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lcstinfantasy · 4 months

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WELCOME BACK

Name: Elinor Brooke Henderson Nicknames: Elie, Eli, E, Henderson Age: 19 Birthday: July 13th, 1967 Location: Hawkins, Indiana Sexuality: Pansexual Occupation: Works at the Arcade. Faceclaim: olivia scott welch (alt: kristen froseth)

BIO: (under cut cause it's long)

Elinor Henderson was born to Claudia and Micheal Henderson one hot summer day in the middle of July of 1967. In the small town of Hawkins, Indiana. A small bundle of joy in a proud father’s arms and a life sentence for a detached mother. A mother who could not form an attachment to her daughter because of postpartum depression and a father who adored her gave Elie a very odd sense of self growing up. No matter what she did, Elinor Henderson was not loved by her mother and most likely never would be. Her mother’s reaction to her wasn’t just detachment but one mixed with hatred. Her father, though, was very attentive. Often taking care of Elie the moment he came home from work. Thankfully, Claudia worked too and Elie was left with the babysitters most of the time. That was until she was 4 years old and her parents welcomed her baby brother into the world.

Claudia became a very attentive mother when it came to Dustin. So much so that some would probably call her overbearing. She was always worried about him, even more so when he got his diagnosis. A mother hen but to only one of her chicks. Michael tried to rectify a lot of her mother’s disdain for her by being active in her life. When her mother signed her up for cheerleading, gymnastics, or dance; her father was always there to support her, alongside her mother. Where the woman would point out all the things she didn’t do or could improve, her father would tell her how good she did and how amazing he thought something was. He’d take them out for ice cream; which always got a quick remark from the other woman and a ‘hush’ in return from her father.

As Dustin got older, Claudia shifted her attention from the daughter she wishes she never had to the son she fully accepted. Elie knew by now that her mother didn’t care for her in the slightest. Elie still threw herself into everything her mother put her in until her dad got sick. One warm summer day, right before Elie started her last year in middle school, her father had taken her and Dustin to the park. They were goofing off and running around when the older man just collapsed, causing both kids to panic. After their father was rushed to the hospital they found out he had cancer. cancer that was attacking his body and wasn’t giving him much of a chance. The first few months of the school year, Elie spent her afternoons with her father while he did his chemo treatments. It was only half way through that year that they received news that the man wasn’t going to make it for longer than another year. It’s when it dawned on 14 year old Elie that her father was dying. He wasn’t going to be there for her graduation day. wouldn’t be there when she got married. just wouldn’t be there and she’d be left with her mother. So while her father was bedridden as he lived out the rest of the days, Elie spent most of her afternoons in her parents room. sat on the bed with her father as they read books and comics. binged movies and he started to teach Dustin and her dungeons and dragons. They spend their days just enjoying the moments they have left and trying to make the best out of it. August 25th of 1982, Michael Henderson passed away leaving behind a devastated little girl, a heartbroken wife and a lost little boy.

The only thing keeping her from running away when he dies is dustin. Dustin who she loved even if their mother cares about him more. that was her baby brother and she’d do anything to protect him. She promised to never leave him. freshman year of high school felt like crap that first day. her mother still expected so much from her even though she was never going to measure up. She befriended Eddie, who was a grade higher than her, who was charming as ever. a gentleman if you will even if the whole town seemed to think otherwise because he played dungeon and dragons and listened to metal. She swears the town makes the dumbest assumptions every day. Eddie had offered to take her to her first high school party and she agreed. Eddie was selling but ended up joining the fun when the game of spin the bottle started. Elie had her first kiss that night with none other than Eddie Munson.

Half way through her freshman year, Elie starts to hang out with one of her friends a lot more. Staying away from home the best she could and as much as she could. Only time she ever went home was for Dustin or to sleep. If her mother was there, Elie was usually nowhere to be found. While hanging with these friends, she started to develop a crush on one of them. He had admitted that he too was attracted to her but didn’t want to date. Which for Elie, that was okay. So they talked and hung out and Elie lost her virginity to him after some time. Nothing developed from it besides a close friendship and Elie was okay with that too.

The summer before the beginning of her sophomore year, she starts dating Matt. A football player for Hawkins High who was two grades above her and the town’s ‘all american’ boy. The “perfect” boyfriend in the eyes of her hateful mother. The one thing she could do right but even then her mom tried to let her know that she was undeserving of the star football player. Over the course of the year she was dating Matt, the boy got aggressive. He never really hit her but he was more forceful and physical than he should have been. A firm grip to her shoulder that would leave little red marks for a short period of time. Fingers gripping her wrist tight enough she almost felt like the bones shifted. A rough shove into a locker or a hand just a little too tight around her throat when he was angry with her. He may not have hit her but he still chose to hurt her. Elie had enough one night and when Matt picked her up and drove her to Lover’s Lake, Elie broke up with him. The football player was not happy about the fact that he was getting ‘dumped by some chick that wouldn’t put out’. Elie won’t go into much detail of the rest of the night but she’s got a reminder of it on the daily. She was left with a scar in the shape of an imprint of a hood ornament just under her rib cage.

Junior year came around and so did another Elinor Henderson. Gone was the girl who wore bright colors and a cheer uniform. In her place was a girl who wore a choker, fishnets and short skirts and headphones over her ears. Elie still did really well in school but often would skip her lunch period to smoke on the picnic table in the middle of the woods. Often buying weed from Eddie and rolling a joint right then and there. She had even gone as far as to pick up a few other drugs and would carry a small amount on her during school hours or when she went to parties. Elie went from a straight and narrow cheerleader to the broken rebel looking for a good time. The rumor mill of the high school filled with whispers of Elie’s sexual activities after parties cause she would be caught making out with someone different each time. Never going any further and heading home if someone got too handsy. Junior year was all about exploring who Elie Henderson was without the input of her mother or others. 1983 was also the year that Will Byers, one of her brother’s friends, went missing. Nothing ever seemed to happen in the small town and now things were going insane. A young boy was missing, only to turn up in the lake when they went looking. Elie felt heartbroken, having known the kid for as long as Dustin has been friends with him and when her little brother had come home that night, she held him as he cried over his friend. Things felt bleak until Dustin was telling her all about how they ended up finding Will and he’s alive. It was rough to say the least and the story that Elie kept getting was confusing and she really was at a loss with details.

The new year of high school also came with a lot of new revelations. Ones such as alternate dimensions, demodogs, evil government people and kids with powers. The fact that her brother and his group of friends had been thrown right into the middle of this chaos and she had no idea, hadn’t really sat well. The only reason she even found out was because Dustin had come frantically knocking on her door with Dart ate Mews and he needed assistance with the cleanup of the destruction. Finding out her brother was friends with Steve Harrington was also another shock to her system. Fallen King of Hawkins was hanging out with her dorky little brother? Hell had definitely frozen over. Or better yet, Hawkins became Hell. Seeing a twelve year old use her mind to move things was probably the biggest shock besides the monsters. It came a close second, okay? Her life had taken a drastic turn that day. One full of fighting alternate dimension monsters and losing people they cared about. The town had become a personal hell for those involved in the muck that the lab had brought onto them. Still after everything, Will wasn’t okay. Whatever had taken will had seemed to take over his body. Hurt him in ways that none of them understood and they were all on edge trying to figure it out. That was until El shut the gate. They had thought it all had ended, that things would go back to normal and things would hopefully go back to normal.

The summer after her senior year she spent her time between the arcade and scoops where she bothered Steve who constantly asked her where the hell Dustin was where she had to keep reminding him that Dustin was at camp and had made a promise to find him when he got home. Little did Elie know that the summer of her senior year was going to be filled with finding out about the Russian’s underneath Star Court, a flayed billy and more upside down bullshit. Wanting Billy Hargrove to fight the mind flayer’s possession for a moment just to save El had Elie crying. They had never found a way to fix him before things got too bad. Before he was impaled and died on the mall floor with a broken wet ‘i’m sorry’ directed towards them. It ate at her most of the summer.

Things were quiet for so long after that. Things returned to normal and Dustin started High School and made quick friends with her old friend Eddie Munson. The beginning of the year had been spent driving Dustin home from Hellfire and working extra shifts at the arcade. She just wanted to make enough money to leave this town. But no, of course not. Because the town never stayed quiet for long. Instead, there had been teens dying randomly. The account that Eddie had told them of how Chrissy Cunningham died had made all their blood run cold. Mix that with the flashing lights remark from Max, they knew it was not over. That this had just began again and this time felt different. Elie wasn’t sure they were all going to make it out this time.

And she was right. This was the worst fight yet. Watching Steve, Nancy, Eddie and Robin fight demobats as they flew around. Steve had bit into one of those winged creatures and was covered in bite marks and blood. THIS was terrifying. As the days progressed and more people died and the town began its hunt for Eddie, the anxiety of the situation had set in and she was trying her best to put on a brave face. To fight to the end even if her – and everyone else’s – life was at risk. Watching Eddie jump back down the rope had her screaming alongside Dustin after him. Watching her brother hold one of his best friend’s die in his arms and then coming out of the underworld hell to find out that they didn’t save Max like they tried so desperately to do. Sure, she was alive in a way and hooked up to monitors but it wasn’t enough. She spent the following night just crying.

#𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊 new muses #𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊 tin speaks (ooc)#(about || elie)

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snowbird-down · 2 years

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Prompt 3: Temper

Several warnings:

1) Major Endwalker spoilers

2) CW for body horror

3) For the sake of drama I’ve taken some creative liberties with a couple of NPCs. We can chalk it all up ICly to hallucinations if that’s more comfortable to you. Either way Laelia doesn’t remember most of this post-un-tempering so she’s not coming away from this with any meta knowledge.

E-enjoy?

All three of them couldn’t help but forget their lunch for the moment as the tentacle-heads passed. Well, no – it was disrespectful to call them that. Laelia mentally chided herself for slipping back into her old habits, offering a dutiful salute instead. The tenta—the Chosen didn’t give any indication of having noticed much of anything as they shambled on their way. They were above such things.

“Man. Why don’t they have to eat?” Gallus asked, pouting down at his Bowl of Brown. They weren’t sure what was in it, but such paltry things as flavor and texture didn’t really matter right now. “Imagine how much more work we could get done if we didn’t have to stop all the damn time.”

“Or sleep?” Marco smirked, twirling his spoon between his fingers. “The emperor sustains his Chosen on aether alone. If we work hard enough that could be us too, y’know.”

“We’ve been busting our balls.” Laelia frowned, stabbing at a dubious chunk of gristle with her spoon. “What did they do to get noticed by His Radiance?”

“Patience, dear sister.” Marco grinned. “He brought us back together, right? We’ll get what we deserve in time.”

Laelia had to smile to that. It was true. Marco had been missing since...since...she couldn’t quite remember. But she did recall her family had been devastated. It was only by Emperor Varis’ guidance that she was able to find her little brother again. Strangely enough she couldn’t remember where the rest of her family was now, but she was certain they’d understand. It’d be natural to assume that a loyal soldier like Laelia would have gone to help with the war effort. After all, they were at war with everyone.

She remembered Grandfather too, much as she was loathe to. The way he always looked at me so dismissively, with that infuriating frown. The disappointment that shone in his yellow eyes.

“You think it’s what?” he asked flatly.

“Reductive,” I replied. “I’ve seen every trope in this play a hundred times by now.”

Grandfather just rolled his eyes. “You wouldn’t know drama if it backhanded you with an iron gauntlet and called your mother fat. Which she was, by the by.”

“You’d insult her?” I growled.

“Her, and that saddlebag of a face that you were so kind to inherit. Alas that only one of my sons had any taste.” And then he went back to watching.

I spent the rest of the night glaring at him rather than watching his trite little show. But sometimes, when he was distracted with the play, the other half of him would temporarily regain some measure of control over his own body. Solus would glance back at me with wide unfocused eyes, a confused and terrified old man who had no idea where he was, and I’d feel bile surge up in my throat.

Laelia grimaced as she swallowed the bile. No wait, that was stew. Those weren’t her memories. Hells, she’d never been to a stage play in her life, other than that one time Verina’s class did Romulus and Julia in high school. Verina had been cast as Julia. That’d been awkward to watch.

The whistle blew. They all hurriedly gulped down the rest of their slop, hugged each other, and went back to work. Marco and Gallus returned to work on the warmachina, and Laelia went back to guarding the trains. It was boring work if she was being honest, but she knew it was of tremendous import. More and more resources were being funneled into the palace, and with news of invaders beginning to creep over the borders it was now more important than ever that she help keep the supply lines safe. She had vague memories of those peoples, too – the poncy long-ears, the insufferable midgets, the hyur and the Angry Hyur. She remembered their cruel magics and their crude weapons.

She remembered the moment the sword punched into her belly. Popped through armor and flesh as though I were paper-thin. A shock of hot electric pain. That cold gleam in his eyes. I’d always known this day was coming but I still felt betrayed. I seethed immeasurably at the boy, but the worst part was that, even as my legs gave beneath me, I still felt love for him. Abominable monster that he was, he was still my son.

“What the fuck,” Laelia breathed, clutching her head. She had to focus, dammit. She’d never get promoted like this.

And so she worked, and she worked. She watched the trains and moved cargo and disciplined the more unruly captives being shipped off to His Radiance as tribute. And as the sun sank lower in the sky and the light began to fade through the windows outside, Laelia felt her pulse climb and her stomach churn. She hated night time. Night time meant she had to sleep. And every night it was always the same.

She tried to stave it off, tried to scrounge up coffee rations – but they were all since long gone, or else stolen by the traitors outside. So instead she tried to redouble her efforts, to keep working so that she didn’t have time to get tired, but that only seemed to accelerate it. At last her brother and Gallus returned and dragged her back to the barracks, remaining in good spirits the whole while.

“I know, I know.” Marco laughed. “We wanted to keep working too, but we’re of no use to His Radiance if we fall asleep on the job. Just a few quick hours and we can get back to it.”

That wasn’t the problem, though.

Laelia tried to stay awake in her cot, tried to lie in uncomfortable positions, tried to shed her blanket so she’d stay too cold. She tried everything. But she was dog-tired, and eventually sleep came for her anyway. And with it came that face. That manic, grinning, awful face. The hatchet in his hand. The way he sang such a carefree tune as he vigorously hacked into my right arm. It wasn’t anything so skilled as a medical cut; no, he butchered me like a slaughtered cow. When he’d gotten far enough through the bone, he tore the rest of the limb off and tossed it aside, where it landed with a wet slap on the granite floor.

He came for the other. Then my legs. Each one took an eternity to sever, forcing me to listen to the wet crunch of my own musculature. Afterwards he pulled out a knife and carved open my torso, dove in as if to seek buried treasure, and sawed free my heart and my liver. Those, too, he scooped out and added to the pile. And then – and only then, because he wished to keep me there to watch – when he was certain that I’d suffered his every cut and insult – he hacked off my head.

“Not to worry, Your Radiance,” he cooed into my ear. “You won’t have need of this. We’re about to grow you a couple of new ones.”

#ffxivwrite2020 #laelia jen belisar #garlemald #solus zos galvus #varis zos galvus #zenos yae galvus #fandaniel #anima

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thecagedbirdsingsoffreedom · 1 year

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What was supposed to be a two day trip ended up being five.

I had the strangest talks with M.

We had some awkward moments, too.

I don't think he's used to the space I put around me.

I could tell it really threw him off.

I don't think I'm used to it either, to be honest.

We've always been so touchy, it's so natural. I've always been a physical person. I enjoyed it and welcomed it.

It was strange for me when I realized I had something around me now. Something that doesn't permit others to touch me quite so easily anymore, not even my boys.

I noticed it first at E's.

But M and I had never held back so much before. There was no reason, too, we knew what and how much.

And yet here it was, ever present.

I couldn't fully relax until I'd gone back into the room.

I spent hours buried in his sheets, bathing in his perfumes and soaps and smells.

I didn't want to leave. I didn't want to leave you and those four walls.

The last three days M and I talked.

We talked so much.

We're so broken. Something is broken now.

And she didn't, isn't, helping him at all.

I was so mad. She who could offer him such uncondifional comfort without restraint and measure was only making it worse for him.

I was upset for a long time.

Upset that I'd lost my person. Upset that I knew, deep down, that I will never have this again in my life. It's not me being dramatic either.

This was a bond 30 years in the making. This was a person who grew up with me and knew me so well. Took the time to know me. The kind of knowledge that can only come from time and experiences.

Losing that has overwhelmed me. Lately, anything that isn't anger or frustration or despair isn't at the forefront anymore.

My feelings feel so muted. Like they're a sound stuck behind a wall. I know that they're there, I can hear them, but they're so muted and drowned that Im not sure if I can actually feel them anymore.

I'm not sure what I am anymore.

I don't know if I'm upset. I don't know if I'm anything.

But it was blatantly obvious that M wasn't M anymore. I wonder if this is what E meant when he said my energy was different.

It was so plain to see.

It was so clear to my eyes what he hid behind smiles and laughs.

I'm glad I didn't have to pretend around him either.

He called me on my bullshit the moment he laid eyes on me.

I'm glad he said it.

It spared me the trouble of even trying.

And I'm relieved he recognized it for what it was and just took me in without giving me any lectures what so ever. That's more of E's domain, anyway.

I'm glad he said his piece though. It took us getting drunk as fuck to 1) fall asleep on the floor and 2) sleep together.

At least now I know I'll welcome touch while shit faced.

I didn't want him to hold me, but I could tell he needed the contact. He probably needed it more than I do.

And he could cry.

I'm so glad he can still cry.

I wouldn't wish these muted feelings on anyone. I wish I could have cried too.

But that's how we spent the rest of night. Curled in each other. Getting comfort for very different and yet similar reasons.

I don't know if I came back better or not.

I still choke thinking about you.

I'll probably still stay up at night wondering, reminiscing.

Like I am right now.

Que bueno que no estas aqui.

Como nos hubieras chingado...

But we miss you.

We miss you.

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kradogsrats · 6 months

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Fic Preview (look idk it's about 2k words): A Well-Oiled Machine

I have been working on this fic approximately forever in various pieces with minimal urgency because it's so unbelievably self-indulgent I wasn't sure if it was ever going to be seen. But fuck it.

ANYWAY: inexcusable AU (look just don't question it) fluff ft. disabled aspec Kpp'Ar and "done nothing wrong, ever, in my life" uncorrupted Viren. Gross and soft until it gets E-rating spicy about a third of the way in, since nothing says "asexuality awareness" like explicit erotica.

—

“I’ve been thinking,” Kpp’Ar said.

“I can tell,” Viren replied, not looking up from his book. “You’ve had that same page open for at least twenty minutes.”

They were enjoying a quiet evening, reading comfortably by the fire—Kpp'Ar in his usual armchair and Viren, more prone to shifting around as he read, stretched out on the couch. The sun had set long ago, and the crystalline lamps sunk into the walls glowed a steady supplement to the flickering fire and candlelight.

Viren had actually assumed from Kpp'Ar's stillness that he had dozed off, late as it was. Kpp'Ar rarely slept for more than a handful of hours at a time—the pain in his back grew worse when he slept, often enough to wake him. Even if he could return to sleep, it was often a choice between rising long before he'd rested sufficiently or being near-immobilized with aching stiffness when he finally woke. He usually chose the former, and it wasn't unusual for Viren to wake in the morning and find that the space beside him had been vacated hours before. With the additional wear of pain and magic only stacking further on top of Kpp'Ar's lack of consistent sleep, Viren was inclined to let him nap whenever he was tired or comfortable enough to do so.

Still, for a week or more, Kpp'Ar had been sleeping even less than normal. He spent long hours in his workshop during the day and late into the night, then returned to it before dawn—a pattern consistent with his behavior when he was absorbed in a project he found to be particularly engaging in its challenge or concept, and not cause for concern in its own right. What was odd was that Viren had no idea what he was working on. Kpp'Ar usually discussed his ideas freely with Viren, asking for his opinion—or even advice—and giving genuine consideration to his answers. This time, he'd only declared the work to be "urgent," and said no more about it, disappearing into the tower.

Whether or not the secrecy was cause for concern, there wasn't much Viren could do besides keep an eye on the situation and be available to help if called upon. He made sure Kpp'Ar was still eating with some regularity, and was prepared to bully him into rest if it became necessary—it wouldn't be the first time he'd dragged Kpp'Ar bodily to the bed and simply draped his own full weight over top of him, thwarting his efforts to get up until he grudgingly conceded that yes, maybe some sleep would do him good. Fortunately, it seemed such measures might not be warranted, this time.

So Viren put the mystery project out of his mind and focused on his own work, mostly reviewing offers from the Border-hopping mercenary contacts who supplied him with rare reagents and drafting requests to several prominent mages in other kingdoms for the loan of certain books in their possession. Unlike Kpp'Ar's methodically planned craftsmanship, Viren's approach to magic required maintaining a wide network of sources that periodically produced unique opportunities, and having the flexibility and spontaneity to seize them when they arose. It was one of the ways they were complementary to each other—Kpp'Ar with the focused vision to build a perfect result from nothing, and Viren with the boundless innovation to leverage whatever was in front of him to the needs of the moment.

He'd managed to run himself out of things to do, and was contemplating how to continue filling his time when Kpp'Ar descended from the tower with the finality of having worked through whatever had preoccupied him. He bathed, slept for a few hours, and joined Viren in preparing their evening meal—all as if nothing had happened, with no mention of his work or its results. Instead, he inquired after Viren's projects, and Viren obliged in telling him about the latest intrigues on both sides of the Border and what possibilities he anticipated they would afford. After eating, they'd retired to the comfort of the reading room, its hearth blazing to life with a snap of Kpp'Ar's fingers, and settled in with their respective books.

“I’ve been thinking,” Kpp’Ar repeated pointedly, “about making something for you. A device that would fuck you properly.”

Viren looked up, frowning. There was, and would always be, an inherent mismatch in the nature and intensity of his and Kpp’Ar’s desires. They bridged it with every bit of ingenuity two mages could bring to a problem, but it had taken time and experimentation to reach their current comfortable equilibrium—time that he knew had eaten away at Kpp’Ar in a quiet, lurking worry that returned in moments of doubt and insecurity.

He truly hadn’t expected their relationship to include anything resembling sex, in the first place—that Kpp’Ar liked touching his body and seeing him tremble with pleasure still felt like a gift, so miraculous that he sometimes couldn’t believe it it was happening. He refused to allow anyone, least of all Kpp’Ar himself, to even hint at that being somehow inadequate.

“Properly?“ he asked coolly, raising an eyebrow. “And here I hadn’t realized my regular, numerous, and extremely satisfying orgasms were all the result of improper fucking. How awkward.”

“Yes, yes—have your fun,” Kpp’Ar said, shaking his head in affectionate exasperation. “You know what I mean, you insufferable wretch.”

“I’m quite sure I don’t,” Viren replied, not bothering to suppress his grin. “I’ll have to hear your explanation of this so-called ‘proper’ fucking you’re proposing, in as much detail as possible.”

“Brat,” Kpp’Ar accused without venom, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He set his book aside, folding his hands together.

“I would like to see for myself how you fall apart when you’re—how did you put it, that time—stuffed full of cock,” he said. His tone was as bland as if he discussed the properties of a basic reagent, though his eyes gleamed dark with knowing intent. He raised an eyebrow, looking steadily at Viren.

