#they weren’t wrong that man can sure be curled up naked in a box because he can’t sleep any other way

[judasisgayriot]

we decided to watch profit (1996) bc we are nothing if not morbidly curious and I don’t know how to process what I’ve just seen

[treasure-hwa]

Beauty of Corruption

pairing: jongho x fem!reader

genre: smut, fluff??

warnings: mentions of first time, corruption kink, praising, light spanking, cockwarming, breath play, dirty talk, fingering (f receiving), explicit protected sex

synopsis: you were so pure that Jongho's heart ached for you and wanted to keep you safe from all profanities, but his mind could just picture himself doing these profanities to you.

word count: 3204

taglist: @little-precious-baby @suni-ho @leetaeilsnecktattoo @xduygu-arsx

author's note: the inspiration came from Jongho's words on I'm the One jacket video, "for the first time, I put myself in the words 'beauty of corruption'." What's with this word count? I really unleashed my smut writer :D anyway, I hope there isn't any typo...

— So how was he?

Your eyes went wide and your face heated up instantly.

— What are you talking about?

— C’mon, you know what I am talking about. You two have been dating for almost two years now and you lost your virginity, as a good friend, I want to know how he treated you.

It hadn't been long since you and Jongho added intercourse to your one and a half year relationship. Both of you felt ready to take this step on your intimacy and, when it happened, you couldn't be happier. But maybe it was a mistake to tell that to your best friend, you wanted to tell so many things, but the embarrassment!

— Ah, he... he was good. Took care of me nicely.

— And the...? — She moved her two pointer fingers apart from each other to simulate a size that looked similar to you.

— A little bigger. — With your face on fire, you pushed one of her fingers farther. — That’s it.

The girl stared at her own fingers and gasped, smirking at the friend.

— What a big fun you had, am I right? Were you in for a thick mess too?

— Yes, but stop, please!

She laughed at your figure with hands over your face.

— But, really, how was it?

— It was great. He was the gentlest, it was much better than what I have imagined it would be. I’m actually very happy he was the first and I hope he can be the only one.

The smile on your face confirmed what you were saying. It was amazing to you how you fully trusted him, enough to give yourself to him, your heart, your body, and he loved you so much he took care of it properly. Jongho was the sweetest man you could have ever met and everyday you were thankful for that.

— So it was, like, vanilla?

— Yeah. Gentle, chill, vanilla, definitely pleasurable. — You bit your lip, playing with your fingers.

Since your first time, you would often catch yourself daydreaming about his body on top of (or under) you, his many muscles flexing, the sweat covering his skin. Jongho also thought about you frequently, how you would muffle the moans of his name, hide your blushing face and touch him gently.

As a traditional virgin, you did not know much about sex, just the basic biology classes and life taught you, so your boyfriend made sure you were comfortable with every move he made. 

With that said, you were pure. So pure that sometimes Jongho's heart ached for doing such profanities to you. It seemed wrong. You looked cute, pretty and shy even when you were a mess, even when he was thrusting into you. But there was something the man couldn't get out of his mind: while he wanted to protect you from bad and dirty things, he, all the time, imagined himself wrecking you. However, his desires were nothing close to the love he felt for you and you did not deserve the bad things he was thinking of, so he kept all to himself, fantasizing only.

Well... your mind changed a little after an interesting talk with your friend, who had 0 experience, but a head full of indecencies she would like to try eventually, and you wanted to try some new things on the next opportunity.

That came on Saturday date night, when you two decided to watch movies on your house, that was significantly quieter and more peaceful than his shared one with other friends. Judging only by the cover of the movie, Jongho pressed play on it, even after you expressed doubts for it being a horror one. 

— Jongho, you know I hate horror movies. 

— Babe, it's alright, it's all fake, and I'm here to protect you. 

“Maybe I could try one of those things she told me now.” You thought about it deeply, but the words came out of your mouth before you could really think about them: 

— I have a condition. 

— Hm? Which one? 

Then your cheeks burned. Why did you say that? Why didn't you just stay shut? You were too shy to tell him what has been on your mind for the past week. 

— I'm listening, babe, tell me. — His hand caressed your knee and he leaned towards to press a kiss on your cheek. 

Taking a deep breath, you mumbled, deciding you had nothing to lose: 

— Let me cockwarm you.

His moves stopped at the same moment, face close to yours, hand lightly gripping your thigh.

— Wh-What?

— Cockwarm. Have you heard of it?

— Yeah, I... I just didn’t know you did.

You shrugged your shoulders and stood up, hands on the tie of your sweatshorts.

— So? Can we?

Jongho blinked at your figure, looking at your bare legs for more time than necessary, his member twitching inside his sweatpants, and nodded, pulling his pants down enough to take his cock out. He watched you, almost teasingly, pulling your shorts down and doing the same with your blue cotton panties, mindlessly stroking himself. To be honest, he felt like he was a teen again, getting horny by every little thing you did, enjoying every opportunity he had to get intimate like this with you.

You placed your shorts and panties on the couch arm and smiled nervously at him, cheeks burning and hands fiddling with the hem of your mid-thigh-long shirt.

— Are you sure you want to do that?

You nodded.

— That’s my condition for watching a horror movie.

— Fuck. Come here. — The man took you by your waist and placed you on his lap, back to his chest. His hands roamed your body slowly, from shoulders to knees, squeezing the flesh of your bare thighs, opening them to run his fingertips through your warm skin. Then, he whispered on your ear: — Are you ready?

Again, you nodded, and he put his half-hard cock in you, groaning lowly until he was snuggled against you.

— Okay, great... now movie, shall we?

The first minutes, when there was nothing bad happening on the story, you rested on Jongho’s chest, his strong arms wrapped around you and chin resting on your shoulder. That until he got bored of sitting and, hugging you tightly, moved you both to lay down spooning you both without breaking that contact.

— You okay? — You asked lowly, caressing his arm.

— Yeah, just wanted to lay down. Pay attention to the movie, dear. — He kissed your head and kept watching the movie as if nothing was going on down there.

More minutes passed, the story getting scarier each second, your hand covering half of your sight, because even scared, you wanted to know what would happen.

Then it happened. A big jump scare that made you yelp and involuntarily clench your walls around Jongho, making the boy hiss for a second, when you unclenched. His hand stayed on your naked hip, caressing it with his thumb, as he asked:

— Are you alright, love?

— Ahn? Oh, yeah, I just got scared and my body reacted, I guess.

The boy hummed in agreement, not thinking much and just focusing on the TV again.

As the story progressed, though, more jump scares made you clench and unclench to the point he was fully hard inside of you and no longer paid attention to the movie.

— Babe, can you try stopping this?

— Am I doing it again? Sorry.

But you were not. Jongho could hear the smile on your voice, so he took your face and turned it just to see a stupid grin shaping your lips.

— What’s wrong, love?

He scoffed, pressing the tip of his tongue to the corner of his lips.

— What’s wrong? Well, maybe my girl being needy for cock is what’s wrong. Was this your plan from the very start?

— You were the one who wanted to watch a horror movie. — You shrugged your shoulders and pushed your hips against his, letting out a huff.

— Something tells me you don’t care about the movie at all, sweet baby.

— And what do you think I care about?

Jongho pushed his hips forward, causing you an eye roll from pleasure.

— Dirty girl is loving a cock inside her, right? — You nodded and bit your lips to prevent moans. — I want words, dear.

— Right, Jongho, you are so... big and it is filling me up... nicely — you spoke lowly, chest moving up and down with your heavy breathing. — Fuck me, please.

— My pretty girl wants to fuck? — You nodded and pouted at the images coming on your head. — If you want me that much, who am I to deny it?

Easily, he picked you up, making you hiss about your empty entrance, and walked to your room, never once stumbling, his perfect arms holding you like you weighted nothing, but you expected that from him already.

You were at home, there was no risk of getting caught, however he pressed you against the door to close it and kissed you like there was no tomorrow while slipping his fingers on your core, which made you moan his name quietly in his mouth. 

— You are so wet, angel, can you hear it? — His fingertips were thrusting shallow and curling into you, making squelching noises. You were pretty sure you would be leaking on the floor soon, such was the wet sensation down there.

You shook your head up and down, moaning again. Jongho made your legs wrap tighter around his waist before getting you to bed, laying you down and staying on his feet to look at you, all messed up already.

— Stay pretty here while I go take something.

You saw the man running out of the room, tripping on his own foot. He could not believe his fantasies would be turning real that soon. Weren’t you his angel? His innocent girl? He did not know what happened from the last time you had sex to that moment, but he thanked it. Going through the bags he brought, he found the condom box he bought earlier that night to leave at your house. You weren’t taking any chances of a baby right now and these things better do the job.

When he came back to the room, another trip on the stairs later, he found you face down on the pillow, hips up, swinging lightly and shirt lifted, tummy and a piece of your boob showing.

— What are you doing, love? Wanted me to see your pretty bum? — Jongho tossed the condom box on the bed beside you and caressed your bottom flesh. — Perhaps you want me to spank it.

His grip felt strong already, which, yes, made you want him to spank you much more than before, so, being the tease you were being that night, you shook your bum to him and looked back, whispering “do it”. It was a matter of seconds for him to process what you said and to lift his hand to leave a great slap to your skin.

— Do we remember what to say if things don't go well?

After you had mumbled “red”, his heavy hand made contact with you again, and you could feel the warmth spreading on the local. It was good, better than you had imagined, his hand felt amazing on you.

— Oh, angel, you look so pretty right now, what do I do? I want to fuck you so hard right now. — Another slap, another moan. — So hard you forget your name.

His voice was too sweet for the words he was speaking, but you had no complaints.

— Am I pretty? — you croaked out, turning to lay on your back. Your shirt was so up, almost revealing your perfect boobs.

His eyes were on fire, but seemed to soft a little when he took in your figure, hair all over the place, eyes wet, lips red. You still looked innocent, but such a hot one, an angel he would corrupt soon.

Jongho lowered himself down and kissed your exposed hip up to your flexed stomach, the pleasure knot being built there, then he gently took off your shirt to kiss around your soft nipples. With his eyes on you, he whispered:

— The prettiest.

You smiled softly and shyly, cheeks burning and hands making their way to his red hair, once there, they gently pulled him up until your lips crashed in a passionate kiss.

— The prettiest girl in this whole wide world and she’s mine. My pretty girl.

You mewled his name, giggling because of the pet name he had been using for a good time then. 

— What?

He pinned your wrists to the bed with a hand, got closer to your neck and, then, all your body hair shivered the moment his hot breath fanned over your hot skin. Yes, you needed him so much, but on top of that you wanted him, you desired him and you knew he did too, especially with the way he was kissing your neck and collarbones while his hand went south to open your legs.

The sensations felt good, they sure did, but when your eyes fell shut, your other senses were sharpened, mainly your touch. Your mind was wrapped around his warm hand cupping your intimacy at the same time your hands mindlessly ran down his back.

— Tell me, love, what did you want again?

— Jon-Jongho...

— Yeah, I know you want me, but specify it.

You breathed in and out deeply before opening your eyes and take in his face and body. All you could say, however, was:

— Why are you still clothed?

The man smirked and let go of your body to undress himself quickle. He had no time to tease, he wanted you, you wanted him and both would be fulfilling desires from now on. Without thiking much, he threw the clothes on the floor and opened your legs to fit between them.

— Better, babygirl?

— So much better. — You stretched your hands towards his torso, touching it delicately. Jongho knew you loved his body and everithing it could do to you and, as much as he would love you to appreciate him a bit more, he wasn’t too patient, therefore he let you have your little fun time stroking his abs and cock slowly while he, shakily, took that condom box and opened it, finally moving your hand away to roll one over himself.

— Hmm, Jongho, stop being so sexy, it’s making me want you to fuck me so hard.

— Is it? That can be arranged, my dirty girl.

With a gentle move, he put himself inside you, pressing his lips and furrowing his brows, but not closing his eyes, since he wanted to see your expression, that was so worth it.

— Hm, my babygirl just wants my cock inside her now. You get so lost when I’m inside, babe, right? — You nodded slowly, trying not to move your hips yet, task in which you would be succesfull if his heavy hand hadn’t slapped your thigh. — I want words.

— Ye-Yes?

— As I said, so lost already. — Jongho chuckled and started thrusting in you leisurely, not enough to make your body bounce, but enough to feel every inch. — You feel amazing..

— You... you too, but faster, please.

— Do you deserve it?

— Yes, Jongho, please. I’ve been a good girl for you.

Still not fastening his pace, he stated, mouth hovering over yours.

— That you have, darling, warming my cock, letting me spank your pretty butt and now it’s so eager to receive everything. Is what you want, right? Everything?

You breathed out maybe five “everything”, running your hands on your body, from your breasts to your thighs arounds Jongho’s waist. Said man smiled and did what you wanted, thrusting fast, hard and deep, groaning on your ear and pressing your sweaty bodies together or biting his lips when he saw himself going in and coming out of your absolutely wet entrance. The sounds you made together were definitely music, one you would keep for yourselves, nobody would ever be able to listen to it.

— Fuck! Jongho, close!

— Yeah? Well, then come for me, let me watch how you look when you come.

And he did. He got up and gripped your hips harsher to push himself in harder and watch it again. You couldn’t even care for the fact your hips would have two hand prints on them, you just wanted more.

Your hands were close to you, holding your breasts, and it made you remember your friends words, as weird as it sounded. “Some people say that if you restrict your breath during your orgasm, it gets more intese.” Why not? With only that in mind and the fast pace of Jongho, you brought your hand up to your throat and squeezed it, already feeling your head lighter and making you moan brokenly.

Seeing this and not quite believing his eyes, he swatted your hand away and changed it for his, squeezing the amount he felt safe enough. And, fuck, his hand felt so much better you let a loud moan and tightened your entrance.

— Oh, so my dirty babygirl likes to be choked? Does that make you feel good? Who would have thought...

Rather roughly, he gripped your jaw with his other hand and lowered himself to connect your mouths in a messy kiss. That was all you needed to reach your high. His hand pressing your throat, making your head slightly dizzy, another hand on your jaw, his cock thrusting into you so well, creating squelching noises, his tongue licking your mouths...

Your hands gripped the sheets as you were cumming around his cock, constricting it deliciously, what took him to his own orgasm, emptying his warm cum on the condom. Your moans, groans and heavy breathing echoed through the room while both were blissed out because of the highs.

— Damn... — Jongho carefully slipped out of you, tied the condom and came back to hug your sweaty body. — How was it?

— Perfect — you croaked out, smiling your angel smile.

— You... were different from our other times. What happened?

— Nothing, I just wanted to try new things. Are you feeling betrayed because I never mentioned anything.

— Well, now I’m not, since you let me try these things with you. Cockwarming, spanking and choking? Who would have thought, huh? — He kissed your cheek while his were blushed, although you couldn’t tell if it was because of the previous actions or because of now.

— And I really like your strenght — you remembered. — But I think you knew that already.

— I did.

You laughed breathily and laid on your backs, staring at the ceiling until your breathing was normal again. When that happened, you propped your body on your elbow and called him:

— Wanna go again?

— Again? Oh, I’ve officialy corrupted you. You’re not my innocent angel anymore. — He chuckled, propping himself on his elbow too and pecking your swollen lips.

— You didn’t like it?

— I did. Too much. Guess that’s just the beauty of corruption.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Painted Windows 16

Masterlist

Warnings: violence, trauma, allusions to abuse, noncon, isolation, torture, suicide attempts and thoughts, further tags to be added.

This is dark!Bucky and explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You come face to face with the soldier.

Note: We’re in the endgame now, haha, you get it. I know it’s been a while but here we go again. <3 Thank you. Love you guys!

Please leave some feedback, like and reblog <3 Let me know thoughts, excitement, theories, anything.

Bucky didn’t return that day. Or the next. 

After cleaning up your puke and trying to wash him away from your skin, you spent the hours face down on the bed. You could smell him on the sheets and taste him in your own tears. You could feel the violence of his touch still. The searing along the flesh of your thigh and the ache deep in your core. It was worse than any pain you’d known before; he wasn’t just another nameless man. He was a monster you couldn’t forget. Or escape.

When at last, you stopped sobbing, you succumbed to the pit deepening in your stomach. You ate unsalted crackers and the last of the grapes from the crisper. You opened your notebook, then closed it, opened it again, then tossed it against the wall with a shriek. 

Why write about what happened when it had never ended?

Another day passed. You weren’t lonely, but you weren’t relieved either. It didn’t matter when Bucky came, you knew he would, and you knew what would happen.

You stared out the window. It was dark again. You could see the spring peeking out through the mud. The snow that lingered was dirty and melting. The stars twinkled in the sky beyond the stretching branches of the trees that swayed in the night breeze. But all you could do was look; you couldn’t smell the damp or hear the birds as they returned from their winter sojourn or feel the subtle bite of the dwindling winter. You were like an animal in a cage, at the mercy of others pleasure but not to have your own.

You flinched as you heard the door beep. You turned slowly as it opened and pressed yourself to the tinted glass, your fingers curled around the sill. Bucky shut the door behind him, another shadow in the gloom. The lights flicked on and he planted his hand above the switch as he watched you. 

You stared back, dumbfounded. As much as you expected him, the visit was a surprise. As much you had prepared yourself for the inevitability, the dread drowned you and left you speechless and paralysed. As much as you’d been through, you couldn’t handle anymore.

He dropped his hand to his belt and the noise of the buckle made your skin crawl. He approached the bed slowly, letting his fly gape open as he pulled his shirt over his head. Hs bared his broad chest, that wall of muscle you couldn’t break through, and dropped his shirt without regard. He nodded to the bed.

“Go on.” He eyed the hem of your cotton night shirt. You changed once since he’d left you. You had no one to dress up for, so you dressed for bed. You hesitated as you blinked at the duvet. “Sugar…” he warned, “Don’t make this difficult.”

“Why?” Your voice crackled in the tension. He pushed his jeans down, his excitement was visible against his briefs.

“Don’t act like you had no part in this,” he pointed to the bed. “You’re so desperate to be a victim.”

Your heart hammered in your ears. You neared the bed and pressed your knee to the edge. His fingers lingered on the elastic of his briefs.

“Don’t be stupid.” He hissed. “Naked.”

You pressed your tongue to the roof of your mouth. Don’t cry. That’s what he wanted and you’d done enough of that. You lifted your shirt slowly and let it fall. You rolled your panties down and ignored his movement as he stripped off his briefs. You got onto the bed and laid on your back, waiting for him.

He laughed darkly and snapped his fingers. “Over here,” he beckoned you with his index finger, “On your knees, turn around.”

You bit down and crawled to him. You spun so your back was to him and his hands gripped your shoulders. He squeezed and let out a long breath. He shoved you so you fell forward on your hands. He slapped your ass and you held in your yelp. You hung your head as his fingers danced at the top of your thighs.

He poked at your folds and you quivered. The cold metal pressed to your warmth and he forced his fingers roughly past your entrance, burying them to the knuckle. You clamped your lips shut as he pushed in and out of you several times. He growled in frustration and retracted his hand, lashing your ass once more.

“What’s wrong?” He snarled as he stepped closer and grabbed your hips. “Fucking dry as fuck.”

You closed your eyes as he angled his dick along your entrance and pulled you further back. His tip pressed against your entrance and you opened around him painfully as he forced your legs wider apart. You whimpered and arched your back to ease the intrusion but it still hurt. When he impaled you entirely, he held you there and wiggled his hips.

You hissed as he pulled back and thrust into you as hard as he could. His fingers sank into your flesh as he slammed you into him. The clap of flesh was deafening as he kept a steady motion, working your body against his. You clawed at the blankets and choked on the moans that threatened to rise.

Your body responded, slowly, though it was just as agonizing. You huffed as he sped up. His left hand slid up your back and he gripped the back of your neck. He shoved your head down to the mattress and hammered into you. The bed shook with you and his groans swirled around you.

You slapped at the bed as he ignored your murmured pleas. You bared your teeth and grunted through the pain until he stopped. Until those last, long, stuttered, sharp thrusts left you breathless and weak. He pushed you off of him and your legs went lip as you fell prone across the mattress. His cum trickled down your thigh and he pinched your ass cruelly.

You kicked at him and he caught your ankle. He took your other leg and flipped you over harshly. He squeezed and his raw strength threatened to snap a bone. You stared at him defiantly and pushed yourself up to look him in the eye.

“Do it.” You sneered. “You’ll have to break me before I’ll ever want you.”

His eyes glimmered dangerously and he dropped your legs. He turned and stomped to the door, still naked, and keyed in the code. The door slammed and he left you in silence. You stared, expecting him to return shortly, but he didn’t.

You sat until you were certain he wouldn’t, though really, you could be sure. His cum cooled and turned sticky as the chill seeped into the flesh. He would be back but not soon. You’d have enough time to wash away his touch but not enough to prepare for his next visit.

You watched through the window as Bucky carried the long rifle bag and a duffle to his car. He didn’t tell you he was leaving. He didn’t talk at all anymore; not outside of giving you orders. A week maybe since he’d carved his star into your flesh. A week of solace interrupted only by his startling invasions.

Still you were nervous. The mission could last weeks but you never truly felt safe from him. From that mean streak he called “the soldier”. You shivered as he pulled away from the house and you watched his bumper grimly.

You kept your eyes out the window as you watched the yard. The patches of grass turning green, the sun shining brighter, the birds flitting around collecting twigs, the squirrels scurrying and scrounging. Spring had arrived and yet, nothing had changed. You were still a prisoner. Looking on at the world from the outside.

As your nose tingled and you felt like crying, you turned away. You ignored the television, you were done watching others live a life you’d never have. You sat at the table with the box of patterned paper and began to fold. A sparrow, a swan, a deer; your own little forest of animals.

You wiled away the morning with the creased creatures and as the afternoon beamed through the tinted glass, you sat up and stretched. You yawned as the sun shifted. You stood and walked around as your legs cramped. You froze as you heard the beep. 

He was back already… that couldn’t be good.

You gulped and watched the door open as the pin pad flashed green. Your hands balled to fists but you were faced by a man you were wholly unprepared for. Steve’s brow wrinkled as he looked around the room. The signs of your isolation were clear. Clothes strewn in a pile, your notebook still overturned on the floor, a messy bed, and you; unkempt and confused.

“Dora,” he said carefully as he stepped inside.

“What are you doing here?” You clasped your hands together. “Where’s Bucky?”

“He’s… away. You didn’t know?” He asked.

“I watched him go but…” You glanced around. “You left me with him.”

“Dor, what could I… I shouldn’t have,” he came closer. He reached out and you cowered. He touched your cheek softly. “Look at you. I’m so sorry.”

“He’s your friend.” You drew away. “You can’t save me from him.”

“You asked why I was here,” he said, “Well, why do you think?”

You were too afraid to be hopeful but when you saw the way he looked at you, you couldn’t help the way your heart throbbed. You couldn’t help but think that he might just get you out.

“But… why would you do that?”

“Because he’s not the Bucky I knew. He’s not the Bucky I saved.” He sniffed. “He’s not the Bucky who can save Dora.”

You frowned and pressed your palms to your neck. “You’d really… save me?”

“I’m here. There’s no going back now.” He reached into his jacket pocket. He revealed the paper frog. “You asked for me to take you away, are you going to come with me?”

Your eyes blurred as tears rose. You couldn’t believe it. You just couldn’t but you had to. It was your only chance. Your only true chance. You couldn’t be afraid anymore. Fear had never done you any good.

“Yes, yes,” you said, “I will. Please--”

“Alright, then we better get going.” He interjected.

He went to the dresser and pulled open each drawer. He took out a shirt, jeans, socks, underwear. He handed them to you and searched for a bag to pack away a few more outfits. He turned to you as you crossed to the bathroom and he stopped you.

“Dora. Let me see your leg.” He said.

You looked down, embarrassed. You lifted the hem of your night shirt and turned your leg to reveal the blazing star mottled in your flesh. His face fell.

“Go, get dressed. Quickly.” He tightened the string on the rucksack and you hurried into the bathroom. 

You changed clumsily. The sense of frequency has your pulse thrumming in your ears. As you came out, Steve dropped a pair of shoes before you and searched the closet for a jacket. He helped you pull it on and handed you the bag of clothes.

He grabbed your arm and swept you to the door. He nudged you ahead of him and you stopped dead in the frame. Your eyes rounded and you poked your head out as you peered down the hallway. You were leaving, really leaving.

“Steve,” you gasped, “I--”

“Dor, go,” he said, “We have to go. Now.”

You nodded and stepped out into the hall. Your entire body buzzed and you felt like laughing. It was much too soon for that. You went to the stairs and rushed down onto the landing, barely catching yourself on the railing at the bottom. Steve edged past you and opened the front door.

The song of birds and the whisper of the wind blew through. You placed one foot in front of the other and turned to Steve as you felt the soft sunlight on you. You stood on your toes and grabbed his shoulders. You kissed his lips and he let you. His hand on the small of your back as he parted and urged you through the door.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” you bounced down the steps. “Oh, thank you!”

You followed him to the car and opened your side as he did the same on the other. You hugged the bag to you and sat in the seat. You buckled up as he turned the engine as you shook uncontrollably.

“Steve,” you smiled as he reversed and steered the car around the long gravel drive.

“Dor,” he said evenly as he drove towards the highway.

“I love you,” you sang, “I love you so much!”

He was quiet. He kept his hands on the wheel and stared out the windshield. His long golden lashes caught the sunlight as he stopped at the end of the dirt path and looked onto the black road ahead. He looked at you, his blue eyes warm as the wrinkle left his forehead.

“I love you too,” he echoed and tore his gaze from you. He let out a sigh and stepped on the gas, “Just stick with me, Dor, and you’ll be okay. I promise.”

[marvel-and-mischief]

Forgive My Sins

I don’t know what this is but I thought of it when I should have been continuing to write my Maxwell fic 👀

Pairing: Nathan Bateman x GN!Reader Words: 2767 Warnings: alcohol, addiction, swearing, sobriety, sobriety being broken, angst, smut, heavy petting, descriptions of what alcohol does to the body (not detailed) Summary: Nathan has broken a promise he made to you

Masterlist

It wasn’t unusual for the compound to be peacefully quiet. If Nathan was working he would lock himself in the lab or his old bedroom and you would go about your business usually in the living area at the front of the building or in the large kitchen at the back of the building. 

