#the little bits of ink that are on her make it look like it's from kaneki | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

thyras · 3 days ago

Text

→ of yearning & longing

PAIRING → halbrand | sauron x female!elf!reader

WORD COUNT → 4.9k words

SERIES → of sauron & the moriquendi

WARNINGS → just LOTS of yearning and longing (y'all are probably sick of that by now), angst

SUMMARY → as fate draws you both ever closer, you can't help but feel the aching of centuries apart and what they have done to you.

AUTHORS NOTE → there is a sneaky celebrimbor x reader in this just cause ya know you do not spend five centuries hanging out closely and not have some non-platonic thoughts at times. i may be going on a little hiatus with this for a little teeny bit due to school starting this week. i have lots of homework and will not have time to devote to this, i have a plan for the whole story but i just need the time to execute it and that may be a couple of weeks. outside life calls.

PARTS → one // two // three // four // five // seven

“Is that really where you came from?” The little voice chimed, trembling with wonder. Her luminous eyes, wide as the moonrise over the woods, looked up at you as though you carried the secrets of the stars in your gaze. Her delicate hands clutched the hem of your robe’s sleeve, and in that touch, you could feel her burgeoning curiosity—a flame that, with care, would burn for centuries.

Your fingers traced the edge of an ancient, weathered page, its texture rough yet familiar, like the bark of the trees you once wandered among. The book felt alive in your hands, a relic of a bygone era, steeped in the whispers of the past. You had carried it through fire and shadow, across the tumultuous escape from Beleriand, a treasure nestled beside your husband’s intricate designs and other tokens of a life left behind. This book, though—it was more than mere parchment and ink. It was a fragment of your soul.

The illuminated script told of your people’s beginnings: the Moriquendi’s deep bond with the earth, their whispers shared with the roots of ancient oaks and the flowing rivers. It recounted the tale of Thingol and Melian, whose love was like a song woven into the fabric of Arda itself. It painted a picture of the grand realms of Beleriand—Doriath’s shadowy, enchanted forests; Gondolin’s shining spires hidden amidst the mountains; Laureandor, golden and resplendent under the eternal sun. Every page sang with memory, each word resonating with the cadence of forgotten voices.

“I came from the earth itself,” you murmured, your voice soft but rich, like the hum of wind over a meadow. “Awoke when Eru sang me into being.”

The little girl’s lips parted, her breath catching as she turned the words over in her mind. Her brow furrowed, and her tiny fingers fluttered in the air as she counted, her thoughts as transparent as the clear forest streams. “But that would make you…” she paused, consulting her fingers again, “over five thousand years old.”

A smile spread across your lips, slow and indulgent, tinged with the mischief of centuries. “A lady does not reveal her age, little one,” you said, tilting your head with mock severity. “It is very impolite.”

Her eyes widened, and her small voice rushed to apologize, faltering with earnestness. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to—”

Before she could finish, you placed a hand gently atop her head, the warmth of your touch silencing her in an instant. The faint scent of the forests clung to her hair, and it brought memories of younger days. Leaning down, you pressed a soft kiss to her brow, a benediction as ancient as you were.

“There is no need to apologize,” you said, your tone tender, carrying the weight of countless ages. “I have lived many lives, seen the rise and fall of kingdoms, and passed through the shadowed woods of Middle-earth. Yet, it is my purpose to pass on what I know, as I was created to be a keeper of memory and a weaver of stories.”

Her wonder deepened, her small face lit by an unearthly glow as if your words had planted stars in her heart. The weight of the book in your hands seemed lighter now, for in her awe, you saw the continuation of the tale, the promise of futures yet to be written.

“Telling wild stories to young ears again?”

The familiar voice carried a hint of amusement, smooth as silver ringing against stone. You turned your head, and there he was—Lord Celebrimbor. His soft brown hair caught the light as he approached, and a genial smile touched his lips. His presence was steady and reassuring, and your own lips curved into a fond smile at the sight of your old friend.

“They are not wild stories,” you retorted, a playful edge sharpening your tone. “They are histories, Celebrimbor.”

He chuckled, the sound warm and rich, and continued his leisurely approach until he stood beside you. His eyes flicked down to the little girl perched beside you on the stone bench. She had been listening with the rapt attention only the young possessed, her small fingers clasped tightly in her lap.

“May I borrow her for a while?” he asked, his voice gentle but carrying a trace of mirth.

The little girl hesitated only briefly before nodding. She turned to you, her eyes luminous with hope and longing. “Can we continue tomorrow?”

You smiled softly, your heart swelling at her eagerness. “Same time,” you promised, inclining your head.

That was all she needed. With a delighted grin, she slid off the bench and ran, her fair hair catching in the soft breeze, flowing like a stream of gold as she disappeared down the path toward the town. You watched her go, warmth flooding your heart, an ache sweet and bittersweet settling in your chest.

All you had ever wanted was a family of your own—a child to hold, to nurture, to guide with the wisdom and love you carried in your light. Yet, unlike Melian and Thingol, such a blessing had never come to pass for you and Mairon. It was understandable. The shadow that lingered on the edges of his soul was not a burden that would be easily tempered. Still, in all the centuries and ages that had passed, the absence of that dream was a hollow place in your heart, a place no other joy could truly fill.

Even if the possibility of his darker nature manifesting more strongly in a child had weighed on your mind, you knew it wouldn’t have swayed your desire. You would have loved them fiercely, shielding them with your light and guiding them toward a brighter path. To nurture, to cherish, to offer a soul unyielding warmth—that was the essence of who you were.

Celebrimbor’s voice broke through your reverie, his tone soft with understanding. “You’re still thinking of it, aren’t you?”

You glanced up at him, surprised by his perceptiveness, but his gaze held no judgment. Only the quiet companionship of someone who had shared lifetimes and understood the burdens carried through them.

“It is a thought that never truly leaves me,” you admitted, your fingers brushing absently over the ancient book still resting on your lap.

He nodded, his expression solemn but kind. “Perhaps, in some way, you already have what you seek. In the little moments, the stories shared, the light you give to others.”

Your lips twitched upward in a bittersweet smile. “Perhaps,” you murmured, though in your heart, you knew the longing would always remain.

For now, you let it rest, soothed by the lingering warmth of the little girl’s trust. It was enough, if only for today.

“Elrond has returned with news from the Dwarves,” Celebrimbor announced, with a gentle smile.

You rose smoothly from the bench, the ancient book pressed to your chest as though safeguarding its secrets. The weight of it was comforting, a tether to times long past. Without hesitation, you moved to step alongside him, your robes swaying with each deliberate stride.

Together, you walked, the rhythm of your footsteps falling into an easy harmony, as if the centuries of shared purpose had been etched into the very earth beneath you. You hoped Elrond had brought good news, because the project was dangerously behind schedule. And there was only so much time left.

With each sway of the ship, Halbrand let the movements cradle him, like a lullaby he could not quite hear. He tried to lose himself in it, to let the rhythm of the waves wash away the heaviness in his chest. Yet his mind wandered relentlessly, tugging him back to places he could not escape. Memories, sharp and vivid as the stars reflected on dark waters, flared to life—pulling, aching, longing.

The burn of this mortal form was sharper, more immediate than the last. Where once he had armored himself against emotion, now they coursed through him unchecked, raw and consuming. He ached for you. For the touch of your hands, the solace of your voice, the brilliance of your mind. His soul felt unmoored without you, a drifting fragment searching for its other half.

When he had awakened in this new life, the frost-laden air of winter biting his skin, his first thought had been of you. He had reached out across the unseen threads of the world, yearning to feel even the faintest echo of your presence. He had scoured the vastness of Arda with his mind and heart, desperate for a whisper, a glimmer, a trace of you among the living. But there had been nothing. The silence was deafening.

The thought of your absence had carved an emptiness into him. You, who were among the first to walk this land, who carried the songs of creation in your very being. It was possible—heartbreaking, unbearable, but possible—that you had faded into the earth itself, surrendered to your grief for him. The thought sent shards of pain through him, sharper than any blade.

Yet, as the days turned into weeks and his strength returned, faint signs began to emerge, like footprints in the snow. In dreams, he found you. Glimpses of your face, your eyes—those luminous, eternal eyes—would appear to him, soft and shining, filled with the golden light of Laureandor’s unending dawns.

In these dreams, you were radiant as you had been in the days of your joy. He would see you wandering among the gardens of that sacred city, the eternal sunrise painting your skin in hues of warmth. He would reach for you, yearning to touch the softness of your shoulders, to trace his fingers along your arms, to hold you as he had in those golden days. He would try, so desperately, to drink in the memory of your scent—jasmine, lilac, and the faint sweetness of raspberries—an essence burned into his soul as deeply as your name.

But it never came to pass. Before you could even acknowledge that he was searching for you—and you almost had, on more than one occasion—the shadows of Morgoth’s curse would rise, relentless and cruel. They dragged you away from him, shrouding your presence in darkness and sending him back into his own mind. Each time, the pain surged through him like a tidal wave, dropping him to his knees in the prison of his thoughts. He would cry out, his voice raw, begging to touch you, to hold you, to feel even the faintest trace of your light once more.

It was not until he had regained moderate strength, his resolve steeled against the ever-looming shadow, that he managed to push past it and reach you again. This time, the veil parted, and he saw you.

The scene unfolded like a long-lost dream: you, bathed in the soft glow of candlelight, your beauty ethereal and untouched by the years. You sat at your dressing table, a brush gliding through your hair with deliberate, graceful strokes, and your lips parted slightly as you hummed a melody. It was a song he knew well—one you had sung in the golden days of Laureandor, when life felt eternal and untainted. He had heard it many times, lying in bed and watching you with quiet reverence, soaking in the warmth of your presence, your radiance.

“Mori?” His voice trembled as it left him, his shadows quaking around the edges of your sanctuary, a fragile boundary between worlds. Yet you did not turn. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment met his call.

Moments passed, heavy and laden with hope and despair, until your movements stilled. The brush in your hand hovered above the table, and your gaze fell to the small jewelry box resting there. Your fingers reached out, trembling ever so slightly as they hovered over the box’s delicate clasp, hesitating as though the act of opening it would summon something too painful to bear.

He stepped closer, his presence behind you a silent echo of who he had been. As you unclasped the box, the faint creak of its hinges seemed to reverberate through the room, a sound both tender and haunting. Inside, nestled in the velvet lining, lay a chain and a ring—the very ones he had forged for you.

The sight of them hit him like a blow, a torrent of emotions flooding through him. The memories surged—of molten metal and careful hands, of pouring himself into the craft, shaping his love and devotion into something tangible. He had made the chain and blue jewel to rest lightly against your skin, the ring to shine as brightly as the Two Great Lamps that they were forged under, unknowing of why he yearned to craft a marvel. All when he was your Mairon. Your sweet Mairon.

He reached out, his hand trembling as it hovered just behind your shoulder, yearning to touch you, to reclaim even a fragment of what they had once shared. But the shadows still lingered, cruelly mocking him, as if to remind him that he could watch, he could ache, but he could not hold you—not yet.

You slammed the jewelry box closed and turned away, the sharp snap echoing through the room. The pain of your mark flared again, forcing you to retreat from the part of him that had once been poured so fully into that ring and chain. The sight of your reaction caused his anger to flare, a shadowy frustration that burned hotter as his eyes drifted to your wrist. The mark there pulsed with darkness, black tendrils crawling like living veins up your skin, a visible reminder of Morgoth’s curse.

But then, in a moment that stole his breath, your hand rose instinctively to the golden chain around your neck. Your fingers brushed over the crimson jewel nestled against your skin, caressing it softly. As if in answer, the darkness on your wrist began to fade, the tendrils retreating as though repelled by the warmth emanating from the chain.

His chain.

It seemed to bring you no pain, even in the face of the shadows. Unlike the jewelry in the box, this piece of his work had not been tainted. He realized with awe that the elven hands that had enhanced it in its making had infused it with a power greater than he had imagined. It radiated warmth, a steady comfort amidst the storm of darkness and shadow that plagued you both.

He remembered the night it was placed around his own neck, a gift for a moment of unity and love. He had been hesitant, even fearful, as the chain hovered above him. He had known its nature—that it would burn him if his soul was not pure of light. The stone would have seared his skin and marked his darkened fingers if the darkness in him had prevailed.

But that had not happened.

In your presence, beneath your unwavering light, he had bathed in something he had thought lost to him. The darkness had been pushed back, retreating into the recesses of his being. For that fleeting time, he had become whole again. He had become your Mairon.

You had turned his heart pure, if only for a moment. And in that moment, his whole being had prospered, the shadows receding as the brilliance of your love and light filled the void within him. Even now, the memory of that time was a beacon in his mind, a reminder of who he had been and who he might yet become.

He had pulled away from your mind, granting you a brief moment of solace. But his absence was only temporary. He returned, filling your mind with his deepest, most desperate desires. Shadows crept in again, curling around you as he reached out, hoping—aching—that you might welcome him this time. Welcome him with your warmth. With your light.

“Nightmares again?”

The voice pulled him abruptly from his reverie. Halbrand’s gaze shifted to Diarmid, whose head had lifted from his makeshift pillow, the dim glow of the ship’s lantern casting shadows across his weathered face. The old man’s eyes were sharp, even in the low light, watching him with a curious, almost knowing expression.

Halbrand hesitated. His instinct was to keep his thoughts buried, locked away where no one could reach them. Yet, there was something about Diarmid’s persistent, uninvited concern that made resistance seem futile. The old man had a knack for prying, for picking at the seams of Halbrand’s carefully guarded silence. At times, it irritated him to no end.

But tonight? Tonight, he found himself willing to entertain it.

“Something like that,” Halbrand said at last, his voice low and rough, as though the shadows in his mind lingered still. He leaned back against the ship’s support the cool air brushing against his skin, though it did little to quell the heat of the turmoil within.

Diarmid’s brow furrowed slightly, his curiosity sharpening. “Dreams, then? Or memories?”

Halbrand’s lips twitched into the faintest of smiles, one that didn’t reach his eyes. “Does it matter?”

The old man shrugged, sitting up more, but his gaze remained unwavering. “Only if you think it does.”

Halbrand said nothing, his eyes drifting around the cargo hold. The waves lapped against the hull, their rhythm both soothing and relentless, much like the memories that refused to leave him. He could still feel the ghost of you in his mind, the ache of what he’d shown you, the fragile hope that you might yet answer his call.

He exhaled slowly before speaking. “I’ve done evil,” Halbrand admitted, his voice low and rough, his gaze fixed on the shifting shadows of the night instead of the old man beside him.

“All of us have done things we care not to admit,” Diarmid replied, his tone laced with a quiet understanding.

Halbrand chuckled bitterly to himself. If he only knew. His mind drifted back to you, to the weight of his greatest sin: the evil he had cast like a shadow over your life. Even now, he could feel the heaviness of your hairpiece tucked into the waistband of his pants, the cold metal pressing against his skin. It was a token he could not part with, tarnished by time and freezing temperatures, yet priceless beyond measure.

He had gone back for it, braving danger and decay to retrieve a piece of you. To him, it was a relic—a tangible fragment of the happiest memory he possessed. He clutched it like a lifeline, wishing with every fiber of his being that he could bask in the light of that moment once more. But that light was gone, and the darkness of his choices had set a path that could not be undone.

His plan, even now delayed, was in motion. And with every passing day, he drew closer to you.

“That trinket you carry,” Diarmid’s voice cut into his thoughts, pulling him back to the present. “A family heirloom? Or perhaps a token of a lost love?”

Halbrand’s eyes darkened as they snapped to the old man, his glare sharp and unyielding. But then, to his own surprise, he spoke the truth.

“It was my wife’s,” he murmured softly, his voice a shadow of itself.

“Lost, then?” Diarmid asked, his expression solemn but kind.

Halbrand shrugged, the gesture dismissive, though the pain in his chest betrayed his indifference. “I am unsure.”

Diarmid nodded slowly. “Did she know of this evil that you had done?”

Halbrand’s jaw tightened, but he nodded. The truth of it was inescapable. You had known. You had always known. And despite that knowledge, you had remained devoted to him, loving him with a fierceness that sometimes bordered on blind faith. You had stood by him, willing to follow wherever he led, even when it cost you dearly.

To be worshipped by the one he loved—by you—had been a divine feeling. One that lingered even now, haunting him.

“Then do not dwell in what was,” Diarmid said after a moment, his voice calm and steady. “For all is forgiven to her.”

But Halbrand knew better. Forgiveness was a lie. He had burned your world down, not once but countless times over. He had tried to repent, to make amends for the ruin he had caused, but when the cost became clear—eternal separation, eternal damnation for the both of you—he had fled. He had run from the truth of what his true repentance required. Not able to accept the words of beings that had once hunted him down like an animal.

“Now you must find forgiveness in yourself,” Diarmid continued, breaking through the silence. “You are here, with the hope of seeing her once more, wherever she might be. All because you have chosen good on this day.”

“And what of tomorrow?” Halbrand asked, his voice heavy with the weight of his doubts.

“You choose it again,” Diarmid said simply. “And then the next day, and the day after that, until it is part of your nature.” A soft smile crossed the old man’s lips, his words as gentle as the first light of dawn.

Halbrand said nothing, his mind swimming with memories of what he had once been.

Mairon had been good. He had loved, deeply and without restraint. He had danced in the light, sung with his whole fëa, and devoted himself to the one who had been his guiding star. Day after day, he had chosen to be admirable, to be worthy of the love you gave so freely.

Sauron, though… Sauron was irredeemable in the eyes of all but one.

Yours.

You had clung to the hope that the light could penetrate the shadow once more. You had believed in him when no one else did, holding on to the belief that the spark of goodness within him still existed. And he had told you once, long ago, that his light was embedded in you, waiting to return to him when the darkness had faded.

But the darkness had never faded.

And now more than ever it crept even closer, begging to swallow him further.

Over the weeks, you had lingered in the hazy solace of your dreams, refusing to wake from the gentle caresses and whispered promises of your husband. His touch, his voice, his presence—it all felt so real in the quiet sanctuary of your slumber. You clung to him desperately, even as he faded, unwilling to release him to the waking world. For when you did, you knew you would wake to the cold emptiness of your bed, the hollow ache in your heart once more reminding you of the loneliness that consumed your days. The sunlight seemed dimmer now, as if mourning alongside you, its warmth unable to pierce the sorrow that wrapped itself around you. His words of patience echoed in your mind, but the longing you carried was shifting—slowly, insidiously—into grief once more. And the shadows whispered to you, their call growing ever louder.

“Everything well?”

Celebrimbor’s voice broke through your reverie, and you startled slightly before turning to him. He stood across the small forge, his keen eyes watching you with gentle concern. You offered him a cheerful smile, though it barely masked the weariness tugging at your features.

“Yes, of course, my lord,” you replied, trying to sound lighthearted.

He chuckled softly, shaking his head. “I can tell when you’re lying, Thilwen.”

Your cheeks flushed, and you quickly turned back to the parchment before you. The last bit of correspondence for the day was nearly finished, and you placed your quill back in the inkpot with careful precision. Blowing on the ink to dry, you focused intently, determined to ignore Celebrimbor’s prying gaze. Though he rarely ventured into matters of your personal life, he worried for you on occasion. He had seen the signs: your faraway stares, the way you flinched at the faintest creak of a door, the late-night strolls through the courtyard where you seemed to murmur to no one.

“I am fine—” you started, but Celebrimbor crossed the room in a few strides and placed his hand firmly on the parchment, cutting you off.

“Go,” he said, his voice gentle but resolute. “You look exhausted. I will finish this.”

“But—” you began to protest, but he shook his head.

“No buts. You’ve been working harder than ever, and I need your mind sharp once the forge is complete. We’ll have plenty of work ahead of us.” His expression softened as he added, “Rest, Thilwen. Truly rest.”

You hesitated for a moment, but the warmth of his concern and the firmness in his tone left no room for argument. But instead of rising you only sat back in your chair as you moved to rub your eyes, you wanted to rest more than anything but it would only make your grief and sorrow flourish.

“Thilwen?” Celebrimbor prompted with a raised brow.

“I can’t sleep,” you murmured, a shred of truth in the words. Celebrimbor moved to sit across from you. “I keep having dreams.” You paused, hesitating wether or not to even tell Celebrimbor, but he was one of your oldest friends and was always full of wisdom, even more than you. A child of Ilúvatar.

“Nightmares about your husband again?” Celebrimbor’s voice was careful, yet tinged with the barest hint of curiosity. It wasn’t entirely off the mark, though to call it a nightmare felt wrong. If one could call being driven to the edge by the ghostly caress of your husband’s touch a nightmare, then perhaps he was right. But that was none of Celebrimbor’s business.

“Some nights I see the white towers burning,” you began, your voice steady though your chest felt tight. “Others I see fellow elves—”

You didn’t have to finish. Celebrimbor’s hand reached across the small space between you and settled gently on your arm. His touch was soothing, an anchor in the storm of your words.

You weren’t lying. There were nights when your husband’s presence didn’t soften your dreams, when his whispers didn’t guide you into a fragile comfort. Instead, there were nights when the weight of old memories and distant faces overwhelmed you.

You saw them clearly—people you had loved, places you had walked—now all reduced to ruin. The brilliance of their existence snuffed out beneath the crushing weight of your husband’s oppressive hand. The burning white towers haunted you, their light extinguished by shadow, and the faces of those you cherished twisted with pain and betrayal.

Celebrimbor’s touch tightened slightly, grounding you. “You are not alone in this grief,” he said softly, his voice as steady as his presence. But in your heart, you knew your grief was far more complex than he could ever understand.

Because no one but you could love the hand that had wrought such destruction—and still long for it in the dark of night.

“It is alright; all is in the past. We have endured the darkest of days with our kin, and now we look to craft a brighter future,” Celebrimbor said, his voice steady and filled with quiet conviction. His hand gave your arm a gentle squeeze, a small gesture of comfort before his tone turned teasing. “But please, do go get some rest—you look awful, my dear.”

You couldn’t help but chuckle, the sound lightening the heaviness in your chest as you stood and pushed your chair neatly under the table. Stepping closer to him, you placed your hand on his cheek in a warm, familiar gesture. Celebrimbor’s smile softened at your touch, a warmth radiating from him that you had come to know so well over the centuries.

For five centuries, you had known his affection. Though it was unspoken and never crossed into anything beyond platonic, it was evident in the way he treated you. Others had noticed, whispering of how his gaze lingered on you longer than it did on anyone else, how his words carried a gentler tone when they were meant for you, and how his kindness toward you surpassed what he offered even his closest smiths.

But no matter what others said, Celebrimbor knew your heart belonged to another. He carried on with his immortal longing for greatness, his own ambitions burning brightly. Perhaps, somewhere in the depths of his heart, he held a quiet yearning for you as well. Yet, he had always respected the boundaries of your devotion, never once letting his affection compromise the steadfastness of your bond.

For your fëa sung for only one being.

The melody you shared with your husband was eternal, unshakable. It was a song that no other could replicate, a harmony woven in the light that existed between only the two of you. Even in his absence, even in grief so profound it threatened to consume you, you knew you would never betray that song. To do so would be to betray yourself.

“I will try to do so,” you said, letting your hand fall back to your side. You turned toward the door, pausing just long enough to glance back at him. “Good night, my lord.”

“Good night, my lady,” Celebrimbor replied with a small bow, his voice soft and reverent as you stepped out into the quiet night, carrying with you the weight of an unyielding love and the memories of what had been.

#sauron x reader #halbrand x reader #sauron #halbrand #trop fic #the rings of power #rings of power fic

43 notes · View notes

sysig · 8 months ago

Photo

Getting closer, getting really close now I swear (Patreon)

#Doodles #Just Desserts #Villainsona #True Villainy AU #Just ignore how many times I've said that up to this point lol - I'm serious this time!#I always feel so bad designing TVAU outfits because Charm is always so miserable as a model haha #Could this be a contributing factor as to why it's taken so long?? No I enjoy drawing her like that lol #Made some design notes about the important elements of what I want for her True Villain look - more than just ''Her but Kaiein influence''#I'd still really like a nod to dragon scales of some kind but honestly her classic design is more that #Always going on about her spider theming how to make it dragony! It's the one thing I'm still hung up on lol #As for the rest I think it's Really getting close :) I got to actually turn her little ''shawl'' - I always knew it was Kaiein-related -#Into something that properly mimics his shape! It's all controlled by her tho it's not a part of his body - just magic-infused matter #Made to look like him so there's still that creep factor but it's more her body than his - she can control its shape :D #And I got to keep the jewels! Yesss - made it a motif! Now it's also on her hips and knees to break up her visual space yes very good #It's drips :) Y'know - like ink :) Finally figured that one out lol good job setting up my own symbolism me #And then some elegant drapey bits to match her ''shawl'' and continue to break up her space!! Yes! Good!!#I still haven't decided on a colour palette I think black and white is too obvious and too Kaiein but hmmm - she has a lot of colours #Lots of options to pick from but which is the Correct one - her hair would stay pink so maybe some of her pinks or purples #I'll play with some digital swatches later :)#I'm also so glad I could implement the hood design from one of the scrapped outfits ah <3 I love her in a hood she's so cute #I'm rather pleased with the way the spider web design breaks up her form as well - it's more subdued than the full bottom/shoes stripes but #It's also not very clear here lol the long ones that all the way down to her feet are the third from the center ignore that second one #The second lines out from the center host her wings! Very important!#Kinda reminds me of my holosona in a way actually :0 They /are/ both Evil-aligned hmmmm #All the more reason to colour palette! Differentiate the colours in my head #Really do feel like I'm approaching it now fdjsklafd getting close now!!

13 notes · View notes

rememberwren · 7 months ago

Text

Skin Deep

Tattoo artist!Simon x fem!reader. Reader, looking to expand your horizons, you get your first tattoo from an enigmatic artist deemed “Ghost”. 8.4k. Features: soft!Simon who is bad at people-ing, vaginal sex, lots of nipples, like at least three nipples, poor writing, abrupt transitions, shy and awkward reader. Based on this post.

Sequel here.

“I bit the bullet!” you shout over the music, hand cupped around your friend’s ear to be better heard. She shrieks in delight at the sound of your voice, turning to wrap her arms around your waist and pull you close to her swaying body. Many eyes in the club follow her movements. She has always been the wild child to your wallflower, attracting attention wherever she goes.

“You bit what?” she shouts back, her breath like a mint julep.

“The bullet,” you laugh. “I called that guy you recommended and set up an appointment. For the tattoo I wanted!”

She stares at you blankly. Her silky little tank top is drooping off of one shoulder, so you reach out and tuck it back into place. The longer she stares, the more nervous you grow. She’d been so encouraging after your last boyfriend dumped you—encouraging you to step outside your comfort zone, to ‘make more mistakes’, to live life more fully. Now she’s staring at you like you’ve grown a second head and it’s the one doing the talking.

“What guy I recommended?” she asks.

“Kevin!”

“Oh no. No, no, no. Not Kevin. Not Kevin. Why, Kevin?”

You frown. “You said you went to Kevin.”

“It wasn’t a recommendation, sweetie, if anything it was to caution you away from him! He’s a creep; there’s a reason why I never went back.”

You deflate like a balloon, going limp and letting her drag you to the nearby free seats at the bar where you sit heavily. It’s not just the tattoo. It’s the icing on a shitcake of a day.

A new song seamlessly starts, and the dancers nearby go wild with excitement. Your mood is the antithesis of the event; everyone seems to be having a great time except for you. Story of your life.

“You conveniently left that out. Ugh. I’ll cancel it. What am I even fucking doing—thank you—” you accept the cup of ice water the bartender slides in front of you with a shy smile, sipping at it and keeping your hand curled over the top of it protectively. “—none of this is like me.”

Your friend frowns. She steals your drink and sips at it. “You were the one who said you’d always wanted a tattoo. You’re an adult. These are exactly the kinds of decisions you’re old enough to make. Look, fuck Kevin. All my friends hate Kevin. I know another guy, and he’s highly recommended. Let me give you his number. Alright?”

“Alright,” you sigh. You make a silent promise to yourself though: if it doesn’t work out with this next tattoo artist, then you won’t be getting one at all. You’ll take it as a sign from the universe to get back in your comfort zone and stay there, once and for all.

What kind of a moniker is Ghost? you wonder to yourself as you skim the Instagram of the shop this Ghost owns. The profile picture is one of the building itself, and all of the pictures are of various inked body parts. Beautiful ones, admittedly. But no hint of the mysterious figure who owns the shop. There is a personal instagram linked @GHOST89 but it is private when you try to click on it.

The phone number your friend gave you rings straight through to voicemail. You let out a shaky breath. Fuck, you hate voicemail. Talking to people was difficult enough; talking to people’s disembodied machines was even worse somehow. It isn’t until you’ve hung up after leaving your message that you realize you forgot to tell him your fucking name (genius!). Groaning, you contemplate dialing him back when the phone in your hand rings—and it’s him.

“Hello?”

“I’m free Wednesdays for consultations,” says a baritone voice from the other end of the line.

Nice to talk to you too, you think dryly. Maybe this guy is as bad at the phone as you are. “I work Wednesdays. Are you free in the evenings?”

He sighs, like this is going to be very strenuous for him.

“Name a time. I’ll pencil you in. Half is due at the end of the consultation upon booking an appointment. Cash only,” he says.

Jesus Christ, could he be anymore abrupt? While a tiny part of you is grateful that he isn’t trying to make small talk, a larger part is terrified that you’ve already made an impression so foul that it’s incurred his wrath. What other reason could he have for being so stilted?

“Alright,” you answer cautiously. “How’s five?”

“Five. Don’t be late.”

He hangs up on you, leaving you wondering why every step outside your comfort zone must be so bloody far.

You arrive early to the consultation, only to find that the building itself—a tidy little brick two-floor, adorned with a sign that dubbed it SKIN DEEP tattoos & artisan piercings, which you recognize from Instagram—is locked. A note written in neat handwriting taped to the door declares NO WALK INS. Your palms are sweaty. You wipe them on your work slacks, but it doesn’t help. How are you supposed to get in?

All at once a shadow appears on the other side of the door. The shadow is enormous: well above six feet tall, and broad shouldered. A black surgical mask is tucked up over his mouth and nose, which only adds to his intimidating aura. Judging by the impressive sleeve of tattoos he has, you imagine that this is the guy.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. And Ghost.

Dark brown eyes stare down at you when he opens the door, cocking a hip against the frame, staring at you. Waiting.

Waiting for you to explain your presence, you realize.

“I have a consultation,” you blurt out. “At…five?”

He opens the door wider to let you pass without a word. He’s so broad that you can smell him as you pass him: clean and masculine. The inside of the tattoo shop is bigger than it looks on the outside. There is a reception area with a desk and a computer and printer. The glossy wooden floors are polished to shine, leading to an open floor plan. There is a small sitting area with armchairs, a wide sofa, and a table on which rests two bottles of water, a notebook, and a steaming mug of liquid.

“Sit,” he says, his voice the same deep rumble you recognize from the phone. He chooses the chair beside the mug. His body is so goddamn long, his legs lean and thick all at once where he stretches them out in front of him. He reaches for the mug and takes a sip—of tea, judging by the smell. “Name?”

You tell him, perching yourself anxiously on the other chair. He glances up at you, eyes raking over your posture. Suddenly he tugs the mask down to rest beneath his chin, revealing a full, pale mouth. A straight, noble nose. A pink scar stretches across his lips and up towards his cheek.

“The water is for you,” he says.

“Oh!” You reach forward and take one bottle, breaking the seal. “Thank you.”

“This is your first tattoo.”

“What gave me away?” you ask with a weak laugh.

He doesn’t laugh. “Everything. Is someone putting you up to this? This smells like Soap.”

“What? No, of course not. I want this, I’m just, I’m an anxious personality. I promise.” You hesitate and then add: “I probably smell like soap because I showered this morning.”

His mouth twitches. He leans back in his seat and sucks on his teeth, and you get the distinct feeling that he is trying very hard not to laugh at you. Why had you mentioned to him that you showered? What was wrong with you? Just as you’re comprising a list of things, he picks up the pencil and the notebook, opening to a fresh page.

He asks what you want and God, that’s a harder question.

You do your best to express your idea, but your words feel halting and silly. His pencil scratches rapidly at the paper as he listens in total silence—pausing only once, when you say that you want this to be a sternum piece. Only then does his pencil seem to hover over the paper, his dark eyes seeking you out and pinning you in place on the armchair.

He reaches for his tea to take a generous sip and then continues writing.

He asks a few pointed, concise questions (and you’re just thrilled he was actually listening), following your answers up with more scribbling in his notebook. At length, he shuts the book.

“I think I see the vision. Give me thirty to sketch something and we’ll see if you want to book an appointment. Something this size, on your sternum could take more than one session, depending on how well you sit. How do you take pain?”

“I mean, it hurts?” you offer.

He stares. “Two sessions. Let me sketch something. Drink your water.”

You think that maybe he’ll move to another room to sketch, but he just flips to a clean page and begins to work right there (drawing the mask up over his nose and mouth again). With nothing else to do, you can’t help but watch him.

He’s handsome, in an odd sort of way. His brow is a little too low, his gaze a little too intimidating to be considered conventionally attractive, but you find him fascinating to look at, especially when he is so clearly in the throes of something he enjoys doing. It’s almost like watching someone have sex. The thought makes your face go warm. You pick up your phone, determined not to look at him again.

“Here.”

You glance up from your mindless scrolling. What he shows you is a beautiful rendition of what you had expressed wanting. There are a few key differences, and he patiently explains why he made the decisions he did. He didn’t make the changes because he thought your idea was stupid. He made them so the image would better fit the contours of your body. He made them because the ink will spread over time, and he wants the look to stay clean.

His thoughtfulness touches you.

“I love it. I want it,” you say, enthusiasm getting the better of you.

“This is just a first sketch,” he says dryly, making that warmth return to your face. “I’ll text you a few variations this week, and we can nail down the final piece. You want to book?”

“Yes,” you say, nearly buzzing. “I really want to book.”

He’s expensive—but judging by the book of his artwork that is available for you to flip through at the front desk while he quotes you a price and writes you up a receipt, he is more than worth the money. Fuck, he’s got skill. You thought that maybe his art style was too dark for what you wanted, but you found that he was able to adapt styles nicely. You just hoped this tattoo wouldn’t bore him to death.

“Thanks again for meeting with me,” you say as he sees you out. “I’ll be waiting for your text.”

“You’ll get it.” He glances past you out the window. It’s dark. “Did you walk?”

“No, my car is just there.”

“I’ll wait.”

And he does. His figure darkens the doorway until you have shut your car and locked the doors, temporary insanity making you give him a short wave. He raises two fingers and then disappears.

You didn’t tell me this guy was cute, you text to your friend.

GHOST? Cute? I’ve never even seen his face lol. He’s always wearing one of his masks.

You chew over this information. Yes he’d been wearing a mask, but he’d lowered it for you. Did that mean something? Did it mean something that you wanted it to mean something?

Masks are cute, you say.

Fuck the tattoo artist!!!! she says. Maybe he’ll ink you for free.

You’re terrible.

You’re…thinking about it.

Two days later, you squint blearily into the darkness at your phone after it vibrates on your nightstand. The time reads twelve past one in the morning. It’s from GHOST.

The two images he sends are beautiful; enough to rouse you straight from sleep into wakefulness.

I love them both, you tell him. But the second one is amazing. I think that’s the one.

Keep your appointment. Ten minutes later (after you have already fallen back to sleep) he sends: wear something appropriate.

And fuck, you didn’t even think of that.

“You’re being ridiculous,” you mutter to yourself in the mirror, turning sideways to assess yourself. On the bed behind you are a series of button up shirts, all of which you have tried on at one point or another.

“You are,” your friend agrees from where she lounges on your bed, scrolling on her phone. “Your tits are cute. Let Ghost see them.”

The look you give her is the one the phrase ‘if looks could kill’ was modeled after, surely. She doesn’t even see it, so the effect is lost entirely. You turn your gaze back to the silicone nipple adhesive covers again, still stuck to their adhesive backing. You’ve already used one set of the pack of three, and they covered your nipple and areolas nicely, but still left you feeling so exposed.

“Be glad you’re not going to creepy Kevin anymore,” your friend says.

“Very glad of it.”

You felt reasonably safe with Ghost, but still a degree of embarrassment about your own body. Or perhaps that was too strong a word—it didn’t embarrass you, but it felt private. Baring your breasts to a near stranger (especially one you had a grudging attraction to) made your anxiety reach epic level proportions.

“You should text him about it, see if he has any advice for you. He’s been doing this for years. I’m sure he’s seen it all,” she says—the first good idea she’s had all night, miles ahead of ‘Just let Ghost see your cute tits’.

That night, you take her advice and text him, hoping you aren’t overstepping some weird artist-client boundary.

I’m a little nervous.

You can cancel, is all he says. I’ll refund your money.

It’s not that.

What is it?

Not really accustomed to the nakedness tbh. There. You said it. Let him think you some prim priss; it was true.

But all he said back was: how can I help?

I don’t know, you admit. Then; sorry. I’m probably bothering you with this while you’re working.

I’m not working. Five minutes later, when it seems as if you aren’t going to message back: I keep the shop closed to the public. One customer at a time: you. I’ll let my piercer know I’m with a client and not to walk in. I’ll keep you covered every moment I can. Better?

Relief, warm and sweet curling low in your belly, you let him know: much better.

You bring the pasties anyway.

The day of your appointment, you are so nervous you are shaking. Now you know the truth behind the phrase ‘knees knocking together’, as you stand outside SKIN DEEP waiting for Ghost’s hulking figure to appear on the other side of the glass.

When it does, he’s like a little punch to the gut. That black surgical mask is in place—typical for him, if your friend’s words are to be trusted—but his blond hair, cropped short to his scalp is riotous in a way that is adorably charming, like he hasn’t been able to keep his hands out of it. His black t-shirt stretches across his broad shoulders, and his jeans fit him nicely around his thick thighs.

You’re horrified to find that your attraction to him has grown. Exponentially. Your friend’s words echo in your mind—fuck the tattoo artist, maybe he’ll ink you for free.

“Hi,” you squeak.

Ghost raises both his brows. He opens the door wider for you to slip past him. Fuck he still smells good.

“I’m still nervous,” you blurt out, hoping that speaking the truth out loud will help you feel better. It doesn’t.

“That’s normal. You can back out at any time, but the earlier the better. Come look at the image and tell me if it’s still what you want.”

It’s exactly what you want, and more.

“It’s perfect. You’re very talented.”

He huffs a little, like you shouldn’t have said such a thing.

The chair is a great leather contraption which reclines comfortably once he’s gotten you in it (after making you use the restroom first, during which you took the time to splash water on your burning face and double check that your pasties were in place covering all the cutest bits according to your friend). Simon moves around you, making preparations with the ease of someone who has done this work for many years.

You fight the arousal that blooms in your belly at the sight of him doing such benign things as washing his hands, putting on gloves, opening fresh needles, preparing little wells of ink and sticking them to the movable cart with Vaseline. There’s just something about a person who knows exactly what they’re doing and who is able to do it with efficacy.

“Ready?” he asks at length.

You nod, hoping your nerves don’t show on your face. Steeling yourself, you unbutton the shirt you’re wearing. His eyes follow your hands, but there is a detached, clinical sort of expression in them. He’s not watching a strip tease, he’s looking at a canvas.

Finally, you sit in front of him in only the pasties, the shirt lax around your shoulders, and your sweatpants, socked toes curling in anxiety in your shoes. Without missing a beat, he leans the chair all the way back. Then he opens a fresh disposable razor and shaves you.

“Am I hairy?” you ask, resting your hands oh-so-casually over your breasts to keep them out of his way.

“Yes,” he says. Then his eyes flicker to yours. “Everyone is. Everywhere. It’s normal.”

“I’m just teasing you.”

“Didn’t think you had the breath in your body left to tease me,” he mutters, voice nearly lost behind his mask as he carefully works the razor across your skin removing the baby-fine hairs from beneath your breasts and across your sternum. “You’re nervous, I mean.”

“Would you take the mask off?” you ask on a whim. It had helped last time, to see his face.

“No,” he says. He adds: “Sorry. It’s more sanitary f’you if I keep it on.”

You get the feeling that he really is sorry—and that’s well enough. Some of the anxiety in your belly fades away. He would take it off if he could. The most anxious part of the process (baring yourself to a stranger) has already passed. Maybe now you can begin to relax.

After cleaning your skin, he carefully lays the stencil and has you stand up to look at it in the mirror and make sure the placement is correct and holy fucking shit. It’s sexy. You’ve always been attracted to tattoos, and fancied the idea of getting one on your sternum for far longer than you’d ever admitted to anyone, but seeing it come to life gives you a rush you hadn’t expected. You feel so…badass.

“Good?” He asks.

“Very good,” you answer, sitting back down, hoping he ignores the way your breasts bounce a little as you do. He leans you back again and this time breaks out the needle gun.

But before he uses it on you, he carefully takes a clean towel and lays it over your left breast, covering the parts of you that are not nearest to his eyes. His gentleness and thoughtfulness go straight to your cunt.

“Thank you,” you say softly.

He just nods. The gun buzzes to life. “I’ll make a line and see how you feel. Last chance to back out without any souvenirs.”

“I’m not backing out.”

He clicks his tongue as if to say, It’s your funeral. Then he lays his hand on your sternum above your breasts, pinning you in place, and makes a gentle line.

It burns more than you expected it to. There’s a sandpaper quality to it, almost like the rasping of a cat’s tongue. The pain is sharp and bright, but it isn’t overwhelming. In fact…a strange part of you sort of enjoys it. Maybe it’s the rush of endorphins.

“Good?” He asks.

“Good,” you squeak.

You hear his quiet laugh, no more than an exhale of breath.

“Let me know when you need to break.”

You don’t know how you feel about the way he phrases that: when you need to break. He adjusts his mask a little, leans over you, and gets to work. Sometimes the needles pass over a place that is more sensitive than the others, making you flinch. He pauses when this happens, eyes flickering up to your own, making sure you are alright even though he can likely feel the pounding of your heart beneath his hand. That hand on your chest, wrist just brushing the top of your breast, is a solid warm weight that seems to tether you back down to the earth as he lines you. He is very careful not to brush against your breast when he wipes away the excess ink and traces of blood, but you feel hyper-attuned to how easy it would be for him if he wanted to. How huge his hand is compared to your tit. Beneath the pasties, your nipples ache with tension, a tension that is mirrored between your legs.

“Alright. Break,” he says, abruptly turning the gun off. He covers your exposed breast with another towel. “Take ten.”

He disposes of his gloves and disappears behind a curtain in the back, leaving you throbbing between the legs. Worming your phone free from your pocket, you scroll aimlessly, hoping to calm your raging hormones. He returns right at the ten minute mark, just as his cellphone rings. He glances toward where it rests on the table, but makes no move to answer it.

“Do you need to get that?” you ask, offering him an out.

“No,” he says. “I make everyone leave a message. Weeds out the cowards.”

It had almost weeded out you, you think about telling him, but in the end you decide against it. He gloves back up.

“Good for more?”

And so it repeats.

At one point, he runs into a patch of sensitive skin on your ribs just overlaying the bone. It has you sucking in a breath through your teeth, eyes squeezing shut. It’s too late to turn back now you tell yourself; the only way out is through.

His thumb gently strokes your sternum.

“It’s rough. You can take it,” he says, quiet and focused. The buzzing of the gun never ceases as he tries to make his work as quick as possible, his words a little distant and distracted. “Just keep breathing. That’s it. Good girl.”

Jesus. Did he not have any idea what those words could do to a girl? A groan escapes your lips, and he clearly mistakes it for pain, because his thumb strokes again the soft skin over your heart, just above the curve of your breast.

“You can do it. Just a little longer for me, and we’ll break.”

“Hurts,” you breathe, flinching again.

He hushes you, surprisingly tender.

“This is the worst of it.” This time, his thumb does brush the edge of your breast, making you suck in a gasp. He recoils, hand lifting away from you and curling into a fist. He rests that against you instead, taking away any further hope that he might brush his fingertips against you. You make it through the rough patch with tears in your eyes but no worse for wear.

“Break. Ten minutes,” he says again, already shredding his gloves and moving to disappear behind the curtain.

You call out: “Hey, wait—I’d rather just get through it in one go if I can. If this really is the worst of it.”

“I need breaks too,” he says stonily.

You duck your head, feeling silly. “Right. Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He vanishes again.

He is late to return to you. Only by five minutes or so, but noticeably for a man so usually punctual and so demanding of punctuality in you. His face is stoic—what bits of it you can see from behind the mask—as he washes his hands thoroughly and preps his work station again.

This time his hand keeps a very respectable distance from your breasts—a fact which you both lament and appreciate all in one. He works with single-minded efficiency, giving you his entire focus. You break once more, but this time he breaks in the room with you, stretching out his back and neck (giving you a generous glimpse of his belly when his shirt rides up, exposing cut abs and a happy trail you’d give your life to follow).

“I think we could do this in one sitting, if you have nowhere else to be,” he mutters at length.

“Eager to be done?” you wonder.

He stares at you, expression flat, and says nothing. Nothing needs to be said.

“I don’t have anywhere to be,” you murmur, staring up at the bright adjustable light that he has positioned over you. You hope he mistakes that for the reason behind any mistiness in your eyes, his rudeness cutting you deeply.

So the two of you push through later into the evening, until you are sweating at your temples and the base of your neck from the continuous pain for so long. At last he lays the last gradient for the shading, sprays you down, and wipes you clean so very gently.

“Go take a look. I’m going to cover it up.”

It’s beautiful. Stunning, even. You let your shirt gape closed and cover the pasties, revealing a broad glimpse of the sternum tattoo, and it is the sexiest you have ever felt. It almost makes your eyes burn anew.

“I love it,” you choke out. “Thank you.”

“Can I take a picture of it?” he asks. “For Instagram.”

“Sure!” It will feel a little like being famous, you think, judging by how much notice each of the photos on his Instagram garners. He crouches down on the floor to be at the perfect height, reaches out and gently adjusts your shirt. Parts of the tattoo are covered—the very far edges—but you can’t deny how sexy it is. Maybe he feels the same way.

After he takes the photo, he posts it and asks for your handle to tag you in it. Then he says: “Let me cover it up. Keep it covered overnight, but tomorrow let it breathe. Keep it clean. Don’t do anything stupid to it. Understand?”

“I understand.”

“And if you have any questions—text me.”

You get home to find that Ghost’s personal account has requested to follow you. Thrumming with nerves and excitement, you accept the request and send one of your own, spending the night scrolling through his Instagram (so, so carefully to avoid any incidental ‘likes’). Plenty of the photos are of his artwork, still. But there are ones of his dog: a German Shepherd that is thankfully much more photogenic than her surly owner. There are three or four photos featuring Ghost himself, and only one has his full face in the picture. You find yourself staring at his fixated expression for longer than is respectable.

Three days later when you find yourself panicking, you don’t text him like he asked you to. You call.

Your skin is peeling off. Peeling. Off. The sight of it makes your stomach roll. The entire tattoo is hot to the touch, and the skin around it feels warm as well. Flushed. Is it supposed to hurt this much?

The internet doesn’t help. The peeling is normal, sure. But everything else is suggesting that your tattoo could be infected. What sort of ink did Ghost use? Was it reputable? What if the infection reaches your bloodstream? You were too young to die! Your anxiety spirals like a plane with one wing, trailing smoke as it soars straight down, determined to take you with it.

With shaking hands, you don’t even think about texting Ghost. You go straight to calling him, tapping his number in your phone and pressing it to your ear, listening to the ring.

He’s going to send you to voicemail, just like he does to everyone else—except he doesn’t. All the sudden there is glorious feedback from the other end: a cacophony of voices and laughter, clearly some sort of gathering.

