#mentioning allie in a thread to me is still so hot of you

[ladyintree]

her heart sinks,   because not only did she not expect that from mikayla,   she definitely doesn’t know expect her to admit anything like that.   it’s a reminder that mikayla probably should hate her,   because if the roles were reversed,   taissa probably wouldn’t be able to stomach her at all.   she’s still curious,  though,   and maybe she shouldn’t press,   but she can’t help it now that some door is open.   ❝  you don’t have to hate me to pray for my downfall,  ❞    she points out,   the smallest hint of a smile on her lips,   because it’s relieving to know that mikayla doesn’t hate her nor wish for the worst despite everything,   even if tai doesn’t understand.  she takes a deep breath,   glancing away from her again before she goes on.   ❝  i’m glad,  though.   knowing you hated me,   it would—-   ❞    she shakes her head,   getting quieter now.   ❝  it’d kill me. ❞ 

her jaw clenches in frustration,   because it’s not her place to be able to call her on her ticks anymore.   it’s annoying,   knowing that as much as she’s changed,  as much time has passed,   mikayla can still read her.  she pushes out a sigh,   bringing her head down and brushing her chin against her shoulder,   avoiding the answer for a moment.   ❝  —- if i was doing this shit on my own,  ❞    she finally mutters,  her eyes widening as she lifts her head and looks back at her.   ❝  i mean,   if i didn’t have people around me giving me warnings,   or telling me to reel it in.   you know,  if i was calling all my shots myself.  ❞    if mikayla asks,  this is about her team,   not about her wife who’s worked overtime trying to make sure taissa didn’t sacrifice whatever morals she’s pretended to have through all of this.  ❝  i know what the fuck i’m doing,  you know?  ❞    she says,   again,   like she’s talking to someone who knows her still.    ❝  but i still have to be careful.  ❞    she gets that,  too,  no matter how hard it is.   

she doesn’t allow herself to think about jackie,  focusing instead on who she did vote for,   because as much pain as she’s still in about mikayla,   it’s still easier to think about than what happened with jackie.    so she laughs again,   this time more confidently,   as if she could stop herself —-  because in some screwed up way,   mikayla’s making her feel better.    ❝  well,  you had my vote,  ❞   she says,  like it’s obvious,  but a moment later,   she realizes they were definitely not even friends at the time.   that amuses her,  and instead of brushing it aside like she should be doing,   she decides to let it fuel her even more.   ❝  —-  that’s too bad,  ❞   she says,  and she knows she doesn’t need to explain why —- that ‘bitchy cheerleader thing’ worked for her,  something she hadn’t revealed to mikayla until they got together,   but it had become something she loved teasing her about—-  so now,  it’s still a habit. 

mikayla has said something of the nature before—-   something that validated her long ago,   made her feel less ashamed in her course of actions,   especially as she tried to cope with what they were forced to do out there.   as good as she pretends she is at keeping her cool,   it makes her falter,  intrigue painting her features but her jaw clenching in an attempt to not let it show.   the longing she feels for her crashes into her now,   reminding her that she still wants her —  she’s always going to want her — but she can’t dwell on that.   she can’t think about that.   so,   whether she means it or not,  she falls back into the truth instead,  because as hard as it is for her to admit this,   it’s easier than thinking about wanting her.    ❝  yeah,   i’m sure it was really hot when i made an impromptu press conference to drop out, ❞   she reveals,  something she hadn’t planned on telling anyone —-  something her wife was still furious with her about,  even more now that they’re apart,   and maybe that’s part of what encourages her to admit it now.   she sighs,  looking back at mikayla.   ❝  cameras started flashing,  and—  yeah,   i wasn’t letting that shit happen,  ❞    she explains.    

tai groans,  her head leaning back in frustration.   ❝  oh,  fuck that,  ❞    she spits back,  shaking her head.    ❝  it’s not too late—-   not when i’ve always given a shit.  ❞    not when she still does.   they’ve already rehashed this,  they’ve already talked about how wrong taissa was,  how justified mikayla is for being angry.   it still doesn’t take away the fact that taissa did,  does,  and will always care about her.  ❝  is it so wrong that i don’t want you to end up in fucking prison again?  ❞    she scoffs.   her face scrunches up,  still annoyed that misty was their only solution,  but it does seem like she knows what she's doing,   anyway.   ❝  fuck,  i never wanted to know shit about her life —-  i still don’t.   however she learned how to do all this is her business,  ❞    she says,  waving her hand in front of her.  

her eyes narrow in at her,   but the small smile on her lips still doesn’t falter,   because mikayla earned that comment,   and tai deserved it.    she hums immediately as she goes on,   her cheeks warming,   the blood staining the floor clearly not the priority now.   she hates not knowing what mikayla’s really thinking,  hates not having the upper hand now —-   but she’s made living off being able to read people,   and she decides that mikayla is trying to flirt,  and after all the stress she’s been through,   after her wife leaving her,   after her campaign has been a bust,   after her best friend fucking killed someone,    she’s not strong enough to ignore it.    ❝  you have my number now,   ❞    she reminds quietly,   like she’s giving her permission for something. because as rare as it is for taissa to answer calls, she knows she'd never ignore hers.

she focuses her gaze on the ground, her eyebrows furrowing, jaw clenched. mikayla knows that's likely what she should be doing— hoping for the worst for taissa, like that's somehow going to make up for the heartbreak she caused her. but as much as she's tried for the past two decades, she can't. “ i've never known how to hate you. ” not when they were kids, when mikayla was terrified of the way she felt whenever tai was near, not when tai never called, and not now. it doesn't mean that it doesn't hurt, watching tai move forward in her life without her, but she can't find it in herself to hope she loses. her marriage, maybe, but not this. “ so, no, ” she mumbles, wondering if she should have even admitted that much or just pretended to agree.

it bothers her, knowing that at one point, she would have been the one to make tai feel better, ease her doubts, but she doesn't know how to do that anymore. she can tell that it's getting to tai more than she wants to let on, but mikayla doesn't know what to do about it. she frowns, glancing up at her once more, almost hesitant to ask. “ if you what? what were you actually going to say? ” because she doesn't completely buy that tai doesn't want to stoop to his level, not when mikayla watched her cripple allie stevens, just for high school soccer— which she still doesn't judge her for, even now.

mikayla almost begins to smile, but it vanishes the moment tai mentions not eating meat, because once again, she's reminded that they're strangers. she doesn't have to ask why, not when she might have made the same decision if she had more options after rescue, instead of prison food. but them being strangers all over again still isn't enough to stop her heart from racing at the sound of tai's laugh. “ well, you don't have to worry about that. i couldn't even win homecoming queen. ” the reminder of who did causes her to glance toward the door to the bathroom, almost like she's worried shauna might have heard it. “ i'm even less liked now than i was back then— and i don't even have the bitchy cheerleader thing going for me anymore. ” just the criminal record and all of the theories that surround it, none of which are true, but that doesn't seem to matter to anyone but them.

she sits back for a moment, stopping entirely just to watch her as she answers, unable to even try to pretend to focus on cleaning up, because this feels more important, just for the moment— understanding why anything's different, why she's suddenly not the taissa turner mikayla once knew. her chest falls with disappointment at the answer tai does give, feeling like it's not enough, not the whole truth, but she doesn't know how to ask for it. she doesn't know if she's allowed, or if she should just be grateful for what she's getting. “ that's too bad, ” she sighs, going back to scrubbing at the floor, refusing to make eye contact as she continues, “ you were always hot when you played dirty. ” her wedding ring feels heavier on her hand beneath the gloves, reminding her that she's not supposed to say things like that to anyone but the woman waiting at home for her, but she doesn't feel as guilty as she should.

she knows taissa cares about this— making sure that none of them get caught, that none of this gets traced back to them, but that doesn't mean she cares about mikayla. again, she's left to wonder if tai would have done the same thing for her, if she would have dropped everything to help if it had been mikayla who killed someone, not shauna. she didn't when they were nineteen. “ i just mean it's a little fucking late to suddenly show concern. you didn't check on me when it actually fucking happened— i don't want you checking on me now. ” it just feels like rubbing salt in an open wound, reminding her that tai didn't seem to care enough back then, so mikayla doesn't want to know if she cares now. “ yeah, i know. misty probably does this all the fucking time. ” it's a joke, mostly, just to distract from what might happen if misty's advice doesn't work, if they actually do get caught.

mikayla scoffs, ready to ask tai why would i? but when she looks up at her, at her smile, it's difficult for her to remember what she was going to say at all. the question's ridiculous, considering tai destroyed all the faith that mikayla had in her with her silence in their twenties, but as easy as it is to be angry with her, she's reminded of the way it felt to be with her at times like this, distracted from all the bad by her and only her. “ i just didn't think you knew how a phone worked. ” she shouldn't, but she finds herself smiling anyway, her tone more playful than bitter— even if there is still some of that resentment under the surface. “ which is a shame, because i think i would've been into how you sound on the phone. without the, you know, panic in your voice. ”

[firesofdainix]

spacetime continuum is such a cool concept! how did you even create the idea? and did you expect it to grow this much? Asking because I love it, back when you first started publishing them i checked the fwndom tag every day hoping youd uploaded a new one •-• its still my favorite series of fics in this fandom

Thank you so much for reading my stories! I admit I never quite expected people to love them much less be inspired, but here we are! March me would be so happy hearing this! So, there are three things that made me inspired to write Spacetime Continuum:

1. Broken AU and its impact in the Solarballs community, such as the Earth favoritism and evil Gas Giants

2. Earth's character being watered down to an innocent planet void of nothing wrong, which frustrates me greatly

3. The Ice Giants playing at most two roles in the Solarballs universes I had seen that time: being non existent, or being victims of the gas Giants.

For more information of the origins of this AU, click read more:

I mentioned that one of the biggest reasons I created this universe was because I had yet to see an AU where the Ice Giants are just as bad as the Gas Giants, and that they go with what the Gas Giants have for them without any coercion. Uranus' personality had been the very first thing I started writing and thinking about, hence my second work for Solarballs being about Uranus, when the paint dries. He was funny to flesh out, from being the insecure planet he is today to the prideful, boisterous and hot tempered character he'd been in the Proto Era. Jupiter and Saturn were the next to follow different tweaks of their character in canon, because my goal had been turning them into complicated and morally ambiguous characters. The Ice Giants are in POWER, IN CONTROL of their horrible actions (though you can make a case for Neptune being manipulated by Uranus, but it's clear he had no qualms killing the other giants and wiping out smaller bodies) in my universe, especially during the war for the position of Celestial Monarch.

The War had already been an integral part of the story, and it was mentioned in my first, now non-canon fic "Mars, god of war" along with hypothetical planets Antichton and Phaeton, plus their relationships with Venus and Mars. But during that, I didn't know what the war had been about, all I know is that Jupiter, Uranus and Neptune were all allies (to also combat the common fanon that Uranus is afraid of Jupiter) and their enemies are Saturn and Planet X. The character of Hades was born, and this drove me to write and flesh out the aforementioned Uranus fic linked earlier, with the earliest mentions of Jupiter accidentally killing Hades, and the animosity between Saturn and Jupiter/Uranus. I didn't expect myself to see the romantic tension between Jupiter and Uranus until now, so that was my fault LMAO

Since this is a series, and not a multi chapter fic, I didn't have to commit to a linear narrative and begin writing one shots about my universe, expanding the characters and the world revolving around the planets. My third fic I've uploaded was about Titan, aka "Saturn's moons hanging by a thread," and the two fics after it about the moons and how the elder Moons were affected by the war. It was an excuse to give the readers more details and clues about what happened before I immediately hit them with the Truth, which is why Saturn merely admonished his moons' actions against Titan in "moon eater." To set up Clues about WHY Jupiter killed Hades in the first place, but making it clear that the story Saturn told IS NOT the whole thing, as we see in "history is a story told by the winners of the fight," there were other factors at play, along with Uranus's ambitious motives (it'll be seen in a fic I'm uploading tonight!) it exposes Jupiter's mental stability and Hades's abuse towards his own older brother that drove him to kill him, even accidentally. And you have to take note this fic was written AFTER plot heavy and clue filled fics such as "after the battle," where Jupiter is written as a megalomaniac that finally got what he wanted; "you didn't know?" Where we are seeing the new personality of Jupiter, and the Ganymede fic, where Jupiter's actions are INEXCUSABLE and shitty. It's fun to see readers puzzling over what the hell happened in the last billion years.

However, since the series is built upon ideas that have taken a long time to consider and new ideas keep popping up, there are times when older fics contradict my new ones, such as changing Earth and Tierra from being the same person to different entities. But I hopefully usually keep my ideas and message consistent. I love having the creativity and using a show about talking planets as my muse and a sandbox for the different kinds of characters and themes which usually play out in the story. I know broken AU gets a whole lot of flack for being the main reason why Earth, Jupiter and Saturn's characters became damaged, but honestly I saw it as an opportunity. A way to integrate the "evil" gas Giants into my AU.

My goal is to keep everyone consistent, well-rounded, and having a defining set of goals and characteristics, including those who are used to drive the story or a character forward, such as Hades, Vulcan, Theia, Antichton and Phaeton, who already have SOME established depth to them other than being the partners of existing planets. I mean... Have you guys READ Antichton in "the consequences of our actions"? He was a bastard, as well-meaning POS who thought he was doing the best. And Hades, aka the planet I created to give Jupiter a character arc, only serving as a plot device? He STILL continues to haunt the narrative. He continues to make Jupiter uncomfortable at the mere mention of him. His murder is seen as Jupiter's power play and not retaliation. That's where I've been going.

Writing the characters who are alive with complex characteristics is something I enjoyed. I enjoyed writing Earth being an unapologetic, arrogant, insensitive asshole who gets on the nerves of other rocky planets. I enjoy writing Saturn as an unrepentant, vain, and self-centered planet who can't apologize without sounding like he forced it. I love writing Sun and how his favoritism, his greenhorn nature when he's been given his system led to the downfall of the solar system and cast permanent wounds to his Giants. And I enjoy writing Planet X, Tyche, Nemesis and Iris, who are up to no good.

The main themes or lessons in my series are as follows:

1. There is more sides to a story than what is given.

2. No one is right. No one is wrong. It all depends on what you're fighting for and the beliefs you have.

3. You need to learn responsibility. You are a born leader, use your talent to the utmost power. Don't play favorites, and discipline them when they go too far.

4. Revenge is a fickle thing: will it make you feel satisfied, or will it just fill your empty heart with negativity?

5. Immortality is sacred. One wrong move against those you love the most and you'll be dead.

6. Favoritism kills.

And a whole lot more I'm not getting into because they'd be spoilers, or they're not fully fleshed out as ideas yet! Thank you for enjoying spacetime continuum, and I hope to upload something about it soon! (Tonight lmao). I... Didn't think thisd get long but IT DID

[talatomaz]

defenceless | jj x fem!teen!reader

a/n: i’ve been rewatching criminal minds and i can’t believe it’s been a year since i last wrote for jj. and i have no idea where this came from.

(feedback/positive comments are appreciated)

warnings: major references to blood/being stabbed. mentions of assault

word count: 2.7k

masterlist | request list | request rules

r is jj’s 19 year old adopted daughter and gets victimised after stopping an unsub from assaulting someone

i do not give you permission to repost or translate my fics on any platform - likes/reblogs are okay and are much appreciated

“Morning, baby.”

You smiled when your Mum came up behind you and softly kissed your head.

“Morning, Mum. I made you some breakfast.”

You said, pouring coffee into the seasoned profiler’s ‘No.1 Mom’ mug that you’d gotten for her several years ago.

You’d gifted it to her on the first Mother’s Day you had with her after she adopted you. And she used it that morning and every morning since.

“God, what’d I do to deserve a daughter like you?”

JJ said proudly as she dug into her breakfast, happily munching on a piece of toast as she looked through her case file. Whatever dark, horrific crime she and her team were investigating simplified down to a few pages in that brown file.

“Busy day?” You asked, leaning against the kitchen counter, staring across at her.

“You have no idea. I’ve been up for a few hours trying to compile some notes on this case we’re working. Young, relatively low-risk, women are being raped in alleyways and there are no witnesses.”

She explained as she continued to eat whilst scribbling shorthand notes on a notepad.

“Any ideas on who you’re looking for yet?”

She hummed in answer. Swallowing her food, she replied, “Yeah, I think we have a preliminary profile that we want to release to the public later today.”

Pouring the rest of her coffee into a travel cup, she put her files in her bag and placed it on the counter you were resting against.

“You got class today?”

You were studying criminology, wanting to follow in your mother’s footsteps and become a profiler.

Nodding, you answered, “Yeah, then some of my friends and I are gonna head to the mall. And yes, I’ll message you constantly, so you know.”

You added when your mother opened her mouth to presumably ask that very question.

“Thanks, sweetie. Whoever our unsub is, he’s targeting women your age and considering he’s probably here right now, I need to know you’re safe.”

“I know, Mum. Now go, you don’t want to be late for work. Hotch only lets you be late once, you know.” You smirked.

“Yes, I know. Bye, y/n. I love you.” Your mother mirrored your expression and kissed your cheek.

“I love you too.” You replied, handing your Mum her keys and you watched her leave as the white door closed gently behind her.

***

“Maybe just call him out on it and see what he says?”

You suggested to your friend, Kerri, after she explained her boyfriend troubles to you and your other friend, Ally.

“I mean, the worst that could happen is-”

You stopped mid-sentence when you heard a muffled scream. Furrowing your brows, you walked closer to where the sound came from; an alleyway behind an old warehouse.

Remembering your mother’s earlier profile, you whispered to your friends, “Stay behind me.”

“Y/N, what is it?”

“Not sure.”

Inching around the corner, you saw two figures behind a dumpster. The smaller figure, who appeared to be a blonde female, was struggling against the male standing over her.

“Hey! Get away from her!”

Shouting, you ran up to the two and watched as the man’s head whipped around to face you before he darted off, jumping over a fence.

Approaching the woman, you saw she was half naked and had blood seeping from her nose.

“Oh god. Call 911, she’s been assaulted.” You said quickly to your friends who stood behind you, shocked at what they had just witnessed.

Hearing Kerri following your instructions, you took off the jacket you were wearing and wrapped it around the exposed girl.

“H-He tried to r-r-”

Unable to form the words, the girl started to sob at her ordeal.

“I know. It’s okay, honey. What’s your name?” You asked, speaking quietly to try to calm her as if she was a spooked animal.

“A-Annie.” She choked out as she tugged your jacket closer around her.

“Annie, you’re safe now. He can’t hurt you.”

The former began to sob harder and fell against your chest. Wrapping one arm around her, you used the other to take out your phone to call your Mum.

“Shh, it’s okay, Annie. You’re okay.” You said, soothing the distraught girl who was currently crying her heart out against you.

“Hey, y/n, what’s up?”

After quickly explaining what had just transpired, JJ told you and your friends to remain where you were since you were all witnesses and that she’d be there soon.

“You did good, babygirl.”

Morgan said, handing you a cup of coffee.

You were currently sitting at your mother’s desk at the BAU, having already given your statement to both local police and your Mum’s team at the crime scene. Emily and Spencer had driven your friends home whilst you came with your Mum to her work - she refused to leave you alone, even though you’d argued that it was still daylight and you’d be fine.

You didn’t reply, deciding to sip the hot drink, wincing when it burned your tongue.

“He’s right, y/n. Most people probably wouldn’t have heard anything.”

You glanced up at your Mum who stood above you, her hand resting on your shoulder.

“What will happen now? To the unsub, I mean. I interrupted him so he never managed to rape Annie.”

“He’ll probably try to hurt someone else.”

You turned to face Hotch as he approached you and the rest of his team.

“I just got off the phone with the hospital. They’ve discharged Annie into the care of her parents. She wanted me to tell you ‘thank you’.”

“I’m glad she’s okay. Physically anyways. So, you think he’ll get sloppy? Since he never got to...finish, he’s probably going to be antsy right? He might make a mistake?” You asked, hopeful that your Mum would catch him soon.

“More than likely. He’s definitely going to be angry, especially since we’ve just released the profile along with the sketch you helped us with, y/n.” Hotch answered, a gleam of pride in his eyes.

“Anything I could do to help,” you replied.

Standing up, you faced your Mum, “I think I’m going to go home. I’m kind of exhausted.”

“I’ll drive you h-”

“It’s okay,” you interrupted your Mum, “you’re busy here and you’ve got a lot of work to do. Besides, it’s only mid-afternoon so I’ll be fine. I-I just need some air.” You said, your voice faltering when you felt tears forming.

Clearing your throat, you held back your emotions and kissed your Mum on her cheek, “I’ll message you when I get home.”

“Okay, baby. I’m proud of you.”

The tall blonde hugged you close to her which you returned with as much ferocity, her hands stroking your hair as she cradled your head against her.

Bidding your goodbyes to the rest of the team, you left the federal building.

“JJ, you okay?” Morgan asked.

JJ had heard the emotion in your voice and though she was proud to have seen you comforting the most recent victim, it had hurt her heart to see what came after the ambulance drove away with an injured Annie in the back.

Once you’d given your statement and described the unsub to her and her team, she’d followed you to her old vacant office from her media liason days where you’d broken down.

She had watched you hold yourself together by a thread all throughout the questioning but had known that the adrenaline high would crash soon. And you quite literally did crash. In her arms, the moment she had closed the door behind her.

She had fought back her own tears as she gathered you into her arms, soothing you as you did earlier with Annie.

She’d tried as hard as she could to keep you away from her world.

She didn’t want you to be exposed to any more darkness than you’d already experienced when you were younger, before you’d met her.

“JJ?”

The blonde blinked, breaking away from her thoughts to stare back at the rest of the team.

“She did good, JJ.” Morgan repeated as JJ simply nodded, not knowing what to say.

***

Taking out your phone, you sent a message to your group chat with Kerri and Ally, wanting to make sure they were okay.

After receiving replies from the both of them confirming that they were fine and just a bit shaken up, you placed your phone back in your pocket.

Sighing, you continued walking down the relatively empty street; the majority of people either at work or school, unaware of what had happened just a few hours earlier.

You thought about Annie and later crying in your Mum’s arms. You didn’t even know why you did. Spencer probably would have given you some fact about adrenaline crashes but you shook your head, feeling self-conscious.

There was no need for you to break down like that.

All it achieved was your Mum being worried about you which was the last thing you wanted because it meant she’d be distracted from doing her job. Catching this asshole.

Hands in your pockets, you felt the bright sun shine down on your face.

Stopping for a brief moment, you glanced up at the sky, and allowed yourself to breathe.

As you were about to carry on walking, you felt a harsh grip on your arm pull you into an abandoned parking lot.

You thrashed against the strong hold, the self-defence skills your Mum taught you kicking in.

Stomping on the large figure’s foot, you smirked at the grunt of pain that fell from his lips. Then you elbowed them in their stomach and threw your head back into theirs. Hearing more shouts of pain, you started to run before you were roughly pushed against a brick wall.

Your breaths came out in heavy pants and your eyes widened as you stared into familiar eyes.

It was the unsub.

He held himself tight against you, pulling a switchblade from his pocket and into your view. Your eyes flickered from the sharp blade to his eyes. They were filled with fury as blood dripped from his nose - from when you’d head butted him.

“Good. So you recognise me.” His voice was hoarse, as if he’d swallowed a bunch of nails.

“What do you want?” You spat out, refusing to show any indication of fear to him.

