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ckret2 · 2 months

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Chapter 51 of human Bill Cipher is once more the Mystery Shack's prisoner: Dipper and Mabel try to figure out what the Axolotl's poem means; Dipper gets the hang of astral projection; and... whatever's going on up there happens.

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Ford and Dipper came back into the shack through the gift shop; Ford didn't want to risk crossing paths with Bill. While Dipper went into the house, Ford went down—returning to the safety of his subterranean study.

Once Ford had put on the old black trench coat he'd worn during his multiversal travels and gotten comfortable at his desk, he pulled out Journal 5 to document the events of the last few days. In a cheap ballpoint pen, he wrote, I've lost my #1 Grunkle pen (and favorite coat) to the waters of Lake Gravity Falls. And then, deciding this didn't adequately express his feelings, he drew a small frown. That coat had served him well for decades, and he'd really liked that pen. It did write excellently, and it had reminded him of his gniece and gnephew.

He spent three pages documenting the eclipse—what happened, what readings he'd taken, what he and Dipper observed—and then another four pages talking about Bill. What he'd told them, why Ford had dismissed it; his claims about a trans-dimensional axolotl distorting gravity with its migration; the statue, the rescue, the breakdown.

The act of writing always helped Ford clarify his thoughts and untangle mysteries; it wasn't until he was writing that he realized the limbs Bill had said he couldn't feel were the ones that had broken off the statue.

He listed the rules of the chess variants he could remember Bill inventing. He drew Bill huddled in front of the board, grim, tear-streaked, exhausted; and then scratched out his face, embarrassed at the thought of immortalizing such a raw moment for his private viewing.

He wrote, There's still a slim possibility that the entire "eclipse," start to finish, was Bill's masterfully-orchestrated scheme to make us pity and trust him; but it's unlikely. Although Bill is fiendish enough, he isn't currently powerful enough, and his lies certainly aren't elaborate enough. If he could pull off such a byzantine ruse, then he could just as easily escape—and if he can escape, why hasn't he? Bill may be insane, but he's never been THAT irrational.

And so, even as twisted as Bill's idea of "friendship" is... for the very first time, I'm convinced that he was telling the truth all along when he said he wants me as his friend. It's not an act. He risked his life to save someone who's an active threat to him.

And at the end of it all—though I'm grateful to be alive in spite of my own stubbornness—do I like him any better for it?

Ford leaned back and shut his eyes, sifting through the inner tumult of anger and old hurt that defined most of his memories of Bill, looking to see if anything had changed.

There was a sore, tender spot in his emotions, a place beginning to rot with remorse; when he prodded at those emotions, he found that it was shame over his own harsh conduct of the last couple of days. But he was only ashamed of how cruelly he'd acted; he wasn't ashamed that Bill was the one he'd done it to.

Outside of that tender spot—regret over his own behavior—nothing else had changed.

No. I still hate him. I'm grateful to be alive, but I hate him. He hasn't undone anything he did to my family and me, and he never will. Forgiveness can't be purchased with favors.

I'm only relieved at the certainty of it. Bill has committed an act that can't possibly be a lie. I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he's shown me the truth; and the truth is he'd rather see me alive than dead. Whatever other lies he may tell, I can hold on to that fact.

Bill's miserable eyes peered out at Ford between the scribbles he'd drawn across his face. It was truly a pity that Ford had to hate him. Pity that Bill hadn't been somebody better. He could have been better.

Ford couldn't find it in himself to be embarrassed that he'd filled four pages talking about the monster he'd already wasted so many more on. Bill had been right about him: You might hate me to my face, but behind my back you're as obsessed with me as ever. The only thing Bill didn't understand was that hatred and obsession weren't mutually incompatible.

####

"Hey, Dipper," Mabel said, unfolding the living room sofa bed.

"Hey, Mabel," Dipper said, passing through living room on his way to the stairs. He climbed up to the attic.

He came back down from the attic. "Mabel. Why's Bill asleep in your bed."

"He really needed a nap," Mabel said.

"Okay but why on your bed?"

Mabel pouted. "Dipper, do you realize he's never slept on a real bed? Ever?"

Dipper tried to imagine sleeping on a couple couch cushions on the floor every night. "Yeah, okay, that does kinda suck." Even if it was Bill's own fault he wouldn't sleep in the living room.

By unspoken mutual agreement, having a Bill in the bedroom followed the same law as finding a centipede in the bathroom. The law was "that's the centipede's bathroom now." So once the folding bed was set up, they sat on it to serve as their hang-out spot for the evening and caught each other up on what they'd done the last couple of days.

After Dipper & Co. had left, Grenda had come over to take advantage of the low gravity to retrieve the kite that had been stuck in a tree near the Mystery Shack since last summer (it was, tragically, too tattered to salvage), and then they'd gone over to Candy's house to photograph each other performing feats of impossible strength. (Mabel would be sending some pictures to their parents to confuse them, and adding the rest to her summer scrapbook.) She'd spent the next day breaking the trampoline world record until Soos came outside and said gravity was probably too low for it to be safe to be up in the air anymore, if Bill's warnings about being off the ground when gravity hit zero were true; at which point Mabel had hung around inside air-swimming until she suddenly slammed against the ceiling, and then the ground. She was fine. She just had a couple of bruises. She showed Dipper her bruises.

In return, Dipper told Mabel about how their quest had gone: the checks for micro-rips, Bill's increasingly frantic warnings, the lake—

("You got to see a bajillion magical axolotls and I didn't?!")

—the cliff, the Axolotl, Dipper's near-death experience, and what he now knew about his out-of-body dreams.

"Seriously?" Mabel hissed, eyes bugging out. "And he had us looking up lucid dreaming books! What a jerk!"

"I know! He could have just ignored the whole thing, we didn't even think it was anything but dreams."

"And I'd thought he was being so helpful, too! Like he was really trying to make up for giving you 'nightmares'!" Mabel laughed in disbelief and flopped down on the flimsy mattress. "All that because he just didn't want us to know how it was really his fault? Biiill, ugh."

His fault. Dipper hesitated, wondering whether he should tell Mabel what Bill had said about Mabel's Fault; then decided against it. Bill had probably been telling the truth when he'd said he only wanted all the credit for Weirdmageddon.

But—Dipper did tell her about Bill saving their lives. He would have felt like a liar if he hadn't—like he was trying to trick his sister into thinking Bill was worse than he already was. He hoped Ford wouldn't mind; but how could he not tell Mabel?

"He could have just let you die and didn't?" Mabel turned that over in her head, processing this sudden shift in Bill's behavior. "Wow. I'm impressed."

He also told her about their previous encounter with the Axolotl. Considering the other lies Bill had told recently, anything he said about them meeting the Axolotl was dubious at best; but Dipper could remember the Axolotl, so maybe some of it was true, even if Bill had twisted as much as he could. ("The Axolotl said hi, by the way." "Aww. Tell him hi back!" "Yeah, I... don't know how to do that.")

Dipper laid out his journal between them on the folding bed, and Mabel read over the couplet a few times. "'Sixty degrees that come in threes, watches from within birch trees'..."

"It's got to be talking about Bill," Dipper said. "Equilateral triangles have three sixty-degree angles. I just don't know why the Axolotl wanted to talk to us about him."

Mabel frowned at the lines. "I think... I remember meeting him too," she said.

"You do?"

"Kinda. Like in a dream," she said. "We were in some kind of futury space race car. And he had a really comfortable beanbag chair."

"Yes! I remembered the beanbag chair, too!" And he hadn't mentioned it in his journal. "This is great! Talking about it must... must cause us to remember, somehow. Maybe since the universe where we met the Axolotl doesn't exist anymore, our memories of it are... detached or something? Psychically floating around between dimensions until we try to remember them?" He took in Mabel's skeptical frown and shrugged. "I don't know!"

She scrunched up her face. "Ugh. Last summer's first-grader time travel was complicated enough. This is like college-level time travel. Maybe we can ask Bill how it works?"

She said it so easily, like she thought it was actually a good idea. Right after she'd heard about the lucid dreaming thing, too. "I don't think he'd help." Dipper lowered his voice. "He really didn't want Grunkle Ford and me to find out about the Axolotl—and he kept telling me not to think about what the Axolotl told me. He's trying to cover something up."

"Oo-oo-ooh." Voice dropped to a whisper, Mabel said, "Do you think it's some kind of Space Axolotl conspiracy?"

"It could be," Dipper said. "All I know is he was trying to tell us something important about Bill. Some kind of prophecy, or... maybe a warning...?"

He trailed off. Mabel had stopped listening to Dipper. She was rereading the couplet Dipper had written, moving her lips like she was murmuring under her breath—but whatever she was saying, it was much longer than the couplet Dipper had written down. Distractedly, she said, "Do you have a pen?"

"Yeah, here." Dipper quickly handed over the pen he kept in his vest.

Mabel clicked it, went to the bottom of the page, and wrote: A different form, a different time.

Dipper sucked in a sharp breath as the words snapped into place in his mind. "That's it! That was the last line! What else do you remember?"

"That's it," Mabel said. "It was free form poetry with a bunch of rhyme pairs."

"I don't think free form poetry rhymes."

"Pbbbt." Mabel blew a raspberry and shoved Dipper's face. "Whatever! You know what I mean." She pointed at the last line. "Do you think the poem's about why Bill's here? He time traveled to the Mystery Shack in a new body..."

"Exactly! Bill must be back here for a reason. He's got all those powers—or, used to, anyway—and he knows more about the multiverse than anybody on Earth... Maybe there's some kind of big threat coming, and Bill's the only one who can stop it, and—and the Axolotl wanted us to know...?"

"I like the sound of that," Mabel said. "That'd basically make him a hero, right?"

Dipper grimaced. "I mean. I guess? But we're talking about Bill. If he does help us stop a threat, it'd be like if a serial killer picked up a hitchhiker and killed him, and then it turned out the hitchhiker was an even worse serial killer."

"That still sounds kinda heroic to me."

"Pfff, okay." He looked at his journal. "But... what is he here to do?"

Mabel considered what they'd already written. "Maybe we can use him to spy on our enemies through birch trees!"

"Thaaat's probably not it."

"No, I think I'm on to something. I can feel it."

There was a lot of empty space between his couplet and Mabel's line. "There's more we're missing, though. Maybe the rest of the poem describes the threat? Or what we need to get Bill to do?"

"I can't remember anything else, though."

"Me neither."

They stared at the page together, waiting for something to come to their blank minds. Mabel looked at the fish tank. "Hey, Primrose! Do you know anything?"

The pet axolotl in the tank ignored her serenely.

Dipper said, "'Primrose'?"

"Yeah, last summer Grunkle Stan said her name is Freakface, but I thought she deserved a cuter name. She's primrose color!"

"Ford says he originally named him Nikola."

Mabel gasped. "Nikki..."

Dipper twisted around to look at the axolotl. "Do you know anything? Do you... get messages from the Axolotl's heralds, or anything...?"

Nikola slowly opened his mouth, and slowly closed it.

Mabel said, "Hey. The Axolotl's one of those dimension-crossy time-travely guys, right? He probably wouldn't have given us a prophecy in the wrong timeline and then made us forget it unless he knew we'd remember it in time in the rightdimension!"

"I guess," Dipper said uncertainly.

"So we don't need to worry about it! We'll remember it when we need to."

"Unless this timeline's going to branch, and the only one where we survive is the one where we put all our effort into trying to remembering—"

"Shhh!" Mabel put a finger over Dipper's mouth. "Uh-uh. No college time travel. We'll be fine!"

Dipper pushed her over. "Okay, but we should at least try a little to remember what the Axolotl told us."

"What if we work on it separately?" Mabel propped herself up on an elbow. "Instead of just sitting around thinking about it. And whenever we remember a line, we can tell each other and see if it makes anything click."

"That might be faster," Dipper said, stroking his chin. "We're already remembering different lines."

"Yeah! And that lucid dreaming book said something about focusing on a problem before you sleep so you can figure it out in your dreams! We can just work on it in our sleep and we'll remember it all in no time!"

Dipper laughed. "What? No way, I think lucid dreaming is just one of those made up pop psychology things. I didn't get it to work at all." Either it didn't work or Bill had deliberately recommended a terrible book.

"I did! I can remember like... eighty percent more dreams. And I can tell when I'm dreaming a lot more often!"

"Huh." Or, maybe Dipper just wasn't doing it right. "Maybe I need to start over from step one. Do you know where the book we were using went?"

"Over here!" Mabel had set a couple library books on the end table next to the sofa bed; she pulled out the second one, which had a glittery pink bookmark with a cat on it stuck two-thirds of the way through. "Just don't lose my bookmark."

"Thanks." He'd reread the first step before bed. "We should probably be getting ready for bed anyway, huh?"

"Seriously?! It's barely bedtime!" And when the adults weren't watching, official bedtime was an hour and a half before Actual Bedtime.

"I'm exhausted. I just hiked up and down a mountain and faced down death."

Mabel pointed at Nikola. "You faced down a big salamander."

"Close enough."

They went upstairs, brushed their teeth, went to their bedroom...

And stopped in the door. Bill was still asleep. "Oh. Right," Dipper said.

He was curled into a ball on his left side, facing the wall, covered with only the zodiac blanket and his borrowed/stolen top hat sitting on the side of his head. He didn't use a pillow; he'd pushed Mabel's pillows and dolls behind himself to form a squishy makeshift fortress.

"Please don't wake him up," Mabel whispered. (She'd already set up the folding bed for herself; she'd clearly planned on this.) "He's had a really really hard time the last couple of days, and I think he needs as much sleep in a real bed as he can get, and it's just for one night, and I'm sure he'd rather sleep than do anything evil—"

"He said something, didn't he?"

Mabel paused. "Yeah. I think seeing his body really messed him up."

Dipper sighed. "We were trying to keep him away from it." He didn't want Mabel to think they'd forced him to stare his own death in the face. "But he did that... eye thing and looked through the trees, and..."

Mabel nodded.

Well. Dipper couldn't kick him out now. For Mabel's sake.

As children, occasionally when they got hotel rooms with a bed too few, their parents would stick them in one bed with a barrier of pillows in between them. At age thirteen and without two crabby parents trying to get them to just go to bed after a long plane flight, they unanimously vetoed that plan. Dipper decided against asking Stan if he could sleep in Ford's unoccupied bed, both because he suspected Stan would just go upstairs and drag Bill out of the room and because he didn't want Stan to think he was scared of Bill. He wasn't scared of Bill. Not anymore. He could handle one measly night in the same room as him. Anyway, somebody had to make sure he wasn't unsupervised in their bedroom all night, right?

Dipper and Mabel quietly set a floor mirror and old lamp next to Mabel's bed, draped a sheet between them, taped on a pink poster that said "WARNING! TRIANGLE ZONE!" and was covered in stickers of triangular objects, and decided Dipper was adequately shielded. If Bill did get up during the night, he'd probably trip through the sheet and wake half the house before he got anywhere near Dipper.

Dipper went to sleep with a baseball bat in his hands.

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"Okay," Bill said, hands on his sides, "what am I looking at here?"

The feral band members of Sev'ral Timez turned toward Bill, eyes reflecting in the dim light. They were squatting around Bill's petrified corpse like a pack of apes examining a sleek black monolith.

"Hey girl," Creggy G. said.

"Hey," Bill said. He looked down at himself. His onyx black feet hovered over the ground and the yellow glow from his exoskeleton illuminated the clearing. "Lemme cut to the chase, is this gonna turn into a raunchy dream? My corporeal love life is about as cold and dry as Antarctica, I keep hoping one of my dreams will get a little hotter and wetter—"

"Nah, G," Deep Chris said. "Mr. Bratsman got us fixed."

"Aw."

"We're here to pay you reverence for freeing our minds from the chains of the conventional," Greggy C said, gesturing to Bill's corpse. Leggy P was kneeling and bowing to it and Chubby Z was posing for it. "We want to help free you like you tried to help free humanity."

Bill's eye narrowed. He tapped a finger against the edge of one brick as he considered this offer. Finally, skeptically, he said, "Fine. I'll bite. Why should I think you can help me?"

"Because we can give you the understanding your heart's been missing, girl. You're just like us," Chubby Z said. "A horror never meant to exist, born of a dream to construct the perfect golden idol, forced to dwell within an unnaturally-fabricated human shell."

Bill tilted his head thoughtfully. "I'm with you so far."

"We want you to join us," Deep Chris said. "Cavort with us in the silvan night, G. Shun the harsh light of the spotlight for the healing salve of moonbeams. We'll get drunk on the sweet fermented summer berries, uncaring of how the brambles prick our flesh. We'll dance in a frenzy of ecstasy and only sleep when the morning sun lifts the dew from the flowers and the sweat from our skin. It'll be straight Dionysian, boo."

"We can kiss the hot trees," Creggy G said.

Bill grabbed his shoulder. "Oh, you're the human that keeps making out with birch trees! I knew your face was familiar!" He paused. "So... are there any eligible ones around here?"

"Sure, girl, just downstream."

"If I'd known, I would've polished myself first."

"Say you'll join us, Bill girl," Deep Chris said. The band crowded around Bill to either side, posing around him—the backup dancers for the star singer. "You'd be one of us."

"We're already exactly the same," Creggy G said, holding up a mirror so that it reflected his and Bill's faces beside each other. In Bill's human face were two empty white eyes with pinprick pupils and pale blue irises, exactly the same as the eyes of the Sev'ral Timez boys.

He sat up with a gasp, hands flying to his face. There were still green boughs at the edges of his dreaming vision, blending into the wooden boards of the Mystery Shack's attic. Before sleep had fully fled his mind, he seized up the zodiac blanket draped over his body and stared into his embroidered eye.

The eye stared back at him. Through it, he could see his horrified sleepy face, and his normal slitted yellow eyes. His connection to the blanket's eye disappeared as he finished waking up.

He heaved a sigh of relief and flopped back down. He'd been lucid, but he hadn't been in control of that dream. He still needed practice.

He rolled toward the light of the window, groped around beneath it until he found his journal, grabbed up his crayons, and flipped pages blearily until he found the first blank one. He started writing down his dream, pausing only briefly as he tried to figure out how to translate "Sev'ral Timez" before settling on a sufficiently goofy way to misspell "several times" in Plaintext.

He made it halfway down the page before he stopped. Hold on. This wasn't his beautiful journal. These were not his beautiful crayons. He checked the cover and grimaced in displeasure when he saw a pine tree rather than a hand. Dipper's journal. Bill ripped out the page, ate it, and set the journal and Mabel's crayons back on the table under the bedroom window.

"What was that," Dipper asked, "some kind of Morse code?"

Bill yelped and twisted around. Dipper's soul was hovering above Mabel's headboard, watching over Bill's shoulder.

"Hey! Back, foul ghost!" Bill snatched up Mabel's pillow and swung it at Dipper.

"Ow—Hey! How did you hit me, I'm in the mindscape—"

"I said back!" Bill swung again, chasing Dipper off the bed. "Back into your fleshy tomb!" He climbed off the bed, stumbled into Dipper and Mabel's trap, tripped through the sheet and probably woke up half the house.

He yanked the sheet off and flung the pillow at Dipper by its corner. "Now get back in your body, go to sleep, and leave me alone."

"I don't know how to get back in it. I just wait until it happens by itself," Dipper said, floating irritably over his sleeping body, arms crossed. "Why do you think I just wander around every time I have this dream?" He paused. "Right—it's not a dream, is it."

Bill sighed heavily. "Try putting your body on like..." He almost said like an exoskeleton, remembered his audience, and amended himself: "Like it's clothing. I usually start with the hands. Just like putting on gloves!"

Dipper looked at the cold fingers wrapped tightly around the baseball bat. "How do I put hands on like gloves? There's no opening or—"

"Just try it, would you?" Bill sat tiredly on the edge of Mabel's bed.

Dipper shot him an irritated look, but pressed his ghostly hands against his fleshly ones, passing through the skin until one set of fingers rested inside the other. A fingertip twitched.

Bill gestured with one hand, continue. "Now the sleeves."

"I know how to get dressed." Dipper laid down in his body, forearm into forearm, shoulder into shoulder—until he was wholly back inside. He sat up, awake. "Huh."

"There, see?" Bill said. "And if you want to take it back off, just do the same thing in reverse. Like degloving your body from your soul!"

"Did you have to phrase it like that?" Still, Dipper tried it, peeling out of his body from the fingertips up. He left his body sitting upright as he hovered over it.

Bill chuckled tiredly. "Lookit your face, staring at nothing. Stupid looking."

"Shut up." He slid back into his body, more quickly now that he knew what he was doing.

"Great," Bill said. "Now that you know how to get back in your body, never do that again." He flopped back onto Mabel's bed and rolled over to face the wall. "It's a pain in my base having you wander around all night."

"Then you should've thought of that before you ripped my soul out of my body," Dipper grumbled. "Can you reattach me to my body?"

"Sure, easy." He lifted a hand to point down at his regrettably human form. "Not like this, though. Wanna help reattach me to my body?"

"Never in a million years."

"Then come back in a million years. There's nothing I can do for you until then." Bill dragged Mabel's zodiac blanket back over himself. "So sorry. Go to sleep. Leave me alone."

Dipper bet Bill could do it and was only saying he couldn't to try to trick Dipper into helping him. But he lay back down—clutching his bat again—and shut his eyes.

After a moment, Bill asked, "Where's Mabel? Sleepover?"

"Sofa bed in the living room."

"Right."

And then there was silence.

Several minutes passed. Dipper nearly fell back asleep. He heard Bill climbing out of bed and creeping across the room; but the footsteps didn't approach Dipper's bed, so he didn't open his eyes.

A few minutes after that, Dipper heard him come back, walking more heavily. He cracked open an eye to see what Bill was up to.

He was carrying Mabel, who was still asleep; his arms were trembling from her weight, but even at that Dipper hadn't known Bill was that strong. With a quiet grunt, he set her on her bed, then haphazardly tossed her sheet and zodiac blanket over her. He picked up his top hat from the bed and put it on; and then he wandered off, footsteps quiet as a ghost, and Dipper heard the creak of the door as he left the bedroom.

That was a lot nicer than Dipper had expected from Bill. Maybe he did care about Mabel in his own way.

Mabel rolled over and latched on to one of her dolls. Dipper shut his eye and fell back asleep.

####

(My favorite part of writing this was Bill dreaming about Sev'ral Timez saying the most absurdly flowery things imaginable. Anyway, let me know what y'all think about this week's chapter! And reminder that I MIGHT skip next week or the week after because the next couple chapters need heavier editing than usual.)

#bill cipher #human bill cipher #sev'ral timez #(a tag i have never used before and will probably never use again.)#gravity falls #gravity falls fic #gravity falls fanart #fanart #my art #my writing #bill goldilocks cipher

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uranometrias · 3 months

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✮ꜜ : ❛ long time coming : aaron hotchner x fem! reader

pairing: aaron hotchner x bau! reader

summary: after getting hurt out in the field, you're on leave for a month. coming back felt long overdue, that is until your plans with the team lead you to a situation that feels a bit too close for comfort after such a traumatic time. what's worse, your feelings you've harbored for your boss have no choice but to come to light when he makes the odd choice to address you as 'agent' rather than your name after one month of being apart, and years and years of back and forth will-they-wont-they.

content warnings: making out. allusions to sexual assault + r4pe (but only in the context of the case). reader has slight signs of PTSD. anxiety/panic attacks. reader runs into a few pushy men while out at the club. drinking / drunk confessions. reader has a crush on her boss, it is also implied that reader finds derek attractive, and he reciprocates these feelings. hotch is very good at calming reader down. no usage of y/n. reader is described as having shoulder length hair (can be read as a wig/weave) angry/disappointed hotch! reader has been hiding her anxiety / nightmares / memory issues from the team. mentions of vomiting. kissing. mentions of elle & the events of the fisher king. no distinct timeline, but can be read as s7 with the iconic team (hotch, emily, derek, jj, penelope, rossi, & spencer)

"Okay, I didn't know we were going all out. I would've prepared better." you smile shyly as Jennifer pulls you into a tight hug. When Penelope had called you early that morning with an excited decree that you'd been cleared to return to work you hadn't been sure how to feel. You hadn't bothered to ask how Garcia of all people was privy to information you hadn't received from your bosses yet, there was no getting a straight answer when it came to the Technical Analyst.

It had been her idea for the entire team to get together. You'd been out of the office for a full month, and in that time you'd tried your hand at maintaining your bonds with the rest of the group. It of course wasn't the same, but you knew that you'd needed the time. The last time you'd joined them on a case things had gone horribly wrong. You shudder at the thought, you had been doing so good at forgetting about it all, but seeing them again made it all come back.

The unsub had been your run-of-the-mill anger excitation rapist, a creep that had been using an elaborate ruse to entice and entrap women. It had been Emily's idea for the two of you to go undercover, the unsub had been killing two women every week, women who in many ways were polar opposites of one another, a trait that you and Emily shared. Long story short, in the midst of your plan to lure and trap the Unsub, you'd been separated from Emily and cornered.

You’d been carted off by the creep who kept you stuck for three hours before the team used his mistake to find you. By then though, the damage had been done. You remember the look on Rossi's face when he and Hotch came busting in, and found you looking bruised up with a bloody face, and a gun barrel to the side of your head. You'd never seen Hotch quite as scared, at least not since everything with Foyet nearly three years ago when he lost Haley and almost Jack.

You'd been too out-of-sorts to hear the way they'd tried to reason with the Unsub. And you hadn't realized your abdomen was losing blood until a gunshot rang out, bullets whizzing past your head as the unsub curled into himself before falling to the ground. You didn't know much, you thought maybe your eardrums had exploded with the way they were ringing, and you'd half expected to smack your head against the ground and end up with an annoying concussion.

Instead, you'd been met with the sight of your boss. He'd yelled something you weren't privy to, mouth moving as he seemingly forced the rest of the team out of their stupor long enough to get a medic inside to look you over. It was like you said, the details were fuzzy, but nothing had managed to wipe Hotch's worried expression as he fussed over your safety, out of your mind. However, if you were honest with yourself for one measly second, that was nothing new.

Nothing seemed to fill up your mind the way your boss did, and it was stupid, and deplorable all things considered. But it's not like it had even been something you'd asked for. It just happened one day. You shake these thoughts of your near paralyzing emotions away, pulling yourself back to the present as you took in JJ, who despite her perceived candor looked great. "Oh come on Jaige." you huff, and you appraise her more openly. "You look amazing, as usual."

She grins, albeit shyly, and she's waiting, maybe for your approval maybe for something else. She's trying to be discreet as she sweeps your for obvious reminders of what happened, and you feel nervous. Most of your injuries had healed up well enough, and the scratches that littered your face had been covered in a smattering of makeup. You felt comfortable in your pretty girl cocoon, all done up with a bright smile on your face that was surprisingly believable.

"Can I hug you?" she asks, and you can tell she's been holding it in, waiting to ask. You nod your head, a quiet chuckle escaping you as the blonde seems to scoop you into her arms. She's careful not to squeeze too tight, but the love is felt all the same. "God, it's been so weird without you around." she hums, and while the rest of the team is already huddled inside, probably in a booth Penelope picked, you're so happy she's the one here telling you this now.

"Now you know how we all felt when they sent you to the Pentagon." you whisper back, and you hear her bemused giggle as she steps back, and she takes you in again. Your red minidress was a stark contrast to the usual business-casual attire you wore everyday to work. Your hair was curled, pinned back with a gold claw clip, hair just barely ghosting over the divots of your collarbones. You'd opted for a shorter do' following everything with the unsub.