“Yes?” Ghost says into the phone, as if that’s a decent hello.

“There’s something wrong with my tattoo!” you cry.

“Wait—get out of my goddamn way.” There is rustling, and then the noise decreases substantially. You can almost see him standing outside whatever bar his friends have brought him to, mask down around his chin, hand over his other ear as he strains to listen to you. “Say it again. Now I can fucking hear you.”

“There’s. Something. Wrong,” you say through your teeth. “With my tattoo!”

“Well? What is it?”

“It’s falling off, for one!”

He snorts. “That’s normal. That's why you called?”

“It’s all swollen and hot. And it hurts.”

Now that shuts him up. He sighs a little, switches the phone from one ear to the other. “Hurts how bad?”

“Worse than getting it.”

“Fuck me. Alright. Meet me at the shop in…twenty?”

“Twenty minutes from now?”

“From when else?” He hangs up. Man doesn’t know the meaning of the word goodbye.

The night is cool. You don’t bother with a bra, not when it irritates your tattoo so much. Pulling your jacket closed more tightly around yourself, you walk from your parking spot along the street to the tattoo shop.

Ghost stands outside at the curb. His figure is unmistakable. He is smoking, mask down, the lit end of his cigarette a burning ember that flares bright in the darkness. When he sees you coming, he crushes the cigarette beneath his boot and opens the door to the shop, which is still and dark. He flicks on a light switch as he goes, casting the place in a warm glow.

He’s dressed in his usual dark jeans and an obscenely tight t-shirt, his sleeve of tattoos on display. He leaves the mask down. His eyes are on your tits—or resting where your tattoo is beneath your clothes.

“Well. Sit. Show me.”

You sit in one of the armchairs, your shoulders rising in defensiveness. “What, just flash you?”

“Nothing I’ve never seen before.”

Gritting your teeth, you begin unbuttoning your shirt until it gapes open. You cup your breasts with your hands, maintaining your modesty while putting the tattoo on full display. He narrows his eyes, leaning down. His fingers reach out, but then he thinks twice and washes his hands.

“I was smoking,” he says when you roll your eyes in exasperation.

“You’re worried about getting the chemicals on my skin but not in your lungs?”

“Fuck my lungs,” he mutters. His fingers hover over your tattoo. “Can I?”

You nod. His fingers are cool when they gently prod and ghost along the edges of the tattoo, feeling for the signature warmth of an infection. “Any fever?” he asks.

“Not that I’ve noticed.”

“You feel warm, but I’ve felt warmer. I don’t think it’s infected. Have you tried icing it?”

“No,” you admit.

“Ice will help. Just use something clean, for fuck’s sake.” As he speaks, his breath fans across your chest, making you shiver. He sees this, his eyes darkening. “When you called, I thought it was for me.”

“It was for you,” you say, brow furrowing. “Who else?”

He snorts, lips quirking. It tugs on the scar across his lips. “Forget it.”

“Forget what?”

“Talking about it goes against forgetting it.”

You groan, tossing up your hands. “You’re impossible.”

He reaches out and jerks your shirt closed, hastily doing up a button. Your face burns as you do up the rest of the buttons—you end up having to backtrack and redo them because he was off by one.

“Thank you for meeting me. I’m sorry it was for nothing.”

“It wasn’t for nothing,” he says. “And I wasn’t doing much.”

“You were with friends,” you insist.

His eyes narrow. “Who told you that?”

“I saw it on your Instagram tonight.”

“Nosey.”

“I could buy you a drink sometime,” you offer after a lengthy pause, your heart pounding loud enough to fill the silence between you. Are you really doing this? Are you really asking him out? “Make up for the ones I lost you tonight.”

“Maybe.”

God, it’s like he’s not getting it. Maybe you need to be bolder. Fortune favors the bold, doesn’t it? Your hands are shaking when they fall back to the buttons on your shirt.

“Would you take one more look at my tattoo? Just to be…positive?”

He sighs and makes an impatient hand gesture. Your fingers fumble through the buttons again. You don’t cover yourself with your hands this time; just keep the halves of your shirt over your nipples. He dutifully exams the tattoo again, prodding gently, laying the flat of his fingers against it to feel the warmth it lets off.

“Maybe you should look closer.”

His eyes flicker up to yours. “Closer.”

Your mouth is dry. “Yeah.”

“Can’t get much closer than I am.”

“You could—if you wanted to.”

“If I—“ it hits him then. You can see it in the fractional widening of his eyes, the way his mouth parts softly in blatant surprise before he shuts it, dark eyes returning to your sternum. He says: “Closer.”

“Mhm.”

The back of his hand brushes against your breast, causing your breath to hitch. His thumb traces softly along the outline of the tattoo, following the path just beneath your shirt, nudging the fabric aside slowly, so slowly, until your breast is bare, nipple puckered and aching.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters. His eyes flicker to yours as if to see if you really want this—and whatever he sees must reassure him, because then he is sweeping his fingertips along the bottom curve of your breast and taking it into his hand, his palm rasping gently over your nipple. All the breath rushes out of you. Your thighs clench together. Already you’re aching—have been since you saw his mouth around that cigarette on the street—but he moves with determined caution. His thumb finds your nipple and teases it, pulling a desperate little sound from the back of your throat.

“Pretty little tits,” he says, his voice a warm, smoky rumble that goes straight to your core. He captures your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, pinching softly.

“Fuck,” you gasp, one hand reaching out to brace yourself against his shoulder. He is solid and firm beneath your touch, unmoving and unmalleable. Your breasts have always been sensitive, but it feels like every touch is directly related to the feelings in your cunt. You find your back arching, hips searching for friction against the seat of the chair.

“Be still,” he says firmly. Another pitiful sound slips past your throat. “Let me play with you.”

“Please,” you gasp. “Play with me—even if that’s all you want—just don’t stop, please.”

His mouth parts as he listens to you, his eyes so, so dark. The pupils have nearly swallowed his irises whole, until you can see yourself bare from the waist up in the reflection. He shakes his head a little. “You don’t even know what you’re saying.”

“I do. I—“ your words are cut off with a gasp as he hauls you out of the chair by your wrist and onto his lap. He’s so thick thighed that it stretches you obscenely to have him between your legs. His hands tear the button-up off your shoulders and down your arms until it flutters to the floor, leaving you half naked. Dipping his head, he presses a heated kiss to the place on your sternum where he had rested his hand during the tattoo—and then trails wet kisses towards your left breast, taking your nipple into his mouth and sucking with a decided softness.

You let out an unflattering, choked groan, resting your weight heavily against him until you can feel the prominent bulge in his tight jeans. His hands find your ass and grip you tightly, working you back and forth, rubbing that bulge against your clothed sex.

“Driving me fucking crazy,” he mutters against your skin, opening his mouth to drag the sharp line of his teeth against the curve of one breast before switching to the other and flicking his tongue over your nipple.

You gape at his admission. Had you been? He’d been so closed off and cool…though now that you thought back, maybe that was just his way of hiding it. Suddenly he grips the back of your neck, where your hairline ends, and pulls you to his mouth. He tastes faintly of smoke, even fainter of the drinks he had had earlier in the night, but it is an intoxicating mixture. Your tongues find a rhythm as your hips do the same, both of you fucking in every sense of the word except the literal kind.

He takes one of your thighs and wedges it between his own, until you’re no longer grinding against his cock but instead his denim-clad thigh. “You the kind of girl who can cum like this? Just from this?”

“Uh-huh,” you promise, head bobbing.

He buries his face in your neck. “Good. I won’t last when I’ve got my cock in you. I’d like you to cum at least once before then.”

“Oh god,” you groan, gripping his shoulders fiercely as you begin a halting, stilted rhythm against his thigh. The denim is rough against your leggings. He feels all around you: his scent, his taste, his touch. When his hands find your hips to help you work yourself against him more smoothly, a sigh of gratitude fans from your lips.

“What else do you need?” he asks.

“My—touch me—“ He abandons your hips once you find a suitable rhythm. He finds your nipples again, teasing them with clever fingers. The stimulation has your peak approaching faster, building like a storm in your lower belly.

Ghost leans back to look at you, eyes trailing over you from head to toe: your face burning with warmth, your breasts with peaked little nipples, your leggings nearly soaked through at the crotch with how wet you are. He shakes his head, like he can’t believe what he’s seeing.

“Fucking perfect.” You bury your face in his neck, feeling a warmth inside your chest. He grips you by the neck again and tugs you back. “Look at me. Look at me.”

You look at him for as long as you can, but when the band in your belly finally snaps, your eyes roll up and slip shut, your mouth drops open in a choked gasp, nails digging into his shoulders as you shudder and shake in the throes of your pleasure.

He leans down to kiss you through it, tongue teasing at your slack mouth.

When he stands, he takes you with him, hauling you up until you wrap your shaking legs around his waist. It’s probably a good thing too. You aren’t sure you could walk otherwise. He carries you the few steps to the couch and lays you down, curling his fingers in the waistband of your leggings. You nod. He strips them off you, along with your flats, and your panties until you are naked as the day you were born.

Your thighs clamp together shyly. He lets them, reaching behind himself to pull his shirt off. Something catches your eye in the streetlights streaming in through the window: Ghost has one of his nipples pierced, a neat little barbell through the sensitive flesh.

Fingers enter your vision—your own—reaching out on instinct. You hesitate, unsure if he is receptive, and a little afraid to hurt him. He’s so bloody tall, too…but he takes care of that himself by kneeling down by your side, his eyes cautious. Closer, you can see the scars: silvery in the moonlight, crisscrossing over his torso.

“Does it hurt?” You ask, softly stroking your fingers beneath the pale pink skin of his areola.

“No,” he says. You can feel the timber of his warm voice vibrating through his chest, up your fingers, straight to your pussy. “You can play with it.”

You shyly run your thumb over it the way he had yours. He sighs, breath fanning across your arm. His eyes go heavy-lidded, tongue flashing as he wets his lips. After a moment, you grow insecure and move your hands away from his nipple down to a scar that crosses his sternum. He lets you, very patient, like a dangerous creature withholding its bite.

“You’re so—“ the words are whispered dreamily before you have any idea how you plan to finish the sentence. Flushing with embarrassed heat under his wary stare, you finish: “—hot.”

He physically turns away, expression inscrutable. You can’t help but feel like you have said the wrong thing. He puts a hand on your belly, stroking the softness. “You broken, or can you take more?”

“I want more.”

“Want my cock?”

You nod, feeling like a bobble head.

“I want to hear you say it.”

“I want your cock.”

His hand reaches for his belt, unbuckling it. Your eyes track the movement with hungry nerves. His hands put butterflies in your belly: thick palms with long, slender fingers, veins criss-crossing along the backs. An artist’s hands. He works his belt free with nimble grace and shucks down his jeans and underwear in one smooth movement, revealing his cock to your gaze and the light from the street lamps.

He is huge here to match. Downright intimidating in length and girth, uncut with a nice curve toward his belly. He grips himself and gives a series of smooth strokes, the muscles in his abdomen flexing into sharp relief.

“Oh my god,” you mutter.

“No gods here,” he says, kneeling up on the couch. His hands part your thighs, and for a long time he just looks at you, that sensitive, swollen place between your legs. He stares so long that you nearly cover your face, embarrassed by whatever he is thinking. Then he touches you, and when he does, he touches you with surprising reverence. He touches you like you are art.

“Can’t believe you let me ink you,” he mutters, stroking your vulva with his warm palm. His eyes are on the sternum piece now. “Practically let me carve my name into your skin. Anybody around here who sees it will know who did it. They’ll know who touched you.”

“Good,” you breathe.

His sigh is shaky. You’re learning his reactions, his very breaths. That shaky sigh means he’s pleased with you. You’ve said something right.

He reaches down to his jeans on the floor and works a hand into his pocket, pulling free a condom. He hands it to you—for inspection, you realize, though you’ve had so few one night stands (try zero) that you’ve never had the need to inspect a condom before. The package is intact at least. There appears to be an expiration date which you squint at. All looks well. You hand it back to him and he tears it open, rolling it down his considerable length.

Then he goes back to touching you. One hand braces himself against the back of the sofa so he can lean down to kiss you, tasting your mouth deeply. The other hand finds your entrance, circling it with a finger before slipping inside you all the way to the last knuckle. You are wet enough and relaxed enough that he slips in easily.

“Relax…there you go. Let me in,” he says under his breath, working a second finger in beside the first. It is a bit of a stretch—he’s thick everywhere goddamn it—but it’s a good stretch, a much needed one. The third finger has you stiffening, whining at the pinch of pain. He slows his fingers and lets his thumb find your clit, muting the pain with little jolts of pleasure.

“Ghost,” you groan, toes curling against the leather of the couch.

“I think you can take it,” he says, thumb so soft and insistent against that aching pearl of nerves. “But what do you think?”

“Your cock—want it—please—“

“Alright,” he laughs, pulling his fingers free and wiping the wetness on his cock. “No need to beg.”

He notches his cock against your entrance and slips inside you. Both of you inhale together, like on cue. Just the first few inches have you feeling full beyond your comfort zone, but he seems to understand in his silent, all-knowing way. He stills, working that free hand between you both to play with your clit until you’re clenching around him, body trying to pull him deeper. He slips further in and then reaches the end of what your body can take. You feel fucking stuffed, your hands shaking where you have gripped his naked shoulders, nails digging into his skin.

His own breathing is ragged, pecs brushing your nipples with every inhale. The little bursts of pleasure help, until you find that your hips have grown restless, working back and forth as much as his substantial weight will allow when you’re pinned beneath it.

“Stay still,” he mutters into the juncture of your neck. “Stay still or I’ll cum and this is all over.”

“Can’t,” you gasp, his revelation electrifying you. “Have to move, ‘m so full—“

“Fucking hell,” he groans. He pulls out, leaving you feeling gaped. “Roll onto your side.”

He gives you instruction but isn’t shy about reaching out and physically arranging you until you are both spooning, your back to his chest. This time when he enters you, it is more shallow, and easier for him to reach around and play with your clit.

You arch your back, seeking more of him, pressing your breast into his free palm. He plucks at the nipple, teeth nibbling at your throat.

“Want you to cum again,” he says, stilling your movements so that you can’t fuck your self back against him. “Give me one more. Then it’s my turn.”

“Ghost—I can’t—“ you’ve never cum twice before. Not even with your favorite toys have you been able to scrounge together more than one illustrious orgasm. This knowledge and your expectation of his disappointment has you stiffening in his arms.

“If you can’t, then don’t,” he says simply, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. He keeps his fingers soft and insistent against you, and only after a few lengthy moments does he feel confident enough to work his hips against you too. He pulls out too far and his length drags across your labia, the head brushing where his fingers play with your clit.

You give a sighing little moan. His head cocks; you aren’t the only one listening to sighs. Now when he gives those lazy, lackadaisical thrusts, his entire length just strokes the outside of your sex.

“Oh fuck,” you whine, feeling that band in your belly begin pulling tight again.

He hums behind you, a smug sound.

“Not sure I want you to cum now,” he says. “Hold it. I’m thinking it over.”

“Ghost!”

He laughs, honest to God laughs at you. Tears prick your eyes from the sheer need (and a bit from embarrassment) but his hips never cease nor slow their tireless thrusts against you, not even when you grow close enough to beg, close enough to plead.

He loops his arm around your waist and pins you against him when you cum to keep you from rolling right off the couch, your body wracked with shivers and spasms. The warmth of your release washes over you from head to toe, and you are still basking in it when his cock finds your entrance again and enters you.

The position keeps the penetration blissfully shallow (otherwise he might give your cervix a painful beating), but he still reaches new lengths inside you, filling spaces you didn’t know were empty. The shop is eerily quiet except for the sound of his hips snapping against your ass and the frequent breathy sounds his cock punches out of your lungs.

He buries his face in the crook of your neck and lets out a series of sounds that are toe-curling: deep groans and raspy curses, whispered praise and hisses through his teeth. His hand grips your hip tightly, leaving shadows the shape of his fingerprints on your skin as he fucks you.

Sooner than you’d like—but he’d warned you, hadn’t he?—his thrusts grow sloppy, the sounds messy thanks to your wetness as he finds his release and moans it into the skin of your throat.

“Fuck,” he whispers. And again: “Fuck, fuck. You broken?”

“Yes.”

He snorts. Then it turns into that laughter, warm and rumbling against your back. You smile where he can’t see.

“Sorry about this,” he says as he ties the condom off and throws it away, naked as the day he was born. You’re still naked too, though much more shy, legs crossed demurely and arms wrapped around yourself.

“Regretting it already?”

“Yes,” he says. Then, when he sees the stricken look on your face, he adds: “Should have at least taken you to dinner first.”

“Dinner?”

“You owe me drinks. I owe you dinner.” He finds his boxers in the darkness and slips back into them. Then, because the expression on your face still hasn’t relaxed, he says: “I don’t regret the sex. Do you?”

You shake your head.

He scoffs a little.

“I mean it,” you insist. You touch your tattoo. “I wanted it…the day you did—this.”

He raises both brows at you, silently calling your bluff.

“I didn’t think you were interested,” you admitted sheepishly.

“I jerked off in the back just from seeing half your tits,” he admits, slipping into his jeans now too. His mouth curls a little at the corner when he sees the way you gape at this news. “I was interested.”

You laugh; you can’t help it. “Dinner, then? Or drinks?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Alright. Get dressed.”

#simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #skin deep

3K notes · View notes

angelfic · 1 year ago

Text

— THE WAY I LOVED YOU

pairing: theodore nott x reader

summary: in which theodore nott will do anything to get you to go out with him, but you’re just as stubborn rejecting him

warnings: swearing, kissing, dangerous stunts and theo being stupid (ryan gosling in the notebook style), unedited since i wrote this in the middle of the night on no sleep again lol. enemies to lovers if you squint a bit

author’s note: since everyone loves theo i’ll pretend this isn’t just for my own selfish needs <3 (especially the notebook reference) also surprise surprise mc is a gryffindor as always, you’d never know i was a slytherin my bad guys… as always let me know what u think! enjoy, angels 💌

The first time Theodore Nott asks you out, you spill a pot of ink directly into his lap.

It’s not like you meant to do it. But when there’s a Transfiguration worksheet to be getting on with, the Slytherin boy seated next to you by Professor McGonagall asking you out would surely take anyone by surprise.

The second you twist in your seat to look at him in shock, your arm slides the pot right off the desk and directly onto his grey trousers, instantly staining them with the black liquid before you have a chance to speak.

Your hands fly to your mouth to stifle your gasp and you look up at him, anticipating an angry glare in return. Instead, he looks mildly surprised at the ever-growing stain on his crotch, but mostly… amused?

“A simple ‘no’ would have sufficed, darling,” he says, raising an eyebrow and suppressing a smile.

You begin stuttering out an apology and scrambling for your wand to wave away the stain before you can do something stupid like attempting to rub it off with your sleeve. Your cheeks instantly heat up at the humiliating image now plaguing your mind and you barely contain a sigh of relief when you realise the lesson has finished.

It’s a miracle your shoes haven’t left scuff marks on the ground in a cartoonish trail with the speed at which you leave the classroom. Godric knows why Theo Nott of all people wants to ask you out, but since it can’t possibly be for any good reason, you’d rather not think about it too much. This, however, isn’t helped by Hermione pestering you about why you look so flustered for the entire walk to the Charms classroom.

Twenty minutes later, her attention is finally diverted. On the other hand, it’s because she’s berating you for accidentally burning the end of her left eyebrow off with a charm gone wrong.

The second time Theo asks you out, there are thankfully no ink pots around.

“Hey,” he whispers from behind you, making you jump within an inch of your life despite his low volume. You swivel in your chair to glare at him, incredulous. Seeing that he’s startled you, Theo grins. “Sorry. What are you doing?”

“Baking a cake,” you deadpan, once your heart has started beating at a normal pace again. Holding up your Potions book, you feel the annoyance start to seep in when Theo continues looking at you, undeterred. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

Apparently unfazed by your sarcasm, he drags out the chair next to you and spins it around to sit on it backwards. Settling his arms on top of the backrest, Theo rests his chin on them to look at you. “You never did answer my question.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you mumble, eyes scanning the page in front of you but taking in nothing. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to study-”

“Are you going to make me ask you again?” he sighs. You panic a little at his bluntness and continue pretending to read, not knowing what else to do. Theo takes your silence as encouragement and shuffles his chair closer to your own. “Go out with me.”

The arrogance practically drips off his voice, and the pit of anxiety in your stomach immediately turns into irritation instead. “No,” you grit out, slamming your potions book shut to scowl at him. “And I don’t hear you asking anything.”

“Okay,” Theo says slowly, nodding as though he understands. It’s clear that he doesn’t though, because the next words out of his mouth have you stunned. “Please, oh please, will you do me the absolute greatest honour of going out with me?”

”Merlin,” you exhale, pinching the bridge of your nose. Dropping your hands into your lap, you see no solution other than gathering your things to return to the common room. “You’re having me on…”

“I can assure you, I’m not,” Theo says quickly, stopping you from leaving by gently grabbing your elbow. You stop in your movements to catch him looking more unsure than you’ve ever seen, and you’ve never been more perplexed. “I’m completely serious right now. Go out with me?”

“Wh- I don’t even-” you sigh, cutting your senseless muttering off to cross your arms over your textbook. “Whatever happened to a simple ‘no’ sufficing, darling? Aren’t there a million other girls for you to go and pester? Godric knows you’ve got an entourage following you half the- What are you looking at?”

Amazingly, Theo’s expression has lost all trace of vulnerability and now displays a slightly faraway look, his signature lazy grin in full effect. “Sorry, I didn’t hear a word after you called me ‘darling’.”

Resisting the urge to hit him over the head with your textbook, you take a deep breath and grasp the potential weapon tighter in your hands before speaking. “As hard as it is for me to believe that girls actually fall for this rubbish, your history with them shows that they do. Don’t think for a second, I’m going to let you use me like they do.”

Theo considers your words for a few seconds, mulling them over as carefully as though he’s trying to solve a brain teaser. Eventually, he seems to come to a satisfying conclusion, because he tucks his hands into the pockets of his trousers and tilts his head. “So you need me to prove I’m serious about this… and then you’ll say yes?”

“Oh, for the love of-” Huffing, you turn on your heal without saying another word and storm out of the library. Theo doesn’t follow you, allowing you to clear your head and think about the incredibly odd interaction.

You’re climbing through the portrait hole into the Gryffindor common room when you realise you never actually refuted Theo and his theory to make you go out with him. Whether or not it was on purpose, you can’t quite decide.

Over the next few weeks, you start wishing you had stopped Theo before he could start trying to prove himself to you.

You can’t go a single day without the question of going out with him popping up. Much to your bewilderment, it isn’t always him asking. Sometimes it’s his friends, sometimes it’s students at the Gryffindor table who are sick of the multiple owls every morning flocking to your table with a note in their beaks. Sometimes it’s even your friends.

“I mean, really,” Hermione says at breakfast, huffy as always when reprimanding someone. “It’d be benefiting everyone if you just went out with him. Why don’t you, anyway?”

“He’s a Slytherin,” Ron butts in, talking to Hermione as though he’s explaining something to a child. He takes a gigantic bite of his toast before speaking, his next words coming out muffled. “Surely that’s reason enough.”

“No, that isn’t reason enough,” Hermione says sternly, furrowing her brows. “A good reason would have been all the girls he’s always with. Of course, that’s flown out the window recently. He’s also never given them as much attention now that I think about it.”

“He’s definitely not the worst of the group either,” Harry adds, leaning in as nosily as Ron. “Not like we’re talking about Malfoy…”

“Don’t you two have Quidditch tactics to be discussing?” you snap, exhausted by the subject already. The two boys hold up their hands in surrender, before shuffling down the bench. Whether that’s to be closer to the Quidditch team, or to get away from you before you start throwing hexes - you aren’t certain.

The fact you’re awake early in the morning on a Saturday isn’t helping your sour mood, and the Quidditch match being between Gryffindor and Slytherin only adds to this.

“We’d better go and get a good seat at the front, so we aren’t on our tiptoes for the whole game like last time,” Hermione says, already sliding off the bench. You give your cup of coffee one last longing look before you allow yourself to be dragged away.

You haven’t even made it onto the Quidditch pitch before you’re already wishing for that cup of coffee to give you strength, because you find none other than Theo standing outside the Great Hall in his green and silver Quidditch robes.

As soon as he spots you, Theo plasters on that charming smile of his and opens his mouth, no doubt to ask you if you could talk privately.

Hermione interjects before he gets the chance. “Don’t bother, I’m leaving.” She simply sighs when you look at her, betrayed. “He’d have convinced you anyway! I’ll save you a seat.”

You watch her leave, helplessly before turning to Theo and crossing your arms. “Yes?”

“I have a proposition for you,” he says simply, getting to the point. The proposition has, without a doubt, got something to do with you and him and a trip to Hogsmeade, but you gesture for him to continue nonetheless. You can’t deny it’s been entertaining watching Theo come up with new ways to ask you out these past few weeks. “I’ll throw the match and let your lot win if you go out with me.”

This startles a laugh out of you, something between a chortle and a gasp. “Oh, you cheeky bastard,” you exclaim, but you can’t help grinning. That was quite possibly the last thing you expected him to say. “First of all, I think my lot is perfectly capable of winning on their own. And secondly… as funny as it would be, I’d rather not have your death and Malfoy’s subsequent imprisonment in Azkaban be on my conscience.”

You only realise just how wide your smile is when it starts to fade under Theo’s unwavering gaze. His lips twitch up into a smile and you immediately frown as an automatic response. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“You’re bantering with me,” Theo says, grinning as though he’s extremely pleased with himself. You realise with a jolt, that yes you were bantering. “One step closer to agreeing to go out with me.”

“That’s not happening,” you protest, but it sounds fairly weak, even to you. “Like I keep telling you, I’m not going to be one of those girls.”

Theo shrugs. “And I think you already know you’re not one of those girls. It’s fine, I can wait.”

The relaxed manner in which he says this has you flabbergasted to say the least. Truthfully, you aren’t completely sure why you haven’t just agreed at this point. No one in the whole school is used to witnessing such extravagant displays from Theodore Nott, so you’ve accepted the fact you’re an outlier in this particular subject area. You’re starting to think Hermione’s right, and it’s pure stubbornness that’s keeping you going.

“You’ll be waiting a long time then,” you say, giving Theo a bland smile.

“Nah,” is all he says, the smile still gracing his unperturbed face. “Keep an eye out for me in the Quidditch stands.”

Theo winks at you before walking away in the direction of the pitch and you linger in the castle for a good few minutes before snapping out of it and walking in the same direction.

You find Hermione quickly at the front of the Gryffindor stand and you’re about to ask how long until the game starts when Lee Jordan’s voice begins to boom from the commentator stand.

“Strong start for Gryffindor with Katie Bell taking the Quaffle and- nope, Vaisey’s taken it and passed it onto Urquhart, his fellow Chaser and the new Slytherin captain.” You’re thankful for Lee’s commentary as it’s easy to follow and you probably wouldn’t have a clue if it weren’t for him. Surprisingly, he keeps it professional enough for a while. “Ginny Weasley tries to take the Quaffle after a near hit there to Urquhart, thanks to new Gryffindor Beater Jimmy Peakes and that very solid Bludger over there. Unfortunately, he missed-”

“JORDAN.”

“Sorry, Professor McGonagall, I meant fortunately. Slytherin Chaser Mattheo Riddle now has the Quaffle and seems to be aiming to score and- oops! He’s missed, thanks to Gryffindor Keeper Ron Weasley. Good on you, Weasley,” Lee says, unable to be impartial as shown by McGonagall’s glare. “As for the Slytherin Keeper, Nott seems to be distracted by something in the Gryffindor stands. Or should I say someone.”

Laughter echoes in every stand, much to your utter humiliation and some people even start whooping and cheering in your direction. Theo’s antics are common knowledge at this point, but it doesn’t make the laughter any less embarrassing. You try and maintain a shred of dignity by standing still and glaring as hard as you can at Theo. Horrifyingly, he starts to fly in your direction.

Lee looks at McGonagall before speaking, but she merely shrugs helplessly, looking flustered herself. “Er, well it seems Slytherin are open for Gryffindor to score. No one seems to be taking advantage, however, as I think I can speak for everyone when I say we want to know what’s going on with Nott and Y/N.”

Glancing at the others, you realise Lee is right and all the players are hovering in place, making no move to continue the game. They look partly confused, but mostly nosy.

Theo stops just outside the Gryffindor stand, his attention focused wholly on you. You raise both eyebrows in question, waiting for him to speak. “Go out with me.”

“Unfortunately, I can’t quite hear what Nott is saying, but I think we can all guess he’s asking her out again,” Lee says, causing a few more cheers and even a couple groans. “Take the hint, mate.”

“Theo, get back to the game!” you hiss, wrapping your arms around you as if it’ll shield you from everyone’s eyes. “You’re embarrassing m- What the fuck are you doing!”

Theo swings a leg over the side of his broomstick so that he’s sitting completely facing you, legs dangling dangerously off one side. Lee sits up a little in his booth and McGonagall looks positively horrified. “For unknown reasons, Nott is balancing precariously in a position no Quidditch player wants to- Merlin, he’s hanging off his broomstick!”

Everyone in the crowd screams and shouts when Theo slips off his broomstick, but they quieten down and watch with fright when they see he’s still holding on with both hands. You think you’re going to faint.

“Theo,” you plead, with the same voice you’d use to coax a bloody kitten out of a tree. “Get back on your broomstick. Please.”

“Only if you go out with me,” Theo says, eyes determined despite breathing a little heavier. The broomstick is thin and despite his strength, it’d be hard for anyone to maintain a grip for long. “Say you’ll go out with me and I’ll get back on.”

“Just say it!” Hermione grabs you by the shoulder to shake you.

Professor McGonagall seems to have shaken out of her previous daze and begins scrambling around for her wand while Lee narrows his eyes to better assess the situation. “Godric, Y/N. Just say ‘yes’ and end everyone’s misery already.”

“But…” you trail off, hands shaking as you keep your eyes on Theo’s white knuckles still gripping the broom. “I don’t want to encourage this stupid behaviour.”

Theo rolls his eyes as though he can’t believe you’re still objecting. He shakes his head at you, though his chest is shaking with laughter. “Go out with me, and I swear I’ll never do anything stupid again. Fucking hell, I’ll quit Quidditch altogether if you want.”

You open your mouth to say something, you’re not sure what, but before you can get a word out, Seamus Finnigan pipes up from beside you. “Personally, I say let him fall off the bloody thing.”

Tutting, you turn to Theo just to find the idiot raising an eyebrow challengingly. His left hand begins to loosen on the broomstick, deliberately.

“Theo, don’t you dare.”

He drops his left hand completely and you scream, the noise drowned out by everyone else’s yells.

“OKAY!” you yelp, heart in throat as you watch Theo dangling from his broomstick with one hand, clearly struggling. “Okay, I’ll go out with you, you stubborn idiot!”

The Gryffindors that hear you, begin to cheer, setting off the other houses and once McGonagall sees Theo begin to pull himself up on his broomstick, she visibly relaxes, slumping in her seat as she clutches her chest. Lee soon gets the message. “Finally, after a good month of watching Nott pine pathetically, Y/N has agreed to go out with the poor bast- Er, beggar. Sorry, Professor. By the way Nott, you’ve got detention for a week.”

Now sitting normally on his broomstick, Theo grins at you like the cheeky bastard that he is, with elation clear as day on his face. You struggle to fight off your own grin and you can tell by his expression you’re not doing a very good job at it. “Pull something like that again and I’ll push you off your broomstick myself,” you warn him, though it lacks any real threat. You were more worried than angry, and it definitely shows. “Okay?”

“No more stupid behaviour,” Theo promises, sounding sincere as he nods, messy hair falling into his eyes. The wind blows it out of the way almost immediately and you find yourself wanting to do it with your fingers. “After this, though.”

You furrow your brows as Theo flies close enough to the Gryffindor stand to get off his broomstick and hop right into the crowd, landing next to you. Broomstick in hand, Theo doesn’t take his eyes off you when he holds it out to Hermione. “If you don’t mind, Granger.”

Clearly baffled, Hermione gingerly takes the broomstick from him and watches the two of you, as enraptured as the rest of the school.

You face Theo properly, looking up at his eyes to see them glittering with pride and achievement. You tilt your head in question, wondering why he hasn’t yet returned to the game.

Theo answers you by gripping your waist to pull you into a stupidly dramatic, dizzying, wonderful kiss. His lips are soft against your own and cold from the wind, but the shiver that runs down your spine has nothing to do with the temperature and everything to do with the way Theo is pressed against you.

You could go on forever, but the cheers and claps and hollering around you remind you that you’re surrounded by all your peers and, Godric, your teachers.

Pulling away, you clear your throat and attempt to gain back some of your dignity by keeping a serious face. Theo attempts nothing of the sort as he’s still wearing a silly grin. You try and avoid his eyes for the sake of your nerves and you mutter the first thing that comes to mind. “Erm, good luck then. I hope you win.”

This is the wrong thing to say surrounded by your fellow Gryffindors as a few of them boo at you.

Theo rolls his eyes at the dramatics, while you simply scowl, pointedly at Seamus who seems to have boo’ed the loudest. Hermione is beaming at you when she hands Theo back his broomstick, though she also gives a little frown directed at Seamus.

Getting back on his broomstick, Theo hovers near you outside the stand. You lower your voice to a whisper that only he can hear. “I still hope you win.”

Theo shrugs, looking more relaxed than you’ve ever seen him during a Quidditch game. “I’ve already won, darling.”

#theodore nott x reader #theodore nott x you #theodore nott scenarios #theodore nott smut #theodore nott fluff #theodore nott imagines #theodore nott x y/n #theodore nott fanfiction #theodore nott

11K notes · View notes

cherry-pop-elf · 2 months ago

Text

Kiss It Better

Curly (mouthwashing) x reader

AN: No one asked for this but CURLY DESERVED BETTER-!

Sum: You were taking care of Curly, your partner, when you just had to ask him a question that was burning you as much alive as the cockpit burned him. Did he actually crash the ship?

Warnings: 18+, gore, medical situations, Jimmy, violence, just mouthwashing in general, ablism, lots of medical stuff (from someone that knows way to much about medical shit because of being in and out of the hospital all her life)

“Morning honey.” You would force yourself to smile. You had to. You had to for him. To give him hope like he always gave you. To be a little bit of real sunshine through the day. Just wanted to take care of him. Give Anya some kind of break.

A wheeze was your greeting.

Wasn’t like it was his fault. He couldn’t really speak right now. You wondered if he would ever speak again. You would miss his voice but it’s worth it for him to live. He will live, you knew he would. You would make sure of it.

“Let’s have a look at you.” You would grab the clipboard that Anya left for you and took a look over. The small little list to help you understand how to care for his issues. When to wash him, what time his medications were, whatever routine was needed for that day. Was your Bible so to speak. You followed it to the last ink splotch.

“Your bandages don’t look to need to be changed yet, your IV bag needs to be changed, I’ll check your catheter, and yada yada yada. Wanna try and swallow today? Maybe if you can swallow some water I can grind up the pain pills into powder for you. Wanna try?”

He gave two distinct blinks for yes.

“Wonderful. Let me do this routine, so you can mentally prepare.” You would explain, as you went to slip on the latex gloves. Didn’t want to risk transferring some kind of infection. He’s already fighting for his life as it is. No need to make it harder.

You would first change out his IV bag, since he needed to stay as hydrated and fed nutrients as possible, before working on the awkward catheter. Luckily Anya made it very easy to use. She had opted for a condom catheter since she didn’t want to put himself at anymore risk to infections, and pain, as possible. Seemed the trauma made it rather impossible to control his bowls anyway so it worked out. All you had to do was drain the bag, wash it, and reattach it to the side of the table. Wasn’t like he was going to be moving around much anyway.

“So Daisuke was showing me his gameboy. Teaching me about how the lore works and all that. I really had no idea what he was talking about, but it’s better than Swansea snoring.” You laughed, and did your best to keep yourself peppy. To help Curly feel somewhat involved with society. To not just be trapped in the med bay alone. Daisuke and Swansea would visit, and Anya did what she could medically, but sometimes you just need someone to talk to.

“Think it’s a rouge like game. That’s nice. Helps keep you entertained with wanting to break through more and more dungeons in one session.” You rambled, before reattaching the bag. Had you sigh in relief to see you didn’t mess up the chord. Some urine had already started to fill the bag. Must have been triggered by the new IV. Good good. Everything was correct.

“You ready?” You asked, as this was always the hardest part. Getting medication in him. Anya would do her best but you couldn’t blame her for struggling. It’s such a mental tax to try and take care of someone but it results in more pain. You were willing to take that burden. You were his partner after all. You felt it’s only fair you take care of him. Gave Anya some breathing room to actually care for herself. She deserved to take care of herself to.

With two clear blinks you would get to work.

You would slip your hand under his back, and forced him to sit up. He groaned in pain, and tried his best to keep his head upright, as you two tried to work together. To survive this. To try and fight through.

“You are doing so well.” You reassured, as your brought the water bottle up to his open mouth. He was able to let his head hang back, and did what he could to open his throat. Was awkward, but he managed to do it. He took a proper swallow of water. You could hardly hide your excitement.

“You did it! Oh my god you did it!” You couldn’t help but kiss his cheek. It hurt, of course, but he very much felt it was worth it. He had his own pride in being able to do some kind of basic human function again.

You would lay him back down, and was quick to grind up medication to put in the water bottle. You couldn’t wait to tell Anya his progress. You were positive the rest of the crew would be happy to hear the progress.

Well…..Most of the crew.

You used your anger towards Jimmy to help you grind the pain killers into powder. Oh how you hated him. You knew deep down he was responsible for the crash. You knew he was. You weren’t sure why he would be, but you just knew that Curly would never. If he had to, for whatever reason, he would have come on to the intercom to inform everyone to prepare for a crash. He would have done something. Anything.

What purpose would there be in crashing the ship?

Jimmy was his copilot. He would be the only other person to have access to the cockpit. He had to have been involved somehow. There had to have been something going on. You just knew it.

You just wish you had proof.

You sighed, as you would shake up the powder in the bottle. Made sure it was fully dissolved to avoid any issues with it going down his throat.

You just couldn’t understand.

Why would Jimmy crash the ship?

You would return back to curly, and do the same routine again. Slow, and small, drips into his throat. Would take a while, and would make your arm beg for death, but this would make life easier for Curly. That’s all that mattered. A arm cramp is worth it to help Curly survive.

“Curly…..Since you are more lucid now I….I just gotta ask something.”

The way his eye darted towards you said he knew what you were going to ask. Knew that it’ll be asked. He knew, and he couldn’t help but try and look towards the door. As if afraid someone would walk in.

That had you very concerned.

“…..Jimmy crashed the ship, didn’t he?” You whispered. Tried to be as hush as possible, in case someone did overhear. Was just the slow drips of the water into his dry mouth, and you.

One blink.

Two blinks.

“I fucking knew it.” You gritted your teeth, as you felt stupid to ever even have the slightest doubt that any possible reality there would be that Curly would do such a thing.

“I wish I could ask you why. Do…Do you know why?” You had to ask. You just needed to know. Know if Jimmy was as dangerous as you thought.

One blink.

T-

“How’s the captain doing?”

You would turn your head sharply, and saw Jimmy. Just standing there. God you were terrified how long he had been there. Did he hear what you asked? Didn’t seem so. Jimmy was a very aggressive person. He snapped at the slightest tone shift. If he heard you ask a question like that you wouldn’t be talking now.

“He’s….Alive.” You were caught rather off guard. You didn’t know what to say. You were scared of him. You had to be brave, though. You had a better chance at defending yourself. Curly couldn’t.

You would hear his heavy foot steps come closer, and out right feel his body heat against yours. Just looking over your shoulder. Was like this burning shadow over you. Made you feel like you’ll be squashed like a bug.

“Has he been able to talk yet?”

That’s a weird question to ask. Why not ask how he’s feeling, what progress he’s made, how his vitals are. Why is him talking on the front of his mind?

Because Curly knew something he shouldn’t.

“No. I think he’s lost his voice for good. I don’t think he’s ever going to speak again.” You lied, as you finished the test of the bottle. Returned your partner back on the table, and spun around. Nose to chest to the man. Had you terrified, but you must be brave. For Curly.

“Damn. Rough for him. No more barking orders, huh?” Jimmy tried to joke, but you could only give an awkward laugh at. Mostly to keep from pissing him off.

If he’s willing to crash a ship what else is he willing to do?

“Did you need something?” You managed to force out, as you grabbed the clipboard. Just trying to find an excuse to not look directly at Jimmy. To have a motive as to why you would stay in the med bay longer than most. Just anything to get Jimmy to leave you two alone.

“Hey, I give a shit to about him. Is it criminal to care about my friend?” He snapped at you, and it made you grab your clipboard tighter. You swore he seemed to smirk at seeing you so startled. Like he got off to the idea that he got the captains sweetheart scared.

That he’s the new boss.

“Never said that. You are the co pilot and new captain. You-“ “Pilot now. As if he’s ever going to steer a ship again. Not even a wheelchair with those stumps.” He snorted, as you wanted to smack him across the face.

“Yes….As the new Pilot and Captain I would figure you would be swamped in work. Like finding a way for us to contact help. Kinda the biggest priority after Curly. Anya and I are busy with him. You, Daisuke, and Swansea can handle the rest.”

You noticed how he seemed to roll his eyes about Anya. As if he couldn’t care less about the woman. Made you curious on what kind of beef he would have with her. She’s Anya! Who hated her?

“Yeah. Guess you are right there.” He muttered, as if it was never on his mind. Never an option that they could escape. Oh how you were getting chills.

“Keep on trucken then. Take care of our Captain Cripple. His ass needs all the help his stumpy limbs can get.” He would give him a once over, before looking at you. You made sure to keep your eyes to the clipboard instead. All you did was nod in acknowledgment, before he left.

“What are we going to do, Curly?” You sighed, as you would just lay next to him in defeat. What can you do? You had no idea. Curly was always such a good captain. Made you regret never paying more attention to how he worked the cock pit. Maybe if you did you could be more useful.

As you were full of worry and regret, Curly would weakly try and turn his head. Naked teeth were against his cheek. A attempt to kiss your cheek the best he could.

You smiled at the gesture, and made sure to be careful with snuggling your face into his shoulder.

“I’ve got you, and you got me. We can do this. I know it.” You reassured you both, as you closed your eyes. There to wait until his pain medication kicked in, so he could sleep.

As you relaxed, you couldn’t help but swear something was strange about his breathing.

It was like….He was saying words.

You would focus as hard as you could on your ears, as he would drift in and out of his buzzed state. Fighting to stay awake, but sleep coming for him.

“A….a…n…ya…..Kn….ows……”

Part 2

1K notes · View notes

januaryembrs · 11 months ago

Text

TROUBLE ALMOST ALL MY LIFE | Spencer Reid x Prentiss!Reader

Description: The ONE time the BAU needs you + the FOUR times you need them.

word count: 24k (what on earth was I thinking)

trigger warnings: mentions of spencers addictions + use + side affects. MOMMY ISSUES thankyou ambassador Prentiss. hostage scene + injuries. mentions of forced/pressured marriage. fem!reader. reader and Emily struggle to bond.

authors note: We never meet Emily's dad nor do we see a picture so while reader is given a nickname of Bugsy, she still keeps her real name (no use of y/n) and is given ZERO physical descriptors. ALL of my fem!readers should feel included here, let me know if this is not the case! also I don't speak any language besides English however she does speak many because of her mom, so I really tried to get it right, message me if I'm being stupid!!

series masterlist | next chapter

[this] means its spoken in another language.

—

‘trouble on my left, trouble on my right,

I’ve been facing trouble almost all my life’

1. the one where you become a translator.

“I’ll make some calls, I may still have some friends in the Eastern countries,” Ambassador Prentiss announced to the room, standing from her place on the plush sofa.

A case had landed quite literally in Emily’s lap when her mother had come by that morning asking for Hotch, a Russian migrant looking for her father with a ransom note and a sliced off finger shoved through her mailbox, wedding ring still attached.

It wasn’t every day Emily wished she’d brushed up on her Russian, but today of all days she was struggling to keep up.

“We don’t have much time, we need a division of labour,” Hotch’s serious face settled, the time constraints making him just that bit more dictatorial, “Morgan, someone needs to go to the Chernus’s house in Baltimore in case they are contacted again,”

“What about the language barrier?” Derek raised, smoothing a hand over the short scruff of his beard, “We can’t have the unsub speaking with the family directly. He could say anything to them without us knowing,”

Bugsy would hate to admit she fit the criteria for youngest daughter of a workaholic mother and distant father to a tea, but Emily would say different.

Elizabeth Prentiss had never been a warm woman; Emily used to tell her the scowl was a side effect of the overplucking of her eyebrows, not the serious nature of her job. Her youngest girl once said her mother’s lips looked like she’d sucked a lemon. Of course they admired her work, but world peace meant jack shit to a little girl wanting nothing more than a mother’s hug.

Despite the fact she’d pushed away her husband and both her daughters in favour of her career, the one useful thing about being the Ambassador’s daughter wasn’t just the money, but the widespread culture the girls had been crammed full of since they could so much as beg for a sippy cup.

“Baltimore, you say?” Emily asked Hotch with a somewhat doubtful wince, “I mean you could always-”

“Absolutely not,” Her mother cut her off, rubbing the stress lines already creasing her forehead at the very notion of her other daughter, despite the fact Emily hadn’t even finished her thought.

Emily’s sigh was a reflex, the years of her mother cutting her off sparking the frustration on instinct.

“She lives right in the city, Mother, it can’t hurt to have her just talk for them-” Emily tried to bargain, only for the sharp mouthed Ambassador shoot her a frown.

“End of discussion, Emily,” Elizabeth snipped, her manicured fingernails twitching with annoyance, “Your sister is much too young for an assignment so serious,”

Emily rolled her eyes with a scoff, as if the two had slipped back into the role of rebellious teenager and scathing mother without much thought.

“She's twenty-two, mom. She’s getting her masters degree for Christ sakes, she’s not ‘too young’,” The dark headed woman fought back, clicking her pen a few times as if the spring loaded ink would take away some of the temper Elizabeth seemed to flare up.

Her mother’s lips pursed, in the way Bugsy hated, in the way that meant she was going to be mean.

“Immature may have been a better word, then,” She replied, and Emily seemed to pause. She couldn’t argue with that. “Or perhaps lazy, or puerile; callow, wild, irresponsible. Would you like me to name more?”

“Asinine would be a good term; deriving from the Latin asinus it not only means foolish, but to be stubborn and lazy like an ass,” Spencer input helpfully to the Ambassador, only for his bright smile to fade when he saw the daggers Emily stared at him with, “Sorry, I love word games,” He muttered into his lap.

“Asinine. Perfect, Dr Reid,” Elizabeth said, and Emily could only roll her eyes harder.

Hotch huffed, the victim’s daughter watching between the two women’s quarrel with wet eyes, the ice box with her father’s finger clenched tightly in her lap, the cold of the limb bleeding into his own gaze.

“Unfortunately, Ambassador Prentiss, despite just how asinine your daughter might be, Morgan is right. Having the Unsub possibly speaking with the family without us understanding what he’s saying could prove fatal,” He explained, ignoring the way the older woman’s mouth scrunched in bitterness. They didn’t need to be profilers to see that despite how tempered the relationship between Emily and her mother was, a tension seemed to fall between the women the moment the younger Prentiss was mentioned.

Spencer was sure he was the only person who even knew Emily had a little sister.

“Very well, but don’t be surprised when you find your hands full of the girl,” Elizabeth said with a shake of her head as she led the victims, a mother and daughter that seemed to cling to one another for comfort as if to rub salt in her matriarchal wound, into the break room to get away from the frosty atmosphere that now lingered around the table.

