked.

“[Y/N], it’s a weeknight. You made a commitment to that school.”

“Jeff, they’re upset.”

“Of course you can stay.” Your father immediately changed tune. Heh, he really was weak to your mother.

“Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you really hate Spiderman?”

“Yeah. . ? I mean, for a vigilante he isn’t as bad as that friend of his, Red Hood—“

“Jeff, mi amor?”

“What? They asked me! Baby you know how I feel about those people c’mon.” Your father’s voice fades away, taking your mother’s stern look as a sign that he may not be wanted there all too much at the moment.

“Tú sabes que él te quiere mucho. That’s why he’s tough on you. You know that, right?”

“Mhm. I . . . I know.” You knew. But most of the time than not you couldn’t fully comprehend or understand your father. Despite clearly never appreciating or responding well to his tough love approach, he kept doubling down and forcing what he thought was good for you. “Mami. Do you ever think about moving out of Gotham?”

Your mother shook her head.

“Our family doesn’t run from things, [Y/N].”

“What’s this?” You gestured the red box Peter handed you. It was wrapped by some blue ribbon.

“My old suit. Figured we should get that part right before anything else.” He watches you with a smile as you opened it. “It’ll just be a placeholder before I give your measurements to my aunt.”

“Your aunt?”

“My partner in crime. Well — fighting crime. Aside from Jace. But we don't talk about him behind his back otherwise he'll just suddenly appear like the devil." He whispered the last part into your ear. Jace? Was that another vigilante? Sounds like a pompous name. Or maybe you’ve been watching Arcane way too much in anticipation for the next season.

“This is . . . a bit too big.”

“Who knows? It might fit, eventually. Spider puberty is a little finicky.”

“Tell me about it.” You’ve gone through a lot of your handkerchiefs from all the sweat you’ve been excreting.

“You mind?” He gestured his hands in a pulling down motion. You tilted your head in confusion but then slowly pieced together that he wanted to help you put it on.

“Go ahead.”

“That should be it.” He patted your back after securing your suit on.

It sagged a bit on your body, but worked nonetheless.

“That static, tingly thing in our heads. What’s that?”

“Spider-sense. It alerts you of incoming danger. It should do you well to listen to it.”

“Listen to static??”

“You’ll learn its language soon enough. In anycase, first on today’s agenda! Web-slinging. Very important. That’s how we get to any place at any time, whenever someone needs us. It’s what puts me — now us — Spiderpeople ahead of other vigilantes in the area.” He said with what you could assume was a big grin on his face by the way his mask moved.

“Alright. What do I do?”

“Just jump across and —“ Peter flicked his wrist forward, almost hitting you with the sticky goo that makes up his web.

You nod. This should be easy enough right?

Jump and flick. Jump and flick.

What you failed to calculate within your plans was that flicking your wrist needed to be timed precisely otherwise your web would not reach its proper destination.

“AAAAAAAH—!” You screamed as your webs landed on air, your body falling down.

With your eyes sewn shut, you fully expected a crash and the painful reality of falling at least 5 stories.

But somehow, you miraculously get caught. You opened your eyes and . . .

“Woah.” Your mouth went agape. If Peter was cute, whoever just saved your ass (literally) was pretty. Impeccable pale skin, dark and mysterious blue eyes that screamed sleepless but nonetheless striking, and oh his hair. Jet black. Perfectly framing his face.

And as if the heavens decided to reward you for trusting Peter's guidance and taking the fall (literally), it seemed that the ogling was not one-sided, “Are you an angel from heaven?” You both say in sync.

It had not been a moment since that came out from your mouth and you already regretted it. Augh. Cringe.

“Timmy! Old pal!” Peter landed behind him with a large smack to the shoulder, almost making this ‘Timmy’ drop you. “I see you’ve met my protégé.”

“Spider . . .” Peter struggled to put a title on you, “ . . . baby meet Timothy “Tim.” Drake, my underclassman. Timsies, meet my new partner.”

“He knows?” You whispered, as if Tim wasn't there still holding unto to you.

“Yep, he’s actually the Red Robin.” Peter whispered back, playing along with you.

“Peter!” Tim whisper-shouted, smacking Peter’s nape. Not before putting you down gently, of course. What a gentleman.

“R-r-red RobIN?! I’m such a huge fan! I - I bought all of your merch and—“ An alarm went off from inside your suit. You curse as you realized that getting your phone out to close it would take ages. Thankfully you knew what it meant however.“Crap. I gotta go.”

“Go where—?” Peter questioned.

“Well, I have this project with this kid from my class, Damian Wayne?”

“You were partnered with him? Good luck.” Tim had a look of both pity and a hint of delight.

“That happens to be Tim’s little brother.” ‘Barely’ the person in question muttered. “Why don’t I bring you there? Think I should have given you a proper example before throwing you off a building.”

“Why am I not surprised that you almost broke someone’s back with your antics? One day you’ll get ‘em killed.”

Peter doesn’t even answer him properly, “Oh no, your coffee.”

“Ah.” Tim stared at the brown stain in the snow. “I’ll just buy another one. Take care you two.”

And you somehow don’t throw up as Peter took you to the skies. He gives you pointers once on air. Something about wrist angles, pendulum theories and a whole bunch of physics. Unfortunately for him, half of the time was spent with you being thinking and being distracted by how pretty Tim was.

“You’re a godsend. Sometimes.” At least, even with the crap spider tutelage, being a baby spider meant free, fast rides across the New York.

“Just your friendly neighborhood spider.”

You heard lightning in the distance.

“Never gets old.” Peter put his hands on his hips. Neither surprised nor creeped out by the eerie ambiance. “Don’t worry about the creepy atmosphere, the Waynes are huge softies inside. I’ll pick you up at . . . ?”

“Oh, no no no! I’ll be fine. You’ve already helped a lot. (and almost killed me a couple of times) Thank you.” You vehemently denied his help. Fearing for what may happen despite the safe journey here.

“Always here to help. Or not. Good luck, Spiderbaby!”

“You’re on time.” The green-eyed classmate of yours looked raised his annoyingly perfect eyebrows. Considering your track record with classes, you couldn’t blame him.

“Of course.” Damian terrified you way too much for you to be late. He does not reply, so you open your mouth to keep the atmosphere from being too awkward, “Nice place you—“

“No small talk. Now that you’re done fulfilling the bare minimum. We can begin. Follow me.”

He led you through a bunch of hallways. Probably filled with antiques that would make your entire neighborhood go bankrupt. Your past experiences in rich people’s houses made you repeat one thing in your head as your treaded the extravagantly carpeted hall

‘Keep your arms to the side.’ His voice bounced around in your head. Echoes of the past that you've buried for so long. The moment you even raised a finger, you could be charged for theft. Especially if the owner was extra elitist and a douche. Like how his dad used to be.

“Woah, you draw too? These are so cool!” You ogled as you and Damian reached his room. It was as fancy as you expected it to be. Dreary and dark if not for the presence of animal toys and art supplies.

“I said no—“

You continued yapping, far too excited by the concept of Damian having something in common with you to stop. “A whole Windsor and Newton set, of course. I could only wish to have these.” You sighed dramatically. If only you could—

You feel static down your spine. Just by the width of a hair you managed to dodge Damian throwing a paintbrush at you. You look behind to see the wooden end of it stuck within a wall.

“What the heck, that could have hurt!”

“You have good reflexes.”

“Not even a sorry?” Damian raised one of his eyebrows (which are super thick now that you looked closely) and then gave you one scathing hot glare. “Fine, fine.”

It took about half an hour before you found yourself dosing off to dreamland.

“What are you doing? We don’t have all night to work—“

“I’m done. Been waiting for you for forever.”

“Give me that.” He snatched your paper off of your hands.

“Hey!”

“This is . . . acceptable.” He then waved your paper around before slamming it unto the table. “Only that it doesn’t hold any substance at all. It’s too vague. Our teacher told us to talk about our personal experiences. Not hypothetical ones.”

“I’m afraid if I write my personal experiences it’d be way too depressing.” You half joked. Trying yet failing to get a laugh out of your partner to ease the mood. A terrible one to pick for that reason but hey, playing dumb this entire year was your forte at this point.

Maybe cause you were actually a little stupid in some places.

“Then write it.”

“I just said—“

“So what if your life is depressing? It’s your own life. Your story. If she judges you for being honest then it’s her fault.”

“Damian?” Your mouth agape in awe, you said, “You’re so cool, y’know that?”

Besides being the son of Bruce Wayne, he was also the little brother of your favorite hero. You’ve also heard of the rumors. How perfect Damian was at everything. Some people were just favored by the Gods you supposed.

“I know. Besides it’s what was written in the instructions.” Damian huffed. Again, seemingly unaffected by your words. Understandably so, he probably got praised on the daily with how utterly immaculate he was.

Kind of makes you want to push his buttons.

“To be honest, you seemed so scary I almost bailed. Glad my fear of angering you outweighed my fear of you in general.”

“Hm.” Nope. Nothing at all. At least, nothing that you’ll ever see. As the moment you looked away out of boredom, an ever so faint smirk etches itself unto Damian’s countenance.

The rest of the evening passed in silence. Nothing comfortable, you were in an eerie mansion with one of the scariest people you knew after all, but nothing too awkward or chilling either.

“Bye Damian! It was nice working with you!” You waved, making your exit. A sense of relaxation and slight euphoria in your veins as you finally got whatever that was done.

“They seemed nice.”

Damian does not reply to Alfred’s words verbally. Only nodding as a polite response before he left.

Alfred stared at your form as it grew smaller. “. . . albeit a tad familiar.”

“Hey, Mig.” Your body instinctively relaxed as you saw the picture frame above his gravestone, right next to a large bouquet of fresh flowers; a thin layer of snow atop of it.

You wiped it off from both items, before proceeding to kneel down as you always did during your visits, “I missed ya.” You began.

“I’ve been a bit behind on my Spanish lessons, and I haven’t had much use for it since, you know.” Your hand moved around, animated. “Everything has just been so hectic. I feel like every single time I thought things were at its worst the world just piles on more duties for me to take.” And then it fell back to your side.

You bury your face into your knees.

“Is this what you felt like?” You recalled the hours he spent perfecting table manners and speech. The way his life was turned upside down by a single revelation of his parenthood. “Your dad got a lot nicer when you were gone. Your death was definitely a wake-up call to his prejudices. He even offered to pay for my fees at Visions.”

Of course, you refused. Citing the fact that now that Miguel was gone there was no use to niceties. It was too late, your opinion of him and those rich folks who walked all over you would never change no matter how much they poured.

. . . Actually, you change your mind. With the way the current Spiderman was teaching you, you might need some help paying a couple hospital bills along with damages of property.

“You are supposed to be where I am. I bet you’d do a lot better as a Spiderman too.”

In fact, you believed that he would have been perfect. Miguel was the kindest, most self sacrificing person you knew. He would have taken this responsibility with stride and his head held high.

If only you had a better teacher. Someone who was more practical and had more experience.

“Hey Kid.”

After what felt like a chase and a half, you managed to bring the man you knocked out back home. It took a while but you knew your father had some rope, a punching bag, and a place where you wouldn’t get caught (your room, securely locked with a table).

But most importantly, what your dad had was a lot of movies with cops/detectives in them. Interrogation techniques were always something he’d discuss and use on you whenever you’d do something against the house’s ‘laws.’ Which was… more often than not.

“Why do you look like Peter?”

“Because I am Peter.”

You looked at him with a face of utter disbelief. Gesturing to his form you questioned, “Then why are you older? Why is your hair different? Why is your nose broken? And why is your body a-a different . . . shape?”

“Did you just call me fat?”

“N-no- just different!”

“Hey listen kid. Fat shaming isn’t a part of cute privilege alright?”

Ignoring the part where this random ass stranger called you cute, for the sake of this conversation’s brevity and your curiosity you surmised the following, “Are you . . . Are you from another dimension, like from a parallel universe where things are like this universe but different and you’re Spiderman in that universe but somehow traveled to this universe, but-but you don’t know how?”

“Wow cute and smart. That was really just a guess?”

“Learned about it in physics. Visions really drills those in within the first month.”

“Quantum Theory.” You two mouthed in sync.

“This is amazing! I can have two teachers! You seem a bit more experienced too. Maybe I can minimize the bones I break this way!”

“Yeah right.” He swiftly dismissed your idea. Groaning at the thought of dealing with what was basically a child in comparison to his experience.

“Please?”

“Well here’s lesson one kid; don’t watch the mouth. Watch the hands.” And the whole thing that tied him to the punching bag unraveled. Damn it, that took you at least an hour to do! Not only that but the man then kicked the thing at you, making you slam backwards unto a door. Yikes.

“Other Peter, seriously—!” And now you have his web all over your mouth. Great.

“Trust me, kid. This’ll all make you a better Spiderman.” Peter—or whoever this rude man was—jumped out of your window and slung a web, ready to leave. But before he could take off, his body suddenly glitched, the distortion rippling across his form, and he crashed downward, slamming through a set of stairs with a loud thud.

“Hey, are you - are you . . . okay?” You asked, wiping off the remnants of his web from your lips. “What’s going on with your body?”

“I don’t think my atoms are all jazzed about being in the wrong dimension.” He turned his body around, facing you and glitching once more. “Look, I’m not looking for a side gig as a Spiderman coach. ‘Sides you already have one! With a not broken nose! And I got a little going lot on in my dimension.”

“I heard a wise guy once saying that with great power comes great—“

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence! Don’t do it! I’m sick of it!” He pointed at you with an accusatory finger, his voice trembling with frustration. And then he glitches again. Huh you might have felt bad if he didn’t just kick and webbed you. “Want my advice? Go back to being a regular kid. We already have a bunch of vigilantes in Gotham I’m sure they can work things out.” He spoke as he hung from a platform with one hand.

“I’m part of this now. I can’t just run away! That supercollider could potentially destroy my universe, everything and everyone I know!”

“What did you say?” Suddenly, Peter turned his head to look at you.

“I can’t just run away?”

He started walking towards you, feet sticking to the brick walls like a natural, “Blah blah responsibility! Who cares about that? Where’s this collider?”

“Under Fisk Tower.”

“Goodbye.” He walks back down the walls. Tearing the eye contact he held with you just seconds ago like it was nothing.

“Where are you going?”

“When it runs, I’ll jump in and get back to my life.”

“You can’t let them run it! You don’t even know if you’ll get sent to the correct dimension much less be alive through it all!” You attempt to follow him, not so gracefully sliding down the walls, “We’re supposed to destroy it so it doesn’t run at all and cause — I don’t know — a rupture in the—“

“‘Space time continuum’ That is what they always say. But there’s always a little bit of time before everybody dies and that’s when I do my best work.”

“You’re really gonna go home and leave me, a kid mind you, to figure this out all by myself?”

“No, I’m leaving you with other, frankly speaking, much more responsible vigilantes to fix whatever aftereffects of that thing is.”

“You good with that Spiderman?”

“Yeah.”

You sighed, falling to your knees.

Older Peter looks back at you from the rooftop with the most unamused look he's ever had this whole night. “What are you doing?”

“Using my ‘cute privilege’ to make you feel guilty. Is it working?”

“I hate kids. How could it— No. Look at me. Does it look like it’s working? No, no it’s —Ohohoho. AAAHH! NO! NO! DO NOT LET THEM WIN!”

You muster all your will not to smile or laugh at his mighty attitude falling at the face of your cuteness.

“Alright kid, you win. We don’t have a second to lose. Bring me to your Spiderman mentor you mentioned.”

“Mmm. I love this burger. So delicious. Mmm. One of the best burgers I’ve ever had. In my universe this place closed six years ago. Mmm. I don’t know why. I really don’t. Mmm!” Peter Burnout spoke as he gorged himself in food. Some of the ketchup spraying to yours and OG Peter's face.

A waiter passes by and drops a bill on your table.

“You have money, right? I’m not very liquid right now.”

“I can’t believe you replaced me!” Peter cried as he looked at his older, more . . . rotund counterpart.

“Peter. Sir. Respectfully speaking super healing doesn’t really help with pain from broken bones. If anything I’m just grateful I didn’t give my parents a whole buttload of debt from my injuries.”

“And I was — pfft — really sorry about that!”

“You’re still laughing about it!” You yelled, watching Peter do his best to hide his amusement at your predicament. This man who so calmly took care of a giant wizard and a world ending collider, did not have the chops for acting or lying at all. “Back to the topic at hand people. Any Spiderman tips Other-Peter?”

“Yeah I got plenty.” He said as he licked his fingers clean. Gross.

“Disinfect the mask. You’re gonna wanna use baby powder in the suit, heavy on the joints. You don’t want any chafing, right?”

“That . . . is actually pretty useful.” You nod, bringing out your phone to quickly type down his words. Although you didn’t have a proper suit yet, you always wonder how heroes felt underneath all that tight latex like material. Of course, you’ve attempted cosplays and whatnot but those have always been with cheap, sweat inducing products.

“Speaking of, your suit should be ready in a bit. Do you have a color of preference?” Your Peter brings up.

“Think I’ll go with [Color(s)] and Red. Just to match up with you a little.” You replied, attempting your best version of your Uncle’s cool nonchalant smile as you were gushing in excitement inside. You then looked back to Peter B. “Anything else?”

