#i suck at concluding a piece of writing apparently
Note
can you do part 2 of the sierra six smut where they meet again?? I absolutely loved it !!!
A/N: Wild Child by the Black Keys is such a perfect outro for The Gray Man- I also think it’s perfect for describing Six & reader’s relationship. This fic admittedly wrote itself over the past couple of weeks, and it just kept getting longer and longer 🥲 I don’t know if I like how it progressed because I’ve finished bits and pieces of it at odd hours whilst in the hospital, but I hope y’all like it! It’s got a lil dash of every genre thrown in there (ya girl loves her flavor 👩🏾🍳) Also I apologize in advance if anything seems OOC for Court, I did my best but I’m still nervous about writing for him 🙈
Tags: @ejhpmarvelsimp
———
“Contact?”
“Negative,” you readjust the comm device in your ear and pull your lipstick out of your handbag, pursing your lips in the car’s rearview mirror to apply a shock of red. “Oasis is too smart for that. Just tailing for now.”
“Timeline?” your handler follows up bluntly, pulling an eye roll from you in retaliation.
“Can you speak in more than two syllables? You know, sometimes you’re the only person I speak to for weeks at a time.”
“Do you have an estimated timeline?”
You sigh, muttering out a, “Thank you,” for the technical adherence to your request before laying out the details of your proposed op. “…and that should give me the in to confirm that she’s distributing Rainbow,” you conclude. “So at least three weeks to make contact, get comfy, and catch her in the act.”
“Can we accelerate that to two weeks?”
“No,” you make a face in the mirror, grateful that the conversation is audio only. “I’m going to need a little more time to catch a soccer mom by day, cartel head by night.”
“Affirmative, Agent. Carmichael wants a status report in 72 hours.”
The line goes dead with a soft click as you mock your handler under your breath, “Carmichael wants a status report in 72 hours. Yeah? Well, Denny can suck my left tit, fucking-”
You continue grumbling as you climb out of the car and sling your purse over your shoulder before dropping your features into a bored expression and tucking a pair of stupidly expensive sunglasses into your hair- more of a statement piece than protective eyewear, really.
Snagging a shopping cart from just outside the entrance, you step into the grocery store and begin cruising down the aisles on the hunt for your target. You eventually find her by the fresh produce, judiciously sniffing limes in an apparent search for freshness. Your facial muscles twitch with the urge to frown at the odd display, but instead you suppress your natural inclination and force a smile as her gaze lifts to meet yours. She flashes her pearly whites in return, none the wiser, and you direct your eyes toward the aromatics. You don’t want her growing suspicious, and you’re fairly confident not even Oasis would have the balls to be openly dealing Rainbow in the produce section of the only grocery store in town.
She turns her way down an aisle and you toss some parsley and thyme into your cart with a shrug before easing into the parallel aisle, a soft gasp leaving your parted lips at the sight before you.
Who but Sierra fucking Six is standing in the middle of the bakery and breakfast section, arguing about the merits of chocolate versus fruit-flavored cereal with a teenage girl, a box of each dwarfed in his large hands. Having apparently relented to the young girl’s whims, he tosses both boxes in their cart before leaning against the handle as he plans out his next tactical move, easing a scrap of paper out of the back pocket of his jeans. You can’t help but follow the movement of his nimble fingers as they search his pocket, marveling over the way the denim hugs his muscular legs and the curve of his ass. Letting your gaze travel back up, heat floods your cheeks at the way his t-shirt stretches over his taut muscles, the fabric looking almost comical, the seams practically begging to be let out as they suffocate on his biceps. He smooths a hand over his goatee as he laughs at something the teen said, the movement drawing your eyes further upward. His honey-blonde hair has grown out a bit since you last saw him, still neatly trimmed but now with a few loose strands falling across his forehead. Despite physically looking the same, there’s a different air to Six. He seems almost… comfortable.
Domesticity suits him well (and somehow manages to make him even more attractive), and you find your thoughts wandering to his role in this girl’s life. Is he a single dad? Uncle? Is she his latest protective assignment?
The duo disappears in the blink of an eye and you half-wonder if your target slipped some of her product into the veggie sprinklers causing you to hallucinate. There’s no way you’re seeing Six stateside in a grocery store in the middle of Nowhere, USA after spending eight months traipsing across Europe.
Clearing your thoughts with a slight shake of your head, you catch up to your target and continue following her around the store, absentmindedly tossing grocery items into your cart and stopping to peruse the wine rack as she does the same.
An alluring mix of cologne and distinct masculine musk wafts over you sending your sympathetic nervous system into overdrive, your heart thudding against your ribcage.
Evidently you hadn’t been drugged.
“That white pairs great with a good branzino,” an all too familiar silky voice drapes languidly across your body causing goosebumps to erupt over your skin.
Without looking up, you retort, “Thanks for the advice, but I won’t be enjoying it. It’s for my boss.”
“Does your boss have a Prada purse,” he murmurs by your ear, his sheer proximity making you shiver, “because she’s looking this way.”
“I’m sure everything in this town with a pulse is looking this way,” you shoot back, still unwilling to meet his eyes.
“Then let’s give them something to look at.” You register the teasing lilt to his voice moments before his fingers are tucking under your chin, tilting your head up to press his supple lips against your own.
The bottle of wine remains in your hand as you throw your arms around his neck in an attempt to get as close as physically possible, your eyelids fluttering closed as memories of your night together pervade your senses.
“Y/N,” he growled softly, deep voice bringing you out of your reverie. You picked your head up to find his gaze locked on yours, the sight of his lust blown pupils and reddened lips causing your breath to come out in sharp pants. “Eyes on me.”
And then his mouth was on you, consuming you from the inside out and trapping you in a world of him until the only discernible word falling from your lips was his name.
“Nice to see you again, old timer,” you whisper against his lips, pulling back with a smile, finally opening your eyes and instantly drowning in a sea of blue.
“Told you I’d find you, kid,” a triumphant smirk has the audacity to grace his beautiful mouth.
“Uh no,” you hold up a finger in contradiction, glancing over his shoulder to ensure Oasis is still in sight, “technically I found you.”
“But were you looking for me?”
“Shut up,” you place your hand against his chest and shove, only succeeding in moving him a few inches but enough to ease the wine bottle into your cart. The man is more tree than human and the unbidden image of you climbing his body flashes through your mind.
“So,” he breaks you out of your lustful thoughts, leaning against your cart handle and offering you the perfect window to track your target as you talk- she’s suddenly very interested in the white wine, her eyes darting over to the two of you every so often- “what’s your boss got you up to these days?”
“Mergers and acquisitions, the usual,” you shrug easily. Murders and asset retrieval.
“New business in town?” He cocks an eyebrow out of curiosity, fingers slipping into the front pocket of his jeans before returning triumphantly with a piece of gum.
Your mouth goes dry as he wets his lips before snagging the rectangle between his teeth, torturously pulling the pink gum into his mouth bit by bit. “A colorful one,” you rasp out, subtly keying him in to your operation surrounding the quiet expansion of Rainbow.
He nods in acknowledgment, chewing thoughtfully. “So I’ll be seeing you around.” He presses a kiss to your lips, turns on his heel, and disappears in a wave of woodsy cologne, the faint taste of watermelon gum, and a parting wink thrown over his shoulder.
———
Days later you’re parked in the school carpool lane gathering intel on Oasis and her teenagers, your sedan four vehicles behind her massive SUV. You let your head rest against the cracked driver-side window as your eyes scan the parents and guardians milling about. Your eyes continue cataloguing faces as your brain checks out, thoughts drifting to your friendly neighborhood blonde-haired, blue-eyed, sinfully-tongued former partner in crime. You haven’t seen him since that day in the grocery store, and even though you’re grateful that he hasn’t been around to distract you, you can’t help but expect him to be walking along every corner you round. Although, truth be told, you’d be very surprised to see Six at the establishments that Oasis frequents.
Your mind drifts back for the umpteenth time this week to a moment you shared at HQ with Agent Miranda after you picked up your dossier for this op. “Quaint little town, nice change of pace,” she smiled as you crossed paths in the hall. Leaning forward conspiratorially, she tacked on, “Watch out for Six!”
You’ve spent one too many brain cells analyzing and overanalyzing her words- surely she meant Watch your six, and happened to mix up the idiom. But Dani was nothing if not intentional with her diction, and you swore you’d heard her correctly. If that was the case, had she and Six stayed in touch since his curious departure from the agency? Had the Sierra Six, the Gray Man, the expert silent assassin, Mister No Worldly Possessions or Connections been…asking about you?
Your passenger door suddenly flies open, the hulking form taking up space in your mind rent-free folding its way into your car, the familiar whiff of cologne forcing your coiled muscles to relax- marginally.
“Put the safety back on, cowgirl.”
“Why?” you demand, no patience for pleasantries.
“Because I like my face intact. Nails look pretty,” he juts his chin to indicate your fresh manicure, courtesy of your target’s weekly visits for fill-ins.
“No,” you refine your question coolly, retracting your trigger finger and replacing the safety on your weapon, “why are you here? In my car? Potentially blowing my cover?”
“Came to pick up my Claire, saw you,” he shrugs as if this is an everyday occurrence for two highly trained operatives, glancing at passerby and students on the sidewalk to ensure no one’s taken an interest in you two.
“Your Claire, hm?” You raise your coffee cup to your lips and take a long drag, the combination of the caffeine and heat sending your neurons buzzing.
“Kind of my niece, kind of my little sister,” he elaborates, keeping an eye out the window for her. “She’s Fitz’s niece, but y’know how our life goes,” he shrugs again, the only semblance of emotion he’ll allow himself to show. “So she’s my Claire now.”
“Court,” your lips pull into a frown and you reach for his hand on instinct, catching the subtle lift of the corner of his mouth in response. The simple gesture is enough for him to understand what you’re trying to say.
“Kid and I have a pretty good thing going here, but I’m sure she wouldn’t mind a lady friend in her life,” he muses softly, studiously watching the middle schoolers fly out the front doors and avoiding your gaze as if you’ll be able to see all of his vulnerabilities and insecurities in his stormy eyes.
Sensing an opportunity to break down another one of his walls, you cry out, “Why, yes, Court, I will marry you!”
He barks out a laugh and shakes his head, playfully knuckling against the soft skin of your cheek as your mouth twists into a wry smile. “Let’s start with dinner first.” He eases the passenger door open and steps out onto the sidewalk, offering you a slip of paper between his index and middle fingers through the crack of the window.
You unfold the paper to find a local address in his scrawl, calling to his retreating back, “What time?”
“Guess.”
———
You rock back and forth on your heels on the doorstep at six in the evening, a fresh bottle of the fateful white wine in your hands. The paneling detail on the front door is suddenly fascinating, allowing you to hyper-focus on anything but the nerves fluttering in your stomach. You’ve taken out corrupt diplomats, toppled drug cartels, faced some of the most dangerous men and women that the devil himself would shy away from, all by your mid-twenties, yet you’ve got butterflies in your tummy at the prospect of failing to earn a teenage girl’s approval.
Oh how the mighty have fallen.
If you’re honest with yourself, you’re not sure why you’re nervous. Operatives don’t have the luxury of falling in love and playing house. Sure, you enjoyed your time with the Sierra and the sex was incredible, but you both know that nothing more could ever come of this. Y’know how our life goes, Six himself had said, and he was damn right.
“You must be Y/N.” You lift your eyes to meet the brunette’s sharp gaze, her eyes quietly scrutinizing you as she does a subtle once over.
“You must be Claire,” you offer your hand in greeting and she shakes it firmly, all business.
She spots the floral tattoo on your shoulder and the corner of her mouth lifts in a manner matching that of her guardian, “I like your ink.” Claire cranes her neck to gaze further into the house and you hear a huff in response to her unspoken question.
“Absolutely not.”
“But-”
“Nope,” Six comes into view and pulls the door open further, beckoning you inside.
“Regretting adding that lady friend to her life?” you tease as you step through the doorway, toeing off your shoes in the corner of the foyer as Claire grumbles on about almost an adult and annoyingly overprotective.
“Not quite yet, but I’m sure we’ll get there,” he smirks at you, enjoying the way your nose scrunches indignantly in response. You follow the two of them into the dining room, your mouth immediately beginning to water at the delicious smells emanating from the kitchen. “When’s the last time you had a proper home-cooked meal?” Court asks with a smile as he places your proffered wine bottle on the table.
“Properly? Ten years, give or take,” you shrug, your voice dropping to nearly a whisper as you busy yourself playing with the hem of your shirt. You honestly can’t remember the last time you had a nice dinner with enjoyable company, not at a group home or hostel, not on a honey-pot mission, not memorizing a dossier on a shitty hotel couch while forcing down a frozen meal before heading out under the cover of night.
In a surprising display of affection that makes your chest warm for reasons you don’t have time to unpack, Court presses his lips against your temple, bringing you back to the present. “Then I sincerely hope you enjoy this one.”
“And I sincerely hope you didn’t go through all this trouble just for me.”
You follow him into the kitchen to help, taking the plates Claire passes to you from the cabinet as she quietly confides, “We definitely ordered in but someone was very particular about the menu.”
You and Six fall into a comfortable silence as Claire chats about her day, setting forks on the placemats as you gently lay the plates down behind her. You watch, mesmerized, as the blonde nimbly uncorks the sweet wine and divvies it up between your glasses. Something about setting the table together, doing such a normal nuclear family activity, humanizes the two of you, and you’re surprised that the motions have come back to you so naturally.
Six eases your chair out and you smile up at him as you take your seat. Dinner progresses with easy conversation, but then the agent in you senses the shift in the air and you know the teen is gearing up for trouble.
“So…” Claire drags out the word, flaking off a piece of the immaculately cooked fish, “how did you meet Six?”
“Work,” the two of you rush out in unison, meeting each other’s gaze across the table. Claire smirks knowingly at her guardian and Six makes a face at her in response, mouthing something you can’t quite catch.
Raising an eyebrow and looking between the two of them you ask, “Am I missing something here?”
“Don’t answer that,” he threatens playfully with a pointed finger at the youngster.
She crosses her arms and raises her eyebrows, and you can’t help the grin that appears on your face from their shared mannerisms. “Are you gonna let me try the wine?”
“For the second time this evening, absolutely not.”
“Fine,” Claire smiles angelically, turning her full attention towards you. “Courtland’s been talking about you nonstop for the past couple weeks.”
He growls something unintelligible and your hand flies to your mouth, hiding your chuckle in a cough.
“Don’t choke,” Court admonishes, his tone implying that he wouldn’t be too upset if you happened to suffer for just a moment.
“Thanks for your concern, Courtland,” you simper.
“As I was saying,” Claire clears her throat to redirect your attention, a smug smile gracing her features, “some days I still can’t get more than three words out of him, but suddenly he’s thinking about you and turns into quite the conversationalist.”
“That’s interesting,” you pause to sip your wine, an eyebrow arching in Six’s direction, “because he was very vocal when we first met.”
His jaw ticks and his eyes narrow at your innuendo, and you both know you’re thinking about his low grunts and growls as he fucked you all those months ago. Nothing if not consistent, he merely grunts now in acknowledgement.
“What’s the matter, Court?” you smile easily. “Cat got your tongue?”
He clears his throat and stands from the table abruptly- a bold move considering his dick is already stiffening at the thought of your soft skin beneath his fingertips once again. “Dessert, anyone?”
“You know I’ll never turn down ice cream,” Claire grins.
You scoot your chair back from the table, gathering the plates as you stand. “I’ll come help.”
“Oh, I bet you will,” the blonde grumbles under his breath, subtly adjusting his pants as he walks to the kitchen.
You purposefully brush up against him on your way to the sink and he bites back a groan. “Do you not have work to do tonight, Agent?”
“Drug pushing mommy’s gotta sleep,” you shrug, rinsing the plates off, “and so do I.”
“Just sleep?” he murmurs in your ear, gliding his nose down the curve of your neck and pressing his body against you so you can feel the full weight of his question.
You let your head fall back with a sigh offering him better access to the sensitive skin of your neck. “Court,” it’s a whine, a plea, a gentle nudge in the right direction.
“Suspiciously quiet in there!” the teenager calls from the dining room, earning herself a low, chastising, “Claire…”
“You’re quite the daddy,” you test the waters with your compliment, relishing the way his eyes flash at the title and filing that tidbit away for later.
His gaze drops to your parted lips and he licks his own before pulling away and opening the freezer. “Vanilla or chocolate?” he asks calmly, appreciating the cold snapping him back to his senses.
“Chocolate,” you hum, unable to resist the urge to slap his ass as he’s bent over perusing the shelves. He jumps at the sudden contact and you laugh delightedly at your ability to keep arguably the world’s greatest assassin on edge. “I’m not a big fan of vanilla.”
———
Your earpiece crackles to life later that night, your handler’s tinny voice coming through with, “Where the fuck are you, Y/L/N?”
“Little,” you breathe out, “busy right now.” Court grins wickedly, languidly kissing down your nearly naked body and dragging his stubble against your sensitive skin before nipping along the meat of your thigh.
“That’s not an answer. Why is your heart rate skyrocketing?”
“Oh, y’know,” you suck in air through your teeth as the handsome devil nuzzles your folds over your panties, forcing you to bite down on your hand to avoid becoming a little too familiar with your handler. “Went for a run.”
You tug sharply on Six’s locks to get him to stop, but the feeling of your nails against his scalp serves the opposite purpose. He yanks the frilly fabric covering your core down with a vengeance and presses the flat of his tongue against your folds, your hips rising of their own accord to meet his mouth halfway.
“Do you have an update for Carmichael?”
Your eyelids flutter shut when he nuzzles your clit with his nose, darting the tip of his tongue just past your wet folds. You force your eyes open and turn your head to the nightstand, focusing on the glaring 10:17 looking back at you.
“Can I get you a report in the morning?”
“Do you want to piss Denny off?”
“God, you’re annoyingly persistent,” you huff at both your handler and the blonde between your legs looking up at you with a sinful smile. “This operation goes a lot-” your voice catches in your throat and your head drops back against the pillow as Court plunges his tongue inside you, “deeper than I initially thought.”
“Elaborate.”
“I’m getting an intimate view of her soldiers,” you rasp out, subconsciously clamping your thighs around Six’s head as he eats you out like a man possessed, fingers digging into your skin to keep you down against the bed. “Need some more time to figure out their pecking order.”
“And then you’ll infiltrate?”
“Mhm, yeah, I’m close!” You hurriedly end the connection and release the wanton moan that’s been growing in your throat throughout the infuriating conversation, enjoying the way Court growls against your pussy in response. “I was serious,” you half laugh, half cry out, “about being close, Court.”
“I can feel it,” he rumbles, “so give it to me.” And then his tongue is spearing in and out of you, mapping out your most sensitive spots, curling in the most delicious of ways, devouring you, consuming you. He splays his fingers across your stomach to hold you in place as he feasts on you, his thumb moving to trace tight circular patterns around your clit and pushing you over the edge into sheer ecstasy. You cover your mouth with your hand as his name repeatedly falls past your lips like a prayer, keenly aware of the sleeping teen just down the hall.
“You look so beautiful like this,” Court sighs almost reverently, leaning on his elbows to brush his lips against yours as he smiles down at your blissfully fucked-out face.
You let your tongue slip into his mouth and tangle lazily with his, the fact that you can taste yourself on him making you delirious with desire. Trailing your fingers down his bare back, you tuck your hands under the waistband of his pants and squeeze his ass before shoving his remaining clothing down his muscular legs. He chuckles against your mouth at the sensation as he kicks off his pants and boxers, moving to kiss along your jaw as he eases his deliciously hard cock between your folds, teasing but not yet pushing into you. “Please,” you whine out, wrapping your legs around his lower back and pressing your heels against the taut muscle there, urging him to give in, to fill you up.
You confess around a gasp, “I’ve been thinking about this for the past eight months,” as Court mercifully slots himself between your thighs. He cups your jaw and presses his nose against the hollow of your throat as he rocks against you, drawing out a whine from the very depths of your being. Your heart flutters in your ribcage as he returns his lips to your own, your tongues tangling unhurriedly in a sensuous dance as he curves his hands around your shoulders and bottoms out with each gentle thrust. You realize, somewhat terrifyingly, that this doesn’t feel like your previous encounter when you were desperate to connect with another human and feel alive again. He’s taking his time with you, kissing you like his life depends on it, gently guiding you both towards orgasm. This man is leaving a brand on your soul, and you’re suddenly glad that your life is one of solitude because, you know now with an earth-shattering sense of clarity, no other lover will ever compare to him. Your chest swells with an uncharacteristic warmth at the thought as the coil in your belly snaps and you tighten around him, encouraging him to please fill me up, Court, please.
Last time, he made you feel human; now, he makes you feel whole.
You tuck yourself against his solid form, sharing lazy kisses as you card your fingers through his hair and bask in your afterglow when you suddenly sit up with a start, something Claire said over dinner having poked through your subconscious. “How long have you been keeping tabs on me?”
He rises slowly, brushing your hair onto your shoulder and pressing kisses to your neck. “Hm?”
“Court,” you admonish softly, “how long?”
“No idea what you’re talking about,” he mumbles, now nibbling along your jaw in a blatant attempt to distract you.
“Claire said you’ve been talking about me for weeks. I’ve been here for eight days. Fess up.”
“I plead the fifth.”
“Oh my god,” you smack his chest with the back of your hand as another realization dawns on you and he winces playfully. “You knew I was getting this op before I did!”
He falls back onto the pillow, folding his arms behind his head to watch you put the pieces together and making you want to forego your interrogation in lieu of wrapping your legs around him once more. “Did I?”
“And,” you force yourself to focus, “you have been tracking where I am through Dani, which means I’m not crazy and she really did say ‘Watch out for Six’!”
“Did she now?”
“I’ve been trying to convince myself she said ‘Watch your six’ for longer than I’d like to admit.”
“Loud guns have been known to cause hearing loss.”
“Courtland,” you growl out, “that is such a gross breach of confidentiality.” You huff, crossing your arms before begrudgingly admitting, “But it’s also weirdly sweet.”
“In that case,” he smiles angelically, “I’ve been checking on you since you walked down that hallway in Prague.”
“You could’ve called. Emailed. Relayed a message through Dani. Sent a fucking pigeon or something.”
“Y’know, the kids call it ‘tweeting’ these days.”
“You are-”
“Hilarious? Charming?”
“Infuriating,” you grumble, tugging the bedsheet up over your body and purposefully lying down facing away from him. He wraps one arm around you and effortlessly pulls you closer, your smaller form perfectly slotting into the curve of his large body. “I don’t like you.”
“Yeah? Glad we cleared that up,” he counters easily, slipping his arm under your head and nuzzling into the crook of your neck. “Goodnight, Y/N.”
“Goodnight, Courtland.”
“I will forever regret telling Claire my name.”
———
You wake the next day with a smile on your face, enveloped by the slightly spicy, woodsy scent that you’ve subconsciously come to associate with a sense of security. Rolling onto your side with a groan, you find a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt neatly folded into a pile in place of Court’s body. You wash up in the bathroom before donning the change of clothes, cuffing the pant legs to fit your petite frame. Following the scent of brewing coffee, you head into the kitchen and are greeted with the sight of Court in a strikingly similar casual outfit, hovering over the stove.
“Morning,” you hum, slipping onto one of the barstools and leaning your chin in your hands.
“Good morning,” he answers over his shoulder in return, stealing the very breath from your lungs with a dazzling smile. “Clothes fit okay?”
“Okay enough,” you laugh, sticking your leg out from behind the island counter so he can admire your handiwork.
“Good,” he nods once in approval, then turns his attention back to the stove. “Got some scrambled eggs and bacon going, coffee should be finishing up.”
You hop off the stool and snag two mugs from the cabinet, filling them nearly to the brim with room for a dash of creamer and enough sugar to satisfy your sweet tooth. The two of you move as easily through preparing breakfast as you had on your mission eight months ago, the memory bringing a smile to your face. Claire joins you in the kitchen a short time later, dropping her backpack onto the stool you’d vacated earlier and sharing a smile with her guardian as he slides a plate in front of her. “You two enjoy your sleepover?”
“Hey,” Court snaps his fingers with his eyes narrowed playfully, “eat your breakfast and get your ass in the car within the next fifteen minutes, Fitzroy.”
“You’d think you’d be in a better mood this morning, Gentry,” she shoots back, a gleam in her eye as she scoops up a forkful of eggs.
“Incredible, it’s like pay-per-view,” you mutter delightedly over the lip of your mug.
“You should hang out here all the time, we’re very entertaining,” Claire offers nonchalantly, and Court turns to you with one eyebrow quirked.
“What’s this whole thing you’ve got going on?” you question, pointing to your own brow. “Does that mean you concur?”
“I was gonna offer myself, but I wanted to talk to the kid first,” he shrugs with an easy smile. “I’ve stayed in enough of the agency’s sad apartments to know that our place is a substantial improvement.”
It turns out to be much more than a substantial improvement.
Over the next three weeks, you find yourself seamlessly blending into the household, using the two of them as your cover on family outings to track Oasis and her family. You and your once impromptu partner team up again on Friday nights, going on dates at the restaurants your target and her husband frequent- and God, does the blonde clean up nicely, a simple pair of slacks, a tight shirt, and a jacket accenting his muscles in just the right places. Most days, you return from your time ingratiating yourself with Oasis’ right hand men to Court and Claire either working at the dining room table or spread out on the couch watching a movie, a spot under the blanket calling your name. Court has taken to making your coffee just the way you like it every morning (all the while ribbing you about how it’s arguably more sugar than caffeine) while you prepare three lunches for the day ahead. He waits for you to return home every evening so you don’t dine alone, and you climb into the king-sized bed together every night, sometimes exploring each other’s bodies until dawn breaks, sometimes cuddling and talking about anything and everything until you drift off to a suspiciously restful sleep.
