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ronearoundblindly · 3 days

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Time and Tines (2/3)

Reasons (see previous or series)

Steve Rogers x Villain!Reader

Summary: With the Winter Soldier on your side, Steve races against time to figure out why...and how to stop you.

Warnings for basically DARKFIC: talk of unspecified terminal illness, medical malpractice, gaslighting, revenge, gun violence, not overly graphic death but still death (not of Reader, Steve, or Bucky), and decidedly too-little editing. MINORS DNI. There's plenty for you to read on my Light Masterlist, but this isn't for you! WC 5242 (which is, yeah, way longer than it was supposed to be)

Steve will do anything to avoid a fire fight with the Winter Soldier. There are too many people involved now, and he has to approach this situation delicately from all angles.

Steve just does not understand yet.

After hours waiting with agents in the dark of Doctor Avani’s house, convinced you’ve ordered Bucky to come right over and kill the man with brute force, nothing happened. There was no sign of anyone. Steve has to try something else.

A small army protects Salvatore while he searches your apartment. If the key to activating his friend is here, he needs to find it, destroy that information, and get a handle on why this is happening.

“This can’t be right,” Steve mutters, pushing past Agent Palmer (who drove) for a better look. “It’s too clean.”

Your one-bedroom would pass a white-glove test.

There’s so little…everything. It’s a far cry from the chaos Steve woke to find in the police station. His head throbs at the memory. He forgot what it was like to have his bell good’n’rung.

“Supe says she’s been selling off furniture,” Palmer calls from the doorway, “but he thought it was replaced. Boxes kept coming.”

Steve inventories a mattress with no frame, half a dozen hanging garments, no shoes. What were you buying? Where did it all go?

The desktop is bare. You’ve taken any laptop with you, it seems. That’s a small comfort. You clearly planned contingencies for your attack andor escape; it’s fitting you had the foresight to hide your research on the Winter Soldier.

Steve is still scared, however, because he sat with Bucky many times, listening to horrible tales of being trapped in his own mind, powerless, isolated in the midst of everyone, unable to control thoughts much less actions.

This one’s gonna take a few more beers for the friends to contend with, but with any luck and quick work, they’ll get through without bloodshed. He and Bucky will decompress somewhere peaceful. It’ll be okay.

He hopes.

Steve scans the lone bookshelf. The most curious edition is a history book about WWII, a few flagged pages open to reveal passages about Bucky’s service record, an underline beneath the location where the sergeant fell from the train, and a mail receipt for an address on Forsythe Avenue keeping your page. That’s all.

It’s not even a unique read. The book isn’t any more specific than an average school text. No other notes are made in the margins, so Steve turns the book upside-down and shakes, hoping for something to fall out. He rips the other books from the shelf and shuffles their pages until a picture comes loose—a polaroid of three women.

You’re on the right, fuller faced but it’s you. On the back is scrawled “the girls” with hearts on either side.

The book is handwritten, no label on the cover or spine, only an embossed mandala design. Steve’s stomach drops, but he opens to the front flap.

Property of Faith Williams

He swallows roughly and closes it, unable to step over that line of privacy. At the moment, he needs evidence of where you could have taken Bucky, and slow-reading someone else’s diary won’t give him that.

Forsythe Avenue might, but that’s just one tiny piece of the puzzle.

Steve checks a different unlabeled book, but it, too, doesn’t have your name inside, just a ‘Z’ fancifully drawn amidst doodles.

Damnit. This is no help.

“Palmer, you finding anything?”

“No, Cap. Bills all paid. Nothing under the mattress. No mention of Barnes on any papers in the drawers. Not even a Cyrillic symbol.”

No trace, just like how you two disappeared from surveillance.

Steve shuts his eyes, head still throbbing from how hard the Soldier landed a blow to knock him out.

The agent wanders through the tiny kitchen. “Fridge is empty. Doesn’t look like she intended to come back here…if…actually, it looks like she barely ate. No condiments, no spices, nothing.”

“How long has she rented here?”

“Over two years.”

Shit. This is a dead end.

“Keep looking,” Steve orders, but he takes the two journals and heads for the car, pulling up your thin file again. You don’t hold any clearances or a government footprint. You were let go of from your last job with a severance package. Nothing overly generous. No medical leave mentioned. Benefits, including health insurance, would be intact. Based on your appearance earlier versus you in the photo, Steve chews on a few wisps of theories, but it’s not solid proof. Without more, Steve has no leads.

“Friday, any connection to properties on Forsythe?”

He adjusts to get comfortable in the back seat of the SUV alone, firing up a view screen.

There’s a low, sad sound that means the AI found nothing in your records.

"For her or him?"

Womp womp, it comes again.

Steve lets out a tense breath, “Where are we with bank statements?”

“Authorizations just came back,” F.R.I.D.A.Y chirps.

“What about medical records?”

“That one’s a lot harder, Captain Rogers. We have to—“

“Just analyze the financials first,” Steve sighs. His head throbs again, and he knows he needs sleep. There’s no time though. If he could just get answers…

Protections exist, of course, for good reason, but Steve feels the frustration of any detective. He’s trying to find a bad guy, and by 'bad guy,' he means you, not the man you’ve taken, not the man you are certainly going to order to kill for you.

Steve rests his head on the chilly glass and pinches his eyes shut. He’ll take a minute, review the money trail, and then interview the doctor. It seems a miracle that man was able to go home to his wife and sleep, even with security inside the room, down every hall, surrounding the house…Steve wouldn’t do it; he can’t even keep his eyes closed long enough for the dry sting to subside.

How could he be so stupid?

You weren’t staring at him from across the room; you were watching your mark, waiting for an opening. Sadly, it occurs to Steve that if he’d just let you inject Avani, Bucky would be fine, here by his side, and safe.

You are the threat, not his friend, but that’s a hard distinction. If anyone else sees James Barnes—who is the stealth assassin Winter Soldier, as far as they know—they’ll shoot. No questions. Steve has to find him first. He has to get to you first.

Bucky is compromised, but Steve won’t let it come to that. Buck shouldn't do anything he doesn't want to do just because some enemy hijacked his mind and body.

“Feel better?” You twirl in the chair as soon as the motel bathroom door opens, steam billowing out.

Winter’s face is shadowed, pointed to the floor.

“Or…at least, okay? Here—“ you offer the seat next to you at the tiny table “—sit. Eat. Let me—I’ve got bandages for your knuckles.”

“Heals,” he grunts, sitting easily but with stiff posture, “fast.”

You let out a heavy breath, muttering, “makes one of us.”

The soldier reaches out for the file in front of you, but your hand pins it down.

“Uh-uh. Food first, and palm up here, please.” You wait for him to flip open the takeout container then blot antiseptic on the split skin. “Does that hurt?”

He shakes his head, focused on the meal before him.

Several months ago, an article was published about Bucky Barnes’ affinity for this one particular deli in Brooklyn, a third-generation shop. It listed his usual order.

You’ve made sure the bread isn’t soggy. You kept the spicy mustard on the side.

He makes a strange face, looking around for your portion.

“Not hungry,” you assure him, “I’m rarely hungry.” You secure the bandage like boxing wraps and spin the file around.

“Eat your food—” The command is soft, encouraging. “—while I tell you the story of how we ended up here.”

Buried in the file you’ve put in front of the Soldier is several lifetimes of horror. Maybe not everyone agrees with you, maybe not everyone cares, but that bastard Avani has to atone. For the next hour, you explain what’s expected of him, glancing every so often at the fancier hotel entrance across the street from your motel room.

It’s too early; you’d be very impressed if the Captain had followed those bread crumbs yet.

You planned so carefully for every obstacle. You anticipated so many setbacks. Men like Avani go down like great stone pyramids, not houses of cards, because their lives are built with safeties. For him to fall, a thousand others have to be damaged, and each one of them will put up a fight to remain untarnished. That approach—the truth, and nothing but the truth—has gotten you nowhere. Diaries aren’t enough proof. The placebo effect is not a crime. Two women are worth far less than a functional, marketable drug.

Plus, they’re two dead women. The pyramid is now their tomb. Nothing ever changes.

No.

You alone cannot topple a pyramid. You’re too far gone. You’re just one person. For justice, you have to go straight to the top, to the man himself. One on one.

Well, one on one-plus-one. Your addition is the sharp-shooter who can get you the top, the target, Doctor Avani.