Emily sighed, picking around her fingernails the way she did when she was bothered.

“I’m going to hate these next words that are gonna come out of my mouth,” She started with a long exhale, “But my mother’s right. Bugsy is a handful. Just try not to get her wound up, that girl smells fear,” She looked to Reid who seemed none the wiser, “I’m talking to you, wonder boy. She’ll eat you up and spit you right back out,”

Spencer gulped quietly.

Derek only chuckled, slapping a hand down onto Emily’s shoulder, “Relax, Prentiss. Your mom’s just got you all worried. Need I remind you I grew up with two sisters? This will be a piece of cake,”

–

Those were the famous last words of Derek Morgan.

Loud, heavy metal music jumped through the wooden door, so loud Morgan worried his three polite knocks would go unheard as the two of them waited outside her dorm for her to answer. Morgan was about to knock again, figuring the music had drowned out the first lot, when the door swung open and a frown the spitting image of Emily’s stressed expression met their gaze.

She looked so different to their Prentiss, but the way she seemed already scorned by the two of them told them they had the right woman.

“Miss Prentiss?” Morgan asked formally, though he felt the warmth grow when he caught sight of a beat up friendship bracelet around her wrist amongst newer gold chains, five white blocks spelling out her sister’s name pulling tight on her skin, as if she’d quickly outgrown the thing but hadn’t the heart to remove it.

It was then that he and Reid seemed to both reel back slightly at the fact she was standing in a large shirt, ratty around the edges, and what seemed to be a pair of men's boxers covering her bottom half, clearly not suspecting particularly important visitors.

She looked him head to toe with a frown, a dozen piercings in her ears, her hair highlighted with streaks of cardinal red, as if he was the one confronting her in his underwear, before she moved onto Spencer, who’s face seemed to be getting hotter by the second as he forced his eyes away from her bare legs.

“Are you guys strippers? Did someone send strippers to my door?” She asked, strawberry gum smacking between her lips as her gaze seemed to finish mulling over Spencer’s tall form and returned to Morgan.

“Emily sent us.” Reid said shortly, the music blaring in his ears making it difficult to focus on what it was she was saying, “As co-workers, no-not strippers. We’re with the FBI,”

He hated loud noises anyway, cringed at the sound of particularly cutting rock songs, but since he’d developed his … problem, the dilaudid had him feeling like someone was clawing at his skull, tugging his brain through his ears.

“Emily sent you here?” She asked with a scoff, looking the two up and down again. They both easily caught the way her face hardened, “Are pigs flying today or something?”

“We’re here to ask for your help on a case,” Spencer rushed through a sweaty brow, “Emily said you’d be able to act as a translator for us and some Russian citizens who are being targeted,”

She sighed sceptically, crossing her arms and leaning against the door frame, “Any strippers or non-strippers can fraud an ID. Emily’s name was in the paper just the other week. I’m gonna need a little more than that,”

She keeps track of her sister despite the supposed distance between them. Spencer was quick to profile, his mind whirring at all the ways she reminded him of her sister down to the way she raised her eyebrows expectantly at them.

“Emily was born October twelfth, 1970 at 7:12am, graduated from Garfield High School in 1989,” Spencer said as if reporting the weather, her eyes narrowing in on him all the more coldly, “She attended Chesapeake Bay University and speaks six languages, as I expect you do from moving so often with your mother. She coined your nickname Bugsy from your childhood love of ladybugs, which she said you grew out of by the time you turned eleven yet the name stuck, though you still like counting the spots to identify their species. Your parents split when you were five and your father moved in with his now wife, born September ninth-”

“Alright- alright. What are you, living in her walls?” She interrupted incredulously, before turning her attention to Derek who seemed to hide a chuckle with a cough. “Either you really are a stripper or you’re a terrible friend,”

“She loves Kurt Vonnegut,” Derek held his finger as if to prove her entirely wrong, although not much else came to him. Maybe he was a bad friend, he thought guiltily, or maybe he simply lacked an eidetic memory like the wonder boy next to him, who had been about to tell her how old she was when Emily’s pet betta fish died, “Slaughterhouse 5?”

Rolling her eyes, she grunted at them, kicking her door open for them to enter.

“Everyone loves Vonnegut; only losers under a rock dislike Vonnegut,” She drawled, edging back into her room, the heavy bass rock growing in volume as they followed her in, “I’ll be ready in a second- Emily’s always bugging me about wearing pants,” She said vaguely, scanning around the dirty dorm, until she found one particular pair of jeans laying half under her bed, quickly yanking them up her legs. “Come in, come in.”

She flicked the speakers way down to which Spencer took a breath of relief. His eyes fell to the laptop that had been set up on her desk, the five different textbooks littered around the spare space, energy drinks and empty mugs filling the cracks where he could barely see the generic white of the table top, his nose crinkling. About as gross as he’d expect from a college student.

“Emily said your Russian was pretty good,” Derek made conversation, his eyes wandering over the various posters plastered over her walls, some fraying round the edges from where she had likely been moved from bedroom to bedroom when the Prentiss’s inevitably had to move country again.

“Yeah,” She snarked, pulling a nicer top over her head, “Kinda tends to happen when you live in Russia,”

Morgan raised his eyebrows to Spencer who seemed to give him the same look back, though the latter was biting back a snicker at her words.

How in the hell was she the Ambassador’s daughter?

–

“This all involves Russian Mafia, it’s really beefed up here the last ten years or so,” Agent Cramer, a tall, slim man who looked entirely overwhelmed by the workload on his shoulders reported, as she listened intently.

She had been somewhat de-briefed in the car, Emily messaging her for the first time since Christmas, the message a simple: “Have you met with Morgan and Reid yet? Make sure to put on pants,” to which she sent her a thumbs up emoji. She didn’t have much to say to her at the moment, barely even knew her sister anymore.

“It started off mainly in New York and LA but they send lieutenants from the old country,” Cramer went on, and she caught Reid scratching his arm beneath his shirt. She knew it was mozzy weather, and he was already under the blaring sun in a little sweater, it wouldn’t surprise her if he felt a bit prickly.

“Pahkans,” She interrupted, the man named Gideon shooting her a glance as she dug through her purse.

“Your Mom do much work about the Mafia?” He asked, as she produced a clear nail varnish.

“Here and there, I had to sit with her in her office for a whole Summer once when I got caught sneaking out. Picked up a few things, though,” She said, holding the polish out to Spencer, nodding to his arm, “Here. Supposed to help bug bites,”

He looked at her as if he wanted to say something, perhaps question her sources for such an old wives tale, but he stopped himself quickly, taking the varnish out of her hand with a dejected nod.

“Thankyou,” He muttered, shoving it in his pocket.

Three months he’d been in this rabbit hole. She had noticed it in a matter of hours.

“They open up branch offices in other cities. Baltimore, Saint Louis, Chicago, Dallas, the list goes on,” Cramer added, nodding at her words, “They’re mainly offshoots of the Odessa Mafia and they’re especially tough to crack from a law enforcement standpoint. I mean beside being well organised with sophisticated technical equipment, there’s Vory v Zakone to contend with,”

“The thieves code, eighteen principles they live by,” Reid jumped in before she could, to which she nodded as Gideon looked to her for more.

“It means ‘thief in law’, or ‘thief with code’. It's a system of repeatedly jailed convicts that have been crowned or ‘made’ with a strict list of ideals, breaking them usually means death,” She explained, kicking a stone between her feet.

“It’s like bible to these guys. We’re not gonna be turning any of them informer anytime soon,” Cramer said. Gideon seemed to tune the three of them out however, his gaze locking on the house across the street, where a curtain twitched, and a man’s face appeared in the window, watching the crime scene with guilt.

“Then we’ll need a witness who will talk,” Gideon replied, heading straight towards the neighbour who seemed just a little too invested in what was happening, much more than a concerned third party should be. Though, she had barely noticed, digging through her purse once more for chapstick.

“So, you study Russian or something?” Cramer asked as she applied it gently, Spencer swore he could smell the cherry flavour from where he stood beside her.

“I lived in Moscow until I was six, moved back to France, then back to Italy, then Algeria for a bit. Bounced around Europe for a bit longer, but I still speak better Russian than anything else,” She clarified, and she saw Cramer’s eyebrows shoot up, “Military brat except I don’t get the cool discount at the store,”

“You must have had a lot of friends though, going to so many schools,” Spencer added, and though there was nothing teasing about his tone, she laughed sharply anyway.

“You’re funny,” She snarked, but smiled at him anyway.

Spencer had never been called funny in his life. ‘Funny looking’, ‘funny sounding’ maybe, but never funny.

In fact he was so confused by what she had meant, whether it had been a taunt or genuine that he almost missed the sound of the whole street locking their front doors, dead bolting their lives away when a black prius, an expensive one at that, pulled through the street and swerved into park next to them.

“Guess who,” Cramer bit, her eyes ripping away from where Gideon had the door slammed in his face.

Detective Cramer aged by about five years when two tall men got out of the luxury car, opening the door for a shorter man in the back seat, their faces thunder.

“You familiar with them?” She asked, shoulder brushing against Spencer as she turned to watch the men approach, entirely aware of the .9mm on each of their hips.

“Arseny Lysowsky,” The detective identified, his voice cold, eyeing the two men who flanked the leader, towering over them.

“Agent Cramer, how are you?” Lysowsky smiled at him, which oddly enough seemed somewhat real, as he also took stock of the three other people around him. His eyes lingered on her for a moment, noting her lack of gun and badge, trying to decipher if she was local or just a very unprepared fed.

“Lysowsky, what brings you out?” Cramer asked, a tightness to his tone, his hand all too eager to grab his own pistol.

“I heard Chernuses had problems,” He kept it vague, didn’t reveal too much, and looked back at the victim’s house with a scorned frown.

“How did you hear that?” Gideon challenged, stance unwavering as the mob leader turned to meet his cold gaze.

“And you are?” He asked, a sinister smile on his face that flipped her stomach. She didn’t like the tension that had overcome the little patch of sidewalk they took up, and she was quick to notice how Spencer moved towards her.

He, by far, wasn’t the best shot on the team, but he was sure Hotch and Prentiss would have his and Morgan’s heads if any harm came to her.

“Churneses said they hadn’t told anyone,” Agent Gideon ignored his question, hands firmly planted on his hips. If he was unnerved by the criminal in front of him, he never showed it, not even when Lysowsky’s grin widened horribly.

“It is a small community. Word gets out,” He said simply, looking past him to the neighbours house that had kicked Gideon to the curb, “Are you a friend of Gorban’s?”

A second of silence passed between them, neither of them backing down from the moral standoff they’d engaged in.

“Mr Gorban wouldn’t talk to me,” Gideon admitted, and Arseny only smiled again, flicking a look at the house behind him, as if hearing his dog had obeyed without command.

“Would you like me to talk to him for you?” The threat was there clear as day, clear enough to have Gideon’s eyes narrow, “I can’t promise something will come of it,”

“You!” In a second, Natalya, the victim she’d briefly met when Morgan had pulled up around an hour before, had stormed out of her house, her black kitten heels clicking against the concrete, “Where’s my father? He has my father!”

“Wait a minute,” Derek called, restraining her where she stood, trying to pull his muscled arm from her shoulder, “Do you know he has your father?”

“He’s responsible for all of this,” She spat, her eyes cold as she glared at the three men with vitriol hate, “Why everyone’s afraid, him and his animals,” She threw a hand up to his bodyguards that seemed barely contained by Cramer’s silencing hand.

“I am only here to help,” Lysowsky replied, confident and calm in his words, though not as taunting as the agents would have thought, as if he truly cared for her.

A vast difference to the sadistic mob boss Cramer’s team had painted him to be.

“Help?” She laughed woefully, tears in her eyes, “You’re a dog,”

“Natalya,” Arseny said in a warning, the way a teacher would to a student, as her breath rattled in her chest through a weep.

“How exactly can you help them?” Bugsy braved to speak, Gideon and Reid both flashing her a look. She’d always had trouble holding her tongue.

Lysowsky turned his attention to her then, his eyes running down her figure, still deciphering whether she was armed; she looked much too young to be an agent.

“In any way that they’d like me to, darling,” He replied, the disdain in her frown clearly not deterring him in the slightest, though again the act of concern held up in his own grimace, “As I said this is a small community. If one is in pain, we’re all in pain.”

Natalya weeped behind Morgan, sniffling as the boss made his way over to her, “Natalya, [you didn’t have to bring in outsiders],”

The younger woman’s ears pricked up as he spoke in his native language, Spencer’s eyes flicking to her from behind his sunglasses.

“[Let me help you],” He continued, taking a step towards Natalya, unthreatening yet she saw Morgan tense, his fingers twitching towards his gun.

“[My family will never come to you for help],” Natalya hissed back, also in Russian, her face contorted in disgust, “[Get away from my house],”

“[You are not right, Natalya],” He replied, yet again the concern in his eyes was either genuine or very well faked, “[You have made the wrong decision],”

Taking a step away from the victim that wept with a scorned sneer, he looked back to the agents, noting the way the youngest of them glared at him hotly, before retreating to his car.

“What did he say? Did he threaten you, Natalya?” Morgan asked, the woman watching the group of men drive away, as if Mr Chernus wasn’t still missing and they hadn’t just bumped themselves up to number one of the suspects list. “Talk to us and we can do something about it,”

“He said I made the wrong decision,” She said wetly, frustration turning on Derek as he pushed her for an answer, “I hope I didn’t,”

With that she stormed off back into her house, the same stomping of her kitten heels in her wake, leaving the agents to all look between one another before they simultaneously turned to look at Bugsy, questions hovering on all of their lips.

“What did he say exactly?” Gideon asked without frills, a hand rubbing his brow. Relaying the information, the men’s faces all drew into frowns as they heard Lysowsky’s parting statement. Gideon huffed, turning to Morgan and gesturing for him to follow Natalya inside.

“Morgan, keep an eye on her, Reid and I are going to Cramer’s office to look over the files,” He looked at her then, worry lines littering his otherwise friendly face, damn near scowling as she looked over at him, “You are here to interpret, you understand? You do not speak to the suspects, that’s our job.” He growled, watching her with disappointment, the same tone a father used when scolding a petulant child, “Do you have any idea how much danger you could put yourself in? These guys won’t hesitate to take you out the second we’re not around, kid,”

“But-” She started with a bite, though her whole fight left her when he silenced her with a raised hand.

“Buts are for cigarettes, kiddo,” He interrupted, and Spencer winced slightly, knowing he’d heard that one a few hundred times when he’d first started under Gideon and had yet to mature entirely. Reid watched something rebellious flare in her eyes, and he worried for a moment she might just slap his boss for the patronising tone he took, “Just keep your mouth shut, you’re doing great so far,”

She opened her mouth to protest, only to then register his words entirely and stay silent once more, appreciating his praise with a guilty smile. For once, she listened.

–

The grandfather clock chimed to tell them it was merely 11am; two hours until the unsub would start cutting more if they didn’t get the ransom fee, two hours to figure out who wanted Natalya’s family to suffer.

Said woman paced her living room at the sound of the hour, as Bugsy picked over the knick knacks on her fireplace, a small smile teasing her lips when she saw a picture of three small children grinning toothily at the camera.

She had never gotten any photo’s similar, Emily being fourteen years older. The majority of their childhood photos consisted of a very grumpy teenager holding her baby sister that seemed to squirm in the tight, formal dresses Elizabeth Prentiss had forced them into, identical scowls on their faces as they were made to sit for the picture.

There were some good memories, ones where Emily let herself be a sister and not a mom, where she would put makeup on her for fun and do her hair, let her have all the clothes out her wardrobe she thought looked nice, reading to her before bed, even letting her sister keep her pet corn snake when she left home for good.

But now, it seemed like she was too caught up in her super serious grown up job to give a shit that her sister lived just an hour away. Still messaged each other for holidays, but the last few times she’d braved a call to the eldest Prentiss, it had gone unanswered. They argued the majority of the time they spoke, or there was an awkward long silence in between words, whichever was worse, but they each knew the other would come running if they were to ever need them so desperately.

“Are you hungry? I could make something?” Natalya offered kindly, Derek having a poke through her collection of books that sat on the end table, though he’d have a tough job reading them as she’d already caught most of them were in her home language.

“Oh, no thanks. I’m fine,” He replied with a small smile, putting down the books to calm the clearly on edge woman that looked to the twenty-something year old hopefully.

She shook her head, “I’m good, thanks,” which seemed to deflate her entirely as she sat next to Derek with a sigh.

“I guess I’m like my mother. When she’s upset, she cooks,” Natalya said with a sad huff of a laugh, running a hand through her short, dark hair.

“Yeah, mine does too. I think that’s just a mom thing,” He replied, and Bugsy felt the two of them look at her as her finger traced the old brass ornaments gently, “How about you, baby Prentiss?”

She snorted, “You’re kidding, right?” smiling bitterly, “My mom never cooked for us, she said we needed to figure it out for ourselves rather than relying on the staff. Didn’t stop her from trying to end world hunger though,”

It wasn’t lost to Morgan the way her eyes trained on the picture of Natalya and her mother, cuddled together with genuine love in their embrace, the snarky humour as she spoke, the same longing Emily seemed almost too good at hiding from them.

“Your mother is a great woman,” Natalya complimented, though she missed the way the girl’s face steeled over, chewing her bottom lip as if to stop herself from snapping at the woman who meant well. She said nothing. “Where is your mother?” She turned her attention back to Derek who seemed the more talkative of the two of them.

“Chicago. That’s where I’m from,” He replied, watching Bugsy turn away from the two of them to inspect more of the Chernus’s trinkets on their walls.

“I’m from Dolgoprudny. Just North of Moscow.” Natalya replied. Opening her mouth to add something else, she was cut off by a knock at the door and the three of them froze in their place.

“Are you expecting someone?” Morgan asked Natalya in a hushed tone, reaching for his gun and heading for the door.

She shook her head, “No,” She whispered back. Morgan pulled the curtain back the smallest inch to see a small blonde boy staring back, a box in his hands and a bored look on his face.

It all happened too fast from there, Natalya opening the door for the neighbourhood kid, opening the box to see a decapitated ear, the blood fresh and pooling in the bottom of the box. It couldn’t have been taken longer than an hour or so ago, unless they were keeping the parts on ice.

Bugsy’s hand slapped over her mouth, Natalya’s scream piercing through her as she shoved the box into Derek’s hands, fleeing to the toilet, and she heard the woman retching. Part of her felt the same nausea settle in her stomach, looking away from the body part with a wince as Derek got straight on the phone to Gideon.

“They didn’t wait, man. They sent a box with-” He swallowed thickly, “With Mr Chernus’s ear inside.”

Gideon replied, and whatever it was, it had Derek looking back to her. He agreed, hanging up the phone and rooting through his pockets, producing a set of rattling keys, holding them out for you between the tips of his fingers.

“Gideon wants you, kid. He said they’re at the Little Kiev restaurant, they’re going to talk to Lysowsky,” Morgan said, grimacing as he held the ear away from her, “You sure you’ll be okay to drive?”

“I’d rather be on the road than look at what’s in that box,” She said in disgust, taking the keys and heading out to the car.

She thought it best for everyone she didn’t tell him she hadn’t yet got her licence as she made her way over to the restaurant.

“Reid and I will do the talking, just see if anything he’s saying connects with Vory v zakone, think you got that?” Gideon instructed her the second she got out of the car, taking the keys and handing them back to Reid who gave her a small nod.

“We think the reason it was Mr Chernus who was targeted has something to do with the code,” Reid explained, his hands in his pockets as the three of them approached the restaurant, “You said earlier you understood the tenants,”

“Why me, though? I thought I was just translating?” She repeated Gideon’s earlier words, almost cocky that they needed her.

“Lysowsky would feel the need to show face in front of men like Morgan and Cramer, even in front of Natalya since she lives locally. Between the three of us, he had less reputation to uphold, less so with a young woman like yourself,” Reid added, holding the door open for her to go in front.

And so there she was, trailing behind Gideon and Reid over to where Lysowsky sipped a spoonful of borscht, as she tried not to marvel at the grandeur of the establishment inside. Clearly, Arsney had money to build a place like this, and wasn’t afraid to be flashy about it either, that much was apparent from the other clientele that tended to their beers around their own tables, Rolex watches and designer shoes adorning nearly every one of them. She hated to think of how many ears or fingers those suits had cost.

“Would you like something to eat?” He asked, a chunk of bread in his hand dipping into the thick sauce, seemingly unbothered that they were there, “This borscht is exquisite, it’s my mother’s old country recipe,”

“Didn’t you forsake all your relatives when you swore the thieves code?” Reid asked, which she guessed was hit foot in to get Lysowsky to talk.

“I didn’t forsake her recipes,” Lysowsky replied with a shrug, looking to her where she seemed to be staring at his plate, “Borscht?”

She shook her head, her nose wrinkling, “Much preferred stroganoff, mom used to force me to have borscht to make sure I ate my veggies,”

His eyebrows raised, surprise written over his face, before he gave a short laugh.

“[Where are you from]?” He asked in his mother tongue, gesturing for the three of them to sit down, though his eyes lit up as he watched her carefully.

“[I was born in DC, but my mother worked in Moscow for a few years],” She answered shortly, and he seemed to find it even funnier that the near child they’d brought along on their case spoke as fluently as he did.

Laughing with a heavy hand smacking on the table, he gestured to a nearby waiting staff to come over.

“What are you having then, borscht for the gentle man?” He looked at Reid and Gideon, the former shaking his head while Gideon nodded with an awkward smile.

“I’d love a taste,” He said, though any enthusiasm seemed to have drained out of his voice.

“And what is the little lady having?” Lysowsky asked, his eyes falling back to her, as she straightened in her seat.

She chanced a quick glance to Gideon, who nodded at her to play his game. She had not expected to be so deep in criminal territory when they’d said they needed a translator, and truly they hadn’t planned on getting her in the field until they realised she would know much more about this than they would.

“Do you have sharlotka?” She asked, returning his smile wearily as he clicked at the waiter who all but bolted to the kitchen.

“A sweet tooth. I like it,” Arseny replied, shovelling a heap of beets into his mouth, “Our favourite was always Leningradsky,”

“Ours?” She prompted, giving a polite thanks to the waiter who returned too quickly with a slice of cake. She caught Spencer glancing at the bowl with intrigue, the hunger clear on the quiet man’s face. Gently pushing the bowl and clean spoon towards him, he flicked a look up at her, “Apple cake,” She whispered, sending him a small smile, “Really yummy with the sugar on top,”

“Mine and my mother’s,” Arseny replied, though Gideon and Reid both caught how he paused before he replied, as if he had to think about the answer he was giving; the oldest tell that it wasn’t entirely true, “We didn’t have much when I was a boy, but that was always our dessert of choice,”

She stopped for a mere second, missing the moment when Spencer spooned the tiniest bite of the cake into his mouth, trying to ignore the way his tongue exploded in the sweet, fruit taste. He hadn’t eaten anything properly in days, and maybe that was why it tasted so good, but more likely it was just the fact that everything sweet tasted even better when he was on his come downs.

“We need to talk, Arseny,” Gideon interrupted, ignoring the way Spencer pined to go back in for a second mouthful, but chose to hand the bowl back to her with a small smile.

“We are on first name basis?” Lysowsky asked, shaking his head, and she took a small bite of the sweet cake for herself, “I still don’t even know who you are,”

“I think I understand something about this,” Gideon replied, his thumbs tapping together, the waiter returning with his borscht, “You have a problem,”

“I do?” The pahkan titled his head at the agent, the annoyance clear on his face.

“That’s why you came to the Chernus’ house this morning,” Gideon answered, unbothered as he began to scoop the borscht onto the spoon, the apple cake in her own mouth going down a treat.

She kept her head down, took tiny bites of the dessert that certainly tasted like a fresh baked sharlotka. But her thoughts lingered on what Lysowsky had said, about his own favourite pudding.

It made no sense that he would have ever tasted Leningradsky shortbread, not for the time that he was born, nor with the amount of money he claimed his family lacked. Infact, the way he fully pronounced his vowels, the akanye, the stress he put on certain parts of his words, all pointed to the same dialect you’d heard back in Moscow, more central than anything else.

So how on earth would he have eaten the so-called ‘Royal Cake’ that had only been made eight hours from there, in the town it grew its name from.

There was something glaringly obvious about his story missing.

“A man like me?” She tuned back into the conversation, swallowing another mouthful down as Gideon took another bite himself, though it seemed the topic had turned sour as Arseny wiped his mouth with the corner of his napkin.

“Four watchtowers and a convict signifies a stay in prison,” Spencer cut in, nodding towards the tattoos branded across his knuckles, “Each one of those crosses symbolises an individual sentence,”

“Twenty three years in prison in the Ural mountains,”

But she was still stuck on what it was she was missing. It had been such an odd thing to lie about, particularly when he’d even admitted himself that they hadn’t had much money, so he clearly hadn’t been lying to fake a reputation.

So why lie?

She was ripped out of her stumped silence when Natalya entered the restaurant, her voice grabbing the men’s attention immediately.

“Mr Lysowsky. You said you could help me,” She said, her purse over her shoulder and her own car keys gripped tightly in her hand as if she’d all but thrown herself out the vehicle to get there faster.

“Don’t you already have help,” Lysowsky snapped, clearly Gideon had dug under his skin enough to garner a reaction.

“I made a mistake,” Natalya replied, barely meeting Bugsy’s gaze as she stared at her from her seat at the table. “I talked to my father on the phone,”

The girl frowned at her, “That’s a lie,” It came out before she could hold herself, brows furrowed at whatever it was she was trying to pull. Gideon said her name in a reprimand, though he too was looking at the woman as if she’d grown a second head.

“Thankyou for coming, but I don’t need your help,” The woman met her confused look with a saddened expression, nodding to her solemnly.

Leave it alone, she seemed to be saying, there’s nothing more I want you to do.

And with that, the two of them left the restaurant, Natalya walking by his side obediently, her purse tucked in close under her arm, as Morgan and Cramer filed in from the parking lot, watching their only leads drive away without a fight.

–

The team were quick to head back to Natalya’s home, only to find the ear missing and the finger gone too, the only evidence left of any crime being committed leaving with the victim’s daughter herself.

“She’s not here, and the garbage was never taken out,” Morgan said with a grimace as he walked down the front steps to meet the four of them on the sidewalk.

“Her dad just went missing, surely we can cut the girl some slack-” Bugsy words were hidden in a huff, rolling your eyes at the man who cut a glance to her.

“No, no. When Hotch first talked to us, he said she noticed her father’s car in the driveway when she took the garbage out,” Morgan explained, his shades blocking the way the cogs turned behind his dark eyes.

“Right?” Reid asked, his own sunglasses now covering his eyes that winced at the brightness, surrounding them.

“Garbage can in the kitchen is completely full, she never took it out.”

“She lied,” Gideon said with finality, the penny beginning to drop for him too.

“She could be half way back to Dolgo-whatever by now,” Morgan scoffed, his arms smacking against his side as the lightbulb went off over her head, the final puzzle piece falling into place.

“Dolgoprudny?” Spencer asked, exchanging a glance with Cramer, “Isn’t that where Lysowsky’s from-”

“Yes, YES, of course!” She exclaimed, grabbing onto Spencer’s arm as he spoke.

He looked at her with wide eyes, not that she could see since his shades blocked the way, only to feel her shake him harder in the midst of her enthusiasm. Part of him wanted to rip his arm out of her grip, waiting for the sickness to crawl up his throat at a strangers germs touching him, but the oddest part of him reasoned she had the same germs as Emily did, that the fifty percent DNA the women shared negated the fact she was a stranger, just as it did when he met Jack. Jack had Hotch germs. Bugsy had Emily’s. He didn’t feel so sick thinking of it like that.

“I knew I was missing something,” She said, turning to Gideon, “He was lying before, about his favourite dessert. There was no way he could have had Leningradsky with his mother. Given his age, at that time in Soviet Russia, shortbread was incredibly expensive, only extremely wealthy families could have eaten it. That, and given the Central dialect he speaks in, I’d pinpointed he lives somewhere near or around Moscow, which means there was no way he was eating that cake considering it was only ever baked in one shop at first, one way up in Leningrad, where St Petersburg is now, like nine hours away from Moscow-”

“What’s your point?” Cramer asked, tired of the somewhat slew of thoughts she’d been saving until she knew for sure what she meant.

“Before when he said it was ‘our favourite’, I don’t think he was talking about him and his mother,” She explained, looking to see if Spencer at least understood what she was getting at.

“It was him and his own child…” Spencer finished, as Morgan’s phone began ringing.

“Yeah, what?” He asked, the frustration clear in his tone that they were all still without the evidence needed to pin it on Lysowsky, “You’re sure? Uh-huh. Okay, thanks doll,”

The four of them looked at him expectantly as he nodded to her, “Garcia just got into the bank’s system, somebody wired 500 thousand dollars into the account ten minutes ago,”

“Who wired it?” Spencer asked, though he was still reeling from the way she’d touched him, the way her voice went up about five octaves and a dozen decibels.

“She didn’t say, but the name on the account is Lyov Fulenko. She says that’s Lysowsky’s wife’s maiden name. Fulenko.” Morgan replied, and her brows furrowed.

“Why did she bring us into this?” Gideon asked, though the solemn look on his face said he already knew, “Because she needed to put pressure on the other victim,”

Gideon headed towards Mr Gorban’s house once more, though it was clear he had already sketched out in his head who was their unsub and Natalya’s involvement, he simply needed the confirmation.

Morgan clapped a hand on her back, “Nice job, baby Prentiss. Those were some mean profiling skills out there,”

She frowned at him, scoffing, “I’m not a profiler, that’s Emily’s job. It was just basic linguistics really; more a display of how I need to lay off cake for a while.”

The man kissed his teeth with a grin, “Don’t put yourself down. What’s your degree even in?”

She shrugged, picking under her nails for something to do, “Individualised genomics and health.” She said as if it were child’s play, though Spencer’s head shot to her.

“Biotechnology?” He asked, and she glanced at him with a nod, “What’s your thesis on?”

Gideon had returned by the time he’s asked, and began corralling the two of them back to the car, “We’re heading back to the restaurant. We need to speak with Lysowsky again,”

But it had fallen on deaf ears as Spencer looked at her expectantly.

“Just some new research into prenatal screening, nothing too fun,” She simpered, climbing into the back seat as he nodded with her.

“I read a fascinating paper on the uses of hCG in a woman’s body-”

“Reid,” Gideon cut him off with a short glance from the front seat, “Continue this conversation once we’ve found Mr Chernus alive,”

Spencer blushed, feeling like a kid caught in the cookie jar, “Sorry, sir,” He looked over at her, only to see her hiding a smile to herself.

He thinks it was then he’d decided Emily had been wrong about her.

“You paid the ransom already,” Gideon said plainly, the four of them trailing behind him as he followed Lysowsky to a small seating area in the front of the restaurant. She could tell the whole way Spencer had been itching to ask her more questions about her paper, barely contained as his fingers had twitched in his lap, but he seemed to straighten himself out once she’d reached the restaurant, “You paid all the ransoms,”

“Sit,” The boss ordered, barely glancing at them as he held his strong whiskey up.

“Are they going to kill Mr Chernus?” Morgan asked, cutting to the chase as Lysowsky spared him a bored glance.

“No,” He replied shortly, the look on his face about as grumpy as when they’d left.

“The account is in the name of Lyov Fulenko. Lyov is a man’s name.” Spencer input, crossing his arms as the boss glared at him, “A son’s name. Vory v Zakone. Never have a family of your own. No wife. No children.”

“Lyov,” He looked at her then, gesturing to her with the glass of strong liquor, “You know what it means?”

“The Lion,” She replied gravely, steeling herself against his dark eyes.

“No one else would be so stupid,” Lysowsky ran a hand over his weathered face, swigging his drink as if it was the only thing keeping him talking. “At first it didn’t mean much. It was a way of letting him earn his own money. I could afford it, it came from the fund. And no one questions the use of the fund-”

“Where is he?” Gideon asked, his elbows on his knees as he leaned in.

“What else could I do?” He was ignored, “I couldn’t admit I wasn’t blessing the kidnappings, I couldn’t even admit my son existed.” He huffed when he saw Gideon’s face unmoving from the glower, his question still unanswered, “Chernus will be home in a few minutes. You should be there, he will need medical attention,” He shooed them away, with his final words, drink sloshing in his hand. His face darkened, impossibly so, and the five of them looked at him, something sad and remorseful shining back.

“What are you gonna do?” She asked, though she had a feeling she already knew the answer.

“Vory v Zakone.” He said heavily, nodding to her, “We take care of our own troubles.”

It was a silent journey back to the Chernus’ house.

Morgan and Reid pulled up to the campus, the younger girl in the back seat almost dozing off with the rhythmic hum of the engine, the evening sun much nicer on Spencer’s sensitive eyes.

“This is you, baby Prentiss,” Derek’s voice jolted her out of the half sleep she was in, straightening herself from where she had her head pressed against the window.

“Thanks,” She muttered, rubbing her eyes and unbuckling herself as they did the same, assuming they wanted to walk her back to her dorm since it had gotten dark, “I’ll be okay on my own, campus security should be out by now,”

“You sure?” Reid asked, flicking his watch up to his eyes to see the meagre 6:13pm staring back at him, “I thought they started at 7,”

She blinked at him, her eyebrows quirking for a moment, “How do you know that?”

“Johns Hopkins was my backup option- well actually it was my third, I much preferred Caltech’s curriculum, Yale was my second-” He started, flicking a glance to her where she waited for him to finish, “Not that Johns was bad, there were just better- alternative options out there-”

“Don’t shit your pants, I’m hardly the dean of the university,” She chuckled indignantly patting them both on the shoulder before sliding over to open the door, “Nice meeting you both, I’ll just get back to my mediocre college with my poor curriculum, nothing like the solid gold bathrooms at Caltech-”

“I never said that!” She laughed again, with her whole chest, at his defensive tone as she stepped out the car, hand on the door to shut it behind her.

Leaning down to give them both a wave goodbye, Derek’s voice stopped her again, “Baby Prentiss, do us all a favour and enrol yourself into forensics, we need more people on our team,”

Smirking at him, she shook her head, “Very funny. Never gonna happen. I like my little slides and samples, thankyou,”

Slamming the door on the two of them she headed for the front gates, swinging her purse over her shoulder. She was stopped by a hand on her shoulder, and she quickly realised she’d been too tired to even realise a set of footsteps jogging after her.

Maybe she should have taken that walk home after all.

Whirling around, her eyes widened as Spencer had clearly not been leader of the track team as he was half out of breath just from the few feet he’d covered, though she reckoned she could have guessed that seeing his lean ribs beneath his shirt.

He shoved a business card in her face as he caught his breath, though it was more just his name and credentials followed by a phone number.

“I-I don’t have email otherwise I would-” He huffed, scratching his forehead as she frowned and looked at him.

“I’ve never been hit on via business card before,” She bit her lip with a smile, reading over the card again as he choked on his words even more than before.

“N-no, I-” He spluttered, ignoring the way Morgan beeped the horn for him, seemingly in a debate with a ticket metre that had caught him parked on yellow, “If you needed us for anything, or if you needed a second pair of eyes for your thesis, I’m happy to help,”

“You don’t have faith in the dummy that got into Johns?” She asked, and his head couldn’t shake fast enough, though he seemed to catch her teasing and shared her smile, “Thanks, Dr Reid,”

“Spencer’s just fine,” He said, giving her a small nod and a wave as Morgan’s palm bounced on the horn a dozen times. She flashed him one more smile, pocketing his number and heading back to her dorm, wondering what the doctor would think about the paper due in tomorrow she’d yet to get started on.

+1. The one where you get arrested.

The case had been heavy. They’d felt it in the car on the way back to headquarters. A little girl, molested and groomed by her own uncle, his own wife covering for him.

His mother always told him love makes you do crazy things, but Spencer hoped that whatever part of him worth loving would at least stay sane by the time he found the one. He was loyal to his team, to his mother, but that was where he drew the line. He was loyal to his family, undoubtedly so.

Yet so was Emily.

The call came to the second SUV, her phone set up to hands free mode, quickly flicking to answer the call on speaker, the other half of the team ahead of them on the freeway.

“Prentiss, speaking. Who is this?” She spoke clearly to the unknown number, her knuckles going white at the wheel when she heard a nervous laugh.

“It’s me,” Her sister mumbled through the speaker, “You wouldn’t by any chance be near DC would you?”

She huffed, cursing the knack Prentiss women had for showing up at the worst times.

“Can’t this wait, I’m on the clock,” Emily hissed, her finger edging towards the ‘End Call’ button, “I’ll call you after,”

“Wait, wait, don’t hang up!” As if sensing her movements, she all but screeched, “This was my one phone call, they won’t let me have another,”

The car went silent for a moment, Spencer’s eyes narrowing on the dash from his place in the passenger seat, JJ also leaning forward from the back with a frown.

Emily grit her teeth, her upper lip twitching the way it did when she was mad.

“What do you mean by one phone call? Where are you?” She bit in a cautious tone, though knowing how reckless Bugsy tended to be, she had a pretty good idea.

The hesitation on the other end of the line was palpable, as was the way she awkwardly cleared her throat.

“Fairfax County Jail,” She murmured sheepishly, “But it wasn’t my fault, these assholes don’t know what they’re talking about, I swear-”

“Stay there and keep your mouth shut,” Emily ordered, her expression furrowing into a sneer, “And for the love of god don’t antagonise the officers,”

The agent didn’t even wait for a response, knowing it would probably be something snarky, her mind already racing at what the hell her sister could have done this time, every worst possible explanation jumping to the forefront.

“I’ll call Hotch and tell him to turn around,” JJ offered, her fingers already searching her contacts for their boss, as Emily sighed through her nose.

“Tell him not to worry, I’ll drop you guys back to headquarters, make my way there myself,” She said, picking the skin of her nail softly with her thumb.

“By the time we’ve reached Quantico, visiting times will be over and she’ll have to stay the night,” Spencer pointed out, his own surprise evident. Sure, she had certainly been a personality when they had met, but a criminal seemed a stretch.

“Maybe it would teach her a lesson,” Emily mused, shaking her head to herself, “Who am I kidding, that psycho would Shawshank her way out of there by dawn,”

“You don’t actually think she would hurt anyone do you?” JJ said, the dial tone ringing out from the phone she held to her ear.

“Wouldn’t put it past her. She once cut a girl's pigtail off for wearing the same dress as her on her birthday,” Emily winced as Spencer’s eyebrows shot into his hairline.

“I thought getting swirlied was bad,” He muttered, watching out the window as Emily made a U-turn at the traffic lights. He and the now twenty three year old had been bouncing research papers back and forth for a few months, the odd one every week, Bugsy even once joking it was much more interesting and riveting than foreplay, which had his face red hot at his desk.

She was like that, he’d quickly realised, had a vulgar sort of humour about her, yet he couldn’t help the snigger that came out whenever he’d receive one of his papers back through the mail with pink writing scrawled all over his ideas. The little hearts that dotted her exclamations whenever she wrote “AMAZING!”, the odd time she’d written “sexy ideas, doctor Reid” which he’d come to understand meant it was really good. He’d even gotten back the drawing at the end of the paper of a stickman of the two of them, his hair a curly scribble and a purple tie which told him immediately who was who, her line of a hand pointing at his caricature with the speech bubble, “everyone point and wave at the smart man,” which had made him laugh.

She was odd, toeing the line between childish and witty, nothing like the scholars he usually worked with, and the writing he usually sent back on her papers were all in standard black ink, his own pharmacist handwriting staring back at him as he crammed in his every thought of her research into the margins. If she couldn’t read it, she hadn’t said, but he liked to think she took notice of it all, even if it wasn’t strewn with stars and doodles and the occasional flirt he knew meant nothing. He knew her from her writing, knew her from her ideas that sometimes kept him up at night thinking more about them, but the two of them hadn’t spoken directly, most certainty hadn’t seen one another since that day with the Chernus’.

Emily hummed, fingers drumming on the wheel, entirely unaware of the thoughts rattling around in Spencer’s head, then again that’s how it always was, “I just pray to god she’s listened to me for once in her damn life and keeps quiet,”

“Fucking bitch. The nuns in Moscow hit harder than you,” She spat, blood dribbling from her split lip. She wasn’t entirely lying, but god did her mouth sing with pain as she tried to muffle a moan.

“You got jokes, pig lover?” The other woman asked, a tattoo covering half her cheek, her nose crooked from the shiner the Prentiss girl had already given her. “Won’t be fucking laughing when I’m done, bitch,” The woman was quick to tackle the girl around her stomach, slamming her into the hard concrete of the holding cell. Bugsy felt her skull rattle, the wind whooshing from her chest as rough hands grab her shirt and pin her down harder.

The younger girl reached the nerve under her opponent's armpit, the soft of her ribs, twisting until the woman gave a bark of shock, and she took the opportunity to shove her off, climbing on top of her as they both scrambled for some sort of control.

“I got one for you. What’s got a broken nose, a black eye and doesn’t know what’s good for her?” She swung twice as hard, the other women in the cell rattling against the bars as if watching a matador taunt a bull, the air thick with excitement as the two of them cursed eachother out.

Emily’s sigh was audible across the room as the wardens separated the cat fight, the largest of the officers all but grabbing her sister by the scruff of the neck like a feral beast, dragging her over with stubborn feet to where the BAU stood in the lobby, eyes widened at the state of her.

“You better start acting your age, little girl. Mommy’s not gonna be around forever to save you,” The officer hissed in her ear, manhandling her over to where Emily glared daggers into the side of her head. She knew that look, it was eerily similar to mom’s that time she’d been caught sneaking out of the house, something in the warm brown of Emily’s eyes frosting over into a cold blackness. Fury.

She chewed her words for a moment, waiting until the man had turned around with a grunt of acknowledgement to the badge Emily had flashed to get his attention, before she spoke.

“She’s not my mom, she's my sister, dumbass-” Emily slapped a hand over her mouth, gripping her shoulder with the bear-like strength her jagged nails possessed when she was mad, the scoff of disgrace leaving her mouth as her team trailed behind the two of them.

“What the hell happened, baby Prentiss?” Morgan asked, ignoring the way Emily’s heated gaze turned on him, “What’s got you so worked up?”

“Don’t entertain her, Morgan,” Emily seethed, all but shoving her into the back of the SUV. She looked up at her sister with an open mouth, the guilt flashing in her eyes as she wavered under the pointing finger Emily jabbed in her face, “Don't you even dare,”

“But-” She stammered, cut off when she saw the glare intensified, if that had even been possible.

“I don’t want to hear another word from you for the rest of the day unless you’re prepared to give me a good explanation why I’ve dragged my team out here to save your sorry ass,” Emily hissed, and the girl’s mouth bobbed a few times, feeling the rest of the team watching as she got thoroughly chewed out.

“Wait-” Emily’s hand lingered at the car door, ready to slam it in her face as she rubbed her cuff over her chin, mopping up the damage. Her head tilted for a moment, hoping her sister had something good to say, only for it to be; “He just called you old, I hope you realise that,”

Emily’s gaze darkened, slamming the door shut with an anger she imagined her mother had kept warm for the past twenty three years, whirling around heatedly when she heard a snigger from one Derek Morgan.

“Damn, mama, hear the girl out.” He said, slapping a hand on the woman’s shoulder as he passed, heading back to their own SUV, “Maybe she’ll surprise you,”

If Emily was going to bite anything back, she didn’t. Instead she ran a hand over her brow, the group disbanding to their cars now the problem child had been picked up from daycare, except for Hotch who watched the older Prentiss with a scowl, despite the worry in his eyes.

“Hotch, I’m so sorry, just take it off my timecard, I’ll cover all the costs,” She said shakily, her own frown adorning her face as she felt herself blush from embarrassment under her boss’s gaze.

“I understand she’s your sister, but this was a gross misuse of agent time and resources, Prentiss,” He said, his gaze drifting to where Spencer sat next to the girl, pulling a packet of tissues and hand sanitizer out of his satchel while JJ rooted through her own purse for a plaster, “Don’t let it happen again,”

Emily nodded vehemently, flushed with anger, her palms sticky as she wiped them on her jeans.

“Absolutely sir. Believe me, this ever happens again, she’s on her own,” She replied, though they both knew she didn’t mean it. Emily would never.

He nodded stonily, deciding quickly that it was punishment enough that she felt so ashamed, he knew from his years of arguments with Sean what it was like to have a sibling stray so far.

“We can fill out reports in the morning, just get Reid and JJ home,” Hotch said, putting a tentative hand on her shoulder as he passed her to head towards his own vehicle, “And try not to kill each other in the company car. It doesn’t look good on paperwork,”

She beat off the smile on her lips as she got back into the driver's seat, the air that engulfed the four of them foul as she glared over her shoulder and into the back. Spencer twitched in his seat uncomfortably, his hand still passing over tissues to the bloodied girl.

“So, you gonna tell me what that was about?” Emily asked, her tone brittle and warning, not in the mood for any snarky response she could give, “Or is this old lady going to have to lay into you some more,”

The smell of strong ethanol engulfed her nose as she held the soaked tissue to her face, frowning into her lap silently and avoiding the burning stare as Emily stuck the keys in the ignition and started the car.

“Let’s start with why you were there,” JJ input, the same tone of voice she used as when talking to victims, calm and motherly, unlike the pissed off snarl Emily gave, “You wanna tell us why you were arrested?”

“You two really gonna pull the good cop, bad cop on me?” She snapped, her lip swelling around the wound, tongue grazing it softly despite the heavy taste of the sanitizer.

Emily said her name in a warning, her last warning, and she knew better than to push her luck even more, the SUV pulling out of the station and onto the road.

“I was just shopping for groceries,” She started, fiddling with the bloodied tissue, wincing under her tongue stroke, “Store clerk made a pass at me, I told him I wasn’t interested. So he put a pack of smokes in my handbag while I wasn’t looking; the alarms went off. I didn’t even know what was happening until security grabbed me at the door,”

JJ flashed a glance at Emily, like two parents deciding an appropriate punishment, the brunette’s lips straightening out into a line.

“You’re telling the truth?” She asked cautiously, glancing in the rear view mirror to see how her sister balled the mess of paper between her palms.

Rolling her eyes, she gladly accepted the other packet of tissues Spencer slid over the leather seat between them.

“I went out for milk and oranges, I was not looking to get picked up, Em,” She bit back, groaning when she felt it jostle the cut, “And certainly not for cigarettes, you know I only smoke on New Years,”

Spencer looked at her with a frown, and she caught his confusion quickly, pulling another leaf of paper from the packet.

“Emily and I had a rule after she caught me smoking when I was like fourteen, that we could have one cigarette between the two of us on New Years eve,” She explained, JJ also perking up to hear it, “So that by the time morning came around, it would be last year’s mistake, and it would be like it never happened,”

JJ smiled to herself, remembering the time she caught Roz sneaking one of her dad’s cigarettes on the back porch back when she was just ten. She remembered the little secrets the two of them kept back then, held them even all these years later.

“So how did that lead to, well,” JJ gestured to her lip, “That,”

“Yeah, didn’t I specifically tell you to not antagonise anyone?” Emily chimed in, signalling she was changing lanes as they headed down the freeway for a second time that day.

“Technically you said not to antagonise the officers,” She pointed out, before Spencer had the chance to, shutting his mouth as he caught the glare Emily shot through the mirror.

“Keep talking,” The older Prentiss ordered, as Bugsy sighed and blotted her lip some more.

“That woman, Mira I think her name was, anyway, she recognised me from that picture mom had us take on Independence Day, the one they put in The Hill, and she asked me if it was true my sister was a fed,”

Emily’s fingers twitched at the wheel, knowing the status agents and even people associated with agents held in prisons; knowing just being a Prentiss in a jail cell held a big, dazzling price over her head that said ‘kill me, kill me!”