You find yourself lulled into a level of domesticity that you could get used to, a thought that both scares and excites you to your core. It’s the closest you’ve come to being part of a family in years, and the idea of losing it when this op ends makes your heart ache with a pain you swore you’d locked away the day you joined the agency.
———
“I’ve got the popcorn!” you sing, inelegantly flopping onto the couch and tucking your legs under you with the bowl in your lap on your fourth weekend at Casa FitzGentry, as you’ve come to privately call it. Court takes up his spot next to you, Claire settling into his other side before situating the large blanket across your little group and nodding for you to scoot the snack into Court’s lap. You reach forward to press play on the remote, starting yet another cheesy heist movie that you and the former Sierra enjoy critiquing as thunder rumbles in the distance. Halfway through the film, the power flickers momentarily and you and Court share a look, his hands almost imperceptibly tightening their grip around the two of you. Claire huffs quietly, used to the agent’s slight paranoia from a life spent looking over his shoulder, but she tucks herself further into the crook of her guardian’s arm nonetheless. The rest of the movie progresses uneventfully, and Claire lets out a yawn before bidding the two of you goodnight, smiling as you both insist that she lock her door- at least for tonight.
Assured that the teen is safe in her windowless room, you and Court decide to take up residence on the couch for the night, the living room being closer to Claire than the master bedroom down the hall.
“Court?” you whisper into the darkness, absentmindedly pulling his hand into your lap and tracing random patterns along his rough palm as you watch the hallway, the former Sierra’s eyes trained on the front door.
“Hm?”
Genuine fear- not for yourself, but for the young girl you’ve come to appreciate as a friend and the closest thing you’ve got to family- roils in your gut, rearing its ugly head and reminding you why operatives don’t form connections. “I’m sorry for bringing this home.”
A flash of lightning illuminates the ranch house, and you hone in on a figure clad in all black in the hallway, your eyes narrowing, jaw setting, heart rate kicking into gear. Court squeezes your hand in acknowledgment before you part, and you creep silently down the hall, an animalistic growl escaping your throat when you recognize the door the intruder is gearing up to kick down. The point of your elbow connects with the soft flesh of his throat, reducing his shock to nothing but a soft gurgle as his hyoid bone gives way with a sickening crunch. He falls to the floor gasping for breath and you take the advantage to climb on top of his body, straddling his hips as he weakly tries to fight you off. You grab fistfuls of his shirt and bodily slam his head against the hardwood floor once, twice, three times, your breath coming in sharp intervals through your flared nostrils.
A strong pair of arms twists around your waist and you turn sharply, ready to fight for your life until a soothing, “Easy there, easy,” floats over your ears in the pitch darkness.
Your heart rate immediately starts slowing and a vague memory about a reflex in the aorta flashes unbidden through your mind from a high school science class. “I’m good,” you nod with a sniff, shaking out of Court’s grip.
“Yeah?” He flicks the hallway light on, raising an eyebrow at the crimson scene painted before you. “You usually don’t get this messy.”
“My targets usually don’t threaten my family,” you respond coolly, dragging the body away from Claire’s door before leaving to call your cleanup crew. Mind racing with tactics to accelerate your endgame and annihilate Oasis for this blatant attack, you miss the smile that flashes across Court’s face at your mention of your little crew as family.
You turn at the sound of crunching gravel as you end your call, the sight of the still-half-asleep teen splayed across Court’s back causing warmth to rise in your chest again, a feeling that’s occurring a tad too frequently for your liking around these two in particular.
Feelings make you weak, weakness makes you vulnerable, and vulnerability ends with a trip to the morgue.
Court drapes Claire along the backseat of your sedan, tucking his jacket under her head as a pillow before slipping into the passenger seat as you fold yourself behind the wheel. You take a circuitous route to your assigned rental apartment to ensure you’re not being followed, and you carry the minimal luggage Court hastily threw together as he piggybacks the teen upstairs. After getting Claire situated in the small bed, the two of you sit shoulder to shoulder on the floor at the foot of the bed as she sleeps, both your eyes and your silenced weapons trained on the apartment door.
As the first streaks of sunlight bathe the room in warm hues, Court allows himself to nod off knowing that you’ll keep his Claire safe, his head lolling against your shoulder. You press your lips to his forehead, whispering three words that you haven’t uttered in over a decade, tears welling in your eyes at the realization that you can, in fact, still feel such depth of emotion. A renewed sense of purpose grows within you as the sun rises, and by the time your two sleeping beauties awake, you’ve made up your mind.
———
“Oasis has proven herself to be a greater threat than we originally anticipated. Permission to execute.”
“Negative, Agent, we need her alive and in custody to connect the dots on the expansion of Rainbow in other areas throughout the Midwest that you’ve uncovered.”
“Terry,” you rarely address your handler directly, hoping your use of his name forces him to understand the weight behind your words, “she’s willing to go to extreme lengths to protect this operation. She sent a hitman after my- to my apartment,” you recover quickly, cursing yourself for allowing a semblance of idyllic family life to affect your judgment. How had you managed to make such a mess of things?
“Christ, Y/L/N,” his sigh crackles through your earpiece. “Any idea how your identity got compromised?”
“None,” you answer honestly, disappointed in yourself for not only failing to complete your mission cleanly, but also for putting the people you’ve come to care about at risk. “What’s the exfil plan here?”
“Y/L/N? It’s Carmichael.” Oh joy. “Proceed with the op as planned, but accelerate the execution phase to tonight. Bring her into custody and then report to HQ tomorrow morning so we can figure out how exactly you fucked this up.”
“But she knows who I am, knows what I look like.”
“Are you saying you can’t get it done?”
“No, I-” you pinch the bridge of your nose and release your breath in a slow exhale. “I’ll figure it out and report back to you when I have her detained.”
“Good girl.”
———
You slip back into the apartment just after three in the morning, peeling off your jumper soaked through with blood, sweat, and rain, slumping against the door with a sigh. After a few breaths to compose yourself, you shuffle further into the apartment and are met with Court sprawled across the small couch, his arm draped over his forehead. He mumbles something under his breath and you move closer. “What’d you say?”
“Asked if another cunt was successfully incapacitated,” he repeats, the shock of his question and impeccable memory causing an incredulous giggle to escape your lips.
“Fuck,” you hiss through your laughter, instinctively grabbing at your smarting ribs. “That bitch is lucky my directive was to have her detained. Otherwise she’d be six feet under with her boy toys right now.”
You lift his legs up, easing your sore body onto the couch before laying his legs back down across your lap. “You don’t have to go, Y/N.”
Your eyes dart to meet his baby blues, piercing through your soul in the darkness. “I didn’t say-”
“You made up your mind this morning. I could hear it in your voice.”
“Courtland,” you sigh, pushing your hair off of your sweaty face.
“Don’t government name me,” he grumbles, moving to sit up and pull your head against his chest. You’re shaking, but you can’t pinpoint whether it’s from exhaustion, fear, or a mix of both. “You’re a damn good agent, but you don’t have to be a CIA pawn for the rest of your life. You can go into private work, too.” His fingers trace a gentle pattern along your spine, encouraging you to take as deep of a breath as you can muster in your present condition.
“I haven’t done my time, haven’t helped enough people. I mean, Christ, Court, you were in the game for how many years and they still wouldn’t-”
“Hey,” he cuts off your panicked rambling with a gentle brush of his lips against yours. “You know there’s no contingency plan for people like us. You either kill the bad guys or you die trying, and that used to be good enough for me until…” He trails off, looking toward the door Claire is fast asleep behind.
“If anything, anything had happened to you two because of me-”
“I know,” he placates softly.
You lick your lips and open your mouth to speak before thinking better of repeating your confession from the morning out loud. Instead, you let Court guide your body down on top of his, snuggling against the warmth of his skin and allowing the steady rise and fall of his chest to lull you into a much needed rest. “In the morning, you’ll go to your debrief, and then we’ll figure this out,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to the crown of your head. “And kid?” You stay quiet, trying to control your breathing despite the fact you’re sure he can feel your heart pounding through your chest in anticipation of what he’s about to say. “For the record, I feel the same damn way about you.”
#sierra six#sierra six x reader#sierra six x female reader#sierra six x y/n#sierra six smut#court gentry#courtland gentry#court gentry x reader#courtland gentry x reader#courtland gentry x y/n#the gray man#court gentry x y/n#sierra six x you#court gentry x you#court gentry x female reader
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i saw ASHER WARF at a coffee shop in QUEENS today. i forgot how much HE looks like DANE DEHAAN. they are a THIRTY-THREE year old WAREHOUSE WORKER who’s been in nyc for THIRTY YEARS now. every time we run into each other, they are always SELF-AWARE AND DILIGENT but i’ve heard people say they can also be ASOCIAL AND PESSIMISTIC. HOLD IT TOGETHER BY MIKE SHINODA reminds me of them every time it comes on the radio.
TW: drug addiction, recovery and relapse, mental illness, divorce, social services, and prison. brief mention of violent crime.
born in philidelphia, pennsylvania, asher’s parents were your average “high school sweethearts”, having hit it off during their senior year; both able to relate to one another’s working-class backgrounds. his mother’s pregnancy was unplanned; however, it wasn’t unwanted, the couple welcoming a son into the world on a september evening – the thirteenth to be precise. one of asher’s earliest memories was at aged three when he and his parents moved from their quiet philly suburb home to brace the chaos of new york, hoping to open a door of new beginnings and opportunities for the three of them.
growing up, it became apparent that asher was something of a “difficult” child, teachers throughout kindergarten and elementary school often reporting incidents of tantrums and picking fights with other kids; however, his parents never had much concern regarding this. after all, kids go through these sorts of phases, right? perhaps it was something that should have been nipped in the bud, though, as adolescence was when his behaviour started to take a downward spiral. during this time – unbeknownst to asher – his parents’ marriage was beginning to crumble and soon lead to an inevitable divorce when asher was sixteen, his father deciding to up and leave their home one evening. this, of course, took a toll on his mother and, over the following months, caused her to sink into a depressive state. though he and his mother never discussed it, asher had his suspicions that perhaps he was to blame for his parents’ separation. with this weight resting on his shoulders, asher’s behaviour as a teenager got worse – he started mixing with bad crowds, finding himself roped into a world of recreational drugs and misdemeanour. his rebellion combined with his mother’s deep depression made it difficult for her to cope as a parent, social services soon having to step in and offer extended respite care as a solution.
living out of plastic bin bags hurt like hell for a kid of his age, though there was no resentment towards his mother for his living situation – he knew deep down that perhaps he had a lot to answer for. nonetheless, his continuous misbehaviour led to another inevitable: him being a high school drop-out. between the ages of seventeen and into his twenties is when things took a turn for the worst; recreational drugs and misdemeanour becoming more serious affairs – an addiction to prescription opioids and the means of getting his fix. of course, this was a somewhat expensive addiction for a young man with no qualifications or earnings to his name and, in a desperate state, asher entered a local convenience store one evening; making a decision which would lead to dire consequences.
october the fifth would forever be a significant date after that evening – at aged twenty-two, asher was sentenced to prison for armed robbery, a manic decision fuelled from the desperation to scratch an unbearable itch. arguably, this was perhaps another inevitable in his life; his behaviour and acts of misdemeanour as an adolescent being something of a foreshadowing. however, despite his delinquency growing up, asher was, in fact, not built for a life behind bars. being tossed into a cesspool of those described as “society’s worst” was a daunting experience – handfuls of erratic personalities forced to live with one another, some white-collar criminals, others responsible for someone’s last breath. it was, indeed, an unpredictable culture within those concrete walls and barbed wire fences; one that would be enough to push a man over the edge. the desperate craving for a fix lingered; however, with mere pennies to his name – and therefore limited commissary to trade – asher turned to a cheaper option that would offer similar effects; abusing heroin among other drugs throughout his sentence.
his twenties spent behind a steel cell door, it wasn’t until his thirties – aged thirty-one to be exact – that asher was able to, at last, experience the freedom of the outside world after almost a decade; having lost what were, arguably, his most precious years of adulthood to a life that some wouldn’t wish upon their worst enemy. though comparable to a deer in the headlights upon his arrival at the prison facility all of those years ago, returning to the “real world” was something of a disconcerting experience in itself – he had grown accustomed to an existence defined by rules, set mealtimes and discipline; never able to move freely outside of his assigned wing without a set of handcuffs and shackles, and a warden at either side of him. of course, those still incarcerated would give up everything that they owned for a mere glimpse outside of the merciless steel beams and mesh that surrounded them; however, self-awareness was, perhaps, one of asher’s few “positive” traits and he knew all too well that the task of returning as a conforming member of society wouldn’t be a simple one – a large chunk of civilization immediately declaring people like him as being the scum of humankind. ever the pessimist, there was a period of time upon his release where asher was in a metaphorical hole, continuing to abuse heroin as a means of numbing even the slightest bit of emotion or anguish that he might have felt.
though it was somewhat difficult for him to admit, asher knew deep down that he had a problem that required a solution, and fast; having been a witness to what the wicked substance could do to those who continued to abuse it. however, recovering from excessive use of such a drug was, indeed, much harder than it seemed, urges to relapse growing stronger as the weeks passed; some of which he succumbed to. fast forward to now, asher is still battling the immense hardships that come with recovery, relying on doses of prescription methadone to aid him through the process. symptoms come and go; however, the long-term effects are prominent in his mental health; unpredictable mood swings and signs of paranoid schizophrenia, though no official diagnoses. with no qualifications and a criminal record to his name, asher works perhaps one of few careers that would allow him a second chance at life; a low-wage warehouse job, packaging and labelling boxes for hours on end – it's a repetitive, tedious task, but all to make ends meet.
—
aaand scene! first and foremost, i will apologise for the fact that i suck at concluding a piece of writing - it isn’t a strong point of mine (which i think we’ve gathered). i’m roo, and this absolute car-crash of a human being is asher, a character of mine who i’ve had for close to ten years now; however, this is the first time in a looong that i’m properly getting to explore his characteristics and whatnot so i’m quite excited about that. i’ll leave a link below to some ideas that i've come up with for connections / plots, but please, please, please do feel free to message me with any ideas of your own. i’d love to work something out!
CONNECTION / PLOT IDEAS
#villageintro#tw: drug addiction#tw: relapse#tw: mental illness#tw: divorce#tw: social services#tw: prison#tw: crime#i hope that i've covered everything#i suck at concluding a piece of writing apparently
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2 Truths & a Lie (Spencer Reid Imagine)
Summary: A game of “Strip 2 Truths and a Lie” helps heats things up between SSA Reader and Spencer.
Prompt: “Ladies first.”
Couple: Spencer Reid x Female Reader
Category: Fluff
Content Warning: Alcohol consumption, stripping
Word count: 3.5k
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*
“Strip poker!” Garcia slurred. “Let’s play! Let’s play! Let’s play!”
You had to interject. “No way! If Reid’s playing - I’m not. That’s so unfair.”
Morgan agreed with you. “Yeah, I’m with Hot Stuff over here. He’s banned from three casinos for a reason.”
All eyes turned to the aforementioned man, whose smug smile reached from ear to ear. “Fair enough. What can we play then?” He asked.
It was your turn to scream like a giddy Garcia. “Two truths and a lie!” You jumped up from your seat on the floor. “It’s totally fair cause we’re all profilers here. So it’ll either show how good of a liar you are or show how good of a profiler you are.”
“Excuse me, Girl Goddess. Need I remind you - I’m not a profiler.” Garcia butted in.
JJ made a disapproving noise against the brim of her red solo cup. “Hey, hey, hey - you’re like the first to tell when someone’s hiding something.”
Garcia simply smiled at this. “Ah, you’re right, Jayje.”
So it was settled. You and the BAU were gonna play “Strip 2 Truths and a Lie.”
But to make things a little more interesting, you changed up the rules.
The order the players would take turns went in a clockwise circle. Garcia, Morgan, Reid, you, Prentiss, and JJ. (Hotch and Rossi bailed last minute. Apparently, being invited to Garcia’s wasn’t an offer they couldn’t refuse.)
Instead of players guessing what the lie was and stopping once someone guessed correctly, you were all going to guess at the same time. Garcia took the liberty of handing each of your sticky notes and once the player said their two truths and one lie, you would write your guess on your post-it and put it in a pile for the “liar” to read.
Then the “liar” would declare who was stripping based on who guessed incorrectly. And just for some more fun - the “liar” wouldn’t explicitly tell what the real lie was. You profilers would just have to use context clues to do that.
Since each player was guessing on post-its, Garcia gave you each a different color to distinguish who guessed what. Granted, it was Garcia, so she had every shade of the rainbow. She gave herself the red, Reid got the orange, you got yellow, Prentiss - green, Morgan got blue. And JJ - purple.
“I’m first!” Garcia sing-songily said. “Alright - I had a guinea pig named Cerulean when I was little . . . my mom knew how to juggle, andddd, OH! I lost my virginity to a guy I met online with the gamer tag ‘FastAndFurious79.”
Morgan almost spat out the drink he was nursing from his shock at the last one. “Babygirl, you did what?!” The pitch of his voice sent the rest of you into a frenzy as you each wrote your guesses on your sticky note pads.
You guessed the lie was the guinea pig. And using your peripherals, you saw that Prentiss thought the same. You folded your yellow sticky note and placed it in the center. Eventually, when the rainbow was complete, Garcia began reading them. “I hate you guys! It’s no fun being friends with profilers.” She pouted.
“You lost your virginity to a guy with the gamertag ‘fast and furious?!” Morgan screeched. You and the team laughed so hard, your stomach started hurting.
The game continued for an entire round until it was Morgan’s second turn.
“Alright, growing up my favorite movie was Kindergarten Cop . . . um, I used to be a lifeguard, and my body count is higher than my age.”
Reid was quick to jot down his answer, but you took a little time with yours.
“What’s the problem, Hot Stuff?” Morgan teased.
“Mmm, I dunno. You’ve genuinely got me stumped on this one.” You admitted. Morgan just shot you that infomercial worthy grin as a response.
Hesitantly, you finally wrote down that he was lying about his favorite moving being Kindergarten Cop. Your sticky note was the last to go in the pile, so you just handed yours to Morgan to speed up the process. He chuckled while going through most of them and looked back up at all of you with that same smug look Reid had earlier.
“Looks like Pretty Boy and Hot Stuff are the first to strip tonight!” He declared, making you roll your eyes.
“Your body count isn’t higher than your age?!” Reid squeaked. Morgan laughed and shook his head no. Now that - that was shocking.
“Alright, what can I take off that counts?” You clarified.
“Any piece of clothing that covers your legs, arms, and torso.” Morgan happily informed.
It wasn’t fair. On a normal workday, you would have a blazer, pants, or sometimes a skirt, and a blouse or shirt underneath, but today was collectively your guys’ day off - so you only had on a fitted tee and jeans. Whereas the genius to the right of you wore a sweater vest, button-up, tie, belt, and his pants. Before, you would make fun of him for wearing so much on a day off, but now you were envious.
“Not fair! He’s got like 80 pieces of clothing on.” You whined. The rest of the group, including Reid, laughed at you. Not a single one of them offered mercy. Looks like you were just gonna have to strip off what little clothes you were wearing.
“Ladies first.”
Reid teased as if he was being a gentleman by saying this. His voice made it sound so subtly seductive that your cheeks heat up. He even said it with the side of his mouth, making his plump lips form a smirk.
You raised your brows at his cockiness. You wanted to make him eat his words, so you stood up - first, unbuttoning your jeans painfully slow. All eyes were on you as you stuck your thumbs inside the waistband and wiggled your hips, while simultaneously pulling your jeans down. You made a little show out of it, milking the situation. You dragged the denim down while arching your back to flaunt your butt as it was unhurriedly revealed. And just for fun, you angled yourself, where Reid could get the full view. When your jeans dropped to your ankles, you stepped out of them, bent over to retrieve them, and for a finishing touch - you dropped them right onto Reid’s lap.
“They don’t call me Hot Stuff for nothing.” You flirtatiously remarked.
“WOO-HOO-HOO! That was sexy, Mamas!” Morgan cheered. The girls all had faces of admiration or surprise on them - mainly admiration. Whereas Reid appeared like he’d just discovered porn or something - like a whole world of possibilities opened up.
“Hello? Earth to Dr. Reid?” You joked, sitting back down beside him.
When you felt the floor’s rug against your thong, it shocked you a little, so you moaned at the feeling. Not loud enough for everyone to hear over their laughs and cheers but just loud enough for Reid to. And he most certainly did. Because you caught his tongue sweeping over his lips while his eyes looked at yours. If you weren’t in a group setting, you would’ve straddled him right then and there and kissed him, but you weren’t gonna lose control like that. The question was - would he? And secretly - you were hoping he would.
“Wow, Y/N. You’ve rendered him speechless. I don’t think that’s ever happened before,” Prentiss quipped. “You should do that more often.” Everyone erupted into another fit of laughter.
Reid shook his head as if to re-enter reality. “I, uh, I - I’m just gonna take off my belt.” He concluded, fiddling nervously with the buckle.
“Need some help there?” Before you even finished the question, you put your small fingers around the clasp, making him shiver.
“N-no!” He whimpered, grabbing your wrists in one hand and moving them away from his groin. He continued to unbuckle it and neatly place it behind him.
The game continued on for many more minutes with Morgan losing his shirt and consequently, Garcia losing her shit (which was understandable because Morgan was RIPPED.) JJ removed her belt, while Garcia took off her cropped cardigan. Prentiss was the only one left who was fully clothed, while you and Reid still hadn’t lost any more articles of clothing since the initial time you did.
“Alright, alright! Me again!” Garcia giggled, while she downed the rest of whatever was in that red solo cup. “Let’s see. Oh, I got it! Okay, my hair has been dyed every color except for green, I’m the president of a secret club for people that love sea otters, and I’ve had sex more times on the floor than in the bed.” She squealed.
You weren’t buying that she’s never dyed her hair green, and after a quick side glance to the right, you saw that Reid didn’t buy it either. You folded the paper over your answer and placed it confidently in the center - waiting patiently for the verdict. Garcia zealously scooped up all the post its and scrutinized them. “Uh oh, I think Boy Wonder and Girl Goddess might be out of a job once Sir Hotch finds out how bad they are at detecting lies!” Garcia got so excited she started jumping up and down. You pouted and faked sobs once you heard this.
“Take it off! Take it off! Take it off!” The group started cheering.
Just to be the center of attention once more, you stood up and put your right hand under the hem of the left side of your shirt, and you put your left hand under the hem of the right side of your shirt, making your arms cross over your tummy. You pulled the shirt up (sucking in your gut once it was uncovered) all the way until it was finally over your head. You were left in your maroon push up bra and your black lacy thong - a set that didn’t match, but when you looked down at yourself, looked decently good together.
The “crowd” gasped at your figure in its entirety. Encouraging words were spewed at you, making you smile.
“Alright, your turn.” You nudged Reid. He simply slipped off his sweater vest, quite ungracefully might you add. But little did you know that he lost all coordination after seeing you so bare.
“Here.” He whispered, removing his tie from his collar. He began unbuttoning his dress shirt, which you didn’t understand why, until he shrugged it off of himself and helped you into it. You weren’t surprised in the least when you saw that underneath his white button-up was a cotton tee. Of course, he had even more layers than you previously thought.
“Aww, look at that.” Prentiss said with awe at Reid’s actions.
While Reid rolled up the long sleeves until he saw your hands peek through, all you could manage to do was look at him. He bit his lip while he did this, showing how focused he was on the task. He was absolutely adorable.
“Do you want me to button it for you?” He quietly asked. You shook your head no.
“It’s okay. Thank you.” If you could’ve seen yourself, you would’ve seen that your eyes had hearts in them. You were the epitome of lovesick.
“Yeah, of course.”
When he stopped helping you dress, you couldn’t help but notice the outfit he was left to wear. It was a plain white tee with gray dress pants and his classic black converse. How he managed to look so good in such a simple outfit was beyond you. It was quite unfair actually. You thought his normal quirky attire suit him pretty well but this outfit made you feel something you’d never felt before. Your eyes drifted up to his hair, which since he cut it last year, was growing out again but was still short. It was the perfect length and had a little curl and unruliness to it - just the way you liked. It looked so soft that you were overcome with a sudden overwhelming urge to run your fingers through it, but you willed yourself not to.
“I think someone’s in love over there.” Morgan pointed to you, making you snap out of your trance.
“What? NO!” You shrieked.
“Oh my god, you totally are.” Prentiss giggled.
“Somebody likes Reid.” JJ sing-songily teased before sipping at her drink and looking away.
“OK, enough with the crazy talk. We’re all a little too drunk to be making such claims.” You concluded. “I think maybe it’s time to go home.” You hastily said, trying to change the topic.
“Mmm-mmm,” Morgan disapprovingly shook his head. “None of us should be driving right now. Even Reid.” Reid looked slightly offended at the comment, but he couldn’t deny it. He’d only had one drink, but everyone knew Reid was a lightweight.
“Why don’t you guys just crash here?” Garcia slurred. No one objected, so the sleeping arrangement was made. Morgan and Garcia would sleep in Garcia’s bed. JJ on the beanbag. Prentiss on the loveseat. And you and Reid on the couch.
“Me and Reid?” You asked Garcia.