So when you step out of the shower and get dressed and see no sign of your boyfriend, you’ve no reason to worry. It would be one of those days where if you were lucky you might see him at dinner later or if not you’ll be woken up when he slips into bed at an ungodly hour in the morning. 

It’s something you got used to when you were working for him, before you entered into a relationship, and it’s something that won’t change any time soon. You don’t mind, you never felt as though you were being pushed to the side or forgotten about. It was normal, and you made it work. You both did.

What was unusual was spotting Nathan in neither of the places you expect him to be. Sitting on the bench in the room off the side of the house that overlooks the river that passes by, lights off so the trees surrounding the box room kept the light out and created ominous shadows over Nathan’s form. His head was down, resting on his hands as his elbows dug into his knees. 

You’d seen many of Nathan’s darker emotions, angry verbal outbursts (never at you), frustrated smashing of objects onto the wooden patio outside but you’d never seen despair, which is what this looks like. You had never seen him cry like you thought he was doing now, but his face was hidden so you might be wrong. He had spoken to you about dark thoughts twice before, once when he was drunk (before you helped him get sober) where he professed his fear of loneliness, to which you patiently reminded him that as long as you were with him he would never be lonely again. And a second time a few months back when he had confessed to being scared of pushing you away for good. You didn’t quite understand where that had come from, he had never done anything to make you even think about calling it quits. Nathan isn’t a soft boyfriend, you wouldn’t even say he was loving though you know he loves you. But you don’t need someone to coddle you or tell you they love you every five minutes, that’s what makes him perfect for you. 

The soft red slippers on your feet allow you to silently pad towards the room without detection to observe Nathan more clearly. He’s in his sleep shorts and a long sleeved cotton t-shirt you’ve seen him wear a thousand times before. It’s slightly baggy on him which you like because it smooths his sharp edges, makes him look more boy-next-door. 

When he doesn’t notice you watching him, you carefully take hold of the rectangular door handle and proceed to slide the clear glass across. The sound makes a quiet whoosh that signals that someone is entering the room, yet Nathan doesn’t look up. Now you’re concerned. Nathan’s observant to the point of obsessive. He should have heard you outside the room but now with the door open, you expect him to at least acknowledge you. 

You remain patient, if he’s playing a game you would play along, if he’s truly upset over something you’ll get to the bottom of it in no time. 

You ever so slowly move around the perimeter of the room until you’re directly in front of Nathan, about four feet away from him, leaning back against the glass wall that shows white clouds hiding the sun behind them. You won’t be surprised if it rains soon. You had wanted to go for a hike up the trail later, with or without Nathan, but you suppose that wasn’t going to happen now. 

Nathan was a statue, still like a paused frame of a character in a movie, unmoving like all inanimate objects are. You had joked early on in your relationship that he wasn’t a man, he didn’t think like one or act like one, he was more like one of his AI’s he had later destroyed after the incident. But now you worry you were right after all. He’s acting as though malfunctioned, broken in some way. 

You make a move finally, after studying him and coming to the conclusion that he isn’t going to respond to you, coming to kneel in front of him, almost underneath him as you try to take a peak in the gaps between his fingers. 

Nathan told you once that he had been friendless in college, it didn’t surprise you but it did sadden you that this bright, brilliant, beautiful man was once a lonely, misunderstood boy, and that the first time someone had touched him unprompted it had made him so surprised, so wary of the other person, that he had instinctively shoved them off their seat to which no one would go near him for the rest of his years as a student. 

This reminds you of that memory, you don’t think Nathan would actually shove you away but you’re a little nervous to touch him and scare him into doing something out of pure instinct. 

“I’ve let you down,” Nathan’s voice comes through his fingers croaky and slow. Something’s wrong but you can’t put your finger on it. Has he been crying, is that why his voice sounds so strange? 

“Why do you say that?” You ask kindly, patiently as you slowly pry his fingers away from his face. He fights you though, tensing his fingers, pushing them into his face harder to prevent you from getting a good grip on them. Instead of forcing him you curl your fingers around his wrists and hold them there, letting your presence be felt, letting him know you’re there for him.

“I’ve… done something, fuck, you’re going to be so fucking disappointed,” Nathan mumbles, which he never does, he’s always clear with his words, he likes to be heard. 

You rack your brain to try to work out what failure is to Nathan Bateman. He had been working on a new AI system, a safer one, one without conscious, independent thought that had taken up his time for months. Not succeeding on something he had poured his heart into would be failure. But that wouldn’t disappoint you. You’d be sad for Nathan, but disappointment wouldn’t come into play. So it has to be something else.

“Have you cheated on me?” It wasn’t a serious question, Nathan’s a lot of things but you were absolutely certain if he wasn’t happy with your relationship he would be open and honest about it, he’d break your heart and break up your relationship before he became a cheater. 

You almost laugh when Nathan’s head shoots up, shock paints his features, clearly offended that you think he’d do that to you. But when you see the redness around his eyes and the slightly glazed look in them, the inability to focus on you precisely, your heart cracks at the sight of him. His piercing gaze that used to make you wither before him, shy and uncomfortable, that later sent hot shocks of desire through your body when you eventually got together, was now reduced to a weak, vacant stare. 

You try to disguise your emotions with a quick wink to show that you’re joking. Nathan lets out a sigh of relief, looks away from you, back to the ground that’s holding his attention more than you are. He’s still tense but he keeps his hands away from his face and interlocks them together in the middle of the two of you. 

You have your fears, you think you know what’s going on but you don’t think he’s going to admit it to you, too prideful in the presence of the person he made so many promises to. Those promises that he’s broken for whatever reason. So you have to get confirmation another way.

You place your hands on either side of his face, your thumbs grazing the apple of his cheeks, your palms covering his rough beard that you love so much, and tilt his head up. He knows what you’re going to do, you can see the pain in his eyes, begging you not to break the facade that there’s nothing to search for, nothing to confirm. 

You lean forward slowly, giving him enough time to break away or get up and leave the room. There’s a tiny part of you that wishes he would, so you can forget this even happened and go about your day, take that hike in the rain to clear your head. But he doesn’t do anything, he just waits.

You slot your mouths together and without prompting Nathan opens his mouth for you to taste inside. You linger longer than you need to, long after the sharp tang of alcohol reaches your tongue, long after you slip your tongue out of his mouth and continue to deliver a slow, lazy kiss that you hope reminds Nathan of how much you love him, adore him, appreciate him for opening himself up to you, for bearing his troubles to you and being so emotionally naked in this moment. 

You pull away, swallowing passed the dryness in your throat as you come to terms with his secret. 

It has been nearly two years since Nathan had promised to give up the bottle for you, for your relationship. He was drinking himself into an early grave, and you weren’t going to stick around just to bury him. You had felt cruel at the time, telling him it was you or the drink, but there had been one too many nights when you had had to drag his passed out body onto a soft surface and stay up with him to make sure he didn’t choke on his own sick. You were at the end of your usually very patient tether so you had given him the ultimatum he needed to hear. If he didn’t want to die lonely, he needed to put you above the drink. 

“Where is it?” You ask, subtly looking around the room to see if the bottle is nearby.

“In the trash.” Your heart skips a beat at the thought of an entire bottle of alcohol in his two years sober body. You see his eyes, the slight shake in his hands and it suddenly makes sense why he looks so terrible. At your look of terror Nathan takes a deep breath and places a hand on your upper arm when he speaks, his voice clearer now he was using it. “It was a five hundred mil bottle.”

You don’t let your sigh of relief be heard. You can work with that amount, he shouldn’t be too bad with some glasses of water in him and a long rest. Five hundred mil is a hell of a lot less than what he used to drink daily. 

You look at him, really look at him, you see his clenched jaw and the worry lines on his forehead, his lips downcast in sadness, disappointment. You leave a hand on his cheek, gently stroking at the soft skin just above where his beard starts. 

Nathan frowns at you, shaking his head slightly at your comforting actions. You raise an eyebrow, questioning what he’s thinking, what he’s feeling other than the obvious. 

“Why aren’t you angry?” Nathan finally asks, pushing your hand away from his face as though he doesn’t deserve your touch that encapsulates everything he thinks he doesn’t deserve; your empathy, your understanding, your kindness, your patience.

You ignore his action and instead place the same hand on top of his knee, resuming your action of stroking your thumb along the slightly cracked skin.

“It’s easily forgivable,” you speak your words carefully, concisely, like you would if you were giving an instruction. There’s a tone to your voice that says don’t argue with me and also trust me.

“You’re wrong,” Nathan insists in the tone that used to be patronising (you had to tell him to tone it down or you weren’t going to have debates with him until he spoke to you instead of at you).

“I’m not.” You are stubborn, that’s what initially attracted Nathan to you. You never back down from an argument (unless he spoke down to you) and you always fight your corner with an unrelenting feistiness that, Nathan wasn’t shy to admit, sometimes made him hard. If he hadn’t slipped up so spectacularly today maybe this would have been one of those moments. 

“You are.”

“Nathan,” you give him a pointed look that makes him stay silent, “it is my job as your partner to be understanding, to not overreact when you’ve slipped up but to hold your hand through it so you can come out the other side.” 

You keep your gaze fixed on his, urging him to listen to you. This isn’t about being right or wrong, this is about what you’re going to do moving forward to make sure this never happens again. 

And Nathan finally understands that when he sees your look of determination, your lack of actions up to this point, not shouting at him or hitting him like he expected, not telling him off or making him feel like the fucking loser he thinks he is for losing the battle he fought so hard to win. 

He reaches down and places his hands on either side of your neck, thumbs on your pulse points underneath your ears and holds you there as he takes you in. 

Nathan hates the lump in his throat, the wetness in his eyes, the tremble in his hands that he’s sure you can feel against your soft skin. 

A sob creeps up on him unexpectedly and out of instinct you rise to your knees, push your way between his legs and pull his head into your chest. It’s an awkward angle, he’s a bit too high up on the bench and your knees are starting to hurt but your comfort is unimportant compared to Nathan’s in this moment. 

He’s silent in his sobbing, you wouldn’t know he was crying if it weren’t for your shirt getting wet and his little sniffs now and then. You stay there like that for a while, humming softly with your head resting against his shaved head, rocking him ever so slightly side to side with your arms tight around his shoulders. 

You’re startled out of your calm state when Nathan pulls away and surges up to kiss you, passionately, heated, lips tangling, teeth clattering together until you find a rhythm that’s pleasurable for you both. He pulls you up and onto his lap, your legs straddling him in such a way that you are seated perfectly against his groin. 

Nathan’s hands move up under the back of your t-shirt to pull you flush against his chest, his nails scratching lightly against your skin and making you moan into his mouth.

You grind down against his cock then, momentarily forgetting what had happened, not even tasting the alcohol on his tongue anymore, your brain melting into a puddle of Nathan Nathan Nathan and more more more. 

It’s not until Nathan abruptly pushes you away, far enough that you have to grip onto his shoulders to prevent yourself from falling off his lap, that you realise something has happened. Or rather hasn’t happened.

Nathan lets out a frustrated growl that turns into a sorry cry of embarrassment. You look down to see he’s still soft. He’s so inebriated that he can’t get aroused. 

You scoot forward on his lap to get closer and when he grabs your waist to push you away again you fight his strength to wrap your arms around his shoulders. He gives up eventually, once you have him nestled against your softness, his head hooked into the crook of your neck as you whisper sweets nothings into his ear, keeping him grounded to you and nothing else. 

It isn’t the end of the world, and it definitely isn’t the end of yours and Nathan’s relationship. There will be so many more of these bad days to come but you believe in him and he believes in you. You’re an odd couple but you make it work, and you will continue to make it work, together. 

Permanent tag list: @autumnleaves1991-blog​ @phoenixhalliwell​ 

[spencers-renaissance]

Rain is a Chance to be Touched Ch.7

a poem begins in the lump in the throat

Chapter Six

This is the seventh chapter in my ongoing hotchreid fic! Please click here for the fic summary, full tags, trigger warnings, more information etc.

Last Chapter: Aaron went to Spencer's apartment and found him in a depressive state. Lots of cuddles and comfort ensued.

In This Chapter: Aaron and Spencer go to a museum with Jack, but it is definitely not a date. And Spencer's depression definitely does not get in the way.

TW: same as usual — as well as additional ones for a trigger scene and depictions of caring.

Word Count: 4.8k

RCT Masterlist // Main Masterlist // Read on AO3

SPENCER

A poem begins in the lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness. — Robert Frost

The day after Aaron had turned up at his flat, he’d rung Penelope who had not-so-guiltily confessed to sending him his way. He wasn’t upset though, quite the contrary. A kind, cuddly, caring Aaron showing up in the middle of a minor depressive episode was exactly what he needed, and the evening they’d spent together had burned its way onto the tissue of Spencer’s heart. It was one of the happiest moments he’d experienced in a long time, despite the weighty, persistent, downward tug on his mood.

He’s been over every day the team has been home in the two weeks since, Penelope taking over when he’s away, and as exhausting as Spencer has found human company in the past year, neither Aaron’s nor Penelope’s presence drains him in the way everyone else’s has. They accept his low mood, not blinking an eye when he doesn’t have the energy to respond to something they say or when he zones out and stares blankly at the wall for minutes at a time. He can’t even find it in him to care that both of them have seen him naked now.

Their company starts to chip away at the glacier of loneliness that had spread itself across his chest, inching its freezing border ever closer to the corners of his ribcage as he pulled away and watched everyone else do the same. Aaron and Penelope simply aren’t having it, and their determination to show him love and friendship and warmth is slowly but surely melting his isolation to a puddle on the floor, soon to dry out and be forgotten.

Penelope had come with him to his first psychiatrist appointment, though she’d sat in the waiting room this time, and it had been incredibly relieving to be able to properly let go of some of the heavy burden that had weighed so heavily on his shoulders all this time. He’d kept him on the same antidepressants Dr Reese had prescribed him, and although he hadn’t felt a huge difference yet, Dr Parker was incredibly reassuring and he was trying not to assume defeat so early in the game.

He did feel slightly better, though, as he came out of the dip in his depression that had come on the day after his day out with Penelope. Once Aaron had noticed his mood brighten and his energy levels increase slightly — evidenced largely by Spencer not immediately falling asleep on the sofa when he comes back in from work — he’d suggested getting out of his apartment and doing something.

Spencer was apprehensive at first: the idea of willingly putting himself in a position of proximity with strangers and unpredictable circumstances made his skin crawl. But then Aaron had proposed a quiet trip with him and Jack to the Natural History Museum, maybe a walk in the park if the weather was nice. Spencer had found it hard to decline.

The last few weeks had only solidified Spencer’s feelings for Aaron further, intensified by both his persistence in being close to Spencer and his relentless kindness, and he had begun to feel something like real, genuine hope stirring on the surface of his soul.

He’d caught Aaron looking at him a few times when he thought he was asleep or zoned out, and the softness on his face felt reflective of Spencer’s own expression when he looks at Aaron. He couldn’t imagine him being so insistent on taking care of anyone else on the team, and since he’d left the BAU anyway, he had no obligation to be so dutifully kind.

Yet, he shows up before and after work every day the team is in Virginia, no matter how far out of the way Spencer’s apartment is, making sure he eats, showers, has clean clothes. Making sure he knows he’s loved. (Something whispers deep in his heart that maybe that love is the kind he’s dreamed of.)

On bad nights when he was still working at the BAU, he’d hug his knees to his chest and imagine Aaron curled up behind him telling him how much he loved him, telling him that it was going to be alright. He could never look the man in the eyes the next day at work, but that didn’t stop him. It worked better than anything else he tried and now it’s a reality he can’t pinch himself out of.

Truthfully, in the weeks between quitting the BAU and Penelope forcing Aaron and herself back into his life, he’d desperately missed his time in Aaron’s apartment, playing with Jack and pretending his life wasn’t splitting at the seams. The idea of spending a whole day with them — without the added baggage of trying to box up his increasingly untameable depression — was something he actually looked forward to. It’s a nice feeling; admittedly one he hasn’t felt in a long time.

Penelope comes over the morning of the outing.

(“I’m not about to let you flush this down the drain just because you end up having a tough morning,” she’d insisted when Spencer told her she doesn’t need to. “I’ll come over and force you out of bed and into a nice little outfit if I need to. You are going on that date with Hotch. Sorry: Aaron.”

“Shut up,” Spencer had said weakly. “It’s not a date.”

“Irrelevant,” she’d sniffed and levelled him with a glare he couldn’t argue with.)

He’s pretty sure that her insistent and relentless protectiveness and aid is part of her very focused mission to make up the last year to him. In fact, he’s almost certain, considering every time she sees him he’s bombarded with yet another apology and a small present for him. He’s not sure how to get through to her that he’s already forgiven her.

“Have you eaten yet?” she asks as she walks into the living room to see Spencer curled up on the sofa with a blanket pulled over him. He had actually made it to bed last night, but the only way he could pull himself out of bed this morning was to promise himself a few minutes on the sofa, exciting day ahead of him or not.

He shakes his head. “Not hungry,” he sighs, picking at a loose thread of his blanket.

“That’s okay,” Penelope says lightly, dumping her handbag on the armchair before breezing into the kitchen and setting the orchid she’s brought with her on the windowsill. He hopes she knows she’ll be the only person around responsible enough to water it. “We’ll find you something small. How does a little bowl of cornflakes sound?”

“Fine.”

She puts the coffee machine on before bringing him a bowl of cornflakes that is decidedly not little. He hates that her tactic works and he eats the whole thing. “Why do you always have to be right?” he grumbles as he polishes off the bowl and puts it on the coffee table.

“I don’t know, baby genius,” she sighs exaggeratedly, sagging into her armchair. Spencer doesn’t know what he’d do without Penelope Garcia and her incessant dramatics. “It’s truly an affliction.”

“Mhm.” Spencer raises an eyebrow, unimpressed, but Penelope’s saved by the coffee machine beeping and she stalks into the kitchen to pour him a cup. He has no idea how early she wakes up to make it over to his house dressed to the nines with a full face of make-up on at eight am. He smiles fondly at her as he takes the proffered mug. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she says brightly, sitting back in her chair and sipping at her own cup. “So, how are we feeling about our date today?”

As much as Spencer does not appreciate her suggestive eyebrow waggling, he can’t help but smile at her antics. He also can’t help but blush. “It isn’t a date, Penelope, I’ve told you this.”

“Right, right,” she says drily. “I think I’d have an easier time believing you if you weren’t constantly sending one another heart eyes and weren’t clearly half in-love with one another already.”

Spencer decides it’s probably best to avoid mentioning that his feelings have definitely progressed past the ‘half in-love’ phase, and just looks down. “Jack will be there,” he points out instead, “and the Natural History Museum isn’t exactly a steamy date location, is it?”

“No, that’s exactly the point. It’s a Dr Spencer Reid date location.”

Spencer looks at her a little speechless for a moment. Unfortunately, she’s right. He’s privately thought about getting married in one of DC’s many museums, and science and history are two of the subjects even a casual acquaintance would know he’s fascinated by. Plus, it’s also something he’s bonded over with Jack.

All of that may be the case, but it doesn’t change the fact that he absolutely cannot let himself consider this a date.

He’s already let himself fantasise enough about Aaron returning his feelings; not letting himself think of this as anything other than platonic is the only thing he can hang onto to protect his fragile heart. Getting his hopes up only to find out he’s wrong would crush him, and he can’t risk a devastation of such proportions right now. He’s barely getting out of bed in the morning as it is.

Penelope seems to catch on to his spiralling thought process and leans over to lay a hand on his knee. “Hey, I know it’s intimidating,” she says gently, “and you don’t have to think about it as a date if you don’t want to, especially if you’re apprehensive because he hasn’t said anything explicitly. I just don’t want you to doubt yourself. I promise you he has feelings for you, too, okay? You need to trust me on this one. That man is absolutely gone for you.”

Despite himself, he finds himself smiling at her as her words warm him from the inside out. Even if he knows he has to be careful with his heart, he can’t help the optimism his head conjures up at such a promise from someone he trusts with his life. “Okay,” he whispers shyly.

“Right,” she says, putting her half-empty coffee mug down on the table and gripping Spencer’s free hand to pull him up from his pathetic sprawl across the sofa. “Come on, you. Aaron won’t be long, let’s get you looking at least half-human.”

He only agrees because she lets him bring his own coffee mug with him to the bathroom. She’s a good friend.

Penelope slips out a few minutes before Aaron is set to arrive per Spencer’s request, and he sits nervously on the sofa, waiting for the doorbell to buzz. He’d chosen his favourite shirt and tie combo and gone with a lilac sweater under his smartest navy coat. He holds his scarf in his fidgeting fingers, ready to put it on once they get outside, but he still feels naked. Suddenly, everything that’s riding on this day out fills him with a sort of dread and he feels vulnerable, scared of all the endless ways this could go so wrong.

Before he can spiral properly though, his intercom buzzes and he rushes over to answer it, even though he knows who it is. He’s glad he does, because Jack’s voice crackles its way into the quiet of his apartment. “Spencer, Spencer, come out, we’re here,” he shouts excitedly, and even though Spencer winces at the feedback his high-pitched voice elicits, a fond smile still finds its way onto his face.

“I’m on my way down, buddy,” he says back, with as much enthusiasm as he can muster, before patting his pockets to make sure he has his keys, phone, and wallet. He locks his door carefully and makes his way down to the front of his building. Apprehension balls in a pit in his stomach, but it loosens as soon as he approaches the pair waiting in the cold outside the front door.

Jack runs up to him and he crouches down to give him a big hug, wishing he had the strength and confidence to pick him up and twirl him around like he’s seen Aaron and Derek do so many times. Jack doesn’t seem bothered, though, an excited grin painted across his face as he pulls back from the hug.

“Hey,” Aaron says once Jack has let Spencer go and he stands back up straight. He presses a hand gently to the middle of Spencer’s back and the touch spreads warmth up to his shoulders as he watches the curve of Aaron’s smile. “How are you doing?”

“Rocky morning,” Spencer admits — he’s almost certain Penelope sends Aaron status reports, so lying is pointless. “Penelope helped.”

“She always does,” Aaron says warmly, keeping one hand on Spencer’s back while the other holds Jacks as they walk to the car parked a little way down the street. A little spark of excitement rushes through Spencer’s body as he briefly lets himself think about what casual passers-by might assume about the three of them. “You still up for the Natural History Museum?”

“Of course,” Spencer replies, as brightly as he can, trying to ignore the pull of sorrow still weighing his gut down. “Are you looking forward to seeing the dinosaurs, Jack?”

“Yes!” Jack shouts eagerly, letting go of Aaron’s hand to unzip his little puffer coat to reveal his long-sleeve t-shirt. A big, green t-rex stands out against the blue background, and Jack’s never looked prouder. “Dinosaur, see?”

“I do,” Spencer laughs. “It’s a great shirt, Jack.”

“Hey, let’s zip that coat back up, buddy, well done,” Aaron says gently and Jack does so obediently. “He insisted on wearing it,” he tells Spencer once Jack’s hand is back in his and he’s securely wrapped up. “He wanted to show you.”

They arrive at the car before Spencer can reply, and Aaron opens the passenger door for him to get in before strapping Jack into his car seat and setting him up with a few of his toys, including his favourite dinosaurs. It’s only a fifteen minute journey to the museum, and they pass the first half of it in a comfortable silence, but eventually, Spencer works up the courage to ask the question that’s been at the tip of his tongue the past two weeks.

“How’s work?” he asks, trying to be as innocuous as possible, though his awkward avoidance of Aaron’s eyes probably gives him away.

“It’s good.” He’s clearly treading carefully as he eyes Spencer for a brief moment before he returns his gaze to the road. “We’ve only had one major case since you left, and we muddled our way through it, got it solved. Everyone does miss you, though, Spencer. They really do.”

It’s a concept he still can’t really get his head around. He hasn’t been around for a year, not really, and they didn’t miss him then. It feels almost… convenient, to Spencer. Guilt is not remorse.

“Have you found my replacement yet?” Spencer surprises himself by not feeling any jealousy at the prospect of someone taking his position on the team. He’d long ago accepted how replaceable he is socially, and it’s not like the pool of talented, intelligent prospective agents is exactly small. He also has no desire to be around his old team; not as they were in the build-up to his resignation, not like that. He still has Aaron and Penelope, but he’s only just starting to trust that they’re not going anywhere.

“I think so,” Aaron sighs heavily. “As long as her paperwork goes through, she’ll join the team later this week.”

Spencer nods, not really knowing what to say to that. Aaron reaches his right hand across the console and rests it on top of Spencer’s clasped hands, the warm reassuring weight of not just anyone’s touch but Aaron Hotchner’s turning his insides into a melted puddle as his heart beats faster. He hooks one of his fingers over Aaron’s, a silent message to keep his hand there, and he doesn’t worry about what to say next. Nothing needs to be said.

Spencer knows the Natural History Museum like the back of his hand, so he directs them to the best parking spot before taking the lead and walking them into the gorgeous, open foyer. Jack bounces excitedly between them, so Aaron lifts him onto his shoulders to reduce the likelihood of a disaster.

“It’s not too busy for a Sunday,” Spencer observes, half trying to calm himself down in such an unfamiliar environment, “so we should be able to see everything we want to. Jack, do you want to see the dinosaurs now or later?”

“Now!” he shouts loudly, wiggling as happiness floods his little body. Spencer smiles fondly at the pair, and a little more of the apprehension he’d felt at leaving the house melts away.

“Well how could I refuse that request?” he chuckles, leading them towards the dinosaur exhibit. His breath catches when he feels the back of Aaron’s hand brush the back of his, and in a moment of bold and brash insanity, he interlocks his pinky with Aaron’s. After the moment in the car, he feels such an action is warranted, but as soon as he does it, panic sets in.