"Never leave us again." she pleads, and you feel this warmth blossoming in your chest at the way she's staring at you, almost like she really means it. You'd joined the team back when Elle and Gideon had still been around. At one point you'd been the rookie, the new girl nobody knew what to expect from. JJ had been right there beside you, even back then. She had been sweet, assertive, your first real friend on the team. She'd welcomed you before anyone else.

In time of course, things had changed, JJ had a husband, kids, a hoard of other units that were plotting on her skills at all times, but she was still JJ. Still that same first friend that helped you to see the Behavioral Analysis Unit was the only place for you. "I'll do my best." you promise, and she grins. She links arms with you before you both head inside the bar. There was music playing, some alternative indie song that wasn't half bad.

"Here's the girl of the hour now." Emily exclaims, and it's clear they've already started tossing back shots. JJ's head is instantly shaking in mortification. So it was going to be one of those nights. Penelope meets you both, pulling JJ from your arms and leaning forward to kiss her on the cheek sweetly, before she's turning to you. She's got tears already brimming in her eyes, and you can't help but giggle at the dramatics of it all.

"I'm so happy to see you." she squeals, and you find yourself hugging back despite the sting of your abdomen. "You look so beautiful." she adds a second afterwards. "What are you looking to get lucky?" she asks, as she uses her hands to push you away slightly, hands resting gently on both of your shoulders. You feel your face growing hot at the implication, and you see the way she's looking at your facial expressions for a signal of your lies. Curse her proximity to profilers.

"I just wanted to look nice." you reply and Penelope lets you off the hook. She leads you to the table, and you're just in time to hear the group finish up their hellos to JJ. She's sitting next to Morgan, who's bright-eyed as he looks up at you. You find yourself fussing with your hair, playing it cool as you press your lips together, re-smearing your lipstick as you waved your hand.

You weren't sure why you felt like the new kid all over again.

"It's good to see you, pretty girl." he croons, and you grin. Morgan was flirty, had been since you met him, and if you weren't so disastrously into Hotch, you think he'd be all on your mind. Well, you know... more than he was. There had been times where you'd been partnered together, and it almost felt like the tension was going to cut you in half. Sexual tension aside though, Derek was your friend.

They all were, and despite what your mind tried to tell you as you sobbed yourself through nightmares during your break from work, they were genuinely happy to see you. "I'm glad you're okay." your eyes flit over to the youngest member of the team. Spence is looking relieved as he too looks up at you with eyes full of relief. He's next to Emily, and she's already downing another drink. She'd be complaining about a migraine the next day, you could hear her now.

"Thanks, Spence." you coo, and you offer him a wink as your eyes fall on the only present member of the team that hadn't addressed you. Rossi had made a point to send his hellos, but due to a previous standing appointment, he wouldn't be joining tonight. You couldn't hold it against him, Rossi was scoping the prairie for wife number four. He offers you a faint smile, the group instantly falling into chatter.

"H-Hey Hotch." you mumble, and he's closest to you, sitting on the outside of the booth as the rest of the team tried their hardest to pretend they weren't expecting this. He doesn't say anything for a moment, instead he takes you in. He wasn't blind, he'd seen you before, you'd always been beautiful, but there was something about you done up like this. Red dress, red lip, bold makeup, and heels that showed off your legs, and accented your model-esque posture.

It was obvious that you were still a bit nervous about being out and about, and you were out of practice with being around the team. He imagined after a bit though you'd be back to yourself. You, and the rest of the girls would be falling into a rhythm in no time. He stands to his feet, much taller than you, as you take a small step back to give him space. "It's good to see you up and about, Agent." and his voice is low, clearly as a courtesy to the bustling of conversation behind you.

"Agent?" you repeat, and the word is so foreign. It makes you take another step back, the bottoms of your Louboutin's clacking against the ground. You looked a bit hurt, but you played it off quickly. "Come on, Hotch. I think we're a little past those formalities." you chuckle awkwardly, and you find yourself looking towards the bar. Yeah, you were definitely going to need a drink. He seems to curse under his breath, but you're not sure if that's due to you, or some internal conflict you weren't privy to. You don't wait to figure it out either.

He doesn't have the opportunity to reply to your correction, because you're looking to Emily, JJ, and Garcia. "Wanna get some shots?" you ask, and you sidestep Aaron, making sure you don't look his way again, as the girls immediately exclaim their agreements. Penelope's sliding out of the booth first, Emily and JJ following her example as they head straight towards the bar. JJ's shooting you a knowing glance as she looks between Hotch and yourself.

"You coming boys?" you extend the invite to Derek and Spencer, who are quick to nod along, both men trailing after the others as they head to the counter to order more drinks. You prepare to follow after them, ready for the welcome respite from your mind swimming in circles.

"I didn't mean to offend you." you stop short, spinning on your heel to meet the gaze of your Unit Chief.

"Well you did." you reply, and your voice is small. "I've known you for almost seven years, and here you are treating me like a stranger." you mumble, and you find yourself tugging at your dress. "I mean, I know it's been a while, but geez Hotch, it's still me." you say and he winces. You're not sure what the last month has been like for the others, but you know what they've been like for you. Torturous. It's been Hell.

"I know." he says, and your eyebrow raises, unmoved by his words. "And again, I didn't mean to offend you." he promises, and he clenches and unclenches his fists by his side. "After everything that happened, I guess I just assumed you'd prefer a more professional approach." he mutters, and you scoff quietly. Classic Aaron Hotchner, running away from interpersonal conflict with his tail tucked between his legs. "You don't even seem comfortable with us tonight."

You blink. Okay well he had a point there, but you were trying.

"It's not that I'm not comfortable." you mutter, and you look over your shoulder at the rest of the team. "I guess I just didn't expect to feel so out of place being out and about." you shrug your shoulders bashfully. "Everyone's normal, everything seems the same." you continue, and you notice the way that Hotch's lips have pressed into a hard line. "And it's like no time has passed at all for anyone else, but for me it's like I never moved." you blink, shivering at the thought.

Hotch's eyebrows furrow inwardly as he takes in your words. "I still feel like I'm-" you trail off, feeling a wide lump growing in your throat. "It's like I never left." you course correct, eyes shutting briefly, lashes brushing against your cheekbones. "Like no matter how much time passes, it still feels like I'm there with him and I'm-"

"I understand." he cuts you off, you think maybe to salvage your pride or to keep you from having a panic attack at the thought. "And you're certain you're ready to come back to work? You know you can take all the time you need." he reminds you, and you are immediately nodding your head as you wave a tired hand his way.

"I can't stay cooped up in my house anymore." you mumble. "It's becoming counterproductive." you huff. "I'm ready." you add a second later. "Apart from this awkwardness, I'm also perfectly fine." and it's a lie, you'd been having nightmares every night. Restless, sleepless evenings full of dread, and jump scares of your own creation. "I mean, I'm here aren't I?" you offer a tight smile as you reach out and tap Hotch's shoulders twice, a tense little conversation ender.

You don't want to stay huddled up with him anymore, not while he was looking at you like he was trying to see into your soul. You turn on your heel, dress swishing side to side as you head for the group. You find yourself in between Emily and Penelope, the blonde to your left immediately sliding a drink in front of you. You down it in a second, the intense burn as the alcohol rested in your chest was a welcome reprieve from the anguish and anxiety you'd been feeling.

You forget about Hotch, and all your heavy feelings by the time you're on your third drink. Your heels feel much too heavy under your feet as you stumble into Emily, the brunette chuckling vibrantly as you hang off each other, the music playing overhead lulling you into a false sense of security. It was nice being like this again after so long, laughing at the dramatic banter between Derek and Penelope. You wondered if they'd remain purely platonic forever.

Trading gossip back and forth with Emily and JJ was always a treat, especially as Spencer tried to keep up with eyes wide as saucers while Emily finally cracked the secrets of her coveted Sin-To-Win weekends. You weren't sure what was funnier, the peeks into Emily's life outside the unit, or the horrified looks that crossed Spence's face with every new tidbit of knowledge he learned about his coworkers. You found your eyes flickering over to Hotch again.

He was stoic as ever, but looser than he would be in the office. He seemed to enjoy being a quiet observer much more than he preferred to be in the mix. He leisurely swirled his glass of scotch, and you felt that familiar buzz of warmth in your chest when you managed to catch him smiling as he quietly passed conversation back and forth with a newly drunk Penelope, and Derek, who looked exasperated.

"Are you just gonna stare at him all night?" you jump a bit, turning to face Emily with surprise swirling in your irises. "If you keep it up, he's gonna catch you." she adds a second afterwards and you tense, head nodding as you scold yourself. You peel away from the bar, drink clutched in your hand. You had to get away from the bar for a second, maybe the cluttered dance floor would be the best distraction.

"Sorry." you mutter, and Emily offers a airy laugh. "He's just usually so serious." you lean into Emily, who nods along. She'd met Hotch after you, but still she'd managed to become so close to him it was almost surreal. She seemed to always know what he was thinking, they were in sync. Unlike you, who seemed to always be on the other end of a hard stare from the man. For a while you just began to assume he hated your guts. Or better put, he was indifferent to your existence.

That was why his look, that look he'd given you as he cradled your head while he waited for backup had been burned into your skull. All that went out of the window the second he'd labeled you 'Agent' though. God, how stupid were you? Emily's amusement makes your eyes roll. "Can I be honest?" she asks, and you nod. Penelope and JJ have migrated to the dance floor, JJ grabbing the good doctor and bringing him along with them. He looks incredibly uncomfortable.

"Sure, Em. If you think it will help." you reply audibly.

"I haven't seen him this relaxed since everything went down." she admits, and you're surprised. As if somehow your presence had been enough to set the stone-serious man at ease. "The first few days after your accident he was a mess." she adds, and she's got a surprising about of stability to her tone to be as inebriated as she was. She lowers her voice some as she leans into you, "He showed up late." she mutters this like it's some sworn secret just meant for the both of you.

"I'm sure Strauss was just riding him about another mishap in the unit." you try, and Emily looks unconvinced and unimpressed with you. "He's our boss, it's kind of his job to worry about us." you finish.

"Yeah, I guess so." Emily concedes, and she looks like she's done talking about it, so you find yourself relaxing. "Still. I've never seen him go that hard against an unsub, maybe you're not the only person that's feeling something." she leaves you with that, trying to keep from tipping as she marched towards the group. You chuckle quietly to yourself, ignoring Emily's words as you focus on finishing your drink. It seemed you'd inadvertently been trying to be alone all along.

You felt some of the tension melt from your shoulders now that you were standing at the bar, away from those prying eyes you couldn't lie to. There's this sound of heavy footsteps, and then the clearing of a throat, as you turn to be met with the sight of a man. He looked to be about your age, cheeks and nose covered in a little smattering of freckles. He's got a head full of shaggy hair that hangs in his face. He takes a quick step, sliding up against the bar beside you.

Way too close.

"Hey." he mumbles, and you appraise him boredly. It's not like he was ugly or anything, but despite Penelope's words you were not looking to get lucky tonight.

"Hi." you offer a dry greeting, shuffling your weight from one foot to the other as the bar seemingly became a beacon for thirsty men. Just as you were politely stepping away from the freckled man, you found yourself bumping into another man who'd slithered up to the bar, your ass pressing against his crotch as his hands wound around your waist. A sleazy chuckle escapes the man's mouth as you gasp. "I'm so sorry." you exclaim, and you're quick to peel away.

You feel trapped though, there were at least four guys, they all seemed to be friends, they all seemed to be in kahoots.

There's a third and fourth man joining the fray, they all looked to be about the same age, height, and weight class. This was probably their routine: approach and overwhelm whatever drunk girl they might have happened upon. It looked like you were tonight's target. "Hey, what's the rush?" the guy closest to you drawls, and you wonder where all your years of training have gone. His arm raises, and it feels like he might hit you so you flinch way too violently.

"Stick around, we'll order the next round." the next demands, and his breath smells like booze. It stinks, and it's hot as it puffs across your face. You almost break your heels backing away from them, suddenly feeling self conscious a`nd way too vulnerable in your short dress.

"No, it's alright, really." you try, and you stumble again. "My friends are right over there." and you point in their general vicinity. "Have a great night though." you offer politely, and you're trying to make your grand escape. One guy, a shaggy blonde haired man is quick to grab you by your forearm, and it's like you're back to that day. Your bureau appointed therapist had been talking to you about your anxiety, how a range of things could become triggers and transport you mentally.

"That wasn't a question. Stay a while." You're stuck, absolutely frozen in place as your entire body tenses up. Some Special Agent you were, the bureau would be so disappointed in you. Your team would be so disappointed in you. All it took to turn you into a pile of nothing was a bit of confrontation. You could remember a stronger version of you, that girl would've had these men on their knees for even thinking of laying hands on you. God, you missed that girl.

His grip on your arm tightens, fingers digging into you harshly as you find yourself surrounded on every side.

"L-Let me go." you huff under your breath, and you crane your neck. You spot JJ, the blonde's eyes locked on yours as the reality of what's going on forces her to sober up. "I just-" and you jerk away, stumbling back completely. You're surprised you don't scream as your glass drops to the ground shattering as glass sprays in every which direction. You feel like your ankle's twisted as you fall back on your ass. You expect to feel the embarrassing thud that came with smacking your ass on the hard floor of a bar, but it never comes.

Instead you feel cocooned by a familiar scent. Strong arms are looped around you, but you suppose your lack of disgust at the action is just a testament of your comfortability. "Are you alright?" it's mumbled against your ear, and the low tone of his voice makes you shiver. All you can really offer is a tight nod as Aaron's guiding you behind him. You don't get to see Hotch in action, not when JJ, Penelope, and Emily are flocking you like Charlie's Angels.

You feel the first signs of the need to barf pricking at you, and you know that you need to get some air. You needed to breathe.

"God, are you okay?" Penelope asks, and you're not sure if you are being dramatic. I mean, it wasn't like they'd done anything really. Now you were gonna look like the freak that ruined a fun night.

"I'm sorry." you chirp, and you miss the way Jennifer and Emily share a hard glance. It's not until you're feeling brisk air whipping around your face that you realize they've taken you outside, and you haven't stopped apologizing. I'm so sorry. Penelope's got wide eyes, quickly brimming with tears as you find yourself crumbling to the ground. Your hand's quick to clutch around your chest as you try to inhale. The dramatics of it all made you even more nauseous.

You should've stayed at home.

"Hey, hey, hey..." Emily's cooing, and it seems being out like this has sliced through her tipsy stupor. She's focused just like she would be on any regular sort of day. "I need you to breathe." she instructs, and JJ's crouching down in front of you, brown eyebrows draw inwardly as she takes in your clearly frantic state. Every puff of air that escapes you is tight and sounds like it hurts. You can just barely hear the sound of a commotion taking place inside.

You do hear JJ's quiet exclamation of "I'll stay with her, go check on Hotch and Derek!" before Penelope and Emily are heading back into the packed building. She calls your name, and it takes a while for you to regain your voice. She's devoid of pity, which you appreciate. JJ knew more than anyone how much you hated being seen as a burden, or someone to be sorry for. Pride was a killer. "Can you try and take a deep breath for me?" and it's then you realize your choppy little intakes of air weren't doing you any favors.

It takes a great deal of effort for your vision to be less blurry. Your ears were full of cotton, and your head was swimming. You feel bile again in the back of your throat, and you jerk away from JJ's reach. You feel like you're suffocating, transported away from the random bar in the middle of Virginia, and back to a place you'd fought so hard to escape. You were certain you'd remember that unsub forever. His evil eyes, the way he tried to use your entrails like paint.

You remember how Elle had changed after she'd been attacked by Garner. How she had changed so much that she had no choice but to step away from the Unit. Would that be your life? You didn't want that life, but it was clear you needed something, you needed help. You couldn't focus on anything else, but what had happened. You'd ruined a night out because the act of being cornered was enough to transport you back.

JJ's still peering at you as if she's waiting for you to start panicking, and maybe you were. "I'm sorry." you huff again, and JJ's shaking her head at you.

There's a deep frown etched into her face as she sighs herself. "Stop apologizing." she insists, and your lashes are wet with unshed tears. "You didn't do anything wrong. Those assholes should've never put their hands on you." she proceeds. "You know that don't you?" she continues, and you don't know how to respond, so you don't. JJ reads you like an open book, and she smacks her teeth. "Well now you do." she says this firmly. "And I'm sure Hotch and Morgan are teaching them that lesson right now." you tense up again.

"I didn't mean to ruin the-" JJ's offering you a hard glare that shuts you up. Another bad habit you'd picked up since the incident. You were working on it, trying not to blame yourself for things you didn't cause. "I'm sorry." and this time it's not because of tonight. "I was so nervous about tonight.-" you take in a hiccupped breath. "I just wanted to prove that I could bounce back." you explain, and it's the first insight you've allowed anyone. "I figured if I pretend everything's normal, soon enough it would be, but it's too much." you huff.

"And that's okay." she promises. "What you went through isn't something anyone's expecting you to forget about in a month, alright? It's gonna take time, and there will be days where it'll hurt a lot more, and there will be days where you're feeling like your old self again." she promises. "What you need to understand is that we-" she pauses as you take it in. "are your family." she finishes, and your lips start to twitch, you're not sure if you'll smile or cry.

"I know-" you proceed, and she holds a hand up in front of you.

"Let me finish." she pleads, and you inhale before nodding. "I don't- none of us want a repeat of what happened with Elle." she says quietly. "None of us want to show up to the unit one day and see your badge and gun sitting on your desk." JJ sighs. "So if you ever start feeling anxious, or terrible, or just like you're back... there." and you wince at the mention. "I want you to call me, call one of us. Don't deal with this alone, alright? Not when you don't have to."

JJ hugs you before you have time to respond, but her words sink deep and make you feel warm inside. "Thanks, Jaige." you mumble against her hair. She squeezes you tighter, and you believe it's to make up for her shyer hug earlier.

"You're welcome." she mumbles back, and then she's pulling back. You don't have much respite, Penelope practically tackling you in a hug of her own. You hadn't even realized the rest of the team has left the bar, you were sure the mood of the night was much lower.

"I'm so glad you're okay!" Penelope exhales, and you do too, breathing fine again, save for a few hiccups that escaped you every so often. She lets you go after a beat, and you're quick to take a small step back, suddenly feeling anxious once more.

"Yeah, I'm fine now." your eyes meet Derek and Emily's. "Thank you." and you're chuckling quietly as Derek pulls you into his side. He plants a kiss on the top of your head, and you warm inwardly. Spencer does hug you, and it's a shock. One of those hugs that you never take for granted, because it could be a while before you get another. Once he's pulled away you find yourself still hovering, listening quietly as they all decide the night's not over.

You respectfully bow out, you'd had enough for one day. It's then you notice that Hotch is all by himself. You quietly excuse yourself, but you find that they're not really listening now that you were safer. "Are you alright?" you ask, and your voice is very quiet. Hotch looks up from his phone as if he's been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. You take in his face, and it's clear he's been in some sort of scuffle. Most notable due to the fact he's got blood smeared under his nose.

"I should be asking you that." he retorts, and your eyebrows furrow in.

"Y-You already did." you remind him, eyes darting away. "Why are you over here by yourself?" you shoot off a round of questions, the wind whipping around, and making you crave the comfort of your bed. You maintain a respectful balance, you weren't in any rush to be all up in someone's space.

"I think I've had enough of crowds for the night." he retorts. You don't realize until it's happened though, your hand reaching up to swipe at the blood that's slowly drying on his upper lip.

"Get into a bar fight?" you ask, and you hold your breath for the answer. Hotch looks down at you, and there's this unreadable expression on his face. You realize that this is nothing new. Hotch had never been easy to read, he was one of the greatest profilers you'd ever met, one of the greatest people. But he'd always been an enigma. His emotions were an Alcatraz all on their own.

"You should see the other guy." the classic rebuttal to a question like yours. It doesn't make you smile, mostly because he's not smiling either. "Are you okay?" and he's got you by your wrist, eyes zoned in on the harsh mark the guy from the bar had left behind. "He never should've touched you." his voice lowers, and there's an annoyance attached to his tone. "I'm so sorry." you find yourself huffing.

"You shouldn't have fought him." you say matter-of-factly. Your fists fold up at your sides, your lips pulling down into a frown. "It'll give everyone the wrong idea." you say, and you wrench your hand away from his grasp.

"Everyone?" he repeats, and he looks confused, classic Hotch.

"Me." you correct, "I'll get the wrong idea." you whisper. "I might actually think you like me." you admit quietly.

"We wouldn't want that." he replies, and his tone is far from mocking. You hate that it makes you crack a smile. You hate that he's always the one that manages to get that reaction out of you.

"Hey, are you two coming? We're all heading to Mo's." Emily calls, and you snort at the fact that their alcohol riddled mind had caused them to forget you'd already declined. You take a step away from Hotch, and you hate that you stumble. You were hating a lot of things tonight. Maybe you weren't as sober as you'd thought.

Aaron looks to you as if he's waiting to see your answer before giving his own, and maybe he was. The second you're politely explaining that you're ready to head home, Aaron is offering to drive you. Derek is whistling, Emily and JJ offering you smug little smirks. Penelope is trying to keep herself secured to Earth. "He's gonna take her home." he whispers to no one in particular, and it's a horrid attempt.

"We all heard, babygirl." Derek replies to her, and you find yourself a bit stuck. The thought of spending the eighteen minute car ride with your boss make you want to scream, but you'd taken a cab. Your own car was parked in the driveway of your place. And he doesn't look like he' taking any goodbyes either way. Rounds of goodbye and see you laters are soon offered. "Take care of our girl, Hotch." Derek calls, and you hear Spencer as he starts to rant about Derek's turn-of-phrase.

Our girl. Hotch finds that the words repeat in his head like an obnoxious echo. "Why are you doing this?" you question quietly. "If you're just trying to make up for the whole Agent thing, there's no need." you proceed, and you take a small step back.

"I'm not trying to make up for that." he replies quickly. "But, you're drunk, and you've been through a lot tonight." he reminds you as if you're ditsy or something. "It wouldn't be smart to leave you by yourself." he continues, and he inhales deeply. He watches the way you watch him, like you're unsure, like you're suspicious. "That isn't a testament of whether or not I think you can handle yourself... and neither was fighting that man at the bar." he promises, and you blink.

"No?" you ask, and your tongue feels extra dry. Like you've licked a stripe of sandpaper.

"No." he reaffirms. "You mean a lot to the team. We wouldn't be the same without you." he says this bit like he means it, and you can't find any trace of a lie residing in his face. He does mean it.

"Thank you, Sir." you reply under your breath, exhaling the word. The chill of the night finally gets to you, and you shiver.

"Can I take you home?" he asks, and you know you're reading into it more than you should. You know what he means, what he's really asking, but delusion was healthy every now and again, right?

"Y-Yeah." your head nods, voice wavering slightly as you take hold of the bottom of your dress. "Yes." you say more firmly.

"Okay." you stand there for a few moments more, passing charged glances back and forth. "You never answered my question earlier." is what he says to break the moment. "About how you were doing..." he proceeds. "I've asked you twice, and both times you-"

"Deflected?" you offer, and his head nods. "I guess I'm just scared you'll see right through whatever my answer is." you admit, and you cross your arms, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. "Emily and JJ will at least humor me." you explain. "Penelope won't ask... mostly because she's scared of the answer." you chuckle awkwardly. "Derek and Spence, well I guess they're like you too... but you're here, and they're not... so here we are."

Hotch appraises you for a second, but he doesn't say much else. You're grateful for that, but equal parts annoyed that he wasn't leaping to tell you that you were harder to read than you thought. No such luck. Still, you're surprised when Hotch grabs you by your arm, much gentler than earlier, and he's slowing his stride to be in step with yours. You don't realize you've leaned fully into his side until you feel him tense up. He doesn't say anything though.

A win is a win.

You didn't know much about the inner workings of Aaron Hotchner's mind, but you did know that if he was uncomfortable with your proximity, he would have said so. The walk back to Hotch's car is silent. At least outwardly, inside you were panicking. He opens the passenger side for you, and you imagine a world where this was normal. Where it didn't take you being hit on by sleazy men at a bar to be having these moments with Hotch. But it was impossible.

"Did it hurt?" you ask, once the car is moving. He's adjusted the temperature, a soothing warm pooling from the vents. You're surprised at how quickly he drives, you'd half expected him to be one of those slow as molasses drivers. Hotch looks over at you incredulously, his eyebrows raise, but he doesn't look agitated nor annoyed with you breaking the silence again.

"You'll have to be more specific." he replies, and you hum. You pause for a second, trying to find the right words. At the last second you decide saying it straight would be just as good as anything else.

"Punching that guy?" you ask, and Hotch's lips quirk upwards, he was amused with you. In truth, he had no idea what he was thinking. As soon as the girls had ushered you away, he'd found himself swinging before he could think of the repercussions. All he knew was that you'd sounded scared, you'd sounded unlike yourself in a way that made him angry. Everyone saw how you had changed, the elephant in the room was hard to ignore. But you were trying, he could give you that.

"No." he mumbles, and that likely has a lot to do with the fact that he hasn't come down. He's still on edge, still watching you like you might at any moment start spiraling. "Besides, it was worth it." and he says this a bit under his breath, you hear it all the same. "I doubt he'll try it again." he admits, and you feel liberated. It was nice to have someone fighting for you, fighting the fights you weren't capable of.

"Thanks, Hotch." you hum, and it triggers a yawn.

"Back to Hotch?" he asks, and you look over at him confused. You kick your feet back and forth, careful not to dig your heels into the plush of the car's floor.

"Would you prefer I call you sir?" you ask, and he is tapping on the brake, the car slowly peeling to a stop as you come up on a red light.

"No." he answers sternly. "It's not like you." he admits, and the light is turning green again. He steps lightly on the gas, the car surging forward "Especially if you're only calling me Sir, as payback for me calling you Agent." he says, and even though you had tried your hand at pretending the greeting hadn't bothered you, it was obvious he had read right through you.

"Why'd you do that?" you question and your tone is a lot more clipped than you had intended.

"So it did offend you?" he retorts, and you feel anger flaring up. You swallow this feeling, hands balling up by your side.

"Hotch." you snap, and he smirks fully, eyes back on the road. "Can you be serious, please?" you ask, and you probably sound pitiful.

"The last month I've just been..." he trails off momentarily, and you wonder if he's emotional, or just being dramatic. "I should have known better." he expresses. "I should've been there to make sure that what happened didn't." he says, and you tense up. "He never should have gotten the chance to get close enough to cart you off." he completes his thought, and you're shocked. You never would have guessed Hotch blames himself for what happened to you.

"That wasn't your fault." you promise, and you mean it. You'd never once thought of blaming Hotch for what went down. "You were confident in the plan, you were putting your faith in the team."

"There is a very thin line between confidence and arrogance." He rebuttals instantly. "We got cocky, and you suffered because of it." he looks so destroyed as he says this. "And then you showed up tonight, and tried to pretend everything was fine." he notes as you remain silent. "It just reminded me that we're too close." he tightens his grip on the steering wheel. "The longer you stay in the unit, the more you become numb to the things we see. You start to ignore the signs that you're not alright." he says, and you'd never thought of it that way.

"Hotch..." you exhale.

"I called you Agent to set up a boundary, or at least I tried." he says this like he's beating himself up. "But then I saw the way it hurt you." and he looks ashamed. "And I never want to be someone who does that to you." you're warring with your heart then. "So I wont do it again." he promises, and he looks to you briefly. "I'll call you by your name, I won't deflect." he adds as your mouth drops open just briefly.