“Uh-huh,” She nodded rapidly. “You’ll fit. Just spoon!” She said with joyful elation.
“Uh ohh, Reid and Y/N sittin’ in a tree. C-U-D-D-L-I-N-G.” Morgan jested.
“Shut up!” Reid chucked a pillow at Morgan’s face - which he caught before it even touched his head. “Don’t worry, I’ll just sleep on the floor.” Reid told you.
“No, don’t be silly. We share the couch on the jet all the time.” You told him. Covertly, you were hoping he wouldn’t argue against it. There were certainly worse things you could do than cuddle with Reid. Just as you wanted, he didn’t contend.
“Here.” He handed you your jeans and t-shirt, which you took but didn’t put back on.
“Do you mind if I stay in this? There’s no way I can fall asleep in my jeans,” He blinked hard as if to process what you were saying but didn’t dispute. “I’ll be back.” You disclosed while walking to Garcia’s bathroom to put on your shirt and take off your bra. You came back out, feeling a cold breeze. Unbeknownst to you, the cold air hardened your nipples, but this was not lost on Reid. He let himself get a glimpse of the sight while he laid on the couch, waiting for you to join him.
“You’re really gonna sleep in your pants?” You asked him, not even trying to imply anything sexual.
“Would you mind if I took them off?” He shyly questioned.
You shook your head as if to say, “No, not at all.”
He slid them down before you took your spot on the couch. While Reid’s back was against the backrest, your back was right up against his chest. This was the position you’d normally be in if you were on the jet. Something that surprisingly - the team never teased you for. It was as if everyone just accepted it as something normal. Something totally natural.
Except in this instance, Garcia’s couch was surprisingly not as wide as the jet’s, so you had to scoot back a little to fit. However, you didn’t anticipate how close Reid already was to you. So when you backed up, (for lack of a better term) you made ass-to-dick contact.
“Oh my God! I’m so sorry!” You nervously blurted. Reid uncomfortably laughed it off.
“No, no. You’re fine.” He reassured you. It was enough to convince you to settle back down and cuddle up to Reid again.
Despite doing this countless amounts of times before, there was something about this time that made you feel differently. You thought that your heart might sooner beat out of your chest. The rhythm vibrated through your entire body, and you honestly worried that the beat was so loud that Reid could hear it. After 30 minutes of this, the whole house was knocked out - except for you. You harbored too much nervous energy to fall asleep.
“Are you feeling okay? You’re breathing really hard.” Reid murmured, his quiet voice shocking you. Damn it, he wasn’t asleep either? Leave it to him to pick up on your unnatural breathing patterns. You told Reid it was nothing, but he didn’t leave it alone. “How can I help you sleep?”Once more, you told him you were just fine. “Can I just try something? My mom used to do this for me when I couldn’t fall asleep,” You reluctantly agreed. “Turn around.” He softly commanded.
You did as asked, turning towards him. Now that you were face-to-face, Reid took his arm that was by his side before and put it over your body, with his hand on your back. You felt his warm touch move from between your shoulder blades, down your spine, all the way to the small of your back. He moved up and down repeatedly, sometimes adding pressure along the way. Your eyes closed at the pleasure.
“Does that feel good?” He asked sweetly, but even then, you couldn’t help but imagine him asking that same question in a very different scenario.
You couldn’t be bothered to speak real words, so you hummed in tranquility.
He kept doing this until he noticed your breathing started to slow down. It was working.
The last thought you had before falling asleep completely was of how you never wanted this moment to end.
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*
“How long should we wait until we wake them?” You heard JJ ask. Her voice seemed so distant for some reason.
“Mmm, I give it five more minutes.” Morgan’s voice chirped. Now his voice seemed to be closer.
“Should I take another picture?” Garcia asked. Wait a minute - her voice was louder now too.
You groggily opened your eyes, wincing at the brightness of your surroundings.
“Oh, I think Hot Stuff’s awake.” Morgan’s words sobered you up enough to lift your head and examine your surroundings.
Reid’s face was buried into your chest, while your hand was in his hair. Your leg wrapped around Reid’s lower body, with his hand hooked on the back of your knee, hiking it up even further and keeping your leg in its place. You began realizing just how provocative the scene was, so you startled yourself out of it. Like the clumsy goof you are, you rolled out of Reid’s embrace, but with no extra space to roll over onto, you tumbled to the floor gracelessly. This woke up Reid and made the four viewers hovering over the couch die laughing.
“Not funny.” You groaned, clutching your side in pain after collapsing onto the floor.
“What happened?” Reid yawned.
“What happened was you and Hot Stuff got pretty comfortable on Garcia’s sofa.” Morgan sounded way too happy to tell Reid this.
You looked back at Reid with a frown, noticing how he looked like he was a child that had just been caught doing something bad.
“Maybe next time we play Strip 2 Truths and a Lie, they’ll finally admit they like each other.” Prentiss giggled, mentioning you and Reid as if you weren’t in their presence.
“Be quiet!” You and Reid simultaneously yelped.
You buried your face into a throw pillow that had been discarded on the floor, probably from where you and Reid took up all the space on the couch. As you hid your face in embarrassment, you heard the quartet move away from the scene and into the kitchen, leaving you and Reid to your devices.
“Sorry about them.” He finally said. His voice was all raspy from where he’d just woken up and all you could think was - YOU’RE KILLING ME. How did he make everything he did so sexy?
“Me, too.” You uttered, removing the pillow from your face to hug it in your arms like a child hugging their toy. From behind you, Reid sat up and swung his legs to the front of the couch to stand up and help you up from your sitting position on the floor.
“For what it’s worth, I don’t regret anything,” He told you when you’d risen to eye level with him. You smiled to suggest that you felt the same way. “You know, maybe we could do this again . . . without the audience.” He cocked his head backward to gesture to the rest of the group.
“Only if you promise to give me back rubs again.” You beamed.
The look on Reid’s face was priceless. It was as if he’d just been told he won the lottery. You walked away from him with the same stupid grin on your face that he had on his.
“Hey, wait I’m gonna need that shirt back!” He called out from behind you as you moved swiftly into Garcia’s bathroom to change.
“I guess you’ll have to come pick it up from my apartment tonight.” You yelled back to him, lingering in the doorway. His smile was your answer.
Well - looks like you have plans tonight.
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*
#spencer reid#spencer reid fanfic#spencer reid fanfiction#spencer reid imagine#criminal minds#criminal minds fanfic#criminal minds fanfiction#criminal minds imagine#spencer reid x reader#one shot#mgg#matthew gray gubler
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Hi just wondering if you’d ever consider writing for chuuya from bungo stray dogs and nishinoya from haikyuu. I love them both so much and you’re my favourite author and I’d really love to see how you’d write for them if you’re up for it
sorry @ all my other fandoms it’s literally the way i dropped everything to write this LMFAO
hiya!! i’m sosos happy this came through i remember a while back a lovely anon requested dazai from bsd and i completely forgot about it so aaaa!! so sorry if you’re reading this that anon! but nevertheless! i really, really adore chuuya and this is in fact my first time writing for bsd and chuuya for that matter. i’m so flattered anonie, thank you <3 i hope i done him justice :) p.s: i got a little bit carried away and was planning to post nishinoya in this one too but.. yeah. be sure to look out for him cause i’ll post a separate piece for yuu! enjoy.
nsfw content below! if you’re new here, please read my disclaimer here before proceeding. thank you!
a note: logically, this fanfic makes no sense because chuuya doesn’t wear his sexy vest + hat outfit until after dazai has left the port mafia so... don’t think about logic, k? (i think so anyway? it’s been a while)
-
there’s a clink of ice dragging against glass that chimes through the air. inside the glass seems to be a transparent liquid of sorts, leading anyone of the ordinary to believe that it may at least be vodka. in actuality, it’s just lemon flavoured water with some ice. it’s not like anyone would pick up his drink to take a sip anyway-
“oh? it’s not vodka? ehhhhh, are you trying to look cool, chuuya?” dazai takes a bold swig of the beverage before setting it back down onto the coaster. he bears a large grin that stretches from ear to ear, eyes lightly fluttered shut as he hums sardonically. there’s a spring in his step as he traverses beside chuuya and hops himself up onto the window, legs dangling and ankles fluttering.
“what the hell do you want?” chuuya barks, eyebrows creasing in disgust.
“what do i want? hm. like right now? you know.. i could probably go for some coffee right now! a cappucino? no- maybe latte? oh, wait, what about a flat white-“
“dazai.” chuuya hisses, spinning around from his chair to face him.
“seriously. cut the bullshit. why are you here, huh? i’m not having a tea party with you, so if you’re here to waste my time, leave.”
“ugh, you’re always so to the point. a little smalltalk and banter never killed anyone.”
“it killed my brain cells. spit it out.”
“chuuuyaaa~ you’re so meaaaan!”
there’s a scowl that chuuya pierces through dazai so heavily to the point where the latter is forced to drop his foxy act.
“we’re taking a woman in for questioning. she refuses to stay anywhere that’s not a proper bedroom, said that she’s more than willing to comply otherwise.”
“pffft, what a fucking stuck-up princess. so what? you’re sticking me with her?”
“believe me, you’ll thank me. i can’t take her. i’m out on a job in a few.”
“i’d never thank you but alright. i just have to keep an eye on her until tomorrow?”
“even you won’t be able to screw this up.” dazai remarks as he slides off the window, straightening himself before beelining towards the door.
“what the hell is that supposed to mean? you tryna say something?”
“uh-huh. anyways! see you later.”
as dazai heads outside, he takes one last glance at chuuya from over his shoulder.
“alsooo, can you keep the noise down to a minimum? everyone knows your name here already-“
“shut up!”
“yeah, okay~”
the door quietly shuts with a thud and chuuya leans back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling for a while.
within a couple of moments, he notices the shuffling of footsteps outside his room. instead of looking like a moron who fell asleep with his eyes open, he swings around to his desk and continues to gloss over the details of his next job.
an unfamiliar feminine voice rings out from behind him, causing his interest to peak.
“oh, um, thank you!” you awkwardly bow to the guards? the uh, big scary people with guns? (probably guards) who escorted you up to the room. you take a step inside and let out a small squeak before the door behind you shuts.
and locks.
“eh?”
“what’s with the ‘eh?’” chuuya snorts, not making the effort to turn to face you just yet. he goes to take a sip of his drink and wrinkles his face in disdain when he realises the being that tarnished it beforehand. using his right hand, he crosses over his left and effortlessly pours the beverage out the window. you only gawk at him with utter confusion. couldn’t he have just gotten up to go to the kitchen or something? do they even have a kitchen?
you conclude that standing around stiffly and eyeing the man at the desk isn’t a good look on you, so you move towards the bed. sure you said you wanted an actual room, but, you didn’t think it would be someone else’s.
“may i?” you motion towards the bed. chuuya briefly flickers his attention to you in his peripherals.
“sure.”
you scoot onto his bed, making yourself comfortable. you slide your back up against the wall, leaning yourself into the wall on your right as well. you decide to glance out the window, counting by the different coloured cars in hopes for either time to pass or the mafioso man to offer you some form of entertainment. maybe a book? oh, shit, uno cards? can you even imagine playing uno with him? this guy would flip his desk before the first round’s finished.
you laugh to yourself, and within a split second, you immediately lament your existence.
“what’s so funny?” chuuya implores, setting his pen down. you haven’t even turned yet and you can feel his gaze burning holes into you.
“nothing.” you blurt out.
his sigh fills the room as he picks up his chair before setting it down beside you. chuuya slumps down with his legs spread apart, torso cradling the back of his chair.
his slender and bony hand reaches out, ice cold fingertips from his beverage send you into a state of alarm as he clasps your chin before yanking your head to face him.
“i don’t tolerate bullshit. quite frankly, i won’t repeat myself to you.”
“the least you can do after strolling in here like a prestigious brat is listen to me. i don’t know what shit you pulled to get involved with the port mafia but-“
chuuya grazes his thumb over your bottom lip, pulling it down. he peers down at your teeth and the beginning of the pink in your mouth.
“what were you snorting about?“
there’s a desire that fuels your extremities and every nerve in your body. you don’t know why, but fuck, this man makes you wanna act like an intolerant brat. and you think, what’s the harm? if you’re gonna get picked apart by the port mafia, you might as well start early.
and bonus points? he’s hot as shit.
“that’s none of your business, is it?” you grin over his finger, valiantly lapping and curling your tongue before circling the muscle over the tip of his thumb.
chuuya screws his face at you. his eyebrows furrow in turmoil at the blatant disrespect and the corners of his lips crinkle in distaste. your eyes lock with his deep blue orbs and you smirk at the arousal that glosses over them.
chuuya uncurls his hand from your chin before easily kicking aside his chair. it goes clattering halfway across the room.
“down on your knees.” chuuya snaps, tone deep and laced with danger. you oblige, scooting off the bed as fast as humanly possible before settling down onto your knees.
you eye chuuya as he grabs ahold of his belt. he’s extremely short, for one, so you can see why he’d ask you to sit like this. he’s slender, but not underweight. there’s obvious implications of built muscles along his body, especially his thighs and arms. there’s something about the black fingerless gloves that rock against his smooth and pale skin that makes your stomach stir.
“what are you staring at?” he hisses before tossing aside his belt.
“isn’t that obvious?” you remark, licking your lips.
chuuya flashes you a smirk before zipping his fly open. using his gloved dominant hand, he decorates your face by slapping his thick dick against your cheek. his cock is piping hot against your face. you swallow with anxiety when his size is made apparent to you. he’s got a girth that’s wider than average, with a length of around 7 inches. maybe 8? you’re not exactly sure. you lick your lips at the deep red tones that flush his pretty cock.
“i’ll wipe that shitty attitude clean off your face. you’re reminding me of that dumbass clown.”
“eh? an ex or something? you’re bisexual? that’s freaking amazing! happy pride mont-“
“shut the fuck up. you spew way too much.” chuuya barks before shoving his cock down your throat mid-sentence. you gag and sputter around his length, fuelling his ego.
he grabs ahold a fistful from the back of your head, using your strands to roughly pick you up and back onto his cock. your wrists scramble to his hips and you try to push him back, to whimper that it’s too much and too sudden for you.
“where’s that cocky big girl attitude gone now? you can’t suck a dick? almost makes me feel bad for you.”
you whine and spill muffled complaints but it only fuels him further. it sets chuuya’s veins ablaze, controlling you like this.
you weren’t even sure it would be possible, but he manages to brush his tip against the back of your throat. your vision blurs, tears streaming out from your gag reflex. your nose runs and you can only sniffle constantly. drool and saliva envelopes the underside of his shaft, leaving your chin and some of your neck soaked. you wrinkle and wince your nose at the small stubble that’s slowly beginning to grow back near his base. through your tear stained lashes, you look up at chuuya like the good girl you are, lips wrapped around his dick and all.
“oh you god damn kinky bitch” he hisses out through a whine, features melting in compassion.
in that moment, recollection flashes in his eyes. he slides himself out, and a loud wet slurp fills the room. through your blurry vision and fit of coughing, chuuya grabs the long abandoned chair, spinning the back support until it lands the right way. he takes a seat, cock painfully erect and glistening in the deep orange sunset light.
his slender and pretty long fingers curl in a “come here” motion. his other hand leans into his jaw and he bears a smug grin. the harsh lighting from outside pours in so that only half of his face is visible, even then, you can still make out the fact that he’s about to absolutely fucking ruin you.
“ride me.”
#fun fact: today i found out i share the same personality type as okkotsu yuta#it’s a sign for marriage😔🤚#hsbdhfs i hope i wrote him well <3 thanks anon for the request!#bsd#bsd chuuya#bsd imagines#bsd headcanons#chuuya nakahara#nakahara chuuya#chuuya fluff#chuuyabsd#chuuya x reader#chuuya x you#chuuya x y/n
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The writings on his skin Shinsou Soulmate au
Soulmate au with communication via writing on their skin.
Oh god this is bad, I’m not happy with it at all. My original draft got deleted and I had to rewrite this at 2 am and I’m dead. I didn’t proof read it because I swear I’m gonna pass out so I’m so terribly sorry for butchering this. I love Hitoshi to the moon and back I hope he has the most wonderful birthday I LOVE HIM. Hope this doesn’t suck that much. Love ya. 💖💖💖💖💖
Rules
warnings: mentions of bullying, some angst, fluff
When Hitoshi was young he used to believe in soulmates. He couldn’t wait to meet the person that would fit him like a puzzle piece. In the early age of five, Shinsou Hitoshi was filled with positivity and hope. Hope that in the future he would get to enjoy all the things he liked with someone special.
He was so excited for the first day of school. some of the kids from his neighborhood would be in his class; they didn’t like him they were really afraid of his quirk and would make fun of him all the time, but he didn’t care. He would make new friends and just ignore them. Stepping into the classroom he was met with about 18 new faces. 18 possible friends. A smile spread across his face as he made eye contact with one of the kids. The boy was playing with some LEGOs as Hitoshi made his way to him.
“Hi I’m Shin-”
“AHH IT’S THE MONSTER!!!” the boy cried out as he stumbled backwards putting a respectful distance between them. The whole class turned to look at them and one by one all the kids slowly took a step back. They were all afraid of him. They all wanted nothing to do with him. They-they.
“He’s a villain!!!”
“Someone call All Might!!!!”
More children joined the mocking and the cries for help. A group of boys, two of which he knew, walked up to him growls leaving their mouths as -even though Hitoshi was a tall child- they towered over him. Pushing him to the ground, one of them snatched his backpack emptying the contents on him before throwing it at a corner of the room.
“Villains are not allowed here! Jihiko-sensei will kick you out, villain!” Right on cue, Jihiko-sensei stepped into the room, her eyes landing immediately at his wide eyed face and trembling form.
“Boys that’s rude!” grabbing his backpack she started putting back his scattered supplies.“Apologise to Shinsou right now!”
Reluctantly the four boys bowed their heads, mumbling an apology before rising their noses up in the air and walking away, leaving a terrified Hitoshi on the floor.
During the first day of school he knew that he wouldn’t be getting new friends and with that his doubts of even having a soulmate bloomed to life.
Middle school was not as bad as elementary. He had gotten used to the teasing and the name calling. He couldn’t say that it didn’t bother him; it really did but he had learned not to show it. Even now, years after that fateful first day in kindergarten, he had no friends. All of them pushed him away, some more politely than others, leaving the word ‘villain’ lumming over their heads as they turned him down. He was fine though. No soulmate mark had appeared but at this point he couldn’t really be disappointed. After all, someone like him -a monster, a villain- didn’t deserve to have a soulmate.
It was a normal day in his boring middle school. So boring that Hitoshi had turned to doodling on his arm. It was not a habit, he hadn’t done it before since he saw the doodles as tattoos and he didn’t want to give others more reasons to call him evil. Plus he liked his arms clean. But he was bored and it was hot and he wasn’t functioning correctly. At some point during his history class, he fell asleep. He woke up to a light tickling sensation running up his arm and a dim shine appeared on a spot near his wrist.
‘You can’t draw….’
He blinked once, twice expecting the words to disappear but they didn’t. They didn’t fade, they were real. Bold black letters stared back at him as he marveled at the sight. He … he had a soulmate and he could actually speak to them. Snapping out of his trance he scrambled for a pen and thought of a response. He didn’t wanna seem desperate. Deciding on sarcasm he wrote beside their own message.
‘Well excuse me Picasso’
He waited for a response for what felt like centuries. This was amazing, incredible, astonishing all of those long pretty words writers use to describe their female characters in poems. Would they want to meet him? Did they live nearby? Were they the same age? So many questions swirled inside his head he almost missed the mandala pattern that appeared on his wrist. The design became more vibrant and visible as the minutes ticked by. It was beautiful.
‘What’s your favorite color?’
‘Purple….why?’
‘Be patient sweet soulmate of mine, you’ll see.’
His heart skipped a beat. Oh lord he hadn’t even met them yet and he was already getting butterflies in his stomach. Slowly purple highlights started to appear on his skin, matching the black outlines perfectly. They truly were a Picasso.
‘There now you have true art on your hand.’
‘Confident are we?’
‘Only when it comes to inter-soulmate communications.’
He liked them. He knew that from the first moment. A smile took its place on his face as he saw new letters forming on his skin, warmth blooming in his chest as he stared at their conversation. Soulmate...maybe he wasn’t so lonely after all.
UA High. This is it. He was finally here. A place where heroes were made. It’s his time to show all those pesky brats that called him a villain that he could be a hero. A fine one at that. Getting placed in the general department was a disappointment and kind of a let down. He thought he did well on the exam. Apparently, having a grape quirk was more hero material than his brainwash. He wasn’t fazed though and neither was his soulmate. They hadn’t stopped speaking since their first conversation back in middle school. His day would start with a small, sloppy good morning scribbled on his wrist. They were there for him whenever he needed someone to rant to and he was always their shoulder to cry on. Well inky shoulder? They had agreed to keep their identities a secret along with their gender leaving everything to the hands of fate.
‘She shall bring us together, babe.’ They always called him that, not that he minded.
‘Well she should hurry up kitten.’ And he in return he given them that pet name. They never complained. He hadn’t mentioned which school he applied to, only that he would be becoming a hero. So when they mentioned something about a Bakugou Katsuki he was intrigued.
‘Yeah he is in my class. Super annoying 0/10 would not recommend.’
They went to the same school. What a coincidence. Maybe fate did work fast. Choosing his next words wisely he replied.
‘So you are in class 1-A huh? Funny.’
‘How do you know that?????’
‘I’m in the general department that’s why.’
There was no response for some time. He knew Aizawa was a harsh teacher when it came to discipline, he gets a taste of his discipline every afternoon at six, so he didn’t write anything else. Later that day, during his training, the familiar tingle distracted him. Glancing down on his arm, he totally missed Aizawa’s capture tool coming straight for his leg. Before he knew it, he was swiped off his feet and started hanging upside down from a branch of a nearby tree.
“You are distracted Shinsou!” Aizawa sighed below him. Hitoshi read the message quickly before turning his attention back to his teacher.
“I’m sorry Aizawa-sensei.”
“Yeah yeah just don’t be like that during your training with my class. You remember that it starts tomorrow right?” Aizawa said as he got him down, letting him fall with a loud thud.
“Yes sensei I know.”
“Great, now go get some rest I don’t want you passing out the moment you step in the forest.”
Shinsou had never gathered his things quicker. Draping his jacket over his shoulders he sprinted to his dorm, an idea forming in his mind. He didn’t know if you wanted to meet him yet but he sure as hell wanted to see you. Grabbing a pen from his desk he scribbled under your previous message.
‘Can you draw one of your mandalas on my wrist?’
Y/N was late. Like super late. She had missed her first alarm and had only gotten up because of the pounding at her door. She had stayed up the previous night drawing something for her soulmate. She kept messing up and redoing her work one too many times. Reaching her classroom she slid the door open and tiptoed to her seat seeing as Aizawa-sensei hadn’t gotten out of his sleeping back yet. Sitting down she let out a sigh of relief as her friend leaned over to her.
“Late night with your soulmate???” She sang teasingly which only made Y/N roll her eyes.
“Shut up Sky!” Soon they were instructed to put on their hero costumes and meet their homeroom teacher at the edge of the mini forest right in the outskirts of the school grounds.
Skipping out of the girls locker room she looked down at her wrist where the mandala from last night looked back at her. She ran her fingers over the lines wishing she could see the design on the recipients skin.
“Come on man! We’re gonna miss the intro move your ass!” Sky grabbed her arm and yanked her forward, ruining her moment of longing as they made their way to the forest.
Aizawa-sensei was accompanied by another person. A boy almost at his height with vibrant purple hair and the most tired eyes Y/N had ever seen. He was staring at the class giving small nods when someone asked him something.
“This is Shinsou Hitoshi. Most of you will know him from the sports festival, he fought the problem child.” Midoriya hid his face in his palms at the name. “He will be joining the hero course come next year so have fun training with him.”
Shinsou raised his hand to scratch his neck, a nervous habit Y/N concluded, when she saw the intertwining lines on his wrist. The purple stood out. It was more vibrant on her design, slightly losing it’s shine on his pale skin possibly because he received it. Was that? Was he?
“Who wants to pair up with him?” at that her arm shot up instantly, without even thinking. Aizawa motioned for the rest of the students to find their partner as she made her way to him. He was taller up close, her head barely reaching his chin. Extending her drawn on hand she greeted him.
“Y/N L/N, nice to finally meet you Shinsou.”
Bonus:
The house was quiet. Oddly quiet. Hitoshi let his bag drop next to the coat hanger as he took off his shoes. The TV could be heard playing from the living room but no voices accompanied it. Where was she? Making his way to the kitchen he found a bowl full with steaming soup that looked like it had just been made. He left it on the table, his first priority being to find the girl he was looking for. Slowly walking up the stair he heard a humming coming from the room down the hall.
Once at the top he made his way to the pastel violet door, grasping the knob and pushing it open. He was met with the back of his soulmate, humming the soft tune he had heard earlier as she rocked steadily back and forth. The mess of purple hair on her shoulder raised its head revealing those stunning e/c eyes he adored so much.
“Daddy…” the little girl in Y/N’s arms let out a low sleepy mumble. Turning around she saw her husband standing in the doorway of the nursery, a smile adorning his face as he looked at Kei. Kei, at the sight of her father, started doing grabbing motions trying to leave her mother’s embrace. Hitoshi let out a low chuckle as he took the two year old in his arms, letting her wrap her chubby arms around his neck and nuzzle into his neck.
“Happy birthday Toshi.”