Before he can retract his finger though, Aaron takes Spencer’s hand properly. The feeling of Aaron’s big hand gripping his own in a gentle but firm hold makes his stomach dip, and goosebumps find their way up his arms and down his side. He’s never felt safer than right in this moment — never mind the crowds of people they’re passing through; the insecurity of being outside his flat; the uncertainty of what could happen — never mind all of that, because his hand is in Aaron’s and Aaron keeps him safe. He doesn’t trust much anymore, but he will always trust Aaron.

Jack babbles eagerly the whole way to the dinosaur exhibit, repeating some of the facts Spencer had taught him in his previous visits to the Hotchner household in a “did you know?” format, leaving both Aaron and Spencer chuckling fondly, trying to encourage him as much as possible.

Spencer shows them around the exhibit, acting as their tiny group’s personal tour guide, and Jack couldn’t be happier, insisting on walking instead of being carried so he can press his face up as close as possible to the displays, his breath fogging up the glass as he leaves fingerprints all over the cases. They spend nearly an hour walking around the exhibit, playing with the interactive toys and examining each and every display in a close-up fashion.

Once they wrap up their dinosaur exploring, Spencer brings Jack to a bench and asks him what his favourite thing he learned is.

“Uhh,” Jack hums, furrowing his eyebrows in a way that reminds him so much of Aaron it’s almost uncanny, “oh! They were terrible and they were stupid!”

Spencer’s confused for a moment before laughing as he manages to decode what Jack is trying to say. “Dinosaur does translate to ‘terrible lizard’, well done,” he agrees, “and you’re right, they weren’t much smarter than reptiles these days. Good job, Jack!” He raises his hand for a high-five, and Jack doesn’t waste any time in slapping his palm to Spencer’s.

“Can we get ice cream?” he asks eagerly, widening his eyes in a plea as he looks at Aaron who's been observing the unravelling scene from the pillar next to the bench.

“Go on then,” Aaron concedes, grinning at his son’s uncontainable happiness as he wiggles around next to Spencer.

They head to the museum’s cafe and all order ice cream, taking a seat in the middle of the canteen.

“This reminds me of field trips back in school,” Spencer muses, gesturing to the surrounding noise with his spoon.

“Yeah?” Aaron asks while Jack picks distractedly at a scratch on the table, licking his ice cream cone happily.

“Before I was identified as a gifted student and sent years up the grade school ladder, I was a fairly normal kid in a fairly normal school. We went on a field trip to a museum in first grade, and I loved every minute of it. I got to impress all my friends by sharing all my memorised facts about space, and we ate our packed lunches in a canteen like this. My mum was still on her meds back then, and she’d cut all my ham sandwiches into dinosaur shapes.”

Aaron’s smiling at him as he talks, and he realises that it’s probably because it’s the most he’s had to say in weeks, much less something anecdotal and personal. Spencer realises belatedly that it’s the sort of thing one might share on a date, but there’s nothing he can do about it now.

“I’m glad you have nice memories from your early childhood, Spencer,” he says, and his hand reaches across the table to find Spencer’s again. “It’s the least you deserve.”

He averts his eyes as he blushes, suddenly feeling a little overwhelmed by the attention, and focuses on his ice cream for a few minutes before he’s cooled down a bit. “What about you?” he asks, meeting Aaron’s eyes again. “Any field trip memories?”

“I made out with my ninth grade girlfriend at the planetarium once,” he admits quietly, a mirthful chuckle finding its way into his voice.

“Maybe minutely better than dinosaur shaped sandwiches,” Spencer says, a little shyly.

“Ooh, dinosaur sandwiches!” Jack chimes in, suddenly aware of the conversation the adults are having. “Can I have some?”

Spencer’s phone vibrates just as Aaron goes to appease Jack’s enthusiasm for novelty shaped lunch food, and he pulls it out curiously. These days, the only people to text him are Aaron and Penelope, and Penelope had told him she was going out with a friend today.

Hey, pretty boy — Spencer’s heart sinks as he reads the first line of the message, tears immediately springing to his eyes — I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch. Hotch said something about personal stuff going on? Anyway, I thought I’d text you to tell you just how much we miss you at the BAU. Life isn’t the same without you, and it was hard to not even get a chance to say goodbye. Any chance we could meet up at some point? We don’t have to go out if you don’t want to, we can just go grab a coffee or something. D

Aaron must read something off in his face — it’s not exactly like he’s trying to hide it — and he immediately slides closer to him on the circular canteen bench. “Hey, hey, Spencer,” he says soothingly, “you’re alright. What’s going on?” He just slides the phone over to show Aaron the message, and he immediately gets it. “I know that must be overwhelming, and we’re in public which can’t be helping.” He glances over at Jack who’s looking worryingly at Spencer, clearly confused. “Why don’t we go back to our place? Jack and I will help you feel better, won’t we, buddy?”

Jack nods at that, pressing himself into Spencer’s side and wrapping his tiny arms around him. “Yeah, we make you feel better.” He reaches up and clumsily brushes a tear away from Spencer’s cheek before kissing it. It makes his heart warm that this is how Jack treats someone sad: he must be emulating the behaviour adults have shown him in these situations, and Jack only ever deserves the absolute best. Especially after losing his mom.

“Thank you,” he whispers, pressing himself closer to Aaron. Every time he’s upset he seems to lose his inhibitions around him, but he can’t help it. He needs the comfort only Aaron can provide, and after denying his starving heart the love and reassurance it's been begging for for so long, he can’t help but indulge himself now it’s finally an option.

They make their way back to the car and Spencer’s in such a haze of confusing emotion the only thing he can really ground himself in is Aaron’s arm wrapped around his waist and Jack gripping his hand on his other side, sending him worried looks. If he had the wherewithal to feel anything other than a deep sense of grief combined with rising panic he’d feel guilty for ruining such a nice day out, but as it stands he’s spared that particular brand of misery.

The drive back to Aaron’s is a little longer than the first journey of the day, but Spencer just clings to the hand Aaron offered him as soon as they got back in the car and tries desperately not to spin completely out of control and start hyperventilating in front of the five year old strapped into his car seat behind him.

Jack is asked to play in his room for a bit once they get home and he obeys, aware of — if not entirely comprehending — the tension in the air. As Spencer sits on the sofa waiting for Aaron to get back with a glass of water, the grief and panic clear a little. He hates himself for the relentless gravity of his depression: the way it pulls down even the brightest of days, the way he can physically feel his insides being sucked downwards into the blackhole of desolation.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Aaron asks gently as he sits next to Spencer on the couch, close enough that their arms are touching. Self-loathing is the only thing preventing him from leaning into his comfort like he did at the museum, like he did in the car. Instead he pulls away and curls himself as small as possible into the corner of the sofa. When Spencer doesn’t reply, Aaron takes a risk. “Do you think you might be so upset because somewhere, deep down, you want to see Derek too?”

He snaps his head up at that, surprised Aaron would say something so blunt and, as much as Spencer doesn’t want to admit it, truthful. After a good few moments of contemplative and patient silence, his thoughts are ordered enough to voice them. “I miss them all,” he admits quietly. “I desperately want to see Derek. But the Derek I left hurt me so much I wouldn’t know where to even start in trying to reconnect with him.”

Aaron nods in understanding from his spot in the middle of the sofa. Spencer longs for this pit of self-loathing to melt away so he can feel confident enough to crawl back across the cushions and share Aaron’s personal space again.

“That makes a lot of sense, Spencer,” he says, resting a gentle hand on his ankle, and it’s such a casual, intimate touch he doesn’t know what to do with himself. He settles on not moving even an inch, lest Aaron pull his hand away. “For what it’s worth, the others have started to piece together why you left. I know they’re all regretting how everything played out, and everyone on the team misses you sorely.”

Spencer ponders that for a moment. He doesn’t know how it makes him feel: it’s nice to be missed, and a sick sort of vindication flourishes in the less savoury side of him at the idea of the others realising the crippling, world-changing pain he’s been in for the last year, right under their noses.

He misses so much about the others, but that’s not new: he’s missed JJ’s hugs and Derek’s teasing and Emily’s friendship for close to a year now. Sitting at his desk in the bullpen next to Derek and Emily’s private bantering, sharing an inside joke he didn’t understand towards the end of his career at the BAU had cut deep, reminding him just how achingly alone he was.

“I don’t know where to start,” he says hopelessly, feeling like he’s repeating himself. Tears spring to his eyes again, spilling down his cheeks relentlessly, as though the second he’d let one fall, they toppled down his face like river water desperate to escape, unsure of when the dam will close again.

Aaron scoots himself over to Spencer’s end of the sofa like he can’t help himself, and this time he lets himself fold into Aaron’s warm embrace. He cries as quietly as possible, but it’s hard when he doesn’t have the energy to do anything other than sob helplessly. He can hear himself; he knows he sounds like a broken, defeated man, but he simply doesn’t have the power to care.

As his sobs start to dry out, he sees that Aaron is crying, too. He’d noticed his wet eyes the last few times he’d cried in his presence as well, and he has no idea how to feel about it. If Aaron is seriously going to cry every time he does, though, then he’d better strap in.

“Why don’t you have a nap?” he suggests, wiping a tear from the sensitive skin under Spencer’s eye so tenderly it makes his heart clench. “Then afterwards, we can think of a way to go about this. Maybe we could start with a short text back. How does that sound?”

Spencer nods tiredly, and lets Aaron help him get into a comfortable position on the sofa. A warm, soft throw is draped over him and Aaron half closes the living room blind, but the day is dark and grey enough already anyway. As he’s falling off to sleep, a hot water bottle is tucked under the blanket and he instinctively curls up against the warmth, but he knows that the real comforting soporific is the man reading quietly in the armchair next to him.

For the first time in a long time, Spencer looks forward to waking up.

Chapter Eight

Rereading Penelope in this chapter when I came to edit it made me want to take a second to recognise all of the unofficial carers out there <3 I've been a carer for both my mum and my grandmother at various times in my childhood and teens, and it's tough going. If you're looking after a friend or a family member, please remember how amazing and wonderful you are, and also remember that it's okay if it's too much, and it's okay if you need to cry or scream or break down. You are still just as brilliant no matter your emotional reaction to what is an exceptionally difficult situation to find yourself in. I love you, and I'm always here to talk to you about this (or anything that comes up in this fic!) <3

If this chapter brought anything up for you, hotlines are in the endnotes of the AO3 version of this fic. Bigger countries are listed and a link is included if you live somewhere else in the world. I love you <3

taglist: @criminalmindsvibez @suburban--gothic @strippersenseii @takeyourleap-of-faith @makaylajadewrites @iamrenstark @hotchseyebrows @reidology @i-like-buttons @spencerspecifics @bau-gremlin @hotchedyke @tobias-hankel @goobzoop @marsjareau @garcias-bitch @marvel-ous-m @oliverbrnch @sbeno22 @aaron-hotchner187 @kuolonsyoja

[bluebaby123]

Confessions: Shikamaru NSFW

WARNINGS: Sex, dirty talk

This fic is brought to you by  ‘______ song slowed down’ videos on youtube.

You had waited for over an hour at the park bench before he responded to your many text messages.

Where r u?

U coming?

Hello?                         Cant make it                         Sorry

You didn’t respond. You were crushed. You had talked with him the night before about this and had hardly slept. This was the first guy you had liked since you’d broken up with your ex and he hadn’t shown? You began to walk home but a sudden fear of being alone caused you to change direction. You walked to Shikamaru’s apartment instead, figuring that it was only a little after 9:00… You sent him a quick text:

Can I come over?

It was delivered but unopened. Typical for Shikamaru. His apartment was on the third floor, on the left. As you approached you could see that his lights were on and you felt relieved. You climbed the stairs and checked you phone. He still hadn’t opened the message. You hoped that he wouldn’t be too annoyed with your sudden appearance. You took a deep breath and knocked on the door. You stood there and waited.  Eventually the door opens. He’s standing there shirtless with black sweatpants on, the waistband of his boxers showing. He raises an eyebrow at you, “yes?” You start trying to tell him what happened but you’re so embarrassed. His eyes scanned your face, as he analyzed your every move. “He didn’t-“ you started, “he didn’t show,” he finished. You nodded, laughing a little at the irony. Shikamaru wrapped his arm around your shoulder and led you into his living room. “You wanna finish this movie with me?” he asked and you nodded grateful that he’s so understanding. 

You slid onto the couch and Shikamaru handed you a blanket. He sat down next to you and propped his feet on the coffee table which was littered with half empty snack bags and containers. He grabbed a box of cookies and you rested your head on his shoulder. He pushed the remote and the movie began to play. You sat there in silence trying to figure out what was going on in the plot of the film. “Hmm?” he offered you a cookie and you took one. “Is there something wrong with me?” you asked as you bit into the Nilla Wafer. Shikamaru shook his head, a cookie in his mouth. “Theres nothing wrong with you, guy’s a drag,” he offered. You nodded but you couldn’t get the thought out of your head. “It’s just that this happens a lot… I would be the common denominator.” Shikamaru set down the box of cookies. “Y/n, listen to me, there is absolutely nothing wrong with you… you just pick the wrong guys.” You were feeling prickly upon hearing this. “The hell’s that supposed to mean?” you said staring at him brow furrowed. Shikamaru rolled his eyes, “you know what I mean, don’t take it personally.” Okay he was really starting to get on your nerves. “Do you think I choose this on purpose? You think I want people who treat me poorly?” You turned towards him awaiting for his answer. “Fuck! Thats not what I meant okay? But if you want honesty, and I think you need some, yeah, I do think that you pick people like that on purpose. But because I don’t think you understand what you deserve.” You felt tears pricking your eyes, you were ready to be angry and have it out with him but you just felt stunned. “W-what?” you questioned. His eyes were intense on yours, and for a split second they flicked down to look at your mouth. He was sitting forward, as if he was awaiting something. Then he grabbed your shoulder with one hand and the back of your head with the other. He pulled you into him. His lips crashed onto yours. It was shocking, like an explosion. His lip moved with such skill as he sucked your bottom lip into his mouth. He pulled back to gauge your reaction. “You deserve to be treated like this,” he said and he kissed you again. His tongue grazed your bottom lip and you opened your mouth, allowing him to feel your tongue against his. It felt so good to have him this close, but it was also confusing and becoming an all consuming desire. Your hands tangled in his pony tail. He gently bit down on your bottom lip again and this time you let out a soft sigh. He growled in response and moved his mouth down to your neck. He nipped and kissed his way to your collar bone, “mmm, so good,” you said softly. He looked up at you and said, “I’ve wanted to do this for so long…” You moved your hands down to his shoulders, “Shikamaru.” He looked at you his face falling a bit, perhaps he was expecting the worst. “Do you actually… like me? Or do you just wanna hook up with me?” you asked softly. He took your hand and pressed it to his chest. His heart was hammering against his ribs. “Y/n, I like you… more than you even know.”

You didn’t need to say anything in response, instead you climbed over him and kissed his lips. His hands began to caress your back and stomach under your shirt. You sat on his hips and pulled your shirt over your head. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispered as he gripped on your waist. His hand moved up to your breasts and he brushed his thumb around the cup of your bra. He sat up, tugged the cup down, and took your nipple in his mouth. He pulled at it with his teeth and you moaned, “oh- oh my god.” He used his tongue to move to your other breast where he repeated the process. Every swirl of his tongue on your skin was done with care. He wasn’t gentle, but every time he touched you it was conscious. He trailed his kisses up to your neck and he bit down just below your jaw. His fingers trailed to the wet spot that was soaking your panties. “Oh you’re so fucking wet… All for me?” He started rubbing your clit through your panties. “It’s all yours Shikamaru,” you whined. “Good girl,” he praised. He started rubbing harder and your hands reached down and began  stroking his cock through his pants. He laid you down and removed his clothes, then your panties. He groaned upon seeing you for the first time. He couldn’t resist and his fingers sunk into you. “Ah- oh- Shikamaru,” you cried as they curled inside you. His other hand stroked his cock. It was as if he was so full of desire that he wasn’t sure where to go next. He pulled his fingers out of you and sucked them. “You taste so good,” he said, “taste.” He stuck his fingers in your mouth next, the combination of you and his spit driving you wild. You rolled your tongue around his fingers and his eyes rolled back in his head. When his eyes met yours next, they were dark with lust. He was over you and then inside you in seconds. You moaned as his cock filled you. He began to fuck you hard. Your nails were digging into his back… Was it even possible for a man to go this deep? He kissed you through your ragged breaths. “You’re-so-fuck-ing-good-“ you said as he continued to slam into you with a relentless pace. You felt yourself getting close, the feeling of clenching around his cock driving you delirious. It was right as you were about to cum that he began to slow down and soften his thrusts. “Wh-what are you-?” Shikamaru laughed softly. “Do you know how long I’ve thought about this? Getting to kiss you and be inside you? I’m gonna take my time with you.” You began to push your hips into his. The more you pushed towards him the more he pulled away. “Please,” you whined, caressing a hands down his cheek. He smiled and much too slowly sunk back into you. He stopped moving then altogether. “Pleeease Shikamaru, please, please, please.” You peppered kisses on his face as you begged him. “Please what, princess?” He was driving you crazy. You ground your hips into his hoping for any kind of friction. “Please fuck me, please let me cum all over your cock, please cum inside me.” You figured you could play his game a bit, tease him with words and ideas while he teased you with his cock. He began to pick up the pace slightly; you could see in his eyes that he was intrigued by your words. “I need you so fucking bad Shikamaru,” you begged. He groaned in response and began to slam his hips into yours. Your built up desire was starting to break. You came almost instantly, hard, squeezing his cock. He did not stop his relentless pace, “did you cum already, sweet girl? I think you can take more,” he said as his hand reached for your clit. He began to rub soft circles as he fucked you. You were surprised by how quickly the fire returned to your abdomen. Your breath hitched in your throat, “cum for me again, let me feel it again.” It was as if your body was listening more than your brain. You’d hardly processed what he said before you were squeezing his cock again. This time you could tell he was close to his own release. His eyes shut tight and his left hand gripped your hip. He moaned your name as he painted your insides.

That was the first of four rounds that night. You woke up naked and in his arms, on the floor between the couch and the coffee table. Your legs were intertwined with his, and the throw blanket was wrapped around you. You weren’t sure how long you’d slept exactly, just that it was more of a nap than a full nights sleep. You moved slightly and felt his lips on your neck. “Y/n?” he said, his voice groggy. “Hmm?” You rolled over to face him. “I want you to be mine,” he said without hesitation. A smile crossed your face, “I’m all yours… as long as I can call you mine too.” He took your hand and placed it over his heart. “I’m yours,” he whispered.

[freckledoriya]

“dead girl walking” (izuku midoriya x reader fic)

WARNINGS: smut (18+), mentions of alcohol, aged-up character

SUMMARY: The number one villain has given you a death notice. How will you spend your last hours to live? (Inspired by the song “Dead Girl Walking” from the musical Heathers). 

WORD COUNT: 2.2k

LINKS: ao3 | masterlist | ask box

TAGLIST: since this is smut, I didn’t put my usual taglist. if you’d like to be notified when I post spicy content, let me know! 

AUTHOR’S NOTE: this is my first time really writing smut so I apologize ahead of time if it’s bad!! thank you to everyone that’s been really encouraging about me doing this, especially @gallickingun​​ 💕

The chilly night air passes through your spine like an ice cube going down your back. It has only been an hour since you received your death notice from the city’s number 1 villain, the words “tomorrow, 8AM, you’re dead” scribbled in ink on a piece of folded paper. Since receiving the threat, you did your heroic duties: reported the incident to police and strategized how to take down this villain. You were confident in your abilities as a hero, but the gnawing thought that this might be your last night alive would not rest. After all, every hero in the city that received this death notice previously had fallen victim to the villain’s deadly ways. From a purely statistical standpoint, you were a dead girl walking.

So several shots of strong alcohol later, here you stood outside an apartment, home to the number 1 hero, Deku, a.k.a, Izuku Midoriya. Izuku worked for the same hero agency that you did, and since joining, the two of you became quick friends. And that’s all you saw him as for a long time. A friend. But as patrol partners, it wasn’t uncommon for you to be witness to his many fangirls that came with the territory of being the number one hero. When you started to notice yourself feeling a twinge of jealousy as one of them shamelessly flirted with him, you knew things were going south. 

Ever since that first time, you couldn’t help but steal glances and “incidental” touches during your patrol rounds. Izuku Midoriya had captured your heart, no doubt about it. Maybe it was the way that he so selfishly put himself before others, or the sheer amount of passion he had for being the best hero possible. When you thought about it, his passion is what you found most attractive in him. Not that the luscious green waves, adorable freckles, and beautifully sculpted body didn’t do it for you, but his passion... if he could have that much passion for doing his job, you could only imagine the kind of passion he would have for a significant other. And the amount of passion he’d have during… other things.

You couldn’t help but have those sinful thoughts when it came to Izuku. He was so wonderfully naive. You often took joy in seeing how much you could make him blush and stutter when you’d say slightly suggestive things (he practically choked to death when you commented on how well his new hero costume fit him in certain areas). But at the same time, you’d have to stop yourself from drooling when watching Midoriya fight, seeing how tough and almost feral he’d get. Both things made you want to dominate and be dominated by the hero. 

So after your fifth (or sixth?) shot, you realized that dying without making that fantasy a reality would be a crime. And heroes are supposed to fight crime, right? 

You contemplated this as you climbed up the stairs to his apartment and knocked softly on the door, wobbling back and forth slightly as the alcohol coursed through your veins. Hearing footsteps approaching from inside, you start to wave to the door’s peephole, knowing that he was way too cautious to just open up the door to anyone so late at night. 

The door creaks as he cracks it open. “H-hey!” Midoriya stutters and clears his throat. “Is everything okay? It’s pretty late…”

You flash him a bright smile. “Everything’s great! May I come in?”

“Uh, sure!” he says as he opens the door for you. 

As you walk into his apartment, his scent hits you like a train. What you wouldn’t do to pounce on him right then and there, run your hands through his hair, moaning and panting in his ear as you beg for more. 

“Are you sure everything is okay? You look like you’ve been drinking and I know-”

“Shhhhh,” you say as you quickly close to space in between you two, putting your finger to his lips. 

The sensation of your body pressed up against his causes Izuku’s eyes to widen and his face to heat up. He’d never admit to it, but your presence is intoxicating to him. Every time you’re near him, he feels his chest tighten with feelings. And when he goes home alone at night, laying in bed staring up at the ceiling, you’re all he dreams about. He dreams about you under him as he grinds against you, getting the chance to feel every inch of your skin beneath his finger tips. He hates himself when he wakes up thinking of you like that. He likes you way too much to jeopardize your guys’ relationship. But now, with your face just inches from his, you’re just too tempting.

“W-what are you doing?”

You smile and give him a knowing look, as if to communicate through eye contact that “I’ve decided I must ride you till I break you.” Wrapping one arm around his neck, you pull him closer to whisper in his ear. 

“Izuku,” you say as sultry as possible. You whispering his first name in his ear gives him goosebumps. “I want you.”

Without warning, you smash your lips into his, kissing him with so much force, you’re surprised he stays standing. Midoriya immediately tenses up, unsure how to proceed. He wants to kiss you back. So badly. This is everything he’s ever wanted and more. But what if he does something wrong? What if he goes too far? Can he really trust himself to not lose control around you? What if-

“Stop thinking so much,” you say, pulling away from the kiss. 

You look him in the eyes lovingly, trying to show that you understand. Because you do. You’re terrified right now. If it weren’t for the alcohol running through your veins, you would have never had the courage to do this. But you’re here now: face to face with the man you’ve pined for for what seems to be forever. Both your hearts racing at what feels to be a deadly pace. It just feels… right. 

“I think you’re beautiful,” you say, confessing your feelings. “I know you’re always trying so hard to be everyone’s hero, but you matter too. The world filled with villains is unfair and cruel, but for tonight, let’s keep it locked out there. In here, it’s beautiful. Can we make this beautiful?” 

You hold your breath as you wait for his response, searching his green eyes for an answer. But having you this close to him, Midoriya can’t think straight. He can’t begin to rationalize or think logically about the situation. All he can think about is wanting to claim you as his own and having you become undone beneath him.

“Th-that works for me-” he squeaks out. 

The second you hear those words pass through his lips, you’re back to kissing him. But this time, Izuku gives in and kisses you back, tentatively at first. You reach your other hand up to run your fingers through his hair, tugging slightly at the ends. He lets out a quiet moan in response, egging you on to repeat the action. 

He pulls away only to lead you into his bedroom. Gently pressing you up against his wall, Midoriya gets to work kissing your neck, inhaling your intoxicating scent as he does so. He’s under your spell, no doubt about it. And the sensation of his lips lightly peppering kisses up and down your neck is enough to drive you mad. 

“Don’t hold back,” you whisper, wanting to experience Izuku Midoriya let loose. “Make me yours.”

Your wish is his command as he swiftly picks you up and places you on his bed. He hovers above you for a second, admiring your raw beauty, shocked that a woman like you is underneath him, panting and yearning to be touched by him. He runs his shaking hands over your body, hooking his thumbs beneath your shirt. Looking at you for the go-ahead, you nod your head and allow him to begin to undress you. He presses hot kisses down your body till he gets to your pants. 

“Can I-”

“Yes,” you reply eagerly. “I’m all yours.”

He easily slides your pants off of you and quickly gets to work, unhooking your bra and taking off your underwear.

“You're overdressed,” you comment, tugging at his top. 

He blushes and chuckles as he shyly takes off his shirt, revealing his beautifully sculpted body. You run your hands over the planes of his chest, feeling his many scars beneath your fingertips. He starts to shrink away, obviously embarrassed by the marks, constant reminders of times he went too far or failed to keep a villain at bay. But before he can pull away too much, you grab and pull him close to you so that he’s practically laying on top of you. Rather than assuring him with words, you kiss him tenderly, showing him just how much you adore and worship him. 