Winter’s mission is very simple, but he’s thorough, asking all the right questions, thinking of all the right options. You knew he would be perfect.

“Now,” you clap at the end of your story, rubbing boney hands together, “a rundown of my meds. Sound good?” You grab a zippered case from the foot of the motel bed. “Nothing complicated, but here—“ nudging out a syringe and one glass vial “—this is the emergency one. Use 10 milliliters of this if I pass out. Got it?”

The Soldier takes an enormous mouthful of his sandwich and nods, eyes flickering back to that single bed.

You smile sadly. “I…rarely sleep. I’m keeping watch for now. You’re safe. You’ll need the rest.”

He chews and adds more mustard before his last bite.

“Okay? Good.” Your smile fades, fatigue and restlessness swirling in your empty gut as you remove another medication. “Next is this one. Every four hours, twent—wait, no, I’m up to thirty CCs now…”

“Sir,” Steve grits out with far less patience than he intended, pinching the bridge of his nose as if it will stop the throbbing inside his head, “you realize I am trying to save your life?”

Dr. Avani purses his lips in annoyance. “And you realize I am required to keep my patients’ confidence, right?”

Yes, Steve thinks, he’s said that several times.

“Are they current or former patients?” Steve tries to clarify.

So far, Salvatore slipped up only once. When Steve showed him the photo from your apartment, the doctor muttered something about ‘Faith’ and ‘Ziva’ knowing each other, looking confused, then immediately shut down.

Steve has to switch tactics. He doesn’t have time for this.

“Ok. We found over a dozen hotel reservations made with your assailant’s credit card, so look at this list—” Steve taps the smart screen to lay out a map with the names highlighted “—and see if anything stands out.”

“What have this crazy woman’s travel plans to do with me?” Avani bites out, rattling the tea his wife hands him.

A tremor. Not unlike how your hands shook at the table last night. Steve wonders if yours was because you are ill or because you were lying to him.

“Darling, your blood pressure…”

Steve sighs sympathetically to Mrs. Avani. “Thank you, ma’am,” he whispers, taking the next cup and saucer and clearing his throat. “Doc, please. I’m just hoping you can narrow this down for me. We still have no motive.”

“Insanity. Jealousy, maybe!”

“Jealous of what? Do you know what she might want?”

No answer, but Avani chews his cheek, eyes wide, while staring northwest on the map of hotels. Steve files that away in his mind.

The doctor returns to sipping his tea. “Do you know what they call people obsessed with finding patterns in chaos?”

His wife drops the plate of biscuits unceremoniously down on the side table between the men’s chairs.

“Salvatore,” she snips with the same frustrated fatigue wrapped around Steve’s neck like an albatross, “behave.”

“No. None of these are familiar,” the doctor grunts.

Steve can’t accuse the man of lying unless he wants to risk an all-out breakdown in communication during this active threat, but he’s running out of options. He needs real information.

Usually Steve would have more respect for a man staying within the parameters of his vocation, but this is a unique and complicated situation. This is Bucky on the line. Steve’s had enough of secrets and red tape.

“Any idea why she’d mail something to Forsyth Avenue? Do you know anyone there?”

“Forsyth Avenue? No, I’ve never been in that area before, as far as I know.” Though Avani wrings his hands together, no indicates that’s a lie.

Wonderful. Steve’s never been this unsuccessful at gathering intel, and Avani’s status as the newly-appointed Avengers’ lead physician makes it tricky to push harder.

So Steve recommends Avani and his wife consider staying in a more secure location before he sets off to personally check the hotels in the northwest quadrant of the map.

He takes Agent Palmer, riding in the SUV while the two diaries sit in his lap, knowing now—as sure as he can be—that ‘Z’ is for Ziva, and she knew you and Faith Williams. Those are ‘the girls’ in the photo.

Without Ziva’s last name, he can’t do a general search, but there is a death certificate on file for Faith.

Three women. One confirmed dead. At least two ‘former’ patients of the doctor. All visibly ill in either the picture or in person. One mourning the loss of person(s) and out to kill the doctor.

The pit in his stomach grows. Something very bad is happening, yet while Steve has anything else to go on, he will not be reading another’s diary.

He can only hope that your medical records are finally available once the hotel searches are complete.

There’s even a possibility he’ll find Bucky at one of these. Maybe he won’t have to concern himself with the rest at all. Maybe he won’t have to think so hard about your motives for activating a Soviet sleeper agent.

Steve does think, however. He thinks hard enough to spiral as each reception desk is questioned, as all security footage is combed, as every building is cleared. He has to make some assumptions to make the pieces fit.

You believe Avani is responsible for your friends’ deaths—both of them, since when Steve interrogated you, you accepted his condolences—and believe their cause of death was whatever treatment Avani administered.

It’s sad, of course, but it happens everyday. Experimental treatments are just that. If you’re concerned about gross negligence, the doctor could easily be reported to the Medical Board. Considering the amount of research, forethought, and planning required, the Winter Soldier is one of the slowest possible solutions to your problem.

But…Bucky was just your contingency plan. You had an opportunity to kill Avani yourself, yet you still set other options in motion. You used a weapon theoretically deadly to only the doctor

Steve still can’t understand, and it’s driving him nuts.

Finally, after the hotel reservations prove fruitless, Steve sees no other choice. He has to read the diaries.

He combs through the pages, growing nauseous as darker and darker layers of the situation reveal themselves, disturbed by everydetail except updates from the units on Forsyth Avenue or those stationed at the doctor’s house. Nothing is unfolding save the landscape in Steve’s mind.

He asks F.R.I.D.A.Y about the disease Faith and Ziva mention. He asks about the public records of the drug trial Avani lead and its results published just six months ago, after the last entries of the diaries. He notices the treatment was a huge success…for those not in the control group. Finally, he can’t continue.

His head pounds while his stomach churns.

In the early afternoon, Steve lays down to rest his eyes and reevaluate, but he’s met with only a blank canvas and drifts to sleep instead.

He’s woken by a shrill ring of his phone.

“Yeah, Palmer, what’s—what? What do you mean he’s gone?” Steve jumps up, straps on his shield, and races to his bike. “The hell were you thinking letting him make a house call today? Where did agents—“

Steve’s foot slips right off bike for an instant.

“Avani led the driver to some suburban neighborhood. Forsythia Commons.”

It dawns of him just as the garage door squeals open.

Steve never showed Palmer the receipt. No one else saw the numbers to the address. Steve’s rattled brain finished the label with a street name he knew.

He was wrong.

Including battles in Germany way back in the day, he has rarely driven so recklessly, but Steve is nearly a half-hour behind now. He has to catch up.

Palmer tells him Avani went into the residence alone—for patient confidentiality—and after a while, agents couldn’t get an answer at the door. Upon forced entry, they found the woman who lived there bound to a chair with tape over her mouth and the doctor nowhere in sight.

Steve gets lucky.

On his way to exit the freeway, he notices a hole in the noise barrier wall past a slope of grass. He pulls over and asks Palmer what the backyard of the residence leads to, but Steve can hear the reverb of agent comms before anyone is visible through the brush.

“Friday, I need traffic camera footage from my location from thirty-five minutes ago. Were there any vehicles stopped on the side of the road?”

“Yes, Captain Rogers. A standard maintenance truck with the department’s logo shows up and leaves seven minutes later, based on ten second intervals.”

“The license plate, can you read it?”

“Quality insufficient.”

“The highway department, do they have any registered cars out here today?”

A long pause follows.

“Friday?” Steve barks.

“Negative, Captain. Inspection is slotted for the end of next week, not today.”

“Alright, follow that truck on the cameras. Tell me exactly where they went.”

He doesn’t bother to tell Palmer where he’s going because Steve doesn’t want them to know really. He needs a head start to find Bucky—to make sure it’s Bucky who is found and rescued, not the Soldier who is cornered and subdued.

The trail ends at a dilapidated office park near the river miles outside of the city. With his own, short fingernail, Steve peels away the Highway Department magnet slapped onto the white truck parked by one building.

Nobody else is in sight, and the truck cab is empty.

Across the nearest door is sun-shriveled lettering. “-alv—re Ava—, M.D” marks the third name in a list.

Steve doesn’t hesitate. He can’t. He walks right in, eyes adjusting to a cave-like darkness without electricity.

The voices are faint behind another set of double doors, but he hears them.