"But, it's not right for someone your age to be so closed off. It's not right for you to pretend to be okay just to keep up with the people around you. If you weren't up to being out, you should've stayed home, our opinions don't outweigh your safety." he lectures you. "They never will." he adds a second after, and he's so sure as he says this. He's slowing down, coming up on your place.

Your leg is shaking slightly, that pesky feeling of anxiety creeping back up on you. "We're here." he says under his breath as if you weren't aware. You don't budge, you can't. You have so much to say, but where do you start. Hotch has shut his car off, almost like he too has a lot sitting on the tip of his tongue.

"I just wanted to prove I could handle it." you admit, and you're crying. "I didn't want to be another Gideon or Elle... or Spence." you cringe at the memories. "I didn't want you guys to handle with me with kid gloves. I didn't want you to see me as the girl who needs the kid gloves." you express honestly, and now your tears are falling in quick precession. "I'm sorry..." you swipe at your face. "I don't know why I'm crying, this is so stupid." you hiss at yourself.

"No, it isn't." the response earns him a surprised glance. "It's good... this is good." Hotch is quick to use a hand to swipe at your tears. He hates the sight of them, but loves what they mean. Your heart's still soft, pliable. You haven't fully succumb to the horrors of the job. "Consider this me atoning." he prompts. "You have my ear, say whatever you need to say." he looks over at you again, and seems to mentally backtrack. "If it'll help you." he adds.

You sniffle audibly, hands clenching and unclenching as the car suddenly feels much too hot. "It's not your fault, okay?" you repeat, and you say it with more certainty. "I just need you to know that." you sniffle again, but your tears keep falling, even as you try to blink them away. "Hotch, you're our leader for a reason, and you were there to save me that night, and you were here to save me tonight." you remind him. "I don't want you to pull back, not when I'm finally making some progress with cracking that hard exterior of yours."

Hotch's lips quirk at your words, and he looks down at his lap. "I've never meant to pull back from you." the inflection with the last words sticks. "I thought I was doing right by you... pulling the band aid off before you got in too deep." he says. "But that was wrong of me, I can admit to that. I'm sorry." and his apologies are like kisses. They wash over you, and force you to believe him.

"Don't apologize to me." you plead, "Just promise not to leave me behind, treat me like an outsider again." you continue as his head nods, and you can trust that he's listening.

"I can do that." he promises.

That seems to be the key to unlocking the dam of your emotions. You choke on the feelings, a quiet sob escaping you as you clasp a hand over your mouth. How dramatic, and pathetic, and God awful were all these feelings. But they'd been years in the making, right?

"Are you alright?." he asks under his breath, worry palpable.

"Do you know that the only thing that kept me from losing it that day was you?" you ask, and your boldness won't leave you, clearly it was now or never. "You told me to 'keep breathing'... you said it over and over and over, and I listened." you explain, and he remembers the day too well. "Even though everything hurt like hell, and there was so much blood." you reminisce. "And I don't know, maybe I'm just crazy, but there was this look." you exhale sadly. "This look you had on your face that made me think... 'maybe it's not just me'"

It isn't. He knows that instantly. You've plagued his mind so severely for so long that he can just barely remember a time where you weren't one of the only things he thought about, worried about, cared about. But he had his post to think about, he was the Unit Chief, your boss, your superior. What would the team think? What would Strauss think? Did it matter? In the grand scheme of things, did those worries outweigh his need, his innate desire to see you safe and protected from harm? Absolutely not. So what was the real problem?

"Hotch..." you inhale deeply, voice cracking distractingly as he gives you his full attention. Something you'd dreamed of, wanted more than anything since the first time you'd ever laid eyes on him. "Aaron." you correct, and you breathe again. "I've been thinking of how to say this... i've been rehearsing it over and over again, because I wanted to get it right, and I just knew tonight would be the night I'd have to have the balls to either say it or let it go forever." you admit.

"Say it..." and he's rushing you, but you suppose that's deserved. You were still stalling, dragging this out way more than you needed to.

"I'm in love with you." and it was out there, and you couldn't take it back. You stare him down, worried about his reaction, about how he would respond. "And it took me getting hurt, and being sent home, away from the team for me to realize." you inhale shakily. "I kept having these-these dreams about that night. All these different scenarios about how things could've turned out different, how I could've died had one thing been out of place." you process.

"You're the reason I'm still here, you're the reason why this team can function, and you're the reason why I- why I came tonight even though my anxiety told me it wasn't safe. Because, somehow I knew that as long as you were here... I'd be okay, and I am." you say, and it's a lot, too much maybe. His reaction is hard to read at first, face just as stoic as most times, but his eyes.... his eyes hold the truth. They melt, pools of warm honey dancing in the darkness residing there.

"And it's inappropriate... and wrong... and silly... but- I couldn't go another day without you knowing, without you hearing from me." you explain. "When you came up to the bar tonight I just... I've never felt this way before... lucky, protected, safe.... and-and I'm not asking for anything from you... I'm not expecting something in return, I just wanted to get it out there... I think we both know it's been a long time coming..." and your words are being swallowed as Aaron leans forward. The middle console is a bridge, a roadblock.

It doesn't deter him though, not from using a hand to gently cup your face, mouth slotting against yours as if it belonged there. You're dizzy, shocked, surprised, but you don't let this mess you up. You can't possibly allow anything to mess up this moment. Twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two... the seconds tick by with neither of you moving to break the kiss, hands and tongues and breaths fanning over one another as you get acquainted in the most perfect way.

Still, life dealt lots, and yours consisted of a need for oxygen. It's the only reason why you break apart with heady gasps, eyes dilated and fogged with emotions much too heavy to really explain. "Oh, you can't do that." you explain, and Hotch's bemused, eyebrows raising upwards, as his thumb brushes over your cheekbones.

"I can't?" he asks, and he sounds so much lighter now.

"No, you can't. I'll get the wrong idea, you know." you explain, and he smiles brazenly at your callback to earlier. "I'll actually believe you're in love with me or something." you say, and Hotch is slow as he leans back in, a peck being placed right on your lips as your eyelashes flutter, and your heart beats out of control.

"We can't have that, can we?" he's following your lead with the callback, and your cheek presses into his palm.

"I don't know." you answer, and your voice is faint. "I'm scared this'll be a dream." you proceed as Hotch's eyes scan over your frantic face. "I'll wake up and find out that this was all in my head, and the only memories I get to hold on to are from that night." Hotch's lips purse, head shaking in denial as you inhale shakily.

"No, not this time. an ambitious remark. "This time it's real." he promises. "This time I'm here with you to make sure that all those things you felt that night, and earlier by the bar, are how you keep feeling about me." he answers truly. "I'm here to love you back for as long as you'll have me. Is it alright for me to feel that way?" he asks, and your hand jumps up to keep his squished in place against your face.

"You can feel however you want." you reply, and he laughs, a full blown chuckle escaping him as his face seems to light up like a thousand suns. His eyes glisten, twinkling as he looks down at you, like everything was right in the world. And to him it was. Nothing and nobody could hurt you here.

"Good. Then I choose whatever this between you and I leads to, I choose the feelings that come with that." You smile grows to an almost blinding brightness as you reach across the console to hug him, and pull him into your arms. He's quick as he presses a peck to the top of your head, eyes still dancing over you as if he was seeing you for the first time. And maybe he was, that part wasn't your business, all you knew was that loving Aaron was easy, it could be.

A long time coming, but a wait well worth it. Lucky you.

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devilmademewriteit · 1 year

Text

Playing Dangerous

part 2 of Salvatore

pairing: javier peña x afab!fem!reader

summary: sure, the fact that he’d schemed up an entire, elaborate ruse to get between your legs was upsetting. more upsetting was the fact that he refused to fess up, insisting that you needed to be protected (or at the very least—cautious) because your life was in ‘grave danger.’ most upsetting, however? that would be the fact that through it all and above everything else, you still wanted him—badly.

warnings: rough sex/smut (fingering, fem penetration, oral [m receiving]) so 18+ only content; afab fem reader; mentions of reader having long hair; bratty!reader; brat-tamer!javi; alcohol consumption; smoking; pet names (baby, sweetheart, cariño, hermosa); some angst; dubcon (slight intoxication, power imbalance, age gap).

word count: 10.7k (sorry again)

no use of y/n in this fic

hello here is part twooooo! thank you for all the love on Salvatore I absolutely love all of you so much. you don't rly need to read p1 to enjoy this, just know that: reader is the ambassador's secretary and is an asshole, Javi is also an asshole, they fucked for the first time a few days ago b/c he took her home after someone seemed to be after her life.

don’t forget to join the taglist if you’re nasty; feedback, asks, comments, smoke signals and carrier pigeons always welcome. kisses. -em<3

—

read part 3, Dark Paradise, here.

—

Let’s get in the back of your cop car, officer! - Playing Dangerous

“I am not speaking to you.”

Murphy’s eyes come alive with exasperation, a striking shift from their usual half-asleep, perpetually vacant gawp. Not quite at the point of impatience yet, his voice is soft when he responds.

“Please.”

You lean back in your chair, crossing your arms. An impassive sneer makes its way onto your expression.

Not a fucking chance.

Not only were you not planning on ever doing Steve Murphy—and especially, his asshole partner—even the smallest of favours throughout your remaining time on this godforsaken planet, you’d come to the conclusion (quite recently, in fact) that you’d rather dance barefoot on broken glass than be in the same room as either member of the pair.

And it was a shame, really.

After that (now regrettable, once incredible) night at Peña’s place, everything had been fine.

More than fine. Not even awkward.

For a glorious moment, waking up next to him, ruined and sore and bruised and satisfied, sharing a morning coffee and then a ride to work—peace (and the planted seeds of something else, too) had finally settled across the worn-in battlegrounds between you, solid roots spreading with each passing second spent not bickering. For crying out loud, when he’d gotten called away to Bogotá that very same day, you’d put yourself to work keeping his place clean, going so far as to anticipate his return.

Everything had been fine.

Until, of course, you’d gotten the old Chevy serviced.

“Car’s running fine, señorita. Put that missing part back, s’good to go.”

“Missing part?”

“The spark plug—wasn’t in there when we looked.”

And the missing pieces fell into place.

How he’d waltzed into your car earlier on in the day, running his fingers along the hard, hot plastic of the dash—analyzing, observing, and finally commenting on your shitty engine. Then, he’d been conveniently there, waiting for you in the middle of the night, watching you wrestle your hood open in the parking lot after work. Hell, he took you to his place after he’d told you he'd seen a shady truck parked in front of yours… and you’d trusted him.

Without bothering to check for yourself, you’d trusted him.

You had to hand it to the man; it was a clever plan. Wear you down during the day only to corner you while alone, vulnerable, and at night, with no possible avenues for escape.

All to get inside your pants.

God.

Murphy huffs, bringing you back down to Earth. “Listen,” he rubs his temples, exhaustion weighing down the curves of shoulders, “We just want to make sure you’re safe. You don’t have to stay with him, either; Connie—”

“I don’t want to hear it,” you snap, narrowing your eyes in full view of his own. “I keep wondering, though... seeing as you're… thick as thieves, these days,” you lean forward over your desk, studying his swallow. “Was it you that shot off that gun? Or did he get someone else to participate in his little scheme?”

The agent tilts his head to the side, putting on the air of a wordless 'really, sweetheart?' before launching into a recitation of a sorely well-versed explanation.

But you cut him off, unforgiving in your suspicion. “Don’t bother, alright? Even if I did believe that, what, some 'cartel sicario'—” you emphasize the ridiculousness of the statement by tossing up a couple of well-timed air quotes “—was after me…?” and then you’re gesturing wildly to yourself, fingertips pointed straight to your heart. “I would rather die—really, seriously, die—than step foot into your home—or-or fucking Peña’s—Ever. Again.”

The mounting ire behind your breathless rambling finally wears him down; he surrenders his complexion to a look of genuine defeat. His arms drop to his sides, heavy and limp.

As you try to appear busy, fidgeting with the scattered papers and documents lying listlessly across your desk, Murphy turns on his heels, stooping toward the exit.

For a brief moment, he hesitates, coming to a slow halt halfway down his holy pilgrimage of freeing you from his fucking presence.

“Did you…” and he briefly trails off, anticipating your wrath with a wince. “Did you fill out that form?”

Irritation clouds your thoughts. Its manifestations in your body feel almost violent.

“What do you think, genius?”

You scare yourself with the aggression underpinning each and every word.

Inside the safety of your mind, your inner dialogue treats him even worse.

Go, motherfucker. Go, go, go, go, go or I’ll tear us both apart, I’ll explode, I’ll—

You hope that it’s Luck listening to your prayers (and not God), because as soon as your brain has time to register the nature of your wicked, near sacrilegious thoughts toward the man, Murphy’s yellow-dusted crown is drooping down in eventual resignation, leading the way as he trudges back to his corner.

A relief.

A short lived one.

Too short.

Because…

Well, because those fucking memories won’t stop replaying inside your mind, etched like crude Botticellis on the backs of your eyelids.

Overlaying the non-stop highlight reel of a vicious fight with Peña, just that morning—

“Well, I didn’t see a car. What I saw was you, whipping me over to your fuck-pad—and now? I see your whole... fucking masterplan to get me into bed.”

“You’re talking fuckin’ crazy. There’s no pussy in the world that’s worth pulling all that.”

—are flashes of his bare, glistening chest, an almost tangible haze of longing obscuring his eyes. You’d taken him in your mouth; you’d felt him all over: against you, with you, inside you.

And when you’re not seeing him, you’re forced to hear him, over and over and over again.

“You fuckin’ sing for me when you’re comin’ on my cock.”

So, you push certain memories away by calling on certain others, repeating every cruel word you’d ever exchanged with each other like a mantra, an affirmation.

They remind you of the man that Javier Peña truly was.

“You are the worst person I’ve ever had the shit-luck of meeting, Peña.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not too crazy about you, either. Got some serious growin’ up to do, sweetheart.”

A loud snap wrenches you back to your senses. You unfurl your fingers to reveal the broken remnants of a poor, innocent pencil you’d been white-knuckle-death-gripping.

What really had you ticking was that, after you’d hurled accusations and insults at him for the better part of an hour—totally monopolizing the space of the familiar, dusty old filing room—he’d had the nerve to continue on with his little act.

“You don’t have to stay with me—”

And his voice had been coated in poison, laced with the kind of fiery contempt that surely only a guilty man could achieve.

“—but do me a favour and just don’t be a fuckin’ idiot. It’s shit work, hiring new secretaries.”

He hadn’t waited around for an answer, leaving you alone with his final words and a mountain of your own unsaid ones.

So, you’d hissed a “fuck off” to the lingering ghost of his presence in the room, trying, in vain, to slow your shallow breaths.

You heave a sigh, forehead dropping to lay heavy against the desk.

If only you could take your brain out for the day. If only you could run it under cold water. Better yet, if only you could scrub it clean with bleach, put it in the dishwasher, run it with the damn laundry—anything to make it shiny and new and untainted.

Peña was lying.

He had to be lying.

What kind of shit sicario goes after secretaries who, beyond not knowing what they’re supposed to know about, don’t care enough to actually retain any of it?

Not a good sicario. Definitely not one who would still be alive in Medellìn, today.

It was all bullshit.

You weren’t the kind of person who attended work parties.

They always ran excruciatingly long. On top of that, you had to watch traumatized coworkers drink. A lot. Then, there was, of course, after-hours work-talk.

None of that had ever screamed 'best night ever!' to you.

Tonight, however, you hadn’t been given a choice: the ambassador had needed 'someone there, you know, just in case work stuff comes up’ which really meant that she was banking on you to give her a ride home at the end of the night.

Like that was happening. She hadn't been pleased when you'd made it clear to her that you were out of commission, off-the-clock, done-zo starting at fifteen to ten. You'd hoped that, at that point, she would've rescinded her original request.

She hadn't.

Still, Noonan had spent the week being remarkably kind to you—maybe her invitation was her (deeply misguided) way of trying to make up for the shit-storm she’d watched you face over past few days (whether she believed Peña’s dystopian, hitman fantasy was uncertain; either way, she’d witnessed your torment at his hands, and both realities seemed equally as emotionally taxing).

Despite all the hints you’d dropped about wanting the night off, she either hadn’t noticed, hadn’t cared, or thought you were just trying to be polite.

Come on.

She’d been your boss long enough to know there was no chance of you pussy-footing around out of politeness.

The event was meant to commemorate some big accomplishment—a narco sting gone right (or else, some big narco boss gone six-feet-under). The reason behind the festivities wasn’t of any importance to you—getting through the next few hours as quickly and as painlessly as possible took up all of the remaining (albeit limited) space in your head.

Because, afterwards? You were going out.

A good friend’s bachelorette, a shit-ton of dark tequila, and the warm lips of a total stranger.

God, you needed that. Every intimate spot on your body was in desperate need of a cleanse. Your tongue, the soft skin between your thighs, the peach-fuzz on your cheeks…

They remembered him.

They made sure you couldn’t forget him.

About half-way through serving your sentence in regulatory purgatory, someone turns on the stereo. A Queen song—the one that everyone knows. You’re looking around, trying to locate the source of the sound.

It’s mostly administrative and political bodies crowding up the office's stuffy foyer. There’s an odd clink of glass meeting glass whenever someone new walks in, or else when a deal’s finally graduated beyond the negotiation stage.

It’s too highbrow, too boring and white-collar for restless DEA agents, you remind yourself.

Slowly, slowly the hours trickle by.

The music helps—every Diaz song has the minutes moving double-time.

And after what feels like centuries of excruciating small-talk, of brushing off endless, casual condescension, of staring at the clock hanging off the wall, finally, it’s time to go.

First, a last minute change (you’re not wearing a damn button-up to the bar—it’ll be a tight dress and cute shoes or absolutely nothing at all) and a quick refresher in the bathroom. Then, you’re trailing a bee-line towards the exit with 'home-free' on the tip of your tongue.

Keep your head down. Nod. A chagrined smile to each pair of gawking eyes.

‘Cause soon? You’ll be dancing.

You’re straddling the office doors, left foot in, right foot out when an authoritative voice calls your name from behind.

Christ Almighty.

Turning slowly, you find yourself triangulated between Noonan and…

Fucking Steve Murphy.

That one looks apprehensive. The former?

A bit red in the face.

“Murphy, here,” the ambassador gestures sloppily towards the agent’s uneasy form, “Tells me he needs something. Papers, right? Think we can get that to him before you leave for your… little soirée—what do you say?”

She doesn’t catch it, but he does; your unbridled, aversive stare pierces him right between his eyes. Forcing it down (and oh, does it ever burn your throat) you etch a reluctant smile, nodding wordlessly to your boss.

God, if only money were an object. This damn job would be a short paragraph on your resume, a blip in your timeline on this Earth.

Noonan slaps Murphy on the back, harrumphing as though she’d just solved world hunger. Quickly, she finds someone new to accost (or be accosted by), swept into a different, equally-boring conversation before you can even begin to feel angry at her for putting you into such a… distasteful position.

And you whir on him.

Before the rush of accusations gets a chance to part from your lips, Murphy interrupts you, putting his hands up in mock surrender.

“I didn’t say a thing.” He sounds serious, sincere. “Swear. She came up to me and just… knew all about it.”

You narrow your eyes in suspicion. Nonetheless, your fingernails slowly retreat from their burrows in the skin of your palm.

It’s not because of his earnestness.

No.

It’s because only a serious maniac would flaunt their under-the-table bullshit so publicly, flying it right under the ambassador’s nose. Whatever those records were for (and whatever the reason why Peña and Murphy so badly needed them), it was becoming increasingly clear that they were not intended to land in either of their hands.

Murphy hadn’t been nervous because of you. He’d been nervous because of her. A little less drink, a bit more curiosity, and Noonan would've been privy to whatever it was that the pair was up to.

“Fine.”

He exhales, shoulders relaxing, dropping like stones with the release.

Without another word, you make your way down the hall, charging toward the alcove harboring your desk. Murphy trails behind, five feet back at all times like a recently-scolded school-child.

Good.

It takes a few, long minutes to get the job done.

He waits around anxiously, fiddling with your stationary (until you slap his hand away from your beloved pens and planners) and pacing around the room.

When it's done, you don’t read the form, you don’t investigate. The less you know, the better.

And frankly?

You couldn’t give less of a shit.

As the papers slide out of the printer, you warn him: “You’re gonna need a signature from their side, you know. I can only get you so far.”

He nods, taking the precious sheets in hand. “Think we got that side covered.” Then, he’s reading them over, checking to make sure everything's in order. You stand with your hand on your hip, waiting impatiently for his goddamn approval. After an eternity (really—by the end of it you’re genuinely wondering whether the man should get tested for dyslexia), Murphy hums in satisfaction, giving you an awkward, “Thanks, again.”

You scoff, crossing your arms over your half-exposed chest.

Didn’t even thank me a first time, asshole.

He spins around, aiming for the exit, when another body appears before him.

And the man stops Murphy in his tracks, deep-brown eyes trailing down to the packet of papers cradled between his partner's hands.

“Noonan came through, then.”

It’s all he says.

Your nostrils flare.

The skin on your face positively burns.

Of course it had been him. He was probably the entire reason behind the ambassador’s unusual tipsyness, too. Hell, he’d probably fed her Prosecco and half-compliments ‘til she’d been more than happy to do him a million favours.

Wasn’t that his M.O., anyways? ‘Get ‘em drunk and get my way?’

Three comfortable, familiar words find themselves sliding—easily—off your tongue.

“Fuck off, Peña.”

You surprise yourself with the cruelty of your tone, the biting emphasis of each word.

He settles his onyx eyes on you. They glaze over with hunger, with amusement, with danger.

Fuck.

“Don’t get your panties in a twist, sweetheart—I will in a minute,” and he nods at his partner, effectively dismissing him.

Murphy hesitates, eyes jumping between the stand-off taking place before him. Likely, he was trying to decide which one of you was going to murder the other first.

Finally, with his beloved form tucked under his arm, Murphy heaves a sigh of resignation, and then he’s gone.

Leaving you alone with Peña.

The corners of his lips pull back into an arrogant smirk as his eyes rake over your body—done up, dressed down, and positively fuming in your little kitten heels.

“You look hot.”

It’s all he says.

Some girls would’ve killed to hear those words from him. You’d spent years watching their eyes trail his movements in the office, listening to their puling voices—'is Javi there?'—over the phone.

But it just makes you want to scream.

Fearing the actual possibility of that coming to fruition, you keep your mouth sealed shut. Tight.

Silence won’t do for Peña.

“What’d you tell me, once?” He muses softly, making his way towards your desk. “Somethin’ about this place not bein’ a… a what’d you call it? A brothel?”

Dog.

He yanks a retort from your lips as if he had full command over them. “I’m going out, asshole.”

His face twitches ever-so-slightly, just enough for you to catch the hint of emotion. Then, it’s gone.

“No, you’re not.”

Casual as ever, he does that thing: runs a finger from the corner of his bottom lip down the length of it, looks up at you through thick, dark eyebrows.

You bristle at the sheer, unwinding effect it has on you.

“Yes, I am.”

He raps his knuckles against the desk in irritation; nevertheless, his voice is soft, imploring as he persists. “C’mon, baby. I need you to listen to me, right now. It’s..." and he undresses you with a mere look, "It's not a good time for you to be goin’ to those kinds of places.”

Just like any other man.

Probably, Peña’s ego was so over-inflated that the mere thought of any of his conquests colluding with another man had him on the brink of spontaneous combustion.

Because God forbid you fuck anyone else.

God forbid you even think of touching anyone else.

And this strange, uncharacteristic possessiveness, this… need for control—it was wearing extremely thin.

The man had zero authority over you. He certainly didn’t get to preside over the choices you made during your free time.

“Don’t call me baby, Peña—I’m not your baby.” The snapped retort makes you sound so young, to the point where, for a moment, you understand why the agent had called you a brat so many times that one, fateful night.

Still, you soldier on, focussed on freeing yourself from yet another one of the evening's grueling set-backs. “And I’m not gonna ‘listen to you’ just ‘cause you think you’ve got some sort of… machismo claim over me.”

A deft muscle in his jaw tenses. He rounds the desk, moving just a half-foot closer to you; that alone is enough to jump-start your heart, and you’re almost sure he can hear it, jack-hammering away inside your chest. You both know that being the first to step away signified weakness—concession—so you stay put (even when your legs yield to a slight wobble).

And he’s almost crooning. “You can spread those legs for half the country, for all I care, baby.” A condescending look, cast down at you over the bridge of his nose. “Not what this is about.”

Yeah, right.

“Please.” You roll your eyes. “Still working that angle?”

He takes a step forward. “Is it so crazy to think that I could just be tryna look out for you?” Meeting your gaze, he speaks earnestly—pleading through his irritation.

“I don’t need you to ‘look out for me’,” Your back grazes against the ambassador’s doors—you kick yourself internally for having subconsciously conceded to a back-step. “Especially not since the last time I thought that’s what this was?” your fingers gesture wildly between the (lack of) space separating your bodies, “You totally took advantage of me.”

A pause as the agent fluctuates from bafflement to genuine offense.

“Took adv—are you being serious?” he scoffs, shaking the coarse, dark hair on his crown. “I gave you, like, one drink.”

Victory courses through your veins at the sudden, intense flood of irritation marking his tone, the vein popping in his jaw.

Anything to get to him, to make him tick, to scratch that itch.

Dig. Dig. Dig.

A shrug. “Maybe you put something in it.”

His eyebrows jump up, eyes widening with the movement.

Just. So. Close.

“And… you know, I am a lot younger than you—”

“—okay, enough.”

Peña’s growled response has your voice fizzling out into nothingness. Closing what’s left of the distance between you, muscled form looming, he flattens you against the ambassador’s office doors. As one large hand slowly splays out next to your ear, the other comes up to grasp your chin. His fingers wrap around your jawbone, all the way from one ear to the other.

You’re stuck, frozen under the weight of that dominant leer.

“Y’know,” he muses, deep and low, “It’s really fuckin’ obvious what all this is actually about, sweetheart.” Trapped in his glare, you watch his eyes grow dark, his gravelly voice falling into a register you’d never before heard it descend to. And he’s so, so close to you, close enough that you can smell him: that distinct, earthy scent of man that never failed to have your head spinning, your arms weak. “This… highschool bullshit you’ve been pullin’ since I got back… accusin’ me of all kinds of shit—"

You deny yourself the pleasure of looking at his lips when his words withdraw into an almost-whisper.

“Makes you feel real innocent, doesn’t it?

You don’t respond, concentrating on stifling the growing ache in your core, the thump-thump-thumps inside your rib cage, the lump forming in your throat.

A rarity, a miracle, Jesus turning water into wine: words fail you.

“Know what I think, cariño?” His fingernails press into your cheeks, digging soft indents. Not to bruise—

To hold you steady.

To assure himself of his command over your full, devoted attention.

When he finally continues, his smoky breath raises the hairs along your exposed skin.

God, it must be, like, nine-hundred degrees in the room.

“I think”—and he’s toying with you, near-black eyes dancing with amusement—“You’re just embarrassed.”

Leaning in, his lips brush against the ridges of your ear, slow words washing over you in big, heavy waves. “‘Bout how easy it was for me to get between these legs.” Male, calloused fingers ghost over the skin of your thighs, creeping higher and higher up the length of your body.