He smiles before standing up to remove his pants and boxers. You lick your lips as you watch him strip, eagerly awaiting what he holds in store for you. He grabs a condom out of a dresser drawer and slides it on himself. And once he’s completely naked in front of you, you beckon him towards you, loving the way he mindlessly follows your instructions. 

Midoriya climbs back on top of you. He gazes at you as he awaits direction on what to do next. Taking charge, you gently guide his hand down to your cunt. 

“A-already so wet for me?” he asks, seemingly unable to comprehend the effect he has on you.

You help guide his fingers into you, the sensation making you gasp. “This is what you do to me.” 

He begins to pump his fingers in and out of you, relishing in the way you moan at the sensation. As he curls his fingers inside of you, he uses his thumb to graze over your clit, seemingly playing your body like an instrument that he’s mastered. 

“Izuku,” you whine. “I want to feel you inside of me.” 

Midoriya smirks, seemingly gaining some confidence after seeing how easily undone you become at the mercy of his fingers. 

“Patience,” he says, chuckling. “I want to make you feel better than you’ve ever felt.” 

With that, he quickly replaces his fingers with his mouth. You gasp at the sudden sensation of feeling his mouth between your legs.  

Izuku begins flicking his tongue against your clit as you moan at the intense pleasure. It feels amazing, better than it has any right to feel. But you haven’t touched him yet, and that just won’t do. You pull his face up to kiss him so you could return the favor and start stroking him, smiling at the way his breath hitches when you begin to pick up your pace. 

“Fuck me,” you beg. “Please.”

With your voice sounding like that, begging like your life depends on his cock being inside of you, you don’t need to tell him twice. His lips meet yours as you feel him line up to your entrance. He slowly slides into you, and both of you let out a gasp. After allowing you to adjust to his size, Midoriya begins to slowly rock his hips.

“Mmmm,” he moans. “You feel so perfect.”

“Izuku,” you say breathlessly. “Harder. Fuck me harder.”

You hear him grunt in response as he picks up his pace, thrusting into you harder, fucking you into the mattress. 

At that moment, you don’t care about villains or death threats or even being a hero. You’re in bed with Izuku Midoriya, and he’s moaning and whispering sweet nothings in your ear as he makes you feel like the only girl in the world, nothing like the dead girl walking you felt like at the start of the night. 

His hips start stuttering and you can tell by his breathing pattern in your ear that he’s coming close to finishing. Just the thought of Midoriya finishing inside of you is enough to start to push you over your own edge. 

“Izuku!” you scream. 

“Louder,” he says roughly in your ear. “Please. Say my name louder.”

You do as he commands, screaming his name as he slams into you.

“F-fuck, Y/N, you’re amazing,” he breathes.

Hearing the naive Izuku Midoriya curse and saying your name as his cock is buried deep inside of you is enough to make you finish. Waves of pleasure rock through your body, and the sensation of your pussy pulsing around his cock sends Izuku over the edge as well.

He gently pulls out and lays beside you, the two of you breathing heavily. Izuku looks over at you and can’t help but be entranced by the blissed out look on your face. He would hate to admit it, but he’s imagined before what a sight you would be after sex, but nothing compares to the real thing. You’re positively glowing. And why wouldn’t you be? The fears of villains, ominous notes, or your fleeting morality seem miles away from you now. Izuku has effectively made the whole town disappear, and all that’s left is a satisfying ache between your thighs and a smile on your lips. It’s beautiful. 

[angst-fairygodmother]

prompt 53 with diego!!!

A/N: Welcome to Shye’s Fic Casino! Step right up and spin the Angst-o-matic. Spin three “I can’t”s to win! (Grand prize is a brooding boyfriend trying to break up with you for your own good but fuck that because he doesn’t get to make decisions for you. Usual terms and conditions apply.) I wasn’t certain on this, but I went with #53 on the most recent list I had reblogged when I got this message. Please let me know if I got it wrong. Word Count: 1873 Content Warning: Violence, blood/injury

It wasn’t often that you regretted dating your boyfriend. He was sweet, surprisingly funny when he wanted to be, and always there for you when it really mattered. Which is why you weren’t scared, not really. But as the three men backed you into the corner of the alley out the back of your store, you were…nervous, just nervous.

“Listen, fellas,” you said, hands up, palms held outward in as placating a gesture as possible. “Let’s not do anything rash…”

“Shut up!” one of them growled, taking a menacing step forward and swinging the bat in his hand toward you.

You flinched with a yelp and stumbled another step backward, feeling the press of the dumpster against your back.

“I’ll let you into the store, you can have whatever’s in the till…”

“You think this is about money?” the second snapped.

“Um, yes?” you couldn’t help the incredulity in your tone even as they menaced you.

Rather than responding, the third, who had managed to creep up beside you, took a swing. Unable to dodge all the way in time, you felt his fist connect with your ribs, stinging as the barbed wire wrapped around his gloved hand bit into you. You caught the bat between your hands as the first man swung it again, twisting it and wrenching it from the grip of the first man, the training Diego had given you kicking in to help you defend yourself.

“If we wanted money, we wouldn’t be at your stupid little place,” the man speaking threw a series of quick jabs your direction, putting you on guard and off balance so that wire-hands could get in another good hit to the soft flesh of your stomach.

“You’re that vigilante shithead’s little pet,” wire-hands hissed. “And our boss is getting sick of his crap.”

You swung the baseball bat back at him, missing, but hitting the original wielder, catching him with a hit to his collarbone and causing him to stumble back with a yell, only he kept going back further than you thought he should have, the flickering light from your shop’s backdoor glinting off something shining protruding out of his shoulder.

You couldn’t keep the smile off your face, knowing what that flash of light meant. Still, you weren’t going to rest on your laurels or play the damsel in distress. And wire-hands seemed to have taken up a vendetta against you. He ducked under your second swing of the bat and swung at your knee. You dodged, but he had been planning for that and got his third hit to your core.

You wheezed from the impact, the breath knocked from your lungs and you couldn’t seem to get it back. After that, things happened in a blur and before you knew it, Diego was slipping one of your arms over your shoulders to lead you back inside, the three men on the ground and well taken-out.

“Patch will be by to get these assholes shortly,” he growled, kicking the door open in front of you. “Are you alright?”

You nodded, trying to hide your wince and keep him from fretting over you too much. “Yeah, I think I managed to avoid the worst of their swings, thanks to your tutelage.”

He stopped moving, looking around the room for something, and you took the opportunity to nuzzle your face into the side of his neck.

“I would have been really screwed if you hadn’t showed up,” you mumbled. Almost immediately, you felt him stiffen under your touch and regretted your words.

“I heard them. They came after you because of me, Y/N,” he said tersely, shifting you into one of the high-backed stools behind the curio shop’s counter and moving back.

“Diego…” you sighed, reaching out for him even as you felt him pulling away.

“No, Y/N. I put you in danger…if something had…” you watched his face darken at the very thought and saw him turn, knew he was going to leave.

“Diego Hargreeves, don’t you dare.” You threatened, trying to keep your voice steady even as the tears formed in your eyes.

He didn’t say anything, as he started pacing, each pass drawing him closer to the door, shoulders hunched. He hesitated at the sound of his name from your lips and you took the opportunity to lunge out of your chair to seize his hand. As you moved, you felt sharp pain shoot through you and you cried out, nearly collapsing. Diego’s arms shot out on instinct to catch you, cradling him close as he guided you back to the chair.

“I thought you said you were fine?” he snapped, concern coming out as anger.

“I…didn’t want you to worry,” you admitted, voice barely more than a whimper.

He grabbed the first aid kit from the back room, and you took a moment to wonder how he knew where it was. Then he was kneeling in front of you, warm, calloused hands trembling slightly as they pushed you back so you were sitting up straight.

Spots of blood seeped through your sweater, staining the soft green material dark. His eyes seemed to focus on it, your stomach and left side obviously marred, and he swallowed thickly.

“It’s not as bad as it looks, I’m sure,” you whispered, fingertips curling against his jaw to pull his face back up to meet yours.

“A-a-are you h-hurt any…where…else?” he stammered, and you frowned.

His speech impediment hadn’t been severe in years, mostly now only coming out when he was extremely upset. It being as bad as it was right now worried you. He must have been more scared than he showed by the fact that you had gotten hurt. You wanted to pull him in close, to hold him and reassure him that you were fine, so long as he was by your side.

“No,” you said confidently. “It was just a couple of punches in the gut. You tried your best to keep your tone casual so that he would calm down.

“I should take a look…” he said hesitantly, already moving his gaze back down to your middle.

He saw now that some of the spots where the bleeding was worst had tears in your sweater, and in the skin beneath. An icy hand clenched around his heart and shame made his face grow hot. Here you were, practically in ribbons and you were reassuring him. It should be the other way around, or better yet, this should never have happened.

He prodded gently at one of the worst spots and you winced, sucking a pained and startled breath through your teeth. There were sweater fibers in the wound, and the now fluttering material made it difficult to get a good look at anything.

“You need to take off your shirt.” He said apologetically.

“Why Diego Hargreeves, are you trying to get me naked?” you teased, voice high and light and almost normal.

He chuckled, unable to resist your charms even if he’d tried.

“You know me baby, I can’t ever resist you,” he countered. “Even when you’re bruised and bloody.”

“Hey, if I can put up with it after your boxing matches and vigilante prowls, you can deal with it now.” You smiled, glad that you had found the thing that put him back to his regular self.                

“I’m serious though, Y/N. I need to take a look at those wounds.”

Gingerly, you guided the sweater up, Diego quickly coming to your aid as the movement jostled you suddenly and you gave a short shout of pain.

He hissed at the sight of you, the skin around the wounds already inflamed and puffy, discoloring quickly as bruises settled into your ribs. Your sweater was tossed to the side as he began to root around in the first aid kit. Eventually he found everything he needed and set about methodically cleaning and dressing each rending of flesh.

“You should keep an eye on these, keep them clean and dry,” he said, trying to remain detached so that he could remain steady for you. “They could get infected pretty easily, especially since they were caused by some old barbed wire.”

“Hmm…” you nodded sagely, a small smirk that he didn’t see forming on your face. “Maybe you should come stay with me then for a few days, to make sure I’m…properly taken care of.”

His gaze rose to meet yours, something sparking behind it.

“I mean, unless you’re still planning on running away and leaving me so helpless and alone.” You pouted dramatically at him, lower lip jutted out and eyelashes fluttering.

He swallowed thickly at the tone of your voice as he leaned in to kiss you. The press and pressure of his movements, lips harsh and almost demanding, spoke of desperation, of fear that he could have lost you. You reached up cautiously to run your fingers through his short hair, thumb tracing along the thick scar-line above his ear. His hands gripped your hips, pulling you closer so you almost slid off the chair, but careful that he did not disturb your injuries. You parted your lips for him easily, moaning as his tongue began to dance across every centimeter it could reach.

“Ahem,” someone said, clearing their throat pointedly.

The pair of you sprang apart, Diego turning around sheepishly to look at her while you gave Patch what you hoped was a charming smile.

“Everything alright Eudora?” he asked.

She rolled her eyes. “You called me.” You thought you heard her mutter something about wondering if pigs could suddenly fly since he had decided not to take matters completely into his own hands for once. “I need to take statements from both of you.”

“Right, of course,” you said.

The three of you stayed there, looking expectedly at each other. All of you were puzzled and slightly concerned at the behavior of the other two. None of you spoke.

“Independent statements,” Patch said, finally breaking the silence. “That means alone?” She looked pointedly at Diego, telling him to go away for now, using her eyes alone.

Finally, he seemed to take the hint, though not as quickly as she would have liked. You watched him deflate at the thought of leaving your side when you weren’t ‘alright’ and gave his hand a gentle, reassuring squeeze.

“I’ll be fine Diego. And the sooner we do this, the sooner you can take me home, okay?”

He gave your hand an answering squeeze and sighed. “I suppose you’re right.”

Reluctantly, he released his hold on you and crossed to the other side of the store where, as long as you kept your voices low, he wouldn’t be able to hear you and Patch.

“Do you want a blanket or a jacket or something?” she asked. “I’m sure Diego was doing an excellent job of keeping you warm, but you might catch a chill now.”

There was nothing in her tone other than friendly teasing, but still you found yourself blushing and apologizing for the state of yourself and the one she found the two of you in.

“It’s fine, Y/N. I’m glad Diego found someone, and that you’re alright. Now, can you tell me what happened in the alley?”

[ferylcheryl]

Three-Time

“Come, I’ll show you.” His hand extended.

“I don’t care to learn.”

“You just don’t want me to lead.” A quirked eyebrow, an incremental lift of the lips beneath his thick, neat mustache. How his eyes soften imperceptibly from sharpness to sly warmth. Cornelius rises to his feet.

“Once you learn,” Billy continues, “you can lead. Now, put your hand up on my shoulder—there—good. The waltz is a simple dance.”

“Where did you learn, then?”

“Never you mind. Now, this—”

“You’ll tell me one day.”

“Jesus, Cornelius. I may as well tell you now, else you’ll dog me to death about it.”

“Oh, I was just curious.”

“Please. I can see you turning green, ridiculous man. ‘Twas a neighbor girl. Taught me to amuse herself.”

“It’s certainly stuck well.”

“It’s—a nice, neat thing to know. I’d practice when I was alone.” This is true. In a hazy shaft of light in his garret bedroom, stooped so as not to strike his head, he’d sometimes trot a methodical box-step. It was neither the romance nor the grace of the thing, but its order; the mercy of its repetition. One might enter a space outside of time; each turn twin to the one before. It was as though there was always, somewhere, a room in which he might be found waltzing and he only had to step into it to meet himself there. (His mother characterized him as a lonely child, but she was wrong: he was a solitary one.)

“And when you weren’t alone?”

“Jealousy is unbecoming of you, Cornelius. You get a face like a kicked pup. All stung-looking and wide-eyed.”

“I’ll show you a kicked pup—I know a fine long greyhound could use a swift boot to the ribs.”

“Oh, darling. I’m not in the mood. And anyway, there’s no one else now, is there?”

“Is there?”

“As though you’d not trade me for that roustabout marine in a moment.”

“Not a bit, Billy. Truly.” He pauses, and then, his eyes dancing, “I do like a head of curls though.”

“The waltz,” Billy says sharply, sliding his hand down into the shallow tuck of Cornelius’ waist. “I step forward, like so—my left foot. And you, with your right, step back. Good. We move in three-time.”

“We’ve no music.”

“We’ll make the best of it. Three-time.”

———

Cornelius kisses the inside of his thigh, his knee, the freckled hillock of his shoulder, but nearly never his mouth. It’s not a gesture Billy misses until it’s Cornelius who doesn’t do it. Cornelius who talks of making him his bride when he’s hilt-deep in him, Cornelius who promises him wedding rings. It feels like so many coins thrown into a well.

Not that he doesn’t think he means it: but he’s a hard little man, and no matter what he wishes for it comes back to him as an echo, a splash.

Three-time. Their breath falls into three-time when they fuck, and Billy likes to imagine it as a kind of waltz. Parquet floor, heavy velvet curtains tied back with gold cord. A quartet playing. We’ll make do, he’d said, but to tell the truth he misses music terribly. He’d not heard it often but when one dances one should have it. He did not like things done in parts: when one fucks, one should kiss. When one kisses, it should be the upon the lips. And if men are to know each other they should do so wholly; they should be naked together. They should know one another’s bodies so they don’t mistake one another other for beasts. All Billy knows of Cornelius is his neat pink prick, its coppery nest, the luminous, dwarf-like handsomeness of his face. His hand, his boot.

Later, when he’s stripped for his lashing, Billy is astonished by Cornelius’ dense, clustered musculature. He’d thought he was all skin and bone under there, all rib and rope. Belly like a tea saucer. Instead, he’s compactly strong—sleek and rippling and certain, like a dog with a cruel master.

“Shh,” Cornelius hisses now, slowing the neat, hard pistoning of his hips. He’s got his hands spanned over the taut dip of Billy’s waist and now, as though to give teeth to his words, he clenches in with his nails. “Someone’s coming.”

There’s a shuffling step on the ladder, and then here’s Lt. Irving, peering into the dark with eyes smothered hot, like candles just blown out.

———

Lieutenant Irving has his hand on Billy’s knee as he tells him all about Cornelius Hickey, the devious seducer. What he says is not altogether true and it’s not quite false; like all fated things there was a compulsion to it that transcends blame. From the moment they met, Cornelius striking up conversation over a shared cigarette above board one of the fair, early days, it was clear what would happen. Yes, Cornelius had this way of looking at him, a gaze warm and sly and inviting, but Billy—Billy recalls moments of looking back at him the same way, heat in his cheek and his gaze (which he normally kept studiously shuttered) softening. He knew even as he gestured at resisting him that it would happen.

He’d dreamed, in those early days, of standing in a high open window, the wind singing at his knees and nose, tipping forward, forward. Or like this: the thing about waltzing in three-time is that the beat falls an eyelash short of time enough to execute the steps, so between the two partners vibrates this small, bouncing pull and if one will waltz at all one must move in this broken surging beat, even as, to untrained eye, it seems a stately and slow dance. It seems clear who is leading. But the dancers know better.

Not that any of this would matter to Irving. Irving asks what, exactly, they do together; how it works. He starts to sweat, leans in closer. His hand weighs heavy on his knee.

———

Tozer’s many things Billy’s not: muscular in a proto-masculine kind of way, one evolutionary step from pounding his chest in a jungle somewhere; he’s commanding in the grunting, stomping way of a beast too. His attractiveness is of the conventional kind—broad, milk-fed. A whiff of the rustic about him, as though despite his evident vanity one might faintly scent manure in the nooks of his body.

He’s also dumb. It pains Billy to think that that’s what Cornelius wanted all along, somebody lovely and stupid and easily cowed, for as much as he adores him he’d not be any of those things—especially the lattermost. Most infuriating are Tozer’s attempts to fake being the one holding the leash. One should not deceive oneself about the kind of man one is. Like out there alongside the boat, preparing for the walk-out. You’ve just given me permission for a good shove. Idiot. Billy nearly laughs aloud. But then Cornelius gives Tozer that disgusting up-and-down, charting the bulky sullen fact of him as he french inhales. Peacock. He never tried to court Billy so.

False, Billy chastises himself. Only after it was over between them did Cornelius slip that mysterious ring onto his finger, his eyes all dancing.

Later, huddled against one another in a tent beneath one blanket, Cornelius sees the ring around his neck. He lifts it to the light of the guttering candle, turns it in his fingertips. He can feel the scant, damp warmth of Cornelius breath on his lips and it is very nearly a kiss.

“I meant it when I gave you this, you know.”

“What, exactly, did you mean by it?” He makes his voice as glacial as he can manage for the roar of his blood.

“Well, for one thing, I’m sure Sol’d be a terrible dancer.”

“It’s too late for this.” <I>Too late. If you kissed me now you’d taste copper in my teeth.</I>

Cornelius cocks his head, smiles softly, lifts his mouth to Billy’s. A single, chaste glide of the lips.

“Dance with me, Billy,” he says, standing up and extending his hand.”

Billy thinks for a very long time before he drops his gaze to his knees. “Don’t be stupid, Cornelius,” he says. “We haven’t room.”

“We’ll make the best of it.”

Billy stands, stooping so his mouth grazes Cornelius’ hair. He lets Cornelius lead, and is touched he remembers the steps. They waltz a few tight rings, Cornelius humming off-key. Then he kisses him again and leaves the tent.

(In the morning, there’s a new bruise on Tozer’s neck, a plummy, amorphous shadow in the shape of an open mouth.)

———

In the dream they cling together tightly, their bones interlocked like key’s teeth and lock tumblers, and he can’t tell if they are in flagrante or in a mortal struggle or just pressed together against the cold, or maybe they’re just dancing in a crowded room: yes, that’s what they’re doing. They’ve got their quartet at last, their curtains with braided cord. But from the far end of the room comes dark like seeping watercolor, a rolling streaky blackness, and when he wakes it is not darkness at all but pain, pain, pain. A crystalline pinching in his knees and elbows. He goes to see Goodsir.

Rather, he goes to see the man he understands to be Goodsir. This man in their camp is not the awkward, genial stammerer who gave him his physical; not he who enthused over crustaceans with carapaces no man had seen before: he recalls him once pulling him aside to show him, waving one over-sized claw angrily, a crab with a shell the speckled cream and red of some kind of yardbird. Showed <I>him,</I> Billy, because he was there and he was brimming with love for it, this new quick thing caught in a bucket. (Billy had given him a tight smile and walked on, Irving’s bedding wadded and wet from the wash on his hip.)

Now with a gaze immeasurably indifferent, and a queer trace of pleasure in his voice, Goodsir delineates to Billy the agonies of his imminent death. Billy doesn’t mind. He deserves it because he did not love the crab, perhaps, or because he did love and choose badly, or because—his brain is fevered, his thoughts like: he can think of nothing. He stares emptily past the good doctor. He has never been vain, exactly (though he was once—it feels a lifetime ago—possessed of a certain fastidiousness that might be mistaken for vanity) but now he wonders if he looks as wretched as he feels. Carved, hollow: once he saw an egret’s ribcage predators and the wind had picked clean. For a moment he mouths at something, but then Cornelius is there.

He thinks of nothing as he gazes down at him, his eyes the color of surf, except perhaps—how lovely you are, little and glittering. And, I wish I’d kept you. Easy to say, now that Irving’s gone, one hopes, to his gracious and beloved maker. His bones turned up like broken china beneath the shale. Billy wonders, not for the first time if it wasn’t, in part, an act of vengeance—did Hickey care enough for such a thing? Then: Hickey’s eyes swim as he peers up at him, like, like: it feels like—dizzy, he feels, as Hickey disappears, for just a moment; when he returns it is with a knife neat through his ribs—what was it he felt when he looked in his swimming eyes that last time? It was pain, it was love, it was pain.

[akaluan]

Erich/Kisuke: Accidental Marriage + It’s Not A Date, We Swear Part 3

Kisuke darts into the kitchen and immediately flings himself into a chair at the little kitchen table, slumping over with a pained whine. The table is cold against his bare skin, an awkward reminder than he hadn’t even paused to get dressed before fleeing his own room, but he can’t bring himself to care right now.

(He’s still wearing yesterday’s pants.)

(It’s fine.)

(He and Erich didn’t sleep naked—)

(Oh, but Erich’s undershirt left so little to the imagination, clung to all the right places, rode up to show—)

(No!)

(No, bad brain!)

(Erich isn’t interested in him like that!)

“Get into an argument with loverboy?” Tessai asks with far too much cheer. “Or maybe you kis—”

“We didn’t!” Kisuke yelps before Tessai can finish the thought. “Nothing happened!”

Tessai makes a quiet noise of amusement and turns off the faucet, setting something aside that clinks against the countertop. “Well, there’s still your research dates—”

“They’re not dates! Tessai!” Kisuke practically shrieks, then clamps a hand over his mouth and sits up enough to stare at the kitchen doorway; if Erich heard him, if the man finds out that Kisuke wants him…

(No.)

(No, it’s okay.)

(It’s okay, he can still sense Erich upstairs in… in Kisuke’s room.)

(Oh fuck he’s so doomed.)

Kisuke groans and buries his head in his arms, trying to corral his traitorous emotions and tuck them back where they belong; it’s alright, it’s fine, he’s fine, everything will be fine. He didn’t give in, didn’t kiss Erich the way he wanted to, didn’t screw up their friendship with his ridiculous desires.

(Benihime can stop laughing at him at any moment!)

Tessai chuckles and walks over, setting something down next to Kisuke’s arm. “I really don’t think you have anything to worry about.”

“Says you,” Kisuke mutters to the table, before finally gathering himself and sitting up. There’s a bowl of miso soup next to his elbow, and he flicks a silent thanks against Tessai’s senses as he picks it up and starts to eat. He really shouldn’t, should just wait for Erich to come down, but… it’s something to keep his hands busy. Doesn’t do a damn thing for the way his mind keeps circling around and around, returning time and time again to the pale column of Erich’s neck, the softness of Erich’s hair, the way he looked sprawled out across Kisuke’s bed—

“Morning, Tsukabishi-san,” Erich says as he steps into the kitchen.

Kisuke chokes. Wrenches his mind away from the fantasy beginning to bloom. Sets his bowl aside and reaches desperately for the glass of water that Tessai’s offering.

(Ignores the amusement in Tessai’s gaze because his friend is a traitor!)

“You alright?” Erich asks with a frown. He steps closer and makes as if to reach out, then hesitates and slowly lowers his hand. “Sorry, did I startle you?”

“N-no, no it’s fine,” Kisuke forces out as he finally stops coughing and looks up at Erich, swallowing back his disappointment at seeing Erich fully dressed and ready for the day. “Just swallowed wrong, nothing to worry about!”

Erich watches him for a moment longer, a strange thoughtful-considering-intent glint in his eyes that sets Kisuke’s teeth on edge, then nods and steps past him to take the seat across from Kisuke. He smiles up at Tessai as the man hands him a bowl of miso soup, murmurs his thanks, and begins to eat as if the past handful of seconds hadn’t happened.

Kisuke narrows his eyes at Erich, wary of the man’s strange mood; has he given himself away, and now Erich is considering how best to let him down? Has Erich decided that he doesn’t want Kisuke helping with the Quincy artifacts anymore? Is he just curious about Kisuke’s recent slip-ups?

(He has to be more careful.)

(He has no evidence that Erich will welcome his advances.)

(He… he doesn’t want to lose Erich’s friendship over a desire for more!)

(He has to be more careful!)

“I’d like to get at least six boxes sorted today,” Erich says between bites, not looking up at Kisuke as he speaks. “The sooner we figure out what’s there, the sooner we can actually get to the interesting part of figuring out what’s what.”

“That’s fine by me,” Kisuke says as he carefully tucks his worries aside and focuses on the challenge in front of him; given how much the retrieval team had crammed into each box — and given that they’d already accidentally triggered something - six boxes was… ambitious.

(They’d only gotten through three the previous evening.)

(But then again, they’re starting out much earlier in the day, so…)

(Maybe they’ll be able to get through more than six boxes.)