“Nope, that was everything.”

“And I thought OG Peter was bad.”

“Hey!” Peter clutched his chest as he feigned hurt. You only deadpan at him, a broken heart won’t soothe your broken bones.

“Look up more about Fisk Tower and whoever you fought at the collider.” Peter B. instructed as he grabbed your french fries.

“Kingpin.” You muttered, typing down ‘Fisk Tower’ as per his instruction.

“Him? Must have been tough that one.”

“Alchemax?”

“Great. We have a lead. Now check where it is.”

“Hudson Valley.”

“Other-Peter can teach me to swing on the way there!” You make a ‘thwip’ ‘thwip’ ‘thwip’ motion with your hands, a huge excited smile gracing your features.

And… it’s quickly replaced with a disappointed frown once you three stepped into a bus, “I’m not swinging to the Hudson Valley! Not after a hearty burger breakfast. Keep your arms and legs fresh. You’re gonna thank me later.”

“Still think I’m a bad teacher.” Peter nudges you with his elbow, a stupidly cute grin on his face.

“Yep.” Peter loses his confident smirk real quick, “Not the worst but still bad. To be fair to Peter B. he hasn’t gotten me injured yet.”

“That’s a no on the cape.”

“But it’s my latest Robin merch I wanna have it for my first mission—“

“No.” The two Spidermen stated in sync, though one much more sternly than the other.

OG Peter pinches the bridge of his nose, “Do you know how many times I’ve had to help the Robins with their cape related problems? I’ve told every single one of them that it won’t work, but they just have to follow Batman’s footsteps.”

“So the theory about the Robins being different people really is true huh…” You thought to yourself, knowing that your two mentors could probably hear you even if you mumbled.

Other Peter also pinches the bridge of his (less perfect) nose, “Yeah take that off. It’s disrespectful. Both to the mantle of Spiderman and every Incredibles movie there is.”

You pout but heed their advice. You took off the yellow and black cape, a sniff in grief follows.

“Okay spiderfolks here’s the plan: Step 1, we infiltrate the lab. 2 Find the head scientist’s computer.” Peter B. Parker started laying down the plan. A surprisingly detailed one considering. . . Well the man’s incompetent to say the least. “Step 4: I download the important stuff. Then 5, I grab a bagel from the cafeteria and run.”

“What are we supposed to do?” You asked, already knowing what he’ll answer with but still clinging unto hope.

“Step 6: Lookout. That’s a very important job. Watch and learn kid I’ll quiz you later!”

“I’m totally the better teacher right?” OG Peter asks you. His puppy eyes on display.

“Anything is better than janky, old, broke hobo spider.”

“Fair enou—“ Peter began his reply but was interrupted by you absolutely decimating a boulder with your fist. “That’s new. And good to know. That’ll come in handy in fights annndddd when I know you’re angry.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Touché. We goin’ in?”

“Oh we’re definitely going in.”

“Whoa!”

“You alright?”

“Not so much with you on top of me!” You whisper shouted. Seriously, even with your new super strength this man was built like a fridge.

“Let’s go. Other Peter!” You whisper shouted again, crawling through the vents with much more noise than needed. Slamming face first unto the Burnout’s ass.“Ah! Other Peter!”

“What are you doing here?!”

“Kingpin’s here. Just move your butt over.” You moved between his legs and then his arms before shimmying yourself beside him.

“Augh, you’re stepping on my foot. Get back outside!”

“No! I - We can’t just sit and let you get caught — or - or die without doing anything about it. I’m not doing that again!” You felt guilty enough with how fucked up Peter OG was after the fight last time, you’re sure as hell ain’t letting that happen again under your watch.

Peter Burnout just stares at you. Silent and unmoving.

“What?”

“Most people I meet in the workplace try to kill me, so . . . you’re a nice change of pace.”

“You have such a low bar. You need to surround yourself with better people. A proper support system is really important for hero mental health.”

“I’m guessing there’s no more room for me there.” Peter pipes up from behind the two of you.

“No.”

“No.”

“Mr. Fisk. Look at this data. I know you can’t really understand it but these are really good numbers.”

“ . . . Anddd I got the password!”

“Wait wh-“ You looked at him, incredulous. Other Peter can be cool sometimes.

“Um, Mr. Fisk, if we fire again this week, there could be a black hole under Gotham. You see this and this? This is multiple dimensions beginning to crash into each other.”

Peter puppets his hand as she speaks.“This is pretty standard Spider stakes. You get used to it.”

You turned your head to OG Peter for confirmation. That couldn’t be right, right? He was just a kid like you! I mean you never felt any threats to your safety at all during your whole time at Gotham, but then again you lived with a cop dad and an incredibly rich b—

OG Peter nods. He nods! You have a mini anxiety attack inside. You make a mental note to give him more respect in the future. “You get used to hearing threats to your safety and the world? I think you both just need therapy.” Okay but not too much that you don’t get to cash in a quip. What? You were a Spider. It was literally in your blood.

“Watch this.” Peter B. tapped your shoulder several times to get your attention back, “He’s gonna say, “You’ve got 24 hours’”

“You’ve got 24 hours.” He winks at you.

“What this means is that there’s going to be a rupture in the space time continuum!” Dr. Olivia continued.

“Ooh. That’s bad. Actually, everything she said was bad I was lying before.”

“Good to see you admit and communicate your feelings and concerns in a healthy matter, Mr. Other Parker.” You nod in approval. The two of you then move out, one more gracefully than the other.

“Wooh, it was getting a lil tiring just staring at other me’s ass.”

“Just his?” You asked, almost offended that your cake wasn’t mentioned.“Sorry didn’t mean to flirt on the job—“

“No, no, no! Flirting is very much welcomed. I’m single.” OG Peter admitted. His body practically trembling at the awkwardness of his confession.

“Not to be the savior of this awkward atmosphere you kids are creating but a little help here? What are you doing bud?”

“I- I’m stuck! I can’t move!” Not this again.

“Okay, relax your fingers. We don’t have time. Just let go. Be in the moment.”

“I am in the moment! It’s a terrible moment!”

“[Y/N]. Breathe in and out.” OG Peter tried to pull you off but is unable to due to his super strength potentially decimating the octagon shaped lights.

“They’re right there, they’re gonna see you! [Y/N], you gotta unstick. What do you do to relax?”

“You listen to music right? Why don’t you think of a tune that helps you chill out?”

“Relax. Okay, okay, okay.” You close your eyes. Thinking of what you always did when you wanted to relax.

The Robins.

Ah yes, the perfect specimen that is the OG Robin. His musculature that rivaled the Greek sculptures of old. And better yet, his ass? Good lord. You were so glad when he moved on to be Nightwing and shed off that horrid cape. Maybe Spiderman was right, capes were no good.

“Ah . . . Nightwing.” You think back to the pictures you drew of your OC and the vigilante and a finger unsticks. You reminisce of the times you’ve seen them in real life, out at night when your family thought you were asleep and another finger pops off.

You fall once you remember the moment you took a photo with him. “Nightwing. . .”

“Teenagers. Just the worst.” Peter Broken Nose sighed at your hormonal moment.

“Wait, where did [Y/N] go?” Peter Perfect Nose asked, whipping his head around as if you might materialize out of thin air.

“I’m right here.”

“Where? We can’t see you.”

“Pete, I’m literally right in front of you.” You looked down at your hands, stunned to see that you were in fact, invisible, “Can Spider-Man turn invisible in your universe?”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Ow!” You groaned as you reeled from Peter B’s slap. “What was that for?”

“This is incredible! Some kind of fight or flight thing.”

“What’s that?”

Pop! And you disappeared. Out of sight. But never out of mind.

"This might pinch a little." She then shoved him unto a chair that automatically strapped him on. You were about to gawk at the kind of furniture she kept around. Thankfully OG Peter had his uses and kept you on track.

"Organize your desktop, lady." You sweated at the amount of icons she had on there. Insane behavior this was.

"This'll take too long. Grab everything before she spots us." And he takes to the ceiling.

"Wow, just complete cellular decay. Never seen anything like this!" Dr. Olivia observed cheek cells she swabbed out of Peter Burnout. You slowed down in concern. Glitching must be completely painful. You had to get him back to his dimension as soon as possible.

And so you followed your tutor’s command.

"What are you two doing?" Peter shook his head as he spots a floating PC and monitor, you, slowly moving to the exit.

"Just taking the whole thing!"

"And obviously you've been glitching."

"Oh god, [Y/N] hurry up!" OG Peter whisper shouts.

"You stay on this dimension for too long your body will start to disintegrate. Do you know how painful that would be, Peter Parker?"

"Oh, I don't know."

"You can't imagine. And I for one, can't wait to watch."

You look to Peter above you, a silent pause as if to say, "This lady is actually insane." Like seriously, how can she teach students like you with a mouth like that?

"What did you say your name was?"

She stood up. A relaxed posture to her form. Her hands reached up to remove her octagonal glasses. "Dr. Olivia Octavius."

Holy shi—

[AUTHOR’S NOTE]:

Character: *breathes*

Author: You’re part of the harem now.

(removed those that couldn’t be tagged) TAGLIST IS FULL!!! SO SORRY FOR THE REST!!! I’LL TAG YOU ON A REBLOG!!!

taglist: @yell0wdreams @humanoid606 @holybatflapexpert @girlcrafter408 @imbiafandbored @miwsolovely @manduse @kiyomisan @vanessa-boo @w31rdg1rl @crystalsbirds @ghestie93 @animelover745-blog @phoenixgurl030 @speckle-meow-meow @mysteriouslyfantasticthief @beta-is-sleeping @day-dreams-posts @paranoiac-666 @ghestie93 @7074lly @yourcutelittlegayfriend @altusha @proffesorbunny @snowwy-night @moonchild-cupcake @the1an0n1y @fuck-the-reaper @siphite @mel-star636 @trickysnack19 @thatone-gayweeb @swagbucksjester @starwritesyanderes @gaozorous-rex-blog @rainnyydaysworld @0-undead-0 @taru-nami @iiiitsfoxie @one-green-frog @victoria1676 @sugarrush-blush @arlynared @ceramic-raven @carnalcrows @victoria1676 @sugarrush-blush @suckitsideways @urminebutidontwantyou @badussyussysstuff

[lizzybeeee]

Calling it now:

If there's ever any future installments of Dragon Age there will be no mention of the differentiation between the Dalish or City Elves.

Like in DATV they will simply all be 'elves' and the vallaslin will be reduced to 'cool looking tattoo's that some veil jumpers have' - no mention of the elven pantheon either, because why bother! They're all dead now!

They're all dead and responsible for every lore plot point in Thedas, and there's nothing of mystery or substance left in the world now.

No mention of the culture in the alienage, of the vhenadahl tree, of the horrific racism and systematic abuse the elves have been through...now its just elves. With the way the Veil Jumpers have been set up, and the fact that the elven gods were the enemy in DATV, I find it extremely unlikely that the Dalish will even exist as a group either. Why would they? Their Gods returned and blighted the world - not that the fact is even truly discussed in the game. Elves are just elves, and the notable elves are Veil Jumpers.

Maybe you'll walk in a city, pick up a codex, and get a copy and pasted explanation of history from a DAO codex - a reminder of what we used to have and what BioWare absolutely demolished in their attempt to build a new IP on the bones of Dragon Age. The absolute whiplash in writing, story, and character between DAI and DATV is staggering. How on earth could the studio that made such a gorgeous, rich world of lore surrounding the elves in one game end up utterly bastardizing and reducing it to nothing?

How can you look at a place like the Temple of Mythal and go from those gorgeous golden murals and emerald tiled roofs that reached to the heavens to a place like the Lighthouse? From the Emerald Graves to the ruins of Arlathan - devoid of halls that reach to the heavens and golden murals replaced with stained glass? The entirety of the Trespasser DLC had more character and reverence for what the elven empire once was, and DATV feels as though it's approaching it with the perspective of 'generic elven bullshit with triangles everywhere'. All that unique architecture has been obliterated by adding in World of Warcraft focus crystals and automatons.

How can you go from the atmospheric/environmental storytelling of the Lost Temple of Dirthamen to Solas just blurting everything out? No weight, no double truths or hidden meanings - just blurting it out, getting it said and done with no gravitas? That was Solas' entire thing! People have made threads literally dissecting what Solas says and does not say - now he spits lore out as though it were common, everyday knowledge.

How can anyone justify the sudden emergence of magical automatons everywhere in old elven ruins? As if Dragon Age didn't have a host of enemies/creatures available to use in their stead - or the ability to create something unique to the forest of Arlathan. What happened to the spirit guardians? What happened to the lingering echoes of the elves slaughtered by humans in wars ages past like in DAO? Magic was their very existence - spells taking years or centuries to cast, weaving in and about each other - and you're telling me the ancient elves spent their time creating magical transformers?! It feels/looks so utterly seperate from everything we know of the elves from Dragon Age.

Or look at the Crossroads - listen to how Morrigan speaks of it - the reverence for the past, the misty atmosphere, and the heaviness of this pocket of the world that carries the fading memories of a world and people that no longer exists...now it's reduced to a hub world! People are just popping in and out of it at will!

In Trespasser, the few eluvians that we were available to travel to led to the most lonely, desolate spots of Thedas, which ensured their survival over the past millennia. The mirror in the Deep Roads, the mirror in the ancient stronghold in Ferelden...now they're everywhere!The 'few surviving' eluvians are in every major settlement of Thedas and all are in operating order! More than that, everyone who sees an eluvian knows what it is - this ancient marvel of a world long gone has lost all worth and is reduced to a 'world building' justification for fast travel.

Poor Merrill, slaving for a near decade to try and restore a small sliver of her history, only to have all gravitas and wonder of her discovery utterly made void. All that accomplishment wasted, especially when Bellara can wave her magic omni-tool and fix an eluvian in a matter of hours.

If you took every specific Dragon Age terminology out of the Veilguard and replaced it with generic fantasy bullshit you would never be able to tell the difference. The world of DATV is so divorced from its predecessors its astounding.

[aydracz]

The GO bench in St James Park has been replaced with a different one

Very sorry to report that the sanded down bench they returned at the original spot in St James Park is actually NOT the OG fandom one.

There are some very prominent features the OG bench had. Most importantly, the shape of the back of the bench, the armrest shape, and the height of the bench itself:

OG bench (pic taken last year):

The new bench, unfortunately, has a different back shape (the tops of the left and right wooden planks at the back):

I did some ineffable detective work in St James Park this weekend of 25th January (with the help of @0xlilith and @fuckyeahgoodomens and @fuzzywhispersbear) and examined all the benches in the near vicinity and subsequently all the benches in the park, in case they just moved it to a different spot. They did not.

I now have a special photo folder in my phone featuring some of the possible candidate benches in St James Park, because that's what you do if you are a GO fan on a trip to London.

All the potential candidate benches that fit the shape criteria didn't meet the "recently cleaned" criterion or the "at least a bit visible carving scars in the right places" criterion.

(A very useful graphics made by @fuckyeahgoodomens)

It is, of course, possible that I am wrong and the bench is there somewhere and has been cleaned so well that not even the carving scars are visible. I just recorded all the Clues as I collected them and this is the logical conclusion:

I think it is realistic to consider that the OG bench was damaged beyond salvation and as such, was removed permanently. I feel like maybe some of the carvings were too deep and beyond repair. I might be wrong, they just might be rotating the benches and our bench is just sitting somewhere in storage, waiting for being cleaned and returned. (It is probably not in different park because all benches have a SJP at the back and I think they make sure to not mix them up).

I, personally, am actually fine with fans writing on the bench. It is within my personal limits of what is OK. But some of the fandom love was maybe too vigorous. And as a whole, I think that this shows us that we might try to treat the new bench with a bit more respect. By refraining from carving in it with a knife. By using plain pencils to write our little notes so that they don't destroy the bench, are easily cleaned and are not visible to regular visitors of the park, only for people who know what they are looking for. Use it as a scavenger hunt place (my personal favourite) to leave little trinkets and gifts for other fans (but hide them well so that they don't visually disturb regular visitors).

I am not openly promoting vandalism here. I am just being realistic and I seriously have nothing but love for the people who left their permanent mark on the bench. (And I would HATE for this post to be used for hating on these fans. Pls don't.) I believe we can find a sweet spot of showing our love for the bois and not damaging the bench beyond salvation.

And I think the management of St James Park is showing us that they are just doing their job and they don't hate us (hopefully).

Why? Because the heart padlock of Aziraphale and Crowley is still there. Someone even added another padlock and a little fly! And these things didn't disappear. I think this hopefully demonstrates that fandom activities in moderation are allowed.

The bench is a symbol of fandom love and as such, I don't think it can be lost. It is what we make it. There is a new lovely bench at the spot and it attracts GO fans just like the previous one did. And while I know many people (including me) will grieve the piece of fandom history that might have been lost, I think that this is an opportunity for a fresh start.

We'll be OK. This place still feels loved.

[thethingswedotomorrow]

Crowley has been with humanity since the beginning. The original serpent of eden, he is the first "monster" in humanity's bedtime stories. He is the figurative and literal demon on human's shoulders, always there to guide them one way or another. He's weaved through history itself, and prides himself on an impeccable track record of demonic activity throughout the last 6000 years.