“Oh,” Viren said, stupidly. He suddenly felt light-headed, possibly because all of his blood had rushed straight to his groin.

With anyone else, he might be embarrassed by his immediate and decidedly physical reaction to what barely even qualified as dirty talk, but whatever Kpp’Ar lacked in eroticism, he more than made up for with a total, unabashed sincerity that Viren found positively intoxicating.

“I’ll hold your hands in mine and watch you endure being mercilessly pleasured until you can’t form words except to plead for release,” Kpp’Ar continued, a touch of smugness creeping into his voice. “And when you can’t take any more, I’ll watch you come all over yourself without having even been touched. I think you’ll be absolutely lovely, covered in come and begging, when my creation keeps right on fucking you without pause.”

Viren barely managed to swallow the undignified, needy whimper that rose in his throat. He was hard, enough so that he had to shift in his seat to relieve some of the pressure the front of his pants was putting on his suddenly straining cock.

It wasn’t as if he needed to be fucked in that way, with the weight of another body pressing him down and driving a cock into his ass. He liked it—liked it a lot, if he was honest—but he’d known when he chose Kpp’Ar that it wasn’t something they would have together. So for Kpp’Ar to want to give it to him, to take the craft he’d spent a lifetime mastering and bend every tool and spell to the sole purpose of fucking Viren like that? The thought sent a wave of heat up his neck so intense that he felt sweat prickle down his back.

“Is that something you think you would enjoy?” Kpp’Ar looked at him sidelong, dark eyes sparkling with mischief. “Or would you rather argue further over semantics?”

Viren was tempted to throw the book in his hand at him. “You’re such an ass,” he groused instead, reaching down to more effectively adjust himself in his pants. “You know damn well I’d enjoy it, or you’d show a little mercy in your teasing.”

A smile lit Kpp’Ar’s face—one of the broad, unconstrained and genuine ones that were saved for only Viren. “Maybe I just like seeing you squirm.”

This time Viren did throw the book, but in a gentle arc that let Kpp’Ar easily catch it. “Is there anything I can help with?” he asked. He didn’t have Kpp’Ar’s mechanical genius, but he was a proficient enough assistant to be an asset, rather than an annoyance—a high bar to clear, with someone of Kpp’Ar’s talent and temperament. “Have you already drawn up the plans?”

“Yes, the plans—of course. You can have a look, if you want,” Kpp’Ar replied, oddly flustered. His eyes slid away from Viren’s face, a glow of pink rising in his cheeks. “As for your assistance… I may have already built the whole thing.”

A laugh burst from Viren before he could restrain himself. “Wait, that’s the urgent work you’ve been so tight-lipped about? The thought of seeing me get my ass pounded got you so worked up that you just had to drop everything to make it happen?”

Kpp’Ar mock-glared at him, no real animosity or hurt behind it. “Fishing for compliments by way of critiquing my work priorities is unbecoming. You’re well aware that I find you compellingly beautiful.”

Viren felt heat creep up his face. He’d never get used to Kpp’Ar calling him beautiful—it warmed him all the way to his toes, a rippling shiver following in its wake. "I think I could stand to hear it more often.”

“Absolutely not. If you get too used to me saying it, I won’t get to see that lovely blush when I do.”

The blush on Viren's face deepened, and he turned away in an effort to hide it. “Surprises are nice, but it would also have been nice to have the chance to work on it with you.”

“I’ll remember for next time,” Kpp'Ar promised, as if building machines to fuck Viren was going to somehow become a regular occurence. Viren snorted at the implication, but Kpp'Ar's small, cryptic smile sent a pleasant shiver of uncertainty down his spine. “Actually, there is one thing it still needs that I could use your assistance with, but that can wait for tomorrow. It's late. Come to bed with me.”

“Right, because I'll definitely be able to sleep, with how turned on all that got me,” Viren grumbled. He was still hard in his pants, heat coursing through his blood at the lingering thought of Kpp’Ar pinning his hands and murmuring soft praise against his ear while he writhed, impaled on a thick cock. “Does bedtime include doing something about that?”

“Did I say something that implied it didn’t?” Kpp’Ar said, idly undoing the buttons at his shirt cuffs. “It’s only efficient, given that you’ll fall asleep right after you come.”

Viren frowned, fixing him with a petulant glare. “I don’t do that.”

Kpp’Ar’s face softened into a smile. “True, you don’t do it every time. Forgive my exaggeration.”

He got slowly to his feet, wincing briefly and leaning heavily on his cane. Viren stood hurriedly and stepped forward to steady him, but Kpp'Ar waved him away. "It's nothing," he said, shaking his head. "Just stiff."

Viren offered his arm, anyway. “Well, you’re not forgiven," he said archly as Kpp'Ar took it. "I’m terribly offended, and you'll have to earn your way back into my good graces.”

Kpp’Ar chuckled, leaning up for a kiss. “How unfortunate for me.”

#kradogsfic #kpp'ar #viren #this pairing needs a ship tag that i don't hate #don't worry the next chunk is even MORE self-indulgent

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definitelynotkatesblog · 3 years

Text

Home Sweet Home

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner/ GN! Reader

Category: Angst/Fluff

Summary: Hotch returns unexpectedly from being away and causes a tough time for Reader.

A/N: I got to write this little piece for our Discord server’s fic swap! I was lucky enough to have @ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff as my person!

This fic is gender neutral and written in second person POV for an easier self-insert experience!

Content warnings: Cursing, bit of angst, hurt/comfort, a lil kiss at the end

W.C: 3.5k

———————————

The moment he stepped in the room, the air escaped your lungs and everything froze.

“Seven months ago I made a decision…”

The rest of his words refused to register in your mind. All you could focus on was him.

He was back home, safe. His eyes were tired, his hair a bit longer than he normally kept it, and he’d grown a beard. He’d never been one for facial hair. He had a subscription service that delivered sustainable razors and blades to his home like clockwork so he never ran out and never ran the risk of coming to work with stubble. He hated looking ‘unkempt’. Who was the man standing in the room, still speaking? How long had it been since he’d shaved?

You felt the tears sting your eyes, blurring your vision.

Months had passed. He hadn’t called. He hadn’t shaved. He hadn’t emailed, or Skyped. Or shaved. He hadn’t shaved. And he hadn’t called.

The dramatic gasp from your beloved technical analyst stole the air from the room and pulled you from your thoughts.

“Oh! Sir! You’re back! With a beard? Welcome back!”

You blinked a few times to clear the tears in your eyes, trying to make sense of what was happening.

Your eyes flicked from Hotch, to the team, and back to Hotch before everything got blurry again. The next thing you saw was the ceiling before your eyes slid shut. At least in this darkness, nothing hurt.

“Make some room! Back up!” Hotch’s voice came through the fuzzy edges of your mind. The familiar feeling of Hotch’s warm, calloused hands on the side of your face. “Can you hear me? Are you alright?”

You shook your head ‘no’, willing the situation to be different when your eyes opened than when they’d shut.

“Clear the room,” he ordered. The sound of footsteps retreating filled, then emptied the room.

Slowly, your eyes dared open, taking in the sight of a very concerned and bearded Hotch hovering over you.

“Are you okay?” he asked again, his voice slightly less urgent this time.

You nodded and tried to sit up, pushing his hands off of when they tried to help you to your feet.

He stood with you slowly, his eyes never leaving your face. When you were finally upright, you crossed your arms and stared him down. His face softened as his gaze fell to his feet, unable to meet your eyes. “I’m sorry-” he started softly.

“Yeah,” you scoffed, “Nice beard.” If he tried saying anything else, it was to the empty room as you stormed out.

Glances from your peripheral confirmed what you already knew from the pounding in your chest. Pacing his office like a caged lion, Hotch was stealing looks from between the blinds covering his office windows. The last daring glance had your eyes locked, the intensity burning through the glass and across the bullpen area. You tore your head away and willed your eyes to focus on the file in front of you that had been untouched for the past few hours.

You took a deep breath and decided a cup of coffee might help matters. Without daring a look in his direction, you stormed over to the small kitchenette and pulled a mug from the crowded cupboard. As you turned to face the counter, perhaps the most trying sight of all bestowed your own two eyes.

An empty coffee pot.

A dramatic sigh fell from your lips as you set about putting on a fresh pot. Measuring the water, leveling the scoops of whole sale purchased, generic brand grounds with a shake of the wrist, and clicking the button who’s label had been rubbed clean off from years of use and thousands of cups of coffee made.

Luckily, you’d memorized the locations and functions of the buttons years ago and could make a pot with your eyes closed. The familiarity made you smile. You watched as the brownish liquid started to sputter into the glass below it, a slow drip forming and the smell of caffeine and a slight char filled the air.

The coffee itself wasn’t good, but you’d taken a liking to it over the past few months in particular. The long nights and early mornings spent playing catch up on paperwork between cases required caffeine. Then, the late night Skype calls that could only happen at random hours of the night did too, and that shit coffee became sweet nectar. You never risked missing a call.

Even though the coffee was shit, it was what you sipped on between hushed whispers and longing looks through the static filled webcam conversations. You were never quite sure if it was the coffee or the love that warmed your heart, but you’d never questioned it.

Until the calls stopped coming. And the coffee tasted bad again.

“The coffee overseas puts this stuff to shame,” a rough voice from behind you said, bringing you back from your trip down memory lane.

You chose not to move. Not to acknowledge the man behind you. Instead, you pulled the now full pot off the burner and filled your cup, leaving only a small amount of room for cream.

“Are you still using the vanilla creamer?” he tried again.

You pursed your lips and turned to face him. He immediately stood straighter, his eyes slightly widened and hopeful, awaiting your response. Your eyes narrowed as they searched his, no words willing to form in response.

After a moment, his eyes fell and he leaned against the counter, crossing his arms.

His voice dropped before he spoke again. “I wanted to come check on you. See how you’re feeling,” he explained to the floor.

Your eyes still hadn’t left his face. Your heart started pounding, a million words suddenly bubbling behind your lips. The months of anger, confusion, hurt, love, and pain threatened to flood the small kitchen you occupied without a life jacket in sight. The burning in your nose spread to your eyes and made its way to form a vise grip on your throat.

“How I’m feeling?” you asked slowly, the venom dropping from your tongue.

He wouldn’t look at you.

The heaving of your chest and ringing in your ears was warning enough this was not the time or place to share your honest thoughts with the man across from you.

“It’s a little late for that, wouldn’t you say?” The mug in your hand threatened to crack under the pressure in the small kitchenett-e. As his mouth opened the slightest bit, preparing to offer a response, it made the wise decision to close again.

You excused yourself curtly, skirting past him and out of the suddenly too-small room and back to the comfort of your desk, silently hoping the floor full of profilers would mind their own damn business for once.

——

“Hey, Hotch has some questions about the Wakeland case,” JJ said, approaching your desk.

“Yeah, sure he does.”

That stopped her in her tracks. She took a step back to catch your eye. “Hey,” she said softly.

You shot her an annoyed look. You wanted to be mad at her, too, but that was hard. She knew what it was to be shipped away overseas and have limited contact with her loved ones. Any attempt to complain to her would end up as sympathetic nods and constructive advice and a sensible perspective on the issue. Which was, frankly, not what you were in the mood for.

“Sorry,” you offered with a tight smile. “I just thought I was pretty thorough in my notes already.”

She gave a small smile in return, watching you stand and walk towards Hotch’s office.

You didn’t bother knocking before you entered, opting to set the tone of the conversation before it began.

Hotch’s eyes shot up at the intrusion, his hands still holding the case file. “I appreciate knocking,” he said sternly.

“Noted,” you quipped, crossing your arms.

Silence hung in the air as you both waited for the other to speak. When the feeling of him staring caused the burning to reach your neck and cheeks, you cleared your throat.

“JJ said you had questions about the Wakeland case,” you prompted.

He stared a moment longer before he spoke again. “Yes, but those can wait.”

You arched a brow. He closed the folder in front of him, folding his hands and resting them on top.

“I understand that my being back has been stressful for you,” he began cooly. You scoffed and shifted your weight to the other foot. He paused for a moment, then continued. “However, your frustration with me appears to be interfering with your conduct in the office, and that I can’t have.”

You willed your lips to remain shut, the words on the other side of them guaranteeing a one way ticket to the unemployment office.

You took a slow, deep breath before you brought your eyes to his. Where you thought you’d find a stoic, cold gaze was a soft, longing look that penetrated your defense. Still, you spoke cooly and evenly.

“I apologize for my misconduct. I understand that personal feelings do not belong in a professional work environment, and concerning the two with one another would be a stupid, selfish move to make. I can assure you it will not happen again.”

His head shook almost imperceptibly, the vein in his forehead made visible by the grinding of his jaw. He still wouldn’t speak. His eyes bore into yours, slowly chipping away at the defense you’d scrambled to build. Now was not the time to break. Now was not the time to show him just how much you’d missed him, and how badly it hurt to have missed him for so long. And now was certainly not the time to let tears illuminate the bags under your eyes from the late nights standing guard by the phone in case it rang and he was on the other end.

“Is there anything else?” you asked, your voice barely audible to your own ears.

You willed the tears forming in your eyes not to fall, and the heaving of your chest to remain at bay until you were safely out of his office.

He stood and crossed the room, stopping mere inches away from your face. You hadn’t been this close to him in months and the proximity was intoxicating. He still smelled familiar, despite not having been home, or in this time zone, for so long. The warmth radiating off of his chest fanned the flame burning in your lungs.

“I am sorry. I am so, so, so sorry.” His hand reached out towards your arm, but froze when your eyes flew to it, stopping it in its path. He slowly withdrew it, bringing it back to a fist at his side. Your lip found its way between your teeth as you processed his words.

When he began again, his voice was low and rushed, like if he didn’t get the words out in time you might not hear them. Your eyes remained on the spot on your arm where he’d almost touched you. “I know this wasn’t easy for you, me being gone. I didn’t know it would be for so long, and I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you anything. I wanted to, believe me, but I couldn’t.” He stopped for a moment and the fist at his side fell open, his fingers flexed for a moment.

“I missed you,” he whispered.

Your eyes flew to his and narrowed. His brows furrowed and his mouth fell open slightly, unsure if it was best to continue or not. “Is there anything else?” You almost didn’t recognize the cold voice as your own.

He took a step back, and you knew instantly he was attempting to profile you and the situation at hand. The logical side of your brain was telling your feet to move- to get the hell out from under his gaze. The more time he spent analyzing the way your heart was pounding and your bottom lip was beginning to quiver, the worse the odds of you making it out of his office in one piece became.

But even still, the burning in your chest and aching in your fingertips to reach out to him refused to subside. The compromise left your feet glued in place, begging for him to make the next move and decide your fate for you. “It must have been hard. To be here alone. To have your thoughts with nothing but idle time to fuel their worries.”

Your eyes slid shut. If you were going to listen, seeing him too would be too much.

“I thought about you constantly. I wondered how you were doing. I wondered if you were-”

There was that damn question again. How are you doing?

If there had only been a way to find out. Had there only been some way to get in contact with someone to answer those questions. To quell the anxious thoughts.

You laughed once, the burning in your throat from the tears turning into fire instead, fueling your words. “You could have fucking called. You could have called. You should have called!”

Your sudden exclamation caught him off guard, his hands backing up defensively.

“You wanted to know how I was, Aaron?” you snapped, “Let me tell you.”

“I was sick to my fucking stomach each and every day not knowing if you were okay. I had no way of knowing if you were blown to bits or boarding the next plane home.” The tears had started to flow, but you couldn’t stop. “For months, I had to put a face on and lie to my own team about being okay. These people trusted me with their lives and I couldn’t even trust them with the truth about how I was doing.” Your words came between broken sobs, and tears blurred your vision. “It was exhausting! I would go home and lay in bed with my phone on the loudest volume, my laptop open, and pager under my pillow just in case you called! And you didn’t!”

It briefly crossed your mind that the glass in his office wasn’t sound proof, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. You finally had the responsible party in front of you and there was no stopping the words from coming.

Your hands flew to cover your eyes, the pressure of your palms digging into the hollow sockets offering a strange sense of relief.

“No. You know what? No. I’m not doing this right now.” The words were more for yourself than him, but they worked all the same.

“Let me explain. Please,” he tried, speaking gently, like you were an unstable unsub wielding a knife. That only served to piss you off even more. His arm dared reach towards you again, seeking contact.

“No!” Your shoulder jerked away from his touch as your other hand came up to point an accusatory finger in his face. “You don’t get to talk me down. The time for talking was months ago. You fucked up, Aaron.”

The use of an expletive so close to his name was never something he was a fan of, and you knew that. His raised brow fell to its familiar stern position and his mouth set in a hard line.

“If I could have contacted you, I would have. When we moved bases, our access to phones and internet became nearly nonexistent.” Albeit logical, his reasoning only served to further enrage you.

You opened your mouth to speak again, he silenced you with his hands firmly gripping both shoulders, not tentatively seeking permission this time. “I’m sorry. You have every right to be upset with me. I understand that you might need time away-”

This time it was your turn to cut him off. “But I don’t, Aaron. I don’t need time away from you. I missed you. I needed you,” you whispered between sniffles.

His grip on your shoulders and the stern look on his face both softened. “I missed you too,” he said.

Your eyes fell as the harshness around your words fell away, revealing the pain they bore instead.

“I missed you, and I hated you, and the only person I wanted to talk to about it was worlds away,” you whispered.

His arms came around you and brought you to his chest, tucking you into the crook of his neck as he rested a stubbly cheek atop your head. A fresh set of tears formed, spilling from your cheeks and staining the button up he wore open.

And you let him hold you for a while. For how long, you couldn’t be sure. It felt so right to finally be in his arms. To know that he was safe. To know that he wanted to be here with you as much as you wanted him to be.

When your breathing had evened out again, he pulled you away from his chest and held your face in his hands.

“I will never leave you again,” he said. He spoke it like a promise. One you knew better than to believe in this line of work, anyway.

You gave him a small half- smile and shrugged. “If you do, at least send me a smoke signal. Something, anything.”

He laughed, which was a rare occurrence, but a delightful one nonetheless. Each shoulder shake seemed to take a weight off of him, the worries fell away as he brought his eyes back to yours. A small giggle escaped your lips too, the emotional rollercoaster of the day deeming no other reaction worthy. Memories of nights spent awake, waiting by the phone seemed close to forgotten. The anxious pit that had permanently resided in your stomach disappeared, and your laughter became celebratory.

When your mutual fit of giggles finally subsided, his eyes landed on your lips. “I missed you,” he breathed.

Your hand came to rest on his wrist, rubbing quick circles across it as his hold on your jaw became more insistent. His hands began pulling you towards him, inching your faces closer together. In a split second of self-awareness, you pulled your face away.

“Aaron-” you started, motioning towards the door. The blinds were closed, but you were still at work.

His eyes didn’t leave your face, his hands finding their place again, turning your face back to his moments before your lips met. “I don’t care,” he whispered, his lips just barely brushing yours, “I missed you. And I love you, and I don’t care who knows it,” he finished.

The soft gasp that escaped your lips served as all the invitation he needed to seal your lips together, stealing the rest of the breath from your lungs.

His hands worked themselves from your face to your sides, pulling you impossibly close. The kiss was soft and unrushed, his hands firm but strong. Your hands found themselves at the nape of his neck, intertwining in the new length found there. He kissed you breathless, until all the cracks in your heart were filled, and the hurt and anger of the past few months was replaced with warmth.

When you finally broke away, he didn’t let you go far. He rested his forehead against yours, keeping his grip on you firm, still. “I love you,” he whispered. You nodded against him, not yet ready for that moment to pass. “I love you,” he said again. You opened your mouth to speak, but he continued. “I knew before I left, but I didn’t tell you. I knew from the first time I asked you to dinner and you said no because your show was on. I knew the moment you insisted on only ever taking your coffee with that vanilla creamer. I knew from the first time I kissed you,” his eyes opened and bore into yours. “And being away from you, and not being able to talk to you or tell you was unbearable. I’m sorry. I am so sorry.” His head shook as he spoke, like he was shaking away a bad memory.

You bit your lip to stop new tears from forming, and pulled your head away so you could look him in the eye. Your hand came up to cup his cheek, and he nuzzled into your palm.

“I love you, Aaron,” you whispered. The light in his eyes mirrored yours as the smile spread across your face. You ran your thumb across his cheek, admiring the feeling. “I could get used to this.” He hummed and smiled, pulling you back under his chin and wrapping his arms around you.

“So, did you actually have questions about the case? Or..” you asked, starting to pull away.

His body shook with a laugh as he closed the small gap you’d created, placing scratchy, bearded kisses on your face.

——

Let’s talk about it!

#crimnal minds #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fluff #criminal minds fanfiction #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotch fanfiction #aaron hotchner #hotch fluff #hotch x y/n #angst #fluff #hurt/comfort

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thebadgerclan · 3 years

Text

SFW Alphabet: Lucius Malfoy

Requested by Anonymous

A = Affection (How affectionate are they? How do they show affection?) Lucius is a very affectionate man, always wanting you to know just how loved and adored you are. He’s almost always holding your hand or has an arm around your shoulders, or both. When you’re alone at home, Lucius will hold you in his lap, pressing kisses all over your face.

B = Best friend (What would they be like as a best friend? How would the friendship start?) Lucius has very few people who he considers friends, Severus being among them. But having him as a friend, you’re never alone on anything. Lucius will stand by your side through anything, acting as a confidant and a shoulder to lean on whenever you need it. If you need some sway with the Ministry, he’s more than willing to help you there too.

C = Cuddles (Do they like to cuddle? How would they cuddle?) Lucius adores cuddling: having you in his arms, holding you close, it’s one of his favorite things. When the two of you are alone, he likes to have you in his lap as the two of you read or just spend time together. Lucius is always the big spoon, with you either facing him or with your back to his chest. He also likes it when he’s on his back and you’re tucked into his side or lying on top of him.

D = Domestic (Do they want to settle down? How are they at cooking and cleaning?) Lucius does want to settle down with you, he wants to spend the rest of his life with you. You already own his heart, he knows that there’s no other woman for him, so he sees no reason not to settle down with you. He’s already got the massive manor, but if you want to move somewhere smaller, he’s already signing the deed. Lucius is shit at cleaning, he’s had house elves for his entire life, but he can cook pretty well. He doesn’t do so very often, but sometimes, when he wants to surprise you, he’ll shoo the elves from the kitchen and cook you a romantic dinner (he has to call them back because he has no clue where stuff is, but he does cook the meal)

E = Ending (If they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?) It would break his heart into a million pieces to end things with you, but if he had to, Lucius would put on the icy, cold, unapproachable exterior he shows to everyone but you. “This can’t go on, Y/N,” he says, feeling ill with himself. “We’re done. I’m sorry, it’s over.”

F = Fiance(e) (How do they feel about commitment? How quick would they want to get married?) Lucius most certainly wants to marry you, and now that Narcissa’s out of the picture, he can. You’re together for about a year or so before he gets you a ring, and as soon as the little box is in his hand, he’s planning a super romantic evening for you. After a 5 star meal, complete with champagne and dessert, he gets on one knee and asks you to marry him.