“I don’t owe you anything, bitch. I hope you die like they did.”

There’s a sharp slapping noise and someone spits loudly.

“Admit it. Admit what you did and you won’t die today.”

You don’t beg him to talk. You don’t plead with him. You sound weak but sure.

“Rot in hell,” Avani annunciates, and Steve flings himself through the doors, knowing what comes after such a taunt.

You give him every opportunity to come clean. He could save himself, but Avani refuses while the camera records behind you. He calls you names. He calls your friends worthless. He says they were ’whores,’ but you will still send him back to the correct authorities if he tells the truth.

He doesn’t, he won’t, and you’re honestly pleased this is how it ends.

You don’t have a choice really; you must honor Faith and Ziva somehow.

Instead of the truth, Avani curses you, though not much could be worse than your current fate, even with Winter standing a few feet away, his gun drawn.

You have readied the syringe in your unstable hand and lift it to the doctor’s throat when—crash—Captain America bursts in and scans the whole room.

“Don’t do it,” he tries plainly. “You don’t have to kill him.”

You’re impressed. That’s faster than you expected, but Steve is looking at his friend to stop, not you.

“Shoot him, you idiot,” the doctor snarls.

As if Winter thinks the order somehow applied to him, he turns toward an open palm and a raised shield.

“SHOOT HIM!”

Winter doesn’t move the gun away from you and Avani.

Steve steps closer. “Bucky,” he starts slowly, “I’m not going to do that. I’m not here to hurt you. No one has to die.”

You need to buy more time.

“Soldat, show him.”

Only then does Winter lower his pistol and reach into a pocket at his chest, revealing the tuning fork that controls his own mind. Doing this will forfeit your exit strategy, but you’ll accomplish you mission. Winter’s mission is now secondary.

Steve’s eyes flicker from the fork to you.

After a tense breath, you give the command, confident the soldier will obey, locking your focus on Steve.

“Fetch.”

Winter sprints to the other end of the room and explodes through a wall and then a window to the lawn banking the river.

Cap makes a choice, his sad blue eyes full of pity, and it’s then you realize he knows.

He read the diaries. He understands what Avani did.

Steve bolts after the Soldier.

The doctor shrieks for his Avenger to come back, to protect him from his earned fate, but the hollow thuds of a vibranium arm and a vibranium shield colliding hum through the hole in the building.

The sound of fighting continues as you return the syringe to Avani’s neck.

Enough. Enough excuses. Enough lies. Enough time has been wasted on this man already. Enough is enough.

The end is more peaceful than he deserves. It’s quick and not nearly as painful as it should be. There’s no time left for suffering.

Salvatore convulses after collapsing on the stained industrial carpet, foam gently dripping from his mouth, a symptom of his condition when mixed with a common resuscitative cocktail, one you have to take frequently, one that spiked Steve Rogers’ adrenaline and nothing more. It kills Avani. His heart nearly explodes in his chest.

If there was ever a human that medicine should fail…

You only know he’s susceptible because Ziva knew. Heart conditions and caring for them are the sort of thing one knows about a person they love.

Avani promised to marry her, to leave his wife, to be with her after the drug trial succeeded. He promised she’d live, but he told Ziva she was taking the real medicine, ensured she took the placebo, and then gaslit her until the day she died.

Ziva spent the rest of her life loving a man who would make her happy and healthy, but instead, Avani made her life as short as possible.

He was not even that kind to Faith.

In her own words, Faith wrote how dying scared her, how she begged the doctor for the actual medication, how she offered anything to get it. Avani accepted. Faith did whatever that bastard wanted for months, all the while told she was healing.

Relief never came.

Faith was bedridden when a package arrived for her—a diary willed to her by a friend she’d lost touch with once you three weren’t gathering in the same hospital suite for the old treatments. That’s when she put it together, but Ziva had passed two months prior. Faith lasted only four more days, just long enough to bequeath the two journals to you.

The victory doesn’t feel as euphoric as you expected. You thought somehow you’d know that Ziva and Faith were proud and at peace, but you’re just empty and tired.

You stare down at Adani’s body, unfazed, when the tuning fork slams against a dangling metal doorframe and Cap shuffles through the rubble.

He’s scraped and beaten which isn’t what you ever wanted, just a necessary evil to fight evil. He watches as Barnes walks in from the grass.

“It’s me, punk. You can put that thing down.”

Bucky doesn’t wait for Steve, snatching the prongs right from his hands and tucking it back in his jacket.

There’s a moment where they almost hug before Steve remembers the doctor and rushes to the man at your feet.

“Call for help! I'm starting CPR.”

Barnes simply holds your gaze.

More sad blue eyes. It brings you hope that he will complete his mission.

You step away from the others to make for a cleaner shot, nodding that it’s okay, breathing a rough but weak “please” for emphasis.

“Buck?” Steve looks up as Bucky points his gun at you again. “What are you doing? STOP. It’s over!”

“His mission was never to kill Avani,” you hiss, unable to take your eyes off the perfectly-centered muzzle directly in front of you. “He’s here to kill me.”

“The hell—“ Steve climbs to his feet “—why would you shoot her?”

“I’m not going to jail!”

“You know what they’ll do to her, Steve.”

Both men take one step closer.

“There has to be another way.”

“I did this because it’s the only—“

“—can understand doctors who taking advantage and manipulating their patients better than anyone—“

“Put the gun down!”

“Pull the trigger! It'll be—“

“—told me he could do better than me,” Bucky barks. “Doc said, to my face, that he could make a better me. He wanted to make soldiers, Steve. More soldiers. Avani didn’t give a shit about what was right.”

You jump in. “If you found the diaries, you know what he was capable of.”

“That’s not how this works. We don’t condemn a man from—“

This time you step toward Barnes. “Just do it. Shoot me now.”

Steve lunges to take your wrist in his hand, your limb comically thin and delicate beneath all his enhancements.

“She doesn’t deserve to rot while they sweep this under the rug,” Bucky adds, voice low and serious.

“This is for the best.” You look at Steve now, and something heartbreaking swims in those morose pools, something unspeakable.

His head shakes, dirty, sweaty hair falling in his face. “What if there’s another way?”

“I don’t want to be saved, Cap. Let me go.”

You offer one final, soft smile, and Steve moves just as Bucky pulls the trigger.

Steve completes his testimony before the panel opposite him. None of the questions are a surprise.

They’ve painted you as completely insane, demented, psychotic, and he can’t argue. What would he tell them? Yeah, but she had kind eyes, so, you know, remember her fondly? No, he can only remain quiet until he has something pertinent to add which is very little. Bucky had far more to offer, and he already spoke.

When Steve steps out of the counsel chambers, Maria Hill is waiting for him.

“Shame she ordered the Soldier to dispose of her body. Took the coward’s way out.”

“You make her sound like a rabid animal that had to be put down,” Steve grit out.

“No, you’re right,” Hill admits, “but it was lucky she left the sound thing for—”

“Tuning fork,” he snaps, “which I destroyed. No one should have that. No one should even know about it.”

Buck does his best to calm Steve down with a heavy hand on his shoulder. “S’okay, pal. The interrogation footage has been wiped and unless someone with perfect pitch was walking by observation--”

“You know that’s not reassuring, right?”

The two huge men look at each other.

Steve finally mutters, “what about Avani’s widow?”

“All the blackmail sent to his mistress in Forsythia Commons was removed before Gloria even knew Sal was kidnapped, and I think it’s fair to say that lady is so grateful her name wasn’t dragged through the press that she won’t be bothering the wife. Good thing the doctor put her car and house in her name, or legally, this would get ugly.”

“Yes. We’re very lucky he was such a skilled adulterer,” Steve quips dryly. He regrets handing over the diaries for evidence. They weren’t mentioned once in any of the hearings.

Bucky flashes Steve a warning glare that reads, don’t start.

Hill obliviously flips through the folder in her hands, nodding. “All in all, this report amounts to an incredibly long lead-in of ‘use that PTO, boys!’ You earned it.”

“Understatement of the century…and I would know.” Bucky is a much better liar than Steve.

Thank god, they are fleeing to the middle of nowhere indefinitely.

Hill heads back to her office. “We’ll be here when you get back. Keep in touch.”

“No,” Steve counters. “I don’t think I will.”

Bucky and Steve leave in an old truck the next morning. They can’t seem rushed or impatient to get to their destination.