“Remember how wet you got for me, cariño? Beggin’ me to fuck you so rough?”

And for a brief, suspended moment—

You do.

He leans back enough for you to watch his eyes harden, uttering an “I remember it all, baby,” as his thumb leaves your jaw to trace the highest point of your cheekbone.

And his tone turns to stone.

“Especially when you’re acting like you need a fuckin’ reminder.”

Your cheeks grow red-hot. The ground feels unsteady under your feet—and the spell breaks.

Pig.

“You’re fucking vile, Peña,” you spit, wrenching his grip off your face. “And also, dead wrong.” Slamming into his shoulder, you aim to storm out.

He catches your arm, twisting you back around to face him. “If you go out tonight,” the man near-growls, lecturing down at you like a damn parent, “You’re putting your life and everyone else's on the line.”

You tear your wrist from his fingers, shrugging off his empty warning with a dramatic spin on your heels.

Strutting out, you leave him with a poison-coated, “Say ‘hi’ to the whores for me.”

And you’re gone.

It’s loud. Your feet are sore from dancing in your heels. A different, unfamiliar body is in reach in every possible direction from your own.

It’s perfect.

Five shots in and you still feel like you could take more, if only to forget the exhausting events of the day.

Less than 48 hours ago you’d been prepared—dear God, longing—to hand yourself over to a man you were now quite happy to never see again. With your hands wrapped around a stranger’s neck, you’re determined to cleanse yourself of his lingering traces.

He’s gazing down at you, male, hungry eyes gunning for the taking. Local, you guess, or at the very least South-American. After a daring look, you grab him by the collar, brushing your starved lips against his.

“Want to get out of here?”

The pronunciation isn’t great—but it does the trick. He nods enthusiastically, allowing you to take his hand in your own without hesitation. Too easy. The hard part is weaving through the agitated, bustling crowd with your nameless partner in tow.

It’s reckless. It’s stupid. But God, is it ever necessary.

Escaping your friends at the start of the night had been child’s play, and they could be counted on to be too fucked-up at this hour to notice your absence, anyway.

Good.

Your act of desperation would be remembered solely by its participants.

A gentle evening wind swirls around your tingling body, the day’s heat hanging thick in the air as you step onto the street, the syncopated thumps of Latin music fading unwillingly into the background.

Pivoting abruptly, you flatten yourself against the wall outside, pulling the stranger in close by the fabric of his blue button-up.

“Yours or mine?”

He smirks, gentle lines forming by his golden eyes. Internally, you commend yourself: the catch was quite pretty.

“Here is okay, I think.”

Then, his lips are on yours, parting you open in a sloppy, drunk kiss.

This could work.

His traveling hands already seem to be numbing some of the tension simmering under your skin.

This could work.

His rough kisses overwhelm your senses, slowly filling the hollow ache lodged at the heart of your core.

Please, God—let this work.

Just as a hand reaches up to cradle the back of your neck—

(let this work, let this work, let this work)—

Just as a pleased moan travels from your lungs into his own—

Tires screech against the pavement, slamming you back into your body, wrenching you straight into the dire moment. Tearing your lips from the stranger’s, you peer over his shoulder, eyes widening at the sight of a black Camino screaming to a stop right before you. Time stops; the windows are down, and what you know to be the barrel of a hand-gun pokes out from the backseat.

“Get down!”

Maybe it's in your head (after all, it would make sense for your psyche to summon his voice in a moment so violent); or maybe it's real. Either way, you listen to the command, hitting the ground without any reservations. And those stupid heels—you stumble, face-planting onto the pavement, scraping every exposed part of your body against hot, rough cement.

A cry of terror rips from your throat as the sound of bullets punctuates the warm, summer night—Jesus, it’s louder than anything you’d ever heard before.

Somewhere along the chaos, the pretty stranger from the bar books it down the calle.

Everything happens so fast. A familiar Cherokee veers in the way, separating you from the attackers. The surrounding air becomes rife with lead, a terrified chorus of male and female voices joining the symphony, and you really can’t tell whether the pain in your chest is from the friction of your own harmonizing screams or if it’s bullets tearing through your body. From the ground, you watch your attackers’ vehicle take off down the street, haphazardly parting crowds of cowering civilians in its wake.

When it all stops, it doesn’t really stop.

Violence persists, ringing in your ears like a doomsday clock going off, an A-bomb alarm siren. The echoes are happy to prolong your torment.

The Jeep’s passenger door swings open. You scramble back, scampering down the pavement as adrenaline claims you in never-ending rushes.

“Get inside, now.”

You nearly sob with relief at the familiar voice. It hadn't all been in your head. Jumping up on unstable legs, you lunge into his car, jerking the door shut behind you.

Without sparing a moment, his white-knuckled hands yank the wheel to the side, veering onto a road just off the main strip.

Javier Peña’s never looked so stressed.

“You’re not gonna follow them?” It comes out as a cry, a desperate plea for retribution.

He doesn’t answer.

Which doesn’t stop you.

You want to see them punished for making you feel so helpless, and for the scrapes and bruises decorating your elbows, your knees, your palms.

“Javi,” a begging king of shout, “Why aren’t we following them?”

“‘Cause you’re in the fucking car!”

In the heat of the moment, the cutting edge of his harsh tone doesn’t bother you. If anything, it’s gentle compared to the violent sensations stewing within your body and mind.

“So?”

He takes a sharp right, slamming your side against the Jeep’s hard interior.

“Been in enough…” He grits his teeth, trying to keep his irritation in check, “Compromising situations tonight, alright? Now, just shut up ‘n let me drive.”

You pipe down, not awfully interested in getting yelled at again in your fragile state.

At first, it feels like the full-body trembles wracking your entire being won’t ever cease. And yet, by the grace of God, after a few minutes, the thundering behind your ribcage slowly subsides.

It helps that you’re still a little buzzed.

It especially helps when his driving slows and the streets begin to empty—when the shops and houses become more and more recognizable, when the night grows more and more tame.

You know where he’s headed. The safety of the intended destination has you relaxing, finally level enough to take deep breaths.

Eventually, he stops the car, cutting the engine in full view of his building's front door.

The rumbling stops, and suddenly, it's very quiet. Javier groans, leaning back against his seat, bringing a hand up to his temples. He doesn’t look at you, keeping his eyes closed behind the palm of his hand.

And oh.

He’s pissed.

“Go inside, lock the door, don’t open it for anyone.” His command, though dripping with ire, is underpinned with genuine concern. When you don’t respond, he finally shifts his gaze to meet yours, fixing you with an intimidating, severe kind of stare.

“Do you understand?”

At first, your impulse is to respond with a bitchy retort, to meet his intensity head-on with your own brand of unpleasantness. You stifle that reflex, taking stock of the situation at hand: Peña had just saved you from a flurry of bullets.

Peña… had just saved you…

And the realization hits you like a punch to the gut.

He’d been telling the truth.

Someone was really after you. Twice, now, they'd tried to take your life.

And, still? Your addled brain can’t seem to wrap itself around the idea of Peña’s innocence. Your bursting question takes you both by surprise.

“So, you didn’t take my spark plug?”

He stares at you, full mouth parted in genuine bewilderment. Then, he scoffs, breathing an exhausted exhalation. “No, I didn’t take your damn spark plug, sweetheart. That’s what I’ve been saying. If you’d bothered to actually fuckin’ listen for once in your life…” he shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation, “‘Could’ve avoided all… this.”

Shame tries its best to seep into your core. You resist it, scrambling for reasons to justify your actions to him.

To yourself.

You hated being wrong. That feeling had a tendency of overwhelming everything else—of overriding rationality, itself.

So, you turn to a classic defense, an ol' reliable: deflection. “After all the shit you’ve put me through over the years, can you blame me for not, just like, blindly trusting you?”

He scowls, angling his shoulders to square off with your own.

“Never asked for you to ‘blindly trust’ shit, though, did I?” He huffs, “Jesus.”

You try not to wince as he continues on, as the truth of his words and the seriousness of his delivery render you mute. “You’re a secretary, sweetheart. This is my job—my life—okay? When I tell you to be careful, for the sake of your own damn good, you need to listen to me.”

There’s a long pause as his words tease out your final, entangled threads of resistance.

He was right. You’d been stupid in your denial, putting yourself and dozens of others in danger.

Putting Javi in danger.

It takes everything you have to fight the tears threatening to well along your lashes. But there's no sense in allowing yourself to mourn your mistakes—at least not at this very moment.

No, now was not the time to work through your shame.

Now was the time to seek forgiveness.

To make amends.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, trying to catch his downcast eyes.

And it’s true.

Javi shakes his head, resisting your apology. He says nothing, and your heart aches for him.

Whatever this man was—he hadn’t deserved a fraction of the hell you’d given him.

The hell you’d given him because…

Because he’d gotten close. Too close. Close enough to soften you, to see you in a way that not one single person had the right to. He’d been a novelty: the first man you’d trusted enough to be capable of handling the full breadth of yourself. And when that had started to feel volatile—as though he’d gained too much of you?

Well, you’d needed a reason to push him away. To wrench yourself back from him.

Because you’d been embarrassed.

Knowing that he’d been right about that, too, makes you feel so small, so young, and deeply naive.

Immature.

You lean over, crooning at his turned profile.

“I mean it, Javi.” His name is your weapon—you will it to wear him down—a reminder of what it sounds like leaving your lips. “I’m sorry.”

Again, silence.

It’s fucking unbearable.

Placing an unsteady hand on his knee, you trail it up his thigh—slowly. His chest hitches with the force of a deep, sharp inhale and yet, he still refuses to meet your gaze.

But you catch his reflection in the glass: a slight twinge of the eyebrows, a delicate parting of the lips, and a hint of longing within those furious eyes.

Wiggle room.

“Could you ever forgive me?” You ask timidly, seductively, fingers creeping towards the crease of his trousers and that big silver buckle looming right above it.

Finally, he turns, his expression meeting yours with a hungry (albeit still deeply annoyed) look.

That wanting you’d learned to recognize…

It excites you.

And as you tug at his belt, releasing it with tantalizing slowness, you keep your steady gaze on his undecided one, uttering a pleading, “I can make it up to you, baby.”

Wordlessly, he watches your fingers move to the button of his pants, then to his fly, working with dedication, with delicate care.

There’s movement as you reach your fingers underneath the fabric. He grows hard for you, burgeoning out of the fabric in a matter of seconds.

It’s all the invitation you could’ve possibly hoped for.

His skin is hot against your knuckles as they slide down his lower abdomen. Grasping the base of his cock, you use two hands to spring him free.

God, he’s even bigger than how you’d remembered him—bigger than even your guiltiest fantasies.

Javi groans softly when you pull him, releases a hot, shallow breath when you stroke him, and a low, breathy “fuuuck” when you finally, finally take him in your mouth.

He tastes like the salt of the ocean. This close, you can smell men's cologne mingling with sweat.

It’s heaven.

And you just don’t want him to be angry anymore. It’s all you can think about—lips cradled adoringly around his cock, tongue running up and down the long length of him—as he throws his head back in pleasure.

He eventually relaxes, conceding to the ecstasy you persuade him with. Almost drinking the uncertainty—the resistance—right out of him.

“Christ,” he groans, tangling his fingers in your hair, forcing you to take in every last inch of him. “Wanted to shut you up like this all fuckin’ day.”

It becomes a challenge to breathe, but air simply isn’t a priority with a man like him at your fingertips, as your responsibility. This, he knows, his heavy hand determining the slow, careful pace, the impossible depth, and the angle of your unspoken apology.

Growing wet and lightheaded at the same time, you loose a moan against his velvety skin.

Javi laughs, darkly. “Always got somethin’ to say, huh? Even with a mouth full of cock.”

You smile around him—taunts are good. Better than silence, anyways. “Mhmm.”

The sounds of his laughter rumbles soft and low throughout his middle—so different, so sweet and innocent compared to the wet, filthy ones produced by your mouth’s ministrations.

You give him everything you have, ignoring the droplets forming in the corners of your eyes and lips, the dull burning inside your lungs. When the tip of his cock lodges at the back of your throat, you keep him there.

Whatever Javi gives you, you take.

Happily.

Every last drop would find its home inside you, traveling down the length of your tongue and into all of your warmest places.

It was the least you could do for him.

But he has other plans. His hand bunches up your hair, tightening into a fist to pull you off of him. His cock pops out from between your lips; you’re guided up to face him.

He looks stern.

Dangerous.

Out of breath, tears sliding down your cheeks, lips glistening with the slick of your own spit—you’re a welcome sight to any man of his kind.

“Say it.”

He makes use of his free hand, wiping the coarse pad of his thumb over your bottom lip, clearing the string of saliva collecting there.

It’s not rocket science, figuring out what it is that the man wants to hear.

“I’m sorry, Javi.”

Neither of you had ever known how much an apology could sound like a prayer.

“Yeah?” Despite the gentleness of his tone, his eyes darken with lust to the point that you feel genuinely nervous about his intentions. “What are you so sorry for, hermosa?”

Fuck, the pet-names... the way his voice changed when reverting to its native tongue—rolling with confidence. At such an awkward angle, you’re forced to grip onto his forearms to keep balance. They feel strong and unbending beneath your fingertips.

Everything… everything about him draws you in.

He just makes you crazy.

Crazy enough to smile, to turn your profile to the side, laying a long, careful kiss to his palm. Crazy enough to answer his question in a needy, whiney whisper: “for being such a brat.”

He almost smiles, near-black eyes dancing with hunger, with approval, with a playful kind of ire.

Jerking his head to the right, he gestures to the backseat. “Wanna show me how sorry you are, cariño?”

You’re nodding before the question really even registers.

He releases his hold on you, deft fingers quickly untangling from your hair.

Victory. Victory. Victory.

Then, you’re stumbling out of the passenger side, opening the door to the backseat.

(You take a second to commend yourself for driving a man so wild, making him so impatient that he couldn’t be bothered to walk the ten feet required to fuck you inside his apartment. Or, maybe he just liked letting the neighbours watch.)

Before you can even step foot inside the car, you’re being hauled by your upper arms onto Javi’s lap. He manhandles you into his desired position, spreading your knees around his thighs until your dress is hitched up, only covering your ass half-way.

After snaking a hand between your bodies, the agent runs his thumb down the slick fabric of your underwear.

Already, you’re holding back a slew of pathetic whines.

“Next time you give me head”—God, the feeling of those fingers against your clit, the bliss of them pushing your panties to the side, assessing your readiness for him—“Wanna be able to see that pretty mouth while my dick’s inside it, sweetheart.”

His lust has him speaking a bit out of breath. It makes every crude, filthy word sound sweet, almost endearing to you.

Nodding in response, you work with him—lowering yourself onto his fingers as he pushes them between your folds.

“Jesus Christ,” he smiles, head falling back in appreciation, “You’re soaked.”

His fingers curl up, pressing to please in all the right places. Your answer arrives between gasps: “You tasted good.”

That pleases him.

“Yeah?” and he’s dragging his digits out of you, letting them trail through your folds and along your heavy, sore clit before leaving you wanting, leaving that needy cunt clenching around nothing. “I bet you taste even better.”

Then, his grip is on your jaw, pressing damp spots into your skin under his index, middle, and ring fingers. With the pad of his thumb pressed firmly to your bottom lip (and the row of teeth behind it), Javi eases your mouth open, wider and wider and wider for him.

“Show me—show me how good you taste.”

His index crawls onto your tongue. You close your lips around it, sucking him in until his fingernail scratches the back of your throat. He wants to be shown, so you show him: gazing intently into his eyes, you watch his brow furrow as he studies your every movement, as he drinks in your every moan.

“Fuckin' hell,” he groans, commending your efforts. “You’d do anything I asked right now, wouldn’t you, hermosa?”

Your bottom teeth graze the undersides of his index as you pull off—“yes, Javi.” Almost instinctively, you’re reaching your hand down, letting it coast down the hardness of his chest to rub circles around the slick tip of his cock, still peeking out from his open fly.

“Not yet,” he clicks his tongue, pushing his index, and this time, his middle and ring, too, back through the opening of your lips, “Need to clean yourself off every one of these fingers, first—thaaat’s right.” You listen, obediently sucking everything he gives you. He instructs and praises, “easy—easy, cariño, there it is,” as he watches you glide up and down him in slow, big pulls, all the way down to his knuckles.

It’s fucking filthy, and he loves it, unable to keep that arrogant smirk off of his face.

He’s practically in paradise, coming up with a mental list of creative ways to shut you up.

Still, Javi allows you to multitask: all the while, your fingers continue to explore the exposed parts of his cock. Only when he’s satisfied, when his length couldn’t possibly get any harder—only then does he free your mouth, letting his damp fingers trail down the side of your neck.

The feeling sends a shiver up your spine.

Without warning, he yanks down the straps of your dress and bra, pulling them all the way down until you’re postured on his lap, chest fully exposed; his abrupt movement has you loosing a stunned "Javi!" He runs his palms over the most sensitive peaks of your breasts, a hungry smile teasing the corners of his lips.

Then, he shrugs. “Told you last time I wanted to see them. Got the prettiest fuckin’ tits, hermosa.”

You don’t have time to roll your eyes, to laugh, or to really even register the vulgarity of his words, nor the taunting, degrading way they’re delivered to you. Javi’s already holding both you and himself up in one arm (and, oh, how you’d simply ached for the feel of his strength) pulling down the waistband of his pants. He maneuvers you into the proper position to receive him in, two pairs of downcast eyes watching his cock spring free, tip curving in, grazing against the fabric of his shirt.

He rushes, but it still feels torturously slow. You’re craving, needing, as he uses the dark head of his cock to ease your ruined underwear to the side, guiding himself towards your dripping opening.

This time, he’s far too impatient to make you beg for it.

Ecstasy forces your back into an arch as he pushes himself between your walls, as you feel him filling you up, up, and up—wordless mouth falling open, your heavy head collapses aaall the way back.

Immediately, a hand is at the back of your skull, forcing your gaze back downwards. “No, no, no, baby, you let me see—let me see you when you ride,” and his voice is a little strained, a little desire-stricken, a little bit softer as he settles his every last inch inside your cunt.

Your irises could be forest fires as you set your sights on his own, seeing nothing, absolutely nothing but Javier in that moment.

Moving your hips in tandem, you set your pace.

Mother Mary—it’s hard, so fucking hard to keep your legs steady when he stretches you open—wide fucking open—and as his head grazes that spongy spot inside.

He doesn’t help, either. In fact, while your hands dig anchors into his shoulders (sometimes his chest, his neck, his waist) just to keep yourself upright, his own are trailing up to the pocket of his shirt, pulling out a pack of smokes.

You mewl softly at the heat building inside your cunt, loosing an indignant whine as Javi neglects his responsibilities toward your climax.

“Gave me such a hard time today, baby,” he muses, placing a cigarette between his fingers and tossing the rest aside, “Wanna hear a fuckin�� ‘thank you Javi’ every time you come.”

His words dance around you like streetlights passing in the night, barely registering inside your disintegrating mind. How could they? With the feeling of his thighs grazing the undersides of your own, the buttons of his shirt nudging against your aching clit… how could anything else even exist?

All you can give him is an “Mhm.”

He pulls a lighter out, smirking. “‘Tough-talker ‘til this pussy’s all full, huh?”

“I-I’m sorry, baby, I’m s-sorry.”

And he laughs. “Don’t say it, cariño,” he takes your hand, placing the light inside your fist. “Fuckin’ show me.”

He rolls his hips. Your weight collapses against his chest.

“C’mon,” he coaxes, pushing you off, straightening you up before placing the cigarette between his lips, “Aaall you gotta do is light up the tip. You got it, sweetheart.”

His hands travel down to your ass, giving it a rough squeeze before his fingers splay out. He spreads you open over his thighs, watching the etchings of your lust corrupt your expression as he fucks himself—slow, deep, hard strokes—inside you.

“Fu—please, Javi—I can’t, s’too much, baby—please—”

A smile, full lips parting around the dart. “S’wrong, baby?” The words are low, breathy, teasing, contorting around the smoke in his mouth. “Can’t focus?”

God, just make him happy.

It’s the only thought you seem to be able to form. His request doesn’t seem to be up for debate, either.

So, summoning every last bit of control still lingering inside you, you bring a trembling hand up to the unlit end, a string of moans and ‘Javi’s rising from your throat.

And fuck, he’s beautiful, brimming with playful passion, orange filter hanging off those pretty pink lips.

Trying to still yourself, you flick the lighter on—the flame dances between you, illuminating the expansive darkness lurking inside his gaze. It takes everything, everything you have left to light it for him, to make that white tip glow red hot, to stay steady enough, to keep from burning him.

And also, to hold your pace. That grip of steel wrapped around your hip serves as a constant reminder—

Keep taking it.

In those final moments, he picks up his pace, of course. Your simmering blood bubbles to a boil, the flutters inside your cunt graduating into pulsing throbs.

As the flame finally takes, you feel every muscle inside your core tense—when Javi inhales his first drag, you straddle the precipice of your orgasm.

Your weight falls onto his shoulder. One of his arms reaches up to ash the cigarette; the other wraps tightly around you, bouncing you against him as exhales a cloud of smoke into your hair.

“Baby—Javi, I’m coming, I’m coming, I'm c—”

Heat builds between your thighs, and as that bundle of nerves grows heavy, pulsing with the rush of your orgasm, his thrusts only deepen.

He pulls you in close.

“I know, cariño,” Javi coos, condescending into the shell of your ear, basking in the feel of your cunt near-strangling him in adoration. “Can feel you, y’know? Got such a grateful lil' pussy,” he places a kiss to the side of your neck, groaning against the soft skin. “Always lets me know how much you love having my cock buried inside it.”

As he speaks, you try to catch your breath. To come down from your high.

It doesn’t work. Not while his hips continue to grind against yours, not while cradled between his arms like his holy beloved, and especially not with his tip still pressing against every available, wanting spot on your walls.

Javi takes another long drag from the dart. “What do you say when you come, baby?”

A big, laboured inhale, and the words come out in one, rushed exhalation. “Thank you, Javi.”

He responds with a downright cocky laugh. “You’re welcome, cariño. Good girl.”

The praise… it makes you melt.

Tangling his fingers in your hair, nails grazing the skin of your scalp, he pulls you off of his chest. Your heavy breaths mingle together in the stale heat of the Jeep Cherokee.

You buck up, doing your best to keep pleasing him as he studies your devoted movements, as he leans back against the seat—groaning.

His hand—often glued to your rolling hip—provides you with only a mere hint of stability.

“That guy you were with,” he takes a drag from his cigarette, using his free hand to toy with one of your peaked nipples. “At the bar. You’d’ve done this for him?”

Your lips part, but no sound crosses the threshold of your lips. You’re dazed—still coming—and building to yet another peak. His unwillingness to move starts to ground you; the long length of every hard muscle beneath his arms, the round, bulging ridges of his shoulders… they become your salvation, places to lay your weight into. Riding him becomes second nature: you’re attuned to his rhythm and the desperate, commanding desires of your body.

Suddenly, you’re a part of him; when he exhales, the smoke creeps out of his lungs and into your own.

You burn right along with it.

He drops the still-smoking cigarette onto the seat next to your entangled bodies, bringing both his hands to rest against your dampened skin. One comes down hard, delivering a quick, harsh slap to your ass.

It would leave a mark.

“Tell me. Use that pretty mouth, hermosa. ‘Know you know how—used it—ran it all fuckin’ day.” Javi grunts, angling to bend over you, pushing into your guts as he wraps you in his arms, finally taking the burden of your weight off of your scraped up, wobbling knees. He continues on, “Tonight, too—been so easy, baby, lettin’ me put anything I want in there like a good lil' slut,” drinking in your cry of pleasure. He almost says it to himself, eyebrows furrowing as he reminisces, as your cunt begins to throb around his hardening cock once more. “You'd've done that for him, cariño?”

You swallow, trying to clear the stars dancing before your eyes, and that fuzzy sound of static. It muffles the symphony of Javi’s hoarse breaths, your own, helpless cries, and the filthy sound of skin colliding with—grinding against—skin.

He quickens, now, using you like a damn toy. Every rough thrust brings you closer to heaven; every ardent, breathtaking squeeze of his arms around your middle feels like angels sighing.

“No,” you breathe, closing your eyes. Your arms cling around his neck, fingers fanning through his thick hair—everything is him, him, him. He leans forward again, ducking down to kiss the hollow of your throat; you pull him in faithfully, moaning softly at the feel of his lips, his teeth under the valley under your jaw. “Only you.” It sounds like worship, sliding up an octave as that low ache worsens, as he compells a second climax out of your already-quivering body. “Only you, Javi.”

He growls, lips dragging up to your ear as the hairs of his mustache tease your cheekbone. “Prove it,” he breathes, deep thrusts growing even more erratic— needier, sloppier. You can barely hear him over your own noises, but he continues his gravelly coos inside your ear nonetheless. “Gimme another one, baby—wanna feel you comin' on my cock when I fill you up so fuckin' full, baby—show me that you’re mine—z’this pussy mine, hermosa?”

“Yesyesyes—oh God, y-yes—m’yours, Javi, y—”

Your legs seize as yet another release tears through your body. The skin of his neck anchors you in place, and you hang off of him like a rosary, digging your fingernails into the warmth of his flesh with every ounce of strength at your disposal.

He fucks you through your second climax, headed straight for his own.

“S-such a good girl, cariño—f-fuck—” Arms, wrapped around your waist, tighten enough to snap you in two as Javi crushes you against his chest, using the momentum of your entire, shaking body to finish himself off. He comes with a grunted “s-shit”—and you pay attention, wanting to commit the divine sound to memory. Swelling between your silken walls, Javi spills everything he could possibly give inside you.

A final, abrupt thrust, married with the non-stop, involuntary clench-and-release of your cunt works to cover every square inch of you with him.

When it’s over, the man refuses to let you part from him (not that you had any real desire to do so, anyway). A big, shaking hand keeps your head cradled in the firm crook of his neck, and he slowly, slowly softens inside you. He basks in the final, weak flutters of your cunt as you lose yourself in the smell of his cologne.

His heart hammers in his chest. You can hear it with your ear pressed to his neck. Going limp, your damp forehead rolls onto the hard roundness of his shoulder.

That aching, sore opening soaks the skin of his thighs. You shiver softly, dripping onto the base of his shaft.

“Say it, cariño,” Javi murmurs, laying a rough kiss to your temple. He runs his hands up and down your bare spine, fingers dancing along your sticky skin.

You loose a breathy laugh against his golden skin. “Thank you, Javi.”

And you pull back just in time to catch his genuine smile.

It fucking melts you. Adoration, pride… spreading like tree-roots under rich, forest soil throughout your still-heaving chest.

He rubs the pads of his thumbs under your eyes, wiping clean some of the going-out makeup that had no-doubt become a total, leaking mess.

“‘Pretty when you’re nice, y'know,” he mutters, moving to cup your cheeks between his warm, hardened palms. And then he pauses, reconsidering his words. “But fuckin’ hot when you’re mean.”

A breathy giggle. “What can I say,” you whisper, trailing a few appreciative fingers up and down his forearms. “You bring out the very best in me, Peña.”

He scoffs, but smiles all the while.

Off in the distance, there’s music. Sounds of debauchery and excitement travel through the warm summer air, audible even through the closed windows. The night is alive for the rest of the city; somewhere far, far away, an engine growls, rubber tires squealing against the pull of hard pavement.

It takes him away.