G = Gentle (How gentle are they, both physically and emotionally?) He may seem like a cold, cruel man, but around you, he is the gentlest, kindest, warmest man you’ve ever met. Lucius is such a gentle man around you, treating you like a fawn (and fawning [pun not intended] over you as one does a baby deer), always being tender and gentle. Emotionally, he’s such a sweetie, never raising his voice at you. I won’t say he never gets angry with you, because he’s human, but he tries not to.

H = Hugs (Do they like hugs? How often do they do it? What are their hugs like?) Lucius likes hugs, though you’re usually the one to initiate them. He prefers to be able to hold you for longer periods of time, and as hugs are usually short lived, they’re not his favorite. Don’t get me wrong, he loves it when you hug him, he loves any form of physical intimacy with you, he just prefers cuddling. That being said, his hugs are strong, he squeezes you tight against him, sometimes knocking the wind out of you. He’ll rest his chin on your head, and kiss you sweetly when he pulls away.

I = I love you (How fast do they say the L-word?) Lucius waits until he’s 100% certain of his feelings for you, more for your benefit than his. He doesn’t want to rush into telling you he loves you if he thinks he might walk back on it (that’s very unlikely, but he wants to be sure). After 5ish months, when you’re away for a week and Lucius feels physical pain in his chest for missing you, that’s when he knows he loves you. The first words out of his mouth when you return are “I love you, Y/N. I love you more than anything else in this world, and I will always love you.”

J = Jealousy (How jealous do they get? What do they do when they’re jealous?) Lucius is a VERY jealous man, you are his and his alone, no one else gets to have you. If he sees someone looking at you a little too long, making eyes at you, hitting on you, or making you uncomfortable in any way, he’s at your side immediately. Lucius will pull you into his side, arm tight around your shoulders or waist, grey eyes staring daggers at whoever dared to speak to you. “Are you alright, my dear?” As soon as you’re alone, Lucius will kiss you hard, usually pushing you against a wall, snarling “Mine.”

K = Kisses (What are their kisses like? Where do they like to kiss you? Where do they like to be kissed?) Lucius is a very skilled kisser, he knows how to convey every single emotion just by pressing his lips to yours. He’ll pull you fluff against him, arms around your middle; one hand cupping the back of your neck, the other either on your back or ass. He likes to kiss your lips, obviously, but he also loves kissing your forehead, neck, hands, chest, and thighs. He likes being kissed on the lips, again, obviously, on the cheeks, the chin (because that might be all you can reach), hands, shoulders, basically anywhere.

L = Little ones (How are they around children?) I HC that Lucius played a massive role in raising Draco, so I think he’s pretty good with kids. Kids that aren’t his tend to get on his nerves a little, but his own kids, man, they’re the moon and the sun to him. He adores his own children to no end, and if you want to have kids with him, Lucius is more than happy to be a father again.

M = Morning (How are mornings spent with them?) Lucius gets up early most mornings, so he’s not always there when you get up. But there’s always a cup of coffee/tea/whatever you like on the nightstand under a stasis charm, usually with a little love note under the cup. On the days he can sleep in a bit, you wake with Lucius wrapped around you (he’s wrapped around you every morning, you’re just awake for it this time). He’ll gently kiss you awake, smiling when you open your eyes. “Good morning, my love.”

N = Night (How are nights spent with them?) Nights and evenings are quiet intimate affairs between the two of you. Evenings usually entail a private, often romantic dinner before the two of you retire to the sitting room. Lucius will usually hold you on his lap or have you tucked into his side. You either read together, talk about your day, or watch a movie (Lucius has a home theatre type setup, fight me). When it gets late, he’ll lead you up to the master bedroom where you usually share a bath or shower (which can lead to sex), before going to bed, you held close to Lucius’ chest.

O = Open (When would they start revealing things about themselves? Do they say everything all at once or wait a while to reveal things slowly?) Once Lucius is sure and comfortable in your relationship, he’ll start to reveal things about himself. Not all at once, more like when you ask him questions, but he won’t hide things from you once he’s comfortable.

P = Patience (How easily angered are they?) Lucius has a temper, but he keeps it in check with you. You do make him angry sometimes, but it’s never long lasting, and it never gets physical. He might brood in his study for a little bit, but after an hour or so he’ll come out and apologize for being a bear.

Q = Quizzes (How much would they remember about you? Do they remember every little detail you mention in passing, or do they kind of forget everything?) At the beginning of your relationship, Lucius is so dedicated to remembering every little thing about you, he actually keeps a little journal. It’s filled with random things that you’ve said on your early dates, things like “Favorite color: blue, Hogwarts house: Y/H, had three dogs as a child: Kelly, Mary, and Pepper.” Obviously, he doesn’t need it after a while, but he still has the journal in his bedside table. The last addition he made was: “Likes princess cut diamonds, jeweler on 5th has wide selection.”

R = Remember (What is their favorite moment in your relationship?) Lucius’ favorite memory of you is the first time the two of you had dinner with Draco. The only thing more important to him than you was Draco liking you. After Lucius had escorted you back home, he returned to the Manor where Draco was waiting. “So?” Lucius asked, pacing nervously. Draco just smiled. “I like her, Father. She’s not Mother, but I like her.” He was so happy to hear that his son liked you, he couldn’t sit still for hours.

S = Security (How protective are they? How would they protect you? How would they like to be protected?) He’s very protective, Lucius wants and needs to know that you’re safe at all times. He’ll never stop you from doing something or going somewhere, but if there’s potential for you to get hurt, he’s either going with you or putting measures in place to make sure you’re safe. Lucius loves you more than anything or anyone, he can’t bear the thought of losing you.

T = Try (How much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?) This man has the resources to make you feel like royalty every single day, so you’d better believe that Lucius goes all out on dates and anniversaries. Fancy restaurants, expensive wine and food, and anniversaries and gifts are on a whole nother level. Trips to Paris, Athens, Madrid, anywhere you’ve ever dreamed of going, Lucius will take you there. His gifts are usually very expensive, diamond earrings, necklaces, bracelets, designer clothes, but they can also be sentimental: a book you’ve had your eye on for a while, candy from Honeydukes he knows you like.

U = Ugly (What would be some bad habits of theirs?) Lucius can be a bit narcissistic, very self centered. He sometimes gets so wrapped up in his own head that he forgets that he has a girlfriend who wants and needs his attention. He always feels so guilty afterwards, apologizing profusely to you. He usually ends up surprising you with a fancy dinner or seducing you into be to show you how much he loves you

V = Vanity (How concerned are they with their looks?) Have you seen the man? Lucius cares about his appearance, like, a lot. At the beginning of your relationship, he refused to spend the night with you, solely because he didn’t want you to see him when he work up; with bedhead and morning breath

W = Whole (Would they feel incomplete without you?) Yes, you’ve stolen his heart, and Lucius cannot live without you. When he was away for a week on Ministry business, he felt like a shell of himself, like part of him was missing. You feel the same, hating when you’re away from him for too long. The thought of leaving him forever makes you feel sick, but Lucius is quick to reassure you that he’s yours forever.

X = Xtra (A random headcanon for them.) Lucius has a very in depth skincare routine, and if he misses or skips a night, he’s blotchy in the morning

Y = Yuck (What are some things they wouldn’t like, either in general or in a partner? Lucius can’t be with someone who can’t be serious. Of course, he loves it when his girl lets loose and laughs, but in more serious situations, he needs her to be serious. He’s all for being laid back and just having fun, but he feels there’s a time and a place for that versus being serious and sophisticated.

Z = Zzz (What is a sleep habits of theirs?) Lucius puts lavender oil on his pillow to help him fall asleep. He has a bit of insomnia, and it takes that or 4-5 rounds of sex to knock him out

#lucius malfoy x reader #lucius malfoy x you #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter reader insert

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lightrises · 3 years

Text

"Only in allowing her to pass..." — Hornet, The Radiance, and the means by which Hallownest turned its victims against each other

A quick note: I read Hollow Knight as an anti-colonialist text. As such I'll be touching on topics related to colonialism as it's depicted in the world of the game, and said analysis will reflect both a sympathetic take on The Radiance and a critique of The Pale King that won't pull its punches. If this sounds up your alley, hello and thank you for the read! Let us be sad about these bugs together.

———

So!! A while back I realized something about pre-canon that felt rather... "curious" is one way to put it, I think. To wit: for all the effort and scheming and determination The Pale King poured into trying to get rid of The Radiance, neither of his plans involved directly killing her.

Was that his long game? Well, sure, that seems clear enough. His tack changed from luring the moths away from their god and creator to a more literal form of incarceration once the infection became a factor, but at its core the end goal never really changed—The Pale King very sincerely wished to destroy Radiance via obsolescence. The Seer lends us foreshadowing to confirm as much:

[Image descriptions: Two screenshots from Hollow Knight, showing the Seer and Ghost in the Seer's alcove at the Resting Grounds. Across both screenshots, the Seer tells Ghost the following: "None of us can live forever, and so we ask those who survive to remember us. Hold something in your mind and it lives on with you, but forget it and you seal it away forever. That is the only death that matters." End description.]

(Which, by the way and given the context, talk about an extremely unsubtle allusion to cultural genocide huh!!! Whew.)

In any case, we're left with a whole bunch of machinations which build up to... well, two very roundabout attempts at committing deicide. That's kind of weird, all things considered! Why not just do the deed in one fell swoop and get it over with?

This could be for any number of reasons. Maybe the king was devoid of the means to instantly kill another higher being. Maybe his personal sense of scruples stopped him short of signing off on MURDER murder (although, y'know, the aforementioned genocide + eternal imprisonment = still cool and copasectic apparently!). Maybe the long drawn-out cruelty was the point. Maybe the idea of playing fuckign 4D chess with the circumstances was too delicious for him to pass up—that man did love to tinker and stick his claws where they sure as hell didn't belong—or maybe it was a little bit of All The Things. Who knows!!

But interrogating The Pale King's methodology on this count isn't what I'm here for, at least not really. The main reason I raise this question at all is that in her own way, Hornet did too.

"I'd urge you to take that harder path... "

See, going by The Pale King's actions and what The White Lady explicitly says, they both foresaw two outcomes wrt the infection: it can be allowed to spread, or it can be contained. At Teacher's Archives, Quirrel acknowledges the fact that Ghost is expected to do... something about this, but he doesn't elaborate on what HE thinks that's supposed to be apart from the obvious "Gotta bust into Black Egg Temple first". Hornet is the one person who presents to us—to Ghost—what's framed as a third option: confront and destroy the infection at its source.

And she doesn't bring it up like it's just another tactic for Ghost to consider, prim and indifferent to what they would do. She nudges them towards it, actively, up to the point where she throws herself into the fray against Hollow at a juncture that's uniquely dangerous to her and her alone just to make that option feasible.

Even when she's couching it in disclaimers that this is still Ghost's decision to make (and let's be fair, she's extremely not wrong about that lol), no one can pretend Hornet is unbiased. It's obvious in that buttoned-down Hornet kind of way that she is way the hell done with the increasingly tenuous stalemate that's kept Hallownest's desiccated corpse from collapsing in on itself. Personally it's hard for me not to read some Toriel Undertale-esque "My father was too entrenched in his own foolishness to pursue any course of action that would have DEFINITIVELY ended this" shade into her stance here, regardless of whether that's strictly true in canon.

And that bit—Hornet's hopes for an end to Hallownest's stasis, moreover her grim calculation of what needs to be done to get there—that's the bit I find super interesting but likewise tragic and depressing as shit, on multiple levels. In no small part because a) canon itself gestures towards Hornet feeling conflicted about the very plan she's pushing, and moreover b) she has at least two (2) damn good reasons to feel that way.

So, what do I mean by that? Let's look here first:

[Image description: A screenshot from Hollow Knight, of Hornet and Ghost inside the Temple of the Black Egg, standing in front of the unsealed egg itself. Hornet has been struck by the Dream Nail and her dialogue is displayed as follows: "... Could it achieve that impossible thing? Should it?" End description.]

As the curtain is about to drop on things one way or another, Hornet thinks,

... Could it achieve that impossible thing? Should it?

Now, looking at that last bit it's easy to go "Oh no, Hornet's worried that Ghost won't survive killing The Radiance!" And I do think that's part of it: Hornet is, categorically, not her father. By endgame it's clear she's not content to view her Void-borne siblings as tools to be used then disposed of. She's also well aware that as a healthy autonomous Vessel amongst the countless dead, Ghost is the only person left alive who has a fighting chance against The Radiance. Knowing someone is the only qualified candidate for the job doesn't make encouraging them to embrace a probable death sentence any less of a bitter pill to swallow, though. And odds are on that this sentiment extends to Hollow too, who IS going to die no matter what happens here. To put it bluntly, it's more than reasonable to conclude that Hornet hates the absolute fuck out of this.

But I don't think that's all there is to it either. Remember what I said earlier about The Pale King's bids for genocide? Well, it's not like the man deigned to limit his efforts to just the moth tribe.

"We do not choose our mothers... "

On top of everything else—an infected Hallownest being all she's ever known, the fact that she only exists because of the infection, the list goes on—Hornet has spent her life wedged into a position that's been uncomfortable and terminally unglamorous at best: she is both a daughter of her father's kingdom and of Deepnest.

Deepnest, which like the moths and many others was here long before the wyrm and his lady wife swanned onto the scene and the God Become Bug laid claim to everything the Light touched plus a considerable amount of change. THAT Deepnest, which has fought claw and thread to retain its sovereignty against same-said settler king, and for which Herrah not only surrendered her life but also agreed to bed her worst enemy, all in hopes of securing a viable future for her people (put a pin in that last part by the way, I'll come back to it soon).

Two Worlds, One Family (Ft. An Indigenous Woman Trying Her Damndest To Work With What She's Got Versus An Imperialist Who Only Signed Up For This Because He Needed The Political Favor THAT Badly, So It's The Height Of Dysfunctional Actually). Fun times!!!!

The baggage this entails for Hornet is gnarly enough without implications made by The White Lady and the pre-canon timeline of events and even Team Cherry's dev notes that the king may well have looked at baby Hornet, gone "YOINK", then ensured she spent the lion's share of her childhood reared within the pearly auspices of his Pale Court*. That would be rather advantageous for Him Specifically after all, the potential to mold a born foe into a future ally and even have her trained in combat under the same tutelage as her doomed sibling. And far be it from him to stop a grown Hornet—his own flesh and blood too!—from making Deepnest her forever home if she so pleased. He totally wouldn't be reneging on his "fair bargain made" by doing this one simple thing until Hornet came of age, not t e c h nic c a l l y.

If that is indeed the case, there's a non-zero chance Hornet's formative years were a hot mess of cultural alienation and being a good deal more privy than most to just how much of a bastard her father could be. There's an equally non-zero chance that at some point she stood or sat within earshot as The Pale King finally, finally dropped all pretense and euphemism to name the Light for precisely what (for who) it was.

See, in conjunction with the question that started this whole dang train of thought I've been asking this one too: Does Hornet know? When she speaks of confronting "the heart of [the] infection" does she know she's talking about not just a literal person but someone very specific? The Radiance, who god though she may be shares skin in the game alongside Hornet as a native woman screwed over by the same settler king, likewise deprived of her kin and saddled with a life gone horrendously pear-shaped?

I'll assume for the sake of exploring the possibility and because I think it's a likely one anyway that yes, Hornet does know. She knows, and despite everything can't help empathizing. She might even look at Radiance and see bits and pieces both reflected and slightly inversed in her own mother: Radiance was forced to the sidelines while her people—her children, the brood she was meant to lead and care for—died out under The Pale King's rule, and it's no stretch to assume she's at least as upset about that as she has been about everything else; Herrah too took drastic measures for her people's sake, trying to head off annihilation by relegating herself to the sidelines in an act that was as much calculated risk as an attempt to find wiggle room and leverage in the face of a nasty proposition.

A calculated risk that, if things continue as they are, might well amount to nothing as the rest of Deepnest gets eaten alive by the infection. It survived The Pale King's advances for so so long, only to fall here. Herrah's sacrifice would be for naught; the other tribes—themselves the king's victims—would keep succumbing to the infection too.

And this is where things fall apart.

"... or the circumstance into which we are born."

Let's be clear: I think Hornet is wise enough to know what's what here, that all the carnage and suffering falls on her father's head for starting this slow-motion trainwreck in the first place. Hallownest wasn't always Hallownest. This domain was Radiance's home first, along with many others. It was the worm-turned-king who rolled up on the scene unsolicited and decided this was a ""'problem""" that had to be """solved""".

But the fact of the matter is that he's gone and The Radiance is here, raging, seemingly inconsolable. Above and beyond being Deepnest's rightful heir, Hornet isn't in a position to countenance more splash damage even if the grief and fury fueling it makes perfect sense. She can understand without ever bringing herself to love Radiance, and she can bend her knee to practicality even if she hates the everloving shit out of it because the fact that it "has" to end this way isn't fair.

This lends itself to one last awful conclusion: that Hornet has probably considered and (rightly or wrongly) discarded the possibility that Radiance can be saved, at least not without dragging more collateral along for the ride. If even her mother and every other enemy to the king seemed to dismiss talking Radiance down as an option way back when... well. Why should Hornet hope for any better after things have escalated so far?

Again, it's practical. A practical net good is what Hornet strives for. And again, it fucking sucks.

For extra tragedy points, this makes Hornet's extended crypticness around Ghost followed by her last minute casting about for a reason to tell them "Wait, don't; not just yet" that she never voices even more of a gut punch. She can't bring herself to burden Ghost with the context that haunts her so, least of all when it might weaken their resolve to go through with what (she thinks) needs doing.

It's the "same song, different verse" which led to the mantis tribe and Deepnest being pitted against each other: Hallownest rigged the game so that two women who could have been powerful allies—who have a mutual vested interest in driving out settler rule—wound up poised as enemies instead. And how awful is that? The king for all his being extremely fucking dead still gets the last laugh, because outside of a miracle the game never manifests Hornet can salvage what her mother started and look forward to a future where Deepnest pulls itself back from the brink if and only if The Radiance dies.

Resolution comes at the price of a completed genocide. Add two more dead siblings to the unconscionable pile thereof, while we're at it. That's what it boils down to whether or not Hornet can bear to articulate it as such, and there's no grace or even a properly bittersweet ending to wring from this clusterfuck. And that is rough.

———

* This has been better explained elsewhere, but a quick rundown: The White Lady tells Ghost that Hornet and Herrah "were permitted little time together." On its surface this can be taken to mean that Hornet was still very young when Herrah was shipped off to Eternal Dreamland—except this doesn't jive with the fact that we meet Hornet as an adult. If the stasis kicked in once the Dreamers went to their rest, which in turn halted the aging process for every living bug in Hallownest, AND before all this Hornet experienced little by the way of quality time with her birth mother... I think you can see where I'm going with this.

To top it off we've got Team Cherry weighing in ominously from their dev notes on Herrah: "As part of the agreement for her alliance and her role as a dreamer, King gave her a child (Hornet). Was she allowed to keep this child or was she taken away?" This isn't confirmation by itself of course, but given additional canon details (see above): Can I get a "yikes" in the chat fellas.

#hollow knight #hornet (hollow knight)#hornet hollow knight #hk hornet #the radiance #hk radiance #herrah #hk herrah #hollow knight meta #sup folks it's been a minute since i dropped a whole dang essay but Here We Go!!!!!!

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raleighcarrera · 3 years

Text

hushed

the royal masquerade | hunter fierro x mc (juliet rosario)

hunter & juliet return to the library. for @trmaw 🖤

~2k words | E (18+)

“so...” hunter murmurs, the seriousness implied in the low tone of his voice betrayed by the way one corner of his mouth is lifted in an improper smirk, “this is the library.”

despite herself, she’s as charmed as ever by his absurdity. juliet huffs out a laugh under her breath, slowly shaking her head. “i can’t believe you’ve never stepped inside.”

“i was rather busy with a few other things.” his smirk widens. “plus, you know me. i’m not exactly one for being quiet.”

she hums, the sound bordering on the edge of disapproving. she knows exactly what hunter of house fierro has been doing instead of reading in the library. the reason they never crossed paths in her past is because before her, hunter spent most of his free time bedding the women who’d followed him around town, ignoring the signs that his sister was capable of murder and plotting behind his back.

the expression on his face remains perfectly innocent even as her eyebrows arch at him disapprovingly. “right,” juliet laughs finally, “of course. how could i forget?”

“you have a lot on your mind,” hunter answers graciously, his eyes sparkling. “of course i forgive you.”

“quite kind of you.” her hands remain folded in front of her as she inclines her head down one row of tomes. “this is where i spent most of my time. transcribing for the archives.”

“indeed,” hunter hums, stepping up beside her to squeeze her hand before continuing down the row of the archives, looking every bit the king regent he no longer is. despite the fact that the title has eluded him, there’s something about hunter that will always look regal, the tilt of his shoulders and the cut of his clothes simply screaming status.

she follows behind him, eyes scanning the titles they pass. it’s been a long time since she’s been in the library, but the smell of the dusty old manuscripts she spent so many hours meticulously logging stirs up a host of unpleasant memories that threaten to take her over. she can still feel the phantom rap of a ruler against her knuckles when she’d dozed off, the ache of hunger in her stomach when it’d been an entire day of writing with no breaks for food.

“juliet?” the sound of her name startles her from her stupor, and she shakes her head, moving to meet up with hunter where he’s stopped halfway down the aisle. “are you alright?”

“just lost in a memory,” she murmurs, lips lifting up into a smile. just the sight of him brightens her spirits, the affection in hunter’s eyes a welcome reminder that her reality is different, now.

they’ve come so far.

as if reading her mind, hunter lifts her knuckles to his mouth to brush a tender kiss against her fingers, shooting her a look of love from under lush lashes. her smile widens into something more genuine.

“perhaps we should work to give you a more positive memory of this room,” he suggests, glancing over his own shoulder.

juliet blinks at him. “what do you mean?”

the expression on hunter’s face transforms, from sweet to wicked in a matter of moments. his hand slides around her waist to pull her closer, until they’re nearly nose-to-nose in the archive stacks.

it’s then that she understands what he must mean, and she feels heat rush to her face in embarrassment, as though someone’s already caught them acting untoward.

but there’s no one around as far as she can see; the library is empty. it’s a beautiful afternoon, and she knows mostly everyone is outside taking advantage of the weather. they’re the only two people hidden away in the library, though the sudden sound of her racing pulse feels so loud she wonders how it hasn’t attracted anyone else yet.

“you can’t be serious,” juliet hears herself say, distantly. it feels like the appropriate thing to say. they can’t possibly...

“oh, i’m very serious,” hunter assures her, his hand warm at the small of her back where he’s rubbing soothing circles into her skin above her dress. “it’s only logical.”

her hands come to rest on his shoulders as hunter beckons her closer. “how do you figure?”

“the library was cruel to you. i’ll be generous to make up for it.” she can feel the fabric of her skirt shift as hunter’s free hand ever-so-slowly pulls at the fabric. “what do you say?”

in response, juliet turns her head and kisses him before she can think too much about it, brushing her lips against his gently, at first, and then more eagerly when hunter kisses her back.

there’s at least a thousand reasons why they shouldn’t be doing this -- not here and not now -- but she finds she can’t be bothered as she considers hunter’s logic and decides he’s ultimately right.

the library took so much from her. many of her most hopeless moments occurred in this very room. it’s hard to find a dark corner of the library she hadn’t stowed away in to cry at one point or another, so if she’s able to kiss her betrothed in the middle of the stacks, with sunlight streaming in through the grand, stained-glass windows, why shouldn’t she?

hunter’s movements are slow as his hand lifts her skirt up, higher and higher until it’s officially indecent for the library, laying her bare against the books. their kiss breaks so they can both draw breath, and she pushes up onto her tip-toes to lock eyes with him, back arching to press her body alongside hunter’s.