The air sucked out of the car, a look passing between JJ and Reid as they thought the same thing, waiting for her to go on.

“So then you hit her?” Emily guessed, the bitterness slowly ebbing as she understood maybe her sister wasn’t as unruly as she thought.

“No, I told her to leave me the fuck alone, but she said you guys sent her brother down for something a while back, and she asked again if my family were all Pigs,” She picked her nails, the blood stain on her sleeve staring back at her, “I told her if she didn’t stop calling you a Pig, I’d make her squeal like one. And then I hit her,”

Emily tried to pretend she didn’t smile hearing that, her cheeks tightening, lips pulling down as she fended it off.

“Is that good enough, officers, or will you be needing fingerprints?” The girl chimed after a moment, a weight seemingly lifted from the car as Emily quickly realised she had, for once, not been entirely at fault.

“I want a handwritten apology to my boss for wasting his time,” Emily demanded, her unforgiving gaze softening when she saw her smile, “And you owe my team coffee,”

“I can do coffee, coffee coming right up,” She agreed, shoving the used tissues into her purse with a crooked smile, “It’s a date,”

Spencers ears turned red, looking over the seat at where she dabbed at her lip gently. She didn’t look much older for six months, but she had gotten her nose pierced since the last time he’d seen her, unless he just hadn’t noticed it before, and the streaks of red were slowly fading out into a blush pink that said it was old, and he wondered if she’d done it herself in that tiny little cubicle bathroom of hers she shared with the four other girls in her block.

“You finished your stats papers yet?” He made polite conversation, though part of him was dying to know out of curiosity if she could crunch numbers and equations as well as she could in her own labs.

“Got two more this week, they’re kicking my ass man,” She replied with a huff, and he didn’t think he’d ever been called ‘man’ by a woman before. He knew if he’d known her in college, ignoring the fact he would have been twelve, he would have thought she may just be the coolest person alive, “I miss my labs with my microscopes and watching all the little baby cells move around in the ethanol. Stats are like, just not sexy,”

He smiled at her as she stared out the window, unaware of the way she’d managed to make DNA sound like a play pen full of kittens. He held off from telling her he found stats really quite sexy, knowing it would never sound the same coming from his mouth.

He pulled a leaf of the tissues from the packet, producing his own pen from his pocket and began doodling carefully so as not to rip the delicate canvas.

Sliding it over to her after five minutes as Emily and JJ made conversation in the front seat, she didn’t care that the grin tugged on her split lip, the reaction was instant, she couldn’t stop it if she tried.

Two stick men stared back at her, her hair a close match in texture and a childish triangle drawn as means of a dress, a very tall stick figure next to her patting her metaphorical head, a speech bubble coming from his mouth.

“Maths is fun!” It said, and she flicked a glance at him, her smile the most genuine he’d seen yet. He just smiled back.

+2. The one where you graduate

Emily felt the looks on her the moment JJ had mentioned Maryland. The case was a little under their pay grade, nothing more than a stalker, no bodies or bloodshed, but one very rattled woman that had turned to the communications liaison with fear for her life.

With Hotch and Rossi in Boston helping a case of their own, the rest of the BAU had been twiddling their thumbs waiting for something to come across their desk.

“This case is in my hands now, and if we do nothing and something happens to her,” JJ took a heavy breath, her eyes lingering on the three names Keri had given her in case of her untimely death, “I’ll be the one notifying her family,”

Derek, despite his own hesitations about using their time for a case like this, caved the moment he saw the guilt on the blonde’s face.

“Okay,” He shuffled the papers into a pile, Emily and Spencer gathering their own resources on the case and standing from the round table.

Luckily, one government SUV was more than enough to carry the four of them for the hour drive North, all of them well aware Hotch would flip if they used more funds than necessary.

JJ piled into the front beside where Morgan climbed into the driver’s seat, leaving Emily next to a particularly fidgety Reid. It took all of fifteen minutes of the man flicking a glance at her, his mouth quirking as if he were about to use it, before he thought better and looked out the window, and the whole thing would start again.

Derek, the less shy about his thoughts of the two men, even glanced at her through the rear view mirror, before he too returned his gaze out the window silently. JJ shifted in her seat, knowing she had to tread carefully around mentioning Bugsy to Emily, particularly after the last time they’d seen her. Emily had said they’d grabbed coffee once or twice since then, but that was all she spoke about it, which left her team walking cracked eggshells at the thought of bringing her up.

It seemed the three of them were bursting at the seams with the same thought, and it wasn’t until Reid cleared his voice, his puppy eyes stuck in his loop, that she had had enough.

“Does anyone here have something to say?” Emily huffed, Derek immediately reaching to turn the radio up the same time that JJ flicked the AC on for something to do. Realising they weren’t easily broken, she turned to Spencer who already looked slightly guilty, thumbing at his sweater, “Reid?”

“Did you want to see your sister?” He asked without hesitation, as if the words had fallen out of him, “You know, since we’re so close on this case. It would be a good excuse to-”

“You did say she owed us a coffee,” JJ pointed out, spurred on by Spencer’s nerves, “Wouldn’t mind cashing in if we’re coming all this way.”

“Morgan, do you have anything to add?” Emily asked with raised brows, though she already knew what was coming.

Derek chewed over his thoughts a second, “I’m just saying, you only get to see your baby sisters grow up once- you know, and it couldn’t hurt to see her even if she runs rings around you with that smart mouth-”

“Shouldn’t we be focusing on the case?” Emily cut him off incredulously, but received three knowing looks back. She met JJ’s gaze where the woman had swivelled in her seat to talk to her, and Prentiss was fast to catch the buried grief in her best friend’s eyes. She knew it pained her to even bring up sisterhood, let alone watch Emily throw hers away for the sake of a decade and a half between them. It was the desperation in JJ’s face that did it, knowing she would give anything to spend just an hour with Roz one more time, that had her drawing her cell out her pocket and calling the contact with the little ladybug next to it, “Fine,”

As a profiler she would have been tempted to ignore the way Spencer smiled into his lap; as a sister, her eyes narrowed at him.

The phone rang surprisingly only once before she answered, and she heard an unnaturally tame version of her sister answer.

“Emily?” She asked, her voice hushed, worried almost, “You okay?”

Her brows furrowed, “Yeah, I’m fine. Are you?” She got no more than a hum in return, somewhat agreeing though Emily could tell clear as day she was holding something back. “Look, we’re gonna be in Silver Spring, I was thinking tomorrow we could grab lunch-”

“Can’t, I’m busy, it’s an all day thing,” Her sister cut her off, yet it wasn’t rude or demeaning like usual. Nervous almost, sad, “Sorry,”

“What’s an all day thing?” Emily asked, the concern matching her words.

Her sister swallowed on the other end of the phone, before she found her words, or maybe even the balls to actually speak, “I’m graduating tomorrow,”

Emily’s face lit up, the smile spreading fast on her face, ignoring the way Morgan’s words seemed to ring true in her ears; she was growing up too fast.

“Graduating, why didn’t you say!” She asked, the joy in her tone unmissable, “How’d your papers go?”

Spencer held himself off from correcting her that she’d only done five papers, that the rest of her results had come from theory and labs, thinking better than to interrupt the one conversation they’d had where there was no underlying argument brewing.

“Full honours, obviously.” Bugsy drawled with a snicker, and Emily shook her head, the smile never dimming.

“Look at you, y’little superstar,” Emily bit her lip, ignoring the guilt that tore at her when she realised she barely knew what Bug spent her days doing, “Did Mom and Dad get good seats? Oh god, dad’s not bringing Stephanie is he?”

The silence on the other end had her halting, the light in the conversation wavering for a second, before she understood the nerves, the quick defence her sister had been on the moment the call had been answered.

“Bug-”

“They’re not coming,” Her heart ached in her chest hearing it, “I sent Mom the details, she said she’s in Ukraine this week settling some papers. Didn’t even get a chance to ask Dad before he and Stephanie were off on their fifth honeymoon in the Bahamas until October,” A painful laugh echoed down the line, as if she were holding back the gravity of the situation.

“Bug,” Emily tried again, picking her thumb viciously, punishingly, hating herself for being so blind to her sister’s troubles, “Why didn’t you invite me?”

“I figured you’d be busy,” Came the reply, sad and tender, the most honest she’d heard in a while, “You’re always busy,”

“Never too busy for you,” Emily’s guilt tripled when her sister didn’t answer, knowing if she were to counter the statement with hard evidence it would only hurt both of them, “Look, I have some time today, probably,” She didn’t, not even a few minutes, “Why don’t we get that coffee, you don’t even have to pay,”

Bugsy gave a sad laugh, “Sorry, Em, I gotta get my dress fitted today, and some of the lab techs invited me to a party later. Maybe some other time,”

“A party with biology nerds?” Emily asked with false excitement, the air turned stagnant between them now, “Well, rock on, science freak. Don’t leave your drinks with strangers, and don’t walk home alone, and for god sake use protection-”

“Bye, Emily,” She said with a chuckle, the older of the two gracing her with the same, as they put the phone down.

The car was quiet, waiting for Prentiss to speak, none of them missing the way her lip pulled between her teeth, a bitterness on her face that told them she was holding in something close to sadness. You’re always busy. It echoed around her head, stabbing at her chest to think her sister was graduating alone, no one to congratulate her, no one to pat her on the back and tell her how clever she is despite the fact Bugsy would happily tell anyone just how smart she was on her own. Never too busy for you.

“She’s graduating tomorrow,” She said to the three people waiting for an update, Spencer’s brows shooting to his hairline. He hadn’t heard from her since her last paper got sent off, and why would he? They had exchanged a few little anecdotes and doodles, sent each other research papers to be graded like teachers exchanging lecture notes, “She didn’t even tell me. She’s gonna be alone,”

JJ grimaced, “What? What about your mom- or, or your dad, an uncle, someone-”

“Mom and dad are out of the country, Mom’s brother lives in Mexico with his seven kids, he can barely get a night’s sleep let alone a day off to travel up to Maryland. Dad’s sisters passed away when I was a kid,” Emily explained, running a hand over her face, “I can’t let her go up there alone,”

“So we don’t,” Spencer said, as if he’d never been more sure of anything in his life, “We don’t let her do it alone,”

“Graduating with Masters in Biotechnology; Jasper Adams, Tom Adamson, Kristen Afkins, Gavin Agriths-”

The dean read off the names of the students as she fiddled with the hem of her dress.

The dress fit beautifully, her make up done to near perfection, her hair styled neatly, she was graduating with full honours for christ sakes. Why couldn’t she just be happy with what she had? Why had she got to be so spoiled?

Lots of peoples parents missed their graduation, lots of people her age didn’t even have parents anymore, she ought to be grateful her mother was increasing famine aid in foreign countries, all the lives she would save, or even be happy her father had found a pretty, rich new wife to tour every known vacation destination with. Or even that her sister had called her just yesterday and told her in a few words she was proud of her.

But none of them quelled the feeling of loneliness that blossomed inside Bugsy. The kind that had always been there, the kind that just wanted someone in her corner, telling her she was doing pretty good for a kid who raised herself in all those big houses they’d moved to, who saw the au pair more often than her own mother.

All those rooms were so empty, the houses so quiet besides for her. It was like living in a cemetery.

“Robert Lewsinsky. Marcus Linford. Tara Lorence. Katie Macauley.”

P would be up soon. Each name of her classmates drew an applause, some whoops and screams, one family she swore there must have been ten of them in the back row cawing and howling like monkeys at a zoo, proud of their son for making it.

She willed a smile on her face, hearing Orla Parkins get called up, and she knew just by the steward that directed her where to stand in line she was close.

“Kenneth Patterson. Joshua Perriman. Harriet Pimms. Lauren Pintons.”

She held a rattled breath as Renly Prackett walked ahead of her, strolling over the stage to collect his degree, flashing the crowd a wide smile and a fist pump. She had always liked Renly, having been his experiment partner for a year, despite the fact he never washed up after himself in the lab.

Then it was, her name was called. The one no one but her mother and Stephanie ever called her, she solely went by Bugsy courtesy of Emily. It was a family name, a nice one at that. Maybe it had been the fact she had been eight and her cool big sister crowned her the new name, or maybe it just rolled off the tongue better, made her feel less like a Prentiss, that she chose to go by her monika.

She tried not to think about where or what Emily was doing, only hoping she was safe, as she began walking over the stage, her heels clicking loudly with her hesitant steps.

To her utmost surprise she heard a loud whistle echo through the auditorium, a group of jeers and screams of her name, even an air horn signing off that had her almost tripping over her own feet turning to see who it was.

Surely it was a joke, a cruel prank, she barely had any friends in her class. Acquaintances sure, but no one so bold as to make such a fuss over her.

Squinting down at the audience, her cap nearly slipping off her head as her head turned to the source, she felt her chest burst when she saw the dark hair and bangs, her sisters butchered fingertips in her mouth with a loud cattle whistle, screaming like a firework right to the stage where she graciously accepted her award, despite the fact she barely paid any attention to the dean anymore, more to her sister who smiled at her widely as she clapped. Behind her, her team she’d met on the off chance, the pretty blonde, JJ, who pressed the air horn a few more times, cheering just as loud for her. Morgan, the handsome one who had stood himself on top of his chair, cupping a hand over his mouth to scream “Kicking ass, baby Prentiss!” at her, ignoring the way other people stared wide eyed at them.

And Spencer, tall enough to be seen over the crowd even without the help of a chair, who smiled at her, clapping those big hands of his loud enough to reach her, his own whoops never ceasing even as she stepped off the stage to head back to her seat.

The rest of the ceremony dragged, a speech from one of the alumni and the exit music playing, but she simply grinned into her hand, where her degree smiled back at her, counting down the moments she would be allowed to stand.

And then she was fast walking down the stairs, amongst the bustle of students, the black gowns flurrying around her as she burst out into the square where parents, fiancees, brothers, sisters, cheered their loved ones, pulling them into tight hugs.

Her eyes scanned the wave of black hats, landing on two dark eyes, the thick sable hair framing the dazzling smile that awaited her with open palms. All but shoving her way through the crowd, she stopped in front of her sister, the urge to jump at her with a hug shying the moment she got close.

“Told you. Never too busy for you, Bug,” Emily said, pulling her in by her shoulders for a tight hug. She knew her sister wasn’t one to beg for affection, wasn’t one to let her guard drop so soon, but she also knew she’d needed it by the way she melted against her, the way she chuckled into her hair, pulled her closer.

“Do I owe your boss another letter of apology for this or do I get you guys for free?” The girl asked, as her sister pulled away, keeping an arm around her shoulder as they turned to the rest of the team.

“No, this one is entirely on us, promise,” JJ said with a smile as she saw Emily beaming maternally over at the girl, the flat of the cap knocking against her cheek as she squeezed her in once more, “We’re very proud of you,”

She heated under the woman’s words, wriggling in her shoes as bad as Emily did when she felt awkward, Derek chuckling and taking the degree out of her hand.

“Alright, lets see the creds, Prentiss,” He held it up next to her face as she shrugged, the ‘4.0’ clear as day next to her name, “Good looking, and smart. Those boys in the lab ought to watch out,”

She grinned under his teasing, “What can I say, I got the deep end of the gene pool,” She teased, feeling Emily swat her ear, her eyes falling to where Spencer held a plant pot with a poorly wrapped bow of twine around it, the soil a little displaced from the journey.

“This is for you,” He said, handing her the small green sproutling, his cheeks blushing as her face lit up, reading the small inscription on the front, “It’s-”

“Dionaea muscipula,” She said, biting her lip as she smiled at him, “This is so cool! Where on earth did- I had a paper last semester on the ways to study their electrophysiology you just have to read- oh thank you!”

“English, please?” Emily asked, though the warmth flooded her chest when her sister threw her arms around a very rigid Spencer.

Thinking she should grab her and warn her the man disliked touch almost as much as she does, she was surprised to see him give her a small embrace back, smiling proudly the way he did when he’d made someone happy.

“Piège à mouches Vénus,” Her sister responded cockily, tugging herself away from the tall man, to inspect her new plant, well aware that Emily rolled her eyes at her use of French, “Venus Fly Trap. I’ve never seen one so young, still I should be able to pull some slides on the Rhizomes in the soil-”

Emily put a hand to her temple, JJ smiling widely as she saw for once Spencer be the one on the receiving end of an earful, chuckling to himself when she began dishing out name ideas for the sapling.

“Holy shit, there’s two of them,” Morgan grumbled, nudging his shoulder into Emily who simply sighed, her migraine already starting as Reid began jumping in with his own thoughts, which didn’t take much effort.

“Don’t even,”

+3. The one where you’re taken hostage

“Tell us about the 911 call,” Spencer requests, flicking through the file himself beside her in the back seat. She had her own set of paperwork in front of her, her pen attached to a clipboard the lanyard around her neck reading her real, honest credentials, unlike the fake ones Emily and Reid were given. She’d been to one of these sects before, invited kindly as part of her research on the effect isolation has on cultivation of crops, knew one of the mother’s well from her last research paper, and had managed to get the group a foot in the door to entering the Separtarian Sect with little fuss.

Hotch, usually hesitant to allow outsiders in on the job, especially as young and spirited as Bugsy, had to admit it would calm any potential unsubs and make them see the team as unthreatening if they had a friendly face there. He’d signed the papers with a frown that morning, and they were on their way to the little apartment the girl occupied just outside Baltimore, sample tubes stuffed into her pack ready.

“I believe the he that they refer to is the church’s leader, Benjamin Cyrus,” Nancy, a woman from child protective services, replied from the driver's seat, Emily thumbing through her papers as they neared the compound.

“Benjamin Cyrus, no criminal record; no record of him at all actually,” Reid replied, watching Bugsy scribbling notes into her lab book, perfecting her report before she had even begun, “What else do you know about him?”

“The sect I spoke to before, the one in Utah, said he was rumoured to be practising polygamy and forced marriages,” The younger woman said, looking back at him with a frown, “They were much more modern in their beliefs than these guys. Last time I spoke to Marina she was happy there, I can’t see why she would want to move here,”

Spencer looked as if he were about to answer, perhaps to tell her he was sure her contact would be just fine, when Emily shrugged and turned to Nancy.

“Do we know who the caller is?” She asked, sipping her now lukewarm coffee out of the disposable cup.

Nancy’s head tilted in a so-so motion, “Uh, Jessica Evansen is the one who the age fits, but we can’t be sure.”

“Well given their view on outsiders, it would be best if you didn’t identify us as FBI.” Emily instructed, handing Reid his new, fake credentials and his gun she’d kept in her bag through customs. “Just use our real names and introduce us as child victim interview experts.” Nancy nodded, the compound coming into view, the dust flurrying under the car wheels as the road turned into nothing more than a sandy path.

A guard seemed to be expecting their arrival as he stood, unarmed at the main gate, unlatching the bolt in the middle and opening it wide for their vehicle to pass through. She nodded in thanks, her eyes flicking out the dirty window to see a collection of mobile homes surrounding a large church, a few smaller outbuildings dotted around the compound. It was quiet, not full of laughter like the last group she had been to, the children nowhere to be seen, only a few of the handier members of the flock that were either fixing up walls, trimming trees besides a man sprawled too casually on the steps of the chapel, a bible in his hands he seemed to be catching up on.

The car pulled to a stop in front of the man that barely batted an eye at their arrival, the safety locks flicking off each of the doors, Nancy collecting her briefcase and exiting the car first.

She had all but reached for the handle when Emily stopped her, swivelling in her seat to look her dead in the eye.

“Your job is mediator, you got that?” Her sister had never looked more serious, but then again she did know her almost too well, “You and your field research are a… buffer between our investigation and the unsub. Just try to take the focus off what we’re doing, but do not provoke anyone,”

She raised her hands in innocence, “Got it, jeez, what could I possibly do that could ruin this investigation?”

Emily stared back at her blankly, unnamused, as if they both knew there was a lot she could, and would, do that would blow the whole thing.

“You look like mom when you give me that look,” She bit back, leaving the car, as Nancy spoke to the man laying on the steps, “It’s terrible,”

“I’m looking for Mr Benjamin Cyrus?” Nancy reported, her tight, knee length skirt and blouse entirely out of place amongst the dirt track.

“You found him,” The man replied, still not so much as granting them a glance of interest as he flicked through his passages.

“I’m Nancy Lunde, we spoke on the phone regarding the allegation,” She replied, which was the only thing that garnered his attention as he looked up at them behind slightly bent reading glasses.

“Savages they call us; because our manners differ from theirs,” He said, though it was clear it wasn’t entirely his own words, more likely a segment of his preach he’d repeated a handful of times. Bugsy tried to hide her disgust behind her hand tightening around her lab books she kept tightly to her chest.

“We didn’t come here to hear you cite scripture, Mr Cyrus,” Nancy snipped as he approached the group, pocketing the glasses though he kept hold of the bible in hand as if it was part of his own arm.

“Actually it’s Benjamin Franklin,” Spencer murmured to the woman, which had Cyrus’ cold brown eyes narrowing at the tall man, assessing for a motive.

“Emily Prentiss, Spencer Reid. They’re child victim interview experts,” Nancy introduced them quickly, the two of them flashing their badges, the unofficial ones at least. Gesturing to the youngest woman, she introduced her with her real name, his gaze flicking to her as he seemed to recognise it.

“Marina’s friend? The plant lady?” He asked, face half amused as she fought her lip from twitching into a sneer. Instead she smiled, holding out her hand.

“That’s what they call me,” She said, shaking his hand, ignoring the way he flashed her a cheshire cat smile, “Hope you don’t mind me dropping by, Marina said I could take some samples for my research,”

He laughed, shaking his head, looking at Spencer, “Women and their flowers, right?” Spencer swallowed back a retort, shrugging his shoulders, though Bugsy’s eye twitched. Benjamin patted her on her shoulder, “Of course you can honey, I’ll find Jared, our head gardner, and you can run along for your research,”

He said it as if she were lying, that her degree and endless hours of work would only ever chalk up to a few doodles in a notebook, or a garden full of hydrangeas, or tulips, or roses, because she couldn’t possibly care about anything else but pretty flowers.

Nodding her head graciously, choking back the hateful response she wished to spit in his face, she gave him a polite thankyou, feeling Spencer’s eyes burning into the side of her head.

“The children are in the school as I indicated,” Cyrus said, turning back to the other three, Emily and Nancy taking off in the direction he pointed, the former knowing her sister was at risk of blowing a fuse if they were here for long.

Spencer hung back, partially because he had a plan of distraction in mind to allow the women a chance to speak with the children whilst Cyrus wasn’t around, partially because he didn’t want to leave Bugsy anywhere on her own. Sure, Emily had said they were both trained in self defence when they were kids, but with no weapon of her own, he was reluctant.

“You're using solar power?” He prompted, gesturing towards where the eight blue panels warmed under the Colorado sun.

“We’re completely self-sufficient,” Benjamin nodded along, catching the impressed look on both their faces, “Electricity, food, water. Ben Franklin said ‘God helps those that help themselves,’ you look surprised,”

“No, impressed actually,” Spencer replied, and he wasn’t entirely lying. The system was incredibly complex, particularly if they received no help from outsiders, for as many people as there were in the compound.

“Thankyou; for admitting that,” Cyrus said earnestly, flicking his gaze back to Bugsy who studied the solar panels, “I’ll go find Jared, he can take you to the greenhouses,”

Thanking him again, he led the way towards the school where Nancy and Emily had headed, as the two of them exchanged a look, Spencer smiling half piteously, wishing he could shake her and tell her just how smart she was and that Cyrus knew absolutely nothing.

He didn’t miss the way she walked closer to him, or how she thumbed the corner of her notebook, or how she looked back at him, biting the inside of her cheek. He thinks he might get slapped if he pointed it out, but Emily had the exact same tell when she was nervous, which is why he bumps their shoulders together in means of reassuring her he was still there.

It was only then she gave him any sort of smile back.

Jared, as expected, had been just as condescending and patronising as Benjamin whilst she slipped on her latex gloves, scooping no more than a handful of homemade fertiliser into one of her test tubes. It had been a partial cover, their story, but she had been telling the truth when she’d contacted Marina and asked if she could drop by. She’d been meaning to expand her field research in hopes of stumbling on a job opportunity since she spent most of her postgraduate days reading while her cat pawed at her leg for more treats than he deserved, the odd phone call with her sister much more common than it had been before.

She didn’t miss the way Jared’s hand fell into the small of her back as he led her back towards the school, after having noted down a few more readings, fussing over the state of the carrots that seemed to grow entirely naturally thanks to the systems they’d been smart enough to set up. He seemed rather bored by the whole thing, for a head gardener, more interested in staring at her legs as she leaned down to identify the fat black beetle that crawled along the rockery.

It wasn’t until they were halfway to the school that the sound of tyres on a dirt path met her ears, and she saw five armoured SUVs out the corner of her eye.

She hadn’t even the time to question what was going on, before Jared’s face dropped, the hand gently holding the soft of her back grabbing on her forearm hard enough to leave bruises, as he was dragging her to the chapel they had seen when they had pulled up.

Emily had said the rest of the team stayed in Quantico, if it wasn’t them, who was it.

“Whats going on- who is that?” She asked him lamely, her feet stumbling as she half fought his heavy hand off.

That was when the shooting started.

She thinks it came from the compound first, she’d seen two men stationed on top of one of the outbuildings, thinking nothing much of it, until she saw clearly now the assault rifles they bore, pointing it straight at the vehicles that drew closer. The whistle of bullets, bangs of the chambers emptying their artillery, and it wasn’t until she heard the doors to the SUVs start opening, more gunfire began hitting the wall ahead of them that she started running. Running fast, for the cover the church provided until she figured out just what the fuck was happening.

Jared all but threw her past the chapel door, where Cyrus and four other men were waiting, a heavy barricade in their hands, her chest pounding with adrenaline, she couldn’t help the yelp that left her as Cyrus whirled on her, grabbing her shoulders firmly and looking her dead in the eye.

“Did you know anything about this?” He asked, his calm demeanour cracking when she scrambled for a response, “ANSWER ME,”

“No-no not at all.” She shook her head, voice weaker than she’d like, but the sight of more guns in the men’s hands twisted any resolve she had, “Where are the others- the- the experts-”

“Take her into the tunnels,” Cyrus ignored her question, nodding at one of his men to grab her as Jared armed himself. She felt another callused hand yank on her upper arm, and part of her wondered if that was how men handled all women here, as if they were herding cattle, as she was dragged down into the catacombs below the church.

They’d made plans for a day like this to come, she realised.

Her heart constricted at the sound of bullets rattling above them, she hadn't been able to tell in that last moment whether Cyrus believed her or not as, nor whether she was being taken to the tunnels for her own safety or to be questioned harder about the gunmen.

She could only hope Emily was safe.

She felt her tongue too big for her mouth as the man all but shoved her into the bunker, the nervous chatter of women and children, some of the more elderly men, as they clung to one another for safety, the scathing remark she would have usually made about his heavy hands failing her as she scanned the room for her sister.

Emily was faster however, and she nearly yelped again as two bony arms yanked her into a hug, a rare one, and she knew by the blazer and the sigh of relief in her ear it was Em.

Usually she would bat her off, tell her to stop fussing like a mother hen, but today she embraced her right back, trying to note if her sister had any bullet holes in her before she allowed herself the same relief.

“Are you okay? Are you hurt?” Emily asked, the whole thing coming out in a slew of worry, and she nodded, pulling away as if she needed to see the proof in person.

Bugsy’s eyes were wild, as if she were a doe in a meadow hearing a rifle cocking near. No scratch that, she was a doe being chased and shot at and hunted, narrowly escaping being mounted on a wall.

“They were all shit shots,” Bugsy said, through a laugh she didn’t quite mean, “You would have done much better.”

Patting her sister on the shoulder, Emily finally released her when she realised the humour meant she at least had her head on her shoulders. Spencer watched her with meticulous eyes, knowing the shock that registered on her face, knowing it was the same one he wore when he first had shots fired at him. He saw her own eyes quickly check him over, satisfied with a breath of relief when she saw they were both fine.

“Where’s Lunde?” Emily asked, and she realised then Cyrus had followed her down into the shelter, two of his men grabbing handfuls of guns she had never seen before, likely imported out of country, and returning to the ground level, preparing for more shooting.

“It wasn’t us,” Cyrus replied, as if that negated the fact their recklessness had gotten the agent killed.

“What? You can’t shoot it out with the cops, you have children in here,” Emily seethed, her voice harsh and incredulous.

“I didn’t start this,” Cyrus bit back, looking towards his men as they grabbed boxes on boxes of ammunition, “I’ll take the front, you take the roof,”

And with that they stormed their way back through the tunnels, leaving the three of them to look between each other, knowing this could only end badly. Knowing the only people that could figure out how to get them out of this mess was the BAU, all 1,700 miles away.

–

They’d been in the bunker for fourteen hours when there was finally movement. The shooting seemed to have quietened down, in which Spencer whispered it was around 11pm and it was likely neither party had a clear shot. She’d managed to fall asleep leaning against the wall, Emily’s blazer draped over her legs. She’d regretted wearing cropped pants, despite how the shade of green complimented her eyes nicely, and she’d been shivering by the time she fell asleep, Emily’s hands stroking her hair gently as if she knew she was struggling to relax.

She hadn’t realised she was staring at her little sister, frowning even as she slept, which made part of her want to laugh, until she caught Spencer’s tired eyes looking between them, something knowing and warm in his gaze.

“You know, she’s always scowled in her sleep, ever since she was born,” Emily said, quiet enough it didn’t interrupt the hum of small snores, the odd baby cry that filled the bunker, but loud enough for him to smile at her, “She used to sleep walk terrible too. I’d find her in the kitchen trying to make pancakes with a cheese grater. It’s like that big brain of hers doesn’t know how to shut off,” Emily shook her head with a fatigue, rubbing her eyes.

“Was it weird? Being fourteen years older?” Spencer asked, his own hands shoved into his sleeves to try defend from the draught. Emily thought for a moment, her hand slowing for a second on her sister's hair, before she answered.

“I felt guilty leaving her in that house with my mom when I went to college,” Emily answered, Bugsy unconsciously tucking her face closer into the jacket, “I think part of her kind of hated me for it for a while.” She went quiet, the shame in her voice thick as the silence that encompassed them, “She’s never been very affectionate you know? Before her graduation I don’t think I’d hugged her in twelve years,”

Spencer held himself back from pointing out that she had been just as touchy with him since they’d met, and that maybe it was Emily’s own regret that seemed to shut the both of them down. He wasn’t one to rub salt in the wound, not since he’d gotten this job and learned to watch what he said.

He didn’t know what to say, didn’t want to give her advice, knowing the whole subject of their slowly repairing relationship was a sore one. He had no siblings of his own, had a mother who loved him despite how much she grappled with her own mind, and he had only known the girl briefly enough to consider her a friend at a push.

“I always thought the two of you were similar,” Emily chose to continue, offering him a small smile. He returned it, his face blushing at the fact that was a huge compliment to him, “Granted, you roll your eyes at me less and don’t act like I’m dumb, but you remind me of her,”

“Thankyou, I wish that were true,” He replied, eyes flicking to her sleeping form, the way her eyebrows were indeed scrunched in a permanent frown. He wondered if she was actually angry, or if she was just thinking hard, perhaps her dreams were full of equations or labs she needed to sort through. Either way, he wanted to know. “She’s much cooler than I’ll ever be,”

Emily snorted, shuffling against the wall to cosy herself, “That’s one way to put it,” She said, smiling over at him as he did the same, his head resting against the wall, Bugsy’s legs stretching out to knock against his feet, and he didn’t mind that she scuffed the bottom of his already dirty trousers. “Get some sleep,”

And so they did.

–

Cyrus had corralled the whole flock into the church, where the shooting had stopped and the bodies had been removed, stating at the break of dawn that there was a hostage negotiator coming in to make sure everyone was safe before they made any deals.

She sat next to Spencer, the three of them stiff from their sleeping arrangements, and her stomach churned with hunger. It had been over 24 hours since they’d gotten here, and besides the small bit of bread and water Cyrus gave everyone for breakfast, she was starving.

“Remind me to never leave the house, ever again,” She grumbled, as everyone waited in the pews for the negotiator to arrive, “My cat is gonna be pissed I’ve not fed him,”

“Since when did you get a cat?” Emily inputted from the other side of Reid, keeping one eye on the door in case any agents start shooting again.

The girl shrugged, “I got lonely, there’s not much to do now I’m not studying anymore,”

Reid watched how she clutched her stomach, feeling his own complaining at the lack of nutrition, “Morgan wasn’t lying when he said you should sign up for the academy. We could always use the help, we wouldn’t have solved that case in Baltimore without you,”

She snickered, nudging his foot with her boot, “You’re being modest, you would have done it just fine,”

He was a little, wasn’t surprised she called his bluff either. “Okay, so probably yes- but it would have taken us a whole lot longer. Mr Chernus likely would have died,”

She shook her head, glancing at Emily who watched her carefully, “That was all you guys. I just translated.”

Emily and Spencer exchanged a glance, leaning back in their uncomfortable seats calmly.

“You’re probably right,” Spencer said, dusting the dirt off his trousers, “Probably couldn’t handle it, high intensity mind games and such,”

She blanched, looking at him as if he’d grown a second head, not knowing him to be so brutally honest, realistic yes, but not bordering on rude.

“And it’s a lot of work,” Emily jumped in, her mouth a straight line, “I don’t know if you’d be dedicated enough,”

Bugsy scoffed, indifferently. “I have a masters degree, I was offered a scholarship to do a PHD, asked to be an assistant professor at Yale, I can work hard, Emily,” She snipped, and perhaps she was particularly just hangry or they had struck a nerve with their doubt, “and I could do it if I wanted to, I’d have the best shot they’d ever seen, guaranteed- mom made me take lessons when you left- trust me I could do it-”

She shut up when she saw their small smile exchanged, as if she’d told them a joke, or moreso they’d had the same identical thought and that alone was hilarious.

Scowling at them, she looked from where Spencer looked almost, almost, guilty at making her the butt of the joke, to where Emily had a ‘told you so’ smirk, and she kissed her teeth at their childishness.

“Are you guys reverse psychology-ing me? Seriously, so original guys,” She snapped, crossing her arms and straightening herself in her seat, ignoring the snigger that passed between them.

“You’re not wrong though,” Emily replied quietly as Cyrus walked past them, his eyes falling to them with a frown. Bugsy kept her head down, heeding Emily’s warning of not provoking anyone, and Spencer eyed the way she leaned closer to him.

If she was going to retaliate, whether agreeing or not, she stopped herself, the doors the church opening and an older gentleman walking through the doors, arms full of supplies she’d figured must have been part of the negotiation. He was patted down by an armed guard, searching for his own weapons do doubt, or a wire perhaps, as he handed the box over to another who took it without a thankyou.

“Rossi,” She heard Reid whisper beside her, and from the look he shot Emily and Spencer she gathered he was from the BAU, just as they’d expected. His eyes fell on her, softening as alot of Emily’s team did when they saw the two of them, as if they were picking her face apart for the tiny ways in which she resembled their Prentiss, or maybe it was the way she curled up in her seat, tired, hungry, on the defence. He just looked sorry for her.

“The children,” Cyrus said with no greeting, the air between them particularly frosty. He gestured towards the three of them, though Rossi had already clocked their tired faces staring at him with worry, “And our guests,”

She saw him trying not to react, guessing they had not let it slip to Cyrus he worked with the two undercover FBI agents, looking away from them as if the sight of their forlorn figures was enough to turn him sick.

Judging by the way Cyrus and he spoke quietly, tensely, Bugsy just hoped they had a plan to get them out of here soon as he soon left with a rigid handshake to the man keeping them hostage.

–

The three of them had been moved to a backroom a few hours later. Her stomach ached, the little sustenance Rossi had brought being distributed to the community before they’d been offered anything, which hadn’t left much. Reid and Emily had tried to get her to take some of their sharing, and despite how her insides cried out for it, she declined, stating they would be more use than she would; that they needed their strength more than her if they were going to get out of here alive.

The two of them hadn’t liked that answer judging by the frowns on their faces, but they sat in their seats with little fuss as they waited for things to quieten down after Cyrus’ staged “mass suicide” that had turned out to be nothign more than a test of loyalty and grape juice.

They had been sat in silence, aside from her foot bouncing on the floor impatiently, as she picked at the threads on her pants, the material uncomfortable on her skin after a day of wearing it. The door slammed open, Cyrus entering the room with nasty scowl. She didn’t know what had changed in the man in a matter of hours as he stormed over to them, two of his men behind him, loaded rifles in their arms.

This was not good.

“Which one of you is it?” He asked almost too calm for his demeanour, his eyes flicking between the three of them, where Emily attempted to brush her hair using her fingers, Reid played with the hem of his cardigan, an she sat beside him, resting against the cold stone wall behind them, her eyes narrowing at his furious expression.

The three of them remained silent, waiting for him to explain more, though clearly it was not the answer he was looking for as he threw his jacket open, revealing a loaded pistol tucked into his jeans. Drawing it into his dominant hand, her body tensed up, her back straightening like a rod as she looked up at him through fear.

“Which one of you is the FBI agent?” He repeated in that same calm tone, and her heart fell through her stomach.

She opened her mouth to say something in retaliation, though the way she saw his hand shaking with fury, she knew it was better to stay quiet in case her voice would be the final straw that made him trigger happy.

“Why do you think one of us is an FBI agent?” Spencer replied softly, and if he was panicking even a fraction amount she was he held it back, though his eyes flicked to Emily.

But it was a tell. The smallest movement alone was a tell he was lying, or perhaps it was the fact he’d answered a question with one of his own, distracting from the attention on them with the unsubs own answers. Maybe his quiet and calm showed how trained he was for a situation like this, showed he had gone up against bad guys before and won.

Whatever it was about him, it had Cyrus cocking the barrel of the gun straight at Spencer’s temple.

“God forgive me for what I must do,” The preacher murmured, his finger moments away from the trigger, when she lurched forward in her seat, hand shooting out to grab his wrist deathly tight.

“It’s me,”

She hadn’t realised she’d said it until the room went quiet. She thought for a moment it had come from Emily, Emily had always been the braver of the two of them, but it wasn’t until Cyrus’ unforgiving, dark gaze fell to her where she froze in her spot, that she understood her mouth had been the one moving.

Emily looked as if she was about to vomit, Spencer looked dumbfounded, but all she could do was stare back at Cyrus as if to will herself not to back down, knowing all three of them could fall victim if she gave them reason to doubt her; he could kill all three of them just to be sure the mystery agent was dealt with.

“It’s me,” She repeated, voice stronger this time, and she felt her chest relax just the tiniest amount as he turned the gun away from Spencer’s head.

He stared back at her for a moment, before the weapon smacked across her face in a sharp whip, her cheekbone crying out in a sting she knew was going to bruise.

He grabbed her hair at the nape of her neck, yanking her into a stand hard enough she yelped, despite not wanting to give him the satisfaction of the torture.

“Watch the other two,” Cyrus barked, dragging her out of the room as she squirmed under his hand, feeling it only tighten into an unforgiving pull.

She barely caught Emily bolting out of her seat to yell at the other men, all but fighting in their heavy grasp to follow wherever it was he was taking her, only for the door to be slammed shut behind them.

It was only then she realised how fucked she truly was.

–

She struggled to breath through the blood clotting in her nose. She didn’t think it was broken, not that she could check where her hands had been tied to the bedpost, tape over her mouth to stop her calling for help, her feet bound. She’d done nothing but give him hell as he’d been laying into her, keeping her cries and groans of pain silent as he’d kicked her in the ribs hard enough to know he’d damaged something at least.

She’d not made it easy for him to tie her down, worried about what they were planning next, she’d managed to headbutt him in the mouth, and the way he clutched at his jaw when he’d left gave her a sick satisfaction, though her temple now hurt more than she’d like to admit. But they’d only covered her mouth after she’d screamed obscenities at them for an hour or so, hoping to attract attention, hoping if the BAU were on their way, Emily and Reid would be able to find her fast before they could dispose of her.

Bugsy didn’t want to go like this. Tied up like cattle, gagged and beaten, the spirit kicked out of her as the dehydration gnawed at her limbs, making her too weak to even try wriggling out of the binds.

She felt herself dropping off to sleep, or maybe it was a concussion, he’d slammed her face into that mirror quite viciously, she wouldn’t be surprised if it had rattled her head around. Fighting with her eyelids to stay open, she jumped in her battered skin as the door unlatched, and she thrashed on the rickety bed to get away from the impending second beating.

But it wasn’t Cyrus. A fawn haired woman entered, her eyes falling on the girl on the bed, where blood trickled down her cheek, pouring from her nose like a thick liquor. Frowning, she was on high alert as the woman approached, a small, damp cloth in her hand.

“Relax, I’m not going to hurt you honey,” She hushed, approaching the young girl. Bugsy didn’t believe her for one second, her head pulling away from her as far as it could, her eyes wild and distrustful as the woman kneeled down beside the bed. “I’m Kathy,”

Bugsy debated jabbing an elbow in her face then and there, telling her in few words to stay as far away from her as possible, that the moment she was free she didn’t care who she hurt; she was getting out of here even if she had to crawl.

“That woman’s your sister right?” The blonde said, and the words stopped her heart for a moment, giving the woman the chance to run the cloth over the dribble of blood, “Emily,”

“Where is she?” She tried to ask, but the gag made it little more than a muffled cry, the woman’s eyes turning down in sadness. Pity. Bugsy hated every second of it.

“She’s okay, she’s worried about you though,” Kathy said, wiping under her nose, making her wince at the feeling, “Put up a hell of a fight after they took you away,”

She must have rolled her eyes, or perhaps it was just telling on her face that that didn’t surprise her as the older woman wiped over the superficial cut on her forehead she hadn’t realised was deep until the cloth went over it and she yawped like a dog having it’s tail pulled.

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” Kathy cooed, and she seemed genuinely guilty as she did. She tutted, shaking her head, fighting the urge to smooth the girls hair down the way she did when her own daughter was upset, “Emily said they’ll be coming for us at 3am, Cyrus has a mass suicide planned but they think they can stop him, you just have to hold on a little longer honey,”

“I want to see her,” Bugsy tried to talk again despite her mouth being covered, only for it to come out unintelligible once more. Huffing, she resigned herself to glaring at the ceiling, biting back frustrated tears. Kathy seemed to want to say something else, but thought better of it as the twenty something year old turned away from her to stare out the window, as if she were being dismissed.

Sighing, she rose from the bed and headed for the door, praying the FBI would get them out in time, before Cyrus put his plan into action.

–

Bugsy didn’t start panicking until it hit 2:50. She’d managed to kick the small analogue clock on the beside into working, the red numbers seeming to take a millenia to change over.

Yet it wasn’t until 3am neared, and the hallways remained silent, did she start to wonder if Kathy had been telling the truth at all. What if they had found out Emily and Reid were FBI and not her? What if they’d already been caught?

She really had wanted to see Emily, wanted to scream at the woman, who had meant well, to bring her sister to her or she would make every damn bible basher in this compound regret the day they were born. She felt helpless. She despised feeling helpless.

It was only when she heard shots rattling from outside did the cold fear set in. 2:52. Any minute now.

It was then an even worse thought struck her. What if they didn’t bother to come for her? Reid and Emily were safe downstairs, at least that was how Kathy had made it seem. If they got the women and children, the agents out first, she wondered if they would leave her for last since she wasn’t their top priority.

2:53 stared back at her.

At least Emily would make it. She was more important, had more going for her. She was supposed to be an only child anyway, mom had said it herself. Bugsy was the product of a failing marriage and a shared bottle of 1896 Bourbon that had been a wedding gift they’d never opened.

2:54.

She could have sworn she tore something the way her head snapped to the door as it swung open on its hinges, as if two large men had thrown their weight into it. But it wasn’t two men at all, just one frantic Derek Morgan with an FBI grade assault rifle.

The relief in his eyes was immediate, and he pulled a pocket knife from his boot, rushing over to where she lay, almost in shock, wondering if he was real at all, her heart pounding as she heard shouting in the corridor.

“I’m gonna get you out, kid,” The man promised, slinging his gun over his shoulder as he sliced through the rope on her ankles, her eyes trained on the 2:55 that watched them as if to laugh at them.

She whimpered, cursing behind her gag when she heard footsteps pounding through the hallway, and she was sure they were going to get caught. She thought then it would have been better if they’d forgotten about her, that at least Derek would have been safe, and he could have made sure the children got out safely, could have gotten Spencer and Emily medical.

Derek whirled on the doorway the same as she did as a tall figure all but skidded around the corner, his legs weak as hers felt, too long and not at all built for running. Clumsy almost.

Spencer. She should have known from the way he looked white as a sheet the moment he saw her it was him, but maybe she really did have concussion, as it seemed within moments he was fussing over her face, tearing a little too sharply at the tape over her mouth.

She thinks she groaned, or maybe cursed him out, as he started apologising immediately, his eyes a puppy kind of sad as she stared up at him, Derek handing him the knife to cut her arms free.

He was talking, but she couldn’t make a lot of it out, just that he was really sorry, it was 2:56 now. It was like her brain switched itself back on when she realised she was free, and the two of them were trying to haul her to her feet.

“Come on, princess, we gotta get out of here,” Derek said, as Spencer looped an arm around her waist, helping her limp across the room where her weak limbs did little to hold her upright, her ribs throbbing with every step, “We managed to stop Cyrus from detonating it manually, but the circuits are all still live,”

Morgan took the lead with the rifle, knowing some of Cyrus’ men had stayed to look for them, that they would go down with the building even though he’d already shot their leader the moment they’d breached the front door, because that was how loyal they were. They’d proven so already with the wine.

She kept her groans behind tight lips as they made it down the stairs, knowing Spencer didn’t mean to hold her bruised bones so tight, that he was just worried and her legs were doing the bare minimum to keep them both moving very fast. It wasn’t until they made it within a few feet of the door that they seemed to pick up the pace.

And she saw why.

Jesse, Cyrus’ child bride that had been the reason they’d come here in the first place was holding the detonator, her face tear streaked at the sight of her husband and prophet dead on the floor, the people responsible all but dragging a lame girl through the foyer and to the doors as if they hadn’t killed a handful of her flock tonight.

Bugsy saw the moment Jesse decided she wanted vengeance on them, but then, she guessed Spencer had already acted as he slung one of her arms over his shoulder, yanking her out the front door in a matter of seconds as Morgan pulled up the rear, and the two men shoved her down behind the small wall outside the church steps.

Bugsy expected the bang to be louder as the rubble flew over their heads, the floor shaking with the impact of the bomb detonating, and it was then she realised one of Derek’s large warm hands held her head into his shoulder, protecting her already rattled skull as best as he could. Spencer had done the same, throwing half his body over her back as he covered his ears, the two men tucking into the wall tightly and waiting for the dust to settle.

Spencer started coughing first, though his position over her never faltered, and she heard his chest wheezing, and knew they needed to move away from the thick smog that blew into their faces. Morgan released her ear, tipping her head back to check her over once more.

“Kid! You okay?” He fretted, noticing the way her nose had started bleeding again from all the movement; the way the bruise had already started blotching her cheek from where Cyrus pistol whipped her.

“I didn’t think you’d come for me,” Was all she could say, and Derek thought it was the saddest he’d ever heard her.

Reid was pulling her to her feet then, where he was still hovering over her, despite the fact the blast had already cleared, still sputtering and hocking up a lung, but it didn’t stop her from throwing herself at his middle, burying her face in his dusty sweater, not caring one bit if he jostled her aching ribs.

He was trying to be gentle with her as he squeezed her back, but she knew by the way he pressed his face into her hair he needed it just as badly.

