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juniorgman187 · 3 years

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Fighting Fire With Fire (Reid Fic)

Summary: Reader must lower her pride after a date goes wrong and the only one who can rescue her is her mortal enemy - Spencer Reid.

A/N: This was a beast of a fic to write. It’s been in my WIP since September, and I managed to go from 11 pages to 22 pages in three days. It is now my longest fic thus far. I am insanely fucking proud of it and I hope it does well. Category: Angst Pairing: Fem!Reader x Spencer Reid Content Warning: allusions to ‘catfishing,’ allusions to abduction, dub-con to taking provocative photos, alcohol, mentions of bruises, jealousy, carrying hug which implies weight of Reader (lmk if I missed anything) Word Count: 11.7k

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

I tried to play nice; I really did, but there was no getting through to him. Everyday started and ended with us fighting fire with fire.

Maybe the reason the two of you butt heads so often is because of how similar you are.

That’s what the team would say when Spencer and I got into one of our daily (sometimes hourly) arguments.

They constantly encouraged us to get to know each other so that we’d finally see the likeness, and until recently, I wasn’t opposed to the idea. I was willing to do whatever it took to get him to like me. However, as previously mentioned, my willingness quickly dissipated in light of recent events.

Voluntarily spending more time than necessary with him would be a recipe for disaster no doubt.

Somehow, in a matter of a month, Reid decided that he simply did not enjoy my presence, which was the nice way of putting it.

To be more crass, he loathed me to no end.

Initially, I was operating under the assumption that he wasn’t fond of change, and with me joining the BAU, the change was too much too fast for him, but after four weeks, his attitude toward me never deviated. Yet again, I made another excuse for him, arguing to myself that people are allowed to not like me. I could respect that, but where he lost my respect was how he made a conscious effort to remind me of how much he despised me. Even when I was at my nicest, he still treated me like a scelerate.

If there was a prize for gaining a mortal enemy in the shortest amount of time, I guess I already won that without even trying. He hated me with a burning passion, for reasons unbeknownst to me, despite the fact that all I’d ever try to do was be his friend.

For far too long, I kept denying the part of me that knew making peace with him outside of work wouldn’t go well and it’d simply go down in history as another failed attempt of mine to form a bond with him, so it was at this point that I decided to face the facts.

He didn’t make it easy for me, either. It was hard having to be kind to someone that was only ever out to get me.

He would constantly correct me but only after I said something incorrectly, just so he could prove me wrong.

“If each police officer patrols a street, we’ll be able to cover the entire comfort zone.”

“Actually, we’d need three more officers if we want to cover the entire comfort zone. There’s still 2.347 miles that are unaccounted for.”

I never understood why he couldn’t just say his piece before me so that I didn’t look like an idiot, but I suppose that was the point.

And he had this infuriating, unwarranted habit of judging my taste in cinema and literature. Anytime I told Emily or Derek about a movie I saw or told Rossi about a book I read, he felt compelled to share his antagonistic opinions as if I asked for them in the first place. Sometimes even spoiling the endings for me!

“Rossi, I just started reading Doctor Sleep!” I was so eager to tell Rossi that, so much so that I’d become blind to one dark cloud’s own eagerness to ruin the fun.

“The hotel burns to the ground, but the ghosts don’t die with it.”

He said it with such monotony and nonchalance, not even bothering to look up from his own book to watch my reaction to his menacing act. He just didn’t care!

The list of reasons not to like him truly did go on and on, so it was almost insulting how people would compare the two of us.

They’d bring up the congruence in intelligence, the same affinity for reading, and closeness in age, but it only made me madder. The last person I wanted to resemble was Reid, except today, I gained another glaring similarity to him.

“Look at you two. Did you plan your outfits or something?” Emily playfully pointed out after I walked into the conference room.

I eyed the doctor sipping at his cup of coffee who swiveled around in his chair to see what everyone else was seeing. Just from a short glance, I spotted his navy blue button-up with white polka dots that was nearly identical to the color and print of my dress.

“Well, looks like one of us has to go home and change.” His lips grew into a mischievous smirk behind the rim of his mug.

Was that a joke? Did Spencer Reid make jokes now?

“Ha ha. Very funny.” I facetiously remarked, taking the only open seat at the table which was next to the jokester himself.

“I’m kidding. You look really nice today.” He alleged without a hint of irony. He was complimenting me now, too? It was so unfamiliar that it felt like uncharted territory, possibly even a trap.

“Why? Because I’m dressed like you?” I wasn’t going to fall for his words now, maybe the version of me who would do anything to gain his approval would have. She would’ve smiled and said ‘thank you,’ but this me was going to challenge him if that was the last thing I ever did. “Bit of a narcissist are we, Dr. Reid?”

“Mmm maybe,” He wagered, tilting his head from side to side as if to contemplate the possibility. “Or maybe I just really think you look nice.”

Without even thinking, my heart skipped a beat. I was utterly repulsed by how I let his words have any effect over me. I couldn’t believe that he’d actually managed to fluster me with mediocre flattery.

It felt like years that I had to sit next to Reid at the round table before Hotch dismissed the team for the flight.

30 minutes later, and we were on the jet. I’d taken one of the seats at the table opposite Derek and Emily, with Spencer beside me.

Little things like this I could handle, but I knew it wouldn’t be long before he started bothering me. Morgan was listening to music and Emily was turned around in her seat, facing the back to talk to Rossi. Reid was playing himself in chess, and it took all of my self-control to not be a total asshole and knock the board and its pieces over and into the aisle. Luckily, I had a good enough distraction.

Grant: can you ft tonight?

Me: we’ll see. i might have to work overtime.

For the months that I had been talking to Grant, I was deliberately ambiguous about my job because I wasn’t exactly keen on telling him that I worked for the FBI and that I might not be able to FaceTime him since I was in the process of investigating a series of homicides. That’d surely scare him away and I was never one to flaunt my government job anyway.

Grant: you look stunning today

Me: you haven’t even seen me today

Grant: don’t need to.

Grant: you’ll always be stunning to me.

“Who keeps texting you?”

I looked up from my screen to see Reid fixated on his game but still engaged in my business.

“No one,” I harshly replied, making a conscious decision to turn my phone on vibrate so he wouldn’t hear the chime of my text notifications.

With one nimble side glance, Reid eyed my screen. I nudged him away with extra force.

“Nosy much?!”

This stunned him. He wasn’t used to my coldness, he probably expected me to smile in a chagrined manner and not confront it - as I would have done - but now I was fighting back, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d say he liked it.

I knew he could read fast, but how he managed to look at my phone so quickly it was like he never even moved his eyes - I didn’t know. Somehow, though, he managed to capture Grant’s entire username, and I didn’t doubt that he caught my entire conversation with him, too.

“Who’s Grant?” The name rolled off his tongue like he was insulted to even be saying it.

“No one.”

He didn’t respond soon after I said this, which I misinterpreted as a little victory for me since I almost believed he was going to drop the subject, but in true Spencer Know It All Reid fashion, he just kept going.

“‘You look stunning today B-T-W. You haven’t even seen me today. Don’t need to. You’ll always be stunning to me.’ Doesn’t really sound like a ‘no one’ to me.” His recitation of my entire PRIVATE conversation with Grant embarrassed me.

Did I forget to add his eidetic memory and speed-reading ability to the list of reasons not to like him?

“Shut up!” I nudged him, this time using much more force than the last. I was becoming more and more inclined to push over his ridiculous chess game so that he’d finally take me seriously.

“Oh, really clever by the way. Vaguely insinuating that you ‘might not be able to call him because you’re working overtime’ just so you don’t have to disclose the true nature of your job.” Spencer’s sarcasm was thick.

“Are you just jealous because the only date you’ve been on was a fake one with a serial killer and not even your actual girlfriend while she was alive?” My reference to Cat and Maeve caught the attention of the entire jet.

Each member mentally rolled their eyes thinking ‘Here we go again.’ And if that wasn’t their reaction, they were certainly cringing at the fight that was ensuing.

Things had been suspiciously good between the two of us today so it was about time we argued. We were due for our daily quarrel.

“Oh, that’s right! The only girls who like you are victims in our cases.” Now this comment was referring to Lila and Austin. (I had Penelope to thank for filling me in on all of Reid’s ‘entanglements’ after I was first reassigned).

“Really? You wanna go there?” He sassed back, diverting his attention away fully from his chess game now. “Do you know how many people get ‘catfished’ when using online dating websites? Or the statistics on how many people are raped, assaulted, or murdered by said ‘catfish’?”

“I’m not stupid, Reid. He and I have been talking for months. We’ve been on calls and Facetime before, too. We’ve just never met in person. Sound familiar?”

“What Maeve and I had is not at all comparable to what you and this ‘guy’ have. And just because you’ve seen his face before doesn’t mean he’s not a serial killer or operating under an alias.”

I had to scoff. Who was he to label our relationship valid or not?

“What’s it to you anyway? We all know you’d be ecstatic if this guy turned out to be a serial killer or catfish. You’d get to rub it in my face and say ‘I told you so.’”

This touched a nerve. He hated it when I attacked his nice-guy facade.

“Is it so hard to believe I’m actually concerned for your wellbeing?”

“Yes, actually.”

“Fine. If you think I don’t care about you, then don’t come crying to me when you realize he’s not the guy you think he is.”

“Oh, trust me, I won’t! It’s not like you’d be able to protect me anyway, Pretty Boy.” I sneered, using Morgan’s nickname for him as an insult got to him, and I could see it in the way his jaw clenched and his nostrils flared.

Hotch had to interject now. “Alright, (y/l/n), Reid, that’s enough. We need to focus on what’s actually important.”

I settled back down in my seat, facing forward and avoiding eye contact with Reid.

“Have fun on your date,” He muttered under his breath. “Hope you survive it.”

Bastard.

For the rest of the case, I was on edge. Deliberately avoiding him was a much harder task than one might think. I had to wait at least ten minutes for my coffee, so I wouldn’t be at the machine when he was there, and if I had to guess, he probably took longer just to make me wait in agitation. I had to awkwardly squeeze into a new spot beside Rossi and Hotch when we were delivering the profile. I had to ask not to travel in the same SUV as him.

And this exhausting routine went on for days. In fact, I’d managed to almost go the entire case without interacting with him. That was until Hotch sent us both in the field to apprehend the unsub.

“Are you sure?” I asked with clear reluctance.

“Are you questioning me?” Hotch replied sternly.

“No, sir.”

I was already on thin ice being the new recruit, so I knew better than to question any of Hotch’s orders. And as miserable as working with Reid was, I figured he’d at least ease up on the hostility when we needed to be professional. Evidently though, even in the field, he wasn’t willing to work together with me.

It was a quick decision, not careless in the least, however. The unsub had locked himself in his warehouse and refused to leave unless we were brave enough to drag him out of there ourselves. The ultimatum he gave specified that only one of us could do it and we both agreed that I should go in, seeing as he’d underestimate my strength as a woman, and I’d have the upperhand when I inevitably apprehended him.

However, he also explicitly told us that I couldn’t come in with a gun - it had to be an even playing field.

“You are not going in without a gun,” Reid ordered.

“We don’t have time to argue about this - I have a spare on me, okay? There are three hostages in there, two of which are children.” Without giving him a chance to respond, I handed him my gun and holster.

Had I let him waste a single second more of my time, we wouldn’t have been able to save the three hostages and successfully arrest the unsub. I saw this as a victory and I was almost willing to celebrate it with him, but it wasn’t long before he let our enmity tear us apart again.

When we got back to the precinct, I went to the locker room to change, then suddenly, Hotch came in.

“I’ve been informed that you went in unarmed against a fellow agent’s orders. This matter will be discussed in my office when we get back. I should warn you, (y/n), you do not want to make this mistake again.” Hotch left me with those foreboding words, and I knew, I knew immediately that Reid was to blame for this.

If I took a look in the mirror of my locker, I wouldn’t have been surprised if I saw that my face was turning a bright shade of red. I was fuming - bursting at the seams from the anger building within me that was desperately fighting to escape. I could imagine myself as a cartoon character with steam blowing out either of my ears. I was about to go on a rampage, and no one - absolutely no one - could stop me.

The last straw was hearing him come in. This was my opportunity to unleash what was already boiling.

“What the hell, Reid? ‘(y/n) went in unarmed.’ Seriously?!” I undid the velcro on my vest so hastily out of my blind rage that the spiky side of the velcro strip nearly sliced my finger. “Are you trying to get me fired?”

“If that’s what it takes to make you realize how stupid of a choice that was, then yes, I do.” He was so calm and collected in his inflection that it angered me all the more.

“What are you even talking about? What ‘stupid choice’? You knew I had a second gun on me. And even if I didn’t carry it, I still would’ve had my vest on. I wasn’t going in unarmed or unprotected, so why would you tell Hotch that?”

“In the time it would take you to assess the danger, react, and then reach for the gun at your ankle, the unsub would’ve been able to shoot you twice - if not more. That’s going in unprepared, which is going in unarmed.”

I scoffed in disbelief that he was actually reprimanding me. “Are you kidding? This is all based on a technicality? Did your eidetic memory somehow forget about what happened with Maeve? Because my memory didn’t. I know for a fact that you went into that warehouse without a vest or a weapon. And unlike you, I had a spare and my vest. AND I actually apprehended the unsub. Did you stop Diane?”

This crossed a line and I knew it, but it was too late to take it back, and clearly, it was much too late to repair any relationship I had with him. We were far beyond the point of no return.

He was so mad that he didn’t even answer me. The only response I could gauge was from his body language, which by the looks of it, all the signs of anger were plain on his face. He clenched his jaw so hard I could hear his teeth grind. Even his nostrils flared so primitively. His eyes narrowed down at me with a glare that said, ‘I’m the predator and you’re the prey.’

“Yeah, exactly.” I spat when he stayed silent.

I turned around, starting towards the exit, but I was too furious to stop there, so I spun around and unleashed the remainder of my wrath that had been dying to come out.

“Look, I get it. I’m the new kid around here, and it sucks when someone new comes in and changes up the team dynamic, but any mistake I make, or any mistake Hotch thinks I make, could send me packing. You’ve been working in this unit for years, and even if Hotch questions your choices, he won’t reassign you. He won’t even threaten it. He’s willing to overlook your mistakes because he knows that what you have to contribute to the team is too vital to let go, but I haven’t even had my chance to show him what I have to offer. So when I do make a mistake, there is nothing for me to fall back on, nothing to redeem me, and no safety net, but you? You have years of experience on your back to break your fall. So don’t you dare act like you’re doing me a favor by reporting my ‘mistake’ to Hotch. You might be costing me my dream job, and if you think that makes us friends - think again.”

I stormed out of the locker room seeing red.

This war was far from over.

_ _ _

“You’re clenching your fists again,” Emily said under her breath. I was grateful that she said it in a hushed tone, otherwise she might’ve revealed my lingering anger to the whole jet, which wouldn’t have been good.

I immediately unclenched them, opening up my hands to reveal small, dark C shaped imprints on my palms from where my nails had dug into them.

I should’ve expected that she would’ve learned at least one of my tells by now. I did have many after all. Cheek biting, fist-clenching, leg bouncing.

“Something bothering you?” She probed quietly.

She set her book down to give her undivided attention to this conversation. That was enough to tell me that an excuse like, ‘Nothing, I’m fine,’ would not suffice. She wouldn’t be satisfied until I told her the truth, which I surely did not want to tell. So I settled for a half-truth.

“Hotch wants to talk when we get back.”

From my peripherals, I saw her knit her brows together in confusion. “Is . . . is that it?”

“Mhm.” I lied.

“But that’s not enough to warrant the fist clenching. Cheek biting - sure - you do it when you’re anxious, but not fist-clenching. You only do that when you’re angry about something.”

“Oh, so you have figured out all my tells,” I smirked.

“Pfft, I figured them all out the first week you got here, but I won’t tell you the rest, otherwise you might try and hide them from me,” She joked.

I shook my head playfully. “Yeah, you’re right. I’m just worked up about something - it’s nothing you need to worry about though.” Habitually, my eyes looked right up in his direction. I caught a glimpse of him sprawled against the couch, sleeping. He was lucky I wasn’t ranting about the little stunt he pulled earlier to Emily. He should be thankful that I was even trying to protect his reputation to her at all.

“I get it if you don’t want to talk about it, but it does help. Take it from me, someone who really only trusts myself, you shouldn’t hide what you feel.”

What you feel.

I clung onto those words.

What was I really feeling?

Was I upset that instead of receiving praise for the arrest I made, I was scolded like a child? Was I angry that Hotch believed what Reid had to say about my “problematic behavior” instead of believing in me?

Or did I feel betrayed that despite my best efforts to build a bridge, Reid was tearing it apart brick by brick? Burning it to pieces with the fire of his rage?

“Thanks.” I bleakly said to Emily. I would’ve told her the truth, but it didn’t feel necessary at that moment. If anything, it just would’ve reflected badly on me.

Truthfully, she was the closest thing I had to a friend in the BAU, and if I wanted a permanent spot here, I needed to make more of them - and fast.

“Hey, (y/n), we’re all going down to O’Keefs tonight to celebrate. You wanna join us?” Morgan asked, walking up the aisle and crouching down beside my seat to talk to me.

“Oh, I wish I could, but I have to talk with Hotch when we get back,” I explained, smiling politely.

“We can postpone the meeting till first thing Monday morning. I need to go home and be with Jack, anyway,” Hotch added.

I didn’t realize he could hear me from where he was sitting, which made me all the more nervous that he might’ve overheard the entire conversation between me and Emily earlier.

“Looks like I’m free,” I looked back at Morgan. “Does the offer still stand?”

“Anything for you, sweet cheeks.” He winked.

Judging from the lightness of the atmosphere, everyone, except maybe Hotch and Rossi, would be celebrating at O’Keefs - including Spencer.

I think I might’ve actually preferred to be scolded by Hotch tonight, instead of being silently glared at by Spencer, but it was already too late to revoke my confirmation of presence.

Because, if Hotch could hear me from where he was sitting, then Spencer could, too.

He already heard I was coming, and there was no way I was backing down.

_ _ _

In spite of the fact that I could barely hear myself think over the loud chatter and blasting music, I could still feel the rage radiating off of Spencer. You would think with how long his nap was on the jet, he wouldn’t be so cranky, but I guess he just couldn’t sleep off his disdain for me after our minor altercation.

I wondered if the team could see it, too. The way he was burning a hole into me with his fiery stare. The tension was palpable, as it has always been, but remember - I’m not the one who wanted it that way.

He started this. I was only making the feeling mutual.

“So what about you, (y/n)? Are you seeing anyone?”

I tried to hide my growing smirk behind the rim of my beer, but I knew I couldn’t hide much from them. Of course, right across from me, Spencer was glaring at me expectantly, waiting for the answer he already knew.

“Oooh, look at her - she’s blushing! Spill.” Penelope ordered, beating her palm on the table so enthusiastically it shook all the drinks on it.

“Well, there’s this one guy I’ve been seeing for a while,” The second I started speaking, I noticed Spencer rolling his eyes. I figured his apprehension was the only response of its kind that I would receive, but I was very mistaken.

“How did you two meet?” Penelope giddily asked, nearly jumping up and down in her seat.

“A dating app, actually.”

The table went completely silent, and I immediately felt my stomach drop. It was as if I’d just said something very wrong. With just a quick glance in front of me, Spencer was basking in this.