“you’re quite radiant, you know,” he comments absently as his fingers encircle her thigh, creeping around her leg to dance upwards. his tone is so conversational anyone browsing the records on the other side of the library would never imagine what they were doing, if they happened to overhear. “beautiful, really.”

“you think so?” juliet asks, her eyelashes fluttering. she can hear her breath growing embarrassingly quicker as hunter’s touch climbs higher and higher.

“of course,” hunter murmurs, eyes fixed firmly on her face. from anyone else, the staring might be unnerving, but when he’s the one looking at her, it’s hard to feel anything other than delight.

hunter is not shy about letting her know he is in her thoughts. he is the most forthcoming man she’s ever spoken to (not that he has much competition) and revels in showcasing his affections openly and honestly. he is romantic, in a way she’d never expected -- she often finds herself the recipient of flowers and surprise moonlight strolls and now, it seems, amorous breaks in the library.

yet he still catches her by surprise with his sweetness every time.

“i daresay a majority of the kingdom feels the same,” he continues. before she can challenge him, his fingers pause, parting her so the pad of his thumb can press in with an easy slide where she’s already wet. “you have many admirers.”

her laugh is breathless, the grip she has on his shoulders tightening. “quite a comment, coming from you.”

hunter’s answering chuckle makes her toes curl in her shoes. juliet forces her eyes open and her breath catches at the expression on his face, serious and wanting with intensity and gentleness both displayed in his eyes in equal measure.

his thumb circles her, catching just right where she’s most sensitive, the practiced movement of his fingers comforting, for their familiarity. hunter knows her. for someone like juliet, who went much of her life without that very basic comfort, their intimacy is everything. knowing she can rely on hunter to understand her, to take care of her, to treat her like he does...

it’s all she’s ever wanted and more.

“don’t be smart,” hunter chides, though the curve of his mouth seems to suggest he’s amused. his hand continues to move, which is all that matters, anyway, the brush of his thumb pressing into something more purposeful while his wrist angles just so.

“i can’t help it,” juliet murmurs, aiming for cheeky and landing somewhere very far off, her voice almost shy as she resists the urge to bury her flushed face in hunter’s shoulder. “hunter.”

“yes, darling?” hunter’s free hand, bunched in her skirt, jerks to urge her closer. as she moves, his fingers slip deeper, sending a shiver down her spine. “everything alright?”

his voice is teasing, and yet she can’t find the words to bicker back with him. she can’t find any words at all, actually, exhaling a sound that’s half-moan, half-sigh as hunter touches her so expertly. her eyelids flutter shut again.

hunter gives another soft laugh under his breath. “there you go,” he encourages, and she shudders again.

despite the fact that they’re so clearly the only ones in the library, she can’t quite bring herself to get loud, hushed out of habit and by the implication of where they are and what they’re doing. her teeth bite down on her bottom lip, yet they don’t stop another groan from escaping, louder this time against her best efforts.

the skilled stroking of hunter’s fingers is quick to make her head swim, so she’s grateful for the firm kiss he bestows against her lips when his head angles in. juliet relies on him to keep her upright, holding tightly to hunter’s broad shoulders while his touch never falters, relentless between her legs.

she rocks up onto her tip-toes, scrambling for purchase against him. often, they’re in bed together when they do this, and it’s rare that her legs are left trembling while she’s still vertical, save one or two memorable occasions in the bathhouse. this is sure to be an experience she’ll never forget, and she’s certain she won’t ever be able to look in the direction of the library again without recalling the expression on hunter’s face.

though there’s worse things, she supposes, as she watches him watch her so intently. hunter’s eyes never fail to make her feel desired, and especially now, only heighten her emotions as she climbs faster and faster to an edge.

“so beautiful, juliet,” hunter murmurs softly, gaze adoring where it’s set on hers. “stunning.”

his gentle encouragement is all she needs to tumble to pieces. with one last gasping inhale, she shakes apart against him, biting down hard on the inside of her cheek to try and keep herself quiet. pleasure courses through her in a rush, and she’s grateful for hunter’s solid presence at the shelves to help her through it, his touch coaxing a few more sighs from her lips before she eventually calms and goes still.

her chest rises and falls rapidly as she works to catch her breath, and when she’s finally able to open her eyes, juliet finds hunter smiling indulgently at her, the expression on his face suggesting he’s just observed some grand entertainment.

“you seem awfully pleased with yourself,” she mutters, lifting a hand from his shoulder to push her own hair back out of her face.

“wouldn’t you be?” hunter asks smugly, finally pulling his hand out from under her skirt. the fabric drops down to the floor, swishing back across her knees, and juliet presses her legs together, twisting to shift her undergarments back into place.

“i suppose,” she allows with a laugh, her own mouth curving into a grin as hunter moves to adjust his pants. he seems to know what she does, which is that they’ve already pressed their luck to its limits, being in here as long as they have. extending their time in the library any further seems to be asking for consequences.

still, hunter’s hands move to grasp her chin lightly between his fingers, and he draws her into a soft, slow kiss, lips meandering as though they have all the time in the world.

she relaxes against him, kissing back just as sweetly. it hardly matters if someone catches her now, after all. there’ll be no ruler whacked against her knuckles, this time. there’s no tomes to transcribe, no archives to maintain.

the sun continues to stream into the room through the stained glass, casting water colors in shadow across their bodies where they’re intertwined. hunter pulls back to smile at her and she mirrors his expression easily, her heart pounding with love --

with joy --

-- and with peace.

#trmaw #the royal masquerade #hunter fierro #hunter fierro x mc #myfic #long post #ns*w

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spookysmujer · 4 years

Text

Amor Prohibido, O. Diaz

Summary: Oscar Diaz use to get a kick out of making fun about you back in high school, but what is he like all these years later and after serving time in prison?

warnings: teasing, teenager!Spooky, cute s h e t 😚

word count: 1.5K

anonymously requested!

A/N: Me and @youare-mysonshine always bounce ideas off each other about teenage Oscar so getting this request made me do a little happy dance. Thank you for requesting, anon! I am loving all the requests I am getting! Please consider: following my blog, heart/comment/reblog my content as well as turning on the notifs for when I post new content!

(Gif belongs to @leelakoiwolff 💫)

There are many things in your life that you want to forget and one of them is high school. You weren’t a lone wolf or some kind of loser, not at all. But to a certain to someone you were a easy target to mess around with, the one and only, Oscar “Spooky” Diaz.

Whenever he got the chance to make fun of you, he did. And by some sick twist of fate, you had majority of your class with him during senior year. It’s like it fueled him, the teasing. As you jog pass Freeridge high as a part of your daily exercise, the memories flood you.

It’s finals week and all you can think of is finishing these exams so you can stop the constant stressing and excessive studying. As you swap out textbooks for your AP Chemistry class in your locker, you hear someone clear their throat from behind you, though it’s no question to who it is.

Without even turning to look, “To what do I own the pleasure this time?”

“Just wondering how the weather is down there? I know it’s sunny up here, but what about down there, hm?” Oscar leans against the lockers besides you and give you his famous smirk.

You roll your eyes and give your best fake smile, turning your head you look at him, “Do you ever think of anything new to say or are the four brain cells up there all juiced out from the coke you snort in the bathroom during study hall?”

Oscar stares at you and pushes himself off the locker, walking away without another word. You look over shoulder and see him exit the school. A scoff comes out of your mouth as you roll your eyes. It’s a cat and mouse game with him, most of the time he is the one chasing but there are a few occasions where you get to be the mighty feline.

When your fit bit vibrates to alert you that you’ve reached you goal, you come to an abrupt stop. Hunching over with your hands on your knees trying to catch your breath. A few students walk past you, laughing away and in a heavy conversation about the homecoming dance.

You start to walk back to your place, remembering the night of your homecoming dance, senior year.

“Wow, it wears dresses. I wasn’t sure that you knew how to be a full functioning girl. I mean, considering no one’s tapped that yet, sad really.” Oscar’s voice sounds from beside you as sat at your designated table to take a break from dancing.

He pulls a chair out and flips it around so his chest is leaning against the back rest. You look over and nearly spit out your drink, “What the hell happened to you? Oh are you... oh no, are you sick? Are you dying? Jesus really is coming back.”

Oscar laughs and runs his hand over his now shaved head. He looks completely different than he did yesterday in AP Bio. You continue to sip on your punch, he reaches over and pours what smells like vodka into your cup from a metal flask. “What the fuck, seriously?”

“What? Maybe it’ll loosen you up. Always got a fuckin’ stick up your ass. Ay, maybe then someone will wanna blow your back out tonight, I mean trust me we ain’t got much standards. Not a single fuck given about your new straight hair you went and spent all that money you don’t got.” He ruffles with you hair, you swat his hand away and he laughs, getting up to leave. “Could never be me though.”

Once you get on your street you mentally damn yourself for thinking of those days. It use to take a lot out of you to stand up to Oscar. Those days far behind you for a reason. You make your way up the driveway and stop in your trek, it couldn’t be.

The shiny exterior of cherry red shines back at you. You’re staring at it making sure it’s not your mind playing tricks on you. Oscar’s car is parked in your driveway. Right?

“As I live and breath. Sup, Y/N.” Your thoughts are disturbed as you hear his voice sound, he stands on your porch, leaning aside the post. He looks the same but a little different as well. Sporting some ink on his face and neck.

You look around and hope when you turn back it’ll be just a hallucination or something. But as God permits, there he is. His physique definitely changed, his biceps bulging a lot more than the last time you saw him.

“Uh, hey, Oscar.” He smiles and licks his lips, stepping down and walking to stand in front of you. Well one things for sure, he still towers over you. He looks down at you and chuckles, taking his hand ontop your head and measuring it to his chest.

A snicker erupts from him as you push him back, trying to hide your smile, “Still the fucking same I see. Shame, all these years and you still haven’t grown up. Where’ve you been anyways?”

“Corcoran. Got out this morning.” He tells you as he walks over to his car to lean against. You wait it out a few secods before he nods his head for you to join him.

“Shoulda known you’d end up in Prison. Kill someone?”

He shoves his hands in his pockets and shrugs, “Drug possession, but ain’t no surprise I was slinging then. I got this while I was inside, ran the whole operation.”

“Yeah, well a part of me isn’t surprised you ended up there and the other part is surprised.” He looks over at you with a quirked eyebrow, “You’re smart, Diaz. You think people didn’t know but we all knew. Just no one questioned you since you hung around the gang, then you joined it. Or how is it? Jumped in?”

He nods his head in agreement with a smirk on his face, you study him for a moment before moving your gaze to in front of you when he looks at you, “Sad you didn’t take the college route. Could’ve been a head chef at some fancy restaurant I bet. My little brother would hang with Cesar. He’d tell me that you’d make such a bomb grilled cheese that he’d refuse anything I’d make. Said you really had knack for being in the kitchen.”

It felt strange to be sitting and talking to Oscar like normal people would. He would tease you any chance he got til the end of summer when you up and left for college in Arizona. Suppose prison truly does change people.

“Yeah, well at the time college wasn’t going to take care of my brother so sacrifices had to be made. Just how life goes.” He sniffs and pulls a cigarette from behind hid ear. You snatch it from him and break it with you heel. “You may have survived prison, but I promise you this will kill you, dummy.”

Oscar wouldn’t normally stand for people acting that way with him.

“What? Not gonna call me names and remind me I’m the most unattractive girl ever?” You turn to him and he turns his body towards yours. He peers down to your lips and brings his hand up to your chin.

You’re confused with what’s happening right now. Oscar not retorting with a comeback and nearly pressed against you, “Never said you unattractive once in my life. Actually thought the opposite since 7th grade.”

“What? You thought I was attractive since we were 13 years old?” Oscar nods and drops his hand from your face.You scoff and step back, walking a few feet away from him.

He clears his throat, feeling like everything is caving in. He digs for his keys from his pockets. The sounds catches your attention and you turn back, “Wait. I’m just trying to process it all. If you thought I was cute or something, why didn’t you ever tell me? All you would do is tease me and always annoy me.”

Oscar stops fiddling with his keys and steps closer to you, cocking his head to the side, a smile cracking from his serious face, “You never heard that when a guy likes you he is mean to you?”

You roll your eyes and smack his head, “For someone who is smart, that was really stupid to think. I mean.. I would say mean things to you too and you kept comin-... oh. Ooooh, I see it now. Fuck, uh.”

He sees your calming up with the realization, “Let me take you out.”

“Oh, okay. Um, what are you doing tonight?” You ask him, feeling your heart racing.

“Got some shit to handle tonight, but I’m free right now.”

Before you can say anything, he dips down and pulls you over his shoulder, you squeal and protest for him to put you down. He only laughs carrying you into your place.

So by some weird twist of fate, high school wasn’t the worst after all.

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santigarcia · 3 years

Text

Watermelon 🍉

Human Touch Part Three

a nathan bateman x f!reader series

Part One | Part Two

word count: 1.7k

rating: M/E for sexual themes, smut (pls only read if youre 18+)

summary: Nathan offers to teach you to box, but he ends up showing you something else instead...

a/n: sorry im late getting this one out! make sure you read part one and part two!! thank you again to @punkpascal and @sergeantkane! let me know what yall think!

Nathan took you back to your cousin’s after a few more days spent tangled in the sheets. He fucked you a couple times at your cousin’s place just for good measure. It was a bittersweet goodbye, you had to go back home. But there was a promise you’d come back, stay longer with him.

You dated virtually for a few months. It worked out because he was up all hours working and could text you. He’s surprisingly good at multitasking. The sexting and the phone sex were nice, but you both missed each other’s touch. Something about him made you ache to be back in his arms.

He surprised you with plane tickets one day, and you flew out to him. You spent a week this time. But the goodbye was even harder.

An intimacy had grown. Your lives begin to merge.

But there was an air about him that was different. He was happier than he’d ever remember being, but also scared out of his mind. There were hours that would go by when you wouldn’t see him. He’d be working, but mostly he was trying to collect his thoughts. You were such a damn distraction. Every moment spent with you felt like the air in his lungs would leave him, he’d never be able to breathe again with you taking the air from him. His heart thuds in his chest and he swears he’s having a heart attack. But it’s just you, it’s you.

He still can’t believe you’re real.

One afternoon you walked in on him pleasuring himself. Fully naked, flat on his back on his bed. Big hand pumping his dick. Moans echoing in the room. He didn’t see you or notice you until his end. He came with a loud groan and he moaned your name.

When he sat up, he saw you, there was a moment of panic in his eyes, but then it turned to a smirk.

“Enjoy the show?”

“Why didn’t you….come get me?” you flush. He looked away from your gaze, a heat rises in his face and the tips of his ears turn pink.

“I still can’t believe you’re real.” He rubs the back of his neck.

“How long have you been so alone?” your heart hurts and you go over to him and kiss the top of his head.

These are the things that plague him. He’s been so alone for so long; he’s trying to adjust to life with you in his home. The heat in his bed. Someone else showering. Your clothes in the closet. Your shampoo in the shower. Little traces of you.

He’s also not used to having to talk to anyone. He’ll spend hours or days even deep in his work. Barely remembering to eat.

You ate alone one evening, so you wandered into his lab to check on him. When you asked him why he wasn’t with you he snapped at you like a scared wounded animal.

“We don’t have to spend every second together,” he’d said. But as soon as he said it, he was full of regret. He never wanted to see that upset look in your eyes again.

“Well, I only see you if we have sex!” Which wasn’t true, but it’s what it felt like. You’re only here for a week, you wanted to make the most of it.

You walked out of his lab leaving him alone. You saw the look on his face, and he looked defeated. Hurt. Angry. At himself, not at you.

Later you went back into apologize, only to find him asleep at his desk. His face smushed against the keyboard. Several lines of letters were being typed by his cheek on the screen.

“Nathan,” you whisper and gently touch his shoulder. He bolts upright and groans a silent “fuck” when he sees all the letters typed out.

“You need to rest, come with me right now,” you tell him. He doesn’t disagree and he follows you to his bed. You lay down first, on you back with pillows propped behind you. “Come here,” you beckon. And with a happy sigh he lays down, resting his head on your stomach just under your breasts. He breathes deeply as you scratch his back and softly rub his fuzzy head.

“I’m sorry,” you say first. “I’m a little nervous about this.”

“I’m sorry,” he replies. “I’m nervous as shit. I’m not used to having another person around. Especially not someone so-“ his throat tightens. How can he tell you that he loves you already? “What if I’m not good enough for you? I don’t want to hurt you. But- I’ve been trying to think of ways to ask you.”

“Ask me what?” you stroke his beard gently.

“Move out here with me,” he’d whispered into your skin.

“I’d love to,” you whispered back. “And we’ll figure this out. But you are good enough. My only,” you smile and kiss him softly.

He paid for everything. He hired movers to get your things. He paid for any expenses and every ticket. Your parents were a little surprised you were dropping everything to stay with someone they’d never even met, but they’d also never seen you happier in your life.

Nathan enjoyed helping you unpack. He analyzed everything you owned. And he liked making a space for all your things. He rifled through your record collection with keen interest, and all your underwear.

It felt so domestic being with him, and you knew it was the right decision. You’d been worried about being homesick, but that feeling never came. He was your home. You had everything you needed and could possibly want.

You kept in contact with all your friends, you’d video chat with them. There were things you missed, but you settled into life with Nathan with ease.

The newest part for you was sharing space with someone. He’d not done that in some time either. He’s not used to someone curling up against him in the middle of the night. He runs hot, but he can’t push you away. He’ll just turn down the AC.

This morning, the bed is empty. Which isn’t uncommon. He keeps weird hours. You pull on his Henley and some warm pajama pants and wander through the house looking for him.

You find him outside on the deck, he’s practicing his boxing this morning. His fists collide with the punching bag and you can hear him grunt with effort. Unashamedly you watch his tight ass bounce as he hops around on the balls of his feet.

You make your presence known by opening the sliding door to the deck. He sees you with a smile, but he keeps going. He might be showing off just a little for you, but you don’t mind. The newness of the relationship has him doing things of the sort.

“Are you going to teach me how to box?” you ask sitting on one of the deck chairs nearby.

“Well get over here and I’ll teach you,” he grins, his shoulders heave as he breathes deeply.

He holds your hands in his, showing you how to make a fist. His touch is warm, his eyes flicker with desire. He’s sweaty and his kisses are salty.

“Hold your hands like this-“ he tells you. He stands behind you and guides your arms on how to throw a proper punch without hurting yourself. He slots himself behind you, and you can feel him through his thin gym shorts.

“Nathan.”

“Hmm?” he hums in your ear and kisses your cheek.

“What are you doing?”

“I thought I was showing you how to box? What did you think I was doing?” He hums again and ruts his hips against your ass.

“It’s this shirt isn’t it?” you lean back against his chest and wrap your arms around his neck. He kisses your neck and his beard brushes along your skin.

“Yeah, you look so fuckin’ good in my shirt. Hold still,” he tells you and slips his hand down your pants. He wraps his other arm around you to keep you still while he rubs tight circles on your clit. “You know, kitten, I haven’t eaten you out yet. Would you let me?”

“Outside?” you moan while his fingers move. He chuckles in your ear.

“No one’s out here. Please baby, let me taste you.”

“You really want to?”

His fingers move faster, and you buck against his hand. You’re so close, chasing it when he pulls his hand away. He brings his fingers up to his lips and groans in your ear.

“You taste so good, I want more.”

“Please- let me finish. Use your mouth.”

“Attagirl,” he winks and squeezes your ass. “If you’re not ready though, say so. It’s not like I haven’t seen you.” He smirks.

“Where do you want me?”

He points to one of the tables. You sit down on it and lay back. He kneels in front of you and pulls your pants and panties down your legs. He spreads your thighs and puts them over his shoulders while he dives in.

His eyes close in pleasure while his tongue laps at your folds and sensitive bundle of nerves. He sucks and kisses and grazes his teeth. His beard scrapes your thighs, and you scream out in the open air.

“That’s it baby,” he moans against your heat. “Fuck, you have the best tasting pussy.”

“Nathan!” you whine his name, and he goes in harder. Sucking and eating you alive.

“You’re sweeter than the watermelon we had the other night,” he purrs into your heat. He doesn’t stop until you’re coming all over his tongue. Your sweet essence he could drown in. You’re real. Warm, wet, and real. He burns with need after tasting you. He’d keep going if he weren’t so hard in his shorts.

He pushes his shorts down and leans over you, kissing you deeply.

“Can I?” he asks, there’s a pleading tone in his voice. You practically beg him to push inside, you wrap your legs around him and pull him towards you. He sinks in with a sigh. The table scrapes on the deck as he thrusts into you.

“So much for teaching me boxing,” you gasp out a moan when he spills inside of you.

“Next time,” he chuckles, falling on top of you. “I’ve had my workout for the day.”

tagging: @pascal-isaac, @wasicskosgirl, @velvetmel0n, @huliabitch, @shadow-assassin-blix, @writefightandflightclub, @aellynera, @softboywriting, @veuliee2, @spider-starry, @mylifeliterally, @millllenniawrites, @ntlmundy, @foxilayde, @writingletterstothefire, @mandoplease, @anetteaneta, @feelmyroarrrr, @artsymaddie, @shakespeareanwannabe, @poedameronsbeard, @deanfanatic, @magicsuperheroes, @phoenixhalliwell, @that-one-weird-one, @mariesackler

#nathan bateman #nathan bateman x reader #nathan bateman imagine #nathan bateman x you #my writing #human touch series #part three

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zet-sway · 3 years

Text

Spiritual Shrios Summer - Release

PROMPT WORD: RELEASE - | - WORDS: 2686

Rated: "E" for Extremely Spicy - not for children AO3 Link: "Singing Southward" Pairing: Thane / FemShep Summary: "But her blood is singing southward, and that's a good thing, right? A reassuring, human reminder that maybe she's still Shepard - a woman - not just a Cerberus machine."

Full disclosure, this prompt fought me and kicked my ass the whole way. I can't look at it anymore. I hope it's more enjoyable for people who haven't been looking at it for like two weeks lmao. Many thanks to Rosenkow for that excellent playlist that really inspired my Shrios muse.

The heavy thrum of battle is where she loses herself. Shepard would take sweat and the pounding pulse of combat any day over the silence between stars.

Swirling winds whip sand across her face and body. It crunches in the joints between her armor and she hates the sound but it's easy to ignore as she slams another heat sink into her shotgun and charges into the last remaining crawler. It's thrown by the impact, the momentum of her body splits the carapace against her armored fist. The smell of viscera in the air, the humming of biotic barriers. Her body sings. She feels untouchable. The keystone slams the ground again.

The ground beneath her feet rumbles and she hears an unholy sound. A thresher maw. Her battle-lust is broken instantly and she snaps to attention, every sense laser focused.

Her shotgun and fists will be little help to them now. She exchanges glances with Grunt and Thane, waving them toward cover while she hunkers down on point, grenade launcher at the ready. It's not the biggest thresher maw she's ever seen but their size isn't the only thing that makes them dangerous. Positioning is critical when fighting something that can burrow and spit. Her combat HUD tracks its movements through the ground and she directs their movements, their gunfire to its next point of exposure.