But, naturally, after 6000 years, Crowley finds that he's spent more time pining after a certain Angel than doing any sort of work. Like, an extreme amount of pining.

And it isn't until after the notpocalypse that Crowley realizes that, entirely accidentally and very embarrassingly, he may have accidentally made his pining very, very public.

One of Crowley's favorite ways to waste a day is to take Aziraphale to different museums around the world and watch as the angel wanders around and points out all of the inaccuracies

"Good Lord Crowley, have you seen this painting? Portraying you as a dragon is a tad dramatic, I think. All we were doing were having a picnic. And I have never had my hair looking like that, thank you."

"I don't know Angel, they've got your wings spot on. Wa-Hang on, have they added horns to my head?"

"Oh, I see, suddenly it's only inaccurate when they've got you wrong."

The museums always seem to be miraculously empty, and whenever Crowley mentions this, Aziraphale suddenly finds a new, very interesting piece of art to admire

Crowley admires the lengths Aziraphale goes to to hide the small miracles he's done for Crowley's sake

As if Crowley wouldn't move literal mountains for the angel

*He did, actually, do that once.

In the 12th century, they were having a lovely evening together with multiple caskets of wine, up until Aziraphale complained about the amount of light in his eyes

"Honestly Crowley, all this sun and no shade, it must truly be awful for the humans around here with no shelter. It's a tad much, even for me."

Crowley, even then, immediately recognized this off-hand comment as an underhanded complaint, and knew that would not stand

When the small earthquake passed, Crowley claimed that the nearby church was on a fault line and he was simply doing his demonic duty by damaging holy goods in the area

If Aziraphale realized that the mountain range in the distance suddenly provided much more sun coverage, he never mentioned it.

Currently, however, Crowley follows Aziraphale around, wandering behind him and never truly looking at the things in the museum

In every single place they've ever gone together, there was only ever one thing that deserved Crowley's attention

And it certainly was not an inaccurate model of a 18th century tea set

But when Aziraphale wanders into a hall titled 'Love of the Past', he starts to panic. Just a very tiny amount, basically none at all. A small enough amount of panic that he could deny it, even to himself.

He thinks about the past, towards the beginning, back when Humanity was still getting it's footing and figuring out how to have governments and societies and (the most important part) figuring out the whole alcohol situation

Throughout the years, especially towards the beginning, Crowley began to resent any time not spent with Aziraphale

Everything seemed small and dull when compared to the way the Angel smiled when he saw new type of human dessert, or the way he laughed when Crowley managed to work out a clever comment

And once Crowley experienced those things, he never wanted anything else

He had seen the poetry the humans had written, how much emotion they could pour into a simple piece of parchment or a clay tablet

He never cared for written word, but he was shocked at just how much feeling the humans could manage to pour into words

So after Aziraphale left Rome (after the oysters and the wine and the smiles, for somebody's sake the smiles), he went due east for a new miracle on another continent

Crowley stayed and got well and truly drunk. As he did best.

He had spent a few weeks around the other drunks around the area, most poverty stricken and saddened with some sort of grief of one type or another

It wasn't until a group of poets wandered into his dark corner of the pub that he started to considered writing

Obviously nothing anyone would ever read, he'd ensure that. Every scroll or parchment that he'd touch with a quill would be burnt with hellfire before it left his sight

But, as many of his worst ideas started, he had nothing better to do and too much time to think

So he wrote. He wrote letters, first addressed to nobody, about random thoughts that would pop into his very intoxicated brain. Whether humans would ever find traces of the unicorns they lost on the ark, whether he would ever find a way to count just how many scales he had, whether he would ever reach a point where he didn't have to cover his eyes every day

Slowly, the letters started becoming addressed to 'A'. Whether he was conscious of this or not, he'd never admit.

But he wrote. He wrote to A about Hell, the jobs they required of him, the things they'd have him do. He wrote of the way humans had beaten him to the punch 90% of the time. How they would do things worse than Satan himself could imagine, and they'd never blink an eye while doing it.

He wrote of the way the sun darkened each day that passed without his Angel, the way his wine never seemed to have enough flavor when he was alone.

He wrote of the ways he imagined he could orchestrate an elaborate reunion, a convoluted mess of too much demonic activity in a small area that just happened to have a wonderful new tea, or so he's heard, and wouldn't it be a shame to leave the town without tempting the angel to try it?

He wrote to A about how he was sure he had no heart, no emotions. He was a Demon, for somebody's sake, he certainly had no need for stupid things like that, and so the ache in his corporation's chest when he sees the Angel had to be some sort of malfunction.

Anatural function, surely, that could be fixed with the right amount of aloofness and strong liquor

He wrote of the way the sun always seemed to hit the Angel's hair just right, and Crowley had no faith, he had no God.

But in those moments, with a halo around the angel and that smile aimed towards him, he might consider praying now to a different source altogether, a closer source. One full of life and light and actual proper goodness, not that fake advertised bullshit they plaster on church walls in pretty paintings and sad songs

Crowley wrote for a long while, and found that the writing helped the pain.

Even if only because it brought on memories of Aziraphale, and that was enough to hold him until they met again. It had to be, he had no choice in the matter.

And he wrote so often throughout the ages, and often while he was drunk. And he was so sure, so positive that he had burned every trace of his heart and emotion out of existence.

He had to be. The danger those words could put Aziraphale in was far too great. He couldn't be bothered to care of the danger to himself, but the fact that the very hint of any emotion could come close to hurting his Angel was enough to ensure that they would never come across another being's eyes.

He destroyed every letter and word that described his desire, his pain, his greed. He ripped the words he created out of reality as easily as he had written them. Every time, he burnt the parchment, and every time, it burnt a part of him with it.

And then the Apocalypse had happened. Or, well, didn't happen, he supposed. Really, he wasn't entirely sure if there was a difference.

Because everything had changed, even if the rest of the world hadn't noticed. And he was suddenly allowed to see Aziraphale with no excuse, no half-hearted reasoning behind it. He was allowed to want, and to crave, and he relished it.

And he was allowed to take the angel to museums to watch him fuss over small mistakes humanity had collected throughout the ages

Until he realized that they had, in fact, also collected HIS mistakes.

In a hall. A whole bloody hall. A hall, dedicated to and full of stupid parchment and sappy letters and wine stains over words written so long ago

And honestly who gave them the right? Leave it to the humans to collect other people's belongings and put it on display as their own

And he knew, from the moment Aziraphale read the first page on display, he just knew. This was it. All of it was ruined.

All because Crowley had gotten so drunk and passed out in his room above the pub, and when they'd thrown him out in a drunken stupor, they'd collected his belongings to sell afterwards. And he'd never even realized, so concerned about the next meeting, the arrangement, concerned about anything and everything except the one thing he forgot about and could end them both.

Any moment now, Aziraphale would look up at him, with disgust and confusion and all those emotions that he'd really rather not see on his face, preferably ever, but especially not towards him.

But Aziraphale never looks up. He reads the first page 5, 6, 7 times, being sure to capture every single word. Every wrinkle in the paper, every crease.

Then he moves to the next, and then the next. He repeats this process. Every page, he scours each and every page. Searching and scanning, analyzing every word.

Crowley is frozen at the entrance of the hall, too terrifed to say a word, but too hopeful to leave. He stands there, suddenly feeling the same feeling in his chest that he felt so many years ago, in the corner of the pub, sitting in the dark, wishing for the light that he knew would never come.

He's so panicked, that he doesn't notice Aziraphale finishing the last page, and wiping the tears from his eyes. He startles when he accidentally meets his eyes, and prepares a number of excuses and deflections, all to preserve this shred of peace and safety they had carved out for themselves.

"Angel, I- you really- ngk- humans are so rid- are you hungry? I could eat, I've heard they've got a killer bar around here, and we cou-I can get us there in 10 minutes, ngk actu- scratch that, we could be there in 5, I bet. Museums aren-angel?"

Crowley finds himself stopping the random stream of words coming out of his mouth, when he notices tears in Aziraphale's eyes

"Angel, I-"

That's all Crowley can get out before Aziraphale is walking towards him with a purpose

And suddenly Aziraphale is very close to him

Very very close

And suddenly Aziraphale's lips are on his, and Aziraphale is holding onto Crowley's jacket, and Crowley's hands are just waving in the air back and forth while he processes the last .5 seconds.

By the time he realizes what is actually happening, Aziraphale pulls away just enough to rest his forehead against Crowley's, and laughs.

He laughs. Laughs. Aziraphale is laughing and it's a wonderful, beautiful noise and Crowley doesn't quite understand why, but then he's laughing too and then they are both standing there, arms around each other, laughing and Crowley realizes now that all the words he's written, all the praises he sang of his Aziraphale, the way he wished and prayed for his heart and laugh and love

Not one bit of it is at all comparable to the real thing.

[wordsarelife]

—anti-hero

pairing: draco malfoy x fem!reader

summary: you hate that you’re so emotional about everything, but draco secretly loves you for it

warnings: none

“hey, guys” your voice was soft and rather quiet, but still loud enough to achieve immediate silence from your boyfriend and his friends.

draco and you had been dating for more than a year now, but you were still not sure his friends even liked you or just tolerated you at most.

“love” draco nodded, a pleased smile on his lips, as he made space for you between him and blaise.

the pairing of the two of you was quite unexpected to say the least. no one in the castle had expected draco malfoy, a slytherin through and through, to fall in love with the sweetest hufflepuff in his year, not even you. you were surprised yourself, when he had one day come to the greenhouse, asking you out for a butterbeer. the rest was history.

“how is you project going?” draco asked.

“well, it’s a bit harder than expected, i have to admit” you shrugged, but draco shook his head.

“nothing you wouldn’t be able to overcome”

“you’re flattering me”

“yeah” blaise exclaimed annoyed “please stop, your guys’ flirting gets on my nerves”

draco and you exchanged a look. “sorry” you quickly excused “i didn’t mean to annoy you”

blaise shook his head, absentmindedly telling you it was fine, before he continued biting down his toast. enzo threw a smile in your direction.

“ignore him” he grinned “he’s been bitter all morning”

“oh what happened?” you asked, rather worried.

draco softly connected your hands, shaking his head at you and whispering something along the lines of telling you about it later.

“oi, we might as well tell her, malfoy” mattheo rolled his eyes, making it evident that he heard every single word.

“i’m not sure if—“ draco tried to say, but was quickly interrupted by mattheo, who leaned over the table as if he had interesting information for you.

“he’s been rejected by tara gallagher”

“oh” you muttered, unsure what to respond.

“seems like someone doesn’t have what it takes to charm a hufflepuff” theo muttered and you turned you head in his direction, surprised that he had even listened to the conversation, as he was busy, reading a book about defense against the dark arts.

“well, not everyone has the privilege to have malfoy as their last name” enzo shrugged, as he added the words laughing.

blaise rolled his eyes, but did not say anything. you looked back and forth between draco’s friends, unsure if the conversation was going in the right direction.

you hated when the topic would fall on draco’s and your relationship. the slytherins would often make jokes about your unlikely pairing, as if it wasn’t already hard enough for you to believe that someone like draco could really love someone like you.

“maybe draco could give you a few tips” enzo grinned and you bit down on your lip.

“yeah, or maybe tara gallagher is just too clever to believe everything i tell her” the words had left blaise’ mouth before he had really thought about the implication they would have about you and draco. just when you thought it was only you thinking in that direction, he quickly threw a hand over his mouth, spotting a regretful look.

“y/n” enzo muttered when he noticed your teary eyes.

draco’s smile died down as he turned his head and noticed the look on your face.

“sorry” you quickly apologized, as you swung your legs over the bench.

“i’m sorry” blaise quickly tried to interfere, but you were already hurrying down the row to the door of the great hall.

“you’re really amazing at talking to girls” theo stated sarcastically “when you don’t make them cuss you out, you make them cry”

“i’m sorry—“

“—you better be” draco interrupted blaise.

“—but she’s just so sensitive. i mean i wasn’t even speaking about her”

“well, the implication was right there” enzo shrugged “you could’ve been a bit more considerate"

"i'm going to search for my girlfriend before you have time to insult her some more"

"i told you i was sorry"

"safe it" draco shook his head, standing up.

"tell y/n we're sorry about blaise" theo said sympathetically.

draco nodded, before he stormed out of the hall, trying to make you out. you were hiding in a dark corner, face in your hands when he found you.

"hey" draco cooed, taking your hands in his and lifting them from your face. "don't cry, love"

"i'm sorry" you sobbed and draco's face softened. he took you into his arms, trying to calm you down. you stopped crying eventually, while he was rubbing circles on your back.

"i'm sorry about what blaise said" draco apologized when you were calm enough to listen to him. "i don't think he meant it like that, you know?"

"it's not blaise" you said honestly, shaking your head.

"oh" draco said surprised, furrowing his brows. "then what is it? there has to be a reason for you to be upset"

"that's just the problem, draco" you said softly "i don't think i have a good reason, i never do"

"what are you talking about, love?"

"i hate that i am like this" you admitted, trying to escape his eyes.

"like what?" draco wondered, worry evident on his face "there's nothing wrong with you, you're perfectly normal"

"but, i'm not" you argued "i hate they way i always start crying and am upset at nothing, it's exhausting and must be much more for you"

"oh, love"

"and i get that might be the reason that your friends don't like me" you bit your lip, trying to stop yourself from crying yet again "they must think i'm acting like a baby"

"but they do like you"

"they're always quiet when i'm around"

draco looked away quickly before his eyes were back on you a second later "that might be my fault" he admitted "when we started dating i told them to behave when you would be there, i didn't want you to be uncomfortable at the way they normally are"

"oh, so you even had to tell them to tone it down, because i would be too sensible?" you whispered softly, the tears threatening to spill yet again.

"no, love" draco shook his head, touching your shoulders as you looked up at him with big eyes. "i thought they would ruin my chances with you. not because you are too sensible, just because they can be real idiots and would probably scare any girl away"

"except for pansy" you shrugged, a smile playing on your lips.

"yeah" draco laughed, happy that you weren't as sad anymore "she would probably scare them away first anyway"

you giggled at his words. he touched your face, rubbing your tears away softly. "don't cry anymore, yeah?" he asked "you're perfect the way you are. actually i fell in love with you because you're so sensible, while i wouldn't directly call the way you are sensible"

you smiled up at him with hope at your eyes. "what would you call it?"

"empathetic" draco smiled "i have never seen someone being so concerned about the well-being of bugs"

"i pray nobody kills me for the crime of being small" you recited.

"exactly" draco nodded, kissing your forehead "you're the most caring person i know and i don't think having strong emotions is wrong in any way"

"you really fell in love with me because of it?" you asked "i always thought it was something you were able to ignore or tolerate, not something you liked"

"how could i not? i was a goner after i saw you build a bed for the bug" he laughed "i should've told you, but i assumed you knew, forgive me, love"

"don't be sorry" you kissed his cheeks "i hated myself for it for the longest time, but knowing that you actually like it changes everything"

"i don't just like it, i love you for it"

"i love you too" you smiled.

"and i do think the guys like you" draco nudged your elbow "you should've seen the way theo and enzo chewed out blaise and how sorry the poor fella was. they even told me to tell your they were sorry on his behalf and blaise was apologetic too"

"he didn't do anything wrong"

"he could've been more considerate" draco shrugged "should we go back? we don‘t have to, if you're not comfortable"

"i'd like to finish my breakfast"

"good" draco nodded, taking your hand and leading you back to the table.

blaise immediately apologized several times when he noticed you, even after you had told him it was fine. the rest of breakfast was much more enjoyable with the guys feeling more comfortable now that they knew you were alright.

you were glad to have such a loving boyfriend and draco was glad that you were alright.

you cried a lot less during the weeks to follow, a result of you growing more comfortable around draco's friends and also becoming friends with them too.

after draco had told them they didn't have to behave differently when you were around the ice got broken and they weren't as reserved anymore.

theo and you would often study together. he was good in potions and you were good in astronomy so you would constantly help each other.

it turned out that both blaise and you were giant quidditch fans and were actually fans of the same team. you often spent time talking about past games or different players you liked. he even gifted you a scarf in your team's color for your birthday.

pansy, mattheo and you would occasionally visit hogsmeade together, spending the whole day in honey-dukes, testing the newest snacks and sweets and deciding on your favorite sorts or flavours.

you learned that enzo was obsessed with plants and flowers so you often got him seeds to plant and helped him in the garden.

draco was glad that you had finally settled into the group and that you weren't so afraid of your feelings anymore that you actually had the time to notice that they all found you lovely, even if they would occasionally joke about your ability to start crying so easily, especially during a sad movie.

blaise never made an annoyed remark about your emotional side again and you were happy to finally feel better about yourself and the way that you were.

—

@mqstermindswift

[wandasdollie]

  ꒰  𑄽୧ ꒱ 𓈒  ⠀⠀  ⠀⠀  ⠀⠀ensommeillé. ⠀⠀  ⠀⠀  ⠀⠀ ⠀𝜗𝜚  ⠀⠀  ⠀⠀  ⠀⠀  ⠀⠀18+! men and minors dni.

 .   ̣̣̣︶ ྀ pairing ˚ ۪ ݁ wanda x bunnyhybrid!reader

꒰  tags ꒱ 𓈒  mommy!wanda ,  smut w/o much plot , somnophilia , cunnilingus (r!recieving) , squirting , aftercare.