What a dick.

Emily hesitated to ask. “...Have you two met in person before?”

Now it was my turn to hesitate to speak. “No, not yet.”

I took another sip of my drink even though I wasn’t thirsty. I just wanted to hide any part of my face I could to shield myself from the five sets of eyes burning holes into me now, rather than just the one. Trying to make matters better, I spoke all too quickly, nearly sputtering on my beer. “I’m completely safe, though. Nothing sketchy’s going on, I promise.”

“Of course,” JJ agreed. “We totally trust you,” neglecting to attach the cliche, ‘It’s him we don’t trust.’ But if she had, it would’ve spoken everyone’s bubble thoughts right about now.

“Just be careful, mama.” Derek’s response felt the most sincere, and I honestly believed he was happy for me, but it didn’t change how much their judgement initially stung.

For the rest of the night, I didn’t talk. No one noticed.

Except maybe the last person I wanted to notice.

I quietly slipped away somewhere in the night when the conversation was at its highest precisely so they wouldn’t question where I was going or if I was okay. If they had asked, the truthful answer to the former would’ve been ‘just outside to get some air’ and the latter ‘no.’

The cool breeze drifted through the door like rising fog and for the briefest moment in time, I felt suspended in the space around me - I’d finally caught my breath. That feeling wouldn’t last long, though.

I’d intentionally gone outside to compose myself until I came back a person who wasn’t on the verge of tears, but apparently, trying to pull myself only resulted in my falling apart. A ball of yarn unraveling is the closest comparison I can draw to what I must’ve looked like, crying quietly on the street.

“I figured I’d find you here.”

It was the mere sound of someone’s voice that shocked me, but it was the person whose voice it was that led to the frustration that followed.

“What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be inside talking to the team of people who also agree with you about Grant?”

He was too much of a nuisance to warrant exchanging eye contact with so I simply stared forward as I spoke and wiped the tears away that were still pooling on my lower lash line. I hoped he hadn’t actually seen me crying, but from what I could tell, he was probably standing there long before he said something. And if he was truly looking at me as deeply as it felt like right now, then he’d have noticed my bloodshot eyes, flushed cheeks, and unending sniffling.

“Is that why you disappeared back there? Because you’re upset they didn’t exactly like the idea of your relationship?” The pain in the ass really tried, he really tried to get me to look at him by facing me and making these gestures with his hands that should’ve gotten my attention, but instead, I stayed put leaning against the wall, keeping my line of sight straight ahead.

“(Y/n), they weren’t insulting you or judging you -”

“Then why did it feel like it?” For the first time since he’d joined me, I’d looked at him. I didn’t even mean to and I had every intention of denying him that privilege for the entire duration of our conversation, but as soon as I asked him my question, we locked eyes, and I saw it written all over his face.

He felt sorry for me.

Now, he could clearly make out how distraught I was from this unobstructed view of my face that was kindled by the dim, flickering yellow glow of the streetlight beside us. And he kept staring, looking into my eyes to read me just as easily and just as quickly as he read a book.

“All we want is for you to be safe,” His voice crackled momentarily, and it actually touched some part of me for how genuine it sounded. “We weren’t trying to judge you or to insult you, and I’m sorry if it felt that way, but if we want your safety, and you tell us about something that could be potentially harmful, then of course we’re going to be apprehensive about it. That’s how people that care about you should react.”

“So are you saying that I don’t care about myself because I’m engaging in something risky?” Isn’t that the most ironic statement of this year? The definition of our job was risky, and even if this wasn’t the safest relationship on the planet, it was nothing like what we put ourselves through everyday being in the field.

“No, that’s not what I’m saying -”

“So what are you saying?” I dared. He shook his head and sighed like he was about to give up, but I needed an answer. “No, please, do continue. Finish what you were gonna say. Since you apparently know everything, 187. Please go ahead - tell me what you think I should do.”

Tell me what you really came out here to say, I ordered him with my eyes.

“I think I respect you more than you respect yourself, and that’s really saying something. Because if you actually liked yourself as much as I do, then you would realize that subjecting yourself to this nonsensicality of a long-distance relationship is not only dangerous - but insulting to your worth, too. You deserve more than that, (y/n).” He couldn’t have been clearer when he murmured a low and firm, “Much more.”

The world was spinning on its axis too fast for me to process anything he said before snapping back at him. “So what exactly is it you want me to do?”

With utmost clarity in both annunciation and intention, he told me, “Break up with him.”

Not a shadow of a doubt in his words.

Then, like the phantom of the opera himself, he vanished back into the bar, but even if he had stayed, I wouldn’t have had anything to say to him. I was simply rendered speechless.

Circling back to my previous argument, I questioned once more why was it any of his business anyway? I was allowed to do as I pleased and I most certainly did not have to listen to him. And I didn’t.

But I should’ve.

_ _ _

My Monday morning meeting with Hotch wasn’t nearly as fire and brimstone as I thought it would be. It did however feel like the equivalent to an “I’m disappointed in you” parent speech. In some ways, I related to the average teen who was grounded. Except instead of my phone being taken away, it was my freedom. From now on, I could only follow executive orders that had been given to me. At least for the time being.

It was clear that, deep down, some part of Hotch knew what I’d done was the right call, but he couldn’t give me any favors. Not until they were deserved on my end.

Walking onto the jet after our meeting, however, felt more juvenile than the punishment itself. I was a kid again, re-entering my classroom after using the restroom, only to have all eyes on me as I came through the door.

As per usual, the only empty chair was next to Reid. There’d been too many instances of this happening to think it was just a coincidence. At this point, I had to assume it was by design. Whose design however? That I didn’t know.

“Hello, trouble,” He sang when I took my seat.

I could only assume that this new nickname was based on what took place in Hotch’s office - thanks to him, need I remind you - but I didn’t care to know the origin because that would require talking to him, and for several reasons, that was the last thing I wanted to do. The first of which was what happened less than three days ago. An event we both hadn’t mentioned yet, and I hoped we never would.

I took every preventative measure in the book. I changed seats with JJ. I moved to the couch. I even started reading in the little hallway between the kitchenette and bathroom of the jet to avoid sitting beside him, but against all my best efforts, he always found a way to bug me. When there’s a will, there’s a way. After exhausting any real reason he had to talk to me, he had to get creative.

“You’ve been on that same page for four minutes and twenty-seven seconds.” I heard him say when he walked up to the kitchen to reach for the pot of coffee. Almost expecting I’d ask him what he meant, he added the explanation casually. “It never takes you more than three minutes and twelve seconds to move onto the next page. So either you’re not understanding the material or you’re not actually reading.”

It was utterly hilarious of him to imply that either of those things were definitely the answer. “What if I’m just taking my time reading this page, genius? Ever thought of that?”

His eyes turned into slits as he leaned in closer to examine me. “You’re blinking rate just increased, too.”

“Stop!” I screeched childishly, pushing him away by his shoulders in an attempt to get him off my back, but he was far from off my back. No, he was right against it. More specifically, his hand was on the small of it.

Leaning in so close that his lips were practically pressing on the shell of my ear, he whispered, “Come find me when you’re ready to tell me the truth.”

He didn’t need to know his words or actions had any sort of effect on me, so I kept the most stoic facial expression on, and I didn’t say a single thing back. He turned back around to leave with the hand on my back being the last thing to go. His lingering touch caused a shiver to run down my spine while paradoxically burning my body from the friction.

I was disgusted with myself for having let him elicit any sort of reaction from me, even if he wasn’t aware of it.

“Yeah ... well, d-don’t expect that to be anytime soon,” was my poor attempt at a retort to shut him up.

“Whatever you say, trouble.”

_ _ _

Personal space can be a wonderful thing. Much less so when it’s invaded, however.

After what felt like the longest flight ever, all I wanted was to take a shower and go to bed. My wishes were granted when I was able to wash off the stress and exhaustion and slip into a blush pink satin pajama set Grant sent me that I’d been meaning to wear. The plunging neck of the tank top was lined with lace and adorned with the tiniest little bow at the center. To match the shirt, the hem of the shorts were lined with lace that trailed up the small triangular slits on the side of the shorts, where at the vertex of them was the same little bow detail. For such a pure and innocent color as baby pink, you’d think it’d be somewhat less revealing. The longer I started at myself in the mirror while wearing it, the more aware I’d become of the intentions behind why Grant had sent it.

How cute, I thought, rolling my eyes.

Gifts should always be appreciated, if for no other reason than the effort put into it, but this just felt slimy. There was obviously no valiant romantic intent behind the negligee, which spoiled the delight of receiving something out of the blue from him. What’s worse was that I wasn’t even sure how to thank him for something like this.

Me: thank you for the pajamas. they’re so cute!

Lying was easier over text message, in case you were wondering what the perks of a long distance relationship were.

Grant: good, I’m glad you like them. are you wearing them right now?

But sometimes, when you should lie, you don’t. And you regret it later on - take it from me.

Me: yeah, they’re super comfy

Grant: great! i wanna see them on! take a pic

As if to compensate for the indisputable hatred I had for this lingerie and what it stood for in our relationship, I did the only thing I could think that would make him think I really liked them. That I felt good in them.

I took pictures - not your ordinary, run-of-the-mill, Yelp review pictures, though - provocative ones.

In the same breath I went to take them, though, Spencer’s words rang through my head.

You deserve more than that. Much more.

Shaking off the thought of Spencer, I decided against what the little voice in my head that sounded too similar to his would’ve said.

To add to the illusion, I situated myself within the hotel sheets and used the front camera to capture my chest that was very much on display in this top. In the middle of rolling around the bed, trying to find the angles that wouldn’t show my face of dejection, the door opened.

Instantaneously, I clawed at the sheets until they wrapped around me like a towel. I was ashamed to admit they provided more coverage than these ‘pajamas’ did.

My shriek of shock must’ve sounded familiar to the stranger intruding on me because no sooner did I scream than they questioned, “(Y/n)? What are you doing here?”

Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

“Spencer, what the hell are you doing in here?” I grumbled, struggling to maintain a tight enough grip on the sheets that would keep them from falling and unveiling a sight I desperately did not want him to see.

“I asked you first.”

Boy, if you only knew how badly I wanted to slap that smirk right off his face. “This is my hotel room obviously. Your turn.”

Returning just the same tone, inflection, and vocals, he imitated me. “This is my hotel room obviously.” Like one of those magic tricks he’d show Henry or Jack, he miraculously flashed a room key between his index and middle finger that wasn’t there before.

“No, that’s impossible.”

“I opened the door, didn’t I?” That damn smirk was still there when he asked this. Maybe, just maybe, if it hadn’t been so condescending, I would’ve thought his sarcasm was ... attractive. Disgusting, I know.

“Well, if you actually plan on staying here, then you’re sleeping on the floor or the couch, got it?”

My question went unanswered until I turned around to follow where he’d traveled in the time that I spent pondering how this happened. Now perched at the window, sitting on the arm of the chair in a way that chairs weren’t meant to be sat on, he continued to stare silently at me.

“What? What is it?” I urged.

“What’s going on with the …” He made a side to side sweeping motion with his key card. “Bed sheets?”

Consciously, I shimmied the fabric further up my body. Seeing as there was virtually no way to escape an honest answer, I confessed. “If you must know ... I’m wearing p-pajamas.” My own body was rejecting the shameful admission causing the word to stumble out of my mouth.

He didn’t need to know any more than that to gather what kind of garments they were. He already figured it out.

“Did Grant give them to you?”

I almost rolled my eyes at the implication. “What makes you say that?”

“Because I know you,” He punctuated every word perfectly. “And I know that you wear big shirts and sweatpants to bed because you don’t see the point of spending money on clothes that are only made for you to sleep in - especially if they’re clothes that make you uncomfortable like these ones clearly do.”

Although, I greatly despised the fact that there was even a little bit of a chance that I might’ve agreed with him, I still defended Grant. “It was a thoughtful gesture.”

“Thoughtful, right,” He scoffed. “And which head was he thinking with?”

I was baffled he had the gall to say such an innuendo. “Spencer!”

How dare he? So what if Grant bought me something provocative because he was physically attracted to me? At least someone was.

Despite the ferocity plain on his face, he chose not to pursue this conversation. Visibly biting back on words he knew would hurt me, Spencer managed to sound remarkably genuine when he promised me, “I won’t look if you don’t want me to.”

I want you to, was my very first thought. Oh, God, that’s so fucked up, was my second.

He underlined his sincerity by turning fully around until he was facing the window. “But we should probably put the sheets back on the bed if you plan on sleeping on it.”

He was so patient as he waited for me to remove the cloth from my body. It almost made me feel guilty. He didn’t grumble or gripe, nor did he pressure me to do it at all. So by rights, there should’ve been no reason for me to take so long to let the barrier fall - he wasn’t looking at me. But I was just so goddamn embarrassed.

This wasn’t me, and even he knew that.

“You can turn around now,” I mumbled quietly once my safety net of a bedsheet had abandoned me. My arms were crossed over my chest and my thighs were pressed so tightly against each other as if to limit the surface area that Spencer could scrutinize.

That never came.

He did look, I could tell that much. But it wasn’t a look I’d ever seen before. It wasn’t rage or annoyance or pity. It was a look of lust.

A look that made me positively weak in the knees. A look far more sensual than even my racy garments.

“I’ll just sleep in Morgan’s room tonight, okay?” He offered once he finally broke out of his incapacitation. Grabbing the two opposite corners of the sheets that I was holding, it was a team effort as we arranged the covers where they belonged. It was probably the longest period of time we’d ever worked together without fighting or talking at all for that matter..

Not a single word was exchanged between us while Spencer gathered his things to leave for Derek’s. The room started to feel dangerously empty in the stillness.

When he slipped past me to make his way out, I caught his upper arm, successfully pulling him back around.

I could’ve been sweet, I should’ve. But that wasn’t our thing. So I settled for what came naturally to us and what would set off the least amount of red flags - I didn’t play nice. “As long as you promise not to hog the entire bed with your behemoth body, we can sleep together -” Catching the words as soon as they came out and what they could’ve implied, I began backtracking. “Sleep in the same bed. Sleep as in rest. Not sleep as in … anything else.”

Then, in one of those rare moments- he laughed. He actually laughed. Like a real, hearty, sudden laugh. “I know what you meant, (y/n).”

I’ll never forget the smile that followed the world’s greatest laugh either.

Oh, God, I’m so fucked up.

_ _ _

Spencer’s POV

Domesticated animals are smarter than we give them credit for. Studies have shown that pets can actually sense time; They know when it’s time for their owner to leave for the day and when they’ll be coming home, too.

Animals aren’t dumb - and neither was I.

Like a dog sniffing out their owner’s imminent absence in the home, I could tell (y/n) was leaving the hotel room for the night. If her current state wasn’t convincing enough, then her behavior throughout the entire day supported that theory just as well.

Whether it was her phone, the clock on the wall, or her watch, she was evidently keeping a close eye on the time. She did it so often, though, that you would think she would just use simple deductions to figure out what time it was by estimating the time it was when she last checked, but nope. She rarely let more than a minute go by without monitoring the clock.

My suspicions didn’t end there. What’s more suggestive was the anxious fidgeting. She had her tells of anxiety - everyone does - but this was a level of stress I’d never seen her exhibit before, not even in the field.

She kept cracking her knuckles, even when she’d exhausting all the popping noises she could from them. Her leg-bobbing was another big tell, too. I tend to sit on tables rather than in the chairs at said table, allowing me to feel the earthquake occurring on the precinct floor. Her leg was bouncing up and down so vigorously it was practically shaking the room.

I would’ve asked her what she was so impatient about, but I feared I already knew the answer.

Grant.

And if I never heard that name roll off her tongue again, it would be too soon.

That didn’t mean I couldn’t ask where she was going, though.

Pretending to read Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, I barely let my eyes venture far off the page when I loudly asked from the window seat, “So where are you going tonight, trouble?”

The faintest sound of a chuckle erupted in the bathroom, most likely from the nickname I hadn’t let die yet.

“Nunya,” was her ever-so mature answer.

I didn’t want to give her the chance to say ‘nunya business’ like I knew she would, so I quickly interjected with a monotone, “How clever of you.” If she wanted to be a child about this, then so be it.

“Let’s see. You brought your good heels out of your suitcase, which you only wear on special occasions. And you put on a different perfume than the one you usually use, so I’m assuming it’s new. ... If I didn’t know any better, trouble, I’d say you’re going on a date.”

She peeked her head out of the bathroom doorway to say, “You’re creepy, you know that?”

Seeing the small portion of her face that was embellished with a smile would’ve been enough if only I knew what dress she was hiding in behind that wall. I had yet to see that part of her ensemble, but if I had to guess, it would break my heart.

“Just saying,” I casually lied while clearing my throat.

“Well,” I heard her begin from within the bathroom. “Not that it’s any of your business, but Grant is meeting me tonight.”

Kill me now.

“I thought Grant lived in D.C.” Not that that would change much if he was already here.

“Yes, he does, but he’s driving all the way here to meet me. Seeee,” She drew out the word. “Would a serial killer do that?”

I refrained from giving the obvious answer: Yes.

“Well, I hope you don’t plan on bringing him back here. Otherwise, that’d be terribly awkward, don’t you think?” My allusion to the possibility that Grant would come back here to find me in her bed was borne from the intentions that were a complete contradiction to the words I’d just spoken. It, in fact, wouldn’t be terribly awkward. No, it would be fun. For me at least.

I would have loved to have seen the look on his face, and the worry on hers as she tried to explain who I was and why I had any right to be in (y/n)’s gravity.

The room went silent again while I stayed on the same page of my book and, unbeknownst to her, waited for her to enter the room. How long she was taking was starting to worry me, though.

“Need any help in there?” I called out.

“Nope,” She said through a strained voice that proved she was indeed struggling with something.

“Really?” I asked once more to give her another opportunity to lower her colossal pride. “Cause it sounds like you need help.”

“Nope. I’m good.” Liar.

I knew her too well. I counted down to the exact second when she finally scrambled to ask, “Can you help me zip up my dress?”

“Yyyup.” I’d already resigned to the fact that I would have to help her, bouncing happily off the bed when she finally admitted it and letting myself lose the page I was on as I tossed the book haphazardly behind me.

I was forced to join her in the bathroom for it was already hard for her to humble herself enough to ask me for help, so she certainly couldn’t be expected to lower her pride again and walk out to a place more convenient for me.

The first thing I noticed was that it was a space clearly not made for two. It was so cramped that I ended up right against her in order to fit. The second thing I noticed was how she made no movements to distance herself. She was so close to me that I could actually see the little hairs on the back of her neck standing up from where my breath ghosted on the area. The sterile smell of hotel bathrooms had been replaced by the flowery, aromatic scent of her new perfume, and my heart broke all over again.

Using the back of my fingers, I cast a barely-there caress on her neck to stroke her hair out of the way to clear the path of the zipper. The little hairs on the back of her neck stood up again.

She liked that.

“So do I get to know where you’re going?” I reached for the zipper on the small of her back. “For safety purposes, of course.”

“Aww, you looking out for me, Dr. Reid?” She teased in a seductive tone while gathering her hair into a makeshift ponytail that for the shortest second recorded in time might’ve reminded me of a constantly recurring intrusive image.

“Always, trouble.”

The zipper fastened with absolutely no resistance all the way to the top. My eyes flashed to the mirror to catch her expression, which told me everything I needed to know.

