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starstruckkittensweets · 1 year ago

Text

chapter one

Fandom: My Hero Academia Pairing: Dabi x Reader Words: 6.2k

A/N: The first chapter of my lil Dabi passion project. Partially inspired by "Haunting Adeline" (awesome book but PLEASE heed the warnings in it). The full list of warnings is included in the main masterlist, but individual ones will be posted at the beginning of each chapter. Also this is my first time writing from both Reader and Dabi's perspective, so I hope it's not too bad. I hope you enjoy!

Warnings: 18+ only (minors DNI), explicit language, mentions of arson, mentions of violence, stalking, breaking and entering, working in retail (I'm sorry), Reader lives in a cute lil house in the middle of the woods, Reader also has 3 plushies (that all have names, because I'm a dork)

"Kerosene and Butterflies" Masterlist

It’s raining again, for the fourth day in a row. Barely any light to work with at the little workspace you’ve made for yourself at the kitchen table. So instead you rest your hands on your arms, watching the rain patter against the window panes. Pen and paper pushed away and left forgotten on the surface.

Rain always makes you feel nice. Not happy or sad, just nice. Gives you something to look at, the sound mindless enough to put you at ease. Soft and warm, more often than not lulling you to sleep with its voice. It’s hard to explain, but it seems to make sense in your mind.

Your phone lights up on the table with a text. It’s your mother again, sending her weekly check-in text. Even though you’re perfectly capable of taking care of yourself and living on your own. But it’s more for her than you; you think it helps her cope with one of her kids living abroad, so far out of her reach.

Well, that’s what enticed you about this house in the first place, but you’ll never tell her that.

With a yawn you grab your phone and send a quick reply. Yes you’re okay, you’re getting enough sleep, you miss her home cooked meals. Call her tomorrow, put her mind at ease. Buy another few days of freedom before the cycle inevitably repeats itself.

When you finish and place your phone back down, you give the paper and pen one last look. Maybe you could try one more time, see if anything comes to mind?

Your chest deflates at the thought. No, the spark is long gone. Try again a different day, get some sleep for now. You need it.

You can almost hear it laughing at you, the uncapped pen lying dangerously close to its blank skin. You’ve been hearing it for the last hour or so, wracking your brain to come up with something, anything. Words, ideas, or even bullet points you can just jot down in your chicken scratch handwriting. Just a sliver of something to get those creative juices flowing.

But your eyelids are already drooping, the rainy weather not helping you one bit. Your brain feels like it’s all dried up, giving you a never-ending headache. Telling you that you’ve already reached your peak; that nothing else you make will ever come close to how you want it to come out.

Oh well. Tomorrow’s another day, right?

But you know damn well you’ll be back to square one tomorrow night, when you get home from work. Staring at that blank page with your head in your hands, praying for the words to come. For the inspiration to strike—to make you feel anything other than this.

At least the paper’s still good, maybe you can use it for a shopping list later in the week. That way it’ll get some good use out of it.

Your job isn’t exactly the flashiest; definitely not what you envisioned yourself doing at twenty-four years old. Working at a dead-end department store in the shady part of town, along with four or five other people—and none of them are close to you in age. But it keeps the bills paid and food in your fridge, so you guess it’s not as bad as it could be. You could do without the annoying entitled customers, though.

At least your shift stretches into the latter half of the day, meaning you only have to deal with them for about four hours, five tops if you end up taking your lunch break late. Then the store closes, the customers are ushered out, and you spend the rest of your time stocking the shelves and getting ready for the next busy day.

Most nights the store’s already empty, with only a handful of customers roaming the aisles. That gives you some extra time to start stocking; you prefer putting stuff back on the shelves rather than ringing on register anyways. Register gets boring and repetitive fast, but working on the floor always gives you something new to do.

“Excuse me, where can I find the laundry detergent?”

“Down the next aisle and to your left, all the way down at number twenty-four.”

“Where’s the soup and all the instant meals?”

“Right over here actually, on the middle shelf.”

“You have any beer?”

“Last aisle down, all the way to the end. You’ll see the freezer straight ahead.”

Every interaction gives you a rush of excitement, as sad as it sounds. In all honesty, your job isn’t the complete worst. Most customers are fine and even pleasant to deal with, and it always makes you feel good when you’re able to help them find something on their lists. Besides, it tests your knowledge of the store, almost like a matching game; after three years of working in the same place, you pretty much know it like the back of your hand.

Tonight seems like one of those lazy nights, with only a couple customers roaming through the aisles, the lone cashier at the registers looking like he’s about to fall asleep. You’re sorting through the grocery bin at the front (either what customers decided they didn’t want, or items found randomly throughout the store). There’s quite a bit today, must’ve been pretty busy earlier in the day.

It doesn’t take long to put the shelf-ready stuff into a cart and trek down to the grocery section. Most of it is candy anyways, which is in the first couple aisles. One item after another, until you start to see the bottom of the cart.

You step back from the shelf, a handful of candy bars clenched between your fingers, when your back suddenly collides into something—or someone, judging by the grunt they let out.

“Sorry! I didn’t mean that, I should really watch where I’m going, I’m really sorry about that—”

The words die right there on your tongue as you glance up at the person. You can barely see his face behind the dark mask over his mouth and his hood pulled over his hair. But something catches your eye—something dark and heavy beneath his eyes.

He’s got some serious bags under his eyes, poor guy must be working himself to death. Must be a college student, you know how it feels.

Wait a minute…bags?

Your head begins to buzz. You don’t think you’ve ever seen bags bad enough to leave the skin so…wrinkled. Almost like they’re—

But he’s already walking away, his hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie. Head hanging low and shoulders tense as he disappears down the next aisle.

It’s not until another customer asks you where the hand soap is, that you remember to blink—and breathe. It takes a bit of effort, but you manage to give them the right aisle across the store. But then you’re staring off into space once more, thinking about the strange person in the black hoodie and mask.

Dark patches under his eyes… Could it really be…?

No way, stop thinking like that. You know where your mind is going, don’t you dare entertain the thought.

You shake your head. You’re being ridiculous. It’s getting late, anyway. You didn’t get that much sleep last night to begin with, it’s early to bed when you get home later tonight.

You file the last of the candy in its proper home on the shelf before heading down the main path towards the registers. Pet food, paper goods, detergent, body wash… A couple aisles here and there for every department. You should check and see if there’s any chemicals up front that need to go back on the shelf. Probably the easiest department for you to handle, other than food and appliances—

Your jaw drops when you turn the corner and come face-to-face with the dark stranger from earlier. Staring down at you with those dark eyes—no, the patches are dark, his eyes are actually quite bright, and oh my fucking God they’re blue—

There’s something sticking out of his pocket—the red and white label of a box of Band-Aids. And that’s not the only thing in there, judging by the awkward bulges and pointy corners. Maybe some extra medicine or painkillers.

You glance back up at him. Neither of you make any move to leave.

“…I won’t tell if you won’t.”

The words are out of your mouth before you can stop them. All you can think about is how this little corner of the store lacks any functioning security cameras, and how it’s probably only a few dollars, it won’t necessarily put the store out of business if he gets away with it. Just this one time. No one has to know, except the two of you.

He’s glaring now, probably curling his lip at you from behind the mask. You swallow the growing lump in your throat, your heart throbbing furiously against your ribcage.

“Can…I get you anything else?”

“Fuck off.”

He shoves his way past you, shoulder nearly knocking you on your ass. Your throat runs dry as his words echo in your ears, his voice sending chills down your spine.

You know him, but from where? You know his voice, his looks—but why can’t you remember him?

You glance over your shoulder but he’s already gone, most likely heading towards the exit. Not like you’re gonna stop him.

Still, you can’t get your little encounter out of your mind, even as you try to busy yourself with your work. Not even ten minutes pass by before you grab another box of bandages and a bottle of rubbing alcohol, mumbling to your coworker, “Store use, I’ll claim it out when I get back,” all the while feigning injury as you cradle your wrist against your chest (where a small pack of cotton balls is pressed between your fingers).

The back of the store leads out to the dumpsters in the back alley. A prime spot for smoke breaks, despite smelling like absolute crap. Chalk marks and spray paint decorating the walls, trash bags spilling out of the dumpsters in the corner. You clutch the supplies to your chest, head swinging wildly in search of the stranger.

But there’s no one out there. He’s gone for good this time—and for some reason, you can’t explain the sudden ache in your chest.

You don’t know what makes you leave the bandages and alcohol in the corner of the alley, hidden by the shadow of the dumpsters. Or why there’s a pang in the pit of your stomach, as you remember how bright his blue eyes looked.

Here’s a tip for any aspiring writers out there: get comfortable with constantly going on the internet. Whether it’s looking for an obscure random fact about Victorian houses in the 1800s or learning just how long it takes to recover from a bullet wound in the shoulder, search engines like Google will become your best friend. It won’t always provide the most accurate information, but it’s a start to get the ball rolling.

But this particular search doesn’t stem from a story in your drafts; all you can see are those mysterious blue eyes from the store, and the dark wrinkled patches beneath them.

It doesn’t take long at all to find your answer: a thread of articles and blurry photos of the infamous League of Villains—the same ones that have been terrorizing the country for the past year or so. Casualties, crimes, and even past victims. Every word brings another wave of goosebumps, but you can’t tear your eyes away.

Of course. That’s where you knew him from. Makes sense now.

There’s a handful of people in the photos, each one more terrifying than the last. A young girl with a feral smile, associated with a string of murders involving severe blood loss. A man capable of decaying anything with just a brush of his fingers. And the same stranger you saw in the store, known for over thirty murders and thousands in property damage, all thanks to those dangerous blue flames.

You slam the laptop shut and suppress a shiver. What were you thinking? Acting so casual with a villain—you knew you recognized those eyes somewhere—and oh my God, were you really going to try to meet him outside at the back?

And for what? Some bandages that he’d clearly already stolen? Hell, you’d let him walk away even when you knew he was planning on stealing them!

Hopefully your boss never finds out about that.

You glance out the window of your living room, pulling the lapels of your jacket closer to your chest. The door’s locked, the windows are latched, and the curtains are closed. Nothing out there but the trees and the moon and the gentle rainfall.

Calm down. Why would he come after you? You didn’t do anything to piss him off, did you? So what makes you think he’d try to figure out where you lived? What would he have to gain from that?

Still, you triple check the lock on the door, before moving backwards towards your bedroom. Also clicking the lock into place once you’re safe inside.

A villain. You can’t believe you came across an actual villain.

Villains were a common presence even back home, and you knew before moving abroad there was a possibility you could encounter some of them. But they always kept to the shadows, staying out of the spotlight for as long as they could. Only showing up in cities far away from your own. You’ve never come face to face with one of them, never been so fucking close to one of them before—

You crawl into bed and throw the covers over your head. Trying to focus on the pitter patter of the rain against the windows.

But you can’t get those images out of your mind. No matter how hard you squeeze your eyes shut, or bury your face into the pillow, you can still see his face. Those horrid wrinkled patches beneath his eyes. The same shade of blue as the flames from his palms. The way he looked at you as though you were nothing but a smear of dirt on the bottom of his boot.

He could’ve burned you right then and there.

You don’t fall asleep easily that night.

Despite your paranoia, the next few days go by without any issue. Work, errands, go back home. Your life continues just as it did before you met that crazy villain—and knowing that, you can breathe a little easier when you rest your head on your pillow for the night.

The little pile of medicine and supplies you’d left in the back alley had disappeared the next morning. Someone else had probably picked them up, who could say no to free medical supplies? There’s a slim chance that villain came back and took them for himself.

You know it’s a long shot. And yet there’s still some part of you that clings to it, wondering if he’s still sticking around this part of town.

Come on, what’s wrong with you? Are you really that eager to put your life in danger like that?

The rational part of your brain says no. But there’s another part, a much more vocal part of your brain, that can’t stop thinking about your little encounter. And what you would’ve done if he’d been in that alley that night.

Probably cry your eyes out. Then get killed like the dumbass you are.

Still, no matter what you do or what you try to focus on instead, he keeps coming back to your mind. And you find yourself visiting those damn websites, those stupid forums night after night when you get home from work, speculating just who he might be beneath those painful scars and bright blue flames.

What kind of life did he lead before joining the League? Does he have any regrets about becoming a villain? Does he actually enjoy being on the run like this?

It’s only when you’re lying wide awake in bed at close to two in the morning, still worn out from a long day at work that the more innocent questions start to plague your mind:

What’s his favorite color? Is it blue, or does he actually hate it? When is his birthday? Does he have any friends, either before he became a villain, or anyone in the League? You wonder, what’s his real name?

“Why am I even thinking about this? Not like I’m ever gonna see him again…” And you should be grateful for that.

But there’s still an ache in your chest, an awkward swirl in your stomach, every time you remind yourself of that simple little fact. And you don’t really know what to make of it.

Another hour passes before you push yourself out of bed and right to your desk in the corner. Grabbing one of the little notebooks you’d bought for story notes and ideas, but haven’t really touched in the last few months. Sliding into the seat with a sigh and clicking open one of the many black pens from the drawer at your side. Flicking on the small desk lamp and squinting against the sudden brightness.

It’s not uncommon for the inspiration to hit at ungodly hours of the morning. Honestly, you do your best writing between midnight and six a.m.; the only drawback is being unable to stay awake at work the next day. But at least you have some damn good writing to show for it.

But that hasn’t happened for months now. Not since you moved and started working nights. Now you have to hit the hay almost as soon as you come home, if you want any chance of a normal sleep schedule.

The pen moves on its own. Every breath brings another word on the page. Ink starts to smudge the side of your hand.

They appear in front of you: all the questions circling around in your mind, begging to be answered. The honest, the childish, even questions you think of on the spot. Anything and everything you would ask him if you were ever given the chance.

What are you doing? You should be in bed trying to sleep. Not doing…whatever this is.

You swallow hard as a single word appears before you: Dabi.

And immediately you start to shiver, your cheeks growing warm beneath the scathing looks of the ink and pages.

You’ve always had a strange complex when it comes to writing out people’s names. They’re much easier to speak out in your mind, or even say verbally. But once you write them out, it becomes almost final. It’s different to actually see those letters right in front of you, rather than just imagining them in your mind. Guess it makes everything seem so much more real that way.

It’s stupid, so fucking stupid.

But you don’t stop, even when your hand begins to cramp. Because this is the first time in almost half a year that you’re actually letting your pen guide you. The first time you truly feel at ease, not even caring about what you’ve written, or even stopping yourself to edit it.

What’s it called, word vomit? It’s therapeutic, but incredibly hard to do sometimes.

It’s not until the sun rises a couple hours later, and you’re half-asleep at your desk. Your arms curled beneath your head, the muscles in your hand throbbing like crazy. But then you see all those words you’ve written, all that ink staining those pristine white pages…

And you can’t help but smile as you drift off to sleep.

The air is stale with the scent of smoke and ash. The city always smells like shit, but it’s usually better on the outskirts. But the burning pile of flesh at the end of the alley begs to differ, and his hands still ache as blue flames lick at his palms.

Another shitty night coming to an end, thank fuck.

Dabi’s been in this damn city for the better part of two weeks now, boss’s orders unfortunately. Scouting for any possible members, new blood they could add to their ranks. But every group is the same; they’re either loud-mouthed fucks with more muscle in their arms than their own damn heads, or they’re practically children, fresh out of school and all set on playing hero. Still thinking this is a fucking game, and that they can stand to take the League out from the inside.

He’s already had one guy try it a couple months back, but he knew better than to go through with it. Can’t say the same for the rest of the dumbasses burning in the alley, though.

Oh, well. No doubt the heroes will find them tomorrow, if they even bother showing up. Not many of them like to venture all the way out here, especially if it means real danger.

He slides a pack of cigs out from his pocket, choosing one and lighting it with the tip of his finger. He’s walked these roads too many times in the last few nights, practically knows them inside and out. And it’s not long before that silly little department store comes into view—the same one that oh-so-generously let him borrow some of their stock last week.

Didn’t even need to use his quirk to make it happen, either.

The double doors slide open, the blaring lights a stark contrast to the shadows of the streets. He barely has time to step back before someone steps out, waving their hand behind them with a smile on their face.

Oh, the same one from that night. He can’t help but smirk at the memory.

It’s a girl—and if her face and height are anything to go by, he’s starting to wonder if she’s even old enough to work at a place like this. Apparently her brain must be impressively small too, with the way she’s walking down the darkened street without a care in the world. One hand fastened on the strap of her purse and the other dangling down at her side, a dark lanyard wrapped around her wrist. She must have a shit-ton of keyrings on them, judging by how hard she swings it back and forth. As if that’s going to protect her if someone tries to jump her.

Fucking dipshit.

He rolls his eyes and takes another long drag of his cigarette. Watching the stupid kid out of the corner of his eye—and nearly dropping the cig altogether when he watches her veer off the sidewalk and head straight for the forest.

What the fuck is she doing? Does she want to get herself killed?

Maybe it’s sheer curiosity—or maybe it’s hoping something out there will pick her off so she’ll learn her lesson—whatever it is, it has his feet moving on their own. Picking up the pace to keep her within his sights, the cigarette barely hanging from his mouth.

Didn’t anyone teach her not to go walking around this late at night? For fuck’s sake it’s nearly one in the morning, does her shift really last that long? What compelled her to take a walk in the goddamn forest of all places? No way she lives all the way out here, she’s probably got a place somewhere in the city. Probably just looking for a cheap thrill so late at night.

Stop it. She’s not your problem to worry about, so quit it already. Just sit back and watch the show.

He follows her down the old trodden path, waiting for her to hit a stray root or trip over a rock and fall flat on her face. But nothing happens, other than a few scuffs of dirt on her ratty old sneakers. Almost like she knows these woods—like the back of her hand.

It’s a struggle to keep his footsteps soft. His boots do nothing to quell the sound of leaves crunching, dirt spraying across the path. Luckily she doesn’t hear, either that or she just doesn’t care.

Where the hell is she heading at this hour?

His answer appears in the form of a house. A pretty shitty-looking one, if he’s being completely honest. Shabby roof, flimsy door, moss creeping over each and every corner. Almost like no one’s bothered to visit the place in the last decade or so—at least.

The girl steps right up to the door, swinging that stupid lanyard at her side. Shuffling around until she finds the right key, before disappearing into the house altogether. A light flickers on in the window, her shadow visible behind the aging curtains.

Fuck him, she does live here.

In the middle of nowhere, secluded from the rest of the world. She’s stupid, isolating herself from all those people in town. Help’s not gonna come if you’re stuck in some random forest, she’s probably better off in the heart of the city. Then again, it must be nice for her. Being able to wake up in the morning without the blaring of sirens in your ears. Tucked away where no one can find you, safe and sound in the comfort of your own quiet home.

He almost envies her. Almost.

The longer he stares at the little mossy house, watching her shadow flit back and forth behind the curtain, the more he starts to wonder what she has inside. Must be stocked on food and medicine; that shit’s hard to come by these days. Might be worth a peek once she’s gone. She’ll probably leave tomorrow night for her shift, right? He’ll slip in then, see if she’s got anything worth his time. Better this random cottage than an apartment in the city, right? From what he can tell there’s not a soul in sight, save for the looming trees and starry sky.

He’s smirking now, slipping back into the shadows of the forest, right beside the old trodden path. She never even sees him.

The house is dark and empty by sundown. The path is easier to walk in the daylight, but he still waits until nightfall before scoping out the house. Just in case she getany bright ideas and decides to return home sooner than she should.

It’s a two-story house, and while the front door’s latched shut, the windows sure aren’t. It slides open with a squeak, like it hasn’t been touched in years. Looks like the kitchen—or a sorry excuse for one, if he’s being honest. A small table with only two chairs, neither of them looking like they’re from the same set. Papers and books and pens litter the surface, with the napkin holder knocked down on its side.

Not that they have a better one back at the base. Hell, they’re lucky enough if they’re able to sit down for most of their meals, if they can get their hands on any.

Which reminds him of his mission, and he’s scanning the room for any possible food. And there, to his left: a crowded counter stacked with boxes of cookies and candy, below a pair of cupboards with even more food stored inside.

Jackpot.

The League’s not picky when it comes to food, anything will do when your stomach’s keeping you up at night. Well, Dabi can’t say the same for himself—he fucking hates fish. He’d much rather deal with an empty stomach rather than scarf down a few meager bites of sushi. Just the thought of it makes him want to puke.

He can’t take too much the first night, that’ll only make her wonder. It’s best to have as little people in this secluded house as possible. So for now he stuffs his pockets with small snacks for the guys back at base…and maybe even a few candy bars for Toga. Last thing that little psycho needs is more sugar in her system, but he’d rather not hear her whine that he didn’t get anything for her when he gets back.

Plus, this girl doesn’t seem to have any pomegranates around (or any fruit or vegetables, for that matter), so candy will have to do.

When both pockets are jammed with food, he takes a step back to survey the rest of the house. At least the inside looks marginally better than the outside, save for the abhorrent dining room. Simple and sweet, even if it’s a little bland in color.

A gray couch with a couple of pillows in bright colorful pillowcases. A side table with one too many remotes on it, along with a paperback that’s definitely seen better days. A kitchen isle with a sink cluttered with dirty dishes, and a single stool resting beneath the opposite end. Not a single house plant in sight, but plenty of photos throughout, some on the wall but most taped on the fridge. Must be friends and family—but so far, he can only see one person living in this house.

How sad, she must be so lonely without anyone else here…

He rolls his eyes and trods up the creaky set of stairs. Might as well take a peek at the rest of the house, right?

The hallways split up into three major bedrooms. One is filled with storage totes and moving boxes, still waiting to be unpacked (though, by the layer of dust on each of them, he’s not thinking any time soon). The other bedroom is filled, and he means filled, with books. Every square inch is either vacated with an old aging shelf or a stack of hardcovers on the floor. It’s messy and cluttered and he slams the door shut as soon as he opens it.

Lives like a fucking slob, doesn’t she?

The final bedroom turns out to be the biggest one of all, and it’s the only one in the house that actually lives up to its name. A dresser, a desk, and surprise, surprise, another fucking bookcase. There’s also a bed with a thousand plushies on the covers, each one more ridiculous than the last. A giraffe, a raccoon, and whatever the fuck that is. Some weird fuzzy brown creature with a large snout and a bitchy expression on its face. Toga probably knows the name of it, but Dabi couldn’t care less.

There’s also a set of double doors that leads out to a little terrace. It looks better than the rest of the house—must be a newer addition—overlooking the forest beyond. Overall it’s a cute little spot to live in.

And still no sign of anyone else living here with her.

He’s smirking now, thinking of all the things he can sneak out of here in the next few nights—when something else catches his eye. A strange outline under the blanket of the bed, in the center of all the damn toys staring back at him.

He has half a mind to burn the little giraffe to a crisp as he reaches in for the mysterious object. And it’s…a book. Fucking shocker.