Casually accumulating supplies, Steve loads their bags in the flat bed with space for all repair materials they are likely to need. The cabin needs some work; the guys need to get their hands dirty and live simply for a while.

The team is happy for Steve; it’s been so long since anyone saw him moving forward in life, and, of course, he and Bucky deserve some peace and quiet.

No one else has any idea how hard-won this vacation is.

The drive takes all day because they can’t be in a hurry.

Steve takes pictures at every scenic outlook. Bucky climbs up onto some rock ledges to take selfies which Steve is not into. This earns him being featured as a blurry grump in the background of all of them, purposefully.

Eventually, the GPS-free truck pulls up to the place, a large A-frame style cabin that should be plenty big for two super soldiers.

Parked on the gravel path, Steve is careful not to ding the other car when he swings open his door. As Bucky heaves two duffels from the trunk, he calls out, “got the meds, too” and heads inside. Steve gathers up the remaining bags and trudges over, smelling something hearty and delicious cooking, listening to the tinkling, copper-coin wind chime hanging somewhere above him.

He doesn’t stop looking at his feet until they hit the top of the porch, spotting two smaller bare feet on the welcome mat.

There you are, holding the door open, layered in warm knits, more tired before but better than expected.

“Hey,” Steve breathes finally.

“Hey,” you say, your mouth twisted to hide an excited smile.

“Yes, hello,” Bucky grumbles from the living room. “Now shut the damn door. I’m hungry.”

Steve steps inside.

[Last Part]

[Main Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

a/n: Sorry this took so long a fucking year! Tags will be in a reblog.

#steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers x reader #time and tines series #steve rogers angst #steve rogers fanfic #steve rogers x you #steve rogers fic #winter soldier bucky barnes #villain!reader #captain america fanfiction #captain america x reader #captain america x you #captain america angst #steve rogers x y/n

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carolperkinsexgirlfriend · 3 days

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Steddie Upside-Down AU Part 116

Part 1 Part 115

Steve’s counting the days until winter break. Something’s settled within him, now that things have been hashed out with Eddie, and he’s ditched his car and old house key. He wants to go home. But there’s a good week left of pretending to still care about schoolwork along with the rest of the seniors.

High school, as always, is a powder keg Steve can’t wait to get out of – all it takes is a single lit match and the whole barrel’s going up in flames, taking all nearby bystanders down with it. Steve’s never been good at keeping his distance.

Carol and Tommy used to be his crutches. They both know how to look out for the striking of the match, when to step back, and when to blow it out. They’d circle him like feral wolves protecting their fresh kill.

Steve’s always been good at reading people’s moods, but never the room. And now that Carol’s on the fringes of the in-crowd, and Steve’s drop-kicked himself out entirely, all they’ve got left is Tommy, and he’s more likely to be holding the match.

Steve’s dressed down for gym for the first time in weeks, his doctor’s note apparently the only stay of execution he’d receive. He’s excited, is the thing. He’s not even particularly bothered by the looks the other guys are throwing him in the locker room, knows there are scars now that there weren’t the last time he was in here: most notably shiny pink burns speckled across his back.

It doesn’t matter. He wants to move.

Hargrove snorts. “I knew you were into some kinky shit, Harrington,” he drawls from across the locker room. “But this is sick, even for you.”

Steve pulls his shirt down and slips his shoes on without untying them, ready to get out of there. It doesn’t stop Hargrove from calling after him.

“Is that what you let those freaks do when you were all tied up?”

Steve doesn’t mean to turn back, but he does, confusion taking over his higher brain functions. Hargrove’s smirking, a few of his cronies hanging on to his every word and laughing right along with him.

Hagan’s not laughing. His fists are bunched and he’s glaring at Steve, but Steve still knows him. Tommy has never been an angry guy. The anger’s always been a veneer, spread thin, to cover up something else. His hands are shaking right now, like he’s not sure whether to punch Steve or hug him. He’s sucking on his bottom lip like he wishes it was Steve’s.

Steve turns his back to him, and hears his laugh, a smack of skin. He doesn’t look back.

There will probably always be a Steve that lives inside of him that misses Tommy Hagan. The same Steve that remembers being small in the backseat of his parent’s car and just wants the idea of them back. But, that’s the Steve of years ago from a simpler, shallower time. The Steve of now has people who love him enough to stay when things get hard.

Would Tommy ever have opened his home to Steve when he got kicked out? Would Tommy have ever walked through hell to get him back?

Soccer’s not a high-contact sport, but Hargrove sure does his best to make it one.

Basketball skills don’t translate well to it, but there’s a certain level of athleticism that makes most hand-to-eye coordination tenible. None of which explains the way Hargrove’s foot keeps slipping when he tries to kick the ball and bashing into Steve’s shins.

None of which explains the way his shoulder checks Steve’s with enough force to send him sprawling. Twice.

And he keeps saying shit.

“I get why you’d let those two redheads fuck with you,” Hargrove calls, looking up and down Steve’s own body like he’s trying to picture something tawdry. “Hell, Carol’s a tight piece of ass.”

He grins smamirly over at Hagan, either not noticing or simply not caring that Hagan’s face has dropped all its forced joviality.

“But those kids? My sister?” he continues, still grinning like it’s funny. “What are you, some sort of pedophile?”

“I don’t know your sister, man,” Steve calls, disgust twisting in his stomach, knotting his intestines up in creative bows.

Steve kick, kick, passes the ball around Hargrove’s weak defense, hoping Hargrove will follow the ball. He doesn’t.

“Even worse, you let Munson in on that action?” he taunts, staring Steve down.

Steve looks past him, watching his temporary teammate score an easy goal against a goalie who’s clearly never played a sport in his life. He doesn’t know what Hargrove’s on about, but engaging with vipers never leads anywhere good.

It doesn’t stop him from spewing more poison. “I always knew you were a freak.” He says it like he’d rather fling a different word that starts with the letter F.

The teacher blows his whistle at them, shouting complaints about lazing about and lollygagging, so they’re all three forced to run to the other side of the field and catch up with the rest of the game. That doesn’t stop Hargrove from running his mouth.

“Hell, I heard all sorts of rumors about the three of you, back when you were the king. Carol, Tommy, and Steve, the inseparable trio.” Even through all the monologuing, he doesn’t even have the decency to be out of breath.

Steve’s lived a far more sedentary life this past year, and he’s panting now, forehead tacky with sweat. But, there’s a certain level of athleticism it takes years to lose, so he still keeps up.

“I know Carol was Tommy’s girl,” Hargrove continues, lunging around Steve to stop the ball, kicking it from foot to foot with coordinated ease. “But I heard you were taking it just as much as she was.”

Hargrove feints left, right, scores a goal, running backward to get back on defense without turning his grinning face away from Steve’s.

“Who would've thought King Steve was a fa–”

Tommy Hagan’s fist interrupts Hargrove’s little speech. It connects with a meaty thwack! with Hargrove’s jaw, hard enough to make his teeth clack together.

So: powder keg, lit match, ka-boom!

“What the fuck were you just going to call me?” Hagan snarls.

He swings again until Hargrove rolls them over and starts swinging back. Steve stares, stunned as the teacher blows his whistle and starts running.

He can almost hear Eddie’s soapbox rant. Something about testosterone, and projection, and the homoeroticism of high school sportsball.

Both boys are bloody and seething by the time they’re pulled apart and escorted to the principal’s office.

He intercepts Carol at Barbara’s car after school to tell her what happened, unsurprised when she just laughs.

“Serves him right,” she says grinning and peering into the parking lot like she might catch sight of his bloodied face.

“Should we do something about the rumors?” he asks, whispering the last word like if someone hears it, they’ll immediately spew homophobic slurs in both of their directions.

Carol just waves her hand dismissively. “Nah, that’ll just fan the flames.” She wraps her hand around his waist and squeezes, fingers tucked proprietarily beneath his t-shirt. “Go home and this’ll all blow over by next week.”

He tells Eddie what happened on the way home.

Eddie cackles. “Of course it would happen in gym,” he says, grinning as he runs a vacant stop sign without even a rolling stop. “All that testosterone running through their bodies until they’ve just got to touch each other.”

Steve settles in to listen to his rant, delighted when he guessed most of the beats Eddie would hit just right.

He should be surprised when Hargrove and Hagan are sitting next to each other at lunch the next day, laughing and shit-talking as if the whole school isn’t still atwitter about their all-out brawl the day before.