Erich tips his bowl up and drinks the last of the broth, then sets the bowl aside and dabs at his face with a napkin. “We should probably avoid working in the same box this time,” he says with a tiny, rueful smile. “We were lucky, yesterday.”

“Lucky?” Tessai pipes up as he walks over, eyes dangerously narrow as he looks first Erich and then Kisuke over. “Did something happen that I was not informed about?” he asks sharply.

“Maa, maa, it was nothing important!” Kisuke exclaims as he waves a hand idly, trying to brush Tessai’s worries aside and managing to do the exact opposite. “Tessaaaaiii~ I’m serious. It just sparked and made our hands tingle for a bit. It really didn’t have any power left.”

Tessai glowers down at him, then reaches out and snatches Kisuke’s wrist in a firm grip, a diagnostic kido blooming into bright, dramatic life. “I will be the judge of that,” he proclaims firmly.

Kisuke heaves a sigh and gives Erich an exasperated look, making sure to roll his eyes as dramatically as he can; he’s rewarded with a tiny, breathy laugh and a whisper-soft brush of amusement-fondness-warmth across his senses that makes something in him squirm.

(He wants, he wants, he wants—)

“Interesting…” Tessai murmurs, gaze darting between the two of them even as his diagnostic kido continues to run.

“What’s interesting?” Kisuke asks sharply, tearing his gaze away from Erich and scowling up at Tessai as he does. “Tessai,” he prods when all Tessai does is smirk down at him, an edge of wicked amusement curling at the corners of his lips.

“You’ll find out eventually,” Tessai tells him as he cuts the kido off and releases Kisuke’s wrist. “Be more careful from now on.”

“We will,” Erich reassures Tessai before Kisuke can start trying to needle a proper answer out of his old friend. “We just weren’t thinking last night, I’m sorry.”

Tessai nods as he collects both of their bowls and steps back towards the sink. “Be sure that you do.”

Erich watches Tessai for a moment, thoughtful-considering-intent once again, then makes a considering noise and leans towards Kisuke, gesturing towards his wrist. “May I?” he asks.

“Alright,” Kisuke answers immediately, offering his hand before he can think better of it; whatever Erich wants to do or check, he doesn’t particularly care. If it means Erich paying attention to him, touching him—

Erich gently takes Kisuke’s hand in his, pressing calloused fingers against Kisuke’s wrist and closing his eyes in concentration; his reiatsu slips through Kisuke’s guard effortlessly, ghosting across his senses and sinking deep-deep-deep into Kisuke’s very self as if they’ve practiced this, as if Kisuke is an open book to him, and—

Erich is warmth-kindness-concentration as his presence eels deeper, checking, ever checking, hunting down every uneasy twist and jagged edge in Kisuke’s self and making sure nothing of the relic’s power lingers in the many shadowy crevices of Kisuke’s soul. He even brushes gentle-soft-kind against the worst of it, leaving traces of warmth behind that make Kisuke breathless with want.

It should feel invasive, should feel wrong, but instead…

Instead all Kisuke wants to do is pull Erich closer and never let him go.

(He can’t.)

(He can’t, he can’t, he can’t—)

(He knows what happens when he becomes possessive—)

Kisuke breathes out, careful-cautious-calming, and tamps back his reactions, hoping Erich hasn’t noticed and knowing there’s no way the man could have missed it, not with how deeply entwined their powers currently are.

Erich hums and slowly, carefully, pulls back, making sure he leaves as seamlessly as possible; still, Kisuke can’t help but shiver as the man lets go of his hand and leans back in his seat, eyes dark with something unreadable.

“Maa, find anything interesting?” Kisuke asks brightly, resisting the urge to rub at his wrist.

“I’m not sure,” Erich murmurs, then hesitates, glances sideways at Tessai, and shakes his head. “It’s probably nothing, sorry. Nothing really stood out to me.”

At the sink, Tessai snorts like that’s the most amusing thing he’s heard so far, which means that Erich overlooked something Tessai considers obvious and that Tessai is going to let them stumble headfirst into like the oblivious fools they are.

(At least that means it’s probably nothing dangerous, but…)

(That leaves a lot of ground behind.)

Erich sighs, reiatsu shading with resignation-acceptance-amusement, and rises to his feet. “We should probably get to work,” he says wryly as he gestures towards the door. “Those boxes won’t sort themselves.”

Kisuke nods and scrambles to his feet to follow, only to freeze when Tessai pointedly flicks a finger and sends a wash of cold air across Kisuke’s naked chest. “A-ah, I should, uhm, probably get dressed first,” Kisuke says hurriedly, rocking back on his heels and rubbing at the back of his head before freezing again as he realizes exactly how that posture must look with him bare-chested and sleep-mussed. He swallows hastily, flashes Erich his brightest smile, and declares, “I’ll meet you in my lab!” before retreating as quickly as he can without looking like he’s fleeing.

(Which he is.)

(Absolutely.)

(Oh fuck he’s so doomed!)

(He’s going to die of mortification.)

(If Erich doesn’t kill him first.)

(Fuck…)

[dammitadolfnomorecake]

Once Bitten, Twice Stupid prt.65

Lance lay staring at the ceiling, ashamed of his behaviour over the last two days. He would have punched himself in the face if he didn’t know it’d both hurt and potentially wake Keith up. Two days of heat. Two days of heats and he remembered it all like a dream. Not only had he torn Keith’s shirt off him, he’d slept with him. Like... him inside Keith slept with him. Keith half on half off the desk, Lance buried inside of him as Keith cried out his name... slept with him... lubed, fingered, taken Keith’s virginity... slept with him... the sound of wet skin, the feel of Keith around him, the almost hollow feeling in his belly from being filled over and over, only to not be being filled at all... He’d been awkward, driven by heat, unable to let go of Keith’s body... slept with him. He couldn’t stop himself. Keith hadn’t come... both of them kind of stopping after Lance came. His boyfriend cared about him, putting himself in discomfort for him...

Titling his head, he looked from the white ceiling to his boyfriend’s sleeping face. Keith sleeping on his stomach, arm around Lance as he drooled. He could have left. He should have left. Instead he held him. He made sure Lance drank the blood they’d left for him. Made sure they used condoms when they’d fucked. Nothing off limits, not even him riding Keith’s face, face sopping wet and damn did that boy eat arse until his toes curled and he had to be pinned face down and fucked... everything he did was for Lance. Made sure Lance feel like that main character in his favourite rom-coms but what had he done for Keith? Scared him for one thing. What kind of an idiot told his boyfriend he loved him before falling asleep on him?! Was he allowed to tell him? Nearly two months of dating... it was way too soon. It felt like it was too soon. He was being too impulsive. He might have growing feelings for Keith that verged on ridiculous, but things were so good how they were. He could punch himself for it... God... his room was a mess. They’d had way too much sex... If he felt tender as hell, Keith’s junk probably felt drained as hell... He didn’t deserve Keith. Keith looked so damn tired in his sleep. Conked out in a position that couldn’t be too comfortable seeing Lance’s arm was under him. He’d gone into heat over another vampire. Not only was that another vampire he didn’t know. It was very much a vampire who wasn’t Keith. He’d wanted Keith to come, but he’d wanted him to stay away. Confused as to why it’d happened. Coran warned it could happen... just not how hard it’d hit or how it’d make him feel.

Keith woke a very unromantic way, farting loudly, his boyfriend rolled over, nearly falling off the side of the bed as Lance was gassed. Grabbing Keith before he could fall, Lance pulled him against him, Keith wriggling himself so that now he was on his back and Lance was laying on his side again him. Wrinkling his nose, Keith scrunched his eyes closed, asking

“Did you fart?”

“Nope. That was all you”

“That’s fucking toxic. It smells dead”

“As someone who’s dead, I take offence to that”

It rivalled an after milk fart. Keith needed to improve his diet because it was toxic

“You don’t smell like that”

“Then it can’t be dead unless your insides died from sex”

Keith groaned at him, opening those galaxy eyes of his

“We fucked a lot”

“We did. How do you feel?”

“Like I pooped the wrong way... how can you like it?”

“Because it’s you. Do your hips hurt?”

“Not as much as my dick... fuck... how’s your heat?”

“Finally gone...”

“That was fucking intense”

“Mhmm...”

Letting his eyes start to slide closed again, Lance untangled himself from Keith. Keith whining and sticking a hand out blindly to find him

“Where are you going?”

“I thought you’d go back to sleep so I’d go take a shower”

“Nope... come back and cuddle”

“Not in that noxious fart of yours”

“It’s not my fault... don’t leave me here”

Keith didn’t have enough coffee in his system to save himself. Lance had kind of hoped that he’d be able to shower alone... maybe score a few moments to himself. To prepare for Keith waking up and his boyfriend breaking his heart because he’d come to hate him. He was such a push over. He couldn’t leave Keith here... In a fart so bad it tasted like month old death on your tongue

“I’ll carry you. But if you fart again, I’m dropping you and leaving you behind to fend for yourself”

“Fair”

*

Someone had noticed Lance’s heat had ended. Returning from the bathroom, three cups of coffee, a box of donuts, an icepack and bag of blood sat on Lance’s desk. Lance’s bin liner was gone, as were the sheets. Keith would have still been in the shower if his boyfriend hadn’t helped him out, yet to strip and clean Lance’s room up so fast was some kind of miracle. Lance paid it no mind. As far a decaffinated Keith could tell, Lance was in La-La land. He had been since they started cleaning up. Keith insisted on help Lance shower, seeing Lance had helped him and washed his hair for him, but his boyfriend didn’t seem to want to be touched.

Grabbing a cup of coffee, Keith sat gingerly on the edge of the bed. Lance’s heat had driven slightly mad, he’d wanted to try bottoming, but damn if it didn’t feel more uncomfortable than good. Ignoring the desk, Lance went to his wardrobe, digging out clothes for both of them

“Curtis came. He left clothes for you”

“How do you know it was him?”

“I can smell him”

Keith couldn’t smell anything other than Lance and sex. He didn’t like the idea of another man’s scent in his boyfriend’s bedroom.

Placing a pile of clothes beside him, Keith ignored them in favour of enjoying his coffee. It was a little cold but that just meant he could drink it down faster

“If you want to get changed in here, I’ll change in the bathroom”

“Why?”

“I thought you’d prefer it”

Keith had no idea what that was meant to mean

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I’m going to change”

Okay. Maybe Lance wasn’t off with the faeries. His boyfriend was acting weird. Surely they’d passed weird having seen every inch of each other naked. With his first coffee cup emptied, Keith tossed at the bin and missed. The groan he let out was as much over missing the bin as it was over Lance acting weird. Feeling it was too much effort to fish the cup out from under the desk, Keith instead used the sliver of effort he had left to get dressed. He didn’t get why Lance was acting so embarrassed now. They’d gone at it like rabbits, and it’d be fine at time. Maybe he was missing something because there to much blood in his blood stream again? Or maybe Lance was overthinking things?

When Lance came back from the bathroom, he walked straight past Keith. Picking up the landline phone in his room, Lance called Coran, confirming they’d be on their way up soon. That stung. Surely they could have stayed hidden away from the world for a little longer. Placing down the receiver, Lance grabbed up his bag of blood

“Babe, is everything okay?”

Keith deflated a little more inside as Lance flashed him a fake smile

“Just hungry. Coran wants us to meet him with the others in the conference room”

“You’ve been... seem off?”

“Fine. Just tired and hungry”

Standing, Keith reached for Lance who stepped back. Yep. His boyfriend wasn’t being normal

“You can talk to me. I don’t know what I did if you don’t talk to me”

“It’s not you. Okay. You were great. You were perfect. I’m the one who couldn’t keep it in my fucking pants”

Fumbling the cap of the blood bag, Lance hurled it at the wall. Keith flinching at the action. Giving Lance a moment to calm, Keith then asked

“Is it your heat? Babe, I don’t mind. I want you to be able to rely on me. You don’t need to be embarrassed”

“I don’t know, okay. I know but I don’t and I know you didn’t deserve to be used like a fucking sex toy, because I fucking love and respect you! I’m tired. I’m sore. I’m embarrassed! I cheated on you by going into heat thanks to some fucking stranger! I can’t do this right now”

Lance stormed off, slamming the door behind him. Keith remaining standing there. If Lance was going to yell, he could too

“I fucking like you and shit! I want to be there for you! If you’re going to tell me thing like that, at least give me a chance to reply!”

*

Lance’s walking job, turned to more of a run as fled from Keith. The condom broke. The condom broke. The condom broke. His first heat and the condom broke. He’d felt something less than desirable slide down his inner thigh a he carried Keith to the bathroom. Sitting on the toilet, he’d gone to clean himself up... and there it was... and now he was panicking all over again. The condom broke... and he didn’t even know when. He hadn’t even felt it half inside of him. Now he was making a beeline for Coran, before he broke down in tears for being a dick to Keith. He’d had enough on his mind with how he didn’t deserve Keith. He’d even yelled at him about loving him. What was Keith supposed to think? He wasn’t impressed Lance took off... but he needed Coran.

Rushing into the meeting room, he ignored everyone as he rushed to Coran. Coran immediately sensing his distress and wrapping his arms around him. Burying his face against Coran, his body was shaking

“Lance, my boy. Whatever is the matter?”

“I fucked up!”

Pretty much wailing in Coran’s ear, Shiro’s voice came from behind them

“What do you mean!? Is Keith okay?!”

Lance nodded, letting out a sob at Keith’s name

“Come with me, my sweet boy. It can’t be that bad”

Coran took him away from the others and to his office. Lance clinging to him the whole way to the examination table. Climbing up to sit next to each other, Lance hid his face as Coran stroked his hair

“Lance, what happened?”

“I... the... condom... broke. Keith doesn’t know and I don’t know what to do!”

Crying harder, Coran hushed him, rocking him gently as he did

“Oh, my boy. Are you sure? I... this is rather delicate, are you sure you weren’t laying on it?”

Now Coran said that, he wasn’t... but it’d definitely been up there...

“I don’t... it...”

“Okay, okay... you’re okay”

“I’m not! I yelled at Keith. I was horrible to him. I respect him so much and I... I’m in love with him... and he had to put up with me and I think I’ve ruined everything. What... if he only thinks I love him because of the broken condom?!”

Coran rubbed his back

“I’m certain Keith knows that not the case. I can give you something to take, but I’m hesitant to do so without you having talked to Keith yet. It is designed for werewolves but it should do the trick in an emergency”

“He... he’ll hate me!”

“My dear boy, it takes two to make a full belly. You’ve had a scare, but you’ll be okay”

Lance didn’t feel like he’d ever be okay again

“I love him... I love him... I know it’s too soon... but...”

“Hush. Love comes as it does”

“I was horrible to him... he did everything he could for me... he should break up with me... I practically cheated on him! Someone else sent me into heat! I don’t want anyone other than him”

Coran kissed him on the temple

“Come now, you’re overreacting. Keith loves you. He’s made that very clear. You two are good for each other”

“I’m not good for him... I’m... not a hunter. I’m not alive. I don’t contribute anything around here... I can’t have a baby... I don’t know how to have a baby... I don’t want to poop a baby out my arse...”

With a squeak, Lance found himself turning into a bat. Coran sighing as pulled him up and out his shirt

“You’ve had a tough life, my boy. I understand. You are like a son to me, you are allowed to be happy. In fact, nothing would make this old Fae happier than to know you were happy. Now, I was hoping to have a chat with Keith about this, but that will have to wait for now. You’ve come out of heat, your emotions and hormones are a mess, but rest assured my boy, that was relatively short for a heat, though the intensity was quite surprising. I suppose I best call Keith aside and let him know that you’re quite scattered at the moment”

Lance’s little body was tucked up against Coran’s shoulder. Soft sad squeaks coming from him as he continued to cry. Coran should understand how hard it was for a vampire to be with a human. He couldn’t be pregnant. He couldn’t do that to Keith. It was only a few days ago they’d agreed they weren’t ready for children... but what if Keith was never ready? What if he didn’t want weird half vampire babies... oh god... he couldn’t get Keith pregnant could he? He hadn’t used a condom with Keith... What if Keith was pregnant?! No... Keith didn’t have the right plumbing... oh... fuck... what if his sperm turned Keith? Keith had sucked him off before... but what if... what if...

Flapping his wings, he tried to ask all of this of Coran, Coran smiling down at him

“I have no idea what you’re saying, but you certainly are adorable as a bat. I guess we should head back to the others. Keith should be able to find us easily enough”

Coran didn’t get it. He didn’t want to see Keith right now. Keith would scoop him up and cuddle him... while Lance was holding onto a secret that could break them up. It was like the worst feeling ever and all he could do was squeak about it.

[dontcare77ghj]

Tattooed

Sam x reader x Bucky

Masterlist     Sleep Series Masterlist      Halloween/Supernatural Masterlist

Guys! This is the last fic of 2019! Where did the year go?

You had been alone for your entire life before you met Sam. He’d found you in a very dark space and after a lot of work, he had brought you out of it. You and Sam became close friends after the incident and a few months after that, the two of you were together.

Together you’d both joined the Avengers and together you’d both fell in love with your third. Sam hated the very sight of Bucky at first. He couldn’t fathom being in the same room as him, didn’t want to see the man at first.

But because the two of you were close with Steve and so was Bucky, the three of you started spending a lot of time together. And eventually that time together changed from, enemies to friends and friends to lovers.

You loved both men with everything you had. There was no-one else you’d ever felt this strongly for in your life. And while this was a strength, it could always be a weakness.

“Do we have to do this twice?” You giggled as Bucky passed you from his arms to Sam’s. “Wasn’t once good enough?”

“While we may be an unconventional pairing according to society and this may not technically have been a legal wedding, there are things we will do that society does recognize.” Bucky said as Sam walked you both out into the hall.

“Well traditionally I don’t think we’re all supposed to be this drunk.” You said, leaning up to kiss Sam’s cheek.

“People have been getting drunk on their wedding nights for centuries.” Sam told you with a grin. “It’s another age-old tradition.”

He walked you both back into the bedroom before giving you a smirk and throwing you onto the bed. You let out a surprised shriek as you bounced a couple times.

“Another part of this we’ll do traditionally.” Sam began as he and Bucky walked closer to the bed. “The wedding night.” He added, sharing a grin with Bucky.

“I’m glad we’re tradition followers.” You said breathlessly hours later. The three of you were laying stark naked in bed, wrapped in the silky sheets and up in each other’s arms.

“Me too.” Bucky murmured, holding your hand on Sam’s stomach.

“I’m just glad these,” He said, patting a hand on both your bodies. “Are all mine and no-one else can have them.”

“Possessive much?” Bucky chuckled as you hit Sam lightly.

“Do you know how many people stare at the two of you when we’re in the gym?” Sam asked, shaking his head. “Not that I blame them, I’m doing the same thing, but now they can look, but they can’t have.”

“They weren’t going to have us either way.” You said, smiling up at the man. “Besides you clearly haven’t seen men and women watching you do weights. It’s like they want to jump you then and there.”

“Well if they don’t get the hint now,” Bucky started, tapping the rings on yours and Sam’s fingers. “I’m still up for making shirts.”

“I know Stark put that in your head.” You muttered, rolling your eyes slightly. “What would you even put on them?”

“I was thinking something classy. On Sam’s an arrow pointing down with property of Bucky and Y/N.” Bucky said making Sam laugh and you groan. “And on yours I was thinking me, and Sam put a handprint on the chest and write our names under it.”

Sam laughed even harder as you scowled at the brunette.

“You are no longer allowed to spend time with Tony.” You told the grinning brunette.

“Now wait a minute beautiful.” Sam said, rubbing circles onto your back. “I don’t hate the idea as long he gets a shirt too.”

“Oh no I’m not getting a shirt.” Bucky said. “I’m getting your names tattooed here.” He added, running a finger over his collarbone.

“Why do we get crummy shirts and you get it tattooed?” You asked, furrowing your eyebrows.

“Because I’m more badass than the pair of you.” Bucky said cockily.

“Want to bet?” Sam asked with a smirk. “End of the honeymoon, we all get tattooed.” Sam stated.

“Sounds like a deal.” You said. “Whoever backs out has to get one of Bucky’s shirts.” You added.

“Enjoy the shirt, darling.” Bucky told you.

“We’ll see Buck, we’ll see.” You promised, curling up on Sam’s chest as the need for sleep overcame you.

“Y/N? Another night?” Steve asked, coming into the living room. The sun was lazily rising, turning the otherwise dark room various shades of pinks, purples and golds. Looking away from the changing sky, you turned in your seat to see Steve standing in the doorway in his jogging clothes.

“How do you know I didn’t just get up?” You asked, cradling your coffee in your hands.

“Y/N, I’m a hundred-and-two years old. I’m not an idiot.” He said, moving towards you. “Plus, I’m your friend. I know you. Did you sleep at all last night?”

“No.” You said, letting out a slight laugh. “No, I didn’t even leave this floor last night.”

“This isn’t healthy, Y/N.” Steve sighed, taking a seat on the couch next to you. “They wouldn’t like to see you like this.”

“Of course, they wouldn’t.” You agreed. “I don’t like me like this, Stevie. I couldn’t imagine them being okay with me in this state.”

“Then why don’t you go to sleep, Y/N? Why don’t you start taking better care of yourself?” He asked, placing his hand on our knee.

“Because I can’t face that floor, Steve. I can’t wake up there every morning and make breakfast in that empty kitchen, I can’t sit in the living room where we used to spend our evenings, I can’t look through that closet because two thirds of it aren’t mine and I can’t sleep in that bed because it’s so cold.” You said, tears streaming down your face.

“Y/N, it’s been two years. Maybe it’s time to start thinking about boxing their things up.” Steve said softly.

“If I do that it’s as good as admitting they’re never coming home.” You said, letting out a few hiccups. “I didn’t have anything before Sam.” You admitted with a watery smile. “I was so close to just ending it all. I didn’t see the point and then, I met Sam.

And he made me feel more alive than I had my whole life. I used to wake up and just smile because I finally had someone to live for. Sam was all I needed and then we joined the team and suddenly I had a family. I used to get really scared because I wasn’t supposed to have anything of this, and I was waiting for something bad to happen.

And then we met Bucky. Sam hated him in the start, you know? He couldn’t even stand the sight of him for a long time and then one day he could. And one day it wasn’t just me and Sammy, it was me, Sammy and Bucky. Suddenly I had multiple reasons to live. I’d never had that before.

I shouldn’t have expected much. I should’ve known better than to get attached. I’m not supposed to get the people I want.” You said, your shoulders beginning to shake uncontrollably.

Steve moved his hand from your knee and wrapped his arms around you.

“It hurts Stevie.” You sobbed. “I just want it all to stop.”

“It feels like you’re tearing in two doesn’t it?” Steve asked, his own voice thick with emotion. “And you can feel your organs splitting and everything feels as if it’s just going to keep on tearing until there is nothing left of you. But Y/N, you’re strong, you’re going to get through this. For them.” Steve promised.

“Does the pain ever stop?” You asked after several minutes as the sobs ceased.

“It’s different for everyone.” Steve said. “It might stop. It might never. It might just feel like a broken bone that still throbs when it rains, but that’s the reason you need to keep going. You need to see what your pain tolerance is.” Steve told you.

The two of you sat there until the room turned golden under the sunlight.

“It’s getting early. I think I’m going to head up to bed.” You said, getting up from the couch. Steve gave you a look as you picked up your coffee mug.

“Are you sure? We sit up and talk if you want.” He offered. You shook your head and gave him a weak smile.

“You have a run to go on. I have sleep I need to catch up on.” You told him. “Night Steve.” You said and walked towards the elevator.

Walking into the bedroom you let out a deep breath before crawling into the middle of the bed.

“Good night boys.” You murmured to the empty room as you ran your fingers over your inked collarbone. Perhaps Steve was right, you thought as you drifted off. Perhaps you should start packing away some of their things.

“You’re staring again.” Bucky said in a sing-song tone.

“Get used to it. I’m not looking away for a long time.” You promised, sitting on Sam’s lap as the two of you sat on the bed. Sam was playing your hair as Bucky was taking his clothing out of the storage boxes.

Bruce had snapped the two back to life two days ago. After the battle of Thanos the three of you had a tearful reunion. While neither man knew they’d been dead for five years, you knew and it you had almost given up hope before Scott came to the team with a plan.

Escaping the rubble of the Avengers Compound with Steve, Thor and Tony you weren’t sure any of you were going to make it out alive from this fight. And then the portals began opening and then you heard Sam's voice and saw your boys alive.

You’d all lost a lot in this fight, but you’d brought back the rest of the world’s population. Most importantly you got your boys back.

After Tony and Natasha’s funerals, the three of you had moved into a house you’d purchased years back. Once the three of you had moved into the Avenger’s compound you only used this house once every blue moon or for storage.

Three years ago, you boxed up most of your husband’s things and left them here for safety and it was lucky you had.

“Buck, come over here and lay with us.” Sam said, lifting a hand out for the man.

“I would, but there’s about a hundred boxes here that need to be sorted through.” Bucky told him, opening another box.

“To be fair you guys just have a lot of stuff.” You said, curling further into Sam’s grip. “It took hours to pack it all away and that was with Steve helping for the first couple.”

“First couple?” Sam asked. “What did you kick him out because he folded something wrong?”

“Kinda. After the first couple of hours Steve could see I was getting anxious and weird about how he was packing up. So, he got up and upended the box. He told me he wanted to help but he could see this was something I needed to do on my own.” You said, looking down. Sam grabbed your hand and gave it a comforting squeeze.

“Well lucky for you, you have two men to unpack all these boxes.” Sam said, leaning down to kiss you tattoo.

“Well, one man to unpack all these boxes.” Bucky spoke up. “Since your other husband has resorted to lounging around.” He added, causing you to giggle and Sam to flip the bird at the other man.

“Buck, how about we leave the boxes to later?” You suggested, turning in Sam’s hold to face Bucky. “Please Bucky.”