No, wait—it’s a journal. Only a few pages filled in so far, the ink messy against the bright white pages. It’s the size of his palm, with a black leather cover and a matching black string attached to the spine, probably to act as a bookmark. And sure enough it’s stuck in a certain spot in the book, the entry dated to just a few nights ago.

I want to see him again. I know that sounds wrong, but it’s the truth. I can’t really explain it, no matter how hard I try. Everything that comes out just sounds wrong…but in my head it makes perfect sense.

I know I’m probably screwed in the head for thinking this. For thinking about him like this. Like I could be the one to change him, to be the only one he wouldn’t kill on sight.

No, wait a minute. I was, wasn’t I? We saw each other that night at the store, and he didn’t even try to hurt me.

He can feel his brow inching further up with every word he reads. What the fuck is she talking about? He flips to another random page—

And the answer’s staring him right in the face, in stark black ink.

Dabi

I want to see him again. Ask him so many questions, the same ones that keep rattling away in my head. Why did you become a villain? Where did you come from? What is your favorite color?

Please, just one more time. We don’t even have to talk to each other. I just wanna see him with my own two eyes. Now that I know he’s real, that he’s the villain everyone’s afraid of. And I know I should be too, and I am…but I think I’m more curious of him. Maybe that just makes me stupid.

Yeah, I’m just stupid.

The words are swimming on the pages, blurring together, screaming in his head so loud he wonders if he’s read them out loud. But no, it’s dead silent in this room, in this house. Just him and this little black book, written in the hand of that little weirdo. The same one that chooses to live in a creepy old house in the middle of the forest, the one that works at a sketchy department store well into the night. The same one that didn’t scream once she saw him—but instead offered to let him go, even when she knew he was stealing.

And for some reason, he can’t hold back the smirk that stretches across his face.

Of all the people in this city, in this whole damn country, he thinks he’s found the one that intrigues him the most.

Poor girl, doesn’t even know what she’s caused. Just mindlessly writing her thoughts down in her diary, hoping no one will ever read what she’s written.

As carefully as he can, he tucks the book back in its place under the covers. As tempting as it is to take it with him, he knows that’ll only cause more suspicion. Still, he wants to leave her a love letter of his own—something that lets her know she’s not alone in her fascination.

So he does.

And a few minutes later he’s climbing out the kitchen window and making the trek through the forest, pockets full with snacks and a shit-eating grin on his face.

You hate Saturday nights. Arguably the busiest night of the week, and yet you’re still so short-staffed the cashiers end up taking the full brunt of the work. Ringing register, sorting supplies, stocking shelves—oh wait, we need you back up front to do register. Wait why aren’t you working on that cart I told you to finish? Excuse me, can you unlock this item for me? Can you help me check out, and only me, these lines are too long for my liking. Why can’t you be in two places at once?

Not that you ever find it fun to come to work…but Saturday nights just make it a little less fun. And once it calms down and the store closes up, you have to make the journey back home half-asleep. It’s a miracle you haven’t woken up in the middle of the forest yet.

Tonight is one of those nights, where you stumble your way back home like you’ve just had one hell of a night at the bar. But no amount of rubbing your eyes or chugging the bottle of soda in your hands will keep you upright. Eventually you see your little house in the distance, and your chest starts to feel a little lighter at the promise of sleep.

You fumble with the keys twice before managing to unlock the door. Latching it shut behind you, you don’t even turn on any lights before heading straight to your room. The dishes and laundry can wait till tomorrow. Right now, all you need is some fucking sleep.

The trio of stuffed animals on your bed greet you when you step into the room. Before coming to live here, your mother insisted you bring along some childhood stuffies with you, just so you wouldn’t get too lonely. And you hate to say it, but she was absolutely right. More often than not do you find yourself cuddling up to them, wondering about your family back home.

You kick off your shoes and drape your jacket over the back of the desk chair. Then you flop face first onto the bed, not even bothering to change into pajamas. You know you’ll be out cold within five minutes, so what’s the point?

“Goodnight, Rascal,” you mumble to the little raccoon, “goodnight, A.J.,” you pet the little giraffe, “and goodnight, Maxwell.” The little capybara toy is your favorite, but you’ll never admit it out loud. (Not when the other two can hear you.)

You roll over onto the bed, but something sharp juts into your side. You groan and force your hand beneath the covers to yank it out—oh, that’s right… you forgot you’d left your little notebook in bed with you. Must’ve fallen asleep while writing in it last night.

But there’s something sticking out of it, something that prevents it from closing all the way. You open it up and a scrap of paper falls out; not a loose page from the book, but a folded-up index card. One that’s got a note of its own written messily on the side.

One that makes the exhaustion all but vanish from your body.

You should keep this book in a safer hiding spot. You never know who might be reading all your little love notes, doll.

#dabi x reader #dabi x you #dabi x y/n #touya todoroki x reader #touya todoroki x you #kerosene and butterflies #tw: stalking #restricted fics

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limey-self-inserts · 1 year ago

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Grounded

Word Count: 3k F/Os: Angor Rot (platonic) Summary: Wherein there is a small magic lesson and a crisis of conviction.

art tag crew: @bugsband @rexscanonwife @chimerakisses @faerie-circle-ships @carbo-ships

For the bare basic living quarters I’d expected when I first made land in Arcadia, this apartment wasn’t actually too bad. It had a whole mini-kitchen that blended into the dining room aka my study space, which made it a lot harder not to deny myself things like scrambled eggs or a grilled cheese toastie when I was goddamn exhausted with trying to read through Trollish texts on some magic stones or history of the Trollhunter. Something-something knowing your enemy to best weaken them, Strickler had said. I hadn’t been paying that much attention up until he’d shoved the books into my arms.

Considering how the Janus Order had specifically told me I needed to keep an eye on Strickler, and that Strickler was consistently intent on dropping something extra on me to keep me away from whatever he was working on alongside the whole ‘kill the Trollhunter’ business, I felt like the study sessions were intentional.

It wasn’t fun. Not in the slightest. Even when it came to finding parts of the text that tied into magic, it could become truly agonising in the process. Spending hours stuck in one room grinding through maybe two books at a time.

However Angor had come to realise that if he skipped on duties regarding directly stalking the Trollhunter to hunker down in my apartment and join me in my study sessions ‘in order to assist with the overall goal’, then it really, really pissed off Strickler.

At least it meant I wasn’t alone.

While most of Angor’s lessons required me to be outside (due to the inevitable surrounding damage and because getting thrown against a tree is miles more comfortable from being thrown against a wall), a little could still be done in the apartment. He’d had centuries to hone his magic, fine-tuning it to what he wanted - hunting, tracking, paralysis, manipulation. I was still in the process of trying to form my magic into goals, into tools. What I wanted from it hadn’t mattered until Angor had pulled me out of the dirt once too often and told me the necessity. Which then lead through to the core magic lessons.

According to the older books, wizards and witches normally used staffs or other foci to cast their spells. It was like formulating code - you decided your goal, adjusted the parameters of the world around you, and set the spell into motion. I did not have the comfort of a focus. It was a major part of why my magic could be so sporadic and volatile - curses shattered the moment my concentration wavered, if I created a weapon to fight with it could easily fall apart under too much stress.

But I did have a teacher who didn’t need a focus himself. Angor didn’t talk about the how or why, only the what and who. What did I want. Who was I aiming at. The only ‘how’ was ‘how quickly can I get this done’.

What did I want?

I wanted to go home.

Jerking awake abruptly, the ache of sleeping in a chair promptly hit my back muscles and legs. I blinked away the last dregs of the surprise nap, grimacing and hauling off the table to stretch myself out. Multiple pops echoed in the otherwise empty apartment. Delightful.

My most recent book lay open in front of me, partially haloed by pages of notes from this book and others, plus a bare basics Trollish translation cheat sheet. Most of the paper was now crinkled by the ghost imprint of my face. Across the rest of the table was the unwashed plate from a lunch or breakfast meal, a sad and cold half-drunk mug of tea, and an eyeball -

Oh. Bastard.

I leaned my chin on my hand, squinting at the obsidian eyeball.

“Good morning to you too,” I grumbled. The sun outside said that it was pushing into late evening. That counted as morning from trolls, I assumed. Like vampires. But then again Angor had his own shadow umbrella so he didn’t take as much caution towards the daytime.

The eyeball rolled further across the table, hopping onto the open book. Somehow it managed to look down and then back up in disdain. It didn’t have a face, but I knew Angor far, far too well already now. This was definitely a disdainful eye roll.

“Thank you for that enthusiasm,” I replied. Getting out of my chair was much harder than it should have been, as my legs remembered about blood flow and I stumbled to hold my balance. But after a mere second of embarrassment, I started the process of flipping through the kitchen cupboards to try and figure out what I’d be putting together for dinner tonight. It turned out even if you did sleep through your entire study session you still needed to eat food afterwards.

“Lessons or work tonight?” I asked the eyeball, glancing back over my shoulder. The eyeball rolled left and then right, before spinning around in a full circle. “...Yeah, I don’t know why I asked either. One hop for yes, two hops of no?”

“No.”

I flinched hard. Mistake. Turning quick with the thoughts of ‘shield’ on my mind, the shadows buckled and broke immediately when struck by stone claws. Angor crowded me, crammed down and partially crouched from the lower ceiling, leaving me squeezed against the kitchen countertop. For a moment my half-drawn breath rolled off stone, his eye matching mine and taking up the rest of the world.

Then his claw tip pressed into my forehead.

“Faster,” he commented, taking two steps back into the apartment space. My lungs released, along with the rest of my muscles, and I just about kept myself upright by bracing on the worktop.

“Asshole.”

“You will improve, or you’ll die. And you haven’t died yet, witchling,” Angor replied. After some consideration, he dropped down into a seat on the floor, hidden from the remaining rays of the sunset but unable to hide from their amber glow reflections. His eyeball rolled back to his open palm to be slotted into its proper place.

“Yeah, the court is out on whether you’ll kill me, either by hand or by heart attack, or whether Strickler’s plan to kill me by boredom gets me first,” I grumbled back.

“I am compelled to not kill you, for the time being.”

“You sure like to test the limits on that compulsion, don’t you?” I paused in my rummaging when I didn’t hear a reply. Angor’s grin met me in the middle of the room, a mixture of amused and hungry that slowly slid into a low grating laugh.

With mutterings of how reassuring he could be bouncing around, I returned to my first task.

“Question remains though, is it a lesson night or a working night?” I asked.

“The boy grows close to discovering one of the Triumbric Stones. We will need to learn what he has gathered and where he intends to go,” Angor replied. “I doubt it will be much work, but it will be a matter of…practical teaching, if you so desire.”

Making a small noise of understanding, I made a move for the ‘fast and easy to eat’ area of the kitchen. No point dilly-dallying over omelettes and peppers if we were going to be out the window once the sun was gone. Angor’s gaze remained on me, the cold prickling sensation finding a hold in between my shoulders.

He once described my presence as warm water. At the time I thought it was purely in the disgusting manner, but after time with him, and time reading about history, perhaps it could be better. Less revolting, with exposure.

He certainly seemed less cold sometimes, although that was a push.

Water in the pot began to bubble at the edges, a bath to drop an egg into and wait for the minutes to tick by. As much as I didn’t shy away from the cold on my back, I did chance a couple of looks back over to Angor. His hands held the Shadowstaff loosely, the metal and stone refusing to reflect any light in the room. A focus of the Pale Lady, but Angor didn’t channel magic through it, only utilising its shadow rending to get from point A to point B. A different witch could do great or terrible things with it.

I would not.

“Have you been practising?” Angor asked, catching my gaze and holding it.

“I - yeah, a little. I just - can we go over it when I’m not trying to juggle food?”

“Any moment can be a lesson when you are practising magic. Especially…” Angor trailed off as my phone abruptly pinged with a timer, I hastily scooped the egg out the pot to plop in another bowl, and then started pouring the hot water into my dinner.

“...What?”

“What are you doing?”

“My dinner! It’s very modern, Japanese fusion cuisine, all the kids love it. Tons of flavour, with added protein to boot.”

The silence was a distinctly flat sense of disbelief.

“It’s pot noodles with an egg on top. Look, I'll let you eat the pot afterwards if you want.”

Angor’s brow wrinkled inwards in disgust as I waved the pot in his direction. Shrugging in return, I set about the quick dinner with a fork and gusto.

“Disgusting.”

“You guys eat cats! And socks! I refuse to allow eating judgement in this house,” I snarked back through a mouthful of yolk and noodle.

That earned a very sharp scoff, Angor somehow managing to look even more disgusted at such things.

“That is simply the junk which trolls scrounge for now in your era,” he commented, his scowl sharpening his words. “In my time, we had far richer delicacies to hand than….socks. Deep cave mushrooms, rabbits, fresh veins of ore.”

“Human?” It wasn’t fair of me, and the regret raced in after the words escaped. I hunched my shoulders and prepared for the venomous or snapping response.

There was none.

Instead Angor’s face went rather empty for a moment. His gaze flickered away, falling back through memories. Slowly regret gathered in the corners of his mouth, a bitterness that pulled his grimace back into place.

“Never humans,” he replied. “Not hunting them was a kindness they never understood.”

That was more than a little unexpected. My shoulders slumped, the responses I’d prepared failing me. Quietly I scraped the cardboard insides of the pot in my hands, wracking my thoughts for something to say to break the morose weight that had settled in the room.

“It’d be fun to have rabbit some time,” I mumbled. Surprise caught Angor off-guard once again, but his composure returned much faster, a wry smirk coming free.

“Perhaps your lessons will show more promise if I teach you to hunt smaller game than trollhunters,” he chuckled. “It would be amusing watching you stumble around the woods in attempt to snare a bird or hare.” It was already a fun past-time for Angor watch Avalon struggling with the lack of light in most places. Hunting in the dark, the best time to catch prey unawares, would test them fairly. If hilariously.

“It’d beat pot noodles at least.”

“Anyone would heartily agree to that.”

“Okay. Okay. Look, it’s empty.” I waved the noodle pot in his face, earning not even a flinch but a blank disregard. “We don’t have to talk about that anymore.”

“And you can stop dodging my earlier question.”

Fuck.

Mirth could be so easily obtained with the witchling, Angor reckoned to himself. Try as they might to hold defences up, Avalon left too many open holes to reach through and prod and tug. That human weakness had dragged them here and dropped them at Angor’s feet. If he were to teach them well, he’d keep finding every other crack and either they would need to shore themselves or else they’d break apart.

A part of him didn’t want them to shatter though. If not just to take the fun out of a long game. So he’d keep teaching despite the flaws.

My face remained wrinkled in the cloying distaste of being caught out for a few seconds more before I exhaled a slow sigh, trying to ground myself. Time was short, however long until Angor decided it was time for us to leave. I’d need to do this right.

Magic bubbled at my fingertips. Angor’s instructions sat at the back of my head. What do I want? What carried me forward? Where was my conviction?

Angor watched in silence as shadows coalesced in Avalon’s palm. At first they were shapeless, barely a trick of the fading light. They rose and fell, then began to spread, forming a skeleton of a shape. A simple and efficient knife becoming more real with the passing seconds. It was a good weapon, to be approved of. The simplicity was apt for a beginner, the blade would be useful should they come to a fight. It would save them from their reluctance to kill. Given enough time, they would change, Angor knew that well enough. So he’d teach them enough to survive, in the short weeks before he finally got rid of the Trollhunter, and that would be all.

One eye cracked open. First I saw the knife, held together by shadow and the faint gleam of green, and I had to resist the urge to grin excitedly. Breaking my focus could untether the tool completely. Then I looked to Angor.

What did I want?

The green light fractured and overtook the blade, a thin line of metal becoming thick and rough and stone. Even while still simple, there were enough details to make it identifiable. But beyond that, it was heavy. It was solid. When gravity tugged it into my grasp and I had to grab it to keep it upright it didn’t fall apart without my concentration to hold it in one.

Stoic walls cracked at the edges as Angor squinted. His hand drifted to his belt, touching the handle of his own dagger, just for a moment. Avalon had succeeded, quite succinctly too. Their practice was paying off well. And yet the manifestation seemed…unwieldy. Surprise was too clear on their face. The way the dagger had formed had been unexpected but promising. And the similarities were far too uncanny to be ignored.

Would he call them out? Would he stay quiet?

Teeth ground together as Angor’s eyes narrowed. Despite everything, his influence was digging in faster than he’d planned. But it…wasn’t bad. A good knife would protect them better. Would dig deeper.

“A fine choice of blade,” he commented, a bare air of smugness encroaching his words despite the glower.

“I-I didn’t..” My words collapsed together, stammering over themselves. I knew the knife too well myself, I’d gotten to view it up close and personal enough times. The weight was lighter than the original, easier for my own hand. And it was still here, despite my thoughts going in every direction.

“But you have.” Angor drew himself up, not to full height but enough to be looming as he stepped closer. The Skathe-Hrün unfolded from its handle, almost my height and certainly jabbing a little close to my eyes for my own comfort. Instinctively I batted it backwards with the back of my magic knife, and even the gentle stone-on-stone tink drew toothy amusement from Angor.

It was like watching a small fox cub bat at a dead rabbit that its mother had brought to the den.

“You are becoming better at grounding yourself. It will be far more important the further you progress in learning magic,” he continued. “By far more important to keep yourself in the moment when you are in a fight.”

“For sure,” I agreed, quiet and nervous. That would have to be the main teaching point - whether the knife would stay for long enough with Angor or an actual enemy bearing down on me.

“You considered the questions I asked of you? What is it you want?” he asked.

The answer was there. I looked to the knife, then back up to Angor.

“Home,” I replied. “What do you want?”

You didn’t need a soul to experience the ache of loss. Angor’s grin faded rapidly, turning cold as the stone of his body. Even his eyes seemed to lose the golden glow.

“Something that I lost a long time ago,” he growled back. “That means little with my experience. You are the student here, you have far more to overcome and therefore you are the one who must focus on such thoughts.” Every ‘you’ was punctuated with a tap of the Skathe-Hrün to my chest, just enough to get the point across.

“I know, I know. I’m sorry,” I muttered quickly.

“The knife is a small tool. I will expect you to conjure something greater and stronger the next time I have you practise this skill.”

The conversation was done. Angor huffed out a growling breath before glancing to the windows. The sun was almost gone, the light a weak yellow streaking the ceiling of this box. By himself, he knew he would be able to travel unimpeded. With Avalon, the Shadow Realm made for a more reliable passageway. Turning to the wall instead, Angor pushed his focus into the staff, the location on the other clear in his mind.

What did he want?

Silence. He continued to stare into the wall, staff raised. I shifted my feet together, finally releasing the blade from my hand and my focus. The shadows fell apart before it could fall far from my grasp.

“Angor?”

There was a blink, and then his eyes were back on me. Lips curled, curved fangs bared, before he gestured with the Shadowstaff again more insistently and the air collapsed in on itself. The void was numbing, both to witness and stand close by to. I took a step towards it, only to be blocked by Angor’s hand.

“Don’t let go,” he growled.

“Of course,” I replied in low deadpan. My hand gripped onto his palm as best it could, while his claws dug into the sleeve of my coat. And then the apartment was quiet and empty, a table covered in notes and a book spread open on the history of Trollkind. A trident emblem painted onto the paper.

#writings #self insert #platonic self ship #world: trollhunters #ship: rotten magic

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deskgoblin · 2 months ago

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The Sacrificial Lamb Minors DNI Mentions: Religious Trauma, Horror, Sacrifice.

I heard a tale from a friend a long time ago, those who work in healthcare, especially that of animals, are higher for offing themselves. But I know that’s a lie simply because I love my lambs. Their red irises and soft hair keep me company while I stroke it and nap at night. I’m only eight, but Father Chess says I’m mature and capable of adult things. I live at a church atop of a hill so bright the cross of our Lord has a shadow above the village I was given from. That’s where my mum and dad live, they’re very kind people. They sent me here to be taken care of and to take care of lambs which is exactly what I did at my family’s house. But, I often see my favorite lambs disappear sadly. Father said they wander off and may come back so I should keep an open heart and continue to love the ones in front of me, so I do.

I am fourteen now and I’m getting suspicious. To test my theory, I stayed up for several days waiting for my lambs to disappear once more and they eventually did. I stalked through the night as the nuns ushered my bleating prize into the nave. Everyone had been invited but I to worship this night but it wasn’t as per usual. Everyone wore white, but there was no wedding. And on the front of the pew was Father whispering his hymns above my precious girl who called out to me. Her hoof reached for my hand and staggered as her red irises turned motionless and her fur appeared as her eyes. Father’s robes had been spoiled, and the white marble too. There’s many ways to commit mercy. A rock, a knife, and a hatchet but Father chose the cross. Further nights I attended when my lamb was of age and this time Father gave mercy with a firm hit with his Bible. The following morning I could still make out red spatter on the gold brushed pages during Sunday service.

It was here that I understood my friend from those years ago, taking care of sick farm animals did make you want to die in some sort of way only when knowing you were taking care of them until they inevitably died. I struggled with this epiphany for suicide was a sin. Tying a rope around my neck only would snap the doorknob I laid limp from, the wolfsbane I chewed merely made me sleep and shortly thereafter vomit. I said Bloody Mary three times, and I walked in the field after dark. I was so far impure the wolves outside didn’t want me nor my lambs anymore. I only felt undesired when death ran from me, but my lambs enjoyed my company unknowingly. I had become recognized as the wolves that laid outside, and the lambs I raised were my kill. If I had knowledge of their demise in the future, did I kill them?

I had thought about telling Father that I knew, that I couldn’t do it anymore. But I confided in my old wet nurse, a nun that often retrieved my monthly young to be slaughtered for the Lord who had already moved on. She was mortified that I questioned, to flail my faith out the window to being attached to the sacrifices. My cheek still hurts from her lashing, and yet though I kill, my lamb still licks and kisses me.

I sleep in the barn now. To protect and to keep my lambs from the Father and the Lord, I oftentimes would shriek and grab the nuns begging to be the next sacrifice. “Impure” they say. I am the wolf now, the devil that pre-kills before giving to Father.

I am seventeen now and I am tired. I don’t feel attached to my lambs, I don’t take care of them now. I feed, brush, and wash then sleep. My hatred of the church has grown and my hunger shrivels. I believe I’m the same weight as a lamb now given my lack of desire to eat the sacrifices I had raised that Father now deems we must eat. I hate him. But he kills, and so do I.

It’s raining outside today, so I stayed inside. I had learned to sew all my dresses and coats recently to make them fit again and even made myself a scarf with the skin of a lamb Father sacrificed last night. Its blood was still warm when I recovered it, it felt so nice on my skin. I wear it only to take care of my lambs to remind myself to not get attached, but when I look into a reflective surface I feel as if I am a lamb. Or was.