What a pretty little liar. She didn’t actually need my help.

Comprehending that the realization dawned on me, she gave me what she knew would shut me up. “We’re going to The Rooftop at Lamont’s.”

How effortlessly she slipped past me without a thank you or a glance in my direction served as a rude awakening.

“Well, you should take an umbrella with you. It looks like there’s gonna be a storm tonight.” This was my small way of coming to terms with the reality of the situation.

“Eh,” She waved my suggestion off with a dismissive hand. “We’ll be fine. Oh, and don’t even think about stalking me!” She warned before exiting the room.

In the blink of an eye, she was gone - my peace of mind having left with her.

_ _ _

The amount of sleep you need varies for each person and is affected by several factors. However, for most adults, 7–9 hours per night is the ideal amount. And I was slowly reducing that optimal quantity, hour by hour, until there was none left.

I would continue to sacrifice my sleep so long as I was awake for her return. If she’d asked why I was still up, I would lie. Though I wouldn’t look half so pretty as she did when she lied.

Losing rest seemed like such a small price to pay to make sure I was fully alert in the event that an emergency happened, even if I would suffer the consequences in the morning. But hey - that’s what caffeine is for, isn’t it? To re-energize oneself after staying up to guarantee one’s enemy’s safety.

Yeah, I’m sure that’s exactly why Kaldi invented coffee in 750 A.D.

Besides the thunderstorm, my mind also made great company for situations like these. Granted, the visions it would project kept me up for a reason - they were all so awful.

There was simply no projected reality where things would turn out alright.

If she had the time of her life on her date, she would come back to throw it in my face that I’d been wrong, and her admiration for Grant would have deepened.

Or if he stood her up, she’d be devastated, but instead of letting me console her, she’d push me away as easily as she always did.

In a more neutral instance, perhaps she would admit it wasn’t as great meeting him as she thought it would be and the relationship would fade out for innocent reasons. Even if that seemed like the most favorable circumstance, she would eventually grow to resent me for planting the seed of doubt in her head in the first place.

But nothing- nothing I could have imagined would be as treacherous as what actually happened.

At exactly 1:09 a.m, my phone started to ring. I can’t explain to you what it was, but I just knew - it was her calling, and it wasn’t even her number.

“(Y/n)? Is everything okay?”

If she said something beforehand, I couldn’t hear her because the storm was too loud and her voice was too quiet. “Did I wake you up?”

I reassured her with a tone I didn’t even recognize. “No, no. I was awake. Why? What’s up?” The line went quiet again, forcing me to prompt her to speak in order to find out if she was still there on the call. “(Y/n)?”

“Spencer ...” She choked out a hoarse sob. “I need you. I need you to come get me, please.”

My eyes clenched shut at the dreadful sound of her sorrow, and I jolted into action. After scrambling to gather the keys to her car that she’d left behind, I fled the room faster than ever before.

“I’m on my way, (y/n). Stay right there. You’re at The Rooftop at Lamont’s right?”

The poor thing took the longest pause in history, either from shame or disorientation. “He threw me in the back of his car and drove me all the way to D.C. I …” Her breath caught on her dry throat again. “I, um, I managed to escape and now I’ve barricaded myself in a payphone booth. I haven’t called the police yet. You were the first person I thought to call. I just, I just needed to hear your voice.”

My knuckles turned an unfamiliar shade of white when I gripped the steering wheel, picturing her caged up in a rectangular box, dialing my number instead of 911 just so she could hear my voice.

“Everything is gonna be okay. I promise you. My ETA is 1:28. That’s in 19 minutes. Are you okay being there for that long or do you want to find somewhere safer?”

I could no longer distinguish the difference between talking to her right now and talking to a victim in distress. I was speaking with the same tone and inflection but feeling a sharp pain in my chest that wasn’t there before.

“I can stay here. Just ... don’t hang up, okay?” The fact that the possibility of me abandoning her over the phone even crossed her mind was more than enough to get me to drive well over the speed limit.

The list of traffic infractions only grew from there because honestly? Screw my safety or anyone else’s. Her’s was the only one that mattered. She was the priority.

She was my priority.

Throughout the entire call, I kept repeating, “You’re gonna be okay. You’re gonna be okay. You’re gonna be okay.” Frankly, it was something we both needed to hear.

It was both the fastest and slowest 19 minutes of my life. Time no longer felt real when I finally found the payphone booth that boxed in my troublesome girl. No sooner did I drive up to the sidewalk than I ran out of the car to sprint the short distance to free her from her coop.

“(Y/n)!” I shouted, swinging the door open and throwing caution to the wind in the process. Immediately, she dropped the phone, not even bothering to replace it onto its receiver.

The pouring rain had stripped her of her dignity. Mascara ran down her face in pigmented streams of black. Her curled hair was dampened into strings. But worse of all, it hadn’t washed away the darkening bruises on her skin.

“Oh my god, Spencer!” She cried as she ran into my open arms.

Her body collided with mine in such a gentle manner that I had to wonder how that was possible at all or if it was a figment of my imagination. Was our collision actually that gentle or did it seem that way because of how good it felt to have her arms and legs latch around my entire torso, crossing and connecting somewhere in between?

With one arm under her thighs to hold her up, I pulled her impossibly closer to me by cradling the back of her head with the other hand.

Her small hands found their way into my hair, a new sensation I tried not to indulge in so as not to let my attention stray away from the little life I was holding in my arms.

She was so cold.

Shivering from my warm embrace, her teeth chattered as she whispered, “I’m so sorry, Spencer. You were right I should’ve listened -”

“Shh, it’s okay, (y/n),” I said with the hopes that I could make the pounding heart that was thumping against my shoulder settle down until it reached her standard heart rate of 67 beats per minute.

After a second of just holding her wordlessly, she spoke again.

“I don’t wanna fight.” She surrendered so easily to me that I could hardly believe this was her at all.

“I don’t wanna fight with you either.”

That was entirely true. Fighting with her was the last thing on my mind. The first was getting her into my car.

It was easier that I imagined it would be, but then again, it’s easy to do things when you’re motivated in this way.

Before I loosened my hold on her to shut the passenger door, she squeezed me a little tighter, as if to be absolutely certain this was real and not some cruel dream.

“Thank you,” She hummed into the crook of my neck. From where her shoulder was digging into my throat, I couldn’t exactly respond verbally, so I settled for rubbing my hand up and down her back comfortingly.

“Let’s take you home,” I basically said to myself seeing as it was too quiet to be discernible.

“No,” She shook her head rapidly. “Take me to your apartment.”

“What?”

“I don’t want to go back to the hotel right now. I need to be somewhere I feel safe.”

My apartment is closer than the hotel, I reasoned, pretending it was the logic of it that made my heart swell and not the statement I would fixate on for the entire duration of the ride there.

I need to be somewhere I feel safe.

And that’s wherever I’m with you.

_ _ _

Reader’s POV

Porcelain wall tiles gleamed back at me, mocking my wretched misery. They were much prettier than me, but then again, anything else would be prettier than me right about now.

I certainly wasn’t the belle of the ball in my bare naked state. The fact that I was sitting in a pool of my own washed off dried blood didn’t help either.

I would’ve looked away from the bright white walls, but where else were I to look? Into the pair of eyes that I was deliberately avoiding? The ones that were staring a hole through me right now? No. I couldn’t bear to meet those eyes. So I kept looking forward at the mean walls - those mean, mocking walls.

“Is the water warm enough?” He asked, dipping a finger into the bathwater to test it himself.

I watched as his hand snuck into the tub and swirled around some water, causing soap bubbles to revitalize.

For a reason I didn’t know nor could remember at this given moment, Spencer drove me to his apartment. That memory of why I was here was fuzzy, but the rest following my arrival was more vivid. Perhaps because it was all unfolding right now.

“I think I should go,” I murmured. The bathwater had gone cold, and the silence was too deafening. If I didn’t leave now, then I would be trapped forever.

I leaned forward with my knees still pressed to my chest to protect my modesty while I tugged on the silver drain plug of the tub to release the suction.

“You can’t go home. You’ll be alone again, and who will be there to help you that time?”

“I don’t need anybody’s help.” I responded curtly.

“Then why did you call me tonight?”

“Why did you answer?”

He was stunned by how I didn’t miss a beat with my question, stunned enough to purse his lips in contempt. “Should I have declined your call then? Said ‘no’ instead and let you fend for yourself? You know what - my bad, (y/n). I sincerely apologize that I care about you.”

I scoffed at his factiousness. “No, what you should’ve done is whatever the hell you wanted to do. But clearly, since you said ‘yes’ and came to my rescue like I’m some victim in a case - you wanted to be there. I could chalk that up to you having a hero complex, but I think it’s time for you to admit you just wanted to see me at my worst so you could throw it in my face like you’re doing right now.”

He clenched his jaw in fury, muttering under his breath, “I should’ve left you in that booth.”

This crossed a line, but I was just as ready to cross it, too.

“But I bet you liked saving me. Seeing me as a damsel in distress that you could white knight. You like that, Spence? Does my weakness settle your deep rooted fear of inadequacy in strength?”

Shouldn’t have done that.

For a second there, I was sincerely scared of the response I might’ve just elicited, so I shot up from the tub and grabbed the towel on the rack, quickly wrapping myself in it and avoiding Spencer’s gaze the entire way out of the bathroom.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Judging from the loudness of his voice, he was right on my heels, following me close behind.

“You’re smart. Figure it out.”

“God, why do you have to be such a pain in the ass? I don’t want to leave you like this.” It never failed to amaze me how he could both show disdain and concern for me in the matter of a sentence.

“Well, you’re not leaving me like this - I’m leaving you like this.” My clever remark angered him more.

Seemingly from out of nowhere, Spencer called out from the end of his hallway, “What are you so scared of?”

Reaching the end of my rapidly fraying rope, I spun around to throw my arms out to my side in just the same defensive manner as he did. “Nothing! Maybe I just don’t wanna be stuck in the apartment of the man who hates me! Can you blame me?”

He ran a hasty hand through his hair, pulling at the strands out of pure irritation. “Why do you keep saying I hate you? How can any of what I’ve done for you tonight suggest that?”

He’d chosen his words carefully and for that, he was smart. His inclusivity of the word ‘tonight’ meant I could only reference his actions from the past few hours, which wouldn’t help my case, as opposed to the months and months that he’d given me the cold shoulder, which would have helped my case. But again, he was smart - he had me in a deadlock. I couldn’t accept defeat, but what could I possibly argue against his point?

My body literally shook from the power of the deep groan that tore through my chest. “God, what do you want from me, Spencer?” I wanted nothing more than to be far, far away from him, but my body was resisting all those urges. Lunging forward, I pointed the sternest index finger at him, staring the most unforgiving glare into his soul. “Tell me - tell me what you want! Because when I was nice to you, you-you treated me like shit. And then when I stopped being nice to you, you still treated me like shit. So what -” I had to laugh to alleviate the sheer rage I was feeling. “What the fuck do you want from me? Because it’s like no matter what I do, it’s just not good enough for you!”

His eyebrows had furrowed and his eyes softened. He didn’t look angry whatsoever. No, he looked hurt.

“Not good enough for me?” He leaned down to my level to look right into my eyes. “You are everything … everything to me.”

With one last breath, I cried out in anguish, “Then why? Why do you hate me so much?”

He gulped back the lump in his throat - the last barrier that kept him from telling the truth.

“I ... I never hated you. I just need to be in control of my thoughts and feelings at all times, otherwise, I feel-I feel like I’m going crazy. Like I’m on the verge of a psychotic break that I’m genetically predisposed to have. But when you came around - I lost all my control. You were inhabiting my dreams, you were stealing my sleep, occupying more and more space in my brain until there was no more room left to take. God, I think about you all the time, and I literally cannot physically stop it. I have no control anymore,” and somehow him saying that sounded something like an ‘I love you.’

“The only thing I could control was how I treated you. I thought being awful to you would get you to despise me enough to make me despise you, too, and while it was easier to be angry at you, it was so much worse having you hate me.”

“I never hated you, Spencer.” Never.

“You should have,” He rasped. “I know I don’t deserve you, but I wish to spend every day proving that I want you. Oh, I want you so bad,” He sharply inhaled through gritted teeth, and I unconsciously laughed in return. His pain wasn’t funny in the least. What was amusing was knowing that he had the same excruciating longing for me that I had for him.

“I don’t want control anymore if it means I can’t have you.”

He leaned in so carefully that I almost didn't register the movement at all. Our hearts were pounding to the same synchronized beat. We were the shore and the tide one in the same. Our breaths would draw in and out, in and out, as he held my face so gently. We were still the shore and the tide, but more than anything we were drowning in the ocean of ourselves. The rising waters of his admiration threatened to flood every empty nook and cranny of the room until it swallowed me whole. All I could feel was him, everywhere, filling absolutely everything.

“Wow ... I finally got you speechless,” The cocky bastard hummed happily, letting his words vibrate on the smallest part of my lip.

“Oh, shut up,” I declared through a smirk I needed to fight off before finally closing that nearly imperceptible gap between us.

All the forces in the world couldn’t tear us apart after we connected. They were no match for the force Spencer’s hands had as they pulled me impossibly closer. The pressure might’ve even been unbearable had it not been for the velvety pair of lips giving me back all the oxygen it stole from my lungs just seconds ago. They were so soft, like freshly washed sheets, like biting into cotton candy, like floating for the first time, feeling utterly weightless in water. It’s sweet, it’s so effortlessly sweet.

Not nearly as sweet as the words that followed our parting.

“Not enough for me?” He repeated, recalling my previous claim. “You’ve had me since the day you walked in, trouble.”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

fingers crossed this fic doesn’t flop!

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#spencer reid #Spencer Reid fic #spencer reid angst #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid kiss #fighting fire with fire #juniorgman187 #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction

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katyamorrigan · 3 years

Text

‘Hope is the thing with Feathers’ by KatyaMorrigan

For the Grishaverse Reverse Mini-Bang 2021, run by @grishaversebigbang, and with stunning art created by @wqemzz-blog - click here for her incredible illustration of Kaz and Inej!

Captain Inej Ghafa has returned to Ketterdam for the first time in three years. In all that time, The Wraith never docked at Berth 22 for more than an afternoon, and the crew never strayed further than the harbour front.

Could she have stopped by sooner? Absolutely. Did she choose not to for entirely business-related reasons? Absolutely not. She has no idea what her friends will make of seeing her again after so long, least of all Kaz. But there is hope - hope that in that time, he will have grown as much as she has. That he will be the kind of person that she can share a pot of tea with without a thought of how he might feel about her.

Because Inej isn't done with being a pirate yet. But it doesn't mean she wants to be at sea forever.

I had the best time getting to write this fic based on the idea proposed by Emma. So much of a good time, in fact, that I overwrote it by around 4k words in the end... This is the much more civilised 2k word version - the full iteration of the story is on my AO3 ), but this significantly neater version will remain on my Tumblr for good. I really hope that you like it, and check out @wqemzz-blog for all your beautiful art needs!

Link to the fic on AO3: ‘Hope is the thing with Feathers’

And available to read below the cut here:

‘Hope is the thing with Feathers’

It occurred to Inej as she entered Kaz’s office for the first time in three years, that in the past she might have second-guessed the meaning of his offer to have tea together. They had just spent a few hours talking during dinner – mostly talking over Jesper and Wylan, who had hosted the meal and were either polite or forgiving enough to allow them to dominate the conversation with reflections on Inej’s time beyond Ketterdam. Three years was a long time when you had last been teenagers breaking into the Ice Court together, when you were now the owner of a galleon that hunted slaver ships from Fjerda to the Wandering Isle. There was plenty to discuss between them, and it seemed that Kaz had changed enough to ask her to stay with no apprehension, so that they could be in each other’s company a little while longer.

The attic room was identical to her memories of it but her gaze was drawn to Kaz, with ungloved hands, stooping to open the cupboard and bring out two tins. With a tentative look at her, he placed them on the desk and opened them. Inej couldn’t help laughing.

“When did Dirtyhands start keeping cookies in his office?” she teased. “Two kinds, as well.”

He gave a permissive smile. “Nina may have had more influence over me than I would like to admit. She sends them to me from Ravka.”

Feeling a bittersweet rush of longing for her friend, Inej reached over and helped herself to an iced biscuit with a red star on the top as Kaz took the other tin and started to make them tea. The room filled with the smell, quiet clinking noises coming from the cupboard again as Kaz fetched cups and saucers, and Inej watched him from the corner of her eye as she nibbled. He had taken off his jacket, and Inej could see the strong line of his shoulders as he prepared their drinks. Yes, a younger version of herself would have been much more flustered than Captain Ghafa, as she was now. She might have told herself stories about how invested Kaz was, about his tactics and techniques for making her trust him – for making her want to stay. Now she had no such worries. She was in the bedroom of an old friend – an old partner, in many ways – and they were sharing a pot of tea.

Inej smiled as she turned away from sneaking glances at Kaz and looked out of the window instead, at the uncharacteristically beautiful light that was shining in. The fog of the early afternoon had lifted, and Ketterdam seemed to concentrate every scrap of colour on painting the evening sky in crimson and gold. It felt like a personal display from the city, like it was finally welcoming her in. She couldn’t believe that she had been away for so long.

“Can I open the window?” she asked. Kaz chuckled.

“You have never once asked my permission to open a window.” Kaz brought over their cups and placed them on the sill, where Inej was now sitting, and obligingly opened it for her.

A gentle breeze entered the room, tickling Inej’s cheek. She closed her eyes for a second and forgot that she had ever been away. The sensation of being here – in Kaz’s office, on the windowsill, letting the fading sunlight warm her skin – made her feel so young and so old at the same time. It was like slipping into an outfit she hadn’t worn in years, feeling the ways it had always fit her, and the ways that she had grown since. Inej was nothing like the girl that Kaz had once known, but she didn’t feel so different when she was back here, just a little taller and a little more forgiving.

Kaz brought over a plate with more cookies, taking a large one heavily studded with chocolate, and leaned against the wall. It had been three years, but still they were so comfortable existing in a space like this together, breathing in the warm air. She took a sip of her tea, and tasted honey. Just the way she had always liked it.

“You look well,” he said, not breaking the silence but disrupting it, like ripples on a pond. “The sea suits you.”

“Thank you. I rather like it too. Ketterdam has continued to suit you – is that a new scar on your jaw, or have I just never noticed it?”

“It’s new. About a year ago I was very nearly shot in the face by a Razorgull. Fortunately Jesper manipulated the bullet at the last second and I was only burnt.”

She inhaled sharply in sympathy, and Kaz shrugged. “It healed quickly, and that’s all I ask for.”

“Do you ever think you’ll end up more scar than skin?” she said, half in jest and half with sincerity. As the words left her mouth, she thought of how closely her question came to the kind of Suli proverb that she had goaded him with previously. That she had tested him with.

“Not anymore.”

His reply was unexpectedly thoughtful. Inej turned to him, and he gave a soft smile.

“The Dregs don’t get caught up in the same trouble that they used to. There’s less chance for me to get hurt.”

“I’m glad.”

She took a cookie, a chocolate one like Kaz’s, and bit into it. It crumbled instantly, scattering crumbs all down her chin and the front of her waistcoat. Kaz saw; there was a beat of silence and then laughter, Inej’s giggles muffled by the cookie.

“You pirates make our manners look sophisticated,” he commented. She swatted the air in front of him.