Javi grasps your shoulders, pushing you up and back to effectively slide you off of his half-soft length. “I’ll wait for you to get inside,” he says, yanking his pants back up over his hips, tucking himself back into his briefs. “Make sure you lock the door, alright?”

Pause.

What?

“You’re leaving?” You mirror him, hastily rearranging yourself—skinny straps find their way back above your shoulders, your short dress finds itself yanked down to its rightful place.

It’s awkward work, given the confines of the space.

The agent slips out from underneath you. He opens the door, rising from the backseat and straightening up with a groan. “Think I know where he was going,” he responds, mostly to himself. “I’m only, what…” a flip of his wrist as he checks the time, “Thiiiiiirty? Thirty-five minutes behind him?”

Before you know it, you’re bristling with irritation.

Again.

You throw your heels down on the street, unceremoniously shoving a cramping foot in each one. “Don’t be an idiot, Peña,” and you try your hand at standing, buckling slightly on a pair of Jell-o legs.

He comes around to your side, steadying you on your feet. Reflected in his deep-brown eyes is the same annoyance flashing across your own gaze. “D’you just expect me to be there, sweetheart? Z’that it? Every time your ass needs saving?”

Shame heats the soft skin of your cheeks. Your eyes trail down to the ground, volatile, incomprehensible emotions building with every passing second.

“It won’t happen again—I won’t-I won’t be so stupid, or-or—I won’t go out, anymore.”

He scoffs. “Yeah, well, that’s nice 'n all, but it’s sure as shit not gonna change anything.”

When you don’t respond, when you don’t look up, his edges soften. “They went to your house, sweetheart.” With his hands on your shoulders, he implores you to see sense. “It’s either we get them or they… get you.”

You exhale, hard. “You’re being dramatic.”

That does it for him.

After an exasperated shake of his head, he’s grabbing your hands in his own, placing a set of keys in the cradle of your palm.

His tone is low, demanding, unbending. “Lock the doors.”

Then, he’s turning to leave, walking to the front of the Cherokee.

Before rounding the corner, he turns his hardened profile to the side. The glare of the building’s lights dance on his tanned skin, turning the whole scene into a sort of lucid dream.

“Y’know, you’re really starting to piss me off with this whole… utopian fantasy you’re livin’ in.” He barely even addresses you, mumbling the rest of his sentiment mostly to himself. “I’m fuckin’ tired of being the only one looking out for you.”

Utopian fantasy?

You try to dismiss him—to call him ridiculous, to throw yourself into the familiar task of poking holes in his arguments—but… you can’t. Over and over, his words rush you in waves: “the only one looking out for you” “utopian fantasy” “the only one looking out for you” “utopian—”

Suddenly, you’re on a different street. In the same clothes, and in the same body, but somewhere far, far away, facing a different man. It’s somewhere very loud, where tires and knees come to a screeching stop against cement, where the downbeat of every Latin measure is punctuated by the sound of a bullet, inscribed with your initials, ripping through the static summer air.

Panic hits you like a bolt of lightning.

It doesn’t go away, either.

Not even once you’re back on Javi’s street, fossilized in amber, watching him move to the driver’s side of his Jeep.

All the fear you hadn’t allowed yourself to feel…

You’d forced him to shoulder it for you, instead.

But, inevitably, what goes around comes around. And he’s dropped your burden right back onto you with a few well-timed words.

Truth bares itself to you, settling heavy atop your bones like an ancient, primal wound. The result is a pair of unsteady legs, a perennial tremor in both, white-knuckled hands, and a crackling voice, resisting use.

“Javi…”

Only when you hear the sound of your own terror echoed back to you do you permit yourself to cry.

And there you stand. Disheveled, confused, broken—clothing misplaced, ruined, broken—

And you just don’t want him to leave.

Not now.

Not when you need him.

Not when you need someone.

Not when you think you’ve finally got it figured out, and especially not when you’re so damn close to speaking it into existence.

Realization. Acknowledgement. Expression.

It’s not a customary pattern, in your experience.

Javi stops in his tracks, stunned to a halt at the sheer emotion in your plea.

It stings when you clear your throat. “I just…” and you falter, strange, unfamiliar words sticking to your throat, sickly-sweet dried honey. Each vowel reverberates back to you, amplified by the acoustics of the empty street and their novelty.

Still, you’re not quite sure how he’s able to hear you, given that you can only bring yourself to speak a handful of decibels above a damn whisper.

“I’ve just never been important, Peña.”

You wipe a self-conscious hand across your face, clearing the sea-salt from below your downcast eyes.

Before you’re able to put a stop to it—it all comes rushing out. Averting his gaze, you ramble on in agitation.

“Not beyond being a-a pair of hands to make fucking photocopies—or as the butt of some sort of “prissy receptionist” joke or even just as some—as-as a kind of fucking challenge to men—men like you, Javier—because I… well, because I’m mean, and I-I guess it’s just fun for everyone to see how far they can take it before—before I…” You give your head a fervent shake, trying to reel yourself back in, trying to close off the monologue.

But the cracks had formed, and with nowhere to go, the mounting pressure of the seven seas washes away the rest of your weakened dam.

The agent can't even get a word in.

“Anyways, that’s-that's not the point. The point is that it just… it didn’t seem possible that anyone in this whole fucking country would even think twice about me—even if it was just to… to kill me…”

A lump forms, lodging behind your larynx.

You start to rush.

“So I really am sorry that I acted like such an asshole, but none of this makes a fucking lick of sense to me—I’m-I’m a secretary, for fuck’s sakes—I’m nothing, no one, I’m not—” and then you’re frantic—

The gunshots, the tires, the music, the spark plug, a Camino—

“Just please, don’t go, don’t—I-I know you’re mad, just—please, just don’t—”

It’s impossible to catch your breath. Every heaved sob racks your lungs, shaking you all the way down to your buckling knees.

You want to turn, to run and hide, to fling yourself into oncoming traffic—anything to end the interminable humiliation you couldn’t seem to keep from putting on display in front of Javier Peña.

And shit. No man could see a woman in the same way after this. No man would care for a woman like this, destroyed and pathetic and—

“Oh, cariño—”

And he’s there.

Those arms—so used to taking—they wrap you up, pulling you into the heat of his body, protecting you from the pointed echoes of laughter and song breezing through the night air. Those hands, the ones that bruised, slapped, grabbed—they hold—the right unburdens you of your oppressive weight, pressed flat against the small of your back. His left cradles the back of your head, laying your temple to the side of his throat.

“You’ve always been important to me, sweetheart.”

His soft murmurs tumble down your spine. That smoky breath envelops you; it reminds you of those blankets in the movies—the ones that the firemen hand out after the disaster’s over, the survivors rescued. In the denouement.

“S’okay, S’okay. I’m sorry, baby, alright? I’m not mad, cariño, it’s okay.”

Running his fingers through your hair, supporting your head like a delicate, sacred object, murmuring comforts against the softest parts of your neck—Javi goes on and on. Despite the frequent shifts between Spanish and English, you manage to catch the main gist of his crooning.

“I could never be mad at you, baby.”

“It’s okay.”

“I’m not mad, cariño.”

“And I’m sorry, baby.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“I’m not mad.”

“I’ll stay.”

“I’m sorry.”

After an eternity, you feel calm enough to pull away. You’re a wreck, gazing up at him with big, silver-lined eyes.

And it’s then that you see him.

That you really see him.

The concern, the anguish, the affection… You’d punished him for doing the very thing that you were incapable of doing.

Protecting you.

Caring for you.

As tears continue to leak from your eyes, you take note of his beauty. Not just of his looks, but also in the sheer power radiating from him, towering like a knight over you. In those capable, caring hands—hands that had torn others apart, that had put you back together—there was beauty in them, too.

You wipe your face dry.

And you soften your tone, aiming to lighten the mood. “Stop trying to get in my pants, Peña." A sniffle. "I don’t sleep with cops.”

He rolls his eyes, the ghosts of a smile tugging at his lips. “Y’know,” he cups your face, drying the final, lingering remnants of your melt-down off your cheeks, “I waited outside that fuckin’ bar for hours tonight. Just in case.”

Oh.

God, you’d never even bothered to think about how he’d gotten to you so quickly.

Of course he’d been there.

That truth feels… warm.

He goes on. “Watched you… saw you with that guy.” He scoffs at himself, shaking his head. “Had to look away when you came outside. S’why it… took a minute. To get there.”

That has your gaze trailing off, eyes cast down in shame, studying the worn-in rubber on the Jeep’s tires.

It would have never worked, anyway. There wasn’t a man on Earth who could ween your mind off of this one.

With the pad of his thumb against your chin, he brings you back to him. Javi commands your full attention with the just the sincerity of his stare.

“Even when you want nothin’ to do with me... I’m there, alright? I’m here, baby.”

Those eyes… softened with affection, hardened with conviction. Javier always had a way of straddling both worlds at once.

He waits for your signal, your quick nod of acknowledgement.

Then, he’s kissing you—softly. Fingers curling around his forearms, you borrow his strength to keep yourself from swooning. He holds your face as tenderly as he caresses your lips, and with every synced inhalation, he speaks yet another unspoken word into existence.

After giving you enough to make you feel whole again, he pulls away.

With his great-big-palm to your cheek, he says everything you need to hear.

“Let’s go inside, sweetheart.”

—

part 3

—

TAGLIST: @millllenniawrites @pining-and-tired @inkedells @stardust-chords-enthusiast @mattmurdocksgirlfriend @bookofbee @liviloo12346 @anyas-stuff @readingsunshine97 @maudlinflowers @sullysflm @sexygaypalpatine @livyjh @s-unflowxr @lostsoldieronahill @chapterhappygirl @raeluvshammett @silkiers @jupitersmood @supernaturaldean67 @razrsharpwhiteteeth @peqchsoup @corrodedcherries @hawsx3 @monboudoir @theonewithacrush @pono-pura-vida @totallynotastanacc @dzaga890 @swedishscumfuck @killerrxger @niallsbunny @cilliansangel @snowyarcher @grnherbs @mswarriorbabe80 @tercabed @sweettea-and-honeybutter @julesonrecord @bbyanarchist @thisgirl-knm @pedrit0-pascalit0 @princessdjarin @isitselfishifwetalkaboutmeagain @pseudonymist @goldengrapejuice @soullumii @jazzerbelle14

—

Officer Officer Everybody knows that I'm a good girl, officer No, I wouldn't do a thing like that, that's for sure The house was already on fire, I swear I'm not a liar (Well) I'm a little shaken, but I'm fine, thanks for asking Tell me, do you always work alone so late? Gosh, I'm a little shy standing here in my night gown Do you really have to put those tight handcuffs on?

Looking at me, then suddenly

I'm in love, I'm in love Love in a hurricane I'm in love, I'm in love Love in a hurricane

I've been bad, I've been wrong Playing a dangerous game I'm in love, I'm in love Love in a hurricane, hurricane, hurricane

Let's get in the back of your cop car, officer You can ask me anything you want Anything, anything

Do you have a girl? I don't see a ring on your finger Well, that's interesting Have you ever thought of dating a singer?

The flames are getting higher So is my desire It's kind of exciting Don't you think?

Then suddenly he's uncuffing me

I'm in love, I'm in love Love in a hurricane I'm in love, I'm in love Love in a hurricane

I've been bad, I've been wrong Playing a dangerous game I'm in love, I'm in love Love in a hurricane, hurricane, hurricane

Love, I'm in love Love in a hurricane I'm in love, I'm in love Love in a hurricane I can be the bad girl I'm getting you so hot You can be the good guy Tell him please stop

Love, I'm in love Love in a hurricane

You can be the good guy (Officer) I'm in love Tell him please Stop (Officer) (Officer) You can be the good good (Officer) I'm in love Love in a hurricane

—

#Javier Peña #javier peña x you #javier peña x reader #javier peña smut #javier pena x reader #javier pena x you #javier pena smut #javier pena fic #javier peña fanfiction #narcos fanfiction #narcos #Pedro pascal #Pedro Pascal x reader #Pedro Pascal smut #javier peña x y/n #javier peña narcos #javier pena narcos

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orcusnoir · 8 months

Text

"You know what I hate?" The Champion asked to no one in particular as he watched over the slow boiling pot of stew.

"Uh... Not having enough spices?" The Captain asked from his seat at the table.

Wild gave a nod. "Not what I was going for, but yes."

"Then what do you hate, Champ?" Wars asked while glancing over to the Vet. Legend was currently trying to stack his fork and knife on top of each other to no avail.

"How do I put this?" Wild tapped his chin in thought.

"As bluntly as you can." Hyrule chimed in.

"Fair enough. Why are certain clothes locked to certain people? It's fucking cloth." Wild complained with a laugh.

At first Wars was going to chide Wild for the language, but... He just couldn't. Wild had a point here.

"FINALLY!" Wind's loud voice startled Wars a bit as the Sailor had been awfully quiet in his seat. "Tetra and I both hate that stupid shit. What do you mean I can't wear heels? I'm trying to feel tall, and Tetra hates heels, and so somebody has to wear them."

"Tell me about it." Wild started. "Zelda let me try on one of her old royal dresses, don't ask how they survived a hundred years, and somebody had issues with that."

The Captain just laughed. Damn those social rules indeed. Wild in a dress wasn't something he was expecting to hear about today, but it was something that he could picture.

And the Champion would rock that dress.

"Heh, I've been thinking those rules were stupid since I knew they existed. So, since I was nine." Time joined the conversation. "I didn't even know what the big deal was back then."

"I'd ask how, but I'm afraid the answer would be too confusing." Twilight said.

"Oh, not at all, I was raised by forest spirits and a giant tree." The Old Man nonchalantly explained. "They didn't have concepts like "male" and "female." So imagine my confusion."

A claim that he made often but never elaborated on. Everyone, besides the Captain and Wind, thought it was a lie or a ruse.

Warriors just laughed, he couldn't help it.

"Oh little Mask and his insisting that he's a tree." Wars felt everyone's eyes turn to him.

Time laughed loudly. "You made that corporals life hell."

"I did not have time for that guy's bullshit. We are in the middle of a fucking war, if the kid says he's a tree then he's a fucking tree." Wars started to lose his composure from all of his laughing.

"What do you mean by "he's a tree"?" Sky asked while scratching his head.

"Again, I was raised by forest spirits." Time explain. "You lot, besides two, think this a lie. It's not."

"Time, your life profoundly confuses me." Sky said. "So they assigned you a tree?"

Time nodded.

"Instead of anything else?"

Another nod.

"Not like a boy tree? Just a tree?"

Another nod. "Two trees, to be exact. But yes."

"Two trees?"

"Maple and oak, to be exact."

Wars just watch the conversation with a grin. Oh, poor Sky. He must be feeling the same confusion that he and the Sailor had during the war.

"I feel so understood." Rulie said with the widest smile imaginable. "I'm just a Fae." He shrugged as the others turned to face him. "Not the legend kind of Fae. I was raised by Fairies."

"Well, now you can be a Fae tree. How lovely." Time stated with a laugh.

"What kinda tree?"

"Hmmm, you and the Captain both have the same one. Pine, and you can have maple too. As a treat."

"A Fae pine and maple tree. Nice."

"Are we just gonna brush over the fact that Wars already has a tree identity?" Legend asked.

"I do too!" Wind but in. "Take a guess, it's so obvious."

"Uh...Palm tree?" Twilight asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Correct!"

"What tree am I then?" Wild asked while seasoning a few cuts of meat.

"Willow." Time and Warriors both spoke at the same time.

"Damn, that was fast."

"You had this conversation before, hadn't you?" Sky asked while keeping his gaze locked to Wars. "So tell us our trees."

"Oh, alright, I'll try to remember all the specifics. It's been a while." Time laughed while tapping his fingers on the table.

"It all reminds me of the Minish. They have leaves instead of trees, though." Four, who had been quietly observing this whole time, finally spoke up.

"Oh, the Kokiri had leaves too. That's a whole other thing."

#linkeduniverse #linked universe #lu writing #lu time #lu twilight #lu sky #lu wind #lu wild #lu wars #lu warriors #lu legend #lu hyrule #lu chain #lu headcanons #queers them into oblivion #they might not have the terms but they've got the feelings #look me in the eyes and tell me that Time who was raised by a tree knew what a boy and a girl was #lu fic

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mondaymelon · 8 months

Text

₊˚ෆ 𝐈 𝐂𝐀𝐍 𝐊𝐄𝐄𝐏 𝐀 𝐒𝐄𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐓, 𝐂𝐀𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔? | lyney, neuvillette, wriothesely x gn!reader

ˋ°•*⁀➷ cw: established relationship, fluffity fluff !! art by @/puna_822 on twitter, edited by me!

⤷ shh!! secret relationships with the fontaine men ₊˚ෆ

— Lyney will keep the secret well, of course. He’s a jack of all trades, and a little bit of misconception is nothing taxing for someone who can trick the eye with just a simple swipe of his hands.

…Though, his personality often brings much more to deal with behind the scenes. His every action is designed as a ruse, trying to draw any and every reaction from you - whether it be making you irritated as can be or practically burning from his smooth words. He’ll at the red on your face with a light smirk gracing his lips. “Embarrassed, now, are we? Mhm, best wipe it off your face though, lest anyone find out~”

Dealing with the magician was a headache. A delightful one, but painful nonetheless. He has a habit of saying whatever he wants, and it doesn’t help that he’s so good at it too. His tongue can twist poems out of thin air, or pickup lines at the drop of a hat. The number of times Lynette had glanced over at you with a concerned gaze was far more than you could count, and it would be only a matter of time before another carefully crafted sentence sent the entire mirage into collapse. The two of you had only decided to keep your relationship private in the first place due to work affairs. It’d just make things more frustrating if people were aware of the connection. In earlier weeks, you had tried to confront the man about the entire predicament, but he had only laughed it off with a shrug of his shoulders and a jesting beam.

“Oh, don’t tell me that the words I tell you every day still make you so flustered? Archons, you really are a hopeless romantic, aren’t you? Although, for you, I suppose I’m no different…”

When Freminet had eventually voiced his worries, gently holding your hands and saying, “A-Are you okay? Your face is really red, are you sick? Should I walk y-you home?”, there was no other choice but to shake your head, cover your flushed cheeks as best you could with a hand, and tell a blatant lie that there was nothing out of the ordinary.

There most certainly was, and it was the cat-like man who stood off to the side, a sly smirk on his face and one of his eyes closed in a wink. Not helping, Lyney.

When would the day come for you to be the one to make him flustered? Perhaps it was sooner than you thought, on his opening night for the new season. You weren’t sure if he had expected to see you in the crowd, but as he was performing his wonderous tricks, eyes sweeping over the hundreds present, his shimmering lilac eyes locked onto yours. His professional smile stretched a little wider, and as he pulled a dove out of his hat with a flourish of his arms, beamed. The astonished look on your face was something he’d be sure not to forget.

As soon as the lights dim onstage, he hurries off of it, giving Lynette a quick farewell and combing back his unruly hair with his fingers. He spots you standing by the exit, holding… a bouquet of roses in your arms? They were a beautiful sight, yet paled in comparison to how ethereal you looked in the moment, the spotlights afar illuminating your face with a glow and your eyes sparkling with delight. This always happens when the two of you are alone - he’ll switch from verbal affection to physical, and this time is no exception. He sweeps you into his arms, slotting his lips against yours as he pulls you into a deep kiss that leaves you breathless and red. However, this time, the blush dusting your cheeks is not only on your face but his, as he takes the flowers in his arms with a bright smile.

“For me, love? Come now, I can’t possibly keep how good we are together from everyone else, can I?” ₊˚ෆ

— Neuvillette is… an interesting case. For starters, he’s baffled at the concept of keeping the relationship a secret. Elaborate that you don’t want to ruin his reputation as a perfect, just, and stone-cold judge, and he’ll oblige… reluctantly. He still doesn’t understand - just why can’t he show you how much he loves you in public?

For now, he’ll have to chalk it up as more human affairs that he’s deemed too complicated to figure out. Ground rules have been laid out - no mentioning the relationship, no telling anyone either… not even the melusines, which was a fair case, since they’d be sure to spread the news faster than wildfire. The mortal realm is far more puzzling than it seems, he concludes somberly. An unfamiliar world that was arduous to coexist in. It’ll be alright, though, as long as he can intertwine his fingers with yours and look into your eyes and-

“N- Sir Neuvillette… not here!” You chide quietly, slowly withdrawing your hand from his. His face falls into an instant, brows furrowing. He’ll bite his tongue, for your sake, and remain silent, yet his fingers twitch. Archons, his hands feel so much better when they’re in yours. The man watches with dejected eyes as you whip your head around anxiously, before gesturing for Neuvillette to bend down. He complies, and matches himself to your height, yet immediately pauses any motion as soon as he feels your lips brush against his forehead. You brush a stray lock of his behind his reddened ears, a grin curving on your lips.

“Don’t be too disappointed, okay? I don’t want it to rain on my way back home~” You beam slyly as you lean away, witnessing Neuvillette’s expression undergo several stages - downcast, shocked, flustered… and then a small smile graces his expression.

“I’ll see you when I get home. Don’t wait up for me. The case might run late.” Neuvillette chuckles to himself, straightening his posture as he softly pinches your cheek, laughing at the way you begin to pout. It’s something the melusines told him to do, and he’s glad he listened - your face is soft, and he has to hold himself back from kissing you. He can hear people around the corner, their voices growing closer. “Get home safe.”

“Love?” Whenever the dragon enters home, he’ll call you by the name he’s unable to call you anywhere else - something he loathes with a burning sensation in his chest. “Are you…” His voice fades as he sees you curled up on the couch, eyes closed and chest slowly rising and falling with every breath. Had you tried to stay up for him? Cute. He takes you in his arms and brings you to the bedroom, carefully arranging the pillows and blankets around your sleeping form. You stir in your state, lids slowly fluttering open as you stare at the man above you with drowsy eyes.

“Neuvi?” The use of his nickname makes his heart flutter. It’s utterly incomparable to what you call him at work, “Sir Neuvillette.” Too rigid. You giggle at the sight of him, still half-asleep, and cup his face in your hands. “Welcome home… did I fall asleep? Ah, I’m sorry, I guess I was too tired…?”

The smile on his face won’t leave.

Yes, moments like these allowed him to continue this strange human practice.

He places his hands on yours, reveling in your warmth.

“Sleep, love.” ₊˚ෆ

— Wriothesley’s used to being professional. If he wasn’t, his work would be a lifetime more demanding than it was at the moment - although, perhaps even that’d be easier than keeping himself away from you until watchful eyes are no longer present.

He’s touchy whenever he’s with you. He likes leaning into your figure, even if you’re shorter than him, just to take in the way you embrace him back, but he loves the feeling of your fingers with his even more. It makes him feel… giddy, light, like he could drift away with the slightest breeze.

And that’s an issue. In order for you to remain safe, he’ll have to stay hushed about you being his lover. He’s made enemies, that much is natural. Of course, he’ll comply with your wishes to keep the relationship private. You could tell him to eat dirt and he’d do just that. Things like that are second nature now. Before, he had no trouble lasting weeks, or months in the Fortress of Meropide at once. After all, there was no driving incentive to head back to the city of Fontaine other than greeting the melusines, dropping off official papers, or, his guilty pleasure, ordering bags upon bags of tea from the mainland, so that he’d have more than enough to drink at the fortress. Now that you were here, however, how could he possibly stay away longer than a few days? If your hands in his were what made him float away, your smile brought him back, with a racing heart in his chest and a smile spread across his features. He’d give the world to see your smile, since it was his world. A single laugh from you would cause the background to fade to white, and rouse his heart and face into a flustered mess.

The prisoners notice a difference. Of course, they don’t know who this mysterious person the duke is seeing, but all they know is that they’re certainly working wonders. On miraculous, wondrous days, they'll even catch a glimpse of a smile on his face while he’s sitting at his desk, sifting through paperwork. As time passes, the news only grows more widespread, eventually reaching the ears of the ludex himself. It’s true, there is an apparent change - one that he captures on the duke’s more frequent visits to land. For a while, fables and tales of Wriothelsey’s mysterious lover spread throughout the city from ear to ear in hushed, excited whispers.

He’ll tease you about it, of course, but he’s really just rather intrigued. Has he really changed that much after meeting you? He doesn’t think so, but he wouldn’t put it past himself. “Darling, darling…” He repeats your petname when you don’t immediately react. “Darling, c’mon…” He can feel the pout creeping on his lips.

“Impatient, are we, Wrio?” You sigh as you turn away from your work, and his icy eyes light up in an instant. You stroke your hand through his hair gently, carding your fingers through the soft, dark strands, and you can see the way Wriothelsey simply melts under your touch. “You’ve been seeking me quite often these days, haven’t you?”

Maybe he has changed. Staring up at you with half-lidded eyes and a smile playing on his lips, feeling his ears warm, perhaps that conjecture has been solidified as the truth.

“Is it so wrong to wish for you, darling?”

(a/n) ngl i kinda hate this fanfic. everything about it. everyone seems so ooc and the prompt is barely even mentioned ew ew ew not my best work by far please dont tell me writers block is coming back i hate that big bad scary thing

໒꒱ || ᴛᴀɢʟɪꜱᴛ (open! send an ask or a comment ♡) : @manager-of-the-pudding-bank, @iamdedinside, @ilyuu, @achlysis, @swivy123, @scara-is-my-wife

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blushweddinggowns · 7 months

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“So let me get this straight. You met a hot guy, conned him into a date with you, lied about who you were to get into his pants and still failed. Then kept going, bought a new phone and rented a fake apartment, fell in love him, continued this elaborate ruse for four months, and now you want me to figure out a way for you to get out of it?”

“...yes?”

“Oh my fucking god,” Chrissy nearly screeched into his ear, “That is what you have been doing? Have you lost your damn mind?!”

“Obviously, yes!” Eddie yelled right back, feeling fraught as hell. He was pacing back and forth, a cigarette in hand as he spoke, “I never planned on ending up here!”

“Really? Because this whole shit show seemed to need a lot of planning. Is this really what happens when I leave you unsupervised? I am never letting you out of the house again.”

Eddie was well aware he deserved the ribbing. He deserved much worse, but that didn’t change the fact that he was desperate, “Chris, I’m serious. I need help.”

“Eddie, I love you but come on. You need a plane ticket and an apology muffin basket and to move on. This guy doesn’t even know you.”

“It’s not like that,” Eddie said as he ran a frustrated hand through his hair, “It’s-okay. I’m still me with him. It’s like…I’m acting like who I would have been if I was never famous. I don’t know how else to describe it.”

“Have you tried delusional? Also, can I get a picture of this guy? How hot can one dude be to drive you-”

“I’m serious,” Eddie interupted, irritation coloring his voice, “I told him everything. The shit about my parents, Wayne, the drugs, you, everything.”

“You realize that everything would include your real name right? And again, a picture for the love of god would really help put this in perspective-”

“You know what I mean,” Eddie sighed. She still wasn’t getting it, “I’m in love with him. Like Chris, he was made for me. And if I had just stuck to tattooing instead of doing the music shit then I’m pretty sure he’d think the same of me.”

He could hear a small intake of breath on her end, her voice coming out a bit more concerned than before, “Eds, are you serious?”

“Dead. I… I think he’s the one,” No, that was another lie. Eddie took a deep breathe before admitting the truth, “He is the one. And… I don’t want to lose him. I can’t lose him.”

“Honey, it’s an infatuation. A really, really strong one, but still-”

“Chrissy. Listen to me. I want to marry him. Do you understand me now?”