He should be, but he’s not. Tommy and Carol have always been good at playing the game, and it looks like Tommy’s determined to stay on the board.

Steve and Carol trade a commiserating lunch, and go back to their respective conversations. Tommy’s been given chance after chance to make a different choice, but he never does. Steve’s not about to light his own match for an old friend who’d never burn right along with him.

Steve counts down the days until he can go home, and stay there with Eddie, for weeks on end. Four, three, two, one.

Home.

Part 117

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #my fic #steddie upsidedown au #I lied. editing this in the airport lol #Steve is once again having Tommy feelings. I just think this is one of those things that will always linger for him.#They were friends for too long for it not to!

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almostnugget · 14 hours

Text

Pretty Gifts

Coriolanus Snow x fem!plus-size!reader

Your husband bought you a dress, but when you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror…

word count: 3.2k

warnings: body-image stuff!, vague…whatever the fuck is wrong with coriolanus subtext, allusions to sex, OC!family/family members for reader and their strained relationship, reader has a LAST name but no first name

a/n: GOD. im suffering from a severe level of brainrot for this man and im finally shedding my fear of posting about him so have this VERY self indulgent piece i wrote…ages ago bc there was just. no plus size/curvy reader for this man. Also this was originally written in 3rd person but i changed it to 2nd so hopefully it sounds alright

Since falling in love with his wife—you, Coriolanus Snow has developed a certain proclivity for buying you things. He used to before, but now it's near constant. They can't leave the house without you coming home with a new trinket, a new piece of clothing, new shoes, anything.

But he'll do it when you’re not around just as well. If he sees anything and it makes him think of you or if he thinks it's something you’ll adore, it's nearly a given that he'll buy it.

Especially clothing.

He's had your exact measurements since you’d gotten married and his cousin, Tigris, designed your wedding dress and while those measurements might've fluctuated, he is well acquainted with your size. Which means, Coriolanus Snow is free to buy his wife any clothing he sees fit.

And he does.

You joke that he likes dressing you up like you’re his own little doll, but you never say it with any annoyance. Something is fun about your husband seeing clothing and simply needing to see his wife in it. It's flattering.

Most days, he'll come home after this or that meeting and drop a bag in front of you with a succinct, "I got you something." You smile almost immediately and always say, "You didn't have to," but you both know he will keep doing so.

And usually he'll insist you try it on for him as soon as possible, if not right away. Other times he'll wait, and declare it's the perfect thing to wear to whatever event they have to attend right around the corner, and you take that as a sign to wear it then.

Some days, however, it's you who comes home from an outing with your mother or father, or one of your siblings. You’ll come home and greet your husband as you usually do: all but tackling him in the hallway with a hug and kiss or the more subtle 'hi' and a kiss on the cheek.

He'll pepper a simple 'there's something for you on our bed' into the conversation and you know you’ve received another piece of clothing. Sometimes he won't say anything, but you know that look in his eye.

And eventually you’ll go into your shared bedroom to find whatever new piece of clothing Snow's picked out for you laying out on the bed—an obvious sign you should put it on right away so he can see you in it when he sees you next. And you usually oblige (though sometimes you’ll try it on just for him and then put back on whatever you were wearing, simply for comfort reasons and he doesn't mind because at least he knows now, and it's always better than his imagination).

Today was no different.

The heels of your shoes click against the marble flooring as you walk further into your home, pausing momentarily as you decide whether or not you want to take off your shoes or not. Before you can decide, you call out, "Coryo?"

It doesn't take a moment for his voice to call out, "In here!"

You hurry into the parlor where you spot your husband sat on the small loveseat, book in hand. His head lifts at the sight of you and you waste little time in hurrying over, falling onto the seat beside him and pressing a kiss to his cheek.

"Hi."

It never fails to make a smile overtake his stoic features and he reaches over, hand pressing into your cheek. "Hello, darling," he whispers and gives you a proper kiss that makes the stress of the day leave both of your bodies.

He pulls away first this time (you swap off), and his brow quirks. "How is your sister?" He asks, thumb still caressing your cheek.

"Normal," you tut, shifting around to lay on the couch, your head landing firmly in his lap. You meet eyes and you smile. "Annoying."

"Better," he remarks, and not even he can hide the satisfied twitch of his lips. You both get a strange thrill whenever the other says something on the edge of mean.

You do love her sister. To an extent.

Geneva Day (née Thorne) is the eldest of the Thorne siblings, seven years your elder, which meant you never spent much time together growing up. Close is not a word to describe you. Especially since, when Geneva learned of Coriolanus' desire to marry the youngest Thorne, she disapproved.

The only ones who knew the marriage started as a sham were the parties involved and your parents, so perhaps Geneva sensed the falsehoods, but in your mind, what right did your sister have to dictate your life? Simply because Geneva had already married? No, you wouldn't have it and you said as much.

But Geneva persisted right up until the wedding when you blatantly told her: "I'm marrying Coriolanus Snow whether you are there or not." And Geneva had no choice but to accept the marriage. Her qualms have lessened with time but you have not yet forgotten about your sister's harsh words towards the man you now love.

"But Cami's ok," you breathe out, sinking further into the couch and your husband's lap, shutting your eyes.

Cami, Camilia Day, is your young niece. While Geneva is on thin ice and probably always will be, you can’t bring yourself to extend the same feelings towards the young girl and in truth, the trip to the park with your sister was more or less just about your niece.

"I played on the swings with her."

"Did you?" Coriolanus asks and although your eyes are shut, you can hear the teasing grin in his voice. "I suppose that means you weren't pushing her?"

Your nose wrinkles. "Cami insisted on pushing herself, I couldn't interfere." Your tone is so matter-of-fact, Coriolanus can only laugh. His fingers twine in the strands of your hair.

"I'm glad you had a good time, dove," he tells you and you hum in response, turning your head to relax more in his lap as he continues stroking your hair.

"I'm just happy to be home."

And Coriolanus never doubts that you mean that.

It's taken him some time to get used to, but his wife genuinely means it when she says she would rather be with him than anywhere else. He used to hate the way his heart would pound when you’d say things like that. Now, he savors the feeling.

Silence passes between you. His fingers continue carding through your lock, his eyes falling back onto the book in his opposite hand, as you lay with your head on his lap.

But eventually, he can no longer help it.

"I got you something."

Your eyes crack open. Your husband's eyes are fixed on his book, but you know he can see you in his periphery because the corner of his mouth twitches upward as soon as you look his way.

"Did you?" You question, unable to hide your own smile for a moment more. Part of you should feel guilty about the way you get constantly doted on, but you can't bring yourself to do so. Still, you say, "You shouldn't have."

"Nonsense," Coriolanus tells you, as he usually does. "It's my job to give you the things you deserve." His eyes finally look down at you. "And you deserve the finest things I can get you."

You stare up at him, mulling between saying something and simply leaning up to mold your mouth to his. You settle for the former. "Then, thank you, my love," you hum, hand reaching up, tips of your fingers running over his cheek.

You know that always gets him, evident by the way his eyes flutter for a moment and you bite back a smile as your hand falls back down.

"I'm assuming it's clothing?" You question and you can tell from the look on his face that it is. But you know it usually is anyway. "I'll try it on later." You shift onto your side, nestling your head further into his lap. "Too comfy to move now."

He laughs, and his fingers continue through your hair. "That's fine. You can wear it for dinner tonight."

The two of you have elected to dine out tonight, if only because it’s been awhile and while love the food you can get at home, restaurants always scratch a certain itch.

And Coriolanus likes showing you off. Sometimes.

You hum in affirmation, content to agree. Once more, silence falls but you’re quick to interject, "Read to me?"

It doesn't matter what he's reading, you like hearing his voice. And as he usually does, Coriolanus obliges, dulcet tones beginning to permeate around the parlor as he reads out the passages of his book for his wife to hear.

You stay that way for a long while until Coriolanus leaves to get some work done in his office and you let him part with a kiss and then settle yourself back onto the couch to relax a while longer.

Eventually, however, with dinner approaching, you head to your shared bedroom. There's a piece of fabric laid out on the bed but you ignore it for now, electing to shower first—whatever clothing you’re meant to wear tonight will look far better if you’re clean, and after a day in the park, the shower feels necessary.