Shinsou Hitoshi could have never imagined he would be here today, holding his daughter as his soulmate stared back at him. He was happy, beyond happy actually. Words could not express. Extending an arm out to her, she took it tucking herself under his chin as one of her hands came to rest on the back of her baby. Kissing both of his girls, he squeezed them closer to him.
“Thank you kitten. For everything.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
TAG TEAM AY:
@iwaqchan @the-arcana-fan-fic @angelwritings @axerrri @reinyrei
#shinsou x reader#shinsou x y/n#shinsou x you#my hero academia shinsou#shinsou fluff#shinsou soulmate#happy birthday shinsou#bnha#bnha x reader#bnha x you
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“It was supposed to be a regular, boring morning shower”
First line tag
A million years ago, an anon sent me this ask for the first line meme. I woke up possessed and wrote “stuck in gravity, clawing for some bravery” in 10 days. This story is complete, 23,000 words. I put the first two chapters up on AO3 early in honor of the news of our show coming back. The rest goes up tomorrow.
beta thanks to the wonderful @tasyfa
Pairing: Michael Guerin/Alex Manes, Alex Manes/Forrest Long, Michael Guerin/Maria Deluca (past) Kyle Valenti/Maria Deluca (implied/mentioned)
Tags: Starts Forlex ends in Malex, Getting back together, Nebulous Season 3, Angst, Pining, Alien Soulmate Bullshit, Emotional Infidelity, Communication, Emotional Hurt/Comforot, Explicit Sexual Content, Dirty Talk , Telepathy, Handprint Sex
Summary: A year after Crashcon, Michael knows three things for certain.
1. He loves Alex and he probably definitely always will.
2. Having Alex as his best friend makes everything in his life better.
3. Knowing, thanks to his bullshit alien biology, that Alex still fantasizes about his body regularly while dating someone else for a year, well, that is a little more difficult to navigate.
It’s fine. It is all just fine.
Author Notes: This content is probably not appropriate for review by a college writing class on tumblr, just saying but you’re welcome to leave a kudo if you like it.
*****
It was supposed to be a regular, boring morning shower for Michael.
His first Sunday off in over three months deserved a little self-care, he had decided. The summer had brought an abrupt uptick in work at the garage with increased summertime driving leading to more careless accidents and stranded motorists to tow to safety. While Walt would deny it to the end, Michael couldn’t help but notice the old man had slowed down in his work. Between doing his best to keep Sanders’ in business and taking shifts at the Crashdown to fill in for the still-absent Liz so Arturo and Rosa could have their own break, taking the time for more than a perfunctory late night wash down felt luxurious to Michael.
There was a point to staying busy, with filling every hour inside an engine or on a different project around the junkyard with his trailer and that point was distraction. Distraction from the awareness that everyone was thriving. Max and his new-found ‘cousin’ Jones were reconstructing the history of their people’s language and literature together. Isobel had recently celebrated her three-month anniversary with Monica, an artist who shared the same studio space as Rosa. Maria had made exploring her alien-rooted abilities the focus of her life outside of the bar, combining her knowledge of yoga and meditation to crack the ability of moving forward in time. With that success, she had managed to bring back the answer to saving her brain from damage from the future. Her work with Kyle in developing the treatment for her and Mimi had led a new romance there. Then there was Alex, the true focus of Michael’s need for distraction, marking a one-year anniversary with Forrest.
It was fine. All Michael had ever wanted was for Alex to be happy. The distractions he had filled his life with helped soothe the edges of knowing who was at the root of Alex’s new-found peace.
In the last year, Michael had built a permanent wooden deck out in front of his Airstream, transforming his fire pit into an outdoor brick barbecue oven, before moving on to recycle discarded auto glass into window panes for a small greenhouse complete with a rainwater cistern off the rear of the trailer. The actual interior boasted its own changes, an expanded shower stall and more of a kitchen set up than a hotplate and kettle with a small split-level stove and expanded countertop. The next task was building a canopy to shield the deck from the elements. At some point, Michael had acknowledged to himself that each piece he had worked on had turned his portable, transient can-go-anywhere Airstream into a stable fixture at Sanders’.
A home with roots.
A home without Alex and he had accepted that, respecting Alex’s choice of partner. They were the right people for each other, but were always meeting at the wrong time. For a while, he had waited patiently for things to end with Forrest. He had been happy enough to work on being Alex’s friend in the meantime. Then, once they were truly friends sharing every stupid moment of their days via a text message or over a beer at his trailer, he had felt the betrayal of his selfish thoughts keenly. What kind of friend would root for a break-up? What kind of friend would wish heartbreak on the other?
The asshole kind, he had concluded.
As the hot water from the shower head poured over his head though, the acceptance he had about Alex moving on was just a little farther from his reach because Alex was currently thinking about him. They weren’t platonic friend-thoughts either.
A ghost sensation of a hand skirted down Michael’s body, lingering over his chest hair, and fuck, Alex had really loved to card his fingers through it. His mind was awash with impulses not his own, hot anticipation and the thrill of pleasure dropped down his body like the free-falling crest of a rollercoaster. Michael closed his eyes, soaking in the feelings. A gasp escaped his mouth, heard by no one in his trailer. Good God, Alex was really ready, waking with morning wood or to someone — Wrapping his own hand around his hardening cock, Michael stroked himself in time with Alex’s thoughts, pushing aside his own. It was best to just give into temptation and enjoy the moment.
It was something he had learned to embrace with varying degrees of eagerness over the last few years.
The connection with Alex had formed apparently sometime after the shed, but it had taken him over ten years and Alex moving back to Roswell to realize what was going on between them. The summer they had turned eighteen, they had barely been able to keep their hands off each other in the desert, and when Michael was alone, all he could think about back then, was Alex. His head had been a complex swirl of emotion, slingshotting him from the highs of seeing Alex to the lows of facing his own aborted future. There was the longing for Alex, the sadness that he knew their time was limited because Alex was going to go places, and he was stuck in Roswell watching over Isobel, but in the background, of what he thought was a relic from Jesse’s attack, was always a sense of sick fear, of being caught. Again.
Then over the last ten years, Michael would experience this awareness, and suddenly all he could think about was Alex. How it felt to touch him, the wickedness of his mouth, the burn and the stretch to accept Alex’s cock as he took him inside with a bitten lip- Michael thought it was just his mind, giving him a touchstone to happiness and the remembrance of being loved briefly by Alex. Nostalgia. Afterwards as he caught his breath, with his chest splattered with come, the sadness would seep in again, stealing whatever light that was made by those memories.
It wasn’t until after the drive-in, when Alex had spent almost two months avoiding him in person, that Michael had realized that those moments, late at night or early in the morning, were tied to Alex. It took falling into his bed one night, after visiting Isobel in her pod to finally piece it together. His face had hurt from crying on the drive home and the urge to sleep and never wake up again had been so incredibly strong that it took a moment for him to realize he was thinking about Alex. His cock hadn’t even been on his radar, but suddenly all he could think about was getting sucked off.
Fuck, he hadn’t wanted it then, too sad and scared about Isobel to feel much connection to his body for the purposes of pleasure, but the sensations and feelings that had overtaken Michael were too intense to fight that night. Later as he panted, open-mouthed and staring at the ceiling of his Airstream with distant thoughts of cleaning up, his phone rang once. Only the once. Then a ding of a text.
Alex -is home: Sorry pocket dialed.
The rush of self-loathing that hit Michael as he read the message had been so strong he had dropped the phone on the floor of the trailer. That’s when he knew it wasn’t his feelings in his head because in all the years of knowing Alex, of loving Alex, he had never once felt disgust toward himself for his feelings for Alex. From the moment across a borrowed guitar, Michael had accepted the tilt of his axis toward Alex Manes as a fundamental fact, like force equalling mass times acceleration.
Alex hadn’t shared that comfort, and the more Michael tuned into what was going on in Alex’s head, the more his heart broke. Two things became clear to Michael over time; the occurrences were sporadic enough for him to know that he only felt them when Alex was specifically thinking about Michael when he jerked off, and the post-orgasm feelings of disgust and self-loathing were not isolated incidents for Alex to feel afterwards.
“Sometimes things end in a whimper, Guerin-” and Michael had numbly accepted that as proof that while Alex might enjoy thinking about his body, about the ways he had pleasured Alex in the past, Alex had no desire for anything more from Michael. The sex was epic, fodder for a late night fantasy, but Michael himself? He was not someone that Alex wanted to want.
He had changed Alex’s name in his phone from “Alex -is home” to “Alex -is a bad idea” after that and then cursed himself for the trick of alien biology, doomed to be forever aware that he was an example of backsliding to Alex. When Maria had reached for him that night in Texas, he had welcomed her because she seemed at least self-aware of the fact she didn’t want to want him. There was zero chance of a misunderstanding between them that night, even as he kicked himself for still following after people who swore to him that it would never happen again.
For a long time after Caulfield, he had thought perhaps the grief of losing his mother had broken the link with Alex, setting them both free in the wreckage and dust of the prison. The dying psychic screams of his people had rolled over him, scorching his thoughts into cinders as that last connection to love and hope burned out in his mind, his mother’s life extinguishing under the thunder of Semtex and C-4. Then one night shortly after moving his trailer to the Wild Pony, it had happened again. The same overwhelming feeling of need, of longing, but this time the self-loathing afterwards had been accompanied by a crippling feeling of guilt. He had laid there in the twilight of the Wild Pony’s loft, having silently come into his palm while the sound of Maria’s breathing brushed against his ear. For the first time, he had joined Alex in that feeling of self-hatred.
It was past the time for him to flip the switch from ‘tortured lust’ to some semblance of friendship with Alex, if he could and so tentatively, he agreed to work on uncovering his mother’s past together with him. He updated his phone again with that decision in mind to “Alex -sup bro”.
After Maria had learned the truth about Rosa and sent him away with betrayed eyes, he experienced a moment of weakness for Alex after the visit they had made to the Long Farm. There had been a lightness in how Alex had moved that day, his steps had been considered but committed as they had explored the last place his mother had felt at home on earth. Inside of Michael’s heart, he had been able to feel the pieces moving together while he had stood in a place where Nora had had a family, next to a man who had always represented that promise to Michael. The openness of Alex’s smile as they had waited for Forrest Long to reappear had had Michael thinking dangerous thoughts again about a future with him.
What if. What if Alex were ready to take a step toward him without the weight of the past?
That tenuous hope had lasted until the night after Alex had given him the piece of the ship’s console. Standing in his bunker near two am, he had been examining the new piece of his ship, of his past, puzzling over why it wasn’t bonding with the rest of the console when he had felt the awareness of Alex creep into his cells, into his DNA. Eagerly he had opened his jeans with both hands and had fisted his cock, letting himself go with the pull of Alex’s desire. In the aftermath, he had found himself on the floor of the bunker, with come dripping off a fallen drawing of a ship’s engine, but near tears with the knowledge that nothing had changed for Alex. It had still been the same fear flooding his veins, still the same anchor of tortured longing and deep shame weighing his limbs down even as he had been left wrecked by how good his body had felt.
It had been madness for Michael the next few months as he had fallen in deeper with Maria, while the connection with Alex had kept tugging at his soul. There had been little rhyme or reason to when it had happened. Weeks would pass where he apparently hadn’t crossed Alex’s mind once, and then there had been a week when every night Michael had been hit with the same mix of love, lust and bottomless need. Thankfully it had matched with the week-long retreat Maria and Mimi had taken together, saving Michael the work of explaining to her why he was wearing out the washing machines at the Fluff N Fold with his dirty sheets.
The self-torment Alex had felt about him had slowly lifted, to the point when Michael had found out the truth about Walt Sanders, he had called Alex without hesitation. The contact in his phone had changed to ‘Alex- best bro’. If he had finally become a measure of comfort for Alex to remember in his most personal moments, then perhaps Alex could also become a comfort to him, without the mire of their trauma holding them frozen in place.
He had been fooling himself completely in the aftermath of Alex’s abduction that friendship would ever be enough for him. The wounds from his breakup with Maria had still been bleeding below his skin when he had stepped into the Wild Pony to hear Alex singing about him. About them. Then he had been hit with the connection, blossoming open for the first time ever in Alex’s actual presence under the spell of his song.
There had still been a ghost of darkness in Alex’s feelings for him, as he had sung about fighting battles but for the first time in a long time, Michael had felt that there was hope that Alex was finally finding peace with Jesse dead. Despite Isobel’s prodding him to stay and make a move, he had known that it wasn’t their time yet. There had been too much grief and regret swirling in his head, and not just from Alex, but he could be patient for them both for the right moment. The connection had never felt more alive between them that night on the promise of a future.
At least that was what he had thought, until time had kept passing yet here he was, standing in his shower with his hand on his dick a year later, while Alex was across town in someone else’s bed but clearly thinking about him.
Michael watched as his seed dripped down the fiberglass walls, the shower spray sending it down the drain in an eddy of his own frustrated longing. His body was calm, at least, and his mind was buzzing with happiness from Alex. He concentrated on the euphoria floating between them in particular. Alex had soaked up pleasure this morning, pursuing it with a greed that Michael couldn’t help but admire, and then he had let himself go without any hint of shame. God, it felt good to know that Alex had finally found that comfort with himself.
He breathed in and out, counting the seconds down until the connection faded. Once it was over, he gave himself five more minutes under the hot spray, letting whatever was welling in his eyes, slip unseen down his face. He cursed his stupid alien biology in the same breath that he clung to it for giving him Alex again, if only briefly.
After he was dressed for his brunch plans with everyone, he checked his phone before he left, to find a text from Alex. The contact had been updated one more time, six months after the Crashcon, from “Alex -best bro” to “Alex -bf”. Isobel had been way too excited to see that notation, until Michael had patiently explained it had stood for ‘best friend’. Maybe in another universe it was ‘boyfriend’, just not this one.
This wasn’t crumbs, he had argued to her, Alex was still a feast for him in whatever way he could have him. He read the text with his mind still working to box up the feelings that lingered for Alex, “Tell everyone we will be late- overslept”. The ‘we’ was what puzzled Michael the most about the whole situation over the last year. Why was Alex still thinking about Michael the way he did while he was with someone else?
AO3 link for more
#malex#malex fic#roswell new mexico#getting back together#season 3#set a year after the crashcon 2x13#not forrest long friendly#alien soulmate bullshit#publishing this ask and posting a link is self-indugent but wanted nonnie to see it#Anonymous#alien soulmate shenanigans#cosmic soulmates
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Mastication Concentration
Summary: Logan usually chews gum while he studies, but today he is out. Remus volunteers to take its place.
Contains: Hard-ish vore (idk exactly where it falls. There’s chewing, obviously, and even rough chewing at points, but the only injuries sustained are bruises). Brief mention of digestion.
Wordcount: 2.9 K
[more of my vore writing]
~~~~~
“Do you have any gum?”
The sides in the living room look up. Logan’s on the stairs, leaning over the banister and looking down at them.
“Gum?” Patton repeats.
Logan nods. “I’m out,” he says. “I’ve already drunk five mugs of tea, I can’t just keep making more. And chewlery is just too squeaky right now, and I’m trying not to destroy any more shirt collars. So, do you have any gum?”
They exchange glances. Nobody, it seems, has gum. Then Remus perks up excitedly. “Ooh!”
Logan, relieved, starts to say, “You have—”
“Me!”
Logan pauses. “What?”
“Chew on me!” Remus elaborates, bounding to his feet and hurrying over to the stairwell. He grabs a railing in each hand, looking up at Logan imploringly.
Logan makes a face. Then pauses. Reconsiders. “That… that actually might be a worthwhile stim,” he admits. Remus squeals happily, and Logan adds, “But no injuries. I don’t want blood in my mouth; I don’t like the taste.”
Remus rolls his eyes. “Oh, fine. I’ll be durable.” But he’s still grinning broadly. With a dramatic flourish, he summons the shrinking device. Scampering around the corner and up the stairs next to Logan, he sets it. Then, with a flash of sickly green light, he appears to vanish. Logan knows, however, that in reality, Remus has simply shrunk out of Logan’s eyeline. He looks down, and sure enough, there he is.
The device, no longer supported by Remus’s hands, falls from the air. It nearly strikes Remus in the head, missing by less than an inch, and crashes into the carpeted floor beside him. It bounces, skiddering off the step. It continues to fall, bounce, and roll its way down the entire flight of stairs, but nobody pays it much mind. They can always resummon it when they need it again.
Logan bends down, scooping up the now miniature Remus into his hand. He considers his fellow side for a moment, then nods, lifting Remus to his lips. A moment before he inserts him, however, Logan pauses.
“When was your last shower?”
“Does Thomas’s last night count?”
Logan frowns. “As I recall, you just sat on the soap tray, making various random thoughts pop into Thomas’s head, and didn’t even get wet, let alone wash.”
“That’s true.”
“No, it doesn’t count. When did you last wash?”
Remus thinks back further, absently shimmying his shoulders as he does so. After a few moments, Logan sighs.
“Not recently enough,” he concludes. Remus in hand, Logan heads up the stairs. In the bathroom, he plops the shrunken creative side into the sink and turns it on. Squeezing a large dollop of hand soap into his palm, Logan begins to lather Remus up, rubbing the soap into his clothes and skin. Remus squirms. He’s not trying to get away, but he quite enjoys being a slippery problem, and if it means that Logan has to apply a bit more force to get the job done, well. Remus likes being manhandled.
Due to Remus’s constant movement, getting him clean takes rather longer than it needed to, but in the end, Logan is satisfied. He holds Remus directly under the streaming faucet to rinse off, considering the spluttering that results to be fair payback for making things difficult.
“Okay, you’re clean.”
Remus cheers. “Now eat me!”
“I’m not going to eat you,” Logan corrects. “I’m going to chew on you. There’s a difference.”
Remus shrugs. “Not a big one.”
“I suppose not.” Logan considers his shrunken friend for a few moments more, then nods, heading back toward his own room. Once inside, he sits down at his desk.
“C’mon,” Remus pleads. “Put me in your mouth already!”
Logan does so, head first to shut him up. Remus isn’t small enough to fit entirely inside his mouth, so his legs dangle from between Logan’s lips.
As Logan settles back into his study routine, he slowly begins to lick and suck on Remus like a piece of candy. He doesn’t taste like a piece of candy, but thanks to the sink bath Logan just gave him, he doesn’t taste bad, either. Along with the licks, Logan tugs absently on Remus’s ankle, like he might with the stick of a lollipop.
After about a minute, Logan summons the shrinking device with a gesture. He adjusts it, and he activates it again. Remus shrinks.
Logan slurps Remus the rest of the way into his mouth. Positioning him lengthwise along his lower left molars, Logan gently bites down. Remus is somewhat soft and squishy, but there’s some firmness to him too. Logan uses his tongue to move Remus across his mouth to the other side, trying a bite there too. He nods to himself. The sensation is different than that of gum or chewlery, sure, but he believes this will work. Logan returns to his studies.
Inside of Logan’s mouth, it is dark, and warm, and wet. In other words, it’s perfect. Logan’s tongue, bigger than Remus’s entire body, lifts him, crushing him against the roof of Logan’s mouth and knocking the air from his lungs with the force. Pinned in place by the enormous squishy muscle, Remus can’t even wiggle. Logan overpowers him without hardly trying. Echoing all around him, Remus hears an enormous glk as Logan swallows the saliva that had been building up around him.
He has never found the nerd more attractive than in this moment.
Logan’s tongue drops, and Remus drops with it. The large muscle tilts under him, rolling Remus around Logan’s mouth. He’s quickly dizzy and disoriented, and the first time that he has long enough to get his bearings is when Logan shifts him between his back teeth again so that Remus lies, sprawled on his front, across the bumpy teeth. They lift, pressing Remus’s back against the equally bumpy ceiling, and slowly squeeze all the air from his lungs. Logan holds him like that, delightfully snug, for several long seconds. Remus considers blacking out from the lack of oxygen, but decides that he’d rather stay conscious to enjoy the rest of the experience. If he gets bored — which he doesn’t expect to happen, but you never know, he’s had incapacitating boredom strike at the weirdest and most inconvenient moments before — he can pass out then.
After a while, the pressure releases. Remus gasps in a breath of — not fresh air, not really, he is inside a mouth, after all. But it doesn’t smell that bad, either. Unfortunately. All that dental hygiene must’ve given Logan un-bad breath. Actually, Remus realizes, he can smell some of that tea Logan said he drank, though not well enough to guess at what kind it was.
Logan bites him again, the same way. And again. It’s rhythmic, soothing. After a while, Logan moves him over to the other side, and does the exact same kind of crushing bite over there.
After he’s done that enough times that Remus has gotten used to it and is getting bored, Logan changes it up. He moves Remus to the front of his mouth and nibbles on Remus’s ankles with his front teeth. Since his ankles are, of course, boney, they don’t provide much give. If Logan hadn’t made him promise not to, this would have been a good opportunity to break something. Remus wonders, then, if breaking an ankle really would be a breach of that promise. On the one hand, Logan had said “no injuries,” which would technically include broken bones. On the other hand, the only reason he had given was blood, and if Remus just made sure his skin stayed intact, he wouldn’t bleed.
Before Remus could come to a decision, Logan moves him again. Apparently he didn’t like this position nearly as much as the one before. Logan’s tongue pushes at Remus, shoving his legs between teeth and lips, til he can feel the cold outer air on his toes. He wiggles them.
Logan nibbles on Remus’s calves now, which have more muscle to pad them, though not from all angles.
Remus decides that bruises are acceptable under their terms. Logan won’t feel a crunch or taste blood, but Remus will be able to tell the difference. And really, the way Logan’s biting him, his shins should be bruising. And now they are. Remus grins.
Logan shifts again before long. He pushes Remus even further out his mouth, so that Remus’s hips balance uncomfortably on Logan’s front teeth. They’ll be bruising too. His legs stick out of Logan’s mouth. Since his hips are still inside, and a fair portion of his thighs are supported by Logan’s lips, and since he’s lying on his face, meaning his knees bend up, not down, Remus’s legs don’t dangle. He wonders if he’s big enough to kick Logan in the nose, but before he can try, Logan pinches his legs between his fingers, rendering him immobile. Then Logan bites.
His teeth slip off Remus’s hips, thrusting into his stomach instead. Remus’s stomach, having no bones in it, offers considerably less resistance than Logan was probably expecting, and Logan’s teeth sink deep.
Remus nearly pukes. The only thing that stops him from actually doing so is the realization that if he throws up in Logan’s mouth, Logan will spit him out and probably not put him back in again, perhaps not ever. So Remus swallows the bile, forcing it to stay down with sheer willpower.
The pressure against his gut releases, and Remus gulps down air. He has only a second’s reprieve before Logan bites down again, but this time it’s a bit slower, a bit gentler. He still presses his teeth far enough into Remus’s midsection that the shrunken Creativity muses that if not for his promise of no injuries, he’d be bitten in half by now.
Logan seems to like the squishiness of Remus’s gut. He keeps him there for a good while, squishing Remus’s stomach in on itself with his teeth and making its contents want to squeeze up and out his throat each time. It takes a lot of Remus’s concentration to keep the mix of acid and partly-digested food inside, until he remembers that he can simply banish it from reality. It takes only a quick gesture to do so, and then, stomach empty, Remus can finally enjoy the sensation of being chewed on without distractions.
Two bites later, Logan presses his teeth hard into Remus’s stomach, and then slowly pulls his lower jaw back, effectively heimliching Remus. It’s a good thing Remus had banished his breakfast, because otherwise, there was no way he’d be able to keep it down. Logan rocks his teeth forward again, not stopping when they bump Remus’s pelvis. Slowly, Remus finds himself being pushed out of Logan’s mouth. He can feel Logan’s upper teeth scraping along his back, bumping each vertebra as they go.
He can feel cold air on his butt. He’s more outside Logan’s mouth than in, at this point. Logan’s upper teeth are behind Remus’s shoulders, shoving his face down into Logan’s tongue, and his lower teeth, though considerably less deep into Remus’s stomach without an opposing force to hold him in place, force Remus’s butt to stick up in the air.
Logan holds him there for just a second before reversing directions. His teeth slide up Remus’s belly until they catch on the bottom of his ribcage. Slowly, he’s dragged back inside Logan’s mouth, back to where he started. Logan’s teeth press harder and harder into him as they go, smushing Remus’s organs. (He’s not exactly sure what he’s got right there, but he’s pretty sure there are some organs getting smushed right now. Maybe a spleen? Yeah, Logan’s probably smushing Remus’s spleen.)
After Logan’s got Remus back where he started, he does it again. And again. Over and over, Logan pushes and pulls Remus around, not once releasing the pressure. He doesn’t exactly heimlich Remus again, since his teeth are sinking in at the wrong spot for that, but Remus feels reasonably certain that his spleen is paste by the time Logan switches it up again.
Logan slurps Remus all the way into his mouth, and for a few seconds, the lack of crushing pressure is disorienting. Remus lies on his face, catching his breath.
Then Logan tilts his tongue, and Remus rolls like a log til he lands on something hard and bumpy. Logan’s teeth, he realizes. He’s on his side, facing Logan’s cheek — he thinks; it’s too dark to actually see, but based on the direction he’d rolled and the side he’s lying on, he’s pretty sure Logan’s cheek is in front of him, and his tongue behind — with one arm flopped over him and the other pinned awkwardly underneath. His head smarts from striking the tooth, and so does one knee.