“You ruined the other girl for me. But you seem like a challenge. I like that.”

Pressing the knife against your neck, he used his free hand to undo his belt.

You barely controlled the terror that threatened to rise through your body. Instead, you tried to focus on the pressure of his weapon, waiting for a slight reprieve where you could make your move to escape.

That moment came when he unzipped his trousers.

The pressure lightened for a few seconds which was all you needed.

Grabbing his wrist, you twisted the knife away from you and kneed him in the groin. Pushing him away, you stumbled, trying to escape.

But he was quick on his feet.

He swiftly picked up the knife that had fallen to the floor and thrust it into your stomach.

You groaned, the pain unlike anything you had ever experienced before. Your hand instinctively went to your stomach as blood started to coat your clothing.

You slumped down the wall as the unsub crouched down, sneering at you, “Bitch.”

Tapping the ground behind you, you felt a piece of broken glass in your fingers. Gripping it tightly, you gathered all your strength and plunged it into his neck.

He yelled out, his hand going to the glass that was still in his flesh.

Recognising what he was about to do, you clambered to your feet and watched as he pulled the shard, of what appeared to be from a broken beer bottle, out of his skin. Blood splatted all over the wall that you had been against, just moments before.

Blood continued to seep out from your wound.

You took off your jacket - the one you had previously wrapped around Annie - and pressed it against your skin. You groaned at the white hot pain that seared through your skin.

Knowing you were only down the street from the Quantico building, you took out your phone and called your Mum as you walked, as well as you could in your condition, back to the federal building.

“You home already?”

“M-Mum, c-come outside. I-I need you.” You choked out, trying to steady your breathing.

“Y/N? Are you okay?”

You could hear her shouting to the rest of her team before she continued to talk into the phone.

You made it to the entrance of the federal building but you were too overcome with exhaustion and you felt yourself drop to the floor.

You could hear shouts from the people around you as they watched blood pool around you.

“Oh my god. Y/N!”

You heard your Mum yell as she fell to your side, pressing her hands heavily against your wound.

You barely heard as Hotch called 911, stating his name and rank and urged for an ambulance to be sent immediately.

You struggled to keep your eyes open as you looked up at your Mum.

“Come on, baby. Stay awake for me.” JJ begged, tears carelessly running down her face.

“It hurts, Mum.”

“I know, baby. I know. But you’re strong. Stay with me. How’d this happen?”

JJ knew the only way to keep you awake was to continue talking so your brain could still remain active.

“H-He’s dead. He attacked me. I-In a car park. Down there.”

You weakly raised your hand and pointed towards the direction you had come from.

“Good girl. Just stay with me. You’re going to be okay. Y/N? Y/N!”

JJ screamed when she watched your eyes flutter closed as you lost consciousness.

***

“Woah, y/n. It’s just me.”

JJ said quickly when you jumped as she came up behind you to kiss your head.

It had been a few weeks since you’d been stabbed.

You’d woken up in a hospital, hooked up to all sorts of machines monitoring your heart rate. Your eyes had fallen on your mother who, once she saw you were awake, started to cry and hug you close to her. That then made you start crying and the two of you were just a pile of tears as you clung to each other.

After the tears had stopped and the doctors had checked up on you, JJ had told you that they’d found the unsub in a parking lot a few blocks from the BAU.

A couple of days after, you’d been discharged from the hospital. Your mother had stayed by your side up until this week when you had urged her to go back to work.

That had led you to now. She’d just arrived home from work and you hated that you were still on edge after your attack, despite your Mum telling you it was normal.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, honey.” JJ said softly as she came to sit beside you on the sofa.

You both sat in silence for a few moments before you spoke, your voice coming out in a whisper.

“I’m scared, Mum.”

You felt her eyes on you as she spoke, “Scared? He’s dead, y/n. He can’t hurt you.”

“I know, I just-In that moment when I fought him, I was so defenceless. And I’m scared of what will happen the next time I can’t defend myself.”

You continued, tears welling in your eyes as you stared ahead, unable to face your mother.

“Y/N,” JJ gently turned your face so she could look into your eyes.

“Am I defenceless?”

You blinked, having not expected that question. “What? No.”

“Exactly. I’m not. But I felt like it after I was kidnapped and tortured a few years ago. It’s normal to feel like that, y/n. But it’ll pass. I can promise you that.”

“It’s like I can feel him stabbing me over and over again.” You choked out, failing to force your tears back down.

“Oh, baby.”

JJ gently pulled you to her as she wrapped her arms around your body. She cradled your head against her chest as you clung to her arms, now sobbing.

“I got you, y/n. You’re safe. I got you.” She repeated, soothing you as you continued to cry.

Still hugging you against her, she kissed your head,

“As long as you have me, you’ll never be defenceless.”

[peakdeer]

The Red Means I Love You

This is basically a vent post. School hit me like a truck going 90 down the interstate, so I decided to inflict my pain on my favorite comfort character. Sausage. Or: Sausage has a bad time. Title from 'The red means I love you' by Madds Buckley! TWs for: Nongraphic description of blood, temporary death, mentions of child abuse, and self-depreciation. Also flower suicide /hj

Sausage put a hand to his mouth in vain, attempting to block the flowers pushing themselves out from his lungs and into the mosaic of blood and petals covering the floor. It was pretty, he thought in a detached sort of way. The blue and red petals were brought into stark contrast by the blood coating the petals, glinting similarly to the way glass did, bringing a hazy kind of unreality to the scene. As another wave of pain and coughing and he was dying wasn’t he, this is what dying felt like— he removed his blood-soaked hand from him mouth, letting the blood and petals tumble out like a waterfall. His vision blurred, spots obscuring his sight and objects being dimmed to indistinct swirls of color. He coughed and coughed and coughed but his lungs were still blocked and he couldn��t breathe please he just wanted to breathe—

It took him a minute to realize the drips of hot wetness rolling down his chin were tears, and when he did, it didn’t matter anyway. The corners of his vision were turning black and his coughing had fallen into soundless gasping for the air that couldn’t make it past the flowers pouring out of his throat.

It would all be fine in a minute.

[MythicalSausage suffocated to death]

He rolled over, sucking in oxygen through his now free airway like it was cool water in a scorching desert. He nearly choked a second later, the sobs shaking his body stealing his breath and interfering with his pathetic breathing attempts. He sniffed, desperately wiping the tears away with his bloody sleeves. He hiccupped and whimpered, curling into a ball as if he could compress all the hurt and pain into something as small and insignificant as he felt.

In the back of his mind, he knew he should clean up the mess he’d made and was making, the blood and petals on the floor of the closet and the handprints and splotches of blood transferring from his skin and clothing to the bedspread, but he could barely think through the pain and misery as he whined like a hurt animal.

Maybe this was his punishment. His father had always said that everyone got what they deserved, and Sausage deserved pain, the little half-breed, fae enough to be hated but human enough to be helpless.

And besides. How could it not happen? He recognized the petals, knew where they came from. The blue orchids that sprouted from their hidden places in the swamp, lighting the muddy ground up with small splashes of color. The poppies found woven in and around and throughout Rivendell and the Codlands, threaded into flower crowns and worn by their rulers as a sign, a sign of love and a life that Sausage could never have and never deserved.

Because how could he?

How could he look the cod hybrid in the eyes and say I love you while knowing he’d hurt him so badly that he’d built a wall to keep him out? But he’d built a bridge. They’d built a bridge, together, because Jimmy wanted their empires to be allies again. And how could the cod say it back, knowing he’d been possessed and evil and had done all sorts of terrible things that he couldn’t remember didn’t deserve to be forgiven for? Even though he’d said it was okay that Sausage was good now that they were friends again that he cared—

How could he say it to Aeor’s champion, the cool and collected leader that he’d brought to tears when he’d kidnapped him and killed him and killed Gem— but he’d invited him to the festival so he couldn’t be too mad right? He’d been friendly, he’d laughed with him. He hadn’t blamed him or shoved him away. And why would he say it back, when immediately after being freed he’d gone right back to his old ways? When he’d helped Fwhip with his not friendly at all prank and hurt him, after he’d been so hurt and scared and left Rivendell and Sausage hadn’t been there for him? Had barely even argued with Fwhip, saying two measly sentences in Scott’s defense?

He couldn’t.

It was easier to suffer in silence, and dream about he couldn’t have, and what he didn’t deserve, then to face the truth of what he’d done, accept the consequences that he deserved.

The itchiness in his lungs was back again, provoked by his thoughts. He coughed, scrubbing at his eyes to dry them even though he knew he’d be crying again as the flowers blossomed in his lungs, growing desperately to reach the light and live, killing the one whose suffering gave them life in the process.

He heaved, the expectations on his shoulders and the hurt in his gut and the grief in his lungs building up and up and up and he couldn’t breathe help didn’t somebody care wouldn’t somebody notice please he’s so tired he wants to go home he is home he hates it here he hates it everywhere—

Hacking and screaming and crying break the air, and he can’t even tell that the echoing sound is him, as he coughs his heart out onto the blood-stained bedsheets.

[gretagerwigsmuse]

alli! i still think she has the coolest job and am similarly proud of her for getting an award for her article! i feel like i kept repeating myself in every single blurb i picked out below, but my thoughts mainly revolved around saying “ohmygod” “sweet girl!” “sweet boy!” and “alli!! this is amazing!” - all of which are true! i’m so sad the story is winding down, but it’s been such a lovely ride so far 🥰 more below!

When the plastic containers are cleared away, he pops a bottle of Prosecco that he grabbed from your wine fridge. - why is thai food so good with prosecco! this was such a cute detail!

“I don’t think it’s possible to be sick of you. I’d miss you too much if you weren’t here,” he teases back, though his words were true. - oh this is so sweet! and so poignant especially since there was a time (9 chapters ago) when bradley didn’t even really know who she was to him and now??

“But instead, you’re right here with me, and things may not be the same, but…they’re getting there. I don’t have to miss you when you’re right in front of me anymore, not completely, at least.” - oh pumpkin! this is so cute! and i think i know what she means by “not completely” 😉

“Do you miss…being able to send me pictures, like you did before?” - i slapped my hand across my mouth - HOT! i loved the part when bradley found those pictures 😮‍💨 and her asking if he liked the pics and her being shy when he says he did wowowowow

“…knowing I had a hop that day that would get my adrenaline running…” - PEOPLE DONT BRING THIS UP ENOUGH THANK YOU!! the adrenaline!

The whimper you let out when his words clicked in your head sent a shot of heat straight through him; not all of those things were mentioned in your text thread or documented in that scandalous little secret album he had made of you. Which means it was something he remembered about you - about the two of you, together. - i SCREAMED! beyond the idea of this being kind of hot, i also really like what it says about bradley’s recovery process? he doesn’t remember everything all the time and he probably won’t, but that just makes everything he DOES that much special? so good

You’re twisting your ring again, and as was common recently, he feels the lack of one on his own finger. - OHMYGOD you know how much i love this detail, but bradley making the connection that it makes him miss his own is so good!

“That’s not what I’m saying!…I know I can’t have it exactly the same. And I’m okay with that, really! But I-I don’t want to do this if we aren’t on the same page, okay? I won’t be something that you regret. I don’t…I wouldn’t be able to handle that.” - sweet girl no no no! i hate that she’s still holding herself back because she doesn’t want to overwhelm him! they’re both on the same page, but the other thinks they’re a couple pages ahead or behind! the call back to the time she asked him to say “i love you” hit me so hard! i absolutely loved that scene

the entire “he knows” paragraph was just So Good! i love repetition like that and it was such perfectly used here

“Loving you was the easiest thing I’ll ever remember, baby. I don’t think it’s something that I ever really forgot.” - this this this this this! it’s so perfect!! amazing!

You kiss him then and it’s desperate in a way that it hasn’t been up until this point. - AHHHHHH

But he’s not done yet, wants to taste you all over. - i love how he’s savoring everything and is so slow and methodical, but also going on instinct? it’s so hot

“You’re crying,” he notes. “You’re real,” you return - ohmygod they are the sweetest! i’m swooning

His chest is pressed against yours, your nails scraping down in his back in a way that he hopes he carries with him for the next few days. - HOPES HE CARRIES WITH HIM!! this wording is so clever and good and vivid!!

He wants to stay in your arms forever, and for the first time since he woke up in the hospital, when he was overwhelmed with emotions he didn’t understand, he feels like maybe he can. - BRADLEY!!! YOU SWEET BOY! THIS IS SO GOOD!

Remember You Even When I Don't (9)

Summary: A training accident, the doctor had told him. A nasty one that led him here, laying in a hospital bed with a splitting headache and an inability to remember the woman sitting beside him. What he did know, though, was that you were the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and you felt important to him. That, as it turns out, would become an understatement.

Words: 5.5K

Pairing: Bradley Bradshaw/Reader (no use of y/n, so can be read as unnamed oc)

Warnings: angst, hospitals, memory loss, language, suggestive themes, smut

Notes: Thank you to everyone who continues to like, comment, and reblog! They are so unbelievably appreciated.

This was inspired by a one shot by the lovely @roosterforme and would not exist without her assistance. If you haven't read any of her stuff, please check out her masterlist - you won't be disappointed! All of the thanks to her and @mak-32 for being the best cheerleaders and friends I could ask for!

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You find out a few days after your hospital trip that an article you wrote before his accident is being nominated for an award. He doesn’t care if he didn’t understand a word of what it said or recognize any of the names cited in it; he’s so damn proud of you. 

He tells you that you should celebrate. Go out with all of your friends and have a proper party in your honor, but you shake your head at his suggestion. 

“I just want to celebrate with you.” 

He’s not a great cook, and grilled cheese doesn’t seem celebratory enough, so he orders the two of you Thai food that’s a touch too spicy for him and that you eat like it’s nothing, and you pair it with a few cans of your favorite sour beer that you keep stocked. When the plastic containers are cleared away, he pops a bottle of Prosecco that he grabbed from your wine fridge. You grin at him so hard that he feels like he’s missing out on an inside joke, but can’t figure out what it is. You giggle when he asks, holding out your glass for him to pour instead of giving him an answer. He doesn’t pay attention, too busy staring into your eyes, so he startles when the glass almost immediately bubbles over. Your giggling turns into full fledged laughter. 

“I knew that would happen,” you smirk. You swipe some of the overflowed liquid off the glass and bring your finger to your lips. Bradley is entranced, watching you lick it away. He knows he’s staring, and you raise an eyebrow at him as you hold your glass up. Your smirk is making him dizzy.

He raises his own glass, clinking it against yours lightly, “Cheers to you, Sweetheart.” 

“Cheers,” you murmur, eyes locked on his as you take a sip. 

The two of you settle onto the couch, the bottle of Prosecco on the coffee table in front of you. Your socked feet nudge against his thigh as you sit facing him, and he only hesitates for a moment before he lets his hand comfortably cover your ankle, his thumb ghosting up and down the joint as the two of you lose yourselves in conversation. He asks you about work and the article you had written; he was interested in the material, sure, but he also knew how passionate you were about what you did and that you could ramble about it when you wanted to, and he loved listening to you talk. 

You make it through the first bottle easily, and he opens the second one in much the same fashion as he did the first. He enjoys watching the way your face flushes and the way you giggle more as the champagne hits your system. He finds himself scooting closer to you as it hits him, too. Your legs are draped over his lap at this point and while one arm rests on the back of the couch behind him, the other is laying across your legs above your knees. Your black leggings are soft against the palm of his hand, and he finds a loose thread at the outer seam of your thigh to pick at. 

“Do you miss it?” he asks, “working full time?”

“Sometimes,” you admit with a shrug. You were only doing a few hours a week now, writing or offering commentary when it was asked of you. He knew that you were asked to be part of a panel covering the election earlier, but that you had declined, knowing it would put you in DC for a few days and unwilling to leave him, despite how great of an opportunity it was. 

“You can start back anytime, Pumpkin. I don’t want to hold you back.”

“You aren’t,” you promise, and your smile tells him you mean it. “I like spending time with you like this. Unless you’re getting sick of me already? I’ll make some calls tomorrow and see if they need me in Washington if that’s the case.” 

Your voice has taken on that familiar teasing tone that he loved so much and he laughs, shaking his head. 

“I don’t think it’s possible to be sick of you. I’d miss you too much if you weren’t here,” he teases back, though his words were true. 

“I bet you would.”

“I would! Who else would cook me dinner or drive me around and keep me entertained?”

You throw your head back as you laugh, and his smirk turns into a tipsy grin at the vision you create. It still shocks him, this effect you have on him. 

“That’s all I’m good for, huh?”

“You’re good for a lot of things,” he promises, and though his voice still has that little bit of a teasing lilt to it, neither of you can deny how serious he sounds, either. 

You stare at him for a long moment, your bottom lip drawn between your teeth in a way that makes his heart beat faster. Your cheeks are flushed so prettily, your eyes wide and bright. You look like you’re calculating something and he patiently waits you out. 

“I’m so glad we’re here,” you eventually whisper, and the quirk of his eyebrow asks the question he doesn’t verbally. “Things could have ended differently.”

“Pumpkin..”

“They could have.” He knows you’re right, but that doesn’t mean he likes to hear it. You cup his cheek and your soft hand against his scruff is the best kind of juxtaposition. He turns his head just the slightest bit, pressing a kiss against your palm. Your lips part slightly at the action. “But instead, you’re right here with me, and things may not be the same, but…they’re getting there. I don’t have to miss you when you’re right in front of me anymore, not completely, at least.” 

“What do you mean, completely?” 

Your eyes widen briefly, like you just embarrassed yourself with your own words. The heat that takes over your face is different from the flush you had from the champagne. It draws him in closer, his hand spreading out on your outer thigh. Your hand is still on his face and your eyes are growing darker, but you bite your lip and shake your head. 

“It’s nothing.” 

“Pumpkin.” Your eyes flutter shut for a moment and you shiver, then, and Bradley suddenly has an idea of what it was you were thinking. You may not have to miss him emotionally, for the most part, but you’re still missing him in other ways. His mind flashes back to the photos he found in his phone. And maybe it’s the champagne in his system or the way you’re looking at him, or maybe just how familiar you feel to him lately, but he finds himself wanting to be bold. “Do you miss…being able to send me pictures, like you did before?” 

You gasp out a sharp, surprised sound, your eyes widening more than before. He feels you tense against him and for a moment he questions whether that was the right thing to say. 

“I found them,” he tells you before you could ask, and his hand has started slowly trailing up and down on your thigh as it lays in his lap. “When I was going through my phone last week. I hadn’t meant to but I was reading our messages and then saw a picture you had sent me and remembered that there were more. Maybe I shouldn’t have looked at them.” 

But you’re already shaking your head, murmuring that it was okay. 

“Did you…did you like them?” you stutter, and your voice is smaller, more insecure than Bradley had ever heard, and he didn’t like that tone - he never wanted you to feel anything but confident with him.  

He hooks a finger under your chin, raising your eyes so that they’ll meet him again from where they had fallen in your sudden display of shyness. “I did,” he promises, and your lips part again.“You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, Pumpkin.” 

Your breathing intermingles as he leans forward, and he can taste the Prosecco on your lips when he kisses you. 

You pull away after only a moment and Bradley chases after you. You duck your head, and his kiss lands on your burning cheek instead. You won’t meet his eyes.

“Hey,” he murmurs, and you shake your head. “Pumpkin?” 

“I’m a little embarrassed,” you admit, and it seems unimaginable to him, knowing how comfortable you usually are in your body, especially when it comes to him. But then he realizes that while he may know that, you don’t know that he knows that, because this is something he’s kept to himself since that very first morning waking up beside you after weeks without it and the shower it forced him into afterward. 

He takes a deep breath and moves his hand higher on your leg. Your leggings are pulled tight around your butt, but he squeezes lightly and your eyelashes flutter as you draw your lip between your teeth again. 

“I don’t think you were embarrassed when you took them.” 

Your eyes open just the slightest bit, and he swallows thickly before continuing. 

“I don’t think you were embarrassed when you went in our closet and got my uniform hat out as soon as I left for work that morning, and how you undressed yourself and put it on for me to tease me, knowing I had a hop that day that would get my adrenaline running. I don’t think you were embarrassed when I came home that night, and I found you on our bed, touching yourself while you were waiting for me. Or how that hat stayed on the whole time and I didn't take it off until you were almost asleep on my chest afterwards.” 

Your breathing quickens as he speaks. The whimper you let out when his words clicked in your head sent a shot of heat straight through him; not all of those things were mentioned in your text thread or documented in that scandalous little secret album he had made of you. Which means it was something he remembered about you - about the two of you, together. 

You’re the one who kisses him, this time, and he’s immediately opening his mouth for you. As your tongues tangle together, he grabs your ass a little bit firmer and before he realizes what he’s doing, you’re straddling him there on the couch. You hover above him at first, but he shakes his head into the kiss and pulls you flush down on him. You moan into each other’s mouths and Bradley kisses you harder. 

Hands wander and tongues explore and Bradley thinks this may be what heaven feels like.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers into your skin, his lips trailing up and down your neck as you heave for air; your chest presses against his with every exhale. “I don’t say it enough.”

“You always made me feel beautiful, baby. Every day.”

He doesn’t like that word - made. Because that implied he didn’t now, at least not in the same ways, and all he wants is to love you and cherish you and make you feel wanted, because he does and you are. 

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. They’re hooded. Dark. Full of a desire that’s still guarded even if you’re trying to hide the fact. 

“I’ll tell you everyday from now on. I’ll make sure you know.”

He cuts off your response with another kiss, catching your moan in his mouth. His hands trail back down over your body, feeling your curves in the most delicious of ways, to settle back on your full behind. He squeezes harder this time and his hips buck up at the same time you grind down. He knows that you can feel how hard he is; he can’t bring himself to be ashamed. He repeats the action and when he feels you tug on his hair, he rips his mouth away from yours to let out a long, drawn out sound. 

“Fuck,” he moans, and you pull on the strands again. “I like that.”

“I know,” you hum before Bradley connects your lips again. He keeps a solid grip on you and uses the momentum of the moment to his advantage, twisting the two of you so that he can lay you down on the couch cushions with him bracketed between your legs without ever losing contact with you. Your heels dig into his lower back as you arch into him.

He loses track of how long he holds you down and kisses you; all the time in the world would never be enough for him. 

He angles himself up just the slightest bit so he can fit one of his hands between the two of you. He’s desperate to feel you against his fingers. But it’s when he’s slipping past the waistband of your thin pants that you grip his wrist. 

“Wait,” you pant. Bradley pauses immediately, his chest heaving. “Wait, wait.”

“Pumpkin?” 

“We should stop,” you insist, nodding your head when he shakes his at you. He knows that even if the words are coming from your mouth, you’re fighting them. 

“Why?” 

“Because,” you say, “I want you so much, baby.”

“Then I don’t understand why we’re stopping. I want you too. I want you so much.” He places a few featherlight kisses against your cheeks and forehead. To his surprise, tears well in your eyes at the action. “Sweetheart?”

“That’s why we have to stop,” you croak. You push against him again, and this time, Bradley moves so that you can slip out from underneath him. He lays on his side on the couch, partially propped up by one arm as you stand in front of him.

“I don’t understand,” he mutters again, feeling just a little bit hopeless, and he watches as you fight to catch your breath. You’re twisting your ring again, and as was common recently, he feels the lack of one on his own finger. 

“You said-we said we wanted to go slow, remember? That we would wait…wait until things were how they used to be.” 