But there's a problem. Her visor's sensitive electronics were never meant to be used in a sandstorm.

The maw dives again and this time the data is wrong, pinging across the arena, indicating wildly different trajectories that conflict with the laws of physics. Not great, but there's nothing she can do about it now. Adapt, improvise.

She tears the headset from her face and makes her best approximation of where it's going to appear next, signaling the team. They open fire, it dives again. Then the rumbling stops. Her best is not enough. There's a split second of silence before the beast bursts forth not twelve feet away from her position. Dust and debris erupt in a disorienting cloud and she can tell by the shadow cast over her that she's in deep shit, struggling to find her footing on the fractured, quaking ground.

A scorching heat envelops her and her vision goes dark. There's a shout in her comm, a weight pressed upon her, and the grenade launcher is wrenched from her hands.

Then a burst, an explosion, a blinding flash of light. Acid sizzles against her barrier and it pops, the sound rattling her ears in the darkness.

The orange sun of Tuchanka blinks back into existence as the dust begins to settle.

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

Thane slumps into the stinking puddle of meat and organs, still clutching Shepard's grenade launcher. His scales are stinging and the pain is growing more intense by the second. Beside him, Shepard is calling in an evac while she rips at the panels of her hardsuit. Her under armor is a patchwork of holes beneath, and her skin is a frightening shade of red where the fabric is being eaten away. Thresher maw bile.

He's never actually seen a thresher maw before, much less fought one - he's more shaken than he would like to admit. Her voice is his anchor. By the time she's done shouting for Grunt to maintain a defensive position, she's torn the suit at the waist and stripped the top half from her body. She uses it to wipe the viscera from his head, chest, and hands before tending to herself.

Her ease of determination has him transfixed. He's trembling from their encounter, but Shepard- he's never seen her more focused. Brows knitted in concentration, voice firm, but calm. Her chest rises and falls with each measured breath. Wearing only her belt, legplates, and a black compression bra, she's slathering herself in medigei, a whirlwind of sand and dirt sticking to exposed burns across the hard expanse of her body.

Her skin is so vulnerable compare to his scales that she should be shrieking in pain. Instead, she seems completely unfazed. Adrenaline, perhaps. Or maybe she's every bit as otherworldly as he's coming to understand she is.

Their evac shuttle arrives and they pile on. Grunt is the first one to break the silence.

"Quick thinking back there, Krios."

Grunt looks at him with the same piercing gaze all krogan seem to have. Thane has always found them hard to read.

"Never thought I'd see a drell dive into the mouth of a thresher maw. You're tougher than you look."

He smiles, then. And Shepard smiles with him.

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

Doctor's orders: 24 hours rest.

Shepard's armor clatters to the cabin floor and she strides into the bathroom, trying not to itch the scabs tightening over her skin. The burns are superficial - irritating, but not serious. In the mirror, they look worse than they feel. The sting is enough to drown out the other weird pains that live inside her reconstructed body. Her ears hurt. Her tear ducts feel swollen and pressurized. Her fingers are sore. There's a constant ache in her sternum and a soft wooshing in her ear. It's from her synthetic heart, and the abundance of blood it requires. But it means she'll heal faster, too.

The water hisses out of the showerhead and she sets to work cleaning the caked on grit and viscera from her skin. When she's focused on herself like this, it's hard not to think about all of the ways her body has changed.

On the SR1, she'd been in shape, perhaps even proud of her body. She'd thought of herself as a well oiled machine. She watched her nutrition carefully, spent just as much time honing nerves as she did strength and endurance. Her body, a product of her own work and service.

What she sees now is not what she remembers.

Notably, she's about 70 pounds heavier, almost exclusively due to her implants and the additional muscle she's put on to carry them. Adapting to the added weight of cybernetics and artificial bones had been an uphill battle since she rolled off that Cerberus operating table. Even her breasts are one cup size larger, and that one change carries perhaps the most bitterness. Her body is no longer her creation.

She sees herself as though through a stranger's eyes - a construct. The Commander they wanted. Not the woman she remembers.

Her new body is all about performance, both in the public eye and on the battlefield. Miranda had already told her she should be grateful for her various "upgrades." Her titanium fingers that never tremble, her artificial eyes that can see colors and details normal human's can't. Heightened olfaction, improved hearing, even joints with a higher range of motion.

A superhuman.

No, she corrects herself, with no small amount of vitriol.

A supersoldier.

The trouble is, being a soldier is what she wants. Control over her body is as much a necessity as a beating heart, and she demands it of herself every way she knows how. The problem isn't the upgrades. It's the autonomy ripped from her hands as soon as she was too dead to spit in their faces.

But this is the hand she's dealt, so she works with it, even if learning how to use her own body is still a learning curve. Testing her limits, evaluating response times, and sometimes... trying out shitty supplementary tech that can't stand up to a little bad weather.

Outside the bathroom door, the remnants of her visor are crumbled together next to her terminal. Thane had crushed it underfoot when he dove between her and the thresher maw. That split second confusion in the field could have cost her life if he hadn't intervened. She hadn't expected a lone wolf assassin to mesh so well with the team.

She towels off and stuffs her armor back in its locker. The automatic cleaning cycle hums to life, and her thoughts whirl with it.

Thane's opened up a bit more since the night they spoke about Alchera. He has a surprising way of coloring the air with his words. And, perhaps most alarmingly, the more time she spends with him, the time she wants to spend with him. She tries to chalk it up to regular team synchronicity, but there are moments she catches herself wondering him on more than just a professional level. Tiny curiosities slither into her brain. Does he kiss like humans do? The very notion warms her blood.

How long has it been since she'd kissed someone? It feels like a lifetime.

And then - just one impulsive little thought, summoning the things she's not even dared herself to think. Does he fuck like humans do?

Almost timidly, she allows her imagination to wander.

Greeting the morning together in the shuttle bay, the harsh fluorescent lights casting dramatic shadows over his body as he bends through another impossible stretch. All that tension coiled within him, the hard planes of his torso, those absolutely delicious ass-kicking thighs...

For a moment, she feels as though he's close enough to share his heat. There's an old, familiar warmth in her blood - exquisite, tiny shivers flickering just beneath her skin - arousal.

Her eyes drift closed. She owes her XO a mission debrief, and she owes her pilot new destination coordinates. But her blood is singing southward, throbbing between her legs, and that's a good thing, right? A reassuring, human reminder that maybe she's still Shepard - a woman - not just a Cerberus machine.

Maybe those obligations can wait a little bit longer.

Scooting up her unmade bed to rest against the headboard, she tentatively rests a hand against her belly and traces a line from her navel to the juncture of her legs, almost as if she's afraid of what she'll find. Her flesh is reassuringly warm, and she passes over her center, teasing and smoothing back over blood-warmed skin, testing its sensitivity. At least here, her body feels like she remembers.

Thane's unfamiliarity excites her. She's never spared much thought for bunking with another species before, but he's more than handsome. Shepard wonders if drell are as introverted as Thane. Likely not, but his guardedness only intensifies her intrigue. The idea of touching him seems forbidden, like a closely guarded secret. She wants to run her tongue over the darkened skin below his lower lip, wants to trace the ridges down the back of his neck and feel the warmth of the flushed skin at his throat.

Her mind fumbles with the thought of him, unclothed and willing. He could be any number of iridescent shades of green under that tight leather getup - by the tantalizing gradient of color across the firm swatch of his exposed chest, he must be. Those dark stripes down his shoulders are trails she's hungry to travel, winding paths across the exotic unknowns of his body. Her fingers itch to follow them wherever they lead - with any luck, all the way down.

And down to what, exactly? For a moment, Shepard considers pulling up the extranet to satiate her curiosity and then decides against it. If he's not biologically equipped the way she hopes, better to find out later, when she's not vividly imagining the shape and color of his erection. Maybe green? But then, he hopefully isn't packing scales down there. No, more likely a familiar blush of color, like the frills of at his neck, or the inside of his mouth.

Her fingers brush carefully over her clit at the thought of his mouth, those gorgeous clit-sucking lips. An excited chill zips down her spine, settling - picturing him in this exact spot, head bowed reverently between her legs to worship her with his tongue. It's been so fucking long since someone ate her out.

The memory is old and faded - breaking fraternization rules with a youthful dark-haired recruit in the barracks. They hadn't even finished basic yet. Shepard had come harder than ever before in her life, only to later discover that recruit had told nearly everyone that they'd hated every second of it. She wouldn't have been upset if Cerberus took that memory from her.

But there's something about Thane. He's nothing if not a gentleman, she likes to think he'd be wickedly good at this. Warm, firm lips, an agile tongue... those fused fingers edging her on.

She uses her own to test that hypothesis, biting her lip at the familiar slick of arousal concentrated in her core.

There was a time when she'd rather be incinerated than suffer gentle lovemaking. She wanted it hard and fast, pleasure so blindingly hot she'd sneak out to the airlock for a cigarette in the afterglow. But her new body is a labyrinth of unknowns. Sex in this new skin, not knowing her limits, how much she can take. She wants to take her time.

Middle finger first, then following with another, she tests her reconstruction. Maybe she's just imagining it, but she feels a bit stiffer than she remembers.

But in the blurry comfort of her fantasy, Thane is a gentle lover. He's slow and patient, giving her ample time to acclimate both her body and her racing thoughts. Her fingers slip inside as far as they'll reach, leaving her palm to flex against her clit. She sighs, luxuriating in sensation.

It feels so good to be touched.

It's been years, in fact, and the roaring flame of her lust is surprising even to herself. To have him here, moving inside her, filling her with every stroke...

When her hand curls against her inner walls, her eyes roll back and an unholy sound leave her throat. Holy shit. Either this is the pleasure time forgot, or Cerberus spared no expense reconstructing her nerve endings. It wipes every other thought from her mind.

She's lost in the fantasy now. Hopelessly spellbound beneath the roll of her own hand - Thane's hips - languidly pushing the heights of her pleasure in body and mind until she's deliberately edging her orgasm because it seems a damn shame to end it so fast. Her head is swimming, discomfort collecting dust in the rational corners of her brain until her nerves are burning with adrenaline and wanting. Scattered thoughts come in incoherent bursts. All that matters now is the caldera of pleasure between her legs. Her mind. His body.

She can almost feel his voice. The words are lost but the sensations are loud and clear, encircling her, flowing through her, filling her. She wants to feel his desire, wants him to come undone inside her, calling her name, riding the high of his climax and all but demanding she come with him. In her mind, they gasp together, his arms tightening around her, his face buried in her neck, her walls clenching around him.

The electricity of release pulses through her nerves - organic, synthesized, and everything in between. For one sweet second, she's weightless. Then the spots are clearing from her vision and she's floating down from whatever far flung corner of the galaxy her soul's been launched to.

In the silence that follows, the gentle hum of the ship is the only sound.

"Fuck," she breathes out into the empty room. He's gone. The reverie slowly evaporates, vanishing into the metal bulkheads of the hull.

The familiar guilt of indulgence tugs at the edges of her fading euphoria. She hadn't banked on masturbating to her crew, but here she is.

It's just a daydream, no harm done.

But as she gets dressed, she asks herself why it's been so long since anyone's crept into her mind like Thane.

Shepard shakes her head, straightening her back. A little movement to clear the errant thoughts trashing her rationality. Her scabs itch. Her mouth is dry. There are more important things to be doing. Things that will quiet the tiny voice in her head that whispers 'no one wants your weird cybernetic body.'

At least she can still show herself a good time. Small victories are perhaps even sweeter during wartime. Maybe she feels just a little more human than she did an hour before.

#shrios #spiritualshriossummer #thane krios #fshrios #spiritual shrios summer #zet writes things #me in the background screaming like that video of the old man in the mountains with the cowboy hat #ITT: femshep gets herself off #aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

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cacoetheswriting · 3 years

Text

christmas alphabet - spencer reid

a/n: request: this is just fluff, no warnings in place. enjoy!!

A = After Dark (a date after dark? late night cuddles? surprise mistletoe?)

On cold winter evenings, when Spencer is not travelling for work, the two of you like to cuddle up on the coach under a fluffy blanket. A cup of hot chocolate in hand; with an even number of marshmallows each. The night is either spent discussing both of your days in detail or watching old Christmas classics, like Miracle on 34th Street for example.

B = Baking (how does baking sweets go? for or with someone?)

The brunette doctor is skilled at literally anything he sets his mind to, but baking is not his forte. The kitchen always ends up a huge mess, and whatever concoction he was attempting is dangerous to eat. However, Spencer enjoys baking with you. Together you make a quite the team and the gingerbread cookies are a big hit with the rest of his team.

C = Cold (it’s cold out! how do they react to the freezing winter air? does someone else help with fighting the cold?)

Spencer enjoys the lower temperatures, they’re a nice contrast to sunny stuffy Las Vegas where he grew up. You on the other hand struggle with the crispy icy air and often find yourself stealing his scarf for extra warmth when you’re out and about.

D = Date (christmas date! how is it asked? where do they go?)

You ask the brunette agent to go ice-skating with you. Spencer is reluctant at first but you hold onto him tight and any fears wash away. You whirl together around the rink in slow circles, simply enjoying the moment.

E = Evening Dance (a night at a ball? or maybe just silly dancing in the kitchen?)

Spencer catches you one wintery morning humming along to Blue Christmas by Elvis Presley. He gently takes your hand in his and the two of you slowly sway around the living room.

F = Fireplace (how do they spend their time by the fire? hang stockings? fall asleep on each other?)

The two of you bought stockings with your initials, a lovely red pair with a fuzzy top. Since there is no fireplace at your place Spencer hung them underneath your mounted television. And whenever you feel like cozying up on the coach together you simply turn on a ten-hour fireplace video on YouTube.

G = Grateful (how grateful are they to spend time with others? enjoy being alone or with others?)

The hazel-eyed doctor is extremely grateful to spend time with you, not only over the holidays. While he likes the occasional meet-up with his team for after work drinks at their favourite bar, Spencer definitely prefers spending time with you alone. He's loves comfortable company more than anything.

H = Hosting Family (how does family work? are they invited to others, or stay with their s/o?)

While Spencer would love to spend Christmas with his mom, his unpredictable hours don’t usually allow him to make set plans. Therefore instead you decide that you will spend the holidays with your family, and if by chance he is free to join he will.

I = Invitation (a sudden invitation comes up! what’s it for? how do they react?)

An invitation arrives for dinner with his team and their loved ones on a faithful Saturday in December. Of course Spencer asks you to accompany him; he wouldn't have it any other way. You’ve met his friends before so you shouldn't be nervous, but yet for some reason you were. This occasion felt different somehow. More intimate.

J = Just In Time (the present arrives just barely in time! how do they rush up to hand it to them? do they wait for the perfect time?)

Spencer spent weeks trying to decide what to get you for Christmas. Nothing he thought of seemed right. You weren’t a material person, which is one of your many qualities he adored. He wanted your present to be thoughtful, he wanted something meaningful. About a week before the holidays, he came across a website that sold customisable star maps. He ordered one then and there - a map that showcased the stars the night you first met.

K = Kiss (how do they react to a kiss? flustered? happy? surprised?)

When Spencer first kissed you it was gentle, almost timid. As if he was afraid to fully let himself go. Now when he kisses you he does so with all his might and immense passion. He cups your face with his hands and pulls you in as close as humanly possible.

L = Lights (christmas lights are important! how do they hang them? around the house? on the tree? outside? what kind of shenanigans go on?)

The brunette agent had given you a key to his apartment. One night in late November he comes home after working a case to find you already there, tangled in a rope of lights. You tried to surprise him by slightly decorating his place for the holidays, but instead found yourself entwined. Spencer can’t help but chuckle at the sight. He sets off to help you; after taking a picture to commemorate this precious moment.

M = Mistletoe (how do they react to suddenly being placed under a mistletoe with their crush/lover?)

He gets flustered at first, mainly because you’re in public and everyone is watching. But the second your lips brush against his the whole world dissolves and he gets completely lost in you.

N = Naughty or Nice? (how has your character been this past year? are they a trickster or a good of heart?)

Definitely good of heart. Spencer is one of the kindest people you have ever met. He’s caring, he always puts you first and stops at nothing to make you happy. The only time you could describe him as naughty would be in bed.

O = Opening Presents (how do they react to opening presents?)

Eagerly, although very neatly. Even though he is extremely excited to see what you got him, the hazel-eyed doctor rips off the wrapping paper so precisely that it is actually good to reuse.

P = Packaging (wrapping presents is never easy. how do they fair?)

Packing presents with Spencer is just as organised. All the pieces of the festive wrapping paper are a perfect size for each gif and the ribbon is measured before cut to the correct length; so that there is no waste.

Q = Question (how do they confess? is it the big question, or something smaller but just as intimate?)

“Y/N?” Spencer catches your attention. You look up from the book in your lap and meet his honey gaze. “Yes?” “How would you feel about spending next years holiday in a cabin somewhere? Just the two of us?” A smile spread across your facial features. “I thought you didn't like to plan that far ahead, especially around Christmas time.” You teased. He smiled back at you. “I don’t, but with you I can break a few of my rules.”

R = Relaxing (how do they relax with their s/o? the best ways? the cutest?)

Watching Christmas movies, cooking, discussing various topics, or sitting in comfortable silence and reading. Simply enjoying each others company.

S = Snow (how do they like the snow?)

Spencer likes to share uncommon facts about the snow; more than the weather phenomenon itself. “Snow is actually translucent, not white.” The brunette doctor chimed as the two of you looked out the window admiring the first snowfall of the season. “It’s the light reflected off a snowflake’s faceted surface that creates its white appearance.”

T = Tree (how do they decorate their tree?)

Gold fairy lights intertwined with a simple white wreathe hung loosely around the Christmas tree at your apartment. Mixed between the more traditional-looking gold bobbles were various fancier ornaments that reminded both of you of your relationship, such as: a stack of books, R2-D2, fast food items, gin bottle, a coffee cup.

U = Undying Love (how did they fall in love? what was the real moment they found out?)

Your constant smile and positive outlook on life, not to mention your delicate beauty, lured Spencer in right from the start. He fell for you hard and pretty early into your relationship. And now not a day goes by where he doesn't tell you just how much he loves you.

V = Villa (how is it in their house? festive? normal? candles?)

Apart from the decorations you had plopped around, the doctors apartment remains normal. The two of you have focused more of your time and energy decorating your place - from the living room to the kitchen and bedroom, there is even a miniature Santa in the bathroom.

W = Wish (what is their biggest wish for the coming year? or in general?)

Spencers biggest wish for the coming year would be to keep evolving in this relationship with you. He hopes to grow even closer with you, learn more about you and explore the world with you (if he ever gets the time off work).

X = eXcitement (general excitement about christmas? love it? hate it?)

He’s excited because you’re excited. Seeing you so happy around the holiday season warms his heart and he hopes he’ll get to cherish these moments with you for years to come.

Y = You (how does their s/o react to them being beautiful? handsome? to them in general in the christmas season? how in love are they?)

The brunette doctor constantly reminds you how perfect you are. Whether you’re dressed up for an evening at the bar with friends or simply sitting on the sofa in a matching wintery pyjama set, Spencer will be sure to point out just how beautiful you look. You of course do the same. There is something about hearing you say how handsome he looks that makes his heart skip a beat.

Z = Zzzz… (how do they sleep? lots of blankets? none? cuddled closely to their loved one?)

Wrapped up in a large duvet and blankets mainly because you get cold during the night. Spencer’s arm is placed gently yet firmly around you. He holds you close, quietly snoring into the crook of your neck.

masterlist

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sirowsky · 3 years

Text

The Flowers Always Know

Description: When a mad scientist uses you as an experiment while you’re on holiday, the Heroics only just manage to save you. And in your recovery you become very close to the leader of the group. (Slow burn)

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Language, some mild smut.

Link to Masterlist

Comment: All I can say is: I’m sorry. My head is a strange place.

Chapter 29

“Marcus!! Oh, get that sweet tush over here and hug me, and you better make it a good one after you’ve neglected to visit my cave for longer than these magic hands care to remember.”

You already loved Velma.

“Hey, Vel. I’m sorry, I’ve been preoccupied.”

He did hug her, and properly too, as well as about 10s longer than what would be considered socially acceptable for mere friends, without either of them seeming to find it weird or awkward at all. You still loved her.

“Thank you, my darling. You’re forgiven. Now, tell me what you’ve brought me?”

He beamed at you. He really did love any opportunity to show you off, but he seemed especially pleased about this introduction.

“Velma, this is my fiancé. Hermosa, as you’ve undoubtedly gathered – this is the one and only Velma.”

“Your fi… You’re getting… And you’re here. You brought her to me! Are you…?”

“Yes. I am. On both counts.”

“YES!! Thank the Greek fucking Gods!! A wedding-dress, and for you, my darling, of all people! Thank you.”

“Well, technically it’s for her.”

“Oh, no, sugar. The dress is for the groom. The shoes – are for the bride.”

She finally set all of her glorious attention on you.

Velma was a drag-queen, and the most awe-inspiring individual you’d ever seen. Everything about her was superior. She was taller than anyone else in the room, helped by fucking spectacular plateau shoes, she was broad-shouldered and muscular to boot. She carried herself like an empress, with a kind of stillness and real elegance, despite having so much flare and finesse to her. And even though she was covered in colours and sparkles, she somehow looked like she would belong absolutely anywhere. And when she actually looked you in the eye, you could almost feel her read the pages of the book that was your life, and yet, there was nothing intimidating about it.

“Well, now. There’s a lot of story here, isn’t there?”

“A bit. Yeah.”

“Mm. Alright then, come with me, darling. I demand to know every little detail about the woman my Marcus has chosen.”

She turned dramatically, and headed for a side-door in the studio workshop where you were, and you looked at Marcus with a wide grin.

“She’s coming to the wedding.”

“Don’t worry – she’s on the list.”

“I don’t care about any list. She’s coming. I need that amount of sparkle at my wedding. And I’m not just talking about the clothes.”

He chuckled happily as he watched you literally skip over to the open door, and disappear inside.

-----

Three weeks later, you finally got around to getting your house sold. It was a fairly quick sale since the neighbourhood was nice and the yard was bigger than most other properties on that street. And since you didn’t really need the extra money, you could give the young couple that fell in love with it, a kind price. You weren’t really particularly sorry to see it go, but you were very happy to see it fall into the hands of people who would appreciate it. For a long time, that house had been your refuge, your safe harbour when life got hard, and you wished that it could be the same for someone else. You put the bulk of the money in your savings-account, and ear-marked the rest for wedding-expenses. There still wasn’t really any actual planning going on, as far as dates and times and venues were concerned. But you and Marcus were still getting through a lot of the stuff that goes on around the actual day. You’d settled on what colours you wanted for the flowers, and what types they should be. You’d had an almost outrageously fun day last weekend, trying out the recipes for all the wedding-cakes you’d both found online. And after soiling literally every inch of the kitchen with flour, and tasting so many different cakes your taste-buds had eventually given up, you had managed to conclude that you wanted a lemon-flavoured one. Missy had tried to get you onto the chocolate-train, but you’d held your ground, with the promise that there would indeed be chocolate present, just not in the cake. You’d completed the guest-list, and chosen the invitation cards, but they were safely stowed away in a drawer, still unwritten. It wasn’t that you were stalling or didn’t feel ready. You were just genuinely enjoying the preparations, and not having that deadline made them feel like they were just fun things to do over a weekend, rather than things you had to do to be ready in time. Especially since Missy loved being a part of it too, it made the whole thing feel like a prolonged family event.