They don’t take the lambs to the nave anymore. They kill them in the barn, asleep. They don’t bother to clean, to pray, mercilessly killing for no reason but to sacrifice. I cleaned up my lamb, washed her fur and sat her on my bed so she could properly rest. I laid with her only for a night before I burned her in the field. Ashes floating to the sky as she properly ascended to heaven.

I don’t want to be here anymore.

I am a wolf in sheep’s clothing I tell myself as I sew my final lamb’s face into my own. The nose hurt the least but the eyelids were crass and her lips felt like wax on top of my own. I bleed although I’m not being sacrificed yet. The feet are the hardest to do so I tuck them close into the hay I wait in. I wait for days motionless and bleating for my end to come, my way out of this. My way of purifying myself is to be a sacrificial lamb. Father came close to me with his Bible today, thumping it into my head and crushing the lamb’s skull into my own. We are now one, bits of bone fragment crush into my face as I continue to bleat. I carry on the lie to purify myself, and to make Father go to hell. One last powerful blow and my blood swirls with my lamb’s, inextricable from each other. Father Chess said I’m mature and capable of adult things.

#religious #religious trauma #horror #religous horror #poetry #short story #religion #horror writing #writing #creative writing #writers on tumblr #artists on tumblr #horror stories #halloween #samhain #inktober #spooktober

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ikkaku-of-heart · 2 years ago

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The High Priestess and the Magician

(Insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. True insanity comes from getting that result.)

Stalking into his quarters, Basil Hawkins slammed the door behind him so hard a few straw dolls on his bookshelf fell over. It was unusual for him to show much emotion, but his temper had been growing dangerously short as of late. Even Faust was not exempt from his displeasure. A rare thing, as he valued the feline Mink more than the rest of his crew, but his mind had been ill at ease since his reading one hundred days ago.

In truth, he should have known better than to ask them such a dangerous question. It had been his own hubris that had driven him to ask about his own future. To demand to know when he would reach Raftel and claim the title of King of the Pirates.

Instead, the cards had foretold his failure. Predicted his eventual, inevitable death. They hadn’t specified exactly when, but he had received enough information to paint an unpleasant picture. At the time he had brushed it off, as the Tarot was up to interpretation, even if his readings were generally highly accurate. Except he received the exact same reading when he’d tried again the next day. And then the next. And every day since.

Ninety-nine days. Three cards. Always the same.

The Magician reversed. The Ten of Swords. The Emperor reversed.

Hawkins had always treated the Magician as an avatar for himself. He had claimed it as his epitaph for a reason, after all. Even reversed he accepted it, and the cards had never presented it in a reading that did not end up directly involving him. So it was concerning he had drawn it in succession with the two other cards. The Ten of Swords meant painful endings and betrayal. The Emperor reversed referred to domination and lack of discipline, which made him think that his fate was in the hands of one who embodied these traits. And there were four Emperors standing between him and the title of Pirate King…

Growling in frustration, he shoved a pile of books off of his desk, the hardcover tomes scattering as loose pages flew about. Since the twentieth identical reading, he’d been furiously researching ways to potentially avert his fate. The cards did not lie. Not to him. They told him the odds of overcoming any obstacle that stood in his path, allowing him to act accordingly. They gave him an undeniable advantage. At least, they did most of the time.

Now, they spoke of his inevitable failure.

So far, the odds were nearly 100% that he would not succeed in his ultimate goal, and in fact he would fall disgracefully. He was a man of control. He enjoyed telling others that their fates were out of their hands. He did not appreciate that misfortune being reversed. He did not appreciate his own cards defying him.

“You don’t scare me, Hawkins. I’m from Joras. As far as I’m concerned, your spooky ass barely registers a 7/10 on my weird shit-o-meter.”

A feminine voice danced blithely through his head, its very presence as mocking as the words themselves. The speaker had been the catalyst for his current fit of anger. He’d encountered one of the Heart Pirates while attempting to find more obscure literature that might help him reinterpret his cards’ message.

Ikkaku, the submarine’s engineer. The sole woman he knew of aboard Trafalgar Law’s vessel. He’d glimpsed her in the past when his and the fellow rookie’s paths had crossed. A pretty face, and an attractive figure that was shamelessly put on display in her wanted poster. A point he would acknowledge briefly on lonely nights, but no more than that. He was not one to be brought to his knees merely by a woman’s body. However, despite recognizing her, this was the first time she’d spoken to him. It had started as empty politeness on her part, which he’d responded to with an idle threat to her life. He had no time for pleasantries. Yet instead of cowering or even just leaving, she’d jutted out her hip and spat out a disrespectful retort. The woman was far bolder than she had any right to be. She didn’t even have the decency to fear him despite their clear gap in power! She was a normal woman with a distinctly non-combative role, while he was a powerful pirate captain and a Devil Fruit wielder!

She was as infuriating as her smug bastard of a captain. Had Marines not stumbled upon them, he would have gladly shown her their difference in strength before handing her over to Trafalgar in pieces. Or perhaps challenged the man to a fight and used his Straw Man technique, making her captain slaughter her in Hawkins’ place. That would serve them both right.

Inhaling deeply, Hawkins forced his face back into its usual stoic expression. He needed to focus on the task at hand, not some irritating woman. She was hardly worth his attention, much less his fury. Just a subordinate of one of his rivals. Nothing special. Her arrogance would get the better of her sooner or later.

He had no reason to concern himself with her fate, anyway. He had his own to consider.

Sitting down at his desk, he pulled out his deck of tarot cards. There was only one question on his mind – was his fate truly set in stone? Was his death 100% certain?

One hundred days. Ninety-nine identical card readings. This would be the last attempt, no matter the outcome.

He shuffled the cards for a solid ten minutes, though he acknowledged deep down he was merely stalling for time. It didn’t matter how he cut the deck – the cards would be drawn as they were meant to be.

With a sigh of acceptance, he gracefully slid the first card off of the top of the deck, setting it down on the surface of his mahogany desk face-up.

The High Priestess. This was…unusual. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d drawn her. Yet there she was. She symbolized the divine feminine, sacred knowledge, and the subconscious mind.

Why did he draw her?

Brow furrowing, he set down the second card. The Tower reversed. Personal transformation, fear of change, averting disaster. Now that was far more positive than anything he’d drawn in months. Were his cards telling him he might have a chance to avoid his fate? He scarcely dared to hope.

His hand shook faintly as he pulled the last card. The Devil, also reversed. Releasing limiting beliefs, exploring dark thoughts, sexuality, and detachment. Quite the swerve from the past two cards.

He sat back in his chair, attempting to make sense of his reading. He felt as much confusion as he did relief. Three of the major arcana had been drawn, which was unusual. More than that, they implied a woman was involved. But whom? Could she really avert his fate? And where did the Devil come in?

“You don’t scare me, Hawkins. I’m from Joras. As far as I’m concerned, your spooky ass barely registers a 7/10 on my weird shit-o-meter.”

Ikkaku’s voice once more drifted through his skull, and this time he actually listened. Joras. She was from Joras. Of course he knew of that bleak, superstitious island. It was a land once known as Innsmouth before it had been heavily industrialized. A place of fog and darkness, full of stories that were fantastical and frightening. Dead bodies rising from their graves, plagues that drove people mad, ancient rituals and sacrifices that were used to gain favor from eldritch horrors that slept deep beneath the ocean waves.

It was a land Hawkins had often been accused of coming from himself, and while it was not true, he had always felt a sort of longing for it. He’d greedily read every bit of information he could get his hands on, enthralled by the twisted lore of the Old Ones. He’d always held a strong inclination toward the morbid and the supernatural, and though he’d concluded they were likely nothing more than stories, he’d still gladly taken a copy of the Necronomicon from a book seller who had attempted to sell it to him for an extortionate price. A book bound in human skin and written in mermaid blood made a lovely addition to his collection, regardless of the validity of the myths and rituals etched on their pages. He’d even taken the time to learn the language of Innsmouth so he could read and appreciate it properly.

His earlier irritations towards the woman shifted into intrigue. Now her lack of fear made sense, and his ego was soothed. It was rather hard to measure up to eldritch horrors, though he’d still be happy to give a demonstration of his powers to remind her that while they were stories, he was very much a reality.

More importantly, her appearance had broken his losing card streak. The cards had ceased predicting his failure to instead speak of her. There had to be a reason for that.

“Tell me more about this woman. Who is Ikkaku of the Heart Pirates?” he whispered to the deck, praying his cards might give him more insight.

They did not disappoint. First, he drew the Sun. Not that he needed the cards to tell him she was a woman of positivity, warmth, and vitality. The woman practically glowed with it, especially compared to her dark captain. Perhaps that was why Trafalgar kept her at his side. He could imagine many found her easy to like and were drawn to that warmth.

Nine of Swords reversed. Inner turmoil, deep-seated fears, and secrets. How interesting, considering the previous card. Perhaps she hid some insecurities beneath that sunny shell. A dark secret, perhaps? She was a subordinate of Trafalgar Law, after all. No one innocent would bear to be around that man, or if they did, they didn’t remain innocent for long. And she spoke so casually of being from an island renowned for twisted beliefs. People with happy, well-adjusted pasts didn’t become pirates. There was certainly more to Ikkaku than meets the eye.

Long, pale fingers set down the final card. The Star. It represented hope, faith, and purpose. Another card seldom associated with someone who sailed with a pirate crew. Stars were often used to guide the lost. To navigate vast, unforgiving seas and guide them to safety. But she was no navigator as far as he knew. That job belonged to the polar bear Mink. So why was it associated with her?

It was all quite interesting. He’d drawn two forms of light when he’d asked about Ikkaku. Very curious, especially for a pirate who willingly followed a man like the Surgeon of Death. Especially for a woman who came from such a bleak, oppressive island. Yet he could not deny that the cards suited her. It appeared despite the darkness that surrounded her, she kept a bright, almost blinding aura.

An old story tickled his brain. Most of the tales of the Old Ones he’d heard whispered throughout the North Blue, as they were common campfire stories and bedtime fables to scare the cowardly and superstitious. But the Necronomicon had told him tales he’d never come across before. Getting up, he strode quickly to his bookshelf to pull out that morbid tome. Flipping through the pages, he at last came upon the deity he was looking for.

The Creator Turtle. The sole being of light in the pantheon who existed to counterbalance the twisted and shadowy Old Ones. He had gifted the humans he’d vomited into existence with the lighthouse that sat upon Joras’ jagged cliffs. The story stated he’d given his chosen Light Keepers the power to stand against the darkness and alter reality with their belief. It claimed they’d willed a weakness into the otherwise unstoppable Old Ones’ reality.

Through pure belief, they’d found a way to make the impossible possible. To rewrite reality and fate.

A fantastical story? Most certainly. But his cards did not lie. They had shown her to him for a reason. Was she a Light Keeper? Were the legends true? Did such a power lay within the heart of such an ordinary woman?

Maybe, maybe not. Yet even if the stories were just fables, it was undeniable that Ikkaku was still a key player in avoiding his fate.

Hawkins hated jokes, and because of that, he was a man who seldom laughed. Yet the raspy sound of elation that escaped his mouth and throat could only be described as such.

At last. He had his answer. A way to cheat destiny. It was a 1% chance, but it was still a chance. An opportunity Hawkins would greedily grasp with both hands.

Being told ninety-nine times how you would die was enough to crack even “the Magician” Basil Hawkins’ mind, it seemed. And like a weed in a sidewalk, an idea sprouted and began to grow through that narrow opening.

“To think I considered killing you,” he chuckled, a twisted grin on his lips as he stroked the illustrated cheek of his High Priestess. The woman on the card even bore a stunning resemblance to Ikkaku, now that he looked closely. A warm smile and dark curls peeking out from beneath her veil. He found himself wondering what they would feel like between his fingers. He pictured them twisting like tentacles around his digits, her disrespectful tone now full of reverence as she gazed up at him with adoration.

Was he the Devil? Were the cards telling him he needed to release the beliefs he had and instead explore darker thoughts? Because oh, his thoughts were already straying into rather unsavory territory. If she was the key to diverting his path, he couldn’t simply let her galivant about with Trafalgar. No, he needed her at his side. He needed her to be utterly devoted to him. To believe in him enough that perhaps this fabled Light Keeper power could make him unkillable. Failing that, perhaps she could spill the secrets of the Old Ones. Tell him who might give him the knowledge and power to twist reality himself. Perhaps in exchange for a lovely sacrifice upon their limestone altar?

Even the more mundane option of her simply dying in his place to whichever Emperor he was unfortunate enough to cross was an acceptable outcome. Sometimes the best solution was the simplest.

But how to do this? Well, she was a woman. Were they not all slaves to love? Puppets pulled by the invisible strings of emotion? Surely, she was just as easy to manipulate. Hawkins simply needed to take advantage of that weakness. To seduce her and make her love him. Surely, that would not be difficult. The only real complication was her captain. He would be forced to either kill Trafalgar Law or manipulate Ikkaku into betraying him. The former would take cunning and force, while the latter would take subtle seduction and perfect timing.

And, well, if that failed, there was always old-fashioned kidnapping and torture. Even the strongest will could be broken with enough pain and creativity. And a man desperate to defy his fate was willing to commit atrocities a lesser man would balk at.

Plan taking shape in his mind, Hawkins opened his cabin door, calling out for his first mate. “Faust! Did you happen to see which way Trafalgar’s ship sailed?”

The cat Mink paused mid-step, surprised at the uncharacteristic grin on his captain’s face more than the question. Had he not been angry less than an hour before? “Trafal-nya’s ship? It seemed to be headed towards the next island, based on the log pose.”

“Excellent,” Hawkins purred, patting Faust’s head before heading towards the top deck. “Tell the helmsman to stay close, but not overtake them. We don’t want them thinking we’re following them.”

“We don’t?”

Blonde locks draped over Hawkins’ shoulder as he glanced over it. “No. Because we’re not following them. We’re following her.”

“‘Her’?”

“My High Priestess. The woman who will make me a god,” he replied before leaving a confused Mink with no further explanation. Not that one would have made sense to anyone but Hawkins. But he didn’t need his crew to understand. He just needed them to obey. To remain devoted, just as Ikkaku would be when he was through with her. She’d sealed her fate the moment she’d crossed his path. The cards had spoken. Light would succumb to darkness. The High Priestess would submit to the Devil. The Magician would become Pirate King.

Hawkins would not die. It was not his fate.

Deep beneath the waves, shadowy tendrils writhed as an ancient being laughed to itself, pleased that the seed of madness it had planted in the mortal’s fragile mind had taken root so perfectly.

#Imaginative Blueprints (Drabble/Fanfic)#The Engine is the Heart of the Ship (canon)#Light Keeper (Old Ones)#High Priestess and Magician - Hawkins x Ikkaku #Major Arcana (Hawkins)#Wear My Heart on My Sleeve (Shipping)#obsessive behavior cw #madness cw #(*kicks my feet back and forth*)#(writing Hawkins was fun)#(it's a blast watching this terrible man obsess and spiral and I'm sure if he got his hands on her my girl would be in for a bad time)#(this is why being fixated on fate is the worst)#(thank you to everyone who is tolerating my bullshit with this recent obsession. you are very much appreciated)#op ikkaku #basil hawkins #op fanfic

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blueberrypancakesworld · 10 months ago

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Can I please ask for a yandere Carla with kianna komori

Like in this scenario after killing off the sakamaki brothers she stepped out of the house to watch the House burn and he ended up meeting her

(After stalking her and planning how to kidnap her those plans were thrown out the window after she killed the sakamaki brothers)

Also can this be smut

Also the rest is up to you

Endless night

Carla x oc

warning : smutish, character x oc, kissing, mentioning of murder and fire, minors wounds, tiny comfort

Info : So here it is dear @nunezs-stuff hope you like it and it was really, really fun to write Carla (one of my fav) so yeah have fun reading ;)

masterlist

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She was different from her relatives. The exterior was as different as summer from winter. Where there was blonde, the brown was as dark as the tree trunks that spread out around the villa.

Where there was pink, there was gold. Where there was shyness and friendliness, her other half was loudness and opinion behind a face that was like a blank page.

Where there was pink, she was dark, and yet they both shared a love of ruffles, of colors you could bake with. They were both each other's coin, one side complementing the other.

Something the heir to the throne of the other world had observed from the very beginning. Ever since her sister, the "Eva", had joined the three cousins he and his own brother had been watching for hundreds of years. He had watched how the brothers had fought against their own mother and uncle.

Cordelia his cousin had taken it too far in her delusional love and brutal nature she had only brought about the demise of this bride that would send her to her grave forever and ensure her death. Her lover Richter disappeared and history continued its course when she hit the painting. His Kianna.

Even though he knew he and his brother were steadfast, this girl was worth that special something more than any bride, any eva, anything he had ever seen.

For the first time he felt something like a spark of blood inside him, the attraction to her was inevitable and this reaction inside him made him think of his cousins for a moment.

,,Maybe the blood flows crazier in our family after all... it won't be the end of time that eats me away, it will be love," he mumbled as he looked at the picture in his hand in his room, a photograph he had just caught in a careless moment.

But this photo was all he held on to and would continue to hold on to. Until one day he would lay his golden eyes on the inferno, the inferno he had watched with a joyful madness in his eyes. His favorite, his work of art had actually made it, she had escaped from his first cousins.

Had burned them all and was now wandering through the forest. It was the time to strike, a time he chose. She watched as the moon slowly began to turn red in the sky, the red matching the flames and the blt behind her.

But it didn't matter, she had killed them and had to get away from this place, anywhere they weren't true. Away from a world of suffering and pain not knowing that in her shadow the devil with white hair was following her.

She didn't know how she found herself in a new place after an indefinite period of time. The fog of time was too thick and impenetrable for her to remember exactly. Except that she remembered how it had started when he had kissed her.

He wasn't cold like the other monsters, he saw exactly how behind her veiled eyes, through the dull hurt of the smoke, she clung to him. ,,I knew you would love me," he had whispered to her, laying their bodies on the soft, large canopy bed. Those golden eyes so like hers as he looked at her.

She was afraid, but of what? She didn't know, but what Kianna did know was that if she lost the love she was getting, she would be facing something worse than just this time and world. Inside her she sensed that there were others like the six who, unlike him, wanted to harm this monster with the golden eyes.

It was only right that she clung to him as his fingers slowly opened the blouse on her body, touching her cold skin through the night and sending goose bumps down her spine. ,,Everything will get better...just let me help you," she had heard his voice before she felt him for the first time.

The long white hair on her skin lightly fisted as he leaned in and kissed her gently and invitingly, not roughly and overwhelmingly like Shu.

It was possessive in its way, but the heir to the throne was different from the six. He was desirable to her and they both adored him.

As he took off her clothes, his lips kissed her irritated skin through the fire and the night. His power was pleasantly tickling, but also soothing and arousing. His cool fingers glided over the exposed skin, his sweet words.

The praise reached her ears for the first time after only anger and hatred from the others. ,,Never leave me" she heard the words nodded and nodded she would stay with him it was better with him than anywhere else.

She felt his body, his fingers on her, his arms supporting her, his chest warm, even if there was no heartbeat, whether from his illness or from the love he felt for her.

That no matter if his brother heard her, Carla knew that on this night when the moon shone red, he made her his.

His pointed canines ran gently over the soft skin of her thigh, leaving kisses and light bites. She knew what he wanted and he would give everything for his Kianna. Because this night, the blood of the moon, this night of their love would never end.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

#diabolik lovers #diabolik lovers shu #shu sakamaki #shu sakamaki x oc #character x oc #oc

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akinformation · 1 year ago

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Page 274

something to somebody. On the contrary, I don’t really need anything; I just feel the call inside, and I am participating in a crazy quest as a main character.

I told you how I found a place of power on the land. I was not looking for it. This is important. I was not like others may be, “Oh, maybe I can find a place of power here. I’m gonna walk around everywhere and try to feel something.” I didn’t do it this way, as many of you may do. When I meet the messengers, I am not stalking the bums, asking them for the keys to heaven. No, I am not looking for it; it just happens to me. Are you with me? Please note this is important. I am telling you the core meaning of the story I just told you. This all happened unintentionally, by chance. I was walking to put wood sticks into the ground to mark the territory where I was planning to build a structure and got emanated with energy. I was not even thinking that there might be places of power here. I didn’t have such thoughts. It just happened and might not have happened, in fact. Everything happens in its time. Same with this mountain, it’s one event after another, that’s all.

Big Alexander told me that since I feel something at the place where I am, then it is special, and I am a special character.

– You know who you are, Alex. There is no mistake that you are exactly where you’re meant to be. This place is special and it is inevitable.

– Well, that is logical.

– This is a cradle of civilization, where life started in its entirety. The very first civilization started here, like the Ancient Egyptian civilization.

He was saying it not firmly, as a statement, but very casually, as if, by the way. Like, it is possible. I took note of it; it was stuck in my head, and later, I called the Mystic-old man. Actually, it was not me, it was my assistant who called. He told the Mystic-old man that he had a boss (talking about me) who had purchased some land in Karelia and wanted to know if he was influenced in making this decision or if it was his wish. The Mystic-old man answered that the boss was influenced; it was not his choice. My assistant asked, “Who influenced him?” The Mystic-old man said, “The Magi.” I started to google it. Naturally, I had

#alternativehistory #GreatWork #magnumopus #alchemy #axismundi

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elysian-i · 3 years ago

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Cranky

Harry Potter Writing Event

Summary: Ministry!Draco and reader have to stay and work late, will the tension ever lead to something more?

Warnings: Fluff, kissing, co-workers to lovers, Draco being a cocky idiot. They're both somewhat rivals too, and this is super short.

a/n: this is late because of personal reasons or whatever. anyways enjoy!

NAVIGATION

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"You complete pain in the neck!"

Well, she's angry you could say at the least— maybe that part's a bit too fucking obvious.

"Are you even listening now?" she fumed, Draco wouldn't be surprised if smoke came out her ears neither would he surprised if he found her attractive even doing something that ridiculous.

"Err— I'm sorry?" he said, snapping out through his trance of thoughts. The gaze she had on him would be enough to cut his throat. Would it he weird to think that she was beautiful?

He straightened his posture slightly and pressed his lips together, he was going a bit too easy on her. He was her superior and perhaps he deserved more respect, "Maybe watch your tone. I am your boss afterall"

"Whatever" she mumbled, and then turned the pages of the parchments to herself. Her gaze was focused and her fingertips moving over the smooth creases of paper.

Her attitude was justified, he'd made her stay for 2 extra hours, but by the end of it, he was sure that it would all make up for it.

"I was going to got out tonight, now I'm stuck her with you" her voice was a mixture of annoyance and sadness perhaps.

"Where exactly where you going out?"

She gave a sigh and pressed her hands on her hips "Just— out to a bar" he just gave a nod, and then placed his legs down from his table.