Bradley sits up, then, eyeing you carefully. He goes over your words in his head, wondering what it was you meant. He thought things had been getting better. From what he remembers, how the two of you have been acting with one another and how he feels is how things used to be. He licks his lips as he considers how to respond. He can still taste the coconut of your chapstick. 

“Are they not…how they used to be?” 

“That’s not what I’m saying!” Your eyes are wide and he believes you. You’re fighting with yourself right now, an inner turmoil that is manifesting itself in the way you twist your ring and run your hand through your ruffled hair. “I know I can’t have it exactly the same. And I’m okay with that, really! But I-I don’t want to do this if we aren’t on the same page, okay? I won’t be something that you regret. I don’t…I wouldn’t be able to handle that.” 

There’s something you’re not saying. Something you’re scared to say, and Bradley knows that whatever it is is because you don’t want to make him feel bad. 

It clicks, then, that he hasn’t been the only one holding back. He had been fighting himself, trying to be considerate of your feelings and not overwhelm you with something he didn’t understand yet, all the while you had been doing the very same as you fought yourself to protect him from how you feel. You hadn’t asked for another I love you since that night on the porch, not wanting to hear it if he didn’t know he meant it. You really didn’t know how he felt now, because he had been too scared to share it with you. He can’t believe he hasn’t put together how much the both of you need that until this moment. You had made yourself vulnerable for him that time, and he needed to do the same with you now.

Bradley stands from the couch, calling your name softly. You stop your pacing, your gaze still as dark and hooded and worried as it was a moment ago. You chew on your bottom lip as you look at him. He grabs your left hand, pulling you closer to him, and takes your place in rubbing his finger over the ring he had placed there 3 years ago. Your breath catches, and it doesn’t escape him that this is the first time he’s intentionally touched the jewelry. 

He thought he’d be nervous at this moment. In all the times he thought about it, it shook him to the core so vividly that he kept it to himself. But he didn’t feel any of the anticipated butterflies in his stomach, or a whirling in his head. Instead he feels completely at ease - calmer than he has been since he woke up in that hospital bed almost two months ago. 

He doesn’t remember everything, but he remembers enough to know not only you, but how he feels about you.

He knows you prefer iced coffee all year round regardless of the temperature outside. He knows that you keep chapstick in almost every room, and that even if you don’t admit it, sometimes you wish you had a better relationship with your parents. He knows that building this home with you was the first time he ever touched his mothers life insurance policy, because he knew that’s what she would want and it made him feel like she was a part of this experience, too. You preferred putting up Christmas decorations the day after Halloween and you miss the snow that came with living in the northeast. You watch way too much true crime to the point you sometimes make yourself a little paranoid when the lights are off, but he always enjoyed holding you a little closer when you felt that way. He knows that you make him smile and feel things he had never known before. You protect him and you love him and he wants to be with you, always, and would do anything for you. And he thinks he knew those things even before he knew you, both times around. 

“I love you.”

He sees your lips part, and your eyes immediately fill with tears again. He hates making you cry but he knows, he knows these are good tears, and so long overdue. 

“You do?” You ask, voice trembling with emotion. Bradley nods, feeling a lump forming in his throat. With the hand not holding yours, he pushes some of your hair out of your face, letting his fingers trail over the smooth skin. 

“I’ll always love you, Pumpkin. I promised you that, remember?” 

You let out a sob, then, nodding your head rapidly and squeezing his hand. “I do. Do you?” 

He hums in response, and a small smile quirks at his lips. “Loving you was the easiest thing I’ll ever remember, baby. I don’t think it’s something that I ever really forgot.” 

You kiss him then and it’s desperate in a way that it hasn’t been up until this point. He bends his knees and you jump to wrap your legs around his waist and it feels so good, holding you closely like this. There was a certain kind of thrill knowing that he was the only thing keeping you upright and that you trusted him so fully to not let you fall. Your arms are tight around his neck. He wants you, maybe more than anything he’s ever wanted before. 

It’s a fumble of kisses and moans as he carries you up the stairs. He trips near the top, and you let out almost giddy laughter when he slams you back into the wall to avoid an uncomfortable trip back down to the first floor. 

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” he pants, kissing you again, pulling away only to press his lips to your cheeks and to nip at your jaw. The wall gives him leverage and he pushes his hips hard into yours; he swears he can almost feel how wet and warm you are through both of your clothing already. He’s harder than he can ever remember being and the breathy little moan you let out makes him throb. 

“Take me to bed,” you accompany the request with a tug of the curls on the back of his head and he crashes his lips back to yours before you can even get another word in. 

He pulls you away from the wall and finishes the climb. Your tongue tangles with his the whole way to your room and it’s not until he sets you down at the foot of the bed that he pulls away. It’s silent for a moment, the only sound is your combined heavy breathing as you stare at one another. 

“Are you alright?” you ask softly, and Bradley thinks he could cry, all of a sudden. He’s not sure what he did to deserve someone who cares about him the way you so effortlessly and willingly do. 

“I’m perfect,” he says in response. A beat passes and he sees you slowly reaching for the hem of your shirt, but he grabs your wrist, stopping you.

“Let me,” he rasps. Slowly, he slides his hands under the fabric, feeling the skin soft and burning under his fingertips. You lift your arms above your head and he takes the hint without a question. The material comes off easily, but he doesn’t linger; he wants to see all of you.

The wide surface of his hands rest against the soft skin of your waistline, his thumbs briefly caressing the skin just under your bra, before he lets them trail down to your hips. Without a word, he sinks down to his knees in front of you. He looks up at you, meeting your eyes, and though no question really needs to be asked at this point, you answer him anyway with a small nod. He leans forward and presses a featherlight kiss against your stomach. Slowly, he peels the stretchy material down your legs. It pools at your feet and he looks up at you again, your eyes blown dark and wide with desire and love. 

“I love you,” he says again, followed by another kiss to your panty line. Lingering, gentle. His eyes flutter briefly and he lets himself breathe you in for a moment before continuing on the mission he set out to do. 

He tugs the pretty pink cotton down your legs. His lips follow, kissing first your hip bone and then the top of your thighs, and your fingertips dig into his shoulders that you’re holding onto for purchase as you lift each leg to let him remove the material completely. 

He rises slowly, and you don’t hesitate to thread your fingers through his hair again and tug his lips to yours as he does. His hands glide up your spine, feeling each ridge as he goes, and he loves the way you shiver for him. He only fumbles with the clasp of your black bra for a moment before he feels it give. He takes a small step back, admiring the way it looks as it falls down your shoulders. He swallows thickly as he tugs it gently, giving it that last little bit of momentum to separate from your body and fall to the ground between you. 

You don’t move to cover yourself, completely bare before him, and he marvels at the work of art that you create. You’re beautiful, astonishingly so, and he can’t believe that you’re his; he can’t believe that you chose him. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathes out. With those words, he learns that you flush all over. 

He tugs at his own shirt, quickly ridding himself of that and the pants he had been wearing, and when he’s down to just his boxer briefs, he pulls you against him again, already missing the feel of your lips on his. He picks you up once more, only to lay you down on the soft blanket covering your bed. He climbs on top of you, and seeing you like this, spread out underneath him, is nearly his undoing. 

“I love you,” he whispers, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead. Then to your nose, brief and chaste, before continuing down, ghosting of touches to your chin and your neck. His lips make it to a freckle on your clavicle, and it’s warmer, open and wet, and you arch up into him with a gasp. When he circles your nipple with his tongue, you moan for him. 

“Bradley.” 

But he’s not done yet, wants to taste you all over. A hunger grows in him the closer he gets, and you must know what he’s intending because you let the thighs you had been rubbing together fall open before him. He can see how wet you are, how you glisten against the small smattering of hair you have there. His mouth waters as your scent hits him, musky and floral and something that is just you, and he doesn’t hesitate as he flattens his tongue against your folds. You taste devine. He groans against you as he does it again, licking all the way up before he wraps his lips around your clit. 

“Bradley, oh god.” 

Blindly, he grabs your hands from where they’re clenching the comforter. He threads his fingers with yours and you squeeze tight. He feels the pressure of your rings. 

You’re whining underneath him as he continues lapping at your core and he thinks he could come just from the sounds you’re making and the taste of you. He pushes his tongue inside of you and he can’t help but look up at you from his position. Your head is thrown back, your lip between your teeth, and oh, no, that won’t do. 

“I want to hear you,” he pulls away to say, diving back in once he sees you release your lip. As he closes around your sensitive nub again, he’s rewarded with a loud gasp, followed by a keen of his name. 

Yes, he thinks, that’s more like you. 

Your orgasm hits you faster than he anticipated just a few moments later. Your hips grind up into his face as he sucks furiously at your clit and god damn, he can’t believe he could have ever forgotten you. 

He’s panting when he pulls away, licking his lips to chase the taste of you. He rests his cheek on your thigh, watching as you come down. Your chest heaves and your whole body seems to tremble in the aftershocks of it, and when you open your eyes and look down at him, he’s a little bit startled to see them glassy with tears. 

“Pum-” 

“Come here,” you gasp, tugging your hands loose from where they were still intertwined with his to pull him back up your body. You kiss him, desperate and wanting, and he knows you must be able to taste yourself on his tongue. He pulls away, panting from the lack of oxygen. 

“You’re crying,” he notes. 

“You’re real,” you return, clutching at his bare back, and he understands immediately - he had been right here, but still out of reach for you for way too long. “I love you, and I missed you so much.” 

“I’m right here,” he promises, pressing a kiss to your cheek, your nose, your lips. “I’m never leaving you again.” It’s not a promise he’s guaranteed to keep, but he knows he’d do everything in his power for the rest of his life not to break it. 

“Off,” you command, trying to push the green material of his briefs, the only thing still separating you, down with your feet like they had personally offended you. “Baby, please. Please, please, please.” 

Seeing you desperate like this makes him dizzy and he’s quick to appease you. When he settles himself flush on top of you, you both moan at the feeling. He’s hot and heavy against your warm and wet center; Bradley doesn’t know how he’s going to last. He places a tender, chaste kiss to your lips as he lines himself up, whispering again that he loves you against your mouth. 

Sliding into you feels like the first time, and he supposes in a way, it is. You feel like home and hope and everything good and he never wants to be away from you again. 

It was too much. It wasn’t enough. It was everything, all at once. 

“Fuck,” he rasps. “You feel so good, baby. So fucking amazing. I’m not going to last,” he pants, desperately trying to regain some control over himself. He had never felt this close this fast, but the emotions of the night mixed with how long it’s been were proving to be detrimental to his stamina. He needed this, so badly. You both did. You shake your head and assure him that it’s okay. You clench around him and his arms shake from where he’s holding himself up above you. He drops to his forearms, unable to take it. 

“Move,” you gasp, and who is he as your husband to deny you anything?��

Bradley slowly pulls his hips back, enjoying the drag as he goes, but relishing in how much better it feels to sink back into you. Over and over again he repeats the motion. A tremble climbs up his spine as he kisses along your jaw, nipping at you softly and soothing it with his tongue. He settles his face into the curve of your neck, panting against your skin. 

His chest is pressed against yours, your nails scraping down in his back in a way that he hopes he carries with him for the next few days. Your heels press into the back of his thighs and urge him forward with every thrust, meeting him move for move. The sounds you were making were like music and with every gasp and moan of his name, he craves more. 

“Let go, sweetheart,” you murmur in his ear, nudging your nose along the scruff of his beard. But he shakes his head, unwilling to lose himself before you did, too. He brings his hand down to your center, circling gently at first before rapidly rubbing at your clit with his fingers to push you closer to that edge he was already precariously dangling on. 

“You’re so tight,” he murmurs, delighting in the way you immediately clench down. “I want you to come for me, Pumpkin.” 

“Bradley,” you whimper, clutching him closer. He knows that you’re almost there, knows it like he knows how much he loves you and how lucky he is to be married to you. 

“My perfect wife,” he breathes, and that’s what finally does it. 

You break with a sob, and oh. Having you come on his tongue is one thing, but feeling you come around his cock is something almost otherworldly. He knows he’ll never feel anything like it again outside of you.

He loses his rhythm as he chases his own end. You’re impossibly tight around him and he knows nothing but you at this moment. You moan his name again and his orgasm pulses at his core and sweeps through him. He releases inside of you with a shout of your name and you clutch at him as he rides it out. 

It’s almost too overwhelming, everything that he’s feeling right now. You run your fingers through his hair as he tries to catch his breath, softly combing through the damp strands. He gives a few lazy after thrusts and you whimper at the oversensitivity it causes, but shake your head when he goes to pull out. 

“Stay,” you murmur, voice tired in the best of ways, “stay.” 

He presses his forehead against yours and your breaths mingle together. He forces his eyes to stay open, wanting to see you in the afterglow. It occurs to him, then, that this experience was entirely his own. There was no tingling in his brain or fuzziness in his line of vision that always came when a memory hit him. This was new. A refreshed start, not muddled by the confusion of what was and what is. It’s just the two of you, here, together, finding peace and pleasure and love no matter the circumstance that got you here.

“I love you,” he whispers. It must be the fifth or eighth or maybe even the twelfth time tonight, but he doesn’t care. He’s gone so long without saying it that he feels like he had to make up for lost time. 

“I love you, too.” 

He wants to stay in your arms forever, and for the first time since he woke up in the hospital, when he was overwhelmed with emotions he didn’t understand, he feels like maybe he can. 

-----

Notes: The moment I feel like people have been waiting for! I hope you enjoyed! Just a few more parts left :)

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[theofficersacademy]

                                  TEAM ELECTRIC SHEEP

                                         Forsyth   Lorenz   Hinoka                                    Brigid   Soren   Shez (F)   Pelleas                                       Byleth (F)   Severa   Farina   Marth

0710 Hours : Farina, Forsyth, Shez, Pelleas

“Making good progress so far,” General Raoul’s voice sounds somewhat despondent over the intercom. “Vanguard has secured the server room and is now in pursuit of what seems to be another AI. As for us, we’ve gotten more backup, so that’ll ease up the workload.”

A pause from the other line, and then a deep sign. “Remember what I said about following my orders. Follow me without question. Just a little longer, you hear? We just need an opportunity...”

0710 Hours : Soren, Lorenz, Marth, Byleth

Bullets fly past you all as you flee into the collections room—thankfully, besides an unlucky hit on Byleth, you manage to escape further injuries for now. This room is massive, with plenty of shelves and objects to hide behind and obstruct lines of sight. While the military has lost sight of you, there’re still hot on your trail and searching. Another buzz from the portable terminal,

> [ L-431475] - KM350 “Schwartzes” should be nearby. Connect me to one of them.

0715 Hours : Sylvain, Brigid, Severa, Hinoka

You’ve managed to get past the checkpoint, and soon enough you hear Sasha’s voice over the radio again, “Civilians sighted, looks like some of them are injured.” As the ambulance slows down, you spot a trio of smartly-dressed people with their names pinned to their chest—Jaxon, Alyve, Christopher—crying out for your help. “I see one with a gunshot wound. The others seem shaken up. We don’t have much on hand, but we’ll do the best we can! 

“This is what we’re meant to do.”

What you know:

Through some kind of connection, Sasha was able to get past the military checkpoint without much scrutiny. If the military really is your enemy, that may be something to ask about...

Speaking of military, sharp ears may hear the sound of another vehicle closing in on the Practice Group’s location...

General Raoul seems to have something up his sleeve. He keeps insisting that you guys will “make it out”, so long as you follow his lead. So far, while some civilians have opened fire against you, most flee in fear for their lives.

Your portable terminal buzzes intermittently with Laelaps urging you to “connect him to the KM350 ‘Schwartz’”. His robot dog tail wags excitedly. 

Recall that the book’s summary mentioned a doctor, a soldier, and an AI traveling together. Are they still following the plot, according to their pre-ordained roles? Or is something completely different happening here?

Things to do:

Your allies seem keen to follow their own paths. As it aligns with your own, it may be best to follow with them for now.

Consider today an extra day to tie up loose ends and finish up this section’s threads for a smoother transition to the next section tomorrow. Be quick and communicate with your team, but don’t push yourselves! We can be flexible.

Talk to Mod Bren for additional information.

[astralaffairs]

280 characters pt. 4 | john laurens

title: 280 characters pt 4

pairing: john laurens x reader

notes: click on the images for better quality!!

warnings: uhh sex mentions again, highkey sexual tension, bigly confrontation and implied smut??

desc: you don’t expect much to come of it when you wake up with a hazy memory beside who you believe to be a total stranger – you don’t even bother to try and figure out who he is. but when a lost green bra and a few twitter threads lead you back to your mystery lover, will 280 characters be enough to rekindle your past?

tags: @sothisishappiness​ @nemesis729​​ @ahsteriawrites​​ @popbubblegumpop​​ @fanfic-addict-98​​ @noonewouldlisten25​​ @pachowpachowbucket​ @justahappylilblog​ @reidcult​ @spacefish42069​ @wiffle-snuffles​ @teenwaywardasgardian​ @booksandfandomsarelife1​ @allie-mcginn​ @katierpblogg​ @cubedtriangle​ @sothisishappiness​ @yxseminx​ @irlkell​ @svnnypooh​ @c0ldfaerie​ @slytherinssssnake​ @butterflies123 @dr-bitch-bby​ @fangirling-central​ @a-soft-disaster​ @quixoticallydelusional​ @myeverchangingobsessions​@greywarrenn @comingupwithacoolnameishard​ @fanfictionsforallfandoms​ @katierpblogg​ @notebookgirl30​ @poorguys-head​ @cnco-much​ @nyxie75​ @alievans007​ @mjlock​ @criminallyhamilton​ @stargazelaurens​ @idontknowwhatsgoingonokay​ @the-middle-oldest-child​ @acciovisio​ @pagetcult​ @aidela​ @marvelouslyemily @checkurwindow​ @mattsmasterlist​ - lmk if i missed u on the taglist so i can add u in the future!!

THAT AFTERNOON—

"Alex, you are literally the worst person alive," Y/N groaned, flopping back on his couch, and Alex raised an eyebrow. He walked over to join her from his kitchen, toting both their drinks and a shit-eating grin.

"Aw, c'mon, what do you mean?" he asked brightly. "I only ever have your best interests at heart."

"Oh, of course," she scowled, narrowing her eyes at him, but the satisfaction that flashed in his eyes didn't dull. "Why do you care so much about whether he and I are fucking, anyway?"

"I don't." He shrugged. "But you and John are my best friends, and it's exhausting to have to plan everything around making sure you and him aren't fighting."

"Why can't he and I just be grudging acquaintances, then? Why must it be more than that?" Y/N turned her head to him with a wistful sigh, and though it softened, Alex's expression was persistently smug. He gave her a disbelieving look.

"I've been asking you to make peace with him for years, and this is the only progress I've made."

"Progress you've made?" Y/N muttered to herself, eyeing him skeptically.

"So if you and him hooking up is what it takes, I'm all for it."

"Do you not realize it's just gonna take it us annoyed to wildly uncomfortable?" Though her exterior was dramatic, arms crossed and a pleading pout plastered on, Y/N's concerns were unfortunately deep-rooted in insecurities. The next time she'd have to face him would likely be hell, and there was no getting around that — as such, she intended to put it off for as long as possible.

"You avoid him anyway; it can't get any worse." Alex gave her a pointed look.

"Yeah, but now I'll be avoiding him while both on-edge and anxious," she shot back, jabbing him in the side when he took a seat beside her. "How the fuck do you expect me to face him after he called me out for calling him hot? How in the hell am I supposed to recover from that?"

"Sleep with him?" Alex suggested mildly, and Y/N scowled.

"You're lucky I like Eliza, because if I didn't know it'd break her heart, I may have killed you a long time ago."

"But if I was dead, who'd be around to help you get laid?" he asked innocently, and she groaned, shoving him that time — hard.

"You mean who'd wreck my dignity and make a mess of my social life?" she huffed, but her own words gave her pause. "...Lafayette, probably."

"I do a better job of it." He shrugged, taking a sip of his lemonade, and she glared at him. "What?"

"Do you know what an inconvenient friend you are?"

"'Inconvenient' is probably the nicest thing you've called me all day."

"It's well-deserved."

"We both know I enhance your life." He grinned at her, but she avoided his self-contented gaze, instead reaching down to put the glass he'd handed her onto his coffee table. "If I didn't, you would've ditched me a while back."

"Didn't I just mention that I only put up with you for Eliza's sake?" She raised an eyebrow, but his expression turned concerned as she eyed him.

"Are you telling me you can't think of a single step to take before making my death look like an accident?"

"It's the easiest way."

"How?"

She laughed when she saw the incredulous look on his face, and she gave a pleased half-shrug, pulling her legs onto his couch beside her. "First, then I don't have to deal with our friends trying to play peacemakers, and second, I get to give a kickass eulogy at your funeral."

"That's morbid."

"I consider it good planning." She gave him a challenging look as she took a sip of her drink, and Alex just rolled his eyes.

"Even if you do call a hitman on me, you'll still have to face John eventually."

"Not if I can help it," she grumbled, but her sullen tone made him laugh.

"If that's the case, you're gonna want to head out of here pretty soon," he warned her, but Y/N just eyed him suspiciously, seemingly hesitant.

"... Meaning?"

Alex shrugged, checking his watch. "He's coming over at three is what I mean."

"He what?!" Y/N's eyes widened. She shot up from her spot on the couch, immediately darting back toward the kitchen to grab her bag and laptop charger. "Why the fuck didn't you tell me that before? It's 2:55, Alex."

He raised an eyebrow. "I didn't think you'd have a problem with it. You didn't seem to on the night you slept with him."

"Alex!" she shrieked, looking back at him with wide eyes. She let out an incredulous huff, shaking her head. "God, you set this up, didn't you? I cannot believe you."

"Relax, I didn't do anything," he defended, and annoyance was clear in his tone. She was too distracted to reply, however, taking inventory of her bag instead. Laptop, laptop charger, water bottle, wallet, textbook— Oh, shit. Her phone charger was missing, and her phone along with it.

She immediately began scouring the granite surfaces of the apartment's kitchen, frantically pulling out drawers and overturning dishtowels.

"What are you doing?"

She only spared Alex a glance, but he was watching her with his brow furrowed, concern written deep into his small frown. She huffed.

"I need my phone. I can't leave without it."

Her wild search continued for another moment, much to the dismay of the paper towel rack she knocked over and the food processor she inadvertently unplugged, but Alex just pursed his lips. "I dunno about your phone, but your charger's in my room. You let me borrow it an hour ago."

Her face lit up with his words, eyes widening, and she didn't miss another beat before hurrying down his hall. Maybe her phone would be somewhere back there, too, with any luck at all. By the time she reached the charger, discarding Alex's phone back onto his bed, the time read 2:59. But where was her phone?

At that rate, if John showed up on time, she was royally fucked.

It was three minutes of haphazard digging through closets and side rooms later that she found it sitting on the side of the sink in his bathroom. At that point, she hadn't heard any voices coming from the living room, so as she sorted through everything in her bag one final time, her mind was all but at ease (though, her heart was pounding — she was still running on a deadline).

"Alright, Lex, I'm gonna run." She emerged from the hall with everything in order, ready to flee with what was left of her dignity. "I just need to grab my shoes, and—"

It was only then that she finally glanced up, only to see that Alex hadn't left his place on the couch, but this time, he wasn't alone.