By now, the only thing that was still on the prep-list was Marcus’ suit, but you’d both agreed not to make any decisions on that until you’d seen what Velma did with your dress. You’d spent two whole days in her cave, getting your measurements taken and your skin-tone evaluated. There were about a hundred things about your body that she’d wanted to know, but you trusted her with your life already, so you’d happily complied. Plus; any excuse to spend time with her was a good one. Work was finally becoming manageable again, as you’d finally caught up on all the stuff that was trailing behind, and you were deliberately keeping any and all new projects firmly steered in other directions or delegating them onto other designers. You had enough on your plate with just getting through the already started ones, on top of the wedding-planning. Today had been a good day, so far, and you’d decided to go and find Marcus and see if he had time to join you for lunch. When you approached his office, his door was open and you could hear Tech talking. Not wanting to interrupt, you stopped outside and out of sight, while you waited for their conversation to finish. You picked up your phone to send an e-mail while you waited.

“I can’t believe that building was still standing after that.”

“Crushing lost control for three seconds. Let’s just be grateful it wasn’t longer.”

“Oh, I remember that time back in the beginning when he was out of it for like 20 seconds.”

“I think most of Colombia remembers that, too.”

“Probably.”

“Hey, um. Speaking of losing control…”

“What?”

“Well, there’s a certain office on the other side of the building that gets a fair bit of noise-complaints.”

You snapped out of your e-mailing and instinctively turned your head to listen closer.

“Stay out of it, Tech.”

“Hey, I’m not the filing them, and I never will. I’m all for healthy appetites. Just wondering if you’re aware of the fact that a lot of people are talking about you guys?”

“So? Let ‘em talk.”

“Sure. But they’re not talking about it being a nuisance or inappropriate. They’re talking about how the hell you can keep it up for three hours straight sometimes. Is that true, though?”

You weren’t sure if you wanted the ground to open up and swallow you, or if you wanted to go find these people and tell them to mind their own business. There was a brief pause before Marcus answered, and his voice was a bit lower than before.

“It is. I seriously can’t get enough of her. Ever. No matter how tired I get, I can always go another round.”

“That’s kind of amazing. How do you ever get anything done?”

“I have no idea.”

“Any idea when the knot-tying might be happening?”

“No. I’m dying to do it, to the point where I have to repeatedly tell myself not to just beg her to go to Vegas with me. But I also really wanna get it right, you know? Not necessarily perfect; just right. Right for us. And I want her to feel ready, so that she can just relax and enjoy that day, whenever it happens.”

Your heart swelled to an almost painful size behind your ribs.

“I am ready, honey.”

You stepped over the threshold and watched as his expression turned from confusion to realisation as he saw you.

“You wouldn’t have to beg. I’d go to Vegas with you right now if you asked. I’ve told you; I don’t really care how it happens. I’m enjoying the preparations and everything we’re doing together, but even if nothing ever got used, I wouldn’t feel like I missed out on anything. You’re the one that wanted the traditions, remember?”

Tech excused himself at that point, and closed the door behind him after he left.

“Do you still want all that, Marcus?”

He looked so torn.

“Damned it… Yes. I really do.”

“Then let’s pick a date. Let’s find a place that feels right and let’s make it happen.”

“Are you sure?”

“Are you ready?”

He shot up from his chair and was suddenly holding your waist, staring into your eyes.

“Ah, mi novia, I’ve been ready for a long time.”

His hands migrated down to your ass, and you let him squeeze you to him. You were wearing a simple blue summer-dress today, and he quickly found his way underneath it, letting his hands run up your thighs and relieve you of your panties. Then he pulled you along to the sofas, sitting down and urging you to straddle him. It was almost strange how calm it was. The two of you were always so heated, so passionate whenever you came together, to the point where it was almost always beyond your control, or at least, on the very edge of it. But this time, there was no tearing at each other’s clothes. No hands desperately grasping, needing and demanding more. No burning heat that made you feel empty and aching until he entered you. The heat did come, but gradually. With each caress, each tender kiss and each movement of your bodies together, it slowly built from an ember to a flame. Your walls actually allowed him to move inside you this time, and as you rocked yourself over him, a completely different kind of pleasure to what you’d become used to with him, built inside your core and seemed to reach towards your heart, instead of your sex. After a while, he turned you both to the side so he could lay you down and settle himself on top of you, and that feeling that was creeping towards your chest, drastically intensified. He drove into you in long, strong thrusts that buried him as deep as your bodies would allow, each time, and his throat made involuntary little sounds of pleasure every time he returned into your wet and welcoming warmth. It took you nearly thirty minutes to build to a climax this time, and when it finally hit, it was strong in a completely different way than it ever had been before. Your bodies didn’t curl or clench in on themselves, there were no involuntary power-outbursts, no levitation. But it felt like you were underneath each other’s skin. Like your hearts actually melded into one through the intricate contact of your skin and nerves. It was utterly overwhelming and there were tears streaming from your eyes throughout the whole climax. And they didn’t stop, even after you’d come back down. There was no pain or sorrow anywhere inside you in that moment, so you concluded that these were tears of pure love and you made no effort to stop them. You just held him close and waited for the feeling to burn itself out. He burrowed his face into your neck while you laid there, feeling the tears as they passed over onto his cheek on their way down, but making no comment about them. He knew what they were, and it made him love them too.

You took a late lunch together, and since the pills were working perfectly and the lab had been able to produce several months-worth already, you could enjoy eating like a normal person these days. Marcus really did miss your stomach-bear, though, and he would occasionally drop comments like ‘this is one of those moments when mama bear would have roared’, and you felt a little bit sorry for him. It was like he’d lost a puppy. While you ate, you started discussing what places you thought might be nice for a venue.

“Churches are nice, but a bit… I hesitate to say ‘stuffy’.”

“Yeah. They feel so formal, like you’re not allowed to have fun, and I really want us and our guests to feel like we’re allowed to have fun.”

“Definitely. So, what about restaurants?”

“Not my thing, if I’m honest, hermosa.”

“I figured. Pavilion?”

“Now, we’re talking. A big one, with lots of decorations and a dance-floor!”

“You and your dancing.”

“Oh, no; you’re the dancer, remember?”

“And your foxtrot is adequate, but your waltz needs some work.”

“Thanks. So, do we know of any potentially available pavilions, or are we gonna have to build one?”

“Don’t you worry about that, sugar-plum, if it’s a pavilion you’re looking for – I know the perfect one.”

Velma approached your table, wearing an even more daring outfit than last time you’d seen her. As always, she made a show of eyeing Marcus up and down and making appreciative noises to showcase his hunky-ness. And, as always, Marcus just smiled and let her do her thing.

“Where is it?”

“Didn’t I just tell you not to worry? I’ll take you to see it later if you want, but for now – I need to borrow your little cherry, here. Time to dolly you up, hon.”

“It’s finished?”

“Literally seconds ago. I came to find you right away, I need to see it on you before I can definitively say that it’s done.”

Marcus beamed at you both while Velma slipped her arm through yours and led you back to her cave.

Somehow, you’d expected it to be difficult to get into, or at least require assistance, but it wasn’t. It wasn’t a big or flaunty thing, nor was it heavy or complicated in its design. And yet, there was something so special about it. It was snow-white with a hint of gold to the shimmer in the fabric, to match the rings. It was an off the shoulder style dress, with long sleeves in the most beautiful lace you’d ever seen, that carried over into the body of the dress as well, though it was purely ornamental there, as the actual body was made from satin. From the waist down, there was no lace, but tiny golden details had been sewn into the satin and it made the dress come alive somehow. The skirt was cleverly designed, so that it billowed out just a little, but without getting puffy, and it was still just two layers, making it easy to handle and comfortable to move in. There was no train, but she had made you a vail in the same exquisite lace, in case you decided that you wanted one.

“Oh, my. Honey… I thought it looked gorgeous on the mannequin, but damn! You make this dress.”

“It’s perfect, Velma. It’s everything I didn’t know I wanted.”

“Marcus is gonna swoooooon…”

“He’s gonna love it.”

“Well, just make sure to have someone strong standing next to him so they can catch him when he inevitably goes down.”

You just smiled at her.

“Oh, and thank you for the shoes. You’re right, I’m gonna love these a lot more than the dress before the night’s over.”

“You got that right, Cherie.”

You met up with Marcus as soon as you were done in the cave, and the smile that lit up his face when he saw you carrying the special box that housed the dress, shoes and vail, could have put the sparkles in Velma’s very short skirt to shame.

“You actually have it? It’s finished?”

“It’s right in here.”

He looked positively squirmy with anticipation.

“And it’s even more beautiful than anything you’ve imagined. Trust me.”

He chuckled.

“I do.”

Velma took you out to see the pavilion she’d mentioned, and it really was perfect. It sat on several acres of green lawns and meadows, with a large pond not too far from the structure. You could have the ceremony out on the grass, overlooking the water, and put up a canopy over the tables and chairs for the dinner and cake. And then move over to the pavilion for the dancing and fun-times. There were huge old oak-trees framing the entire area, giving the whole place a bit of a fairy-tale feeling.

“Marcus, we have to pick a date. We have to find out if this place is available for us.”

“Oh, don’t you worry about that, honey-bun. It’ll be available whenever you want it.”

Velma gave you this knowing look and you gawked at her.

“You own this place?”

“For a long time now. I only use it for very special occasions, and I don’t go blabbering about it to every Joe and Willy looking for a party-house. But for you, my turtle-doves, it’ll always be available.”

By the time you went to bed that day, you’d not only picked a date, but completed and sent all of the invitations as well. You were going to get married on the ten-month anniversary of when you first opened your eyes and saw him by your bedside, which gave you roughly a month to get everything ready. And since you had everything pretty much figured out already, that wasn’t going to be a hard deadline to keep.

Or, so you thought.

But the day before the wedding came at you like you’d somehow fallen asleep at the wheel going 200mph down the highway. Suddenly it was all happening. And while you were totally ready emotionally, you were also just not ready over-all, and you woke up that morning feeling sick. Actually sick. Marcus was too excited to get more than 4h of sleep per night in the week leading up to that day, but he didn’t want to disturb you, so he’d gotten up and left the bedroom some time earlier that morning. You walked into the bathroom to splash some cold water on your face but it didn’t do much to alleviate the nausea, so you gave up and just got dressed instead.

“Hey, alma, are you okay?”

“Yeah, sweetie, just feeling a little overwhelmed I guess.”

“You sure?”

“I’ll be fine, don’t worry. The wedding is happening, come hell or high water.”

“Good.”

“Where’s Marcus?”

“He got called in to work really early, some crisis with a blue-whale, I think.”

“Okay, well, then I’ll drive you to school.”

“Are you sure you shouldn’t just take a sick-day?”

“I’m not gonna be helped by sitting here wringing my hands all day. Let’s go, Maid of Honour.”

She smiled at that, but then frowned.

“You’re not gonna have breakfast?”

“Kid, I’ll be happy if I can keep the damned pill down this morning.”

You dropped her off and went to work, intending to treat this like any other Friday. But when you stepped into your office, there was a weird smell that just set off all your senses, and you had to duck over the first available trashcan and vomit. Since your stomach was empty, all that came up was bile, and that somehow made you even more nauseas.

What the fuck was that smell?

You abandoned your office and headed for Marcus’ instead. It smelled fine, so you sat down at his computer and used your own login to access your files and get to work. But after about an hour you’d had to visit his bathroom three times as your stomach continued to try and cough up shit that wasn’t even there, and you gave up, and headed down to medical.

You had just intended to ask for some anti-nausea medication, but because of your medical history, they insisted on an exam to rule out any possible delayed complications.

You left medical in a daze, not even realising where you were going before you found yourself back in Marcus’ office. You sat down in one of the sofas and just waited. You didn’t dare to even try and feel anything without him there, because you were afraid that you might suddenly feel way too much, and you needed him to be there, to keep you calm if that happened. Some time later, Crushing ducked his head in and had to almost shout to get your attention.

“Huh… What?”

“I said, Marcus went home straight from the mission, two hours ago, he had something he wanted to get done for tomorrow. So, there’s no need to wait for him here.”

“Oh. What time is it?”

“Almost five.”

“Shit…”

“Hey, you okay?”

“I hope so. Yes. I mean, yes.”

“Want me to take you home?”

“No, I’ll be fine, thanks Crush.”

You drove home being almost ridiculously cautious and you laughed a little at yourself when you parked the car, next to Marcus’. You were surprised to find the front door locked. You never locked the door when you were home. They must have gone out on foot for some reason. Fishing your keys out of your bag, you unlocked it and stepped inside, and you were just about to call out to see if anyone was home, when you heard a sound that made every hair on your body stand straight up. It was a mechanical sound, a machine of some sort. You couldn’t identify it, but your body sure as hell remembered it. Walking into the living room, a fear unlike anything you’d ever felt before, flooded every cell inside of you. Your own blood rushing in your ears drowned out the sound of your keys and handbag falling to the floor, as you tried to take in what you were seeing.

Tubes… wires… computers… machines… bags of liquids… chairs that weren’t chairs but fucking instruments of torture. Two of them. One for Marcus… and one for Missy. And right in between them – Dr. Prince.

Authors’ Note: I love criticism, don’t be shy to let me know if there’s anything you like/don’t like/have questions about.

@blueeyesatnight @farfromjustordinary @allmyspideys @hrk-fic-recs @strawberryperegrine @lucrezia-thoughts @computeringturtle @sarahjkl82-blog

#marcus moreno #marcus moreno x reader #marcus moreno fic #we can be heroes #we can be heroes fic #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal characters

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angrylizardjacket · 3 years

Text

dirtbags // 2: Lola

Summary: High school AU, 1984, Winter. It’s hard to make friends when you’re the new kid starting halfway through Junior year, but slowly Lola seems to be making a few. It’s much easier to have a rumour started about you, especially when you tend to make questionable choices at parties, but that’s much less fun.

A/N: 8173 words. Lola’s dad is the MVP, trust me. i meant to put this out a week ago whoops!! also im allowed to reference my own Queen oc as a treat. @bluehourmotel, @misscharlottelee and again, interludes are A Softer World quotes.

[ m a s t e r p o s t ]

the best revenge is living well. the second best revenge is fire ants.

The fact that after being in town for a total of two weeks, Lola’s closest friend is the gas station attendant a full fifteen minute drive away from her house is kind of sad. Not that she’s disappointed to be Mick’s friend, he’s got a dry sense of humor but a good heart and he’s refreshing honesty, but she’s been at this new school for about a week and a half, has already made out with at least one person, has possibly convinced said-person’s cousin that she’s trying to corrupt him, and started to make a name for herself - whether it’s good or bad is yet to be seen -, and yet Mick Mars, nineteen-year-old gas station attendant, apprentice electrician, and aspiring guitar player is her closest friend.

But she’s always been kind of terrible at making friends her own age.

“You have lost all respect from me,” Mick told her on Monday morning after the party, over the counter of the gas station as he’s ringing her up for her smokes and iced coffee before she went to school, “you could have picked anyone to mack on at that party, and you chose Tommy fuckin’ Lee?”

“He was nice to me, what was I meant to do?” Lola declared, realizing too late that that statement revealed absolutely too much about herself to a near stranger. Mick, however, just gives her a flat look.

“You need higher standards.” He doesn’t seem too phased by her. Lola takes this in stride, and nods, agreeing with a sigh.

“What time do you finish work?” She asks, changing the subjects quickly as she’s pulling out a bill from her back pocket, “dad said he’s happy to let you have a look at that weird light switch that doesn’t do anything that I was telling you about.”

“I finish at ten tonight, I’m working a double,” he groans at the very thought of it. Lola gives him a sympathetic look, and tells him to only come around if he’s up to it, otherwise leaving it for another day.

That’s the day that Lola realises the whole school knows about her and Tommy at the party, that she has Art with Charlotte before lunch, and also that Charlotte can’t look her in the eye.

Tuesday the school realises that she’s not just Lola Who Gives It Up For Free At Parties, but that she’s Lola The New Girl and that they don’t know anything about her beyond that. There’s a guy in her wood working class with long black hair and a dangerous smile that winks at her; she flips him off, knowing all he cared about was knowing if the rumours were true. She’s got AP French last period with that ginger from the party who wouldn’t stop laughing, Eileen; she’s a lot more serious, sober. The cheerleader, Heather, won’t stop giving her these weird, calculating looks.

Wednesday there’s a new rumour, that she was expelled from her last school. The population of the school hasn’t decided what exactly they think she was expelled for yet. Turns out she has English with that guy from her woodworking class, he just hadn’t turned up for their lesson on Monday; he sits at the back like Lola, in the other corner, and the teacher calls him Nikki in a tone like she’s already disappointed. Lola can see why, he fell asleep at his desk. Art last period with Charlotte; she still barely looks at Lola.

Thursday. Heather asks in AP French if Lola’s heard what everyone’s saying about her; her tone is sweet and dangerous in equal measure and Lola doesn’t trust what’s about to come out of her mouth. The new rumour is that Lola was expelled for sleeping with a teacher; something about the glint in Heather’s eye is cruel, and Lola asks her sweetly if she’s more jealous of Lola or the teacher. That shuts Heather up fast, and Eileen’s cough behind them sounds more like she’s trying to hide a laugh. But it still gets to her; Lola focuses so hard on ignoring the girls gossiping loudly about her at their station behind her in Home Economics that she burns the apple danishes she was attempting, and she throws the burnt pastries, and the tray they’d been cooking on, into the bin until she realises her mistake and sulkily fishes the tray out again. Thankfully, the teacher didn’t notice.

Friday, and Lola hasn’t paid much attention to Vince, whose house she’s been to but who she hadn’t properly met until their classes had P.E at the same time; he’s in the year below her, but still manages to sidle up to her while they’re both waiting for their teachers to prepare the field for whatever torture they’re masquerading as physical exercise today. She tells him to fuck off; there’s something about the way he conducts himself that she doesn’t like, like he’s putting on a show of being shallow and vain and the life of the party. Instead, Vince’s voice goes quiet and he tells her that Tommy’s a good kid with a good heart -

“You give this speech to everyone you caught making out at your parties, or just me, ‘cos you think I’m a bitch and I’m gonna hurt one of ‘your bros’?” She snapped, lip curling, and Vince’s brow creases into a frown, “I’m not his fucking girlfriend, we made out a little, you don’t have to act like I’m going to break his heart, so piss off.”

A moment passes, and he appears to don his shallow, playboy mask when he asks her slyly if the rumours are true. She shoves him hard enough that he skitters back a few feet, and Lola earns her first after school detention.

The thing is, she and Tommy are already on the same page about this, it was a what happens while drunk at a party stays at that party. Or at least, it’s meant to. Either way, Charlotte’s protectiveness, and Vince’s... attempt at protectiveness was unwarranted. Maybe it’s because Tommy, for whatever reason, has started hanging around Lola at lunch.

She doesn’t sit in the cafeteria like the rest of them, or even on that little section of the roof the intimidating pack of punks, rockers, and smokers have found a way to get to. Lola sits against the fence near the science building, close to the carpark that’s always open for some stupid reason, as though she’s contemplating bolting.

“Don’t you have friends?” Lola’s tone is kind of hard, and perhaps her words are on the nose, and a little cruel, but it’s Wednesday, and this is the third day in a row he’s found her and spent the entirety of lunch with her. They don’t speak much, Lola smokes and picks apart whatever her dad’s latest cooking experiment is before she eats it, and Tommy practices twirling his drumsticks.

“I have friends, do you?” Tommy responds, more than a little defensive, rubbing at his brow where he’d just managed to hit himself mid-drumstick-twirl, taken aback by her question. Lola gives him a flat look. “Someone told me you were expelled from your last school,” Tommy’s gaze shifts to the carpark, to the last car and it’s telltale rocking and fogged up windows.

“They say why?”

“Nah,” Tommy shakes his head, scowl softening as he gets back to practicing, “it true?” Lola’s picking out and eating the apple chunks from the slice of pie her father had packed for the day, still watching the car with the mildest of interest. She shakes her head. Tommy hums noncommittally. They spend the rest of lunch in silence.

“He keeps hanging out with me!” The following afternoon, Lola gripes to Mick on his smoke break after she gets out of school for the afternoon.

“You keep hanging out with me,” Mick points out, peeling the label off of a bottle of soda.

“And?”

“I don’t tell you to fuck off.”

“Yeah? So?”

“Because,” and Mick heaves a heavy sigh, like it pains him to admit, “we’re friends, Lola,” but he pauses and amends, “God knows why.”

“Fuck you, I’m a delight,” Lola huffs, and pulls her oversized denim jacket tighter around herself to ward off the chill of the afternoon breeze. If this were pretty much any other state, they’d be knee-deep in snow; thank God for LA, snow’s pretty for five minutes before it’s a pain.

“Do you tell him to fuck off?” Mick asks pointedly, as if exhausted that he has to spell it out for her. Lola’s quiet, but her answer’s clear. Mick clears his throat with a cough. Lola’s scowl deepens.

She brings it up to her father that night.

“Do you reckon Tommy’s trying to be my friend?” She asked, gaze intense as she focuses on slicing apples into little cubes. Leo, her father, who was kneeding a blend of spices into a ball of dough that would end up being a pie crust, paused.

“The kid who has been hanging out with you at lunch?” He thought for a moment, “the one from the party?”

“I told him it was nothing serious-” Lola tried, exasperatedly cutting the apples a little rougher, but her father’s warm, gentle laugh cut her off.

“Yes, I think he’s trying to be your friend,” he told her, which Lola hadn’t exactly wanted to hear, but the information was easier to digest coming from him than it was coming from Mick, “he obviously likes you -”

“But I told him -”

“I know, you told him it wasn’t serious, but dear, that doesn’t mean he likes you less as a person - you’re a very cool cat, I can see why he’d want to be your friend,” he gives her finger guns, and Lola can’t help but laugh softly at his attempt to be hip.

“Christ, dad,” Lola huffs, smiling fondly, but he’d managed to cheer her spirits considerably.

“I burnt my danishes today,” Lola’s voice goes quiet as she goes back to focusing on her task, and her dad makes a noise of intrigue, “got distracted and crisped the whole tray.”

“You’ll get ‘em next time; just fifteen minutes, remember?”

“Fifteen minutes, no distractions,” Lola agreed, almost by rote, thankful that he doesn’t ask about what had distracted her. She can still hear the whispered gossip and giggles that had come from the cooking station behind her in Home Economics.

Her dad knows that her peers think she was expelled from her last school, but she keeps her mouth shut about the fact that today they’d decided it was because she had relations with a teacher; he knows almost everything about her, but he didn’t need to know about a whole school calling her a slut. He’d blow it out of proportion, and it isn’t getting to her since she knew for a fact it wasn’t true.

They finish the apple pie with it’s rosemary and lemongrass crust in good spirits. The flavours don’t go together as well as Leo had hoped, but it’s another step closer to the perfect apple pie he’d been trying for. Leo packs her two of the leftover slices for lunch, as a not-so-subtle hint.