His eyes were intent and ravenous on her. He wanted her, she could tell and if anything she wanted him too, she'd never say it out loud though.

She hadn't given much too thoughts to her situation being too occupied with her office activities she had just brushed over them. But it was inevitable now.

She was with Draco, alone in not just his office, but the whole ministry had closed up, leaving them the only two at the Ministry. He had discarded his coat and his white button-up had several button undone, sleeves pushed up to his elbows.

"Were your plans to look for a companion for the night?" he raised a brow, tapping his fingers over his desk.

"What— y— you don't see me asking about your last shag" she quickly said defensively, making it quite clear that that was her motive for the night.

He snorted, "I did not mention shagging of any sort in my question"

She scoffed, "But it was what you suggested"

Draco rolled his jaw, "Maybe you should get some, you're quite cranky"

He stood up and streched, extending his arms and flexing his muscles as he did so. He could see from the corner of his eyes that she was staring at his bicep.

The lighting was a yellow— almost golden colour, and it flushed and glowed against her skin.

Just fucking kiss her.

But he couldn't, maybe simply because of the stubbornness in him or because of the courage that he lacked. The tension was undeniable but they weren't the ones to cut it with a knife.

"I don't even get why you're my boss"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I mean that, I'm better than you are. I was better at Hogwarts, and I'm better now"

This goddamn witch.

Draco glared at her and she glared back at him. You know what— maybe he will kise her, "Is that really what you think, Y/N?" he sneered.

"Yes! You are an arrogant rich snob! I can't believe I like someone like you, you're—"

She kept saying incoherent syllables and sentences, but his mind had stopped working the moment she'd unknowingly told him about her fascination with him.

Draco stalked towards her and she kept on fuming, when he stood in front of her, she didn't shut up.

"You probably got the job because of your daddy—" He cardled her cheeks in his hand and then suddenly crashed his lips on her.

She froze as he kissed her and then began moving her lips along with him. Her arms wrapped around his neck and she clung to him. He was kissing her bruising and ravenously. His fingers tangled at the base of her hair and his tongue brushed her lips before he slid it inside her mouth.

His kisses and his touch laced and burned through her like fire. She gasped and pulled away for a breath. "We just kissed" she said half smiling but her eyes were horrified.

"Shut up" Draco spoke before kissing her again and rising her into the fire that was him again.

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(follow @bellysstudy to be notified of my works)

additional tag: @draconisxcaput

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yandere-daze · 3 years ago

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Matchup Commission #5

Link to my commission information is here!

This is a yandere twst matchup for @messofavs! I gotta thank you again for leaving that tip on my Ko-fi page, that was very sweet of you 🥺 💕

I match you with..

Rook Hunt!

tw yandere, tw stalking

Rook in general is just a very curious person so to him, no one could be more interesting than someone that literally came from a different world or even a different universe. He really wants to find out more about you and the place you came from. You don´t seem to possess any kind of magic so does that also mean that your home town is very different from Twisted Wonderland? Rook wants to hear all about it so he will opt to invite you for a cup of tea in the Pomefiore dorm to have a chat. While Rook can be a bit eccentric, I do think he is easier to approach than the vast majority of the NRC boys, he doesn´t look outright scary after all and his words aren´t meanspirited either. Quite the opposite in fact, Rook likes to point out the beauty in everything and you are not excluded from that.

From the very first moment he saw he thought you were beautiful beyond words! And when he finds out that you are self-critical about who you are as a person Rook is very heartbroken. He loves absolutely everything about you and while he finds beauty in everyone, he finds himself drawn to you especially. And of course he´s quick to figure out why that is. He´s very aware of things like romance and love so the thought that he´s in love with you quickly comes to his mind and he fully embraces it too. He becomes determined to win you over now!

You may call yourself lazy or too blunt but Rook is quick to cheer you up. He really doesn´t think either of these things are true at all. Instead he likes to accentuate your positive traits. You´re polite to others when you talk to them and have an open ear. It feels like you really listen to what he has to say, even when others might be put off by his rather flowery language. Though he isn´t too fond of talking about himself usually, he feels more inclined to share details about himself with you, he feels like it´s only fair when he has gotten to know you so well by now. And on top of that, communication is key in a relationship so he has to set up a good foundation for that once you inevitably get together. To him it´s not a probability but a fact: You two will become the most beautiful and loving couple there ever has been!

Though there´s one single thing that bothers Rook a bit. Whenever your conversations turn to talk about your hobbies, you seem to get all embarrassed and clamp up, avoiding the topic at hand. While he thinks your embarrassment is very precious, he really doesn´t think there should be any secrets between the two of you. So if you don´t want to tell him yourself, he just has to find out for himself. He will start stalking after you when you think you are alone to find out all he can about you. It´s highly unlikely you would catch him doing it, he´s very experienced in that field. When he finds out you like watching anime, horror movies and even artistic competition shows he finds it very endearing. Did you really think he would judge you for that? He would never! Also as you can imagine he´s more than happy to talk about art with you. It´s something that´s very dear to him as well so the fact that you share this fascination even to a small degree reassures him even more that you are meant to be.

If anyone else were to make fun of you for your “nerdy” hobbies they should definitely watch out for their heads, they might find an arrow being fired at them out of nowhere if they aren´t careful. He is a hunter after all. Expect the same thing to happen if anyone dares to be aggressive towards you or yell at you. That´s very unrefined, isn´t it? They should watch their back when they go to bed at night from now on.

To end on a more lighthearted note, words of affirmation as a love language is something Rook definitely shares. He loves telling you over and over how magnificent and beautiful you are to him. He will even write love poems specifically for you, describing his deep devotion to you!

#my commissions #commission #twisted wonderland #twst #twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #rook hunt #twst rook #pomefiore #yandere #tw yandere #yandere twst #rook x reader #rook hunt x reader #yandere rook #yandere rook hunt #yandere rook x reader #yandere rook hunt x reader #tw stalking

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bluejayblueskies · 3 years ago

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For the Touches Ask Game, if you can, a little Jonmartin with Touching/9?

Thank you so much, I love your writing!!! 😭💕

touches prompt list

9 - holding hands across the table

i did a season two lunch dinner date fic! cw for mentions of paranoia/stalking and murder (in typical s2 fashion)

They’ve been having lunch together for two months when Martin asks, with enough stuttering that it takes Jon a moment to process his words, if Jon would like to get dinner with him.

Jon hesitates only briefly before agreeing. Between finding out about Martin’s CV and the newly delivered CCTV footage, he’s almost entirely convinced that Martin did not, in fact, murder Gertrude Robinson and that his various attempts to make sure Jon eats and sleeps and drinks tea are simply a result of Martin being… well. Being nice, he supposes. If overbearingly so.

Why Martin feels the need to coddle Jon, he doesn’t quite know. But if he’s being honest with himself, he’s… not complaining. His frequent skipping of meals often isn’t an intentional thing, born instead of his tendency to get so wrapped up in his work that hours fly by without him noticing, and while sometimes he’s irritated when his flow is interrupted by Martin’s cheery greeting, more often than not it’s… a relief. To step out of the Archives, away from the feeling of eyes on the back of his neck, and pretend like he isn’t working alongside a murderer.

Maybe a murderer. He… he doesn’t know. According to the CCTV footage, Tim and Sasha and Martin and Elias all have alibis. But he still can’t shake the feeling that he gets, sitting in his office or walking down the corridors or reading through statements, that something isn’t right.

That there’s something in the Archives that’s not supposed to be there.

So, it’s… nice to get outside. And as much as Tim may joke about it—or… used to joke about it, at least—Jon does, in fact, try to eat three square meals a day if he can remember to do so. Try being the operative word. He’s been… caught up in work lately, and often he glances at the clock to see that it’s well past ten and he’s accidentally skipped dinner entirely. He hadn’t thought Martin had noticed, given that the man doesn’t live in the Archives anymore and typically leaves promptly at five along with Tim and Sasha, but evidently, he was wrong.

As Jon sits across the table from Martin at the small café they’ve chosen for lunch, he has the fleeting thought that Martin’s been sneaking back and watching him work and that’s how he knows that Jon has been missing dinner. He lets himself feel it, takes a deep breath, and pushes it away with considerable effort. No, that’s not… he trusts Martin. He does. Or he… he wants to. He’s trying.

“Jon?”

“Hm?” Jon blinks up at Martin, who’s clearly waiting for a response. “Sorry, I-I didn’t catch that.”

Martin’s cheeks are dusted a rosy red. He fiddles nervously with the black ring on his finger—a bit thicker in width than Jon’s, the metal smooth and bright where it reflects the sunlight. “Is—is this Friday okay? At—at seven? I-I can, um, meet you at the Institute. U-Unless you’d like to meet there! That’s, er. That’s fine with me too.”

“The Institute is fine,” Jon says, picking at his sandwich with a frown. The bread is damp and squishes under his fingers. “Perhaps we can go somewhere a bit less… soggy.”

“R-Right, yeah. I, um. I was actually thinking… you know that new bistro o-over in Clapham? M-Maybe not, it’s, er. It’s new. But I-I heard it has good South Asian food, which, um. I know you like.”

Martin’s face is fully crimson by this point. Maybe we should sit inside next time, Jon thinks. Or at least in the shade. The sun is rather intense. Martin picks up his mug of tea and takes a long sip, staring resolutely down at the table once he’s done. Jon waits, but it appears that Martin is done rambling, so he says, “Yes, that sounds fine.” Then, because it’s polite (and not untrue): “I am… looking forward to it.”

“O-Oh? Oh!” Martin looks at him, a wide smile spreading across his face. “Y-Yeah, um. M-Me too.”

We should definitely sit inside next time, Jon thinks as the back of his neck grows warm, the tips of his ears surely darkening. Good lord.

He doesn’t think the heat is responsible for the way Martin’s smile makes something in his stomach flutter. He decides to blame that on the atrocious sandwich because… well. It’s as convenient an excuse as any.

Because Martin is just looking out for Jon’s wellbeing. This is no different than him bringing mugs of tea when Jon is recording statements or accompanying him to A&E to get stitches after Michael or inviting him to lunch in the first place. This is not, he tells his ridiculous, over-zealous, butterfly-filled stomach, a date.

Because it’s not. Martin is simply a coworker—an employee—and a friend. Who he trusts. Maybe. Probably. And thinks about sometimes when he’s unoccupied. His hands, mostly, which look very soft and very capable. His smiles as well, each one like a gift meant just for Jon. The way he carries the heavier boxes that Jon can’t quite manage and can reach the top shelves to retrieve statements without even having to clamber up onto the bottom ones.

All completely normal thoughts to be having about a friend

So, when Jon wears the soft maroon button-down on Friday that he’s been told brings out his eyes and takes care to arrange his hair into something other than the haphazard braid he’s been managing lately and digs a bottle of peach nail varnish out of the bottom of his drawer the night before to coat his fingernails with, it’s just because he feels like it. Not because this is a date. Because it’s not a date. It’s just dinner. With Martin.

Who shows up to the Institute at quarter to seven wearing a nicer jumper than usual—cable-knit and mustard yellow, looking incredibly soft to the touch—and with small black studs decorating the lobes of his ears. He smiles widely when he sees Jon, also standing outside earlier than agreed upon, and Jon almost turns around to see if someone’s behind him. But there isn’t. That smile, unfettered and full of joy—it’s… it’s for him.

Surely, Martin is just… happy to see him leaving the office while it’s still light out for once. He’s certainly chided Jon enough times for his habit of falling asleep at his desk. (Which he’s been trying to do less lately, if only because it would be easy for someone to sneak up on him while he’s unconscious and slip a knife into his back or poison his tea or shoot him three times in the chest or—)

“R-Ready to head out?” Martin says, abruptly halting Jon’s train of thought. He tries not to look like he’d just been theorizing about his own inevitable demise as he mumbles his assent and follows Martin away from the Institute and into the still-bustling streets of London.

And if he presses close to Martin’s side while they walk, well. It’s just because every brush of unfamiliar contact against him feels overwhelming, enough so to make him flinch away. And if he takes Martin’s hand for a small period of time, well. It’s just because the crowd has thickened and he doesn’t want them to get separated. And if he feels particularly warm in his jacket when Martin laughs awkwardly at his own joke and rubs at the back of his neck, well. That’s just from exertion. It is quite a far walk to the restaurant.

The bistro is lovely. Jon typically doesn’t go for places like this—tucked between two nondescript buildings with a glass front that reveals soft, intimate lighting within and flowers planted in boxes outside—but once they’re inside and seated at their table, it’s… oddly charming. Jon shrugs out of his jacket, and even though it’s the same shirt he’s been wearing all day, Martin compliments him on it with a flush. The change from frigid winter air to the warmth of the bistro brings heat to Jon’s face as well, and he rolls up the cuffs of his sleeves to just below his elbows. Martin makes a choking sound, but when Jon looks up with a frown, he has his glass of water pressed to his lips.

“Sorry,” Martin says once he’s placed the glass back on the table. “Just, um. Uh. Tickle in my throat. A-Allergies, you know.”

Martin’s face pinches in what looks like a repressed wince, and Jon tries to be reassuring. After all, Martin is taking time out of his schedule to be here with Jon, and Jon doesn’t want to seem ungrateful. His grandmother taught him proper manners, and besides, he is… rather glad to be here.

His commiseration about his own experiences with seasonal allergies turns into a mini-lecture on the species of pollen-producing plants in their area. He only realizes he’s doing it when the waiter comes by with a cheery smile and asks if they’re ready to order.

Jon’s mouth snaps shut mid-sentence. He has not even opened his menu.

“I. Um.” Jon is about to ask for more time—which he strongly dislikes doing, as he’s had the waiting staff forget more than once about his table and he’s had to go through the mortifying ordeal of hailing them down like a-a bloody taxi—when Martin tilts his own menu toward Jon and points to an item in the middle of the page.

“They have chicken karahi and naan. I, er. I heard it’s good if you’re… interested.”

Jon blinks at the menu in surprise. “That… sounds great, actually. Er, medium spice, please.”

Martin orders his own squash curry, and the waiter takes their menus when he departs, leaving the spot in front of Jon oddly empty. Jon taps his fingers on the newly barren tabletop a few times, trying and failing to remember where he’d left off in his lecture. Ultimately, he gives up, deciding that Martin isn’t going to be interested in hearing about all of that and he’s already said enough on the subject.

Then, Martin says, “So, you were saying—about the pollen?” and something in Jon’s chest squeezes, an emotion he doesn’t know the name of. Relief, maybe, as Martin’s words manage to spark his memory and he picks up his train of thought again easily enough. Yes, that’s… that’s probably it.

The first few times they’d gone to lunch, Jon had made an effort to stop himself from rambling, as he was prone to do any time someone gave him the opportunity. He’d engrossed himself in his sandwiches and rice bowls and mediocre Chinese takeaway in order to keep from launching into an explanation of the origins of said folding takeaway containers or the documentary he’d watched recently about the Zhou dynasty. And the first few lunches had been… awkward. It wasn’t because Jon thought Martin was a murderer—he doesn’t think he’d have agreed to go for lunch if he truly believed that Martin might harm him. It was just… how things like this went when Jon was involved. He knows he struggles with casual conversation, and he’s never understood the purpose or execution of ‘small talk.’ He would be perfectly content to eat and exist in silence, except all too often he feels expected to provide some sort of conversation or entertainment, upon which point the silence becomes horribly oppressive and stress-inducing.

But he also knows that talking too much can be just as bad as not talking enough. His grandmother had always told him so. So he suffered through the awkward silences for the first few days, and Martin had let him, clearly assuming that if Jon wasn’t speaking, he shouldn’t either.

Then, around their fourth or fifth lunch together, Martin had begun to ask him questions. They were casual, genuine, and so clearly targeted at Jon’s interests that Jon was convinced that Martin was somehow following him home or searching through his computer history or—or something. On their eighth lunch together, Martin asked Jon about the newest exhibit at the museum—it had been about sharks, if Jon remembers correctly—and Jon couldn’t help asking how Martin knew that he’d gone to see it. He hadn’t explicitly asked if Martin had been following him, but he’s sure the sentiment was clear in his eyes.

The tips of Martin’s cheeks had grown red, and he’d said that Jon had mentioned a few days prior that he was planning on going. All traces of fear and paranoia had left Jon’s mind then, replaced by surprise and, beneath it, something warm and bubbly. Martin had remembered.

Their conversations had gotten a lot easier after that.

Despite how Martin seems to enjoy Jon’s long-winded tangents, he… does still make an effort not to hold a completely one-sided conversation. So, a few minutes into the continuation of his pollen discussion, he finds a natural stopping point and says, “So, er. You… like being outside?”

Not the most… articulated question Jon has ever asked. But Martin doesn’t seem to mind. His fingers curl around the bottom of his water glass, his palms smudging the condensation. “Yeah, w-when I can find the time, I suppose. I-I try to go for walks around my neighborhood if I can, if it’s not too dark by the time I get home, and there’s this park in—”

Martin cuts off with a small cough. He lifts his glass and takes a long sip, while Jon sits and drums his fingers against the table and tries not to bounce his leg too noticeably. “Sorry,” Martin says as soon as the glass leaves his lips, giving Jon an apologetic smile that somehow seems… artificial. Like it’s been plastered atop another, heavier expression. “S-Something in my throat again.” He hesitates, then continues, “There’s a park in Devon that I-I like, whenever I’m in that area.”

Devon’s quite a trip away, Jon thinks but doesn’t say. Why do you go to Devon? he doesn’t say. Is that where you go on Saturdays? he doesn’t say, because—well. It’s rather embarrassing, among other things, to admit to the fact that you’ve gone through your employee’s desk calendar because you thought he might have shot an old woman three times in the chest and had plans to do the same to you. Particularly when you are having dinner with said employee.

Ugh. Probably best not to think about the fact that he is technically Martin’s boss when he’s sitting three feet away from him at a candlelit table on what, to an outside observer, might look startlingly similar to a date.

But it’s not a date. Because Martin didn’t say it was a date, and he’s just trying to care for Jon, in that… over-the-top way that he does. Jon tries to muster up some irritation at the reminder that he’s likely being coddled, just for habit’s sake, but comes up empty.

He hasn’t been truly irritated with Martin in quite some time. He… doesn’t really know when that changed. When Martin became a source of comfort, rather than of annoyance.

“Jon?” Martin says. Right. Martin is still sitting across from him.

“Right,” Jon says, trying to sound like he hasn’t been drifting off in a hundred different directions. “That sounds… nice.”

Martin’s lips curl up into a small smile. “Yeah. I-It is. It, um. It makes the trip worth it, to be able to sit on one of the benches and just… write poetry.”

Jon has read some of Martin’s poetry, though Martin doesn’t know that. Jon doesn’t like poetry. Jon liked Martin’s poetry. These are, apparently, two truths that can and do coexist.

Jon does not mean to say, “Could I hear one?” But it appears that he is weary enough and relaxed enough and distracted enough that his verbal filter has small, critical holes in it. Damn.

Martin sputters. “U-Um, well, I-I suppose… I could, I-I do have a few, er. M-Memorized, if you—you really…” He trails off uncertainly. “You’re. Um. You’re sure?”

Well. Nothing to do but lean into it, Jon supposes. “I wouldn’t have asked if I weren’t sure, Martin,” he says, a bit snippier than he intends. The tips of his ears are hot, and he is deeply thankful that the dimness of the bistro hides the way they’re surely darkening.

“R-Right.” Martin clears his throat, looks down at the table. “I-I suppose I’ll just… do a short one?”

He proceeds to recite, in quiet, surprisingly stutterless lines, one of the poems that Jon already knows from the notebooks he’d left behind in the Archives. It’s… his favorite, if he were forced to pick one. But there is something different—something more—about hearing Martin speak the words aloud rather than simply reading them on a page. Martin pauses in places Jon hadn’t thought to pause, lingers on words he hadn’t thought to linger on, and adds a softness to the ends of lines and phrases that Jon finds himself enraptured by.

Logically, he knows that it’s not good poetry. He’d begrudgingly taken a poetry class during uni, had hated every minute of it, and had donated all of his books to charity shops the moment he wasn’t in need of them anymore. He’s read Dickens and Poe and Whitman—all the works that are considered great representations of their art form.

Martin’s poetry is nothing like theirs. His lines don’t follow the same rhythms; his words are clumsier, his images less profound. But still, even though Jon knows that it is technically not good poetry, he… he likes it.

He tries not to analyze that feeling too closely.

“So, um. Yeah,” Martin says after he finishes, rubbing his thumb over his ring. “I-It’s not really… great work, heh, you know, s-sorry.”

Jon is not the comforting sort. He’s been told that he’s too sharp at the edges, skin too full of spines and thorns. So he surprises himself, and probably his grandmother from beyond the grave, when he reaches across the table and takes Martin’s hand in his. It’s soft and big, the pads of Martin’s fingers lightly calloused from a past history of manual labor, and Jon thinks just for a moment how small his own hands look in Martin’s. He surprises himself even more when he says, honestly, “I enjoyed it, Martin.”

Martin blinks at him, eyes wide and owlish. His hand is rigid in Jon’s, like he’s afraid that if he moves, he’ll frighten Jon away like a skittish cat. “O-Oh.” It’s hard to tell in the dim light, but Jon thinks Martin might be blushing. “Well. T-Thanks.”

Jon nods once stiffly. He does not retract his hand. At first, it’s because he doesn’t think to do so, too wrapped up in the feeling of his skin against Martin’s. Then, it’s because it’s been long enough that doing so would be more awkward than keeping his hand there. He asks Martin about the inspiration behind the poem, for want of another conversation topic, and Martin talks about the trip he took to the countryside once and how it stuck with him, and Jon’s hand remains atop Martin’s. Martin takes a drink from his glass, and Jon takes a drink from his, but both of them use their free hands, as if in unspoken agreement that this is just how things are now. Jon’s hand is resting atop Martin’s and it will be until he has just cause to move it and that is just the way of the universe. Nothing to be done about it.

Their food comes, and looking extremely regretful about the fact, Martin extracts his hand from underneath Jon’s and reaches for his fork. They don’t mention the loss, and it’s quiet for a period of time while Jon eats his chicken karahi and Martin eats his squash curry and Jon tries not to openly moan at how good the food is.

Something must show on his face, because Martin smiles warmly at him and says, “Well? Was that Yelp reviewer correct when they said that the chicken karahi is ‘literally the best food they’ve ever eaten in their entire life’?”

Jon swallows a bite of admittedly very good chicken. “Well. I don’t know that I would quite go to that extreme, but it is rather enjoyable.” Reminds me of the way my grandmother used to make it, he doesn’t say. That feels like a date conversation, and this isn’t a date.

(It feels very much like a date.)

(It isn’t a date.)