“You saved my life,” He said, his long arms wrapping around her waist, hauling her whole body against his.

She laughed through a cough, their cheeks brushing past one another as she pulled him in tighter, thankful, relieved.

“You saved mine,”

And then she heard Emily. Emily, who sounded frantic and heartbroken as she called for her, her voice breaking as if she was crying, or atleast on the verge of, and as comforting as Spencer’s long arms around her cracked ribs were, she needed to see her sister was okay.

Ripping herself from his embrace immediately, she tore off after the sound, and there she was. Her older sister, who had always seemed immovable, like she wouldn’t so much as budge for a bucking horse, like water couldn’t drown her, or however many unsubs she’d faced could stop her from catching them. Her older sister, who looked like she’d taken a few punches of her own, judging by the blood on her blue blouse, that looked around the crowd of fleeing people with watery eyes and a shaking bottom lip.

“EMILY,” She yelled, her voice a bleat, a lamb calling for its mother, as she sprinted down the steps, whatever strength she had left carrying her to where Emily was rushing towards her, taking the stairs in threes, “EM-”

She crashed into her sister’s chest, and it was only then she started crying.

“I swear I’ll never give you trouble again, I’ll never talk back, I’ll never be a bitch ever again-” It was all a slew of mumbles against her sisters shirt, that was beginning to wet through at the rate the tears were coming, “I thought he was going to shoot you-”

“I was so scared, Bug, oh my god,” Emily murmured into her hair, squeezing the life out of her baby sister that sniffled and sobbed, “You don’t ever, ever do that to me again,”

Bugsy shook her head, clawing at Emily’s back as she pulled her closer, feeling Emily stroking her hair softly to calm her even in the slightest. They stayed like that until she managed to wrangle her sobs into little sniffs, the fire burning her eyes where it burned the rest of the church to ashes.

She stayed with Emily for a month after that.

+4. The one where you leave the altar.

She knew she was turning heads, walking down the street of a drizzly day in Virginia, hair wet and sticking to her face, makeup running down her cheeks, and the sodden, dove white wedding dress clasped in her hands as she paced towards the government building.

Whether the guards recognised her as the Ambassador’s daughter, or whether they really didn’t want to get into it with a bride looking like that on her day, she didn’t know, but they opened the door for her nonetheless, exchanging raised brows as a trail of wet followed her gown over the marble floors.

Heading up the desk, she flashed her driver's licence, which was enough to gain her a visitors pass she didn’t bother putting to use as she headed for the elevator, her ballet pumps squeaking under the body of the dress. Waiting for the doors to start closing when she finally let a few tears slip, burying her face into her cold, drenched palms, undoubtedly making the mess of mascara even worse.

Her heart gave a leap when she heard someone stop the doors, hoping she could get to her sister with little delay, and she quickly wiped her face with whatever was left of her pretty, dobby cloth shawl she had yanked on before she’d ran.

Whatever excuse she was about to give, whatever one liner she was about to drop to clear the awkwardness this agent was about to walk in on was sucked out of her when she saw Spencer staring at her, his briefcase in his hands he’d used to hold the doors, a wide eyed look plastered on his face as soon as he saw her state.

“Bugsy,” It was somewhere between surprise and sadness, jumping into the elevator before the metal could shut again, the button for the sixth floor already lit up in a ring of red, “What are you- I didn’t even know…”

“Spencer!” As seemed to be a common occurrence between them now, she threw two very cold arms over his shoulders, tugging him for a hug he quickly reciprocated, feeling like she needed it in the moment, “It was so awful, I just couldn’t all those people staring at me, and he- I just feel so-”

“Hey slow down,” He soothed, slipping his favourite cardigan off his body to put over her shoulders, ignoring the way he cringed as it quickly got sodden, “Let’s get you to Emily, I’m sure we can fix this,”

She nodded, though he could tell she was still shaken up, the elevator dinging to a stop on the fifth floor where an agent looked ready to step in, his face dropping when he saw the sight.

“Sorry, we’re full,” Spencer said, with little room for discussion, pressing the button to close the doors once more, and taking her by the elbow as she began shivering, “We’re gonna be just fine, you look beautiful,”

She laughed sadly with a roll of her eyes, the tears sticking to her cheeks. She knew she looked no better than a drowned rat, windswept and disgruntled, her dress full of muck from the street.

“Thankyou, Spencer,” She mumbled, the door sliding open to the sixth floor, where Penelope and her everlasting smile greeted her favourite boy genius.

She almost dropped her glitter pen when she saw the woman stood next to him looking like Dorothy dragged through the twister.

“Oh you poor little lamb, what has happened to you honey!” She all but cried, the cute little pom poms in her hair bouncing as she brought Bugsy closer, taking her hands tightly. “Your hands are ice! You’ll catch cold with that wet hair, and your gorgeous dress-”

“Garcia,” Spencer cut her off, though the woman didn’t seem to mind being manhandled into the kind grip, he guessed her state had her letting her guard down, “This is Bugsy, Emily’s little sister.”

Penelope gasped, her ponytails swishing around some more, the gems on her glasses as bright as the light in her eyes as she yanked the younger girl in for a tight hug.

“It is so nice to meet you! Emily talks about you all the time,” She said, pulling away and fumbling through her pockets for her fresh pink handkerchief she always carried around, mopping up the girl's eyeliner.

“She-she does?” Bugsy asked, sniffling, her body trembling as the AC beat down through the water ladened on her body.

“Of course she does, come on, let’s go get you coffee, I have a new machine in my office that makes the best espresso-” Garcia grabbed her hand as if they were kids in the playground, as if she’d known the girl years, which she sort of had. She had, of course, stalked every single one of Emily’s known relatives, even a distant cousin that never left Europe, and that had thrown up the quiet corner of the internet that Bugsy took up.

“I needed to talk to my sister, if that’s okay,” Bugsy braved enough to say, the swishing of her dress on the carpet making her wince, practically hearing the gallon of rain that soaked the expensive fabric.

“Ofcourse! How silly of me, I’ll bring it out right to you, little bug. You just go with Spencer,” Handing him the handkerchief, she set off towards her ‘bat cave’ in search of a hot beverage for the shivering woman, “Spencer, clean her makeup!”

He did as he was told, dabbing the water off her face as he led her to the BAU, where Emily and Morgan sat on their desks, chatting as they finished off lunch, Emily flicking through photos on her phone of baby Henry that JJ had sent over to her that morning from maternity leave.

“He’s just the sweetest little boy, he’s got the biggest blue eyes just like Jayj,” She said through a smile, “You know Will even said-”

“Holy shit-” Morgan cut her off, and she glanced at him, wondering about his use of a curse. Following his eyes over her shoulder, she swivelled in her position to see where Spencer led a very wet, shaken version of her little sister through the doors of the BAU, a snowy ball gown hanging off her, a veil clinging to her hair that had seen much better days.

“Holy shit,” She agreed, immediately darting for the girl that tugged Spencer’s cardigan tighter to her body, “Bugsy,”

“Emily, I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t take up too much time- I just couldn’t do it- and I know mom’s always saying ‘Bring home a doctor, bring home a rich man,’ but I just couldn’t no matter how rich his daddy is, he wasn’t even too bad-” It all came out in a slur, not making too much sense, and she didn’t stop until Emily held up her hands, as if easing a wild dog.

“Woah, take it easy, kiddo,” Morgan hushed, as Emily brought a hand over her sister’s cheek, wiping away the last of the mascara, “What happened?”

Bugsy took a deep breath, looking between Emily and Derek, feeling the rain drip down her back.

“So a few weeks ago, Mom made me go to that stupid debutante ball,” She started, rolling her eyes already as Emily winced, knowing Elizabeth loved any excuse to dress her youngest up like a Barbie doll.

“I hated those things,” She confessed, shaking her head, “I thought you’d agreed you didn’t have to go to them anymore,”

“That was while I was in college, she said at least I could focus on my studies,” The girl explained, as Garcia tottered back through the office, a steaming cup of coffee in her beloved Bratz mug. Taking it from the chirpy woman, she took a deep gulp, not caring if it burned her mouth as she wished for the damn chill to go away, “Thankyou- But she made me go to this one on the condition she would pay off some of my college loans, and I was dumb enough to fall for her bribe,”

She huffed, taking another sip, her stomach warming with the hot liquid settling through her throat.

“You know how she is at these things, she knows everyone, and everyone knows her. I had four guys asking for my dance card within minutes of arriving there, it was like trying to walk through a dog pound wearing a meat suit, all the hand holding, trying to touch my waist- one guy even called me Madam Prentiss,” She grimaced, shuddering at the thought of it, “Madam? No one even calls mom that-”

“Focus,” Emily reminded gently, and she seemed to nod to herself, setting back on track.

“Right. And then he was there. Byron Hastings.” Bugsy said, wrapping her hands around the mug some more.

“Oh, isn’t he that super yummy bachelor that just inherited his fathers business?” Garcia jumped in, not noticing how it made her wince, “I hear his dad totally owns a bunch of shares in Facebook and as like just signed a deal with a new company that will change the future of computing-”

“Not now, baby girl,” Morgan said calmly, patting Penelope on her shoulder when she saw the bride’s crestfallen face.

“Right, sorry. Your turn, little bug,” She said, shaking her head and fiddling with her dozen rings.

“Yeah, that’s him.” She replied, running a slightly warmed finger over her eyelash where rain even collected there, “And you know, I wasn’t complaining, he was certainly easy on the eyes, and he smelled nice, like he just smelled rich, but man alive he was so boring,” She sighed, “I like computers as much as the next girl, no offence, but he didn’t once ask me what I was into or, and when I tried to bring up my degree he just patted me on the head and said ‘That’s nice’ like I was some child that had brought him a pretty colouring or something,”

“Ouch,” Emily grimaced, rubbing her arms over the cardigan to warm her up a little more, “And then?”

“And eventually, his dad and my mom cut a deal that we’d make a good pair. He said we could be married within the season, and suddenly everyone seemed up for it, and it was like no matter how hard I tried to dig my heels in, no one would listen, and mom just seemed so pleased with me-” She spluttered, sipping her drink to catch her breath, “I just let it happen and just thought, you know, maybe we could learn to like each other, or we could just be like mom and dad and separate in everything but paper,”

“It’s your life, who is she to tell you how you’re gonna live it,” Emily was outraged, the tip of her nose pink, her dark eyes stormy as her hands fell to her hips, huffing as if it had been her backed into a corner, “I can’t believe she would do this to you,”

“I was fine with it, really. It's not like its the fifteenth century when I’d be forced to consummate- anyway,” Bugsy rubbed her face, “I just got there, and mom put on my veil and told me I’d make a lovely Mrs Hastings, and just the sound of it- I couldn’t-”

“What on earth is going on?” A new voice cut through the BAU, and the group disbanded like kids caught trading answers to the homework. Rossi and Hotch stood by the unit chief’s office, brows furrowed at the wet bride and his team that tended to her as if she were a princess.

“Should we be expecting four wet bridesmaids too?” Rossi asked, the two of them making the steps down to the floor, approaching the guilty faced woman, noting Spencer’s cardigan wrapped over her shoulders.

“Nope, just me,” Her joke fell flat as she met the stony face of Aaron Hotchner, who looked thoroughly unimpressed, “Nice to see you again, Mr Hotchner, sir,”

His gaze slid to Emily, mouth opening to share whatever scathing remark bounced around his mouth, but the younger girl beat him to it, everyone’s eyebrows raising when she all but cut him off.

“This wasn’t on Emily, sir, I just showed up out of the blue, I can go- I’ll go- I just need to figure out where I’m staying since I left my purse at the church- don’t you worry I’ll be out of your hair, Aaro- sir,” Bugsy stammered, plonking the mug onto Emily’s desk, backing away to the doors of the office, clutching her visitor pass tight in her fist.

Maybe it was because she looked so hopeless, or maybe it was the way his team shot him the same look of horror he would be so regimental, or maybe even it was the fact part of her reminded him of Sean, only his brother wouldn’t have had the courtesy to apologise for his mess.

Sighing, he gestured her to come back, “Wait,” He said her name, her government name because the other one didn’t fit right in his mouth, “Reid, get her some clothes out your go bag. Emily, tell your mother she’s safe and will be staying in Quantico until you can figure something out,”

Heaving a sigh of relief, she launched her still sodden form at the chief, wrapping him in a stiff hug, bolder than anyone else on the team had ever dared to be.

“I swear to god, Mr Hotchner, the next letter you're getting will be the best one yet,” She mumbled into his hard chest, and he fought off the way the corners of his lips twitched upwards. Patting her on the back gently, he ignored the way his dress shirt wet through.

–

let me know what you think! mAYBE A FEW MORE PARTS COMING UP ??

Edit: This is a part one of 3 or 4 I have planned, thankyou so much for all the love on this I did not expect the reaction 🥺🥺

SECOND EDIT: part two and three are out now!! Have a look at the top where it says ‘next chpt and it’s there bbys!!

THIRD EDIT: we are now balls deep into this universe here's th link for the masterlist

#spencer reid x reader #Spencer reid imagine #Spencer reid fanfic #criminal minds x reader #Prentiss #prentiss!Reader #criminal minds fanfiction #dr spencer reid #criminal minds fic #spencer reid fanfiction #mathew grey gubler #Matthew grey gubler x reader

4K notes · View notes

saintobio · 1 year ago

Text

blank canvas.

problems arise when your tattoo artist boyfriend starts getting too cozy with the girls that wanted him to do more to their bodies than just inking their skin. the thing is, they knew what he wanted and they knew what you couldn’t give.

pairings. ryōmen sukuna, fem!reader

genre. florist x tattoo artist au, mild angst, opposites attract

tags. nudity, insecure!reader, virgin!reader, dry humping, mentions of needles, mentions of cheating, slutshaming

notes. if you’ve been here for a while, yes this is a repost from an old hq fic :’D i rewrote and remodeled it for sukuna bc i feel like he fits this au!

part 2 | part 3 | epilogue

Sukuna had seen it all.

He wasn’t dumb and he most definitely wasn’t oblivious to the fact that he was attractive, bringing him a clientele of adoring women who would frequently visit his tattoo parlor. Who could blame them? He was handsome, had a good physique, and an overwhelming aura that pulled the attraction of many women, single or not, who were desperate to vie for his attention. His tattoos and his dyed hair even added to the overall bad boy persona that he had which, to be fair, was a girl’s guilty pleasure.

The women were very assertive, it seemed, to try and lure Sukuna into their little seduction game. Was he getting tempted into it? No. He was loyal and he’d like to stay loyal to his kind and beautiful girlfriend. After all, winning you over wasn’t as easy as it would with any other girl.

However, there were certain moments that almost tested his loyalty to you, especially when some of the women would ask to have their tattoos done on the most intimate places of their bodies.

Take yesterday as an example: one girl asked to have a tattoo on her buttocks and she was certainly more satisfied at the feeling of Sukuna’s palms on her bum rather than the actual tattoo she was getting. And to top it all, she bluntly asked if he offered more service rather than just giving tattoos. Crazy.

He had previously mentioned it to you that as part of his job, he was obligated to give his clients the tattoos they requested, regardless of where on their bodies they wanted them. It was strictly business. Ironically, despite dating a tattoo artist like himself, you had no single trace of inked art on your body. You were an untouched canvas that had never been painted on. Still, Sukuna respected your choice and he surely respected your boundaries even more.

He knew that you had always been a gentle girl when he first met you at the floral shop across the street. You were always prim and proper, always dressed modestly, always following the rules, and always doing the right thing. All you cared about doing was to express your love through the delicate petals you arranged in your flower-scented haven. You were happy to be in your own little bubble, content in the company of fragrant blossoms and soft-spoken solitude. Introverted. Reserved. Pure. Unassuming. He was the exception to your goody-two-shoes nature, because he ended up winning your heart despite being the complete opposite of you. It wasn’t an easy task, either. Deciding to get to know you was on a whim at first, since he was intrigued about your simple joys in life and how you weren’t the type of girls that would visit his tattoo parlor. Something about your demure nature pulled him in until he realized that there was nothing else he wanted in this world but to make you his. He began by greeting you every morning from across the street, then giving you the same bouquet of flowers he purchased from your shop, followed by sending you texts complimenting how beautiful you looked as he watched you from his store, and finally asking you out on spontaneous dates.

It may be a bit peculiar to see the two of you together, but Sukuna pursued you because liked you. He was undeniably in love with you. He liked your smile, liked how cute and adorable you were, and liked how a simple look at you made him want to be a better man. He loved the idea of being with a girl he could protect.

The main issue was, Sukuna dropped out of college and just decided to open a tattoo parlor business because he simply didn’t want to waste his years studying for something that he wasn’t passionate about. But that was the source of your parents’ distaste. They told you that you had no future with a guy like him. They said that they would disown you as a daughter if you decided to choose him. They called him dirty, rebellious, and uneducated.

At that point, he thought that you would leave him after learning his rather reckless choices in life, but you stayed.

You left your parents' home and stayed with him.

And he was grateful that you did.

So to ask the question again, would he ever do something to betray you after everything that happened between you two? Of course, not. Not in a million years, no

But then again, he was also just doing his job and it wasn’t like he was purposely flirting with the girls that often flocked him during work hours. He was simply accommodating a client. Nothing more, nothing less.

And on one of those typical days, he had to work overtime when one of his returning clients asked for her fifth tattoo to be done by him. He just finished picking up the tools he needed as she walked towards the recliner seat asking, “Should I sit here?”

He nodded once, turning around to face the girl who looked at him with her alluring eyes. “Yeah, just let me know when you’re ready.”

Oh yes, she was surely ready. She even had a smirk displayed on her face when she slowly unbuttoned her shirt, keeping her gaze at him while teasingly revealing her busty pair.

He didn’t really pay attention to the size of her tits but instead, just casually pointed to a certain part of her body, “Is this where you want it?” he asked, referring to the lower left part of her breast.

With a very flirtatious grin, she nodded, clearly knowing that her assets were her biggest weapon. “Yes. Would it be easier if I took off my bra, yeah?”

“You don’t have to. I can work it out,” he casually responded, reaching for his glove and busying himself with all the tool preparations.

The girl let out a silent giggle along with her best friend who sat on the side, waiting for her turn. Waiting to be the recipient of Sukuna’s full attention. Sigh.

“No, I can take it off for you,” the girl insisted, unclasping her bra and setting her huge breasts free for him to ogle at. They were perfectly round, probably a 40D, and a light pink shade for her nipples. With how firm they were sitting on her chests, she had probably gotten them done.

He cleared his throat, averting his eyes as he asked her to sit on the recliner chair. Sukuna had seen women half naked in his shop before, but this was the first time someone willingly got naked in front of him, most especially with other intentions rather than to simply get a tattoo.

Because of the awkwardness, he went ahead and blasted some heavy metal music to distract his mind. He had to think of something else and not stare at the girl’s luscious tits. He had to shift his mind to somewhere else like, for example, why the girl chose a calligraphy of the words ‘la douleur exquise’ on her skin this time.

“Is this French?” he nonchalantly asked, motioning for her to rest her back while he wiped the chosen area with a damp cotton pad. He specifically avoided brushing his hand on her breast, but it looked like the girl was actually angling herself to make him touch it more.

“It means exquisite pain,” she purred, batting her thick eyelashes at him.

His lips formed a smirk, impressed at how much of a skank she was willing to be for him. It wasn’t new, as established before. He’d also had a fair share of women who tried to get into his pants last week, but none of them were successful. He actually found it entertaining to watch them do all sorts of stunts to make him give in. To make him submit himself to his carnal desires. He was a man after all. He had needs, he had to get some form of release, otherwise it could pose a problem in his masculinity.

All while she was getting her tattoo done, the other girl got up from her seat to walk closer to her best friend. Sukuna decided to refer to them in his head as Slut 1 and Slut 2 because he had no intentions of knowing their names. He knew slut-shaming was terrible, but he never said he was a man of virtue and truthfully, how else could he describe them?

“Hey, Sukuna,” the other girl called, sitting at an empty stool with a smile. “You’re single, right?”

He kept his eyes focused on the skin he was inking on. “...No.”

Even from the corner of his eye, he knew that both girls looked surprised, “No way? You have a girlfriend?”

Was it really that much of a shock?

“Yeah, she owns the floral shop across the street,” he mumbled, wiping the trace of blood on the girl’s skin after he finished another letter.

There was a visible pout on Slut 1’s face as if learning that Sukuna had a girlfriend was more painful than the needle pricking at her skin. “So, what’s she like?”

Sukuna thought for a while because he didn’t know where to begin. It was too much of a long story for them to hear about. You were everything he wanted in a woman and that was all he knew. “She’s cute and kind.”

His words earned a giggle from Slut 2. “Is she like the good girl type?”

“She is.” He figured it would be okay to converse about you like this. Besides, he would rather be talking about you than to have these girls just try to flirt with him relentlessly.

“How much of a good girl, though?” Slut 1 egged on, “I bet she’s a virgin and a prude.”

That was obviously none of their business, but damn. They hit a nerve that they shouldn’t have. No one else had managed to bring up a topic like that to him, more so a topic that he himself knew not to cross. His sex life wasn’t as fruitful as anyone thought so, yet not once in his life did he complain. Not once did he talk about it to anyone. Not once did he tell anyone that he had been dating you for a year now and you two never really went further than making out.

“I respect her,” was his answer, much to the two girls’ dismay.

“That’s kinda boring, though,” the other girl claimed, draping her arm around his shoulder before leaning close to his ear. “You’re still a man and you have needs. If I were her, I’d sleep with you every day. In every position.”

The girl on the recliner chair grinned. “Totally! Like, you’re so hot and I feel like you’re good in bed.”

Fuck.

He almost messed up one of the letters because his mind just flew to somewhere unforgivable. It was a sin to even think about, but shit, he definitely missed the feeling of fucking someone. He couldn’t even remember the last time he did so.

“Sukuna?”

He snapped out of his trance and looked up upon hearing the familiar voice, only to find you by the door, your eyes filled with hurt.

“Hey—”

Your voice was caught in your throat as you avoided his gaze. “I just... I thought you were done.”

In a swift motion, you hurriedly walked out of the room before dashing out the door. You didn’t even bother to look back, dead set on leaving him alone with the girls. Your footsteps were far too quick to even catch and he was hoping that you would at least slow down.

“Babe!” he called, unable to chase after you as you shut the door. An exasperated sigh followed.

This was going to be a big problem

Just what was he thinking?

He had a half naked girl in front of him and another girl clinging to him like he didn’t have a girlfriend. It must have hurt you a lot. No, it definitely wrecked you.

“Uh-oh...” the girl mocked. “I can sense trouble”

He decided to leave it be for now and get his job done as soon as possible, even thinking of banning the two girls from going into his shop just to avoid further trouble. He had a lot of explaining to do and he couldn’t wait to go home to make sure that you would listen to him, not overthink the whole thing and place your assumptions because hurting you was the last thing he would do.

At least, he hoped you knew that.

You were washing the dishes when Sukuna came home and the first thing he did was to wrap his arms around you. He had your waist caged in his tight embrace, his chin resting on your shoulder as he whispered sweet nothings to you. To be real, you weren’t in the mood to see his face after what you saw this afternoon. You get it—he was exposed to all sorts of people with his line of work and most of them probably couldn’t just ignore his physical appearance. You were aware that some girls were only getting a tattoo to get close to him. Heck, you were aware that they all wanted to be with him.

But the only reason you were hurt wasn’t because he was desired by women, but because those very same women were all better than you in more ways than one. They fit his type more than you did and you were sure that they could give him exactly what he wanted.

Still, it awfully tugged at your heartstrings.

He was yours, not theirs. You had the right to be jealous when a girl was getting cozy with your man, but to see him letting them have their way? That was a different story.

“Baby, talk to me,” he mumbled, planting a soft, apologetic kiss on your neck.

You gave him the silent treatment as you walked away and dried your hands with a towel. What else would you say? He should already be aware of why you were acting that way. He should be the one to try and talk to you, not the other way around. And with your stubborn mind, you did your best to keep your insouciance, pulling his tattooed arms off of you and heading towards the couch.

You could hear his sigh as he followed you, but you were determined to keep your eyes glued on the TV screen. If he wanted to talk, he should do the talking, you reminded yourself over and over.

“You’re really pissed at me, huh,” he spoke as soon as he sat next to you, a hand carefully placed on your thigh. “I’m sorry.”

“They’re pretty hot, aren’t they?” The bitter question left your mouth before you thought of holding back.

He scooted closer and hooked an arm around your shoulder this time. “Definitely nowhere near as hot as my girlfriend.”

What a load of… You rolled your eyes, remembering how the girls looked and how comfortable he was with them. “Yeah, right.”

You couldn’t explain the tightness on your chest every time you recalled the scene earlier because you knew, you just knew, that there was more that could have happened if you didn’t check on him. You saw it in his eyes, even for a split second, that he almost gave in to temptation. How could he not? You were a prude just as they described—just because you didn’t have any sexual experience like they did. Perhaps when they called you boring, they were right and Sukuna wanted to agree.

He couldn’t be stuck with a girlfriend that he couldn’t even have sex with, could he?

“I shouldn’t have let them put their hands on me like that,” he admitted, showing his dire attempt to look apologetic. “Only you can.”

You took a deep breath and shook your head. “I don’t even know why you’re still with me, Sukuna. I put so many boundaries between us. Don’t you get tired of me?”

“Fuck no,” he quickly answered, tucking your hair behind your ear. “Never. You’re the only one for me.”

Truth be told, you did feel bad that he couldn’t fully experience you as a girlfriend, but he had been very patient and respectful towards you. He never crossed the line and never forced you to do anything you weren’t comfortable with. He said he was doing that because you never gave up on him even when you had the choice to. He said that you were worth waiting for. He said that he was satisfied with what you two already had.

Maybe you could let this one incident go, after all, he was never really a bad boyfriend to you. Sure, he looked like a bad boy, but when it came to you, he was surprisingly soft.

“Okay,” you muttered, sighing in defeat and finally meeting his eyes. “Just don’t do it again. I don’t care if they get naked in front of you. Please set some boundaries and don’t entertain them too much or you’ll give off the wrong impression.”

Your leniency earned a smile from him, delighted to earn your trust again so he made an effort to peck your lips. “Yes, ma’am.”

“You’re annoying.”

“You love me.”

“I do,” you professed, placing a hand on his cheek, “so much.”

Pleased with your words, he leaned in again to give you a much, much deeper kiss. He knew it was all he could do with you, but he wanted to make you feel that his kisses were satisfying enough for the both of you. Just with the way he moved his lips against yours and how your tongue rolled around his—it was almost impossible to breathe at one point, but he softened the kiss to allow yourself to catch some air.

Gosh, you were jealous again. You were becoming annoyed as your mind ran at full speed, thinking of how those girls thought they could put their hands on your man. You were livid at how they tried to steal him from you.

“You’re mine, right?” you asked for reassurance, pulling away to look at his dominating eyes.

The smirk on his lips was replaced by a cheeky grin. “All yours, darling.”

You didn’t know what gave you the sudden confidence to straddle his lap after he said that, but it just felt right. You wanted more of his physical affection and felt like you couldn’t get enough. Both of you were taken aback, obviously, because this wasn’t something you would normally do, and so the heat on your cheeks was mixing with the surprised look on his face. You were sitting directly on his crotch and he was having a hard time to control himself.

“Babe,” he breathed on your neck. “You don’t have to force yourself.”

He was right, but the thought of the other girls constantly seducing him behind your back just gave way to your deepest insecurities. You didn’t have the most perfect body in the world and you most definitely didn’t have the skills in bed that he expected—you were scared that you might lose him because of these facts. Or that he would find someone better, even at the cost of having them on the side.

“Hey,” he spoke again, making you look at his eyes as you relaxed into his touch. “It’s fine. If you want it, I can be gentle. We can go slow.”

“I-I don’t know... I just,” you hesitated, not knowing exactly how to put it into words.

You didn’t know why sex intimidated you. It should be as easy as 1-2-3, just him putting his member inside you, right? But you weren’t really scared of doing the act itself, you were scared that once you did it, he would leave you because he already got what he wanted. Losing it to the wrong person sounds like a nightmare and that was why you were having trouble coming into terms of losing your virginity before marriage.

You could feel the hardness on his crotch pressing against your core and you didn’t expect a moan escaping your lips when you moved at the slightest. The fabric of your shorts were thin enough for you to feel the outline of his hardened member, displaying a prominent bulge on his sweatpants. You haven’t seen how big he was, but you could tell just by looking at his bulge that he was huge. Could you even take that?

He held your waist and guided you to move again, this time urging you to move your hips back and forth, allowing you to feel the friction from his hard erection. Lust was clouding his eyes and it made you feel weak.

“How does it feel?” he asked, his hot breath tickling your ear.

You continued grinding on him with your lips parted, releasing your silent moans, “G-Good.”

He leaned forward to kiss your neck, eventually sucking the soft skin to leave his beautiful marks. “I wanna eat you down there, baby,” he growls under his breath, squeezing your right breast, “You’re gonna taste so good, I bet.”

“Suku—” you whined, gripping his hair while he started matching your movements with his own. It was a foreign feeling for you to feel his bulge rubbing against your untouched core.

“Fuck,” he cussed in a low voice, squeezing your ass with his huge hands in growing excitement. “Let me get a condom.”

This was it.

It was happening.

Or was it?

Your eyes widened in panic as you pushed him back onto the couch. It was as though all of your senses were awakened and your body was telling you that you shouldn’t be doing all this. “N-No, I... I’m not ready.”

You didn’t mean to always chicken out when you two were almost about to do it. You just didn’t feel confident enough to give yourself yet and even if you badly wanted to, you just couldn’t make yourself do it.

You could see the hint of disappointment on his face and he was trying to hide it.

“Right,” he exhaled deeply with his head thrown back on the headrest. “It’s alright. Maybe next time,” he convinced himself.

“I’m sorry,” you softly mumbled, hand gripping on his shirt.

He gave you a quick peck on the lips before pulling you out of his lap and getting up from the couch. “Yeah, yeah. It’s fine.”

You stayed seated as you watched him walk away. “Where are you going?”

“I have to finish this off on my own,” he answered without looking back. You realized he was referring to the act of touching himself because you just couldn’t do the job for him. It was obvious how frustrated he was and for goodness sake, you did feel guilty, but then again, he didn’t act like this before. When you told him you didn’t want to do it further, he would simply laugh it off and say he would wait for you.

This wasn’t the same Sukuna that said that.

You became a little paranoid.

Considering that girls would still pay your boyfriend a visit at the tattoo parlor, you always ended up overthinking about what he was doing while you were supposed to be busy at the floral shop. In the middle of arranging a bouquet of beautiful peonies, your mind was on haywire. You just didn’t feel at ease. You felt like anyone could easily snatch him away from you because you weren’t particularly a striking girl to begin with. You were leaning on the simple, conservative side rather than the rebellious, liberated women that swarmed his shop in hopes of sleeping with him.

Because your thoughts were eating you alive, you decided to head to his tattoo parlor after closing the shop to make sure that he wasn’t doing any funny business.

And you were somehow right.

About three girls were in there this time, two of which you had already seen a couple of days ago, and they were already leaving the parlor just as you arrived.

“You’re really amazing, Sukuna,” one of the girls told him in gratitude, “I might get another one soon.”

You watched them walk past you with a smug expression on their faces as they left the shop. Sukuna had then seen you standing by the door with your arms crossed.

“Really?” you questioned, walking inside with a frown. “They’re here again?”

He sighed and walked back to his station while cleaning the mess from the tattoo session. He wasn’t even trying to win you over anymore. “I can’t just ask them not to come anymore. They’re still clients.”

“Let me guess,” you continued, “Did one of them get naked in front of you again? Did you let them put their hands all over you again? Did you perhaps forget that you had a girlfriend again?”

His brows, now furrowed in annoyance and his mouth, thinning in displeasure. “No. We talked about this.”

You held your breath, raising a brow in return. “I’m starting to think you’re doing more for them than just giving them tattoos.”

“Like, what? Sell my body?” His question was clearly a taunt. A spasm of irritation crossed his face, but he still managed to display a mocking smile. “Is that what you’re suggesting, angel?”

“That’s not what I—”

“Then, what?”

“You know what I mean,” you replied, trying to get your point across while keeping your composure. “You’re an attractive man and they’re the type of women you would willingly sleep with.”

“Jesus. You’re so insecure, it’s crazy,” he retorted, rolling his eyes at you.

Insecure? You couldn’t believe, just couldn’t believe he called you insecure. The air crackled with tension as your jaw tightened, muscles twitching with every suppressed urge to lash out.

“I wonder why!” Your voice rose hysterically. “If you weren’t busy flirting with those girls, maybe I won’t be so insecure.”

“I said I’m not flirting with them!” he argued, slamming his gloves on the floor. His face contorted into a mask of rage and he looked at you with frustration that you had never seen before. It hurt. It certainly hurt. He had been acting distant since the night you didn’t give in to him and you knew that his exasperation towards you was rooting from that.

Your breathing became unsteady. “But you know you’d sleep with them if given the chance. Since I couldn’t do it with you.”

“Then, just fucking do it with me instead of bitching about it every day!” he snapped, voice thick with insinuation. “I don’t wanna be stuck acting like I give two shits about your interest in flowers and whatever nonsense you like to talk about. I wanna be with someone I can have sex with, not sit on the couch all day with a boring person like you!”

His hurtful words left you frozen like a statue, unable to move while being dominated by the shooting pain inside your chest.

You knew this day would come—that he would eventually get tired of waiting around for something that he could easily get from others. However, what hurt you most was the fact you believed he wasn’t that type of guy. That he wasn’t with you solely for what you could give, but rather, for what you just had. You thought he sincerely understood your boundaries and respected your choices the very same way you respected his, but it seemed that he had another thought in his head all along.

After seeing the look on your face, Sukuna had softened his gaze and walked closer to you in reproach to his words and actions, “I’m sorry... I didn’t mean that.”

A tear fell from your eye as you looked at him with both anger and pain building inside of you. Your eyes glistened with unshed tears. “You wanna have sex? Is that what you want?” Your voice cracked in the middle of your sentence. “You wanna do it so bad, let’s fucking do it, then!”

Your fingers forced their way to spitefully unbutton your blouse despite his desperate efforts to stop you. You must be going crazy. But also, he drove you to this point.

“Baby, no,” he said in remorse, grabbing your wrists tightly. “No, I’m sorry. I’m content with you. I really am, I’m sorry. Please.”

Your chest heaved as you cried, unable to stop your emotions from exposing all of your vulnerabilities. “It’s obviously not enough for you.” Your voice quivered, each word a fragile whisper trembling with the weight of unspoken sadness as you sniffled and wiped your eyes. “You knew what kinda girl I am when you dated me.”

He pulled you for a hug and kissed your temple way too many times that you lost count. He felt absolutely sorry for ever hurting you with his words, but they just hit you so painfully to the point that your gaze grew distant and your face was clouded with resignation.

“I know what kinda girl you are and I’m in love with you for it,” he reaffirmed, as if trying to get it through your head but his words were beginning to feel empty. “Please, believe me. I really didn’t mean what I said. You’re enough for me, baby. You’re all I want.”

You didn’t feel comfort from his words, but you still returned his embrace because you loved him. Because you knew, even if he said more hurtful words, that you would still love him. Sure, you would be angry, but your love for him ruled higher than your pride.

You were just scared of losing him over something like this.

“I love you so much,” he whispered in your ear before placing a soft, apologetic kiss on your lips.

When he pulled away, your heart still felt heavy, but you managed to conceal your face with an agonizing smile.

“I love you, too.”

He ran his thumb across your cheek and held your waist on his other hand. You just couldn’t get his words out of your head even after he apologized, because you never knew he was seeing your relationship that way all along.

The girls were right. He was a man after all and he had needs.

The fact that he was staying with you despite not fulfilling his needs must be a work of charity for him, and eventually, he would get sick of waiting around. He would desire you less and less the more the days passed by and it wasn’t absolutely crazy to think that he could potentially meet another girl he liked that was willing to give it all.

The mere thought of it scared you.

“I’ll do it with you tonight,” you offered, your voice breaking, hoping that you could finally break the barrier and be enough for him.

#sukuna x reader #sukuna x you #sukuna x y/n #sukuna angst #jjk x reader

6K notes · View notes

zorosangell · 1 month ago

Text

⛥ﾟ・。 oiran

synopsis: while luffy and the others are off saving sanji, zoro is assigned the role of a ronin, and told to keep a low profile as he roams the land of wano... but he risks revealing himself and the entire crew when he discovers you're a nearby oiran, and in need of his rescue.

cw: lots and lots of fluff, comfort, zoro is down bad for reader, reader is super pretty, zoro does NOT play about you, took me hella long for some reason.

a/n: i took the song hell n back by summer walker as inspo for this

"Thanks," Zoro nodded with a smile, giving the boat owner a thankful nod as he took a box of sushi from him, quickly setting it down in his lap and cracking it open.

Though he had failed to notice the word WASABI written in bold on the side of the tray.

In his travels throughout the Flower Capital, Zoro had landed himself in a little bit of trouble, having been arrested for the crimes of a serial killer, and convicted as a murderer when he cut down a very important magistrate—who was the real culprit—at his own execution.

Luckily, after defeating the magistrate's followers and walking out the execution yard, he had managed to stumble across a literal sushi boat leaving one of the docks, which gave him the perfect means to escape.

While also offering the perfect opportunity for him to stuff his face.

Eager to eat, he picked up the first piece, which was topped with fresh salmon nigiri and salmon roe, the rice a little more green than the swordsman expected.

But he was too hungry to care, not giving it a second thought as he shoved the whole thing in his mouth.

An act he was quick to regret.

Cheeks puffed and nose scrunched, a bead of sweat trailed down his temple as his face contorted into an expression of discomfort.

'It burns!'

Frantic for something to cool his tongue, he snapped his head around, letting out small hums of muffled agony as he searched for his sake gourd.

Though the spiciness made him feel like his mouth was being seared by flames, most of the heat was moving upward toward the back of his nose, hitting his sinuses just enough to make his eyes water.

Typically, he enjoyed things that sat more on the bitter side, but he'd never imagined food could get this spicy.

Quickly grabbing his sake, he guzzled well over half of it, ignoring the two large streams running down the sides of his mouth as that was what finally stopped the burning.

But as he began to regain feeling in his mouth, he realized that the sushi piece itself actually tasted delicious, slightly smiling at the flavor.

'Looks like I'll just need a sake chaser.'

"My, my! Look at this!" the older man next to him gasped, marveling at a mysterious flyer in his hands. "To think that such a breath-taking beauty actually exists! It's unbelievable!"

Completely unbothered, Zoro went back to stuffing his face, following each bite with a huge gulp of sake.

Though his curiosity began to pique when the man continued to stare at the paper, almost as if he was hypnotized.

"What's unbelievable?" Zoro asked, muffled, as he gulped down another piece. "Hot!"

"An oiran nearby by the name of (f/n)! She's said to be one of the most beautiful women in the country!" the man answered, holding up the paper for the swordsman to see. "It's rumored that her beauty would give oiran Komurasaki a run for her money."

Zoro took another lazy swig of his gourd, brow raised as he flippantly glanced at the flyer, only for his eye to blow wide at the sight.

It was you, your features gracefully laid out and unmistakable in the detailed ink painting.

Surprised, Zoro spit out his mouthful of sake, shooting it directly into the face of a nearby patron.

"Hey! If you don't like wasabi, don't eat it! But I won't tolerate you spitting on other customers!" the owner of the boat shouted, brows furrowed as he glared at the swordsman. "Hold on! Have you even paid?!"

"Lemme see that!" Zoro growled, completely ignoring the owner as he snatched the flyer out of the old man's hands, looking at it closer.

It was indeed you, as radiant and stunning as he'd last seen, which was well over a month ago.

He wasn't told what identity you were assigned or where you were stationed—a precaution taken by Kin'emon as he'd seen throughout his travels how hell-bent the swordsman was on protecting you, and couldn't trust the man not to seek you out if he knew.

And, of course, his intuition would be right, as the paper suddenly began to crumple in Zoro's hand, his expression dropping into a deep scowl.

Zoro was dim, but he wasn't stupid.

During his time in the capital, he had managed to piece together what the whole oiran business was about.

He'd overheard the stories.

He'd seen the men.

It was nothing but an excuse for stuffy rich guys to gawk and leer at women, treating them like objects and products to be bought rather than actual people.

His fist clenched even tighter, veins bulging in his hand as it practically shook, nearly destroying the paper.

While eating out somewhere nice, he'd eavesdrop on some of the stories the men of higher status would tell, and to call their actions harassment would be a grave understatement.

He grit his teeth, attempting to fight off the swell of anger threatening to burst from his chest.

Just the thought of any man doing those things to you made his blood boil, and his hands itch for his swords.

Plan be damned, he wasn't gonna let anything happen to you on his watch.

Abruptly turning around, he yolked up the boat owner by the front of his yukata, the man letting out a fearful yelp as Zoro pulled him closer with a deadly glare.

He held out the crumpled flyer for the man to see, tone deadly serious and leaving no room for argument.

"Tell me where I can find her..."

"Care for some sake, sir?" a blonde-haired geisha asked, a slight flush on her cheeks as she approached Zoro, who was sitting rigidly on his tatami mat.

The man was certainly a sight, and every other girl in the room was having a hard time focusing on their clients with him sitting so close.

He was significantly more handsome than their typical patrons.

Pronounced jawline.

Clearly muscular physique.

Dark, bedroom eyes.

A dream come true for a woman in this profession.

"No, thank you," he curtly denied, not even bothering to look the girl in the eye.

But he had turned down every one of their advancements.

Yet, in all actuality, he wasn't even supposed to be there.

Once the boat owner told him where to find you, he immediately jumped ship, leaving behind some money to pay for his meal before landing on the riverbank.

He ran as fast as his legs could carry him with nightfall drawing ever closer, as he knew that was when red-light districts were at their most busy.

And only after mugging a few rich guys—using their money to pay the exorbitant entrance fee—did he finally gain access to your room, entering himself under the guise of a wealthy samurai.

Then, he laid in wait, watching with a certain disdain as the other men practically jumped the other girls, getting particularly handsy particularly quick.

But he did his best to ignore it, instead focusing on the fact that you had yet to arrive, worry beginning to spike in his veins as he had been sitting there for thirty minutes, with little to no sign of you at all.

"Hey," he called, snappily, snatching the girl out of her lovesick stupor. "When the hell is the oiran comin' out?"

Visibly, her shoulders dropped, a pout settling on her painted lips as she finally caught the message, now understanding why he was so cold toward everyone else.

He was waiting for her.

'Much like the rest of the men that pass through nowadays...'

Sucking up her slight annoyance, she faced the man with a polite smile, fixing her grip on the tray of liquor.

"Oiran (f/n) will be—"

"Lords! And esteemed samurai of Wano!" an older woman suddenly exclaimed, seeming to appear out of nowhere, utterly elated.

Zoro snapped his attention away from the girl, eye zeroing in on the door the madam was standing in front of.

He could sense you standing just behind it, and was fighting off the all-encompassing urge to bust it down and drag you away from the place.

"It is with great honor that the Ogimoto House presents to you our very own shining star... oiran (f/n)!"

As the door slammed open, a woman in the corner suddenly began to play the shamisen, the other girls joining together to gracefully dance as you made your entrance, carefully stepping into the light.

And once Zoro caught sight of you, nearly all the air was knocked out of his lungs.

You were a vision.

Your hair was tied in a both simple yet elaborate updo, adorned with several golden, gem-encrusted hairpins, two small strands of hair falling before your ears.

Your kimono was heavily layered, but richly decorated with bold greens and intricate embroidery that accented the fabric's dragon design—the most prominent one, ironically, missing its left eye, much like your swordsman.

Your makeup was surprisingly simple for an oiran, more focused on accentuating your natural features, while offering small pops of color to your cheeks.

Zoro's heart added another beat to its pattern, feeling as if the skin on his chest was tightening over itself, rendering him unable to breath.

Just being able to look at you brought him an embarrassing amount of happiness.

Lowering your fan, you flashed the men a coy smile, their eyes quite literally turning into hearts at the sight.

"Sorry for the delay," you simpered, gracefully walking into the room.

Because of traditional oiran etiquette, it was impossible for you to move faster than a mile an hour, but that only added to the appeal as that made it seem as if you were floating through the air.

Calculated, your eyes scanned over the crowd, analyzing each face within the room.

You'd recognized a few of the usual suspects—rich, thirsty men who would fall over themselves trying to catch your attention—and noticed a few new faces—skeptical types who wanted to see if the rumors of your looks were true.

But one man among them all stuck out to you.

You'd recognize that head of hair anywhere...

Internally, you let out a sigh, fighting off the wide smile threatening to break out on your face.

'He just can't follow directions, can he?'

Your swordsman.

Though you two had only been apart for about a month, give or take, you couldn't help but allow your heart to swell with joy at seeing him again.

Countless nights you'd found yourself pining over the man, missing his presence by your side.

His genuine, obnoxious laugh.

His funny, snarky remarks.

His drunken, horrible flirting.

His bad habit of resting his hand on your hip, keeping you tethered to his side.

All that was why you found your feet carrying you over to his mat, entire body burning at the intensity of his stare and the cockiness of his smirk.

"May I join you, sir?" you asked, slyly, biting back the grin threatening to crack on your lips. "I don't believe I've seen you here before."

He let out a quiet chuckle, perfectly fine with playing along, so long as he was your only customer.

"Be my guest," he greeted, his hand instinctively coming up to pat his thigh.

You typically sat in his lap when you two were alone, but he was so excited to see you, he didn't really care.

Though, when your eyes flashed him a scolding look, his hand halted in mid-air, brow raising in confusion.

You glanced toward the other patrons discreetly, taking notice that they all were still watching intently, before turning your attention back to your swordsman.

'We can't do that here, dumbass,' your expression said. 'You're gonna blow my cover.'

It finally hit him, and he nodded with an adorably vacant look.

'My bad,' he backed off.

"Oiran (f/n)!" a man suddenly shouted from across the room, grabbing everyone's attention as he bustled to his feet and scrambled toward you. "Oiran (f/n)!"

Despite your confusion, you turned to him with a warm look, masking your apprehension.

"Yes, Sir Kyoguro?" you asked.

You'd recognized the man from a few of his previous visits, and you made a point to remember every name you met, in case they could be of use to you later.

"I must say, I am bewitched by your beauty, absolutely enthralled by your grace, and in awe of your poise!"

You pretended to be abashed by the comments, slightly hiding yourself behind your fan.

"Sir Kyoguro, you flatter me."

Zoro nearly gagged, rolling his eyes at the sight.

He knew you were faking it, seeing as you'd just given him a real reaction only moments ago, but that didn't mean he had to like it.

"(f/n)!" the man eagerly lurched forward, taking your hand in his. "I am utterly taken with you. I see no other woman that can take your place in my heart!"

You fought off a grimace, smiling down uneasily at the stranger, who seemed to have found it in his right to touch you without your permission.

Zoro, on the other hand, was less than pleased.

Arms tightly crossed over his chest, his gripped his yukata, occupying his hands to prevent himself from shooting up and severely hurting the man.

It was painfully obvious that you were uncomfortable, yet you seemed to be taking it in stride.

How many other interactions had you had like this one?

How many men have touched you without your say so?

How many times have you had to hide your distress behind a kind smile?

'Bastard...'

He grit his teeth, fingers tightening painfully into a fist.

"This is why... I want you to marry me!"

Your entire world scratched to halt, Zoro's eye widening at the words.

"I-I beg your pardon?" you weakly stuttered, utterly shocked, praying you heard him wrong.