“Alright, alright.” Bucky sighed, lifting himself from the ground and sitting next to you. “I suppose I need a break.”

“Break? You’ve hardly started old man.” Sam teased, nudging Bucky’s shoulder.

“I’d like to see you try.” Bucky said, narrowing his eyes. “I bet I could do it faster than you.”

“I bet I could do it twice before you do it once.” Sam shot back, sitting up.

“Loser has to wear the shirt?” You suggested. Both men nodded and shook hands. You sat on the edge of the bed and watched as the two men ran around the large room. “I can make this go faster.” You suddenly spoke up. “Winner gets to help me recreate our wedding night.”

It was barely ten minutes later before two large bodies launched themselves onto the bed.

“Why do I get the feeling you didn’t properly put everything away?” You laughed as Bucky’s lips traced your tattoo.

“We’ll do it later.” Sam promised as you sucked a hickey onto his own tattooed mark.

“Right now it’s our wedding night.” Bucky added with a smirk.

They were really here. Both your men were alive and they were here with you. In that moment, nothing mattered. Nothing but the men you’d marked as your own and who’d marked you theirs.

Taglist

@piper-koko-barnes-rogers @skeletoresinthebasement @hopingforbarnes @agent-barnes40 @rvgrsbrns

Show your support. Give it a like. Leave a comment. Share with your friends and reblog. Inbox/Message me any comments, requests, pairings you’d like to see, if you’d like to be added to the taglist or whatever you want.

Coming soon;

Sam x reader x Steve

Natasha x reader x Bruce

Steve x reader x Sam x Bucky

Natasha x reader x Sam x Steve

Natasha x reader x Bucky x Sam x Steve

Bucky x reader x Thor

Pepper x reader x Tony

Natasha x reader x Peggy x Wanda

Natasha x reader x Wanda

Steve x reader x Bruce x Tony?

Clint x reader x Pietro?

Wanda x reader x Vision?

[peachyteabuck]

hungry for me, sequel to“survive the summer”

summary: a commission of a second installment of survive the summer, for @myhoneybeeheart

pairing: thor odinson x reader

words: 4,009

trigger warnings: praise kink, dubcon, mentions of arranged marriage, taking of virginity, degradation, oral (f recieving), shame associated with religious upbringing, light edging

ask box / masterlist / commission info / ko-fi

Somewhere – somewhere you know exists but also doubt is real – somewhere between right in front of you and a million miles away, you hear Thor calling out to you. You have to make a sizable effort to parse his words from the roaring of blood in your ears and haze of pleasure clouding your thoughts. You can hear him, barely, and can sense him - as if you were stuck in the bottom of an iced-over lake, if you were buried six feet under, if you were lost in a cave. Sometimes when you bathe you dunk yourself under the freezing water to quiet out all the noise, making all your siblings’ voices and animals’ screams sound garbled and, blessedly, muted.

Now, despite you being on dry land and nowhere near a body of water large enough to drown yourself in, it sounds the same – the beacon from a lighthouse, the beckoning home, the call to attention. It all sounds the same to you.

“Baby,” Thor coos above you. His voice is thick and savory like warmed molasses and pours into you just as smooth. Somehow you can feel it on you – flowing between your breasts and onto your stomach and pooling in your abdomen. It’s warm and creamy and gooey and makes you feel sunlit and beautiful and you could only stay in this feeling forever…“Come back, baby, come back to me. Come back so I can see that pretty face of yours.”

You don’t, can’t, say anything because now his giant cock is filling you and all you want to do is cry from the mind-numbing satisfaction and your whole body is on fire and also over ice and is it humid? You wonder if it’s humid because your whole body is covered in sweat and you feel like you’re suffocating and you’re gasping for air because the air is too tense to breathe. It’s when he slaps you lightly, grabs your chin and makes you look at him that you finally are able to think somewhat-rationally, logically, concisely…well, rationally, logically, and concisely enough to piece together whatever the man is saying along with the appropriate response.

“You good, love?” he asks. Somehow, you find enough energy and muscle control to nod. It’s faint and feeble as a last breath, but Thor sees, comprehends it nonetheless. He kisses at your temple before speaking again, nosing at your hairline afterward. The gesture is comforting, reassuring; especially given what he says next. “Good, ‘cause I’m just getting started.”

It’s enough to make you gasp out, grab at him as if that would tether you to some vague definition of reality. You whine as he pulls back from you, growling at you to stay put, to remain in your highly vulnerable position. Maybe out of fear, maybe out of anticipation, maybe out of a mixture of both – you accede.

Thor falls to his knees on the hardwood floor, hitting the worn circles laid there by years of begging for forgiveness with a heavy thud. It distracts you, knocks you off guard enough that the man can grab you by the ankles and drag you closer to him without so much as a protest. Before you could register what was happening, Thor’s gotten you folded in half – legs bent and pressed to your chest with one forearm pressed into the notches of your knees to keep you there.

You’re confused, eyebrows furrowed as you attempt to find your bearings on a situation so foreign to you Thor might as well be speaking a different language. “What are y-“

You’re soon interrupted by your whole body melting as his flat tongue presses to the crest of your center. You relax easily, body becoming lax quick as a snap. “Oh! Oh, Oh my God, I’m-“

The art of language, of coherent language, seems to wash away as you collapse fully onto the bed. If you had control over your muscles, if your brain would regain its rightful possession over your skin and bones maybe you’d pull at Thor’s hair, scratch his back, grip the sheets. Nothing of the sort is under your current ability, and you find yourself covering your face with flat, pliant hands. What you’re covering yourself from is not important – maybe you’re terrified your eyes will open and you’ll have to face the hand-painted portrait of your Father. Maybe worse, you’d have to face the man between your legs, the almighty whose stubble scratches at the stretch marks between your legs and whose mouth drinks at the most vulnerable part of you.

One of his thick fingers presses into you with ease, obscene slick sounds filling your bedroom.

“Oh God,” you moan just above a whisper. You’re sure you look possessed now – eyes rolled to the back of your head and mouth banging open and body moving on its own accord. “God, don’t stop!”

You can feel Thor smile into the skin of your sopping cunt, his tongue tracing your lips before slipping another finger into and pressing just so – each twitch of his fingers making nearly making you black out from how overwhelming good it feels.

It’s not long before your skin is hot and tight and you’re about to burst, and you can feel your entire body wrapping around a tight coil laid atop a hot frying pan and you just…you just need…you just-

You nearly kill Thor when he pulls away, his fingers receding away from that perfect spot inside of you. It hurts, it physically hurts and if you weren’t pissed as an ox you’d beg for him to continue.

With hair wild and cheeks red you sit up and grab Thor’s face with both your hands, your palms becoming wet with your slick.

“What the fuck is wrong with you!?” you hiss. You feel like a sopping wet cat who’s been dunked into a river by a hellbent child. With his shit-eating grin, the resemblance is uncanny. God, you want to hit him to hard the SMACK! is heard by the next town over.

“Just gettin’ you ready, love,” he says – syrupy drawl both beautiful and antagonizing. Whatever way he means it, you press your thighs together to trap his hand there. Thor makes no move to remove it, just smiling and glowing and looking at you like you hung the stars.

“Ready for what,” you say through grit teeth. You search his eyes (and the rest of his face, for that matter) for answers, for explanation. All you see is fire in his eyes and his bottom lip stuck between his teeth and him looking you up and down like a man planning on where to shoot a deer stuck in a bear trap and before you know it, Thor is on top of you and his cock is stuffing you full and you’re digging your nails into his back.

When your sisters and cousins would whisper and giggle about seasonal farmhands who bathed naked far up the river, who blushed when you complimented them and leaned against the rickety fences when they spoke, you thought that would be the kind of guy you’d lose such an important part of you to. You thought you’d wake up one day to find yourself promised to some boy who was skinny and sun-burnt and did as she told him and worked in the field.

This feels the exact opposite of the man above you, the man inside you. Large and sun-kissed and charismatic – he reminds you of a wild stallion, muscly and free and vicious and unstoppable and untamed and a challenge. You admire him the same way, are enchanted by him and his undomesticated, ruthless ways which are foreign and fierce to you and you’re simply breathless.

Thor stretches your legs up to your chest and soon you’re wailing, trying to grab at the worn quilt you’ve had since you were a child for a lifeline, a reminder you have control over some of your body, something.

“Oh,” you cry. You find yourself at a loss for words, the art of speech lost in favor of grunting and moaning and barely-intelligible “yes”s and “please”s and “don’t stop”s. Your legs are wrapped tightly around Thor’s waist, keeping him close; even if your legs were spread, though, it’s not as if Thor would want to pull away. It’s not as if the only thing tying him to you is the increasingly-weak hold on him, as if the only anchor is your nails leaving red, angry crescent-shaped indentations all over his back, shoulders, ass, sides. Just as your hands map each inch of his skin, his mouth does the same for yours – he pants, hot and open-mouthed, into equally-feverish uncharted territory. He tastes you, tastes the sweet-salty sweat that run over scars reminiscent of years of farm work.

Each time his teeth, tongue, lips so much as brush the gnarled skin the memories come flooding back, reminders of a life now considered “past.” The scenes from a life you no long recognize coat the pleasure, the present; they play behind your eyes as you feel yourself falling thousands of feet below.

His chin nudges the long one above your breasts you’ve had since you were a child and you were proving to your father you could be an archer – turns out the arrow was much sharper than you could have imagined.

He brushes your hair to the side and exposes a small, curled thing behind your ear – earned from a fight with a hawk that had broken its wing. Your father shot it, cooked it, and you knew that was the poor animal’s fate. Nonetheless, you stepped too close and scared the thing to pieces.

He bites at the one on your shoulder – the one you got when you were nicked by a sharpened stick on a trail ride. You were young and dumb as the stick was long and pointed. Ma says the only thing that kept you alive for the duration of the ride back was pure spite and adrenaline, a similar concoction to what flows through your veins now.

If you were a different woman, a woman with a strong will and even stronger arms, you’d push him away and repent for a chance at the old life you had planned for yourself. You’d throw him out of your house and fall to your knees and pray until your family found you there – lips and pads of your knees bleeding. You’d force him back onto the horse he rode in on and fall into hysterics until he left you by your lonesome to deal with this (whatever this may be) by yourself. You’d push him off and remind him you’re not what he wants – that you’re more than a cheap lay. (Of course, you’d let him in eventually – if he pushed and prodded at you hard enough. You’d let him mount you like he is now…just maybe after a ring and a dress and him knowing that you’re going to be with him until the end of time.)

Unfortunately, you are not that woman. You are weak, lost to the pleasure of him slamming in and out of you so hard you’re sure he’s leaving bruises on your inner thighs, ones that will last for days; lost to the feeling of his rough, wet thumb pressing at the crest of your center and making you wail. You’re absolutely drowning in it, and you have no intention of fighting to find land.

“Jesus fuck,” he hisses as you clench around him (an act you will play coy about when he asks you later, but do not comment on now). “This pussy is mine until the end of days, you get that? Do you understand me? I’m never giving you up.”

You groan out, unable to form something silly as speech. Like before, he grabs your face with the unoccupied big, calloused hand and forces your hooded eyes to meet his dilated pupils. Unlike before, tears stain your face. You’ve wept this hard before – when your favorite heifer died, when you realized your sister were so much prettier than you, when you got pecked in the side by a temperamental, murderous chicken. You’ve never, though, ever screeched and caterwauled and literally wept from pleasure.

(Your lips feel dryer by the second. You have a sneaking suspicious as to why.)

“Tell me whose pussy this is,” Thor snarls. His words are punctuated with thrusts, each one deeper and harder than the last. Surely you won’t walk away from this unharmed. No human was built to withstand such forces, to withstand this man. You feel like a poorly-built prairie house during tornado season - threatening to be reduced to bits any second. “Tell me who owns this beautiful pussy of yours.”

“Ah!” you scream so loud you’re sure the angels can hear you.  “Oh, God Thor, this pussy is yours.”

You can feel his wicked, satisfied smile against your shoulder, his teeth scraping at the skin there. “Say it again,” he tells you, so quiet you barely hear. Like some test or a prayer or a demand. “I want to hear it again.”

(In truth, he wants to hear you say it forever – but once more, for now, will do.)

The spool of thick thread weaves itself tighter and tights inside of you, and when you go to grab at the bedsheets once more you can hear the familiar sound of cotton sheets, ripping. “My pussy is yours, Thor!”

It’s then that the reel collapses in on itself – like the universe in the beginning. Is there a set of planets springing to life inside of you? Is the white-hot you see as you gasp for air a second set of heavens being born? You understand the Book so much better now, now understand why He had to rest; you feel as if you could sleep for a million years when you finally spiral down to Earth.

Thor, obviously, does not feel the same way. He does not pull from you, does not leave you lying motionless, heaving, desperate for cool air in your lungs and on your skin. Rather, he laughs – deep and pitted in his chest.

The bastard.

“You’re gorgeous,” he says between kisses laid upon your jaw. They’re hot, heavy, hard – sometimes you can feel his teeth scrape there. You wonder if he means to mark you so – determined to make an example of you and have you choose the dangerous fate of either parading around or shutting yourself in; or does he does this with no thought at all, barges into isolated women’s homes and shows them the greatest gratification known to man or God. “Has anyone ever told you that?”

You bear your teeth when he pulls back and meets your eyes again. It takes all your minimal willpower not to moan again, given that he hasn’t stopped fucking in and out of you. “Has anyone ever told you they wanted to punch you in the fucking face?”

He laughs again, same as before. “You’ve got a dirty mouth for such a clean woman,” he smirks as he pulls from you and flips you over with ease (your heart flutters – literally flutters, when your chest hits the sheets), knees bracketing you in. “Or, can I call you that no longer?”

Before you can snap back with a retort, he’s got you pulled to your knees by your hair – the follicles bunched in his large fist. You gasp loudly – the searing, sharp pain traveling up the backs of your legs, your spine, your scalp. It hurts, but it also feels so good.

Thor ignores you.

You remain there, tucked into Thor as he ravages you. One arm keeps you upright and tight against his muscular chest, slung across your stomach and tucked into your side so he can feel each bated breath – the other makes quick, small circles over the most sensitive part of you.

“Scream for me,” he whispers into your ear. “Let the whole world hear how good I make you feel.”

You follow his bellowed command, choked whimpers now shouts and cries and shrieks. In any other moment in any other time you’d be embarrassed, like before when you’d cover your mouth to stifle the sounds so no one could hear. Now, though, with no shawl or nighttime or cloak or hand to conceal you from the man you can’t look in the eyes.  

The hand around your stomach moves to the wall in front of you for balance, and you can feel his hot breath as his jaw hangs open.

You’re too far gone, now, to notice him grabbing at your hair again and pressing your cheek into the sheets. You scream each him his hips meet yours, his moans nearly as loud as yours.

“You feel so good,” he groans. “God, you’re so wet. Oh shit!”

He pulls out, blessedly, finishing himself with his hand while the other presses into your lower back. It keeps you there, floating in and out of consciousness but staying near-lifeless on the bed. The shirt he was wearing before – you recognize it from the column of buttons – cleans you off, the thick cotton soothing against your skin.

It’s not long before Thor joins you on the bed, collapsing from exhaustion just as you have. It’s hours before you wake up again, the pitch blackness outside meaning there’s nothing to distract yourself from the reality of the state of your life.

If your world hadn’t been shattered before, you are currently watching it go down in flames. You’ve never seen a barn being burned to the ground, but if you were stuck inside, it’d probably feel like this – you’d probably also be clutching the quilt that’s been haphazardly thrown over you but not Thor, grasping at the sun-bleached fabric as it will save you from destruction.

“Fuck,” you whisper to the ceiling and no one in particular. You still avoid looking at that damned portrait, keeping its aged frame in your periphery. You treat the man currently invading your precious personal space the same way.

Thor laughs next to you, deep in his chest. If you didn’t want to hit him then… “Should I be offended?”

You sigh, still avoiding his gaze. You can feel it burning into you like the sun on a bare back in the middle of July – you fear, if he looks at you too long, that you’ll be burned with his mark for the rest of time. You pull the quilt closer to you, hugging it to your body. “Not everything is about you.”

“I’d agree. Maybe not everything, but this,” Thor taps a few times between your eyebrows where your forehead has wrinkled. “Definitely is.”

He’s confident, so frustratingly confident and radiant and if your life wasn’t falling apart you would fuck him again – without hesitation. If you weren’t reconstructing a path you had mapped the day you understood what “future” meant for you, you’d force him down on the bed and do what you thought your wedding night would look like. It’s overwhelming, to say the least, to realize that you have been dethroned of the future you’d thought, you’d assumed you’d have.

You’re not a geographer, a cartographer, a topographer; you’re just a woman. A very horny woman, who is currently undergoing a crisis.

Thor moves closer to you, wrapped one of his massive arms around your bare waist and shifts so that his massive body weighs you onto the bed and rests his chin on your shoulder. “Love, what are you so worried about? Someone like you shouldn’t have worries like that running through the pretty little head of yours.”

You scoff and roll your eyes. Where do you even begin with him? “What am I worried about? I don’t know, probably the fact that I have to marry you now,” you sigh, eyes screwed shut in hopes you’ll open to find yourself in another bed, in another home, in another life. “That’s pretty fucking terrifying.”

Thor laughs breathily – unfazed. “One, you’re very rude. Has anyone ever told you that? It’s no wonder your father treats you in such a way. It’s a mystery no one else treats you that way. Maybe I should treat you a lesson, huh? Should I treat you to be nicer to the people who treat you nice as I?” he trails off for a minute or two, eyeing you up and down. When you make no move towards him, he continues. “Two, why do you have to marry me?”

You ignore his insolence, attempting to stick to the matter at hand. You fear if you veer off topic for even a moment, he’ll use that opening to pin back onto the bed and then this will be delayed even worse than it currently is and then this conversation will have to happen with even more of a threat of your family coming home before you can handle this yourself and…What were you talking about again? Right. Roping this man into marriage. No big deal. “You just took my purity, of course I have to marry you.”

It’s Thor’s turn to scoff. “That’s not how the world works, baby.”

“It’s how my world works, baby,” You bite back. If you were a snake, you’re sure the last word would’ve been coupled with the spraying of poison all over your companion’s skin. Knowing Thor, though, he’d walk away healthier than ever despite two precise puncture wounds.

There’s a long pause before he speaks again, the smile that plays on his lips coloring his words as well. “Oh, really? Why can’t I just walk out of here and pretend none of this ever happened? Why can’t I move onto the next woman, and the next woman, and the next woman. You think I can’t just find a thousand other yous to fill my bed, huh? Why do you think you’re so special?”

You’re sitting up now, covering yourself as Thor lays there bare. He reminds you of a barn cat in the sun, eyes closed and muscles relaxed and tail flicking lazily; if you touched him, you bet his skin would be warmed – if you scratched behind his ears or under his chin, you bet he’d purr. Unlike your barn cat, though, you refuse to leave him be as he enjoys his leisure.  “Why do you think I’d just let you leave? Why do you think you can find another woman, let alone a thousand women even close to me? Sure, leave if you want to, but don’t think you won’t be crawling back to me the second you try and find me in someone who ain’t me. Nuh-uh, you’ll find yourself here, in the dirt, at my feet.”

There’s a long, thick silence that settles over the both of you as Thor sits up, too. His face is playful, but still look in your eyes for any ounce of insincerity. He finds none. “You’re a little spitfire, you know that? Feral little thing, you are.”

You leave the bed, wrapping yourself in a robe you find rumbled under the bed. You don’t know if it’s to protect yourself from the immodesty of walking around naked as the day you were born, or if you’re hoping covering up to prove to Thor you’re not just some hussy. As if whatever in Hell just went down doesn’t disprove whatever notions of modesty you’re hoping to project. Either way, it busies your hands and keeps your eyes from him. “Of course.” You don’t speak again until you’re at the doorway, back facing him with head turned to the side just so. Who’s the cat now? “Do you?”

You walk away after that, leaving to find food or water or maybe a gun. Thor neither knows nor cares. Either way, he allows his body to fall back onto the bed with a thud and listens to your footsteps padding on the floor. Once you’re out of earshot, he sighs deep and happy.  “I sure do, babygirl. I sure do.”

[leiascully]

Fic:  Endeavours Too Short Of Desires

4500 words | Teen | moody atmospheric vignettes from season 6 and a hike in the woods that never was

A/N: This isn’t new.  I just wanted a tumblr copy.  It is, as ever, for @dilkirani

I.

"Nothing ever happens," Mulder wakes himself saying, jerking back from the depths of sleep.

Scully's face is a stern half-moon in the driver's seat.

"Hmm?" she says, eyes on the road.

"Dreaming," he says rather pathetically, hauling one shoulder up.

"About your love life?"

"Hah," he says. She smirks to herself. Every now and then he remembers she is someone's little sister.

A semi oozes past, its bulk as eerie as the lanternfish Mulder saw in a photo, the small lights set to tantalize with false promises of goodness within. The rental car hurls them through the night, back to the hotel, after the long day of pounding on the doors of innocent farmers. The air conditioner has the same hushed burble as his aquarium filter. The night is clear enough to swim in. If he rolled down the window, the dark would spill in and flood the car. He spins out a story in his half-awake mind: he and Scully, in their rented (though stolen would have more glamour) subaquatic transport are speeding towards the last outpost of civilization to confront the crooked Merpolice. He finds he is holding his breath and abandons the narrative. More apt to be pioneers. The thought of Scully's face hidden behind a ruffled bonnet is too entertaining to pass up.

"Think the Homestead Act is still in effect?" he asked.

Her mouth crimped. "This isn't a Conestoga, Mulder, and you're not a country boy. You'd starve without a deli."

"You hunt, I gather. What do you say, partner?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"After seven years, you expect me to be suddenly amenable to your lunatic schemes?" She makes a smooth stop at a deserted crossroads and sets the car in motion again.

"But you were so good with those pigs," he wheedles.

"Only you would want to settle down by actually settling," she says, putting the turn signal on though there isn't another car on the road. She pulls into the parking lot and noses the car into a slot, equidistant from the cars on either side. He hovers as she unlocks her door and slips in.

"Night, Mulder," she says, tipping her head against the frame.

"Night," he says as she pushes the door to and slides home the bolts. He lays awake in his mirror room, arm cocked over his head so that the back of his hand rests against the wall, trying to feel her heartbeat through the dark.

II.

What the hell are they doing?

There was a time his days had purpose, but now he finds himself floundering. A day's work? A life's work? A fine romance, a deadly drama, a comedy of errors? Scully is no waifish Ophelia, but there are days he fears they'll all end up dead due to the miching mallechos set off by his own determination. At least piles of manure aren't as likely to kill them as most of his demons.

He remembers when he met her, the cool firmness of her handshake and the bad cut of her suit. She is leaner now. Honed is the word he would use: it suits the way they scrape against each other. She has the clean compact lines of his Sig and he reaches for her the same way in a crisis. She isn't pretty. The word isn't in her vocabulary, with all the frou-frou softness it implies. If he can say she is beautiful, it is the beauty of the scalpel's edge. He feels softer by the day, his hand always half-extended to her. There are weekends he orders two coffees just because he forgets she isn't there. He drinks the second and buzzes for hours, having learned to tolerate cream in his coffee rather than face the shades his brain creates.

He dreams about picket fences and Scully with a fond palm cupped over the head of a blond boy. He wakes in a sweat. She deserves more. Not just someone who calls to say, "Hey, I found a musty old file, want to get takeout and give up your weekend?" She merits someone who calls to say instead "I was thinking of you" and leaves it at that. She deserves to be the sign and the signifier. He still loves the hunt, too, with a modern man's shame over the thrill of the chase. Dress it in a suit, give it a pistol, and call the hunt a puzzle or a profile or a case, but she's right: he gets off on it. She rides with him, but it doesn't take her to the same place. Bad motels, bad food, his everloving need to track the villain to his last hideout. Or maybe she does feel the call of it these days: he's guilty about that too. What has he made of her, this serious woman whose family hardly recognizes her? The two of them in coordinating blacks, him stooping along in the shadows with her ramrod-straight and stern beside him.

Who would she be if she weren't his Scully? How many hours of laughter has he stolen from her? How many years of ease? He feels the weight of his debts as an ache when he runs, a tug between his shoulders when he drives.

III.

So she isn't pretty (too severe, too pale of skin and sharp of chin) and she rubs him, god, the wrong way entirely with her pointed insistence on the rational. There are days lately that they just prickle at each other until the air is so charged he isn't sure one of them won't take a swing. He gets smug and she gets arch and he wants to remind her of Scully-that-was with the bad suits and the naivete, but the quips dry up when he looks at Scully-that-is, who might just shoot him to shut him up, her eyebrow cocking almost audibly as a pistol. It was easier when they were upstairs, Moose and Squirrel against the Badinovs. Now they've won and they're back in their weird seclusion, and he spends all day trying not to think about things. Diana and Spender and the enormous scar on Scully's stomach and a normal life and that's just for starters. Scully nags at him: he should be thinking of his knees, his cholesterol, his prostate, his geriatric future chasing phantoms, and he almost blushes under her cool stare as she dissects him and gets irritable about that.

"You want to be the one saying I told you so for once?" he snaps. "I'm sure when I'm dead you'll find a reason." She doesn't rise to the bait, just purses her lips and turns away, and he spends a couple of hours coming up with a good retort for her to have said. "Sooner rather than later" or "I've already seen you naked, I understand the situation" or a reminder of how it's her logic that turns him into something the world doesn't shun. But none of them measures up to her eloquent silence and the fact that she's still here (god, the miracle and the thorn in his side) and it makes him crankier and crankier until he has to go to the vending machine and buy a candy bar to drop on her desk. She raises an eyebrow and splits it with him, both of them with sticky fingertips and dense mouthfuls of nougat and peanut. She swallows with an effort, taps her lower lip with one finger. He licks exaggeratedly at his mouth and tastes caramel. She nearly smiles.

There are some days they're so in sync it's as if they're sharing a skin. He never thinks of it until later, when he turns and she's not there. But they haven't either of them been there, lately. In the bullpen, he can't even stare surreptitiously sideways at her profile.