“Good,” Martin says. Then, he smiles, wide and unabashed and like a ray of sunlight, and Jon quickly buries himself in his food again so he doesn’t say something foolish like I really like it when you smile at me like that or Is this a date? or I would very much like this to be a date.

They finish eating, and the waiter takes away their plates with the promise of bringing the check soon. Jon’s hands rest on the table, index finger fiddling with the edge of the cloth placemat in front of him. He’s in the middle of trying to convince himself that yes, it would be ridiculous to take Martin’s hand again, you should definitely not do that on this very much not-a-date, when Martin reaches out and takes Jon’s hand in his. Properly takes it, pressing their palms together and slotting his fingers easily between Jon’s and knocking their rings together as he squeezes gently.

“Um,” Jon says eloquently. He should very much not ask if this is a date. “What are you doing?”

Nope, that’s worse. That’s definitely worse.

“Oh!” Martin lets go of Jon’s hand immediately, and Jon does not try to chase Martin’s hand as it retracts, thank you very much. He’s more dignified than that. “S-Sorry, I thought… I, um. Never mind. I-I shouldn’t have… sorry. Again.”

“It’s fine,” Jon finds himself saying. Then, in an effort to do damage control: “I… didn’t mind.”

“You… didn’t?” Martin seems confused, which is understandable. If Georgie were here, she’d tell him that he’s giving, quote, ‘mixed signals.’ He’d never quite understood what counts as ‘mixed signals,’ and he doesn’t know that he ever will.

“I did not,” Jon confirms. “I just… I suppose I…”

He should not ask if this is a date. He really, really shouldn’t.

“Is this a-a date?”

It appears he’s found another one of the holes in his verbal filter. Lovely.

Martin’s eyes grow impossibly wider. He makes a series of sputtering sounds as Jon waits and tries not to bounce a hole through the floor with the heel of his foot. “You—you didn’t…” Martin seems to have a miniature internal debate with himself, his face cycling through a dozen different expressions over the next few seconds. Finally, he sighs and says, eyes fixated on the table between them, “I had… intended it to be. Though I suppose if—if you didn’t know it was a date, that. Um. Kind of defeats the purpose.”

“Does it?” Jon’s mouth says without his permission.

“I-I mean… you can’t really have a one-sided date,” Martin says with an awkward laugh. The waiter is nowhere to be seen, which Jon is grateful for and disheartened by in equal measure. This situation would certainly be easier with a convenient escape.

“I… suppose.” Jon worries at the edge of the placemat, pulling on a loose thread. “Though, it’s… if this were a date—or, I suppose, if I-I’d known it was meant to be a date—I… wouldn’t have acted much differently.” He pulls harder at the thread, feeling a bit bad for the way the fabric bunches around it. “I… would not have been… that is to say, I would have liked it if… rather, to say that I didn’t think about it would be, er… well, incorrect.”

Martin stares at him, clearly unable to make sense of Jon’s admittedly disjointed, half-finished sentences. Jon sighs and says, under his breath, “I am not opposed to considering tonight a date.”

Martin’s cheeks are red enough now that Jon can see the flush, even in the dim light. “U-Um. What?”

“I am not opposed,” Jon repeats, louder, “to considering tonight a date.” Lord, that’s mortifying to say out loud. How do people do this? To emphasize his point, he sticks his hand out, palm-up on the table. It’s stiff and awkward and he probably looks like a cat with its hackles raised. He focuses on the cable knit of Martin’s jumper so he doesn’t have to see whatever amused or mocking or disappointed expression is on Martin’s face as he realizes just how bad Jon is at all of this.

Martin is quiet for a moment. Then, just as Jon is about to pull his hand away and flee for the exit, he feels a touch against his palm. Martin’s hand settles tentatively atop his—not weaving their fingers together, not even properly holding it, just… pressing together, palm to palm. Jon can feel Martin’s heartbeat faintly against the tips of his fingers where they press against the inside of Martin’s wrist. “Okay,” Martin says softly, like Jon has just given him a precious gift. “Then it’s a date.”

It’s a date. Jon’s skin has absolutely no reason to prickle at those words, nor does his stomach have any reason to squeeze and sprout butterflies. He nods, a bit brusquely, and opens his mouth to say something—god knows what—when the waiter appears next to their table, somehow having both comically bad and impossibly good timing.

Martin pays, despite Jon’s insistence that he can cover his own share, and then they’re back out in the cool night air, making their way toward the tube station. The first few minutes are quiet. There’s a tension between them that feels more anticipatory than awkward. Their hands brush once, twice. Then, on the third time, Martin hooks his fingers around Jon’s and clasps his hand in his, and Jon lets out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding.

They hold hands all the way to the tube station, up until they have to part ways to take separate lines. Jon runs through all the things that he thinks he’s supposed to say in a situation like this—I had fun tonight or We should do this again sometime or… something—but ends up saying instead, “How long have you…?”

He trails off, squeezing Martin’s hand a few times thoughtlessly, like a warm, bony stress ball. Martin seems to infer the rest of his question, however, because he squeezes Jon’s hand in return and says, “It’s… new for me too, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Jon nods and squeezes Martin’s hand again. He thinks that’s going to become quite a habit if they keep this up. “Right.”

Martin hesitates, before letting his grip on Jon’s hand loosen slightly. “We… we don’t have to do this again if you don’t want to. I-I know things are complicated right now, and I…” He worries his bottom lip between his teeth. “I want to do this again, for… for what it’s worth. But I get it. If you don’t, that is. For—for any reason.”

“I do,” Jon says, surprising himself with his conviction. “I-I don’t… you’re right. Things are… complicated.” That’s certainly a word for it. “But I… I trust you, Martin. O-Or… I want to trust you.” He takes a deep breath. “I am making the decision to trust you.” It’s hard and it’s terrifying and there’s an animal instinct deep within Jon that’s telling him not to expose his vulnerable side, but… somehow, despite all of that, Martin makes him feel… well. Not safe, but as close to safe as he can get right now. Which is an accomplishment in its own right.

Martin exhales slowly and gives Jon a small, hesitant smile. “Thank you. I-I know that’s difficult, and I…” Martin squeezes Jon’s hand, just once. “I-I’m happy.”

And Jon finds that he means it when he says softly, “I’m happy too.”

Martin gets on his train, and Jon gets on his. And despite the ever-present itching beneath his skin and the persistent belief that something isn’t right and the knowledge that he is likely a hunted man, from the moment he lets go of Martin’s hand to the moment he closes his eyes and curls onto his side in bed, that happiness remains.

#tma #the magnus archives #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #jonmartin #ask #anon #this got so incredibly long... i hope you like it!#my writing #my fic

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otptings · 3 years ago

Text

Puzzle Piece

♡Idol: Wong Yukhei

♡Requested: Yessss Hi, I ult Lucas and love your writing, could you write a story with praising kink? A little bit of fluff too, just very cute and sexy stuff! He’s treats y/n as a goddess! Thank you and keep going with your amazing stories!

♡Word Count: 3.1k+

♡Genre: Angst, Smut mixed with Fluff

♡Warning: gossip, insecurities, mentions of weight gain, semi public sex, marking, slight breeding kink, cream pie, fingering, overstimulation, multiple orgasms (2)

♡Synopsis: Stylists noonas aren't always correct, especially when it comes to Lucas' relationship.

♡A/n : this is the fourth way that I've written this one shot, sorry that it is so late I just couldn't figure out how I wanted to do it and kept messing around with various ideas. Those other ideas might make an appearance on my page later on. Thank you for requesting, I hope you enjoyed it and if you did please like, reblog, or donate to my Ko-Fi in my bio, thank you so much for reading

Dating an idol is always an adventure, and after two years you’d think that you’d be used to everything that comes along with it. Having your picture taken while out and about, dates being interrupted by random schedules, fans recognizing one or both of you despite your masks and precautions, even being stalked by crazy saesangs. But there are still some things that you don’t think you’ll ever get used to. Fans asking for a picture of you and Lucas together, the random fan edits that will get set to your dms about your relationship, or even some of the endless praise that fans give you.

Another thing you’ll never get used to is the random VIP tickets and backstage passes gifted to you courtesy of Lucas. Bypassing the normal concert security checkpoints and being led directly to your special front row seat where WayV’s security watches over you diligently. It always gives you an adrenaline rush being able to properly see Lucas in his element in person, not just over a monitor in a cozy backstage room to keep you safe. Along with Lucas being a gigantic flirt, constantly winking at you or making sure to look in your direction while singing specifically saucy lyrics. Backstage is a whole nother story.

Being allowed backstage at certain award shows always leaves you in awe. Seeing the workers rushing around and doing all of the little things that make the concert possible in the first place, seeing all of the idols along with the boys warming up and goofing around for their vlogs. It’s a sight that made you grateful that you were ever able to go to concerts. This was only made better because Lucas always made sure that you had a place backstage during award shows while he was preparing for his performances. Winking at you while he’s getting his makeup and hair done, flirting with you while putting on his mic pack and in-ears, pulling you into a quick kiss before he’s hoarded backstage, and you’re led either to your observation or the crowd. It’s one of the things you can never get used to, even now while walking towards your observation room, Taeyong waving at you while he walks past getting ready to watch the performance himself.

“I don’t know what Lucas sees in her.” Your steps faltered as you passed by the dressing room, hearing the voices of the stylist noonas. “She’s not even that pretty and is always draping herself all over Lucas.”

“It’s so embarrassing. She’s so annoying.” You unconsciously walked closer to the door, trying to hear more of the conversation, feeling slight embarrassment run through you.

“She’s only using him for his money and fame. Like what girlfriend always asks for free VIP tickets?”

“A golddigger.”

“Exactly. I just don't understand how sweet Lucas falls for it.” Peeking around the corner you saw the two stylists giggling from where they sat on the couch.

“I mean, I’m so much prettier than her. And I’m skinnier than her, Lucas should really be dating me.”

“Plus Lucas deserves someone good for him, good for his image. She’s only bringing it down.”

“Are you okay?” You jumped feeling someone grab your shoulder, accidentally hitting the door causing the two stylists to stand up abruptly. Turning around you saw that it was only WayV’s managers, surely coming to check on you since you’ve never made it to the room. When you glanced back the stylist noonas at least had the nerve to act embarrassed while cleaning up their supplies. Nodding your head you allowed him to lead you to the observation room, checking on you once more before leaving to go backstage.

You tried to watch the performance, focusing on Lucas as he rapped and danced but their words kept flowing through your head.

Were you always clinging on to him? Sure you held his hand a lot but that’s because he was actually the clingy one. What if he was only doing it because he thought that you wanted it? Always hugging you, and kissing you only because he felt obligated to do it? Were you just using him for money and fame? Sure having fans recognize the two of you and compliment your relationship was a fun side effect but that’s not the only reason you were in a relationship. All of the concert tickets were gifts, you never purposely asked for them. You also never declined them. You may not have been as skinny as female idols but that doesn’t mean that you're fat. Right? Lucas is the one always taking you out on dates or buying you dinner and constant snacks, what if you were gaining weight. What if you were getting fat?

Shaking your head you tried to forget all of the negative thoughts and focus on the concert, Lucas didn’t try so hard convincing your manager all those months ago to allow you to come to concerts just for you to not even pay attention. But they refused to leave, the negative thoughts swirling around your mind so aggressively that you hadn’t realized the performance was over until Lucas gently knocked on the door, snapping you out of your thoughts.

“Babyyy.” Lucas’ face popped up in the opening, smiling happily at you despite the sweat dripping down his face. Weakly smiling at him you stood up reading to open your arms for him before the words of you being clingy echoed in your mind. “Did you like our performance?”

Nodding your head you gave him two thumbs up. If Lucas realized your awkwardness he didn’t let in on it, only opening the door fully and holding his hand out to you. “Are you hungry? I can find something for you to eat since we still have a couple more hours here.” Hastily shaking your head, you tried to make your smile bigger, hoping that it would distract Lucas from your strange behavior considering you never declined food.

“I’m fine Lucas, anyway don’t you need to get out of your performance clothes?” Lucas nodded his head before tossing his arm over your shoulder, leading you back towards the dressing room to put on the suit that he arrived in. Or so you thought.

Instead of taking you back to the dressing room the rest of WayV was occupying he led you into one of the single bathrooms, quickly pushing you inside and locking the door behind the both of you.

“Lucas? We don’t have time for a quickie. You need to change your clothes and meet up with the boys.” Lucas turned back around toward you, trying to resist the urge to place a kiss onto your pouty lips and get to the root of the problem.

“What’s wrong?” You opened your mouth to deny it but Lucas quickly cut you off, “Don’t tell me that it’s nothing because I know you better than that. You’re being really quiet, and not greeting me with a hug and kiss like you normally are.” Sighing you rubbed your hands up and down your arms, knowing that it was no use lying to Lucas.

“I feel like you could do better than me. Not someone who always takes your tickets and clings onto you. You'd be better off with another idol.” Staring at your feet you waited for the inevitable rejection that was to come, Lucas would realize all of the stylist noonas were correct and would leave you. Maybe he’d get with someone in Twice, they’re all gorgeous and skinny. Lucas’ hands cupped your cheeks, forcing you to look at him while fighting the urge to let out a laugh at your obscene statement.

“Do better? Why would I want to do better than the person who’s perfectly made for me?” The typical heat rising to your cheeks and urge to smile didn’t happen as usual, so focused on the negative words of the stylists. “What made you think like this? Actually, who made you think like this? The tickets to concerts are all gifts and I don’t even have to pay for them, I actually cling onto you more, and I like your affection anyway. It makes me feel special, and no one else is better for me than who. So once more, who could be better than my gorgeous baby in front of me?”

“The stylists.” You muttered, not wanting to ruin the sweet moment of Lucas always knowing the right things to say.

“Which stylists? They had no right to say any of that about you especially when it’s false.”

“Two of your stylists, the ones with the red and blonde hair.” Lucas nodded understandingly, a plan underway to make sure that they knew better than to speak about you like that.

“”Can I show you how much I love you?”

“Don’t you have to go back to the crowd soon?” Lucas only shrugged.

“I need to make sure you’re good first.” Timidly nodding your head a smile spread across Lucas’ face as he spun the two of you around and pressed you against the door. Lucas’ right hand cupped the back of your neck, keeping you in place while his lips pressed against your. His left hand slid underneath your dress, fingers toying with the lace that covered your thin panties, not wasting any time to get you aroused. You could feel the smirk on his lips when you nipped your bottom lip and sucked on it drawing out a loud moan from you. Lucas pulled away and you rolled your eyes, already knowing that teasing was going to follow.

“Can’t wait for everyone to hear all the pretty noises you make for me.”His lips reconnected with yours, this time easily parting allowing him access. Slipping his tongue into your mouth you moaned again at the taste of him, the sweet candy that he always eats before performances still coating his tongue. You’ve never been more grateful for the easy access that a dress gives you - besides when Lucas bent you over in one of the unoccupied dressing rooms during Resonance filming, a very awkward conversation ensued when Taeil accidentally walked past - when Lucas pulled your panties to the side and slid two fingers past your folds and leant down to your neck.

A fun fact that not many people don’t know is that Lucas is a great multi-tasker, and it shows in the way that his fingers skillfully worked over your clit as he sucked a bruise under your ear, much too high to be covered with the low neck of your dress. All you could do was run your fingers through his hair, biting back the whimper that wanted to come out of your throat. His fingers slipped past your folders, finally pushing in two fingers causing you to throw your head back against the door. Lucas could only lean back and admire you, the growing whimper that you were hiding finally bubbling past your lips, hickeys lining your neck showing off that you were only his.

“Do you really think I’d want anyone else? No one else is as sensitive as you, dripping all over my fingers.” Lucas’ voice paired with his fingers brushing over your g spot caused another loud moan to slip from your lips, if it wasn’t for the intense pleasure that Lucas was giving you, you might’ve had the nerve to be embarrassed over how wet you were. “You’re so perfect baby, just like this.”

“Please Xuxi.” You couldn’t help the desperation that bled into your voice, Lucas always knowing your body better than you did, knowing all of the little things that made you wet, and knowing the perfect way to use that knowledge to have you coming undone underneath of him. Even now as you looked at him, his stereotypical smirk on his face as he watched you beg him, a multiple of ‘please’ and ‘Xuxi’ leaving your mouth as his fingers continued to work on your g spot bringing your orgasm dangerously close.

“You can cum baby. But we’re still not done.” That’s all that you needed to hear before your orgasm hit you, a loud cry on your lips as his fingers continued to move, helping you ride out your orgasm until you were overstimulated and working towards another one.

“Xuxi.” Lucas couldn’t deny that he wanted to give you another orgasm on his fingers, especially as your thighs started to shake and your hands pulled his hair causing him to let out a groan, but as he felt his cock twitch he knew that he really just wanted to be inside of you. Plus, both of you did need to be out in the audience to hear the award results or else that would be just another scandal that he would have to deal with.

“What do you want, baby? Use your words, I’ll give you anything that you want.”

“Need you, please Xuxi, need you to fuck me.” Lucas cooed at you, loving just how needy you were.

“You know I can never say no to my baby girl.” You felt heat rush to your cheeks as his patronizing tone, but it soon left as he pulled his fingers from your cunt, placing them in his mouth and sucking your cum off of them. Letting out a loud exaggerated moan that caused you to weakly smack his arm.

“You’re annoying.” Lucas only smiled happily before pulling his pants, sighing from relief as his cock was finally free from the tight confine of his leather pants.

“You love it.” Gripping the back of your thighs Lucas lifted you up, causing you to squeal before wrapping your legs tightly around him. Leaning in and placing multiple pecks on your lip, a giggle leaving you as your arms slid around his neck.

“Maybe I do.” Lucas leaned back so that he could see you properly, your swollen lips parted slightly as you watched him, curious of his next move.

“You know that I love you. Right? It doesn’t matter what anyone else says about our relationship, you're perfect for me.” All of the attention from Lucas made you shy, a shocking feat after dating for two years, opting to place your head in the crook of his neck as you nodded. Lucas grabbed the base of his cock with one his free hands, lining it up with your entrance and bottoming out with one thrust. Your arms tightened around his neck and you couldn’t help the breathy moan that you let out at the feeling of his thick cock stretching your walls. Lucas was no better, squeezing your thighs tightly as he let out a low groan, the feeling of being properly inside of you with your warm walls tightening around him.

“Fuck, you’re always so tight.” Lucas slowly started to thrust inside you, a little awkward at first due to the angle but soon he had set a quick pace that had you pulling his hair harshly as his cock massaged your walls.

“You think anyone else could take me like this?” You let out a loud whine at his words, feeling the tile digging into your back from how hard he pressed you against it, his balls slapping against your ass with every brutal thrust. “No one else could take my cock as perfectly as you, fuck, no one else could even make me as hard as you.” Another loud moan as he changed the angle of his thrust, reaching deeper spots that were previously untouched by anyone else in your past, only proving his point of being made for him as his cock perfectly massaged over your a spot causing your eyes to roll back. “You’re made for my cock, and so pretty while taking it at all.” Lucas leaned back slightly, never stopping his brutal thrusts as one of his hands cupped your chin, sliding his thumb over your bottom lip, which you happily accepted and sucked on, swirling your tongue around causing Lucas to let out another loud groan.

“My pretty girl, I wouldn’t trade you for anything in the world.” Lucas’ sweet words greatly contrasted his brutal pace that had you steadily clenching around his cock, rapidly bringing you to your second orgasm at a pace that you couldn’t even warn him before it was washing you, you release coating his thighs as you let out a muffled moan around his thumb.

“Gorgeous.” Lucas took his thumb from your mouth, increasing his pace as you cried out from the overstimulation. “So close baby.” Lucas barely got his words out before he was twitching inside of you, loud groan leaving his mouth as his warm cum spurted into your tired cunt, leaking out as he continued to fuck it deeper into you, riding out both of your orgasms.

His hands slid from your thighs up to your waist, wrapping his arms around you tightly while nuzzling your neck. Both of you enjoying the comfortable silence, a moment of calm before you will be forced back out to deal with the chaos that comes with an award show. Lucas gently set you down on your shaky legs, trying to hide his laugh as you gripped the wall for support.

“This is your fucking fault. Now I’m going to walk around with cum in my panties.” Lucas only shrugged while pulling wiping your cum off of his cock, tossing away the napkin before pulling his pants up that were surprisingly not noticeably soiled.

“Nuh uh. I had to make sure my gorgeous girlfriend knew that I wanted no one else but her. Now you know there’s no one else that I would risk getting pregnant except for you.” Scoffing you tried to hit Lucas, only for him to catch your hand and pull you closer to him, his typical love sick look fading into something more serious.

“You are the only one that I want, you’re my other half, my missing puzzle piece. I don’t care what anyone else says, you are the only person for me. Okay?” Nodding your head you muttered a quiet okay, Lucas placed a quick kiss on your neck before turning you around. “And look just how pretty you are all marked up.” All embarrassment that was hidden while y’all where having sex showcased itself in that moment, your ears and cheeks heating up as you looked at yourself. Hickeys lined your neck, weirdly resembling an L in a way that you had no hopes of trying to cover it with anything more than a gigantic hood over your head. There was no way you could walk out of the bathroom like this.

“Now all the stylists know you’re mine.”

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honeypiehotchner · 4 years ago

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intelligence & issues (Hotch x Fem!Reader) -- chapter eighteen

Helloooo I almost posted this yesterday as a thank you gift and then I totally got caught up in schoolwork. Gotta love finals season am I right

Anywho, thank y’all so much for 1.7k followers <3 Here’s a long ass chapter that’s a good ol’ mix of fluff and angst xx.

Chapter Warnings: waking-up-together kinda fluff, no sexytimes but there are some ~suggestive~ comments of course, ANGST at the end (i’m so sorry), the end of this case is very near on the horizon

Previous chapter || Fic Masterlist

Aaron wakes you when his first alarm goes off at 5a.m. It’s way too fucking early in your opinion, but you know he wants you to have time to go back to Emily and JJ’s room to get ready for the day.

Still, being woken by a kiss on your forehead is something you can see yourself getting used to. Not to mention using his chest as a pillow all night.

You tilt your head to capture his lips in a sweet kiss, not caring that the both of you probably have disgusting morning breath right now.

He pulls away first, nudging your nose with his before he rests his forehead on yours, looking deep into your eyes. “Good morning, sweet girl.”

You can’t help the smile that splits your lips. “Good morning.” You close your eyes in your flustered state, burying your face down into his chest. “I don’t want to leave.”

“I want you to stay,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “But we’ve got a job to do.”

“I know,” you sigh, opening your eyes to bring yourself back to reality. Then, you hook your arms around his neck, starting to grin. “Same thing tonight?”

He smirks, wrapping his arms around your waist. “Depends on how much of a good girl you are today.”

“Ooh, a challenge,” you tease. “I dunno…I’m feeling pretty bratty this morning.”

You feel his arm tighten around your shoulders, drawing you closer to him in warning.