Twenty or so minutes later, you walk back into the room wet hair tied up on your head and a towel wrapped around you as you admire the dress on the edge of the bed. Your eyes light up at the sight of the finery your husband's picked out for you.

Fingers skimming the velvet material, you bite her lip, unable to deny this is exactly the kind of thing you would want to wear.

It's a deep red, almost a wine, made of velvet. The straps are thin, and the top is fitted with corset boning from the looks of it.

Immediately, you move to change, eventually pulling the dress on. It's snug in a comfortable way, not too tight and not too loose. And the skirt is fitted, contouring to your body. It's nice.

You glance at herself in the mirror, satisfied, and move to fix your hair and at least put on a necklace, if nothing more. Makeup too, if only because you don’t want to give the public anything to say about your ‘unkempt’ face.

Coriolanus can only pay off so many people, you’ve found.

By the time you’ve finished getting ready, you flop back on the bed with a content sigh. While you’re excited to show off your new dress, you’re also just hungry for dinner. Whether it’s out or at home, it’ll no doubt be something good, like every night—Coriolanus won’t settle for less, and your mouth waters at the thought.

You know you should head down now, but you pause once more to catch a look at yourself in the full-body mirror that sits in the corner of the room. Your hands skim the skirt, tugging it down your thighs a little when you still.

Your reflection stares back at you for a moment too long. The dress looks gorgeous. The stitching is fine, the design exquisite.

But on you?

Doubts begin to creep in.

The youngest Thorne is by no means skinny. You never have been, but you’ve accepted it. You like your thighs and the way they're on the thicker side. Even your hips are nice, wide perhaps, but nice. At least, so you tell yourself.

But the way the woman in the mirror stared back at you…

Tentatively, you turn to the side.

Most of your dresses, in fact all of them, flare out at the waist. They don't hug your stomach, leaving it hidden underneath the fabric. This dress does the opposite. It hugs your flesh, emphasizing the pouch of fat.

Biting your tongue, you face forward again, unable to miss the way the dress hugs the divots where your hips blend into your thighs. It's all on display. Not an inch is hidden.

Your arms wrap around your midsection and you glance to the door. Coriolanus wants to see you in this. But you can't let him see you, not in this.

It's irrational and you know it. He's seen you in far less clothing and doesn't care, why would he mind the dress? But a little voice in the back of your mind tells you that this dress will simply make him realize.

Grimacing, you sit back on the edge of the bed. Trying to work up the courage to change or go to dinner, you do neither.

Coriolanus is at the dining table, eyes fixed on the doorway in waiting for his wife. All he can hear is the ticking of that incessant grandfather clock in the corner. His hand taps the table and he mentally counts the seconds.

Have you fallen asleep? Is that it?

That's the logical answer, but his mind starts to race with unsavory thoughts about you avoiding him or worse. He bites them back until they leave a bitter taste in his mouth and he leaves the table.

Swiftly, he makes his way to your bedroom and raps his knuckles against the door. "My dear?" He calls through the wood.

Shame wells up inside of you and you swallow it back. "You can come in."

He doesn't waste a second, turning the knob and stepping into the bedroom. Whatever sight he expected to see, he isn't sure, but his wife sat on the edge of the bed completely done-up for dinner yet not moving, isn't what he expected.

"Dove?" He questions, and his unsavory worries start to fade, yet not completely as he shuts the door behind him. "It’s getting late.”

Biting your tongue, you nod, exhaling softly through your nose. "Right," you breathe. "I- I know.”

His gaze narrows for a moment. "Why didn't you come out?" His eyes fix on your attire and his heart thumps. "You're wearing the dress."

"I am."

Your tone. The way you avoid his eyes.

Coriolanus stuff his hands into his trouser pockets and sighs heavily. "You don't like it."

You gasp, eyes meeting his. "No, no, I love it. Coryo, really, it's beautiful," you assure. His head tilts and his eyes narrow again, scrutinizing you now to discern the problem then. It's your turn to sigh. "I don't think the dress likes me."

There's a furrow in his brow as he replies, "It doesn't fit?" That doesn't make sense. He had the dress tailor made to your latest measurements, how could it not fit? Did someone not listen?

"No, I-" Your words bite off and you tuck a piece of hair behind your ear. "I...I don't look good in it."

The way Coriolanus looks back at you, you'd think you’d spoke an entirely different language. "What?"

"I don't look good in it, Coryo," you repeat, a little surer.

And now he sees it. His wife is hunched over, one arm wrapped around her middle. The other hand is tugging her skirt down.

For a moment, he says nothing, contemplating how to approach this. Finally, his voice breaks the silence. "Let me see."

The heels on your feet scuff against the carpet and your nose wrinkles. "I don't-"

"No," he says and you know he's serious now, "stand up."

You sigh again and he lets you take a moment, knowing he's asked you to do something you deem terrifying. Eventually though, you stand. Your hands wring in front of you for another long moment, before you let them fall to your sides.

Coriolanus says nothing more, eyes roving slowly over you. He begins to circle you and you feel oddly like prey being sized up by a predator.

He comes to a stop in front of you once more. Trying to avoid his eye, you duck your head but his fingers tilt your head up and your eyes immediately find his cold, icy blue ones.

"You're right," he says flatly. "You don't look good in it." Your eyes widen, and he adds, "You look breathtaking."

He's calling you breathtaking but it's his words that take your breath away. Breathtaking?

"I would never use good to describe you," he continues, his voice a whisper in your ear as he moves behind you. His hands find your waist and he directs you to stand in front of that mirror you found so detestable. "Good doesn't say enough."

"Coryo—"

"I'm not finished," he cuts you off, and you press your lips together. His eyes flit to the mirror in front of them and he notes the antsy look on your face. "What do you see?"

"Me. You."

"What do you see when you look at yourself? Right now?"

You sigh heavily, biting your tongue between your teeth. Your eyes fall to your body, particularly that midsection. You don’t get the words out because Coriolanus slides one of his hands around to press flat against your stomach. He pulls you flush against him.

"Is this the problem?" He asks, voice low in your ear. His other hand falls to your hip. "Is this?"

"Coryo-"

"Don’t."

Your lips press into a thin line. He makes it hard to argue. "Yes. That's the problem." His fingers dance over your stomach in a way that makes you shirk back against his chest.

"I don't see a problem," he whispers against the skin of your neck. He makes it very hard to argue.

You try again. "It's— There's too much."

"Good," her husband growls into your ear, fingers pressing against the flesh of your hip. "More for me to have."

The sensation makes you jolt slightly, a familiar heat crawling up the back of your neck and spreading to your cheeks. You can't even bring yourself to reply, but you don’t have to, because he’s not finished.

"You can think all you want," he begins, and his tone is a touch softer, "but you look ravishing, my dear. Every inch of you was made for me." He leans closer, nose brushing the curve of your neck. "And I love every inch. Not even beautiful begins to describe what you are."

Your expression softens and your hand reaches up to your shoulder, hand pressing into his cheek. "Coryo," you whisper, turning your head to face him. "You mean that."

And it's not a question. Because you believe it. You don’t have to believe anything but him.

"I do," he replies, leaning closer until his nose brushes against yours. "Even when I first saw you, I knew you were the most divine woman I'd ever seen."

A laugh bubbles out of you. "Flattery will get you nowhere, Mr. Snow," you tease and it's enough to make him smile as well. Your lips press against his for just a moment before you pull back and ask, just to check, "You really like this dress on me?"

"I do," he repeats, a little more emphatic. "And I'll buy you a dozen more like it to prove it."

Another laugh, one that makes your nose scrunch and your eyes crinkle. "That won't be necessary." Another kiss. "But I appreciate the sentiment."

With a sigh, your hands fall to cover his where they still rest over your stomach and your hip. Squeezing his hands, you glance at your reflection and find that it doesn't look so bad anymore.

"I guess we should head to dinner now," you muse, but you don’t have time to move before Coriolanus is pulling you closer.

His mouth hovers over the space where your neck meets your shoulder and he whispers, the sound somewhere between a purr and a growl, "I want to eat something else first..."

Dinner will have to wait.

#coriolanus snow x reader #coriolanus snow #coriolanus x reader #tbosas #the hunger games #reader insert

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cordeliawhohung · 2 days

Note

One day, Simon finds a nondescript notebook pushed underneath the couch. He recognizes it as one of the many pieces of stationary he bought expecting to use and then never did, leaving it empty. But he didn’t leave it under the couch, much less next to a pen with a bitten cap.