"I've already paid off your contract and then some. So tonight we leave for the Flower Capital! There we will be wed! And we'll finally be able to start our lives together!"

Your heart practically sank to your feet, the very thought making you shiver under your skin.

It was unheard of for an oiran to get a marriage proposal just within a month of working, much less one where the client pays well over the asking price.

Kin'emon telling you that fact was the only thing reassuring you throughout this whole endeavor.

As cheesy as it was, you had no intention of marrying anyone else in this world other than Zoro, whether the wedding was real or not.

But it wasn't like you could outright say no, or simply run away.

You'd blow your cover that way, and the others needed you to find out everything you could from the nobles of Wano.

'Of all people, why did this have to happen to me?'

It was safe to say... you were shitting your pants.

In a desperate attempt to debunk this, you turned to the madam, but she gave you a proud thumbs up, nodding in concurrence.

'Fuck!'

"And while we're on the topic... please forgive me if this comes off too vulgar for your delicate ears," the man leaned in closer, whispering so only you could catch it.

You shivered, terrified of what nonsense he might say.

"Once we reach the Flower Capital, I must insist that we start the process of producing an heir at once. My family is in great need of one, you see? And we need to start his upbringing right away."

You nearly laughed at the statement, eyes wide, nearly disbelieving of the words that just left his mouth.

There's no way he just said that...

But he did.

And Zoro heard him loud and clear.

And right then and there was when the swordsman decided the time for sitting idly by was over, plan be damned—Traffy could make another one.

It'd be a cold day in hell before he ever let you get married to some pervert for some mission, much less have a kid with him.

Silently, Zoro stood up from his mat, rising to his full height ominously quiet.

The entire room suddenly turned their attention to him, you included, your lips letting out a faint gasp as you caught a glimpse of his eyes, which were darkened with malice.

You recognized the look instantly... and you knew it spelled trouble.

'Oh, no...'

Your swordsman clenched his fist, grabbing the air as if it were one of his swords, before winding up his arm for a swing.

"Zoro, please... he didn't mean anything by it... we'll figure something out, alright?" you tried to calm him down, completely ignoring the fact that you used his real name, and the fact that it was completely inappropriate to talk to a customer that way.

You were more preoccupied with making sure he didn't kill anybody.

But his mind was already made up.

Suddenly, a dark, shiny substance coated his arm from his fingertips to his elbow, emanating a menacing, purple glow.

'HA!'

If he was using his haki, there was no point in talking anymore.

You sighed, exasperatingly rolling your eyes, giving up on any hopes of calming him down and simply waiting for the inevitable.

"No Sword Style... Tatsumaki!"

Faster than everyone else could see, he swung his arm through the air, creating a giant, aggressive air funnel that knocked the sniveling man before you out cold—the winds so harsh that it blew the hairpins right out your hair and tore through the roof of the house, letting in the torrential downpour from outside.

While everyone was distracted, Zoro scooped you up in his arms, bridal style, your yelp of surprise snatching back their attention.

"Hey!" the madam shouted, furious. "You put her down this instant!"

"I'm stealing the woman!" Zoro announced, running right past her and out the exit, snatching up the large sack of money the man left. "And the cash!"

"Don't tell them that!" you lightly smacked him in the chest, laughing, as you wrapped your arms around his neck, the pelting rain forcing your loose hair to stick to your face.

Breaking down the door to the exit, your swordsman sprinted out toward the dirt road, the owner of the house along with your other loyal followers chasing you both outside.

"Get back here!"

"Where are you going with the oiran?!"

"You can't take her!"

"Someone stop him!"

"Oiran (f/n)! We'll save you!"

As if you needed saving...

"Y'know, most guys say hi, how are ya before kidnapping a girl from her house," you teased, turning to your swordsman.

"Most girls typically say thank you after being saved from an arranged marriage," he countered, his trademark cocky grin plastered on his face.

"What other girls are you saving?" you playfully huffed, brows furrowing as you tugged at his cheek.

Amused, Zoro let out a small chuckle, rolling his eyes.

He'd missed you... desperately.

Looking over your shoulder, you checked to see if the men were still chasing you, happy to see that they had given up, all of them stopping and turning back toward the house.

'So much for loyal...'

Pushing the thought to the side, you suddenly cupped your swordsman's face in your hands, thumb softly gliding over his cheekbone.

"I missed you," you smiled up at him, sincerely, taking a moment to re-familiarize yourself with his face.

You'd missed him... desperately.

And the man seemed even handsomer than you remembered.

Finally a decent distance away from the house, Zoro stopped in his tracks, pulling over right in the middle of the road.

"Stand on my feet," he stated, shifting his grip to put you down.

You were only wearing tabi socks, and he didn't want you to get muddy feet.

Following his instructions, you stepped carefully onto the tops of his feet, his hands sliding down to your hips to balance you.

Though, once he was sure you were steady, he didn't hesitate in pulling you flush against him and smashing his lips against yours.

Your eyes widened, slightly surprised by the sudden movement, before you instantly melted into his embrace, relishing the way his strong arms felt wrapped around you.

He kissed you like he was famished, like you were water in his desert, his blunt fingertips having a near bruising grip on your hips.

Moments like these made him wonder what life would be like if the two of you didn't have to split up every two fucking seconds.

Pulling you even closer, he only deepened the kiss, his eagerness electrifying you right down to your core.

Emotional displays of this magnitude... coming from him?

In public?

You never thought you'd see the day.

Pulling back with a soft pop, you took a moment to catch your breath, unable to fight off the stupid smile settling on your lips.

"I should get married off more often," you chuckled, breathlessly, resting your hands on his chest for purchase.

He scoffed, scooping you up again before going back to running, hoping to find somewhere to shelter you both from the rain.

Glancing down at your smug grin, he smirked, rolling his eyes before placing a quick peck on your forehead.

"Don't push it."

#one piece #one piece x reader #roronoa #roronoa x reader #roronoa zoro #roronoa zoro x reader #zoro #zoro x reader #zorosangell #op

870 notes · View notes

volleychumps · 7 months ago

Text

When He's your Rival (w/ Tsukishima, Oikawa, Kuroo, and Atsumu) x Fem! reader

enemies to lovers but someone mistakes rivalry with feelings LMAO

Warning(s): cursing! some unwanted touches by an asshole in Oikawa's part, crying- Y/N's a little crybaby sometimes LOL

Tsukishima Kei

"Take a look and cry, four-eyes."

"Go back to fifth grade, I'm begging."

Smirking at his snarky comment, Tsukishima finds the energy to lazily lift his head off the desk, staring blankly at the red 97 inked on the corner of your paper, complete with a messily scrawled circle and a smiley face.

You always were a teacher's pet.

"Nice." The blonde yawns, going to put his head back down. "I scored a 99 though. Guess having four eyes really helps."

He can't stop the satisfied twitch tickling his lips as he buries his head a little further into his crossed arms, the sound of your groan of annoyance music to his ears as you crumple your test paper in your fist.

"This isn't over, Tsukki. I studied all night for this!"

"Don't call me that." He lifts his head to scowl at you as you haughtily spin on your heel, determination in your steps and a gloomy cloud over your head over the loss as he calls after you. "Not my fault you're obsessed with me."

You do a 360, pouting all the while as Tsukishima eyes you evenly, amusement twinkling momentarily in his eyes as he watches you grow flustered.

"I am not! Don't get it twisted, Tsukki- the only thing I'm obsessed with beating your sorry ass!" You crumple up your test paper further, fuming as you leave it on his desk in a childish manner.

"Why is my ass sorry when you're the one who lost?"

Yamaguchi watches on with a sigh, Tsukishima watching you storm off with a little bit more than amusement in his eyes before turning to his childhood friend.

"You feed into this way too much, Tsukki. Y/N is nothing but sweet, why do you bring out the worst in her?"

The tall blonde hums, his hand supporting his right cheek. "It's because she's just so fun to talk to."

Yamaguchi shivers at the cynical tone his childhood friend had taken on, wondering why this childish rivalry between the two of you had been stretched for as long as it was.

"We've known each other since we were kids, Tsukki. Y/N's parents used to joke about you guys marrying each other because you hated each other so bad."

"I don't hate her." Tsukishima's reply is immediate, moving to shift his headphones back onto his ears. "The brat knows I'd take care of her if it came down to it, so quit you're worrying, Yamaguchi."

Yamaguchi's expression shifts to one of surprise, but Tsukishima's already distracted, eyeing your crumpled up test before dropping into his bag.

Nothing wrong with taking a trophy, right?

A couple weeks later, you're holding your breath as your eyes scan the top 100 scores in the school during late-study hours, the halls nearly barren, willing your name to be above a certain blonde hair middle blocker before visibly wilting.

"Ah, look." You groan, the utterly amused voice you're not wishing to hear at this moment sounding in your ears as Tsukishima smirks down at you, finger prodding at the box marked Tsukishima Kei before pretending like he's looking for your name.

Not one, but two names down from his.

"Looks like someone didn't study-"

Tsukishima cuts himself off at the sight of your eyes filling up with frustrated tears, not expecting the sight before him to make his chest heavy.

You were always so dramatic.

"Tsukki, you win this time." You sniffle, wiping your eyes haughtily as he looks at the eye bags under your eyes, growing annoyed all of a sudden- even more iriate when he can't figure out why.

He knows this, but why is this effecting him so much?

"Oi." His voice is quiet with an agitated edge, putting a hand on your shoulder to lean you up against the wall. "Why are you so obsessed with this? You're so stupid- crying over something as meaningless as beating me."

Your cheeks puff up at his blatant remarks, his chest tingling before you take a deep breath before knocking your forehead against his, taking the blonde boy by surprise as he glares down at you, rubbing his nose.

"What the hell-"

"I just want to be your equal, you always treat me like I'm such childish brat." You tell him, mixed feelings in your throat as Tsukishima takes on a look of bewilderment. "Ever since we were kids-"

"So you just want my attention, is that it?" Tsukishima's smirking now, the pain in his nose unnoticeable as your expression stiffens, a hint of realization in your eyes as the blonde's throat suddenly grows tight.

"What-"

"Little Y/N, do you have feelings for me?"

"You're not that much older-!"

"Don't avoid the question, brat." Tsukishima's even closer now, hand touching the wall by your waist as your eyes dart all over the hallway. "Is this what all this rivalry is about? Why you care so much about proving-"

"And what if I do?" Your voice quivers for a second, Tsukishima's lips shutting tight at your words before frustrated tears grow in your eyes again. As if realizing what you said, your eyes grow wide with embarrassment- shoving him away before taking off down the hall.

The tall blonde stands there for a second, soaking in the last few minutes before touching the back of his neck, the tips of his ears reddening before sighing deeply.

He rolls his eyes before smirking a little, your confused expression flashing in his mind once more as he wonders what will become of your one-sided rivalry.

Fuck a trophy. He wants to see you make that face again.

Oikawa Tooru

"Tooru, you wanna fight me so bad."

"Just because I want to doesn't mean I will, Y/N-chan. You'll probably lose."

Iwaizumi barks out a laugh as your glare evenly matches Oikawa Tooru's, lightning flashing between the two of you as the brunette crosses his arms with a frown. He almost thinks it's fate- the two of you ending up in the same class seated next to each other with Oikawa by the window.

"The fact that you said probably instead of definitely means we both know Y/N would win in a fight."

"Stay out of this, Iwa-chan!" Oikawa doesn't break eye contact with you, growing more irriated at the sweet smile that overtakes your lips.

"Tooru, I'll start telling people your hair isn't natural in color~" You start doodling on your notes nonchalantly, amused at the popular boy's growth in irritation.

"You wouldn't dare." Oikawa pales at the obvious lie, knowing your effect- how your words would send ripples through the school by the end of the day.

That's right, ever since you transferred schools and gained popularity as the most sought-out girl at Aoba Joshai and had made a passing comment (you didn't really think about it) about how you had no idea who Oikawa Tooru was and didn't really care- the school's popular setter has had it out for you.

Iwaizumi had a huge kick out of it though, satisfied seeing his friend being put in place by the one girl he couldn't really have. You grin cheekily, batting your eyelashes innocently as Oikawa meets it with a pouty stare.

"Why do you care so much of what I think of you?"

"I don't."

"Then piss off." You close your eyes with sugar-laced words, causing Iwaizumi to turn around with a shaking back.

"Iwa-chan, stop laughing!" Oikawa whines, turning his attention back to you with a haughty remark to discover you had stood up and skipped off towards the exit of the classroom.

"She's got me. I'm her fan- I see the hype."

"Iwa-chan, you're supposed to be on my side!"

"Y/N didn't know who you were- big whoop." Matsukawa yawns, leaning back in his seat from in front of Iwaizumi. "Not everyone cares about volleyball."

"And she was new." Hanamaki adds, shrugging his shoulders at the look of betrayal his brunette-friend had sent him. "I'm just saying- maybe your anger is misplaced?"

"Oikawa has a crush~"

"Mattsun- I almost threw up, please." Oikawa sighs, spinning around in his seat with a newfound exhaustion. He looks out the window, eyebrow twitching when he sees you bowed deep in apology to some poor student who was obviously amidst confession. His defined chin touches his palm in thought as anger swirls in his stomach.

How he despises you so.

You were so annoyingly pretty. It was ticking him off, how you spoke so nicely to his three provoking friends yet would barely muster up a smile at him unless it was sarcastic. Oikawa observed as you messily brushed your hair back with your hands to focus on your work, growing even more annoyed when he discovered how much you cared about school.

It was all because he didn't like you, that's why he paid so much attention.

..right?

He's sipping from a can of orange juice, having ducked away from his fanclub to turn a corner of the school no one really frequents when he sees you again later that week.

"Y/N- you always act like you're too good for anybody."

The tall brunette stops at the corner, peering around it while remaining out of sight.

"Maybe I just don't like guys who pressure girls into dating them." You don't miss a beat- but Oikawa hears it, the tinge at the edge of your voice.

Fear.

Some nobody who Oikawa doesn't even know the name of clicks his tongue, grabbing your wrist roughly as you stare down at his strong clasp on you.

"Let me go, you fucking loser." You're pissed off now, smiling your signature grin- the one with no real sweetness behind it. You were afraid to have followed this dangerous guy to an empty part of the school- thinking one of your fellow students would never do this sort of thing.

You were so wrong. His grip tightens as you try to fling his hand off in frustration.

"Pretty Y/N-chan. I'll ruin that face of yours and beat that attitude-"

"Someone isn't taking rejection very well."

You blink in wild surprise as your back touches Oikawa's chest abruptly, his strong grip on the student's wrist as he yanks him off. You don't see him, but you don't have to turn around to know that Oikawa was pissed.

"Get your pretty boy toy out of here, slut." You wince at the insult slightly when the guy doesn't even look at Oikawa, still glaring down at you before Oikawa tugs you gently behind him, towering over the absolute nobody who dared to put a hand on you.

"You shitty coward." You look up at Oikawa's broad back and shoulders, anxiety draining out of your system as Oikawa keeps a firm grip on your hand. He squeezes your hand once, and you get the message.

You're okay.

"Getting physical with girls now, are we? Someone doesn't want to have a future." Oikawa mocks, tilting his head to the side menancingly with a smug grin on his face. "You know what pisses me off the most? When people don't acknowledge my existence."

You've never seen this side of him before.

Suddenly, Oikawa side steps, both arms reaching out to keep you behind him as his grin widens. You cover your mouth at the sight of the student having failed to land a punch on the setter's jaw.

"You attacked me, right?" Oikawa hands you his bag, jaw clenching before easily grabbing the guy's collar, the height difference making him pathetically dangle slightly off the floor. You gasp when his eyes take on a darker edge, delivering a hook of his own to the side of his face, not seeming to hold much back as Oikawa momentarily wonders just what was fueling all this anger.

"What's going on here?! Oikawa Tooru, let him go!"

When he drops him to the floor on command, you're looking at him differently.

Maybe you should've cared a bit more about just who Oikawa Tooru was.

You're still staring when he ignores the teacher, your wrist in his hand as he inspects it, asking you something- but you don't hear him, feeling an unknown swirl in your stomach.

And why the hell he was making you feel something you've never felt before.

Kuroo Tetsurou

"Kuroo, get over it."

"Don't roll your pretty eyes at me, kitten."

You huff, not even bothering to look up at the raven-haired captain as you check another tally on your clipboard. Another successful receive for Lev.

"How do you do it?"

"Kuroo, we've been over this-"

"Blah blah blah."

The interruption ticks you off, prompting you to finally look up from your work as Kuroo Tetsurou smirks down at you easily.

"It's not my fault they like me so much."

"They can't like you more than me! I'm the captain!"

"Someone's insecure."

It's Kuroo's turn to grow irritated at your remark, and you smirk successfully as Kenma sighs at the sight of you two from across the court. Yamamoto sweat drops, bouncing a volleyball off the wall as you and Kuroo begin bickering. You were annoyed as the taller captain grinned easily down at you.

"Why does Kuroo-san hate Y/N so much?"

"No idea. She makes me cookies when I listen well during practice!" Lev adds brightly. "If anything, Kuroo's the villain."

"Nah." Kenma doesn't look up from his game, thankful you're keeping his childhood friend occupied so he can't make him practice. "Kuroo doesn't hate her."

The surrounding members still, eyeing the short boy weirdly as the volume of you two bickering rises in the background.

"He definitely bothers her because it's fun." Kenma flicks his joystick, suddenly immersed in the level as it grows more interesting. "I wouldn't be surprised if he likes her."

Kenma's just speaking his mind at this point, but his fellow teammates don't believe him as Kuroo flicks your forehead, breaking off in a run as you chase him out of the gym in irritation.

"Yeah. Sure."

"Okay everyone," you begin, fiddling with your papers as the volleyball team sit in a circle with their knees tucked into their chest, hanging on to your every word as you try not to smile at how well-behaved they were. "Nekomata-sensei is out today, and he left instructions-"

"We'll be practicing in 3-on-3's."

You hold back a groan as Kuroo cuts you off, standing up easily as the tension between the two of you rises. He cocks his head to the side like what? with a growing smirk on his handsome features, causing your irritation to grow further. To annoy you on the sidelines of practice was one thing, but to disrupt you in front of the team is another.

"Anyways, like I was saying-"

"Shouldn't the captain know what's best for his team?"

Oh you hated being cut off.

You meet him with an even stare, trying not to let your temper get the best out of you.

"Kuroo-"

"Call me Tetsurou, Y/N-chan."

Kenma sighs when the lead of your mechanical pencil breaks against the clipboard, knowing Kuroo was pushing limits he hadn't before.

"Alright, Tetsurou." Your voice is venomous, shoving the clipboard with their coach's instructions into Kuroo's hands with an aggression you were having trouble controlling. You were so mad you began to see your vision get blurry, suddenly exhausted from the captain's antics and why he wouldn't leave you alone.

"You lead practice then." Kuroo's easy smirk grows into a worried stare at the sight, watching you storm off before he can get another word out.

"Boo, you made our manager cry."

"This is why you'll die alone."

"Y/N for president!"

But Kuroo isn't listening to the obvious slander from his teammates, putting the clipboard down before jogging off after you, Kenma rolling his eyes to unzip his gym bag for his switch.

"He flirts like a little school boy."

The raven-haired third year catches you in the halls, frustrated with yourself as your back touches the shoe lockers behind you. You didn't mean to overreact. It was something about him that made you so-

"I'm sorry, Y/N."

"Don't apologize." You grumble, looking straight on ahead before glancing upwards. Kuroo awkwardly takes a seat next to you, the sound of after-school activities filling the air in your silence.

"Do you hate me or something?"

Kuroo blinks once, guilt filling his chest at the ideas in your head before hanging his head with a heavy sigh. It seems he took his antics a bit too far.

"Y/N, you're just fun to tease." He drops the nickname, and you smile a bit knowing he's serious. "I don't mean to make you upset. The team loves you, and I..."

He trails off, causing you to cock an eyebrow. Kuroo looks away quickly, clearing his throat before looking back at you-

to see you genuinely smiling at him, his chest suddenly tight.

"That's a relief. You're too much sometimes, but I can't say I don't enjoy our conversations. I didn't mean to over-react-" You cut yourself off, suddenly worried as you raise a hand to his forehead. "Wow, you're suddenly flushed. Are you sick, Tetsurou?"

He grows a shade darker when your sweet voice calls his first name, seeming to short-circuit in front of you as question marks seem to appear by your face.

Meanwhile, the team shushes each other as they peer around the corner of the hallway, Yamamoto and Lev's mouth agape as a certain gamer merely shrugs.

"Told you so."

"Nobody likes a know-it-all, Kenma."

Atsumu Miya

"'Samu, tell me I'm better than her."

"I'm not lyin' to ya', twin or not."

Almost immediately, the blonde setter glares at his own flesh and blood, Osamu offering a slight smirk in response at his brother's irritation. Atsumu sinks lower in his seat, pouting as Suna rolls his eyes to the right of him.

"Can't believe I'm spending my precious free time to watch more volleyball."

Atsumu isn't listening to his friend, silently focused at the way you controlled the court, triumphant grin on your face as you score the winning point to take the first set. In fact, you had scored over half the points, the other team's blockers barely standing a chance. He had to come see it. All the buzz around school can't have been for nothing.

Y/N L/N. Volleyball prodigy that seemed to have come out of thin air.

Osamu whistles lowly. "Y/N's kinda like you."

"Don't insult me, 'Samu." But Atsumu knows he doesn't mean it. Suna glances at his friend once, sipping his drink casually as Atsumu gets a glint in his eye, fire seeming to erupt in the back around him.

"Oho, Atsumu's got a rival." Suna isn't too interested, merely observing his surroundings as Osamu coughs back a chuckle.

"Shuddup." Atsumu mumbles, eyes meeting yours as you look up at the stands to see just who was burning holes into your head. He shakes his head with a smirk on his lips when you cockily blow a kiss in his direction.

"Y/N...that's Atsumu Miya, you do know he goes to our school, right?"

"Oh...shit." You back down, suddenly embarrassed as you look away, Atsumu's eyes spinning with amusement and eagerness to one-up you, the cheers of the stadium mocking in his ears.

So low in behold, you try not to let the surprise etch onto your features when Atsumu is pointing a finger at you, having escaped the boy's gym to crash your practice when after-school activities come around.

"You." You blink, utterly confused as your teammates squeal in excitement at his presence. "Yer' practicin' with me, got that?"

Your jaw slackens at the audacity, wondering if he wanted to practice or if he wanted to prove something. Atsumu knew he had the right idea about you when you take a step forward, tilting your head in challenge.

"Think you can keep up?"

"Oi, stop harassing Y/N at the girl's gym and practice with your team." Aran puts emphasis on his words as Osamu snickers from behind him, watching his twin get scolded as Kita sighs.

"She is very good at what she does." The captain nods. "But that doesn't mean our paths have to cross with the girls'- in fact, they never should."

"Then let her play here." Atsumu doesn't care if he doesn't make any sense. "Y/N runs circles around her team anyways- hell, she's pullin' the whole team on her back."

The Inarizaki team resist the urge to roll their eyes at their setter's blatant slander. Osamu is amused, tying up the net as he attempts to tame his twin.

"She runs circles 'round you, that's for sure."

Suna stifles a laugh as Atsumu feels it again. Competition. He loved the feeling of it- the feeling that things were finally getting interesting.

He's walking towards the girl's gym again to drag you out to play with his team so he can play against you, when something he hears makes him pause in his step.

"I just don't understand what Atsumu-kun sees in her!" It's a high pitched whine, one that causes his eyes to darken.

"Right? It's not like Y/N is pretty or anything like that."

"She's good at volleyball- so what? It's not like she'd be anywhere without her team."

A tap on his shoulder is what breaks him out of his eavesdropping, turning slowly to see you standing there with a sad smile, grip tightening on the bag filled with drinks- you had went to get drinks for the entire team, while they boldly slandered you behind your back.

Your voice is hushed, but tinged with a bit of hurt as you shrug.

"It's just the way of the game."

"Like hell it is." Atsumu growls, swinging open the door as you gape at the action. Before you can react, Atsumu's laugh is resounding through the gym as you peek out from behind his back.

"Oh my god, aren't you three bench warmers? Yer' the ones talkin' shit?" He can't hold back his laughter as you audibly sigh from behind him.

"A-Atsumu-"

"Oi." The blonde isn't laughing anymore, eyes on the edge of menacing as he cracks his neck, eyes darkening. "Squeal all you want, just hope and pray I'm not there to listen to it."

"Y/N-senpai, we're so sorry!" You blanch at the three girls who were now bowing profusely in front of you before assuring them it's fine, tugging on Atsumu's arm with an eyeroll.

"We need to talk."

"You know, you are pretty." Atsumu grumbles as you tug him along. "I don't know why they-"

"I can fight my own battles, 'Tsumu." You huff at the boy in front of you, considering him both your rival and your friend. "It's just misplaced jealousy- don't make it worse between my teammates and I. I would've said something- come on, do you know me?"

Atsumu stands there for a second, soaking in your words as a slow realization comes onto him. This whole time, he's been treating you like a rival, a thing, something to propel him further and sharpen his skills-

not realizing he had slowly grown to care about you a little more than a rival maybe should. He had moved without thinking, the thoughtless words not meant for his ears pissing him off way more than it would've any other person.

But this was you. You always walked along your bicycle when he insisted on walking you home, making him listen to your music as you trained before eventually making playlists for him when he told you how much he liked it. You trained with him for as long as he wanted, even going to the public gym together when you trained with your respective teams.

Atsumu is still staring at you, seeming to process something as you laugh a little at his expression as the sun begins to set behind your figure.

"I'm not mad at you. Come on, I'll bring you back."

"Quit treatin' me like a stray." Atsumu mumbles, but he's unfocused, burning holes into the back of your head as you tug him along, smiling back at him.

"You have a bad habit of staring at me, you know?"

Oh shit.

"Well, you did call me pretty and all." You tease, winking once as you wave at his team in the distance, waiting by the practice gym to continue the practice as his prolonged absence ended up affecting the entire team.

Atsumu ducks his head as his twin smirks at the sight, Atsumu's face on fire as his eyes lock on to where you're hand is touching his arm.

He's so fucked.

2K notes · View notes

jezebelblues · 2 months ago

Text

𝐖𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐌𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐍 𝐒𝐔𝐆𝐀𝐑 | 𝐇.𝐒 ‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.

summary: it isn’t about fruit

cw: smut18+, oral (f!receiving) unedited, idk that’s it. there’s like brief mentions of cigarettes/alcohol if that’s an issue

word count: approx 3.7k

| LMFAO okay so here’s something i’ve had in the drafts for a bit. on the lil poll thing the majority of yall voted for smut so here’s a crumb i guess love u

yes it’s 70s!harry. i love u 70rry

masterlist

july 1972

harry knew of YN—a friend of mitch’s, the cousin of a girl he could still taste on his tongue.

she was always in the periphery of his world—not a groupie, not a colleague. she was the girl who held the bubblegum pink lighter to his lips if he couldn’t find his own, the girl who’d offer her red glitter pen if harry lost his black one.

so far, three songs in his notebook were written in sparkly cherry ink.

they met four months ago at a bar in california— his first night on the north american leg of the tour, she'd stood on her tiptoes to hug mitch, congratulating him over and over with a laugh like the fizz of soda on a hot day. harry remembers the scent of her hair when the breeze caught it—peach bubbly and honey. he remembers the crimson lipstick stains on the cigarette she passed him, the faint taste of her fruity cocktail on the filter.

since then, she'd been around. not a fixture, exactly, but something close to it. she didn't sing, didn't play, didn't take up too much space, but she had a knack for fitting into the cracks no one else noticed. sometimes, before a show, she'd twist his hair back just the way he liked it, or she'd swipe a bottle of polish to paint his nails in a shade that matched his shirt.

it was easy, the way she lingered. easy enough that harry never really questioned it.

now, the sucker in her mouth stained her tongue blue. her heart-shaped sunglasses, pink and a little scratched, sat low on the bridge of her nose as the sun painted the roof of the tour bus in a syrupy summer gold. she was stretched out on a towel beside him, humming a tune harry instantly recognized as his own.

he sat cross-legged next to her, the glitter pen—her glitter pen—rolling between his fingers. his notebook balanced on his knee as he scrawled down lyrics, but the words felt sluggish, stuck, like the heavy heat pressing down on them.

YN's hums drifted lazily in the air, quiet enough that the buzz of the bus engine nearly swallowed them up. her eyes were shut tight against the sun's glow, but harry couldn't help stealing glances at her. she looked serene, almost untouched by the heat that had him melting into his jeans.

the cherry-red ink glimmered faintly as he scratched another uneven line into his notebook.

with a sudden pop! she pulled the sucker from her lips and smiled without opening her eyes. "you're staring."

harry didn't flinch. he leaned back slightly and smiled—bunny teeth and dimples. "maybe you're my muse."

her laugh was soft and sharp all at once, the sound of a soda can cracking open. she propped herself up on her elbows, raising an eyebrow at him. "hardly. if i were, you'd have more than that down by now," she teased, nodding toward the page.

harry smirked, his gaze skimming the floral pattern on her bikini bottoms, the curve of her hip. "or maybe you're just a really bad muse."

she kissed her teeth and let herself flop back down against her towel, the movement making her breasts bounce slightly in her top. harry's eyes lingered, just for a beat. she didn't seem to notice-or maybe she did, but didn't care. instead, she nudged his thigh with her toes, the sucker swirling back between her blued lips.

after a moment, she pulled it free and held it out toward him, her pink-painted nails glinting in the sunlight. "want the rest?" she grinned, tilting her head against her shoulder. "it's bubblegum in the middle. your favorite."

harry sighed theatrically, but he leaned in anyway, his butterfly creasing slightly as he plucked the sticky stick from her fingers. he turned it slowly, the blue sugar catching the light, slick with her saliva as he slid it onto his tongue. it was sweet, bright, with the faintest taste of her still lingering underneath.

she watched him with a raised brow, her grin spreading. “will you tell me who kiwis about yet?”

his lips quirked up around the candy. "no."

this was the third time she'd asked in the span of four months. it was her favorite song, or so she claimed.

it was a month prior in chicago. the aragon ballroom. he'd gone early, hours before soundcheck, to roam the venue, let his nerves settle. but that day the stage hadn't been empty. YN had been there, sitting cross-legged on the polished wood, his guitar resting in her lap. her fingers plucked at the strings hesitantly, her brows furrowed in concentration.

she wore a bright yellow bikini top that day, a pair of denim shorts slung low on her hips. the sunlight streaming through the high windows made her skin glow.

he'd stayed quiet as he approached, leaning his arms on the edge of the stage to watch. she jumped slightly when she noticed him, her cheeks flushing.

"move your hand up a bit more," his voice was soft, nodding toward her grip on the neck of the guitar.

she bit her lip, looking down to adjust her fingers. "like this?"

harry nodded, a soft smile playing on his lips. "press your index finger there. now try."

her cheeks darkened further, but she nodded, her focus snapping back to the strings as she strummed again-hesitant, but closer this time.

her fingers moved carefully along the frets, still hesitant, but with a quiet determination that made harry smile. the melody of kiwi—rough and unpolished—drifted softly through the empty venue, the rawness of it striking something in him. she wasn't bad, not really, but she played like someone who was just beginning to learn—calculated, deliberate, all concentration and no flow.

"it's better," he said after a moment, straightening up to rest his chin on his arms. "but you're still a little off."

she paused, sighing, her lips pressing into a line. "it doesn't sound right."

"you're playing it too clean," he laughed, the corners of his mouth tugging into a smirk. "y’have to let it be messy, loosen up a bit."

her brows furrowed, and she glanced at him, her cheeks still pink. "messy," she repeated skeptically.

"messy," he confirmed, nodding toward the guitar. "you're trying t’control it too much. let it get away from you a little."

her lips quirked up in a soft laugh as she adjusted her grip on the neck. "easy for you to say, you've been playing since you were, what, twelve?"

"eleven," he corrected, grinning wider. "but who's counting?"

she rolled her eyes but didn't argue, her gaze dropping back to the strings as she tried again. her fingers stumbled at first, the sound of a muted note ringing out across the empty hall, but she pushed through it, letting the rhythm guide her this time. harry watched as her shoulders relaxed, the line of tension in her jaw easing slightly.

"better," he praised after a moment, and her head snapped up, her face lighting up with a cautious kind of pride.

"really?"

he nodded, standing to his full height and dusting his hands against his jeans. "you'll have it down by next week at this rate, sunshine.”

she snorted, shaking her head as she set the guitar carefully to the side. "next week," she repeated, her tone dry. "sure."

"what, no faith in yourself?"

her eyes sparkled as she hopped down from the stage, brushing past him with a grin. "none at all."

harry chuckled, turning to watch her as she headed toward the venue's exit, her bare feet padding softly against the floor. her yellow bikini top gleamed in the sunlight streaming through the windows, and the sound of her soft humming lingered in the air long after she disappeared from view.

the song wasn’t about her, no, written long before they’d even met—but it stayed hers in a way he couldn't quite explain. hers like the red glitter pen that sat loosely between his fingers, like the memory of the bubblegum sucker on his tongue, like the faint scent of peach and honey still imprinted in his mind.

he let the notebook fall shut and leaned back against the roof of the bus, the sun beating down on his face. beside him, YN shifted lazily, her hand reaching out to tug the sunglasses from her nose and push them up into her hair.

“you’ll tell me one of these days, harry styles.”

he didn't answer, just let his eyes drift shut, a soft smile curling at the edges of his lips.

YN huffed dramatically, flopping onto her side to face him. The towel beneath her crinkled, and the faint scent of sunscreen mixed with the lingering sugar on her breath. “you can’t just smile at me, harry. it’s not fair.”

he peeked one eye open, his grin widening. “fair’s got nothing to do with it.”

“don’t be annoying.” she poked his chest, her nail grazing the inked swallow on his skin. “you can’t write a song like that and then act all mysterious. it’s cruel. is it about someone you dated? someone you wanted to date? tell me something.”

he pushed himself up onto one elbow, the glitter pen rolling off his notebook and landing in the crease of the towel. “and ruin the fun of you guessing every chance you get?”

she groaned, rolling onto her back again and flinging an arm over her face. her sunglasses slipped slightly in her hair, catching the sunlight. “you’re the worst,” she mumbled.

he laughed, soft and low, and let his gaze wander over her—the curve of her shoulder, the way the waistband of her bottoms dug into her hips just enough to make him wonder how her skin might feel under his thumb. “but you keep coming back,” he teased.

“not by choice,” she shot back, her voice muffled by her arm.

he leaned closer, the pendant around his neck glinting as it swung forward. “is that so?”

her arm fell away from her face, and she squinted up at him, the corner of her mouth twitching. “mitch dragged me along,” she said breezily. “i just wanted to see california. maybe get a tan. didn’t realize i’d be stuck with a rock star who thinks he’s god’s gift to songwriting.”

“a rock star, huh?” he echoed, smirking. “that what i am to you?”

her brows arched, her lips quirking into something smug. “what else would you be?”

harry didn’t answer right away. the silence stretched between them, thick and warm, broken only by the hum of the bus and the distant buzz of cicadas. YN held his gaze, unflinching, and for a moment, harry felt a pull in his chest—something slow, something sharp.

finally, he reached for her abandoned sucker, still sticky and shining faintly blue. he popped it into his mouth, smirking around it as he settled back onto the towel.

“god’s gift to songwriting,” he muttered, mostly to himself.

her laugh rang out, bright and unrestrained, and harry closed his eyes, letting the sound soak into him like sunlight.

YN’s laugh faded into a hum as she sat up, legs tucked beneath her, her knees brushing against harry’s thigh. her hand hovered over his notebook, tapping the edge lightly with her fingernail.

“what’s this one about?” she asked, her tone softer now, less teasing.

harry cracked one eye open, the sucker shifting lazily against his cheek. “why d’you always ask questions you know i won’t answer?”

“maybe because i know you’ll give me something, eventually.” she tilted her head, her fingers trailing along the notebook’s cover. “or maybe i just like annoying you.”

“you’re good at it.”

“thank you,” she said sweetly, ignoring his smirk. she flipped the notebook open, her eyes skimming over the half-finished lines written in that unmistakable cherry-red ink. “you’ve been stuck on this one for a while, huh?”

harry sat up, propping himself on one elbow and leaning close enough that her hair brushed his arm. “what makes you say that?”

“the way you’re chewing that sucker like it owes you money,” she teased, glancing at him from the corner of her eye. “plus, there’s about three crossed-out lines on every page.”

he sighed, plucking the sucker from his mouth and tossing it into a paper cup near his feet. “some songs take longer than others.”

“and some songs,” she said, grinning as she tapped the glitter pen against the page, “are about a certain someone you refuse to talk about.”

harry laughed, the sound low and rumbling in his chest. “you’re obsessed, you know that?”

“just curious.” she rested her chin in her hand, her pink sunglasses slipping down her nose again. “what’s the line you’re stuck on?”

he hesitated for a moment, then reached out to turn the page. “this one.” he pointed to a scribbled-out verse near the bottom, the ink thick and smudged where he’d pressed too hard.

YN’s eyes narrowed as she leaned closer, the scent of her sunscreen warm and sweet. “hmm. it’s… cryptic. you’re trying too hard.”

“oh, am i?” harry raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms over his chest.

she nodded, pulling the pen from his hand and spinning it between her fingers. “you need to stop thinking so much. write what you actually want to say, not what you think you’re supposed to.”

“and what do i want to say?”

she smiled, tilting her head at him. “how would i know? it’s your song.”

he held her gaze for a long moment, the teasing edge in her voice softening. his eyes flicked down to the pen in her hand, then back up to her face. “what if you’re the one i’m writing about?”

her breath hitched—just for a second, just barely enough for harry to notice. then she laughed, light and easy, her fingers tapping the notebook again. “then i guess i’m an even worse muse than i thought.”

“terrible,” harry agreed, his voice warm with something deeper, something he wasn’t sure he wanted her to catch.

YN didn’t move away, still perched close enough that her knee brushed against his. She let her fingers trail along the edges of the notebook again. She flipped a page, then another, her curiosity pulling her deeper into the sprawl of his unfinished songs and fragmented verses.

“you really don’t use normal pens anymore, do you?” she said, watching the way the glittery ink shimmered against the light.

“don’t need to,” he muttered without looking up. “not when you keep leaving these everywhere.”

“it’s a service, really,” she teased, flipping another page. “you’re welcome.”

her tone was light, but her fingers slowed as she scanned the next page. the handwriting was messier, more hurried, as if the words had come all at once and left no time for polish.

YN’s fingers hovered over the page, her eyes catching on the title underlined twice in red—watermelon sugar.

“what’s this one?” she asked, tilting the notebook toward herself as she scanned the uneven handwriting.

harry froze, “it’s nothing,” he said quickly, but the tension in his voice was hard to miss.

she arched an eyebrow, flipping the notebook to face her fully. “doesn’t look like nothing.” she read the first line aloud, her tone curious. “tastes like strawberries on a summer evening.”

harry leaned over, his fingers brushing hers as he tried to tug the notebook away. “YN, seriously—”

“hold on,” she interrupted, pulling it back toward her chest, her grin widening as she flipped to the next line. “and it sounds just like a song,” she read, her voice lilting in amusement. “you’re getting poetic on me, harry.”

“it’s not finished,” he muttered, sitting back against the towel, his jaw tight as he ran a hand through his curls.

“yeah, i can see that,” she said, tapping the page with her fingernail. “but what’s it about? strawberries? watermelon? a fruit salad?”

harry let out a sharp laugh, but there was something uneasy in the way his eyes flicked to hers. “something like that.”

YN squinted at him, her smile softening as she studied the lyrics again. “it’s… sweet,” she murmured, her tone thoughtful now. “like—” she paused, glancing up at him. “like a crush. isn’t it?”

his mouth opened, then closed again. for a moment, he looked almost caught—like she’d stumbled onto something he hadn’t meant to share. finally, he shrugged, his fingers fidgeting with the cross between his swallows. “it’s about… a feeling,” he said carefully.

“what kind of feeling?” she pressed, tilting her head.

he hesitated, his gaze darting between the notebook and her face. “just… something good. something warm.”

YN rolled her eyes, her teasing smile back in place. “you’re being annoyingly vague. is it about someone? or are you just really passionate about fruit now?”

harry exhaled a laugh, but he didn’t answer right away. instead, his gaze lingered on her, quiet and unreadable, before he finally shrugged again. “do y’want me t’show you?”

her teasing smile faded, curiosity dancing across her features. “show me?” she echoed, her voice gentler now, uncertain.

he nodded, shifting closer. the notebook was forgotten as his fingers brushed along its spine, pushing it aside. his eyes swept over her face slowly, studying the way her cheeks were flushed from the sun, the way her lips parted as if she wanted to ask something but had forgotten how.

his hands rested near her hips, the towel wrinkling under his palms. he leaned in, close enough that his breath was cool against her lips. "it's not about fruit," he breathed, his voice barely more than a rasp.

she blinked, her pulse skittering in her chest as her eyes flicked between his. "i... kinda figured," she whispered, her tone shaky, but her gaze steady.

his lips twitched, a soft breath of laughter escaping through his nose. "do you trust me?"

her eyes dipped, lingering on the curve of his strawberry-red lips. the weight of the moment pressed against her, electric and unyielding. "just show me, harry."

he didn't hesitate after that. his hands settled on her hips, warm and firm, as he guided her flat onto the towel. the sun hung heavy in the sky, draping them in a creamsicle haze, but all she could focus on was him—his weight, his touch, the way his curls fell forward as he hovered over her.

his ring clad fingers drifted to her thighs, palms flat along the insides as he spread her apart. the tip of his nose grazed the gusset of her bikini bottoms over to the flesh of her thigh right against his thumb. he pressed soft kisses into the skin, nipping at it gently to watch her chest rise from a gasp.

his lips trailed like the sticky sweetness of honey dripping down her skin, closer to her center, each kiss slow and warm.

he paused, his nose brushing against her clit still covered by fabric, but he could still feel her heat radiating through it. “still with me?”

she nodded, her heartbeat everywhere but her chest. “please, harry.”

he smirked, his fingers hooking underneath the bottoms, his touch feather-light as he slid them down. the movement felt slow, intentional, every second stretching out as the anticipation buzzed through her like electricity.

her arousal glistened in the sunlight—a bright peach dripping with water in the georgia heat. he laid flat on his stomach, arms looping behind her knees and pulling her thighs apart. he breathed her in, lips grazing alongside her folds before he pressed soft kisses into her.

she was sunshine, she was rock and roll, she seeped nectar and smelt like champagne—he wanted to take his time.

he kissed right into her heat, his lips slick with the remnants of her, causing her tummy to flip. he drank her in, sliding his tongue up until he could make slow swirls around her clit. it sent a jolt through her, a sensation so vivid it left her gasping.

she clutched the towel beneath her, head tipping back as the sounds of summer—cicadas in the distance, trees shaking in warm breeze, the hum of the engine—faded into the background.

he took her bud between his lips greedily, suckling gently and flicking the tip of his tongue against her. his grip on her thighs tightened as he pushed himself father into her, drawing soft, breathy moans from her throat.

he tilted his head, cheek flat against the space between where her thigh and cunt met. he lapped at her pussy, slow and languid strokes as he gazed up at her through his eyelashes.

“like sugar.” he mumbled against her, the reverberation causing her fingers to tangle themselves in his curls, her hips bucking against his face.

he smiled, pulling her down flat against the towel, burying himself deeper into her. she would tug on his curls every time he moaned against her folds. she’d push up against his hands every time he’d shake his head between her thighs, coaxing whimpers to fall from her lips.

he pulled her thighs over his shoulders, his nose brushing against her clit as he buried his tongue into her hole, tasting every drop, drinking in the way she’d clench around his tongue.

her cheeks flushed, words caught in her throat as he found his rhythm, his large hands holding her steady. his tongue moved like he was writing lyrics, every motion a verse, every pause a chorus.

she felt herself unraveling, her body tensing as she drew her higher and higher, the knot in her core overwhelming and intoxicating. she was an unrelenting sea, pressure, thrashing and trembles until the wave finally broke—gasping his name, her thighs trembling against his shoulders as her back arched.

he didn’t stop, relishing in the way she slid across his tongue, easing her though the aftershocks. his hands trailed from her thighs to her waist as she sagged back down against the towel, her chest heaving, fingers still threaded through his hair.

he pulled back slowly, a string of her release and his saliva snapping from the departure. he kissed up her naval, lips glistening in the sunlight, his chin soaked.

he smiled, resting onto his forearms as he hovered over her. “showed you, just like y’wanted. right, needy girl?”

YN blinked, her breath still catching as her body buzzed with the lingering warmth of him. she hummed, nodding.

his dimples deepened as he brushed his thumb along her bottom lip. “good,” he mumbled, pulling her lips apart as he leaned in. she could taste herself on him, sweet and heady, fruit and warmed by the sun.

he leaned his forehead against hers, their noses barely touching. “but if you need me to explain it again,” he hummed, kissing her once more. “i’ve got time, sunshine.”

#harry styles #harry styles blurb #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles imagine #harry styles one shot #harry styles writing #harry styles x reader #harry edward styles #harry styles concept #harry styles au #harry styles smut #70s harry #harry styles fanfic #watermelon sugar

625 notes · View notes

emmyrosee · 7 months ago

Note

NO WAY I HAVE A THOUGHT HOLD ONN

I just saw this TikTok of this girl that has a bf w a lot of tattoos and she gets this colourful eyeshadow pallet from her makeup bag to COLOUR IN THE TATTOO if u get what I mean like the tattoo could be like a butterfly or a dragon AND SHE COLOURS IT IN WITH HER COLOURFUL EYESHADOW PALETTE and omg I IMMEDIATELY thought of SUKUNA it’s be such a cute interaction 🥹🥹

-Anon🥢

GOD THIS IS SO CUTE-

——

Sukuna naps. More than he should.

He can fall asleep anywhere and everywhere, for long stretches of time that you should be concerned with, had he not been doing it since the beginning of your relationship.

Your first date was not worth paying for a movie, candy and popcorn, when he merely slept the whole time. You could’ve done it for free at home.

Regardless, here you were, repeating history as he snores loudly next to you, his arms crossed as he sleeps soundly, lips parted to let out small little huffs. You sigh and grab your phone to scroll, no longer interested in the movie without having someone to talk to about it.

The first thing to pop up, has you smirking, with a girl shading in her boyfriends tattoos with eyeshadow. Granted, sukuna doesn’t have shapes of tattoos, but he has plenty of tan skin to cover.

You squeal and run to grab your palette and a brush, suddenly more excited than you realized to color in your boyfriend.

You start with a gentle touch on the circle of his shoulder, dipping into a peach that looks enough like his skin tone if he were to wake up.

When he doesn’t, that’s you’re cue to keep going. It doesn’t take long before he’s absolutely covered in pigment.

The small bit of skin between the tattoos on his chest are quick to be colored in, your brush gently dusting over his skin to apply the color. His face twitches but ultimately, he stays asleep. You deem him out of it enough to straddle his lap, allowing you more access to his tattoos and tanned skin, nearly laughing as he stays asleep, arms laid limp at his sides.

Bright pink blends into bright purple in the gaps of his tattoos, and in the gap of skin below the ink, mint green turns to light blue. You smile and clean your brush with another swirl on a paper towel, dipping into a lilac color and swirling it on the slender bit of skin on his bicep above the skin not needled with ink.

Your brush trails a tad too close to under his arm, and he scrunches his face and shakes you off. You pause, holding your breath, but you’re out of luck as he screws his eyes tight and grunts in exhaustion.

“Whyre you tickling me?” He grumbles, stretching awake and smacking his lips together. “I’ll kill you. We’ve been over this.”

“I’m not,” you hum, pressing a kiss to his cheek and brushing a lock of hair off of his forehead. “How was your nap?”