As the cruelty of fate would have it, beside him sat John Laurens, eyeing her wide-eyed stare with barely-contained amusement, and she froze, all but skidded to a halt.

A moment passed in complete silence, and it was Alex who finally broke it. "What were you saying?"

She let out a shaky breath, and when she finally continued, her words were quiet. "I, um, just need my coat and my jacket..." she trailed off, every muscle in her body tense, before she remembered herself, shaking off her shock. "I mean, my coat and my shoes. I... I'll just be on my way."

John was grinning at how off-guard she appeared, too nervous to take even a step forward for a moment after she spoke. Her skittish gaze darted between him and Alex, and when she caught John's gaze, his smile broadened. She didn't hold his stare for more than a split second, almost immediately ducking her head, continuing quickly forward and pulling the strap of her bag up her shoulder. John laughed softly.

"Come on, I don't even get a 'hello'?"

Though she glanced back at him, the look in her eyes was bitter. "I don't have the energy for this right now."

As she pulled her jacket on, he shook his head, entertainment permeating his demeanor. "If you really wanted nothing to do with me, you could've just ignored my messages, you know. You didn't have to reply." He raised a taunting eyebrow, and she just rolled her eyes.

"Your point?"

"Do you really want me to spell it out?" At his words, she scowled, turning her focus back to tying her shoes, and he let out a huff of laughter. "Relax, I'm just messing with you."

"Hilarious. I'm practically in tears," Y/N responded dryly. That time, it was Alex who responded with a scoff.

"Seriously? You two fucked and you still can't go three minutes without bickering?" His disbelieving words were met with immediate protest from both of them, but it only made Alex look beyond vindicated.

"C'mon, I didn't say shit!" John defended, and Y/N gave a bitter laugh.

"Oh, congrats! You win; I'm just the worst," she said, plastering on a mocking pout. It was then that she stood, looking John up and down with contempt; he only met her annoyed look with a smile. "Bye, Alex. I'll show myself out."

She turned on her heel without another word, starting toward his apartment door, but she caught John's quiet chuckle as she swung it open.

"See you soon, Y/N!" John called after her, and when the door slammed shut behind her, she could hear Alex's laugh. Her face burned.

THAT NIGHT—

"Can we talk?"

Y/N whirled around with a start.

It was finally the night of Eliza's birthday party. Alex and Eliza had kept the group fairly small, close friends and family only, but Y/N couldn't help but feel crowded out in Alex's open living room. Music was blasting — Hercules had made sure of that, deciding it was his responsibility to play DJ for the night — and there was an abundance of drinks, which had its pluses and minuses.

In any case, a room full of drunk people with the sober crowd quickly waning had Y/N exhausted, especially when she and John were two of the few left who weren't five beers deep. Her hyperawareness of where he was at all times was taking up a disproportionately large portion of the room, as far as she was concerned.

And that was why she'd ducked away around halfway through the night. It was already after dark, and as far as she was aware, she'd managed to escape Lafayette's enthusiastic round of karaoke without being noticed, slipping down the hall covertly.

Though she found solace in his guest room, she hadn't realized she'd been followed.

"John," she said breathlessly, stunned to see him standing in the doorway.

"Hey," was all he said. His expression was neutral, expectant as he watched her, leaning against the doorway. "Can I come in, or are you dead-set on avoiding me?"

His words caught her by surprise; she hadn't been expecting to be called out so point-blank. "Yeah. You can come in."

His footsteps were slow after he pushed himself off of the doorway's side. "You look nice."

Her eyebrows shot up. "... Thanks." She folded her arms when he neared her, taking a subconscious step back. "So what did you want to talk to me about?"

He hesitated a moment, tongue in cheek, before speaking. "I... don't get you, Y/N."

"Oh?" Her eyebrows were furrowed as she eyed him. Heavy hesitance lay in her gaze.

"Mhm. Do you have a problem with me?" He quirked a brow, but his expression otherwise remained neutral. Her inability to read any sort of intention in his eyes heightened the nerves growing in her every breath.

"I... no? I just..." She narrowed her eyes, and as he took another step forward, head cocked to one side, she took one back. The door fell shut behind him. "I don't think we have a history, but you just seem to take so much enjoyment out of antagonizing me."

"'Antagonizing you'?" he repeated incredulously.

"Yes, antagonizing me. I've seen you three times this week and you've really seemed to enjoy pissing me off," she bit back, taking a step toward him, that time, to point an accusatory finger at him. "Why?"

"What have I possibly tone to piss you off?" he asked, voice laden with disbelief, giving a dramatic shrug with his hands still tucked in his pockets.

"Are you fucking serious?" Y/N let out a soft huff of bitter laughter. "No. No, I cannot bring myself to believe that you're just so oblivious that you can't tell when what you're saying is bothering me."

"I've said nothing vindictive to you, Y/N," he said, and his step forward again pushed her one back. "You can't pretend I'm the problem, here. Why are you so set on hating me?" The squint in his searching gaze had her on edge; he stood between her and the room's entrance, the space only lit by the low glow of a single bedside lamp, and he didn't stop encroaching upon her space. She was quickly beginning to feel trapped.

"I'm not." She scowled, but when she processed his words a moment later— "Wait. Are you implying I'm the problem here?"

"If the shoe fits." He raised a challenging eyebrow, and Y/N could feel the skin of her neck begin to heat. "Seriously, nothing ever went down between us, at least, as far as I know. Did I do something?"

"No, you just—" She cut herself off as she tried to articulate exactly what marked the tension perpetually between them in the air, her lips pursed. "I just can't—" Again, she stopped herself short, letting out a huff.

"Do I make you uncomfortable?"

"No," Y/N scoffed, but her gaze was growing antsier and antsier by the second, darting up and down his stature, around the room. He took another step forward, and her continuing to retreat finally backed her into the guest bed, the backs of her thighs hitting the soft comforter.

"You sure?" Then, there were less than two feet of space between them, and a small smile had begun to tug at John's lips.

"Yes, I'm sure," she said, but her trying to mask how unsettled she was with heated bitterness didn't work as well as she'd thought.

"Oh, really?" When he began to close the limited proximity between them, she could feel her heart rate begin to spike, and her unease must have been written across her face. His smile widened. "I don't make you nervous? Not even a little?"

"Oh my god, you're so cocky," she huffed, taking a step back toward him to shove him by the chest, but he caught her wrist before she could get a chance. By then, he could feel her pulse picking up. They were nearly chest-to-chest, and he raised an eyebrow. "You're fucking enjoying this, aren't you?"

"And if I am?" He raised an eyebrow, and she rolled her eyes.

"Then you're kind of a dick."

"Oh, and you aren't enjoying this, then?" He looked far too smug for her liking. "Or are you a little too flustered for that, right now?"

He reached up to take her face in one of his hands, and the sudden, bold action only left her more rattled. His fingers skimmed along the skin of her jaw, and she fixed back on a glare, replacing her unfortunate wide-eyed gawking. "Oh, shut up."

"Or what, Y/N?" His other hand released her wrist, instead falling to her hip as he erased the few inches that still separated them.

"Or, I... Or..." She let out a grunt of frustration, pushing his shoulders, but he anchored her to his body by her waist.

"Or what?"

"Fuck you," she sneered, but she didn't waste another moment in throwing her arms around his neck, tangling a hand into his hair, and pressing her lips to his.

He had no hesitations about responding in kind, apparently, meeting her with all but bruising force. He hitched one of her legs up over his hip, his lips beginning to trail down her neck before he shoved her, her back meeting Alex's sheets as her eyes snapped open wide.

He didn't hesitate to climb onto the bed after her, yanking her head back by her hair so he could suck a hickey into her neck. "Y'know, that's not a terrible idea," he muttered against her skin.

"You're so obnoxious," she groaned, but her body relaxed in his grip as his hands found the lower hem of her shirt, tugging it out of where it was tucked into the waist of her jeans.

"You don't seem to mind." He raised an eyebrow as she began unbuckling his belt, pulling him closer by the belt loops.

"Just fuck me," she said breathlessly, and he laughed.

"Not so fast, baby." He pulled away from her with his words, leaving her balking at him as he ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back into place, and lowered himself from the bed, standing up and adjusting his shirt.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Her words were indignant as she propped herself onto her elbows, and he just grinned down at her. She raised her eyebrows expectantly.

"You forgot to lock the door."

[shewhowillnotbenamed1]

Beach House

An escape from the city for just one weekend.

The thought alone sent an eruption of butterflies bursting into Raven's stomach and a series of tingles down her spine.

It sounded like a dream.

The drive up the coast had been idyllic. Though, there was one thing Damian failed to mention until they made it past the hedge-lined walkway to the entrance of the mansion-size beach house. Their 'impromptu' visit fell on the annual Wayne family weekend. And it would also mark the first time they met Raven. He hadn't prefaced this trip with a warning, but any mixed feelings quickly melted away into amazement.

There was nothing that could have prepared her for the Wayne family weekend in the Hamptons.

Boats and brunches. Lobster bakes, crab cakes and country clubs - it was another world.

It was hardly Raven's usual scene, but it was his family's. So for the next few days, it would be hers. Even though Damian hadn't warned her, she wasn't worried. Raven knew he had a reason for springing this on her. Besides, if she had him by her side, she could handle one trip. Maybe even enjoy it, too.

And with the view from the top of the lighthouse on Montauk Point with Damian's heavenly arms surrounding her or skinny-dipping with him on a darkened corner of Cooper Beach, she was enjoying herself - a lot.

But, one of her favorite parts of being at the beach house surrounded by Damian's family was the new ways she got to see him flustered. Whether it was rolling his eyes at Tim's caffeine intake and Dick's immature eating habits. Or even elbowing Jason for the bad puns, then swiftly cutting off his father when he insisted on camaraderie.

She even heard him arguing that Cass had to be present for the entirety of the five courses and dessert, if he did. And of course, he spent a good deal of time slapping away any unsolicited hands (Steph) that tried to pinch and prod his nonexistent baby fat.

Off to the side, watching push-up and handstand contests followed by Tim and Damian's stock talk with their father, Raven fought off smiles all night.

Damian seemed to be in a perpetual state of annoyance with his family and there were several times she found herself stifling laughter. This was another side of him she hadn't gotten to know yet - his sisters and brothers teasing him, treating him like the baby in the family and him refusing it at every turn. Raven liked to watch him like this, interacting with them. Even though this atmosphere was completely new to her, she felt at home. Because it was still him - it was exactly Damian.

But around her, he wasn't.

It was concerning when they arrived and Damian hadn't argued against Selina's offhanded mention of separate rooms. In fact, he encouraged it. And every time Raven turned the corner, he was shutting the door or closing drawers. Not only were they not spending their nights tangled up together, but Damian had morphed into a pod person when she needed him the most.

Raven couldn't believe her biggest worry when meeting Damian's family would turn out to be Damian.

------------

He was pulling away from her.

Damian regretted bringing her here and introducing her to his family, so he was pulling away. No wonder he agreed to separate rooms, he had been skeptical from the start.

And by extension, his family wasn't sure about her. Or maybe it was the reverse. After all, Raven had spent far too much time reading on the beach, under an umbrella and a thick cover-up, or drinking tea on the back porch, or at the island in the kitchen conversing with Alfred.

She had a difficult enough time fitting in with people who weren't her boyfriend's family, let alone people who were so comfortable and at ease with each other they knew all of each other's ticks to a fault. Even their dog seemed to be privy to all the inside jokes and the gags.

The joking around and teasing, Raven had never had that. A family.

A real one.

It terrified her, but she was willing to try because Damian was the most important person in the world to her.

"Maybe Raven would like to join us for our tradition of game night...?" Bruce suggested at the breakfast table, before taking another long sip from his coffee cup. Unsurprisingly, Raven, Bruce, Dick, and Damian were the first ones up that morning. Raven, Bruce, and Dick by choice. Damian, of course, picked up the habit from her over time.

"Oh..." Raven glanced at Damian who peered sideways at her, a half quirk on his lips as he fiddled with his fork. He was still acting strangely. "I'm fond of games, Mr. Wayne... Chess, checkers, scrabble, backgammon, cards," She offered.

"Great, it's tonight at eight." Dick finished, before taking in a huge spoonful of Lucky Charms. "With your repertoire you can replace Damian on my team..." He coughed out something that sounded along the lines of losing streak. "We should talk strategy, Raven," he said out of the side of his mouth, while Damian shot him a glare so threatening, it could have boiled his milk.

"It'll be great to have you on the team." Bruce folded his newspaper neatly, about to take his leave. He stood, his stern stare softened for a split second. "And please I may be getting up there, but, you really should call me Bruce."

Raven felt her cheeks warm and mentally cursed herself for being overly formal. After a breath, she excused herself from breakfast as politely as she could. "Breakfast was lovely." Alfred nodded, as she rose up to place her teacup and saucer on the metal tray. "Thank you, Alfred."

As soon as she was out of sight, she headed in the direction of her room. Raven stood against the wall, resting her head against the cool plaster and stared up at the high beam ceilings.

All the names of Damian's family members and their friends, who was dating whom, and who was still speaking to whom swirled around in her head in an endless loop. Social engagements weren't terribly difficult and normally she could handle them. But with Damian acting strangely, suddenly it felt that much harder. There were times during the weekend that it felt as though Alfred was her only ally in a sea of chaos.

Not far behind, Damian had haphazardly refolded his napkin and excused himself from the breakfast table. Raven let out a startled yelp as he touched her arm. She hadn't heard him come in. "Damian - what are you doing in here?" He drew her back into his body's embrace - enveloping her with heat, the way he did to ensure she felt safe. From his parted lips to the curl of his fingertips, he vowed to wield her with wonderful wickedness. Raven felt her whole being blush, clearly there was much more than a casual caress on his mind.

"It's important." His mouth inched closer to her own. Those dark green were burning of dangerous promises, the growl under his tongue was audible. The surreptitious and svelte movements until she was backed into a corner were all reminiscent of a dangerous predator, a jungle cat. "This can't wait." Raven was almost sure he could hear her blood pounding in anticipation of whatever sinful act he planned to commit.

Her body's reaction could hardly be helped.

"What exactly can't wait?"

He pressed his lips to her neck. Nibbling and nipping with his hands disappearing under the sides of her shirt to massage her waist. Up and down, his fingers danced. And Raven could do little but whimper, feeling herself heat up faster than she had in the beach house's steam shower. And then, she melted. She was falling further into Damian's touch with her hands at last bringing themselves up to thread through his hair, as though to cement him even more tightly against her.

"My need for you... Something about you in the house I spent my summers in growing up..." Damian let out a ragged breath. "But not being able to touch you... I'm not going to make it..." He attacked her jawline, chin and cheeks with an onslaught of frantic, feverish kisses. "But, I promised myself I would wait..." Those green eyes singed her.

"Damian..." She gasped at his words, smoldering gaze, and his fingers sliding down the expanse of pale back before they ran across the dimples above her ass. Raven only managed to pull herself back a fraction of an inch. But he seized the change in perspective as an opportunity - to catch her earlobe between his teeth. "Damian, what if someone catches us?"

"Screw them... I need you." Damian murmured into her ear, clasping their palms together. "I wanted to do this right, but... I'm not used to you being so far from me." She hardly needed the reminder. The separate rooms. There was no cuddling, no spooning. No candles and late night kisses that turned into - this. "I'm suffering..."

So was she.

That was hardly fair.

Raven turned her face. "I'm a guest in this house. I'm your guest..." She angled her hip away from his, but he wrapped his fingers around it insistently. "It wouldn't exactly bode well for me if we hooked up here. Or now." Her argument dissolved away, diluted with his hands diving into divots and dips.

He grasped her chin. "Just one more kiss." Every letter pronounced like a purr brushing her mouth with their hot strokes. "I need another... That one wasn't long enough..."

"I can't - I shouldn't." Raven tried. Her hands were braced on his hard chest. The tautness of his muscles hardly helped. Every ab line and pec was heightened and heavy and wrought with tension under her touch. And it was all for her. But she couldn't. "It's your family, Damian... I want them to like me or at least tolerate me..."

She heard low grunts of frustration echo up his throat. "Raven, relax. Everything is fine... In fact, they could stand to like you less if you ask me," he said under his breath. "What does it really matter if we're caught?"

Raven felt herself recoil from him. No matter how much she didn't want to. "No, Damian. We can't." She turned her cheek. Pulling away and wiping her mouth. "And you can't just...kiss away the distance between us the last few days."

There was a tonal shift in the atmosphere. And his body went completely rigid and his expression went grave.

"Raven, what are you talking about?" Damian asked her, but he avoided her eyes for a second too long. It had to be true. He knew exactly what she was talking about. He flashed in palms in a wide armed surrender. "Look this weekend... It's not...what you think..."

"The separate rooms..." She said slowly. He wasn't looking at her. Raven's heart plummeted down to the soles of her feet. They weren't in lock-step. Things really had veered off course if they weren't in sync. "You do know what I think. You have for a while." Raven shook her head and turned on her heel.

This time, Damian didn't follow.

-----------

In the back of the Waynes's private beach, Raven sat alone facing the tides, her petite body elongated along the rail of the gazebo. She watched the waters wash away the sand, over and over, lapping at the shore.

Everything began to flow out of her.

There was a whole world Damian shared with his family that he had never shown her. She felt like she was getting to know him all over again. Normally she would have leapt at the chance to get to know her boyfriend even better.

But this was different.

What if the people who raised Damian decided they didn't like who he had become when he was with her?

Damian approached the small silhouette of a girl, her body overlaid on the rail of the gazebo, the connected arches carved in wood. He watched the way the wind whipped through her hair as she stared off into the sunset with the thick slip-covered book laying on her lap.

It was a framed photograph.

"You must be freezing." Raven turned to him when she felt a thick blanket drape across her shoulders. But, he sounded a bit worried and his brow creased with concern. "You missed dinner... When you weren't in your room. I thought... Part of me was afraid you..."

He stared at his feet in the sand. "You thought I left?" Out of the corner of her eye she saw him close his eyes, squeezing them shut. "I couldn't do that..." She tucked the blanket around herself. Suddenly Damian leapt up and grabbed her tight, holding her quietly. For several long moments, she felt the truth in each frantic pound of his heart. When it slowed at last, Damian exhaled and released her. Breathing heavily. "I missed a lot more than dinner... Didn't I?" Raven gave him a sad, knowing smile.

"What are you talking about?" Damian started. He stared oddly at her amethyst eyes. "Did someone say something to you? Was it Stephanie? Or Jason? Because I swear -"

"No - no." She said softly. Damian watched her, as the wind wildly swept strands of her black about her face. "I missed things... Like having a real family."

They were a part of him. They were a part of who he was before he met her. She knew she was the odd woman out, but being around them was nice.

Really nice.

"Oh..." Damian stared off at the water pensively. "No - if anything you lucked out..." He ran a hand through his hair. "They go overboard and they talk too much... They're annoying. They push your buttons and borrow your imported silk tie without asking -"

"You know that doesn't make them any less great..." Raven sighed. "In the back of my mind, I knew if I ever met them, they would be wonderful. They would have to be if they were your family. But... really they are..." Raven stared off at the fading red sphere on the waters, like a bright beacon. A guide... Or a warning. "And I'm not."

"What?" Damian spat harshly. Almost accusingly. "Raven, why would you say that?"

"Because... this is the Hamptons and this is your family..." She said quickly. "You're already notorious in Gotham, here you're practically royalty..." Raven fumbled. "I'm just an outsider."

It was hardly the Hamptons she cared about. Raven felt like the waters should rise up and take her away.

"No, that can't be it..." He shook his head. "You never cared about those things before." Damian's face bordered on anger. "What changed?"

Raven bit her lip, trying to contain it as she made sense of it in her own mind. "I met the most important people in your life and they're perfect." Raven confessed. "But your family probably wants you to date someone who's equally perfect. Someone who belongs with you..."

It would be far worse to lose Damian if they decided they didn't approve or didn't want her.

"You belong with me." Damian spoke as though she was delirious. He edged closer to her. "Everyone in my family has felt like an outsider at one point or another. Hell, we're not even all related. Most of us are adopted or step-somethings."

"You guys certainly fit together like you're related." Raven hadn't meant to sound accusing, but she couldn't help it. He had to realize that only served to make the family even more perfect - not less.

Just like Damian.

The pale girl shifted and dangled her legs off over the side of the gazebo as she faced him.

Those dazzlingly vert orbs were staring into hers, searching. "Are you regretting meeting my family?" He asked softly.

"No." Raven's pale feet kicked at the sand swept air absentmindedly, feeling childish as she did so. "I just wanted everything to go perfectly..." Then, even more so as she spoke the words aloud. "I wanted to make the best impression possible - I wasn't prepared and I didn't pack enough outfits or separates..." She dragged a hand down her face. "I didn't even know separates were their own clothing category until two days ago."

Damian fixed her a disbelieving stare. "Separates...?"

"I'll never fit in at a yacht club, I don't tan, and this is the one white dress I packed... " She gestured down to the loose linen mini dress. She was losing her nerve or her grip - she didn't know what, but she was losing it. "I hardly have enough white to make it through the rest of the trip -"

Her words died in her throat the second he placed those comforting hands onto her thighs. Holding her steady and supporting her with ease. "That's too bad." Raven froze and he smirked. "I'm sorry, but you have to stay for the whole weekend, my family already loves you... It's too late for you."

Her mouth opened and closed several times before she could finally bring herself to speak. "I made a horrible first impression..." Raven's lips parted. "And I was much too quiet... There's no way - they could...?" She couldn't bear to finish her words.

"I do... So why wouldn't they?" And Damian braced himself on the wood railing on either side of her hips and placed a long kiss to her forehead, trailing down to each of her cheeks and Raven promptly muffled her face into his chest.

She gasped. "Game night," Raven realized, wiping an escaped tear quickly. "Is it...too late for game night? Did I miss it?"

Damian traced her cheek with his fingers. "No, everyone waited for you. It's not a proper game night without you. You're one of us now." Damian smiled. For one long moment, his handsome face lit up, painted with vibrant reds, pinks, yellows, like the sunset. He looked ridiculously, genuinely happy in ways Raven had never seen before. And he captured her lips softly. Solidifying that fact. Driving it home over and over with his warm mouth caressing hers. She was one of them, she belonged.

"Okay... What about -" He kissed her again and pressed his forehead to hers.

"Don't worry. We'll get you more white -" Raven's entire being rose up with the tides at what he said next. "A dress..." It sounded like a promise of so much more. "The perfect white dress."

And true to Damian's words, Raven looked stunning in white.

Damian clasped her hand, stretching out their interlaced fingers between them, until only their pinkies remained linked before the colors of the sunset. And they walked with their bare feet kicking up the sand on the wind by the glistening water of the beach. Until they finally made their way to the back of the house where his family stood waiting.

They were silent - no chattering or arguing, but waiting patiently, tensely, or even eagerly.

With his other hand, Damian reached into his trouser pocket and dragged a finger once more over the black velvet box before squeezing it tight.

Yes.

He had known for a while.

That Raven belonged at his side, with his family all around them, wearing a white dress.

[first-and-last-neocount]

Whumptober Day 6

While still falling under the definition of whump, I intentionally aimed for something a little less soul-crushing this time, since I figured I would be evoking some Feels with that last one. XD 

This one isn’t directly tied to anything else, and it shouldn’t be so heart-wrenching; it’s just me projecting pandemic feels all over poor Damien, because I’m an introvert who isn’t physically affectionate with more than a handful of my closest friends anyway, but even I really felt it when we all had to go months on end without touching another human being. Not fun, dude. 