He’s only given half a second to make these observations, because Logan immediately bites down. He chomps, really, with enough force to immediately break all of Remus’s ribs if only he hadn’t promised not to get hurt. The teeth separate, and Remus finds himself suspended for a moment, the soft flesh of Logan’s cheek in front of him and the slightly rougher tongue behind supporting him so he does not fall. Logan chomps again, and this time as he releases, he spins Remus with tongue and cheek so that Remus lands on his face once more. Chomp. Spin. Remus lies on his other side. Chomp. Spin. Now on his back. Chomp. Spin. Back to the first side.
It occurs to Remus, as Logan continues to aggressively chew on him, that the nerd is finally treating him as what he’s standing in for, as gum. Remus isn’t quite as squishy, but Logan doesn’t appear to mind.
Remus wonders if Logan will try to blow a bubble with him. That might be fun, being stretched out like gum.
Logan doesn’t, though. He just chews Remus up for several minutes, not even pausing to shift him to the other side. Vaguely, between bites, Remus wonders what the nerd is studying right now. What emotions translate to chewing so intensely? Is Logan reading something exciting? Something infuriating? Is he trying to puzzle out some twisty bit of logic? It doesn’t really matter in the moment, but Remus still finds himself curious.
Eventually, Logan’s bites slow again. He grips Remus (lying on his face again) between his teeth and, almost gently, especially compared to moments before, slowly crushes the air out of his lungs. Remus’s spine goes pop pop pop. There’s a particularly satisfying pop at his hips. After a second, Logan releases the pressure. He shifts his jaw around, dragging his teeth across Remus’s back. Remus sighs happily, relaxing. It’s almost like a massage.
The sensation is pleasant enough that Remus almost falls asleep. Perhaps he does fall asleep. He certainly loses track of what Logan does after that.
Some time later, he has no idea how long, Logan spits him out. Well, no, he’s gentler about it than that. Logan sticks a finger in his mouth and uses it to drag Remus out. He pinches the spit-covered Creativity between thumb and forefinger, looking him over.
“Did you enjoy yourself?” Logan asks.
Remus grins and flips him off — almost his equivalent of a thumb’s up, in the current context. “Why’d you stop?”
“I have concluded my studies for the time being,” Logan answers. “Thank you for your assistance. You were quite helpful.”
Remus beams.
“Would you be amenable to repeating this experience at a future date?”
Remus grins. “You wanna chew on me again?”
Logan nods. “As I said, you were quite the aid to my concentration.”
Remus wiggles happily. “Yeah I wanna do it again!”
“Excellent. Would you like me to swallow you now?”
“Will you digest me?”
“No.”
Remus droops, pouting. “Aww.”
“However,” Logan adds, “I intend to get an actual snack as well, and I have no objections if you wish to observe as it digests.”
Remus considers for half a second, then nods, accepting those terms. “Can I get stomach burns?”
“No, I would prefer not to digest you at all, even superficially.”
“Fiiiine.” But there’s no hiding that Remus is eager to be eaten, even with the restrictions. “Chew me up one more time before you swallow?”
“Very well. Anything else?”
Remus shakes his head, reaching up toward Logan’s mouth and making grabby hands. Logan chuckles.
“In you go, then,” he says, lifting Remus up. He dangles him above his gaping maw, and Remus stares down into it, his heart thudding in delighted terror. Then Logan drops him.
Remus screams as he falls, flailing in the air. He lands on Logan’s tongue, and the mouth snaps shut after him. Before he can get his bearings, Logan’s shoved him back between his teeth, chewing forcefully on him.
Then Logan swallows, and Remus slides head first down his throat, whooping all the way. He gets stomach acid in his mouth when he splashes into it.
Bobbing back up to the surface, Remus flicks his fingers, creating a light so he can see his surroundings. At the moment, he appears to be the only solid in here. But not for long, he thinks with a smirk, settling down against the wrinkled wall.
Maybe he can even convince the nerd to leave him in here through dinner. If Logan objects to Remus skipping a meal, Remus can just have some of Logan’s portion. Isn’t like the big guy would miss the amount it’d take to fill Remus’s tiny gut right now, anyway.
#original#mine#nommy thoughts#sanders sides#sanders sides vore#writing#my writing#mastication concentration#mouthplay#hard vore
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#25 Drowning (in Paperwork).
Prompt: You overhear Spencer defending after someone calls you stupid / lazy.
Category: Angst / Comfort
Content Warning: None
A/N: Sorry that I have been gone so long. Grad school has been as busy as I imagined it would be. I’m almost free however and will hopefully post often over the break. This piece has been sitting idle for months so here is it. This is a collaboration with @imagining-in-the-margins who came up with the idea for the story. They have some awesome CM content, so I highly recommend their blog.
Word Count: 2K
List with all stories
Y/n = your name
Y/l/n = your last name
_Y/n_ was currently slumped over her desk asleep. The bullpen was mostly empty at the moment because most of the members of the Behavioral Analysis Unit were out grabbing their lunch from the breakroom or getting food from the many take out joints near the FBI compound. Agent y/l/n_ had planned on shot gunning a cup of coffee and continuing her paperwork over their most recent successful case. The unsub, Keith Drivesdale, had ended the whole situation very dramatically with a seven mile footrace in the Blue Ridge Mountains in Tennessee. Mr. Drivesdale had been kidnapping young female hikers on the Appalachian Trail, assaulting them, and then dumping the bodies across state lines on the trail. Drivesdale had been repeating the same pattern for four months until the authorities in Georgia, Tennessee, Virginia, and Pennsylvania had the sense to contact the other states sheriff stations to see if there was a pattern in the type of killings that were happening on their portion of the trail. By that time the unsub had killed eleven young women. The man hunt had concluded with twenty five sheriffs, five helicopters searching for the last victim from above, and _y/n_ and Morgan tracking down the man on foot. When they had found his trailer, Keith had not attempted to injure Kelly Browning, his last victim. Morgan stayed with the hiker until Jason and Emily came to take her to the hospital. Meanwhile agent _y/l/n_ had run after Drivesdale. The unsub finally tired enough to make a bad decision in his choice of trail to attempt escape on. The man had run himself onto a lookout with a high drop. _Y/n_ had her gun pulled out and said, “Mr. Drivesdales there’s no place to go. Give this up.” Keith pulled out a pistol from his belt and said, “I’m so sorry. I couldn’t help myself. I really couldn’t.” The man quickly put the gun to his head and pulled the trigger. His body wracked with the impact of the bullet, and the unsub fell back off the lookout, and into the river below. A second later Derek rushed into the clearing. The other agent was afraid that the unsub had hurt _y/l/n_. With the accelerating chase over, and the case solved the team piled into the jet and returned to D.C.
It was the following day after the case and the paperwork was due by the end of the workday. Derek and Spencer entered the bullpen. Morgan walked up to _y/n_ desk and pulled The Decameron out from under the sleeping agents folded arms. Surprisingly this movement didn’t stir the sleeping woman. After a few minutes of standing over _y/n_ Derek gently patted her shoulder. The female agent jerked awake, and gripped the sides of her desk. Morgan startled a little at the sharp movement, and said, “Hey, are you alright _y/n_? After rubbing her palm over her eyes and replied, “I’m fine. I had a paper due last night and about a hundred pages of reading left before attending lecture tonight.” Spencer smiled and moved forward saying, “I’ve read The Decameron five times. If you want me to give you a summary of the pages you haven’t read yet I’d be happy to.” _Y/n_ smiled at Reid. She knew that reading that much text was going to take longer than she had. Also, she never missed an opportunity to hear Spencer flex his extensive knowledge. Therefore she replied, “That sounds great. I’ll treat you to some good coffee. You talk and I take notes. If that seems like an equal exchange to you.” Spencer smiled, trilled at the idea of getting to spend time with _y/n_. Derek could see Reid’s excitement, but refrained from saying anything about it in front of agent _y/l/n_. After an awkward moment of silence the standing agents moved toward their respective desks and started working on their own paperwork.
After another three hours _y/n_ startled awake again. She internally berated herself for only getting an hour of sleep last night. Unfortunately editing a ten page paper took longer than she had anticipated. The paper was 15% of her final grade in one of the three graduate classes she was taking at Georgetown University. She looked up at the clock and was thankful that she had only been out for ten minutes. She was longing for the day to end, and to spend an hour or two with Spencer. Speaking of the young genius, she couldn’t see him anywhere in the brightly lit desk area. She also noticed that one of her thicker, unfinished files was apparently missing. She took the approach she always did when something strange happened near her; get a cup of coffee and figure it out after the caffeine hit her. She pushed her chair out from her desk and moved toward the break room. As she approached the small coffee area that was separated from the rest of the breakroom by a wall and door on the far right that led to the coffee she craved, she heard her name brought up. The voice sounded slightly like, ‘Dave, Devin, David’ she couldn’t really remember his name at the moment. He was a new quantitative technician that made sure all the servers were up and running as they should be. He often was in the bullpen in a desperate grasp to get into Penelope's good graces. From what she heard from Garcia was that the computer analyst hated the new guy's guts. “He thinks he is so smart, smarter than everyone else, even me,” the computer genius had once told _y/n_ over drinks. _y/l/n_ stopped and waited to see if the man had something else to say and wondered who in the world he was talking to. It’s not like this Dave guy knew her at all. It only took a moment before he heard his voice again, “So did she ask you to work on her files?” After a second _y/n_ heard a voice she definitely knew, Spencer's. He replied to the comment, “No, I just wanted to help.” There was a scoff from Dave and he replied, “Well I wouldn’t put it past her to ask you to do extra work for her. She’s such a lazy person.” This type of talk shouldn’t have gotten to her, she had heard worse. But hearing some egocentric man who didn’t even know her talk about her behind her back hurt in a way she hadn’t expected. What hurt her more was what Spencer said next, “How is she lazy?” _Y/n_ sucked in a breath and tried to stop the warm tears from rolling down her face. She had been doubted by cops, by teachers in the academy, by her own family that she wasn’t capable of doing this job. She didn’t expect to find her own team doubting her. Especially not Spencer. From the way he asked it sounded like he was trying to get more information about how she just wasn’t good enough. She wanted to move away, but couldn’t move her legs, instead she slumped against the wall and heard Dave say, “She’s always asleep at her desk, she doesn’t do her work, I don’t know what she’s like in the field, but I bet it’s not great.” The silence after his statement was finished was deafening.
At least it was deafening until Spencer replied. On the other side of the wall Spencer was leaning against the counter as Devin made a rude remark about _y/n_. He furrowed his eyebrows and asked the middle aged man to elaborate. When the man replied he was just digging himself into a bigger hole. After Spence finished a swig of his coffee he cleared his throat and said, “Let me tell you something about _y/n_, first of all she performs excellently in the field. The case we just finished almost entirely was solved by her. Secondly, just because she’s new to the team doesn’t make her less valuable, in fact it makes her more valuable. She sees things in the cases and the team that we don’t. I hope that doesn’t change. Third, she’s not lazy or stupid, she’s pursuing an advanced degree in English Literature. She’s essentially condensing her master and PhD. into four years. I don’t see you reading three hundred pages a night of the literary canon plus secondary readings and trying to write a dissertation at the same time. Also, she's taking three classes this semester, which is a full load at Georgetown University. So don’t tell me that _y/n_ is lazy. She’s far from it. Also, maybe stop making observations about people you don’t know to a profiler, and especially to me.” With this Spencer brushed past the man and out into the breakroom. Spencer noticed _y/n_ leaning against the wall. Once he saw her it became exceedingly clear that she had overheard the conversation he just had with Devin. He walked quickly over to her and gently grabbed her elbow and led her away from the wall and the break room altogether. As the pair entered the hall Spencer quietly said, “I’m sorry you had to hear that in there.” After the duo entered the hallway and moved back toward the bullpen. Before they both entered the bullpen _y/n_ stopped Spencer by touching his arm lightly. The genius stopped and looked down at her. She gave him a small smile and bit her lower lip slightly before saying, “Thank you for defending me in there. It means a lot.” Spencer shook his head slightly, as if in shock, and replied, “You don’t have to thank me. That guy is an idiot and an asshole.” Reid’s word’s caused _y/l/n’s_ heart tug slightly, she smiled up at him and said, “So, are we still on for later today?” Spence smiled and nodded. With the conversation being finished for the moment he opened the glass door to the bullpen and held it for her.
An hour later _y/n_ was sipping on a warm chai latte and Spencer was going over the last fourth of Boccaccio’s plague narrative. It was raining outside, and the atmosphere in the coffee shop felt like it’s own cozy little bubble separated from the rest of the world. After Reid had finished his recap and _y/l/n_ had all her questions answered she looked up and said, “Spencer, um, I was wondering if you’d like to do this again sometime, but without the books and notetaking and all that?” The lanky agent shifted in his seat before responding, “You mean a date?” _Y/n_ smiled slightly uncomfortably, hoping she hadn’t crossed some kind of professional boundary with her colleague. She thought about her response and replied, “It doesn’t have to be a date if you don’t want it to be. I would like it if I didn’t have to have the excuse of studying to spend time with you. You’re a cool guy and I’d like to know you better if you were comfortable with it.” Reid couldn’t suppress the small smile that crossed his face briefly before saying, “Sure, I’d like that a lot.” _Y/n_ looked down at her notepad to hid the redness of her cheeks from Reid. It wasn’t anything yet, but she hoped with time she could tell Spence how she truly felt about him. She reminded her self of one of her favorite quotes, ‘all in good time my love.’
#dr. spencer reid#criminal minds#spencer x y/n#spencer x reader#derek morgan#cm#coffeeshop#spencer reid
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Do you think that living with Carlisle & Edward immediately after being turned probably hindered Esmes recovery and healing from her past marriage? I’d guess that she wasn’t able to talk to either of them about it (& probably didn’t want to) because of how it made them react, so she was probably alone with those thoughts until Rosalie came along and she probably never dealt with it in what we’d consider today to be a healthy way.
This is SUCH a great question that I’ve never quite considered in this way.
I don’t think they talk about Charles, and I think that avoidance is not healthy for any of them, which makes it a wonderful thing to write about. I agree that Rose was a godsend in that regard. I would love to read (and barring that write) more about Esme and Rosalie. Their shared pasts, and the way the men around them deal with that, makes their relationship fascinating.
I honestly don’t know whether I think it was a help or a hindrance. Carlisle’s compassion, openness, willingness to be careful with her, were aids. Certainly her crush was an aid--it’s not as though Carlisle is a new man. She loved Carlisle before she knew Charles, and so her turning recontextualized who Charles was. Charles becomes a bump in the road on her pursuit of her destiny, which she recognized as her destiny when she was sixteen. That helps.
Edward’s gift--help and problem. Help in that he keeps her from being alone. He’s able to get both of them to verbalize things to each other they’d rather not. They are both the kind of people who sit on things until it comes to a head (I am working on a piece right now in which things came to a head before the start of the fic and BOY HOWDY DID THEY COME TO A FUCKING HEAD).
I picked up a fic this morning off tumblr and obviously I suck at tumblr because I apparently didn’t like the post, and I can’t find the author’s tumblr anymore. But anyway, it’s Powerless in the Darkest Hours by LyricalTwilight, and in Esme’s chapter, she wrote, “One’s mind could be the loneliest and most dangerous of all places, and I was so used to Edward being in there with me, as if protecting me from my own trivial fears.” And seriously, I stopped reading right the fuck then and scrolled to the bottom of the page and left a review because YES YES THAT’S IT EXACTLY. I think Edward’s gift, at first, was a comfort. She didn’t have to talk about it, he just knew. And that was supremely peaceful.
BUT.
I also hypothesize, and take as canon, that Edward’s shouldering of that burden is what slowly drove him away by 1927. In Illustrated, SM stated that Charles was Edward’s first victim, and then she totally retconned that in Midnight Sun and I wish my stupid brain had chosen to get attached to a canon where the author cares more about her world than I do . But she un-jossed one of my fics that was jossed by that statement, so...I’ll take it I suppose. But anyway, presuming Edward did off Charles, that sets up this whole other dynamic wherein Esme feels a little unsafe in her thoughts. She didn’t want Charles to die for what he did; she just didn’t want to ever have to go back to him. But Edward concluded on his own that killing Charles was the best solution to Esme’s sorrow and then carried out the plan, and Carlisle is...a little indifferent about Charles ending up dead, which he hates himself for, and which Esme hates seeing in him (it scares her a little), so the whole thing also hurt Carlisle a great deal, and that was all from her (very appropriately and understandably) dwelling on it in private. It’s a really bad family dynamic that has repercussions for all of them.
So they don’t talk about Charles, and nobody’s fully mentally healthy in that triad. Which makes for fun writing.
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[that’s just what the cold really is]
Sometimes I wake up at one o’clock in the morning to drink some tea and write a briolet oneshot.
Don’t ask why because I don’t know what this is either.
Read on AO3
---
Frost kisses the glass, starting from the wooden frame and spreading across the window. Violet stares past the ice, allowing her mind to clear itself, content to exist and be. How long has she sat there, cross-legged on her desk, watching the stillness of the night? Who knows. Long enough for her nose to become cold enough it stung to breathe through it.
Pressing a finger against the foggy glass, Violet glides it across to draw two eyes and a smile. Dumb and lopsided, she thinks, before smearing away one of the eyes.
With a sigh, Violet climbs off the desk, stiff muscles wincing as her bare feet hit the hardwood floors, so cold it almost hurts to walk.
Another sleepless night in the beginnings of winter, not an unusual occurrence these days. Not when thoughts of the undead and loved ones long lost haunt the most inner workings of her mind, and not when the cold irritates her eye to the point where she could just rub it better.
If only she could put some pressure on it, warm it up enough to be uncomfortably comfortable, but the healing process for the loss of an eyeball is apparently a long and agonizing one. Possibly more so than the actual removal itself, though that’s debatable-- Violet doesn’t have nightmares about healing.
No, these days she still has nightmares about a cell much colder than her dorm, about disfigured faces holding her down as she struggles, spitting more curses than pleas. Lilly’s smug voice echoes in her ear from far away and a woman with a cold, dead stare hovers over her, knife in hand as she commands her to stay still.
Violet reaches her arm out to grab the bar belonging to the top bunk of her bed, the metal cold enough to burn her fingertips. She lets her hand drag along it as she makes her way closer to the door. She wouldn’t want to accidentally walk too close and stub her toe again.
The hallway’s just as dark and still, and it occurs to her that it might be dangerous to walk around here barefoot. Sure, the school’s clearer than it’s ever been thanks to Ruby putting her foot down about everyone being a bunch of pigs, but that doesn’t mean Violet won’t step on a missed piece of glass or a tracked in rock.
Does that scare her enough to turn around and head back into the forlorn darkness of her dorm to try and get some sleep?
Violet makes it down the hall with ease, keeping a hand dragging along to wall to steady her. Not that she really needs to do that. It’s not like she’s completely blind. She still has one eye that’s as good as new, but having only one good eye makes for some poor depth perception most of the time.
The outside chill cuts right through the thin material of her shirt, sinking down into her bones to bring involuntary tremors through her limbs. Rubbing her arms in an attempt to warm them, she ventures into the yard, setting her sight on the stairs leading into the admin building.
She doubts anyone will be in the music room tonight, though she is a little hopeful that Louis might be there. She’d enjoy a song or two tonight, she thinks. He could always was make her laugh, and perhaps that’s what she needed right now.
Louis has his fair share of sleepless nights, and like her, he wanders out here to the music room. Work out frustrations by ‘tickling the ivories,’ as he puts it, or to comfort himself after a bad dream. Violet just hopes that if he’s here tonight that he’s alone. While she enjoys the company of both Louis and Clementine, the two of them being in there together at this time of night probably wouldn’t be the most innocent outing. Violet’s lone eye can only unsee so many things.
“Jesus,” she curses. A particularly harsh gust of wind nearly knocks her down as she climbs the stairs. “Yeah, great, thanks for that.”
Well, if they are in there together, at least they aren’t freezing their asses off.
Violet glares up at the sky, wrinkling her nose at the thought.
Hell, even if they’re both back at the dorms, they’re still warmer together than Violet is out here by herself. Everyone who remains in their bed is warmer than her. Probably.
Her face softens, gaze falling down to the steps beneath her.
Maybe cold nights exist as a reason to drawer people closer to one another, to seek and feel the natural warmth only they could provide. Except what does that mean for those who are cold but lonely? Maybe that’s just what the cold really is, Violet thinks.
Loneliness. Huh.
Shit.
Maybe it’s her pride or the fact that she’s never felt weaker than she has the past six or so months after escaping the delta’s clutch, leaving her eye with them. Fronting that she’s tougher than she really is made her feel better, acting as though she’s content being alone or that she doesn’t need to rely on others for help even if she knows it’s bullshit.
Doing this always bit her in the ass on nights just like this one.
It’s silent within the admin building, so it’s safe to conclude that Louis isn’t here.
She’d never admit her disappointment aloud, but that doesn’t stop the feeling from tugging at her gut. She really hoped he’d be here, hoped they could talk for a while. For as loud and obnoxious as Louis could be, he could listen just as well, be just as quiet and sincere. It’s stupid now to think that she once thought him incapable of serious, deep conversation, not that she ever gave him much of a chance. Not that he gave her much of a chance, either.
Just a couple of dumbasses, she thinks. Oh well.
Violet turns the corner to see the door to the music room wide open, inviting her in. Moonlight leaks in through the curtain slits, reflecting off the floor and the old piano. Strangely, it doesn’t feel as cold in here. At least, not as much as it is outside, or even in the hallway.
She approaches the piano, contemplating if she should sit down. She has no idea how to play, nor does she have any desire to. Resting a hand on the worn-out wood, she curiously admires the inner workings of the piano with all its strings and doohickeys.
Louis offered to teach her once, and she told him that piano music sucks. He never made another offer.
“Vi?”
Violet nearly jumps a foot in the air.
Whipping around, she finds Brody curled up on the couch with a thin blanket over her leg and a mug in hand, wide eyes gazing up at her.
“Shit, sorry,” Brody apologizes, setting her mug on the table beside the armrest. “Didn’t mean to startle you. Just didn’t think you saw me and I didn’t want to be, well, creepin’ over here without ya knowin.’”
Violet presses a hand against her frantic heart, taking a deep breath and nodding.
“No, yeah, definitely didn’t see you. Y’know,” she motions to the patch over her eye, “blind spot.”
Brody seems to stiffen up, but gives an unsure nod, face falling as she glances down at her hands. She stretches out her legs, making like she’s going to stand but changes her mind.
Violet frowns, silently scolding herself.
“What’re you doin’ up?” Brody finally asks.
Violet gives a halfhearted shrug.
“Can’t sleep. Obviously.”
“Your eye?”
“Among other things.”
Brody nods once more, and Violet can’t help but stare at her, even though Brody can probably feel it. Even from here, and with her vision impairment, Brody’s scare is harshly prominent against her more delicate features. Right above her brow, long and discolored now, fully healed.
Violet almost scoffs aloud. Fucking Marlon. She hopes he’s freezing his ass off living down in the old train station now. After what he did to Brody, after finding out what he did to Minnie and Sophie, they kicked him out of Ericson. And even after everything with the raiders, after Marlon helped them escape the boat before it exploded, he’s still not welcome here.
Well, more so Marlon decided it’d be in everyone’s best interest if he didn’t live at Ericson anymore, instead settling in the train station so that he was close enough if they ever needed him. Everyone agreed, even Louis. That was a surprise, but he agreed that Marlon being here with them wouldn’t work anymore, and maybe knowing where Marlon was and that he was safe helped Louis be content with the decision.
Violet’s just glad she doesn’t have to see him every day, and that he’s far away from Brody, but even gone he’s left marks all over this school... all over Brody’s face.
“What about you?” Violet asks to break the awkward pause. “Can’t sleep either?”
“Nah,” Brody finally looks at her, tucking a wild strand of hair behind her ear. Bedhead, Violet thinks. Funny. “Tossin’ and turnin’ don’t suit me. If I’m gonna be awake, I might as well be outta bed and doin’ something.”
“Something like sitting in the dark like a weirdo?”
That gets a small smile from Brody.
“Yeah, somethin’ like that,” she says. “Just wanted some tea and a change of scenery. Wasn’t expecting company...” she trails off, but keeps her gaze on Violet as she quietly adds, “but it’s a welcome surprise.”
Violet almost smiles despite herself, having to bite the inside of her cheek.
Ever since they lost the twins, things have been rocky with Brody. After Clementine and AJ showed up, Violet felt for the first time in a so long that her friendship with Brody was salvageable, that maybe they could be close again. Clementine forced her to see what was really bothering her about Brody and why things were so shitty between them, and Violet found herself wanting to fix it.
Then the truth Marlon and Brody were hiding from them came out, and Violet was beyond pissed. Even with Brody lying in bed, bandages wrapped around her head and her skin sticky and pale, Violet hated her.
Yeah, hated her. Hated her for lying to her face for over a year, for keeping that secret to hide her and Marlon’s guilt, for trying to grow close with her knowing what she had done.
Violet never fathomed that she’d ever forgive Brody, but then Brody healed and could explain everything.
Then the raiders attacked, and she and Brody were taken away, forced to share a cell on the raider’s boat. When Violet failed to cooperate, and they... well, Brody was the one to hold her, sob into her shoulder from within that cell.
Suddenly, a lot of things didn’t seem to matter anymore.
“You want some tea?” Brody offers, holding up her own mug. “It’s minty.”
“No, no...” Violet shakes her head, shifting her weight from one leg to the other.
“It’ll warm ya up. Can see ya shakin’ from over here.”
“Maybe I like the cold.”
“No one likes the cold.”
“Maybe I do.”