On Friday, Lola hands Tommy a plastic container with a piece of apple pie, with a rosemary and lemongrass crust in it.

“Is it poison?” He asks. Lola doesn’t look at him, picking the individual apple pieces out and eating them one at a time.

“The crust tastes weird if you eat it with the filling,” Lola’s voice is flat as she explains instead of answering, “but the apples are sweet.” She eats another cube of apple, then breaks off a corner of the golden, perfectly cooked crust, now cold and stiff from spending the night in the refrigerator.

“Why are you giving me this?”

“Eat it or don’t, I don’t care,” Lola tells him, hunching further in on herself; like this, she can’t see the way Tommy’s expression has broken out into a smile.

“Thanks Lola,” but the smile is evident in his voice, confirming all of her suspicions at once. Tommy took her at her word when she said the rumours weren’t true, even if the rest of the school believed them, so Lola supposes she’s actually okay with the fact that her second ever friend in the entirety of California is the marching band geek in the year below her who she made out with at a party once.

Also maybe she’s just kind of terrible at making friends.

you and me baby! we are the future! and the future is bleak.

“Wait, you’ve never met Nikki Sixx?” Tommy asked, sitting patiently with his back against the fence, his hand resting on her knee as she fills in the the nails of his left hand with black sharpie, “didn’t you go to his gig the other week?”

“I didn’t know anyone,” Lola pointed out, and Tommy makes a thoughtful noise.

“You’d love him, he’s so fucking cool,” he assured her, which made Lola give pause; Tommy also thinks Vince is fucking cool, and she wants to throw Vince out a window, “he was the one on bass.”

“The one in the leather pants?” Lola couldn’t help but smile at the memory; she’d appreciated it at the time, and could appreciate it now. Tommy, however, rolled his eyes.

“The girls love the leather pants,” he gave a quiet sigh, before adding, almost to himself, “wish I had leather pants.”

“Leather pants would look good on you,” Lola pinches at his thigh for a moment, and goes back to filling in his nails. missing Tommy’s pleased, flustered little smile.

“You know Freddie paints his nails like this,” Tommy says instead, changing the topic of conversation.

“Freddie?”

“Mercury. From Queen; you know Queen, right?” And he sounds kind of skeptical, like if she doesn’t know them, they can’t be friends anymore. Lola pauses again, her hand soft on Tommy’s where she’s filling in around his ring finger’s cuticle.

“I wanna climb John Deacon like a fucking tree,” she mutters, which startles a laugh out of Tommy, his hand jerking up to cover his mouth, making Lola leave a black line against his knee, through the rip in his jeans. When she looks up at him, however, her eyes are shining with mirth, “come on, man, you must have seen the video of them performing in Montreal last year!” And she licks her lips, watching Tommy’s blush grow steadily darker. After a beat, Lola bursts out laughing, shattering the tension and shifting to sit beside him, idly doodling on her own hand with the marker as Tommy shakes his head with amusement.

Lola starts humming Back Chat to herself, and Tommy leans his head back against the wire of the fence, listening for a moment.

“You and Charlie would get along great too,” he considers, and Lola doesn’t stop humming, nor does she look to him, “she likes Roger, but probably just because she thinks he’s pretty.” Lola can hear his eyeroll without even seeing it, and she’s not sure why, but she files that information away in the back of her mind; she’d never gotten an especially shallow vibe from Charlotte, but there was a uncertain undeniable appeal to Roger Taylor’s pretty-boy charm.

“Didn’t his girlfriend leave him for Bowie?” Lola asks mildly, barely pausing to speak between humming notes.

“Rocket Mercury?”

“Her name’s Rocket?” Lola snorts, finally looking at him, and Tommy’s lips twisted into an amused grin.

“Her name’s Ash, but everyone calls her Rocket,” he says, like he’s in the know, and Lola stays quiet, nodding and trying not to laugh, “and yeah, I think so, she’s been with a few people since him I think; Bowie, this girl from this English band Hawkwind, Elton John maybe? Or someone around him I think.” Tommy nods, and Lola’s kind of intrigued as to why he knows so much about Queen’s drummer’s partner, but something else has caught her attention.

“A girl from Hawkwind?” Tommy doesn’t seem to notice the way Lola’s voice has softened, or how her expression has dropped to something carefully neutral. She’s drawing a little flower on the knuckle of her thumb.

“One of their dancers, Stacy, maybe?” Tommy’s own tone is light, like he doesn’t even realise Lola’s hanging onto his every word regarding this one little detail about a woman she doesn’t even know, “was kind of a scandal, but it was years ago; she’s Freddie’s sister after all, maybe it’s genetic.”

“Genetic?”

“Liking girls and guys, you know?” And he pauses. Lola’s frozen beside him, the marker pressed hard against her skin, breath caught in her throat. He throws it out so casually, so easily. Her hands are shaking. The words so kind when he says them, so unlike what she’s used to hearing. Tommy’s already moved on to the next thought. “actually, I’m not sure if Freddie’s like, legit her brother, but anyways, she and Roger are back together; I’m glad.” As if a sixteen-year-old’s opinion on a rock legend’s love life mattered, “he seems happier with her, all his best live shows were when they were together.”

“I’d kill to play half as well as him,” it’s almost wistful when Tommy says it, interrupting Lola’s thoughts, his gaze trained on the sky, as if imagining he’s on stage himself. Lola lets out a long, quiet breath, recentering herself as she looks to him.

“You wanna play drums?”

“I can play drums,” Tommy tells her like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, “but not nearly as good as Roger Fucking Taylor, can you imagine?” But Lola’s more focused on the -

“I thought you just played in the marching band, can you play, like, full -” and she sits forward, gesturing like she’s tapping on a full drumkit, eyes shinning. Suddenly, in the face of her rare, unrestrained smile, Tommy feels himself growing nervous, like he’ll let her down if he’s not actually as good as he thinks he is.

“I’ve got a kit in my garage,” he admits, and Lola pauses, letting her excitement simmer, as though realising it had gotten the best of her, breaking her cool and aloof facade.

“That’s cool as hell,” she does add, however, and Tommy beams.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, all flustered at even the slightest praise, “man, you’d really like Charlie, I know she looks all fancy and intimidating, but she’s a real softie inside.”

“You are really pushing hard for me to be friends with your cousin,” Lola notes, giving him a sidelong glance, and Tommy’s nose scrunches up, caught out.

“She thinks you’re trying to corrupt me,” he grumbles, “but if you guys met she’d know you’re not.”

“I am corrupting you,” Lola smirks, “next week I plan on peer pressuring you into smoking.”

“I’ve smoked before!” Tommy’s up in arms, like the implication that he hasn’t done something as low-level cool as smoking offends him.

“Dude I was kidding, I gave you half my cigarette yesterday,” Lola reminds him, and the bell rings.

While Lola was more than happy to let sleeping dogs lie, it appeared that Charlotte was not, and less than two days after her conversation with Tommy, Lola finds herself sitting by Charlotte’s side in their shared art class.

It’s the last class of the day, and Charlotte’s the one who sits by Lola. There’s no preamble, barely acknowledging the decision, just opening her notebook and focusing on the theory the teacher had already started to jot down on the whiteboard.

When they’re given free time, however, to work on personal projects, Charlotte opens her sketchbook and sharpens her pencil, and without looking at Lola, begins speaking quietly.

“Tommy thinks we’d get along,” Charlotte sounds completely innocent and perfectly harmless, but Lola remember how Charlotte had looked at her, part deer-in-the-headlights startled at the realisation, and knee-jerk protective fury, at Vince’s party when she realised who Lola had been kissing.

“So I’ve heard,” Lola doesn’t look up, but Charlotte’s pencil stills on her paper. After a beat, Lola turns to see Charlotte giving her a curious look. Propping her head up on her hand, Lola gives a thin, amused smile, “he also thinks I’d be good friends with Nikki Sixx; was he the one you yelled at, at the gig?”

Instead of being flustered or going red at the mention of the moment, Charlotte’s expression lights up, as if the idea somehow delights her, and slowly she’s nodding. All her earlier reservations and hostility was quickly leaving her.

“Yeah, actually I told Nikki you reminded me of him, actually -”

“I remind you of Nikki?” Lola’s grin widened, and she shifted to face Charlotte further.

“He’s kind of a tool -” Charlotte blurted after a moment of contemplation, and Lola’s eyebrows raised in amused surprise. Charlotte’s quick to backtrack, “I mean, I’m not saying you are- well, I don’t know you, but I mean, Tommy -” Charlotte frowns at that, expression falling as she considered quietly, “actually, I mean, I love him, but he’s not the greatest judge of character; he thinks Nikki hangs the stars, despite never really speaking to him,” she pauses and heaves a sigh of realisation, “that probably why he thinks so highly of him -”

“I thought they were friends,” Lola’s genuinely surprised, given how kindly Tommy had spoken of him.

“Half the school is terrified of Nikki, half seems to be in love with him; Tommy’s in the second half.”

“And which half are you?”

“I’m the only person who seems to think he’s just kind of a pest,” Charlotte’s response is surprisingly mild, as if she doesn’t quite believe what she’s saying.

“He’s talented, though,” Lola offers, and Charlotte looks back to her, as if brought from her own thoughts. There’s a pause, a lull. Lola puts down her pen, and turns more fully to Charlotte, stretching her arm out over the desk, and resting her head fully on it, like a particularly smug cat stretching out in the sun. Charlotte is slower to put down her pencil, but does so after another moment, pristine fingernails drumming against her sketchbook for a moment.

“He was talented,” Charlotte agreed, thought it sounds like she doesn’t quite want to, “my ex actually got me into his kind of music, he was a fan of Nikki’s too; I’d tell Nikki I enjoy his music but it’d go straight to his ego,” and she casts Lola a sidelong look, lips stretched into a smirk, which Lola returns.

“I am a little bit of a tool,” Lola finally admits with a self deprecating grin, and Charlotte shakes her head.

“You’d fucking love him,” Charlotte tells her, with a strained, sort of resigned huff of laughter, like the concept of them meeting was a little bit horrifying, and already exhausting.

“You like his kind of music,” Lola circled back around to quickly, “never pictured you as a hard rocker, you’re very...” and she trails down, looking at Charlotte’s pristine cheerleading uniform, and thick, black tights, the only thing protecting her legs from the Winter air. The blonde shifts a little uncomfortably under the scrutiny, brow furrowing.

“I know,” Charlotte says flatly, crossing her ankles, far too self aware in the moment, “you expect me to just be listening to nothing but Abba and Madonna all day?” She sneers, suddenly haughty again, and Lola licks her lips, intrigued; she can tell she’s pushed a button, and debates for a moment if she wants to press it further.

“Not all the time,” Lola said, sitting back up slowly, “but I mean, I’m kind of partial to Does Your Mother Know, there’s no shame in loving Abba,” she shrugs, and Charlotte lets herself visibly relax.

“Never pictured you as an Abba fan,” Charlotte actually grins.

There’s a distinct lack of hostility in the air between the two girls by the time the class ends, after spending the entire class gushing over various bands across a surprising range of genres, and Lola quickly finds she appreciates how wrong her initial impression of Charlotte had been.

As they’re leaving for the day, or well, Lola’s leaving, and Charlotte’s heading to cheer practice, the conversation lulls as Charlotte grows thoughtful.

“Hey, just... Tommy’s kind of a hopeless romantic,” and even as she speaks, she knows Lola’s growing irate at Charlotte’s hesitant tone, “and honestly, the girls he goes for usually don’t... they don’t usually give him the time of day, and he obviously thinks the world of you, I just don’t want you to -”

“I’ve told him that I don’t want to date him; he’s the one who keeps hanging around me,” Lola’s own tone appears to surprise Charlotte, now that she understands the root of the other girl’s protectiveness, “we’re...” and the word catches in Lola’s throat for a moment, knowing that speaking it makes it true, “friends.”

Lola glances at Charlotte out the corner of her eye, and sees the way Charlotte’s lips twist into a pleased little smirk.

“I was just making sure.”

love is stupid. happiness is admitting we aren’t better than stupid.

Leo Fields, thirty-nine years old, owner of soon-to-be-named Leo Diner’s in suburban LA, a graduate of the Culinary Institute of America, who worked in the luxurious Parker House restaurant in Boston and quit after ten years there, including three years as Sous Chef and one year as Head Chef, only to open his own 50s style diner a mere ten minutes away in Salem, has and will always claim his favourite food is Easy Cheese.

Once, a long time ago, Lola had asked him why.

She’s asked him a lot of things, why he’d left his high-end restaurant to essentially flip burgers, why he kept his hair long, what his tattoos meant -

Lola’s eight, sitting on the counter and swinging her legs while Leo was crushing garlic to add to their dinner, his hair tied back into a large bun atop his head.

“People will try and tell you that just because something is expensive, fancy, or higher class,” Leo had rolled his eyes exaggeratedly at that, putting on a voice to make his daughter laugh, “that it’s better; they are wrong. If something brings you joy, it is better than all things that do not bring you joy, no matter how fancy the things you don’t like are,” he’d told her very seriously, “better is not real, better is what you believe; better for you means healthier, and that’s real, but when people use better to mean good, they mean that it’s good in their mind, and maybe you agree, but maybe you won’t.” And he scrapes the garlic into the pan and oil cooking on low as he then began dicing onions.

“I use all my fancy training and knowledge to make foods I think are better, but now I get to also serve them with a smile, and I get to talk to the people I’m giving the food to, get to know them, let them know they’re welcome here,” he tries to smile while his eyes are watering from the onions, almost finished cutting them. “People in my old fancy restaurant didn’t want that, they wanted you to think they were better than you, and if you thought their food wasn’t good, that’s because you’re not fancy enough, and you’re not welcome here.”

“But that’s wrong,” Lola said with a slight frown, looking to her father for confirmation, and after he wiped his eyes with the back of his hands, he beamed.

“Exactly,” he nodded and scraped the diced onions into the pan too, moving easily about the kitchen to pull mince from the refrigerator, “people liking something different to you is actually great; if everyone in the world liked Easy Cheese, we’d never be able to buy it!” And Lola laughed at that, the example making it easy for her to understand his point, “but making them feel bad for liking those things, that’s bad; that’s why I have my hair long, why I have my tattoos, they’re part of who I am, they’re part of my family’s history and where I come from, and I like them. If someone else is rude to me because of them, then I know right away that’s not someone I want in my life. People like to think they’re better than other people for stupid reasons sometimes.”

“Like if they’re fancy or not?” Lola asks, and Leo gives her a fond smile and nod.

“Like if they’re fancy or not.”

Leo’s not sure if Lola even remembers this, but he does. So when Lola, seventeen years old, standing in the kitchen, eating a ham and Easy Cheese sandwich after school, tells him that Charlotte, the girl in her art class, Tommy-from-the-party’s cousin, complimented her jacket, the pin-and-patch-covered, black, denim, proto-crust-punk, heirloom he’d loaned to her since she’d asked to wear it when starting a new school, and had barely gone a day without it, he can read into her smile even when it’s hidden behind her sandwich.

“Sounds like she has good taste,” Leo leans his hip against the counter top, legs feeling the warmth of the oven where he’s got a loaf of herb and garlic bread baking away.

Lola spends a full twenty minutes enthusing about Charlotte’s taste in music, eyes bright and tone animated. He only interrupts her to hand her a packet of prosciutto and a bundle of asparagus, so she could help him prepare for dinner, but it doesn’t slow her down, hands working quickly, while Leo boiled potatoes and simmered some garlic in butter on a low heat.

Both Lola and Leo know why Lola’s been so hesitant to make friends since moving, and she knows he’d never push her into friendship, but Lola also knows it hurts him to see her lonely.

“Hey dad, I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Lola says after a long pause, finally taking a breath after she’s finished recounting her day to him, “you know Queen, right?”

“Do I know Queen?” Leo jokingly scoffed, “Lola, I’m the one who introduced you to Queen.” He reminded, and Lola gave a small smile, but her heart wasn’t in it; she wasn’t usually nervous, but talking about this sort of thing still made her heart race a little. Seeing her hesitant expression, Leo’s own softens, and he turns down the potatoes to turn his full attention to her, “what about Queen?”

“I didn’t know Freddie’s sister was with the drummer,” Lola starts, fiddling with the final piece of asparagus. She’s quick to follow it up before she can chicken out, “and I didn’t know... she’s like Bowie, and Fred, and... and me, you know?” Lola finally wraps up the final vegetable and places it on the glass baking tray with the rest, before she looks to her father who was watching her pensively, hoping he understands what she’s trying to say.

“That’s little Rocket Mercury you’re talking about, isn’t it?” He asked as a smile stretched across his lips, “I heard that about her, I always thought she was so cool, she worked on Spinal Tap, you remember I took you to see Spinal Tap a few months ago?”

Lola’s heart eases in her chest at his words, his warmth, the way he seems to reflect positively on the news. While Lola knew she didn’t have anything to worry about, since the whole reason Leo had taken her and moved across the country was her mother’s less-than-kind reaction to the news of Lola dating a girl, the memory of it all still made her nervous.

Leo’s entire face lights up, and he makes a loud exclamation, like suddenly remembering some vital information, snapping Lola out of her dwelling.

“How have I never played you any Dusty Springfield?” He announces, picking up the glass tray from the table and placing it to the side, “I’ve got some of her records in my collection,” the oven timer goes off and he asks Lola to watch the potatoes so they don’t overboil while he takes out the bread and puts the asparagus in, “Dusty’s like you too; she’s a pop-star from the sixties, lovely voice, told the Evening Standard she liked girls and boys all the way back in nineteen-seventy.” He says as he sets the timer for the asparagus, and Lola wraps her arms around him from behind, if only to hide how wide she’s smiling.

“She pretty?” Lola asked, grinning against his soft, woolen sweater. Leo gently pet her hands where they were wrapped around his middle, giving a warm laugh.

“Very; it’s no wonder girls and boys liked her too.”

Lola had never seen her father flinch in the face of change, and for that she would always be grateful for him. The only time she’d ever seen him lose his cool was when he’d come to her defense against her mother’s bigotted views; apart from that, she’d never known anyone more willing to go with the flow.

Take last week, for instance, Mick had taken Saturday off from the gas station to go look at the fixture Lola had mentioned not seemingly connected to anything. Leo had finally had the red and white, checkered floor installed earlier that week, and the booths had been reupholstered over Thursday and Friday in a shiny, inviting, deep peach, to compliment the warm aesthetic completed by the pleasantly sunny walls.

One of the many things about Lola is that she know when people look at her father, they never expect him to be the embodiment of sunshine; six-foot-something, built like a tank from doing a majority of the manual labor around his diners on his own. His traditional, Hawaiian tattoos were on full display today, across his chest, arms, and legs, wearing a singlet and shorts despite it being the middle of winter, after spending all morning hauling an industrial freezer into the kitchen, with what little help Lola could offer. He wears his long, wavy black hair in a ponytail down his back; the only thing that ever betrayed the warmth of his personality was the crows feet by his eyes, the laugh lines around his mouth, and the kindness in his eyes themselves.

Leo Fields, teddy-bear in the body of a GI Joe, took one look at Mick Mars, the weary, rather scrawny teenager with barely any face visible for his long, shaggy, dyed black hair, and gave him a bright smile, ushering him inside. He introduces himself, and immediate asks what kind of music Mick listened to.

“I fucking hate Kiss,” Mick had said immediately, knee-jerk hostility, the way he was shifting his weight from one foot to the other being the only giveaway to how intimidated he felt.

“They can be a lot some times,” Leo had shrugged, gesturing to the jukebox, “I’ve already put a few of my favourites in, you wanna see if anything catches your eye?” Mick moves quietly, as if afraid to make a noise, even stepping in combat boots he barely makes a sound, and Leo makes mention that he’s going to freshen up, and that Lola knows what switch needs to be looked at.

“Hendrix?” Mick says with a hint of pleased surprise, right before Leo leaves, and Lola’s father gives a nod.

“Put it on, man, turn it up loud; it’s Electric Ladyland in there, right?” And at Leo’s question, Mick nods. Leo gives a delighted thumbs up, and heads upstairs to the flat above the diner.

“That’s your dad?” Mick asks, voice low after Leo’s disappeared, hitting play on the Jimi Hendrix record. Lola’s sitting on the counter, swinging her legs; she knows looks like him, same face, same long, dark hair, same copper complexion, it’s usually the staggering difference in their respective physicalities that seemed to trip people up, so his confusion wasn’t a surprise.

“That’s my dad,” Lola agrees, with a slight nod, looking around the warm and inviting diner that still smelled like new vinyl from the seats. She’d light a candle or two later.

Lola knows the rumours going around town about the diner, about how it’s owner was a chef, about how it’s hopefully going to serve better food than the last owners, but also how everyone knew very little about the new owner beyond that. It made her giddy, like she had a secret, to know that her father was capable of blowing their expectations out of the water with his food alone. Back in Salem, Leo’s was known for restaurant-quality food at, well, diner prices. All the fries were hand cut, there was always home made pie or slice or cookies on sale, the beef patties were made with real mince and mixed with Leo’s special blend of herbs and spices, and fish was delivered fresh, daily.

Lola knew her father knew what it was like to be discriminated against based on his looks, and how hard he’d fought to prove his skills as a chef, so in turn, he hired based on attitude and experience, and trying to give those who may not have had a fair shot an opportunity. Leo had always paid well, treated his workers with kindness, and tried to give everyone the benefit of the doubt. The diner had only ever made a modest profit, despite it’s popularity, but it had never been about the money for her father.

Back at Lola’s old high school, if you were popular, you looked for a job at the mall, but if you were an outcast, a loner, or a stoner, you applied for Leo’s; her dad had the ability to bring out the best in people, no-one wanted to disappoint Leo.

Her dad would never go anything as gauche as brag, but he has always prided himself on the quality of his diner and his food, glad to be putting his years of training and experience to use for people who’s appreciate it.

Mick clears his throat, snapping Lola out of her thoughts.

“Light switch?”

Mick thinks the switch probably connected to an exhaust fan the previous owner had removed, which baffled both Lola and Leo, seeing as how they’d had several exhaust fans installed, and the idea that this place had it’s one removed is unthinkable; how had they ever gotten the smell out?

After, Leo invites Mick up to have a look through his record collection, to recommend some for the jukebox, while he attempted a maple and walnut soufflé.

The moment Mick mentions he wants to join a band, Leo lights up, peppers him with questions, what type of music he likes to play, his influences, what type of band he’d like to form. Seemingly unused to the overwhelming interest and positivity regarding his aspirations, Mick is almost startled into being forthcoming, and quickly warms to Lola’s dad.

While the soufflé’s in the oven, the three of them sit on the roof and smoke, while Leo reminisces about seeing Cream live, a few months after Lola was born, and how he’d swaddled her in his concert shirt, only for her to take a liking to it, and had used it as a blanket up until she started daycare. At hearing this, Lola ducks her head to hide her smile, knowing she still had that shirt, though it was more hole than shirt at this point, hanging in her cupboard.

Occasionally, when she looks to him, Lola sees Mick regarding her with confusion, and okay, maybe she can understand why; he knows her to be reserved and dry, but with Leo, she’s outgoing and talkative and smiles so wide he can see her teeth. There’s barely a hint of her aloof façade around her father, and as Mick spends more time with him, it’s clear he can see why.