Day 6 - Theme Chosen: Touch starved

Theoretically, it should never have happened. With the way their journey had gone so far, when he thought about it, Damien was almost surprised it hadn't happened sooner.

Trapped aboard the God's Glory for months on end, isolated from the crew by their enduring wariness of the Hunter and his companions, unable to hasten their progress and weighed down by the growing fear of what would be waiting for them when they made landfall again, Damien was slowly driving himself insane. With every day that passed, the knot of frustration and dread pulled tighter in his gut. His temper shortened in response, and by now he had grown so tense and snappish that he couldn't even blame the crew's avoidance of him entirely on Tarrant; he knew he wasn't exactly great company anymore.

The death of the girl from the Eastern Continent had only worsened his already foul mood. The toxic mixture of guilt, resentment, and panic that had filled him upon realizing what her death meant – that he himself would have to go back to feeding his dark companion, at least until they made landfall in Faraday – still lingered, even though it had been two days since Sisa's suicide. He'd been given those two days as a grace period, time to mentally prepare himself as best he could, but the Hunter had given him clear warning; tonight, the nightmares would start again.

All of this meant that, when Damien laid down in his bunk that night, he was wound tighter than a springbolt at full draw. He had fully expected the turmoil in his mind to keep him up for hours, but with the forced inactivity of being at sea came a paradoxical lethargy, and he wasn't alone with his circling thoughts for more than an hour or so before he gradually sank into an uneasy slumber.

The dreams came almost at once.

Vivid as all the Hunter's carefully-woven nightmares were, Damien could feel the awful wrenching shudder that went through the ship as the hull ground onto the unforgiving rocks, hear the shattering of wood and the screech of metal as they collided with the outcropping of black stone that had been masked by the thick fog lying over the turbulent waves. Terror ran like acid through his veins as the deck tilted under his feet, the ship listing badly as water flooded through the gaping hole in the bow; he grasped the rail to keep himself upright, the screams of the crew ringing in his ears – but as he stared down into the churning black ocean, something sparked in the back of his mind.

The dark waves. Drowning. A girl.

Sisa.

His awareness that it was a dream blended with the hot spike of rage at the thought of another innocent life lost to the Hunter's insatiable hunger, and the scene around him shattered like glass. The deck was level again, the ocean calm; the stars glimmered down from a cloudless night sky, the ship deathly quiet and seemingly deserted around him.

You're resistant tonight.

The Hunter's voice slithered through his mind, soft and thoughtful, edged with hunger – and reality bent around him once more.

The village of the Terata. The hideous corruption that had lurked beneath its veneer of normalcy. The acid sting of desperation in the air as the villagers made their supplication to their sadistic god. The illusion of childhood's innocence, and the terrible reality that it hid -

But the sight of the children made Damien's thoughts turn to Jenseny, and the grief that rose up and choked him was so strong that it nearly brought him awake, a cry of pain catching in his throat as the image of the village dissolved around him. Tarrant's will wrapped around him and pulled him back under, an almost soothing tenor to the thread of fae that stroked his mind.

Too raw, still. Perhaps...

Another shift, then another. Scenes of terror from Damien's memories, or half-formed fears of the future, woven into shape by Tarrant's power. Every vista that presented itself, though, Damien fought against; though his awareness of what was happening was subsumed at the beginning of each dream, his mind rebelled continuously, breaking through to lucidity each time and shredding the delicate fabric of the nightmare in the process. As one dreamscape dissolved and reformed into another, there was a moment where Damien surfaced enough to actually feel a bit guilty; he'd agreed to this deal after all, once in the rakhlands and again after Sisa had killed herself, and he didn't even know why his mind refused to settle enough to be fully immersed in any of the scenarios Tarrant was weaving.

That moment stretched as he lingered in unformed darkness, as though the Hunter had hesitated. Finally, new scenery shimmered into being. Still caught in that state of half-awareness, Damien watched the dream come to life around him, willing himself to just let go and fall into it -

The chamber that formed around him was the throne room of the Undying Prince's citadel.

Nothing else had taken shape yet. There was no time for it. Before any figures could form, before a single sound had echoed through the room, Damien's mind spun out of control. The terror he'd felt, realizing that he was once again powerless before a mortal tyrant with the power of a sadistic demon backing them; the utter grief that had devastated him when he realized that Jenseny was gone; the gutting betrayal of believing that the Hunter had betrayed them; the sheer blinding fear, realizing that Tarrant had still been an ally after all, and that he might pay for that with his life before Damien could reach him -

Damien snapped awake violently, breathing so hard that his chest ached and the room spun violently around him, nausea thick in his throat and his skin drenched in ice-cold sweat. He sat bolt upright in his bunk, clenching fistfuls of his sheets with shaking hands as he stared blindly at the wall of his cabin, adrenaline still coursing through his veins.

Before he had even coaxed his breathing back to something resembling a normal rate, there was a firm but quiet knock at his door.

Damien let his head fall forward, biting out a soft curse under his breath. It didn't take much luck to guess who would be knocking at his door at this hour – he was fairly sure he hadn't actually cried out aloud when he'd catapulted himself back into wakefulness, which meant there was only one other person likely to even be awake right now.

“Come in,” he said hoarsely.

The door opened, then clicked shut again. Damien didn't look up, his gaze still fixed on the crumpled bedclothes he was gripping with white knuckles, but he didn't need to visually confirm the identity of his visitor; he could feel the shift in the air, that insidious chill that the Hunter wore like a shroud. Swallowing back the bile that still roiled in his throat, Damien beat back his pride enough to offer a quiet apology.

“Sorry. I didn't do that on purpose. I don't know why I couldn't just...”

“I could hazard a guess.”

Startled, Damien finally looked up. Tarrant had stopped only a couple feet away, and was leaning against the cabin wall with his arms folded across his chest, regarding Damien thoughtfully. Despite the lack of hostility, the Knight still shivered a little under the scrutiny of those cold silver eyes. Cocking an eyebrow questioningly, he stared back at the adept.

“Alright, then. Let's hear it.”

Of course, the Hunter couldn't simply state his theory. He studied Damien a moment longer, then murmured, “You haven't been sleeping well, have you? Even before tonight.”

Damien frowned at him. “Not particularly, no. Why?”

“You're unable to settle yourself. You've been sleeping poorly, your mind is in turmoil, and don't think I haven't noticed your shortness with the crew – or forgotten your outburst the other day.” Damien winced a little at the reminder of how he'd blown up at the Hunter immediately after Sisa's suicide, but there was no judgement in the adept's tone or expression, only contemplation. “You don't have any close connections to most of those aboard, and if you'll forgive me the observation, you don't have an... intimate companion, this time around.”

Damien was drawing a breath to snap at the Hunter that he didn't see how, exactly, his relationship with Raysa was any of the adept's damn business – when it abruptly clicked in his head, and he deflated, staring at the adept.

“You're blaming touch starvation.” The words came out flat, more statement than question but tinged with disbelief. When Tarrant inclined his head slightly, Damien huffed out a humourless chuckle. “You can't be serious.”

“Why not?” Tarrant asked coolly, his gaze still locked on Damien, piercing and assessing. “It's a scientifically documented phenomenon. We've been at sea for months, and I doubt you've had more contact than accidentally brushing arms with one of the crew since we set sail. The common symptoms are irritability, anxiety, and depression. It strikes me as an entirely likely explanation.”

“Fine, then what the hell do you suggest I do about it?” Damien snapped, hating himself as he did so, because his fuse had never been so short and by the look on Tarrant's face he knew it too. “In case you failed to notice or give a damn, Rasya's dead, and I don't exactly have a long lineup of friends at hand to hug it out with. I guess you're just going to have to work a bit harder for your dinner.”

Tarrant's face had gone utterly blank for a moment at the mention of Rasya's name, and for a split second Damien wondered almost hysterically if he actually had forgotten – but the horrified thought was cut off when the adept said, in a tone as bland as one might use to discuss the weather, “There's another option.”

Damien stared at him for a moment. Tarrant gazed back, unruffled. Finally, the Knight said slowly, “Now I know you're definitely just messing with my head. You're not suggesting what it sounds like you're suggesting.”

“No need to look quite so scandalized, Vryce, I'm hardly propositioning you,” Tarrant said dryly, his tone infuriatingly amused. “You're correct, however, that skin contact is the only cure and your options in that department are limited. If you'd like, I certainly could continue mentally assaulting you for sustenance – you were undeniably producing enough terror and distress earlier, though I suspect you'll find that sort of feeding even more exhausting that the usual method, and I'll have to draw from you more frequently to compensate for the additional effort I'm expending.” He watched Damien pale, then quirked one fair eyebrow up, mouth twisting into a rare, wry grin. “Or, you could budge over a few inches.”

Damien hesitated for a moment longer; then, he groaned and shuffled himself sideways, pressing closer to the wall and leaving the outer edge of the bunk free.

“I hate you,” he announced flatly, watching the adept prowl gracefully across the small cabin toward him.

“Your feelings have been noted, Reverend.” In a few smooth movements Tarrant had kicked off his boots, slid his long frame elegantly onto the bunk, and reached out; caught completely off guard by the manhandling, Damien let himself be tugged almost effortlessly down and arranged to the Hunter's liking. He found himself facing the wall, a lean form pressed close against his back and one of the adept's arms a cool weight draped across his side. “Now get some sleep.”

A thousand replies crowded to the front of Damien's mind, but sheer confusion stayed his tongue from a sharp retort. As the initial shock faded, he realized how incredibly comfortable he actually was. He had certainly missed the weight of another body in bed with him over the last months; he had rarely slept alone since reaching adulthood, since he had almost continuously been in a relationship of one degree of seriousness or another and had always been the type to stay the night. He usually slept by himself only when he was travelling, and that had never been for as long a stretch of time as this voyage. Finding himself as the proverbial little spoon was considerably more novel, Damien's senses jangling a bit at the strangeness of being the one held instead of the one holding another – but as his instincts accepted that he was not in fact in any danger and relaxed, he found himself almost unwilling comforted. He could feel the Hunter breathing steadily against his back, and the deceptively human sensation unwound tension in his shoulders that Damien hadn't even known he had been carrying. Even though the adept's body was considerably cooler than a mortal human's would have been, he was still there, and Damien could feel his own skin tingling with a kind of sensory euphoria everywhere that the Hunter's weight rested against him.

Maybe there was something to the touch starvation theory after all, as much as it pained him to admit it.

The window to reply to the Hunter's comment slipped away, and Damien said nothing, just shifted and settled his head a little more comfortably onto the pillow. Tarrant's arm tightened a bit further around his waist, an undeniably grounding pressure, and Damien sighed without meaning to as a tiny panicked voice that had been babbling in the back of his mind for weeks went abruptly, blissfully quiet. He was far from ready to say that this had been a good idea, but he supposed it wouldn't hurt to stay this way for a few minutes, let Tarrant think that he'd at least given it a fair shot before he kicked the adept the hell out of his bunk...

Between one breath and the next, Damien fell asleep.

[monellabella]

The Starving Games ft. Freddie Weasel: AKA Pt. 1 of my Hunger Games x Harry Potter crossover series (OC x Fred Weasley)

Warnings (None of these are really graphic, but feel free not to read if any of these things make you uncomfortable!!): Blood, knives, knife wound, character death(s), severe injury mention (lost limbs), dead animal mention?? (a rat) 

This is the first fic I’ve ever written! I got the idea from a post I saw from @wand3ringr0s3 Comments and criticism are GREATLY appreciated and it’d be really cool to get some feedback on my writing style!! 

a/n: Also if I do write more, this is gonna be an enemies to allies to lovers situation bc I <3 angst 

Tagging my mutuals: @ourloveisforthelovely @darthwheezely @amrtxntia  @anchoeritic @kellsslut @whizboingies @beiahadid

Darkness. Pure black. I hear noises coming from somewhere. Muffled. Echoing through the endless void around me. The noises become louder. Someone is talking. The more I listen, the louder and clearer they get. Clear enough that I can almost make out the words. Suddenly, everything goes deafeningly quiet. My ears start ringing. But then, a single voice echoes through the silence, “Seph?”. I recognize it immediately. “Maeve?” I call out. “Seph? Is that you?” she responds, her voice shaky with fear. “Yes, yes, Maeve, it’s me. Where are you?”

“I don’t know.” she responds, panic rising in her voice. “Seph, I’m scared.”

“I know. I know, kiddo,” I swallow hard, “Hey. Hey, listen, I’m gonna find you, okay? Just stay calm.”

My heart is racing. I look around for some sort of clue, but nothing but complete darkness surrounds me. I tentatively reach my hand out in front of me. My fingertips graze something. Something cold. I take a step forward and reach out again. My hand finds what feels like a thin chain. I roll it around in my fingers before pulling down on it. The space is immediately flooded with blinding white light. I blink a few times to adjust my eyes to the sudden brightness. I’m at home; a tiny one room flat that I share with my mother, sister, and our cat. Except it’s empty- no furniture, not even a door. I see my sister standing a few feet in front of me, her hands bound together by a thick rope. “Maeve!” I rush towards her. “Seph!” she cries. As I reach out to hug her I’m pushed back by an invisible force. I look up and there she is- standing inside a giant glass dome. I take a few steps back, trying to register what I’m seeing.

“Shall we draw the names?” I whip my head around to see a woman in a magenta frock standing on the other side of the room. Her dress is covered in so many frills and flounces that she takes up half the flat. On her head is a ridiculous blonde wig that must add at least two feet to her height. Her face is covered entirely in white powder, with her cheeks overly rouged, and her top lip painted magenta to match the dress. She looks like a very posh clown.

“I-I’m sorry what?”

She laughs airily, “The names, darling. Surely you remembered?”

“Remember what?”

She tsked then pulled out two smaller versions of the glass dome from the frills at the front of her dress. They each had a small slip of paper in them. “Go on. Pick one.” Her voice was incredibly high-pitched, and she spoke with a capitol accent. I stepped towards her and hesitantly reached into the bowl in her right hand. I unfolded the slip of paper, ‘Maeve Whitlock’. I stared at the name in confusion.

“I don’t understand.”

“Will you take her fate as your own?”

“What do you mean? What fate?”

The woman let out another laugh, this one high and cold, it echoed around the entire room and caused the floor to shake. Suddenly, I heard Maeve call out to me, “SEPH!” I looked back to where she was in the dome. There was a dark, shadowy figure standing behind her, holding a knife to her neck. Her hands and feet were bound to a small wooden chair, and her mouth was now gagged with a dishcloth. I ran towards the dome, panic rising further in my chest. “MAEVE!” I shouted desperately. She looked at me fearfully, tears rolling slowly down her cheeks. I banged and kicked and rammed my body at the glass so hard, I should’ve shattered something. But it was no use. I looked back to where the woman had been standing, but she was gone. The shadowy figure stood still, holding the knife to my sister’s neck.

“LET GO OF HER YOU FREAK!” I cried, banging my fists against the dome. Maeve was panicking now, her chest rising and falling rapidly, tears running down her face, her muffled pleas penetrating through the glass. “MAEVE.” I cried out; my voice cracked as the salty tears streamed down my cheeks. But I was too late. The dark figure suddenly slashed the knife across her throat, her cries stopped and she slumped down into her seat, eyes still half open, blood now seeping into her blouse. “NO!” I screamed, sinking down to the ground. The glass squeaked as my hands dragged down over the exterior. I looked back up towards the shadowy figure, only to see it was no longer there. In its place I saw myself, a satisfied smile on my face. I heard the clownish woman’s disembodied laugh echo through the flat, “What a pity,” the voice said, “you could’ve saved her! But now, I’m afraid, you must face the consequences of your actions.” The clone slowly raised the hand still holding the knife, and pointed directly at me. Suddenly, I felt the cool touch of metal against my throat. The other me winked, and I felt the blade drag deep across my neck. I started to choke, the blood pooling into my airways. I instinctively brought my hand up to the wound. My vision started turning black around the edges. I looked down to see the front of my dress already soaked in red. The last thing I saw was my own hand, holding the knife, droplets of blood falling steadily from the tip of the blade. Then, everything went dark.

My eyes shot open. All I saw was fur, and something was blocking my breathing. I sat up quickly, and the ball of fluff leapt off my face. The cat looked up at me from his new place on my lap- those big amber eyes practically staring into my soul- and meowed loudly. I sighed in annoyance. “Stupid cat.” I grumbled as I lifted him up and let him jump to the floor. I rubbed my eyes and tried to slow my racing heartbeat. My body was covered in a sheen of cold sweat. I looked down at the bed to see my sister still sleeping soundly beside me. I took a deep, shaky breath and stroked the top of her head, moving away some of the stray hairs lying across her face. I glanced over at the digital clock next to me, SUNDAY: JULY 4. 8:26 AM. Today was Reaping Day; no wonder I had that horrible nightmare. This would be my 4th year participating in the drawing, it was Maeve’s first. How unlucky it was that her twelfth birthday had only been three days prior. If she’d just been born a few days later, she could’ve been spared for another year.

I sighed and swung my legs over the side of the bed. My mother was already awake, sewing some buttons back onto Maeve’s school shirt. “Hi, mom.”

“Hi, sweetie. Did you just wake up?”

“Yeah, just now.” I yawned.

“Is Maeve still asleep?”

“Yeah.”

“What time is it?”

“Almost 8:30. Should I wake her up?”

“No, it’s okay,” she sighed, “let her sleep some more. I’ll wake her up soon.” She held up the shirt to examine her work, “Still needs a few more stitches…” She held the needle between her teeth and reached down to her sewing basket to grab another spool of thread. I looked down as I felt the cat’s bushy tail brush past my ankles. I knelt down and scratched behind his ears.

“Did you feed Tulip yet?” I asked. The fluffy, tricolor, flat-faced cat was now sitting at my feet, purring contentedly.

“Didn’t have to; he caught his own breakfast. A huge rat, which he so lovingly dropped on my pillow this morning.” My mother replied.

I stifled a laugh.

“Since you’re already up, go ahead and shower. I’ve laid out your clothes for you on the kitchen table, so when you’re done, just change into them and come back here so I can do your hair. Okay?”

“Okay.”

She smiled at me then went back to her work. I grabbed some soap and a clean towel from the small shelf near the entrance and walked out. “Make sure you don’t use up all the hot water!” she called out as I closed the door behind me. “Don’t worry, I won’t!”.

We didn’t have our own bathroom- there was one toilet and one shower per floor, which could be shared by anywhere from 5 to 20 people. There were 5 apartments on each of the 4 floors- all one room- with one bed, a stove, a sink, a small table and chairs, and some shelves for storage. Each apartment had a heater and air conditioner, but they were never guaranteed to work when you needed them. Sometimes only one side of the building would have heating, or only certain floors had AC, or only specific apartments. Often, the whole building wouldn’t have either for days at a time. The same thing happened with the water and electricity. You could never fully rely on any of the appliances being in working order. As a result, we shared a lot with other apartments. If someone’s stove wasn’t working, they could just knock on a neighbor’s door and use theirs. If only one apartment on our floor had heating during the winter, there were no objections when everyone else would come over and make themselves at home. It made it feel like we were all one family, and it was customary to refer to many of your neighbors as your aunt or uncle. This was common throughout the District, as almost everyone aside from the mayor and peacekeepers lived in small, rundown tenements, expanding outwards from the city center, which was home to the Justice building. Here, in District 8, we produce textiles. There are 6 factories in total; one of which is entirely dedicated to making peacekeeper uniforms. We typically start in the factories at 14, splitting the day between school and work. We aren’t assigned specific jobs until we turn 18. Until then, those in charge of production make requests for certain numbers of workers, and we go wherever we’re needed. Once we finish school, we’re assigned permanent job positions based on both our aptitude tests and our performances in various factory tasks. The better you do on the aptitude test, the better (or at least safer) your job will be. Those with the highest scores tend to be assigned as desk jockeys- where the risk of dying on the job is fairly low. Those with the lowest scores are sent to work in the most dangerous parts of the factories; you can always tell who works there because chances are, they’ve lost some part of their limbs...or face...or they’re, you know, missing a hand...Then there’s those whose scores fall somewhere in the middle; if they have a specific skill, like baking, or perhaps healing, they’re assigned a job based on that. The rest are assigned mid-level factory jobs, which were still dangerous, but the chances of getting to keep all your fingers were significantly higher! (But not guaranteed).

When I turned on the shower, I was pleasantly surprised to find that the water was delightfully warm. It took everything in me not to keep standing there, enjoying the warmth, until the water would turn cold. I shivered as I stepped out of the shower and quickly wrapped my towel around me. I walked swiftly down the hall and flung open the door to the apartment. I grabbed my outfit from the kitchen table. A white trapeze-line dress ending an inch or so above my knees, long billowy sleeves pulled tight at the wrists, and a mock turtleneck with tiny ruffles adorning the edge. My shoes sat on the floor next to it; dark blue suede ankle-boots with small square heels.They were a birthday present from my mother; most definitely from the black market. I got dressed and pulled up a stool in front of my mother’s chair. She combed through my curls as gently as she could, but I still winced when she pulled too hard at a knot. She braided four small plaits at the front and sides of my hair, pulling them into two larger braids that she twisted together and pinned to the back of my head. She handed me the mirror. I looked into it and smiled, “It’s beautiful. Thank you.” I turned around and hugged her tightly. She smelled of soap and clean linen, and something else I couldn’t quite put my finger on- all I knew was that it was comforting and warm. I held on a little longer than usual. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, inhaling her scent. She brought her hand up and gently stroked the back of my head. We both knew what could happen today...I tried my best not to think about it. Maeve soon came back from the shower and changed into a mod-style purple dress and black mary janes. My mother braided her hair in a similar style to mine, adding a small flower clip at the side. She looked us once over, nodded, then stood at the mirror and added a few pins to secure her own hairstyle. She sighed, “Ready?”

“Yeah.” “Yeah.” my sister and I said in unison.

My mother chuckled lightly as we stepped through the threshold.

We walked the few blocks over to the underground and boarded the train headed to the Justice building. The train car was packed. Everyone was dressed in their best (and most colorful) outfit. These types of clothes were only worn on special occasions; those above working age wore grey coveralls to work and school, and something drab and ill-fitting otherwise. As we exited the train car, I kept a tight grip on Maeve’s hand. As we emerged from the underground, our eyes were bombarded with light, and I squinted as the brightness flooded my vision. When my eyes adjusted, I spotted the registration table. I gave my mother a brief hug and went to join the girls’ line with Maeve. Soon, we’d reached the front. I looked down at Maeve, “You want me to go first, kiddo?”

She glanced up at me with wide eyes, then stared forward and shook her head. 

“You sure?”

“Mhmm. I just wanna get it over with.”

“Okay.” I hunched over and whispered into her ear, “You’re gonna be fine, I promise. It’s not as bad as you think. I’ll see you in a few minutes, yeah?”

She nodded. I gave her hand a squeeze and watched her walk up to the table. I heard them speaking faintly and a few minutes later, she turned around to look at me, a nervous expression on her face. I gave her a reassuring nod then headed over there myself. 

The woman at the table sat there with a bored expression. She looked to be in her 30’s, but the heavy dark circles under her eyes seemed to age her quite a few years.

“Last name?” She said. She didn’t bother to look up at me. 

“Whitlock.”

“Whitlock…” she muttered, flipping through the pages, “Right, Whitlock. Persephone?” 