“I’m just teasing,” you murmur, propping your chin on his chest, giving him your best eyes.

But he isn’t fazed. “I know. I’m keeping track.”

So, naturally, you pout. “Fine.”

“Strike two.”

“I have a feeling this isn’t like baseball. Three strikes and I’m out?”

“Are you trying to find out?”

“Mm, maybe?” You grin, but, as always, the FBI Agent part of your brain comes back to life. “If we didn’t have to be downstairs soon, I’d say yes. But I probably should go get dressed.”

“Understood,” Aaron replies, a small grin on his lips too. “I suppose even as your boss, I can’t keep you here.”

“As my boss, we’re technically not even supposed to be in the same bed together,” you remind him with a snort, but seriousness comes over him. “What?”

“We still need to talk,” he says quietly. “Really talk about this, but right now I just want you to know...I don’t regret this. I want this. No matter the consequences.”

“Me too,” you whisper, fingernails gently scratching the base of his skull, your weak attempt at comfort. “Do you think there’ll be consequences?”

He sighs, and you rise and fall with his chest. “I don’t know.” He pauses. “If Strauss finds out somehow, maybe. I don’t know if keeping it from her until she inevitably finds out is better than telling her ourselves, but…”

“We’ll figure it out,” you assure him with a small smile. “But you wanna do this?”

Instead of answering you verbally, he pulls you closer for a soothing kiss, coaxing all your worries away.

“I want to do this,” he says, knowing you need to hear the words from his voice.

“Okay,” you murmur, taking a deep breath. “What do we do about the team?”

His eyebrows furrow. “What about them?”

You give him a tired look. “Come on. They know.”

“What?” He blurts, sitting up a little, taking you with him. “Rossi knows.”

“And Emily and JJ and Garcia,” you chuckle. “I didn’t even tell them. Emily saw us at dinner one night. JJ figured it out from the phone call a few days ago. Garcia just...knows.”

“What about Morgan and Reid?”

“Are you kidding me? Morgan knows. Have you seen how he irritates the shit out of me every day?”

“Exactly,” Aaron says. “He does it every day.”

“Have you noticed how he’s been doing it especially when you’re around?” You raise an eyebrow. “Come on, you’re our supervisor! I thought you were a better profiler than that!”

“We have a rule not to profile each other,” he says sternly, obviously a little butthurt that he didn’t see that everyone else knew.

“A rule that none of us stick to, by the way,” you laugh. “We just don’t voice it. But we do. Trust me.”

“I didn’t think you’d figured that out yet,” he admits.

“Eh,” you shrug. “It wasn’t hard. I caught myself profiling everyone. I figured I couldn’t be the only one who does it by accident.”

Aaron only smiles. He’s amazed by you every single day. Sometimes he wonders if you even know how intelligent you are. If you even know the full scope of your mind. Maybe you don’t, maybe no one does.

“But anyway,” you swerve back on track. “I feel like it should be unspoken, but just...no PDA, you know? It’s fine that they know because honestly I think they knew before we knew, but let’s not make it a big deal.”

“Agreed,” he nods. “We still need to be professional.”

“Exactly,” you breathe, glad to be on the same page.

His second alarm goes off, the one for 5:30, and you groan, dropping your forehead to his chest.

“Why does it have to be so early?” You mutter, your lips brushing against his skin as you speak. It sends a hot wave through him, one that causes him to promptly shift your body off of him. “What are you doing?”

“You need to go get dressed,” he says. “And if you stay here wrapped around me any longer, I won’t be able to let you leave.”

You grin. “Point taken.”

You roll off the mattress, fully aware that he’s looking at your ass, and at your entire body, marveling at the way you look in his shirt.

“Oh,” you say, doing a dramatic turn, watching his eyes very quickly move back to your face. “Do you have any boxers? I probably shouldn’t walk down the hall in just a shirt.”

He’s scrambling for a pair of his boxer briefs, the thought of anyone else seeing you just like this making his blood boil frighteningly fast.

“Thanks,” you smirk when he hands them to you. And you put them on in front of him, partly for a show and partly because the look he was giving you demanded it. “I’ll see you in an hour or so?”

He nods. “Try not to spend too much time gossiping.”

“Oh, please,” you shake your head. “They’re getting all the details.”

You’re out the door before he can even catch you, and you just know you’re going to get it later.

+++

Emily and JJ are on you as soon as you open the door, both of them dressed and ready, arms folded over their chests like Moms whose daughter stayed out too late last night.

In a way, that’s completely accurate.

“And where have you been?” JJ asks, fully entering her Mom persona.

“Uhm, a friend’s house?” You play along, trying to inch your way to the bathroom.

But Emily knows your move, and stands in front of the bathroom door. “Is this friend named Aaron?”

“...maybe.”

And the façade falls, because they both cheer, pulling you into a hug.

“Finally!” Emily screams.

“Finally, what?” You laugh. “The night before I was also in his room.”

“Oh, we know,” JJ assures you.

“Finally, you admit it,” Emily clarifies. “So...details?”

“So...we have to be downstairs soon and I need to get dressed,” you walk past them to your bag. After grabbing your clothes, you turn back around to find them still staring at you. “What?”

“You’re in his shirt,” JJ says, still smiling.

“And boxers,” you laugh, pulling the hem of his t-shirt up a little. “Guys, don’t make this a big thing.” You pause, heading toward the bathroom. “He was a little upset that I knew everyone knew, and he didn’t.”

“How did he not?” Emily scoffs. “He can be so dense.”

You shake your head, shutting the bathroom door to get dressed.

When you emerge from the bathroom, now dressed and looking more presentable, Emily and JJ are finally getting ready, too. They still watch you like a pair of hawks stalking prey, though. You just hope they won’t make any comments later.

That’s wishful thinking and you know it. But hopefully the comments will be held in at least until you’re all on the jet, heading back to Virginia.

+++

When you walk out of the elevator with Emily and JJ, you find Hotch standing with Rossi, the former looking much more grave than you left him. And he’s on the phone.

“Shit,” you mutter under your breath, picking up the pace. You glance at Hotch, silently asking, and he nods. “There’s another body,” you fill in Emily and JJ, ignoring the strange look that Rossi gives you.

Once Hotch hangs up, he looks immediately at you. “There’s two bodies. Male and female.”

“What?” Emily blurts. “In the same location?”

He nods. “Same house.”

About this time, Morgan and Reid step out of the elevator, jogging over when they see the team’s faces.

“What’s going on?” Morgan asks.

“Two bodies this time, same house, male and female,” you explain briefly.

Hotch jumps in. “JJ: you, Reid, and Y/N head over to the precinct and get Garcia on the phone. Get her to find everything she can on these new victims.”

You nod, glad he’s not sending you to see anymore bloodied bodies. Just the thought has a chill running down your spine.

You don’t want to admit it, but it’s hard not to picture Trevor’s face. It’s hard not to feel the thrill of the possibility of revenge. But you know that’s only the irrational part of your brain. You know you wouldn’t really act on those thoughts.

But they’re still there.

+++

Back at the precinct, you’re dialing Garcia and stirring a cup of shitty coffee. When she picks up, she sounds about as frizzed as you feel.

“Good morning, my angel sent from Heaven,” she sings, sounding far too bright for seven in the morning. “What can I do you for?”

“Good morning,” you chuckle. “We’ve got two new victims.”

“Mm, I know,” she groans, and you begin to hear typing. “Morgan texted me their names, I was waiting for your call.”

“Yep, we just need you to work your magic, that’s all.”

“That I can do,” she replies, no doubt through a smile. “Speaking of magic…”

You already know where this is heading. “Seriously? Who told you?”

“JJ and Emily texted me,” Garcia admits. “But you know I was going to weasel it out of you eventually, anyway!”

“Yes, I know,” you roll your eyes, tossing the coffee stirrer and empty cream and sugar packets in the trash. “Listen, how about this: Once this case is over, we’ll all have a girl’s night at my place with a bunch of junk food and wine, and I’ll give all the details -- whatever they might be at that point.”

You can’t let yourself believe that you’ll still be together because who knows what could happen. Anything could happen. The universe has a bad habit of getting in the way of your love life.

“You know the way to my heart,” Garcia sighs dreamily. “It’s a date. Speaking of dates, it looks like our two victims were married.”

“Married?” You nearly yell. Talk about a plot twist. “And the guy brought our unsub home for a one-night stand?”

“Looks that way so far,” Garcia says with a grimace. “Caroline Merritt, 35, was the CEO of her own company and traveled a lot. It looks like she changed flights yesterday and landed around eleven p.m. She checked her car out of the airport parking lot at eleven forty-five.”

“Great, so she might’ve walked in on our unsub.” You rub your forehead from the stress. “What about the other victim?”

“Jasper Rhodes was 34 and a part-time worker at the local Walmart,” Garcia lists off. “They had been married for three years, but Caroline never changed her last name.”

“Don’t exactly blame her,” you remark. “Alright, which one had allegations?”

“I’m about to burst your bubble, babycakes. Neither of them.”

“Really?”

“Really,” Garcia echoes, just as solemn. “Caroline has a squeaky clean record, aside from one speeding ticket when she was seventeen for going forty-five in a school zone. Jasper also has a clean slate for a record, but he does have one DUI from when he was twenty-two. Nothing else since.”

“It’s been twelve years, so for all we know, he could be sober for a decade now,” you mutter. “Okay. Do they have any connection at all to our other victims? Please say yes.”

“Cross referencing as we speak,” Garcia says, typing furiously. “Almost done… Negative,” she sighs. “I’m sorry, babe.”

“Don’t be sorry,” you shake your head. “Thank you for being such a wizard, as always.”

“It’s my specialty,” she quips. “So...do I get some details about you and Hotch now?”

“Goodbye Garcia…” You chuckle, ending the call before she can ask anything else.

You walk back into the conference room, shaking your head sadly at JJ who looks up with hopeful eyes.

“Garcia found virtually nothing. Caroline got a speeding ticket at seventeen, and Jasper a DUI at twenty-two. Nothing since. And no connection to any of our other victims,” you relay the information, ending it with a sip of your coffee.

“This unsub is good,” JJ says, exasperated. “How is she always three steps ahead of us?”

“She’s not, really,” Reid says, and you can feel something else coming on. “It’s like she knows we’re closing in on her, so she’s going after those who have no reported allegations. She’s not as far ahead as we think, but maybe that’s what she wants us to think.”

“Reid, dude, you’re sounding like a fortune cookie right now,” you laugh. “I get where you’re going with this. But unless they find some DNA at the crime scene, we’re back to square one again.”

“Maybe…” He trails away, getting up to look at the map.

Something is going on in his head, but you’re not sure what. He’ll tell you when he’s finished with it, you’re sure.

In your pocket, your phone starts buzzing. Thinking it’s Garcia, you pull it out and answer without looking, but Garcia’s voice isn’t what you hear on the other end.

“I’m heading back to the precinct,” Hotch says.

“O...kay,” you furrow your eyebrows, mouthing, ‘Hotch’ to JJ. “Why just you?”

“I need to show you something,” he says slowly, like he’s struggling to get the words out. “The unsub left a note.”

“What does it say?” You ask, wondering why it’s like pulling teeth to get him to speak.

“It’s addressed to you,” he finally says, and all the blood drains from your body. “It’s in an envelope and sealed. Your… Your name is on the front.”

You’re not sure what to make of that at all.

“Okay,” you say, your brain unable to really process it. “Okay, we’ll look at it when you get here.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Aaron,” you whisper, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Don’t say that to me. You’re scaring me.” You pause. “What are you sorry for?”

“For this note,” he replies, voice quiet. “For this unsub targeting you, and now for scaring you.”

“What does the note say?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “I didn’t open it.”

“Okay. Just...hurry, I guess.”

“I’m turning into the parking lot now.”

“Okay, see you in a sec,” you murmur, ending the call.

You look up from the phone to find both JJ and Reid staring at you, concern swimming deeply in their eyes. You don’t even have the energy to offer them a reassuring smile. Nothing about this is comfortable for you.

Why would the unsub leave a note addressed to you?

Hotch walks through the precinct doors a few moments later, a man on a mission as he walks directly to the conference room. You’re explaining to JJ and Reid about the note when he walks in, and you fall silent upon seeing him.

He hates that he even called you to warn you, but he had to do something. His mind was racing on the drive. He had to hear your voice, and he knew you were bound to ask why he was coming back on his own, what’s so urgent, so he knew he’d have to tell you.

But the fear in your eyes right now is something he never wants to see again. Ever.

“Where is it?” You say, your voice wavering.

Slowly, Hotch pulls the envelope out of his jacket pocket. It’s in a plastic bag, which is standard protocol for evidence, and you begin searching for a pair of gloves.

You find a pair and start to slip them on, grimacing at the way your hands shake, and using your peripheral vision to see that Aaron is watching you closely.

Once you’re gloved up, he hands you the plastic bag. It feels much heavier than it should.

Carefully, you pull out the envelope, swallowing down the nausea you’re feeling. As Hotch said, your name -- Agent Y/N L/N -- is scrawled on the front in messy handwriting. Fortunately, Reid can examine that, and this letter if it’s handwritten.

You break the seal on the envelope, flinching slightly, and ignoring that you did. But Aaron saw it.

You pull out the note and half of you cries in relief because it is handwritten, and the other half of you feels sheer terror because your business card is taped to the top left hand corner.

“Shit,” you cuss, closing your eyes.

“What?” Aaron asks, taking a step closer, lowering his head to meet your eye level.

“My business card,” you say, opening your eyes again, hating the way things look blurry for a moment. JJ and Reid are just fuzzy figures at the table when you look around the room. “It could’ve been anyone at the meetings. I handed my card to as many that would take it. There’s no way I’ll remember everyone, or even half of them, I mean, I ran out of cards, I had to go stand by Morgan because--”

“Okay, okay, slow down,” Aaron stops you, putting both hands on your arms. “Look at me, please.”

Slowly, the world comes back into focus and you meet his brown eyes, finding your peace there like you have so many other times before. You focus on the weight of his hands on your arms, grounding you, bringing you back.

“I know it’s difficult,” he says. “But you need to breathe.”

You nod, sucking in a deep breath a little too abruptly, not even realizing you had been taking shallow breaths in the first place.

“Good girl,” he whispers, so low that he’s almost mouthing it, careful not to let JJ or Reid hear. And it’s not sexual or sensual this time. It’s comforting. “Can you read the rest of it?”

You nod. “I can help you end your suffering. I can help you avenge. I can help you heal. It doesn’t have to be this way.” You pause, looking up from the note, looking between Hotch, JJ, and Reid. “What does that even mean?”

“Did you talk about your experience during the meetings?” Reid asks.

“A little bit, but I barely scratched the surface of it,” you admit. “And I didn’t mention any names. I might hate him, but...I’d never send a serial killer after him.”

“I know,” Hotch says. “We’re not accusing you of that,” he adds gently. “It’s clear our unsub feels a connection to you now. Something you said must’ve resonated deeply with her.”

“But all I said was that he was my fiancé and that I didn’t report him, so that still gets us nowhere. She’s still a ghost.”

“She’s not a ghost,” he says sternly. “We will find her. You’ve already seen her once.”

“Yeah, but I don’t remember seeing her, Hotch.”

“That doesn’t matter. What matters is she’s reaching out. Which means we’re close.”

“Not close enough,” you protest, tossing the letter back on the plastic bag on the table. “I need to take a walk.” You move toward the door, and he’s following you, so you add quietly, “Alone, please.”

Hotch nods, and watches you go, more worried than he’s ever been in his life.

+++

When Rossi, Emily, and Morgan return to the police precinct, they spot you sitting alone on a bench outside the front doors.

“I got this,” Morgan says, hopping out of the car and heading to you, gesturing for Rossi and Emily to head inside. They share a look and nod, disappearing into the precinct to leave Morgan alone with you.

You don’t even look up from your hands when you see Morgan coming over from your peripheral vision.

“What’s up, kiddo?” He asks, standing in front of you.

“I’m really not in the mood right now, Derek.”

“Too bad,” he shrugs, sitting next to you on the bench, stretching his arm out behind you. “What’s going on? You know I’m just gonna keep buggin’ you until you tell me.”

You snort. “I know.”

“So…” He pauses. “Tell me. It’ll save us both a whole lotta time. And it’ll save you a whole lotta stress, sittin’ there with all that in your head.”

You know he’s right. And you know he’s the only one who really gets it.

So, you tell him what’s wrong.

“The unsub left that note just for me. My card was taped to it, Morgan.”

“And?”

“What do you mean and? It means I laid eyes on her, maybe talked to her, handed her my fucking card, and I still didn’t know it was her.”

“We’re not superhuman, Y/N. We only see what they show us. She probably put on a mask while talking to you.”

“Well now she’s still out there--”

“Listen to me. I ran out of cards too, remember? We started using yours. I easily could’ve given her your card. Hell, I was there with you, I probably looked at her a dozen times, too. Are you gonna yell at me for not recognizing her?”

“No--”

“Then stop doing it to yourself, you hear me?”

“I just… She feels a connection to me. What does that say about me?”

“That you’re a relatable person,” Derek offers, causing you to glare at him. “Hey,” he raises a hand in surrender. “I’m just being logical. It doesn’t say anything about you. Because a serial killer’s view of you is not who you are. You are who you are.”

“Thanks for the fortune cookie.”

“Don’t get that tone with me, kid,” he replies tiredly. “You know you’re not really mad at me, so don’t take it out on me, okay?”

“I know, I’m sorry,” you rub your forehead. “I’m just…”

“It’s not your fault, Y/N.”

“I know that.”

“I know you know that, but you still need to hear it,” he says. “And I’ll always be here to tell you, got that?”

You look over at him with a small smile. “Got it.”

He smiles too, glad to see you’re feeling better. He shoves your shoulder lightly, playfully. “Come on. Let’s get back in there.”

“Yeah,” you nod, standing up.

He walks ahead, but you stay still, wondering if you should even ask what you’re about to ask. But Derek notices your hesitation and turns back around, studying you.

“Spit it out,” he says, knowing there’s something.

“The unsub is trying to talk to me,” you say, shrugging your shoulders nonchalantly. “So...what if we set up a trap.”

“What?” Morgan deadpans, raising his eyebrows, turning his body to completely face you.

“What if we--”

“Use you as bait?” Morgan finishes, incredulity coating his words.

You nod. “I wasn’t going to word it like that, but--”

He scoffs, looking more and more pissed off as the seconds go on. “Hell no. Are you outta your damn mind?”

“No, I’m not. I’m--”

“No,” he stops you, holding up his hand, pointing at you. “Don’t you dare finish that sentence. Don’t go there. We will find this unsub, and we will do it without you sacrificing yourself.”

“I wouldn’t be sacrificing myself!” You protest. “You guys would be there. You’d have my back.”

“We can’t predict everything this unsub will do, Y/N, you know that,” Morgan fires back. “And I’ll be damned if I let you throw yourself into danger like this. It’s not happening. You hear me?”

SIghing, you nod. “I hear you.”

“Have you even told Hotch about this?”

“No.”

“Good. Don’t,” Morgan replies. “You’ll just get a lecture and you and I both know you don’t need that right now.”

“I know.”

He pauses, shaking his head. He steps forward, wrapping you in a hug, eyes closing when he feels you burying your face in his neck. “I love you, kid,” he whispers. “And I know it’s hard, but you got this, we got this. And it’s gonna be okay. Okay?”

“Okay,” you nod into his neck, taking a deep breath. “Yeah.”

Next chapter

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cryinginthebackseat · 3 years ago

Text

you’ve got more poison than sugar - part iii

part i part ii AO3

Fandom: Call Of Duty

Pairing: Russell Adler x Bell

Words: 6.572

Warnings: here’s where the smut tag comes into play, boy with a copious amount of power play and yeah, it’s messy af

Author’s note: after three months, a couple of brainstorming in the bathtub, delays, revisions and self-doubt, chapter 3 is finally done. i hope you'll enjoy it. also, i don't think i have to warn you what will go down in this chapter.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Fast forward to twenty-four hours since he discovers that Bell is fucking someone, Lazar drops about half a dozen of dusty manilas on his desk. Adler’s eyes sweep over them. He recognizes Bell’s handwriting etched across the memo attached to one of the folders right away.

He picks it up. It’s becoming second nature to him lately; drawing himself to her, an ineradicable magnetic force pulling his end of the pole.

A muscle on his jaw twitches.

For a moment, Adler despises her. He allows himself to really despise her. She’s started something in his head- a war; an intangible, unmanageable riot and if he lets her, she’ll rearrange him until he’s insane.

And he can’t let that happen. He’s the one holding the leash here, not vice versa.

“This is what we have on Dragovich’s activities in Yamantau,” Lazar informs him, pulling him back down to earth.

Adler stands, keeping his face easy, neutral. “Is this everything?”

“So far, yeah. Bell says she’ll let us know if she digs up something more from the archives though.”

Bell- the Bell in question- can be heard sighing, like she turns the corner and finds herself at a cul-de-sac; hunching over her desk, reading, her fingers keep buttoning and unbuttoning the top of her shirt, madly distracting (him).

She remains in her seat, for pretty much the remainder of the day. Eyes glued to the pages before her, factory-like dedication. She hardly looks up when Sims borrows her pen or when Park stands over her, sipping her coffee, inquiring about her progress behind a plume of smoke.

The only- truly time Bell ever lifts her head from her work is when Mason approaches her desk. She gazes up at him, notes forgotten, a kittenish smile etched across her face, come-hither eyes that could have time hung in motion, or held at ransom, perhaps. Mason’s own smile is full-blown, too wide, too genial, as he stalks closer and closer to her table, her whirlpool.

Adler does a double-take, like his eyeballs only functioning for the first time. He might as well be hallucinating it because no... this can’t be right, can it?

But then Mason is touching her hand, a blink-and-you-miss-it movement that was not lost on Adler and oh, she’s looking at him hopefully now.

The knots in Adler's stomach are vertiginous. Realization rings in his head like a gunshot, nearly leaving him in a daze. There’s no denying it. Not when the exchange unfurls before his eyes like a broken, warped film reel and there’s nothing to stop him from seeing it.

The thought of her and him haunts the rest of his waking hours, until there’s absolutely no telling how far he’s fallen into his own pit.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ ( Alex Mason fucked her that night.

Mason was in her bed; beside her, above her, under her. Inside her. He imagines her fingers digging into the mattress as Mason rolled her onto her stomach, mouth trailing down the ladder of her spine. Their breaths intermingled in the seraphic glow of her hotel room.

Alex Mason fucked her. It shouldn't leave an acrid taste in his mouth, but it does.)

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ She haphazardly reaches for the mug and takes a hearty gulp of its content. It’s not hers.

“Oh god, I’m so sorry,” Bell says, mortified and places the mug down noisily on the desk. “I’m sorry, I thought it was mine.”