He pulls it out and opens it to the first page.

On it is a rough sketch of a pretty girl who looks suspiciously like his Bonnie, kneeling in a dress with hair covering her face. Beneath it are the words My Thoughts. Simon huffs in curiosity- seems Bonnie got her hands on this old book and decided to make it her own. He reads further.

The top of the next page reads Day 8 of Captivity Residency.

I found this notebook next to some of Simon’s classical novels. It’s empty, so I hope I can use it to make things a little more bearable. I don’t think he’ll miss it, and I need someone to talk to. Everything still feels very surreal- I wake up expecting to be back in my room at home only for Johnny to squeeze me. Honestly, I still don’t understand why this is happening to me. I don’t know either Johnny or Simon. Simon doesn’t even seem to like me at all, even though he’s the one who kidnapped took me. I think he mentioned something about me being a gift for Johnny, but why would Simon get a third wheel to his own relationship willingly? Nothing makes sense and sometimes I just wanna tear my hair out, but obviously I can’t. I have to be the docile pet they both want me to be. Not like it’s hard to play the part when I’ve been doing it all my life. I guess that’s one thing the experience of being the eldest daughter is good for.

At least I have my little whispering book now. I almost feel giddy, having a little secret thing just for me. But I know it won’t last. Even here I have to be careful in case one of them finds it. But I have to take that risk, otherwise I’ll go insane with all my thoughts stuck in my head. I wonder if that’s how Simon turned out this way. Or Johnny. I wish I wasn’t so scared all the time. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop, for one of them (probably Simon) to really hurt me, but it never comes and I just keep getting more paranoid. It would be easier if Simon didn’t seem to hate me so much. Why does he hate me?? I’m doing the best I can to be what they want me to be and I think I’m doing a pretty good job given the circumstances. Will he ever warm up to me, or am I going to have to deal with his disdain forever for as long as I’m here?

Simon chuckles as he reads, gaining a more complete picture of Bonnie’s thoughts. She and Johnny are sleeping right now- no reason not to read a little more.

~🦋 (if it’s not taken!!!)

oh my goodness!!! i loved the little bit at the end:

forever for as long as I’m here?

like bonnie's convinced she's going to get out, or at least has to keep positive and hope she'll escape back to her normal life some day in order to keep sane. thanks so much for this little blurb omg!!!

#core responds #pet!au #🦋 anon

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s0fter-sin · 5 months

Text

thinking about ghost protecting tommy from their father just for tommy to scare him with the skull mask. how much it must have messed him up to be tormented by someone he’s protecting, someone he loves, just for him to keep protecting him anyway

#how it could turn into an expectation #that his love will always be returned with pain #how many relationships and one night stands treated him like shit and reinforced that belief?#hes never seen healthy love in his life how would he know any different #and it wasnt tommys fault for emulating his father #but how tragic that simon has to mirror his mother #imagine him waiting for johnny to be the same #for this facade of happiness and gentleness to crack #for him to become dismissive and cruel to /hurt/ him #hes opened up enough that it would be so easy for him #to take advantage of the vulnerability and his soft underbelly that hes shown him and tear him to pieces #he keeps waiting and waiting for the other shoe to drop #winding himself tighter and tighter until he just cant take it anymore #he begs soap to stop pretending and just do it already #‘yell at me ridicule me tear me down /hurt me!/’#and how johnnys heart breaks that ghost feels so unsafe in love #so he promises to show him what love is supposed to be #knows words wont be enough to dig that pain free #he shows him its not just about protecting but being protected #from enemies and from the world but also from himself #and ghost finally gets to realise love isnt about fear #coming out of my cage and ive been doing just fine.txt #we’re a team- ghost team #simon ghost riley #ghost cod #john soap mactavish #soap cod #soapghost #ghostsoap #ghoap

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mitskijamie · 1 month

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Roy obviously knows that Jamie admires/respects/looks up to him but I like to think there's some part of him that wants Jamie to think he's like. Cool. On some level he's just a middle aged man who peaked in his 20s and craves validation from his cool gen Z coworker. I'm not like a regular coach I'm a Cool coach

#oc #(face straightens immediately)#i think roy was probably bullied at least some at the academy (because he was younger and also super talented) and sometimes with Jamie #who is so effortlessly cool and personable and just has this gravitational pull that will make any room he enters orbit around him #he feels like. idk. inadequate #even when roy was the coolest man in the country there was always this part of him that still felt like it was a joke #this inner autistic 13 year old who never fit in and could never figure out why #like his whole relationship with Keeley he can't believe such a beautiful woman would want to be with him because girls used to ask him out #as a joke or whatever. so he keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop because why would SHE like HIM.#and then when he finds out she's been talking about how clingy he is behind his back he's like I'm an idiot. I'm an idiot. of course.#and it's the same thing with jamie. why would Jamie Tartt (Beautiful Young Successful Footballer Slash Sex Symbol). want to be with him.#he feels like a closeted outcast with a helpless crush on a beautiful popular classmate #is this insane.#roy kent #jamie tartt

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ghouljams · 4 months

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"I gotta get this man out of the military", the ghoul friend says, before immediatly throwing said man into a new deployment.

Why.

I'm stupid(jk)

I actually was thinking that because of the deployment issue. It's all well and good to have Ghost sticking around being a stray cat, but he is technically on leave. Deployment is the sword of Damocles for canon-adjacent fics, always hanging just above our heads, waiting to fall. The rope can't hold forever.

#ghoul speaks #I gotta get the man out of the military because otherwise he'll always be waiting for the next mission #he'll always be on edge waiting for the other shoe to drop #he has a reason to stay now #someone to come home to and keep him warm #he needs a way out

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apollo-zero-one · 2 months

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Man I can't believe I had the chance to go to a performing arts school up through middle school and I fuckin quit after 6 months just because I got bullied. BRO YOUR HOMEWORK WAS POETRY!! YOU HAD TO PRACTICE DANCING TO COTTON EYE JOE AS YOUR BIG UNIT TEST. GYM CLASS HAD A CIRCUS UNIT!! YOU HAD A WHOLE DAILY CLASS ON IMPROV!!! YOU FOOL!! YOU ABSOLUTE IMBICILE!! YOU COULD HAVE BEEN A YOUTUBER!!! YOU COULD HAVE BEEN ONE OF THOSE TWEENAGERS GETTING LOADED BY MAKING SHITTY YOUTUBE SHORTS IN 2008-14!! But noooOoooOOOoo little miss Noellie (who WANTED TO GO!! who worked SO HARD and sent in an application essay and did an INTERVIEW to get in!!) couldn't handle disruptive classmates or little scuffles and petty grudges and general Attitude of the other students and cried to mommy to put her back in public school. I am EATING MY HAIR over what Could Have Been. I COULD BE SOMEONE'S ANNOYING YOUTUBER!! I could be a DISGRACED DISNEY CHANNEL STAR!! I could be an America's Got Talent winner! A mild to moderately successful comedian! I could be making short films!! But no no no precious thin skinned baby me heard a few new cus words and watched a teacher get heckled and begged to give up The Dream in favor of?? Quiet math tests?? I am such a fucking quitter I quit everything the second it gets too hard I always take the out as soon as it's offered what's my fucking damage.....