“My manners haven’t suffered at all, I’ll have you know!”

“My poor windowsill. I’ll have to clean it now.”

“It could probably do with a clean if you’re anything like you used to be,” she replied, and Kaz raised an eyebrow at her.

“I always cleaned the windows frequently.”

“Specifically the windows.”

He tilted his shoulder and looked out across the city. The gilded roofs stretched from the harbour all the way to the Barrel. Inej watched him as he absorbed it all, taking a sip of tea, adjusting the cup in his bare hands. He looked exactly the way she had hoped to find him – a little stronger, a little harsher, that new scar dimpling the line of his jaw like a tally on a gun barrel, but unmistakeably the same Kaz that she had left behind. He looked every bit the young man that he was – handsome, clever, mean.

“You loved to sit here and look out. I always made sure you’d be able to.”

“Oh.”

She was glad he kept looking at the view. To lock eyes with him then might have done something to her – made her feel another way. A way she had felt for a long time, that she had stifled. Inej focused her gaze on the broken pieces of cookie in her hand, crumbling it more. Everything felt quietly loud; gentle, but unrelenting.

The familiar click of claws on tiles came from a little further along the roof.

Kaz leaned towards the sound. “They must have recognised you,” he smiled, “The crows have come back.”

Inej made an elated noise and turned herself to look. There they were – a little murder of crows, with sharp eyes and sharp beaks, cawing as politely as crows could.

“I can’t believe it,” she murmured.

“They stopped visiting when you left. They knew you were here.”

“No,” she said, delighted but disbelieving. He nodded.

Inej watched them move, alert and intelligent, talking to her. She remembered Kaz’s decrial of them as mannerless and untrustworthy, but when she scooped up some cookie crumbs and held them out, they arranged themselves neatly to feed from her hand. Her hands were rough now from the years of sailor’s work, but she could still feel the smoothness of their beaks as they pecked and the trace of their feathers on her fingers.

“I missed them too.”

Kaz took another sip. “Were seagulls not friendly enough?”

She laughed. “They were friendly in their own way – they certainly ate up scraps quite well. But I couldn’t feed them like this. They didn’t wait for me like the crows always did.”

“They were always looking for you to come back.” His voice was as gravelly as ever, but Inej felt a hint of longing as he spoke. With the last of the crumbs gone, she brushed off her hands and turned back towards the room, to look at him. The expression he wore was the one that she remembered most vividly, and with the least joy; that inscrutable intensity that made her feel transparent. He was looking inside of her, and she struggled to translate what he had seen from the look he was giving her.

“Do you ever wish you had stayed here instead?” Kaz asked.

Ah. The question that she had expected to be met with – it had been avoided all evening while they were with Jesper and Wylan, but now it emerged while they were alone. It was a question that she knew the answer for. Whether it was the one he wanted or not, it was the one he would get.

“No. I love being on the sea. I love having a purpose that I can enact so clearly. Everything I told you over dinner was true – it has its challenges, but I wouldn’t have done anything differently.”

Kaz nodded, and she saw pride lock into his eyes.

“You’ve become somewhat of a legend to the sailors who come to Ketterdam now,” he said, a grin building. “Men who arrive shaken by what they saw at a distance – of a pirate queen in blue and gold invading slaver ships and leaving them to die. It has certainly damaged West Stave.”

She touched her earring. “It has?”

“Of course. The bulk of working girls in any of the brothels are stolen, and with so few slaver boats succeeding in bringing any ashore…”

Inej grinned back. Her only hope when she finally decided to leave Ketterdam had been to bring justice to those children like her, but to know that her efforts were ruining trafficking from the ground up… It was almost too much. Her face hurt from smiling, and Kaz turned away from her to look out of the window again.

“How long are you staying here for?” he asked.

Another question. So much easier.

“Two weeks. My crew have been given leave in that time, but I’m hoping that they will all want to sign on for the next stint.”

“And you?”

“I have given myself leave, yes, Kaz,” she chuckled. Kaz huffed self-consciously. “I’ll be around, is what I mean. If you wanted to have tea again some time.”

“Yes.”

Their eyes met, and she was a teenager again. Inej hadn’t thought about Kaz in that way for a long time. Hadn’t allowed herself to. She knew that the moment in which she let the thought of anything tender and vulnerable growing between them take root in her mind again was the moment in which she would have to rethink her answer to that tricky question. But Saints, it had always been hard not to.

“I can tell stories about Captain Ghafa while you’re gone, if you’d like.” Kaz’s smile was sharp. “Make sure that everyone in Ketterdam knows the name and fears it.”

Her heart betrayed her so, so quietly.

“You don’t need to,” she said.

“Why’s that, Inej?”

Three years of never letting herself near him, just in case the possibility of a dual life came back into play. Three years in which she only regretted one thing.

“I’ll be back again before too long.”

#gvbb21 #gvbbminibang21 #grishaverse mini bang #six of crows #six of crows fanfic #kanej #kaz x inej #grishaverse #kanej fanfic #kaz brekker #inej ghafa

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thran-duils · 3 years

Text

Lost in Zero Gravity (P.22)

Title: Lost In Zero Gravity (Part Twenty Two) Summary: Fem!Reader x Mob Boss!Tony Stark x Mob Boss!Steve Rogers. Reader is a call girl who runs high end parties. She catches the attention of Tony Stark who invites her back to his room with his friend. She might have performed too well because she becomes their new favorite play toy and they don’t like to share. Words: 2,519 Warnings (for the fic in entirety): Smut, prostitution, infidelity, angst, domestic violence, stalking, possessive behavior, drug use

Part Twenty One || Part Twenty Three || Masterpost (mobile) || Fanfic masterpost

Sullen, you walked out of the bathroom. Luna had started scratching, luring you out of the bathroom, and she bolted in past you towards her litter box. You had been in the bathroom for almost a half hour, crying over the test you had been clenching in your hands. You had eventually tossed it into the waste bin, closing the lid so you did not have to look at it anymore. But it did not erase the fact you knew you were pregnant.

The apartment was quiet and you wondered if you were alone but coming out of the hall, you saw the balcony door was open, the curtains moving gently in the breeze. Tony was sitting out on the balcony in one of the new patio chairs that had been bought for the new space. He heard you shuffle in and turned his head. His hand was gripping the short glass tightly — almost empty of the amber liquid. The bottle was sitting next to him on the small table.

You stopped in the doorframe and his eyes ran over you, remorse in his expression.

“I’d offer you some but...” Tony said, stiffly holding his glass up briefly, trying to joke but it fell flat under the weight of the situation.

Tossing your hands out defeated, you asked tearfully, “How… why would he…”

“What do you want to do?” Tony asked, sincerely.

He sounded genuine, like he meant it that he wanted your opinion. The first time he had ever asked you to have control over a choice had to be this.

“I don’t know,” you told him, sniffling. Wiping at your eyes, you asked, “Have you spoken to him?”

Tony let out a wry laugh and said, “’Spoken’ would be a very loose term.” He saw you were looking at him expectantly and he offered, “I saw him last week. The same day you got moved. We fought. Badly. I actually suited up.” Your eyes widened. “I can’t take him hand to hand without it. I provoked him though so what else should I have expected?”

“What do you mean ‘provoked’?”

“I was furious about what he’d done and I made some snide remark about how he never seems to be able to be sure he’s the dad. It was… warranted but it wasn’t helpful. In hindsight, I mean.”

“So, you haven’t told him that I’m pregnant. That’s what I’m asking.”

“No,” Tony said quickly, his eyes stern, locked with yours. “No. I am not going to do that. You think he’s been bad? If he found out that, I don’t want to think about what lengths he would go to. I can tell you exactly what I think you should do and that’s making an appointment, terminating, and not telling him about it at all. But… what do you want?”

He watched you intently and you finally said, “I need some time.”

It looked like that was not what he wanted to hear but he said nothing, just taking another drink, finishing off his scotch. His phone buzzed and he looked over lazily. He rolled his eyes and opened up the bottle again.

Knowing the answer before you even asked, “Steve?”

“Mhmm,” Tony answered, pouring himself another small glass. He twisted the cap back on and picked up his glass. “He must have visited the apartment and realized you’re not there. I’m surprised he waited a whole week with how angry he was when I saw him last.”

“I suppose I should just go turn my phone off because I don’t want him blowing me up,” you muttered, turning and walking back into the apartment.

<><><>

You had taken the day to figure out what you thought was best and even if it still felt a little rash, you felt confident that you could get the upper hand. Closing the bedroom door, you went and sat on the edge of your bed. Tony was working on his laptop in the kitchen with his headphones in. There was little risk he was going to overhear the conversation you were about to have.

“Where are you?” Steve answered tightly.

“Good morning to you too,” you replied coolly. “I think you know why I’m calling.”

“I have an idea. Look, Y/N. I can get that you feel a little shook up by what happened but—"

You interjected forcibly, “Why did you do it?”

He hated being interrupted, especially by you. And you heard it in his rigid tone, “Do what? Take you on the mission? Not tell you beforehand. You’re going to have to be clearer.”

At least he was aware he had fucked up multiple times. But he was not talking about his most egregious fault to date.

“My birth control. Why do you want me pregnant?”

It was quiet for a beat before Steve let out a scornful laugh. “Ah. So, Tony did say something. Bastard couldn’t keep it to himself.”

“Well, it does involve him pretty intimately!” you snapped. “You didn’t just fuck me over, you could have fucked him over too.”

Steve sounded a little breathless when he asked, “Are you...”

You detected an uptick in his voice; he sounded hopeful. And you wanted to sock him for it.

Not answering him directly, you inquired, “What if it’s yours? What then?” You could hear him breathing and you pressed when he did not answer quick enough, “What then, Steve?”

“If it’s mine and my wife’s isn’t mine, then I want it. I want my child.”

That is what you thought he was going to say and you played your card, “What do I get?”

Chuckling, Steve asked, “Bargaining, are you?”

“Seems I have the power to do so potentially. So, if it’s yours and you want it, I want you to buy me out. I don’t want to owe you anymore.”

“You talk to Tony about that?”

“I mean half Steve. The half you have invested. Don’t worry about Tony and I.”

“You still want to be with him,” Steve mused. He sounded dejected; you had wounded his ego and that was apparent. But what else did he expect with how he had treated you?

“Do you agree?” you asked ignoring what he said.

It sounded like it took everything in him to say the words; like he said it through gritted teeth. “Fine. I’ll pay you out.”

“And if it isn’t yours? Tony doesn’t want another kid. And I can’t get tested until nine weeks for paternity and it takes ten to fourteen days to get results. I would need an appointment made shortly after. To terminate, I mean.”

Steve was quick to answer, sounding sour. “Tony’s got connections.”

“You’ve got connections. This is your mess.” Steve was silent and you pressed, “I’m only going to agree if you agree to pay me out either way it lands. You owe me that. You betrayed me—“

Steve started to laugh, scornfully saying, “Betrayed. Do you hear your—“

You cut in forcibly, having a lot bigger confidence being on the phone and not having him tower over you, although you were shaking from nervousness still, “And you guarantee an appointment for termination if it’s Tony’s and not yours.”

“You might not even have to wait for the 9 weeks,” Steve said. “My wifes got an appointment in three days. I can order a test for her. If it’s mine, then you’re off the hook.”

‘Off the hook’, you thought to yourself angrily. Like it was a light thing you were discussing.

“If it’s yours, Steve, and I go through with this, I want it in writing. Legal. All of it.” You made yourself sound as threatening as you could.

“Man, you are learning very quickly. It’s impressive really. Where do you want me to send the document to?”

He was trying to be clever and figure out where you were. Get you to slip up in your emotions.

“Nice try. Tony doesn’t even know I’m calling you.”

“Hmm. He wants to keep you hidden away then. Classic Tony. He doesn’t like sharing; he was a spoiled, only child.”

“Or maybe he’s pissed at how you treated me,” you snapped, annoyed he was acting like Tony had done what he had out of left field.

“Right. Ticked off protective daddy. What do you think his endgame is? With you, I mean, dove.” The nickname made your skin crawl now. “Do you think he’s going to continuing pampering you? Forever? Tony gets bored quickly.”

You were not here to play mind games with him, and you were not going to rise to his bait. You were fighting one battle at a time, and he was yours right now.

“Look, I’ll talk to him,” you said, wanting to end the conversation. “You can give it to him at the facility.”

“Cause him and I seeing each other went so well last time,” Steve chuckled, and you knew he was referring to what Tony had told you about their physical altercation. “Fine. Work your magic on him. I doubt he’ll tell you no though cause he can’t deny you anything.” You gritted your teeth at his bitter tone. Steve tried another angle, “You really won’t even meet me in public?”

“No. One, because I know you’ll probably try to follow me and secondly, I don’t want to see you. Not after what you did at the docks and now this.”

Steve exhaled sharply and his tone made your skin crawl with apprehension at its ferociousness, “If you are carrying my child, Y/N, you need to see me. I will be around. I want—“

“You’ll want what? To have access to me?”

“You’re damn right. To check in.”

“I can take care of myself,” you said, fighting to keep your voice even.

“I don’t trust that!” Steve snapped. “You – or fucking Tony – won’t keep me away entirely. I won’t stand for it. I’ll be at the doctor appointments. I won’t budge on that, Y/N. I deserve to be there.”

You bit your cheeks, your mind racing. You had not anticipated him wanting to be around like that. You thought you could go through the pregnancy and give him the child at the end. It seemed he was not going to make it that easy.

“Y/N?”

“Fine. If it’s yours. Doctor appointments. But that’s it.”

“Good. Glad you fucking understand. I’ll be in touch,” Steve said tersely before hanging up without saying goodbye.

<><><>

Steve was fuming when he hung the phone up. She was getting mouthy, and he hated she was dangling it over his head like she was. He had planted the idea though, her paying off her debt. She had found a way to get him by the balls and he had to play the game.

He let out a shout, kicking the waste basket by his desk, sending it careening into the wall.

<><><>

Chewing your salad, you shot a look at Tony across the table. He was eating while he was working on a hologram. You had gotten off the phone with Steve and hour ago and made up a chicken salad for the pair of you. You had been quiet while Tony worked – he had a problem of stepping away when he was set on something – but you needed to confess because you needed him for this to work out.

You swallowed your bite and said bluntly, “I spoke with Steve.”

Tony stopped chewing and snapped his gaze up to you. He asked with a full mouth, “Excuse me?”

Twirling your fork around, you admitted, “I called him. He wasn’t here at the apartment. Obviously. You were here. You would have known if he was.”

He swallowed his food now, tossing his fork into the bowl, and then demanded, “Why?” He actually turned off the hologram. Apparently you could pry his attention away with the right motivator.

You met his eyes and said, “I wanted to hear it from him. Why he did it. And he told me...” you paused before saying, “And I wanted to know what my stakes are.”

“‘Stakes’?”

“Yeah. Like what if it is his? What happens? And what do I get for carrying it for him?”

Tony’s expression pulled a 180 from confused to irritated. “Y/N, you can’t think—“

“I can think, actually,” you cut in harshly. “Very well too sometimes. He’s gonna pay me out of his half of the contract he said if I carry to term. Regardless of if it’s his. If it’s yours, he’s gonna set up an appointment to terminate. I’ll be free of him either way.”

“Free of him...”

“I don’t want him touching me ever again.”

Tony relaxed if only for a second at your admission, but the moment was brief. Exasperated, he argued, “I fully heartedly understand that, love. Believe me, I do. But... you can’t expect him to keep his word. He wouldn’t do it for me and —"

“He will keep his word, but I need your help. He is going to get a legal document done up about it. All the terms, if it is his.” Tony looked shocked. “I would.... really appreciate it if you would grab it from him and also make sure it’s legit. I don’t want loopholes.”

Tony ground his teeth, looking pensive. “I’m gonna regret this.”

<><><>

“And the paternity test you ordered,” the doctor said, finishing listing off the things they would be going through during the appointment.

Cecile’s head snapped to Steve, who looked unperturbed. As he should since he had called the office himself to add it to the appointment. She was unnerved. “Paternity... Steve, you said you were waiting until after the baby is born!”

“I want it done now,” he returned dryly, meeting her eyes. She opened her mouth to protest, and he told her sharply. “This isn’t a discussion, Cecile.”

Cecile reluctantly closed her mouth, and the doctor went on, acting as if nothing had happened — he was on Steve’s payroll after all —, “It takes ten to fourteen days for results, Mr. Rogers. But I’ll make sure it’s done in ten for you.”

“I’m aware. And thank you for that,” Steve responded. He tossed a look at Cecile, finding her looking down at her stomach, gripping it possessively. He felt sick satisfaction seeing the worry etched in her features. He loved her so damn much and for the first time in a while, he felt like he had control over her again.

<><><>

You were sitting in one of the patio chairs, sunglasses on, relaxing in the early spring weather. It was still chilly, so you had a sweater on, but you were content.

Your phone drug you from your thoughts and you turned your head to look over at the small table beside your chair. Your stomach clenched seeing that Steve was calling. This was it. You shot a look back inside, seeing Tony snoozing on the couch with Luna. You got up quickly and closed the patio door before answering the phone with a quick hello.