“Yeah.” 

She crossed my name off the list. “You’re sixteen?”

“Yes.” 

“Okay,” she sighed, “Hold out your hand, please.” She took a small device next to her and clipped it onto my index finger. I winced when I felt the needle prick my skin. She unclipped the device then stamped my wrist with the capitol’s sigil. 

“You can go join your age group, fourth line from the left.”

“Thanks,” I muttered.

She paused, then looked up at me sympathetically, “And um, good luck.”

I nodded and gave her a curt smile before heading over to join my peers. We were arranged by age and gender, boys and girls separate, all standing in rows in front of the stage. I stood waiting, and mindlessly watched the rows slowly multiply. I didn’t know how much time had passed, but soon enough, I looked up at the stage to see a woman in a bright magenta pantsuit. The hem of her skirt was decorated with a flounce of fabric, and she wore a light pink blouse underneath her suit jacket. The front of it contained so many ruffles, you could hardly see her neck. Her hair was pale blonde, and styled in a way that made it look like a cloud sitting on top of her head. Her face was powdered white, save for her blushed cheeks and glossy lipstick. Her lips were absurdly over lined, both painted a shocking fuchsia that closely matched her outfit. She approached the podium with tiny steps and cleared her throat daintily, “Welcome, everyone, to the reaping ceremony for the 59th annual Hunger Games!” People remained silent; the only reaction being a cough from someone in the crowd. She cleared her throat once more, “As always, we shall begin by watching a special film from the capitol, telling us the history and origins of this unique tradition, and to remind us why we are all standing here today.”

At her words, the two televisions turned on to display the Capitol’s sigil. It faded out, and a film about the glorious history of Panem started rolling. I tuned out and stared blankly at the rows of people ahead of me. When the film concluded, Ms. magenta up at the podium clapped enthusiastically. She was the only one. “Oh, wasn’t that wonderful?” She exclaimed, “What a rich history this nation has.” 

I scoffed, that’s one way to put it, I thought. 

“Now, as always- ladies first.” She stuck her hand into the large glass bowl on the right side of the podium and shuffled her hand through the slips of paper before snatching one up. She gingerly unfolded the paper and held it delicately between her index finger and thumb. 

She cleared her throat and read out the name, “Maeve Whitlock.”

I felt my heart stop in my chest.

No. 

My eyes darted through the crowd and I saw people make way for her as she slowly walked to the stage, shaking with every step. Images from my dream flashed through my mind- most poignantly, the image of me watching helplessly, as a dark shadowy figure slashed a knife across my sister’s throat. Panic rose in my chest; my heart beat so loudly in my ears that I barely heard myself shout, “WAIT!” Everyone turned to look at me. My breathing sped up as I suddenly felt at a loss for air, “I volunteer.” I added, my voice cracking slightly, “I volunteer as tribute.” Maeve looked back at me with pleading eyes and shook her head furiously. I avoided her gaze and stared straight ahead as the crowd parted to allow me through to the stage. I paused to grab Maeve’s hand and squeeze it tightly. I cradled the back of her head and planted a kiss atop her forehead. I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment as I shakily released her from my grasp and allowed the other girls in the crowd to place a comforting hand on her shoulders as they quietly pulled her away from me. I walked up to the stage and slowly climbed the short flight of steps to then take my place just behind the glass bowl from which my sister’s name was drawn. I can’t believe I’m about to be shepherded to my untimely death because of a stupid glass bowl. I felt my hands getting clammy, and I held to the hem of my dress to keep them from shaking. Ms. Magenta smiled and stepped towards me, “And what is your name, dear?”

“Persephone Whitlock.” I stated.

“And you are…?”

“Her sister.”

“Her sister! Oh, well, of course you are!” she remarked, “Well, that was a very brave thing you just did, Persephone. I’m sure I speak for everyone when I say that this was a truly inspiring moment! Well done! And may the odds be ever in your favor.” she smiled brightly and turned towards the crowd. There were a few measly claps, but they quickly fell silent. “And now, let us draw our male tribute.” She stepped over to the glass bowl on her left and repeated the process. I stared blankly past the rows of people; only when she read the name was my trance broken, “Frederick Weasley.” A tall, redheaded boy emerged from the crowd. I stared as he made his way up to the podium. I recognized him from school. I didn’t know him well, but I knew he had a twin brother- George, I think- who’d lost an ear in a factory accident a few years prior, and was thus ineligible to compete in the Games, as his injury would be an unfair advantage to the other tributes. Apparently, he’d been checking the cogs underneath a broken machine when it somehow turned on and cut his left ear clean off. It was formally reported as an accident, but it’s been rumored that he did it on purpose. There were no witnesses, so no one can say for sure, but if it was intentional, I can’t say I blame him for doing it. There are very few ways you can get out of the games if you’re under 18- something as extreme as losing an ear would certainly fall under that category. I stared at the redhead as he took his place behind the other glass bowl. He was tall, at least 6 foot 4, and seemed to tower over my own 5 foot 10 frame. I’d always thought I was fairly tall for my age, and was used to surpassing most adults in height; but standing next to him, I felt like a child. His entire body was long and lean, but I could tell from the way his shirt clung to him that he was not just skin and bone. He had a well-structured face. Round brown eyes, thin lips, a prominent, romanesque nose; his jaw was clenched as he stared straight ahead and refused to look at me. Him and his brother were known for pulling pranks and cracking jokes at school- there was a strange, impish quality to his features that unintentionally revealed his penchant for mischief. Every inch of his cool, pale skin was covered in freckles. Despite his pallid complexion, his cheeks always seemed to have a slight blush to them that made everything about him appear bright and lively. However, at the present moment, his face had been drained of all colour, save for a rather sickly green tinge. No wonder he doesn’t want to look at me- poor kid looks like he’s about to puke. Ms. Magenta finally stepped forward, “Excellent! We now have our two lovely tributes! Both of whom will now be escorted into the Justice building to await further instructions; Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor!” And with that, the Capitol’s sigil was once again displayed on the TVs, and its anthem blasted through the speakers. Suddenly, I felt four hands grab me by the arms and forcefully pull me backwards. I stumbled slightly, and looked up to see the two peacekeepers responsible. They continued to pull me across the stage before practically shoving me down the stairs and onto the cobblestone street. From the corner of my eye, I could see that my fellow tribute was receiving the same gentle treatment as they dragged- I’m sorry, escorted him- to the large, looming structure behind us. As they “escorted” me towards the building’s heavy brass doors, I looked back frantically, trying to spot my mother and sister. But the crowd had gotten rowdier, and they were all being jammed together as the peacekeepers continued to push them away from the stage. My breathing quickened, and I could feel the blood pumping through every vein in my body. When we reached the threshold, the brass doors opened to reveal a high-ceilinged marble hall, and a rush of cool air escaped them. So THIS is where all our air-conditioning goes, I thought to myself. Every sound echoed through the building’s marble interior. I craned my neck upwards and tried to take in every opulent detail as I was dragged down a hallway and shoved into a small room, where the peacekeepers finally released me from their vice grip. “Wait here,” one of them said. They both left and shut the door behind them. I massaged my sore upper arms. “You didn’t have to pull me so hard, you know!” I shouted at the door, “not like I was planning on going anywhere!”. I sighed and stepped back from the door. “Assholes,” I muttered to myself. I plopped down onto a green velvet armchair and examined my surroundings. The walls and ceilings were paneled in rich, mahogany wood. The square panels above me were covered in intricate carvings, complementing the elaborate crystal chandelier hanging in the center. While I assumed the floor was wood, it was hard to tell because of the heavy oriental rugs that adorned its surface. There were two large windows behind me, both framed by plush velvet curtains. They were the same emerald green as the chair, and were tied back with a thick, gold rope that had tassels on the end of it, so as to allow in natural light. There was not much furniture in the room aside from two armchairs- one of which I already occupied- a round, wooden coffee table between them, and two empty bookshelves inlaid in the wall on either side of the room. A thin blue vase containing a single white rose sat in the center of the coffee table. The smell of it was unnaturally overpowering. Something about it made me uneasy, so I carefully pushed it to the far side of the table and shifted away from it. I unconsciously started chewing on my lip. I couldn’t sit still. Sitting there shaking my leg, or playing with the hem of my dress, wasn’t helping. I let out a frustrated groan and jolted up from my seat. I continued to chew my lip as I restlessly paced back and forth across the room. The heavy rugs didn’t hide the creaking of the floorboards as I stomped across them. After what felt like hours, I heard the door creak open. I stopped in my tracks and ran to the door to greet my mother before she’d even entered the room. Her and my sister enveloped me in a bone-crushing hug which I eagerly returned. The peacekeeper standing behind them cleared his throat. We slowly let go of each other and turned to face him. “You have ten minutes to say goodbye- not a second more.” he said in a gruff voice. As my mother and sister stepped fully into the room, the peacekeeper roughly shut the door behind them and left. 

END OF PART ONE

a/n: If you’ve made it this far,  1. Hi, I love you 2. Will I write more for this series? To quote John Mulaney, “Who’s to say?”. 

[libradusk]

Touch Starved | Ahsoka Tano

Word Count: 1,260

Pairing: Ahsoka Tano x Reader

Summary: The most vivid memories of your adolescence were stolen by violence and war, a chance reunion 14 years after the fall of the Jedi Order reignites what little hope still dribbles through you

warnings: some mention of blood and death that comes along with Order 66

Part of my Touch Starved miniseries

Chance, that's what it had all boiled down to at the end of it all, how you had survived the worst day of your short life - the worst day of the war.

If you had been with anyone else at the time, you would have been dead, cut down just like your master and the thousands of other Jedi who had all met their fate that horrific day. You had known it at the time through your stolen adolescence, and you certainly knew it now as a fugitive - the only birthright you had ever known now sentenced you for execution, the Empire’s mark for death forever branded on your very soul.

When you had stepped onto that Star Destroyer bridge alongside Ahsoka and Captain Rex, you could never have predicted that the rapid flash of hyperspace would soon double as a blurred countdown to your final moments as a Jedi.

Your assassination had been pre-written in blaster-fire and blood.

At the time you had been happy - drained in every way possible following the Siege of Mandalore, but undeniably overjoyed at being reunited with Ahsoka once more. You had even noted - despite your conscience deeming the thought ludicrously selfish for a Jedi - that you dared to feel whole again, now that your closest confidant and treasured ally had returned to fight at your side - to fight alongside all of you to finish the war for good.

If only you had listened to Maul’s final, desperate warning to you all.

From the moment that first gunshot had grazed your neck, everything else stumbled into slow motion behind it.

The burn that seared and cauterised across your flesh was incomparable to the pain of realising that the only world you had ever known now crumbled around you, that the same soldiers you had battled alongside - laughed, cried and mourned beside, were now either dead or trying to kill you too.

Your own, personal tragedy had unfurled its merciless bindings around you and cut you to pieces in the process.

Bile, adrenaline and unadulterated fear curled over each other for the entire time it took you to escape, threatening to overwhelm every one of your senses as you navigated the dungeon of corridors and airfields. Recalling the events even now caused your lungs to constrict and shrivel in your chest the exact way they had back then - there was no mercy spared for whether you were awake or sleeping, your memories remained tarnished all the same.

Everything finally came to a screeching stop the moment you stumbled from that stolen bomber and your knees collided with solid ground. Despite your freedom, you had felt anything but relief at the feeling of snow blanketing your blistered knees.

You could still smell the smoking remains of the Star Destroyer ship and the clones that had perished alongside it long after you had finished burying their bodies.

Only after you had placed down the last helmet and turned to face the haunting expression on Ahsoka’s face had your body finally allowed you to cry, your soul wrecked with confusion and grief that neither of you could truly answer.

She had held you then, despite your bloodied hands staining her cowl and the fact you knew she was just as broken as you were - she remained steadfast and let you crash against her, your only remaining warmth left across the whole galaxy.

Her own tears had burned hot with fury as they dripped onto your frost-bitten skin when she finally shattered alongside you.

She was torn from you too soon after that.

Or rather the Empire tore you from her.

Your throat had practically bled as their forces had ripped you away, ravaged raw with screams of protest and pleas for her to run, to continue to survive through it all.

The look drowning in those misty-blue eyes still tormented your dreams long after rebel forces had come to your rescue, as did the way she had grasped helplessly towards you as Rex had muffled her cries and dragged her out of view - to safety.

You had made peace then, that somewhere out amongst the stars, Ahsoka was still safe - still alive, even if she couldn’t be by your side anymore.

The thought had eased the hollowness in your heart, if only by the most minuscule amount.

That fateful night relit the fire in your stomach - despite the terror and loss of the only two people you had left in the world it brought alongside it. You stopped running, determined now more than ever to retake the peace that was stolen from you - from Ahsoka and Rex and everyone else who’s lives had been dictated and swallowed by the horrors of blood lust and power born from war.

You had vowed to honour that reignited mission when you had settled down to sleep amidst the threadbare sanctuary of the rebel base that night - and every night that followed thereafter.

You cannot break me further, I have nothing left for you to take from me.

I will stop you from forcing others to suffer as I have.

That skeleton of a mantra continued to guide your every action, to dictate your very survival for years, until at last it guided you to the crew of the Ghost and settled you amongst its rag-tag family of Rebels.

You never envisioned yourself ever reuniting with Ahsoka in your remaining lifetime - had not even dared dream of it. Instead you had always placated yourself with a fantasy wherein she was alive and well hidden in a remote pocket of the galaxy - untouchable and sparkling and happy.

In retrospect you should have known better than to pacify yourself with the lie that the ex-Jedi would ever be the type to ever cower away while others suffered in her stead. Your morals - your spirits - would also entwine you together. The two of you shared a destination that had been forever stitched across the stars, regardless of the path you each walked to reach it.

Jedi or not, the stars could only keep you apart for so long - no matter how excruciating the wait, the means or the time between.

Yet the moment she stood before you once more, older and taller and exhausted, but still as warm and beautiful a soul as you always knew her to be, you couldn’t help but crumble.

And so did she.

For a second the two of you reverted to the ghosts of those tear-stomped teenagers once more, torn apart and furious when you had already lost everything but each other, jaded and scarred by events far beyond your control.

But beneath the tears and anger and pain there was the Ahsoka you knew, the same Ahsoka that had offered you a chance to live - to keep on fighting despite the hell you had both been dragged through day after day.

The Togruta had all but melted into your embrace then, choking back relief that quivered over her shoulders as wide eyes and tentative hands had swarmed over your face, desperate to check that you were truly there, truly alive.

You wondered, if your tears seared against her skin with the same intensity that buzzed across your own as her fingers cradled your jaw - every nerve threaded tightly with a prickling intensity as your soul restitched itself with each touch of Ahsoka’s skin against your own.

It bordered on overwhelming in the most magical way.

For at long last, after so much sacrifice you had been blessed with the most wonderful chance reunion - no, miracle of them all.

[glitchlight]

castlevania s4 thoughts

this is basically a live tweet thread but I didn’t live tweet it because a) spoilers for something fairly fresh and b) [ASSHOLE]’s name is all over this, as he was apparently fired after his role had wrapped up anyways.

the tl;dr for s4 and the whole of the series imo is “Incompetent Writing Well Executed” because there are frankly juvenile editing and pacing mistakes everywhere but the animation, voicework, and design are often exceptional.

i also think it’s constructive for creators to develop a strong editorial eye and to be able to see what the flaws in other works are, and what works well, a lot of my thoughts are specifically tied into that, and also criticism since I basically watched it because I have friends modestly interested in finishing it but not wanting to touch it because of [ASSHOLE]. this contains modest spoilers but a lot of the later plot details i refer to only obliquely.

-boy it doesn't feel great seeing [ASSHOLE]'s name as the first name on the title card. I get giving people their due in writing but you could've had a slighly longer title card to elevate the people who worked on it aside from [ASSHOLE] so we can celebrate them. -you could teach the first half of the first ep as what not to do in setting up plot threads it's that blatantly obvious -lenore and hector are basically different characters from s3 because [ASSHOLE] needed to introduce more intrigue to Carmilla's court. -Women need trauma to be villains hack shit. -must we introduce a morally grey androgynous woman of color badass who doesn't care about the deaths of her allies -fly demon becomes a character just cause people liked his scene lol hack shit -isaac remains easily the best and most interesting character in the series (aside from the problematic elements of his character) -fantasy "i'm blocking your number" scene is funny -Vampire Lady Hot -THEY GENDER FLIPPED GRANT??? -boy the animation budget for episode 4 got slashed for no reason?? it looks way worse than the preceding material. -cool st. germain's back and the girl he's into is literally a voiceless random badass-- the fourth such one this season? [ASSHOLE] is a hack but come the fuck on. - I personally liked the implications St. Germain was from a different physical reality than ours or at least a different timeline (such as with the triangular notebook, which I know was a real thing but serves a different purpose as shorthand in a series when it passes without mention like that) but him being from europe still is boring. - the library dimension is fun but would be less jarring if it weren't so visibly 3D in a series that ostensibly aims to be 2D - Yet Another Nameless WoC Morally Grey Badass Facilitating White Male Plot huh. - I get that we're doing a "St. Germain is of the same as Dracula" plot here and that "in service of love people do terrible things" but it's undercut by how much I hate St. Germain as a character and don't give a shit about him. - also, furthermore, i just straight up hate narratives that have to tell you a villain's motivations in detail by giving them perspective. it's hack shit.   - the infinite corridor is a weird plot element that doesn't really add anything to this story beyond a fabled otherworld and some cool aesthetics. -god lenore you interupted hector last season saying "the real people are talking" and now you care about him?? [ASSHOLE] is an idiot. - this entire series of fights is rendered toothless by remembering alucard can literally control his sword with his mind and is just holding it for plot convienence. - this scene of sypha and trevor both, separately, doing what they do best is a good scene. i've been critical of a lot but this is a good scene. - we're triggering the endgame now? like right now? Carmilla's been in one scene. Like I know the prior seasons have been criticized for being too much set up but this is literally set up into climax already?? - well here's where the money from episode 4 went. - You spent all that time in season 3 setting up the sisterhood and then didn't make them the villains of season 4 huh. Fuck off. That's so fucking stupid. - AND HECTOR AND ISAAC?? YOU HAVE FOUR MORE EPISODES YOU ABSOLUTE CLOWN - I am Russian I am Soldier - Soldier boy having the same rant as carmilla we get it vampires are bad -stock-child-laughing-soundeffect.mp3 - "Of course I'm insane!" "The fuck what now?" is actually a kind of fun line. - [ASSHOLE]'s writing style isn't so much a puzzle box plot, one of many moving parts intricately sliding together, so much as heaps of mud being flung at the page from a half dozen different hands. It all sticks together but it does so messily and only with great violence. - this is just a kaiju -Where did this second vampire army even come from, who the fuck is Dorgon or whatever? Was this written for Carmilla's army then got changed because that would make way more sense than this rando -Boy I'm not comfortable with this slur being thrown around even if it's usage is complicated. -the inversion of the invasion in dracula's castle hall is a nice touch. - they did the op as fight music thing. - ah damn this guy has the same fight gimmick as a character i was gonna do dope though - Sypha continues to have the best fight scenes which makes up for her not having a character arc this season in [ASSHOLE]'s eyes. - That plot twist is okay I guess but it's very funny that he talks like that. And says Fucked Up. - I can't believe that after one of the biggest critiques of season 2 was that there were a bunch of vampire fights with nameless voiceless vampires who don't matter and you don't care about, it ends the exact same way. at least the fights are weirder and better than the kind of lifeless scene in S2. - This trope is so common but still works. - This ending is, par for the course in this adaptation of Castlevania, rather anti-climactic - You had to make the shoutout, and i bet you felt so clever [ASSHOLE] - Is that finale worth it in the end. like hell yeah good animation but fuckin didn’t make a lick of sense. - that bit of cleaning up got me to cry but only because i'm a tender-hearted idiot. - this ending is far too tidy (Hack shit) and the sequel hook is bullshit dumbfuckery. - FEET

[swampgallows]

Which allied race(s) do you think has the most disappointing implementation based on their current lore and future story possibilities?

i talked about this a little bit before but the lightforged draenei seem kinda limited their scope, although im sure it’ll come back around in the inevitable light vs void xpac

which is also, probably, where they’re gonna implement the stupid au draenei storyline from WoD as well

people might think this is out of character for me but i really wish we’d gotten MU mag’har. or at least some news about what the orcs in outland are doing, especially now that thrall and his family had been living there!? like, hello? what’s going on in the orc homeworld of our universe? is geyah still alive? do any other orc clans still exist? what is it like now that the demon presence is gone? did they find a way to drain the coilfang reservoir? did the broken remaining on draenor take back karabor? (actually is akama on azeroth? is he dead? i literally dont remember. we fight his shade but i dont remember if This Kills the Man. god i love akama)

i know WoD was supposed to be outland “as it once was” but it was also a bunch of AU stuff that would never come to pass in the main universe, or there’s so much inconsequential cloudiness about what is both canon for MU draenor and AU draenor, or what they retconned of the MU for the AU, or what is exclusive lore to the AU and not the MU, who you can punch, who you can’t punch...

plus as many people have mentioned it makes it dumb as fuck that we conscript the people who were literally our enemies for an entire xpac just because thirty years have passed for them even though they’re temporal anomalies. that isn’t our Grom, those aren’t our orcs, and they’re basically walking reminders that “it was really really evil of garrosh to try to form the horde even when orcs werent united by demon blood, but it’s really really good of us to take his framework and just absorb all of those units into our current horde to prove we’d do the exact same thing”. 

for the mag’har allied race to have any future storytelling possibilities they’re probably gonna have to revisit the seed they planted in the mag’har unlocking scenario where blizz took their jewish coded race who suffered genocide at the hands of the orcs and their dark magic and went “actually, now it is the draenei’s turn to commit genocide with their space catholicism”. and theyre apparently led by an ‘exarch hellscream’, the not-garrosh son of AU grom, which cements the hellscream lineage in another universe as being full of overzealous genocidal dictators. if you cant tell that fucking sucks ass

dont get me wrong, if there’s a “more orcs” button you know im gonna slam my fist into it, but a lot of WoD was coasting purely on aesthetic and is a hot fucking mess beneath that veneer so a lot of the implications of adding the AU mag’har are unsavory and haphazard. not to mention they immediately sidled not-thrall geya’rah into being an outspoken sylvanas loyalist, so much like the zandalari she’s kinda being taken for the chaotic ride of “our factions are so so so so important but actually have no scruples about doing what the fuck ever at any time as long as they say the H word before they do it”

bro there are so many nasty ass frayed threads to the warcraft lore thanks to that bullshit AU. i do not envy the people who have to weave something new out of that matted bezoar

[themusicplayedherlife]

Can you write a continuation of the Tim Drake x demigod reader where he introduced reader to the rest of the family?

a/n: This time it didn’t take years for me to finish this request lmfao! I didn’t write much interaction between the family because they’re so many members of the batfam and I can’t write group settings for the life of me??? but I def had some ideas about Damian and his curiosity towards Reader, anyway, anon! Hope you enjoy!

Meeting the family is inevitable, according to Annabeth after a long and winded rant about having dinner with Tim and his family from your end. 

Granted, you knew most of his brothers and sisters in the Hermes cabin (including his three adopted siblings that he arrived at camp with), but knowing your fellow campers is one thing, getting to know them as the family he was raised with? That’s another matter altogether.