If that didn’t get through to her nothing else would. Because Chrissy Cunningham had spent hours upon hours of listening to Eddie complain about the institution of marriage since fucking highschool. How it was all a farce, just some bullshit people pulled for tax reasons and patriarchal idealism. And now here he was, fucking day dreaming about the perfect happily ever after with the love of his life.

“Oh Jesus,” Chrissy groaned, the sineritcy Eddie was looking for finally creeping into her voice, “Sweetie, I’m so sorry… but I think you might have fucked yourself too big on this one.”

“Isn’t there something I can do?” Eddie pleaded into the phone, like Chrissy actually had all the power in the world to fix this, “What if I just lead a double life? Couldn’t that work?”

He had seen a movie about that once or twice. It was a thing. Or if it wasn’t then he could make it one.

But Chrissy didn’t seem too convinced, “Eddie, honey, you’re describing the plot of Hannah Montana like it can actually be a solution. Do you realize how insane that is? Do you not get how far you’ve fallen?”

from the next chapter of this fic

#steddie #steddie fic #steddie ficlet #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #alternate universe #famous eddie munson #damn your love damn your lies

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unseededtoast · 15 days

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Shadow of Obsession | Spencer Reid x Reader

Part Six

Series summary: In which you find that love is an obsession that can quickly spiral out of control.

Also cross-posted on Wattpad and AO3. Link to my masterlist for everything else I’ve posted

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six

*Content warning: description of sexual activity*

My hands should be on her smooth, soft skin. My lips should be on hers. Not his. Never his.

The miniscule camera remains where it was found, seemingly taunting you with every red blink. You and Spencer had both agreed that leaving it there was the best course of action. Taking it down or purposely covering it would tip off the stalker that they had found it. And who knows what kind of reaction that would invoke.

The two of you knew that it had recently been placed there, as Spencer would have noticed it earlier from one of the several nights he stayed over. After the discovery of the camera, a sense of dread filled your chest. You worry about what the stalker might have seen through the lens. If the stalker saw you on top of Spencer, then it's likely that something else is going to happen soon. That's just the nature of these cases, you had seen it time and time again.

And since then, neither you nor Spencer, had brought up the incidents from yesterday. The kiss shared in your bed, the passion on the living room couch. You know it had been real for you, but a tiny voice in the back of your mind wonders if he was just trying to keep you calm in the midst of this situation.

You remembered one case in particular, a while back in California, with a similar scenario. Spencer was placed on security detail for a woman and he ended up kissing her. He told the team it was to keep her from becoming overwhelmed with the situation, that she likely would have spiraled into a state of panic. He further elaborated that he gave her something to stay distracted. And you wonder if yesterday was all just some elaborate distraction.

Your heart sinks, saddened to think how you're supposed to move on from here if it was all just a ruse. There's no denying it, you've had a crush on Spencer since your early days at the BAU. You had tried to suppress it for as long as you could because you didn't want to ruing your professionalism or the team dynamic. But yesterday you were no longer able to withhold from your urges.

And now that you've had a taste of him, you never want to let him go. You want to be able to feel his hands on your body, feel his lips on your neck. You want him all to yourself, selfishly and shamelessly. Being the center of his attention like that was like a drug, one that you seem to have gotten hooked on the first time around.

The thought of him putting his hands on someone else like he did you makes you hot with anger and jealousy. You don't want his hands on anyone else, and you certainly can't stand the thought of him kissing someone else either. No, you want Spencer Reid all to yourself.

And you know if that is to ever happen, you have to find and stop the man who has turned your life upside down for the last week.

Now, you and Spencer sit at the dining room table, staring right at the manila folder that was slid underneath your door.

"Here's the timeline I put together, I am almost certain that it's correct." Spencer keeps his voice low as he speaks to you, spreading out the news articles and photos. You nod, showing him you understand and watch as the timeline gets pieced together.

Once it's all laid out, you take your time analyzing it. You recognize that the photos don't seem to be that old. In fact, you remember wearing a few of the outfits. You don't understand how you didn't realize all of this before, it seems clear as day.

"How didn't I see this?" You quietly ask, mostly to yourself. Spencer shifts in his seat, leaning forward to talk to you easier.

"It's probably just because you were in a state of shock." He explains, but it doesn't make it easier for you to accept.

"I should've been able to recognize this sooner. I mean, what the hell I'm a profiler and I couldn't even see the building blocks of my own case." You try to keep your voice quiet, but your anger and frustration bubble up. Spencer reaches over and puts a hand atop of yours, giving it a comforting squeeze.

"Don't do that to yourself." He keeps his voice low and meets your eyes. They're soft and understanding, it doesn't seem like he's blaming you one bit for missing things. You sigh and look back down to the photos.

"You're going in to talk to the team today right?" You eventually ask, hoping that you'd be allowed to tag along.

"In about an hour, but you're still under lockdown. I can have one of the other agents stay with you here if you want?" Spencer offers and you're quick to turn it down. You don't want anyone other than him inside your apartment with you.

"That's okay. Just, come back here afterwards?" You ask, knowing it sounds desperate, but you don't care. He brings you comfort and you feel safe when he's here with you. Not that you doubt your own abilities, you just like having the reassurance.

"Of course." Spencer promises and the two of you fall back into a comfortable silence.

When it's time for him to leave, you close the door behind him and look over to where the camera was discovered. You really wonder how long it had been there. Standing just out of its reach, you stare right at it. It's very small, blends right into the television stand. If it weren't for the light you'd never know it was there at all.

You tilt your head and think about who you know has been inside your apartment. Of course, there was Spencer and yourself. But other than that, nobody had really been in here, that you know of. That is, except for agent Valentine.

-----

Spencer quickly makes his way to the BAU, his heart pounding from reading Hotch's message. Apparently, Hotch had not sent Valentine over to your apartment, nobody had sent Valentine anywhere. Spencer knew something was weird about him showing up, he just felt it.

Of course, he also has to remind himself that nothing has been proven. Yet. But, he has a feeling that they're going to find some concrete evidence very soon. Spencer had taken the manila folder with him, ready to hit the ground running.

As soon as he enters through the glass doors, he sees that everyone is waiting for him in the briefing room. He wastes no time, he goes in immediately. All eyes are on him, some more apologetic than others, some confused. But he pays them no mind, all he can think about is your safety and tracking down the man who has made your life hell, the man who turned your team against you.

With the reminder that half the team didn't even believe this was legitimate, he has to keep his anger in check if he wants their help. But deep down Spencer knows he would be able to handle this without their help, there's nothing he wouldn't do to protect you.

"Did you bring everything?" Hotch asks, breaking the silence.

"Yeah, it's all here." Spencer says and spreads out the evidence he's committed to memory.

"Can you brief the team on the situation?" Hotch then asks as everyone begins looking over everything. After a deep breath, he explains the situation and how it unfolded step by step.

By the end of his explanation, he can see the remorse on the team's faces. Their eyes are trained on the photos and it's Derek who decides to speak up first.

"Listen, I'm sorry-"

"You don't have to apologize to me, she's the one you have to beg forgiveness from. What if something had happened to her because none of us believed her? How many of these cases have we seen end badly because nobody believed the victim? She's not even some stranger, she's been part of this team for years. I still cannot comprehend how any of you doubted her. So if you want to apologize, I would start with her." Spencer cuts Derek off abruptly. Derek's mouth is left open, but he takes Spencer's intrusion in stride. He nods,

"I understand." Derek leaves it at that, and everyone else seems to take note, keeping their thoughts to themselves.

Spencer excuses himself from the room to keep himself from saying anything further. They know that they've entirely messed up, and it would only hurt the case to keep harping on it. He goes to the breakroom and makes some coffee, hoping that some sense of normalcy will help him get through the day. Truthfully, he wants to go running back to your apartment, but he knows he needs to be here.

As he sips on the hot coffee, his eyes travel to your empty desk. Wilted flowers sit on your desk, but the bright white paper attached to them catches his attention. He abandons his coffee and goes to your desk. The notes from the flowers find their way into Spencer's hands and he reads them over again, despite the fact he's had them memorized since the first time he read them.

But this time, two things catch his attention. On one of the notes, the words "brilliant mind" are used and in the other, the words "story not yet complete" are scrawled on the paper. Spencer's mind flashes back to yesterday, where Valentine stood in your apartment and used very similar words. In fact, he quoted verbatim the "brilliant mind" part.

By the time the dots connect in Spencer's mind, his phone rings in his pocket. He sees your name on the screen and doesn't hesitate to answer.

"What's wrong? Are you okay?" He asks, heart thumping in his chest as he realizes he knows exactly who the stalker is. He had strong suspicions, but this was the final nail in the coffin, the last shred of evidence he needed to confirm it all.

"I'm fine, I'm fine. I just- I think I know who it is." You say, sounding breathless. Spencer's shoulders relax as he hears you're fine but his adrenaline spikes when you announce that you've also figured it out.

"Who?" He asks, hoping that you two have come to the same conclusion.

"It's Valentine." You say. Spencer looks back to the team in the briefing room and knows exactly what to do next.

"Listen to me. We're going to arrange the security detail to bring you here. We need to explain all of this to the team, and then we are going to find Valentine." Spencer says, walking towards the briefing room as you two exchange rushed goodbyes.

-----

Spencer tries his best to not stare at the clock while waiting for you to arrive. His foot taps anxiously against the floor, his eyes dart towards the elevator every few seconds. He's calculated the time it should take for you to get here and he's already decided that if you're even two minutes late that he will go out and find you himself. Sure, it may be a little dramatic and overkill but he is not prepared to spare any effort for you, not when Valentine is still out there somewhere.

The others wait in the briefing room as Spencer told them you were on your way. Right before he walked out of the room he noticed their shared glances full of tension. Secretly, Spencer couldn't wait to watch them beg for your forgiveness. His blood still boils if he thinks about it for too long. And though he knows a lot of things, he doesn't think he'll ever understand how the team could've turned on you so easily.

As he paces around the bullpen, he hears the elevator ding and the doors slide open. He rushes to greet you, relieved to see that you're accompanied by two agents he recognizes from the security detail. Spencer thanks the agents and leads you away from them with his hand on the small of your back. He looks over you quickly, making sure that you're okay.

"How did you figure it out?" He asks once he's satisfied that you're not in any distress. Or, no more than you've been experiencing for the last week.

"I was looking at the camera we found and remembered that Valentine was standing right over there when he came over. And then I started thinking. How did he get my address? Why did he say he was aware of the situation beyond the encryption? And his behavior reeked of desperation." You explain and Spencer nods. He glances back towards the briefing room and decides he wants to speak to you privately a little longer before the two of you head in.

"I knew there was something off about his behavior. And I knew that we would've noticed the camera sooner if it had been there a while." Spencer confirms your thoughts about Valentine's behavior. You nod your head and continue on your train of thought before you lose it.

"And I figured he got my address when he was working on my computer two months ago. Remember, after the article was published about the case where women were being killed for affairs, that Valentine had to come and install an encryption software onto my computer because the one I had was outdated?" You ask and Spencer nods,

"Yeah, yeah I remember he was asking about the pictures on your desk and about that case because the article was next to the computer. You showed him the article and said that it wasn't entirely true, but that you didn't care because the team wins together." Spencer's face lights up as more connections are being made.

"Right. And if he was working on the computer it's hard to say what else he installed on there. And then the photos from the folder? Those were taken roughly two months ago. Spencer, it all makes sense." You say, slightly breathless, almost in disbelief that you've finally figured it out, and that all the scattered pieces of the puzzle are finally coming together to form one cohesive picture.

"Come on, we should tell the others." Spencer says, resting his hand on the small of your back as the two of you walk into the briefing room.

He feels you tense as you walk in, and chooses to stand right beside you as you explain everything to the rest of the team, who gives you their full attention. Spencer's eyes watch each one of them as he tries to look for even the most minuscule indicator that someone doesn't believe you now. But much to his relief, he can't find anything of the sort in anyone. By now he's aware of everyone's behavior and is able to clock them all pretty easily. He can only find guilt and interest written on their faces.

-----

By the time you've explained everything to the team, you're met with several silent stares, each one exuding a different emotion. From a quick sweep you can pick out sadness, anger,and guilt.

But there's one person not here that you wish had made an appearance. After all your years here, you'd never known Penelope to miss something like this. But she's nowhere to be found. Perhaps that's because she still doesn't believe you. And with that crushing thought, you let yourself step closer to Spencer, who reaches for you but ultimately decides to give you a soft smile.

You know he was reaching to you to provide you comfort, but the team doesn't know what happened between the two of you and neither you nor Spencer seem to want to bring that to attention now. Maybe once the dust settles and the two of you figure out exactly what you're doing, but not now. Now you'll just have to settle for being comforted by his soft, puppy-dog eyes.

Breaking the silence, Hotch steps forward with a pointed look on his face.

"She is no longer safe to be in her apartment and she isn't safe here, not with Valentine working here. Temporary arrangements need to be made immediately. As for the rest of you, look into our systems for any other trace of interference. And once we get all of our evidence documented and Penelope determines if she can crack the code, that's when we go after Valentine." His words are concise and spoken with authority.

Everybody at the table nods and leaves the briefing room, leaving you, Spencer, and Hotch alone. Nerves prickle the tips of your fingers as you wait for Hotch's further orders.

"Is there anywhere you could go until we get Valentine?" Hotch's voice has noticeably softened and you're thankful. While you know Hotch has your back, his authority and confidence can sometimes be overwhelming.

"No, sir." You answer after considering the question.

You didn't have family in the area, there's no boyfriend you can crash with, and you know staying in a hotel with the security detail would draw unwanted attention. The crease between Hotch's eyebrows deepens, but before he can speak another word, Spencer clears his throat and takes a step forward.

"She can stay at my place." He offers and your heart swells.

While it's no strange occurrence for Spencer to stay at your apartment, you had never stayed at his before. You had always respected his aversion to shared spaces and germ transference but after yesterday's actions, this shouldn't have surprised you as much as it does. You quickly regain your composure and judge Hotch's reaction. His eyebrow is raised and he glances between you and Spencer critically.

"I'll inform the security detail of the location change." Hotch states and then turns to leave the room. The tightness in your chest is relieved as he walks out of the room. Your attention is then focused on Spencer, who's already looking at you.

"Are you sure?" You ask him, placing a gentle hand on his forearm. The corners of his moth tuck up into a smile and he nods.

"I'm positive. I would feel much better with you at my place." He affirms and you're unable to keep the grin off your face or the redness from staining your cheeks.

"Thank you, really. I'll go pack some things up and then I'll be over once you're done here for the day." You say and go to leave, but are stopped by Spencer's hand around yours.

"No, I'll go with you. I don't want you going back there alone. Especially now that we're on his trail. He could devolve and destabilize at any moment." Spencer says, keeping your hand within his. He pleads with his eyes for you to agree, and you know you're going to give in; after all you've never really been able to deny Spencer anything.

"Okay." Is all you say before the two of you walk out of the briefing room together.

----- Agent Valentine POV

The video on my screen plays over again and again and again. And each time I watch it, it doesn't become easier to accept. My knuckles turn white from how harshly I grip my computer mouse, replaying the video that's surely ingrained into my memory at this point.

As I see the dark footage of Spencer Reid on the couch with her, putting his hands all over her body, receiving her affections, my breathing becomes heavy and erratic.

My eyes are drawn to the way his fingers seem to map out every curve of her body and how his lips are able to taste the sweetness of her skin. It should be me. My hands should be on her smooth, soft skin. My lips should be on hers. Not his. Never his.

My printer sounds off as it prints a few copies of the image on my screen and I'm quick to add it to the others I have. I reserve one copy and hold it in front of my face before placing it on my desk and cutting out Spencer's face. I cannot even bear the sight of him anymore, my blood boils with unexplainable rage the more I think about him.

From the night at the bar I knew he was going to be a problem for me. That's why I tried to drive a wedge between them, but for some reason he didn't fall for it like the others. Not that my plan was bad, all I did was give her the credit she's rightfully due; it was her own teammates who didn't believe her. Perhaps that should show her how much they value her on the team.

I should've been the one to swoop in and save the day and then she would've had no choice but to see me. She would've seen everything I have to offer her. My eyes glance at my phone, hoping that she would call and ask me to install those cameras inside her apartment. After all, they would keep her safe. I would be here to make sure nobody got in, that she got home after work. My foot taps on the ground as I stare at my blank phone screen.

With a sigh, I look over to a framed photo of her I keep on my desk, and her smile calms me immensely. Soon this whole headache will be over with and we will finally be able to live the life we deserve together. I can almost picture it.

I can see the two of us on the front porch of our home, hand in hand, as we watch the sunset and count the fireflies. I can see us sharing breakfast across the table from each other, the sunlight illuminating her as if she had come straight down from heaven. I can see the fulfilling life I know we'll have. And that reminder is all I need to keep moving forward. All of this will be worth it in the end, when I can finally have her.

I click through her social medias to see if she's updated anything only to find that she hasn't. But I still go through the photos and am in awe of her beauty, just like I'm seeing her for the first time all over again. And once I'm done with her socials I check her work credentials to view her recent activity. It seems she hasn't logged on in a few days.

I chew on the inside of my cheek as I ponder when I should come in and magically crack the encryption code to save the day. By then, I will have had enough time to delete any tracks I may have left and plant new ones, ones that would reflect Spencer was the one who meddled with FBI systems. And then she would see me as her savior, she would have no other choice but to finally see me and be done with Spencer for good.

It's then that I start deleting my trail and working on fabricating false information. But for some reason as I try to place the falsified records, my computer begins running slow. Frustrated, my fists ball up and I try to get it running faster. But no matter what I do, it's still stalling.

That is, until my failsafe alerts me that someone is already in the same system. My blood runs cold as I realize someone has actually cracked the encryption code and is seeing everything I've done and am currently doing.

With a racing heart I try to determine my best course of action. And unfortunately, I think they've forced my hand to do something drastic.

-----

With a bag slung over your shoulder, you watch as Spencer opens his front door for you. The warm green walls invite you in and you realize it's been a while since you've been over here. But not much has changed. For a few moments you take it all in, seeing that he has a new bookshelf that he's already managed to fill and that he's rearranged his furniture slightly.

"It's so peaceful here." You say softly, placing your bag on the ground while you walk around. Spencer places his keys on the counter and watches you walk around his apartment.

"If you want, I can take the couch so you can get some rest." Your head swivels to look at him, eyebrows drawn tightly together. Does this mean he regrets what you two shared? Was everything just a distraction after all?

"Oh, um, you don't have to do that. This is your home, I can take the couch." You reply after a few minutes of jumbled thought. Your heart sinks as the words tumble out of your mouth.

You should've known better than to believe it was real.

Turning away from him, you walk to the window and look down at the street below. People are walking without a care in the world, and you wonder what life would be like if you hadn't taken this job. Maybe none of this would've happened if you just took another path.

Behind you, you hear Spencer grab your bag off the floor and you twist around to watch as he takes the bag into his bedroom. But you try not to put too much thought into it, he probably just doesn't want it laying in the floor.

Moments later, he comes to stand next to you, his hands shoved in his pockets. You don't know what to say, and apparently neither does he. There are a few questions burning on the tip of your tongue but you can't find it within you to ask. Not right now.

Instead you keep your eyes focused on the ground before you, wondering how much longer you're going to have to live here like this. During the quiet moments, which are few and far between, you're reminded of how much your life has been interrupted in just a few days.

You're no longer safe in your apartment, you and Spencer had actually kissed each other, your team turned their back on you, and one of the smartest people in the FBI is your stalker. At this point you're convinced you have the worst luck in the world.

"Are you hungry for dinner?" Spencer eventually breaks the silence, his voice raspy from the day.

Turning away from the window, you see how tired he is and you remember that he really hasn't slept much in two days. And now you're here in his home, disrupting his routine.

"I can take care of it. Please, let me. You're letting me stay here and you haven't had much sleep. It's really the least I can do." You answer and make your way to his kitchen.

He follows behind you and leans forward on the counter, watching you take inventory of his pantry. For as often as the team travels he keeps his pantry fairly well stocked, especially for a man.

"How do you feel about chicken parm?" You ask, closing the refrigerator door. Spencer's already looking at you, a small smile on his face.

"I think that sounds fantastic." He answers and sits on one of the stools. You nod and turn back around to collect everything you need.

While you prepare dinner, Spencer observes quietly. His hair is disheveled from the day and you notice some stubble adorning his jawline. A part of you hopes he keeps it and grows it out, there's just something about it that makes him look irresistible; more so than usual. He reaches up and loosens the tie around his neck and you try your best to sneak glances of him while you work. But eventually he's the only thing you can think about.

"Why don't you get changed into something more comfortable? It'll be done in a few minutes." You propose, hoping that he goes away for a few minutes so you can concentrate on not burning the sauce.

With a lazy nod, he slinks away to his bedroom and you let out a sigh. You wish you had the courage to ask him if the kisses were real. But you're afraid that if you ask, and he says no, that your only chance with him will wither and die. But if you don't ask, then you can convince yourself there's a chance.

After a few moments he returns in some simple sweatpants and a plain shirt. But somehow he makes it look like luxury loungewear. Instead of taking his spot at the counter, he walks behind the counter and looks over your shoulder. His hands rest on each of your shoulders and he rests his head atop of yours. In an instant, your heart thumps heavily in your chest, so much that you're sure he can feel it too.

"It smells amazing." His voice is quiet and deep, his lips are right by your ear which causes a shiver to run down your spine.

"Spencer." You say, not sure of exactly what you want to say, or ask, as your mind is becoming fuzzy and overwhelmed by his close proximity. His hands run down your shoulders, down your arms, before they rest on your hips.

Perhaps the kisses were real after all. Or maybe this is all just another distraction. Which means if this is a distraction then something else must've happened and he doesn't want you to find out about it yet so you aren't more scared.

You turn the heat off on the stove before you turn around in his arms. Your eyes meet his and you see how his eyes look over your face as if he's memorizing every small detail. Which he very well could be.

"Hmm?" He hums, his eyes flickering down to your lips.

"Spencer, what are we doing here?" You finally gain the courage to ask him.

He blinks a few times as if he's processing the question. For once, you're not sure if he has an answer at ready. Had you really just caused Spencer to really think about a question?

Eventually though, his grip becomes just slightly tighter on your hips and he licks his lips. With hopeful eyes, you look into his as he finally answers. You just hope he isn't about to break your heart.

"I think this entire situation made me realize how much I care about you. Can I be completely honest here?" He asks and you nod your head, wanting nothing more than the unfiltered truth from him.

"Of course." You affirm and he takes in a deep breath.

"When you realized someone had been stalking you, it made me come to understand that I hate the idea of someone laying claim to you like that. I hate the thought of someone looking at you with impure intentions, I hate the thought of someone invading your privacy, I hate the idea of someone else putting their hands on you. And if I am being honest here, I haven't had such violent thoughts since I was in prison. And, truthfully, I know I would do whatever it takes to make sure that you're safe; there would be nothing too extreme."

His words make your heart skip a beat and you find no traces of a lie in his eyes or written anywhere on his face. Instead, all you see is driven resolve. And you know he meant every single word.

"Spencer -"

"I'm sorry if that was too much, I know the way I said it was intense. But I mean it. You've found a way to infiltrate my every thought in the best way possible. I wake up and wonder if you slept okay and if you're alright and I go to bed wondering if you feel safe. And in the moments in between, I think about what I could be doing to make sure you feel safe, about what I can do to protect you from Valentine." He cuts you off and rambles on a bit more, and you take in every word.

If Spencer were anyone else his words may raise some concern, but because he's Spencer, your Spencer, you're just relieved. You're relieved because you know now that it was all real. And after he's done speaking, you lick your lips and fight the smile that wants to plaster itself on your face.

"Spencer, you're the only one that believed me about this from the get go. You're the one who made sure I've been safe. And, if I'm also being completely truthful here, you've found a way to occupy my every thought too." You say, trying not to let your voice waver at the end. Because Spencer is so close, it's hard to concentrate on exactly what you want to tell him. And as he hears your words, he smiles.

"And if I'm being even more truthful, all I've been able to think about is how your hands felt on my body, and how I never want anyone else to feel your touch." You go one step further to prove your point. He's so close to you now, that your noses almost touch. There's a growing heated tension between the two of you, and you know that it's going to give at some point.

"And I never want anyone to feel your lips on their skin, I never want someone else to hear the way you pant and moan. I want it all for myself." His voice is merely a whisper now. Your hands come up and grab the front of his shirt, no longer being able to take it.

Your lips crash onto his, and he wastes no time in cradling your face with one hand while the other wraps around your waist. Your mind flashes back to last night, but unlike last night there's a sort of hunger lingering between you two. Something primal, and desperate.

A few seconds of heated kisses leads Spencer to lifting you and setting you on the counter where your legs wrap around his waist. Your hand finds his hair and you tug on it slightly, eliciting a breathy pant from Spencer as he places kisses on your cheek down to your neck.

Your eyes flutter shut and your lips fall apart as you're bathed in warm ecstasy. There had been many many nights where you had dreamed of this happening, but now that your dreams are reality it's difficult to fully grasp.

Spencer's fingers slide up your thighs and sneak underneath your shirt. Your back arches into him and you encourage him to keep going. His lips find their way back to your neck and between his hands on your bare skin and his lips hovering over your sweet spot, you're convinced that you may explode from burning desire.

"Spencer please." You beg him, pushing your body to be closer to him, your legs pulling him closer into you.

His breathing is heavy as he pulls away and looks you in the eye. But only for a moment because before you know what's happening, he's scooping you off the counter and taking you to his bedroom.

Spencer places you gently on his bed and wastes no time to get his hands back on you. This time though, his hands travel further south. Your body is hot with need for him, you're sure your cheeks are flushed. And before Spencer takes even a single article of clothing off of you, he takes a step back to take in the view.

"You are so unbelievably beautiful." His breath is airy, his lips a dark pink and just slightly swollen.

Suddenly feeling self conscious about being under his careful gaze, you reach out for him,

"Come here." You tell him and then grab him by the front of his shirt. Spencer supports himself as he hovers above you.

The two of you kiss each other once more, full of passion and desire. You lead his hand to where you need him the most and you feel his breath hit hitch.

"Are you, you're sure about this?" He suddenly sounds nervous and you smile sweetly back.

"There's nothing I want more than you." You truthfully tell him, and he doesn't second guess your words.

His lithe fingers make quick work of the button on your pants and he tugs them down your legs with an almost expert precision. You see his pupils dilate as he looks over your soft skin, his hands grabbing onto your thighs and you swear you hear him restrain a moan.

He works his way towards the thin elastic waistband, his fingers hooking onto it and gently pulling. You lift your hips and watch him as he looks like a man starved, that's just been served a four course meal on a silver platter. His hair hangs down in front of his eyes, but you can still see the need within them.

Your eyes flutter shut once more as you feel the cool air of the room against your half-bare body. Spencer hums in appreciation and his hands find their way back to your thighs. Your breathing increases, you chest rises and falls quickly as you anticipate the feeling of Spencer's fingers.

But before you feel anything, both of your phones ring in the room next door.

Freezing in place, the two of you work your way through your mental fog and debate whether or not it's worth answering. Spencer looks heartbroken, as if he's a child on Christmas that's been told Santa forgot to stop at his house.

"We should, um, we should probably get that." You clear your throat and push away the deep disappointment you feel. Spencer stands up straight and offers you a hand off the bed.