The rim of his mug is now stained with her lipstick. Adler bites down on a careful retort.

He thinks he knows now. Why he lets it happen, why he thinks of her in metaphors, why she gives him that vertigo. The answer is at the tip of his tongue- he can almost taste it, like spoiled milk or rancid gardenia. But it’s much easier to ignore it until the words grow diminuendo and disappear, that he thinks he imagined it all along.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

You can’t obsess without turning around and getting lost in the middle.

Or losing a part of yourself in the process.

The idea of obsession, to obsess, perhaps is a far riskier thing for a person to have than playing the knife game, blindfolded with absolutely no telling where to start.

Yet we all do it, despite knowing the very dark flipside it possesses.

Perhaps it’s the very nature of humans, tucked deep within the pigeonhole of our minds, suffused by the very promise of bogus achievements that usually leads most of us insane, thinking that obsession is essential to living. But without it, artists are corporate slaves, slack-jawed know-it-alls moving stiffly in the middle of the hullabaloo that is our world; Paris would be just as unrecognizable today without Napoleon’s artistic legacy.

Obsession is good.

Obsession is dangerous.

The very dichotomy should have us all warded off of it.

Yet, again, we all do it. Again, and again, and again until it taints our veins. And it’s always far too late until you realize, that yes, now all you see is her, the air has been poisoned by her perfume, that her name is now forevermore engraved in your skin, like an overgild tattoo.

That you end up in downtown Berlin, out of sight, out of mind.

He finds them there, in a shoebox-sized cafe. Ill-lit, low-ceiling, coffee-stained floor that shows the wear of three decades worth of boots, pantoffels and high heels and Adler is sitting in his car, nursing a beer with but one all-consuming, perplexing thought:

Bell and Mason.

Someone told him they arrived together, about an hour ago. The cafe has become their usual haunts, his source said, ever since they’ve returned from Ukraine and Adler just can’t wrap his head around this- them. In his head, they’re wholly different entities. Two proper nouns separated by a conjunction, or a comma if mentioned in a list.

They’re the kind of opposites that he thought don’t attract, yet here they are.

Perhaps it's inevitable, both are products of brainwashing. Maybe they sensed one another, speaking in code, like detecting an RF signal from a nuclear bunker.

Then the doors to the cafe swing open. They step outside, cheeks flushed, his arm wrapped around her waist, her lips glueing on the slope of his neck. Shaded eyes watch them from the opposite street, his disgust obvious.

Now, Adler wonders how this all began. Someone must have made the first move.

He wonders if it was her. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

"You wanted to see me?"

Adler looks up from his desk and nods. "Lock the door behind you."

And Alex Mason, the root of all this trouble, obeys. Looking somewhat uncertain under the scrutiny of the harsh lights, and shuts the blinds. Unlike Woods, he takes a seat at the chair Adler sets up before the desk.

"What is it?" Mason asks, after a long, almost unending silence. His curiosity seeps through the room.

There is very little control when the first domino falls. Oftentimes, once it starts, it’s like crossing the Rubico n and the next thing you know, you are lying flat on the ground in some theater, 23 fresh stab wounds decorating your body and the beat of your pulse seems dim and distant, everything feels cold except your blood; warm, bright and thick like gasoline, crawling into every space until it goes into your throat and strangles you, kills you. Fini, kaput.

But then again, he's not Caesar and this isn't Rome.

Adler pushes the first tile.

"How long has this been going on?" he asks without fanfare, tight and composed as ever. Never mind the way his eyes ignite like cold blue fire behind his glasses.

"How long has what been going on?"

“You and Bell." And Mason blinks at him in surprise. Bingo. "I saw the two of you leaving for her hotel from a cafe in Downtown Berlin last night. So don't bother skirting your way around this.” Adler leans forward across his desk. He’s a man on a mission- there’s no stopping him now.

“Now, let me rephrase the question, how long have you been fucking her?"

"Hold on, hold on, you were stalking us?" Mason asks, waspish.

Adler winces inwardly. "I was keeping an eye out for my asset.”

“Asset?” Mason hisses, like Adler just blasphemed. “Jesus Christ, Russ, is that all she ever is to you? An asset? She’s your protégé, for god’s sake- a person! What is wrong with you?"

"Plenty. Or apparently, so I've been told.”

"I don't find you amusing.”

“I'm hardly ever,” Adler parries. Mason remains silent, yet the tilt of his lips translate exactly what words can't. "And you haven't answered my question."

“Bullshit. I don’t owe you anything."

"Listen, Al-"

"No, you listen to me. You may be calling the shots around here, but this has absolutely nothing to do with you. Whatever- or whoever - we're doing in our spare time is none of your business, do you understand? So you can just drop it," Mason seethes, bitter, and, much to Adler’s surprise, rises to leave. “We’re done here.”

"That's where you're wrong."

Mason has only managed to put a few paces between them before he turns around, once again stepping inside this metaphorical boxing ring.

"What?"

"This has everything to do with me," Adler says coolly. "You said it yourself, I'm the one who calls the shots here. Meaning, anything that could potentially fuck up my operation is my concern and I have the right to intervene should it needed. This, being a case in point."

Mason looks at him like he’s grown a second head. “What the hell does fucking her have to do with this whole operation?”

“Everything.” He says it like quiet resignation. It’s time to acknowledge the truth, he thinks, to that unusual idea that has been swirling in the deep recesses of his mind, that everyone’s weakness is varied.

Achilles had his heel, and Adler has her.

“I don’t understand.”

“You don’t have to, Al. You don't even know her."

Mason gives him a level stare. "And you do?"

Adler is so hard-pressed to say 'I made her' but even he wouldn't stoop that low.

"That is beside the point,” Adler tells him instead as he turns to his vice- one of them, at least- and lights it.

“There is literally no point to this conversation.”

“The point is, stay the hell away from Bell. I'm saying this for your own good."

"My own good or yours?"

Adler does not flinch, but his hand does ball into a fist under the table, how the fingers curl and then flex.

"Don't be ridiculous. I gain nothing from this except assurance." It's a lie, it's the truth. There's no in between. He doesn’t know which is which anymore. "You, on the other hand, I'm sure the old ball and chain wouldn't be near as thrilled about hearing this if word ever gets out."

Mason is quiet for a beat.

"Is that a threat?"

"Only once I pulled the pin," Adler replies, a dangerous undercurrent in his voice.

But the thing with Mason, he'll come to realize later, is how much, like with Bell, weaving through his mind is like trying to grasp for purchase in the dark as he, once again, does the unpredicted and smile- a venomous grin warps his face, like he’s mocking him, challenging him to move his piece on the board and make this mistake.

Adler stares back, surprised despite himself.

He shocks him further by saying, "Go ahead, then. Pull the pin, throw the grenade, tell her. See if she cares."

Adler’s eyes narrow at his askance. He then drags his attention to Mason’s left hand, and something grave and familiar rises in his chest.

The absence of the metal band around his ring finger tells him why.

“You know where to reach her. If anything, I’m sure she’d trust your words better than anyone else’s. So please, do it.” And Mason’s so goddamn sanctimonious about it. He’s clearly expecting this particular reaction out of Adler. It only leaves Adler angrier.

Another long pause stretches, heavy and unkind.

"Fine. Maybe she won't mind, but I'm sure the Agency wouldn’t be as tolerant.” Adler takes one last drag of his cigarette. He has that ‘Having nothing, nothing can he lose’ look on his face that makes Mason frowns. “Not when you’ve been fraternizing with the enemy.”

"What?”

"Bell. She’s not who you think she is, Al. Tell me, who do you think is the sorry bastard we saved in Trabzon?”

Mason blinks. His face is blank with shock, then he shakes his head. And he keeps shaking it, almost manic. If he laughs, which one would come first, he wonders, the gun or his fist pummeling the side of his face?

“You’re lying.”

“And why would I lie to you about this?”

"No, no, no, Woods- he told me the guy’s dead,” Mason says, his words are shaky.

“He’s not. And he wasn’t a he."

A crease forms between Mason's eyebrows, the starting of another frown.

“Hold on, if she’s helping us get Perseus then why is she the enemy?”

"Because she doesn't know that."

"Doesn't know what?"

"That she's the enemy."

Mason holds his gaze for a moment, his expression tense, like a slingshot.

And that cold elastic band finally snaps.

“What did you do to her?” He’s openly glaring at him now, mouth tight, an icy fury that is no longer dormant and for the first time since Adler has known him, he finds the man dangerous.

Adler takes a steadying breath. “We did what had to be done.”

"You sick son of a bitch. You brainwa- You-” Mason clamps his mouth shut, trembling hands finding his head. “Shit. How could you?"

Adler ignores his colorful outburst.

“She resisted every form of interrogations we threw at her, Al. We had no choice but to implement MK-Ultra as a last resort. We needed what’s in her head.” Mason is silent in reply. Adler continues, “Look, it’s nasty business, I know, but some of us have to cross a line just to make sure that line's still there in the morning. And as much as I hate agreeing with Hudson, he’s right. We need to preserve our way of life.”

“That doesn’t give you the right to play God,” his voice is resentful and crisp. “Do you have any idea what you are doing? You could jeopardize everything, and for what? You’ve seen what this- this experiment did to me, this won’t end the way you think!”

“Lightning never strikes the same place twice.”

"You’re really willing to gamble on that?”

Adler scowls. “I don’t gamble, Mason. I calculate. And if by some chance I was given a second chance, I’d do it all over again. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

Mason doesn’t say anything at first, his loaded gun stare never falters. Then, “The flag may be different, but the methods are the same.”

"What was that?”

“Someone warned me, a long time ago, about how people like you will use people like me or Bell as pawns in your own game. You’d do whatever it takes to get what you want- and my, how you get results, don’t you? But you’re actually no different than the rest of the assholes you're fighting against,” Mason tells him, like he’s spitting out acid in Adler’s face.

“Bell may be the enemy- heck, she could be the architect behind all the chaos Perseus has done, but what you’re doing to her is vile and unethical. There are many ways to make her spill the beans, yet you chose the most immoral method there is out there. I sincerely hope you rot in hell for this."

Before Adler could formulate a response to his tirade, Mason stands to his feet.

“You want me to stay away from her? Fine. Consider this as my formal resignation. After Yamatau, I’m done. I’m out of the team. And if you know what’s good for you, you stay the fuck away from me because I don't ever want to see your face again, do you hear me?” he snarls. “If you think Woods is dangerous, Adler, just remember I nearly could have killed my own president."

Then Mason turns on his heel and walks out of the room, once and for all. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The fist is very much expected, and so does the pain that follows.

"You're out of your fucking depth, shithead," Woods spits, venom lacing his words.

Adler doesn't even bother to retaliate.

He doesn’t see the point. He didn’t think it would get this far. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The garage grows quiet and stodgy with now Mason and Woods are out of the picture. Everyone settles back into their own normal rhythm, the same routine before both men set their feet here almost a week ago.

Hudson doesn’t take the news of their departure kindly, naturally. He stands in Adler’s office, pacing, fuming. Adler ignores him, trying to nurse the skull-splitting migraine he's having at his desk instead. The nasty black eye hidden underneath his glasses. A secret locked, the key thrown away.

His headache, thankfully, has subsided when Sims takes a seat on the other side of the desk, hours later after Hudson left.

"I'm not trying to cause an alarm here, but you'd better watch your back."

Adler's brows furrow but doesn’t look up from the papers before him. "And why's that?"

"'Cause I think you just pissed off the wrong beast," Sims tells him. Adler pauses, then lifts his head to look at his cohort. There's genuine worry flashing over his face.

“Are you talking about Bell?”

“Who else?”

If she's a beast, then what am I? What he wants to ask, but there's a knock at the door and he swallows the words down his throat.

"Come in," Adler says, pretending to be reading again.

The door opens and Bell, fucking Bell, enters his office. It's like watching a tiger pass by your hiding spot in near dark. Neither he nor Sims breathes a word.

Bell's gaze immediately swings to him, like a cosmic pull. She's watching him as she wanders over to the desk and the weight of her stare burns him like Greek fire.

He pushes the documents close, all the while returning her stare. He is never the one who backs out of a challenge, and at this point, he knows that she probably knows that. Maybe that’s why she initiated it in the first place.

"Bell, what is it?" Adler asks firmly, in possession of his full power in this place.

Bell produces three diskettes from her pocket. Something odd definitely shining in her eyes.

"These have been lying on Lazar's desk for hours, but he's busy, so I thought I'd deliver them to you myself," Bell says. And he's trying to work out on her angle but she is unreadable. As always.

Adler nods, frustrated and indignant. "You can leave them here. Thank you."

It is only once the woman leaves that the two agents share a dark, significant look. That was too close.

And it goes without saying, something needs to be done about this. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

March 7th. A's insistence on raising the dosage is illogical. Recent behavioural analysis indicates depression. Will monitor for the next few days. Considering lowering the dosage instead. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The elevator reeks of smoke, cheap Soviet air freshener and something far more poisonous than the devil’s spider, silky hands.

It embodies the woman standing next to him right now- this special animal, emotionless, a constant mystery wrapped with a warning sign.

Adler is tempted to shut his eyes.

Or get out of here. He doesn’t dwell well in this atmosphere, this limited space shared with her alone. He probably should have listened to Hudson about taking Bell for this mission, but she’s the only one he trusts who won’t fuck this up. Not to mention her spotless Russian has proven to help them blend in with the crowd seamlessly.

He needs her, whether he would admit it aloud or not.

But she puts his head in such a spin.

She’s been near-mute since they departed from Germany. She barely acknowledges his questions and orders, barely looks at him. She’s been treating him as if he’s another shadow on the wall.

He rubs the side of his jaw. Something does need to be done about this.

“Are you going to stay quiet forever?” Adler asks. He’s bad at this, but he can’t stand her silence for much longer. Not to mention, they’re at the Lubysnka- the fucking lion's den. If she wants to wallow over Mason’s absence or sinks into whatever melancholic feeling she’s in, she can do it later.

Bell hums, her mouth curls up like serpentine. Adler sketches a confused frown. And she says, “I don’t know. Should I?”

And then, sudden and swift, Bell undoes the cuffs of her uniform. Beady eyes never leave his.

The sight catches him off guard. Somewhere in his mind, he curses something like ‘you’re a beast’ and ‘what the hell are you?’ at her, all in negative connotations. The effects she inflicts on him is maddening.

“What are you doing?” Adler doesn’t bother to hide his surprise.

Bell shrugs and gestures to the duffle bag at their feet. “Gearing up.”

Oh. Embarrassment wells up in him. Fucking hell, this woman will be the death of him.

Her fingers quickly move on to the buttons, still indifferent, nearly tearing them from the seams. The first glimpse of her skin and Adler can’t help but give in, openly stares at her in a way he has never imagined before. Her clavicles like daggers glinting in the lamplight.

Curiosity is a dangerous and heavy load.

He should have closed his eyes.

“Enjoying the show?” Her voice pulls him back from his musings. Her eyes still zero in on him, cutting him to pieces.

Her cleavage comes into view.

The lines on Adler’s face grow taut.

“What do you want, Bell?” He asks, intending for a bark but it ends somewhere like a plea.

“I want many things. As of right now, I want Alex’s cock inside me.” And Adler nearly chokes on his own breath. Bell, eagle-eyed as ever, caught the movement. “But it seems someone insists on being in control of everything, isn’t he?” she snaps.

Adler’s back goes rigid. Trepidation bubbles up in his chest.

Of course, she knows.

“It's not about control.” Adler turns around. He doesn’t quite know what he’s avoiding at this point, her flesh or the truth. “It’s about what’s right.”

He hears her uniform touches her floor as she laughs, mirthless, like broken chandeliers. “I didn’t know whose cock I’m riding is any concern of yours.”

“It is when he’s a member of the team,” he seethes. “What you’re doing with Alex will only lead to complications. And I can’t have tha-”

“Because this is all about you, isn’t it? It’s about upholding your precious reputation in the Agency, controlling the narrative the way you want it no matter how many characters you kill off in the process. It’s always about what you want.” Bell interrupts, not missing a beat. “You selfish motherfucker.”

"This has nothing to do with my reputation in the CIA."

She scoffs. "Spare me the crap, Adler."

Adler turns to fully face her again and holds his arms open, the way someone is facing the firing squad. “Fine. Fine, yes, I’m a selfish motherfucker. I did it because I thought it could ruin the operation. Is that what you wanted to hear? Now, what are you going to do about it?”

She says nothing at first. He silently catalogues her movements as she steps towards him now, half-naked and furious. He feels pinned.

Then, “What do you want me to do about it?”

His mouth dries at the implication. She is temptation, benediction, the coarse ice block before the carver.

How terrible it is to lose control, even just once.

A knowing, vicious smirk flashes over her face. Adler feels like he’s just shown his hand.

“You are one selfish bastard and a coward to boot, aren’t you?” Bell sneers before he has a chance to respond. “At least, Alex was brave enough to make the first move, but you…” her gaze raking up and down his figure coldly, a jeweller presented with second-grade imitations. Wind her up and this honey bee stings.

“You’ll always be the man who hides behind his shades,” she says, dry as dust, and steps back and snatches her clothes from the bag.

This is, without a single doubt, the longest elevator ride he’s ever experienced in his life. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Adler arrived back in Berlin breathing a little harder. Worry wrapped around his neck like a noose, placed by Bell herself; the judge, jury and executioner.

The knot tightens every time his mind refers to her.

The agency trained him, specifically, to keep calm under pressure. He didn’t coin the title “America’s Monster” from his colleagues for nothing. They don’t fear him because he’s hot-headed or thinks in large-scale violence— guns blazing, napalm-induced flames over the hill in the morning, bloodied knuckles and fractured jaw, blood-soaked soles tarnishing the white marble floor. Someone can point a fucking shotgun to his face and he’ll barely flinch. Only monsters remain impassive to direct threats of violence.

But there’s something about Bell that elicits this visceral, primal reaction out of him. Something strange and new; lightning about to be uncapped from its chains.

It chokes him, frightens him to the core.

How gauche is it, don’t you think, that his own mind is conspiring against him?

Now, in the garage, where it dawns on Adler that she’s probably the only person who can make him walk around the city, feeling like a fool, he decides he’s had enough. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“I’ll drive you back.”

Adler apprehends Bell outside the garage. He kind of assumed she’d have a pistol aimed at his head right now, but she spins around, hands shoved deep inside her pockets and clayey mouth curls in distaste.

“Get in the car, Bell,” Adler says tightly, almost adding please.

But he would not beg.

The brunette remains rooted in her place. For a moment, a calculating look crossed her face. Always, always that sharp mind of hers turning and he wonders where it would take her this time.

“Try asking nicely,” she demands.

Adler’s eyes flash. She really is testing him. But fine, he'll play her game.

“Bell, would you kindly get in the car?” He is all but snarls, teeth gritting. Bell hardly wavers- he wishes she would waver for a change.

She does what he asked of her, finally, the shadow of a smirk on her face mocking him. Adler follows suit, teeth still clenched together, and starts the car and drives away.

It's sort of like a deja-vu, he supposes; him and her in this very same car, except that stupid krautrock music is absent this time. Neither says anything for the first twenty minutes. Everything feels heavily still.

Until he realizes she’s probably waiting for his move.

This might gloriously blow up in his face, yes, he knows this. Especially remembering the last time he was alone in a tight space with her, it had cost him his pride.

And his mind.

But he’s been here before, in the eye of the storm. He was at his calmest here. He has his cards prepared now.

Adler inhales deeply.

“Look, I’m sorry,” he utters resolutely. He doesn’t look at her, doesn’t want to. “I was out of line, I admit it. Your affair with Mason should be no concern of mine but I really am just trying to look out for you.”

It’s weak, he knows. The words feel more like an anchor than an actual apology in his tongue anyway, but Adler didn’t expect that Bell would give him nothing. Not even an acknowledging hum, a scathing retort, a scoff. Nothing.

A twinge of irritation brews in his stomach. Why does she insist on playing games?

The car comes to a stop. They’ve arrived. Adler wrests his hands from the steering wheel to say something harsh to her, but Bell is already stepping out of the car.

She stands on the sidewalk; an enigma in royal red, and her lethal, all-seeing eyes gravitate to him in the night.

There is a long paralyzing beat where they just stare at each other- which seems to be a running theme between them lately. Adler is fuming, as he is confused.

It feels like hours, centuries, eons, but, like all magic, the spell is broken. Courtesy of a stranger hailing a cab behind his car.

Bell turns and walks inside the building. She doesn’t bother sparing him the final glance or extend her appreciation for the ride back and Adler thinks to himself, this universe, god fucking damnit, nothing makes sense here.

But it is also in moments like this that the world spins, when he notices a singular, significant detail that makes his stomach roll, nearly throwing him off balance:

Bell left the passenger door open.

And he’s insane- he has to be, right? He’s looking too much into this. It doesn’t mean anything. His mind conjures an image, like a graphic guideline or something, step one: get out of the car, two: make your way around and close the passenger door, and third: zoom out of the neighborhood while your sanity is still intact, all in that order. Easy to comprehend, to follow.

Adler only does the first two steps. He’s ass-backwards doesn’t even bother to digest the third step.

He enters the hotel instead and takes in the surroundings. The lobby is pointedly bare, but warm and smoky. The concierge is reading behind the counter- a young, wiry boy with shocking bleached hair- with headphones on. It’s late, he probably doesn’t expect anyone to check in at this hour.

A movement by the staircase catches his interest. He sees Bell climbing up the steps slowly, leisurely. Adler makes his way there.

Halfway reaching her floor, Adler has the inkling that she knows that he’s following her. Also, because the next she does is glancing back at him over her shoulder. He waits for her to push him down the stairs or wrap those delicate hands around his neck. She does neither. She doesn’t want him gone.

Yet, his mind betrays him. Only because she doesn’t know what other atrocities he’s committed to her.

She stops by her door, opens it and goes in first. Adler, without waiting for a formal fucking invitation, slips in behind her.

Her room is much smaller than his. The TV is still on- a German dubbed of All the President’s Men is playing- a stack of books and meds lying haphazardly on the desk table.

The door clicks shut behind him. Bell wanders over to the table and turns off the TV. Her back to him.

She doesn’t bother turning the light switch on. The green neon of the hotel sign outside illuminates the room, bathes her in it, making her look even stranger and faraway.

He doesn’t take off his sunglasses.

“What do you want, Bell?” Adler is all but snarling. His anger comes in a bottle with a twist-off cap. “I’m fucking sick of playing your games. I apologized, I admitted I was wrong- I fucked up, but what more could you want?”

Jesus, and now he’s losing his temper over a brainwashed Russian who rarely talks. How did it come to this?

She tugs off her gloves. Once again, barely acknowledging him. Apparently, if ignoring him is an art form, she is the fucking Monet.

Until:

“Take them off.”