“It’s not mine,” Steve greeted you.

~~~

Forever tags: @coconutqueen21 @undecidedsworld

Fic tags: @icant-hangout-imdrumming @oceaniamaddness @multifandom-superlover @imsonick @holl2712 @here4thefanfics @agustdowney @fanofalltheficsx @buttercandy16 @last-saturday-night @woohoney

#tony stark x reader #steve rogers x reader #dark tony stark #dark steve rogers #dark marvel #my shit

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dramioneasks · 4 years

Note

Do you have any fic recs for stories that are "clever"? I don't know how to describe it besides the fact that the plots are complex and twisty but oh-so-well-done ... those kinds of fics are the best! (For ex: The Right Thing To Do series & Manacled)

IDK about these being clever, but they were really well done and unique:

Lucius Travels - lexiatel - G, 7 chapters - Lucius’s ghost travels back in time to change the past of a suicidal Draco. This ends as a Dramione. “Ah, the greatest thing about being a spirit of the Afterlife is the ability to appear anywhere we feel the need to.“ Lucius tilted his head, slightly confused about his statement. The old codger had always confused him. "How will that at all help my son?” Albus scratched his bearded chin with a pause in thought. “Perhaps it’s not a where you would like to travel to, but more specifically, a when.”

Rewriting Destiny - mayawrites95 - T, 76 chapters, 327,888 - They thought after Voldemort’s fall that the world would get better. But they were wrong. The Death Eaters are still ruling, using politics instead of hexes. With the dwindling Wizarding population and no one left to fight, they must go back in time to before Voldemort rose to power to fix what broke in the past. Nominated for Best James and Best Peter in the 2018 Marauder Medals!

Reverse By: Lady Moonglow - M, WIP - At war’s end, Hermione is swept into an alternate world of opposites where Dumbledore rules as Dark Lord and Muggle technology and Dark Magic have revolutionized Britain. Light wizards who attempted resistance under Tom Riddle’s leadership have been left to a nightmarish fate. Can Hermione fix another shattered world - and still get back to her own? HG/DM, canon compliant

Title: Not Quite Dark Magic Author: hiccupfound Rating: M Genre(s): Angst, Romance Chapters: 30 Word Count: 107,154 Summary: Five years into to the war, the Order is pulling ahead after ages of drastically losing. Draco Malfoy notices. He wants in. He offers himself as a double agent, but the Order requests more. They’ve created a new spell that binds two people’s magical cores together in order to make a nearly unbeatable pair of duelists.Draco agrees to bind himself to the person most compatible with his magical core. Even if it is Hermione Granger.

Lonely as our secrets - MischiefProlonged - M, WIP - In the four years since the order and it’s allies failed to win the Battle of Hogwarts, Hermione Granger and the rest of the order have fought to defeat their final foe. But they are failing. Until Draco Malfoy offers her an opportunity to do what no one else in the order has ever done. But risking her life comes with challenges she never would have expected. And Draco is at the heart of it all. Can they defeat Voldemort and keep each other alive long enough to discover their feelings? To win the war, what would Hermione do for her loved ones? Anything? Everything.

Forget Me by Emara88 - M, 25 chapters - The war ended over two years ago, but Hermione still feels the echoes of strange memories from that time, as though something is missing or has been taken from her. When she sees Draco Malfoy at a Ministry ball and collapses, falling into a coma, the truth about their past together is revealed.

The Green Girl by Colubrina - T, 22 chapters - Hermione is sorted into Slytherin; how will things play out differently when the brains of the Golden Trio has different friends? Eventual Dramione.

Clean By: olivieblake - M, 31 chapters - Malfoy’s handsome face was contoured into a condescending smirk. “No faith in that giant brain of yours, Granger?” She looked up at him defiantly. “Maybe I don’t have faith in you!” she said, raising her voice. Malfoy only looked at her. “You’ll find I’m very surprising.” Dramione AU, Year 6 with a slow burn and a killer twist. COMPLETE.

Alternate History - Furare - T, 32 chapters - Snape’s first Defence lesson goes horribly wrong for Hermione when she is caught in a freak spell explosion and finds herself in a strangely altered version of the world she knows. While desperate to find her way back to normality, she can’t help but get involved when she realises that her memories of things that suddenly never happened could be the key to thwarting the plans of this world’s Voldemort. She has to wonder, though… will she ever be able to get back to her own reality? And even if she could, would she really want to go?

Title: Doppelgangland Author: damnedscribblingwoman Rating: M Genre(s): Romance, Angst Chapters: 9 Word Count: 25,545 Summary: All Hermione wanted out of her evening was to close up the pub in peace and quiet. That plan sort of went out the window when she was kidnapped by Draco Malfoy, who proceeded to drop a baby on her lap. Also known as the one that’s almost but not quite a Muggle AU.

Master By: AkashaTheKitty - M, one-shot - The war drags on and Hermione Granger is caught and then bought by her old enemy Draco Malfoy. But why did he do that when he obviously isn’t really interested in using her for anything? AU, very ugly themes, ONESHOT!

- Lisa

#fic recommendation #au #Anonymous

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emachinescat · 3 years

Text

The Casket of the Armadillos (by Edgar Allan Nope)

A Psych Fan-Fiction

by @emachinescat

@febuwhump day 9 - buried alive

Summary: When Shawn confronts a grad student turned murderer, he learns a very important lesson a very hard way: Don’t piss off English nerds - especially the homicidal ones.

Characters: Shawn, Gus, Juliet, Lassiter, Henry

Words: 5,924

TW: panic attacks, buried alive, claustrophobia

Note: If you liked this classic lit-inspired Psych fic, you can always check out this one I wrote, inspired by To Kill a Mockingbird: The Finch and the Mockingbird

Keep reading here, or on AO3!

If you enjoy, please consider liking, commenting, or re-blogging, and you can follow me for more content like this! :)

I forced the last stone into its position; I plastered it up. Against the new masonry I re-erected the old rampart of bones. For the half of a century no mortal has disturbed them. In pace requiescat!

- Edgar Allan Poe, “The Cask of Amontillado”

Her name was Olivia Hale, she was a twenty-three-year-old grad student at UCSB, and she was working on her doctorate in American lit. She was attractive in a cute librarian sort of way - short and petite, with long, curly auburn hair she kept in a bun and oversized glasses with thick lenses, and a smattering of freckles across her slightly upturned nose. She knew a little bit about everything when it came to literature as a whole, a rather impressive amount about American literature, and absolutely everything there was to know about the life and works of one Edgar Allan Poe.

She was also batshit crazy and currently pointing a .22 pistol directly at Shawn’s head.

“Don’t move,” she growled, disengaging the safety.

Shawn did a cursory glance around the empty classroom, looking for anything at all he could use to his advantage, to distract her or attack her with or - worst case scenario - to use as a shield. But Olivia had found him snooping around on the tiny fourth floor study room that she’d been given to use by the department chair as her thesis headquarters. She’d really made herself at home here, piling books and journals and what seemed like hundreds of loose sheets of paper on every available surface.

But he was stranded in the middle of the room, with nothing close enough to use as a weapon, and so Shawn used the most powerful tool he had, one that had saved his life and many others, wooed women all over the country, and ordered more chili cheese dogs than he could count.

He started talking.

“Look, Olivia, I get it,” he said soothingly. Slowly, in the most non-threatening manner possible, he lowered his hands. Olivia gripped the pistol tighter but didn’t shoot. “I know what happened. You didn’t mean to kill him.”

Her eyes were wide and fierce, her lips pursed into a thin line. “No,” she admitted. “It was an accident. But he was going to--”

“Yeees,” drawled Shawn, slowly raising his left hand and putting it to his temple, very well aware that he was probably pushing the limit with all of this movement after she had expressly ordered, at gunpoint, for him to stay still. “I see it. Dr. Graves was feeling guilty, wasn’t he? A fifty-five-year-old professor with a fancy PhD and tenure, and a devoted wife and three kids and two grandkids, to boot. The perfect life. But oooh, it wasn’t enough for him, was it?”

Shawn immediately answered his own question, something that he had become exceptionally good at over the years since he was usually the only one who could keep up with himself. “Of course not! What’s the perfect job and family when you’ve got a smokin’ hot, super smart student in her mid-twenties who thinks you’re the most impressive man on the planet?”

She sneered, and Shawn noticed with some trepidation that the hand holding the gun trembled just the tiniest bit. When she spoke, her voice warbled with rage. “My age and appearance had nothing to do with it - and even if it did, there was nothing wrong with our relationship! We were perfect for each other, intellectual equals. We were on each other’s levels - he was my soulmate! So don’t you dare belittle what we had like that!”

Ah. So he had hit a nerve. This could now go either one of two ways, in Shawn’s extensive experience in being held hostage: Either she would get fed up and send a bullet screaming through his body, Garth Longmore style, or she would let her emotions distract her, and cause her to make a stupid mistake. Obviously, Shawn hoped for the latter.

Now Shawn had to make a choice, because he could proceed in one of two ways: Either he could back off and try from another angle, or he could further antagonize her into (hopefully) making a mistake. Naturally, Shawn went with the latter.

“Sure, sure,” he agreed airily. “Older men and younger women do it all the time. But to say there was nothing wrong with your relationship? The man was married, and you were his student. I’m not the headmaster here -”

“Dean,” she corrected sharply, and this further proved that Shawn had pegged her correctly as a know-it-all literature wunderkind who had to be right one thousand percent of the time. “This isn’t Hogwarts.”

Shawn gave a tiny shrug. “To be honest, all big schools look like Hogwarts to me.”

“Because you have the mind of a child.” The words were accusatory and patronizing, but Shawn flashed a dazzling smile.

“Thank you,” he said. Before she could respond, he continued his earlier thoughts, “Even though you were the ‘perfect couple,’ you were furious with him for even suggesting that you stop seeing one another. The affair was too risky, and he missed his wife. He wanted to tell her the truth, fix things.”

“It would have ruined everything!” Olivia hissed, and the sound of her voice sent shivers down Shawn’s spine. There was an unhinged quality to it, something raw and dangerous that he hadn’t sensed before. He fought the sudden urge to backpedal as far away from her as possible. “We were perfect together! And if he told his wife and she let it slip, I would be kicked out! All my research, all my time and work here, everything would be gone! He had no right to make that decision for me, to take away my future!”

“Maybe,” said Shawn, and it was like he was watching from outside his body, because he knew that what he was about to say was a big mistake, but he was helpless to stop the words from tumbling from his lips, “you should have thought more about your future before you pursued your married Shakespeare teacher.”

Fury etched itself into every feature of her face, turning her from a beautiful librarian to a feral monster, but her voice was slow and measured as if it was taking every ounce of self-control she possessed not to shoot him where he stood. “He taught Southern. Gothic. Masterpieces.”

Shawn tried to backtrack, to undo whatever damage had been done by his unpredictably big mouth. “But,” he pressed. “Killing him was an accident. You didn’t mean to push him down four flights of stairs.”

She considered this. “No, I didn’t mean to kill him,” she reaffirmed, and then an odd calm smoothed out the angry crevices between her eyebrows - the peace, perhaps, of having come to an important decision that she knew was absolutely right. Shawn recognized the look because he’d seen it on others’ faces before (very rarely, if ever, had he seen it upon his own). “And I don’t think I will kill you, either.”

Whatever Shawn had been expecting, this wasn’t it. Everything about this woman screamed insane and vengeful. If Shawn lived, he would turn her into the police, and she would go to jail for a very long time. She was incredibly intelligent - surely she knew this!

And then she clarified, and the world started to make sense again - though Shawn would have honestly been perfectly content in this alternate reality where the bad guy suddenly has a miraculous change of heart. “Well,” she amended, “I won’t kill you directly. I’ve never shot anyone before - I only have this little guy here because I’m a young, pretty girl on a big college campus, and I have two night classes. Besides, your death shouldn’t be so easy.”

Shawn swallowed. “Olivia, you don’t have to do this. You haven’t intentionally killed anyone yet. If you turn yourself in now and cooperate, your sentence will be a lot shorter than if you kill me - directly or not. Because make no mistake, even if you kill me, you will still get caught. The SBPD has some damn good detectives, and they’ll bring you down even if I don’t.”

She didn’t respond to him directly. Instead, her expression was flat save for the dark gleam in her eyes, and she intoned words that in and of themselves had no meaning to Shawn, but that still managed to strike a chord of fear deep inside of his soul. “‘The thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as best I could, but when he ventured upon insult I vowed revenge.’” Shawn was utterly unnerved by this point; it was like she had been taken over by something both sinister and incredibly well-spoken.

And indeed, in many ways she had, as Shawn soon found out, she was quoting the beginning of a story by Edgar Allan Poe.

Presently, however, Shawn had no context for her strange words or sudden shift of demeanor. His skin crawled and his heart pumped with more get-up-and-go than he’d ever been able to muster in his whole body before. “Uh, Olivia…”

“Move,” she ordered.

This time, though it was contrary to his nature, Shawn did what she said without arguing. This side of the student, with stolen words sliding evilly from her mouth, was a million times scarier than the enraged Olivia who had very nearly shot him between the eyes.

She marched him out of the room and down the three flights of stairs to the main lobby of the English building. It was dark outside, nearing midnight, and Shawn kicked himself for thinking he was clever for coming to investigate this late. He’d thought she’d be at home sleeping. He should have realized that as a grad student, sleeping was the one thing she wouldn’t have time for! And now he was in very deep trouble, alone, and no one knew where he was. He should have waited until morning, until the building wasn’t deserted, should have at least called Gus and told him what he was doing. But it was a college campus, and she was a tiny little literature nerd - it should have been safe!

As she forced him down one flight of stairs, then two, then three, and finally, into a stairwell off the beaten path that had to be unlocked with a key card - which she had - she continued to encant, her voice slowly losing its flatness and growing into something twisted and sing-songy with every word.

“‘You, who so well know the nature of my soul, will not suppose, however, that gave utterance to a threat. At length I would be avenged; this was a point, definitely, settled - but the very definitiveness with which it was resolved precluded the idea of risk.’”

“Olivia--”

It was as if she hadn’t heard him as she shoved him into the basement, and now her voice stilled from a chant to a slow, measured whisper.. “‘I must not only punish but punish with impunity.’”

Shawn wasn’t sure what impunity was, but it sure as hell didn’t sound good.

Their final destination ended up being a small, partially finished storage room near the back of the basement. Dusty boxes and rusted cabinets and archaic old computer monitors lined the walls and cluttered most of the walking space. Shawn was reminded grimly of a school supply graveyard.

Olivia stopped him when they came to a brick wall that had been busted through to fix some issue with the pipes - Shawn saw the water stains on the concrete floor near the break in the wall, and there was a brand new water pipe joined to an old, yellowed one at about eye-level in the small open space between the bricks and the drywall beyond. Shawn also noticed that the new bricks had been neatly piled up near a sealed bucket that almost certainly contained mortar, right outside of the hole. Someone was in the process of walling this section back up.

“Nice wall,” Shawn joked, relieved that Olivia had finally stopped her creepy recitation and desperately trying to lighten the mood and bring things back to some sort of normal - honestly, he’d take being threatened with the gun again to the horror movie stuff he’d just witnessed. “I bet all the other walls are jealous of it.”

It was a lame joke, but her eerie dramatics had him all kinds of messed up. He expected her to tell him to shut up, or to threaten to shoot him again, or to actually shoot him, but instead she asked him a question in that same cold, calm voice as before. “Have you ever read ‘The Cask of Amontillado,’ Shawn?”

Shawn blinked. “I make it a point not to read anything that’s not a magazine from the 80s or WikiHow articles on ‘How to Escape from Dangerous Forest Animals.’”

The corner of her lips lifted in a mockery of a satisfied smile. “Good. Then you’ll get to experience it for yourself, first hand. Just wait until you get to the ending! You’re going to love it.”

Somehow, Shawn doubted that very much.

Still holding the gun on him with one hand, she reached her free hand into the cross-body bag she wore and pulled out a pair of handcuffs. Shawn groaned.

“Come on! What college student just carries handcuffs in their school bag?” Then he remembered that this particular student had until recently been having a passionate affair with her teacher. “Wait - never mind. It makes perfect sense.”

She laughed, even though what he said wasn’t even remotely funny. The sound of it was strange and discordant - light and tinkly with a threatening undertone that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. Then she gestured at the hole in the wall and ordered, “In.”

Shawn had known it was coming, but had tried to shove that knowledge into the corner of his mind - something that was quite difficult to do for someone with a photographic and eidetic memory - in an effort to convince himself that even she wasn’t that cruel. He tried to appeal to her one last time: “Olivia, it’s not too late to stop this. I mean, are you really going to do this to another human being - seriously, look at this place - it’s dusty and moldy and I’m almost certain there’s no room service! If you’re going to chain me to a pipe, why not do it in a five star hotel?” When she nudged him with the gun, eyes gleaming with something dark and triumphant, he reluctantly stepped into the small space and implored, “I’ll even settle for a seedy motel off a poorly lit backroad. I’m not too picky.”

She didn’t answer him as she stood on her tiptoes and handcuffed Shawn’s wrists around the pipe, cinching them so tight that the metal dug into his skin and he doubted that even his dad’s lessons on escaping handcuffs wouldn’t be much help here. Already he could feel his fingers going numb, and his shoulders and back had started to ache from the hunched position he was forced to take due to the height of the pipe and the awkward angle of his arms.

Well, Shawn thought glumly as she smiled at her handiwork and carefully backed out of the small space, maybe all wasn’t lost. Surely someone would come down here and find him. This place was dusty, but it couldn’t be abandoned - work still needed to be done down here, after all. And he could always yell for help once he was sure Olivia was gone. She was booksmart, but maybe she wasn’t criminally minded. He might be in for an uncomfortable night, but in the morning someone would find him and he could have his vision and the cute little psychopath would go to jail for a very long time.

He waited for her to leave, but instead, she used a crowbar to pry the lid off the bucket of mortar, and the pit in Shawn’s stomach became a whole-ass trench. He should have seen this coming - his heart pounded madly against his rib cage as if trying to free itself, with or without him. He couldn’t blame it. “Olivia, please,” he said, and this time, there was no joke, his voice imploring and terrified. “You don’t have -”

Again, she cut him off. “How would you like to hear a story before you die, Shawn?” she asked in a tone so casual that she could have been asking him if he wanted to grab a taco.

“How about you tell me a story and then I don’t die?” Shawn bargained weakly.

“Mmmm… If you stay alive, my whole life will be ruined,” Olivia reasoned. “And I have worked far too hard to allow that to happen. So. You just stand there - quietly - and I’ll tell you the story of Poe’s most beloved tale of revenge. I won’t tell you word for word, of course - we don’t have time for that - but for posterity, I do have it memorized.” She sounded grotesquely proud of that fact. “It’s my favorite of his stories, after all.”

And so, as she slowly began to brick up the hole in the wall, with Shawn trapped, helpless and in a dissociative state of panic, she told him the story of two men with really stupid names that Shawn somehow managed, despite his raging fear, to file away for later as possible nicknames for Gus.

“Our story starts in Italy, during the carnival, and our narrator is a man named Montresor, who has a grudge against his once-friend, now-foe, Fortunato…”

The story was an interesting one, even to Shawn, who preferred watching over reading and especially over listening any day. And as it turned out, Olivia was a really good storyteller. If he had been in any other position, Shawn might have actually enjoyed the suspenseful tale of revenge.

But as he stooped there and was forced to listen, all he could think about was about how terrified this Fortunato guy must have been, and then he started wondering how long it had been before the man hadn’t been able to hold his bladder or… other things… anymore, and then about what had happened when he was too tired and dizzy to stand up, if the manacles on his wrists had pulled so hard against his flesh that they cut into him, and if lack of water or oxygen killed him first, all the while he knew that he wasn’t asking these questions for the sake of the fictional character. He was asking them for himself. Olivia had made it exceedingly clear - for a literature scholar, she was surprisingly un-subtle about any underlying meanings or motives - that Fortunato’s story was now to be his story.