 ꔫ  ࣪ ˖ a / n ⑅♡ ྀ˖ this is based off of two requests i recieved, so thank you very very much for sending them in!! i luv seeing your thoughts, i hope i did them justice <33 pls send more!!   ໒ ྀི>֯ . <ྀི֯ ̥ ︣ა

 ⁺ ⑅  ꫂ ၴႅၴ tag list ֯݁ต  @emiliaisdead , @mommywandas ( pls comment if you'd like to be added~! )

When you finally return home after what you believe to be the world’s longest day of work in history, the pout settled on your lips is unrelenting. You might be a little overdramatic, sure it’s only about four in the afternoon, but you haven’t caught a break all day! You’ve been running around for hours, doing all of the little errands that your bosses have sent you on, waiting on guests and cleaning up messes like your life depended on it. You haven’t sat down once in hours!

So, completely needless to say, when you come home, it’s all you can do to not throw yourself on the floor and fall asleep right then and there.

But you don’t want to disappoint Wanda when she gets home, no no. You want to fix her dinner so that it will be ready by the time that she returns home, and your bedroom is awfully messy right now from the frantic way you’d gotten dressed this morning. But… there’s the sofa… and as you release your hair from its tight braids, long, fluffy ears falling heavy against your shoulders, you can feel all of your day’s stress melting through you, your feet much like cement cubes as you trudge through your home.

Mama would want you to rest, right? She always says that her favorite little bunny needs her beauty sleep, and you wouldn’t want to upset her by not doing just that! Of course, you want to look your prettiest for her always. And she does encourage your slumber as often as she can. She has quite the fascination with it, you’ve noticed. But, it’s best not to worry yourself too much over that right now. You need to make some dinner and clean up and—

You’re not sure just how you wound up on the sofa. Nor how your clothes landed in little pink piles on the floor; you’re usually much more careful to put them in the laundry basket. Yet, here you sit, in nothing but your panties and a sweater that you always keep in the living room in case you get too cold, laying beneath your favorite blanket. Your feet are perfectly tucked, and though you’ve turned on the tv to watch whatever program is on right now, you’ve brought one ear over your eyes to act like a sleeping mask, blocking out the image on the screen, along with the light bouncing off of the snow outside.

It takes you so few minutes to fall asleep, someone would think you’ve been awake all of 24 hours. But you certainly haven’t, even though you did get up quite early this morning. Your exhaustion hits you so completely that you just can’t help but pass out immediately. So, you drift off quite easily, though your worry over Wanda’s return is still toying at the back of your head.

𓊆 . . . 𓊇

You hadn’t heard her come through the door, though she did so quite loudly. Wanda herself had gone through her own exhaustive day of work, and as usual, she couldn’t possibly wait any longer to wrap her arms around her bunny and squeeze all of her stresses away. Though, when she returns home to less than your usual fanfare, she grows quite concerned right away.

That is, until she spots you on the sofa, curled up so tightly in your little ball of slumber that Wanda’s heart nearly explodes inside of her chest.

She is sure to be quiet as she sets down her purse and pulls off her overcoat, kicking off her heels to save you from their noise, yet leaving on the pencil skirt and tight, buttoned shirt that hug her curves so enticingly. The sight of you all cuddled up and sleepy, in addition to the setting sun outside, makes her yawn. She herself has grown impossibly tired, yet hides it well as she comes to your side at the sofa.

She gently pets the top of your head, sitting beside you on the small sliver of cushion that your body does not occupy. She simply cannot help herself, and lifts the blanket so that she may drink in the image of you sleeping there. The smirk that rises to her darkly stained lips is downright greedy as she notices just how little you wear, sweater bunched up high around your chest from your tossing and turning, showing off your tummy. Wanda licks her lips, hands moving from the crown of your head down to your side, gently rubbing into your warm flesh, her hands still freezing cold from the short walk from her car to the front door.

The feeling of sudden cold against your skin makes you flinch, but is not enough to fully wake you. You wiggle away from the feeling, but Wanda’s firm hand only follows you, softly tickling you in attempt at waking.

“Wake up, little one.” Her voice is soft, so coaxing and almost a bit lewd, as is her fashion when trying to wake you up in such a pleasant manor. Though, she doesn’t want to wake you entirely. She has always had a preference for your half-asleep manor, when all you can do is whine and fuss and, on days when you wake up from inappropriate dreams, moan and cum around her fingers until you ultimately fall back asleep like nothing had happened in the first place.

When you don’t wake up even after she gives your cottontail a little squeeze, her wandering hands eventually hook beneath your knees, lifting you until she holds your little form against her chest, walking you to the bedroom. There’s not much she can do with you while on the sofa, especially when her body is still so constricted by tight work clothes. But when she does make it to the bedroom, Wanda does not strip. She adores the power she holds over you when you lay naked below her, while she remains entirely dressed. There is simply something so enticing about her little bunny looking so obscene and nude while she maintains all of her decency.

As she lays you on the bed, Wanda delicately removes your sweater, and you unconsciously move to help her, arms lifting out of sheer habit— you have done just this far too many times before. The redhead cannot contain her low groan at the sight of you sleeping so soundly, so primed for her taking, so innocent while her thoughts are such the opposite.

Her fingers gently trail down your sides, fingernails lightly scratching into your flesh, sending tickles through you, bringing just the littlest bit of awareness into you. She whispers something in Sokovian, something along the lines of ‘such a pretty girl, such pretty tits.’ Had you been at all lucid, the words would have made you turn into putty in her hands, though, you’re already just that. Just a little plaything, just for her.

Wanda straddles you now, as best as her tight skirt will allow, and dips down so that she can place soft, fleeting kisses into your stomach. She massages into the flesh at your hips, then your breasts, her hands still incredibly cold against you, the little prickles of goosebumps forming on your arms right away. This, she feels guilty about. Though she enjoys having you all to herself, while you are so blissfully unaware, she does not like it when her little girl is at all uncomfortable, especially in the cold of the winter. Despite how carnal she may feel for you at this moment, her most important want for you is comfort. So, she decides she must begin to act quicker, so that her bunny is not left in this cold for too long.

The redhead’s fingers slip down your sides, index fingers hooking into your panties and sliding them off with ease. She once again releases one of those lust-fueled moans, licking her lips from just how downright delicious you look. Though you aren’t even conscious enough to be turned on, your pussy is already slick with arousal, simply begging for Wanda’s fingers, for her mouth, for any of her. Still, she will remain patient. Patient, despite how she is so very entranced by you. The soft, innocent look on your face is enough to tell her to be gentle.

“Dripping wet for me, and you don’t even know it. Silly girl,” she coos gently, lowering herself so that her kisses meander to the bottom of your tummy, right where it’s the most sensitive, right where she knows you’re sure to stir from the touch. And she’s right, even the tiniest bit of touch there makes you squirm below her, your hands bunching up in the sheets below you, your hips raising ever so slightly to meet her touch.

“Needy little thing…” She purrs, kisses trailing to meet her hands on your thighs, which she props up, spreads wide. Wanda presses a few little kisses to the insides of your thighs until her head comes between them, her kisses pressing to your cunt, lips becoming wet from the slick that she finds there.

Even the tiniest touch has you more awake now, little bunny hips beginning to rock up to meet her kisses, your clit throbbing, desperate for her touch, even though your silly little brain is not yet registering what is going on. You are simply seeking pleasure without even knowing it, body working without your nervous system working to tell it what to do.

“Mama…” You whine ever so softly, your voice hoarse from sleep and small enough that Wanda can barely hear you.

“Shh, zaya… it’s alright. Mama’s just going to help you sleep, hmm?” Wanda muses gently, her fingers lightly running through your folds, teasing you so that your back lifts from the bed, so that you’re basically dripping onto the sheets. She’d typically tell you to speak up, that you’re not being loud enough for mommy to hear your pretty moans, but she’s all too swept up in just how sweet you sound now, your vocabulary reduced only to her title.

Wanda hums softly, turning her head to press a few more sloppy kisses to your thighs as one of her fingers dips inside of you. She moans all too loudly as this happens, as she curves her finger up into you, all too pleased at just how tight you are for her. Wanda smiles into the flesh at your thigh, licking your soft skin and gently sucking on it to leave her favored dark patches there, the last of which she left still faintly staining your skin. As you’re definitely wet enough for her, she slides in a second finger with ease, and your hips begin to whine up and down against them, desperately seeking her pleasure.

“Mommy…” You try, your eyes slowly beginning to open but you’re still drowsy with sleepiness, brain so foggy from your long day that you can’t really fight awake just yet. Your body’s movements slow as Wanda begins to take over, pinning your hips down to the bed without too much force, the pumping of her fingers quickening their pace. She curls her fingers into your firm flesh, the sounds of her sliding so obscene, so pleasing to her own ears that she can’t help but moan in tandem with them, whispering gentle reminders of how sweet you are, how good you taste, how you’re mommy’s perfect girl.

And taste you she does, her tongue eagerly lapping up all of the wetness that spills from you. When her fingers move in such a speed that is entirely overwhelming, there comes a gush of liquid so intense that it wakes you up entirely, your hands whipping over your face as if to hide you from such embarrassment. Though, Wanda only seems to enjoy this mess that you’ve made, it only pushes her further into her dominant headspace. You’re just her messy little doll that can’t keep any control of herself, that needs to be cleaned up and tended to at any given moment. She loves it, wants more of it, pushes you even harder for it.

“’m sorry…” You whine out, your hands dropping to reveal your bright pink face, lower lip trapped between teeth to conceal your needy moans. Though it’s not much use, because the second that Wanda notices your attempt at maintaining any bit of modesty, her lips latch onto your clit, sending a streak of pleasure right up your spine, your back arching even more than it previously had. Her name flings from your lips a few times from this sudden uptick in sensation, filling your large bedroom with nothing but your whimpers and moans. Your fingers land in her perfectly curled hair, tugging on it gently as though she could possibly be any closer to you, despite the way her mouth is latched onto your cunt.

She would typically fuss at you for apologizing, that you should never feel sorry for something like this, that mommy likes you messy. But her mouth is so full of you now, so encumbered by your taste, that she cannot speak, does not want to.

Wanda’s goal is, unfortunately for you, always overstimulation. She loves to feel you throb below her, loves the way your pussy becomes bright pink and puffy and your pupils become blown out. She prefers her bunny over-fucked and out of breath, and this is just how she will get you ever time. Her fingers are simply merciless, even when she feels you suddenly tighten around her, feels the way your thighs begin to shake, your orgasm washing over you. She allows you to ride it out, yes, but does not cease when your back hits the bed, body convulsing ever so slightly. Even when your fingers fall limp in her hair, she does not give you a moment to recover. Though she does remove her fingers from your pussy, they are quickly replaced by her tongue, which greedily laps up every bit of liquid that spills from you. Wanda is impossibly thirsty for you— she always is— and such is incredibly evident from her diligence in licking up every single bit of you.

You whine her name as if you’re stuck on a loop, your body twitching with every bump of her nose to your overworked clit. It might seem like you are begging her for relief, for her to stop, you both know that could not possibly be further from what you want. You truly want her to fuck you again and again until you can’t walk, but your body is so very desperate for sleep. Your thighs are so sore already from the amount that you’ve walked today that they feel like pins and needles as they struggle to prop up around her head. Your tired little body is so exhausted, your brain becoming fuzzy all over again, your consciousness careening towards sleep once more. Though, Wanda will not allow this. She won’t let you sleep just yet, though her more caring instincts so want to allow you to doze off, you just taste so good on her tongue, your whines so precious to her ears that she wants to hear them as much as she can before she goes without them while you sleep for eight hours. She has to bank this memory deep within her mind, so that later, when you do fall asleep with your head on her chest and your arms wrapped around her waist, she will have something to remember while her hand slips down the front of her own pajamas.

It does not take long, with the older woman’s tongue dancing over your sensitive bundle of nerves, for you to cum for her once again. This time, you are much less dramatic with your trembling, instead you finally let your legs fall, and though it takes you a moment to recover, eventually your breathing settles.

Wanda cleans you up ever so gently, careful as to not further stimulate your delicate clit as she slides your panties on, then your favorite matching pajama set over top. She removes the duvet which you’ve made such a mess of, covering you instead with a clean blanket from the closet. She allows you to sleep for an hour or so, just until the sun has set outside— much earlier than she’d expected, and it makes her quite sleepy, too. But Wanda fights the urge to crawl up into bed with you, and instead makes you something to eat. She won’t let her angel wake up hungry in the middle of the night, that’s for certain. So, once she’s fixed you both a proper meal, she wakes you up ever so gently, fingers pushing back the hair that has stuck to your forehead with sweat, kissing your cheek to coax you awake.

You wake up a bit grumpy, begging her to let you sleep even more, but she refuses, tells you in the warmest of tones that you’ll ruin your sleep schedule, and that mommy doesn’t want to stay awake without her bunny keeping her company. You begrudgingly follow her to the kitchen, but as soon as you smell what she’s prepared, you perk right up.

“You are such a good girl for me, you know,” Wanda hums as she pulls you into her lap at the dinner table, lightly bouncing you on her knee, pressing a kiss to your cheek. Your ears perk up ever so slightly at the words, a blush raising to your nose as you play with the button of her shirt.

“Really?” You giggle in return. Your memory of the moment is truly inexistent, your head was so fuzzy and sleepy that you weren’t really lucid enough to remember any of it. But you have the wet spot in your panties to remind you of just how good it felt, so you’ll take her word for it.

You eat as Wanda feeds you, smiling to her as she does, and you each share stories of your days. She pouts when you recount your tale of utter fatigue, of how many tables you’d waited in just an hour, of how some man asked you to refill his soda ten times! Wanda laughs a bit as she cleans up the table in record time before sweeping you back to your shared bathroom. You whine a little as she finally undresses from her work clothes, watching with wide eyes as she wiggles her hips to remove the skintight skirt from her hips. You hate that you’d been asleep for the majority of the time she’d been wearing it and will without a doubt beg her to wear the same outfit again soon.

Once she is dressed in a pretty lace nightgown of her own, she slips into bed beside you, whispering gentle compliments and encouragements into the dark room, stroking the fur of your ear, and you are out like a light in a heartbeat.

[itsnesss]

hey, are you willing to do a Myung-gi x read x jun hee where they both want her and are kind of fighting over her. thanks <3

𝐟𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮 | lee myung-gi & kim jun-hee × fem!reader

summary | the request

warnings | romantic tension, jealousy, slight arguments

word count | 0.6 k

author's note | it would help me a lot if you liked, commented and reposted so that more people read what I write and don't forget to follow me, thanks ᡣ𐭩

You were sitting on the edge of your bunk, fiddling with a bracelet. You didn’t want to draw attention, but that seemed impossible with the two of them around.

Myung-gi was leaning against the wall, his frown as deep as always, but his eyes softened every time they landed on you. On the other hand, Jun-hee, with her short hair and confident attitude, sat on the bunk next to yours, pretending not to care about you, though her words cut like knives every time Myung-gi spoke to you.

“What are you doing there alone?” Myung-gi asked suddenly, stepping closer to you. His hands rested on the edge of your bunk.

“Nothing important, just… thinking,” you replied, trying not to hold his gaze for too long.

Jun-hee let out a sarcastic laugh from her spot. “Thinking, sure. Probably thinking about how much she wants to get out of here, not sit around listening to your nonsense, Myung-gi.”

He clenched his jaw, turning to Jun-hee. “And what would you know, Jun-hee? You’re always sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

She stood up slowly, her posture steady. “I know more than you think, and I also know she doesn’t need you pretending to be her protector,” she said, motioning toward you with a tilt of her head. “She doesn’t need someone like you, Myung-gi.” It was obvious they had history.

The atmosphere grew tense. You felt the weight of their stares on you, but you didn’t want to intervene just yet. It was as if they were both trying to prove something that didn’t need proving.

“And what do you think she needs, Jun-hee?” Myung-gi shot back, stepping closer to her. His voice was filled with frustration. “Someone like you? Someone who only knows how to use sharp words to hide their own insecurity?”

Jun-hee narrowed her eyes, a sarcastic smile playing on her lips. “At least I don’t need to hide behind excuses to justify my choices, Myung-gi.”

“Enough!” you said, standing between them before things got out of hand. “This doesn’t make any sense.”

They both froze, their expressions shifting from anger to discomfort at your intervention.

“There’s no need for you two to fight over me. This isn’t another test; you don’t have to compete like my attention is some kind of prize,” you added, crossing your arms.

Myung-gi lowered his gaze, his expression softening. “I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable.”

Jun-hee, on the other hand, let out a chuckle. “Don’t worry. He’s the one taking things too seriously.”

You knew Jun-hee used sarcasm as a shield, but you also noticed a hidden vulnerability in her gaze.

...

As you returned to the common dorm, they both walked by your side, competing for your attention in more subtle ways.

“Are you okay? Did you get hurt in the test?” Myung-gi asked, his concern evident.

“Of course she’s fine. She’s not as fragile as you think, Myung-gi,” Jun-hee interrupted, rolling her eyes. “But if she needs someone who actually understands her, I’m right here.”

You sighed, tired of the same dynamic. Suddenly, you stopped, turning to face them.

“Can you both stop?” you asked, your voice firmer than you expected. “I don’t need you to take care of me like I can’t do it myself.”