"Yeah, yeah of course." It sounds like he's trying to convince himself and not you. Quickly, you pull your pants back on and find your phone before it stops ringing.

Desire is soon replaced with dread as you think of a hundred different reasons why the team would call both of you at the same time

-----

The entire team sits around the table in the briefing room as Garcia explains her breakthrough discovery. Spencer and you had decided to take seats on opposite sides of the table, but it doesn't help that you're thinking of his hands on your skin.

"So basically that's how I cracked the AES 128. However, when I cracked it I saw everything he had done and what he was in the process of doing." Garcia explains, though most of the technical talk goes over your head.

"And what did you find?" Hotch is the first one to speak up and he leans forward on the table, his elbows resting on the hard surface. Penelope takes in a deep breath and her eyes flicker over to Spencer.

"Well, sir, it looks like he was trying to erase his tracks and replace them with Spencer's credentials. My best theory is that he was going to alter everything and then make the encryption go away so we would find it all. But that's not it, no, Valentine's credentials were used to enter the BAU the night that the evidence was retagged." She elaborates and your eyebrows scrunch together.

You vividly remember receiving that text from Spencer and a shiver runs down your spine as you realize just how close Valentine's been operating this entire time. You swallow the sickness that wants to rise within you

"And I hate to be the bearer of even more bad news, but I am fairly sure that he went through your personnel file." Penelope looks at you as she speaks, her eyes full of sorrow.

"That's how he knew where I live." You speak up, throat feeling dry. To keep from crying you bite the inside of your cheek. You had the suspicion that Valentine had done all of this, but to hear it confirmed out loud shakes you to your core. If he looked through your file then he knows just about everything there is to know about you.

This time, it's Spencer who breaks the silence. He stands from his spot at the table and angrily runs a hand through his hair. He paces back and forth before saying anything, probably choosing exactly the right words. Everyone's eyes are glued to him as he stops pacing. He pushes his button-up sleeves to his elbows and looks right into your eyes, like you are the only two in the room.

"If I find him, I'm going to kill him." His voice is calm, level, serious. His rigid posture and bluntness is something you're vaguely familiar with, but you haven't seen this behavior from him in a long time, not since he was released from prison.

"Don't-"

"Don't tell me I'm overreacting. We know how these things end. There's no chance in hell I'm letting him get close enough to hurt her. He will have to kill me first before he gets a chance at her. No, if I see him anywhere near me I don't think I'll be able to control myself." He admits. And even though his words should shake you, all they make you feel is safe.

You know Spencer would go to any length to make sure that you're safe. That much is clear as day to you now. It's almost endearing to hear. And you'd be a liar if you said you wouldn't do the same for him.

The rest of the team stays silent with his admission. Everyone knows that he means exactly what he said. And surprisingly, nobody tries to talk him down any further. They know he's right, these situations usually end with the victim badly injured or killed. We've seen it enough times.

"We know how the behavior patterns of stalkers. If he gets wind that we're after him he'll go for her. Spencer, stay with her. The rest of you, it's time to bring him in." Hotch orders in a stern voice. The team is quick to get to their feet and get to work.

Before you're whisked out of here once more, Spencer stands in front of you to block your path. You look up at him through your lashes and he takes your hands within his.

"I'm sorry for the way I said everything, but I want you to know it's true. For what he's done to you, my beautiful girl, I would kill him in a heartbeat." He reiterates and it makes your heart beat faster. You squeeze his hands in appreciation.

"Well, let's hope you don't find him first." You say with a small smile on your face.

Spencer walks you out of the office with his hand on your lower back. He never once loses physical contact with you until you're safely in his car. And even then, his hand rests on your thigh. You observe his behavior, never having seen him so possessive before. It's interesting to you, seeing this side of him up close and personal. His eyes hold a burning intensity, like he could stare right through someone's soul, his shoulders seem broader from his tense posture, his jaw sharper from clenching it in anger and determination.

Though it may scare some, it only intensifies what you feel for him.

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #dr spencer reid #spencer reid angst #spencer reid fanfic #criminal minds #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fluff #mgg #spencer reid series #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fic #spencer reid criminal minds #doctor spencer reid #bau team #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds fanfic #Spotify

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starryevermore · 4 months

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the house of snow (12) ✧ coriolanus snow

the house of snow ✧ a royal coryo au | pinterest board| ao3

pairing: king!coriolanus snow x fem!reader

series summary: the king of panem is in search of a bride. and, for reasons you can never understand, coriolanus snow has set his sights on you. it would never be a happy marriage, you’re sure of that. but none of that matters, because when snow decides he wants something, he will do everything in his power to ensure it is his.

chapter summary: you can’t believe that this is truly a good thing.

word count: 2,822

series warnings?: 18+ MINORS DNI, royal au, regency au, arranged marriage, rivals to lovers, obsessive!coryo, jealous!coryo, protective!coryo, eventual smut, eventual pregnancy, more tags to be added later

chapter warnings?: 18+ MINORS DNI, smut, oral (f receiving), p in v sex, unprotected sex, loss of virginity, a hint of fluff, a hint of angst, pet name (petal), not proofread

note: ok the smut isn’t the greatest bc i’ve been out of commission for a while but hopefully it gets better as the series progresses

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

You tried to time your breathing with each tick of the grandfather clock in a desperate plea to not have a meltdown on your wedding night. Your new lady’s maid had just left you after helping you remove your gown. Now, you were left waiting, wearing only a silky red robe, for Coryo to arrive. You fought the urge to bite down on your fingernails. Why had your mother said anything about what your wedding night would be like? With the way your nerves were grating on you, you almost wished you were going into this with blissful ignorance.

You crossed the room and stood in front of the large window that overlooked the grounds. Breathing in time to the ticks wasn’t doing you any good, so perhaps occupying your mind with the outside world would help. But as you looked over the rose gardens and the stables and the distant pond, your mind kept trailing back to where you were, what you were wearing, and what was going to happen.

A pair of cold hands settled on your waist. You yelped, jerking away. When you turned, ready to strike, your husband stood before you. Husband. What a strange thing to call Coryo now. You had known this day was coming, but now that it was here…It felt different. Not like you would have expected.

Coryo raised his hands and took a step back. “I didn’t mean to frighten you, petal,” he said.

“I didn’t hear you come in,” you said, adjusting your robe to cover you more. It mattered little, of course, but it brought you some comfort.

“My apologies,” he said. He sounded sincere enough. Could he be sincere? If you could believe your father, that Coriolanus had asked for your hand three times before he was told yes on the fourth, maybe he could. Unless it was all an elaborate ruse, some way for him to lord this final victory over your head. The one time he could truly win.

“It’s alright.” It wasn’t. It was. How could one man—how could Coryo—scramble your thoughts like this?

Satisfied that you weren’t upset with him, he took a step toward you again. You fought the urge to back yourself against the window, pray that it might fall out and take you with it. He raised his hand, caressing your face. You allowed yourself to lean into it. Your eyes fluttered shut as he stroked his thumb over the swell of your cheek.

“I love you,” he whispered.

You fought to keep your mouth from falling open. Love? Did he truly? You weren’t sure how much you believed it. When you were still in school, you once told Sejanus you were sure Snow had a heart of ice. The idea that he could love anyone…It felt laughable.

“I love you, my beautiful wife,” he repeated.

Were you supposed to say it back? It would have aided your act, to be sure. But you were half-certain that if you said those three words with even an ounce of insincerity, he would know. He would know, and you would be left dealing with whatever horrible aftermath he would deal you.

His lips pressed against your forehead. “I just wanted you to know.”

Maybe you should’ve said it back, if only to lessen the blow. Because Coryo looked stricken as you said, “Please…don’t hurt me.”

He pulled away, his hands falling your shoulders. If it was to brace himself, or to keep you from crumbling, you weren’t sure. “What? Why would you think I—?”

“My mama said that this…hurts. That it can hurt. That women seldom feel pleasure from it.”

Rage flickered in his pale blue eyes. “And she thought I would hurt you?”

“I…She just wanted me to be prepared for what might happen.”

“Petal, for as long as I’m alive, I would never let you be hurt, not by my hand or anyone else’s. I don’t ever want you to think otherwise. Am I understood?”

Words failed you, so you offered him a nod.

“If you are ever uncomfortable, if I ever cause you even the slightest bit of pain, you tell me. And if you even want to wait until you are ready, that is fine with me. Okay?”

Again, you nodded. This time, though, it wasn’t enough.

“I want your words, petal.”

“I understand.”

You lifted your hands, letting them settle on Coryo’s broad chest. For the first time, you realized that he was dressed down, too. Instead of his usual red attire, he was wearing a loose, white linen shirt and trousers. The shirt was thin, so you could feel the muscles of his chest. It was hard to believe the scrawny boy you once knew at the Academy had become…this.

“…And I would like to…do this.”

The corners of Coryo’s mouth tugged into a smile. If he minded your awkwardness, he gave no indication. His hands fell back to your waist and he tugged you against him. His trousers were as thin as his shirt. You squeaked as you felt him against your thigh. “Oh, petal,” he sighed, “I am going to make sure you enjoy this.”

He pulled on the tie holding your robe together, letting it fall open. Coryo glanced up at you, watching for your reaction, as he pushed the silky material off of your shoulders. You found yourself reaching for hand, guiding him to caress your soft curves. His lips captured yours. Coryo kissed you like you were giving him air. Though you were already pressed against him, his arms wrapped around you, as though if he pulled you against him more, you might meld yourself into him, become a part of him like a lung or an arm.

Your hand found itself entangled in his white blond hair. A low growl rumbled in Coryo’s chest. “Don't tease me, petal. Not tonight,” he said against your lips.

That felt more like a challenge than anything. You weren’t sure if this experience would be enjoyable for you, even with Coryo’s promises, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t find your pleasure elsewhere. “Where’s the fun in that?”

When Coryo pulled away, his eyes were noticeably darker. “Oh, you’ll have your fun.”

He led you over to the bed, urging you to lie back. You expected him to climb over you, to lay with you, but instead, he settled between your legs, pushing your thighs apart. What was he doing? Your mother never told you about this. Why was he spreading you apart with his fingers and—

“Oh god,” you cried out as he licked a long stripe along your intimacy.

“Not god. Your Coryo,” he mumbled before pushing his tongue back inside you again.

Your brain turned to mush as he found his rhythm, found out what made you cry his name over and over again. Your hand fell back to his hair, gripping it at the roots, pushing him impossibly closer to you. Fuck. Coryo wasn’t lying when he said you would enjoy this. Could you keep him here like this all night? Forget the rest of the act, the part that necessitated making an heir. With Coryo between your thighs, you could live the rest of your life a happy woman. A pleased woman.

Something deep in your stomach began to tighten as Coryo pushed his fingers inside of you, too, stroking your walls. Your toes curled at the sensation. “Coryo, I feel—”

“Shh. Let go, petal,” he cooed.

It felt like something erupted inside of you. As you let out a guttural scream, your legs shutting around Coryo’s head. What was that? Was this the pleasure that women so seldom get to experience? How could other men rob women of this? You had half a mind to stay in bed for the rest of your life with Coryo if it meant you got to feel like this again and again and again.

Your thighs trembled as you released your hold on your husband. He lifted himself, pressing wet kisses up your stomach, between the valley of your breasts, until he settled on your lips. Your arms wrapped around him, keeping him close to you. It was strange, wanting to be near him. Wasn’t it just a few months ago, a few weeks ago, that you wanted nothing more than to run away from this sort of life? To be anything other than the wife to a King? Oh, what you wish you could tell your (only slightly) younger self. Would she even believe you? Could you even believe it now?

How could so much change?

“You’re perfect,” Coryo whispered against your lips. “So perfect for me.”

He began to sit up, eliciting a whine from you. He gently pushed your hands away before reaching for his pants and undoing the ties. You were captivated as Coryo pushed the thin fabric down his thighs. And what lay between them…Oh, was this why it would be painful? Curious, you reached for it. Coryo guided your hand around him, encouraging you to give a few gentle pumps along his length.

“Be gentle?” you asked as you dropped your hand, letting Coryo drape himself over you again.

“For you, I’ll be anything you want.”

You let out a hiss as he guided himself inside you. God, the stretch. Your brows pinched together, your eyes screwing shut. It was too much. Yet, Coryo was slow, taking his time. It made you keenly aware of the feeling, but you supposed it was better than rushing into it. You shuddered at the thought of how painful that could be.

Coryo pressed a kiss to your lips. “You alright, petal?”

All you could manage was a strangled whine.

He grabbed your face, but didn’t say anything until you opened your eyes. He made sure you kept eye contact with him as he said, “If it’s too much, we can stop. Don’t think you have to do this just because it’s our wedding night. I would rather you want this than feel like you’re being forced.”

A part of you wanted to tell him to stop. But a greater part of you, the part of you that remembered the pure ecstasy you felt just moments before when his head was between your legs, wanted to experience that all over again. (Was that selfish? Maybe. But after this mess of an engagement, maybe you deserved to be selfish.) So you found yourself pulling Coryo down for another kiss, whispering against his lips, “I want you.”

Coryo kissed you as he rocked his hips into you. And, oh, if you thought the stretch was too much, you had no idea what was coming for you. You could feel him—every part of him. The entire world faded away until all that was left was your Coryo. Another whimper escaped your lips. You felt a question on the tip of his tongue. You kissed him harder, hoping that if you distracted him enough, he wouldn’t stop. Because, for as intense as this was, you were chasing that high and you would be damned before you let anyone get in the way of it.

Slowly, though, the pain melted into pleasure. Your moans echoed off the walls, Coryo taking it as a sign to pick up the pace. Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, your fingernails digging into his back. You were sure you would be frightened by the sight of the marks, but that didn’t matter now. Nothing else mattered right now.

You let out a strangled cry when Coryo hit a particularly sensitive spot deep inside you. Stars dotted the corners of your vision. You almost convinced yourself it was a lie that women couldn’t feel pleasure from this. Or was this just because it was with Coryo? Coryo, who seemed to so genuinely love you? Was this why some women called it making love? The idea made bile rise in your throat. Could you love Coryo?

You screamed as the pleasure overtook you. All of the other thoughts washed away. All that was left was you, and Coryo, and this oddly perfect moment. You were so wrapped up in the new sensation that you didn’t notice your husband pulling away until he was nearly gone. He paused as your hand gripped his wrist, urging him to stay. Why would he leave?

“I’ll be right back, petal. I need to get something to clean you up. You made quite the mess,” he said, teasing lilt rising at the end of his sentence.

You weren’t sure how long he was gone, but it was long enough for you to regain feeling in your legs. At least, enough feeling that you were able to push yourself up into a seated position. You tucked your legs against your chest and stared at the mess. Your mother hadn’t told you that this would be bloody. How could you not notice that? Were you that blinded by pleasure that you ignored your pain? You hadn’t realized that Coryo had that sort of effect on you. What happened to the girl all those months ago that would have spat in his face for touching her? Where had she gone? So much had changed in such a short amount of time.

The bile began to rise again. How could you have let yourself fall under his spell? You once laughed with Sejanus about how all the students at the Academy fell over themselves for a moment with the charming Coriolanus Snow. What had he done to you for you to ignore the beast inside?

A cold hand on your knee made you jerk. When you lifted your head, you saw Coriolanus standing at the edge of the bed. He pushed your legs apart and dragged a wet cloth you hadn’t realized he brought between them. You flinched. It was too rough. He was too rough. Or was this all in your head?

Coriolanus must have seen something on your face. “Are you alright?”

You pushed his hand away and swung your legs over the edge of the bed. You glanced around the room, searching for your robe. The room felt like it was spinning. Where was the damned robe? Stumbling over to the window, you finally found it. You were too exposed. After plucking it from the floor, you wrapped it around yourself as tight as you could manage and tied the string into a knot.

“What are you doing, petal?” Coriolanus asked. You heard him walk close to you, but you propelled yourself toward the door on the other of the room. The one that connected the King’s chambers to the Queen’s. “Come to bed. Please. Talk to me.”

“I’m going to bed,” you managed as you reached the door.

“Then why are you running?”

You pushed the door open. “I don’t wish to sleep with you.”

He followed after you. His long legs brought him to you in a few short strides. Coriolanus captured your wrist in one hand, urging you to stop. “Did I do something wrong? Petal, if I did, it wasn’t intentional.”

“I wish to be alone.”

You couldn’t look at him. You were scared to see his beautiful blue eyes dotted with sadness as he asked, “Did I hurt you?”

You wrenched your hand away. “I’ve done my duty for the night. Now, I would like to rest. Alone.”

Perhaps it was cruel to say such a thing. Perhaps Coriolanus didn’t even deserve it. But hurting him was easy. Striking him where it hurt was easy. Coriolanus Snow might genuinely love you, and nothing in your life scared you more.

“…If that is what you wish, I won’t push it. But I don’t want you to ever feel like you’re just a duty to me. You are the petals of the most beautiful rose. You are everything.” Coriolanus looked like he was near tears when you allowed yourself a glance at his face. “We leave in the morning for my family’s cottage. I thought you might like to spend our honeymoon away from prying eyes.”

You had already gone this far. “Don’t pretend you do anything for anyone but yourself.”

Coriolanus reeled back as if you slapped him. It might have hurt less if you had. Why were you being as cruel as him? “Everything I do is for you.”

“Then let me go.”

He took a step back. So did you. Two lovers, staring at each other, neither quite sure where they went wrong. Except, you did know this was your fault. But, dammit, he started it. Coriolanus confused your thoughts. You knew him as cruel and calculating for so long…How could you trust that anything he did was truly sincere? How could you believe that a man like him could love a woman like you?

You shut the door.

#the house of snow: a royal coryo au #coriolanus snow imagine #coriolanus snow x reader #coriolanus snow x fem!reader #coriolanus snow x female reader #coriolanus snow x you #coriolanus snow x y/n #coriolanus snow fanfiction #coriolanus snow fan fiction #coriolanus snow fanfic #coriolanus snow fan fic #coriolanus snow fic #starrywrites #starryevermore

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coolandspicy · 1 year

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Why vote for Chat Noir: this is a magical cat boy with no baggage. I mean no wait, he definitely still has trauma but not in the “manipulated and stalked their much younger love interest way” so that seems like a win! I’m not a huge fan of the miraculous superhero outfits but I do really like the jingle bell.

Why vote for Nico the Catboy: He's the only canon boyfriend of Finn the Human -- or is he? Maybe this is all an elaborate ruse by a single tumblr user to convince everyone their oc is real. Idk though. He seems pretty legit. Besides, have you watched every single episode of adventure time? How would you know for sure?

#tumblr catboy polls #chat noir #miraculous ladybug #adrien agreste #nico the catboy #adventure time #I think its funny that there are 2 catboy niko/nico in this tournement

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phantomrose96 · 2 months

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Hello! I dont go to the DP fandom but sham sacrifice rocked my world!! Jumping off a previous ask from a different anon... so they eventually put two and two together and realized Danny's ghost form is pretty much a palette swaped Danny? Did that also just rock their world? Or maybe, collapse what was left of it??

(Sham Sacrifice: Chapter 1 | Chapter 2)

Thanks!!!

Yeah the way I see it, if Danny's identity is still secret it is hanging on by the most precarious thread of denial.

My personal headcanon for "Danny looks almost the same in ghost form and human form how do people not notice!?" is because no one has any reason to look at a ghost and go "what if this ghost secretly has a human form and is in school with us right now?" like the fuck? What ghost works like that?? We all know some person who totally kinda looks like some celebrity but no one goes "what if that person is genuinely really that celebrity???" because there's no reason at all to honestly believe some shmuck you know is actually doing an elaborate identity-hiding ruse and is moonlighting as a famous celebrity. (Hannah Montana fans don't interact. ...Or do, since I think Miley's secret works by the same logic.)

So Danny's secret was protected because there's literally been no reason at all for anyone to look at this 14-year-old kid and go 'hey what if he's actually dead somehow and died in a horrible and specific way that kept his ghost attached to his body and so now he can assume either form and is moonlighting as Amity's ghostboy due to the very specific fucked up freak of nature he's become?"

At least there wasn't a reason. Before now...

#sham sacrifice

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fangsandfracturedhearts · 6 months

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Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Chapter 6: Dancing with Darkness

Summary: After embracing eternity as a vampire spawn under Astarion's wing, the Crimson Palace becomes a haunting symbol of the man he once was. As his personality unravels into a dark abyss, you flee. A year of hardship unveils the harsh reality of existence as a vampire spawn.

Just as all hope seems lost, a twist of fate reunites you with Astarion, revealing a glimmer of hope amidst the shadows. As you navigate the complexities of your relationship, you must confront the unsettling truth behind the Rite of Profane Ascension and the devilish secrets it holds.

In a race against time, you embark on a daring quest to save Astarion from his descent into darkness. With each choice you make, the stakes grow higher, testing the limits of your courage and determination.

Will Astarion find redemption, or is he destined to succumb to his own inner turmoil?

Word Count: 6.9k

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x female!Tav Spawn

Warnings: [Will try to continue to add more, but in general expect explicit content for mature audiences]

Possible spoilers. Eventual Explicit Content. Slow Burn. Thoughts of Suicide. Violence. Blood. Injury. Mature Content. Self-Harm.

If you notice a very critical tag missing, please don't hesitate to let me know

Rating: Explicit 18+ - [Meant For Mature Audience}

“Have you completely lost your mind? You can’t be serious!”

Shadowheart paces in front of you; a brooding scowl darkens the delicate features of her face. This is the third argument with her in as many days about you moving back in with Astarion and the obtuse notion that maybe you could help him regain some semblance of his old self.

Gale was due to return home soon, and you’re not looking forward to repeating this argument with him.

“I need to do this, Shadowheart.”

“You most certainly do not! You don’t owe him a damn thing.”

“It’s my fault he’s like this. I let him down in that ritual chamber.”

I should have tried harder to talk him out of it.

“He let you down,” she sneers, “do not allow him to make you think otherwise. Gods, I requested you stay out of trouble, not go barrelling headfirst towards it!”

“Shadowheart,” you gently grasp her arms to halt her ferocious stomping, “look at me.”

She inhales sharply at your touch, and you recognize that look from when Astarion used to touch you before you were this walking corpse.

You drop your grip, “Sorry. I forget how cold I am now.”

Shadowheart grabs your hands, concern furrows her brows and creases her forehead, “It’s dangerous. He’s dangerous. Don’t do this.”

“I know, but I must try. If not for him, then for myself. I don’t expect you to understand.”

“Why would you agree to such a thing in the first place?”

You sigh, “I think you know why.”

“You’re still in love with him.”

There’s pity in her eyes.

“I’m not sure I will ever not be in love with him.”

Shadowheart scoffs at you, but her voice loses its serrated edge, “Do you think he is still capable of loving you?”

No.

Yes?

No. I cannot allow myself the luxury of that fantasy.

“No… I don’t know, but that’s not what this is about. Astarion would have done the same for me once upon a time.”

“There’s no talking you out of this suicide mission, is there?”

You give her a solemn look and shrug your shoulders. There was nothing anyone could say to put an end to this madness. Your decision had been made that night in the Crimson Palace when you had watched him battle with himself as you clung to him.

“What if this is another carefully orchestrated maneuver to regain control over you?”

You shrug, “Then I am a foolish woman.”

“I would argue that you’ve far surpassed simple foolishness. Good Gods.”

“He doesn’t need to plan such an elaborate ruse if what he wants is simply control. I’m his spawn. He has the ability to control me completely at his whim.”

Shadowheart’s eyes narrow skeptically, “Is that what this is? Has he compelled you to do this?”

Has he?

“No. He asked for my help, and I gave it freely.”

Did I?

She huffs, her eyes upcast in exasperation, “I will never understand your deluded loyalty to him. Hells, Gale is going to be furious."

Loyalty or love?

“One angry friend at a time, okay?”

She chuckles with an exasperated sigh, “Less angry, more worried.”

“Your style of worry looks a lot like anger.”

She scowls at you, but one side of her mouth is tugged up in a wry half-smile, “I’ve been told that before.”

Shadowheart takes a deep breath and sits down. Her heartbeat starts to slow, and you nearly want to praise the Gods on your knees for it. That thrumming in her chest clamoured in your ears and made your mouth salivate obscenely. It took every ounce of your control to be in such proximity to her without lunging for her neck.

Astarion has been keeping you fed while attempting to teach you how to hunt for yourself, which is the only reason you can bear to be this close to Shadowheart in the first place. Your lessons are not going well, although he seems to find the spectacle of your ungracefulness extremely amusing.

My, my, how the tables have turned.

“I can’t believe you’re willingly returning to that dreadful palace.”

“You’ll be happy to know that I’m not.”

Shadowheart leers at you suspiciously, “What do you mean?”

“Not living in the palace was part of my… terms. Astarion purchased another residence.”

Her eyes go wide with surprise, “He agreed to this?”

“Shocking, I know.”

“But you will be staying close by, I hope? When something inevitably goes awry, you can return any time.”

“We will be in the upper city, I believe.”

“The upper city?” Shadowheart giggles, “How very posh.”

“Not my first choice, but would you have expected any different?”

She laughs, “No, I suppose not. He always gravitated towards luxury, like an insect to a flame. When is this happening?”

“Soon. I was hoping Gale might be home before I left so I could tell him myself.”

She winces, “It might be best if I do it.”

“I don’t wish to put that on you. I’ll return to tell him.”

“Perhaps, don’t bring Astarion when you do. Gale may be a gentle soul, but his feelings for you might lead him to do something rather rash.”

His feelings for me... I had hoped those were long put to rest. It seems she knows something I don’t.

You sigh loudly, “I know.”

Your fingers shake as you pack what little things belongings you have. Fear coils tepid and stewing in your chest. Shadowheart is right. Astarion is dangerous. There is no telling what he’s capable of or what he might do to you when you inevitably make him angry.

Replaying your recent interactions with Astarion in your head, you evaluate what seems to provoke him. Every time you’ve disobeyed or challenged him, in some way, shape or form, he loses himself. This realization scares you more than not knowing and opens up many other questions. You know what happens when you make him angry, but what happens when someone else does? His new lover, his “business” partners, whoever and whatever they may be, or anyone else for that matter?

I will undoubtedly upset him. I will not be intimated into being his subordinate, not again.

You’ve landed yourself in a precarious situation, and your life, if you can call it that, hangs in the balance, but you’re not unaccustomed to fighting for your life.

I may have finally thrust myself into a battle I cannot win.

Astarion comes to retrieve you in the early morning to escort you to the place you and he will once again be sharing.

“Well, what do you think?”

“It’s very… large.”

He chuckles, “Anything would look large to you after living in a bedroom for over a year.”

The manor is bright and airy. Heavy curtains are hung on all the windows but are pulled back to allow the sunlight to flood in. The shining radiance of the daylight you’re not used to hurts your eyes and causes your head to pound. You still fear the sun. Standing in it makes your stomach churn, and your muscles quiver.

This will take some adjusting to.

Nervously, you walk around the ground floor to familiarize yourself with your new lodgings while Astarion trails behind you.

Entering the large kitchen makes you wonder. In the time you had lived with him before, he would do the hunting for you as he did now and then drop you back off at your room and disappear. He had kept you corralled where he wanted you like an animal, and you had never witnessed him eat anything, blood or food.

I will not let myself be controlled like that again - no matter the consequences.

“Do you eat food now?”

“I can dine on both as I see fit, but I won’t if it bothers you.”

I miss food.

“It doesn’t,” you wave at him dismissively, “You can eat or drink whatever you please.”