It wasn’t until she had begun discussing with rapture the brilliance of Poe’s use of the Italian carnival as the setting of a story about murder (because of its abandonment of social order, whatever that meant) and had built up all but the last two bricks, leaving a hole around Shawn’s eye level, that came to the most horrifying realization yet. He’d been so focused on his own thoughts and fears with Olivia’s words washing over him like an acid bath that he’d barely registered that the dim light in the hole had been darkening incrementally with each new brick placed. Now he came to the bone-chilling understanding that once she placed those last two bricks, he would be completely in the dark.

He was going to die, alone, terrified, and in utter darkness with fear as his only friend. He thought in that moment that he might die of a heart attack before he could even think about dehydrating or suffocating. Honestly, it sounded like an easier way to go.

“Well,” said Olivia finally. “I can’t say that it’s been a pleasure to meet you in any way, Shawn, but I suppose I should thank you. Ever since I found out about this unfinished wall down here, I’ve had this unscratchable itch to recreate the titular scene from my favorite Poe story. You gave me the means and justification to do it!”

Shawn was so overcome by the surging sea of fear and early-onset claustrophobia that he couldn’t even muster up the gumption to make a joke about the word titular. Instead, as Olivia knelt down next to her bag, rooting around for something, he jerked madly against the handcuffs, desperately searching for any give in the metal or the pipe he was handcuffed to (or even his wrists, at this point he wasn’t picky). But the pipe was new, and it was sturdy, and so was the fitting that connected it to the old one, which itself didn’t seem too keen on budging, either.

A sick grin teased at Olivia’s parted lips. “Oh, Fortunato tried that too. But then he stopped crying and struggling and chose to die with a shred of dignity. But I highly doubt dignity is something you’re capable of.”

And then, with the finality of fitting a lid to a coffin, she slapped a piece of fluorescent pink duct tape over his mouth and a fresh wave of panic ravaged Shawn’s everything. He didn’t remember this happening in her retelling of the story! Then again, the Fortunato guy had been sealed into catacombs deep underground. Shawn was in the basement of a heavily trafficked university building. Someone would actually hear him if he called for help, so she took his voice away from him too. He couldn’t even sing “99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall” to pass his time or distract him from the inevitable. As if it wasn’t bad enough that he would die in the dark, he would die in the quiet too - and silence was, as his incessant need for chatter plainly proved, Shawn’s worst enemy.

“Goodbye, Shawn,” Olivia said, and she added one brick, layered on the mortar, and then gave her captive one last satisfied glance before adding the last brick and leaving Shawn in total, impenetrable darkness. He would never forget that last, terrible look in her eyes before his world went black - she was no longer human; she had elevated herself to the level of the storytelling gods and she relished in the twisted power she held over the life of another human.

As her footsteps clipped away, her voice, obscenely gleeful, called out, “In pace requiescat!”

***

The next ten hours were the worst of Shawn’s life, and they consisted of five main elements all bundled together into a nightmare that would stalk him for the rest of his life.

Cold. It was the middle of January, and though it couldn’t have been less than forty-five degrees outside, the basement - especially behind the walls - was chilly, and with the musty smell and the dust and the pitch black, Shawn was reminded far too much of a grave and knew that he might as well be in one, because this was going to be his. It was the kind of cold that bit deeper than the skin and wormed its way into the very core and dug its icy fangs in and refused to let go - the chill of death, an open invitation from the dead to join them in their home beneath the ground. He shivered a lot, but he couldn’t be sure if it was the cold, or the panic. It was probably a little of both.

Dark. The darkness that surrounded him had an unreal nature that could easily trick the eyes into thinking that they were already closed. It was oppressive and thick, pressing in from all sides, inky black water dredged from the depths of the sea.

Shawn had never been a fan of the dark, but neither did he exactly fear it. That changed the second that the last brick was put into place and he found himself in a darkness so severe that were in not for the feeling of floor beneath his feet he could have been suspended in the depths of space so remote that not even stars could reach. The darkness swarmed his senses - it had a physical presence, and it didn’t lessen, never permitted Shawn’s eyes to adjust to it in the slightest. It just hung there, surrounded him, assaulted his mind with its infinite arsenal of nightmares.

After experiencing true darkness, Shawn would never sleep without a nightlight again (which unfortunately meant he couldn’t judge Gus anymore for using one, either).

Pain. At first it was just the pull of his shoulders, the ache in his back. Then, about five minutes after he’d been sealed up, he realized his wrists were screaming with agony - he must have torn them badly when he fought to get away, but the adrenaline staved off the pain until now. He vaguely wondered how deeply the cuffs had cut - it felt like the skin on his wrists had been flayed - but quickly remembered that it didn’t matter where he was going.

Then there were the hunger pangs, and they mingled with the cramps from holding his bladder longer than he ever had before, and at some point muscle spasms in his arms and chest and legs joined the choir of suffering. At one point, he shed a few tears, but they could have just as easily been from anxiety or exhaustion, which itself produced its own kind of pain - he longed to sleep, but his body refused to allow him even that comfort until the very end, right before he was rescued, as if he were being forced on pain of death to endure the pain of death right up until the very moment of his painful death.

At least he didn’t have too much trouble breathing. There must have been a crack somewhere in the wall in front of or behind him, because fresh air was entering somehow. He did, several hours into his imprisonment, begin finding it difficult to pull in a full breath, and by the time he was rescued he was giddy with light-headedness, but he didn’t know if it was from the air quality or exhaustion or panic or from being forced to breathe only through his nose for hours, but he really didn’t care.

Quiet. Even worse than the cold and the dark and the pain was the quiet. The tape over his mouth prevented him from doing the one thing that could bring him comfort in even the most difficult of situations. Talking was what Shawn did - he utilized mindless prattle to distract bad guys, to make people underestimate him, to quell fear and panic in himself and those around him, to annoy and wheedle those whose opinions meant the most to him (and who he was most afraid to be real with), and most importantly, to distract himself from all the pain and baggage that his exceptional memory had filed away for him throughout the years. Talking nonsense meant that he wasn’t thinking about or acknowledging the parts of himself that arguably needed the most attention, those bits that were scared and unsure and hurt and vulnerable.

Shawn had always detested silence, and now it had invaded so intimately that even he could not drive it out.

And all of these culminated in a constant, agonizing state of absolute, unrelenting fear.

Panic attacks are horrific things that take your natural instincts in potentially dangerous situations and turn them against you in the cruelest of ways. They suck the air out of your lungs and make your heart pound so fast and so hard that you are convinced it’s going to give out in pure fatigue and never make it to that next beat. It makes your skin crawl like there are thousands of spiders nesting there, and your chest hurts and your breath is short and stunted and you know you are dying, that the next breath will be your last, but it isn’t, and the fear just continues and sometimes you curl into a ball or rock back and forth or scratch at your skin.

Panic attacks generally last anywhere from five to twenty minutes. Shawn was stuck in a state of raw, unfiltered panic for ten hours. When the EMTs at the scene took his heart rate, it was 160, had been the entire time he’d been buried in a collegiate tomb, knowing that he was going to die.

Put simply, Shawn Spencer spent ten hours in his own personal hell.

***

It was nearly three in the afternoon when Detectives Juliet O’Hara and Carlton Lassiter, with the help of a frantic Gus and a worried Henry that tried his damndest not to show how worried he was, made the final connections in the case and tracked down the woman who had slept with and then killed her lover like a hyper-intelligent, book-loving black widow. Juliet and Gus remained on the college campus to continue investigating while Lassiter and Henry went on to the station to question Olivia. She had refused to say where the missing psychic detective was, however, and only offered one bitter phrase, spoken in another language that sounded to the questioning party like a curse being placed on their heads:

“Nemo me impune lacessit.”

It was Gus who figured it out after Lassiter related the cryptic saying over the phone.

“I know that phrase!” he exclaimed to a swell of raised eyebrows. “It’s Latin! It means no one wounds me with impunity!”

“You speak Latin?” Juliet seemed impressed.

“Not much. But I recognize that particular saying, because it’s from a story that gave me nightmares my entire sophomore year of college.” He shuddered. “It’s from the second-most terrifying Poe story.” He didn’t elaborate on what the first-most terrifying one was, largely because he didn’t want to give the others fodder to use “The Tell-Tale Heart” against him like Shawn already did. Then the full implications of the words sunk in and he gasped, “We have to find Shawn, now.” The horror in his expression sent a chill down Juliet’s spine.

“Gus - what the hell are you talking about?” Henry was no longer trying to hide the panic in his voice.

“It’s from ‘The Cask of Amontillado,’ Gus clarified, his own panic making it difficult to express himself clearly.

“Guster, this is hardly the time for you to have a glass of wine,” Lassiter barked. “Now stop talking in riddles and just spit it out!”

But Juliet had now made the connection as well and answered for Gus. “Oh my gosh - isn’t that the one where the guy is sealed into a wall and left to die?”

The dread in Gus’s eyes said it all.

“He’s got to be somewhere on campus,” Henry reasoned, and his voice shook the tiniest bit. “Lassiter and I are on our way back to you now. In the meantime, check with the school and see if there are any places that are easily accessed and under construction.”

No one said it aloud, but the possibility that her words hadn’t been a hint at all and that Shawn was somewhere else entirely hung in the air amongst them. It was funny, Juliet thought - though it wasn’t funny at all - she urgently needed Gus’s theory to be right, because otherwise they would have no leads, but at the same time, she was terrified of the implications if it were true.

Her heart felt as sick as Montresor’s when he placed the last brick as she and Gus raced to the administration building and prayed they weren’t too late.

***

When they broke through the wall, the sight that greeted them was one that would never leave them - any of them. Even Lassiter, who made it his sacred duty to remain unfazed by anything his job threw at him was visibly disturbed.

A moment of silence, a beat where time stood still and everyone was afraid to move, and then -

“Shawn!” The four rescuers surged forward as one, but Henry got there first, his trembling fingers groping for a pulse - thank God, but it was racing, dangerously fast, and in the background he heard Lassiter radioing for an ambulance.

Shawn woke up as Henry gently peeled the hideous pink duct tape (an affront to all duct tape everywhere) off of his mouth. It wasn’t a gentle waking, a flutter of eyelashes or the murmuring of a name - it was violent and erratic, fueled by terror.

Henry had had to deal with panic attacks before - mostly Gus’s when he took the boys camping together, but once or twice when Shawn was really young and he’d had a bad dream. This one was the worst that he’d ever seen - Shawn woke with a muffled yell, panting through his nose, writhing, tears streaming down his face, eyes squeezed shut against the trauma he’d been subjected to, and he threw himself against the handcuffs so fiercely that Henry feared he’d break his wrists.

Soon his wrists were freed, though, and Henry, with the help of Lassiter, helped a weakened Shawn out of the wall and into the basement and lowered him to the floor. Henry sat with him and rubbed his back and spoke quietly to him, Juliet took his hand, and Gus reassured him while Lassiter ran up the stairs to check on the ETA of the ambulance.

Twenty minutes later, Shawn had been placed onto a stretcher and carried up the stairs and out into the sunlight - sensing the warm rays, he opened his eyes only to pinch them shut again as the brightness after so many hours in the dark nearly blinded him. He had been given something to calm him down, and he would be going to the hospital to be checked over and observed overnight, and a psychiatrist would be sent in to evaluate him in the morning, and everything was moving so fast that Shawn leaned over the side of the stretcher and deposited the remnants of the last thing he’d eaten, nearly twelve hours before.

“There’s one thing I still don’t get,” he gasped as he was eased back onto the stretcher. “Where do the armadillos come into her plan?”

The EMTs exchanged a concerned look at the stretcher, probably wondering if there had been some carbon monoxide poisoning after all. Gus, however, just rolled his eyes.

“Amontillado, Shawn. It’s a kind of wine.”

“The story is called ‘The Casket of the Armadillos,’” Shawn argued stubbornly, going so far as to cross his arms over his chest, pulling at the IV in his right hand.

Gus was going to argue, to insist that he’d actually read the story (and why the heck would someone fill a casket with armadillos?), but then Gus saw the plea in Shawn’s hazel eyes, that need for jokes and silliness, and understood that his best friend was clinging onto his last shreds of control.

“You know what - I forgot,” Gus corrected, shaking his head and giving himself a light smack on the forehead for good measure. “It is ‘The Casket of Armadillos.’” He glared out at Henry, at Lassiter and Juliet and the EMTs, defying them to challenge his claim. No one did, but they all shared a similar baffled expression.

Well, they could deal with their confusion, Gus thought protectively as he watched Shawn and Henry disappear into the ambulance. Shawn had been through a night of unspeakable horror, so if it was armadillos he wanted, then it was armadillos he was going to get.

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vampiresuns · 3 years

Text

Valerian Cassano | Death Sits In Their Garden, Death Rules Them All

Some lore fanfic about the ties of Anatole’s family with magic, and the most powerful witch among them all: Valerian Cassano, great grandfather to Anatole, and in the Cassano-verse, also grandfather to Valerius.

I have to thank Sabina, @arcanecadenza, for letting me borrow The Forge, from her very, very inspiring fic ‘I’m Not Calling You A Liar’, from her Pre-Canon Cadenza Series.

CW for child loss, and of course, death, necromancy and demons.

The painting featured is Vanitas, by Katherine Stone.

There weren’t many witches or magicians amongst both the Cassano and the Radošević. Magic was a scarce gift in their family, jumping generations or from one collateral to another, manifesting in specific gifts most of the time. Maybe more of them would be tied to magic if their political tradition wasn’t so strong, or if they simply knew better. It is hard to give a name to that which we don’t know, to that which we simply take as fact.

The topic was rarely openly discussed; it wasn’t taboo, nothing was between them. Instead, it had become something only those with magical abilities themselves discussed. As long as they were aware they had them, of course. Who else would understand?

So you had Anatole, the man of light and languages, the favourite of the Gods of the Sun, as his more religious relatives would say. You had Amparo, Lady Death, the girl of sand and glass. Milenko, the poet born in water. You had Vlad, the alchemist. You had had Anzano, may they find rest, the Priest. Yet, as present and even notorious as their magic could be, none of them bore the gift and the weight Valerian Cassano did.

Not many people knew about it.

Ironically, as the same would happen to his grandchildren Vlad and Valerius years later, Valerian was not raised by his parents but by his aunt Hyppolita Valperga. Hyppolita was a clever woman, who laughed little; ambitious and stoic, yet still warm in her own way. Valerian wasn’t much like her, he was much more like his mother Carmina, Hyppolita’s sister.

Yet he had gotten one thing from Hyppolita — other than what being raised by her gave him: her necromancy.

Hyppolita was an outcast of necromancing circles herself. The magical art had fallen in disgrace out of the greed and corruption of some, something which austere, upright Hyppolita (or ‘Lilita, as only her husband could call her) could not condone. “They,” she used to say with a weary sigh, “pretend to become Death themselves. They are not Death, for they rule nothing. We are simply messengers of death-energy, conductors of it. Everything which we bring back to this world is a loan, Death themselves has made us.”

“They will die again, Valerian. Everyone always does.”

The one indulgent thing Hyppolita allowed herself, was her orchid garden. Valerian remembered her sitting in it, humming a song to herself — a song old and arcane, belonging to her own Death God, or rather, the version of Death she approached.

“Death is one and the same, Valerian,” she would say among her abnormally vivid orchids. They almost seemed to whisper, almost alive. “Death is one and the same for everyone. The Death Arcana, the Gods of Death of different cultures — like Morana, your friend Elysian’s Goddess of death — they are all one Death. Death is equal, death is not boisterous. Death does not want you to die, why would it? You will die anyway, and wanting has nothing to do with it.”

Hyppolita’s Death was a, was a... was— Valerian had no words for it. Hyppolita had taken him through the realms thrice to meet Death, and once he had gone alone. To ask questions to a being vaster than he will ever dream of being, small and insignificant and mortal. Death seized him up like he was as light as air.

Hyppolita’s Death’s voice was a sound Valerian was never able to hear anywhere else.

“Something is happening to Death, something has already happened to it, Valerian. We are witnessing the Death of something which cannot be killed.”

As he grew up, he always thought Hyppolita was being unnecessarily ominous. When he became older he realised it wasn’t Hyppolita that was ominous, it was him who did not understand. It would be many years before he understood.

In the interim, he became of age, and with becoming of age, he chose a profession. He did not become a doctor, like Aunt Hyppolita was, instead he became an actor. To his surprise, his aunt approved of it: “An actor is a vessel, just like a necromancer is. You have a wonderful voice, Valerian, use it. Death will be always there to guide you.”

Hyppolita was right, in her own way. She tended to be. Valerian was 22 when he realised he did not see things as the majority of people did, that he did not affect things like the rest of people did. The more he studied, the better he became at acting, the more he practised, the better he became at necromancy. However, per his aunt’s request, he told no one. Those who knew would know, and those whom he hadn’t told but knew anyway are the ones Valerian should beware.

That’s how he met Quaestor Valdemar.

The Quaestor was a void. Their skin dewy like the most alive of youth, yet ashy like a corpse in the mortuary. Their eyes open and alert, with some of the longest eyelashes Valerian had every seen in someone, which was saying something: not only he was dating Iovanus Cassano, who had very full eyelashes, but he himself was known for his eyes: almond eyes with amber irises, an impossible shade of grey-golden and eyelashes like a fan.

The eyelashes weren’t enough to set aside the off sensation in them, nor the feeling that their eyes weren’t just on their face, but everywhere at once. The Quaestor simply felt wrong. They went to his plays for mere three weeks, yet was never seen in the audience nor ever commented about the nature of the play they just saw. The actors were not of their concern, nor their jobs.

They were there for Valerian.

He mentioned this to Hyppolita after the second time they came, as Iovanus was very disconcerted with the behaviour. “Caro mio,” he had said, “no one is exactly sure what Valdemar does. All I know is that my father refers to them as the Palace’s cockroach problem.”

Hyppolita always saw her nephew’s plays. All of them on the opening night, and the closing night, but never in between, but the mere mention of the Quaestor made her go to the next one.

“That’s odd, Aunt, I didn’t know you knew them.”

“I do not, and I have no intention to.” Valerian did not understand.

What the Quaestor wanted of him was to give him a book: a leather bound journal titled The Forge. Valerian hadn’t seen Valdemar in the audience, but he knew they would come anyway. Something, no, someone could tell him. It was a whispering in the hallways which came from no one, it was the life energy pulsating in things, it was the prickling sensation in his gums, the eyes on the back of his neck. It was the shrill voice of his Aunt Hyppolita’s death murmuring: Double, double.

The Quaestor was in his changing room, as they always were when the play ended, fingers gloved and— holding a book.

“Quaestor Valdemar, did you enjoy the play?”

Valdemar ignored him. “Do you know what this is? I believe this will help you where your true talent lies. You have much of it.” They smiled. Had their teeth always been that sharp?

“Is it about acting?”

“There’s no need to pretend with me. Why don’t you just take it, Valerian?”

Valerian never took it, not from the Quaestor at least. Hyppolita made it to his changing room before he even had a chance, treating Valdemar like an unruly pupil, with short, precise sentences about how they could go now and drop it, as Valerian was her child. Valerian could tell in the way she stood without taking her eyes of them that Hyppolita was afraid. He had never seen her afraid.

To his surprise the Quaestor left, and a week later Hyppolita asked him to have tea with her, and lock the room behind her.

“That book, The Forge is a compilation done by a naive Necromancer who thought compiling all the knowledge of people who thought themselves Gods would help someone. I do not want our art to be lost, but losing it also means corrupting it.”

Valerian only listened, sipping his tea in silence.

“Everything that’s in it— Valerian listen to me: I have never downplayed your gift. Never have I ever seen a Necromancer with such raw potential as you. You could do everything that is in this book with the necessary application and beyond. Maybe for some reason that I cannot explain you are such a remarkale actor because you have unused potential as a necromancer. Maybe both gifts are not related.”