They both fell silent, surprised by your tone. Finally, Myung-gi nodded. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

Jun-hee crossed her arms, but her expression softened too. “Alright. Maybe… I went a little overboard.”

[bardoftheshire]

Goddamn It, House

James Wilson x Reader (truth serum fic)

Summary; House has had a history of drugging Wilson, but what happens if he drugs both Wilson and Y/n with sodium thiopental? Seems like an amazing plan to him.

Notes; I love these things, but I would be horrified if truth serum was a real thing. (Nvm I looked it up, Sodium Thiopental is the closest thing.)

Warnings; Drugging, drugs, "prescription" drugs, foul language, sexual innuendos, mentions of vomit, House in general, and more drugs..

James Wilson Masterlist

▣▣▣▣▣▣▣▣▣▣▣▣▣▣▣▣▣▣▣▣▣▣▣▣

You did NOT want to go into work today.. you were groggy, dressed half assed, and overall looked like shit.

God, I need coffee or an energy drink..

"L/n! Hey, do you- woah. Are you okay, man?" Kutner asks with genuine concern, despite his use of words.

You look at him with your eyes half lidded, there were most definitely dark circles under your eyes.

"Yup, I'm doing fantastic," You say flatly.

"Okay, man. Do you want a hug, or something?" Kutner offers.

You dismiss him, but thank him for the kind offer, and go up to the meeting room with him alongside you, where Thirteen, Foreman, and Taub had already been in, sitting down and talking amongst eachother.

"Holy shit, L/n. You look like death.." Foreman says, definitely out of his character. You knew how bad it was when he commented like that.

"Thanks," You say sarcastically, throwing in a fake smile as you sit down, placing your head onto the table face down, your arms dangling.

You were about to fall asleep despite only had being in the hospital for at the most 10 minutes.

"Is L/n finally dead?" House says, poking your side with his cane.

You let out a groan, too tired to even react to the poke.

House hums, knocking your head with the end of his cane. "Anyways! What do we have today, Thirteen?"

"Ow! What the hell?"

"A 27 year old man began to get pains in his lower leg. He's perfectly healthy but has an unsteady heartbeat, and has had 3 strokes since he got here," Foreman explained.

"That's interesting, I thought I asked Thirteen, but I guess I must be going insane." House says sarcastically, looking at Foreman.

"It could just be atrial fibrillation. That would explain the irregular heartbeat and strokes," You say.

Thirteen shakes her head, "But what about the random pain in his leg?" she argues.

"And the fact that this man has had a healthy diet and lifestyle his entire life. He wouldn't be getting the strokes if he's had this healthy lifestyle the entire time." Kutner adds on.

You think to yourself. "Are his bones brittle? It could be atherosclerosis,"

"Are you okay, or are you just getting dumber?"

"I'm just tired, House.. And I'm being serious about the atherosclerosis."

"Whatever. Go run a bone biopsy or something," House dismisses. "but you, stay." He says, pointing at you.

You sigh, you just wanted to take a nap at the least. Maybe if you beg him, he'll let you sleep in his office on the floor or something. Or maybe Wilson would let you..

"Coffee run. Want some? It was supposed to be for Wilson but I haven't seen him yet. You can have his,"

"Wow, is this the real Gregory House?" You look at him, nearly falling asleep where you stood.

"No, I'm actually an extraterrestrial robot clone of this "House" character you are talking about."

You laugh and walk with him to his office where two to-go cups of coffee sat on his desk. "I think the one on the right is the black coffee, the other has creamer in it." House says, pointing to the cups with his cane.

You figured it would be best to check. You couldn't do dairy, coffee was already not good for you, dairy added to that would make it so much worse. You open one of the lids and see completely dark brown coffee, so you put the lid back on and take it.

"Thanks, House. I appreciate this very rare and odd gesture." You say, raising your cup.

"No probs bro. Now get out of my office and do something for once."

You roll your eyes and leave his office, spotting Wilson just walking into his own.

"Oh, morning L/n. How are you?" Wilson greeted.

He was always the one that never commented about your appearance like how Foreman and House just did moments ago. It was a kind thing to do, but it was also "dangerous" at times, especially if you had something wrong like messy hair, only half of your makeup done when you were wearing any, undone or messily knotted tie, or a wrinkled shirt.

You still appreciated it, though.

"Morning, Wilson. I'm just a bit tired is all, but other than that I think I'll be fine." You smile.

"Ditto," He laughs.

"I'll see you later though, alright?" He finishes

"See ya, Wilson." You say, with both of you parting your ways.

House walks (barges) into Wilson's office as soon as he saw that you were gone, two coffee cups in hand.

"I got you coffee, just the way you like it. Diabetes added into it and everything." House says.

Wilson sighs, already being used to his antics to the point where he isn't affected by them anymore. "Thanks,"

House hands him the one from his left hand.

Wilson remembered what happened when he took the opposite one last time, so he took the one that House presented to him and took a drink.

It wouldn't have mattered which cup he took, because House drugged both.

Manipulative bitch.

"So, you and L/n?" House asked.

Wilson choked on his coffee at House's random comment. "I'm sorry?"

"You and L/n, I see you two are still friends again, right? Cameron told me that you two got into a big argument and had a falling out,"

"That is not in the least bit true but the fact that me and L/n are friends. When did Cameron tell you this?" Wilson asks, clearly baffled that Cameron would say something like that.

"Tuesday. I asked why you two were avoiding each other the whole day, she said you two stopped being friends the day before because of an argument," House replies. Or, more so, lies.

"The both of us were busy that day? She didn't even have time to eat lunch with us, House."

"Oh, well that makes a little more sense," House acted clueless, something he tended to do often.

He knew something that Wilson didn't. He overheard you talking to Thirteen one day, asking her for advice on "how to stop loving someone," or something like that. Stupid, right?

Wilson wasn't too hard to figure out. House could practically read his mind at this point after knowing him for as long as he did.

So, House being House, he decided to come up with a solution, or more so a plan. A opioid cocktail if you will. It's surprising that this didn't kill the two..

House's pager beeps, indicating that the team had either something, or something going on.

"Gotta go! The children need tending to,"

"House-" Wilson starts, but is cut off with House walking away.

--------------------------------------

You enter the room where the patient and team were in. The man was laying down, his bed messy and a tired and dazed look on his face, most likely from another stroke.

"Another stroke, I assume?" You sigh, drinking more of your coffee, which was now already mostly finished.

"We came in and he was already having one, but apparently more aggressive than the last ones according to the nurse, and his leg pain is only getting worse," Thirteen responds.

Then it's atrial fibrillation. You decide before yawning.

"Do you need an energy drink or something? I've got one in my locker," Kutner offers.

"Kutner, she already has coffee. Don't you think that'll give her a heart attack or something," Taub whispers.

Kutner shrugs, "She's in a hospital if worst comes to worst at least," He whispers back.

"Oh my goodness, if you could do that, it would totally be awesome," you praise.

You knew that so much caffeine wouldn't do too well for you, but this is definitely not the most you'd have.

Kutner leaves the room, and you stand with the others.

"It has to be atrial fibrillation, no doubt about it. I mean, that would explain the strokes and off rhythmic beating of his heart," you explain.

"No, he hasn't had a heart attack and said he hasn't had a history of them, ever." Thirteen argues.

Suddenly the vital machine starts quickly beeping, indicating that something was wrong.

The patient starts groaning as he clutches the left side of his chest.

He was having a heart attack.

You were right.

"Stabalize him, he's clotting up, get me some heparin quickly!" You shout anxiously, yet full of excitement that you were right.

Holy shit you're turning into House..

"We don't have any! He didn't clot before so we only have anything to stop the clotting," Foreman says.

The nurse that was in the room with you as this happened suddenly came back with a syringe of heparin, "It's all we had," She says. The syringe wasn't ideal with patients. It's usually preferred through the IV, but it'll work nonetheless.

The patient calms down and pants, "He's stabilized,"

"And I was right." You finish.

"We don't know that yet." Foreman scoffs.

"Yes I do you fuckin' idiot," You roll your eyes.

"What?"

"I called you a fuckin' idiot. Look at the state of this sad sop, why keep him miserable and in pain? He needs the proper medication, and he would have that if you would just fucking listen to me, you idiots, *hic!*" You shout.

You now suddenly realize what you had just said, this was unlike you. "I- oh my gosh I'm so sorry, I- I didn't mean that I promise. I don't know what came over me, just *hic!*, keep doing what you guys are doing right now, youre doing incredible, I'm so sorry," word vomit is what you would explain it to be.

You back out of the door, covering your mouth as to not say anything else stupid.

You bump into someone behind you and turn around to see Kutner standing in front of you with a Nos energy drink in his left hand. "L/n I had- " Kutner tries to say as he hands you the can.

"Thank you so much, I appreciate it tons, I've really got to go, thank you!" You say quickly before rushing off to an unoccupied room and close the door and curtains.

"What the fuck, what the hell just happened why did I say that? Oh my gosh I'm going insane I'm going fucking insane," You pace around the room and take fists of hair in your hands.

You crack open the energy drink and take a big gulp of it, "I'm just tired, I'm just tired is all. *hic!* How am I going to tend to my patients all day? I'm going to say something stupid again, why did I say that?"

Wilson wasn't doing any better. He was going along with his regular tasks as usual, when he realized that as the minutes, minutes, started to go by, he was starting to get more and more.. how should you say, iffy, with certain patients.

Saying things he should never say in his professional place of work, things he would only ever say to certain people, such as House with the "sassy" remarks he's been making.

"Jeez, what's up with you? Telling the patients that you-"

"Shut up, House.." Wilson grumbles before sneezing.

"Okay, whatever. Since when did you have the attitude and temper of a teenage girl?" House teases.

"House, please just- leave me alone," Wilson pauses for a brief moment. This was exactly like the last time not too long ago when he drugged him with that coffee.

"Did you drug me? Again?" Wilson scoffs.

"Probably," House shrugs, picking up a file off of Wilson's desk and examining it. "27 year old female with possible breast cancer. Wow, wonder what you said to her,"

"I- I didn't say anything I haven't gone to this one yet.." Wilson knew that if he went to certain ones, he would definitely get in trouble for them, so he put the ones he knew would cause trouble aside. Aka; the smart thing to do.

"Dr. L/n? You're asked for in Dr. House's office," One of the nurses calls, interrupting your mental breakdown.

You cover your mouth with one hand and give him a thumbs up before he leaves.

You could close the curtains for the main glass window, but you couldn't with the glass door, unfortunately.

The nurse nods and leaves, closing the door on his way out.

You sigh and grab the can Kutner gave you, well, more so that you took from him.

You bit your tounge on the way there and responded only when needed to in nods and shakes of the head. There were some doctors and nurses you pretended to like, just to avoid any conflict and drama, that's what horrified you the most. If you said anything to them, it was over. You're not even sure if Foreman was going to talk to you again.

"What the hell do you want," You sigh, placing the energy drink down on a desk as you enter House's office to see him shaking his magic 8 ball before looking up at you.

"What's got you so snappy today? You're starting to act like Wilson right now,"

"*hic!* What?" You question, your brows furrowed.

"I mean, have you talked to Wilson yet? Because man is he hor-" House begins before being immediately cut off.

"House!"

House looks up and you turn around to see Wilson standing at the door.

"Oh, I'm sorry did you finish verbally harassing those other patients?"

You look back at House with a questioning look, "He's finally the one harassing them now and not you?"

"Did he- did he drug you too?"

"Did he WHAT?" You snap your head back to Wilson.

This back and forth was going to give you whiplash.

"He drugged me with sodium thiopental this morning in my coffee. Along with other opioids I don't even want to know,"

"Goddamn it House! Are you kidding me? Do you know what I just said to Foreman's dumbass?? I can't fucking believe you, how old are you?!" You yell.

That explained it.

"I don't care. Hey, how about we spice this up a little, get some drama?" House says, placing his 8 ball down and getting up from his chair.

You sigh and laugh, "I can't believe you right now! You did this just to stir some drama?"

"Yes and no. Hey, L/n, who were you talking about when you were talking to Thirteen asking about 'how to stop loving someone'? I'm just curious, love the workplace drama if you didn't know," House asks you, getting in your face.

What.

"I-" You quickly place your hand over your mouth.

Wilson.

How did House know? Did Thirteen tell him?

"Who told you that? Was it Thirteen? You *hic!* shouldn't know about that," You blurt.

"Oh just happened to be passing by, but not in time to know who you were talking about. I just want to know, you know?" House shrugged.

"It was-" You slap your hand over your mouth again, this time biting your tounge as well.

"Come on, spit it out already,"

"Wait, what's going on?" Wilson asks.

You shake your head and leave his office with your hand still over your mouth, rushing to another empty room.

"What the hell!" You scream, getting the attention from other doctors on the other side of the glass. Totally not soundproof.

You grab your pager and click on Thirteen's contact, putting a message to quickly come to the room you're in.

"*hic!* This can not be happening right now," You muttered to yourself.

You told Thirteen everything. You knew or at least felt that if you told anyone else what you tell her, they'd blabber it to someone else right away. Just like you were doing against your own will.

The urgency wasn't incredibly needed, but that didn't mean that you weren't anxiously waiting, as each second felt like 5 minutes and your nails were now dug into the skin of your arm.

You paced around before finally settling on just sitting down at the edge of the bed.

"L/n? Are you doing okay? You went a little crazy earlier. I think you hurt Foreman's feelings," Thirteen says with a smile.

You look up and quickly walk up to her, "Oh my gosh, Thirteen, thank god you're here,"

"Are you okay?"

"Uh, well, House is kind of a jackass and laced my coffee with sodium thiopental and god knows what else this morning so now I've just been telling everyone I come across what I think without thinking, so I've just been without a filter since I drank that coffee. I've spent most of my time hiding in rooms until it maybe wears off," You rambled, unable to stop everything that was coming out of your mouth all at once. "He also drugged Wilson." You added

"Wait what?"

"House drugged me and now I won't shut up!" You shout.

Thirteen furrows her eyebrows and crosses her arms, "So he basically gave you a 'truth serum'."

"Yes? Is that what you'd call that? *hic!*"

"And House did this just to be a jackass?" Thirteen questioned. She knew that was most likely the answer.

"*hic!* Probably! I mean, the guy is miserable so he makes others even more miserable for his own entertainment so, *hic!* yeah!" You raised your hands up in the air and shrugged.

The thing about House, was that he never did something for no reason. Everything was always for a reason, like the last time he drugged Wilson...

Wilson.

"You said he drugged Wilson too, right?" Thirteen questioned, knowing exactly where this was going.

You nodded quickly.

Thirteen smiles and walks out of the room.

'What the fuck was that?'

You were going to to crazy! Why did she just leave? Is she coming back?

Then you suddenly realized just what House was planning, and what Thirteen knew would happen.

"*hic!* Oh my god.."

--------------------------------------

Your pager beeps coming from Kutner, if you could guess, it was most likely due to the patient, something that should've been much more important.

"Shit.." You look at it and bite your tounge as to not say what you were thinking out loud about patient's, nurses, doctors, etc. on your way to where the patient's room was.

Only to find that he wasn't there with the rest of the team.

"Where the hell is Kutner? He paged me for no goddamn reason or what?" You shout, clearly frustrated.

"He went to the break room," Cameron responds, focused on putting a new bag of saline.

"*hic!*"

"Goddamn it. I hate this fucking job sometimes," You groan and leave the room without saying anything else, not even bothering to bite your tounge around them as you've already said your worst.

You mumble all sorts of profanities and insults to the people you saw around you as you made your way down into the break room where stood House, and Wilson.

"What is this, some interrogation? Haven't you already had your daily dose of your dumb shit for the day or *hic!* are you going to overdose on that shit, too?"

"Oh, no I'm addicted to it. Maybe more than the Vicodin, though it might come close," House says carelessly.

You ball your fists up, nails digging into your skin.

"I'm going to kill your crippled ass," You say, gritting your teeth.

"That's cool, but first, tell me how you feel about good ol' Wilson here," House says with a coy smile on his face.

"Wait what do you mean?" Wilson asked cluelessly.

"Shut the hell up, what the hell did you give us House!"

"Hard question, next one please,"

You groan and go to the nearest wall to lean against it. Whatever he gave you was DEFINITELY not helping you.

You actually felt sick. You were so tired too, because the coffee that was supposed to be helping you, did the opposite.

"*hic!* god fucking damn it why can't this shit stop!?" You were getting sick and tired of the hiccups, it's all that's been happening to you the whole time you've been here.

"Achoo!"

And apparently Wilson's had been sneezing. Gross..

You slide down the wall and curl up once you meet the carpeted floor.

"House, I need to know, was this really nessasary for you to do.. both me *hic!* and Wilson have jobs here and I can't hide in a room all day.." You ask, rubbing your temples.

"Yes. Yes it was." House gets up and towers over you, "Have fun!"

Unfortunately, the door locked from the outside. The one House now just locked judging by the click you heard after he left.

You run to the door and attempt to turn the door handle, but to no avail, it didn't open. Meaning, you were now stuck in a room with Wilson, and only Wilson.

You take a deep breath in and out, "I'm keeping my mouth shut, don't take it personally.." backing away from the door, you take a seat on the floor next to the foosball table.