“S’good.” He rubs his eyes with the heels of his palms, and when he blinks his eyes open to look at you, his brows furrow at the colorful eyeshadow palette on your lap, “you doing some makeup shit?”

You sink your teeth into your lip, “uhm… kind of?”

“The fuck you mean kind of? It’s a yes or no-“ red eyes fall to his arm, face flat as he eyes the colors splashed over his body, some blended in together, others just solid colors filled onto his skin. You laugh nervously as he continues to look down at his torso. “So, you want me to beat the shit out of you?”

“No,” you giggle. “I wanted to make you prettier.”

“I’m already pretty enough, don’t use my body like a damn coloring book, you freak.” He stretches his arms out, brows furrowing as he sees the full extent of your coloring, “fucking- how mUCH EYESHADOW DID YOU USE?”

“Not a lot!” You defend. “It’s a pigmented palette.”

He glares at you, “and you’ve got the nerve to ask me to buy your fuckin’ makeup when this is the shit you pull!”

“You’re the one who fell asleep in the middle of the movie!” You whine, shoving his chest gently. “I needed to entertain myself somehow!”

He catches your shoving hand into his big one, and you gulp nervously, “I’m old. I sleep a lot. This ain’t news.”

The fact he hasn’t yelled at you tells you everything you need to know, and you grab your brush again to continue. “Hey! I’m scolding you, dickhead!”

“Im listening,” you assure, popping the brush into the yellow and moving to the other tattooed circle on his shoulder. “Youre old, I know, you like sleeping, I know-“

“That was not an invitation for you to keep coloring!” He hissed.

You look back up at him though your lashes, pouting subtly, “aw, jeez- fuck you, you know that?” He snarls, and when you blink at him, he rolls his eyes and sits up to be nose-to-nose with you. “Stay out of my armpits. Do not color my face. And so help me, if you take any pictures-“ when your pout deepens, his lip curled into a snarl, “fuck you. ONE. picture.”

“You’re the best!” You mewl, peppering his face with tiny kisses. “The best boyfriend anyone could ask for-“

“Shut up and keep coloring before I change my fucking mind.”

2K notes · View notes

stevebabey · 1 year ago

Text

have sum steddie! maybe modern!au, no upside down!au & a meet cute <3 | ao3

Steve sits in the booth, his foot tapping away mindlessly under the table, with half a mind to abandon the table entirely.

In fact, the only reason he hadn’t yet was because of the $20 he was hanging out for at the end. And the bragging rights, of course.

Robin had set him up on this blind date, plied him with all the promises in the world that he would enjoy it — said she’d spent a decent amount of time hunting for the right first gay date for Steve.

She also conceded that if he, for whatever reason, didn’t enjoy it, she would cough up 20 whole bucks for his wasted time. But he had to actually see the date through for the prize to be claimed.

And the bragging rights were so that Robin — with her uppity, healthy, and happy relationship that Steve was only a little bit envious of — could ease onto the breaks when it came to Steve’s love life.

So it was looking a little bleak at the moment, so what? Every stallion or… lion or whatever had their moments, right? Moments where their mane is a little uncouth and food is low and…. Where was he going with this?

The point was, that Robin got into one relationship and suddenly decided she was fit to become a high and mighty matchmaker. Never mind that Steve had reminded her numerous times that he had dated a lot more than she had.

So, for 20 bucks and the right to stick his tongue out at his best friend when she tried to meddle, Steve could stick one night out.

Besides, she was right about one thing. They weren’t in Hawkins anymore — and San Francisco had a hell of a larger dating pool than his hometown.

Still, that didn’t make people anymore for prompt for dates though, apparently. Steve’s foot taps incessantly under the table, his knee bouncing up and down in his nerves. He runs a hand through his hair and checks his watch again.

7 o’clock, Harvey’s Diner, a cute little Italian place that Steve had begun to frequent since they moved to the city, and a date with a dude called Daniel whom Steve had no idea what he looked like.

This was his Friday night plans.

His watch reads 7:12pm and Steve sighs, his fingers beginning to fiddle with the strap of his watch just for something to do. Great. He had gotten all dressed up for this? To be stood up? How was this any better than his usual Friday night plans that Robin claimed were so pathe—

“Hi.”

Someone sits down in the booth across from Steve, landing with a thump loud enough to give him a fright.

Steve’s head whips up from its focus on fiddling with his watch and— woah. Steve blinks once, twice, and feels his jaw unhinge a little, his lips parting an inch as he gazes at the stranger across from him.

Holy shit, this dude was hot.

He’s got curls for days, dark chocolate ringlets all messy and unkept spilling over his shoulders— long and probably perfect for burying your hands into. Steve flushes a little at the unexpected thought.

He has beautiful brown eyes, widened with a smudge of eyeliner and framed with long lashes. Steve thinks he can spy a smattering of freckles across his forehead. His nose is long and his lips are plush and pink and holy shit, this dude was pretty.

“Oh— hi.” Steve manages to remember his manners. Only after he fully checked this dude out, of course.

God, couldn’t Robin have given him a better warning than just ‘he’s probably your type’? Couldn’t she have warned him that this dude was ‘do-a-double-take-on-the-street type hot?’ What the fuck Robin?

The man across from him grins, wicked and alluring all at once, and shucks off his heavy leather jacket. His eyes do a once-over on Steve, taking his time to check him out— which is great because Steve is stuck on all the glorious tattoos that have just been revealed. So much skin shown in his roughly chopped muscle-tee, swirling ink all down his arms. This dude is hot.

Silently, Steve curses Robin and the 20 dollars that is totally slipping away from him. Why did she have to be right all the time?

“Been waiting long?” The man, Daniel, asks as he makes himself comfortable across the table. He pushes his hair back with both hands, using one hand to gather it into a ponytail, holding it up to air out his neck and Steve now realises he is slightly puffed.

He must’ve run part of the way here, to avoid being later than he was. Steve can’t help but be slightly endeared by that fact.

The man grins again, “Promise I was trying to be on time but, you know how the subway is.”

Steve huffs out a laugh, any annoyance at being kept waiting melting away at his date’s sincerity.

“Not too long,” Steve admits, smiling to ease Daniel’s apparent concern. Across the table, Daniel slumps a little and releases his hair, his curls pooling back around his shoulders. Steve watches, entranced.

“Well, that’s good,” Daniel smiles, eyes bright like he really means it, and his hand darts out to steal the drinks menu from the edge of the table. He looks back over to Steve, a furrow in his brows. “You didn’t order anything?”

“I thought I should wait,” Steve says with a shrug. No point paying for food if your date never shows up.

Daniel looks up from the menu through his lashes and smiles, placing his elbow on the table and dropping his chin in the palm of his hand. “Aw, you’re sweet.”

Steve is a little embarrassed by how easily the compliment makes him blush, feeling his cheeks glow lightly. Across the table, Daniel seems to revel in it, drinking in the way Steve’s face filled with colour with a cheeky smile. His eyes flick back down to the menu.

“You know,” Daniel begins, keeping his eyes on the menu, scanning it with a hum. “Chrissy said you were good looking but I think she seriously undersold you.”

He takes his eyes off the menu to trail up Steve’s body, his gaze heavy. Steve feels a delighted zing go up his spine, feels the way he preens at Daniel’s attraction. Steve opens his mouth to respond, more than ready to return the flirt when—

“Can I get you two started with anything?”

The waitress interrupts. She’s poised with her notepad, standing at the edge of the booth. Daniel perks up and nods.

“Can I get a chocolate milkshake please?” He asks with a polite smile. Steve laughs lightly at his selection and Daniel’s gaze cuts from the waitress to Steve.

“What? Not a milkshake man?”

Steve tries to contain his grin, all too endeared by the man before him. He shakes his head and raises his hand in defense. “Nothing against milkshakes just… for dinner?”

Daniel gasps theatrically and his head snaps back to the waitress. “This man has never had the delight of a Harvey’s milkshake with his dinner. Please bring us two chocolate milkshakes!”

Steve watches as the waitress dutifully writes down the order and turns on her heel, heading for the kitchen. He turns back to his date and gapes, taken aback by the forwardness.

“Did you just order for me?”

“Did you just diss milkshakes?”

Steve scoffs, but even then he can’t stop his lips from curling up into a smile. He can’t believe it but he’s genuinely glad he waited this date out. It's not at all like he was expecting. Even Robin's short description of this dude pales in comparison to the real thing. Steve nudges his foot forward into Daniel’s shin lightly.

“I did not diss milkshakes,” Steve argues, his smile widening at how Daniel’s eyes dart to the table before back up at Steve with a grin.

“Uh huh,” Daniel nods, his voice sarcastic and 100% unbelieving of Steve’s insistence. “Just wait, okay? You’ll be changing your tune soon enough. Harvey’s milkshakes are class. I’ve had a thousand of my best ideas in here, sipping on a chocolate milkshake.”

Steve grins and leans back in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest. Under the table, he feels Daniel’s boot nudge against his leg gently— and he laughs to himself. This has gotta be the most teenage way of flirting and he’s fucking loving it.

“You know,” Steve begins hesitantly, letting his forearms lean up against the table. “You’re not quite what I expected, Daniel.”

Across the table, Daniel scrunches up his face, his expression one of pure befuddlement. He puts his hands flat on the table and leans forward.

“Wait, you think my name is Daniel?”

Steve splutters for a moment because even though the answer is duh, yes, it’s become increasingly apparent that the man across from him is not who he was expecting. But if he’s not Daniel, who is he?

Suddenly, the door chimes and someone else is entering the diner. It’s a man dressed like Steve — on the preppy side with hair that must’ve taken at least an hour. He scans the booth and spots Steve’s booth, wandering over, his eyes fixed on the man across from Steve.

“Hey, are you Eddie?” He asks confidently, ignoring Steve’s presence on the other side of the booth.

The man — Eddie — freezes as he glances up at the newcomer and then back down to Steve ahead of him. Steve deflates a little inside as he realises abruptly what’s happened— a mix-up of wrong dates that was completely warranted because this dude dresses exactly like Steve. Steve doesn't stare too long to see if he's any hotter.

Instead, he tries to give Eddie the all-clear with his eyes. He smiles polite as he can and gives a little nod to let him know it was alright to abandon him for the date he was supposed to go on. Not to get stuck with Steve.

Eddie clears his throat and smiles, not cheeky like he had with Steve, but stiff and polite. “Ah sorry man, I think you’ve got the wrong guy. My name's Daniel.”

Huh? Steve takes his eyes off the table to steal a glimpse at Eddie (is his name even Eddie?) and something inside him burns hotly when the man glances across at Steve and winks.

The man standing by the booth wavers for a moment, glancing between them in the booth as Steve schools his expression to neutral. After a moment of silence, there's a half-assed apology as the man retreats, heading back out the door he had just come through. The door chimes again on his way out.

Steve straightens up and peers over his shoulder, watching the door slowly swing shut. He turns back to the man across the booth and squints at him. The waitress returns briefly, dropping two large chocolate shakes onto the table, topped with a mountain of cream. She murmurs something about coming back to take their order in a moment.

"Wait, so who are you?" Steve asks, gently sliding his shake closer to him. "Daniel or Eddie?"

His date —well, his new date— has already begun taking a big long sip from his own milkshake, so enamored with it that when he pulls away there's a dot of cream on the end of his nose. He swallows with a satisfied ah and grins across the table at Steve, not noticing the dairy on his face.

"I'm whoever gets me talking with you a little bit longer."

Steve grins, an endeared roll of his eye at the blatant flirting but he can't deny how it makes his chest warm. He grabs one of the napkins and reaches forward, adoring how Eddie goes cross-eyed as he watches Steve smudge away the cream on his nose. He laughs sheepishly, giving his nose a little wipe with his own hand.

"I'm Eddie." He says, finally introducing himself. He doesn't offer his hand, just gives Steve a little nudge under the table and a grin over his milkshake. "And I think you just saved me from a terrible date."

Steve laughs, giving a little shake of his head. He finally goes in for a sip of his own milkshake— and it's just as heavenly as Eddie had promised, glorious chocolate dancing over his taste buds.

Steve groans quietly, eyes bright when he glances at the other man over his glass, entirely amused by how wide-eyed Eddie has become. He releases the straw and sits back, more invested in this date than he has been in... years. Stallion's got its mojo back. Or lion. Whatever.

"I'm Steve," He responds, giving a little nudge back under the table and a grin of his own. "And I think you saved me from being stood up."

#what..... is this????#i haven't really written modern au for them #and i wrote it in about 2 hours so hopefully its like. not terrible #wahoo !#i luv a little meet cute #meet cute #steddie #ruby writes steddie #steve x eddie #steddie fic #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie blurb #ummmm i haven't posted in literal eons ive forgotten all my tags oh well #enjoy ?

3K notes · View notes

unconventional-lawnchair · 2 months ago

Text

Not Quite Poison

Barty Crouch Jr. X Potter!Reader

Summary: after a chance meeting in the library; a whirlwind love affair between Barty Crouch Jr and the youngest Potter blossom, but neither of them were prepared for how life would go after.

AN: MONTHS. I have finally finished this after MONTHS. Sorry if the writing style is a bit whiplash, I have changed a lot since then. I can't get away from Barty he owns my whole heart

CW: not proof read, no use of Y/N, Obsessive!Barty(implied obsessive reader), sexual themes and scenes, graveling and begging, Protective Sirius and James, fighting, lying, self indulgent, cursing, Remus x reader if you squint, angst, angst with slightly happy ending, fem reader, not cannon complacent, sexual innuendo, underage drinking, major character death (unless...?)

WC: ~17k

You never felt as bold or as powerful as you did at Hogwarts, walking the halls with your older brother and his friends.

Shamelessly you always thought they were the coolest. The Marauders, James Potter; Head Boy, Remus Lupin; Prefect, Sirius Black; one of the most clever and strongest duelists in the school, and Peter Pettigrew; the sweetest boy you'd ever meet.

They had a reputation for themselves even before you came to the school a year later. Not that it surprised you, your brother had always been a moth to the limelight. You were just happy he never aimed that at you, being fiercely protective of his little sister. They all were pretty defensive when it came to ‘little Potter.’

But, there was only so much their help could do.

“Dreadful! A Dreadful on my potions exam!” You groaned as you wiggled the parchment in front of you, as if shaking it enough would change the ink that was etched on the page.

“I have never gotten such a low score in my life!” You whined and hugged the paper. Giving a small sigh as Sirius ruffled your hair. “Calm it, Bambi. It’s just a practice test. You're becoming Moony.”

Sirius gestured behind his back to Remus, who was wearing an offended look.

“I'm sorry I couldn't help you more.” Lily called over from under your brother's arm, sending you a sympathetic look. You just mumbled.

“It’s alright, Red. If even you can’t save me, I’m well and truly done for.” You groaned and Remus nudged you with his elbow.

“I could always give you a hand.”

You shook your head and bit your cheek. “Nah, think it’s best I crack on alone. No distractions.” You waved your hands out dramatically, full of resolve. Enough to make Sirius laugh at you and Lily to roll her eyes fondly. The redhead looked up and smirked at James who seemed to be lost in his own little world, staring at her.

“Jamie, dearest?”

He blinked out of his daze and smiled at her. “What's that?”

“Were you paying any mind to your little sister?”

“She was talking?” He muttered and looked over at you, greeted by a bird that wasn't under his arm, instead poking from between your index and ring finger. “Ah, so I’ve finally learned to tune her out. Only took me seventeen years.”

“Sod off.” You stuck your tongue out at him and he blew a raspberry back, before Lily gave him a reprimanding smack on his shoulder.

“You're meant to be head boy.” She huffed and you just smirked.

“How they let him get that badge, I’ll never know!” You shouted up to your brother who made a mocking face at you with his eyes crossed. Remus snickering from your other side.

“Oi, James, keep it to yourself,” Peter mumbled, shuffling out of spitting range.

“It's like watching two first years go at it.” Sirius mumbled and Remus shrugged. “I don't think they ever left that age.”

You rolled your eyes fondly at the jabs as Lily grabbed your brother's face and squished his cheeks, leaving him a smiling fool.

“Okay, I'm heading to the library.” You offered and got a variety of responses as you left. “Got to make sense of this disaster of a grade.”

Their echoes of conversation faded out as your shoes hit the path to the library. Once there, you were shocked to see how many people were studying in the now cramped hall. It was fair to say that everyone here had a poor score on their test.

What was worse is you didn't recognize a single person. Not well enough to sit with.

You walked down the long path between the aisle and tried to spot an open seat somewhere. That was, until you spotted an empty table. An entirely empty table with a few spare books shoved across the old oak. You lit up and hurried over to take the seat closest to the wall. Setting up your things to begin to study, not noticing how people had been avoiding that table like the plague.

As you set up your books and notes you were oblivious to any presence around you, until the seat right next to you was pulled out. “You know…”

You looked up quickly and you were greeted by a pair of piercing green eyes that made your heart stop. What was it with Potters and green eyes? You'd never know.

“If you wanted my seat that bad, you could have just asked.” You were suddenly snapped to your senses when you recognized the voice.

Bartemius Crouch Junior. Fuck.

You didn't talk to many RavenClaws, you hardly talked to any male classmates considering how often your brother would scare them off. Sirius wasn't much help either.

However, Crouch had a special reputation. Hanging around dangerous Slytherins, loud, dangerous, obsessive and as smart as a damned whip. You only knew what Sirius told you about him, which was nothing good, considering how both of them absolutely despised each other. James didn't like him either, but Lily spoke highly of him.

Lily spoke highly of almost anyone, though.

You only realized you had been staring at him when he arched his eyebrow.

“Cat got your tongue, Potter?” He teased as he took his seat and you snapped out of your thoughts. Still just blinking owlishly at him. This made him chuckle softly, leaving him to simply shrug and get back to work.

With how he behaved around most of the students you expected him to chase you off or bare his fangs- maybe bite you. Who knows? People described him more like a rabid animal than a proper student. Yet you had sat in his seat, at his table, pushed aside and even stolen one of his books, and he was as calm as a cat.

“Er- sorry, I didn't mean to intrude.” You whispered and he glanced over at you. Meeting your eyes with a slowly growing smile.

“So she does talk?” He teased and you pursed your lips.

“When she wants to.”

“That's not very Potter of you.”

“It's very me of me.”

His smile only grew as your banter continued. His shoulders seemed to relax and he became a bit more playful. You felt like you might be insane, were there two Crouchs? There is no way this is the same boy who almost beat Sirius to a pulp over a remark about his own brother.

“So… do you mind if I study here?” You asked softly and he shrugged, going back to his paper.

“I don't mind a pretty face.”

This time it was your turn to smile, rolling your eyes a bit fondly. You got back to your notes, writing down each problem you had gotten wrong and looking for the proper potion recipe, starting with Wiggenweld. You began to mutter to yourself as you looked across three different books. Rubbing your temple in irritation as you tried to understand the ingredients and grew more and more infuriated.

“You're doing it wrong.” You heard Barty mumble from beside you. You snapped your head over to glare at him and it only served to make him chuckle.

“I don't think I've ever seen a Dreadful in my life.”

You flushed a bit and moved your wrist to hide your marks. “What happened to you being nice to me?”

“Sorry, sorry.” He chuckled and shifted his seat a bit closer to you, looking at the books. “What's got you confused?”

“I just..” You sighed and gestured to the books. “Every one of these say something different! Salamander blood until it turns yellow, then orange, then green. But this one says Unicorn horn and Lionfish spines. And then this one says Sloth-”

“Woah woah woah, pretty girl, breath.” He pushed and you took a sharp breath. No one but Sirius had ever called you that, and certainly not in that tone. He lifted his arm and you got a good view of his bare forearm from where his sleeve was rolled up, showing off a tattoo, a snake wrapped around a magpie, you think. He smiled at how you took it in. “Did it myself.”

Your eyes widened and looked at him in shock. He seemed giddy with excitement at your interests. “That and this,” He mused and stuck out his tongue, using his middle fingers to press it flat against his lip. Showing off his tongue piercing and his black nails. Your eyebrows shot up to your hair line.

Him and Sirius were scarily alike. It was almost comforting.

“Woah…” You mumbled and he laughed. Smiling ear to ear.

“Look here, kid.”

“I'm your age-”

“Shhh, I'm spitting wisdom.”

You couldn't help but laugh and relax fully as his fingers lined the pages of one of your books. “The reason they are so different is the one thing Professor Slug on my Horn doesn't tell you,” You laughed a bit in surprise at the vulgar nickname, “Is the potions you study under him have several different ways to make it. Salamander blood being the one taught in class.”

You looked back at the books and tilted your head a bit. “Why wouldn't they tell you that?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. I don't even use those recipes, I made my own.”

You looked over at him in shock and he just smiled at you.

You knew Crouch was a genius, he made sure everyone knew. But to have your own concoction for the potion you couldn't figure out how to brew according to instructions? You were baffled.

“Really?”

He nodded and you furrowed your brow. “Why Wiggenweld?”

His lip twitched and you could see as the smile left his eyes but not his lips, slowly biting his cheek. “I'm prone to.. accidents.”

“Your fights.” You whispered and he shrugged.

“Those too.”

“Typical Crouch behavior.” You murmured, a hint of amusement creeping into your voice. Talking to him was feeling more natural by the second. “Always getting into trouble.”

He grinned at that, leaning back in his chair with a casual confidence that was slightly charming. He had a way about it, how his sleeves were rolled up and his tie was loose. Robe discarded and undeniably handsome- “What can I say? It’s a talent of mine.”

You couldn’t help but chuckle, feeling more at ease as you continued to chat. The tension from earlier with your potions exam began to fade, replaced by a curiosity of learning who this Barty boy really was. It was a strange feeling, considering the reputation he had, but he seemed different here, away from the majority of the school, he was so gentle and sweet.

“So, what’s your recipe for Wiggenweld?” You asked, hopeful for a bit of help. You leaned in closer, the books between you momentarily forgotten.

“Alright, but you have to promise me something,” He whispered and leaned all that more closer, a mischievous glint in his eye. “You can’t tell anyone I’m teaching you this. It’s our secret.”

“Deal!” You nodded, your excitement bubbling over. You didn’t care about the implications of keeping secrets; you were just grateful for the distraction and the chance to understand potions from a different perspective. Definitely not to keep talking to him, not at all, he was just so damned sweet.

“Well, I use this version of it.” He gestured to your test, “But no Salamander blood. Just Horklump and Dittany.”

“What?” You whispered in shock and he sent you a playful wink.

“Trust me, yeah?” He gestured to the pages. “You just need to stew them for no longer than ten minutes. Stir it the first two- Potter?”

“Yeah?”

“You should be writing this down.” He teased and you quickly scrambled for your quill, cheeks flushed as he found you just staring.

You quickly scribbled down the details, heart racing as you focused on Barty’s instructions. The way he leaned in, so close that you could catch a whiff of his cologne, made it hard to concentrate. You tried to tune out the little voice in your head that reminded you of his reputation; all you wanted was to absorb the knowledge he was sharing. Nothing more.

“Okay, so after you’ve stewed the Horklump and Dittany, you need to add a pinch of powdered mint. It has to be powdered, if you add any fresh mint the juice will wind both of us in detention.” He continued, his voice low and steady, as if he were sharing a well-guarded secret. “But don't tell anyone that. It's just to get the color Slug likes so much.”

You couldn't help but smile at his goofy antics. “We?”

“Hm?”

“We'd end up in detention?”

He gave a chuckle. “Can't let you get in trouble for my secrets, can I? How could I live with myself?”

“What a gentleman.” You cooed and he gave a playfully solemn nod.

“Truly, I am.”

“I would totally let you take the fall for my antics.” You countered and he put a hand over his chest with a gasp. You giggled and he couldn't help but smile at your look.

“You're much prettier than your brother.” He hummed and you paused, turning to furrow your eyebrows at him with a bright smile. Clearly, he had no shame in what he said.

“Watch what you say, my brother may disagree with that.”

Barty smirked, clearly unfazed by the warning. He seemed so.. shameless. “Let him. I’ve dealt with worse than a jealous Potter before.” He leaned in a little closer, his tone playful, yet there was an undertone of seriousness in his eyes. “Besides, I would hate to disappoint him. But my type is more.. about your height, your hair color, your eyes. Have to say, the only thing wrong with you… your name.”

You felt your cheeks flush with warmth at his compliment, the boldness of his words making your heart race. Who was this guy? “Oh really? What’s wrong with my name?” You asked, trying to keep your tone teasing, but the stutter in your tone betrayed you.

“Potter is a lovely name.” He hummed, leaning back in his chair with a smug grin. “But if you are looking to try out something different, I have some ideas.“

“Is this you flirting, Crouch?”

“Call me Barty. And if you have to question it I might just have to up my game.” He lit up like a child and your heart clenched hopelessly. He didn't even attempt to play coy with his new found attraction, you wondered hopelessly how many people had told this boy no. Certainly not enough.

Thank Merlin for that.

You couldn't help but laugh, trying to mask the fluttering in your chest. “Well, Barty, I don’t know if you’re just charming or if this is some elaborate scheme to distract me from my disastrous Potions exam.”

He leaned in closer, resting his chin in his hand, eyes focused solely on you. “Maybe it’s a bit of both.”

You rolled your eyes, fighting to suppress a smile. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re delightful,” He shot back without missing a beat. The intensity in his gaze made you feel a little dizzy, like you were the center of an exhilarating storm. Like you were worth all his attention.

You had only been speaking for an hour and it seems he made up his mind about you so quickly.

“Okay, Mr. Charming.” You said with a smirk, trying to regain some semblance of composure. “Let’s focus on Potions before you completely derail my study session.”

“Fine, fine.” He chuckled, leaning back into his chair but not breaking eye contact. “What's your next question?”

You spent the rest of the day with Barty, drilling on about the exam and your potion questions, falling into an easy and familiar rhythm. Eventually, even when your questions were answered and the library was empty, you two stayed. Even as it grew dark outside and the only lights came from the candles on the table. You two keep droning into easy conversation.

“You know.” Barty hummed. “This isn't the first time we've met.”

“Really?” You asked, your head in your arms as you leaned on the table over your books. He nodded. “Mhm. We met before, when we were younger. Before Hogwarts.”

“Before Hogwarts?” You echoed, trying to piece together the fragments of your memory. “I don’t remember meeting you before then. Are you sure?”

Barty chuckled, leaning back in his chair as he crossed his arms. “Oh, I’m sure. It was at Diagon Alley.”

Your eyebrows knitted together in concentration as you tried to recall any memory of him. “Diagon Alley? I don’t remember that at all.”

“Yeah, it was ages ago. You were with your family, and I was there with my mum.” He explained, with such a sweet smile that reached his eyes. “You had just gotten your first wand. You were so excited, waving it around like you were already a pro. I was upset because my magic hadn't come in yet but you and your brothers came around the same time.”

You felt a spark of recognition at his words, completely baffled he would remember something so utterly small and insignificant to him. “I do remember being really excited! I think I accidentally turned my brother’s hair blue for a week after that.”

Barty burst out laughing, the sound bright and infectious. “See? You were a little troublemaker even back then.”

“Hey, it was an accident!” You protested, laughing along with him. “I was just a kid.”

“Still, it’s good to know you’ve always had a flair for the dramatic.” He muttered and bit his cheek. Suddenly so.. thoughtful and distant.

“... how did you remember that? I hardly remember it and it was the day I got my wand.” You have a small nervous laugh.

“You really don't remember?” He laughed and you just furrowed your brow in confusion.

“Woah, I'm that forgettable?” He teased and laughed as your eyes widened in horror. “I'm only teasing.”

He rolled his jaw a bit and laid his head on the table to look you in the eyes. “I was throwing a fit, you know. I wanted a wand so badly. You walked past me on the street and you pointed your wand at me. You shouted; ‘tears be gone and magic be strong!’ And just toddled away after your mother.”

Your jaw dropped a bit before you slowly covered your face in embarrassment. Giving a low groan as you began to laugh. “I don't remember that. But that's what my mum always told us when we got hurt. Said our magic would heal our owies.”

He chuckled and nodded. “I stopped crying. When I got my magic the next year I was sure it was your doing. I'm not surprised you don't remember me.”

“It's not that you're forgettable-”

“Heavens no, not that. Just… you are always doing small things like that. You don't know how much it means to people.”

You flushed a bit at his statement and looked down, unable to keep his eyes anymore. “You're exaggerating.”

“I'm not. Everyone just adores you.” He mumbled and you shook your head.

“And everyone is scared of you.” You challenged. “Not everyone knows what they are talking about.”

“They are scared of me with good reason.” He corrected and you shook your head defiantly.

“You're not scary.”

“I can be.”

“I'll believe it when I see it.”

“I guess you'll never believe it then.”

You tilted your head a bit and looked up to meet his eyes. He was smiling so softly, so sweet, eyes gentle and almost suffocating. “I would rather die than scare you.”

You stared at him, a bit stunned. Struggling to catch yourself but all you could muster was. “You could never scare me.”

“Good.” He whispered in earnest with a nod of his head. “Good.” He smiled.

Before you both could continue talking, you heard the grand doors creek open, both of you looked up like deer in headlights. You saw Remus poke his head in and he smiled at you, before giving a grimace of a look at your company.

You stood up as you saw Remus leave, giving a low sigh. “Sorry, I kept you here so late.”

“Don't worry about that.” He muttered as he began to help you pack up. “I'll put your books away for you.”

You gave him a surprised look before you furrowed your brow. “Are you not heading out as well?”

“Not now. I have a few assignments to look over.” He mumbled and your eyebrows raised in surprise.

“Wha? Oh! Oh, Barty, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to distract you.” You whispered and he shook his head, chuckling.

“It's alright, you can make it up to me.” He muttered and you nodded vigorously. “Distract me again? Tomorrow? Same seat?”

You were stunned for a moment before you slowly smiled to match his. “Time?”

“I'll be here all day.”

“Understood.” You smiled and gave him a small wave. “Goodnight, Barty.”

“Goodnight, Star.”

When you made your way out of the library and noticed James, Lily, Remus, Peter, and Sirius. You tilted your head a bit curiously when you saw James with the map.

“What's this about?” You hummed and James pointed at you like an accusatory child.

“Nuh uh! You and Crouch? Gross! No!”

You furrowed your eyebrow in confusion and looked over to Sirius who was glaring at you. Peter looked nervous to meet your eyes.

“You upset your brothers.” Remus muttered to you and you tilted your head.

“It would seem so.” You mumbled back and Lily gave a little giggle. James didn't appreciate your mellow response.

“Bambi that boy is no good for my little sister.” James huffed and you could have sworn if you rolled your eyes any harder they would fall from your head.

“Oh Merlin, here we go.” Lily mumbled.

You crossed your arms and raised an eyebrow at James, trying to keep your expression calm. “You mean the boy that helped me understand Potions better than I ever have? The same boy who’s been nothing but nice to me? You guys really need to relax.”

Sirius chimed in, his tone teasing but serious. “Nice? Junior? He's a walking red flag, love”

“And you’d know all about red flags, wouldn’t you, Sirius?” You shot back, a smirk creeping onto your face. You couldn’t help but needle him a bit, knowing full well his own history.

Lily laughed, trying to diffuse the tension. “Come on, you guys, let her have some fun! She’s old enough to make her own decisions.”

“Lily!” James huffed and gestured to you. “She's only 17.”

“18 in two months.” You put your hands on your hips as Remus smirked. “58 days.”

“Right on.” You mused and you and Remus shared a high five.

“Wha- I- no! No, I don't like it!” James whined like a child. “He's a Death Eater.”

That killed the fun chillingly fast. The hall was silent- in truth, no one knew anything about who was truly what. The only people you guys knew to be those monsters were the ones who claimed it. Like Mulciber, Avery, and even some of the other younger Slytherins.

The only evidence they would have to that would be the company Barty chose to keep.

“You watch your mouth.” You snapped quickly at James who looked a bit caught off guard that his usually sweet playful sister was so serious. Your blood was boiling with anxiety and inching for you to back down, you just wouldn't. To be in the middle of a war and to use that word so freely?

“You don't know what rumors like that can do to someone! And, I'll have you know, he is the sweetest boy I've ever talked to!” You snapped at him and his jaw dropped.

“Not you, Remus or Peter.” You reassured and they nodded in agreement.

“Not me.” Peter smiled at his friends and earned a smack from Sirius. Remus had the good sense not to say anything.

“You're such a git, James! And I won't be letting you continue to dictate my social life!” You snapped and the second Sirius opened his mouth you glared at him down. “You either greaser!”

Remus snickered and you shook your head. “I'm going to my dorm!”

Lily scurried up to follow you, giving the boys a playful ‘hmph!’ As she passed.

Remus was about to say something before Lily grabbed his arm and dragged him along. Leaving the three older Gryffindor's alone in the hall, baffled.

~~~

You stomped right up to your bed and slipped across it with a groan. Remus was next, mocking your childish stomps before he laid the proper way across your mattress, arms behind his head. You glared at him before Lily sat beside you and patted the side near her, coaxing you closer.

You sighed and sat up, wiggling closer.

“Baremius, huh?” She prodded and you nodded, leaning on your palms beside your knees. Her tone was always so soft and patient. She was always so… peaceful.

“It's not like that. But James- ugh! He just gets on my nerves.”

“Not like that?” Remus spoke up from behind you two. “He looked like he was about to kiss you.”

“I have that effect on people.” You cheeked, quickly trying to cover up your heating cheeks. “He was helping me with potions. Nothing more.”

“Well, that's good.” Lily muttered and you half glared at her.

“Good?”

“I can't believe I'm about to say this.” She muttered. “I agree with your brother on this one.”

You gawked at her before you looked at at Remus who suddenly looked nervous.

“And you?”

“In my defense, putting aside the rumors and.. his behaviors. He's a guy.” He shrugged and you gave a scandalized laugh.

“And you're not?”

“I'm a man.” He hummed and flexed playfully, showing off his arms and making you laugh, laying back and across his stomach. Lily rolled her eyes playfully and laid her head on his chest, looking at you with a soft smile.

“And in my defense, honey, I know him. He's friends with those horrid Slytherin boys and…” She looked away for a moment. “Snape. I know you can't judge someone on their friends alone but…”

“It says a lot.” You muttered and slowly hid your face in Remus’s stomach. He lifted his hand to ruffle your hair and you gave a loud and annoyed groan, looking back at Lily. “Do you really think-”

“I haven't seen any proof.” Lily quickly hushed you. “But just.. be careful, yeah? May want to keep him at arm's length.”

“...” You sighed and began to pick at the cables of Remus’s sweater, earning a smack from him. “I'll keep my distance.”

“That's our girl.” She smiled and leaned in to kiss your temple, making you laugh.

“You have to marry my brother now.” You insisted and Lily gave a snort.

“Oh, look at this.” Lily mused and reached behind her, the second you lifted your head she flung a pillow at your face, leaving you to fall against Remus’s stomach. He let out a sound that resembled a balloon deflating and it left you and Lily giggling like fools.

You stared up at the ceiling as Remus and Lily began to chat aimlessly. You began to pick at your nails and pause. You wondered if there was any truth to it, the rumors and his actions.

“I would rather die than scare you.”

His words replayed in your head over and over. What did he mean by that? Was it just you? Was his persona an act? What made you the exception?

The way his head tilted and his eyes looked into yours, it was something so genuine. Scarily affectionate. You wondered if it really was just that conversation. That day you met and that comment you made to him about magic.

Was he really not used to such simple compassions?

“Earth to bambi.” Lily called out and you looked over at her with a curious look. She smiled.

“So you won't get tangled up in him, yeah?” She prodded and you bit your cheek. You must have missed a lot.

“Yeah.. I'll be careful.” You muttered and she smiled.

“Good. I'm off to my patrols.” She hummed and sat up, grabbing her books and saying her goodbyes.

Remus looked down at you to see that distant stare again. Giving a weak chuckle and patting, giving a hum. “Wanna braid my hair?”

You sat up wordlessly and flopped on the pillow next to him. “Actually.. Can you read to me?”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever you want, bambi.” He mused and grabbed one of the books from your coffee table. Shifting up so you could lay your head on his chest, listening as he started the same book he's already ready you a million times.

~~~

You kept your promise and you avoided Barty. Everything went back to the status quo. At least for the first few weeks.

James had let it go a week or so later and Sirius was still weary of leaving you alone for too long. Ever since he started staying at your house in year five, he had become just as hovering and doting as your brother. But with Lily and Remus as reinforcements they never pushed it too far.

Then came the full moon. Remus would never allow you too far from the Gryffindor towers the nights leading up to it. No one, really.

He would sooner see you in detention then letting you out of the dorms and especially not near the dark forest the night of the full moon. However, even if you couldn't help the night of, the very next morning no one could stop you from rushing down to the shrieking shack with breakfast and water for the boys.

It was never anything complicated, just a few biscuits and water before you all were lugged back for classes. This morning was no different. As you walked with the boys out of the shrieking shack and towards the school.

The sun was shining bright, casting warm rays across the forest floor as you made your way back toward the castle. The air was crisp, fresh from the night’s chill, and you felt a sense of accomplishment in being there for your friends.

“Thanks for this, lil Potter.” Remus mumbled, his voice still a bit hoarse but warm with affection as he took a sip of water. He was leaning heavily on his crutch that he still tried to insist he didn't need. The other boys were busy sharing their own sleepy banter, but you just smiled. “Of course, Moony. I wish you'd let me help more. I feel like I've become an animagus for nothing. I can still taste the mandrake leaf, I'll have you know.”

“I told you he wouldn't let you help like, five times!” James shouted ahead as he slipped back on his shirt. Remus strayed behind in his slowed step. Sirius shook his head.

“If we had it our way, and you weren't so spoiled, you wouldn't be one at all.” He snarked in all his grumpy morning glory and you gave a sarcastic laugh.

“What got up your ass this morning? Hopefully not Remus in his state.”

Remus began to choke on the water you had given them and Sirius gawked at you. James let out a laugh so loud it startled a few birds from the trees.

Remus rolled his neck before he nudged you a bit and gave a low groan. “It will keep you safe. Just in case… you know, anything happens.”

“Nothing will happen.” You assured and he shrugged, always ready to believe he could hurt you guys at any second.

“You never know.”

“You'd never hurt me, Remus.” You whispered and locked your arm with his. He shook his head.

“Moony would.” He challenged and you shook your head back at him.

“No, I mean, you wouldn't be able to. I am simply getting that good at self defense magic, didn't you hear our new professor? Could wipe the floor with em.” You cheeked and Remus gave you the most sour look you had ever seen, making you giggle.

“Can I?” Peter whispered from beside you and you handed him your water easily, giving a laugh when he threw it back and chucked the damn thing.

“Thirsty?”

“We shouldn't have drank.” He muttered and your jaw dropped.

“You four drank? That has to be illegal. More- more so illegal than whatever we have been doing so far.” You scolded and Remus just gave you a cheeky smile. You rolled your eyes, looking off into the forest with a playful huff. Only for you to pause when you saw some bit of blue behind you guys.

You began to slow down more, furrowing your brow at the figure you swear you saw, just following you guys. Your arm untangled from Remus’s and he paused, looking back at you. Then, you saw cigarette smoke. You trailed back a bit more before you turned sharply.

“I think I dropped something! I'll catch up!” You called back before you hurried down the trail. Looking along the tree line. Only then did you spot exactly who you thought you saw.

Barty looked at you with wide eyes, from the thicket of the trees. You two locked in a staring contest for a few moments before you heard Peter’s voice call out to you.

“You okay, Bambi?” He shouted and you quickly ran into the proper tree line. Grabbing Barty by his lapels and pushing his back against the nearest tree. He gave a small ‘oof’ as you took the cigarette from his mouth and tossed it on the ground, stomping it out.

He didn't react much besides rolling his head in annoyance and looking up at the leaves above you as you attempted to hide him. “What are you doing here?” You whisper hissed, assuming the worst.

He sucked his teeth a bit before looking down at you with a quirked eyebrow, “Can't take a morning stroll?”

“Were you following me?” You asked incredulously, stepping back from him as he fixed his uniform. “Not.. initially.”

“Yo! Bambi, you alright?” Sirius called down and you pursed your lips, giving Barry a once over. He looked.. sad. Almost bored. Nothing like the playful boy in the library.

“Uhm… yes. Yes!” You shouted back. “Wardrobe malfunction! I have a spell for it, just run ahead!”

There was a long pause before Remus shouted back. “Alright!”

As you listened to the boy’s voices finally fade out into the background you slipped your hands in your robe pockets.

“Why are you out here?” You finally asked and he looked down, rubbing the back of his neck. He walked over to a well worn log and sat down. Looking back to the path one more time you finally sat by him, hugging your cold knees.

He took off his robe and threw it over your lap. Before you could protest he took a letter from his pocket and handed it over to you. Taking out a box of smokes and starting another one.

You looked over the letter carefully, the envelope was beige but it had a blue stamp. Carefully, you unfolded it.

Bartemius,

I find it utterly disheartening that I must waste my precious time addressing your incessant foolishness yet again. Your childish antics are a stain on our family name, and quite frankly, I am beyond exhausted by your inability to grasp the gravity of the situation. Another fight within a week? Pathetic.

How dare you presume to send a personal letter to my office as if your juvenile escapades warrant my attention? If I sought updates on your disgraceful behavior, I would have asked your mother- though I suspect she has long since learned to ignore your antics. It astounds me that you continue to associate with those beneath you, dragging my name through the mud and jeopardizing the reputation I have painstakingly built in the ministry.

Your conduct is an embarrassment, not just to yourself but to me and our entire lineage. I expect to see a marked improvement in your behavior, though I have little hope that you possess the maturity to effect any real change. If you cannot rise above your base instincts, you will remain nothing but a disappointment. Do not insult me further with your incompetence.

You felt your heart clench tighter with each line you read. It was like someone had cut out the devil's tongue and used his linguistics to verbally lash the pages, and the lack of warmth in the words left you feeling hollow. It was hard to reconcile the boy you’d just been speaking with- the charming, playful Barty- with the boy described in this letter.

Let alone a boy as sweet as Barty could be subject to this. Your thumbs began to crease the page the tighter you held it.

You knew you were lucky to have a father like yours. He would never speak down to you like this, he was the one who begged you to write. About anything and everything.

“I wanted him to know I got all O’s.” He muttered, gesturing to the letter. You looked over to him in surprise as he tightened his jaw but kept his expression unreadable. “Should of known it wouldn't have impressed him.”

“Barty…” You whispered, looking up at him with concern etched across your features. You felt your eyes begin to sting and your vision blur. He was staring off into the distance, tense as he took a deep drag of the cigarette. How could someone be so cruel to him?

You schooled your expression, giving a sniff or two as you used your sleeve to dry your tears. Then, your turned to face him fully, pressing the letter firm against your lap.

“You impressed me.” You declared in a stern tone. He furrowed his brow and looked at you curiously. You kept a straight face. “It's impressive, Barty. It's impressive and.. I'm impressed.”

He gave a weak, almost scandalized laugh before he bit his cheek, trying to hide a smile. “You are?”

“Mhm.” You nodded earnestly and he gave a low chuckle as you began to sniff again to try and keep your tears back.

“So.. is that why you'd been avoiding me?” He mused and your shoulders sank a bit. You have a deep sigh and hugged your knees. Burying your face in his robe still draped over your legs.

There was a moment of pause before you finally gave in. “You're not.. you're not a bad person. I don't think you are.” You whispered. “But my brother does. And his friends.”

“So what?” He asked softly, no malice in his tone just genuine curiosity.

You hesitated, the weight of your words hanging in the air. “So... I don’t want to get caught up in whatever is brewing around you. I know there's something. They care about me, and I care about them. I can’t just ignore it. And Lily she's...”

Barty’s expression shifted slightly, his brow furrowing as he considered your words. “You think I’m dangerous?”

“I think you have a reputation.” You countered, trying to keep your tone neutral even as your voice wavered. “And it’s not just who you hang around with. It’s the way people talk about you- like you’re some kind of monster. I've.. heard things. What you've done, I mean.”

He chuckled softly, but the humor didn’t reach his eyes. “I suppose I’ve earned that.” He admitted. “But I’m not dangerous. Not to you.”

You felt a pang of something- so heavy and tight in your chest at the way he said it. There was an honesty in his voice that made you hesitate, and for a moment, you saw not just the boy with the reputation, but someone who seemed genuinely weary of the way others perceived him. No.

The way you perceived him. The hypothetical danger he posed to you. He was more concerned with how you felt about him then anyone else.

“Then why do you hang around with them?” You asked, trying to understand. “You could easily distance yourself from them, you know. They are.. they are monsters, you know what they did to Mary and Lily. They are important to me.”

Barty shrugged, a nonchalant gesture that didn’t quite match the tension in his expression. “They’re... my friends. They understand the game. It’s easier to be with those who don’t expect me to be anything other than what I am.”

“But that's not fair.” You huffed boldly. “That's not fair to me. I won't pick between anyone and my friends because my answer will be my friends.”

“Yeah..” Barty took another long drag of his cigarette. “Me too.”

The weight of his words hung in the air between you two, a heavy silence stretching out as you both considered the implications. You had to let yourself realize that with a father like his… his friends were truly all he had. You watched as he exhaled a cloud of smoke, the tendrils swirling in the sunlight filtering through the trees. His face was partially shadowed, but you could see the conflict in his eyes- caught between the reputation he had and the reputation his friends built.

“So, you’re saying that you’d rather be with them, even if it puts you in a bad light?” You asked, your brows furrowing in concern. “Is that really worth it?”

Barty leaned back against the tree, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. “Not all of us can be Sirius Black.” He chuckled dark and your lip twitched. “Not all of us have a Potter waiting to save us and I'm not leaving Regulus alone either.”

You furrowed your brow at him and he just shrugged. “Why didn't Regulus come along?” You whispered softly and he shook his head.

“Wrong question star. It's not my job to question him. I'm the one who's there for him.”

You stared at him for a moment longer and Barty met your eyes. It was like a stalemate for a good few minutes.

At that moment, you wondered if the houses were truly picked properly. Because you had never known anyone braver and more loyal than Bartemius Crouch Junior. You gave a low sigh and then smiled at him. He slowly returned it and your smile only widened.

Giving a small giggle he tossed his finished cigarette and held his hand out to you. You took it and he pulled you up, tossing his robe over his arm.

“You should run off now, yeah? Before your brother finds me defacing his sister's reputation.”

You shook your head with a bitter laugh. Taking a moment to appreciate him up close. Eventually, you gave in, getting on your toes and giving him a small kiss on the cheek. One that seemed to stun him.

“You really are remarkable, Barty.” You whispered and he couldn't hide his goofy and bright smile from you.

“And you, Star Potter, are a beautiful experience, everytime.” He said, his voice low and earnest, a spark of genuine warmth in his gaze. You felt your heart flutter at his compliment, and for a moment, it was as if the world outside faded away, leaving just the two of you in this small pocket of time.

“Now, run along.” He whispered, his tone teasing as he stepped back, the playful glint returning to his eyes. “Don’t let them catch you talking to me, or they’ll think I’m corrupting you.”

You laughed, shaking your head as you turned to walk back toward the castle. “You wish you were that lucky!” You called over your shoulder, feeling lighter than you had in days.

He watched you go with a small sigh. Shamelessly he put the robe to his face he could smell the faintest linger of your perfume. His eyes closing tight, as the scent reminded him you were real.