She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose with her gloved hands.

Gloved hands, just like the Quaestor’s. Just like the hands of many necromancers he had met.

“Aunt why do you use gloves?”

“Because I’m a Doctor.”

“Aunt.”

“Necromancy takes a toll on you: either in your life force, if you’re too rash, or in what you practice it with. We use our hands. Mine are in a deplorable state. Valerian if you ever wish to know how powerful a Necromancer is, look at their hands. Have you ever wondered why your hands are freckled and marked like an old person’s despite belonging to young skin?”

Valerian looked at his hands. Seeing that Hyppolita was right he sat on them, making his aunt laugh.

“You’ll be fine, if you are not rash with your gift. You can read this book if you like, I will mentor you... but do not accept it from the Quaestor — I do not know what Valdemar is, but I fear the answer, or a hint of it, is in this book. There are many an occult thing in this word, the arcane is not to be meddled with without knowing the consequences: magic comes with a price, life exists on the basis of Death, Valerian. You die on stage to bring life to a character. Life is nothing but an extension of that.”

“The realm of the Arcana are only 22, that is a limited number for such an infinite universe. Do not wander off. Do not become great at the price of becoming something you are not. This book whispers, and whatever voice you feed is the voice that, in your own self, becomes louder.”

From that day on Valerian studied with the same zeal he applied to his acting, and to those things in life which mattered to him. Valerian married Iovanus, and he studied necromancy. Valerian and Iovanus had a daughter, and he practised. That daughter, Matilda, grew and Valerian began using gloves — his hands hadn’t deteriorated as much as he feared, something his husband was grateful for, but he was afraid he would accidentally harm Matilda. He turned 31, slowly walking away from acting to involve himself with the affairs of the City, and he practised.

Many things happened in his life: his daughter became an adult, she married herself, she had a child too young, and refused to take responsibility for it when Valerian or Iovanus were there, or her husband’s brother, Mircea, and his own husband, her cousin Florentino. Through doubt and fights, through love and reconciliation, Valerian lived between the living and the dead, his craft never leaving him.

Until his daughter died.

He didn’t remember anything of the first year after her death — after Mircea and Florentino decided they would take the children in, he sat on his grief and there he stayed numb for a year. The obsession came to him on the second year.

What had he done wrong? Hadn’t he been affectionate and educative as Hyppolita had been with him? Hadn’t Iovanus been attentive and had he not lead with example? No matter what they did, everything always went wrong, and Death...

Death. He knew Death: he could bring his daughter back. The thought ate at him, always in the tip of his tongue, always in the back of his mind. His hours melted and slipped away from him, his sleep was fitful, his meals scarce; every waking hour of many months blurred together into one question: what if they could do it all again? What if this time, they did it right? If this time Matilda would understand the duty of parenthood and the Consulship, so Iovanus never had to deny her the position, so her children knew her mother.

He could fix it, he could—

He looked at his hands. He had never noticed he had Hyppolita’s nail-beds. He could bring his daughter back, but at what cost? Would she be her? Would he bring her back only to repeat every single mistake? Were they mistakes? What was the price, how would he explain it? He would be a fool if he pretended to know everything that was out there, in every single realm. Bringing Matilda back would not change anything, but himself.

From that day on, Valerian stopped practising.

In the spot where he sat flowers bloomed the brightest, plants seemed to never wither or die. The rest of his family — the ones who do not know of his magic — as well as the waiting-staff of the Palazzo Cassano have stopped trying to make sense of it; old Valerian Cassano is pushing past the centenary in terms of age and is, by all means, well conserved. Most people assumed it has less to do with Valerian himself, and more to not having led a life of excess in his youth, aided by the resources the family he had married into had.

They were all wrong.

Valerian, well into the first decade over the hundred years of age had many reasons to live: he had Vlad, who had grown from an angry, hurt teenager, into a wonderful father and attentive husband. He had Valerius, so unlike his mother while having the same attitude of hers. So full of mistakes like himself, slowly trying to heal from things he did not speak of. He had Anatole, his bright, so very alive great grandson. He had Milenko who always read his poems to him, and he had his most wonderful pupil, Amparo.

Her magic was nothing like his, and for that Valerian was grateful.

He had stopped practising necromancy altogether. Only once he was close to admitting to anyone the reason why — a reason he hadn’t even told his husband, now dead. Valerius had come to him, sitting with him in the winter garden with his glass of wine in hand.

“You knew,” he said. A statement, not a question.

“Yes, of course I knew.”

“Why didn’t you say anything? You could’ve told anyone, you could’ve told Ae— you could’ve told Aelius.”

“I think he also knew, in his own particular way, but no one would gain anything from it. I did what I could, trying to make you open up for once in your life, but you’re stubborn as a ram.”

Valerius was quiet for a long time. “Can I tell you something?”

“Always, my child.”

As he spoke, he stopped being Valerius, the Consul, and instead became Valeriy, his grandson, confused and lost, prideful and complex as he had always been. Valerian listened as he told him about wine drinking rams, and realms beyond the realms they inhabit. Of goats and hungry devils.

Valerius stopped mid-sentence. “You already know this too.”

“Valeriy, have you ever wondered why haven’t I died yet?”

“To annoy all of us, surely.”

Valerian laughed. “You have Matilda’s attitude. Don’t look so guilty, I know you don’t remember her. That is her fault, not yours.”

Valerian looked at his nail beds, then straight ahead. “Once I had a great teacher, she taught me things I cannot teach you, don’t ask me what it is — she told me not to become great at the expense of becoming someone I am not. That is all I can teach you from this. Do not try to become someone you’re not.”

Valerius would ask him if he reminded him of her, to which Valerian would say no. As unlikely as it could be, his grandson did have a conscience, unlike his daughter. Valerius reminded him way more of the men who had raised him than his own daughter. Valerian had made his peace with it.

He remembered her, and that was enough. Even in death she was impossible to contact, but in all honesty Valerian hadn’t tried: he preferred to remain the father of a dead, irresponsible daughter, than become someone who trespassed the limits of his own craft so much, he became someone he could not recognise.

“Honesty can hurt,” Hyppolita had told him once ,“but those who run from pain are doomed to lose all capacity to remain human.”

#my writing #the arcana #the radosevic-cassano #valerian cassano #valerius #he has a cameo #death cw #child loss cw #please have them i love this family so much #aunt hyppolita

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hey-hamlet · 4 years

Note

22 for plague dogs au please

So I’m very late, but I wrote two whole things so? Yeah no I’m still late, but then I say I’m taking prompts, I mean it! It just,,, might take a while,,,

“I have approximate knowledge of many things.”

Fic 1

Shouta will never admit it, but he doesn’t hate the dogs he’s taken in. Toshinori might be thin – and absolutely terrifying – but he’s a good hunter, and much stronger than Shouta himself. He’s rather envious of those teeth, the things he could do with fangs like those. Izuku is, well, he’s not exactly useful, but there is a certain charm about him. Shouta bows his back, feeling his muscles loosen slightly in the weak sunlight, ignoring the thorn-sharp teeth gnawing on his tail.

His kit – the pup, Shouta, he’s a dog – the pup is easily dislodged by a gentle flick of his tail. Satisfied he isn’t going to lose any more of his fur, Shouta settles down in the sun. The clouds are the same colour as the shale rock around them, they won’t have the sun for long, so he’d best make use of it while he could.

Leaving an eye cracked open, he watched Izuku totter towards him, before sitting so close he was brushing his whiskers. Shouta’s nose twitched involuntarily.

“Shou?” The pup asks, tail thumping regularly against the ground. “Can you tell me something? I wanna know something new please.” Shouta had to consciously still his own traitorous tail, damn that pup. He sat himself up, looking down at the excited scrap. Izuku forgot things, memories, anyway. He’d forget the day before or important things in his past, but the sharp little thing had a mind for any information you’d give him. Once you told him a fact or taught him a trick, he knew it. He was probably the smartest dog he’d ever met, not that he was going to be sharing that little bit of information any time soon. Shouta was not soft.

He flicked an ear in contemplation. “Upwalkers can see better than you or I, but they are as deaf as can be, and their noses are basically just for show.” Izuku nodded happily, little paws working the ground in excitement.

“Can they see better than Toshi?” Shouta let out a snort. The dog in question levelled him a glare from where he’d just exited the hollow they’d spent the night in.

“Pup, Toshinori is as blind as a bat. The sheep we killed last night can see better than him.” Toshinori let out a low growl as he stretched in the morning sun. Shouta had about a minute until the old dog’s joints were warm enough to run, so why waste them?

“Did you know that foxes are much smarter than dogs?” Izuku tilted his head, eyes flopping against each other. Toshinori kept growling. “Yep, dogs are a dumb as dirt. You must be at least part fox – every dog I’ve ever met is a blithering idiot.”

The growling stopped. Instinctively, Shouta leapt out of the way, huffing in amusement as Toshinori lunged at the space he’d previously occupied. “Yep, all the brain activity of a large rock, those dogs.”

“Get back hear you little - !” Try as he might to sound intimidating, Shouta could see Toshinori’s tail wagging. His own was as well, not that he’d ever admit it.

“They’re also slow as a newborn lamb!”

“Lamb?” Toshinori spluttered indignantly. “It’ll show you lamb!” The large dog broke into a run, long legs working with some intimidating speed. Shouta took off in a sprint but there was little he could go in a straight run – he was hopelessly outclassed. Toshinori grabbed him by the scruff of the neck. Shouta let himself be dragged back; the old dog was holding him so gently he could have gotten out at any time had he wanted to.

“Toshi is so cool!” The little pup raved. Toshinori set him down with a pleased huff, enjoying Izuku bouncing haplessly around him. “Shou is so cool too!” Shouta startled, turning to the pup with a look of poorly masked confusion. Oblivious, Izuku babbled on. “He’s so good at dodging and so clever! I want to be just like Shou when I’m grown! Like Toshi too!” Shouta, flustered, tried in vain to hide behind his tail. Toshinori rumbled a laugh from beside him.

“Told you he grew on you.”

“Shut. Up.”

Fic 2

“To start our unit of laboratory animal science, I’m going to show you a collection of pictures from a lab in the area which was closed down. I do hope I don’t have to explain why.” Nezu opened his PowerPoint, briefly reading through the overview of the unit before making his way to the first picture. There was a collective wince from the class. He knew the pictures were awful, and they certainly didn’t get better – to make matters worse most of his students were bleeding hearts. Still, they did need to see this. The vet industry required a certain level of both detachment and empathy that was difficult to cultivate without seeing some of the worst people could do.

As Nezu lectured, he felt his eyes draw to a small cluster of students nearest the front of the class. They were whispering comments, a faint look of recognition in their eyes. The oldest, an ex-policeman, only a little younger than himself if Nezu remembered correctly – and he always remembered correctly – raised his hand. The young woman behind him was swatting at his arm in an attempt to get him to lower it, while the young man beside her shot her a wry look.

“Yes, John?” He asked, pausing. His students did tend to develop a rather bleak sense of humour but most sobered up during this particular lecture. The small group had been smiling, and he was admittedly curious as to why. He was pretty sure he’d already guessed though.

“Hannah has a question.” He said with a smirk, gesturing loosely to the girl behind him. Her eyes widened and she looked at John in betrayal. The young man next to her lent over, muttering something like “well, you’ve got to ask now.” She glared at the two of them, before shooting Nezu a nervous look.

“Those two dogs, in the pictures?” Nezu nodded. “That’s Crash-test and Rake, right?” The other students in the room let out faint noises of realisation. Nezu grinned broadly.

“It is indeed! I was going to tell you all at the end that there was a happily ever after for those two, but it looks like you’ve spoilt my ending! Not entirely sure where those nicknames came from, but they are my dogs.”

“What are their actual names?” The young man beside Hannah called out, looking eager.

“Midori and Yagi. Now, let me get back to the lecture; you can ask me about my dogs later.” The man grinned broadly, nudging Hannah. They both whispered something before settling down with their notes again, looking at him expectantly.

“As I was saying –“

#blatently using me my friend and another cool dude as background characters in that last one #im not sorry #asks #plague dogs au #bnha au

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ecoamerica · 23 days

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youtube

Watch the American Climate Leadership Awards 2024 now: https://youtu.be/bWiW4Rp8vF0?feature=shared

The American Climate Leadership Awards 2024 broadcast recording is now available on ecoAmerica's YouTube channel for viewers to be inspired by active climate leaders. Watch to find out which finalist received the $50,000 grand prize! Hosted by Vanessa Hauc and featuring Bill McKibben and Katharine Hayhoe!

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meganshinsou-tm · 5 years

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Crimson|Ink. (m)

↳ chapter one: doomed

❧ genre: tattoo-shop/hitmen au | tattoo artist/hitman kirishima

❧ chapter warnings: none

❧ fic warning: major character(s) death; happy ending

❧ chapter song: Doomed by Bring Me the Horizon

♬crimson|ink playlist | ♧ character profiles | artist credit

[multi-chap masterlist] [next chapter]

Your fingers wrapped around the car key in the ignition, slowly turning it and killing the engine. Leaning forwards, you took a closer look at the outside of the tattoo shop you arrived at. It looked clean and modern, white letters in a sharp font spelled out the shop name on the glass.

'HERO|INK'

Quirking a brow you couldn't tell if the owners were being clever and using a play on words for 'heroic' or if 'hero ink' was what they were going for. Either way, you shrugged your shoulders and figured it'd be a good topic for small talk during your tattoo session.

Before exiting your vehicle, your eyes scanned the road you were parked on to make sure no cars were coming. Seeing that it was safe, you wrapped your scarf tightly around your neck, nuzzled into your coat and opened the door, taking off into the freezing cold air. The chilly wind and fleeting snow made your eyes screw shut and bones rattle as you ran to the door of the shop.

Once inside you leaned back against the door, underneath it’s ringing bell that signaled your arrival and took a breath from the brief jog. The temperature inside the shop was extremely warm and cozy, making you hum while shaking off the snow flakes from your hair.

Looking around you were in awe at how well designed and laid out the shop was. You've been in plenty of tattoo shops with your past friends and lover, none of them were even close to how nice this place was. It was pristine, sharp and sleek. Art work was framed and hung from the walls, along with traditional Japanese oni masks. The floors were wood and shiny, the front counter was matte black. The tattoo stations were no where in sight, leading you to believe that they were in the back away from the public.

While looking around and unwrapping your scarf, quick footsteps could be heard from a walkway behind the counter. You looked and smiled when a black-haired male popped up, he gave you a triangular smile in return. He wore a black beanie and had his ears gauged. Black ink in a geometric design with a lotus covered his throat and went further down under the collar of his raglan shirt. Both of his arms were sleeved out, they seemed to have the same theme of geometric patterns along with bold sharp flowers. Looking further you noticed just how massive his elbows were, they were really awkward looking and unconsciously you made a not so cute face.

A warm chuckle made your eyes tear away from the mans elbows and you blushed with embarrassment.

"I – I'm so sorry for staring."

"Nah, it's normal I have weird elbows. It's just because of my quirk," he smiled.

Before you could ask what his quirk was, he bent one of his elbows and aimed it at you. Suddenly a ribbon of white shot out from it and wrapped around your waist. You gasped when the material retracted and pulled you closer to the front counter that he stood behind. You couldn't help but laugh from the demonstration and clapped when he released you and bowed.

"It's tape, comes in handy for a few things I guess. I'm Sero by the way."

You nodded and took the hand he held out for you to shake, "It looks practical, I'm (Y/N)."

Sero raised his eyebrows and went to the computer monitor at the end of the counter. He smiled and snapped his fingers before looking at you.

"You're here for an appointment," he replied and looked at the clock on the wall only to chuckle, "You're five minutes early, we usually never have customers arrive early."

"Yeah, I've never been late for anything in my life honestly, it's just a pet peeve of mine."

Sero breathed out a warm laugh and walked out from behind the counter, his arm motioning you over to a high table that sat against a wall. He pulled out the stool for you and couldn't help but offer his hand when he noticed that the seat was a little too high off the ground.

"Sorry, we usually have massive guys come in here. Rarely do we ever have many females."

You smiled and mentioned it wasn't a problem and thanked him for his help.

Sero took a seat next to you on the opposite stool after he grabbed a sketch pad and pencil from the counter. The two of you went over the idea you had in mind for your tattoo. As you explained the image, Sero's hand worked at sketching up a general idea of it. What you described was very minimalistic.

A plain ocean wave, curling in on itself, no shading involved just line work. You also added lyrics that curved around the wave perfectly. Once Sero finished he looked it over and smirked.

"It's simple and really easy, but I can tell you have a reason for this just from the lyrics. It's always nice to have someone come in wanting a piece that holds sentimental value behind it. It makes what we do that much more important."

You smiled and nodded but didn't care to elaborate any further on your meaning.

Sero nodded himself, quickly figuring out that you didn't want the topic to go any further, to which he was perfectly fine with. He briefly excused himself for a moment and disappeared back behind the counter. You waited silently and watched the busy street outside until Sero came back in a short amount of time and rubbed his hands together as he approached you.

"Alright, where are you wanting to put this?"

You blushed slightly and lifted your arm, placing your hand on the patch of skin on your ribs that started behind the cup of your bra.

"Here."

Sero raised a brow and nodded, "Okay, that's perfectly fine. You are prepared to remove your shirt and bra for it right? Also, your placement choice may be just a tad bit more painful than other spots."

Nodding, you lowered your arm. "I'm fine with all of that. Pain is of no issue, I have a healing quirk."

Sero chuckled and crossed his hands behind his head, "Well shit then, this should be a piece of cake for you! Your artist is finishing up on one of our guys right now, so we'll go ahead and get your paperwork done."

Quickly, he went to the computer behind the desk and printed up a few forms and jogged back over to you and placed them on the table with a pen. Clearing his throat he rubbed the side of his neck.

"You are older than 18 right? It's just something we have to ask."

You giggled, which seemed to reassure Sero, "Yeah, I'm 22 actually. I know, I don't really look it."

Sero agreed and went over the paperwork with you, it was just simple stuff such as you agreeing and consenting to the tattoo, accepting that a tattoo is indeed like an open wound and is susceptible to infections if not taken care of. The paper also asked that you inform them of any allergies to latex, ink, and other things that would come into contact with your skin. After filling out your paperwork, Sero gathered it and placed it in a file behind the counter and motioned you over behind it and to follow him down a hall.

There were three doors all on the same side, two were closed and one was open, the sounds of buzzing and low-volume music could be heard the closer you got.

"Hey Kiri, Denks, this is (Y/N)," Sero said as you both hung around the door frame.

You peeked in to see a yellow-haired male, he was shirtless and random tattoos littered his skin as he laid out on a tattoo chair with an arm wrapped around the back of it. One of his nipples were pierced and a ring with a lightning bolt charm hung from it. His golden eyes flickered up to you and they sparkled when he smiled wide and shifted in his chair.

"Goddammit Denki, stay still, I do have a needle to your skin!"

A raspy voice caught your attention and made you look to the male who was hunched over with his back to you, tattooing Denki.

He wore a black muscle shirt; the sides ripped open all the way down to his waist and showcasing the hard-muscled body beneath the fabric. Both of his arms were covered in traditional Japanese tattoos and a thick black headband had his bright red spiky locks held back, not that they looked like they were going anywhere from how hard and sharp they were.

"Sorry, you know how excited I get when there's a pretty girl around," Denki teased and winked at you.

You couldn't help but blush and smile, only boosting the males ego even more.

Sero moved to stand by Denki and shook his head at the tattoo being placed on his rib cage. "Denki, I really don't understand you sometimes man."

You walked over to look for yourself and covered your mouth trying to hide a chuckle. For some reason this man was getting a tattoo of a hand making an upside down 'ok' symbol.