Brody rolls her eyes, throwing the blanket off and standing. Over by the fireplace, she lights a match to ignite her makeshift warmer to boil more water.
Violet abandons the piano, finding a place on the opposite side of the couch as Brody wanders about the room, humming to herself. She comes back with another blanket, this one heavier. Violet accepts gratefully, covering her body up to her chin.
Brody hands her to streaming mug, the scent of warm mint clearing her senses. Violet can’t help but groan after taking a sip, the heat spreading through her body.
“Good?”
“It’s okay,” Violet lies. ”I guess.”
Brody smiles. Violet wonders how close she’ll sit now that she’s here, but Brody doesn’t move to do so. Instead, she grabs one of the candles off the piano, flicking a match to light it. Violet raises a brow up at her, which Brody meets with a playful shrug.
“it’s cold,” she says simply, setting the candle down on the small round table.
Violet can’t help it. She laughs. That makes Brody smile.
Her laughter dies when the couch dips with Brody’s weight beside her.
“C’mon,” Brody grins, tugging at the comforter. “Don’t be a hog.”
Violet doesn’t bother putting up a fight, lifting the blanket to let Brody scoot closer. Shoulder to shoulder, they get comfortable.
“Y’know what I miss?” Brody asks.
“Summer?”
“No-- well, actually yes, I do miss summer, but that’s not what I was gonna say,” she brings her long legs us, tucking them beneath her. This makes her lean more into Violet and it takes all her concentration to not spill hot tea over her hands. “I was thinkin’ that I miss jerky.”
“Jerky?”
“Yeah. I used to go on these trips once a year with my dad to see my grandpa. Was always just to two of us, and we’d be on the road for hours, but we’d stop at this gas station-- the same one every time, and he’d get us these long sticks of spicy jerky that you could barely chew without feelin’ like ya were gonna break a tooth.”
“Gross,” Violet wrinkles her nose. “Ever break a tooth?”
“Nah, not really. Sure made my jaw sore by the time I was finished, though. Take ya about an hour to get through the whole thing properly. But Daddy said that was the point. Ya gotta chew it long enough to get all the flavor outta it, otherwise, it’s just a waste.”
“He couldn’t’ve brought you a hotdog or something?”
“You ever have a hotdog from a gas stop?” Brody makes a gagging noise. “Wouldn’t be surprised if those things were made of roadkill off the highway.”
“How’s that any different than what we eat now?” Violet asks, teasing. “It’s just in stew form instead.”
“I’ll tell him you compared his famous stew to flea-bitten roadkill.”
“Do it,” Violet challenges with a smirk, setting her tea aside. “I can take him.”
Brody snorts out a laugh, hand flying up to cover her mouth to muffle the outburst, managing an, “Oh god,” out.
Once Brody gets a hold of herself, Violet says, “Never had jerky like that. Though I didn’t go on many road trips.”
“We could go on one,” Brody suggests lightly, nudging her. “Get away from here, go find a beach somewhere and sit in the sun.”
“Only if I get to drive.”
Brody, a soft smile tugging at her lips, wraps an arm around Violet’s shoulders to pull her close, gently rubbing more heat into her arm.
Despite the heaviness in Violet’s stomach, it flutters at the feeling of her body pressed against Brody’s. She hesitates, but eventually leans into the warmth of her side, resting her head in the crook of Brody’s neck while slipping her arms around her waist.
“Can’t tell anyone we’re goin,’ though,” Brody mumbles. “I’m not spending days in a car with Louis and his singalongs.”
“Twenty-five bottles of beers on the wall, twenty-five bottles of beer-”
“Oh god.”
“-take one down--”
“No!”
“-pass it around-”
Brody’s hand presses over Violet’s mouth to silence her, all while the both of them laugh together. For the first time that night, Violet doesn’t feel a single chill prick at her skin. She pulls Brody’s hand from her face, holding it in her own. When Brody doesn’t pull away, she takes a risk in lacing their fingers together.
Brody squeezes her hand back in approval.
The laughter dies down. Brody pulls the blanket closer over them, and together they sit for a while.
Just as Violet’s eye begins to droop shut, the fatigue finally hitting her, Brody’s lips press against her forehead. Violet thinks to turn her head up to kiss Brody back, really kiss her, but doesn’t.
Too tired, too comfortable, too warm.
Violet allows sleep to take her.
#twdg briolet#twdg violet#twdg brody#twdg louis#twdg clementine#twdg aj#twdg omar#twdg marlon#twdg clouis#literally woke up around 1 in the morning and was like#'hey imma write a briolet fic'#and then i did#like a crazy person#finally finished and went to bed around 4#again like a crazy person#so there ya have it#twdg fanfic#twdg fanfiction#briolet twdg#violet twdg#brody twdg
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Got a handful of DC-solicit asks, so I’ll just write up my thoughts on the whole batch again.
Mister Miracle: The Source of Freedom #1: The BALLS to not only do the next Mister Miracle thing after King and Gerads, but to do it with Shilo Norman and therefore invite Seven Soldiers comparisons as well. I wouldn’t be that interested, but the preview art that came with the announcement looked fun so this is a maybe for me.
Wonder Girl #1: I got a Yara Flor ask so I’ll go more into detail with that, but this sounds...not good.
Future State: Gotham #1: Hahaha, thanks, call me in six months if the next team does something there’s a reason to give a shit about. Except...wait, Dennis Culver cowrote that E Is For Extinction Secret Wars mini, dammit this might be good. Either way though, god willing we get a Future State: Metropolis book by Dan Watters too.
Legends of the Dark Knight #1: Hopefully this going with Sensational Wonder Woman means there’s a similar Superman anthology in the cards too, but I won’t hold my breath. Darick Robertson doing Batman is enticing, but I’m not familiar with his work as a writer and the premise doesn’t sound that gripping so I’ll wait and see. That Francavilla variant though? DC, blow that up to poster size and you’d make a mint.
Milestone Returns: Infinite Edition #0: Hmm. I got love for Static, but I might wait for further announcements and/or buzz before taking the plunge on this one.
DC Festival of Heroes: The Asian Superhero Celebration #1: This is a SERIOUSLY stacked lineup, definite buy.
Stargirl Spring Break Special #1: Impeccable timing, DC. It feels like it must be some kind of statement that there are no Morrison members of the Seven Soldiers in the mix (even swapping out Ystin for the original version of Shining Knight no one cares bout) - we focus on the Moore fixation, but there’s enough tidbits that I really do feel like Johns probably flat-out hates Morrison. And what’s this ‘secret eighth soldier’ nonsense? There’ve always been eight soldiers, people have been joking about it forever!
Justice League: Last Ride #1: Discussed that announcement here.
Batman: Earth One Vol. 3: *blinks*
*blinks again*
*squints at the cover art*
...Geoff Johns are you seriously trying to step to Morrison and use the Miagani tribe? YOU SEE WHAT I MEAN PEOPLE
I Am Not Starfire: Interesting concept that seems like it pushes into indie-flavored territory as much as DC’s superhero output just about ever has, if word-of-mouth is good there’s a decent chance I’ll get this.
Action Comics #1031: Wonder if this is serious about the potential of Kryptonian refugees, given PKJ suggested the idea in Worlds of War and that could play a significant part in the New Krypton stuff from Bendis’s Legion (with Johnson being clear he’s following up on a lot of Bendis’s ideas with his own Superman run).
Superman #31: This sounds big-time like Johnson hammering Superman into a swords-and-sorcery shape for an arc since that’s his bag, but Superman’s malleable enough for that to work so I’m not complaining.
American Vampire 1976 #8: Still not getting, so.
Batman #108: Tynion’s well and truly figured out how to game the direct market’s dopiest instincts, hasn’t he? Well, as long as that’s in service of him getting to continue doing weird Batman stuff with Jorge Jimenez like introducing whatever the ‘Unsanity Collective’ is, that’s fine with me. And more Ghostmaker!
Batman: Black & White #6: Not as packed for the finale as some previous issues, but still looking good. And there’s really never gonna be a ‘last’ Scott Snyder Batman story, is there? Sure it’ll be good but that’s kind of a shame, his Detective #1027 feature really felt like a nice full circle.
Batman: The Detective #2: Guess I wasn’t the only one wondering if it was a stealth DKR prequel and they wanted to cut that notion out at the knees.
Batman/Catwoman #6: Still very down for it, but BOY that Batwoman costume Mann debuted on Twitter.
The Batman & Scooby Doo Mysteries #2: I recently finally started reading Sholly Fisch and companies’ Scooby-Doo Team-Up! recently after getting the whole run for free on ComiXology earlier this year and have fallen in love with it, so I’m totally grabbing this digitally.
Batman/Superman #18: “The Dark Knight and the Man of Steel are on a mission to stop the godlike Auteur.io from destroying the pocket worlds he’s created...but where on Earth did Auteur.io even come from? The answer starts not on Earth at all, but with an ancient cult of World Forger worshippers on a planet far away—and if our heroes are to have a prayer of stopping this mythic behemoth, they’ll need to get to the bottom of his power source, and quick! It’s a race against time as the parallel lives of entire worlds hang in the balance!”
Anonymous said: Haha is Yang really doing Superman & Batman vs. Zack Snyder and the Snyder Cult (look up “auter” if you don’t know what I mean)? That’s fucking hilarious, especially since he apparently comes from the World Forge which is where all the shitty Earths full of bad ideas are made. Pretty pointed criticism there if I’m reading it right.
I’ve seen two or three people other than this anon independently conclude this arc is about the Supermen and Batmen of the Multiverse teaming up to stop Zack Snyder from destroying them all and at this point I’m ready to ask my LCS owner if I’m allowed to pay more than cover price for this run.
Batman: Urban Legends #3: Much more into this after the Grifter and Outsiders stories in Future State.
Catwoman #31: No reason not to assume this’ll continue to be great.
Challenge of the Super Sons #2: Good for the folks who want this, and that Nick Bradshaw variant is fun.
Crime Syndicate #3: I wanna be convinced to get this book, but the interviews are not persuading me.
Detective Comics #1036: How long is Mora sticking around?!
The Dreaming: Waking Hours #10: Another one I’ve got nothing to say about because I’ve never been getting it.
The Flash #770: Actually really excited to hear about how bad this run will suck now that I know it’s by the mind behind that “Geoff Johns’ OC - do not steal - beats up the Grant Morrison DC future” catastrophe from Future State.
Green Lantern #2: Really couldn’t wait a month for Far Sector to wrap up, huh?
Harley Quinn #3: Still not interested, but that *is* a nice cover.
The Joker #3: There’s a very real possibility I’ll have dropped the book by this point if it turns out to be the illustrated editorial mandate I get the feeling it could be, but fingers crossed.
Justice League #61: Not complaining, but wow, this really is Naomi 2 since Campbell’s busy in order to provide the necessary material for the CW show.
Looney Toons #260/Mad #20: Were these grouped with the rest of the solicits before?
Man-Bat #4: Very curious how this’ll be received, given nobody much cares about Man-Bat but Wielgosz seems to be quickly becoming a favorite.
The Next Batman: Second Son #2: Hadn’t realized this was only 4 issues - guess for at least one of them it’ll be the Luke Fox book everyone expected in the first place.
Nightwing #80: Dick Grayson vs. Heartless, not how I expected the DC/Kingdom Hearts crossover to happen but I’ll take it. That variant though? ALL TIMER:
The Other History of the DC Universe #4: I was trying to figure out who the focus of #4 would be since we know #5 is about Thunder and Lightning, forgot Montoya was confirmed.
Robin #2: Wanna care, so don’t care.
Rorschach #8: I will get it and probably like it.
RWBY/Justice League #2: My thoughts here will be their own post because there’s something particularly notable, but:
Anonymous said: Have you seen the BATtleaxe from the new art for RWBY/Justice League?
Yes, anon. Yes I have.
Sensational Wonder Woman #3: Eh, premise doesn’t grab me but maybe.
Strange Adventures #10: God I love the book about how Adam Strange sucks.
Suicide Squad #3/Teen Titans Academy #3: Hahahahaha
Superman: Red and Blue #3: Fiffe and Stokoe doing Superman stories!!! And...Nick Spencer. With Christian Ward art?! Sigh, fine, hopefully it’ll be Nick Spencer doing a nice little comedy, and not having Grant Morrison Superman throwing his t-shirt away because he grew up and realized changing things is too hard. A horrible shame Pope is doing the main cover though, the allegations against him I guess never really got any attention. At least there’s this JPL variant:
The Swamp Thing #3: Swampy will never be my guy but very happy for those who dig him, because I imagine this’ll be terrific.
Truth & Justice #4: Normally I wouldn’t care at all, but what I’m hearing on Twitter about this is a crying shame - that Jeff Trammell is really talented and Red Hood is a favorite of his and this is likely to be one of Jason Todd’s few Actually Good comics, but that artist Rob Guillory is a bullying transphobic piece of shit. Sucks all around.
Wonder Woman #772: I was so excited for this run, and then Immortal Wonder Woman had to go and suck.
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SIDETRACKED with TGT
Welcome to Sidetracked, the periodical internet show where instead of doing important things, I get sucked down an internet rabbit hole for heavens knows how long. Might as well document my findings/incomitance to focus on tasks.
In this episode: an odd phonetic connection between the popular internet game Among Us and a filmmaker of an anti-Semitic Nazi propaganda film from Nazi Germany, the bizarre articles that came from trying to cover the topic— and the journey to accidentally debunking the source of the connection.
First, please watch this. It’s the thing that started this whole escapade.
Apparently, Amon Gus was the pseudonym* (put a pin in that) of the German filmmaker Wolfgang Staudte, who wrote and directed the 1946 film The Murderers Are Among Us (that was obviously anti-Nazi, by the way) and was involved in the filming of the aforementioned propaganda film, Jud Süß, which is stylized in the theater poster as "Jud Süss."
The Murderers Are Among Us was a romance-thriller about a Nazi concentration camp survivor and an ex-soldier struggling with the traumas of WWII. Jud Süß, by contrast, is considered "one of the most notorious and successful pieces of anti-Semitic film propaganda produced in Nazi Germany." One could easily gather (as the Wikipedia article does) that Staudte was perhaps trying to right his wrongs by making a film that was against the ideology he felt guilty for perpetuating. Or perhaps that was a cover-up and he still was a Nazi. It's impossible to truly know.
As of yet, I have not found any conclusive that Staudte actually used Amon Gus as a pseudonym or if that was just fabricated for the joke. Any sources I find gloss over the connection between the two names.
This leads us to the articles that appear to be trying to document this connection, except they're doing it in a way that feels like they're aliens that are trying to disguise as journalists but have absolutely no idea what humans actually care about or even what facts are. One such article from the website ridzeal.com is titled Amon Gus Person Who is Amon Gus Person? Here is an excerpt from the article:
“As of now, the author retains all of his information confidential. We can Not offer much info about his era. He might be 50-60years old as of today. He is not there on any societal media website. No information about his family, wife, kids, parents could be viewed anywhere.”
For context, Wolfgang Staudte died in 1984 at the age of 77.
While reading this, the writing really reminded me of the famous Does Bruno Mars is Gay article, which was evidently written by artificial intelligence. Considering this, it is very likely that ridzeal.com is a site written exclusively by artificial intelligence. Looking at their main page shows many headlines with English ranging from slightly-off to broken, such as “How to Wear a Leather Kilt?“ and “Bestiken Com Reviews Is Bestiken com Legit or Scam?“ All of these are being put out at a fairly rapid pace (multiple a day it seems) and in multiple languages (with no sorting by language, mind you).
There’s nothing on ridzeal.com that shows it’s managed by AI. They have a submission section, so I decided to ask them “Are your articles made by artificial intelligence? Because they really seem like it.” I guess we’ll see if they respond.
Upon further inspection, there were even more articles similar to this, two that even seem to copy each other. Here’s the website that appears to be the original source and a celebrity birthday/height/weight website that copied that (incorrect) information.
Here’s that picture they used:
Isn’t he handsome?
Yeah, that’s not Amon Gus. A quick reverse-image search shows that’s the German author Karl May, who died in March 1912 at 70, five and a half years after Wolfgang Staudte was born.
Here he is on the cover of his book Leben, Werk, Wirkung (which according to Google Translate means “Like, Work, Effect”):
So handsome...
So, is Amon Gus a real person? Maybe, but it’s unlikely. It could be a goof by an AI trying to find new material. Or a fabrication to make a meme. Who knows? I certainly don’t.
Murderer Is Amogus and Jew Sus is still funny though.
And thus concludes my endurance to go further down the rabbit hole as well as tonight’s episode of Sidetracked. I’ve been your host TGT, and remember kids: Check your sources.
#sidetracked#rabbit hole#nazi germany#check your sources#amon gus#among us#reddit#propaganda#literature#sorry to all my teachers#i should go to sleep now#karl may#writers#writers on tumblr
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Moreid one shot, 8 - "how much"
Season 8, episode 18 "Restoration" (It's the one where the team is in Chicago and the unsub was one of the kids molested by Carl Buford, so Morgan is obviously really involved. At the end of the episode, after Derek finds out on the jet that Buford is dead - *yay*)
I have to say a couple things, since apparently if I don't write at least 20 lines of useless information before the actual fic, the Earth threatens to explode: 1) this is kinda obvious, but I always specify the episode and season so if you haven't watched that episode yet you probably shouldn't read the fic cause it may contain spoilers! 2) this is not obvious but highkey useless, I always imagine Reid having long hair (like season 4/5 or maybe a lil shorter), because FOR ME that's his best look (that's why you'll nearly always find expressions like "he tucked his hair behind his ear" even though for ex. in season 9 that wouldn't be possible lmao)
Update: goes unsaid that I partially re-wrote this as well as many others
Read it on AO3
-------------
"Yes. Uh uh. No I understand, thank you for keeping me posted. I appreciate that."
Silence, following that call. Everybody looking at Morgan, waiting for him to say something - anything really. The look on his face was indecipherable, a mix of relief and uncomfort, and wanting to cry or break something or preferably both.
"...Buford is dead."
That was all he said. Not when, not how.
He kept his look out of the window of the jet, like meeting his friends' eyes could trigger an emotional response way too overwhelming for any of them to handle in that moment.
They all stared at him without making a single sound, not knowing what they were supposed to say, what he was expecting to hear from them. Not even Reid: his eyes remained glued to him for a while, unable to get back to reading his book with that lump in his throat suffocating him.
-
As soon as they got off the jet, Morgan vanished. Everyone thought he'd probably quickly got to his office to pick up his stuff and head home, without talking to anyone. But when the rest of the team entered the bullpen through the glass doors, they saw him, not in his office, but sitting at Reid's desk; elbows on his knees and eyes stuck on the floor.
Reid stopped walking and stared for a while from afar, frozen, deciding what to do; while the others headed to their desks and offices silently, not even able to small talk after what Morgan had announced.
Spencer felt a light touch on his shoulder. He turned around.
"He needs you, Spence." JJ's soft voice spoke sense into him. "It only works with you."
That last statement left Spencer a bit confused, but he nodded anyway, replying with a sad but grateful smile as she walked away.
His friend's encouraging words and a few more minutes of waiting were enough for Spencer to finally gather the nerve of walking toward the man.
-
Once he'd approached his own desk, he stood still and carefully looked down at his boyfriend, hunched on himself; waiting for him to notice his presence. But Morgan didn't move a single finger.
"...I thought you ran home." he said, softly.
Derek finally tilted his chin up to face him, straightening a little in his seat: he wasn't crying, but he did look upset. Still: the crack in Spencer's heart couldn't but widen at the damaged look on his usually warm, handsome face.
"Yeah I thought of that, but I- I feel like I need to...talk. To you."
Few seconds of silence.
"You really don't have to talk to me about it if you don't want to..." Spencer pointed out a bit nervously.
Derek didn't answer. He just stood up from the chair with his hands in his leather jacket pockets, staring straight into the other's brown eyes, with a look that said: "Please". Spencer answered with a nod.
Except for Hotch and Rossi, both in the former's office, the rest of the team had quickly got home: it was 11:30 pm. As for the other employees, they simply didn't have such a crazy schedule, so the bureau was empty. However, Morgan didn't feel like talking there, so he headed toward his office, Reid following without questioning.
-
Derek closed the door behind him, not bothering about the blinds, nor turning the light on. He sat on the black leather couch in the corner of the room, looking down at the floor as his elbows dug further in the holes they'd already carved earlier in his thighs.
Spencer put his satchel on the floor and stood there, 5 ft from him, with his hands in the pockets of his jacket: he had a feeling it was going to be a few minutes before Derek could feel like talking. But that was ok. That was the point: being there, silently or not.
The complete but slightly discomforting quiet, the dim light pervading the room coming from the bullpen, but most of all the presence of Spencer that made him feel like he was allowed to finally let go, weren't helping Derek from trying not to burst out crying. He kept his eyes squeezed shut and face down in the attempt to avoid that.
He accidentally let out a sniffle that gave Spencer the final clue that he was, in fact, about to cry. He buried his face in his palm, failing to stop the tears from falling any longer: he got "caught", there was nothing left to hide, at that point.
Spencer gulped. Before that, he had admittedly failed to pick up on how uncomfortable his boyfriend must have felt and how serious that situation was. He just wished he had the power to hug him tight and put the outer world on a pause while Derek let himself crumble down into smithereens; and then whisper comforting words in his ear while he fixed him, piece by piece, bit by bit, until he was somewhat whole again.
"Derek..." he murmured, feeling like his knees were wobbling under his weight at the sight of him like...that.
Spencer finally sat down next to him on the couch, not too close neither touching him. He knew the odds of Derek reacting well to physical comfort right after he exposed himself crying were few. He ran the statistics in his mind. Plus, he knew him. So he just sat there.
-
"I don't know why I'm reacting like this to the death of the man who ruined my childhood." Derek finally managed to say, a bit coldly, still eyeing down at the floor.
"I should be happy or at least relieved. That's what you're probably thinking." he added, pulling himself together just enough to find the courage to face Spencer; a deeply concerned but attentive look on his face.
"I'm thinking that you shouldn't beat yourself up for feeling whatever you are feeling right now." he answered reasonably, and quite frankly Derek wasn't expecting it.
Receiving no answer, Spencer continued. "I think," he paused, clearing his voice "I think that there's no right or wrong way for you to feel about it, because..." he paused again, contemplating whether he should mention Buford's name or maybe it was better not to.
"...cause Buford was never just an unsub for you." He mentioned him anyway, but stopped right there, staying vague, without openly addressing the fact that Buford had in some way been a father figure for Derek, when he was a kid. He didn't know how Derek would react to that: if he'd agree and see what his point was; or accuse him of justifying Buford's actions, in a small percentage.
Morgan didn't retort. He knew what Reid meant, and that what he meant made sense; nonetheless he couldn't erase those feelings of guilt and frustration and sickness that were possessing him. He nodded briefly and got back to facing the ground.
Spencer thought that it was the right moment for him to finally touch him without the risk of him flinching back. So he gently put his hand on the back of Derek's neck, stroking it with his thumb and looking at him with sad eyes.
The second Derek felt the comfort of his soft touch, he felt like crying again, like he had pressed some kind of vulnerable button. He screwed his eyes shut and clenched his jaw, letting out a heavy breath accompanied by a faint whine that he'd been trying so hard to keep buried down in the pit of his lungs.
"He should've rot in prison. What I said to the press gave him a way out." he paused and faced the other way, looking at the empty bullpen through the blinds. "It's- it's like he got what he wanted from me for the millionth time." he concluded, his voice hoarse and shaky.
Spencer understood, from his choice of words - he got what he wanted from me - that he was comparing that to the specific act of the abuse. The way he said it and the change in his demeanor - usually strong, both physically and emotionally - made Spencer's heart ultimately shatter and its fragments fall down to his stomach; and his eyes tingle. But he couldn't let himself go like that - he had to suck it up and support him. That's what Derek needed him to do in that moment; that's what Derek was always ready to do for Spencer, so it was only fair that he at least tried.
Reid switched position from sitting on the couch to kneeling on the floor right in front of him, in between his legs, so that he couldn't avoid his gaze anymore. He cupped his face in his hands to make their eyes meet again.
"You know that's not true." he asserted, pausing to let him process such statement and wiping off with his thumb a tear that managed to escape from one of Derek's eyes.
"He stopped getting what he wanted from you the moment you got out of that block and started becoming the man you are now. Catching people like him."
"He doesn't have to spend the rest of his life in jail now, does he? I did him NOTHING but a favor. And I didn't even notice, just like when I was a kid." Derek instantly blurted out.
"Derek why are you being so naive right now??" Spencer asked, though he wasn't really expecting an answer. He saw the man in front of him imperceptibly flinch at his tone, so he took a deep breath and explained.
"Don't you understand that if you hadn't made that speech to the press, his true identity would've remained secret to everyone? He was counting on restoring his reputation by becoming someone else. You SAW that, Derek." Spencer paused once again to lower his voice further - he didn't wanna come off as aggressive, but he wanted so hard to make him see what his eyes weren't seeing; clouded by his own trauma doubling back to him like a punch in the guts.
"The only person you did NOT do a favor to with what you said, it's him." he concluded.
Derek knew he was right. But - despite him being the one always talking sense into everybody - when it came to the abuse he suffered as a kid there was a small, hidden part of him that just couldn't help but feel guilty and subdued and victimized all over again.
He gently took Spencer's hands, still cupping his face, and put them down, looking at the floor. He felt in some way sorry for him, wasting his time, trying to convince him of the falsity of things that were so deeply rooted in his mind that not even his purest and most unconditional demonstration of love and support could conceal. But he knew it wasn't Spencer's fault and that he in the first place didn't have that kind of demand.