“Merlin, I really do.”

~~~

Sneaking around was your brother’s bread and butter, not yours.

But you found it harder and harder to really stay away from Barty. His persistence didn't help.

Small things started happening. Like chocolates began to appear in your books, flowers showing up on your desk, and other small things that were undeniably Barty. You couldn't get away from him. Whether it was the shared glances or the way he looked at you with an intensity that made your heart race, it was undeniable how much you were starting to fall for him.

You’d see him in the halls between classes, his eyes catching yours briefly before he flashed that charming smile. Sometimes he’d join you at the library, his presence both comforting and slightly thrilling. Each time felt like a secret shared in the quiet corners of Hogwarts, a world apart from the repetitive life of your friends. Not that you didn't love them- you adored them.

But the attention was nice.

“I got an Outstanding!” Lily sang as she held up her test, smiling ear to ear. James gave a wolf whistle to make Lily laugh, earning a shove for it.

Sirius looked at his parchment and gave a low whistle before carefully setting it back down, making the group laugh.

“That bad?” You cooed and Sirius smirked at you.

“Yeah? And what did you get, bambi?”

You bit your cheek and looked down at your parchment. Slowly turning it over with one eye closed, only to give a delighted gasp. “Ha! Outstanding!”

You flashed the paper to the group and Remus gave a laugh, Sirius playfully glared at you and snatched the paper away from you. “Horseradish! You cheated.” He insisted and you laughed.

“I did not cheat!” You protested, trying to snatch your parchment back. “I just studied really hard!”

“Sure, sure,” Sirius said, grinning as he held it just out of your reach. “What’s your secret? Did you bribe Slughorn?”

“That didn't cross my mind, actually.” You cheeked, and Remus clicked his tongue with a playful shake of his head. “Disappointed.”

Sirius laughed, holding your parchment a little higher. “You could have had him eating out of your hand with some chocolate frogs, you know.”

“Next time, I’ll be sure to bring him a whole box.” You shot back with a grin, finally managing to snatch your parchment back.

“Look at my little sister!” James piped up, pinching your cheeks. “I knew you had brains in there somewhere!”

“Sod off!” You huffed and he just laughed, letting you go.

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t help but smile at the actual cause of the O. As your brother and everyone began to get back to their idle chatter, you looked across the hall to the RavenClaw table, but you didn't see him. As your eyes drifted across the hall to the Slytherin table, you found your eyes trapped by a pair of stormy gray ones. Regulus Black simply nodded to you and looked down.

You wondered if he knew.

You pouted a bit before you looked back to the group. “I think I'll spend my free period at the library.”

“Awe, booo.” Peter called across the table.

“Come on, Bambi, don’t be a hermit!” James chimed in, trying to coax you back into the conversation. “You just got an Outstanding! Celebrate a little, you'll turn into my Evans!”

Lily gave a scoff.

“Yeah, you deserve a break.” Sirius added, leaning back in his chair with an exaggerated sigh. “How about we all go to Hogsmeade this weekend? A little fun to reward your hard work?”

You hesitated, torn between the prospect of hanging out with your friends and the nagging feeling that you wanted to see Barty again. “I would like to. But I really should review.”

“Come on, bambi!” Sirius pleaded, leaning forward with that infamous grin of his. “You can study later! Hogsmeade is a perfect way to unwind. Plus, we’re all going together. It’ll be fun!”

You bit your lip, glancing toward the Ravenclaw table again, half-hoping to see Barty’s unmistakable figure. He still wasn’t there. “I really should-”

“Should what?” James interjected, crossing his arms in an exaggerated manner. “Your grades won’t crumble if you take one break. Besides, you’ve been studying like a madwoman. You deserve a little fun. We haven't really hung out since you started this new study obsession.”

“Yeah! What’s the point of getting good marks if you can’t enjoy yourself?” Sirius chimed in.

You sighed, biting your cheek. While you loved your friends and cherished the time spent with them, the thought of Barty lingered in your mind. “I just think I can study more effectively if I focus on Potions right now.”

“Come on’, you can’t keep avoiding social interactions forever!” Sirius exclaimed dramatically. “You’ll turn into a hermit! Just imagine it: ‘Bambi, the hermit of Hogwarts’- it has a nice ring to it, actually.” He mumbled.

You giggled despite yourself, but the thought of Barty won over. “Sorry boys.”

“I think it's a good idea.” Lily hummed and you felt a bit guilty. Giving a firm nod and gathering your things and hurrying out of the hall before they could continue to protest.

The soft breeze from outside pushed back your hair a bit as you walked. The smell of the great hall flickered out and was soon replaced by the not entirely pleasant dampness of the dungeons. You weren't walking down the halls for long before you were suddenly yanked into a broom closet so fast you squealed.

Quickly a hand came over your mouth and you- like a normal person would- freaked out. Slamming your head back into the unseen attacker’s face. You heard a groan as he let go and spun around, only to stare at Barty with wide eyes. His hand covering his bruising nose and smiling at you.

“You scared the daylights out of me!” You scolded quickly, pushing away your embarrassment and annoyance with him- especially since he got such a strong reaction out of you. He just smiled and chuckled at you.

“Sorry, sorry.” He muttered. He had such a pretty smile, even when he was being an absolute moron. Oh, you owe Lily so many apologies. His hands slipped into his pockets as his shaggy hair fell a bit over his face.

“Just had to see you.” He whispered and you nodded.

“There are better what's to get a girl’s attention.” You muttered and he couldn't stop smiling at you. “Does it still hurt?”

You muttered softly and he nodded, leaning down a bit to your height. You smirked and raised your finger as if it was your wand. “‘tears be gone and magic be strong.” You whispered and he gave a low hum.

“You know…”

“Hm?”

“I'm not a kid anymore.” He chuckled and you flushed a bit, rolling your eyes.

“You could've had me fooled. What do you want me to do? Don't pull girls into a closet- no, don't pull anyone into broom closets.” You scolded and he just laughed, again, the most beautiful sound you'd heard all day.

“How about you kiss it better?” He pushed and you gave a snort.

“So you are a kid?”

“Come on.” He whined and gave you his best puppy dog eyes. “You hurt me, star.”

You held back a laugh, though the urge to playfully shove him away was strong. Instead, you gently cupped his face, watching his expression soften as you leaned in, pressing a quick, light kiss to his nose.

He closed his eyes, humming contentedly at the contact. “Again.” He murmured, barely opening his eyes.

“Needy.” You teased, but obliged, giving him another small kiss. He muttered the same request, and you rolled your eyes, leaning in to pepper his nose with a flurry of quick kisses, each one lighter and faster than the last.

But then, just as your last kiss hovered, he lifted his chin, guiding your lips to his. You gasped softly at the unexpected move, but he only pulled you closer, hands shifting from your hips to your waist, deepening the kiss. You couldn’t help but smile against his mouth, warmth flooding through you as you melted into him.

“Cheeky.” You murmured against his lips.

You felt the gentle rumble of his laughter as he held you tighter, closing every bit of space between you until it felt like you’d always belonged there, tangled in his arms, with nothing left between you but the sound of his heart beating against yours.

“Congratulations on potions.” He mumbled and he stepped a bit closer to you. Leaning down to press a soft kiss to your temple.

You giggled and slipped your hands up his arms, grabbing his biceps and your laughter getting louder as his kisses became a bit more sloppy and messy. From your temple to your cheek to your neck. Devolving you both into laughter and loving kisses.

“Barty?” You whispered and he kissed from where his lips we pressed to your ear.

“Mhm?”

“You should kiss my lips again.”

He paused and slowly his lips curled up into a smirk against your neck. “Anything you want, star.”

He slowly kissed a trail up your neck, to your chin, to you cheek. You were growing a bit impatient, but you couldn't bring yourself to be mad about it. It was slow and sweet. The opposite of him.

The anticipation built with each gentle kiss, and when Barty finally pressed his lips to yours, nothing else mattered. The kiss was everything you hoped it would be; soft, warm, and filled with all the excitement from the sneaking around you had been doing.

You both pulled back slightly, your foreheads resting against each other as you shared a quiet moment, the sound of your mingled laughter still lingering in the air. He was warm, he always was. Just quiet and content. "I've been wanting to do that for a while.” Barty admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

You smiled, feeling a warmth spread through you at his confession. "Me too."

After a moment of pause, Bart slipped his hands out of his pockets and around your waist. You slowly opened your eyes to see he was staring at you so obviously. So much affection and.. pain in his eyes. Carefully your reached up from his shoulders to tangle in his hair.

“Baby.” You cooed, watching as the black pupils of his eyes grew twice their size.

“I love when you call me that.” He whispered and kissed you again. This time, with a bit more hunger for it.

The intensity of the kiss took you by surprise, yet it felt natural, as if this was where you were always meant to be. Barty's arms tightened around you, pulling you closer, as if trying to erase any lingering distance between you. The world outside the broom closet faded away, leaving just the two of you in this perfect, private moment. His lips moved against yours with a fervor that mirrored the emotions you'd both been holding back for so long.

When you finally broke apart, both of you slightly breathless, Barty rested his forehead against yours again. "I need to know.” He whispered. “You're my girl, yeah?”

“Yours.” You confirmed without hesitation. “Your girl.”

Barty's eyes softened, and a relieved smile spread across his face, as if the weight of uncertainty had been lifted. You hadn't realized that for these past few weeks, despite all the flirting and stray touches, the meetings and secret rendezvous you'd never confirmed what felt so obvious to you.

"Good.” He murmured, brushing his thumb gently across your cheek. "Good.”

The two of you stood there, wrapped in each other's arms, savoring the stillness and the shared understanding that had only deepened. It was rare to find moments like these at Hogwarts, where every day was bustling with activity and noise, but here, in the quiet confines of the broom closet, you had carved out your own little haven.

"We should probably get back before they start wondering where we are.” You whispered reluctantly, knowing that duty and friendships couldn't be ignored forever. If Remus or anyone went looking in the library for you it was over, Merlin if they pulled out that map they loved to use on you so much you were done for.

Barty nodded, though he made no move to let you go just yet. "I suppose. But we’ll have more time together soon, right?"

"Definitely.” You assured him, smiling as you reluctantly stepped back, already anticipating the next secret meeting, the next shared glance across the crowded halls.

As you both emerged from the broom closet, the world seemed a little brighter, the halls a little more welcoming. And as you parted ways with a lingering look, you knew this was just the beginning of something wonderful.

~~~

You never thought Barty was capable of restraint- his affections for you were never a secret. He had been bold from the start, confessing his feelings on your first meeting as if it was the most natural thing in the world. You assumed he couldn’t hold back if he tried. But the truth was, you had underestimated him completely.

You were a Potter, you were no stranger to a love that burrowed into your heart like a bug. James was a prime example, but he had nothing on your father. You knew love like you knew the sunrise, Potters were love. That still didn't prepare you for the love of Barty Crouch Junior.

The moment you became ‘Barty’s girl,’ subtle gestures turned into grand, unrelenting declarations. Flowers appeared on your bedside in ornate bouquets, chocolates transformed into extravagant assortments, and he began slipping you old notes from his classes, annotated with messages he thought you’d enjoy. Sometimes, you’d find an anonymous love letter tucked between the pages of your books, though you always recognized his handwriting. It was a whirlwind of adoration that grew so excessive even your friends couldn’t ignore it.

The rumor spread quickly: you had a secret admirer. A very devoted one.

What started as stolen glances in the hallways and whispered words in broom closets evolved into something deeper. He became a constant, pulling you into hidden spaces where he’d kiss you like you were the only real thing in his world. His kisses were desperate, his hands always seeking some part of you to hold, as if he feared you might slip through his fingers.

Your world shrank to accommodate him. It was thrilling, yes, but also overwhelming. Each secret meeting was marked by a mix of exhilaration and dread that only lended to thrive in you, every touch, every breathless encounter behind closed doors, reminded you how deeply tangled you were becoming in each other. It was intoxicating and dangerous, like standing too close to a fire.

When he looked at you, it was like he was trying to memorize your every detail, like you were his only source of light.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” He murmured one night, his voice rough as he pressed his forehead against yours. His hands cupped your face, thumbs brushing the curve of your jaw as his eyes searched yours with raw intensity. “You’re everything I’ve ever wanted. I’d burn the whole world down if it meant keeping you.”

You shivered, his words igniting a heat in your chest. “Barty…”

His lips crashed against yours, swallowing the rest of your words. The kiss was frantic, a collision of need and longing, his fingers threading through your hair as he pulled you closer, like he couldn’t get enough of you. Your knees buckled slightly, but his arm wrapped around your waist, steadying you, grounding you.

“You’re mine,” He whispered against your lips, his voice low and fervent. “Say it.”

“I’m yours.” You breathed, the words spilling out before you could stop them. And it was true- somehow, he’d claimed parts of you you didn’t even know existed. You couldn't even fathom were your breath started and his ended.

He sought you out in the quiet moments, trailing his fingertips down your arm when no one was looking, writing your name in the margins of his notes when he thought you wouldn’t see. You began to realize that to him, you weren’t just a girl he fancied; you were his anchor, his sanctuary in a world that seemed determined to tear him apart. He was becoming yours too.

Your eyes searched for him in every room. The way he flashed you that sickeningly slick smirk when he caught you staring. How he would follow you out of any room you happened to share, just to steal you away from whatever task he deemed not more important then his time with you. Shushing you in empty corridors as his hands found a spot just above your skirt. Ruffling your tie in slight frustration and marking skin no one would see but him. All while looking at you like you were his last salvation.

~~~

The fire crackled in the hearth as you sat cross-legged on your bed, your Transfiguration book open in front of you. Lily sat at your desk, rifling through her notes, while Remus lounged on your bed, one arm thrown casually over the back of a pillow. The three of you had settled in for a relaxed study session, but conversation had drifted away from studies.

"So, are we ever going to find out who it is that's got you all flustered lately?" Remus asked with a teasing grin, nudging your ankle with his foot. Lily looked up from her notes, her eyebrows raising with interest.

"Oh, Remus, give her a break," Lily sighed with a small smile, though you could see the curiosity twinkling in her green eyes. "She’ll tell us when she’s ready."

You felt warmth rise to your cheeks, and you gave Remus a playful kick back. "You’re both ridiculous," you said, trying to keep your tone light. "There’s no one."

Remus rolled his eyes, his smile widening. "Sure, and I'm the Minister of Magic."

You shook your head, flipping open your Transfiguration book to avoid his gaze. "Fascinating. The Minister and all- and you can't even tell me which wand motion is the proper technique to transfigure my desk. Study don't pry into my very uninteresting love life."

"Uninteresting, huh?" Lily asked, her voice laced with skepticism. "I don’t know, those flowers you’ve been getting seem pretty interesting to me."

You opened your mouth to retort when something caught your eye; a folded piece of parchment, carefully tucked between the pages of your book. You furrowed your brow as you pulled it out, unfolding it to see the familiar slanted handwriting of Barty.

Meet me in my dorm. I’ve got something to show you.

Your heart skipped a beat, and you quickly folded the note, trying to suppress the smile threatening to spread across your face. You slipped the parchment under your pillow, feeling both Remus’ and Lily’s eyes on you.

"What’s that?" Remus asked, his smirk only growing.

"Nothing," you said quickly, giving them both a bright smile. "Just a reminder for myself."

Lily narrowed her eyes playfully, clearly not buying it, but she didn’t push. "Alright, fine," she said, glancing at the clock on your bedside table. "But I think I should be getting back to my own dorm soon. I promised James I'd meet him."

You nodded, swinging your legs off the bed. "Yeah, I should… um, I’ll be back in a bit."

Remus gave you a knowing look but didn’t say anything as you grabbed your robe and made your way towards the door, feeling the folded note burning against your skin. You slipped out of the room, trying to keep your excitement in check as you made your way through the castle.

Not long after you left, James appeared in the doorway, his hair as untidy as ever and a bright smile lighting up his face. "There you are, Evans," he said, striding into the room without knocking. "Ready to go?"

Lily stood, gathering her notes, but before she could respond, James’ eyes flickered to your bed, where the edge of the note you’d tucked under your pillow peeked out. His eyes narrowed slightly, and with the mischievous curiosity that had always been a part of him, he reached over and pulled it out.

"What’s this, then?" James asked, more to himself than anyone else.

Lily turned, her eyes widening as she caught sight of the note. "James, put that back. It's not yours."

But James had already unfolded it, his eyes scanning the words. His playful smile faltered slightly, his brow furrowing as he read the message. “... she's meeting someone. At night.”

Remus wasn't proud of himself, but he felt his body jolt forward at the idea. His brow furrowing as he looked at the handwriting.

“Surely not.” Lily muttered skeptical, walking closer and pouting. “James, whose handwriting is that?”

“Don't know.” He mumbled before he glanced at Remus who grimaced a bit. “I know how to find out.”

~~~

The sun had long since set, plunging the room into shadow. The lone candle on the nightstand burned low, its golden light flickering uncertainly across the walls, casting fleeting glimpses of the intimacy shared within. You lay beside Barty on his narrow bed, his body curled protectively around yours. His hand cradled your cheek, thumb tracing gentle lines as if memorizing your face. His other hand gripped your waist, not possessively but securely, as though grounding himself in the reality of your presence.

His green eyes, bright and intent, held yours with a tenderness so consuming it made your chest ache. The world outside seemed to vanish in this space- no war, no sides, no betrayals. Just the boy you loved, smiling softly at you like you were the only thing keeping him alive.

"What are you smiling about?" You teased, brushing your nose against his, your fingers weaving through the hair at the nape of his neck. He sighed at the touch, his eyes fluttering closed briefly before fixing on you again, filled with the kind of raw vulnerability he showed to no one else.

This was your Barty. The boy who could switch so drastically between needing every bit of your skin against his own, and loving you like you were a fragile truth.

"Just you." He murmured, his voice thick with affection, his smile deepening. "Thinking about how breath taking you look right now.."

Your heart swelled at his words, at the way he looked at you as if you were his last breath. You pressed your lips to his, slow and soft, letting the warmth of his embrace spread through you. His arms tightened around you, his desperation seeping through the way he held you close, as though he feared you might disappear.

But even in this fragile moment, reality intruded. Your lips trailed down his jaw, leaving a line of soft kisses along his neck. As your hand slipped beneath the sleeve of his shirt, your fingers brushed against something rough, foreign. You froze, your heart stuttering as your fingertips traced the unfamiliar texture.

"Barty, what’s this?" You asked, pulling back slightly, your brow furrowing as dread began to creep into your chest. “Did you get a new tattoo?”

His entire body went rigid. His eyes snapped open, the warmth in them replaced by something colder, darker. His hand shot to your wrist, gripping it with startling intensity, though his touch remained gentle. “It’s nothing.” He said- no, demanded quickly, but his voice cracked, and his gaze flickered away. The tension in his jaw, the way he avoided your eyes. It betrayed him.

He couldn't hide from you. Not after he'd given you every way to see him.

"Barty.” You pressed, your voice trembling now. "Show me."

For a long moment, he didn’t move, his jaw clenched so tightly you could see the faint twitch of muscle. His eyes darted to yours, filled with a fear so raw it sent a chill through you. Slowly, with trembling hands, he rolled up his sleeve.

The world seemed to stop.

Etched into his pale skin, dark and stark against the flickering candlelight, was the unmistakable mark of the Death Eaters. Your breath hitched, the air in the room turning ice cold as you stared at the symbol that now defined him. The room, once warm and safe, felt suffocating, as though the walls were closing in around you.

"No.” You whispered, shaking your head, your voice breaking as tears stung your eyes. "No, Barty, tell me this isn’t real. Tell me it’s a joke. Please."

He reached for you, his expression desperate, pleading. "It’s not what you think.” He whispered, his voice cracking under the weight of his own guilt. "Please, just listen- fuck, let me explain."

"Explain?" You choked, the word a bitter laugh as you scrambled to sit up, the sheets tangling around your legs. “You’re one of them, Barty. A Death Eater. The people who are trying to kill my brother, who would destroy Lily, who hate everything I stand for. How could you? How could you do this?”

He flinched as if you’d struck him, his hands trembling as he reached for you again. “I did it for them,” he said, his voice raw with emotion. “For Regulus. For Evan. They needed me- I had to protect them.”

Your laughter came out hollow, bitter. “Protect them? What about me, Barty? What about us? Did you think of me when you let that thing be branded onto your skin? Did you think about what it would mean? About the promises we made?”

“I love you.” He pleaded, his voice breaking on the words. His eyes, wide and glistening with unshed tears, bore into yours, his desperation bleeding through every syllable. “I love you more than anything in this world. I did this for us; for you. I thought I could keep you safe.”

You shook your head, your chest tight, every word he spoke only twisting the knife in your heart. “Safe? You think this is keeping me safe? Barty, you’ve tied yourself to the very people who want to destroy me, my family, my friends. Dorcas got out. She didn’t need to join them. She did it for Marlene! You had a choice, Barty. You could have chosen me.”

“Don’t do this.” He begged, his voice trembling as he sank to his knees in front of you, his hands clutching at yours. “Please, don’t leave me. I can’t lose you. I can’t- I won’t survive it. You’re all I have.”

His raw vulnerability shattered something in you, the way he looked at you like you were the only thing anchoring him to humanity. But even that couldn’t change the mark on his arm, the choices he had made. You tore your hands from his grasp, stepping back as tears streamed down your face.

“I can’t do this.” You whispered, wrapping your arms around yourself as if to hold yourself together. “I can’t be with someone who’s made that choice. Picking that side. Not when it means standing against everything I believe in. I love you, Barty, but this…” Your voice broke. “This isn’t love. Not when it costs so much.”

His face crumpled, his body trembling as he clung to the edge of the bed like it was the only thing holding him up. “You are my side,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’re everything to me. Without you, I’m nothing. Darling, please. You have to trust me.”

Your heart shattered at his words, but you couldn’t stay. You couldn’t let your love for him blind you to the truth of what he had become. Turning away, you moved toward the door, each step feeling like a physical wound.

“Please.” He whispered one last time, his voice so broken it nearly stopped you in your tracks. “Please don’t leave me. I’ll fix it. I'll fix us, darling, my love.”

You hesitated, your hand on the doorknob, tears blurring your vision. “I’m sorry, Barty,” you whispered, your voice trembling with grief. “But you’ve chosen a side. And it isn’t mine.”

With that, you stepped out of the room, the soft click of the door behind you sealing the final break between you. Each step down the hallway felt like walking through fire, the ache in your chest consuming you. You pressed a hand to your mouth to stifle a sob, the image of him- broken, desperate, lost- burned into your mind.

But you kept walking, because if you turned back, you knew you’d never leave. And that was the one thing you couldn’t allow.

Not when his love came with a price you could no longer bear to pay.

~~~

It was well past curfew when you stumbled back into the dormitory, your body heavy with exhaustion and your heart feeling as though it had been shattered into pieces too small to ever put back together. Every step echoed hollowly in the silent hallways, the sound swallowed by the crushing weight in your chest. You didn’t care about the risk of being caught; the only thing propelling you forward was the desperate need to collapse, to sink into the safety of your bed where the world couldn’t reach you.

But the sight that greeted you when you pushed open the door wasn’t the solitude you craved.

James stood with the Marauder's Map clutched tightly in his hand, his face flushed with a mix of anger and worry that twisted painfully at the sight of you. Sirius paced like a caged animal, his jaw tight, his dark eyes alight with barely restrained frustration. Remus sat perched on the edge of your bed, his brow furrowed with concern, while Lily lingered by the desk, her green eyes soft and filled with sympathy. Peter, as always, quiet. Hovering in the background.

"There you are!" James's voice rang out, sharp and filled with barely contained emotion. The sound made you flinch, drawing the attention of everyone in the room. He crossed the space between you in two quick strides, holding up the map like a damning piece of evidence. “You want to tell me what the hell you were doing in the Ravenclaw dorms? Or should I save you the trouble? I know who you were with.”

The accusation in his voice hit like a physical blow. You opened your mouth to respond, but no words came. The fight you would usually summon to deflect his concern- the sarcasm or sharp retorts; was gone. It had crumbled under the weight of the truth you could no longer avoid. Your shoulders slumped, the tears you had tried so desperately to hold back beginning to blur your vision.

“I don’t have to explain myself to you, James.” You muttered, though your voice was a faint shadow of its usual strength. It trembled, hollow and lifeless, like it no longer belonged to you.

James scoffed, his frustration boiling over. "Don’t have to explain? You’ve been sneaking around with him! Don’t you see what he is?” His voice cracked, the anger giving way to something far more fragile. "He’s one of them, isn’t he? A bloody Death Eater.”

His words were a knife twisting in your chest. You closed your eyes, letting out a shaky breath, your body trembling under the weight of his accusation. But you didn’t deny it. You couldn’t. Because James was right. He had been right all along.

"Say something!" Sirius’s voice cut through the silence, raw and desperate. He stepped closer, his fists clenched tightly at his sides, his pacing halted by his need for answers. His sharp gaze burned into you, searching for some explanation, some reassurance that you hadn’t fallen so deeply into something so dangerous. He couldn't bare to see you follow, not after losing Regulus to it. “Anything.”

Your lips parted, but the words caught in your throat. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, you whispered, “You were right.” The words came out broken, each one heavier than the last. “You were both right… about everything.”

The room fell into stunned silence, the weight of your admission pressing down on everyone. James’s expression crumbled, his anger dissolving into a mix of heartbreak and understanding. He moved toward you, his voice soft and filled with pain. “Oh, sweetheart…” He murmured, reaching for you.

That was all it took. The dam inside you broke, and a sob tore its way out of your chest. James pulled you into his arms, holding you tightly as your knees buckled beneath you. You clung to him, your sobs muffled against his robes, your whole body trembling.

“I thought he loved me.” You choked out, the words spilling from your lips in between gasps for breath. “I thought- he said he loved me. But he lied. He lied to me.”

James’s arms tightened around you, his own tears slipping silently down his face. “I know,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “I know, Bambi. I’m so sorry.”

Sirius stepped forward then, his anger replaced by an aching sadness. His hand rested on your back, tentative at first, before he let out a shaky breath. “We were only trying to protect you,” he murmured, his voice hoarse. “We didn’t want this for you. We didn’t want you to get hurt.”

Lily knelt beside you, her warm hand brushing against your arm as she looked up at you, her eyes filled with sympathy. “We’re here now,” she said gently. “You don’t have to go through this alone. We’ve got you.”

You turned to her, your tear-streaked face trembling as you met her gaze. “I don’t know what to do now,” you admitted, your voice small and broken.

Remus, silent until now, stepped closer and placed a hand on your shoulder. His touch was steady, grounding. “You take it one step at a time,” he said softly, his calm voice a lifeline. “Just breathe for me. Ten in, ten out. We’ll figure it out together.”

You nodded, trying to follow his guidance, your breaths still shaky but slowing little by little. The sobs subsided, leaving you with a hollow ache in your chest that felt impossibly heavy.

“Come on.” He whispered, his voice filled with a protective warmth. “Let’s get you into bed. You don’t have to think about anything else tonight.”

You nodded with a distant look, letting him coax you into your bed. You felt like a child.

“Jamie, let's head back to the dorms, yeah?” Lily said quietly, her eyes flicking to James, who stood near the foot of your bed, still looking worried.

“But..” James started, staring at your slightly trembling form, reluctant to leave you like this. He wanted to protect you, to make sure you were okay, but the look Remus gave him was enough to hold him back. Remus’s gaze was gentle but resolute, silently reassuring James that he would be here, that he’d stay by your side tonight.

James sighed, his reluctance clear, but he finally nodded. He glanced at Sirius, then back to Remus, letting out a slow breath. “Right. Let’s let her rest then?”

“Yeah,” Lily whispered, leaning down to press a soft kiss to the back of your head. She lingered for a moment, her hand still gently stroking your hair. “We’ll be back in the morning.”

Sirius looked like he was about to protest, his expression torn between wanting to stay and knowing he had to let you rest. But Remus quietly reached for the familiar book on your nightstand. He shuffled slightly, getting comfortable next to you. Remus turned his head to look at Sirius, offering a reassuring nod.

“I’ve got her,” he said softly, his voice calm and steady. It was enough to ease some of the tension in the room. Sirius hesitated for a moment longer, then gave a small, reluctant nod. He exchanged one last glance with James before following Lily towards the door.

James lingered just a heartbeat longer, his eyes softening as he looked at you. “Get some sleep, alright?” He whispered, his voice filled with love and concern. “We’ll be here when you wake up.”

“Goodnight, Bambi.” Peter mumbled from the same spot he stood earlier, slowly shying behind James as he left. And with that, they left the room, the door closing softly behind them. The silence settled back over the room, and Remus turned towards you, his presence a gentle reminder that you weren’t alone. He carefully opened the book, his fingers brushing over the worn pages.

His voice, quiet and soothing, filled the room as he began to read, his words wrapping around you like a comforting embrace. You turned slightly, facing Remus, his voice becoming a soft rhythm that helped to steady your breaths, one at a time. His free hand rested near yours, close enough that if you wanted, you could reach for it. He didn’t push. He simply stayed, his calm presence anchoring you. Eventually, as his gentle voice lulled you, the weight on your chest seemed to lighten just a fraction, and you let your eyes drift shut. For the first time that night, you allowed yourself to let go, to let the exhaustion take over. The sound of Remus’s voice, the warmth of his presence, made it feel just a little bit more bearable.

~~~

You woke the next morning to soft murmurs drifting through your dormitory. The sunlight filtered through the curtains, painting the walls in a gentle glow. For a moment, the warmth tricked you into thinking everything was fine. But then the memories of the night before came flooding back. Barty’s betrayal, the heartbreak, the fight- and the ache in your chest returned with full force.

You forced yourself to sit up, rubbing at your stinging eyes. Across the room, you saw Lily and Remus speaking quietly near the window. Lily noticed you first, her soft smile tinged with sadness. She crossed the room, settling beside you and placing a comforting hand on your arm.

“Morning.” She said gently, her voice careful, as though she were afraid you might shatter under the weight of it all. “How are you feeling?”

You swallowed, the lump in your throat making it hard to speak. “I don’t know,” Your voice was barely above a whisper. Your body felt heavy, like every muscle was pulling you back down into the mattress, but the weight wasn’t comforting- it was suffocating.

Remus moved closer, offering you a steaming cup of tea. “Take your time.” He mused, his gaze steady and kind. You accepted the cup with a small nod, letting the warmth seep into your hands even if it couldn’t reach your heart.

You hesitated before asking, “James?” The one person you were dreading facing.

Lily and Remus exchanged a glance. “He’s alright,” Lily said gently. “Probably caught up with Head Boy duties. He’s just worried about you.”

You nodded, guilt twisting in your chest. “I didn’t want to upset him…”

Lily squeezed your arm. “He loves you. He just needs time to process everything. He’ll come around.”

Remus gave you a soft smile. “How about some fresh air? It might help clear your head.”

Reluctantly, you agreed. Staying in bed wouldn’t make anything better, and maybe the cold air would numb more than just your fingers. You wrapped a robe around yourself and followed Remus and Lily out of the tower, their steady presence keeping you grounded as you moved through the quiet castle halls. Each step felt like a small victory against the chaos inside your heart.

Just as you began to feel the chill of the air prickling your skin, a familiar voice shouting down the hall made your blood run cold. The words were indistinct, but the rage behind them was unmistakable. Your heart leapt into your throat, and you quickened your pace, your pulse pounding.

When you turned the corner, the scene stopped you in your tracks. James had Barty pinned against the wall, his fist gripping the collar of Barty’s shirt. His face was twisted in fury, his voice shaking as he snarled at him. A small crowd of students had gathered, whispering and watching the spectacle unfold.

“You think you can just hurt her?” James spat, slamming Barty against the stone wall. “You think there wouldn’t be consequences?”

Barty didn’t fight back. He stood there, taking every shove, his face pale and hollow, but his eyes- his eyes betrayed him. They weren’t empty; they were frantic, burning with guilt, fear, and something that terrified you when they flicked to your own. He didn’t even seem to register James’s words. His entire focus was on you, standing frozen in the hallway.

Sirius leaned casually against the wall nearby, a cigarette dangling from his lips, though his sharp eyes were anything but relaxed. “Go on, Prongs,” he muttered, exhaling a plume of smoke. “Give him hell.”

Your voice cracked as you shoved through the onlookers. “James, stop!” You shouted, panic lacing your words. But James didn’t hear you, his rage blinding him as he shoved Barty again, his voice trembling with emotion.

“You don’t get to treat her like that, to use her, and walk away like nothing happened!” James’s fist cocked back, and you screamed again, louder this time. “James!”

Sirius turned, startled by the desperation in your voice. He immediately straightened, stepping toward James. “Mate,” Sirius hissed, grabbing James’s shoulder. “She’s here.”

James froze, his chest heaving as he turned to look at you. His face softened the instant he saw the tears streaking your cheeks, but the tension in his body didn’t fade entirely. He let go of Barty’s shirt with a sharp shove, his hands falling to his sides.

Barty stumbled back, his hand reaching up to rub his neck, but his eyes were locked on you. His voice was hoarse and trembling when he finally spoke. “Please…” His gaze was raw, desperate. “Please, just talk to me.”

You froze, the pain in his eyes tugging at something in your chest even as you recoiled from him. “I don’t want to-”

“She doesn’t need to,” Remus’s voice cut in, low but firm as he stepped in front of you. He placed a steady hand on your arm, keeping you rooted beside him. “That's all, Crouch.”

Barty flinched at the tone in Remus’s voice, but he didn’t look away from you. “I just need a moment,” he pleaded, his voice cracking. “Just one chance to explain- she has to know that I didn’t mean-”

“Bartemius.” Remus said sharply, though his tone never rose. His calmness was like a dam, holding back the chaos in the room. He stepped forward slightly, his hand still on your arm. “That's all.”

Barty’s shoulders sagged, his face crumpling as he looked at you one last time. “I love you.” He whispered, his voice so broken it sent a chill down your spine. “You have to know that.”

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. Remus gently tugged you closer to him, shielding you from Barty’s gaze. “Come on,” he murmured softly. “Let’s go.”

As Lily took your other side, guiding you down the hallway, you could feel Barty’s eyes following you, like he was clinging to the sight of you as his last lifeline. Behind you, Sirius muttered something sharp under his breath before stomping out his cigarette and following James, who stood frozen, his jaw tight as he stared after you.

You felt like a pathetic child. Being ushered around and babied, but you didn't fight it. You wanted this nightmare of a year to be over.

So when Regulus and Evan finally came, and the Black brothers shared some hateful words- and Lily dragged James away from the impending fight, you stayed hidden under Remus’s arm. The yelling and the arguments just sounded like buzzing in your ears. Leaving you to stare blankly off at the mess you had created. Watching as Evan took Barty away and Regulus glanced at you with an expression that flashed between sour, sympathetic, and careful. Turning on his heel to hurry after his friends. You wanted this year to end.

~~~

The rest of your sixth year at Hogwarts passed in a haze. After the confrontation between James and Barty, you felt like you were living in fragments- moments of warmth with your friends interrupted by long, suffocating stretches of numbness. James, Sirius, Remus, Lily, and Peter had rallied around you, protective and supportive, but the pain lingered. Barty’s betrayal, his mark, the weight of his choices. It all clung to you, no matter how hard you tried to shake it.

The school year ended with bittersweet farewells. James and everyone graduated, leaving behind an emptiness that Hogwarts couldn’t fill. On the train ride home, James gave you a fierce hug, his voice low but steady. “You’re going to be okay.” He whispered, as if saying it enough times would make it true. “We’ll all be okay.” His determination was a promise: he would fight, protect, and do whatever it took to keep you and the people he loved safe. It terrified how how devoted to the war he became, he hated to leave you at Hogwarts alone.

But the summer brought its own heartbreak. James and Lily joined the Order of the Phoenix, Sirius, Peter, and Remus close behind- throwing themselves into the war. The house was too quiet without James’s booming laugh or Sirius’s teasing remarks. Letters from James came sporadically, and the tension in his words bled through the parchment.

Then, not long after James and Lily’s wedding, your world shattered. Your parents got sick and you hardly left their bed side. They died days apart and you wondered if that's what it looks like; real love. Not able to be apart for even a week before returning to one another no matter what disaster they left behind. Though, you knew it wasn't true, just your own comfort. James, crushed under the weight of his grief, threw himself further into the Order. You rarely saw him. Remus kept you company as best he could, but even he had missions that pulled him away. Sirius made sure to remind you that James just wanted to protect what little family he had left, it killed you to not be there with them. The isolation was unbearable, every goodbye feeling like it could be the last. The ache of losing your family was only worsened by the fear that the rest of the people you loved would follow.

When you returned for your seventh year, Hogwarts felt hollow, almost unfamiliar without James, Sirius, or the others. But Dorcas Meadowes was there, refusing to leave you to fend for yourself. She became your constant companion, the person you leaned on most. The two of you forged a quiet understanding- she never pushed you to talk about Barty, and you never asked about the darkness she’d left behind. Dorcas was the girl who had escaped the worst parts of her legacy, a beacon of strength and resilience that kept you grounded.

Still, no matter how far you tried to distance yourself from Barty, he remained a presence in your life. Letters appeared on your bed, scribbled with frantic apologies. Flowers were left outside your dormitory door, wilting reminders of his desperation. He cornered you in empty corridors, his green eyes burning with longing as he begged you to listen.

“I love you,” He whispered one evening, his voice breaking as he blocked your path outside the library. “I’ve always loved you- since we were kids. You have to know that. What I did- it wasn’t about hurting you. I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought…” He trailed off, his hands trembling at his sides. “I need you, star. I can’t do this without you.”

You clenched your fists, your chest tightening at the raw emotion in his voice. His words always left a mark, reopening wounds you were desperately trying to heal. “Barty.” You whispered quietly, your voice shaking. “You need to let me go. This… this isn’t love. Not when it hurts this much.”

He flinched as though you’d slapped him, his eyes filling with tears. “It is love,” He insisted, stepping closer. His voice dropped to a whisper. “I’ve never felt this before- it's terrifying. I haven't been in this much pain before. I’d give you anything- everything- if you just came back to me. Star I can't do this.”

You shook your head, your breath hitching. “That’s not what I want. I don't like feeling like this either, Barty. I wanted you, Barty. But you made your choice. Your cause- what they have done to my family alone-”

Despite your protests, the line between you blurred one night near the end of the school year. He found you in the Astronomy Tower, the only place you could escape responsibility. The sight of him made your heart ache. He looked so much like the boy you had fallen for; tousled hair, eyes filled with a longing so fierce it made your knees weak. And for a moment, you forgot yourself.

“I hate what I’ve done to you,” He confessed, stepping closer until there was barely any space between you. “I hate that I’ve hurt you. But I can’t stop loving you.”

The vulnerability in his voice cracked something inside you, and before you could stop yourself, your lips met his. The kiss was frantic, desperate. His hands cradled your face as though you were something sacred, something he couldn’t bear to lose. For a fleeting moment, you let yourself drown in him, in the memory of what you once had.

But as quickly as it began, reality crashed over you. You pulled away, your breathing uneven as tears blurred your vision. “We can’t.” You whispered, stepping back. “This isn’t right.”

Barty reached for you, his voice trembling. “Please, don’t do this. Don’t walk away again. I’ll change- I’ll leave everything behind if that’s what it takes. Just… don’t leave me.”

The sincerity in his words nearly broke you, but you forced yourself to meet his gaze. “If you loved me, you would’ve chosen me before it came to this,” you said, your voice steady despite the tears streaming down your face. “But it’s too late, Barty. You can’t undo what’s been done. We both.. we both know if it came to me or Regulus- me or Evan.”

“That's not fair.” He croaked.

Your eyes flicked up to his as your tears rushed down your face. “It isn't.”

His shoulders slumped, the light in his eyes dimming as your words sank in. For the first time, he seemed to realize that no amount of pleading or promises would bring you back to him. “I’ll always love you.” whispered, his voice hollow.

You turned away, your heart shattering as you walked down the spiral staircase, leaving him alone in the tower. You didn’t look back. You couldn’t. You knew if you did, you’d lose your resolve.

When the train pulled into King’s Cross at the end of the year, you were greeted by the sight of your brother and his friends waiting for you. James’s grin was wide as he swept you into a bear hug, and for the first time in months, you felt like you could breathe again. Sirius ruffled your hair, Remus gave you a reassuring smile, and Lily’s arm wrapped protectively around your shoulders.

Even as you smiled, as you let yourself feel the warmth of their love and support, a part of you still ached. A part of you still thought of the boy you had left behind. But as the summer sun warmed your face and James’s laughter rang in your ears, you realized that some chapters had to end, no matter how much they hurt.

~~~

The kitchen was warm, filled with the comforting smell of breakfast and the sound of soft laughter. Lily twirled Harry in her arms, humming along to the radio as James danced beside them, making ridiculous faces to elicit another bright giggle from his son. Harry’s laughter rang out like a bell, pure and joyful, filling the room with a happiness so genuine it felt almost untouchable.

June 24, 1981. The day meant nothing and yet everything, because for a fleeting moment, life felt like it was untouched by war. Even without Peter, the Potter manor felt like home again.

Sirius leaned against the counter, a mischievous grin lighting his face as he watched James spin Harry dramatically before dipping him like a proper ballroom partner. “Fancy a dance, Bambi?” Sirius asked, holding out a hand to you with an exaggerated flourish.

You couldn’t help but laugh, the sound bubbling up before you could stop it. “Only if you promise not to step on my feet, Black.” You placed your hand in his, letting him pull you into the center of the kitchen. The music was upbeat, and Sirius matched it with absurdly exaggerated movements, twirling you around with flair that made you laugh so hard you had to clutch his shoulder for balance.

Sirius finally let out a mock sigh, fanning himself. “Too much for me, little Potter.” He joked, stepping aside. “Your turn, Moony. Show her how a real gentleman dances.”

Remus chuckled softly, stepping forward with a shake of his head. He took your hand with a gentleness that made your heart ache, pulling you into a slower, steadier rhythm despite the lively tune still playing on the radio. Even with his weight pressed heavy on his crutch, and your movements small and slow, it still felt all the same. His gaze lingered on yours, his hazel eyes soft and filled with something you couldn’t quite name.

"You deserve this.” He muttered quietly, just loud enough for you to hear. “To smile like this every day.”

The warmth of his words filled your chest, but it was bittersweet, a reminder of all the times you hadn’t felt this light. You swallowed the lump in your throat, forcing a small smile. “You do too, Remus.”

He returned the smile, spinning you one last time before James swept in with dramatic flair, lifting you off the ground. “One more dance before breakfast!” He announced, making you laugh despite yourself. “No sad faces allowed today. We’re celebrating.”

It was perfect- the kind of moment you could tuck away and hold onto when the world outside felt unbearable. Lily danced with Harry in her arms, Sirius joined in with exaggerated moves, and the room filled with the kind of happiness you hadn’t felt in so long. For a brief, fragile moment, it was enough.

But then the music stopped.

The radio cut out abruptly, replaced by the somber voice of a news broadcaster. “We interrupt this broadcast to bring you an urgent update on the latest casualties in the ongoing conflict. The names of those lost in the recent skirmish include…”

The warmth of the room vanished, the light dimming as everyone froze. James set you down gently, his expression hardening as he turned toward the radio. Lily instinctively clutched Harry closer, her face pale. Sirius’s grin disappeared entirely, his hand hovering near the dial as though he could will the news away.

The list of names continued, some familiar, most not. Each one was a reminder of the growing cost of the war, of the lives slipping away like grains of sand.

And then you heard it.

“...Evan Rosier, Bartemius Crouch Junior…”

The words echoed in your ears, louder than anything else. The world seemed to stop. You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, as the name repeated in your mind, over and over. Barty.

The boy who had loved you so fiercely, who had been so lost, so desperate to make you stay. He was gone. Evan too, another name tethered to your past, but it was Barty’s that struck you like a knife to the chest.

At first, you laughed. You could of sworn James looked at you like you had lost it; you wouldn't blame him. It was ridiculous. The boy you knew, the magnetic and ethereal wizard who you gave your all too couldn't possibly be dead. He was your age. He was a kid. You had both just graduated- what in Merlin's name could they possibly be on about?

Your laughter slowly died down into a choked gasp and a sniffle, your body stiff. You closed your eyes tight and tried to stifle your sobs. “No…” Your knees buckled, and James caught you instantly, his arm tightening around your shoulders. Sirius reached out, shutting off the radio with a harsh click, the silence that followed deafening.

“He…” Your voice cracked, trembling as you forced the words out. “He’s really gone?”

Remus stepped closer, his expression pained. He placed a hand on your shoulder, steady and comforting. “Yes,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

Lily’s eyes shimmered with unshed tears as she rocked Harry gently, trying to keep him calm. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered, her voice breaking. The sound of her grief only deepened the ache in your chest.

James pressed his nose to your temple, his hand cradling the back of your head. “I’m sorry, Bambi,” He murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “I’m so sorry.”

The tears came before you could stop them, spilling freely as your body trembled. You clung to James like he was the only thing keeping you grounded, your sobs muffled against his shoulder. The memories of Barty overwhelmed you; the way he’d looked at you, like you were his everything; the way he’d held you, as though letting go would destroy him. The thought that you would never see him again, never hear his voice or feel his touch, crushed you.

“I thought I was over him.” You whispered through your tears, your voice trembling. “I swore I was. But now…”

Sirius moved closer, his arm wrapping around you and James. “You don’t have to say anything,” he murmured, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “We’ve got you.”

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. Your throat felt too tight, the lump of grief choking you. You lifted your head to look around the room, at the faces of the people who had been your family for so long. They were blurry through your tears, but their love was palpable, a steady anchor in the storm of your emotions.

Still, the ache remained, deep and unrelenting. Because no matter how much you tried to convince yourself that you had moved on, a part of you would always carry Barty. His loss wasn’t just his death; it was the loss of what could have been, the love that might have saved him if only things had been different. If only he chose it. Because you and Barty were a Hogwarts fling, everyone knows they don't last forever. But even if it crashed in a blazing glory, even if you both turned bitter, if the break up destroyed you. You'd rather feel that.

The kitchen felt colder now, the warmth of the morning replaced by the sobering weight of reality. And yet, as James held you tightly, as Sirius and Remus stayed close, as Lily hummed softly to soothe Harry, you knew you weren’t alone. Even in the face of heartbreak, you were still surrounded by love. And somehow, you would find a way to carry on.

~~~ Bonus Scene~~~

The house was suffocating in its silence.

Your childhood home, once filled with laughter and the chaotic warmth of your family, now seemed cold and lifeless. James and Lily were busy with their own lives, preparing for the future that everyone whispered about in cautious tones, and Sirius had left for good reason you couldn’t fault him for. You were alone, and the empty hallways of the Potter Manor only amplified the echo of your own thoughts.

It had been days since you’d learned the news of what befell Barty.

After the shock ran over you it took days of Remus coaxing to get you out of bed. Then days to be able to face a mirror. Everyone was supportive, helpful, but you felt just as pathetic as you did in school.

The ache in your chest felt heavier tonight as you climbed the stairs to your old room. The moonlight filtered through the windows, casting long, pale shadows across the walls. You reached your room and pushed the door open, slipping inside and locking it with a flick of your wand. It was habit more than anything; no one else was here.

You set your wand on the bedside table and turned toward the window, intent on shutting the heavy curtains, when a hand clamped over your mouth.

Panic erupted within you, and instinct took hold. Without thinking, you threw your head back as hard as you could, the satisfying crack of impact reverberating through your skull. A sharp, pained grunt followed, and the grip on you loosened.

Spinning around, your heart hammering in your chest, you braced for a fight- only to come face to face with the last person you’d expected to see.

“Bloody hell, star,” Barty groaned, one hand pressed to his nose as he leaned against the wall for support. Blood trickled between his fingers, but his lips still curled into that maddeningly familiar smirk. “That’s twice you’ve done that. Are you always this violent, or am I special?”

The air left your lungs, your body frozen in place. “No.” You whispered, shaking your head as if the motion could erase what you were seeing. “No. You’re- You’re supposed to be dead.”

Barty let out a low chuckle, straightening up and swiping at the blood on his face. “I think.. we should talk.”

563 notes · View notes