“Mick’s cool,” Leo announces with a grin when Mick himself has left, putting foil over the leftover soufflé for later, while Lola washes the few dishes and is more than happy to agree with him.

They spend Sunday decorating the diner, making it look less sparse with photos and hanging and various bits of music and pop culture memorabilia, while the jukebox blared rock and roll. A few people pass by in time to see Lola and Leo in an air guitar competition, but neither of them really care. Leo’s looks more like home by the time the sun goes down.

there will always be someone better than you. but on the bright side, who cares?

Eileen sits next to her in AP French during the entire last week of school for the semester. Everything she does seems so perfectly calculated, this change in seating included, but she refuses to acknowledge it. Heather clicks her tongue, clearly annoyed that Eileen had taken the seat she had previously vacated the day Lola staked her own next to it, and judging by Eileen’s innocent little smile, that alone made it worth it.

Lola tries not to pay too much attention to Heather, pretty, mean, and popular, almost the exact stereotype Lola had assumed Charlotte to be before she’d actually befriended her. They only have French together, but Heather keeps watching her, Lola sees it out of the corner of her eye, but her glare has become more speculative, more thoughtful as the weeks have passed, and Lola’s not quite sure what to make of it. Whatever scathing personal attack Heather’s probably working on is her business, she doesn’t know shit about Lola, so Lola tries not to care.

Once Eileen sits next to Lola, the glare comes back in full force anyhow.

On Thursday, the last AP French lesson for the semester, Eileen offers Lola a stick of spearmint gum, and it feels kind of like a test. Lola takes the gum anyways, and Eileen smiles at her, surprisingly genuine.

“You’re Charlotte’s friend,” Lola says, and Eileen’s smile widens.

“You’re the girl who kissed her cousin,” she says. Lola’s whole expression falls, mouth flattening into a thin, unamused line, ready to go on the defensive.

“And?”

Eileen shrugs, says nothing more on the subject, instead, glancing at Lola’s hands.

“My mom would kill me for wearing black nail polish, but it looks so cool on you,” She says, and Lola bites back a jaded response about her own mother, looking to her own hands, and the fresh and shiny coat of polished she’d applied the night before.

“Your mom kind of sounds like an asshole, if black nail polish is enough to get her riled up,” Lola says, without even thinking about how harsh the words sounded, but once the words are out, she adds, “and I know from asshole moms,” for good measure. Internally, she’s berating herself; if she talks about her mom, she’s terrified that she’s eventually going to answer questions about her mom, like where she was, and why Lola hates her.

“She’s just a perfectionist, and I don’t think black would suit me anyhow, so it’s not really an issue,” Eileen responds, as if she barely cares that Lola implied her mother was an asshole, and Lola lets herself relax a little, “I’m partial to a french tip,” Eileen holds out her hands to show her own manicure, the pale pink and white practically gleaming, obviously salon done.

“I coloured Tommy’s nails with sharpie,” Lola says while looking at Eileen’s elegant fingers, and Eileen actually huffs a laugh at that.

“I saw; he’s very proud of them.”

Something in Lola’s chest tightens at that; Charlotte seemed to be a good enough judge of character, and she liked Eileen well enough, so that, for now, was good enough for Lola.

Perhaps that’s why Lola had taken so long to actually speak to Nikki Sixx, despite both Charlotte and Tommy being adamant they’d get along, Charlotte’s proclamation that Nikki was kind of a tool held her back.

It’s not that she doesn’t know who he is; she’s figured out the guy who sleeps through her English classes, is trying to make an acoustic guitar in shop, and who is part of her music classes - once she’d decided to show up to those - is the same person she’d seen on stage in leather pants back at the pub. The guy who Charlotte had yelled at. A tool. Apart from the week the rumours had started circulating about her, he never paid her much attention, so she never felt the need to introduce herself. If he was a tool, she could leave him well enough alone.

Until the first day of the Winter break, apparently. Though for the record, he was the one who spoke to her.

There were technically two music shops in the local mall, a ten minute walk from Lola’s flat above the diner; she’s glad to be close to the CBD, but it also means she can’t justify asking her dad for a ride when it would take her less time to walk than it would for him to find parking.

But Monday, December 27th, was absolutely fucking freezing.

The mall itself is teeming with people looking to spend the money they’d gotten over the holiday period, and the workers had already taken down the gaudy Christmas Tree that had sat in the middle of the food court.

Lola was there at her father’s behest, sticking up and handing out flyers announcing New Year’s Day as Leo’s grand opening, and that they were hiring. She gives everyone at the food court a flyer, sticks up several in various locations, and thinks about heading back to the food court for a second round, to catch any newcomers, or anyone she may have missed, when she spots the music shops.

Bass and Treble were owned by the same people, however Treble seemed to be geared towards more classical music, with pianos and violins and flutes and all manor of orchestra-esque instruments available, while Bass seemed to be committed to rock and roll.

Nikki Sixx finds Lola crouched in front of the display of sheet music on sale in Bass.

“Lola, right?”

Lola stands so fast at his voice that her head spins, but she tries not to let it show. She’s on alert when she looks at him, tense, already scowling, which only deepens when she sees who it is.

“Nikki Sixx,” his name is not a question when it leaves her lips, but he seems pleased rather than concerned, that his reputation apparently preceded him. He nods, and looks over at what she’d been examining.

“Anything good?” He asked, and Lola looks over her shoulder at the display. She’d been seriously considering a book of Elton John’s hits for piano before he’d come along.

“Still deciding; why?”

“No reason,” he shrugged, taking his time to look nonchalantly at the various amps nearby, “you look like you’d be into this sort of thing,” he notes, acting all smug and coy and weird; Lola rolled her eyes, but didn’t answer.

“You were at my gig, we’re you? Hanging out with that guy from the gas station, right? Mick?” Something about his tone had Lola on edge and defensive.

“You guys were okay,” she says flatly, making it clear as she can that that’s barely a compliment; Nikki, however, smile widely.

“Glowing review, I’ll add it to our poster,” he smirks, before he finally looks her over, gaze zeroing in on the flyers in her hands, “speaking of -” and he snatches one, not that she’s protesting, that’s another one she doesn’t have to get rid of. Nikki’s reading the flyer and frowning, while Lola lets her attention wander to the various keyboards they have on display.

“Where’s this?” Nikki pipes up, sounding genuinely interested, while Lola’s idly playing scales with one hand on the closest, off keyboard.

“A few blocks away,” Lola still hasn’t quite gotten the hang of the town’s geography, “across the road from The Kings Hotel, where I saw you play -”

“The old MacCready place?”

“It’s Leo’s now,” Lola says, arms crossed, sitting low in her hips as she regards Nikki, and the way he’s going over every little detail of the poster, “Charlotte says you’re a tool.”

“Charlotte just hates that she likes me so much,” Nikki doesn’t even miss a beat before answering, and when he looks up to catch Lola’s reaction, his grin is all teeth. Lola can’t help the slight smile she wears as she takes in his response.

“I can see why,” Lola’s not quite sure what she’s going for with her own response, but it comes out more teasing than cutting, and there’s something in Nikki’s eye, or in his smile, or maybe it’s in his easy laughter, that has her heart beating weird in her chest.

A moment passes between them, a shift in the tone, the energy of the interaction as Lola drops her immediate hostility; she’s been doing that a lot lately, but she tries not to dwell on it. It’s now she gets a proper look at him, at his ripped jeans and all black, leather jacket, hair sprayed to high heavens like he’s about to join Poison; he looks unkempt and mean, and Lola’s kind of really into it.

They’re checking each other out, sizing each other up, and they both seem to find something in the other they like, because Nikki’s grinning at Lola when gaze meets hers again, and she’s smirking right back.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” she tells him, hip cocked for a moment before she saunters past him, knocking into him with her shoulder purposefully. When Nikki stumbles back, he huffs a laugh, and Lola calls over her shoulder, “Leo’s is hiring by the way, Leo himself would probably love a fucker like you.”

#nikki sixx #tommy lee #mick mars #the dirt #motley crue #motley crue imagine #nikki sixx imagine #tommy lee imagine #tommy lee & oc #the pack #lola&charlotte #charlotte & lola

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moonflower-31 · 3 years

Text

I Won’t Forget You - Spencer x Reader

Masterlist

Part 23

Pairing: Spencer x Reader

A/N: So... Long time no talk? Sorry guys. Depression sucks and so does life. What can ya do. But I hope this is good. My school just went on lockdown for 2 weeks so i should be able to get back into the swing of things. No guarantees btw. But please enjoy this part. I think it’s pretty good for someone who hasn’t written for two weeks. XD

Warnings: A lot of shouting, cursing, name-calling, self-doubt (obviously), and slightly panic attack (I’ll go more into it in the next part)

Tags: @dra-reid, @eevee0722, @ceeellewrites, @anotherr-fine-mess, @ssahoodrathotchner, @egg-boy03, @helena-way07, @l0ve-0f-my-life, @serendipity-imagines, @kaelyn-lobrutto24, @thatsonezesty13

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

A week later, and you had finally been released from the hospital. Your infection had gotten to a manageable point where you could just take antibiotics and be cured of it in a few more weeks. Spencer had spent the entire time with you, never leaving your side. Except when you had to use the restroom. Obviously.

"Spence… you gotta shower, seriously. I'm thankful, really, that you stayed with me all week. But you need a shower. Bad." You insist, hobbling slightly as you walk out of the hospital.

You sigh softly to yourself, closing your eyes tightly for a moment as you waited for Spencer. Trying to hide the ever growing terror that filled your heart was getting increasingly harder to hide. But you didn't have time for therapy or to feel sorry for yourself. The BAU never made your case an active one despite two agents having gone missing and being taken. Which told you well enough that you weren't worth the time. Serial killers deserved more attention than you.

"Hey, are you okay, (Y/N)?"

The sudden touch to your shoulder plus the speech coming from Spencer pulled a shriek from your lungs. You jumped and looked toward Spencer terrified for a few agonizingly long moments.

You took a deep breath and refocused your breathing, hoping to ease your racing heart back to it's slightly less annoying rhythm.

"Y-yeah…" you murmur, shaking your head in an attempt to clear your mind. You also cleared your throat for good measure. "Yeah, I uh… I'm okay. Just a little… jumpy is all."

Spencer’s frown deepens on his face, looking towards you sadly. Was this really the time for him to tell you how he felt? No, it really wasn't. You were healing. No, you are healing. You didn't need the confusion of a brand new romantic relationship to be added to your already overflowing plate.

"Well… I'm here if you need me." Spencer assured, flashing a gentle smile towards you. You sighed and nodded back to hin.

"Yeah, yeah," you exhaled, looking away from Spencer and not meeting his gaze. "Thanks."

Spencer could feel the wedge you were unknowingly making grow between you. He hoped he could help you. After Hankel, he had hardly anyone. If he could make a difference in your PTSD, he would. He would try his damndest even if it killed him.

"Well… I can at least get you back to the apartment. I'm sure Hotch will understand why I'm a few minutes late-" Spencer began, directing you towards the parking lot. He looked back at you and saw a flash of fear run over your (E/C) eyes as you stopped.

"N-no. No, I need to get back to work. I don't have any vacation days saved up. I gotta go with you to work." You insisted, feeling a heavy stone of fear weigh on your chest.

Spencer narrowed his eyes and looked over at you, stopping in his tracks. "(Y/N), Hotch gave you vacation days. You don't have to go back right now-"

"No, Spencer. I'm going back. The team needs me. If I'm alone, Peter’s gonna have a better chance at finding me so-" the tears began falling before you could even realize. You feel your voice crack in your throat and all you knew to do was cover your mouth and try to smother your sobs.

Spencer’s arms were around you before you could say, his hand rubbing your back while his other cradled your head. He didn't say anything, he just held you. You were thankful he hadn't. It was all you could do to keep your hand over your mouth and the other fisted in Spencer's days old cardigan.

After what felt like forever, (reality was five minutes) Spencer pulled slightly away and tilted your head up to encourage you to look at him. "W-why don't we just get in the car for now? Figure things out on the way?" Spencer asked. Maybe you could still work. But he would put his foot down personally if you did anything other than desk work.

You nodded subtly and swallowed what remained of your sobs. Spencer smiled gently and began guiding you towards the parking lot gently, not forcing you to venture any faster than you felt comfortable.

You found yourself wandering with your eyes across the street, having become more vigilant and observant since your capture. Everything seemed normal. Couples were walking together hand in hand, some with kids. Some business men and women walked with their phones glued to their ears while some people were carrying groceries to their car. It wasn't suspicious at all. It should have calmed you. But it didn't. The only thing you found yourself able to be calm about was the fact that Spencer had his arms around you. That was what made you feel safe.

Spencer looked towards you, watching you for a few moments. He watched your eyes wandering frantically across the parking lot and put two and two together. Just being in the parking lot scared you. Spencer couldn’t help but relate. The crunch of leaves had been his trigger for a few weeks after his kidnapping. Spencer squeezed you closer and rubbed your shoulder to get your attention. You turn your head back towards him, finding a relieving inhale enter you at the sight of his kind eyes once again looking into yours. “I’ll go pull up the car. You think you can stay here for a few seconds?” He asks. A jolt of regret strikes him as he sees the fear fill your pupils. But you don’t verbalize these fears. Instead you nodded silently.

Spencer gave you a gentle grin before he went to go bring the car towards you. That way you didn’t have to step foot in the parking lot. He knew he was probably risking a few things, but at least you didn’t have to be fearful of the asphalt.

You bit your lip anxiously, the hairs on your arms raising in false alarm. You knew you were safe. Your brain knew you were safe. But your heart was in overdrive. It had stolen the control console from your brain and was currently making you an emotional and anxious mess. A part of you didn’t want to go to work. It wanted to take your time to recover. But the rest of you was adamant on going. The case hadn’t been made priority. They were just lucky that no cases were deemed important enough for the BAU to help during the week you and Morgan had been missing.

You remained lost in your thoughts until you felt the touch of Spencer’s hand on your shoulder. You looked up and gave him a gentle smile.

“We’re gonna be late if we don’t go now. We have 39 minutes till we are considered late.” Spencer informs, trying not to derail from his normal personality so much that you noticed. He hated being pitied. And he knew that you did as well.

You nodded and began to follow. You climbed into the passenger seat and fastened your seatbelt. Your hands flexed and moved anxiously, unable to sit still. You took a few deep breaths, hearing Spencer get into the car alongside you.

You finally opened your eyes and felt the car roar to life underneath you. You were heading back to work. You'd get back to normal soon. You had to.

○●♡●○

The both of you had found a comfortable silence in the transport to the BAU. Spencer kept a comforting hand in yours, allowing you to squeeze it when needed.

But now, as Spencer pulled into his usual parking spot, did your chest begin to tighten somewhat. You hadn't been here for what felt like years. Peter had abducted you from this very parking lot. Anyone would understandably be anxious.

But by some miracle, you managed to keep your anxieties covert as Spencer and you got out of the car. Of course, Spencer suspected you had a little fear from being back here, but didn't push you. Many statistics had shown in the past that forcing a PTSD victim to share their trauma without it being their terms can be destructive to their mental health. Translation: He wasn't going to ask you about it.

The ride up the elevator was torturous. Slow, agonizing, and not to mention extremely long. You found yourself fidgeting and moving in place rather than standing still. You'd never done this before. To say it didn't worry you would be a very big lie.

"Are you sure you're ready, (Y/N)? You can always utilize the time off Hotch gave you."

You appreciated Spencer’s worry, you really did. It helped to have someone there who was willing to care when you weren't. But that didn't mean that you still didn't get somewhat annoyed over the continuous asking.

"Yeah, I'm fine Spencer. I just need to get my mind off…" you stopped and pushed a heavy exhale from your chest. "Everything."

Spencer didn't push, and soon enough the two of you were inside the BAU's glass doors, walking towards the familiar bullpen. You subconsciously fix the cuffs of your dress shirt, avoiding the eyes of everyone who was shocked to see you.

You sighed softly as you both continued into the bullpen, meeting the eyes of two of your coworkers.

"(Y/N), What are you doing back so early? You have like, 5 weeks of available off time. You need to rest yourself. And your mind. Trauma isn't something that should be taken lightly." Prentiss spoke, stopping in your tracks to keep you from getting to your desk.

Spencer, unbeknownst to you, made a cut it out gesture to Emily and cleared his throat. "It's alright. She's only going to be doing reports and desk work." Spencer expressed, looking around at everyone who had decided to turn around a watch.

Emily sighed. "Alright. But I'm not going to let you go on any cases. I'm still your supervisory agent. You're lucky we're free of the more important cases so we've been working on yours." You feel an icy stab to the chest from her comment, reminding you of how unimportant you felt. You swallowed dryly and nodded, not caring that you hadn't said a word and had let Spencer talk for you. You didn't feel like talking anyway.

You then sat down at your desk with a sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose as you felt the familiar breeze that came with a stack of reports falling onto your desk.

You nodded towards whoever it was that gave you the reports and then started on them. It wasn't long until you had managed to clear all of your feelings from your mind and instead hyperfocus on the reports and the details in each.

You lost track of so much time, that when Spencer put a cup of coffee on your desk, you jumped and almost verbally cursed.

"Jesus-" you began, holding your chest for a moment. Spencer’s eyes widened and held his hands up once the coffee was safely level on your desk.

"S-sorry. I-I just thought you could use a little bit of a 'pick-me-up' or whatever Morgan said it was." He seemed nervous, his hand finding his neck soon after finishing his statement.

You smile at him genuinely for what feels like the first time in weeks and nod to him. "Yeah… I needed it. Thank you, Spence."

Spencer’s eyes almost twinkle with happiness at your reply, his cheeks growing red and his smile appearing on his face as he goes back to his desk behind yours.

Then the moment ended.

"(L/N)? What are you doing back so early?"

You turn your head and find Hotch walking towards your desk. You swallow a nervous laugh and instead begin to find a way to reply for yourself. Spencer didn't need to defend you forever.

"Hotch… I can't stay at home like that. I need to keep my mind focused on something else. I can't sit by when you all still need my help. My case wasn't made of importance. Why should I treat it like it is?" You insist, shoving down the sob that desperately wanted to escape your throat.

Hotch sighed and began to speak "(Y/N)..."

"No. Let me speak. I'm not going to sit on my ass at home while you all work on the case that almost got Morgan killed. I'm going to help you. Its here at home. I won't have to go anywhere." Every part of you was begging for Hotch to understand. That he would give you a chance.

Hotch gave you a questioning look for a few moments, allowing you to finish if you chose to continue, before he spoke up. "Just because you're healed physically doesn't mean you're better mentally. You went through something noone can relate to. You need to take the time to heal."

"But I'm needed here, Hotch. I'm not going to go home and do nothing. It's just not my style. Now if you'll let me, I have a few more reports to do from this pile." You deadpan, gritting your teeth as you sit back down at your desk to finish reports filled with information you would never forget.

Hotch sighed, looking back at Spencer for a moment before he turned around and began to continue on his list of things to do.

You sighed and grumbled to yourself, trying to focus your emotions yet again so that you could finish the reports on your desk. But as fate would have it, you couldn't do that.

"(Y/N/N)... Would you like to take a walk with me? It's almost our break. Maybe you could use a bit of fresh air? Scientifically, going outside helps to clear your lungs as well as lower blood pressure and heart rate." Spencer spoke up, tapping your shoulder gently once he knew he had your attention.

You shook your head and cleared your throat. "No… no I'm going to finish these reports first. They're more important." You start.

Spencer shook his head, his eyes widened slightly. "No," he starts, standing up and walking over to you. "These reports aren't more important than your well-being. I haven't pushed because I want you to talk when you're ready. But you can't act like you aren't important."

You scoff and go to reply, just as the sound of a slamming glass door echos through the bullpen, making everyone's eyes travel to the source of the noise. This also meant you.

By the time you looked, two familiar eyes were staring coldly into yours. Two wrinkled hands clasped at your shirt collar and yanked you forward violently.

"How dare you ungrateful-" Margaret quips, slapping you across the face before you could even react. "Selfish, and ignorant child!"

You cough harshly, earning the feeling of Margaret's hand again across your face. "M-mother…" you murmured, the agents around you trying to separate the two of you.

"No, you have gone too far now! I paid him to take you! You are his property! Go to him! I have lost too much for you to disobey like the brat of a child you've always been!" Margaret scrambled, trying to get out of the arms of a much stronger agent who held her back away from you.

Someone, who you soon recognized as Garcia and Emily, helped you to your feet. Spencer had very quickly come to your aide, sending Garcia off to fetch Rossi and Hotch.

You grumbled for a few moments, the anger you felt beginning to come to a head. "Really? You paid him? I thought he was just trying to get under my skin with that, Mother." You spat, taking a few steps forward before looking up into (e/c) eyes.

Your mother scoffed and rolled her eyes, looking back at you coldly. "Of course I did. You need someone to finally put you in your place. To teach you the manners I had somehow missed."

You growled at her continuance. Your fist clenched at your side. She was your mother. And this was what she chose to do? Instead of being by your side when you needed a mother most, she admitted to being a part of why you were raped in the first place.

"So you admit to selling a human? To selling your only daughter, just because I wouldn't abide to your stupid fucking rules?" You glared, spitting out the words like venom on your tongue.

Spencer went to stop you, but Emily pulled him back. You needed this.

"Yes I-" Margaret began, but you quickly put a stop to her excuses.

"No. You're going to let me share my opinion for ONCE in my life. You're going to stand there and face the monster that you created. Be the perfect housewife you insisted on creating with me."

Your mother rolled her eyes, but surprisingly didn't speak up again. You were slightly baffled by her sudden respect. But it didn't last long.

"You were never there for me when I needed you. When I was in the hospital, after what Peter did to me, I needed you. After Peter's threats, I needed you. After each low grade on a test, I needed you. Not the harsh yelling and lecture I received from you and father. I needed the reassurance that it wasn't the end of the world. Whenever I had nightmares from my never ending memory bank of trauma, you sent me back to bed with the flick of your hand. I remember every word, every scowl, every upturn of your nose, every single moment you've spared for me my entire life. You're lucky I don't charge you with assault and child abuse. I don't because you're my mother. I thought maybe one day…" you feel the hot, rushing tears fall from your cheeks, making you aware of your vulnerability in front of everyone.

You sniffled and wiped your eyes before you continued. "T-that maybe one day you'd change. And I-I'd have my mom." A tearful smile formed on your face, staring at the woman who had cause so much of your misery. "But still, you choose to remind me of how unimportant I've always been. How I am just a pawn in your game of chess. Easily disposable. Well here's a reality check for you, Margaret." You snapped, pointing a finger against her chest.

"Check. Cause I'm not going to rest until you and Peter are both sent to prison where you both so clearly belong!" You yell into her ear. "So much for motherly love." You whisper harshly afterwards, turning around so that she didn't get the satisfaction of seeing you fall apart.

Hotch entered your vision soon after, gesturing for you to meet him in his office. You sigh shakily, squeezing your eyes shut.

Spencer stops you for a moment, holding your arms. "H-hey… you don't have to go immediately, you know. You can stay for a minute."

You recognize his extended olive branch and take it. He didn't need to even say another word for you to collapse into his arms, sobbing as hard as your heart had been begging to since you'd left the hospital that morning.

Oh how the mighty have fallen.

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