Spencer was hurt, but swallowed the words before they could come out. He figured that gesture meant he had to come to terms with the fact that there was nothing more he could say to him, to make him feel any better.
-
"Is that how I won?" Derek mumbled after a while, his deep voice piercing through the thick silence.
Spencer frowned apprehensively. "What do you mean?"
"I- I won because he died ? Was his death the only possible way for me to find a crumb of...I don't even know, of- of peace ?" Derek explained, looking straight into his eyes again, searching in Spencer's caramel irises for those answers that he already knew but needed someone external to say out loud.
"You won the second you realized you were no longer scared of letting other people know about what he did to you." Spencer replied lucidly, with no hesitation what so ever. "The first time being when you told us, and the second when you told the press. And the third exactly 23 minutes ago, when you chose to wait for me to talk about it instead of going home and closing me out." He paused. "and I honestly don't know how you did any of that but-" he swallowed and waited a second for the courage to say it to arise in him. "but I'm so proud of you I- I don't think you realize how much I am."
Spencer's hand instinctively made its way back to the other's cheek, stroking it with his thumb; uncaring of how it had been rejected earlier.
"You won when you finally understood that you are worth healing." he concluded in an almost whisper; eyes becoming glossy at the slight changes in expression on Derek's face.
Spencer wanted to do more than just brush a digit on his cheek, he wanted to hug him but guessed it wouldn't be the smartest choice. So he just stayed like that, gazing into Derek's eyes, with the other hand resting on his own thigh while his knees started to get sore from being in that position for the past 10 minutes.
-
Derek was speechless. After a seemingly endless silence, he reached his hand out to gently tuck Spencer's hair behind his ear.
"I- I love you. And I don't think you realize how much I do." he finally murmured, with watery eyes, purposely half-quoting what the other had just said.
Spencer's heart melted when he felt his touch and those words coming out so genuinely and uncensored. He slightly tilted his head to lean into such warmth, putting his hand over his and kissing his palm without breaking eye contact.
Derek craned to inch closer and made Spencer do the same by pulling him slowly toward him, with his hand placed on the back of his neck. He closed his eyes and softly pushed his lips into his, finally allowing himself to fully seek comfort in his touch.
He shifted forward so that he was sitting on the very edge of the couch, to eliminate whatever inch of air was left between their bodies, letting Spencer's arms slide up his torso and end up wrapping tight around his waist underneath his leather jacket, left unzipped; as if he was afraid Derek would let him go and run away - which he would never do. He would never let him go.
Both his hands on Spencer's jaw, Derek could feel it unhooking, which he took as a silent permission to let his burning tongue find its way into his mouth, melting when it collided with his; sinking in the warmth of only his slim body in a way he didn't know he needed and didn't know he could.
Spencer shifted slightly to lower his head and let it rest on the other's shoulder, nuzzling his nose and lips against Derek's neck; while Derek soothingly ran his fingers through his curls, tilting his own head to lean into the shock of brunette hair.
Spencer slid a hand up front to place it on Derek's chest; slitting a narrow gap between their bodies as a sign to stop, being completely out of air.
They looked into each other's eyes for a few seconds; arms still tying them together even if not so breathlessly tight as a few seconds before.
"You scared me." Spencer's whispery words blowing warm air on Derek's skin.
"I know. I didn't mean to." he answered in a heavy sigh; Spencer's head cradled by the up-and-down movements of the other man's chest as he inhaled and exhaled deeply.
-
They stayed like that for a while, for as long as it took Spencer to start wondering what time it was. He gently let go of him - not that he got tired of it - and checked his watch: midnight.
"Wow. It's late." he stood up, helping himself by holding onto Derek's knees. As soon as he got back on his feet, his face wrinkled in a faint grimace of pain.
"Look what you did to me. I can't feel my legs anymore." he said jokingly, realizing only after a couple of seconds that that wasn't the usual context in which he used such phrase...would've been better if he hadn't let that slip out, he thought.
"Alright. My place? Is that enough to make it up to you or your legs?" Derek asked mockingly as he stood up too, finally showing him that smile of his that Spencer was starting to miss like oxygen in his lungs; confirming that his previous - stupid - comment had either gone unnoticed or hadn't bothered him that much after all.
Even though Spencer was definitely not one to like change, he clearly preferred staying at his boyfriend's place rather than his own. His house was more comfortable and obviously way less messy, but those were just a couple of superficial reasons, he himself couldn't quite put his finger on it - despite his profiling skills, which just gave him answers that didn't sound accurate enough in his heart.
After a few seconds of hesitation - not due to indecision, rather to the brief short-circuit his brain was put through when he saw Derek's blinding smile - he grinned back and nodded, picking up his bag while the other opened the door.
-
Right in the moment they got out of the room, they saw that Rossi had just exited the bullpen, heading to the elevator. God knows what kind of conversation had taken him so long with Hotch, still in his office and probably not even halfway with all the paperwork.
During those couple minutes Derek took to search for the office keys in his pockets and lock the door; Spencer stared at him, leaning with his shoulder on the wall, fiddling with the buckle of his leather satchel.
Derek put the keys back in his biker jacket pocket and raised his eyes to look at him.
"...What?" he asked, feeling his gaze on him.
"Nothing." Spencer answered shaking his head and dropping his eyes, standing straight again.
He tried not to smile, not only failing but moreover making Derek slightly smile too, even being yet clueless to what he was going to be told.
"I love you too."
#criminal minds#moreid#shematthew#sperek#cm#criminal minds season 8#criminal minds 8x18#carl buford#derek morgan#spencer reid#behavioral analysis unit#bau#spencer reid x derek morgan#m/m#moreid fanfic#moreid one shot#criminal minds fanfiction#moreid one shot 8#moreid hurt/comfort
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Riverbound, Chapter 17
All in all, Lanque’s a whole lot calmer about the whole thing than you thought he’d be, which makes you feel better about going to him right away instead of Daraya. Of course you love Daraya, but knowing the kid she’d probably run off to start a fight with Bronya, Lynera, and any other poor bastard who gets in her way.
“I want to believe Bronya’s doing this because she thinks she’s in the right, but I just can’t… augh! I just… can’t believe she’d ask me to do something like that.” You conclude your messy rant by flopping down on the carpet. There’s a dull ache in your skull from either exhaustion or anxiety, possibly both.
Lanque’s looking down at you from the loveseat in the corner like the universe’s most judgemental therapist, sprawled across the whole thing with his gangly self. “You haven’t known her nearly as long as I have. You heard me say once that she’s the craziest bitch in the whole cloister. I meant it.”
You want to argue with him; Bronya isn’t crazy, just a control freak, but that’s gonna have to be a discussion for another time. “You’re not surprised at all by this? Not even a little?”
“Not surprised. Just… disappointed.”
“What, does she make you to sleep at certain times and check your palmhusk, too?” you joke.
“Not anymore, she doesn’t. She learned her lesson after I filled my whole camera roll with the spiciest nudes you can imagine.”
You try not to imagine anything of the sort and fail miserably. Your last brain cell hangs on for dear life. “So, uh… w-what should I tell her the next time we go out?”
“Tell her that I’ve been taking Daraya to a slam poetry club. We’ve actually done poetry in the past, so it’s not like you’ll be lying,” he says with a smirk. “You should come sometime. Talk to people about all sorts of controversial alien opinions. Maybe throw in some rhymes while you’re at it.”
“Alright,” you agree.
“... Darling?”
“Yes, babe?”
“Don’t breathe a word of this to Daraya. She’s stressed out enough as it is.”
“Of course not.”
“Good.”
:::
The next night you spend with Polypa, vandalizing stuff with the Heiress’s face on it and even setting a billboard on fire. It’s a lot of fun, but between vandalizations you can’t stop yourself from thinking about the girl herself. From what you can tell she’d be around seventeen in human years, which meant she’d soon have to challenge the Empress, as all the Heiresses before her did.
Some teenagers like to play video games, some like to sing or dance or do sports; you even know a few who live all by themselves on an island in the middle of the ocean who can shoot guns better than most military personnel. But not Trizza Tethis. No, she’ll be off to duel for the throne… and her life.
In your hearts of hearts you know that Tethis is a monster. There’s no doubt about it. But that doesn’t change the fact that she’s still just a kid, a kid who is going to be murdered soon for the crime of reaching adulthood.
It makes your heart hurt just thinking about that, and all of the other girls that came before her, and if this rebellion goes to shit all the girls who will come after her.
“Hey, Polypa?” you ask.
“Yeah?” She’s hanging upside-down on some broken piping while spraying THE REVOLUTION IS HERE on the side of a post office. You’re being a good moirail and keeping watch for anybody who might see her, even though it’s dark out and you can’t see much past the street lights lining the sidewalk. For some reason she refuses to tell you, she’s been in a mood ever since she came back from Tegiri’s, but you’re patient. You can wait for her.
“Do you ever wonder if Trizza might have been a good person if Alternia wasn’t the way it is?”
Polypa stops what she’s doing and stares down at you. “Honestly? I don’t really care how she might have turned out if things were different. All the things I’ve seen her do, the shit I’ve heard her say on social media… I just can’t bring myself to believe anything other than she’s one of the most horrible Heiresses Alternia’s ever had and that she deserves to die. Slowly and painfully, that is. And then she deserves to be forgotten.”
“That’s fair,” you tell her. “I dunno, I just kept thinking about how she’s supposed to go off and duel the Empress soon, and that she’s definitely not gonna win, because none of the fuschias who went up against her ever did.”
“... Does that make you sad?”
“It makes me sad that a kid is going to die, yes.”
She huffs. “Save your sympathy. She doesn’t deserve it.”
“Can trolls control who they sympathize with?”
“Of course we can. Can’t humans?”
You laugh. “No. Or at least I can’t. Empathy’s a blessing and a curse.”
Polypa chucks her spray-paint can into the nearby dumpster. “Empathy? Isn’t that like, feeling what other people are feeling? I thought that was just a myth.”
“Some humans can feel the emotions of others. I’ve always been able to.”
“That sucks.”
“Again, it’s a blessing and a curse.”
Polypa shudders, flips upright, and then drops down to the concrete. “If you say so. C’mon, let’s scram.”
You scram, or at least you try to before somebody bumps into you hard enough to nearly knock you over.
“Watch it!” Polypa hisses from somewhere behind you.
You look up at a boft looking (buff plus soft) rustblood guy, who flinches back when he accidentally looks you in the eye. “Sorry! Sorry. Bye.”
He shuffles off down the street, shoulders hunched in like he’s trying to make himself as small as possible even though he’s easily the biggest rust you’ve ever seen. Huh.
“Well, that was weird,” you say, and then you feel something crinkle in the hood of your jacket. Cautiously, you reach up and grab it, hoping that he didn’t just put a bomb on you or something. You aren’t that worried about dying, because you know your immortal ass is coming right on back, but if Polypa’s in the blast zone--
“It’s a piece of paper,” she says.
“Oh, yay. I thought it might be a bomb.”
“Definitely not a bomb.”
The paper’s been folded several times, so you smooth it out and read the letters that have been cut out and glued out in a note, like some kind of Nancy Drew shit.
“What the…” You read the message, and then you read it again, once, twice, thrice, four times before Polypa starts swatting at you and grabbing for the paper. You hand it over and stare out across the street.
You are not alone. Tomorrow at midnight.
“I’m texting the others,” Polypa mutters, shoving the paper into her pocket and whipping out her palmhusk.
“There’s more of us,” you whisper. “That’s what it means, right? We’re not the only faction out there fighting for-!”
“I don’t know, I don’t know, let’s not believe anything that some stranger wrote down on a piece of paper and shoved into your hoodie--”
“But he came to me, Polypa--”
“Hey!”
Both of you turn around to see some cerulean girl you don’t know storming across the street to you. “The fuck you think you gutterbloods are doing, huh?”
“The revolution is here, bitch,” you tell her, and you grab Polypa’s sleeve and zap away.
Polypa does not hesitate to smack you upside the head the second you two appear on the roof of some building downtown. “The hell was that? She just saw an alien and an oliveblood teleport out of an alley with fresh graffiti on the post office!”
“Who’s gonna believe her?” you snort.
“She’s a cerulean, she’ll make somebody believe her.”
“Dude. Chill. We still have time before things get crazy.”
“Apparently not! Tomorrow at midnight--”
“I know! Isn’t it great? What if it’s like, a big post on Chittr, or a public service announcement from God knows where saying that it’s time for bigots to start shitting their pants, because the revolution is here and it is sexy!”
“Augh!” Polypa throws up her hands. You start to get a little concerned. “Aren’t you scared? Like, at all? We could all die tomorrow and you’re just… totally fine! You disappear for half a sweep and come back ready to lead a revolution!”
Alright, it’s time to bring out the big guns. Slowly, so she has time to pull away if she wants, you step forward and reach up to caress her cheek.
The effect is instantaneous. She visibly loosens up from horns to toes, leaning forward into the contact with a low chirrup rising up from deep in her throat. If you were a troll, that sound would have probably made you pale-horny to the max, but you’re human so all you do is just stand up on your tippy-toes to press your foreheads together. You imagine pulling away all of her fear and stress and releasing it into the open sky, never to be seen again.
“We’re not going to die,” you tell her. “We’re just not. And if we were, I’d tell you, because dying isn’t that bad. Doesn’t even hurt, really.”
“... You’ve been dead before?”
“Yeah. Feels like the best fucking nap you’ve ever taken.”
She snorts hard enough for you to feel her breath across your face. “Only you would say something like that and be completely unbothered.”
“That’s just how it be sometimes,” you say, because joking about your trauma and having anxiety are basically your only two personality traits nowadays.
“I’ll write that down for the pile,” she says, because she’s always been able to see right through you, even when you can’t see yourself. “Which we’re going back to an abandoned apartment building to do once I yeet this glass bottle into that window over there.”
She picks up the broken glass bottle at your feet and proceeds to do just that. It sails through the air with all the majesty of an eagle and crashes through somebody’s office window. You know enough about troll romance by now to be a little scandalized by how forward she’s being, but you both know it’s out of necessity. Troll language is far from just verbal-- it’s flattened ears or bared fangs or dilated pupils. It’s hissing and chirping and growling and all sorts of sounds you don’t even know the names for, and you can’t even hear most of them because they’re either too low or too high a pitch for your human ears to catch.
“Hot damn, wildcat. You gonna take me out to dinner before you throw me down on somebody’s abandoned loungeplank?” you tease. Her face lights up in green, and you grin in satisfaction as she splutters something about saving it for the respiteblock.
You’re about to cook up something truly slutty to say when her palmhusk vibrates. Polypa reads it and snorts. “Aaaannnddd Daraya is losing her mind, Tagora says it’s a trap, Tyzias wants to know what the rustblood looked like, Stelsa is in agreement with Tagora, Lanque is asking how the hell it could be a trap when the rustblood didn’t even ask you to meet him anywhere, and Mallek is telling everybody to shut up so he can take a nap. Konyyl and Azdaja haven’t responded yet. I bet they’re making out in a back alley somewhere. Oh, Tagora is telling Lanque to shut his Troll Twilight-looking ass up before he fines him for wasting the rebellion’s time… and Tyzias just sent a bunch of hysterical laughing emojis.”
“I love my friends,” you say.
“You sound like you’re trying to convince yourself.”
“I’m gonna get Mallek to hack the server so whenever people start arguing over stupid stuff a bot starts spamming the chat with gifs of fighting purrbeasts.”
“Do group chats have servers?”
“I have no idea. Come on, I’m fucking freezing up here.”
:::
Your memories of growing up on Earth are fuzzy at best. You have no idea if it’s from Scratch, or Ultimate Dirk, or hell, maybe it’s just regular old brain damage, but one of the few things you can vividly remember is when your grandma died.
You can’t remember her name, but you can easily recall her eternally-smiling face, that smile that always reached her eyes-- hazel, like yours. She’s the one who taught you how to braid your hair, wing your eyeliner, ask out a crush. She also taught you how to take down a grown man with nothing but your fists and a pocketknife. Old age hadn’t ever been a problem for your grandma. Or at least, that’s what it felt like.
The morning your uncle found in her lifeless in bed hadn’t felt any different than all of the mornings before. You just woke up and started to get ready for school, and then your mom… yeah, it was your mom who picked up the phone. She didn’t cry, but your uncle did.
It was a heart attack.
Your mom told you that you didn’t have to go to school, but you were still pretty young, and it still felt like every other morning before so you went to school.
You’re not sure why you’re remembering this when you first smell the smoke, or see the burning buildings from the roof of the abandoned apartment building you and Polypa crashed in. Maybe it’s because it still feels like every other night before this one.
Something deep in you that’s been irreversibly interwoven with time and space begins to tingle. This is a turning point in history, you just know it.
Polypa’s shaking her head like she can’t believe what she’s seeing. “It’s a riot. A riot. In Thrashthrust. We really aren’t…”
“Alone,” you finish with a smile so big it hurts your face.
“... Do you think this is really the right thing to do?”
“A wise man from my planet once said that riots are the language of the unheard.” You turn to her and take her hands in your own. “So let’s make them hear us.”
You’re not sure what you were expecting when you drop yourself and Polypa into downtown Thrashthrust, but you definitely weren’t expecting to almost get run over by Konyyl and Azdaja, both panting, sweaty, and smelling faintly of smoke.
Konyyl yelps and jumps about a foot in the air. “WHAT the-- oh, hi, guys. You didn’t scare me, I just… yeah.”
“Dude, what is all this? This is incredible!” you crow.
An explosion rocks the ground, followed by a giant plume of fire that shoots up into the sky just one street over. Azdaja whoops in delight, and Konyyl cheers even louder as a piece of flaming metal you think used to be a scuttlebuggy sails through the air and takes out a convenience store. Normally, something like that would have worried you, but seeing as the store’s already nearly burnt to the ground you think everybody’s already gotten out.
Not to be outdone, Azdaja telekinetically grabs on to a fallen lamppost and hurls that bad boy through the grocery store across the street.
“Show-off,” Konyyl scoffs.
“Where’s the main protest?” you ask.
“Like, a couple of blocks back that way. Some bronzeblood is leading the charge. Absolute mad lad,” she says, grinning. “I think a few more people you know might be there.”
That’s all the convincing you need to grab Polypa’s hand and take off running. You can hear the roar of a crowd chanting something.
“What are they saying?” you ask Polypa.
“Be silent no longer, when we’re together, we’re stronger,” she replied, glancing back at you with a twinkle in her eye. “I kinda like it.”
“Me too!”
The both of you turn the corner at the end of Hookedclaw street and find yourself face-to-face with a sizable crowd of about one hundred trolls. They’re all looking up to a pair of trolls standing on an upturned scuttlebuggy-- a bronzeblood, like Konyyl said, and the same big rustblood guy who you ran into last night.
You gape in shock. “Holy shit!”
The bronzeblood boy is yelling something, so you press closer into the crowd to hear what he’s saying. Most of the trolls here seem to be lowbloods, so when they see you and Polypa, an oliveblood, they gladly make room for you to join.
“... for what? A social construction that keeps us divided, because those who sit on thrones marked with the blood of our people know how strong we are together! They know that we’d be able to take control of our own destinies, and that terrifies them!” He pauses to take a short breath. “For fuck’s sake, I just want a world where I can walk down the street without worrying about getting killed! Is the bar really that damn low? Think about that, all of you!”
Another wave of cheering echoes through the streets, and you join in without hesitation.
“This guy’s spitting straight facts,” Polypa admits, looking impressed.
“He’s got balls, all right,” you agree. “That rustblood guy look familiar to you?”
She ribs you. “Yeah, yeah, you were right. I admit it.”
You turn your attention back to the boys, but they’re looking over the heads of the protestors at something behind you. A soft wave of hisses rise into the air as you turn to see a trio of purples stalking towards everybody, clubs dragging behind them with the awful scrape of steel against concrete. They’re twice the size of Polypa, except the giant fucker in the middle, who you think might be just a little bit shorter than Chahut.
“That’s a pretty sermon there, bronze brother,” he calls with a voice that crackles like burning wood. “Pretty for a load of treasonous fuckin’ shit.”
“Can’t be shittier than whatever they’re cooking up in that drug-hole church of yours,” the bronzeblood fires back with a smirk.
Even the rustblood standing next to him sucks in a sharp breath as the clown regards him with no trace of emotion. Polypa grabs your hand, and you squeeze it tight.
“You’ve got a big-ass mouth for a critter the size of my motherfuckin’ left toe,” the clown on the big guy’s right says.
“And you’ve got a big-ass forehead for a bastard with such a tiny skull.”
Somebody lets out a loud snort. It might have been you.
The feeble tendrils of bravery holding everybody together begin to unravel as the purplebloods begin to approach once more. You instinctively back up and pull your jacket hood over your head.
“Get ready,” Polypa growls.
But before the clowns have the chance to attack or use their chucklevoodoos, or before the lowbloods gather their courage enough to storm the intruders, a deafening CRACK splits the air like a thunderclap.
The clown to the far left drops like a rock, and standing over him, bat raised, is Elwurd.
She’s wearing a mask to conceal her face, of course, but you’d recognize that crest of blue hair anywhere. Beside her is Remele with her oversized mallet-club thing, and bringing up the rear with shining dual blades is none other than Ardata Carmia.
“Am I fucking dreaming,” you ask nobody in particular, and then all hell breaks loose.
The cerulean girls lunge for the two purplebloods that are still on their feet. The bronzeblood screams for everybody to scatter just as drones begin to swoop down from the sky, opening fire on the trolls below. Half a dozen kids drop dead on the spot.
You and Polypa duck into the nearest alleyway just in time before bullet holes pepper the pavement. Behind you, Elwurd roars something that sounds like “Duck!” before another explosion blows out all the windows. You yelp and cover your head as glass showers down on you like rainfall.
“Zap us out of here!” Polypa yells.
“No, wait! We have to go help the girls!”
“I’m not going back out there and neither are you!”
You glance back just in time to see Ardata drop to her knees, holding her bloody arm. She’s shrieking in terror as a drone advances on her, culling fork glinting bone-white in the darkness. Remele and Elwurd are too busy getting their asses kicked by the last living clown to help.
In that moment you can’t remember her as the bloodthirsty murderer who tortured you in her basement. All you can think of is the time she broke down in your arms, overcome with guilt at the monster she’d become in the name of being accepted by highblood society. A monster who’d traumatized you, and then became your friend.
You’re moving through space and time before your brain can catch up to what you’re doing. Ardata is cold and hard when you tackle her out of the way of the drone. The two of you tumble across the street together as the culling fork hits the spot where Ardata just was with a SHUNK. Even with adrenaline racing through your system the sound chills you to the core.
Remembering what Dirk taught you about hand-to-hand combat with a larger opponent, you grab one of her knives and zap right over to the clown, getting right up in his business before burying the blade into an eye socket.
Unsurprisingly, he drops a squirming Remele and covers his face with a scream so horrible you almost pee your pants. Ardata’s wailing your name from the sidewalk like a terrified child. You want to yell at her to shut up and run before the drones spotted her again, but you never get the chance. One moment you’re twisting a knife into a purpleblood’s skull, the next you’re flying through the air like a ragdoll before a pair of strong arms wrap around you. You and your rescuer land hard on the street with matching grunts of pain.
You look up into Elwurd’s bewildered face and burst out laughing. “Hi!”
“What the--”
“Time to go!” Remele yanks the both of you up by your scruffs like a pair of naughty cats. “Ardata, stop screaming like a wiggler and get your arse over here now!”
“My arm!” Ardata screeches. “I’ll be scarred for life!”
“No, you won’t, idiot, not when you hit your adult molt-!”
You zap the three of them out of there and into the alley, grab Polypa on your way, and then get the hell out of dodge.
The five of you end up in the back of a Troll Dennys, because of course you do. Polypa falls on you, knocking you to the ground, and then she yowls in anger when Elwurd lands on her legs, only for Ardata and Remele to hit the concrete ass-first. Remele accidentally kicks you in the stomach. Ardata falls back against a dumpster and hits her head on the metal with a BANG.
Everybody stares at each other for a long moment with varying degrees and expressions of utter shock. Polypa glares at you, and you just know you’re in for a long discussion about putting your own safety first in dangerous situations, or something like that.
You decide to break the ice first. “Anybody want pancakes?”
#riverbound#pesterquest#hiveswap#hiveswap friendsim trolls#homestuck#ceruleans#c17#mspa reader#the guardian
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Sunflower, Volume Five
a teeny bit over 2.2k words on writing music, first impressions, and peppermint. no warnings I can think of. this is part five of the Sunflower Series! happy reading :)
part one | part two | part three | part four
Only Angel was, in fact, fun to record, although it got quite a bit irritating after playing through six or seven times, as all songs seemed to do. They got through it, though, and Carolina too, before setting aside a day for just writing.
Harry worked with Olivia and Charlotte to finalize the melody for the song Olivia had come up with a few weeks before, which actually worked brilliantly, and they were finished with the melody and sound the night they started.
Charlotte decided to head to a bar with the others, but Harry stayed with Olivia to start working on the lyrics. He was sat at the piano, a pencil behind his ear and his notebook propped in front of him.
As soon as Charlotte left the room, Olivia grinned and jumped onto the lid of the piano, sliding across its surface to sit in front of Harry with her guitar on her lap. Harry raised an eyebrow at her, and she shrugged innocently. “What?”
“Charlotte would have a fit if she saw you like that.”
“What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her,” Olivia replied with a wink.