You knew of Dick Grayson, son of Aphrodite; Jason Todd, son of Ares; and Cassandra, daughter of Psyche. How could you not? They are prominent members of Camp Half-Blood. Maybe not like Percy and the rest of your group, but it‘s hard to ignore the adopted children of Bruce Wayne, ally of the gods and demigods (you had Wonder Woman and his adopted children to thank for that). Not only were they good looking, but they excelled in combat from the very moment they stepped foot into camp.  

But you only know them as that—fellow campers. This is you getting to know them... better—intimately. And not to mention getting to finally meet THE Bruce Wayne and the rest of his mortal family members in person! No more second hand stories from Tim, or listening in on the stories his siblings would recount to the curious campers.

Wow. This is definitely out of your comfort zone, isn’t it?

A warm hand wraps around your cold fingers, steadying your shaky limbs.

“Hey,” Tim softly says, squeezing your fingers as another hand cradles your cheek. “They’re going to love you, χρυσή μου.”

My golden one. You practically melt at the softness and love in his voice when he calls you so. A reminder of how much you mean to him, of how much he loves you.

You smile involuntarily and lean into his touch.

You’re not given the chance to return the affection, the double doors of the manor being thrown open followed by a loud raucous of:

“He’s right there!” from Jason, and “Stop being such a dick,” from a tall, beautiful redhead with freckles followed by a lot more noise and bickering from what you assume is the rest of his family members.

You practically recoil, pulse beginning to pick up and fingers slowly beginning to twitch in his hold.

“Babe,” Tim starts, cutting through all the noise and he flashes you a smile, a reassuring one, with a squeeze of your hand. “I’m right here. I’ve got you.”

You nod and try to return the smile, but there’s no denying that his words and touch manage to ground you just a bit further.

“That's enough,” a deep, calm voice interjects, the earlier bickering coming to an abrupt stop as you remind yourself to breathe.

Bruce Wayne is a lot taller than you had imagined him to be—very handsome too. His stare is even more intense than you had expected, sharper and darker than the smolders he’d spare the pictures taken of him prompted or unprompted. And you can’t help the way your mind scans over him, searching and prodding like it usually does--there’s a darkness in this man that you can’t ignore. Burning deep and hot like hellfire. You wonder if it originates from his traumatic childhood, or if the darkness began to grow with the years--with his journey as the masked vigilante.

Tim has his own darkness, and so do his siblings, but Mr. Wayne? It seems to be tenfold. Controlled, sure, but barely hanging on by a thread.

Bruce pulls you out of your momentary awe, his voice somewhat gruff, but still managing to be kind. “Welcome home,” he says, mostly to Tim, but the small lift of his lips in your direction makes you feel welcomed as well. Yes, there’s a darkness in him, but there’s also a kindness that is rarely seen in others. It’s that kindness that you’re sure has raised Tim and his siblings, taught them that unbearable need to help others with no expectations of reciprocation. They’re just... kind to be kind.

Is it that kindness that stops him from bursting?

Tim tugs you along with him up the final steps of the manor where he hugs his adopted father after letting you go momentarily. “Thank you, Bruce.” He turns to you, holding out his hand for you to take and introducing you to him with an air of pride, as if he’s talked about you aside from being his partner to him before. And seeing the expression of familiarity flash behind Bruce’s blue eyes, you know he has.

“It’s nice to finally meet you,” you offer a bit shyly, unsure of whether to offer him your hand or if to lean in for a hug. You’re not exactly sure what the proper etiquette is to greeting a parent, let alone your boyfriend’s father. You’ve only had the chance to interact with Percy’s mom, and even that is rare. With the rest it’s always been a “hello! Must steal your child for a quest, bye!” Never a proper sit down where you can properly introduce yourself to them. 

Relief fills you when Bruce helps you by offering you his hand, mindful of which hand Tim is holding to keep you steady—emotionally and physically. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you in person. Tim and Diana speak highly of you.”

You immediately feel the heat crawl on your skin. What exactly have they said? “Likewise, Mr. Wayne. And I just want to say, on behalf of all my friends, thank you for all that you have done for us at camp. We really appreciate it.”

Tim squeezes your hand when Bruce chuckles lowly and asks for you to drop the formalities, telling you to call him Bruce instead.

Before anyone else can introduce themselves to you or you can take note of who else has followed Bruce and Jason to the door, Jason lets out a loud groan. “Can we hurry this along? We know who she is already and I’m hungry!”

“Jason,” the same redhead from before scolds him, smacking him—quite harshly, might you add—on the arm before extending her hand in your direction. “Barbara Gordon.” Ah! Dick’s ex girlfriend! You’ve heard Tim and Dick mention her a couple of times before. Mostly about how she’s always down Dick’s throat for being too reckless or something, you’re not entirely sure. “I’m so glad you’re finally able to join us for dinner! We’ve been trying to convince Tim to bring you along for a while now!”

You know they have been. Tim has mentioned it before, but at the time, you weren’t exactly ready to be in a crowded room with strangers. You’re still not completely ready, but after a talk with Hazel and Annabeth, you decided you couldn’t put it off for much longer.

As Hazel said, “You love Tim, whether you want to admit it or not. And it’s pretty obvious Tim loves you, too! Making an effort to meet his family would show that to Tim without you having to say those words just yet.”

You squeeze Tim’s hand, hoping she’s right. “I’m sorry.”

She waves her hand, a warm smile on her face. “No, I’m sorry if we all seem a little impatient. I really hope we don’t put you off! We’re all just a little... eager to meet the person that has stolen our Timmy’s heart.”

“Babs!” Tim whines, but it goes ignored by Barbara.

She laughs. “Come on in! The rest of the family is waiting in the den.”

Dinner is chaotic. Not as chaotic as dinner is back at camp, but it’s still pretty chaotic.

The youngest and only biological child of Bruce Wayne, is Damian, a boy with a sharp tongue and a curious thing, eyeing you before quickly looking away with a huff and pretending he hadn’t just been staring at you. Unlike the rest of the family, the darkness in him is a speck compared to theirs, even if he speaks with harsh words and an air of indifference. There’s more of a childish innocence that surrounds him, and you can’t help but wonder if it’s attributed to the rest of his family trying to help him make the most of his childhood. 

You offer him a smile, one you hope doesn’t look strained or unnatural. You really do want to make him feel at ease with you. Make it easier for him to ask questions about you and your lineage like the rest of his family does.

Duke is the funniest of the group, not adopted, but still very much part of the family. He’s motivated, and just as smart as Tim, if their conversation about some riddle and case you briefly heard mentioned on the news is anything to go by. And just like Bruce and the rest of the family, he’s observant, maybe even more so than they are; offering you an out when it all becomes overwhelming by changing conversations or asking you if you need anything. He especially takes a liking to hearing stories of you and your mother, Athena, seemingly realizing that speaking about your mother is a clutch to you.

You can’t help it when you ask, “Are you sure you’re not a son of Athena’s?”

He’s taken aback by your question before laughing jovially. “That’d be so cool if I were, honestly! But nah, I’m just a regular ol’ meta-human.”

Dick snorts, leaning into your space to whisper loudly, as if to tease Duke—and completely ignoring the fact you lean away from him and closer to Tim—“Look at him nonchalantly trying to slip in that he’s not exactly human.”

Tim nudges Dick away from you with the palm of his hand, making his brother chuckle and back away with palms up in surrender. You thank Tim with a small smile which he returns.

Duke rubs the back of his head sheepishly. “How else was I supposed to say it?”

“Not at all,” Barbara adds in with a chirp, passing Cassandra the bowl of fruit that had been placed down by Alfred, their butler, something that you find really weird to say or even think. A butler! So weird.

“You guys are just jealous!”

Dick quirks an eyebrow in his direction. “I’m a child of Aphrodite.”

Jason pauses in his indulgence on seconds to flash him a smirk. “Ares.”

“Psyche,” Cassandra quietly adds as she adds fruit to her plate.

Tim grins. “Hermès.”

Damian glares at him without any heat. “My grandfather is Ra’s Al Ghul; my mother is Thalia Al Ghul; and my father is Batman.” Which is still wild to you. Who would’ve thought. I mean, other than the few conspiracies running around.

Barbara turns to you with an eye roll and you can’t help but laugh under your breath.

“Okay, all right, point taken! No need to flex. Damn.” Duke shakes his head. “A guy can’t even feel special.”

Bruce chuckles lowly. “You are special, Duke.” Duke lifts his head after huffing and beams, the rest of the family following after their father’s sincere words. “All of you are special.”

“But I’m more special, correct, father?”

A fond an exasperated chorus of “Damian!” fills the room.

The manor is quiet at night. Surprisingly enough.

Eleven people under one rooftop and you’re certain you could drop a pin on the floor and it’d resound throughout the manor.

And yet, even in the quiet, you and Tim lay awake in his childhood bedroom, too wired to fall asleep and give into your tiredness; both of you laying on your side and facing each other.

“You’re drained,” you whisper to Tim, brushing his hair falling over his eyes behind his ear.

He hums, closing his eyes as your fingers trail down the back of his ear and to his jaw. “I love my family, but it can be too much when everyone is together.”

You let out a small huff of a laugh, tapping your finger against his chin gently before dropping your hand down next to your face. “It’s not as bad as camp.”

“Maybe,” he agrees absentmindedly. “But at least at camp I can go hide out with you in your cabin or sneak off to the lake.”

”Guess so.”

His lashes flutter as brilliant blue eyes appear once more. “Meeting my family didn’t tire you out?”

You smile, hearing the worry in his voice. “A little. But it was fun meeting them. Loved them.”

“Yeah?” he asks, wrapping you up in his arms.

“Yeah,” you whisper, patting his chest with your palms, his heartbeat a soothing thump against your hand. “Almost as much as I love you.”

His long fingers wrap around your wrist just as it stutters under your hand. “Do you mean it?” He asks breathless, barely heard in the darkness of his room full of wooden book shelves and books you can’t believe he actually read at some point in his life. 

“What?” You ask, watching him as he brings the hand that had been resting on his chest to his lips.

He presses a gentle kiss against your skin, eyes never leaving yours. “That you love me.”

You freeze, eyes moving from the hand he’s kissing to his brilliant blue eyes that don’t seem to ever stop sparkling. Even in the darkness he’s pure light, and you don’t understand how he can shine so brightly when the darkness surrounds him, practically ready to devour him. But you wouldn’t let it. You would never let that darkness take a hold of him. And if it ever did, you’d fight to bring him back, even if it meant going back to Tartarus, you would. “Yes,” you whisper.

His lips curve, smile growing and taking shape as he leans closer. Your hand rests on his cheek as you take him in; as he practically melts under your confession and touch. “I love you too, χρυσή μου.”

[lynne-monstr]

fic (leverage, eliot/quinn)

title: (don’t think i can take anymore) wasted days and sleepless nights

summary: Sleeping together is easy. Quinn trusts Eliot with his body while he's awake and aware. He draws the line at actually falling asleep with Eliot.

contains: mentions of violence/torture, mild sex, banter

ao3 link

In the past thirty-six hours, Quinn had been shot at, stabbed, drugged, locked in the trunk of his own car, and nearly run over twice while making his escape. Every muscle in his body blazed like an inferno as he ran.

Running on empty, the coolly rational part of his brain chimed in. Quinn ignored it. He couldn’t stop; if he stopped, he was dead, and if he was going to die he’d do it on his feet. So he kept going, the soles of his uncomfortable dress shoes pounding along the pavement in the dead of night, every sense straining for the slightest rustle of an approaching attack.

When no one jumped him sliding down a fire escape to street level, he risked taking a quick breather. On silent feet, he ducked behind a dumpster in the narrow alley. His singed leg ached, and he made a note to add ‘near escape from a burning office’ as part of the litany of reasons he was never working for Hungarian arms dealers again. Unfortunately, that same burning building also meant the police were too busy investigating the arson downtown to notice the small war being waged in the otherwise silent streets. There’d be no interruptions or distractions that he could use to slip away.

He was quickly running out of options. And worse, ammunition.

When his lungs felt a little less like they were about to burn their way out of his chest, he took a last sweep of the darkened alley and got ready to move out. Unfolding from his crouch, he sprinted for the exit, keeping close to the wall as he rounded the corner.

And ran full speed into the man waiting for him on the other side.

There was no time to curse his bad luck as they hit the ground. Instead, he bit his lip to muffle the scream as his injured shoulder took the brunt of the impact. Not daring to stop and assess the damage, he rolled, coming up on top of his assailant, pinning him to the ground with his body weight as he brought his sidearm to bear one-handed. And froze.

Staring down the sights of his gun was the last person he expected. Long hair. Casual clothes. Keen eyes narrowed in an expression of imminent violence that would send a lesser man running for cover. Despite the job gone belly up, Quinn couldn’t help the pleasure unfurling in his gut. If he played his cards right, maybe he wasn’t completely fucked after all.

Quinn slowly withdrew his gun, careful to telegraph non-aggression as he put it back into the holster at his shoulder.

Eliot Spencer eyed him for a long moment. Until finally, with a twitch of lips, he pulled back the knife poised to strike Quinn in a very private and painful place. Quinn’s eyes widened when he saw the blade was his own, pulled from his ankle sheath without him feeling a damn thing. And here he thought Eliot Spencer was the type to fight fair. The man was just full of surprises. The warmth in Quinn’s gut flared and spread at the thought.

The hint of a smile curled around Eliot’s lips, and just like that the moment snapped, disappearing as quickly as it came. Quinn stood and offered a hand.

Eliot took it, letting himself be pulled to his feet. “Quinn,” he greeted.

“Eliot.”

“Bad day?”

“Getting better.”

The merriment faded as Eliot gave him a more thorough onceover. He twirled the knife once, offering it hilt first. “Looks like you need this more than me.”

Quinn tucked the weapon away, happy to have the familiar weight back where it belonged. His eyes scanned the tops of the nearby buildings for movement before refocusing on Eliot. He was running out of time. “I didn’t realize you were coming to my party.”

“My invitation must’ve got lost in the mail.” Eliot eyed the angry red slash at the shoulder of Quinn’s suit jacket. A misstep he was still paying for. “Your friends don’t seem very nice, though.”

Quinn’s response was cut off by the sound of heavy footfalls.

Between the both of them, it didn’t take long to clean house. Soon they were the only ones standing amidst a sea of unconscious hitmen. Quinn would have preferred them dead—dead men couldn’t get back up and come after you again, or report to their boss about your unexpected new ally—but Eliot had knocked his hand askew when he’d lined up the first headshot, growling something about no killing. Quinn fell into line. If that was the price to pay for Eliot Spencer’s assistance, so be it. What the two of them had done in forty-five minutes would’ve taken him all night to do alone, and he might not have finished before getting himself killed.

Besides, Quinn could always kill the hired guns later if they made the mistake of coming after him again.

It had been good, working with another professional. At times like this, Quinn could maybe see why Eliot settled down with a team. Not that he had any intention of doing so himself. It had been pretty clear on the Dubenich job that Eliot trusted his people unconditionally; Quinn didn’t have anyone like that in his life. It was better that way.

For now, he was happy to hole up in a dingy motel under one of his more obscure aliases. Whoever set him up was still out there, no doubt hiring more people at this very moment, and until Quinn’s contacts came back with more information, he was happy to wait it out in relative safety. His next move was going to depend on whether this was an independent hit or if his employer had double-crossed him. He suspected the latter.

After double checking the room’s only door and window, he shrugged out of his jacket, hissing through his teeth as the motion reopened the wound in his shoulder. He fumbled at his tie one-handed. His shirt followed shortly after, landing in a heap on the bed beside the rest. The slight chill in the room prickled at his skin, one more item on the list of discomforts he was ignoring.

“Still here, huh?” he asked the silent figure by the window.

Once all the hired guns were too busy napping to run amok in the city streets, he half-expected Eliot to bail. Instead, he’d stuck close, watching Quinn’s back as he picked up shell casings, rifled through his assailants’ pockets, and finally holed up for the night. He couldn’t quite decipher if the other hitter was being friendly, weirdly protective of Quinn’s injured state, or if he figured out that Quinn had half a mind to break into the local police station and make sure all the hired thugs they’d taken down reached a more permanent end.

Whatever the reason, Eliot was still here, peering steadily through a crack in the window curtains. Quinn wasn’t sure whether to be grateful or annoyed. Instead he asked, “You staying all night?”

Eliot spared Quinn a glance before going back to his vigil of the street. “Got nowhere else to be.”

Quinn rubbed at his bare arms and settled for mildly grateful but cautious. “Thought your team would be waiting for you or something.”

“We ain’t all joined at the hip, you know,” Eliot answered, a thread of affection buried under the gruffness. “I like to head on out every once in a while. Wasn’t expecting to run into a street war on my time off.”

“Looks like I owe you the favor, then.” Normally, Quinn resisted the idea of being in debt, but he couldn’t deny the flush of warmth at the thought of Eliot Spencer calling on him sometime down the line. Quinn had always been a little bit of an idiot for a pretty face.

He was halfway through a shrug before thinking better of it. His shoulder was a raw mass of pain now that the adrenaline was wearing off. Every breath felt like a red-hot lance through the wound.

“Want me to take a look at that?” Eliot asked, correctly reading the pinched lines of his face.

Quinn paused, already halfway to the tiny bathroom. It was barely more than a toilet and a shower, both of which had seen better days, but it had running water and that was enough. “I’ve got it.”

“Gonna be a bitch to stitch that up one handed.”

“Yet somehow I always manage.”

Eliot shrugged, not turning away from his post. “Suit yourself, man. Give a holler if you change your mind.”

Quinn rolled his eyes. Twenty minutes later, sitting hunched on the dirty toilet seat and trying to tie off a knot with one hand and his teeth, he was maybe beginning to regret not taking Eliot up on his offer. Pausing to catch his breath, he cursed the wound, this job, his (probably) turncoat of an employer, and everything in between. His shoulder throbbed in time with his heart, which almost stopped as a silhouette suddenly filled the tiny bathroom doorframe. His hand was at his hip for a gun he wasn’t carrying before he recognized it as Eliot.

Quinn frowned. “Who’s watching the street?”

“If they haven’t showed by now they aren't coming.”

“Or they’re waiting for us to get complacent.”

“Then stop screwing around and get out here. You can watch the street while I fix this mess you call stitches.”

“They’re functional,” Quinn protested. “Doesn’t have to win any knitting awards.”

“Functional, huh? If that’s what you’re calling that mess, I’m gonna have to seriously reevaluate what I think of your skillset.” Eliot huffed and shook his head, then swiped an errant strand of hair from his eyes. “I won’t even count how that’s so far from pretty, it makes ugly look good. Come on, Huckleberry, let me patch you up.”

Using the dumb nickname Quinn had thrown out in a moment of adrenaline-fueled weakness wasn’t playing fair. But he was too tired to keep arguing, and so he let Eliot lead him back to the pair of armchairs by the room’s only window, perfectly angled as to be out of sight from any outside observers.

He kept his eyes trained on the crack in the window while Eliot hovered over him and fixed up his stitches in the dim light filtering in from the street lamps. The scratchy fabric of the chair itched against his bare back, and he focused on that rather than the unpleasant pinch and pull of his shoulder being mended. Eliot’s hands were hot on his skin and despite the pain, Quinn found himself relaxing.

When it was done, Eliot cleaned the blood from Quinn’s shoulder with a scratchy hotel towel and went to wash his hands while Quinn redressed in his soiled shirt and jacket. “Get some sleep. I’ll take first watch,” he offered when he was done, settling back into the hideously ugly chair by the edge of the window.

Quinn laughed. “Real cute.”

It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Eliot to guard them both. Hell, he had no problem with Eliot keeping guard while he’d been cleaning up in the bathroom. But there was a world of difference between letting someone have your back while you were all there, and trusting someone to watch over you while you were slow and heavy with sleep.

The only person Quinn trusted like that was himself. He didn’t need to say it out loud, though. The look in Eliot’s eyes said he understood just fine.

What was left of the night passed in mutual silence, both of them on guard against the world.

Their patience paid off. Right before sunup, they both jerked to attention, noticing the same movement in the orange rays of early morning light. If whoever was creeping towards their room was expecting them to be caught off guard, they were in for a nasty surprise.

Quinn grinned like a shark and reached for his gun.

When none of their assailants were left standing (shot in the knee, courtesy of Quinn, and handed over to the federal authorities, courtesy of Eliot over Quinn’s fervent objections) all that adrenaline building since the previous night only had one place to go.

Looking back, he wasn’t sure who made the first move, him or Eliot. But it ended up with them back at Eliot’s place, their hands in each other’s hair and their mouths crushed together as they fell into bed. Casual touches and play-fighting quickly turned into something more heated and deliberate. Soon enough, Quinn found himself without his clothes and his weapons, Eliot’s teeth grazing his throat and his rough hands pinching along his inner thighs. Blunt nails raked down his stomach and Quinn arched up into it for more. And how delightful to discover firsthand that Eliot’s gravel-rough voice got ever rougher when Quinn held him down and kept him writhing on the edge.

When it was all over, they were tangled together across the dark blue sheets of Eliot’s safe house, struggling to catch their breath. Quinn felt his eyes grow heavy as the past couple days finally caught up with him. And that’s where he drew the line. Sleeping with Eliot was one thing; actual sleeping was a line he wasn’t willing to cross.

Not with Eliot, not with anyone. He’d learned that one the hard way.

“You leaving?”

Quinn paused with one leg in his suit pants and bit down the sarcastic reply about Eliot’s keen observation skills. He was almost surprised to find that his smile was genuine. “Thanks for the good time.”

Eliot nodded and Quinn finished redressing. He headed for the door, but Eliot’s voice stopped him as he was about to walk out.

“I’m too wired to sleep. Thought I’d make some coffee. Maybe check on the tomatoes in the garden. You’re welcome to stay for a cup.” Not bothering to wait for answer, he rolled out of bed and grabbed a pair of sweatpants from the large wooden dresser in the corner. He didn’t bother with a shirt and Quinn allowed himself a moment to appreciate the view.

He could picture the scene as clear as day. Lounging on the couch in borrowed sweatpants that weren’t quite long enough to reach his ankles. Sipping coffee and watching Eliot work shirtless on the back patio, the late afternoon sun washing warm across the naked skin of his back and highlighting his hair with gold. Pulling Eliot down on top of him afterwards until they were both sweaty and sated all over again. Falling asleep in his bed.

He should go. That much was obvious. Working with Eliot on business, indulging in sex with Eliot—that was all standard fare. Practically a perk of the job. But this? An invitation to stay in each other’s company like they were anything other than sort-of colleagues and occasional allies.

Now that was dangerous.

For all the dark rumors of his past, Eliot was a bonafide good guy now. How long until he remembered that Quinn was still taking the kinds of jobs he’d long since washed his hands of. As much as he liked the guy and could rely on him to have his back on a job or against a mutual enemy, Quinn could never fully trust him. He would be an idiot to forget that.

So, he shook his head and locked away the sliver of regret that slipped past his defenses. “Maybe next time,” he lied, straightening his tie so he wouldn’t have to look Eliot in the eye.

(The next several times they fell into bed—a combination of planned meets and one uncomfortable instance when they’d both been trailing the same mark—Eliot never repeated his offer to stay afterwards.

Quinn was grateful for it.)

Quinn liked working the occasional job for Eliot and his strange team. There were several reasons, but it all boiled down to three main things.