Wilson shoots you a thumbs up.

Minutes pass, then an hour, and more minutes. You hadn't even tried to busy yourself, you just sat in the same spot the whole time.

The lock clicks open and your head shoots up along with Wilson. The both of you rush to the door in hopes someone would let you out.

Only for it to be House.

"Have either of you still not said anything?" House scoffs.

You make a zip movement over your mouth, indicating you hadn't, and wouldn't say anything.

He turns to Wilson, giving him the same look and getting a shake of the head from him.

"Fine then. If you won't say it, I will. Alright, how should I go on about this? Wilson?" House hobbles over and taps Wilson with his cane.

Wilson shakes his head once more, though quicker.

"What about you, Dr. L/n? What do you have to say?" House whips his head around.

You slap your hand over your mouth and pinch yourself to stop from saying a single word.

"Okay, if you want it that way. Wilson, L/n, or should I say Y/n, has a total-"

You quickly cut off House, tackling him to the floor with your hand over his mouth. "Shut the hell up, House! I'll murder you I swear!"

"Do it then, coward." House challenged you.

You pause, suddenly unable to form a coherent sentence, let alone a single word.

"L/n totally has the hots for you, Wilson." House says, pushing you off of him with a big grin on his face.

Your jaw practically fell directly onto the floor, a million thoughts going through your mind yet despite the drug cocktail, you still stayed quiet.

The three of you stayed silent. Not one of you making a peep for what felt like hours. You felt like crying, throwing up maybe?

"Well! Have fun with this. I'm going to go bother Foreman." House dismisses himself and leaves, locking the door as you could hear from the other side.

"I- I'm so sorry, Wilson." You apologize, shutting your eyes tightly closed.

"Do you..?" Wilson asks after a couple seconds.

You open your eyes and look up to see Wilson giving you a look of sympathy and confusion.

Giving him a look of confusion yourself, you question, "what?"

"God, this feels like middle school," Wilson lets out a chuckle before continuing, "do you like like me?" He raises an eyebrow.

Furrowing your brows, you respond, "What do you think, James?"

He smiles sheepishly, now suddenly shy. "I wish I would've known sooner."

Wilson was typically a quiet man, kept to himself and usually stuck with House, so seeing him like this wasn't surprising, though that didn't mean you didn't find it a little silly.

A guy with a title such as his? Shy? No way.

"Do you?" You asked the same question, causing him to rub the back of his neck and mumble with a nod.

You smile. Maybe House being a dickhead wasn't too bad of a thing sometimes. Sometimes..

--------------------------------------

Has no clue how to end this. *But* finished it nonetheless!

[faithisyours]

Skinny Dipping

Chapter 2 of The List

Vi x Fem!reader

Summary: you surprise Vi with a trip to go do something off her list, skinny dipping. + a little extra at the end.

cw: Heavy petting but no actual smut, nudity, mentions to smut, mentions of food, a little emo Vi at the end, overall tooth rotting fluff

Word Count: 2.6k

an: Howdy! Hope everyone’s 2025 is off to a good start. As promised, here is chapter 2. This fic can be read as a stand alone, but it would probably make more sense if you read chapter 1. Also I’d like to mention that the time frame is off in this whole fic but I’m gonna try and speed run through the seasons to match up to what it is where I am. Next week we’re building a blanket fort. And if you have any ideas, let me know. Men and minors dni.

Ch 3

It had been almost a week since you pitched the idea of the list to Vi. She had been taking it very seriously, adding at least one thing every day. She had also been quite protective of it, keeping it close whenever you wanted to see it, moving it away from your gaze, blatantly closing it when you walked in the same room as her. You reminded her that it had been your idea to begin with, and that in order to do all of the things she was writing down, you would eventually have to see it. She simply claimed she wanted to be done writing it before she shared it with you. Fair enough.

Her not sharing it wasn’t an issue, though, considering you supplied the first thing on that list. You remembered the giddy look in her eye when you told her to add it, the way she wrote it as the first thing on the list, the kiss she gave you on the cheek as thanks for the idea. And since it was about the only one you knew for a fact was there, you were determined to surprise her sooner rather than later with it. It was also nearing late fall, and the nights were growing colder. You would have to plan fast in order to make this an actually enjoyable experience and not just turn yourselves into human popsicles.

So, you kept an eye on the weather, thought of a nearby lake that would be a good spot, and planned all the logistics down to the T. And then, you waited.

—

You were sitting at the kitchen island when you heard the sound of a key unlocking the door to your apartment, announcing Vi was finally home.

“How was work?” you asked as you stood up and walked towards her.

“Oh, ya know…same as always,” she sighed, wrapping her arms around you and giving you a quick kiss.

“Well, I was wondering if you maybe, possibly wanted to accompany me this evening for a surprise?” You said it innocently enough, but Vi still gave you the most suspicious look in the history of suspicious looks.

“Did you get your hands on my notebook?” she asked accusingly, squinting her eyes and pulling away from your hug slightly.

“No, I did not. And this has nothing to do with that,” you lied, tilting your nose up in mock-indignation. She squinted her eyes even more at you.

“Right, okay,” she surveyed you, then dropped her suspicion. “Well, yes, I would love to join you. Where are we going?”

“I’m not telling you that, it’s a surprise!” You pushed her lightly on the shoulder, playfully annoyed.

“Okay, okay, fine. Just tell me what I need to do,” she surrendered.

“All you need to do is nothing. And then meet me in the car in ten minutes.” You gave her a kiss on the cheek, grabbed your bag and keys, and hurried your way down to the car.

You wanted to make sure nothing gave away the surprise, so you made sure any damning evidence was in the trunk, and then covered it all with a blanket. When you were satisfied, you plopped down into the driver's seat and waited for Vi, which didn’t take long considering you took a big chunk of that ten minutes finagling the trunk.

When Vi got into the passenger seat, the suspicious look was back on her face. You had your poker face on, however, and would not be giving anything away until you got to your destination.

You were half way into the drive, the sun setting slowly before you, when Vi decided to start grilling you on where you were going.

“Is it something off the list? At least tell me that!” she prodded. You figured there wasn’t any harm in telling her it was. It narrowed the options down, sure, but it would get her excited.

“Okay, yes, it is something off the list. But before you go accusing me, no, I did not go snooping. I remembered some of the things you wrote down and this is one of them. But just stop speculating, alright. It’s supposed to be a surprise.” You squeezed her hand, which was holding yours on her lap.

Your admission settled her speculation, and for the rest of the drive the two of you listened to music and chatted about your day. The conversation seemed to distract her, because when you pulled into the small, blessedly empty, dirt parking lot, indicating you had made it to your destination, her suspicion finally returned. She eyed you up, but you only gave her a smile as you got out of the car and popped the trunk.

Pulling the blanket aside, you grabbed the duffle bag with the towels in it and threw it over your shoulder. Vi finally came around to join you at the back of the car, but by that time you had already fixed the blanket back over everything and were closing the trunk. She eyed the duffle suspiciously, but when you beckoned her to follow you, she did.

You were a little surprised she hadn’t said anything yet. You had taken her to this lake a couple summers ago when everyone came out to celebrate Ekko’s birthday, but you would admit that it looked much different now that autumn was upon it.

You took Vi’s hand in yours as you walked down the short trail towards the lake. And once you rounded that corner and the shore opened up, Vi gasped, gave you a look that said, “oh my god, THIS is what we're doing?!?!” and kissed your cheek so hard you thought it might bruise.

The lake wasn’t big. You could probably swim from one side to the other in less than 5 minutes. But it got the job done. And it was empty, thank goodness. The last rays of light bounced off the water's surface, making it sparkle. And the thick forest surrounding it made for good privacy. It was all absolutely perfect.

You walked your vibrating-with-excitement girlfriend down towards the shore, plopping the duffle bag down next to a big oak that’s canopy arched over the water. And then you began to strip.

It wasn’t super cold out yet, but as you removed layers of clothing, goosebumps spread all across your skin. And you knew the water was guaranteed to be colder. Vi started stripping, too, only when she stopped ogling the fact you were taking your clothes off in front of her. You watched as she peeled her sweatshirt off, pulled her shoes and socks off faster than you’d seen anyone ever do that, took off the worn grey tee-shirt you sometimes slept in cause it smelled so much like her, and stepped out of the black cargo pants she had a million pairs of. She ogled, you ogled.

With both of you left in just your underwear, Vi closed the small space between the two of you and kissed you, hard, with tongue, bringing her warm hands up to caress your face. She pulled away just as fast, but it still left you both a little breathless. You don’t know exactly why you started giggling, but whatever it was, Vi was feeling a similar way, because she giggled right along with you.

“May I?” she asked, pulling lightly on the strap of your bra.

“Of course. May I?” you asked, pointing to her sports bra.

“Well, it's only fair,” she responded, a goofy smile tilting her lips.

She unclasped your bra, which was a hell of a lot easier than you attempting to pull her sports bra off, but you made it, now both topless. You leaned in, kissing her long and deep as you pulled the hem of her boxers down over her hips, getting her completely naked. She mirrored the act, and soon enough you were both completely naked, shivering slightly.

“Okay,” you grabbed her hand and faced the water, “on the count of three, we run in.” Out of the corner of your eye you could see her nodding, albeit reluctantly.

“One,” You took a step forward, “two,” you took another one, this time Vi taking it with you, “three!” and then you were running towards the water, Vi right next to you, laughing breathlessly.

“Holy fuck, its cold.” You were now chest deep in the water, the sandy bottom squishing between your toes. Vi was right next to you, grinning ear to ear, and even though it was fucking cold, you couldn’t help but grin right back at her. Sure, this had been your idea to begin with, but as soon as Vi had added it to her list, it had become one of her goals, one of her dreams. And you couldn’t help but feel over the moon about helping her bring it to life.

After a minute or two in the water, the cold wasn’t as noticeable, but it didn’t really matter considering Vi had started kissing you, again, and you had a hard time considering anything else when that happened. Her hands had come up to your face, pulling you deeper into it. You grabbed her waist, pulling her closer, wrapping your arms around her. One of her hands came down to your chest, cupping your breast, fingers gliding over your nipple. You moaned, the sound getting caught by Vi’s mouth. You needed to be closer, were going to die if you didn’t get closer. One of your hands skated all the way down her back and grabbed her ass, pulling her in, causing legs to tangle. It was her turn to moan, a sound you would kill people to hear again and again. Both of you were frantic to get flistfulls of the other. You were lost in it, nothing unusual, but you had to remember you were in a potentially public place. And that was not a kink you wanted to find out you had today.

So with unbelievable effort, you pulled away, the space between you being filled now with hot, panting breaths. “As much as I would love to fuck you in this lake, I’d like to remind you that we are in a semi-public space,” you said.

She sighed. “Alright. And it is pretty fucking cold, isn’t it?” You nodded in response. “And it's getting pretty dark. Better get back to the car,” she reasoned.

“Only if you want to, babe. This was your surprise, I want you to get everything you want out of it,” you countered. You didn’t want to cut her surprise short just because you were cold. If she wanted to stay longer, you would gaslight yourself into believing you couldn’t feel cold. Anything for her.

“Well, considering I’m naked in a lake, I’d consider this a success. And it is getting late, and I’m getting kinda hungry. I think it’s fair to say we can head back to the car now.”

You nodded in response, giving her an acknowledging smile. Hand-in-hand, you walked out of the water, only to be met with the chilly night air. You rushed over to the duffle bag, flung it open, and cocooned yourself in the first towel within reach. Teeth chattering, you watched Vi follow suit, albeit not as frantic.

“We should do this again,” you said between gritted teeth, “when it’s warmer, though.”

Vi chuckled, shaking her head. “I’m just glad you remembered to bring towels.”

“Oh, I brought a lot more than just towels,” you said, your attempt at cockiness negated by your shivering. “Just wait till you see what else is in the car.”

“Well, now I’m even more excited,” she responded. Vi had been toweling herself dry and was about to get redressed when she surveyed you, still dripping in places and shivering. “Okay, let me help you dry off, since I seem to be more immune to the chill than you.” She gave you a crooked smile, stepping closer and grabbing the edges of your towel.

“Ya, alright,” was all you managed before Vi started patting you down, moving the towel over your arms and belly, then pulling it completely off you to dry your legs. She made sure you were pretty much completely dry before grabbing your shirt and pulling it over your head, forfeiting your bra. She grabbed a sweatshirt next, which happened to be the one she had been wearing earlier, but she didn’t seem to mind when she pulled it down over your head.

“I can manage the rest, I think,” you said, giving her a kiss on the cheek. She nodded, then started redressing herself, also forfeiting her bra and eventually pulling on your sweatshirt. Once you both were dressed and adequately warmed up, you shoved the wet towels, dirty socks, and both bras into the duffle bag. And then arm-in-arm, you walked back to the car, giggling as you went.

When the car came into sight, you popped the trunk using the key and watched it slowly rise open. You put the duffle bag down and removed the blanket, revealing a wicker basket, a medium sized cooler, and an extra pile of blankets.

“I figured alongside skinny dipping we could also have a picnic,” you said as you pulled the wicker basket and cooler forward, flipping the top on both to uncover what you had packed. In the basket there were meats, cheeses, crackers, fruit, and veggies, and in the cooler was a bottle of sparkling cider, dip for the veggies, and some ice cream sandwiches you were praying weren’t completely melted yet.

You glanced towards Vi, concerned slightly by her silence, and found her pouting, holding back tears. She scooped you up into a hug, squeezing tight. She was so incredibly thankful, but you knew that if she said it out loud she'd actually start crying, so you just nodded your head, gave her a small, knowing smile, and kissed her on the forehead.

You watched as she took a couple deep breaths and collected her thoughts, then looked around back towards the lake, her eyebrows knitting in concern. Before she could say anything though, you said, “We can eat here, if that's what you're thinking.” She nodded, giving you a knowing smile. You seemed to always be able to read her mind.

Collectively you laid out one of the blankets on the bed of the trunk, turned on the car to blast the heat and provide some toons, and unpacked the food and arranged it between the both of you. You ate, talked, and simply enjoyed each other’s company.

Eventually, though, it came time to pack up, so you reloaded the car, making sure you didn’t leave anything behind, and began the drive back home. With the radio low and a blanket draped across her lap, however, Vi was helpless to the call of sleep, and began softly snoring half way back to the apartment. You watched her out of the corner of your eye, admired how peaceful she looked, and recounted everything that had just happened. You don’t think you had ever seen Vi this happy consecutively ever. This whole list business was going to take some serious effort to complete, but if it was all going to be this fun, all going to make Vi this happy, you’d do it a million times over.

Tip Jar

[junedenim]

baby, it's been nice

so many words in one glance

warnings: smut, blowie, piv, angstish, some affairing...

word count: 4k

You got on the bus and the skies grew dark. When the bus had stalled between the Dockhead and Boss stops, the storm broke and showered down against the bus’s windows, adding a jolt to the ride. Passengers pressed in from the rain, forcing you into the middle of the bus. You felt for a handle before the bus took off again and that’s when you first spotted him.

He stood out amongst the flurry of people because he was the only one who wasn’t wet. He must have hopped on before the rain fully broke. You feel down at your wet shirt, the nice white shirt not made for the early summer rain. 

His eyes found yours and engaged in a duel. He broke it to look down at your hands turning to pat away the wetness on your shirt. He couldn’t escape the way you touched yourself against the slight sheerness unveiling what lies underneath.

Outside, the veritable downpour clashed on. As you approached the Tower stop, you pushed yourself closer to the door, hoping the crowd wouldn’t swallow you up. You exited out and stood under the overpass to wait out the rain. 

He too had gotten off and was standing there. You looked. And he was looking too. 

The air was cold and you pulled on your jacket. You saw him smiling and you smiled back at him. Then, you noticed you pulled on your jacket over your bag and he was smiling at that, not you. You felt stupid and straightened yourself out to wait some more.

And then the rain halted, but before you could move, you looked over at him again, and he was looking back. 

He responded by setting off in the same direction as you. He kept in step and joined you in smiling at the ground. “Shall we get a coffee?” He asked.

“Yes,” you told him. There was no other possibility. 

He questioned how people would look at the two of you. How young you were compared to him. How old were you anyway?

You took your coffee black because it felt childish to ask for heaping amounts of sugar, even if he had milk in his coffee. You felt heavy under his eyes. You wanted to impress him and be deemed worthy by him.

He thought to himself, it’ll be a simple chat and go situation, there’s no need to go deeper. 

But nothing can ever be simple like that. The sun shines through the window onto your face and you lean forward, cupping your face in your hands, staring at him so delicately he’s almost afraid to move, to breathe. Your gaze is light and pure and he’s terrified to be the one to rupture it by pulling away. You’re the rainbow after the storm. Now, he’s just getting cheesy.

He leans closer, his elbows on the table, the only thing other than your cups of coffee separating you two. “Were you heading home from work?”

“School,” you correct. “I’m getting my MA in cultural history, specifically contemporary history.” Your voice is smooth. Will you be smooth all over? “You?”

“A writer.” Even he feels pretentious when he says it.

“Anything I would know?”

He shakes his head.

You’re convinced he thinks you’re dumb.

He’s been sitting too tall on his horse. He didn’t even go to university and yet he’s been looking down upon you for appearing to be younger. “How old are you?”