Adler blinks hard behind his glasses. Like he’s just stepped into a whole different earth.

His mouth moves.

“What?”

“Your sunglasses. Take them off.”

He stares at her back. Trying really, really hard to make sure he’s not hallucinating this, but then Bell turns around, a finger tapping against her arm, waiting.

Realization hits him like an uppercut in the face and nearly leaves him in a daze. He’s walked into a trap. That much is clear as day. She wants him to suffer as she does. An eye for an eye.

Adler holds no modicum of control in her domain, not unless she gives the reins. Once again, she plays the judge, jury and executioner at her own court.

But, like before, he’ll play her game.

There, the glasses are off. His eyes, bare, blue like fractured ice, meeting hers. In the dark, he feels her eyes shift to assess his bruise.

His heart booms against his ribs.

"Kneel,” she says glibly.

He obeys, again. His legs and hands don’t shake, but his mind is much less governable than his limbs. No, the CIA didn’t prepare a manual for situations like this and he doesn’t trust his instincts to help him dance his way around this.

Nor does he want to.

The thought fucks him up to a degree.

Adler should have known that it wouldn’t take an entire nation or continent to bring him to his knees, no, no. That would have been too easy, anyway. Although history has dictated and taught him that women are never to be underestimated, Adler hasn’t expected that one woman would be able to do the deed and succeed.

But then again, when that woman is Bell, he supposes anything is possible.

When Bell approaches him, he’s unable to take his gaze from her. Her eyes spangle with determination, an avenging soul in the neon lights. Her fingers work on the sash of her coat. The line of her mouth is flat and inscrutable. The air crackles with electricity and a promise of the unsayable, the unattainable.

She stands over him now, gloveless and coatless. She’s powerful like this and he can only crane his head up at her, ceding his fate in her hands, against his better judgement. She catches that.

Suddenly, something unpleasant breaks on her face, like when one’s smelling something foul or pungent.

Bell reaches down and grips his jaw painfully in one hand, her nails digging into his skin, and tilts his head sideways. Strange that his stomach leaps at that.

“Say you’re sorry,” she spits furiously. “And say it like you fucking mean it.”

He feels, suddenly, triumphant and chuckles darkly. Eight fucking long weeks and the beast finally shows her claws.

“Try asking nicely,” Adler parrots her words from before, not a beat missed. Two can play that game, he thinks. "Or are you above niceness, Bell?”

Her grip tightens.

"You’re one to talk,” Bell says. Then, rubs the pad of her thumb over his scarred cheek and it feels like forgiveness, or the beginning of it, at least.

His confusion spikes.

Her nose skims down his jawline.

A better, sensible man would apologize. He'd squander it until his tongue burns acid, he'd beg for her forgiveness like a man asking for repentance before his god.

“Why did you do it, Russell?” Bell whispers against his skin now, baleful and raspy. Her chest rising and falling too rapidly.

But he’s a sick bastard, a selfish motherfucker, a heartless monster. All he does is hurt the people around him. He doesn’t get to take from her, not after what he's done.

Still, Adler catches her wrist. Relishing the way her wrist bone grinds under his hold. He pulls his face back to look at her.

“You know why.”

Her eyes flick dangerously to his lips.

Desperation really can make the most vulgar things tolerable.

“Then prove it.”

So he does. As his hand reaches up to her neck, past the delicious column of her throat and with a precise swift, Adler grabs a fistful of her hair, the feminine gasp escaping her mouth is like a jolt to his groin, and kisses her.

Bell responds in kind. That little beast. She grasps his collar and drags him up to his feet, impatient with want. She laps at him, bites and sucks. His free hand snakes around her waist, pulling her impossibly closer.

She pulls away, catching her breath, and his teeth skim down her jaw, her neck. He bites her there in retaliation, on the delicious junction of her neck and shoulder, into the fabric of her shirt, making his intentions clear. Bell chokes in surprise and scrapes her nails over his scalp.

It hurts. But with pain, along comes pleasure and it’s good. It’s so good, Adler melts with a shaky breath.

His gloves come off first. Next, she pulls him free off his jacket, his sweater and snakes a hand between his legs, stroking him. He bites off a strangled ‘fuck’ into her throat. He’s worked up real fast already. Adler manages to make a short work of her shirt, unclasping her bra before he’s all but pushes her onto the bed.

Adler settles above her, capturing her lips in another feverish, hot-blooded kiss. He tugs her zipper down and slips his hand inside her pants. Her cunt’s everything he’s come to expect: wet, warm and oh-so wrong. She sucks in a breath. Her hips move against his hand. His blood sings. She throws her head back against the pillow, while his finds her earlobe.

“Has this proven my point, Bell?” he asks. His answer starts on a moan and ends with a breathless ‘yes’.

He doesn’t let her come that easily. No, he wants to drag this out for as long as he can until it drives her mad. So, Adler peels the rest of her clothes away, pulls her shoulder and turns her onto her stomach. He pins her down, hard. She gasps loudly against the white pillowcase, her hand fists into the sheets.

Adler slots himself behind her. His hand tracing along her spine, followed by his mouth, just how he fantasized once upon a time. His other hand quickly undoes the snap of his pants. Everything has been poisoned by her and her only; she is in his tongue, his veins, his mind, his lungs. She takes the centrefold of his mind and it's ridiculous.

He presses himself against her ass. His mouth falls open. Her body trembles. She’s all sin and racing hearts and sweaty flesh. She’s perfect. His now free hand slides up to the nape of Bell’s neck, reaching her throat, pressing down. She makes this high-pitched, demanding noise as she moves her hips back against him, leaving him wanting, helpless at the thought of having her right here, right now, in the warm neon glow of her hotel room.

“Please,” Bell begs. He groans in response and he gives it to her. Fuck, he’d give her anything if she begs just exactly like that.

When Adler is finally inside her, he thinks his world drops dead. He sets a merciless pace. He is not a gentle man and there is nothing gentle in the supple arch of her back, a rose bent backwards in the wind, as he pants along her neck before he pulls out, twists her onto her back again and pushes deeper into her until she comes apart underneath him (he’s made sure she begs for it- please, Russell. Oh god, Russell)

(He didn’t have to. Russell Adler is never the kind of man to fall for his dark side, but Christ knows he is only one man)

#russell adler #russell adler x bell #adler x bell #cod cold war #cod bell #cod #call of duty #call of duty black ops #call of duty cold war #alex mason #frank woods #helen park #lawrence sims #jason hudson #lazar azoulay

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adenei · 3 years ago

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Summer of Jily - Week 8

For @efkgirldetective's Summer of Jily Challenge! As always, thank you so much for coordinating!

Read it on AO3 || Start at the beginning (yes, all these little one shots combine into a full story!

Prompt 8: Sunbathing || “You’ve already won me over (in spite of me).”

“So...that kiss was something yesterday,” Marlene interrupted the peace and quiet that Lily had just settled into out on the dock.

Lily was lying on one of the lounge chairs the girls had transfigured, and was attempting to read her book while catching some rays in the afternoon sun. Her sunglasses masked the fact that her eyes were not actually reading the words on the page, but instead she was watching James and the boys mess around in the water, all while recalling the events of the day before.

Seeing that blonde hitting on James from across the street had sent Lily into a jealous rampage. The girls were eyeing the souvenir shop across from the ice cream parlor as their last stop before meeting the boys, and Lily had all the intentions of picking something out for her parents and begrudgingly, her sister. But then Mary pointed out the boys across the street and it was game over.

Lily didn’t even remember checking for traffic when she left her friends without a word and stalked over to the spot where James was being whisked away by some girl. She wasn’t thinking about the fact that none of their friends knew what was going on between them, not that she cared anymore. James was hers, and she wanted everyone to know it. The thought frightened her only a small amount, given that just a few months ago she would have balked at the idea that she’d have fallen for him. And yet, after insisting that she’d never be one of those girls who would swoon over the rugged, sexy form of James Potter, the inevitable happened.

If she was being honest with herself, it was probable that she never stood a chance. Lily had watched James grow up from the overly cocky eleven year old into a more respectful young adult, all while keeping his humor and wit intact. She pretended to hate him in solidarity with Sev, until her eyes opened to his massive bias that stood in the way. Not that any of that mattered anymore, and she couldn’t be happier for it.

“Earth to Lily,” Marlene snapped her fingers in front of Lily’s face.

“Haven’t you exhausted the subject yet?” Lily responded with an eye roll that unfortunately went unseen.

“I will never be tired of that moment. It was brilliant, really,” Marlene sniggered.

“Well, I’m glad you were entertained. Can’t say I appreciated watching another girl hitting on my boyfriend,” Lily shook her head and stuck her nose back in her book.

“Oi, never in a million years will I get used to hearing you say that, Evans,” Sirius called as he and James swam over to the edge of the dock.

“I can, though,” James grinned before dunking his head underwater.

When he popped back up and reached for the ladder, Lily scoffed at him. “You better watch your words, Potter.”

“I meant the boyfriend part, not the other girls hitting on me, Lils.”

James grabbed the towel that was hanging on the end of Lily’s lounge chair, haphazardly drying off before throwing it around his shoulders. He made a motion for Lily to give him some room so he could sit beside her. His skin was wet and cool against her own, offering a reprieve from the blistering sun.

Leaning closer, he whispered into her ear, “Besides, now that you’re officially calling me your boyfriend, I wouldn’t want to do anything to jeopardize that, would I?”

Lily shut her book and tilted her sunglasses down the bridge of her nose, showing off a raised eyebrow. “I don’t know, would you?”

Throwing his arm around her shoulder, he pulled her close. “You know you’ve already won me over. I’ve only got eyes for you.”

Pushing her sunglasses back into their proper position, Lily matched James’s grin with her own. “And even in spite of me trying to push you away all those times before. It’s a miracle, isn’t it?”

Lily became so wrapped up in their conversation that she almost forgot the rest of their friends were hanging around them too. Key word being almost. At that moment, Sirius began making gagging noises while the girls chanted “kiss, kiss, kiss!”

James happily obliged as he leaned in and captured Lily’s mouth with his own, which she eagerly leaned into. His lips were just as cool as the rest of his body, and they tasted of a mixture between the lake water and sweat. Droplets of water rolled off his strands of hair, hitting Lily’s forehead as she forgot about her surroundings and focused only on James. Her hand reached up to rest on his chest as his own got lost in a tangle of red hair at the nape of her neck. It was far too easy to become consumed by the feel of him.

The only thing that brought her back was the sound of Sirius’s voice a little too close to her ear, “Is this what we’re all going to be subjected to now that you two are finally sorted?”

Sirius startled both Lily and James by his proximity because Lily jumped back while James reached out a hand and shoved Sirius away, causing him to lose his balance and fall backwards into the water. Everyone laughed at the sight as James managed his response.

“Sorry, mate, but yes, yes it is.”

And Lily couldn’t be happier.

#summerofjily #jily fic #jily #james x lily #james potter #lily evans

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pockou · 4 years ago

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skin ⤻ chpt. one

— pairings: jean kirschtein x fem bodied nb!reader

— warnings: none for now

— summary: after reuniting with your childhood bestfriend, jean and a long heated night together you establish a friends with benefits relationship. what could go wrong?

— modern au

— wc: 2.6k

— a/n: sorry nothing really happened, this is really just me setting things up !

⤺ skin masterlist

After a long and stressful day with work, you finally arrived home. The first thing that crossed your mind was letting your mother know you’d be skipping out on brunch with her and some old friends the next afternoon so you could catch up on some much needed sleep. You removed your shoes and wiped the small bit of sweat which was accumulating on your forehead, outside felt like a heatwave being it was nearing the peak of summer, work has been pretty busy lately with all the moms coming in and demanding for you to restock the pool noodles — which obviously you had no control over just being a mere cashier. You never knew how stressful it could be just standing behind a counter all day, which you didn’t take into account is the long and blistering walk home. Maybe a summer job wasn’t the best choice?

“Oh hey Mom!” Your mom was just passing by with a laundry basket in hand, probably heading to clean clothes for tomorrow.

“Hi Y/N, how was work?”

“Long.” You filled a cup of cold apple juice up before turning back over to her, “By the way, I can’t go with you and dad to brunch tomorrow. I’m pooped and need some extra sleep.”

“Y/N, you can’t skip out, I understand you’re tired but an old friend who you’ll probably be happy to see is going to be there, and i’ll make sure you don’t miss him, he’s rarely in town anymore.”

“He?” You tried to think of all the guys who’ve came into your life which your parents took a liking to, there were a few but not any you really would want to see.

“Yes, he. Now get showered you smell like clorax and sweat!”

“Jeez Mom way to put it lightly!” You both laughed together, these moments definitely made you glad you decided to move back for the summer and stay off of campus. You picked up your phone after it buzzed and saw an incoming follow request from “Jean Kirschtein” the name rang a bell but ultimately you chose to ignore it and decline. You decided to fix the obvious awful scent which was coming from you and headed to shower.

You looked at the array of bath soaps, body scrubs and shampoos you and your mom shared, you picked up the ‘vanilla mint’ scent which always brought comfort to you for some odd reason, it just has for as long as you could remember. After massaging your head with shampoo and conditioner you shaved your legs until you were satisfied with the outcome and jumped out of the shower. Noticing the time after you went to pause your music you realized just how long you took, it was already past seven pm and your dad should be home, hopefully with dinner. Before leaving, you moisturized your legs and added an acne serum to your face, gently patting it into your cheeks and forehead. You just threw on some boxer-like shorts and one of your dads old band tees and peeked into the kitchen.

“Hey darling.”

“Hey Dad, did you pick up dinner?” You leaned over the counter giggling at your mothers antics, being she was behind your father mocking him.

“Yes I did, burritos good? There’s this new joint by the office.”

“Sick, thanks dad! I’ll set the table, love you.” You pecked his cheek before grabbing plates and cups for the three of you, you hadn’t remembered the last time you ate, it probably was around eleven when you had your lunch breaks. Which you believed to be a bit too early for lunch. You smiled widely at both of your parents as they sat down at the table.

“What do you guys want to drink? I’ll go get somethin’ for us all.”

“I’ll just have a water pumpkin.” You took your dads cup and gave him a thumbs up then looked to your mother.

“I still have my protein shake i’ll be fine!”

“Mkay!” You took yours and your dads cups and filled them about halfway with water, adding a bit of lemon and ice to yours, “Dad do ya want ice?”

“Sure, thank you. Now hurry up your foods getting cold!” You shuffled back over to the table handing your dad his iced water and flashing him a shiny smile.

“Thanks again!” After that you dug into your dinner and the whole meal was filled with your dad telling you and your mom about people calling in asking for help with computers and you telling them about annoying people you had to deal with and, of course your mom complaining about Amy from her yoga class.

By the time you all died down and your mom mentioned you should all get some sleep so you’d all be in good moods for brunch in the morning, inevitably you gave up in trying to skip out due to your moms persistence to join them. You walked into your room to be greeted by the warmth and comfort it always gave off to you, you grabbed your phone and plopped onto your bed ready to finally wind down and relax after such a long day. Your eyes got heavy and you felts drowsy before you gave in and fell into a deep sleep. You dreamed of the same boy you had been for a while, he was cute, really cute and he always brought comfort to you. This dream always took place in a pre-k classroom, playing will blocks and legos and the smell of popcorn and juice in the air. He always came up with a smile on his face which was missing one of his front teeth already, some spaghetti sauce around his mouth and asking if you wanted to play tag. But everytime before you said yes, you always woke up and you were no longer in a carefree mindset like a child and that boy was never there all that was there was a loud ‘beep beep beep’ sound ringing in your ears which never failed to wake you up right at ten thirty am.

This time your mom was also in your room, rummaging throughout your dresser drawers. She was humming the same song she used to sing you to sleep with which always made you smile. You whined as you sat up stretching.

“Morning honey, can you wear this today?” She had just a white tee and a jean shorts pretty simple and nice to wear in the summer.

“Sure that’s fine, how much time do I have?”

“Around an hour or so, make sure you hurry please I don’t wanna be late.”

“Mkay, by the way when do I getta know who this wonderboy is?”

“When you see him you’ll know, trust me. Now get ready!”

She walked out of your room to let you get dressed, after putting on the outfit she chose you just found some random sandals to wear and fixed your hair a bit, you still had some time to spare so you just chilled on the couch playing a random cooking game. Your mom came out to show herself off and she did her cheesy little jazz hands.

“You look beautiful Momma.”

“Thank you, Y/N, you look great aswell.” You both looked in the kitchen to see your dad eating something, “We are literally going to brunch why in the world are you eating?” She obviously wasn’t mad but she shook her hand at your dad which made you both chuckle. They both had been together since they were in highschool and seemed to have an unbreakable bond. That was something you’ve always wanted with another person, just to be able to find comfort in another so easily, and trust them no matter what. And just the very way they looked at eachother and the loving gaze they shared, it was everything, they were soulmates and all you wanted was to find something like that. Your special person.

“Well, we should get going, the car drive is a bit long id say.” You lifted yourself up from the couch and followed them, still looking down at your game. You plopped into the car once again, and just gazed out the window.

“Where are we goin’ again?”

“Just a pancake house, nothing too special y’know?”

“Mkay, thanks Mom.” You looked back down at your phone to see that ‘Jean’ guy requesting you again, you found it kinda weird but you decided to look at his account. He was attractive. No he was fucking hot, he had a shiny ash blonde mullet, which some of it was a darker shade, somewhat brown. His hair had a slight wave at the ends adding just a bit of volume to it. You scrolled a little bit more to find out he had a chihuahua and a shitzu. He was also doing good in school and — you double tapped. You mentally cursed at yourself, you just liked a post from not too long ago but still he’d now know you’re looking at his account. Out of guilt you let him follow you, you had to now atleast. You just turned off your phone and flipped it over, ignoring what just happened.

“You alright? You look sick.” You looked up to your mom who was looking at you from the front seat, “If its about ‘wonderboy’ don’t be too scared you two used to be so close, you’ll click instantly!”

“Mkay Mom, and I’m fine.” You acted as if you totally didn’t just stalk a hot guy on Instagram, gawk over him then like one of his posts from a few weeks back. You were totally fine, what else could happen. You were incredibly tempted to go look at his page again, his arms always seemed to fill his sleeves from what you saw and, he had a stubble which was just a shade darker than his hair. He dressed incredibly well and looked like he smelled like fancy cologne. You checked your phone and it already had been thirty minutes.

“Mom when’ll we get there?”

“It’s just done the road, relax honey.” You sighed in relief, your stomach had been churning the past few minutes and you needed out of that humid car. Once you parked and looked at the time, it was half past eleven, the exact time of your reservation.

“Alright, we’re at a patio table so you two walk their i’ll go talk with the bouncer to see if the others are here.” Your dad patted your head before walking off to check in, you followed behind your mom. With your hands in your pocket you guys turned the corner and a certain someone caught your eye, the guy from instagram, Jean was it? He was sitting in the patio, her hair was thrown into a ponytail and a chocolate brown like some of Jeans hair, she was cute and obviously his mother.

“Oh my goodness, Kirschtein is that you?!” Your eyes widened, these were the people you were joining for brunch. “Jean! You’ve grown so much, you look very handsome now.”

“Thank you ma’am, Y/N is that you?” He smiled widely before stepping closer to you and embracing you in a bear hug, you let out a small defeated laugh before hugging him back, “How’ve you been? How long has it been?”

“Since preschool.” Your gazes went to his mom who stole you from Jean and hugged you even tighter. You felt the life being squeezed out of your ribs, even though you barely remembered these hugs. And the scent you’ve always loved, both Jean and his mom smelled like vanilla and mint, it was pretty ironic. You all took a seat waiting for your dad to come back before you ordered anything. Jean was seated across from you, his legs were a bit on your end of the table but you just ignored it, everything seemed so awkward yet comfortable all at the same time. Jeans presence was just comforting and made you feel warm and whenever he talked to you and kept eye contact? That made you wanna scream, you two hadn’t seen eachother for years but instantly clicked.

Once your Dad came back, he had five menus in hand and gave them all out. You all talked amongst yourselves about what you’ll get to eat, and what you’ll be getting to drink, ultimately you settled on a coffee, so did your Dad. While Jeans mom and your Mom giggled about some drink they used to always share before ordering two of them, Jean got a decaf. It seemed plain but you weren’t one to talk. You had been engulfed in whatever it was you were doing on your phone until Jean kicked you lightly and gestured to his own phone. You clicked on instagram and saw he had messaged you there.

“Hey, so are we gonna talk abt you stalking me orr?”

“No, we’re not Jean, please just forget abt it.”

After that your drinks had finally came, now you all had to order you got just some pancakes, nothing special. Jean got an omelette while his and your Mom shared french toast and your Dad got waffles. The conversation over brunch went well, Jean shared about what he was studying in during the last school year, as did you. Your familys just caught up with what had been going on, Jean had adopted two dogs over the past year — which you already knew, he was doing good in school and his studies. You just sat there kind of awkwardly being just an hour or two before you were stalking him and thinking about how hot he was, you were snapped back into reality when his Mom asked you something.

“Have you been with anybody recently?”

“Mom! You can’t just ask her that, we haven’t seen her in years..” Jean whipped his head to the side looking at his Mom.

“No Jean it’s fine, but I haven’t.”

“Oh really? You’re so pretty? I find that hard to believe!” You smiled at her, she was obviously trying to be nice. You all continued eating, Jean paying close attention to his phone.

“Well Jean, have you seen anyone recently?”

“Mom!! Seriously?” You were confused about what your moms were trying to pull off, asking random questions back to back on the same subject.

“Y/N it’s fine. And No Mrs. L/N, I actually haven’t.” Jean stretched backwards, his arm muscles slightly flexing while he did so.

“Hmmm, interesting.. Well, finish up everyone.” You had already finished eating so all you had to do was wait for everyone else to finish. You played that same dumb cooking game for what felt like an eternity your Mom finally tapped your shoulder to get your attention.

“We should be heading out, by the way you two are invited for dinner tomorrow, feel free to come by anytime!” You got up with your mom, waving a goodbye to Jean and his mother. Now you had to endure a car ride most likely of your mother blabbing on about how you should get with Jean, that was something you didn’t wanna think or talk about.

You napped in the car for most of the ride until your phone started to buzz in your pocket, which woke you up from your dazed state. You checked the notification to see Jean had sent you a message.

“Y’know you got pretty hot right?”

“What? Jean thats random.”

“Fuck I mean that in the most respectful way possible.”

“Mkay.” You rolled your eyes, although you could say the same about him you were fond of his boldness but that was definitely a worry for another day. All you were worried about was what you’ll be doing now with him coming over again. Were you going to make a move in the same way he did or ignore his antics completely? And that was the last thought you had before falling asleep again.

#jean kirschtein x reader #jean kirschtein #jean kirstein #jean kirsten x reader #aot x reader #aot #snk x reader #snk #skin. ➷

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