Astarion gives you a sultry gaze, “Whatever I please?”

You ignore his provocative tone and climb the wide staircase. You peek into a cozy library. It seems Astarion has moved his rather impressive book collection already. The filled shelving reaches up to the high ceiling. The room has only one small window, which is covered to keep the sun’s bleaching rays from deteriorating the texts.

You continue down the long hall, which has multiple bedrooms off of it. You look into all of them curiously.

“Which room is mine?”

“Whichever one you want. There are several; take your pick.”

With all your charisma, you plaster an angelic smile on your face, “I want the biggest one.”

“I… uh-”

He’s still adorable when he’s flustered.

“Relax, Astarion,” you smile at him wryly, “I’m well aware that’s your room.”

“I could be convinced to call it our room.”

What? Nothing has been ours since he ascended unless he was saying candied falsehoods.

“That’s not what this is, is it?”

His eyebrow cocks, “What do you mean?”

“Trying to get me back into your bed?”

“To what end, my dear?”

“I don’t know,” you shrug, “Power. Control. Possession. Pleasure. Take your pick.”

“I suppose I deserve that.”

You scold yourself inwardly while running your fingers through your hair. You were still angry with him, of course, but you were letting it get the better of you.

“Sorry. I’m still-”

“Apology accepted,” he halts you with a resigned sigh, “I am angry at myself most days.”

Who is this person?

“I have business I must attend to in the city today.”

Your eyebrow cocks, “Business?”

“Yes.”

“With that terrible woman?”

He chuckles, “No, not today.”

“Something is off with her, Astarion. Be careful.”

“Oh, pet. Your jealousy is utterly adorable, but she’s harmless.”

You pivot swiftly, scowling, and poke your finger into his chest hard, “You will not call me “pet” anymore. Do I make myself clear?”

“I… Yes, I understand,” he looks around anxiously, “it never bothered you before.”

“You mean when you were a spawn?”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t own me then. Moreover, you didn’t want to. It became a slight as soon as you thought of me as nothing more than another pretty possession.”

His knows knit together, “I do not wish to own you.”

“You have held it over me on multiple occasions.”

Astarion’s red eyes shift around as if searching his memories, “I have, haven’t I?”

“Yes.”

“Apologies,” he bows shallowly, “I’ll work on it.”

I am sure you will.

“You didn’t bring many things.”

“I don’t have many things anymore. I left it all behind when I left…”

Your words trail off, but Astarion finishes your sentence for you.

“Me.”

You nod, “Yes.”

“I’ll have your belongings brought from the palace.”

What?

Your eyebrows shoot up, “You still have my things?”

There’s no way he kept them all this time.

“Of course, darling. One doesn’t simply throw away perfectly good magical items. It would be a ghastly waste.”

“I figured you would sell it all.”

“I admit, I considered it.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I’m… not sure,” he waves his hand dismissively, “I just never got around to it, I suppose.”

Too busy bedding the trollop.

Ugh.

“How far is your business in the city?”

“Not far,” his brows knit together, “Why?”

You point to the windows, “The sun.”

“Right, of course. We will have to figure out where the limit is.”

“Astarion?”

I need to know.

“Hm?”

“Do you control it?”

“Control what, love?”

“The sun protection. When you sent me away, you eluded that you have the power to grant me that benefit or not. I need to know if this is another thing you can control me with.”

Astarion takes your hand in his, a sincere expression on his face, “I wouldn’t let you burn.”

“You might if you get angry enough with me, which you will. It’s a certainty. Answer the question.”

“Yes.”

This does not bode well for me.

Pulling away from him, you step back from the sunlight spilling through the nearby window. You shiver noticeably as you try to swallow the harsh truth that you might very well end up as a pile of ash on these floors one of these days.

Astarion squeezes your shoulder reassuringly, “I won’t allow the sun or myself to hurt you.”

“How can you be so sure of that, Astarion?”

“I just am.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He shrugs, “It’s the only answer I have for you right now.”

You point at the room furthest from his, “I’ll take this one.”

“I’ll leave you to get settled then. I will inform you before I depart.”

The room is large, and the heavy curtains are already drawn, suffusing it in darkness. It’s furnished with a generously sized bed, a few wardrobes and several little tables with oil lamps and candles. A pair of plush chairs with a damask patterned fabric sit off to the side of the bed in front of a small stone fireplace with ornately chiselled dragons, vines and fire inlaid with gold and silver.

A small room just off the main holds a wooden tub and glass washbasin. You note there are no mirrors in this room, but you had spotted several throughout the manor.

Not that I need a mirror, but I imagine he can’t get enough of staring at himself now.

Crawling onto the bed, you wrap your arms around your knees and take deep breaths of useless air to try and settle the disquietude sitting heavy in your belly. Being here with him, knowing he was just outside that door and could barge in at any moment, was terrifying. You’ve been desperately trying to hide your fear from him since he came to fetch you this morning.

Shadowheart had tried to talk you out of this again before he had arrived, and you find yourself wishing you weren’t so mulish. You had been adamant with her that this was what needed to be done, but your resolve was wavering, especially with the knowledge that he did have control over your protection from the sun.

Had I known, would I have agreed to this?

Probably. Idiot.

Am I trying to get myself killed?

Maybe.

Rolling over onto your side, your eyes brim with tears. You have not known joy for so long, and you wonder if you simply agreed to this in the hope that he might end that suffering, whether on purpose or by accident. You push yourself into your meditative state to allow yourself some peace.

A knock jolts you from your trance, and for a moment, you panic, looking around the unfamiliar room. You never thought you would miss the smell of Shadowheart. She carried the fragrance of safety but also food. You console yourself with the knowledge that at least your friends are safe from your insatiable hunger.

Slipping off the bed, you unlock and open the door. Astarion is attired grandiosely, and you wonder what business he’s going to, but it’s none of your concern.

He’s so handsome it’s nigh on unlawful.

“I’ll be taking my leave now. The curtains are all drawn. I am unlikely to return until late.”

“Okay,” you look past him and around the dimmed manor, “thank you for letting me know.”

“You will be okay here on your own?”

“I’m not going to go chasing nobles through the streets if that’s what you’re asking.”

He chuckles, “Not what I meant, darling, but thank you for the assurances. I’ll see your delicious self later.”

Once you hear Astarion leave, you take another lap around the manor mentally making note of where all the windows are and inventory of all the exits.

Just in case.

In the kitchen, your eyes fall on a shelf full of extravagant and exotic wines, liquors and spirits.

Can a vampire spawn get drunk?

Fuck it.

Let’s find out.

You pick up whatever bottle your hands land on first, uncork it and gulp it down. You cringe at the taste of bitter, vinegary ash on your tongue. The liquor sits precariously in your stomach, a balmy tingle arising and spreading through your limbs. It’s been forever since you’ve had a drink, quite literally a lifetime.

You could never indulge in such stupidity when living with Shadowheart and Gale. Anything that could alter your mind or dampen your resolve was not a risk you could take, but here, the only person you were endangering was yourself.

An acceptable risk.

Finishing the bottle, you pick up another and take it to the large dining area, sitting at the dark wood table with delicately carved legs. You’re desperate to feel the numbing caress of the spirits as it fuels you with the courage you’re currently missing, even if that courage is nothing but a hoax being played on your dimmed mind.

Time passes by in a blur as you sit there encased in your own self-loathing and morbidity, and old memories you wish you could forget start to surface as the authority you have over yourself slips.

“Wake up, Astarion.”

You reach out but go to jostle him a little to pull him out of his trance, but his hand catches your wrist, and his eyes open in narrow slits.

“My favourite travelling companion, what can I do for you?”

“Keep your voice down, or you will wake the others. Get dressed and meet me at the edge of camp. Bring your weapons and wear your armour.”

Astarion sits up and peers around the camp. The others are all fast asleep in their tents around you. He cocks an eyebrow at you, confused but nods his understanding.

You creep as best you can through the camp away from his tent, but rocks grate harshly under your feet with every step. You stop and look around constantly to be sure you haven’t awoken anyone else.

“Gods, if you keep making that ruckus, you’ll get us both caught.”

Astarion’s sudden appearance by your side makes you jump, and he grabs you before you can clatter to the ground and muffles your breathy shriek with his hand tightly over your mouth. You pull his hand away from your mouth and scowl at him. You keep your voice in the quietest whisper you can.

"Not all of us are imbued with your talents, Rogue.”

“No, Sorceress,” he tuts, “that’s readily apparent. Do you trust me?”

“What are you on about?”

He smirks, “Don’t scream.”

Astarion sweeps your feet out from under you and lifts you effortlessly. He quietly carries you the rest of the way out of camp before setting you back down with a smug half-smile.

“You didn’t have to carry me.”

“Darling, I’m surprised you made it to my tent without waking the others. I heard you coming a mile away.”

“Why didn’t you say something then?”

He shrugs, “I wanted to see if you were coming to plunge a stake through my ribs.”

“And if I was?”

“Then I would have had to stop that pretty little heart of yours,” he pokes a finger into your chest, “Now, what are you waking me up for in the dead of night? I do need my beauty sleep, you know.”

“I’m going to go take care of the Gur tracking you. I thought you might enjoy the show, and if you care to lend a hand, I wouldn’t say no to the help.”

His eyes widen in surprise, “Why? You ever so vexingly made us walk away from him earlier.”

“Karlach and Wyll are not murderers. I didn’t want to stain their hands with blood against their will.”

“But you are? A murderer, I mean.”

For you, yes.

“Sometimes… sometimes death is necessary, and I’m not afraid to do what’s necessary. I won’t allow him to make a deal with the Hag, hunt you down and take you back to Cazador.”

“How very… sweet.”

“Are you coming, or are you just going to stand there and stare at me like I’m your next meal?”

“A man can dream. Lead on, my dear.”

With only the two of you, the battle with the Gur is fatiguing and arduous. He is well-equipped and trained, but your magic is a draconic firestorm. Astarion took him by surprise, allowing you both to land several attacks before he could recover. You hold back and let Astarion land the killing blow, driving his dagger deep into Gandrel’s chest.

Regardless of your magical prowess, you don’t make it out of the battle unscathed.

“You’re hurt.”

“I’ll be fine. He caught me with an arrow or two.”

Astarion grabs your hands and shoves them hard against your wound, “Keep pressure on it. Hold on.”

He jogs over the Gandrel’s backpack and starts rifling through it. There’s concern inlaid in his features that you haven’t seen.

Well, other than for himself.

He returns to your side quickly and hands you a Potion of Healing, “Drink up. Preferably, before you bleed out.”

You roll your eyes at him but drink the potion happily, which eases some of your discomfort and refuels your body.

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, Astarion. Really, but you’re injured as well.”

“I’m already dead, my dear. Not to worry, I’ve been in far more dire straits. We are positively bathed in blood. We can’t return to camp like this unless you wish to appraise the others of our nighttime activities.”

“Well, what do you suggest?”

“There’s a river near that village. We can wash up there before I sneak us back into camp.”

You nod and start toward the river. The night is clear, and the moonlight is enough to light your way without the need for extra magical assistance.

When you arrive at the river, Astarion strips down without hesitation and wades into the running water. The pale light from the moon washes him in an otherworldly brilliance. A gentle breeze stirs his hair and casts frolicking shadows over him.

Gods, he’s beautiful. Mere words can’t do this man justice.

A haughty smile tugs at the corners of his lips, “Are you going to join me or just stand there gawking?”

“Right. Sorry.”

“Oh, don’t apologize. You know I am all for shallow praise.”

You strip off your trousers and blood-soaked robe but hesitate when it comes to your undergarments, feeling suddenly shy as his crimson eyes pour over your body.

“Bashful tonight, are you? You were not so reserved when we were getting lost in each other in the forest.”

A rush of heat washes up to your face at his teasing, and he chuckles. With a deep breath, you calm your flighty nerves, strip down and wade into the river.

“I thought you said one or two arrows caught you.”

You look down at your body and see several wounds marring your flesh where arrows grazed you. There is a rather deep puncture wound in your shoulder where you had to pull one out mid-battle. That one would have lodged itself right into your heart had Astarion not pushed you out of its path at the last second.

“Or three or four. Who’s counting?”

Astarion’s fingers graze over the wounds lightly, “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Are you concerned for me or at the waste of my blood?”

He shrugs, “Can it not be both?”

You huff an exasperated sigh and turn away from him, scrubbing the blood off of your hands, arms and body. Astarion’s chest presses up against your back, and his arm wraps around your waist carefully.

His lips ghost over your ear, “Thank you.”

“Drinking the expensive stuff, I see.”

Astarion’s voice nudges you out of your thoughts, and your eyes lazily drift to him leaning in the archway, observing you with an earth-shatteringly handsome smirk.

“I’ll pay you back for it.”

He laughs, “Your tab is running rather high these days - a rug, shirt, and now several bottles of imported liquor.”

“Sell my stuff like you were going to.”

“No, darling. I don’t need coin. Although, if you keep drinking like this, I may have to start picking pockets again.”

Astarion takes a seat at the table with you. Reaching over, he grabs the bottle and takes a long drink. He smells like his familiar self, but there’s a tinge of tangy blood, and it’s not his. He looks on edge, something frightening in his body language, and your throat constricts.

“How was your business meeting or whatever you’re up to?”

“Disappointing. I’d rather not discuss it.”

“You’re angry.”

“Yes.”

It comes out as a warning that makes your hair stand on end, and you fill your body with the weave, tugging on your inherent talents.

“Shall we go and get you some food and continue your lessons?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea tonight.”

He takes another swig from the bottle and sets it on the table. His finger taps the side, making the glass ting sweetly.

“I will change, and we can be on our way.”

“I said not tonight, Astarion.”

“I will not allow you to go hungry. We are going.”

“No!”

With a dark, dangerous growl, Astarion swiftly rises from his chair, grabs you by the throat and slams you hard against the wall. Your head bounces off of it with a loud thud, and stars burst in a spectacular light show behind your eyes.

Your head swims groggily, “Stop, Astar-!”

He increases the pressure on your throat, causing your words to cut off abruptly in a strangled wheeze.

“Or what, sorceress?” he laughs menacingly, “Are you going to burn me again?”

His eyes are once again listless and piercing, and he scowls at you grimly.

This is what I’ve agreed to. This is why I’m here.

I’m an idiot.

His grip on your throat stops you from being able to speak. If you’re going to get through to him this time, you’re going to have to resort to violence. It was something you didn’t want to do because violence seemed to escalate him further, not calm him down, but you can’t do anything pinned to this wall.

Thankfully, since Astarion has been keeping you fed, you’re stronger, relatively clear-headed, except for the liquor, and in control of your body.

Swinging your feet up in a swift motion, you plant them on his stomach and launch him backwards off of you. His grip is ripped away, and you clatter to the floor.

“You ungrateful petulant ingrate!”

“Astarion,” you croak, “I’m begging you. Listen to my voice and come back to me.”

“The Astarion you knew is long dead, pet. I should have let you burn!”

He’s taunting me, trying to provoke me. I have to keep my wits about me.

“Then why didn’t you?”

“I… I-”

You’ve got him fumbling. Righting yourself, you launch at him, wrapping your arms around his neck with your legs secured around his hips. You cling to him and bring your lips to his. It feels like kissing a stranger and makes you want to cringe. He’s rigid and tense. His mouth is set in a hard line under yours.

You squeeze your eyes shut and say a small prayer to any God listening, hoping this works. If it doesn’t, you’ve lost before you could even really begin.

You feel the shift in him start as he trembles savagely against you. His hand grabs a handful of your shirt in a tight fist, and he grits his teeth.

You shift your lips away from his and bring them near his ear, “I’ve got you, Astarion. Fight.”

Squeezing closer to him, you lay your head on his shoulder and close your eyes. All you can do now is wait and see if he can find his way out of the sadistic purgatory he retreats to when this thing, whatever it may be, takes over his control, compelling him to be this monster.

Your heart aches for him. All Astarion has wanted as long as you’ve known him was not to be a puppet, a slave to someone else’s whims and desires. The promise of power and eternal safety is what made the ritual so appealing to him. What a cruel joke it was to end up a slave to a version of yourself you don’t recognize.

Astarion’s hand snakes up your shirt and slides smoothly over the skin of your back, pulling you closer, “I’m back, little love. You can let go now.”

I don’t want to let go.

Releasing your grip on him, you slide back to the floor and step away, feeling unexpectedly shy.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“You didn’t, but you’re afraid.”

“I have good reason to be.”

He nods, “You do.”

“I need your consent, Astarion.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“If this is to continue, I need to know you’re okay with the… physicality. I can’t fight you back. It only drives you further away, and it will end up getting me killed. The only way I’ve been able to break you free from the chains your thoughts hold you with is… well, you know.”

You shift on your feet anxiously with your hands wrapped behind your back while he stares at you.

“Why do you think I would not be comfortable with such an…. arrangement?”

“You know exactly why, Astarion. If this is to continue, I need your assurance that I’m not pushing any boundaries.”

“You have my consent; do what you must, but do not allow me to harm you. Fight me if that’s what must be done. Fight me with everything you have. Don’t hold anything back.”

“I don’t want to hurt you, Astarion.”

Even if I could.

The back of his fingers glide tenderly down your cheek, “Do what must be done, my love.”

No.

“Fine.”

He nods, and relief floods the vibrant red sea of his eyes, “If you do not wish to go hunting tonight, that’s fine. If that’s all, I will retire for the night.”

“Okay.”

“Goodnight, beautiful.”

“Astarion?”

“Yes?”

“What happens when someone else makes you angry? Someone that’s not me.”

His voice is dark, cold and grim, “They don’t survive.”

Oh… How many people has he killed?

“I… see. Goodnight.”

Astarion doesn’t even look at you as he turns around and retires to his bedroom.

Withdrawing to your room, you lock the door and slide into the empty bed with a dismal sigh. He may not have said it outright, but the urging nature of his voice telling you to “do what must be done” was daunting.

Was he telling me to kill him if I must? Even if I were capable of it, could I do that to him? If it came down to my life or his, whose would I choose?

Too many questions, not enough answers.

You try to pull your trance over your consciousness to blanket it, but it doesn’t come. The events of the night weigh too heavily on your mind. Not only did you have to be wary of upsetting him, but you also had to be wary of anyone else who might aggravate him.

That’s why he smelled like blood tonight… Someone lost their life to his demons.

In truth, the people he was doing “business” with were probably hardly people who deserved to be saved anyway. Regardless, you worry that every time he gives in to these gruesome impulses, he might lose more and more of himself until there are no traces of him remaining.

A very fine mess indeed.

You toss and turn in your bed, trying to find a comfortable position. Your senses are all heightened and alert. You’re scared to sleep, to leave yourself vulnerable to attack with him so close by. A locked door will not keep him at bay if he decides he no longer wants to participate in this experiment.

“I won’t allow the sun or myself to hurt you.”

His words surface in your mind. How could he possibly know that? He just admitted that he kills others who provoke him, likely without remorse or thought. He had sounded so resolute when he said it as if it was just a simple matter of fact and not simply conjecture.

He hasn’t killed me yet, I suppose.

You spend the rest of the night flip-flopping around in your bed, lost in thought and unable to find any rest.

You’re still wide awake, sitting in your bed when a knock at your door finally rings through the silence. When you answer it, the sun streams in bright and glorious, and you jump back, a reflexive habit, falling to the floor.

Astarion approaches you with sorrowful eyes, offering you a hand up, “You’re safe, love. I won’t allow any harm to come to you.”

You take his hand, and he hauls you up on your feet, “It will take some… adjusting to, I think.”

“Your belongings have arrived. Would you like me to have them bring it to your room or leave it downstairs?”

“Are they living or spawn?”

“Living.”

“Leave it downstairs. I can’t be trusted around them. I’ll bring it up myself.”

Astarion bows, “As you wish.”

He disappears out your door to give directions to whoever has been sent to fetch whatever belongings remain at the palace. Soon, you can hear hearts beating heavily with effort, and it sounds like a euphony lullaby. It marks your guts stir with well-known, unslakable sanguine thirst.

Crushing your eyes shut, you dig your nails into your palms harshly, causing shallow wounds that weep blood to give you something else to focus on other than the siren song of the living.

One day without food and I’m already losing it.

Astarion’s hands find yours, and you lurch at the sudden contact, “They’ll be gone soon, darling. Hold onto me.”

You need to anchor yourself on something, anything, and you fold your arms around him and hold on tightly, gripping handfuls of his coat. You put your ear to his chest and try to focus on the sound of his beating heart. His hand rubs your back comfortingly. It feels like forever to you before a voice rises from the staircase.

“Master Ancunin?”

“Yes?”

“We’ve finished.”

“Very good. You may leave.”

“As you say, saer.”

The door shuts, and the beating tune of hearts fades slowly. Your hands finally unclench and stop tugging on his jacket.

“Getting blood all over my clothing again, I see.”

Shit.

“Sorry. I… I wasn-”

A low laugh catches you off guard, “Don’t worry, my sweet. I’ve learned not to wear my fine clothing around you. You’re always bleeding on me, burning me, or throwing me across courtyards, after all. Look at me.”

Looking up at him, he brushes your hair back, “You didn’t sleep at all last night. Why?”

“How do you know?”

“I can hear you tossing around in here.”

Shifting away from him, you cast your eyes at the floor, “I’m not used to sleeping at night.”

Not quite a lie, but not quite the truth.

“You’re a terrible liar.”

How does he always know when I’m lying? I’m able to persuade most people, but not him, never him.

“I should get my things.”

“Would you like a hand?”

“No, thank you,” you smirk, “I’m sure Master Ancunin has more important things to do.”

He chuckles, “Cheeky pup, aren’t you? If you need help, you know where to find me.”

You have to make several trips to bring all your old things to your room, stacking boxes and crates in a corner.

I didn’t realize how much I left behind.

Astarion kept all your clothing, robes, quarterstaffs, circlets, and various enchanted rings and necklaces. It takes hours to unpack, sort through it and put it away.

Reaching into a long crate, you pull out the Cazador’s quarterstaff, Woe. You reflexively throw it to the ground, and it clatters on the wooden floor with a loud bang. You shuffle back away from it as fast as you can, as if it were threatening your life by simply existing.

Astarion appears in the open doorway to your bedroom, seemingly out of thin air. He perceives the horror afflicting your expression and looks around as if searching for danger.

“Are you alright? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you blurt out a little too fast, “Everything is fine.”

His eyes search the room and land on the quarterstaff strewn on the floor.

“Quarterstaff troubling you, my dear?”

“Why did we keep this thing?”

“It’s a decent item,” he shrugs, “I’m sure it has its uses.”

Images of Astarion completing the ritual and ascending froth over in your mind.

The red glow of his eyes. The sound of the other spawn and prisoners popping. The maniacal laugh that resounded from him.

You recoil, cringing, “I don’t want it. Get rid of it.”

He picks it up and turns it over in his hands, “Why? It could be useful.”

“I don’t care how useful it could be. I don’t want it. Sell or destroy it. I couldn’t care less but get rid of it.”

He cocks a brow at you, confused, “If that’s truly what you want. Perhaps I’ll give it to Elowyn.”

“Elowyn?”

“Ah, yes, you don’t know her name.”

The mulberry-haired woman.

A jumbled fusion of betrayal, anger and jealousy rises like bile in your throat, “Don’t you dare, Astarion.”

“Why not? You said you don’t want it, and I have no use for it.”

“She’s dangerous. Something is off about her.”

He giggles, “Jealous, are you? That’s very cute.”

Jealousy does not begin to describe it.

“You never listen to me. I said she’s dangerous!”

“Darling, she’s a mere human. She’s no more of a danger to me than a fly is to carrion.”

“You’re blind if that’s what you truly think, Astarion.”

“Care to elaborate on your analysis of my relationship?”

Relationship? Ouch.

That stings.

“I’m assuming she knows what you are.”

“She knows I’m a vampire. Nothing more.”

“Gods, for someone smart, you’re dull sometimes.”

He laughs, “Am I?”

“Give me the fucking quarterstaff. It’s safer in my hands than it is in hers.”

“No, you said get rid of it. I will oblige your request.”

You cast Telekinesis, ripping it out of his hands, and grasp it. It feels repulsive in your palm, and you shudder, fighting the urge to throw it to the ground.

You level a challenging glare at him, and the intonation of your voice is defiant and harsh, “I said it’s mine.”

You catch his eyes shift again. The telltale sign you’ve irked him in some form, and you wait for the inevitable strike. Astarion grits his teeth, but keeps his eyes open, staring into yours boringly.

“May I kiss you?”

“What?”

“Please.”

There’s urgency in his voice, and you watch as his hand balls up into a shaking fist.

He’s trying to fight it himself, but he needs my help.

“Yes.”

Astarion crosses the room quickly, ripping the quarterstaff out of your hands and throwing it to the ground. His lips meet yours with desperation, like you’re the single thing in existence that will keep him afloat.

His hands find your waist and tug you closer to him, crushing himself against you. Your eyes flutter shut, and you’re engulfed and consumed by the depraved thoughts swirling through your head.

His kiss turns rougher, more insistent, and you murmur against him. He takes the opportunity, and his tongue slips between your lips. Any rational thought you were capable of is blown away in a supernova of sensation and is replaced by desire and passion alone.

You want him. You want him with everything you have and everything you are so entirely you’re not sure you’ve ever wanted anything else more in your life.

Astarion grinds into you with a rumbling groan, and you can feel his pulsing erection. He guides your hips and rolls them against himself, eliciting a shuddering pant from you at the exquisite friction against the throbbing in between your thighs.

“Gods, you feel good against me.”

His voice breaks you out of your passion-fuelled delirium, and you push him away, taking several steps back.

“Are you back?”

“Oh yes,” he coos, “I’ve been me for quite some time now.”

“Great. Now, get out.”

“What? You can’t be serious. Look at you; you’re practically vibrating with need, as am I, quite obviously,” his eyes shift towards the bulge in his trousers with a devious grin, “We could assist each other.”

“Go get Elowyn to assist you.”

His brows knit together, “Is that really what you want?”

“What I want hasn’t mattered to you for quite some time, I imagine.”

“What do you want? Name it, and I will make it yours.”

You.

You point at Woe, “I want you to destroy the quarterstaff.”

“What?”

Will he? I’m pushing my luck.

“Destroy it. Snap it in half. You’re strong enough to do that, are you not?”

“Of course, but-” he sputters.

“No, “but,” Astarion. You either do as I ask, or you decline. The choice is yours.”

Astarion’s eyes narrow slightly and shift to the quarterstaff lying where he threw it. He picks it up, inspecting it raptly. His crimson eyes slither up the surface of it while his hands do the same.

With a growl, he easily snaps it in two. A bright flash of light emits as the magical enchantment is released, making that terrible, hideous thing nothing but an inert hunk of useless, gleaming metal.

“A pity,” he pouts, “I do hate to waste perfectly good treasure.”

He actually did it?

“Thank you, Astarion.”

“I aim to please,” he bows shallowly, “Now get ready. The night is almost upon us, and I imagine you’re ravenous.”

In more ways than one.

Thank you to everyone who reads/likes/comments/reblogs! I plan to keep updating as long as people seem to be enjoying the story.

Master List of Chapters: Fangs and Fractured Hearts

If you're interested I write another fic with Spawn Astarion x Tav called - Shadows of the Past

AO3 [Crossposted]

#ascended astarion #bg3 fanfiction #astarion x tav #astarion fanfic #bg3 astarion #astarion x reader #bg3 #astarion x you #astarion #astarion smut

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