You giggle. “You aren’t supposed to ask a lady her age.”

*

You walk out onto the street together. He tells himself to leave it there and to be left with the taste of a nice cup of coffee and the memory of that beaming smile. “It was nice talking with you,” he tells you.

He nods and you walk off one way and he walks off the other. You walk to the streetlight before stopping. You feel the pain in the tips of your fingers and you can’t help but feel like you said something wrong. Cars splash in puddles, the hiss of wet tires on asphalt, and street lights change for pedestrians to cross but you hesitate. You don’t want to go anywhere without him. He nodded his head and had said that it was nice talking to you but clearly it wasn’t that nice or else you would’ve stayed.

Then, behind you, you heard him, “Or do you, maybe, want to spend the night together?”

You walk toward his place. It’s funny, he doesn’t live far from you and you’ve probably rode the same bus together before, but before today you had never noticed one another. You cross under a weeping beech and he comments, “Funny hairdo on that one.” And you’re grinning violently, grinning constantly with no change.

You hike up the stairs to his place and stand back while he unlocks the door. His keyring is organized with only a few keys on it and one keychain. You’ve never seen anyone else’s like that. It’s so stark and plain. You almost say something, but then he opens the door.

“I’ve been living here for a while,” he says. He’s just up the road from you and yet you’ve never seen him before. That can’t be right.

The place is clustered with paintings and photographs, although none seem personal. He leads you through to the kitchen. In the sink, there’s a saucepan. The breakfast fixtures are still lying out on the counters. Eggshells, the dirtied plates, and a glass. There’s a window behind the sink that shows the backyard. “There’s no trees out there but I swear every day a bird comes by and sings away. I don’t know what possesses her.” He believes wholeheartedly that this bird sings just for him.

He points down the hallway. “Bedroom is back there.” He has no reason to tell you this or guide you to where everything is. Maybe it’s the polite thing to do, but it also feels explicit like he’s suggesting something by pointing his finger there.

Through a wide archway, he walks you into the living room. There’s a grey rug on the floor to match the dark couch that sits on top of it. You’re standing in the archway, leaning up against it. He will remember exactly how you look there. 

There’s a stack of books on the floor beside his bookshelf. They’re the ones that don’t fit, forcing him to either get rid of some books or get a new shelf. You walk over and bend down to examine them. He wonders if this is research for a school project. “Do you want some wine?”

You look back at him, your hair tossing behind your shoulder. “Sure.” You say it in such a cutesy way. You lift a shoulder like you're doing a dance for him. One shift of your shoulder and you’re sending him back into the stratosphere. 

While he’s in the kitchen, you look at the spines on the bookshelf. You trace your finger over his collection. He’s got postcards leaning against the books and photographs pinned to the shelving. Some he is in, but most he isn’t. They’re of what you assume are friends. There’s one of George Harrison winking, tapped to the side of the shelf. There’s one of a woman smiling. It seems likely that Alex took this photo and this woman was smiling at him but now, through the immortal ability of a photograph, the smile is now toward you.

Behind you, there’s the clashing of two glasses against one another, two in one of his hands, a bottle in the other. “Some music?” He asks while crossing the living room. 

“Yes,” you say, following him.

The sound of the needle in the grooves of the disc sounds through the room. He turns the knob on the player to make sure the sound is perfect. All this time gives you a chance to take him in. His shoulders are narrow, almost curving in. His moves are gangly, and from behind, he could almost give the appearance of a teenager if not for the way he dressed. His slacks and fabric of his shirt are too proper and fancy for any teenage boy. His hair is too fluffy and trimmed for any careless young boy.

When he turns and walks toward you, he is grown once more. The lines that have been traced on him by age. The modest amount of stubble that barely appears. The gleam from the chain around his neck catches your eyes and he sits on the armchair beside the couch.

He waits for the music to start before touching his glass. He nods toward you and lifts his glass as if to cheers you, although you’ve already taken a sip from yours. He smiles slowly as you avert your eyes, too prone to blushing.

*

He’s been to this restaurant before. The waiter knows him and set you two up at a table in the back. You’re face to face with Alex now and a great happiness—the feeling of the unknown and whatever is on the horizon—overcomes you. 

He thinks you look lovely even with your mouth full. 

*

Without consulting you, he directs you back to his home. Perhaps the only reason he went out with you was to come home. To have the illusion that what is familiar to him is unexceptional for you too. You make your way almost automatically to the living room while he fetches another bottle of wine from the kitchen. When he walks in, you're standing by the window. The sill is so low that it would be easy to tip out. "Look, someone else is still awake," you say, pointing across the street.

"Oh, that's Chuck. He's a painter. Up at all these crazy hours of the night. Just painting away." You turn to face him. He is holding a record in one hand, an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips.

“That’s not very appropriate for now.” You’re referring to the music playing. It’s some classic rock record but it has a children’s choir singing.

He takes the cigarette out of his mouth. “Good music is always appropriate,” he argues.

“What about a funeral march?” You retort. 

He chuckles. “Alright,” he caves. He walks over and takes the needle off the record. 

When he walks back over, he for the first time enfolds you in his arms. You take his face in both hands and kiss him very gently like it’s second nature. There is nothing daring him to perform any differently in response.

He brushes the strap of your top and dares to move further by pulling the bra strap down too. The way your bare shoulder feels in his cupping hand is something he won't forget as long as he lives. He moves down and traces his lips on the soft skin. You're looking up at him and smiling before sinking your teeth into his flesh, biting a piece out of him. You pull him even closer to you, turning two bodies into one, where one may not run away only toward one another.

His hands discover your bottom fits neatly into them, a peach to each. You are still both standing there, on the grey living room rug, on your island, barefoot, with interlocking arms and legs, only at rare intervals, opening your eyes and emerging from your blindness to look at one another. He wonders where you get your certainty from. Then he shuts his eyes again, and it is better to see with his hands and mouth.

"We better not make each other miserable," he says. 

"Isn't it too late already?" You smile briefly before insisting, “Sleep with me.” He’s unsure if you mean the whole word. Not just fuck you, but sleep side-by-side with interlocking bodies sharing such unwilling vulnerability with one another. 

Alex takes you by the hand and leads you out of the room, through the kitchen, down the hallways, into the room, the one he pointed at earlier, suggesting to you that you'd spend your night in there. "I might have some trouble," he tells you, "I've had too much to drink. Too much excitement." 

"I don't mind," you say, lying back on the bed, stretched out on the sheets with a halo by your head, your hair shining bright from the bedside lamp. That grin reaches out to him, taking him completely, pulling the light from the whole room, and reflecting it back to him. 

You unbuckle him and take his softness into your hand. He stands still and watches the alchemy as you move him. You pucker your lips out, sitting the tip of him on the edge of your lip. It’s a teasing prospect and he waits eagerly, so close to pushing himself straight in, not being able to resist temptation. 

But he says a prayer and waits, swears to the heavens as you wrap your lips around him, and take bits of him. He feels faint, like his knees might buckle, and he’ll fall straight through the floor. He pushes back on you, making you relinquish your grip. 

“I’ve got to sit down.” He blinks and relaxes onto the bed. “You’re too clothed.” Only the straps he pushed off earlier are bearing your skin to him.

“Isn’t it more tempting?” You taunt, standing on your knees, towering over his laid-out body. You straddle over him, the core of you hovering over the center of him. “You can imagine whatever you want.”

His hands grab your hips, his thumbs dig into the bone. “The real thing is better than anything my brain could put together.” He pulls at the waistband of your skirt, yanking down, down, down.

When the fabric is wiped clean from your surface, his finger fiddles with your nipple, much like he did with the knobs on his record player. (The same amount of noise comes out too.) He runs his fingers through you just to get a taste of the wetness. He puts fingers on your bottom lip, tapping until he has gained entry. Your mouth sucks on the two fingers and the way your tongue moves on them might get him harder than it did when you did it to his dick.

You sit on him, sinking like he is the bottom of the ocean. You sway like the waves and he tries his best to not have them pull him under, tries surfing them. He places his hand on his head before grabbing your waist, ebbing and flowing with you.

He leans up to capture your mouth. In the midst of the kiss, which is rabid and ruinous, he loses all sense of time, of space, of self. He feels you up and down, relishing in that soft, smooth skin, in your curves, in your perked breasts and the ridges in your spine. 

You rake your teeth along his shoulder, kissing with a lightness then a roughness, sucking and scraping, pulling him under. He closes his eyes, head falling to rest against the stack of pillows. He feels high when he’s inside you, and you’re so warm and so wet he could cry. 

You ride him with a purpose, eyes on his, your hand fisted in his hair as you carve your hips into his body like you’ve done this a hundred times before. Alex can’t help but match your rhythm and gets you moaning desperately, so he’s not alone in this. “You feel so goddamn good,” he whispers, right into your ear, just to drive you crazy. 

You pull his head back as if to get even, quickening your pace as you ravage his neck, but he doesn’t want this to end yet. He wants it to last, wants you in other ways. “Hang on,” he rasps, trying to slow you. “Stop.” You make a frustrated noise, but do. He grins. “Something the matter?” 

“Shut up,” you gasp. “What?” 

“Get on your stomach,” he says, soft but firm. 

“Don’t tell me what to do,” you counter, but do it anyway, and when he pushes in from behind, you cry out, muffled into the pillows that you hold onto in a white-knuckled grip. 

“You like that?” He asks, and you don’t want to satisfy him with a nod because you’re stubborn, but when he reaches between your legs to stroke your clit you can’t help but let a whine escape. 

“Fuck, you sound so pretty.” He’s relentless and doesn’t allow a break, he doesn’t believe they exist. He’s chasing after like a dog going after a car, not letting up until he reaches the bumper. Skin slapping and panting are the only sounds being made. 

It doesn’t take long for you to come after all that, and he falls over the edge with you. You end up out of breath, you shaking and him hot-blooded. You grab his hand suddenly, bringing it to your lips to lick dry and then kiss, one on his palm, another on his wrist, his knuckles, his thumb. He nuzzles your ear. You stroke the height of his cheek. You end up burrowed under the blankets, beat to hell. You sprawl out on top of him, playing with his hair. His lip quirks up because it’s impossible for it not to.

*

He recognizes you right away. You're swinging your handbag as you walk, dressed in all black, and as you come closer, he can see you've put your hair up and tied it with a black velvet ribbon. He thinks of how exposed your face is. He knows he has to be straight with you.

He deliberately chose one of the larger tables, telling the hostess a table for three. You both look up from time to time to see what's keeping your third. He's brought you one of his books so that you can see the things he writes about—his first present to you. You shouldn't read the dedication. Time to look across to the entrance and shake your heads—what's keeping our unpunctual friend? You're in cahoots, you have your first secret to keep from the world, and he knows what you're thinking as you share a look, and that's why it's important to set conditions.

"We will only see each other occasionally," he says, "but each will be like our first time. A celebration." You listen to him attentively and nod. "I can only be a luxury for you because, you know, I have someone else."

“I know.” You’ve always known this. It’s clearly shown on his left hand.

"Perhaps that won't be enough for you and I understand that." You look straight at him, directly in the face. He notices things about you that he didn't before. The way your pupil shines in this light.

"If you had a hundred women, all that matters is the time that we spend together." How can he ever refuse you anything if you don't demand anything? The black velvet ribbon moves him, it makes you look like a schoolgirl. He feels sick.

"You can't expect any sort of public declaration. We both know and that will have to do." "That's fine," you say and then you smile. It terrifies him how comfortable you are. How comfortable this all feels.

He pours you more wine to go with your food. You see his pack of cigarettes on the table and think you don't ever want to sit at a table that doesn't have his cigarettes on it. 

He can't forget that one day he will have to hand you on. He can't forget that he knows this better than you do. He has to remember this no matter how long or short your time together is. This jagged thought must shine through all other thoughts of happiness, love, and desire, through all your shared experiences and any memories you may have; he must endure it when the crash happens. If it isn't to destroy him. The funny thought is that he doesn't think he would mind you destroying him.

"We can be as long as you want us to be," Alex says. 

You nod. So long as you can see him, as long and as often as possible, you wouldn't mind anything else.

He tells the waiter, "It looks like our friend hasn't made it." He pays and pockets his pack of cigarettes. Your jacket hangs beside his coat in his cloakroom, the two rubbing shoulders with one another. "That couple," he tells the attendant while pointing to them. The attendant hands Alex the items, and he holds your jacket out for you to slip into.

While walking, you stand apart because touching is too much. He takes you to his office. It's dusty with shelves of tapes and records you wouldn't know what to do with. There are piles of papers on the desk and windows with blinds covering the outside world. You imagine a person would go mad in a room like this. 

"It isn't much of a view," he says. He lifts the blinds and you peek out to the alleyway with trash cans and let out a giggle.

He offers you a chair and slips a pair of headphones onto your head without saying a word. He leans over you, pressing his body into your shoulders, and hits play on the deck. 

You've never heard anything like it before. It makes you sit upright as if it was his personal version of an electric chair. He stands by the window and lets the moonlight shine on him. He watches you as you listen and lights a cigarette. He likes how concentrated you look, as if he might quiz you after the song is done.

He hears the click and you place the headphones on top of the player. “It’s old recordings I recovered. They’re from some guy in the ‘50s. We’re trying to find the originator.” You get the feeling he likes talking about his work, but people aren’t usually interested in waiting for his sentences to find their way out. 

Before you head out again, you see a photo of Alex on the desk. "Can I have this?"

Alex asks back, "For your imagination?" 

"No," you say, "so that when I'm on the train tomorrow, I won't think all this was just a dream." 

"Are you going so soon?" You’re going away on a trip with a friend tomorrow. You told him that on the first night you spent together. When the hour was so late that it felt like the rapture had occurred and you were the only two people left on Earth.

"Yes." While you hold the photo in your hands, he comes up behind you and holds you. He kisses your neck. You keep your eyes shut throughout, only opening them when he lets go of you, and then you stow the photo away in your bag, between the pages of a book. "Oh no! I left your book at the restaurant."

"Will you walk me home?" 

So now he walks you back the way he saw you come earlier, swinging your bag the exact same, rounding a corner, and then another one, and another one until you've reached your apartment building. It’s down the road from the Moose Cafe. "My room is on the third floor, two windows from the left." He stands next to you and looks up."

Every time he went to the cafe, he came this way, never knowing you were in that building. "What's that in the window?"

"A Basquiat postcard." You put it there after seeing the way he placed postcards around his house. 

"Nice," he says, trying to imagine your room. 

"It's only a week," you say, even if it feels so pathetically long to you.

And to him. "Think of me," Alex says. At certain times, he thinks, Why should she? He's in no way certain it wouldn't be better to forget you in a hurry. There's no kiss on the public street, just an exchange of glances.

*

a/n: i don't mean for everything i write to be somewhat related to cheating. it just turns out that way. this is inspired by a book i'm reading and i'm only 30 pages into said book so they're will probably be some form of a part two or some other fic inspired by this book. (i read 1 book i want per year and it inspires everything i write for the next 12 months.) praying there are no errors in this.

[localplaguenurse]

quietly shuffles in on my hands and knees softly begging for some capitano fluff o lord and savior

I gotchu <3

Too Sweet

Notes: Mostly fluff but there is some description of Capitano's rotting body, but that's as far as it goes. Also a pinch of angst but it's like adding salt to sweets, it just enhances the flavours :3

While he is by no means fragile, not by a long shot, the Captain hasn’t been able to simply walk off his injuries like he used to. As time passes on, he requires more maintenance and care in order to heal from those wounds. Sometimes “heal” feels a little generous for what he has to do to recover. You fear for the day he’s delivered a blow he cannot bounce back from, or that all the things you do for him will one day stop working.

You push the thoughts of the inevitable down. Right now, the tender loving care you have for your husband is working, and it’s working to delay the inevitable. 

You reenter the bathroom, a jar tucked under your arm, and see the Captain, in all his towelled, scarred and rotting glory, sitting on the edge of the tub. While the sight of blackened patches meshed with blue veins still pains you, the shock has long since worn off. He looks up at you when you step inside, and though there is little change in his expression, his eyes meet yours with warmth. 

You offer the jar to him. “Could you be a dear and—”

He doesn’t let you finish asking before he takes the jar and immediately, effortlessly pops the lid off. He looks at the liquid gold inside before he hands it back to you. You take it and set it on the sink counter for a moment, just so you can push his hair out of his face. 

It was something you discovered by pure coincidence. You were seeking out advice for your own beauty routine, and had heard all sorts of praise for the benefits of smearing honey on your skin. It led you to do your own research on the matter, discovering honey is antibacterial and, when stored right, does not rot. This then led to you learning of its use as an embalming agent in some cultures. The puzzle pieces all lined up and snapped into place, and you bought the largest jar of honey you could find for your husband. 

You begin the process of gently cleaning his face. You had done this just half an hour ago so you could stitch the large gash in his cheek, so you’re making sure you haven’t missed a spot. You are careful where you touch; there are parts of his body that have rotted to the point the nerves don’t work, and the nerves surrounding them are often exposed and functional. His tolerance for pain may be high, but he still feels pain, so you apologize when you get too close and see his eyes twitch for a split second. It’s not a lot, but you take your time with it, and he doesn’t mind that.