They talk on the phone in the evenings, too accustomed for self-consciousness. He doesn't remember how many times he's heard her fall asleep, even in the middle of some hushed dispute. He thinks of her, limbs askirl in the comforter, wearing those shapeless pajamas. He wants to ease her out of them, put her in his oldest, softest t-shirt, watch her curl around him as she dreams. Hell, he'll let her drool on his chest if that's what it takes to see her unlimber that prickly standalone self-assurance. She must have been a girl once, laughing with those blue eyes, listening to rough-voiced men croon about how they needed her to need them. He likes to think that he could stop running long enough to spend the morning reading snippets of news stories to her.

IV.

He stares at the phone on the table. It lies there, implacable. He sighs, picks it up, and hits the button.

"Scully."

"Scully, it's me."

"Mulder," she says with a touch of reproval, "it's Friday night."

"It only feels that way because it gets dark early," he says, glancing at the dusky mirror of his window.

"Mulder," she sighs.

"Yeah," he says, and almost hangs up.

"And?" she prompts.

"There's a haunted wood in West Virginia that's very scenic this time of year," he says.

"Haunted?"

"The hotel has a hot tub," he says. "And the hike up to the site is gorgeous."

There is a long moment of silence. He hums The Eagles under his breath.

"Pick me up in half an hour," she says and hangs up.

They spin out the long miles between haunted places together in a silence he likes to call comfortable. He has been a connoisseur of silences since Samantha disappeared: his mother's, Phoebe's, Diana's. Scully's are sometimes cool or pointed but never cruel. The evening dims into early night. He wants to hear stories of her childhood, wants to relate the play-by-play of sandlot games from the days when Samantha was there, pigtails bouncing against her shoulders as she scrambled for a foul ball and held up the game. Instead he tunes the radio to NPR and feels Scully slouch next to him, relaxing into a concert of Bach's sonatas. She props one stocking-sheathed foot on the glove box.

"You like Bach, Mulder?"

"I live for Bach," he says easily. She flashes him a look and he quirks his mouth in a doesn't-matter smile. Those are times he doesn't like to think about, when they were separated, when he abandoned her without looking back and she came anyway to save him from his follies. Dana Scully, Our Lady of Second Chances. He'd lay flowers at her feet, but she doesn't suffer reverence well, the deflection of affection almost automatic between them. Not all wisdom has benefits, he thinks: too wise to woo, they are stuck in the stasis of longing and denial.

The stairs to the basement still smell like smoke when he goes to salvage his files, and his car still smells like Diana's perfume, however he tries to air it out. Betrayal has an acrid bite in his nose. Scully's hands are ashy as they sort through burned fragments of manila; he is aware that he does not deserve her.

West Virginia will not solve any of this, but he is longing for the old earnest purity of the supernatural after the months and months of bureaucracy. After the indignity of being dragged out of their basement. After the wedge Diana has put between them, after his new disillusionment, after his near-drowning. A nice trip to the woods, one that won't end in some ancient hollow filled with bones or the two of them dehydrated beyond recognition. It is tending toward autumn in the mountains, and he has hope again.

V.

She's seen him naked before with those doctor eyes, one self-inflicted health concern after another. He frets that when the day of glory comes she won't see him as anything but a collection of troubles bundled in a too-familiar skin. Where's the mystery of undressing each other when they know all the scars? Where's the room for shadows and secrets and discovery?

All these dreams of yielding, but in the light, they brace their feet and bicker, an endlessly rehearsed debate.

They get in too late for the woods, just collapse in their separate rustic rooms. She yawns through breakfast, but he plies her with coffee and drags her up the mountain.

"What am I looking for?" she asks, her feet clompy in her boots. She has brought a pack with food and water and a good pocketknife. He has a compass in his pocket and a pamphlet in his bag about the local hauntings.

"Any sign of haints, spectres, manifestations, you know."

"Projectile vomiting?" she asks wryly, and pushes up the sleeves of her fleecy pullover.

"Breakfast wasn't that bad, Scully. Now get ghost huntin'."

"Mulder, is this an apology?"

He stretches his legs and outpaces her, scrambling up outcroppings just because he can. The ghostly copse is bright and sunny, the leaves just edged with crimson and yellow.

"Look at that, Scully," he says, putting out his arms and spinning. "Have you ever seen a place more positively haunted?"

She laughs, unpredictably. They eat apples and spit out the seeds. She chose the apples from a bowl in the dining room; he doesn't recognize the names of the varieties when she says them. He thinks, briefly, that he should give it all up and they could grow apples instead. In the evening they sit by a fireplace and the owner of the inn tells them all the ghost stories. Mulder takes notes. Scully stares dreamily into the flames. They slip into the hot tub under the stars, Scully in a very functional one piece, her towel close at hand against the chill in the air. They seem to be the only guests at the lodge. He swats at a lonely mosquito. Scully peers up at the sky.

"You know," Mulder nudges her toes in the water, "if we went up there now, maybe we'd catch Old Smoky in the act of spooking deer."

She regards him, her eyes half-lidded through the steam. "Mulder, was there even a ghost here?"

"There's always a ghost," he says.

On Monday, they don't talk about it.

VI.

Sometimes he sees himself as she must see him, on bad days. Hulking, crowding Mulder, deranged Mulder, screeching inanity even the Gunmen would discount out of hand. Broody, sulky, disturbed Mulder, who hasn't had a date or even a bedroom in years, who has more than once held a gun on her. Same old same old, dragging her across the nation's pale and seedy underbelly for the sake of an anonymous newspaper clipping or a breathless phonecall.

"Why do you trust these whackos?" she asks once, point blank Scully bluntness. "Mulder, are you just aching to have faith in someone?"

He bristles, ignoring the opportunity to be sweet. "They're not whackos. They're truthseekers."

"They're attention seekers." She is already turning away.

"Please don't undervalue my work," he says stiffly, stirred into adolescent sudden outrage so that his elbows jab at the fabric of his suit and his ears feel too large, awkward, hearing sly whispers. "However little you may respect these people and their struggles to confront the paranormal aspects, things that people like you say shouldn't exist, they deserve at least the justice of being listened to. This is my life, Scully. I'm not apologizing."

Her shoulders tilt. "It's become my life."

He punches the buttons on the radio until he finds a classic rock station and taps the steering wheel, trying not to turn around or beg forgiveness. Maybe he'll miss the exit, just drive until they find her magical normal-normal suburb so that she could trot up some manicured walkway to a boring husband and two point five adopted children, since he'd taken the chance of her own from her. Picket fences, Irish setter, parade of heart attack victims and plain vanilla old folks splayed across her morgue table. Maybe that would suit her, he thinks, as they grind into the parking lot. He feels guilty later and turns his plate so she can steal his fries, but she is looking out the window.

The informant is an unqualified whacko.

VII.

She is asleep, her breath a rhythmic fog on the window. Her hair has drifted across her face like autumn coming on. He can see the pulse in her neck. The compact loveliness of her startles him: pulse, respiration, the flicker of muscle as she shifts. She is so solid: the brace of arm from wrist to shoulder as she sights along her gun, the stance of her when they argue. Her skin in the moonlight looks bluish, the milky color of old marbles. She had been almost heavy in his arms, that time in Antarctica, as he'd struggled to clothe her in the meager layers of down and Goretex. The two of them in the clothes he'd worn, sharing his warmth, sharing his skin. As he'd lifted her, he'd caught his own scent on her neck. Her damp skin, bare inside his parka. The two of them breathing in the defiance of the fathomless cold.

And now this, after the whacko. Each of them lost in particular frustrated solitude inside the cocoon of the rental car. The sussuration of tires on the highway. The clear air of the desert so unlike DC, with its concrete memories of swampiness. Go west, young man, he thinks as the car spins northeast back to the cluster of lights where their hotel hunches around a rock garden. Go west and grow up with your country. That made three times this year he'd dragged her along, restless in the bullpen, craving the nocturnal thrill of exchanged information. Cloak and dagger, he would say, thinking of spy movies. Like taking a woman's number in a dark bar, Scully would say, Mulder, what were you thinking?

VIII.

He shows up on her doorstep at Halloween, painted corpse grey with false stitches inked over the real scars. "Trick or treat," he rumbles, and she steps aside.

"You know Frankenstein was the doctor, Mulder."

"Didn't your mother ever warn you about things that go bump in the night?" he says over his shoulder on the way to the candy bowl, but she ducks past him and rations out three bite-size bars into his palm. "No apples? No granola? Why, Doctor Scully, what wicked indulgence. You're letting these kids live it up."

She half-shrugs, her shoulder cantilevered by the crook of the opposite eyebrow. Scully at equilibrium. "Any remnant of true ritual has been superceded by the commercialized sugar high, Mulder. The offering's only a gesture at the amalgamation of centuries of superstition and pagan belief."

"And yet," he murmurs, "think of the dental bills."

Her mouth quirks. In her line of work, he supposes, they appreciate distinctive dentition. "Not my watch. Plus, I like my windows unegged."

They watch bad monster movies on tv, punctuated by commercials and insistent variations on ghouls, heroes, and cartoon princesses. She rambles on about Samhain and Egyptian ritual and the bourgeois dilution of tradition until he unwraps a candy bar and pushes it between her lips. Not that he doesn't love to hear her talk, especially about fertility and death and holy holies and the human tendency to enjoy having the hell scared out of them, but it's Plan Nine From Outer Space and this is the good part.

She swallows, licks her lips, waits for commercial, worries a bit of peanut from between her back teeth. "I was you with all that Samhain stuff, you know. I don't think they sell Flowbees anymore, but I thought about stealing your awful ties."

"You may talk the talk, Scully, but you'll never encompass the Mulder mystique." She grimaces at him. "You're too short and too functional."

She brushes her knuckles against his knee and pretends it's an accident. "Happy Halloween, Mulder."

"Happy Halloween, Scully." He thinks his heart is growing three sizes larger, wrong season or not.

IX.

She pushes his hair back from his injured brow with a remarkable tenderness for a diagnostic. He touches the small of her back in possessive deference. They do not speak of this. It is a language of bodies, all fingertips and shoulders and the comfortable bump of knees under tables that are too small.

He steals her keys at Christmas out of hope.

They are often at odds. He knows she is seeing Diana around corners. The consummation goes on devoutly wished and entirely unconsummated; they are both restless with only their own skins around them. He is still hearing Padgett's voice on a loop (the lurid whisper, the revelation she didn't flinch from, so how could it be true except that she is not the swooning type), still seeing Ed Jerse's all-American face and blistered arm. The precedent of her lovers depresses him, but then, she's not tall, dark, and top-heavy. Tastes change.

He worries that he loves her by association. He worries that she tolerates him simply because she's used to him. In the daylight, in the office, their lives feel so ordinary. Two hired guns for the FBI, overeducated, underpaid, no scope at all for the kind of epic love he wants to believe they could share someday when they get around to saying it. When they find a safe space. "Son," says the bottom of the whiskey bottle some nights, "you're delusional."

He wants to believe.

"All right," she says at Christmas, exasperated, "I'm afraid. But it's an irrational fear." Scully tough as textbooks, always reaching for the quantifiable and the explicable. Love they can't riddle away so they ignore it, mired together in their apprehension, except for shining moments like Christmas morning, months ago. He knows this fear is rational, this fear of this, of them, as real and rational as his fear of Them, the consortiums, the shadow-men. She is not afraid, he thinks. She is not afraid of anything. She has confronted her demons and emerged cool and whole. But they push each other away.

He can't decide what he wants. Only her, to have and to hold away. She is exactly right and exactly wrong and there are days he wants to claim her and days he wants to put half the world between them for one reason or another. Mostly he just wants to go on like this, idle days in the basement. Funny. He can't remember when he stopped trying to keep her at arm's length. She was the spy sent in from the cold. Now she holds the earth steady as they boxstep around the space between them, though she sidles up almost under his arm now and then.

X.

An ordinary stakeout, undercover work for someone else, placating the powers that be. They are in a restaurant. He has his arm slung over her shoulders, for verisimilitude, he tells himself. She doesn't quite lean into his side and toys with her drink: tonic with a twist. He murmurs nothings about the news, about some new article he read on acupuncture for abductees. She tips her head up and peers over his chin to give him the skeptical glare.

"Mulder, why do I think you have an appointment for tomorrow morning with this acupuncturist?"

"Hey," he says, "I'm not an abductee. But if you want to go...."

She starts to turn away, gives him the one-eyed fisheye. He is startled by the depth of blue of her eyes in the dim. Just as he starts to worry he's stirred up too much of the aching past, she shifts her hip against his.

"I'm packing," she reminds him. Her lips pucker in that amused way that makes him think of a perfect plum he ate on a summer beach, half-stolen out of a joint packed lunch as Samantha picked the crusts off her sandwich.

"Come on, Scully," he prods teasingly. "Maybe if you clear your chi, the crazies will quit following you around."

"I sincerely doubt it," she says, and for a moment, her head touches his shoulder. "Isn't that what we're here for tonight?"

Let's ditch it, he wants to say. You and me and a pizza and some beers, what do you say? Forget this Bureau shit. Dinner and a movie.

But she's already scanning the room again over the rim of her tonic, though she's still settled against him. He sighs and picks up a cold fry, leftover from what used to be lunch - they wouldn't let the waitress clear the table. Skinner spooked her pretty good too, Mulder thinks, wondering if he can flag the girl down for a piece of pie. But she's pinballing her way across the far edge of her section, avoiding them.

"You know it's Shark Week on the Discovery Channel?" he says experimentally.

"Should have led with the Mystery Science Theatre marathon," Scully counters.

"Scully!" he says, charmed.

"I get the TV Guide too, Mulder." She flashes a quick grin. "Better than skin mags."

"Research." He cranes his head. "Is that Grubeck?"

"Or his twin," Scully says grimly. Mulder lifts the arm from her shoulders and waves at Grubeck, who makes his way slowly to them.

"What's going on?" Scully says. "Is the surveillance over?"

"Dincha hear? Team shagged 'im block from here four hours ago." Grubeck squints at them. "Finito."

Mulder feels his eyes tighten with anger. Deliberately forgotten, left in this restaurant. For himself he minds less, but Scully doesn't deserve it. Grubeck shifts from one pudgy foot to the other.

"Well," says Scully dryly. "Looks like there is such a thing as a free lunch. Or at least an expensed lunch." She drains her tonic and touches his arm.

It was easier to be alone, but the rough joy she raises in him is a better armor than misery. He stands tall, towering over Grubeck, and ghosts along behind Scully as she strides out of the place, his fingertips grazing her spine. It is one of those DC end-of-summer evenings: the air is thick and gold as honey, so that breathing is a slow effort. Scully's idea of civvies is a tank top and a filmy skirt that looks as if she inherited it from Melissa: Mulder admires the bronzy glaze of sunset on her collarbones. She stops abruptly at a corner and props her hands on her hips.

"I feel like smacking the crap out of something," she announces. "Let's go to the batting cages."

He loops his arms around her when they get there, reminding her how to hold the bat; they both pretend she's forgotten. The nape of her neck smells like a picnic. He tries not to breathe her in too noisily. She plants her shoulders against his chest and crows when they connect. Later, tired of the machine, he lobs easy underhanded pitches for her and teases her for the wiggle of her hips as she sets up to swing.

"Technique," she insists, and slaps one back at him so hard and fast he has to dodge.

XI.

That night, like every night, he can't believe he doesn't say it.

[xmxisxforxmaybe]

Remnants, Part III

This is going to be a slow burn. Much more to come.

   Summary: You are in the midst of formulating your dissertation, but you’ve hit a wall. Your doting aunt, Rebecca, has a solution that brings you face to face with Ahkmenrah, Fourth King of the Fourth King. As the connection between you and Ahkmenrah grows, and as the secrets of his ancient tablet unlock, the once-king will find himself faced with a difficult choice.

   Thanks so much to @kitkatcronch @kpopperotp12 and @seafrost-fangirl for reading : ) If anyone else wants added to the taglist, let me know. I’ve greatly appreciated all of the feedback!

   Warnings: A wee, mild reference to sex. Ahk is a solid 20 years of age to be certain to avoid any squick factor.

Déjà vu washed over you as you walked into Ahkmenrah’s exhibit, your sandals barely making a noise because of your cautious steps. That same sadness from the night you first met emanated from him. Or maybe it was loneliness? You scolded yourself for not even caring enough to ask, for allowing yourself to see only the papyruses, not the person who was kind enough to share them with you.

   You knew he sensed your presence and you took it as a good sign that he didn’t turn away or tell you to go. As you approached, you waged a mental war— ancient king or just a young man? Should you kneel in front of him or should you sit beside him like a friend? Would he even want you as a friend after your callousness?

   “I can hear you thinking from here. Speak your piece or leave,” Ahkmenrah said, his tone distant.

   “I came to apologize.”

   “Apology accepted. You may leave now.”

You huffed and plopped onto the cold, ornamental bench next to him, his petulance swinging your mental battle toward seeing him more as a man than a king. You turned your body toward him, but he remained facing forward, eyes still trained on the hieroglyphs.

   “You don’t even know what my apology is for.”

   He remained statuesque, so you continued, eyes searching his profile for any hint of reaction.

   “I’m sorry I took advantage of your kindness. For someone who thinks so much, I can sometimes forget to think about the things that actually matter. You—not just your papyruses—matter.”

   Ahkmenrah’s mouth twitched downward and his fingers tightened on the bench.

   “I understand if you want to stop working with me, but before I go, can I ask you one last question?”

   Ahkmenrah turned to face you, the intensity of his eyes nearly taking your breath away.

   “Are you sad, or are you lonely?”

   Whatever Ahkmenrah was expecting you to ask, it certainly wasn’t this. His eyes widened in surprise, and he opened his mouth to speak, then promptly shut it. His gaze fell to the floor and after what felt like a small eternity, he stated, “Both.”

   Your heart swelled with empathy, with an understanding that you had it all wrong. Fate didn’t bring you to a reanimated mummy to answer your doctoral prayers; fate brought you to someone who needed you, who craved your companionship, and that someone also happened to be royalty, to once have been the most important person in an entire nation. Now, he was practically a prisoner.

   “Your majesty,” you whispered.

   Ahkmenrah lifted his head and looked into your eyes again; whatever he saw there must have convinced him that you understood how you hurt him and that you would never, ever do it again.

   Your natural instinct was to reach up to cup his face, to comfort him.

   “Your majesty,” you spoke, stronger and more sure this time. “Can I touch you?”

   Ahkmenrah nodded.

   You exhaled a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding as you reached up to cup his face. You gently slid your palm along his cheek, your thumb slowly stroking the soft skin of his high cheekbone. Ahk turned his body toward you and leaned his face into your touch and closed his eyes. You shifted closer to him on the bench and slid your hand from his cheek to the back of his neck and into his hair. You wrapped your other arm around his shoulders and pulled him as close as your position would allow. Your chests pressed tightly against one another’s and Ahkmenrah brought his hands to your waist, wrapping his arms around your lower back.

   You buried your fingers in the soft curls that adorned his head and clung to him, inhaling his scent, which ironically, reminded you of the papyrus.

   The bugle of Teddy’s voice as he called out the warning of the approaching dawn startled you both. You pulled apart and laughed together, shyly.

   “Do you really accept my apology?” you asked with concern.

   “Of course. To err is human, right?” Ahk replied with a small smile.

   You smiled and gestured toward yourself as you said, “There’s a whole lotta err wrapped up in this.”

   Ahkmenrah’s smile quickly faded to a frown as he said, “I must return to my sarcophagus, but I hope to see you again soon.”

   “I’ll be here when you wake up,” you stated, eyes searching his face.

   “I scarcely dare to hope that’s true.”

   “Don’t be so dramatic,” you said with a playful roll of your eyes. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  Ahk turned to his guards and spoke. They lifted the lid of the sarcophagus, and you noticed the lines of faint scratches that adorned the inside; it made your stomach fill with a grotesque horror at the thought of him being trapped inside that box, of being alone in the darkness, never knowing if he would escape, unable to even succumb to death.

   You watched as Ahkmenrah laid down into his ornate box with a practiced ease. He crossed his arms over his chest, his ancient mummy wrappings pushed to either side.

   With another order, the twin jackals moved to shut the lid. Ahkmenrah closed his eyes, his jaw tensing as the lid locked him inside. You slid your hand along the sarcophagus, stopping to place it over Ahkmenrah’s golden one.

   And then you felt it.

   It was as if Anubis himself had reached out to steal everything that dared to defy him by living. It took your own breath away, and for a moment, you thought, This is what it feels like to die. In an instant, you knew that Ahkmenrah was gone, nothing but a pile of ancient bones laid just beneath the lid.

   Larry spoke from the doorway, “It’s unnerving, isn’t it?”

   “You feel this every night?” you asked, your voice reflecting your discomfort.

   Larry only nodded before stating, “Come on. I’ll drop you at your place.”

   * * * * *

The drive to your apartment was quiet. Larry did ask if you fixed things with Ahkmenrah, and you said that yes, you thought so. You also thanked him for his advice.

   “Night, kiddo.”

   You practically crawled up the stairs, exhaustion taking a firm root in your limbs. You had exactly three hours to sleep before you needed to head into the university to meet with your supervising professor.

   As you kicked off your sandals, you realized that you left your notebook on the table in the kitchen display. You sent a quick text to Aunt Rebecca to make sure she found it before anyone else did. Your body refused to function any further and you fell asleep, facedown, still fully clothed, and cellphone in hand.

   * * * * *

Your fingers whirred, seemingly of their own accord, across your laptop as you typed up another source summary. You worked a decent number of hours per week to help offset the cost of your PhD, but you didn’t mind. You were selected by your favorite professor for the RA position, so it rarely even felt like work.

  “Hey, Y/N,” said a deep voice with a light accent from the doorway of the small lounge you were working in. It wasn’t a surprise to see Ryan; he knew you well enough to know every nook you’d hide away in to get your work done.

   “I heard you submitted the first draft of your proposal.”

   You looked up and smiled, “I did.”

   Ryan’s handsome face smirked as he replied, “I knew you’d finish before me. What happened to our pact?”

   You chuckled, remembering the night the two of you swore to be each other’s motivation. You were undergrads, both drunk on mid-shelf tequila and had ducked into Ryan’s dorm to escape the boisterous post-finals party hosted on your floor. The sealing of your pact began with a handshake and ended with the two of you in bed. Ryan left the next day to return to Australia for the summer. For the rest of your undergrad studies, this was the nature of your relationship with Ryan. Neither of you wanted a commitment; sometimes, friends with benefits could work if it happened at the right time with the right person.

   Ry had been given a grant through the Australian Anthropological Society to pursue his thesis on the effects of colonialization. Being an Australian and having observed the effects on the indigenous peoples of his home country, he wanted to focus on the “what if” side of indigenous cultures—what if people hadn’t conquered and taken not only the wealth of a land, but the dignity of its people? Ryan was an ideator, and you found that deeply attractive. He was content with asking questions and searching for answers that may never be found, whereas you needed to find an answer, no matter the labor or the cost. It was nice to spend time with someone who thought differently than you.  

   “Wanna celebrate tonight?”

   You took in his muscular arms, not at all hidden beneath his thin green shirt. You remembered the way they flexed under your touch, how solid and warm he felt when he was naked and pressing into you. You shifted in your seat; Ryan had excited you from the first time he opened his mouth during class to answer a question, and he could still excite you, even more easily now since you knew the pleasure he could give you.

   But Ahkmenrah’s face flashed into your mind, interrupting you, reminding you that you had made a promise.

   You gave Ryan a soft smile and said, “I’ve got plans. But maybe you should take that as a push to submit your draft?”

   Ryan chuckled and shook his head, “You’re a work-a-holic, babe.”

   “Do not even act like you aren’t cut from the same cloth.”

   Ryan raised his hands in a gesture of mock-defense.

   “You got me. Will you look over it before I submit?”

   You grinned, “I knew you weren’t far behind. Of course. Just text me, or well, you know where to find me.”

   “Catch ya later, babe.”

   You shook away the remnants of Ryan and re-centered your mind. Borrowing the words of the iconic Scarlett O’Hara, you told yourself that you’d think about it tomorrow, well, Ryan anyway. Egypt was always on your mind, even more so than usual with a certain promise you intended to honor.

   * * * * *

Armed with a cat nap, a fresh pair of leggings and a breezy, bright, summer top, you slung your backpack on and made your way to Ahk’s exhibit. Your earlier interaction with Ryan felt like a dream as you entered the museum; the museum was starting to feel more like your reality than an escape.

   “Hi, Lar, bye, Lar!” you called as you zipped past the front desk.

   As promised, you arrived in time to be there when Ahkmenrah awoke. As you waited for the sun to set, you carefully watched the room, wondering if you’d feel the opposite of what you felt last night. Suddenly, a flash of light emitted from the tablet, but to your chagrin, you felt nothing. It was as if life were more natural than death—now that was truly a concept worth some thought, but the jiggling of Ahkmenrah’s sarcophagus drew your attention.

   You rushed to pull the golden pins out that sealed the lid, wondering why Larry even bothered to put them back in every night. The rock slab that once held the coffin lid in place was destroyed the night Larry saved the museum, so it would be easy for Ahk to open the lid himself now.

   You’d barely pulled the last pin out before the lid flew off and clanged to the ground. Ahkmenrah sat bolt upright, looking wildly about, his crown jostling just the slightest. When his eyes found yours, he smiled as his breathing steadied. You imagined that if you listened hard enough, you’d be able to hear his heart hammering in his chest.

   “Hi,” you said, holding the coffin steady as he climbed out eagerly.

   “Hi,” Ahkmenrah replied, his smile exploding into a grin that made your heart skip a beat.

   “Is it terrible? Waking up like that every night?”

   “It is. I sometimes forget that I’m not going to remain trapped.”

   “Why doesn’t Larry leave the pins out so you’re not?”

   “We discussed that, but it is too risky. Everything must return to exactly as it was to avoid suspicion. Even the tiniest detail will not go unnoticed by a professional docent.”