“Whatever you say,” Harry laughed. He handed her the notebook and asked, “Have any ideas, then?” Olivia sighed, slipping the pencil from behind Harry’s ear and fiddling with it. “Well, I was thinking about the whole…” She paused, tapping the eraser of the pencil against the piano before asking, “You know the whole, oh, it’s a sign of the times, thing?”
“Er - yeah, sort of.”
“What if we did something along those lines?”
“Yeah, it sort of sounds like that, doesn’t it? All sad and shit?” Olivia nodded, and Harry played the melody again. He frowned, playing it again, and then remembered, “Oh, and there was something Char and I were working on -” He started again, singing along. “Just stop your crying, it’ll be alright…”
“Yeah!” Olivia exclaimed. “It could be that and - and, uh - just stop your crying, and then, it’s a sign of the times.” Harry nodded. “Yeah, yeah, that works.” He played it again, twice, once with each ending, and then Olivia played the chords on her guitar and echoed softly, “Sad and shit.” She looked up. “Like the end of the world, huh?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“...just stop your crying,” Olivia sang, “it’s a sign of the times… now that it’s the - hope it’s not the final…” She frowned. “Welcome to the final show…” Harry nodded, playing the melody, and added, “Hope you’re wearing your best clothes…”
Olivia grinned and mimicked his accent, “Proper brilliant, you are.”
Harry scoffed, looking up at her. “I don’t sound like that at all!”
“Whatever,” Olivia murmured with a grin, picking up the pencil and writing something down in the notebook. Harry messed about on the piano, suggesting more lyrics, and Olivia added on.
They stayed up well past two am, just playing with words and phrases until the others came back from the bar. Olivia slid off the piano only after they’d gotten through a verse and finished the chorus, and Harry was tempted to kiss her when she said goodnight before walking into her room.
Instead, he told himself not to be a fool and went to bed.
♬♩♪♩
They finished Sign of the Times fairly quickly, but recording it took a while. The song Olivia had started eventually became Ever Since New York, which was recorded pretty fast. Jeff was pressuring them to finalize more songs, though, so they took off another day to dedicate to writing.
Unfortunately, Harry was pretty brain dead by then, what with staying up for hours with Olivia to finish both Sign of the Times and Ever Since New York, so he spent most of the day just resting and watching rom coms with Adam and Charlotte while Olivia and Sarah sat in the other room working on Comfortable Silence.
A few minutes into My Best Friend’s Wedding, a paper airplane landed on his lap. He glanced into the other room, confused, and Sarah was rolling her eyes as Olivia grinned and gestured for him to open it.
To Julia Roberts’s biggest fangirl in the living room -
Sooo I called my friend who just got dumped (heartbreak is the best inspo yk)...
I saw your friend that I met last year
They said you’re happy now
I see you gave them my old T-shirt
That really hurt like hell
They say it silently, no not with their words
But oh yes it’s written, it’s all over their face -
Comfortable silence is so overrated
Why don’t you ever tell me straight to my face?
Even my phone misses your call, by the way
Maybe one day you'll call me and tell me that you're sorry too…
idk about some of that but uhhhh idk
So. Thoughts?
From,
the dining table
Harry read it over again and nodded, flashing her the thumbs up, but Olivia shook her head. She mimed writing, and Harry frowned, glancing around him for a pencil, and Olivia sighed, chucking a pencil at him.
Charlotte squeaked as it hit her in the arm, and Harry rolled his eyes, smiling despite himself. “Sorry, Char,” he murmured, then scribbled out Like it before folding it back up and haphazardly throwing it back.
It didn’t quite work, but Olivia slid it towards her with her foot and opened it back up.
She wrote something down, and Harry watched her instead of the movie, and then Olivia threw it back. ur so boring, she’d written, and Harry scoffed, glancing over at her. He put a hand to his chest in mock hurt, and Olivia grinned.
Under that, she’d added more to the song.
I hope one day you’ll call me to tell me that you’re sorry too
But you, you never do
We haven't spoke since you went away
Comfortable silence is so overrated
Why won't you ever say what you want to say?
Even my phone misses your call, by the way
Harry grinned and wrote, You’re awful dramatic, Liv - it was two weeks. He threw it towards her, and she unfolded it, read it, and flipped him off. She whispered something to Sarah, who laughed, and Harry smiled and turned back to the movie.
♬♩♪♩
Harry was starting to wonder if Olivia ever slept.
He’d come out on the porch a few days later, unable to sleep after a day long nap caused by a killer hangover, and there she was, smoking a cigar and playing her guitar softly. “Hello,” Harry said, and she looked up. “Hey,” she replied, sliding over on the bench swing.
Harry sat next to her, taking the cigar when she offered it, and inhaled deeply. “‘s good,” he said. “Sweet.” Olivia nodded. “Mhmm. Toffee, apparently.” She leaned back, fiddling with her guitar pick, and stared at the water.
Harry breathed another puff of smoke, handed it back to her, and asked, “What’d you think when you first saw me?” Olivia raised an eyebrow. “Why?” Harry rolled his eyes with a smile. “You’re always asking these deep questions - give me a chance, hm?”
There was a beat of silence as she seemed to study him, and it took all of Harry’s willpower to keep eye contact as she tucked her lip between her teeth and her brow furrowed, lost in thought.
“I thought you were awkward,” she finally said, and Harry scoffed a laugh. “You’re joking.” Olivia quirked a smile, looking back at the water and lifting the cigar to her lips. “No, really.” She smirked. “Awkward and desperate.”
“Right, well, now you’re just bullying me.”
“Oh, please,” Olivia laughed. “You didn’t even say anything! You were like, hi, and that was it! I had to, like, scramble to come up with something!” Harry scoffed again, shaking his head. “If I remember correctly -”
“Which you don’t,” she cut in with a grin.
He shot her a mocking glare and went on, “You were the one who didn’t say anything at first, and then I introduced myself!” Olivia sighed and shook her head. “We were both awkward,” she concluded, and Harry rolled his eyes. “Agree to disagree.”
“God, that show sucked,” Olivia murmured, exhaling and trying to make a smoke ring before smiling at him. “Still can’t believe you wanted me in your band after that disaster.” Harry let his jaw drop dramatically. “You were amazing!”
Olivia scoffed, shaking her head. “I was awful! I forgot half the lyrics and fucked up all the chords ‘cause I was staring at -” She cut herself off, shaking her head again, and Harry grinned. “Staring at…?” he prodded.
“There was this band there that night,” Olivia said, “and one of its members” - she breathed a dreamy sigh - “oh, he was just gorgeous! I couldn’t take my eyes off him!” She grinned, mocking curiosity and propping her chin on her fist. “I can’t seem to remember his name…”
“Does it start with an H, perhaps?” Harry asked, raising an eyebrow and mocking curiosity right back, but Olivia shook her head, fiddling with the cigar. “Nope,” she said with a giggle. “Think it was a Z,” she said. “Zach? Zeke? Ah - Zayn.”
Harry laughed, shaking his head. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered.
“Jealous, Styles?”
“You wish,” Harry replied with a grin.
There was a beat of silence.
Olivia leaned in a bit, her eyes flickering to his lips. “Harry?” she murmured.
“Hm?”
She bit her lip. “I don’t wanna be alone,” she whispered.
Harry smiled a bit, pushing a lock of hair behind her ear. “You don’t have to be, Liv.”
She met his gaze, her eyes wide and earnest. “Promise not to break my heart?”
“I promise,” Harry breathed.
And then she leaned forward, and Harry did too, and suddenly, they were kissing.
She tasted like peppermint, like toffee and vanilla and mint and smoke. She was sunshine and sugar, her lips fitting with his like puzzle pieces. She was smiling against his lips, and Harry smiled too, because she was perfect, because they were perfect, because everything was perfect.
♬♩♪♩
Harry woke up late again the next morning.
Olivia wasn’t next to him.
So Harry stood up, and stretched, and walked to the kitchen.
Olivia was at the table, on her mobile, eating toast.
“Morning,” Harry said.
“Hi!” she chirped.
“Where’re the others?” Harry asked, and Olivia sighed. “Went to the beach, according to Sarah…” Harry raised an eyebrow as he poured a cup of coffee. “Without us?” Olivia nodded. “I know. Ridiculous.” Harry smiled, stepping behind her and glancing at the screen of her phone.
“Ooh, dancehall,” he hummed, slipping the phone from her fingers. He clicked a random one, set it on the counter next to his coffee, and held out his hand. “Olivia,” he said, with all the seriousness he could muster, “may I have this dance?”
She slid his coffee towards her and took a sip. “Can’t. I’m drinking coffee.”
“Pleeeease?” Harry dragged. “I’m bored, Liv, and the house is empty. C’mon, then.” He began to dance as the music started and held out a hand. Olivia pouted. “I can’t dance,” she told him, and Harry rolled his eyes. “Prove it.”
She gave a reluctant smile and took it.
He spun her around, and she giggled.
They danced until Olivia somehow managed to end up on the kitchen island with Harry stood between her legs, snogging breathlessly, and Harry only realized the music had stopped when Olivia pulled back and murmured, “Gotta find another song…”
“Rather have a bloody song than me, hm?”
Olivia grinned, kissing his nose as she grabbed her phone. “Hey, it’s got a good melody,” she insisted, flicking through YouTube to find another video. Harry pouted, kissing her again, and said, “Want you more than any melody, Liv…”
“Fuckin’ sap,” Olivia giggled, finally finding a song and pushing her phone away to properly kiss him. Harry smiled, but Olivia sighed, pulling away again. “Others’ll be back soon,” she said, and Harry rolled his eyes. “Don’t care,” he said, kissing her.
Olivia laughed, sliding off the counter. She held her hand out to him and, in a pitiful imitation of his British accent, she said, “Dance with me, Mr. Styles.” Harry grinned. “Only if you promise never to do that accent again.”
“Easy enough,” Olivia replied, and Harry took her hand.
And they twirled and laughed and kissed in the kitchen like it was a dance floor.
♬♩♪♩
Jamaica ended too soon.
Harry was on a plane before he knew it, heading back to rainy London.
It was good, though, he supposed. He was getting a tad home sick.
They’d written about sixty songs. Most of them were rubbish. Well, most of them weren’t even songs. More like notes mashed together that were sort of jokes but not quite. They’d gotten some good ones, though, and Harry considered the trip a success.
It was kind of strange being without the band, though.
It was very strange being without Olivia. She was going to come to London with him, but she was needed in America for something or other. But she’d given him a few cigars, and he smoked one when he got back home to London.
It was good. Tasted like peppermint.
♬♩♪♩
aaaannnnd there she is!!!! all finished!!!!! hope u enjoyed!
tell me:
1. your favorite song on hs1
2. your most recent dream
3. your favorite holiday
or!!!!
tell me anything your heart desires! feedback is always much appreciated :)
and if you like what you see, you can find the Sunflower Series’s masterlist here, Fine Line: Side A’s masterlist here, and my complete masterlist here!
sunflower, vol. 6
#aaaannnd that's a rap!#hope this didn't suck hehe#it's my first like....... long fic#so#here's this!!!!#harry styles fanfiction#harry styles fanfic#harry styles fic#harry styles#harry styles x ofc#harry styles series#harry styles story#harry styles writing#harry styles au#fine line#jamaica harry#sunflower
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Predator || P.N. & A.S.
Chilling Adventures of Sabrina
Note: I took forever to make this, so sorry about that. This is based of episode 3 from season 2, so obviously spoilers ahead. I really like writing this, even though I took forever. It was mostly because I didn’t have any idea what to write it about. So the idea was the one that took most trouble. When I had the idea, all it took was to write it, and yea. Here we are. I hope everyone enjoys this. And before anyone asks, (spoilers ahead) the reason why I’m putting Night and not Blackwood, is because after the hole thing with father Blackwood, she kind of dropped the name. I think... I don’t really remember. But with how the season ended, I’m sure she definitely changed her name back. I didn’t know what to call this part. So sorry if you think the name is a bit... weird.
Request: Could I request a poly relationship between prudence, Ambrose and a soft girly reader? If not that’s alright!!
Warning: Spoilers, a smut scene is implied. I don’t do smut. There are however some touches and kisses and like always, grammar errors, I suck at writing.
Word count: 2841 (this is a long boy)
Fandom: CAOS
Pair:Prudence Night x Reader x Ambrose Spellman
Tags:
It was hot, being surrounded with bodies upon bodies of horny teenagers grinding next to each-other while the music blared through the speakers.
It was hot.
Sweat danced it's way down my neck, but it didn't seem to bother Ambrose, who at the moment was leaving kisses on my neck. It also didn't seem to bother Prudence. I think she found it kind of hot seeing me this way. And the way she was looking at me, I couldn't say it bothered me. We where young kids in love, full of lust and never ending excitement. And that's one of the things I liked about them.
"We're just getting warmed up for Lupercalia." I heard Prudence tell Sabrina while I made my way back from my bathroom break.
"That's tomorrow, isn't it?" I say, getting the attention of everyone.
"My Love." Says Prudence, grabbing my hand, and pushing me toward the already cramped up sofa, making me seat on her lap.
At this, my cheeks turned a bit pink, I was embarrassed of the eyes around us. "Prudence." I mumbled.
"Are you embarrassed love?" Said Ambrose, pulling on my shoulder to make me stare him in the eyes.
But before I could say anything, Prudence answered. "There's no need to be, not with how you where behaving yourself out there." Said Prudence, pointing to the dance floor with her head.
Before I could get more embarrassed than how I was, Sabrina spoke. Making me give her a small smile as a thank you.
"Lupercalia is witches valentine's day. Right?" She asked. And she almost hit the jackpot.
"Lupercalia coincides with mortal Valentine's Day, yes. But in my opinion, it's just a lot of hype." Responded Nick, who was sitting next to her in the sofa in front of us.
"Oh, please, Nick. Sabrina's not so naive and innocent as all that. No one is after signing the Dark Lord's Book of the Beast." At this she game me a look, reminding me of the day I signed the book. Reminding me of the pulls, touches and moans of that day inside my empty house.
————
This was the first event, the Matching, In which witches are supposed to be paired with warlocks. And since the only warlock in our relationship was Ambrose, who was not participating, Prudence decided to take that place instead. To be honest, I believe she just wanted to see me dance. It was a problem, with father Blackwood, and I don't want to know how she convinced him to let her, or if she convinced him at all. But I'm glad my match is secured.
I stood by Ambrose and Prudence, both of them holding me by the waist. When Father Blackwood spoke.
"Welcome, one and all, to Lupercalia, the Festival of the Wolves. Brother Ambrose." At this, Ambrose pulled away from us, and Prudence grabbed my hand, taking me to a seat.
"All right, fellas, take your places for the Matching!" Prudence handed me a red ribbon, and then sat on the seat in front of me. She stared at me like a hungry wolf ready to take its prey, and I like it. But I couldn't help my self to feel a little embarrassed. Which made me look away. I heard prudence chuckle, but my gaze was on Sabrina, who currently stood on my right, holding a black ribbon. We gave each other a small smile, before I was looking back at Prudence.
"All right, ladies, you know how this goes.
When the music stops, take a seat on the warlock, or witch-" Ambrose directed his eyes at us. "closest to you."
Ambrose started playing a beautiful melody that I remember he practiced sometimes while we had our home dates. And I dance, the practiced danced everyone learn, and I could tell I was doing it perfectly. I could feel Prudence eyes on me, and if Ambrose eyes weren't covered, I know he would've been staring at me too. Folds, and twirls, and touches. With some glances here and there. I was enjoying myself. But before this could go any further. There was a sneeze, and the music stopped.
I had no competition, I was the only one in front of Prudence. Not that if I had it would have made any difference. I don't think Prudence would have allowed that. So taking my time, I walked towards Prudence, and sat on her lap.
"Oh, sorry, Sabrina." I heard Dorcas say from across the room. Me and Prudence both looked, seeing Sabrina laying on the floor, disbelieve written all over her face.
I was a little confused, I knew she wanted Nick, but Nick currently sat patiently next to me.
Sabrina walked around, towards the last empty seat. Nick's seat. And with a smile, she sat on his lap. Both of them looking behind towards Dorcas. Who without believing it looked at the guy on her lap, not so happy to find out it was Melvin. Apparently Nick had payed him to wear glamour. And I thought if Prudence or Ambrose would go to such lengths to have me. And after thinking about it for a second, I came to the conclusion that they would. They would do that and more.
———————
"Witches. Warlocks. Congratulations, you have been matched." Said Ambrose, I was currently helping Prudence hand the anointment baskets. "Tonight, you and your paramour shall go into the woods and re-enact the Courting. What that means is that each couple shall go into the woods and disrobe and anoint themselves and lie under this blessed Lupercalian moon, absorbing the potency of the Goddess Selene Herself. Abstinence is encouraged" At this everyone booed. "In anticipation of the powerful release that concludes Lupercalia. However, should couples be moved to unite," Ambrose locked ayes with me. And then With Prudence, who winked, and then with a smirk looked my way, to find me already staring. "Well, I'm sure the Dark Lord would not oppose."
"The milk and blood are for the purification." Prudence started saying. "The oysters and figs are for fertility and virility." She handed her last basket to Nick. "The cherries are for..." She got close to Sabrina, "popping." She said close to her face with a pop. Making everyone laugh. I didn't.
She grabbed my unoccupied hand, and took me with her towards Ambrose, who grabbed me by my waist. Holding both me and Prudence close.
"A word or two of caution." Said Father Blackwood, taking everyone's attention. "Each couple must stay together the entire night. And, above all, do not stray from the path. All manner of lust-filled creatures stalk the woods during the Lupercalia. Now, with the Dark Lord's blessing, let the Courting begin." Right after that message which only left me a little worried, Ambrose rose the horn he was holding, and blew on it, officially starting the Courting.
After everyone left, we where the last to start our walk through the forest. It was dark, and quiet, aside from the far away giggles of the other witches and warlocks in the area. But before long, we where all alone, and we had set our little camping space. After I helped Ambrose put down the blanket on the floor, we all sat down and slowly took out the contents of the basket. But my nervousness almost made me drop the glass bottle of milk, which Ambrose grabbed in time.
"Nervous?" He asked me. It wasn't like we had never done it before. But doing something like this, out in the woods worried me. And after Father Blackwood's comment about the lusting creatures in the woods, I got even more worried.
"Yea." I Said not wanting to lie. "I just, I don't know. I don't feel comfortable out here."
"My love, there's no need to feel insecure. We're here to protect you." Prudence said, placing her hand on my thigh.
"But if you don't want to take it too far, then we won't force you." Said Ambrose this time, placing his hand on my cheek. His warmth making me lay my head on it.
With a smile Prudence took my hand, and placed it between her lips. "I'll do this, get comfortable you two."
Ambrose looked me in the eyes, as If asking for permission, which with a small nod, I gave. He slowly helped me take off my leather coat, setting it aside. I did the same to him, which made a small smile grow on his face. My black long sleeve turtle neck was next, he pulled it from under my skirt, and over my head, and I just followed his instructions. I laid slightly back, and let him take off my shoes, and socks. And to help him get it over with, I unbuttoned my denim skirt, and helped him bring it down. He folded every piece of my clothes, and when he was done he looked back to stare at me. I was wearing a black lace wired bodysuit, that accentuated my curves. Ambrose seemed to like it.
"Now, now. What have we here?" Asked Prudence. Her eyes never leaving my body. "Looks like my pure little girl isn't so pure after all." At this my cheeks turn red.
"You wanted to look good for us didn't you?" Said ambrose.
"Of course I did, I always do." I say. "Well? Why am I the only one without clothes on?" I don't know where this confidence came from. I think having them look at me the way they where was making me feel gorgeous. Powerful even, or it could be the moon that rose high in the sky, shining brightly over us.
"Bossy." Prudence said, and those words came out dripping with lust. I slightly arched my back while breathing in.
"Where is my little (Y/N), and what have you done to her." Said this time Ambrose, not taking any time to take off his clothes. At this I slightly chuckled. And soon Prudence was doing the same.
They slowly walked towards me, both like predators ready to eat me. They had shown a lot of their predatory senses in the last few weeks. I could have blamed Lupercalia, but this is how they usually are. They each took one of my legs, lifting it up to their mouths, and starting with my toes they made their way up slowly. Without taking their eyes off me. It was getting to me. My breath was getting faster, harder to maintain it self in a pattern.
Once they reached the border of the slip, Prudence pulled it up slightly, tracing her fingers through my skin. Ambrose however he rose, taking his dominion up to my lower belly over the slip. Before he could go far however, a howl could be heard in the distance. We all rose at the same time, looking into the woods to see if we could see anything, anything at all. But we saw nothing. At least, I saw nothing.
"Was that—?" I was cut off by Ambrose before i could finish.
"A wolf." The anxiousness I fell before any of this had started had come back, and slowly but surely I started to shake. Prudence noticed.
"Love? Love?" She called, but I didn't answer. "(Y/N)!" she said once again, grabbing me by my shoulder, making me look back towards them, meeting two pairs of worried eyes. "Are you ok?"
"Can we get out of here?" They both kept on staring at me, wanting to know if I was alright. But they didn't ask any questions, and before I knew it we where dressed and out of the woods inside the academy.
----------
"After the Hunt, all I can say is, poor Melvin. He doesn't know what's in store for him tonight." Said Agatha. We where all getting ready for the Hunt, the final event of Lupercalia.
"Can you imagine? A virgin, at his age?" Said Prudence, who at the moment was putting up my socks for me. Her fingers gently gracing my legs. "You'll be gentle with him, won't you, sister?" At that,she tugged my knee high socks a little tight, while staring at me right in the eyes.
"And afterwards, we'll all share. It's been ages since we had a virgin." Was what Agatha said, and I couldn't help but look at Prudence, just for her to slightly move her head as if telling me she wouldn't partake in such things.
I remember when Agatha and Dorcas argue with Prudence over weather to share me or not. Prudence was fully against it. She's mine, don't you dare touch her. She had said. Which filled me with pride. It still does. The fact that she let Ambrose take some of my heart from her without ripping his throat out surprised me. But I'm glad she didn't. We make a good trio.
"Unfortunately, you're too late." Dorcas interrupted me from my thoughts. "I initiated Melvin the night of the Courting."
Prudence was already putting my cape over my shoulders, when she hear Dorcas, making her turn around. "You didn't abstain?"
"Of course not." Dorcas instantly Said. "Did you?"
"A girl doesn't kiss and tell." At this her index finger touch my chin. Giving me a wink. The girls giggled. Prudence took her cape, putting it around her shoulders, I stood up to help her."But hurry, sisters, it's time to assemble outside. A fruitful Hunt to us all." She grabbed my hand and started walking towards the exit of the dorms when I spotted Sabrina.
"Are you coming, Sabrina?" I asked, stopping, and making everyone else stop with me.
"I still need to take my berries of phylaxis. Go ahead. I'll catch up." I gave her a small smile, and fixed my velvet black slip, with lace on the borders.
"Alright.”
And so we walked outside into the cold night. My hair loosely bouncing while we walked through the woods. Finally reaching a clearing where witches and warlocks waited patiently. The other girls wore outfits just like mine, a slip socks, and cape. The boys however, they wore jeans, and shoes, just not a shirt, with some wolf skin hanging from their heads safely wrapped around their necks. It literally felt like we were recreating little red riding hood. Only that, instead of the wolf hunting the little girl, the little girl hunted the wolf.
Ambrose wasn't wearing any of that. He wore a black turtleneck, with a leather black coat, and like the boys some jeans and shoes. Even tho he wasn't showing off his body, like the rest of them I prefer to look at Ambrose. Though I wouldn't have complained if Ambrose stood beside me with some wolf skin around his neck.
"Welcome to the final night of the Lupercalia. Hoods hunt wolves, witches hunt warlocks. The outcome of the Hunt shall determine the year ahead. Will it be bountiful or barren? Fruitful or fallow?Tonight, we hunt and are hunted, releasing our blessed magicks into the night." You could see the excitement in some of the girls, even Prudence was glowing today. "Warlocks, are you ready?" All of the boys let out a loud howl, just to be followed by Ambrose blowing onto the horn. Being done with that, he turned towards the girls. "And, witches, are you ready?" I howled as loud as I could, while holding onto Prudence. And following that, Ambrose again blew on the horn, and everyone started to run.
You could hear the yells, screams and giggles everyone was making. My hold on Prudence was strong, while we made our way through the woods. The girls where jumping on the guys, some even going to the ones they weren't match to. One of those was Dorcas. I wasn't Surprised.
In an instance, Ambrose passed by us, running like only he could do. Fast and free. Without knowing it, I was a giggling mess like everyone else. Running after the ones they were looking for. And before long, Ambrose stopped, and I was in between his arms. Our lips met, and I don't know if it was the night, or the Adrenalin inside me. But I wanted him. I wanted them both.
The kiss was rushed and deep. But before long I was without air. Ambrose let go of me, so I could be able to catch my breath, and instead he kissed Prudence. We dumbly made our way into a safe hidden place, where the capes where thrown to the side, and the clothes made a bath to the place we where hiding. I was currently kissing Prudence. While Ambrose kissed my neck, slowly making his way down onto my chest.
We where hungry, full of lust, and it was hot. The cold night changing temperatures because of how close our bodies where. More clothes where being dispersed onto the floor and before long we where all naked.
Our bodies United.
And we were all one. Like it was supposed to be from the start.
#caos#caos imagine#caos spoilers#caos season 2#prudence blackwood#prudence imagine#prudence x reader#prudence x you#ambrose spellman#Ambrose x reader#Ambrose x you#ambrose imagine#Ambrose x prudence
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