The day you suggested this sort of skincare routine to Thrain, he was a little perplexed. Not so much by the science of it, he actually seemed interested when you regaled your discovery to him, but more by the mental image of you slathering him in honey. He at first told you such treatment would not be necessary, and that it would really be a waste of good honey to use it on him as his condition cannot be reversed and is not the same as cadaver rot, but he ultimately relented. He understood where your interests and concerns stemmed from, and while he had accepted this fate, he knew you didn’t like it. He figured there was no harm in indulging you for an evening, even if it felt uncomfortably sticky. The rest, as they say, is history.

“Was this not originally for you?” Thrain asks as you dip your fingers in the jar.

You scoop up a generous portion and turn back to him. “Yes, but your skin is much more delicate than mine. I can find other remedies.”

He chuckles. “Only you would describe me as delicate.”

You gently smear and spread honey on his forehead. “I’d bet good mora that your associates would call you delicate too,” you tell him, “if they weren’t so scared of you.”

“I know that you cannot be referring to the other harbingers,” he replies. 

“Maybe, maybe not.”

By now, the routine is pure muscle memory. You scoop up honey, you gently knead it into his skin, and then you repeat the process on another part of his face. You do not knead it into his exposed wounds and his rot. As the honey needs to set for a bit before you can wash it off, you begin the routine for his wounds. 

You take a moment to wash your hands so you’re not getting honey all over the bathroom again. With clean hands, you find the bandages and begin cutting them into adequately sized strips and patches. You then undo the hard work of washing honey off your hands by soaking (or rather, slathering) the bandages in honey. 

After the honey has set, you carefully but thoroughly begin cleaning it off your husband’s good skin. It’s a bit of a process, but you’re successful once more. As soon as that is done, you begin the process of applying and layering the honey dressings over his rotted, wounded skin. You continue mumbling apologies when you press into raw, live nerves. 

You layer on the final bandage, and pull your sticky hand away from his face. You observe your work, making sure everything is sufficiently cleaned or sufficiently covered. Thrain just waits for your okay to get up so he can try and get dressed.

He makes a noise in the back of his throat when you abruptly plant a kiss on his warped lips. You pull back, licking your lips, and grin. “Tastes sweet.”

He just smiles. “Surely not as sweet as you are, my dear.”

You lean in close again. “I’ll have to double check.”

[mochatsin]

When MC can Draw (Dateables Version)

Drawing and the arts is one of the things you’re most passionate about. There’s a lot of things, and certain demons, that are out there to give you inspiration to draw. How will the dateables react when they find out you’re a great artist?

Wow my first dateables version of my prompts. Hope i’ve written them all well. This version is requested from my tumblr :0 thanks for reading!

------------

Diavolo

Diavolo took notice when you saw your eyes lingering among the paintings during your tour around his castle. There were portraits of prominent figures from Devildom, from old kings to spearheads that shaped their history. He explains how there’s one royal painter for every royal king, thus the similar styles in every portrait. Since you’re an exchange student then it’s essential you learn about these demons, and Diavolo is happy to tell their tales for you. 

He was taking a stroll around RAD before going home when he spotted you in the school’s gardens, seemingly preoccupied. He wanted to call on you but he was more curious to see what you were working on. Diavolo watches you closely from a distance, afraid that you might hide from him if you spot him like how the others do.

To his surprise, he saw you working on a portrait of him in a style that’s similar to the ones he’s shown you. The way your eyes lingered on those paintings when he toured you around before, it clicks to him now that you were trying to study the art style itself as well. It’s almost identical, but with your added personal touches to make it unique.

His towering size doesn’t hide him very well when you immediately spot him at the corner of your eye. The pillars don't do justice to how large Diavolo is as a demon. You try to conceal the art you were making, it’s embarrassing when the subject of your art is actually a few feet away from you. But he quickly smiles as he walks over to you. Now that his cover's blown, he definitely wants to see everything up close now.

“I didn’t mean to be rude and spy on you like that. But you don’t need to hide anything! Even from a glance I could tell you’re talented. Would it be alright for me to see what you were working on?” You can’t really turn down such a polite request, but you most certainly can’t turn down the volume of his voice that’s booming with excitement as he flips from one page to another.

When you finish your portrait of Diavolo, expect it to be treated like a national treasure. A beautiful artwork of the young prince made by the human exchange student? It deserves the best frame that Diavolo can get his hands on. Expect Barbatos by your door the next day with high quality art supplies. He’ll treat you like one of the finest royal artists to ever live in Devildom.

Barbatos 

He invited you for some afternoon tea at the castle as thanks for lending him a hand in his duties the other day. Though there were some other matters around the castle that Barbatos needed to attend to, he asked for you to stay put first and help yourself to some of the treats he had prepared beforehand. 

You always admired the intricate designs of the tea set Barbatos always prepared whenever you came over. Since you’re a bit bored, you took out your sketchbook and decided to draw the fancy little tea cups while you wait for Barbatos to come back. 

The tea sets that Barbatos prepares always have beautiful pattern designs that range from dainty floral prints up to sets that look more expensive than the Mammon’s weekly bills due to how much the patterns are embedded in gold. If you look closely, you could probably spot little devils on it and it’s cute in its own way.

Little did you know he’s been actually observing you for a while now. He finished his last minute duties rather quickly since it would be rude to keep a guest waiting and that’s when he spots you keeping yourself busy by drawing, your glance going from the tea set to the paper. He wanted to admire that look you have whenever you concentrate for a little bit.

He lets out a small chuckle which gets your attention, a gentle smile on his face as he approaches you. “You’re quite the talented one, aren’t you?” Barbatos says as he takes a seat next to you, glancing at your sketchpad. “Maybe you can tell me more about your work while we enjoy some tea together?” 

Barbatos wouldn’t push for you to show anything, but he’ll be happy once you do. He’s impressed at how well you can make patterns that range from something simple to ones that have intricate details. He likes how you can make a portrait of the tea sets he’s been preparing, and secretly he grabs his finest sets to see if you’ll be inspired enough to draw it as well the next time you visit. Maybe he can also pull some strings to put your own pattern designs onto an actual tea cup and serve it to you next time. 

Simeon 

Sometimes you go to Purgatory Halls to get away from all the constant nagging and chaos of the demon brothers. It’s nice to find that peace and quiet you needed to do your daily tasks or just laze around since you felt like it.

Simeon lets you stay in his room for today while he tries to focus on writing for his novel. He plans on introducing a new character soon and since he trusts you, he starts talking about the character itself. How they compose themselves, what they’re like, the possible role they’ll play in the story, you get all these details before the chapter is even written.

Once he’s done talking he lets you get back to whatever you were doing while he continues trying to figure out how to write the next few parts. Though he soon hears the sound of scribbling pens and wondered if you were doing some homework? He could’ve sworn you were done with those already.

He turns around and to his astonishment, you were sketching the character he was just discussing with you earlier. Given his detailed accounts of the character, you were able to design it well. It’s an understatement to say Simeon is happy. He is ecstatic. You brought this character to life in just a matter of minutes all for him, and that brings Simeon more ideas on how to proceed with writing. 

“You never told me you actually knew how to draw. Your talent at visualizing is exceptional.” Simeon would listen carefully while you talk about your journey to the arts and how you honed your talents while he looks through your other works. Afterwards, he starts to praise your art like a professional critique, telling you what he loves in each work.

His heart skips a beat whenever he finds your old works that’s dedicated to his novels. Learning that you’re also talented with the pen like he is, just in a different element, makes him feel a little bit closer to you. If you’re not busy, he may ask for your help when it comes to visualizing something he’s having a hard time with. He’ll treat you to something nice as thanks!

Solomon

Being Solomon’s apprentice means that there are times he’ll require you to assist him with his research. There’s a few spells and potions that he wants to work on, though they all require a lot of preparation work. You both agreed on doing a bit of divide and conquer on those tasks so that it won’t be too time consuming to finish. 

You managed to do a lot of chores for him which is quite tiring, though Solomon is grateful for your efforts and he has one last request from you which he said is essential to the potion he’s making. There’s a delicate Devildom flora that Solomon harvested recently, and you have to make sure the flower stays fresh because it can wither very quickly if not taken care of and the potion would fail if that happens. He’ll take it off your hands once he’s done preparing everything else.

Normally, one would’ve kept it in a vase full of water and called it a day. Though you decided to not only put it in a vase, but draw up a summoning circle that would keep it fresh. It’s something that you learned from Solomon’s notes, and the sorcerer is astonished you drew the circle so accurately enough to work on your first try when he came to check up on you. 

“Now how did my little apprentice actually manage that so quickly? That would’ve taken me several tries to get the patterns done.” Solomon says with an amused smirk, staring at the circle in awe. Getting one line wrong would’ve instantly killed the flower but right now, he sees that not only is it very much alive but it looks more vibrant than ever. The magic is more potent, Solomon is sure that any potion he makes with its petals would be very effective.

While he was waiting for the potion to boil over in the cauldron, he decided to learn more about this hidden talent of yours. He makes you draw some summoning circles from one of his books, already starting out on the difficult types to draw. All of it is perfect somehow since you’ve had a history of drawing, so your hand is quite steady and you act like it’s no big deal. Solomon will definitely want to see your works in the future.

“A lot of sorcerers can cast magic, but not everyone has the talent to make summoning circles as quickly and accurately as you do.” That’s big praise coming from humanity’s strongest sorcerer. Though that means he’ll want to exploit that talent and call you over every time he needs it in his experiments, it’s a win for him either way because he gets to spend more time with you. 

Luke 

There’s a new event in Devildom where the angels and you were teamed up to open a stall that’s focused on selling sweets and pastries. Luke appreciates your input when it comes to taste testing his sweets since none of the demon brothers are able to give proper critiques like you can, Simeon tends to be a little too nice to Luke, and Solomon is never allowed near the kitchen. Ever. 

Your company is always welcomed and Luke would gladly add any of the sweets you recommended onto the menu. You always come back to the House of Lamentation with a bag full of samples you both baked that day, which always brings a smile to the brother’s face. 

You come back to Purgatory Hall only to find Luke seemingly having a dilemma. He reassures you that it’s not because of the batch of sweets and pastries since you helped him perfect the menu. It’s the fact he needs to make a logo and design for the stall. If it can’t attract any customers then all the effort you both put into baking this would go to waste. 

You sat down with Luke to brainstorm with him, watching the angel stare blankly at the paper with frustration while you ask him for what ideas he’s already had so far. Luke had to go back to the kitchen to pipe some frosting on the cupcakes, though by the time he came back you were already done with the sketch.

Luke is awed at the design, seeing as how you incorporated both his and your idea for the stall in a way that still blends well together. “Y-you’re incredible! How’d you do that so fast though? You know what, let’s show Simeon first!” If Luke had a tail, it would be wagging from sheer joy. He’d be so excited to get the decorations and paint for the stall that he almost forgot about the cupcakes in the oven. 

By the time the stall is finished and running, Luke would definitely flaunt your talent not just for helping him bake but for also designing the stall. “You like the design? They did that!” He would say with an excited grin on his face before pointing at you. Luke enjoys working with you that you both barely notice the brothers getting jealous over the amount of time the angel gets to spend with their human. 

[milunalupin]

hi hi hi! so many congrats on a 100 followers, what a deserved accomplishment, love!!

you can obviously ignore this if you're uncomfortable writing this/or this doesn't hit your creative spot. because this is so cliched uggh.

okay so i was thinking maybe a little grumpy!reader x sunshine!sirius, friends to lovers trope? (it makes so weak in the knees 🫠.) feel free to take the plot literally anywhere your heart desires, because you'll serve either ways!!

love you, make sure to drink water and eat good. hope you have a great day/night ahead.

--🍁autumn

hi hi my love ! thank you for you patience <3 and adding more sirius to my blog

— sunshine

sunshine!sirius x grumpy!reader ★ 1.2k words

"Sirius Black if you don't stop tapping your finger against the table, I will not hesitate to hex you."

You sent a glare towards the raven haired boy from across the table. History of Magic was your worst subject and you had a big exam coming up. "Why aren't you with the other boys anyways?"

It's not like you two weren't friends, but Sirius wasn't usually the one to seek you out. It was usually Peter since he was the one who introduced you to his friends, then Remus who at times also enjoyed his peace and quiet. You spent quite a bit of time with the girls too, especially since you all roomed together. James and Sirius had always been friendly with you, but it wasn't like you would stay up in the common room sharing secrets, although Sirius had recently been around you more than than normal.

"Well aren't you just a ray of light." Sirius sent you a lopsided grin, setting his elbows on the table and resting his head on his hands. "They're out somewhere with Prongs looking for Evans, and I wanted to see my favorite girl."

Your quill froze over the parchment. Sirius was such a flirt, you couldn't take anything he said to you to heart, because he didn't mean it, right? You lowered your head and tried to focus on your notes, pretending like you didn't hear him.

"Anyways," he chuckled awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. "You know about his problem with Evans, and you're a girl, could you give me some advice to relay back to him?"

"Thanks for noticing. What kind of advice?"

"Well, what sort of things do girls like to receive?"

"I don't know Sirius, I don't regularly receive gifts from boys." You rolled your eyes and scoffed, glancing up at him to see his eyes on you, waiting for an answer. "but I supposed I would quite like it if someone brought me my favorite drink, or book. You know, it shows that they've paid attention to the little things."

"So how would you- girls-" he let out a shaky laugh, his cheeks tinged pink. "How would girls like to be asked on a date?"

How would you know? You didn't want to speak negatively of yourself but there had to be some reason as to why boys never came up to you. You would never guess that it was because Sirius had already warned the whole male population at Hogwarts to back off his very pretty friend.

Groaning quietly, you rubbed your hands over your tired face. "Sirius, I don't know, can you please let me review my notes in peace?"

"That doesn't count, you're not being fair." Peter whined, pulling on his hair as he looked down at the chessboard. You shrugged and stuck your tongue out at the boy, getting up and taking a seat on the carpet by the fire next to Lily.

It was the night before your exam and as much as you wanted to hole up in your room and cram, your friends had convinced you to spend time with them. Lily was painting Marlene's fingernails while Remus took your place playing against Peter in chess.

"Who wants hot chocolate!" James called out, Sirius and him walking towards you all with trays of steaming mugs. The two passed out the sweet beverages,

"Thanks Sirius." you thanked him softly, his gaze softening as you wrapped your hands around the warm drink and blew gently on the top. Your eyes brightened as you took a sip and tasted a hint of peppermint.

The rest of the evening was spent playing games, dancing to Remus' new records and sharing Peter's surplus of sweets from Honeydukes. You felt your shoulders relax as you looked around at your friends having a good time, catching Sirius already looking you. His eyes darted away as soon as you saw him, the corners crinkling as he laughed as some joke James had made. You felt a nudge in your side, turning to see Lily cocking her head towards the dorms asking if you were ready to go. Nodding, the three of you girls stood up and waved goodnight to the Marauders and shuffled up to your room.

You flopped into bed with a blissful sigh. "Thanks for tonight guys, I needed this."

Marlene waved her hand in dismissal. "You've studied hard, you needed a bit of a break."

"The peppermint hot chocolate was just the thing I needed, it's my favorite."

"Peppermint hot chocolate?" Lily's nose scrunched with disgust, but then her eyes widened with realization, her and Marlene sharing a knowing grin. "Right, the peppermint hot chocolate."

You turned your head to squint at them. "Why do you two have that look on your faces?"

"We don't know what you're talking about, goodnight!"

You're going to pass the exam, you're to going to p—

"Watch it, you half-breed, or I'll turn you into the little mutt you are." Lucius Malfoy spat at you as you ran into him, pulling out his wand.

"Oh sod off, why don't you put your daddy's money where your mouth is?" you scoffed, reaching for your own wand. He sneered at your comeback, taking a step closer to you.

"Hey sunshine, I was looking everywhere for you! Let me walk you to class." Sirius appeared next to you, taking your school bag and slinging it over his shoulder, shooting a grin to Lucius, canines on full display. "Thanks for watching her for me Malfoy but next time, don't."

Sirius steered you away from the fuming Slytherin, arm around your shoulder. He ducked his head down to speak to you quietly. "You alright?"

"Fine, boys are just jerks." you grumbled, your mind now focusing on your exam as you two turned into the hall where your classroom was located.

"Not all of us though, right?"

The corner of his mouth lifted, your smiled mirroring his own. "Yeah, Pete's alright."

"You're killing me doll." He threw his head back dramatically, his smile slipping as yours did, now standing in front of the History of Magic classroom. "Hey, how about we made a deal?"

"Huh?" you pulled yourself out of a daze, looking up at him. "What's the deal?"

Sirius coughed to the side and straightened his posture. "You get an Outstanding on your exam, and I'll take you out."

A flush crept up your face, not believing your ears. As annoying as he was, of course you had thought about Sirius romantically before, who hadn't? You really hoped your studying paid off, your smile and voice coming out shy. "What if I don't get an Outstanding?"

Sirius lit up like the Great Hall during the holidays, smiling ear to ear. "Then I'm still taking you out to cheer you up. I also have just been dying to take you on a date, sunshine."

An hour later you left the classroom with a giant smile on your face and a big 'O' on your parchment. Sirius immediately took your hand in his and dragged you to Hogsmeade for your first date, the twinkling sound of your laughter letting him know it wouldn't be your last.