The red-head glanced at you from the side, deep red eyes looking at you for the first time and quirked a dark brow. You looked back with a smile only to have one of his eyes narrow before he went back to tattooing. You frowned and nervously rubbed your neck.

"Maybe he's just in the zone," you thought.

"So, to what do we owe the pleasure of having such an angelic face enter our shop," Denki asked, batting his exceptionally long lashes at you.

"You mean our shop," Sero corrected and flicked the golden boys forehead as he motioned from himself and Kiri.

He whined and stuck out a pierced tongue making you lightly chuckle and cross your arms while watching the red-head tattoo.

"Well obviously I'm getting a tattoo."

Sero snorted at your straight-forward answer and patted Denki's shoulder.

"Yeah, a tattoo that she's paying for, so hurry it up Red."

Kiri waved off his friend and mumbled incoherently as Sero walked out after giving your shoulder a squeeze and flashing you a reassuring smile. You smiled back and thanked him while removing your coat and sat down in one of the free chairs as you waited for your artist to finish.

You jumped when you caught Denki staring at you all starry eyed. Your brows knitted, a nervous chuckle rolling off your lips.

"You got a man cuteness?"

Kiri's eyes flashed from his task and to you for a brief second before looking back down and smirking. You suppressed the shiver that threatened to run down your spine from the look his piercing red eyes gave. Shaking it off you looked at Denki and shook your head.

"Uh – no. I just recently moved here actually, so I don't know anyone."

Denki excitedly shifted in his seat, digging something out of his pants and making the red-head growl at him. Suddenly, a phone was tossed your way, fortunately you had quick reflexes and caught the device, giving the yellow-haired man a look.

"You can know me, put your number in there, we should totally go out sometime, I'll make sure you have fun!"

You looked at the phone in your hands and hesitated from being put on the spot so quickly. "Uhh, I don't –"

"Just do it so he'll shut up and I can finish this," Kiri demanded with an annoyed voice.

Denki glared at his friend and pushed his shoulder with his palm, "Hey man what's up your ass!"

"Nothing, I just hate wasting time. I have other things I need to do after all of this shit."

You rolled your eyes, already getting sick of the sour attitude this guy was having so far. Without wasting anymore time you unlocked Denki's phone and went straight to entering your contact information.

He seemed pretty harmless and actually funny, so what would it hurt to make a new friend. Getting up from your seat, you walked over and handed the phone back to Denki with a smile.

Once turned around and walking back to your seat, both of the men stole quick glances before you turned back around to sit. Kiri cleared his throat when your (e/c) eyes looked at him and your tongue briefly wet your lips. You bit on the end of it as you quirked a brow at him. He raised his own eyebrow and subtly shook his head, going back to the tattoo.

Denki went to typing away on his phone, seconds later your own phone went off and you fished it out from your bag on the floor.

You opened it to a text from an unknown number that read, 'Just making sure you didn't give me a bogus number' .

Looking up at Denki, who was once again smiling at you made you quietly giggle. After saving his information you spent the next ten minutes browsing random apps to make the time go by. When the buzzing of the tattoo machine finally stopped you looked up to see Kiri place it on the tray next to him and sigh.

He wiped the ink clean with some tattoo soap and a napkin then nudged Denki's leg as if to say he was finished. Denki smiled and hopped off the chair and walked over to the mirror to check out his comical piece of ink. He turned to you and raised a brow. You were able to fully take in his other tattoos which were all literally random and had no cohesive theme to them. It was a mess really.

"What do you think cutie?"

You smiled and chuckled, brushing back a lock of hair. Unaware of the red eyes watching the small movement with interest.

"I have a feeling it really suits you."

Kiri yawned in the background and leaned his head to the side, cracking the bones in it and sighing. He stood from his stool and stretched his arms above his head, your eyes widened as you realized just how massive this guy was. There wasn't a single ounce of fat on him, everything was hard tattooed muscle. You swallowed harshly, admitting to yourself that he was definitely attractive, almost too attractive!

"So, virgin skin huh?"

Your eyes blinked and looked over to see Denki crouched down next to you, it made you jump a little and he chuckled.

"Excuse me," you asked with a smirk.

"I don't see any sort of marks on you, no other tattoos, not even any scars. Even people who live somewhat normal lives have some sort of scars, what are you like some princess that was sheltered from the world?"

Kiri shook his head and tossed an empty ink cup at Denki, "Why can't you mind your own business man."

You shook your head at both men and assured them it was okay.

"Uh – first off, no I'm not a princess. I've had my fair share of scrapes and scratches, but they don't last long because I have a healing quirk. It's not much but –"

"Shit really? So you could heal my tattoo like right now and I wouldn't have to wait two weeks to go swimming?"

You laughed and placed a hand on Denki's cheek, Kiri looked at you with a raised brow and narrowed his eyes, something foreign and totally fucking stupid bubbling up inside of him at the scene before him. Denki however was over the moon and grabbed your hand.

"You do know it's like freezing balls outside right, you can't go swimming!"

"Of course I can cutie, there are such a thing as indoor pools, hot springs!"

"Ah," you remembered and shook your head, "you have a point I guess. But yeah, I could heal you, its small enough."

Denki stood up eagerly and pulled up his shirt, giving you the side of him with the fresh tattoo. He kindly and desperately pleaded to see your quirk in action. It made you laugh, he was too cute for his own good.

With a smile, you placed a hand on his skin. Denki flinched slightly from the feel of your cold fingertips, you apologized softly, earning a bright smile from him.

Closing your eyes you took a deep breath and cleared your mind, a small buzzing at the back of your skull thrumming as your quirk activated. A dim glow illuminated under your hand quickly before disappearing.

Kiri watched on closely as he set up fresh tools, his machine and ink for your tattoo. When you pulled your hand away Denki looked down and felt at the patch of skin. It was no longer warm and raised, it felt as if the tattoo had been healed for months.

"Damn sweetheart, you know you'd come in handy around here," Denki complimented with a devious look in his friends direction.

Kiri glared at the golden boy as if he had said something out of line. Denki cleared his throat and lowered his shirt back down but you smiled at him and he instantly perked back up.

"Well, I should be heading off and letting you get to it Red, thanks again. I'll be back later tonight," Denki walked over and gave his friend a half-hug and grabbed his coat from a hook on the wall.

He sauntered over to you, taking your hand in his and bringing it to his lips to place a kiss to it. You couldn't help but laugh at how unashamed he was, you were really starting to like this guy.

"It was such a pleasure to meet you gorgeous, this definitely won't be our last time seeing each other. I'll hit you up later, maybe we can go for a bite to eat sometime."

You nodded and waved as Denki made his way out of the room.

The moment he was gone the atmosphere suddenly lost all of it's lightheartedness and you were now alone with the not so charming red-head.

You looked to see him standing at the small desk that sat in a corner of the room, the sound of a printer could be heard and his muscular fingers took the sheet that exited from the machine. His free hand scratched at the back of his neck, body turning around and walking back to the tattoo chair to place the sheet on the leather of it.

He smirked and looked at you finally where you stood there almost glaring at each other.

"Alright little one, strip."

#crimson ink #kirishima eijirou x reader #tattoo shop au #hitmen au #bnha #mha #boku no hero academia #my hero academia #bnha x oc #mha x oc #xreader #reader insert #slow burn #enemies to lovers #bakusquad #reader x everyone

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i-know-like-four-things · 4 years

Text

The First Pride

Rating: gen

Warnings: none

Parings: Destiel

Summary: Dean never had a good experience with the gay community, and between his homophobic dad and the hunter lifestyle, that wasn't out of the ordinary. But maybe this pride would change things for Dean.

A/N: so @malmuses and @lizleeships wrote and drew, respectively, for a fic called “In Your Own Time” that I absolutely loved. Anyway, I’m feeling gay and since I can’t go to a pride parade, I’m making the boys go.

Read on AO3 here, or continue reading below. Thanks so much, love you all.

The first time Dean heard about “the gays” he was ten. Dean remembered it fairly vividly, not because of the gay thing, but because it was the same night that Sammy finally started to figure out his math flashcards. He was only doing addition, and it's not like little six-year-old Sammy really knew the addition yet, but Dean saw the logic of it click in Sammy’s eyes. Dean could always remember the little things like that, when Sammy got something, because Sammy was always so proud of himself, and Dean was even more proud.

But that's not the point. Right as Dean was explaining to Sammy that “there is more than one way to make ten,” John was having a very heated conversation with some other hunters. They had just gotten back, and Dean was trying his hardest to not throw himself at his dad’s feet and prove how good he was. Instead, Dean was being more subtle. Good boys help their younger brothers with school work, and surely his dad must realize that. Anyway, that was the only reason Dean wasn’t in the middle of the conversation.

But hunters are a loud breed, and they were talking about politics. Really, they were only talking politics because every hunter there had had at least four beers and the room reeked of the stuff. They were wasted and wanted to complain about something. So they did. Mostly, Dean didn’t understand what they were talking about, but he caught a couple of things. He heard the words “dirty” and “homo” and “fag,” but that was about it.

Dean was ten, so of course he knew completely what all of those words meant. “Fag” and “homo” were things you did not want to be. You did not talk about those things, unless you were saying that you didn’t like them. So this was simply normal background noise for a slightly memorable day.

------

When Dean was 17 (well 22, according to his I.D.) he was trying to prove to his dad that he could handle talking to witnesses. This witch was killing young, attractive people, and they couldn’t figure out why.

So Dean decided to go to a bar and ask around, see if anyone knew anything. Dean, being the clever kid that he was, accidentally went to the only gay bar in that tiny town.

He didn’t notice at first. He just thought that the owner hired a weird decorator who couldn’t pick a color palate to roll with and who liked glitter more than any person should. Dean didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary, until he saw a boy barely older than himself, wearing nothing but obscenely short jean shorts.

Dean just went with it because he was working, after all. He went to the bar, hoping to flirt with some ladies. He sat, ordered a beer from a guy (girl?) who was dressed in all black and had piercings all over his (her? their?) face, and who gave Dean a disapproving look at his drink order. Dean paid the bartender no mind and just waited for someone in the crowd to sit next to him.

The only person who did was a huge man, with well-defined muscles, and a beard for days. Dean made some awkward chit-chat with the guy until he had had enough beers to lose some of his inhibitions. Dean made an excuse to use the bathroom.

He was washing his hands and checking himself out (he looked hot, thank you very much), when the guy from the bar came in. Dean said a half-aborted greeting before the man threw him against the sink and attacked his mouth.

Now, Dean had had plenty of affairs in his short life, but he had never been kissed like this man kissed him. It was all tongues and teeth and hot breath that tasted like alcohol, and it was the best experience of his life. This man was power and dominance and sex incarnate, and Dean felt like he could have fallen in love right there.

They broke the kiss and just breathed in each other’s air. Dean could barely breathe, but this guy looked about as bothered as someone who had just gotten off the couch. Then, the man took his large, beefy hand and placed it on Dean’s shoulder. Dean’s knees started to bend before a panic sounding like the boys who said “that’s gay” and his father screaming “faggot” resounded in his head. Dean lost it. His palms started sweating and his ribs started suffocating his lungs and his tongue was twice its normal size for some reason. And someone was screaming. They were screaming these horrible words and part of Dean hated that person and part of him thought they were right.

It turns out that Dean was the one screaming, and he barely dogged the guy slapping him before he ran out of the bar. Dean didn’t sleep that night, and he just told his dad and brother that the bar was a dead end.

They never did solve that case. Dean never figured out why.

------

There were many more instances like that throughout Dean’s life, but he mostly blocked them out. Dean was a man and a hunter at that, so he didn’t need to concern himself with things like sexuality or romance.

It's not like he was never curious. He did some googling once or twice, trying to figure out what he was, and why he likes the things he does. But he never let himself call himself anything. Also, he basically gave up on romance after Lisa. If she couldn’t handle his life, then no one could.

But that’s not important.

------

It was a disgustingly muggy summer day in Kansas and Dean was dying. Normally, Dean didn’t mind a little heat, but he did not like the heat and humidity combo. It made him feel like an animal and he hated it. It was eight o’clock in the morning and Dean was sweating like a whore in church. He was sitting in his room in the bunker trying to cool down, when Cas walked in the room.

“Hello Dean,” Cas began, as usual.

“Hey Cas. What’s up buddy?” Dean asked.

Cas’ face had not changed at all, except for a tiny little microscopic wrinkle between his eyebrows, which told Dean that he was uncomfortable. Dean turned his full attention to Cas and waited for him to speak.

“There is an event in Kansas City today. I would like you to take me. I think we should go now.” Dean raised his eyebrows at Cas’ determined tone, but stood up all the same. He put on a plain grey tee shirt and jeans (Dean Winchester does not do shorts) and tied a flannel around his waist. Dean didn’t say anything, just walked out to baby and expected Cas to follow.

Cas did just as Dean expected him to, and they both got in the car and left.

Another thing about the heat that Dean hated, was that it always made him feel bored. Like, it was too hot to wash baby or do anything really interesting. So the excuse to drive around with his best friend was a lot more appealing than sitting with his thoughts.

“So,” Dean began once they were on the main road, away from the bunker, “what’s in KC? A bee convention?”

The corner of Cas’ lip twitched a little, and Dean knew that Cas liked it. Cas twisted his mouth in a way that told Dean that Cas was in a mood to be stubborn.

“I’m not telling,” was all Cas said as he crossed his arms over his chest in a way that was painfully human.

“You’re not telling me?” Dean asked, incredulous. “Then how will I know where to go?”

“I’ll direct you to a parking lot, and then we will walk.”

“We have to walk?”

“Yes, Dean. We will walk. Humans evolved to be bipeds and walk on two legs, so that’s what we are going to do. Walk.”

Dean gave the biggest eye roll he could muster and kept on driving. Cas put in the mix tape that Dean made him, that he always seemed to carry around everywhere. (Cas was also the only one besides Dean who could choose the music, but that is neither here nor there.)

They drove for a while. When they got to the outskirts of Kansas City, Cas started giving directions. Dean felt that they were arbitrary directions, like Cas was just taking him around. Eventually, Cas directed him to a parking lot, and Dean put baby in a corner (heh) as far away from all other cars as he could get. Cas got out with and started walking purposefully away. Dean locked the car and followed.

Cas walked out of the parking lot and down the street, never speaking once. They walked for just a bit, before they turned a corner and Dean felt the wind get knocked out of him.

There were fucking rainbows everywhere. Men in banana hammocks. Women with only pasties on. People in leather and fluffy outfits. There was so much glitter Dean felt like he was choking on it.

They walked into the most crowded part of what was evidently a pride parade. Cas was walking close enough to Dean that he could feel the heat of his body, but not so close that they were touching. Dean was just following Cas’ lead, too beside himself to make any decisions of his own.

Good lord, it was hot. There were so many goddamned people, so many colors, so much glitter. God, everything smelled like sweat and bodies. Normally that smell meant a hunt, but now Dean was just trying to convince his heart that nothing was trying to kill him. He was fine. There was no danger, no need to run, he was fine.

Cas was walking over to one of the booths, filled with colorful fabric that made Dean’s skin itch. Dean was following Cas, walking just a half-step behind him, when he was struck with the smell of stale beer. That, with the stench of bodies was not an unfamiliar smell, but for some reason it turned Dean’s stomach in the most unpleasant way.

Cas was standing off to the side of the booth, looking at flags or something, when a man passed by Dean. It was the most casual gesture, but he pushed on the top of Dean’s shoulder in a way that had Dean’s knees shaking . If he didn’t feel like vomiting before, he sure as hell did now.

Apparently he had stopped walking and Cas was calling his name, but all Dean could think of was his dad screaming at him. How dare Dean not have a date with a girl? Why did Dean like Harrson Ford so damn much? Was Dean a homo? A pussy? A faggot?

“Dean. Dean. Dean!” Cas was screaming at him and Dean was hyperventilating. Jesus it was hot. There were so many people.

And then Dean was hotter but the world was brown and soft and smelled like the air before lightning and grass after it had rained. Cas was wrapping his arms around Dean, crushing Dean to his chest and stroking his hair. Dean shoved his nose into Cas’ shoulder and just tried to breathe, tried to not hear his dad anymore, tried to not hear the voices of hunters he knew from long ago, tried not to hear the voices of mean boys in the locker room.

Eventually, Dean’s breathing became more regular, and the tears that he would deny having shed stopped flowing, and he was okay. He stayed like that for a moment longer than necessary, just breathing in the smell of Cas. After a while, he pulled himself away from Cas, ready to deal with whatever the hell that was.

“Dean?” was the only thing Cas said, eyes open and pleading. He just wanted to make sure Dean was okay, and that made him feel worse.

“Sorry, man,” Dean said, running his fingers over the back of his head, “I guess I had some sort of panic attack or something. Sorry to be such a bummer.” Dean was deflecting harder than he ever had before. This day was one for the books, for sure.

“Dean, it’s okay. Every person’s first pride can bring up different emotions. Would you like to talk about what is troubling you?” And, of course, Cas saw right through his bullshit.

“Nah, man. I think I just got overwhelmed with all the people. It's no biggie. Hey, why’d you wanna come here, anyway? Not that I don’t support… this,” Dean gestured wildly, “but I just thought, ya know, you aren’t human so this wouldn’t apply to you. Or whatever.” Eloquent, Winchester.

Cas just gave his version of a grin and made no comment on Dean’s rambling. “I may not be human, but I pass as one. And, either way, I am living in the world as a human and I do not exactly conform to human standards of gender and sexuality. I am a genderless wave of celestial intent, and I feel attraction to all genders. I thought that, if I am living as a human, I may as well celebrate in the ways they do. Besides,” for the first time in Cas’ speech he looked away from Dean, “I thought you might enjoy it.”

Dean was baffled by this. How could Cas think he could enjoy this?

“Cas, I’m not… you know. I, uh, like chicks, man.”

“Dean,” Cas looked at him sympathetically, “it's okay. I know.”

Dean stood up then, pissed right the fuck off. “What the fuck do you mean ‘it’s okay’? What the fuck do you mean you know? You don’t know shit, Cas. You don’t know jack shit about me, or what I’ve been through, or who I am. You don’t know Cas!”

And people were looking now, and Cas was standing up and holding out his hands like he was trying to calm a spooked stallion. “Dean, stop. I did not mean to imply that I know what your experience has been. I just-”

“You just what, Cas? You don’t know how awful my dad was. You don’t know--. God, Cas you don’t know.” Dean was looking at Cas now, swept up in the depth of his eyes and all he could think of was blue and how much Cas simply did not know.

“What, Dean? What do I not know?” Dean couldn’t tell if that was fear or pity in Cas’ eyes, maybe it was both, but he decided he did not like it.

“God, Cas, you don’t fucking know --” and then they were kissing because for some reason, that was the thing that made sense to Dean in this moment. Later Dean would question why, in the middle of a gay panic, he would decide that making out with his best friend, who is a dude, was the most logical thing to do, but right then it was. Dean unceremoniously crashed his lips into Cas’, and they were the best fucking things Dean had ever tasted.

Cas seemed like he didn’t understand what was happening at first. He just stood there, until Dean almost stopped slobbering all over Cas’ face, before he got with the program. Cas fisted Dean’s short hair, pulling until it hurt, and he was kissing him back. Cas’ tongue was in Dean’s mouth and his chest was pressed against Dean.

They pulled off after a few minutes, and there was some cheering from off to their left, which made Dean blush. He hid his face by burying it in Cas’ coat, when Cas said, “What don’t I know, Dean?”

“That I fucking love you, you big asshole.” Dean grinned and punched the shoulder that wasn’t currently hiding his face.

Cas was silent for a moment, but eventually he replied. “I knew, you dummy. I know, and I love you too.”

Dean pulled away, and looked at this man, this angel, in complete awe of how he was in Dean’s life. But he decided to ride this wave of maybe-a-little-bit-more-than-nothingness that he was feeling and not overthink anything. He was just going to hold his angel’s hand and enjoy this parade.

#Destiel #destiel fic #dean winchester #castiel #homophobia #internalized homophobia #pride #pride parade #Cameron Black's Reads #My writing

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