The first being that it was a nice change not to worry about being double-crossed when it came time to collect his fee. Not that he couldn’t handle that kind of trouble when it happened (“The perils of being a freelancer,” he’d told the last person to try that on him, right before putting a bullet in his head), or that he didn’t still plan for it, but it was like a little vacation to be able to wrap up a job without any dramatics. Quinn liked clean and tiny.

Second was that Eliot never asked for more than Quinn was physically capable of delivering. He was good at what he did, but even he’d go down if someone threw enough armed men his way. It worried him sometimes just how well Eliot knew his strength and his limits, but he consoled himself with the fact that his knowledge of Eliot ran just as deep.

Last and most fun was what Quinn considered his personal bonus of a job well done. Namely, that Eliot was great in bed.

They were at the safe house Quinn had procured for the week, celebrating the successful completion of doing bad things for a good cause. Quinn, his bank account newly full and wearing nothing but a smile, dangled the cuffs Eliot had pretended to slap onto him earlier as part of the con they’d run. “Looks like it’s finally my turn to put these to good use.”

“Nice try,” Eliot said, grabbing the cuffs and casually dropping them over the side of the bed. “Not gonna happen.”

Quinn pouted. He didn’t think Eliot was going to go for it but it was worth a try. With a dirty smile, he shifted his hips where he straddled Eliot’s lap on the bed. The friction made them both groan, so Quinn did it again, watching the tension slide from Eliot’s face as pleasure took its place.

“I let you put them on me,” Quinn countered, hands sliding along the sweat-slick skin of Eliot’s chest.

Eliot caught his hands. “And I didn’t lock them tight enough to keep you from slipping free.” His fingers clamped down on Quinn’s wrists. Like the cuffs from earlier, they weren’t nearly tight enough to keep him contained if he chose otherwise.

He didn’t choose otherwise. He did, however, concede the point.

Eliot slid his hands up Quinn’s arms, lacing his fingers together behind Quinn’s neck to pull him down. It was easy to let himself be reeled in, to let Eliot flip their positions in a move that was telegraphed slowly enough that Quinn could have countered it any time he wanted.

(Again, he didn’t.)

There was a fine line between fantasy and accidentally triggering the defensive actions Quinn had spent the better part of his life honing. Eliot rode that line with the same skill he did everything else, pinning Quinn with enough force to be real but not enough to make him feel trapped. It was nice, the weight of Eliot pressing heavy on his limbs. There weren’t very many people capable of keeping him down if he didn’t want to be down but Eliot had more than a passing shot of making it happen. He’d done it before, back when they weren’t anything more than two hitters on opposite ends of a job.

A rush of heat raced down Quinn’s spine and he grabbed a fistful of Eliot’s loose hair, arching his hips up until they were pressed together from head to toe. Eliot slipped a leg between Quinn’s, fanning the spark of heat into a raging fire until it was all he could think about.

Six hours later, in a business class seat somewhere over the Pacific, Quinn set aside the last lingering thoughts of Eliot Spencer and got his head back in the game.

There was someone in his hotel room.

Quinn had a fair idea who it was (he practically sent an engraved invitation, after all) but that was no reason to be stupid. All hitters came to end in an some kind of ugly fashion and Quinn had made his peace with that, but when it happened to him it wasn’t going to be because he was stupid.

Silently, he pulled his backup gun from the small of his back. Taking a last look down the hall to ensure he was alone, he opened the door with the electronic keycard, ducked, and burst into the room gun first.

The precaution was unnecessary.

“No word from you in months and this is the greeting I get? I’m beginning to think you don’t like me anymore.” Eliot detached himself from where he was pressed up against the far corner, partially hidden by the faux cherry wood armoire holding the room’s entertainment center. He gestured towards Quinn and the gun, the muzzle now pointing at the floor.

“Worried I don’t like you anymore? Do I need to check a box for yes or no and pass the note back?”

Eliot raised an eyebrow. “Were you always this juvenile or is it a recent development?”

“You bring out the best in me.”

Setting aside the handgun on the nearest bedside table, Quinn carefully shrugged out of his worn leather jacket. It felt a little strange to not be wearing the suit around Eliot, but he wasn’t here for a job so there was no need to dress the part. He winced as the movement pulled at his back, quickly hiding it behind a lazy grin.

Narrowed eyes appraised him from head to toe and Quinn stilled. It was instinctive. Never let anyone know where the weak spots were. Any known injury could be used against you in a fight. It was a dumb thing to stick to in front of a guy he planned on getting naked with pretty soon, but Quinn never claimed not to be a creature of habit.

Eliot straightened, gaze turning leering and playful as he shook his hair out of his face. “I like the new outfit. Not a bad look on you.”

It was a safe topic, and as a close to an outright declaration that Eliot wasn’t going to press for details.

The knot between Quinn’s shoulder blades eased and he let his arms relax at his sides. Pushing the dark thoughts from his mind, he started unbuttoning his shirt. “I didn’t come here for fashion tips.”

“Well then,” Eliot drawled, stepping into his space and brushing Quinn’s hands aside to finish the job himself. “That’s good ‘cause I didn’t come here to give them.”

He never could figure out how much of Eliot’s midwestern charm was affectation verses actual upbringing. But as those rough hands swept over his chest with each opened button, he decided that he didn’t much care either way. Taking full advantage of his hands being unoccupied, he quickly fumbled Eliot’s belt open, popping every damn button on his inconvenient button fly jeans on his way downward.

They moved to the bed by unspoken agreement, hands scrabbling to cast aside the last of their clothes, mouths hot on each other’s skin. Fuck, he’d missed this. Well, he’d missed a lot of things these past several months, but he’d really missed this.

He’d missed Eliot’s broad hands pressing into the dip of his hips to hold him down, and the taste of his skin when Quinn traced lines into the muscles of Eliot’s stomach with his tongue. He’d almost forgot how It felt to press Eliot’s legs apart and take him into his mouth, watching beneath his lashes as Eliot fisted one hand into the sheets and the other into Quinn’s ponytail. He missed coming apart under someone’s hands in a way that had nothing to do with pain and everything to do with heat and desire.

Eliot didn’t say anything about the new marks on Quinn’s skin save for how he meticulously avoided digging his fingers into those particular spots. There was nothing to say; they both knew the risks of their occupation. Not every fight was a win.

Losing a fight was the last thing on Quinn’s mind as he finally pressed inside the heat of Eliot’s body. Beneath him, Eliot’s breath hitched and his legs wrapped tighter around Quinn’s waist, drawing him in further.

“Come on,” Eliot growled, pushing himself forward to bite at Quinn’s shoulder.

Quinn licked his lips and obliged, happy to lose himself in this for the time being.

Once they’d cleaned up and got comfortable under the duvet, Quinn trailed a lazy hand down Eliot’s arm. “How’d you know I’d be passing through here?” Not that he needed to ask, but he wanted to hear the answer anyway.

Eliot laughed, a low amused rumble. “You practically left me a calling card, man. How could I turn down an invitation like that?”

Quinn smiled, something warm uncurling in his belly. There was no job, no enemy, no reason for Eliot to be here. Except that Quinn asked him to come.

Eliot’s gravely voice broke him out of his thoughts. “So, should I be worried about identity theft, here? First you grow your hair long after I kick your ass. Then you—”

“Hell of an ego you got there, pal,” Quinn cut in. “My hair has nothing to do with you.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” Eliot shot back with a smile. “Anyway, you entered the freaking country under my favorite alias. Did you expect me not to notice?”

He’d counted on it.

Quinn rolled to his side and slung an arm across Eliot’s chest. “Thought all that hair might’ve finally rotted your brain,” he mumbled. “And anyway, it wasn’t your name.”

“Just ‘cause you rearranged the letters don’t mean it ain’t still mine.”

“It’s a real alias. And it got your attention didn’t it.”

Instead of answering, Eliot reached over to grab Quinn’s leg and hitch it over his hip to tangle with his own. “Damn, you’re heavy,” he teased as they resettled.

“I work out,” Quinn agreed with a lazy smile, letting himself be maneuvered.

It was pleasant to be sprawled across Eliot like this, to feel the warmth of his body and the steady beat of his heart. He’d debated for weeks about using that particular alias after the job in Jakarta. It felt too much like running to safety for his liking, and so when the thought had first crossed his mind, he hightailed it to the most dirty, corrupt corner of the world he could find instead. Took every job that came his way until they all blurred together.

When the dust settled and he’d still wanted to see Eliot, he let himself use the identity that would no doubt raise every red flag in the Leverage team’s playbook. He still wasn’t entirely convinced that leaving a trail for Eliot to follow was the right move, but the sex was great and the company wasn’t awful so he was calling it a win.

One of Eliot’s fingers stroked a steady back and forth along the patch of skin just under Quinn’s shoulder blade, skirting the edge of what had been one of the deeper wounds on his back. Serrated knife, he remembered. He’d screamed—he remembered that, too—screamed until his voice had gone hoarse.

He felt the intake of breath a split second before Eliot’s voice broke the silence.

“They dead?” The words were growled in a way Quinn had only ever heard in an empty airport hangar, when he was the one standing between Eliot and his team.

Raising his head from its place on Eliot’s chest, Quinn looked him in the eye. “Yes.” He paused, remembering how Eliot almost knocked the gun from his hand the last time he tried to kill someone. “If you have a problem with that, you can see yourself out.”

But Eliot didn’t leave. Or ask who they were or how long they had him or what they’d wanted. Hell, Eliot had gotten his hands dirty enough back before he’d turned white-hat that could fill in the details on his own.

After a moment, Eliot gave him a tight smile and nodded.

Quinn didn’t know what to do with that, so he just laid his head back on Eliot’s chest and closed his eyes. For the first time in a long time he wanted to throw out all his old rules and let himself drift off to sleep. Against all odds and good sense, Eliot had somehow wormed his way under his skin.

This is why he shouldn’t have used the alias.

Nothing between them had changed; Quinn was still a bad guy and Eliot wasn’t. There was no silencing the voice in the back of his head shouting how it was only a matter of time before Eliot remembered what kind of person Quinn really was. Maybe he’d decide Quinn was better off in jail, or thrown to rot in some deep dark government hole, rather than be allowed to roam free and do what he did. Lulled into complacency by sleep and trust, Quinn would be a pathetically easy target.

In the end, caution won out.

It didn’t escape his notice that although Eliot’s eyes were closed, he hadn’t let himself fall into sleep either.

Taking a job in Portland had the potential to go all kinds of wrong, but wasn't that half the fun? But the money was good, and he wasn’t one to turn down a sizable fee. Predictably, it got him tangled up in one of Eliot’s cons. Not so predictably, the whole thing went off relatively smoothly. Before he knew it, he was invited to a post-victory dinner with Eliot’s team and not long after that found the two of them tangled up in Eliot’s bedsheets.

Once they caught their breath, Eliot propped himself up on one elbow and gazed down at him. “Would you tell me if you were gonna take a hit on me or my team?”

“If this is your idea of sweet nothings, it’s no wonder all those women you’re rumored to sleep with only do it once.”

“Hey, I never had any complaints.” Eliot flicked at Quinn’s nose, but his wrist was caught before it could connect. His other hand shot out and Quinn caught that too. Eliot didn’t resist as Quinn rolled them until he was looking at Eliot spread out beneath him.

The playful spark faded from Eliot’s pretty blue eyes. “I’m serious, Quinn. Would you tell me?”

Most people couldn’t pull off an intimidating scowl while naked and pinned by the wrists to their own bed. Then again, Eliot wasn’t most people.

Quinn considered. It was a fair question. The truth was, he wouldn’t accept a hit on Eliot, at any price. And anyone who came to him with one wouldn’t stay breathing much longer. He couldn’t say the same for Eliot’s team, however. He liked them, they were smart, deadly competent, and occasionally funny, but they weren’t Eliot. But they were important to Eliot and, when he stopped to think about it, that was apparently enough for Quinn.

“I’m not taking any hits on you or your people. Not now and not ever.”

All it earned him was a nod.

Quinn put the pieces together. “You already knew. So, why’d you ask?”

“Maybe I just wanted to hear you say it.” In one smooth motion, Eliot extricated his arms and rolled out from under Quinn. “That’s a long timeframe for that kind of promise."

“If I change my mind, I’ll be sure to give you fair warning.” In an echo of their first meeting as allies rather than adversaries, Quinn held out his hand. “Deal?”

Eliot grinned, clearly remembering the same dirty warehouse in Kiev. “Deal,” he said, and they shook.

Quinn braced for the inevitable sneak attack in retaliation for his earlier move, but Eliot seemed satisfied to let it lie. Resting back against the pillows, he resembled a large jungle cat, content and sated with the world. His hair was loose around his face, disheveled from their slight tussle.

Taking his cue, Quinn settled back against his pillows too, feeling like he’d accomplished something but not sure exactly what. He spun the thought around in his mind, poking at it over and over before giving it up as a lost cause. It would come eventually, it always did. Didn’t mean he liked waiting for it though.

It wasn’t until he heard the breathing beside him even out that he realized Eliot was asleep.

For a moment, he just froze in surprise. If Eliot was awake, he’d probably make some dumbass comment about catching flies. Or maybe a dirty joke about what else Quinn could do with his mouth. He did neither.

In his sleep, he was as restless and grouchy as he was while awake, forehead scrunching and nose twitching every once in a while. One hand was balled in a fist where it rested on top of the covers against Quinn’s leg. There was something comfortable in that, in knowing that Eliot didn’t turn into something drastically different just because he was asleep. Which brought Quinn to his current problem. If there was one thing he hated, it was a puzzle whose pieces didn’t fit. Aside from his fists and his guns, information was the other stock in trade that kept him alive and ahead of his enemies.

Was that all it took for Eliot to trust him? A promise that he wouldn’t go after Eliot or his team. Quinn had specified nothing about not going after him for any non-job-related reasons. Eliot was smart enough to know the distinction. The more he thought about it the more it didn’t make sense. Eliot knew exactly what kind of man Quinn was. Right now he could do anything, anything, to a sleeping Eliot and without that split second of reaction time consciousness gave him, he could inflict serious damage.

Before he knew what he was doing, he shook Eliot by the shoulder.

Eliot snapped awake in an instant, eyes scanning the room. That bright gaze fixed on Quinn when no threat popped out of the shadows, and the tension bled out of him. “The hell? What is it, Quinn?”

“I didn’t stop doing my job when I started sleeping with you.” It wasn’t what he meant to say but fuck if he knew what that was. He’d reacted and now he was running on instinct. And the jarring feeling of something poking at the inside of his chest, desperately clawing its way out into the open air.

Eliot blinked and squinted at Quinn. “You think I don’t know that?”

“Do you? Do you really? And you expect me to believe it’s not a problem for you?”

“Won’t say I like it. But until you do something that crosses my path, then I can live with it. Besides, I got it on good authority that most of the people you go after are scumbags in their own right.”

Most, but not all.

Quinn looked him in the eye. “And when they aren’t?” Because he needed to say it, to see Eliot’s reaction.

“What you said earlier. About fair warning.” Eliot put a hand on his leg. “It goes both ways, you know. If we have a problem, we’ll deal with it. I’m not coming after you in the middle of the night.”

Quinn tilted his head, studying Eliot. He had on his serious face, mouth set in a tight line and a little crease right between his eyebrows. He stared at Quinn like he half expected him to bolt and half expected him to fight.

Truth was, Quinn didn’t want to do either of those things. Eliot’s bed was comfortable and Quinn was tired. This was usually the part of the night where he put his clothes on and slipped back into his life. The pull of that was strong, but there was a part deep inside him that felt hollow at the thought of giving up whatever this thing with Eliot was.

In the end, he could either trust Eliot or he couldn’t.

It sent a cold chill racing down his spine. He wasn’t sure he even knew how to give that kind of trust anymore, against all the instincts that kept him alive. But he wanted. Wanted so badly he could taste it in the back of his throat. He glanced up at the ceiling as if the answers were somewhere in the expanse of dim white. As expected, they weren’t. Just a few streaks of plaster covering what must have been the remnants of old cracks. Quinn let his eyes trace over them, mind following not far behind, circling an answer he knew was inevitable but wasn’t sure he was ready to admit.

He sat up, the blankets pooling around his waist.

“You asked me a question, now it’s my turn.” Quinn didn’t bother to wait for Eliot’s nod. “Why’d you let me go?” He wasn’t exactly sure why he was asking, other than the fact that it had been burning a hole in his mind for years.

The corners of Eliot’s mouth pulled down. He propped himself up on his elbows, head cocked. “What’re you talking about?”

“When we met that first time. The hangar. You had me down. Why’d you let me go?”

Eliot snorted, like Quinn was asking an easy question, like he should have been able to work it out himself. He always was a bit of an asshole, which was part of why Quinn liked him. “Sterling wouldn’t have told you anything about his plans for us. He’s a pain in the ass but he’s a smart pain in the ass.” Eliot paused, his expression pinched. “Don’t you ever tell him I said that.”

Quinn nodded solemnly despite the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “On my word.”

Eliot smiled back before turning serious again. “Even if you had the information I needed, I was on a tight schedule. You’re too much of a pro to break easy and I didn’t have that kind of time to burn.”

Quinn nodded at the assessment but couldn’t help pressing. “I wasn’t just referring to information, you know.”

“You mean, why didn’t I torture you for getting the jump on me. For that payback you were so sure I was looking for in Kiev?”

Quinn trailed a finger along Eliot’s chest in an idle, invisible pattern. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Eliot looked up at him. “You know, your pillow talk really sucks, man.”

“Never had any complaints before. Then again, usually I just get up and leave.” He ran a hand down Eliot’s side to take the sting out of the words.

“Don’t I know it.”

For a moment Eliot just looked at him. Quinn stared back. They were both comfortable in silence, and Quinn wondered if they might spend the rest of the evening like this. There were worse ways to spend the night, he figured.

Finally, Eliot sighed, running a hand across his face. “I had more important things on my mind.”

“Ah yes, saving the team. They were family even back then, weren’t they?”

Eliot nodded once before settling on his back. After a moment, Quinn did the same, their shoulders brushing. They stared at the ceiling for a moment before Eliot spoke again. “It ain’t just them, you know. If some punk upstart hitter was between me and you, I’d drop him in a heartbeat..”

Quinn rolled, straddling Eliot’s hips in one swift motion. Leaning in, he placed his hands on the bed so they bracketed Eliot’s head. “A punk upstart hitter?”

He could feel Eliot’s chest vibrate with laughter, rich and low. “Quinn, man, your hair was gelled. And I’m pretty sure you had frosted tips like some boy band wannabe.”

“Since when are you the expert in boy bands? And what the hell are frosted tips? I don’t even know what that means.”

“I dated a hairdresser once.” Eliot gave a playful tug to the loose strands around Quinn’s face, down from their usual ponytail. “And it means I like it better long.”

With that, Eliot swept Quinn’s arms from under him. Quinn let him, not bothering to catch himself as he fell against Eliot’s bare chest.

To his surprise, settling back down at Eliot's side wasn’t nearly as difficult as expected this time around.

Eliot followed him, clicking the bedside lamp off and shifting to throw an arm over Quinn’s chest. “Now, we done here, or do you wanna keep talking all night? Maybe braid each other’s hair while we’re at it.” The words were barely audible, muttered into Quinn’s shoulder.

Quinn rested his free hand against the dip of Eliot’s back and let his eyes fall closed.

[iceglade]

i made a thread on twitter about this but i've been thinking about vanilla vs royal i cant handle how happy i am that royal has made ppl like akechi more, not just for "hes hot" reasons bc ppl love that but winning over reddit* folks who dislike many fanon takes for being too wooby,

not that i particularly care for Wooby bc ive been in fandom for ages and i like seeing ppl happy - i know theres a certain degree of allowance when it comes to twisting canon characterization for content, because you're the content creator, its in your hands and cmon- 

but especially with royal i think akechi's serious edge "won over a lot of people" who can now respect him for how he approached refusing the dream world, i think thats something they can understand and appreciate - ESPECIALLY when a lot of ppl's beef with vanilla akechi was "daddy doesnt love me boo hoo" which is a GROSS misunderstanding/simplification of his EXTREMELY complex character, which was barely covered or etc bc of vanilla's horrid writing -- over all! its not JUST him - BUT, royal provided such a good opportunity to show off akechi's character, through giving him more screentime and VERY IMPORTANTLY: Plot Relevance like how, say mementos mission shows off joker's need to be helpful bc hes a deep-feeling person, or scramble showing off haru and makoto and the other thieves by drawing them against the new characters to compare and contrast and give them Time to BE, - royal gave akechi time to recover from the frankly AWFUL vanilla narrative decision to shoot and shove him off like chopped liver and never mention him again, so that many ppl's impression of akechi goro was of an incomprehensible, annoying character who blew up and then acted like he dont knowww know bodaay haghnaghnahgna   

i joke but SERIOUSLY a bad first AND last impression, REALLY... 

ahh. im just surprised !! every time someone says they like him or that they disliked him earlier but dont post-royal or etc etc it always takes me by surprise even after all this time !! it makes me very happy -though even as i focus on how happy i am that people like his character, even streamers talking about his ass (what ass... ... cindy thats bone) or etc-  i shouldnt, but i still count it as a sort of win because my standards are so low ;-;.. i dont like sexualizing characters (of any gender or sexuality, dont worry ^-^'') but the point of it all is that the amount of stannery is .. stunning i think, from all ends of the fandom, when i think about how nervous vanilla felt to me. if im wording this all right.

-- that being said. obviously there are ppl who still dont like him, VEHEMENTLY, and everyone gets so passionate about him and everything that tension and fights erupt very very quickly - it makes me wonder what about royal didnt hit with them, but hit with other people, in a Genuinely Curious kind of way. not that im not suuper passionate about goroboying, because, i am !! royal makes me very happy and i stay out of fights as best as i can because i know, ACUTELY, how PAINFUL it is to have a hyperfixation broken. nauseous furious shaking heart aching - its heartbreak !! i'd rather die before i inflicted a pain like that on someone. + id rather remember something for the love i felt for it than the harm.

(though while i'm here, people who were in the "# p5r spoilers" tag remember what happened a little while ago shortly after royal jpn came out , though that's for a whole other post about the fascinating history/sociology of that particular event, 👁✨)

- its not about me having to choose between a lesser of two evils. thats not my point

no matter how intensely my heart is in it, i want to be able to say that you can feel how you feel about characters, though any misinformation sits badly with me in hyperfixation hell. funnily enough, while back on the topic of Agency, which goro is in some dire need of - which may be the root of why so many femme-presenting folk or lesbians are fond of him, + respecting women + sex workers + etc GORO AKECHI CAN BE SOMEONE SO PERSONAL ACTUALLY-

* - oh, backreading my own post - i didnt mean to specify redditors as if they're the only ppl i'm talking about, but it was the first to come to mind ; i'm just thinking a lot about how it seems like people really like the light royal was able to display him in, both as a delightfully entertaining UNHINGED EDGELORD and a very focused, goal-oriented, respectable ally, to the point that people are MUCH more open about how much they love him nowadays, which does bring me no end of joy - its no surprise that the new appreciation, as well as atlus ... highlighting ..... aspects ...... of blask ...... and the new content, of course the fandom treats him like this, - thats fandom. this is how people do i suppose. from a witness' viewpoint. hdngngm

i see all i know all 👁 i will keep all of my opinions right here and then one day i will die. but. i'll be honest. despite everything. im actually really happy.