   You sighed, “I’m sorry, Ahk.”

   “You have nothing to be sorry for—you’re here! Allow me a moment to fetch the papyruses.”

   The happiness in his voice spread to your very soul. How could you have been so stupid to ignore this sweet person for a pile of scrolls?

   “Wait—I thought we could do something different tonight.”

   “Oh?” he said as he stopped and turn back to face you.

   “Yeah. I thought we could just, hang out. Talk. Get to know each other.”

   Ahkmenrah smiled again. Damn. If he didn’t stop that, he would own your heart by midnight.

   “Shall we head to the kitchens?” Ahk asked, turning in that direction.

   “Let’s leave the kitchens as our designated research area. It’s important to separate work from play,” you explained.

   Ahk tilted his head and thought about what you said.

   “That’s the most Egyptian thing I think I’ve ever heard you say. Americans, well, the English, too, are so . . .”

   “Boring?”

   Ahkmenrah laughed. “No! Of course not. It’s just that we understood life to be a gift. We worked hard, but we knew how to relax and to enjoy being with those we cared for.”

   You thought for a minute before saying, “The Cult of Hathor was in full prominence during your time, right?”

   “Hathor, yes! As king, I had a temple erected in her honor and declared five days of celebration for the, um. . .” Ahkmenrah struggled to translate what he would have called the celebration.

   “Well, we refer to it as The Five Gifts of Hathor—I wrote a paper on the rituals of the field workers and how they celebrated gratitude by listing the five things they were most grateful for in their lives. I remember finding it fascinating that ingratitude was considered to be the sin that led to other sins. But I’ll be damned if that doesn’t make a lot of sense, especially in today’s society.”

   Ahkmenrah nodded as you spoke, excitement glittering in his eyes.

   “Yes, that is an apt translation. I lived a good life, Y/N, and I tried to be a good king by making sure my people had time to appreciate their gift of life, too. I was lucky to rule during a time of great prosperity and peace. If I had lived longer, perhaps things would have been different.”

   There was that sadness again. You couldn’t imagine what it was like to be stuck in a world that was so, so far from your own.

   “Don’t do that to yourself. You were a good king, and it wasn’t your fault that your time was cut short.”

   Life meant so much more to the ancient Egyptians; they had a zest for it, a true passion. Today, you were lucky to make it through half an episode of a tv show before turning it off, tired of being surrounded by dark cynicism. When did it become the trend to hate everything?

   And that love for life was the point of mummification—Ahkmenrah’s people worked tirelessly to extend life, to bridge that gap between life and death so they could carry on with their earthly joys.

   “Come on,” you said as you linked your arm with his. “Let’s go talk some more.”

   Ahkmenrah tilted his chin down slightly to look into your eyes; the two of you were close in height, but even in his thin sandals, he was still a few inches taller than you, which sparked a question you had been burning to ask.

   “What do you think of pants?”

   Ahkmenrah’s eyebrows shot up and he questioned, “Pants? Like what Larry wears? Gods, no. The idea of them seems so . . . constraining.”

   You laughed and leaned in closer to him as you directed him toward the large screen theater on the first floor. The museum was showing a movie on ocean life, so you told Ahkmenrah to head in and pick a seat while you sorted out how to start the movie in the projection room. You had worked part-time in high school at a movie theater, and it was nice you could put that knowledge to good use.

   After starting the film, lowering the lights, and setting the volume at a reasonable level, you exited the booth into the theater and looked for Ahk’s silhouette. He was sitting in what appeared to be the exact middle of the room in the exact middle of the row.

   “Good choice,” you said taking a seat next to him and putting your feet up on the seat in front of you.

   Ahk smiled in acknowledgement of your comment as his eyes flicked to your face before returning to the screen.

  The movie was bright enough that you were able to clearly see each other, but it was still a large theater. It was dark around you and created an inviting, relaxed atmosphere. The soothing voice of the narrator added to your sense of restfulness, as did the closeness of the person sitting next to you, rigidly proper, hands clasped in his lap.

   His eyes were trained on the fish as they moved in a perfect school through the water, but as soon as you spoke again, he turned his head to listen.

   “So, fifteen minutes ago we were talking about enjoying life, relaxing. Are you relaxed?”

   Ahkmenrah furrowed his brows, “Do I not look to be relaxed?”

   “Take off the crown? Maybe your collar? That thing has to be heavy . . . and itchy.”

   “Would you like to try them on?”

   You huffed out a tiny laugh, “That wasn’t my point, but I’m not going to pass up an opportunity to wear the crown of Lower Egypt.”

   Luckily, you had worn your hair in a braid, so when Ahkmenrah sat up and removed his crown to place it on your head, it fit. It was actually much snugger than you thought it would be.

   “Is my head that big?” you asked with a little bit of horror.

   Ahkmenrah laughed and said, “It’s supposed to be quite tight. You can’t have it just falling off while going about your day. That would be a bad omen.”

   He reached behind his neck and untied his Wesekh. You quickly took in the newly exposed expanse of his toned chest, his skin looking even more dark and flawless because of the flickering lights from the film.

   If Ahkmenrah noticed your staring, he was too polite to say anything. He held out the Wesekh to catch your attention and you turned around so he could place it over your crowned head and fasten it.

   “Oh—” Ahkmenrah said as the Wesekh slipped and he nearly grabbed a handful of your chest as he reached to catch it.

   Your shoulders shook with laughter as he apologized, but your laughter died quickly as you felt his fingers graze the back of your neck as he tied the collar. You wanted to lean into his touch; you wanted more.

   “There,” Ahkmenrah stated.

   You turned to face him, feeling utterly ridiculous.

   “Judging from your wicked grin, I look as ridiculous as I feel.”

   “You could never look ridiculous, Y/N. You’re beautiful.”

   Ahkmenrah stated his declaration of your beauty as easily as if he were reading the weather for the day. You, however, nearly swallowed your tongue. No compliment had ever sounded sweeter.

   You laughed, nervously, and thanked him for the ego boost.

   “This is itchy. And very heavy.”

   Ahkmenrah smiled and reached out to remove his crown, pulling a little to get it to come off. You knew your hair was now scattering to the four corners of the earth and reached up to smooth it out. Ahkmenrah reached out and tucked one stray strand behind your ear, his fingers lingering lightly just behind your ear.

   You turned again for him to remove his collar. You took both things from him and tucked them into the folded seat next to you.

   You turned back and asked Ahk what he would like to wear again if he could.

   “Well, it’s terribly cold here. Our most comfortable clothes were so light. But I do recall that for the summer months, I had the most exquisite, I think you’d call it a shift? maybe a dress? that was so soft it always felt cool, like the air itself, and it was dyed a dark blue and woven with a gold thread so that it shimmered when you moved.”

   The clenching of your thighs was almost involuntary as the image of Ahkmenrah in a probably sheer, certainly gorgeous nightgown filled your mind. No wonder people believed the pharaohs were descended from the gods if even half of them looked like Ahk.

   “Before I was king, I usually didn’t wear anything to bed, though. When it was cold, we had thick blankets to keep us warm, and the palace always had a fire burning on those nights.”

   Jesus. He was clearly trying to kill you.

   However, as a professional researcher, you asked, “Why did you start wearing clothes to bed once you were king?”

   “In the event of an emergency, it would be faster to dress and to look regal if you didn’t start from nothing.”

   “Oh, the wretched price one pays for royalty,” you said through a smile.

   Ahkmenrah chuckled, “You asked, and I swear to only ever speak the truth to you.”

   The rest of the night progressed in a similar manner. You and Ahkmenrah talked for hours about things old and new, and every time the movie ended, you went upstairs to start it again; it felt necessary, like if you could keep the atmosphere the same, then maybe the night would never end.

   By the time you looped the movie around for the fifth time, you were both talked out. When you returned to your seat, Ahk greeted you with another smile that made you school-girl weak. This time, instead of starting another conversation, you slid your arm under Ahk’s and tucked into his side. You rested your head on his shoulder and reached out along his arm to take his hand in yours, lacing your fingers together.

   Ahkmenrah held very still until you were settled, then he relaxed into you, resting his head against yours. It felt good; it felt natural, and it occurred to you that you were entering a very dangerous territory. You couldn’t fall for him because you couldn’t have a relationship. You lived in a daylight driven world; there would only be so many times when you could miss going to school without risking the loss of your doctoral candidacy, and your work was your life. It was your dream, your passion.

   But maybe you could let yourself have this moment? Soon after snuggling into Ahkmenrah and imagining that he was just a normal guy with a normal life, you drifted off to sleep. When Ahkmenrah felt the shift of your mind and body closing itself off from consciousness, he tightened his grip on your hand and placed the softest kiss on the top of your head.

   He knew he couldn’t have you; it wasn’t right. But, gods, how he wanted you.

[the-silentium]

Wait for me to come home Pt.5

Masterlist  Part 4

Pairing: Eddie Brock x Reader, Venom x Reader

Warning: Angst, fluff, swearing, mention of homosexuality

Words: 3900 Words

Eddie woke up to your sleeping form curled up on his side. Your steady breath on his chest tells him that you’re still enjoying some rest. He takes some minutes to admire your relaxed face and touch your delicate skin. He is still amazed that you gave them a chance. After bonding with Venom, he always thought that he would live his life alone with dead plants and boxes of chocolate. 

With each morning with you in their arms, they grow more confident of themselves. Eddie stopped fearing that you would finally crack and leave at every symbiote appearance. Which were rather frequent because the symbiote developed an addiction to your touch. Whenever you were near them, he would reach for you and wrap at least a tendril around your body. At home, you didn’t care much, you even seemed to grow fond of his constant touch too. It became a problem when even in public the symbiote wanted to be in contact with you. Sure, Eddie tried to hold your hand often to ease the symbiote, but sometimes, nothing could do. 

Your naked waist was wrapped in black goo, keeping you near them. Sighing, Eddie reached for his phone and checked the hour. 7:04. 35 minutes before he has to go to work. 

He would never be able to return the favor to his girlfriend. She got him a second chance for the job that was made for him and with it, he met a wonderful team. They would often play pranks on each other, but they know when to be serious. They always help those in need without judgment, which Eddie was very thankful for in his first days. Everyone has a different opinion on various topics and they respect it. Eddie never feared to lose his job even if some of his articles were raw. The Journal advocates the truth in all its forms, shocking or not, big fish or not. 

Eddie smiles when you take a deep breath and groan. Your eyes flutter open slowly, adjusting to the light in the room and finally, you find his gaze. 

“Good morning beautiful.” He moves forward to peck your forehead, moving you in the meantime. Venom gives you a light squeeze before starting to ondulate on your skin. He discovered that you tended to stay in bed a little longer when he did it. 

You smile and let out a pleased sigh. You close your eyes again and return on your spot, stroking your head on his side. “Good morning boys.“ 

Chuckling, Eddie strokes your hair while Venom forms himself on his shoulder. He puts his head down on Eddie’s chest and licks your left cheek. You giggle and reach for his head, patting blindly before finally finding him. You pet him like a cat and soon enough, the black symbiote starts purring. 

Eddie opens his mouth to tell you that they really need to get out of bed, but you cut him off. 

"Don’t say it.” Your tone is sleepy, almost pleading. “If you don’t say it, maybe I won’t feel bad about you being late.”

With a smile, Eddie reaches for your chin. You open your eyes and he found himself falling for you again. 

“As much as I want to stay in bed with you,” he says while turning on his side and getting on top of you, “I have to go to work.” He kissed you and had to resist the urge to roam his hands over your naked body. “I would be doomed if I lose this job." 

You sigh and smile at him. "I know.” You peck him on the lips and give a last pet to Venom’s smiling head. Eddie knows how much the symbiote craves the day you will kiss him again.

You kissed his head once. He loved the feeling of your lips on him. It lighted a spark in him he didn’t know possible. The deep feeling he experienced at that moment kept him wanting more, so he tried to reach your lips with his. Eddie felt so pleased every time he did it that he figured the feeling could only be better. But the sudden change of position and his sharp teeth scraping your lips made you flinch. He apologized profusely, afraid that he had crossed some line and you would go. But you stayed and promised him that you would kiss him too. You just needed some time. 

Eddie gets off of you and you follow him. You both get dressed and get to his small kitchen. He makes your coffee just the way you like and you prepare some eggs and toasts for the both of you. Well, more like the three of you. You hum a song that you are the only one to hear and move your head from side to side in a slow rhythm. 

“We love when she sings.” The symbiote’s purrs start again through Eddie’s body. 

“Yeah, we do.” He whispers, unable to remove his gaze from your form. 

Eddie finally regains control of his movement when you turn to him with two plates. He gets the forks and sits across from you. 

“So, what is your plan for the day?” He wondered after a bite. You opened your phone and read through your topic list of the day while eating your meal. You don’t look displeased at all. 

“Remember this museum that was robbed last week?” He nods and you continue. “They assured to the press that their security has been improved to a top-notch level and that this kind of event would never happen again.” The corners of your mouth twitch and Eddie knows there is something more to it. “An investor send them an ex con-man known for his talent to elude every security system. They wanted to know if the system was truly faultless. Turns out it’s not.” You chuckle at that. “I have to accompany Kyle to an interview with this guy and take pictures.” Then you text something to who Eddie think is Kyle. 

The excitation in your eyes would have made him happy but knowing you with an ex con-man made him uneasy. Venom’s head materialized from his shoulder and groans softly. He must have watched Eddie’s memories because protectiveness flooded in waves through his system. 

You frown at their faces and tilt your head a little. “Did I say something wrong?” Venom looked like he was going to take over Eddie’s body and have a snack. 

“You will meet with a bad guy. You could be in danger and we would not be there to protect you." 

You shake your head while swallowing a bite of your breakfast. You reach for him over the table with your free hand and as soon as your finger touches his gooey form, a dozen little tendrils wrap around your hand and wrist. 

"Ven, you don’t have to worry. The guy is an ex-con artist. He never hurt someone if not by stealing paints or pieces of art.” At their unconvinced face, you rolled your eyes. “He is also working as a consultant for the FBI for 3 years now in the white collar division. An agent is constantly by his side and he has to wear a GPS tracking anklet. Plus, Kyle will be with me. Is that enough to prove my safety?" 

Eddie scratches the back of his head. He doesn’t like the idea of his girlfriend in the company of an ex-criminal, but he must admit that if the FBI had their hand on the guy, he shouldn’t be that big of a threat. Right? She wouldn’t be alone with him and if he limited himself to stealing art, she shouldn’t be in danger. 

Eddie feels Venom rummaging in his thoughts and the low growl resonating through him made his opinion clear. If he could eat the man, he would. Ex-criminal or not. He pats the symbiote’s head in an attempt to calm him down. 

"We are just worried. We don’t like the idea of a criminal being around you. But if you are safe, that’s all that matters.” Your smile return at that and Eddie wishes he made the good decision letting you do this. 

“If anything happens, you have to call us, little one.” His tone let no place to argue, but your expression let them know that you knew the line was coming and you are okay with it.

“Of course Ve. I have my two favorite heroes on speed dial if I ever need them.” You get up and walk over to your boyfriends. You kiss Venom on the head and Eddie on his lips. You quickly grab your empty plate and put it in the sink. Eddie finishes his meal in two bites and follows your example. 

He then proceeds to put his boots on and grab his jacket. They weren’t paying much attention to you. They were silently arguing on the fact that they should or should not follow you on your trip to the museum. Venom wanting to be there and Eddie trusting you to call them if necessary. They didn’t notice when you get closer to them and cough a little to catch their attention. When it didn’t work, you just went for it.

“My brother is visiting me in the evening.” You blurted out.

That catches their attention. Eddie’s head was now dead silent. He slowly turns his head toward you. You look so small and ashamed. He doesn’t understand why and it troubles him. 

“I didn’t tell him yet about us.” Your voice is small and you avoid his gaze. 

Eddie reaches for your hand and intertwined his fingers with yours. Thin tendrils wrap around your wrist and your gaze slowly meets his. 

He knows your brother is a very important person in your life. You two were inseparable when you were kids and now you couldn’t make a month without seeing each other. He has always been your best friend and you two shared a very strong bond. Eddie knew the moment you started talking about him that he needed to be in your brother’s good graces. Fortunately for him, you said that he would love him. 

“Babe, there is nothing to be ashamed of. I’m okay with it. We have been together for only a month.” A small smile forms on her lips. “If you want, I will stay he-" 

"No, I want you to meet him.” You cut him, frowning. 

“I’ll be there then.” He smiles. He was a little nervous about meeting your brother but tried to hide it. On the other side, if you wanted to present him to your family, then it was proof that you wanted Eddie and Venom to stay in your life. It alleviates his last fears and Venom is moving contently inside of him. 

“Good. He will show at 5 and I’ll be home at 2. You can show up whenever you like." 

He nods and pecks your lips. Keys in hand, he gets out of his apartment with you following behind. Like every day that you were teamed up with Kyle, said man is waiting for you on the sidewalk. Behind him is a cab, waiting for your appearance to go to the museum. 

"Good morning darling, Eddie.” He smiles at you as usual and nods at Eddie. “Ready for the day?” He moves closer to the door and opens it for you. 

In the last weeks, Eddie befriended the dark-haired journalist. He is talented, open-minded and a quite good company. He invited Y/N and Eddie to his place once for dinner. Never before did he ate such delicious homemade food. Eddie knew Kyle’s husband was a chef, but never did he expect the food to be this scrumptious. Even Venom wanted more despite the fact that the meat was dead. 

Kyle has a real talent to make people admit all their secrets so Eddie had to ask Venom to stay quiet around him. He doesn’t want to accidentally talk to the symbiote and be compromised. It seems that around Kyle, people start talking like he was their most trusted friend. Maybe it was his charisma or his good looks, Eddie didn’t know. 

With time, Eddie grew used to Kyle’s gentlemanly demeanor with his girlfriend. He would always be kind to the ladies; always complimenting them, opening the doors for them, help them when in need and offers them his charming smile. At first, Eddie seriously doubted what you said about him being gay. He got confirmation though at the dinner at his house, when Kyle kissed his husband and how he would look at him. This man definitely has eyes only for his beloved. 

“As ready as I can be!” You answer, excitation in your voice. You peck Eddie’s lips quickly, mumbling them a good day before getting to the open door. You sit on the backseat and Kyle carefully closes the door. 

“I’ll take good care of her. Good luck with your interview.” Kyle says while walking around the car to open the door on the other side. 

“Thanks. I would wish you good luck too, but I know you don’t need it.” Eddie puts his hands in his pockets with a smile at the corner of his lips. 

With a laugh, Kyle entered the car. You wave at Eddie one last time before the driver pulls off and blend with the other cars. Eddie puts a hand on his shoulder in a reassuring manner. Venom was stirring uncomfortably in his body cutting his breathing a little. 

“Ve, she will be alright.” He whispers while getting to his motorcycle. “Sam wouldn’t have sent her there if she would have been in danger.” He puts the engine on and pulls off. 

“We can’t bear the thought of our little one being hurt.” Came Venom low voice. 

“I know bud’. But she will be okay. We will have a nice dinner tonight and you will forget about it all. Don’t worry.” Eddie has to resist the feelings Venom is sending through him. Instead of the unease radiating from the alien, he tries to send him confidence and some calm vibes. It worked a little, but there is always a little nervousness lingering in the back of his mind. 

————————————————————

Eddie’s interview went pretty well. He got all the information needed and the guy slipped on his own lies. Easy really. He returned to the journal to start his article as soon as possible and finish his day early. 

At lunch, you send him a picture of you blowing a kiss to the camera. You soon texted him “Still in one piece” with a heart. He chuckles at your cuteness. 

“Want to answer to that bud’?” He takes a look around him and sure enough, he is the only one on the level still working. The others invited him to the café down the street but he declined, wanting to return to you early. 

“Yes.” Venom popped his head out of Eddie’s shirt and smile as best as he could to the camera Eddie is holding. 

Eddie snaps the picture and sends it to you with “We miss you" 

It doesn’t take long for you to answer. "Miss you two too. I’ll make a chocolate cake for dessert if it can make you feel better!" 

At the mention of chocolate cake, Venom projects himself to the phone, pulling Eddie’s upper body forward. He almost drops his phone when his ribs hit the desk. Venom is now chanting ”Cake, cake, cake.“ in his head and rubs his head on the device. 

The pain faded quickly and he answered you by stating that you broke the symbiote. You laughed it off and wished them a nice time lunch. 

”We can’t wait for tonight.“ He slowly returns inside his host. 

"We are almost done Ve. Bear with me a little more.” He smiles and takes a sip of his coffee. “Now, let’s get back to work.” He says returning to his computer and writing the rest of his article. 

————————————————————

Eddie finally finishes everything. He sighs and lay on his chair. He closes his eyes two seconds and opens them again to glance at his phone. 14:57. Wow, this article took him longer than he thought. 

“Hungry.” Comes the growled complaint. “I won’t say it again. I’ll just start to nibble on your liver.” As to put more weight on his threat, Eddie felt a stinging sensation inside of him. Very little, but still there. 

The journalist has been ignoring the symbiote’s complaint for 2 hours now. He is actually surprised he didn’t start to eat on his organs before. “That’s because our little one would be mad at us if we did. But now, I’m getting really really hungry.”

“Relax Ve. I’ll go grab some chocolate so we can make it home and see what we can grab there.” Eddie grabs his jacket, waves goodbye to his colleagues and exits the building. He stops at the café next to the journal and grabs 2 chocolate bars. 

He eats them quickly and drives home. 15:17. Perfect. He would have time to feed his alien before your brother arrives. 

The ride up the stairs allows them to smell the chocolate cake baking in what Venom hopes is your apartment. Venom tries to hurry Eddie up the remaining flight of stairs. He really hopes the cake is yours because if not, he is sure the symbiote will raid the apartment cooking it and steal it. 

Finally getting at your door, Eddie has his hand on the handle when he freezes. He stopped breathing at what he heard. 

“Last words?” The voice was strong and unknown. He didn’t have the time to move that your scream reaches his ears and Venom took control. 

Venom bursts in and take a quick glance of what’s happening. You are on the floor under a man, trying to break free. If only the boys would have paid a little more attention, they would have heard your laughter. 

Neither of you didn’t have time to turn toward the source of the noise that Venom takes the man off of you by his neck. The black symbiote is growling loudly and bring the intruder’s face near his. The man’s eyes are wide in fear and surprise. His hands try to lose Venom’s grip around his throat, not to avail. The alien’s emotions are amplified by Eddie’s. Both feared for your safety and thought that they were too late. They were too wrapped up in their panic to hear you shout at them to let go of him. Or to notice the similarity between you and the intruder. 

“You dare invade our nest and threaten our little one.” He growls. His grip tightens around the delicate throat and a whimper escapes his mouth. 

At that moment, you started to hit Venom. He ignored your pleas, you had to make it stop. You hit him with your fists. On his back at first, then his upper arm. You don’t get any reaction. You try to pull on his forearm, to remove him from your brother, but his strength surpasses yours by so much. You start to panic. Your brother will die by your boyfriend’s hand. 

“You will never do that mistake again. We will keep our little one safe.” Venom is scared he will lose the little spark inside him that you only ever brought to life. He needs to protect it, protect you. 

Venom opens his mouth wide to eat the intruder in one bite. A sudden pain surges through his arm. He screeches and drops his prey that crawls away from him, coughing. 

His clawed hand shots toward the source of the pain. Maybe there were more intruders. His hand stopped right before it gets a hold of you. Shock shakes Venom. In your shaking hand is a match and you recoil when he tries to reach you. Tears run down your face and you dodge under his hand to reach the man on the floor. You hug him and immediately the guy tries to hide you behind his body. He tries to push you as far from them as possible. 

Eddie is the first to link the dots. How the man tries to protect you with his body, how much you two look alike, the nerf bullets all over the floor. He is horrified when he realizes that this man is your twin brother and you were just playing a game. 

Venom doesn’t know what to do. Pain and fear are all over your face and he hates it. All he wants is to cradle you in his arms and search comfort in your warmth. But with the look you give him when he takes a step forward tells him that he fucked up. 

“Out! Get out!” You scream at him. You pat your brother’s back when he coughs again while keeping your eyes on your boyfriends. Were you still together? Eddie isn’t so sure anymore. You look like you don’t want to see them ever again. 

Venom catches his host train of thoughts and his eyes widen. “Little one we-”

“Get out!” You are crying at this point and their heart breaks at your broken tone. Venom reluctantly walk toward the door. He can’t stand to see you in so much distress. He gets to the roof and swings himself as fast as he can as far as he can. 

They are in pain. The thought of losing you makes Venom wail. They can still smell your fear on themselves and it repulses them. Eddie stays silent, not knowing what to do. He never imagined the evening would turn out like that. 

They are angry. Not at you or at your brother, but at themselves. They hurt you when they promised they would never. They broke your trust. They almost killed the person you loved the most. They lose you.

Venom stops on a roof, unable to concentrate. He feels the urge to get his anger out. Destroy things, kill bad people. But the sun is still shining. Nearly no crimes are perpetrated at daylight and Eddie said no patrol during the day. All he can do is scream to the sky and terrify everyone on the streets below. He feels like he needs more, but he can’t go on a rampage. You would not like it one bit. 

With any option left, the black symbiote makes his way home. Eddie’s home. He gets there in a matter of minutes. He climbs through the window and gets in bed. He is not hungry anymore. The only thing he craves is your touch. 

“We are sorry.” His voice is small, full of guilt. He returns inside his host who lay still. 

“We were scared bud’. I’m not mad at you. We didn’t know.” He replies turning on his side and closing his eyes. 

He hopes that you will forgive them. He knows that it is very unlikely to happen, but he can’t stop himself. He just wishes that if you can’t find it in yourself to forgive them, that you will not forbid them to ever approach you again.

A/N: Does anyone know who is the FBI consultant? Also, which serie would you like to have the next chapter first? Home or Unsteady? Thanks for all your support!

Tag list: @slither-in-a-half @a-frozen-bag-of-corn  @noshi-chan