#I had SO MUCH POTENTIAL and I SQUANDERED IT!! weak ass third grade PUSSY! Your life could have been SO SICK!!#or you could at least be addicted to cocain or something interesting like that!! Boring ass goody two shoes always just staying home doing #NOTHING bitch make a REAL FRIEND go to a God Damn PARTY live a little instead of just hiding in the closet eating saltine crackers for years #waiting for it to be quiet outside before you ever even toed the line #mentally ill self-isolating motherfucker #you could have shrugged it off you could have GROWN A PAIR and FOUGHT BACK but you just ran and cried for mommy #victim complex little bitch baby always whining and exaggerating and making shit up fucking LIAR I am you and I KNOW what you did and I know #you knew it wasn't the truth and you regretted it the moment it came out of uour mouth but once you'd said it you just swallowed it back and #doubled down incriminating or discrediting others with your lies. For why? Because you didn't like them? You could have ruined someone's #life you wouldn't have hesitated mayhe you did and don't even remember because you cant keep your mouth shut with your pants ablaze #manipulative little shit and to WHAT END? Pity? Sympathy? Attention? Entertainment?? What was even going on in your stupid ugly head?#This is a callout post for my third grade self that possessed demon ass evil nine year old. That kid drowned anthills in olive oil and #poisoned a wild animal once. That kid cut plants just to see if they oozed. That kid modified her whole ass personality on a dime for a boy #she had a crush on. INSTANTLY dropped a LIFELONG CULTURAL ALLEGIANCE (thats what football teams were like back then in our town) because he #said he had the opposite allegiance??? What the fuck? girl had NO integrity none zip zilch.#No empthy either that kid looked at everyone else on earth like they were friggin space aliens and she was the only one with Real feelings.#bitch literally thought like 'I have Feelings they just have Reactions' bitch what the fuckkkkk #that nine year old was fucked the hell up!!!#and for literally NO REASON!! No cause!! Just born fucking evil and weird. jesus fuck.#Evil ass bitch caused her autistic brother months of nightmares and then laughed about it and wrote poetry about how evil he was because he?#was a kid??? Normal sibling rivalry taken way way way too far defamatory ass statements #and this girl had NO CONSEQUENCES because she could lie and manipulate her way out of ANYTHING she had the baby eyes and the helpless charm #and played dumb soooo well . read people like some calculative evil AI scanning their faces for microexpressions and overanalyzing each word #choice like holy shit. its not That Deep. pretentious shit trying to play 5D chess on a checkers board.#Manipulating shit just to see what happens?? zero awareness?? no asking just skipping straight to testing for yourself??#'What happens if I step on this' it fucking breaks 'what does that taste like?' it's not fucking yours to mess with 'if I hit this person #how will they respond?' they'll be upset use your goddamn judgement you are NINE not TWO do you even care a little about any other person??#Are you just living in some other reality???#callout post for the fucking demon child inside of me #im so goddamn problematic I'm so so so deeply mentally disturbed and broken for no reason

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letterstotheflre · 11 months

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didn’t realise how traumatising it is to have every single boy leave me at the two week mark!!!

#like i was just like ‘guess i’m cursed 🤪’#but uh.. lately i realise i’m quite traumatised by it #bc tell me why i spent the entire weekend nauseous and afraid this new guy was gonna leave me after a month of seeing each other??#i literally cried on sunday going to my family’s father’s day event bc i was so sure he was gonna ghost me #we spent the entire day texting 😐#i just never had anything last this long that i’m just waiting for the other shoe to drop #it’s sad and funny at the same time. cause like.. u’re traumatized by this?? pick a real struggle bestie!!!#keeping up with tina

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parcai · 7 months

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alright I'll bite because I've never seen you talk about a Man so much; what's the Story?

the way i am not past sharing with strangers now i'm so doomed dude 😓 what's there to tell? i love him more than god, which is why i'm sleeping on the train tracks tonight ☠️

#😐😐😐 please.#i keep waiting for the other shoe to drop with him for something to be horribly disfigured in his chest and lungs and heart and to have #to find a way to water it anyhow to love him despite despite despite. it never comes; i’m starting to think he has none. anne sexton said #she fears being ripped open because she thinks they will all find it unsightly. there is nothing unsightly about this man except his inane #fear that there is. know that i love you probably too much for my own good. know that it is easy to love you once i made the decision #that understanding is not a condition for love. know that i love you more than god #k #^^ i am not making it out of this alive 😞#o tag

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3hks · 3 months

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How to Write REALISTIC and SMOOTH Dialogue

In a story, dialogue is quite important, it helps the readers paint a picture of what's happening and the characters themselves. However, it can be difficult to avoid the unnaturalness and choppiness that comes with a lack of experience. But luckily, I have put together A LOT of advice on how you can get over that rockiness and improve!

*** KEEPING YOUR DIALOGUE REALISTIC, AND PACING ***

>> Keep your characters in character:

Dialogue is a remarkably quick way for readers to determine your character's personality. Thus, you want their speech patterns to remain fairly consistent so the audience won't get confused. If your character is more serious, then they will use less slang and perhaps a more impressive vocabulary. If your character is more relaxed, they will use more slang and compress the words. (such as "dunno," "kay," "y'know," etc.)

Basically, you want their tone to match their traits so the way that they talk is more realistic and personlized to themselves. If the way all your characters speak is the same, there's something wrong. A strong tip is to put yourself in your character's shoes and imagine how they would respond!

>> Take the situation into consideration:

This is another part of keeping your characters in, well, character. Different emotional situations will have a different effect on separate people, so make sure that you have an idea of how your character will act during stressful, irritating, and sad times.

If your character is normally cold, they will struggle if it comes to comforting other people because they have less experience in that field.

>> Don't take too long with their words:

Unlike when narrating something, most people talk just to get the idea across. They will be more specific and quicker with what they say. (This excludes any character who likes to talk a lot.) Unless it's on purpose, they won't dance around the topic. Think of when you casually chat with your friends; you're pretty unlikely to use certain words and/or phrases that might be common to use while narrating.

If you want to explain something complicated, instead of writing out a paragraph of just one person talking, use a question-and-answer prompt! This is where another character continuously asks related questions that get answered by another person, so you can indirectly reveal your explanation.

*** HOW TO WRITE A SMOOTHER CONVERSATION AND DIALOGUE TAGS***

>> Having a variety of dialogue tags:

This is a pretty basic thing to look out for if you're new to writing conversations. Using words like "said," every other sentence can easily make it feel choppy and robotic. Instead, use words like "murmured," "smirked," etc. to paint some emotion into their words. Additionally, vary the location of the dialogue tags! They don't all have to go after the statement, you can include something in the beginning or even the middle, too!

Examples:

Beginning - She tilted her head, "What are you talking about?"

Middle - "Oh," he blinked, "I actually never thought about that."

End - "Wait up!" She exclaimed loudly, waving her hands around.

>> Using no dialogue tags to create a smooth conversation:

Having too many tags can also overwhelm your reader--remember, sentence variety is a crucial part of writing--so you can always drop them if they're unneeded. This applies when your characters (two is the suggested amount) are talking back and forth in a pattern straightforward enough for the reader to understand who's talking without it having to be labeled.

Dropping dialogue tags in these moments can create a smoother atmosphere during the conversation because the reader only has to focus on the talking present.

*** USING SLANG, STUTTERS, FILLER WORDS, AND PAUSES ***

Human speech is often not perfect; when talking, we often make mistakes such as filler words, grammatically incorrect phrases, etc. Hence, for more natural-sounding dialogue, it's important to incorporate some of these.

>> Pauses and stutters:

When reading dialogue, we read it at a steady pace unless it's written otherwise. However, that steady pace can soon get too robotic and too smooth. Luckily, there are several ways to change this! You can use dialogue tags, (ex: she quickly spoke) commas, and ellipsis (...). These are often integrated when the character is hesitant, nervous, answering something, or when they need to admit something. The same idea applies to stutters--they're mainly used to demonstrate anxiousness, which can be found in varying situations.

>> Filler words and slang:

Filler words can really just be used where you see fit. They may be used in the situations I previously mentioned (because it shows someone stumbling over their words) but it's ultimately up to you!

Slang, just like everything else, should not be used too often, or it will seem forced and exaggerated. The point is to sound natural, and increasing amounts of repetitiveness can ruin it. It's also important to remember that in real life, our conversations move slower; when someone speaks, another person usually doesn't respond quite literally, right after. However, in writing, dialogue can actually often seem that way, which is why using tags and these imperfections of speech is pivotal for building a realistic conversation!

*** CONCLUSION ***

Lastly, a key point when writing dialogue is to ALWAYS read the conversations! Whether it be in your head or out loud, it can often help you catch anything that seems off! Additionally, like I mentioned at the very beginning, write dialogue from your character's perspective! Imagine yourself as them and how they/you would talk. Try to keep your dialogue tags, sentences, and word use varied to create a natural conversation!

If you were struggling before, I hope that this (extra) long guide was able to really offer you some insight and useful tips! If you read this far, thank you!

Happy writing~

3hks <3

#writing #writeblr #writerscommunity #writing tips #creative writing #writing advice #writing inspo #dialogue #writing dialogue #writing dialogue tips #dialogue tips #how to write dialogue #how to write smooth dialogue #how to write natural dialogue #tips on writing dialogue #tips on writing smooth dialogue #tips on writing realistic dialogue #how to write realistic dialogue

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ozarkthedog · 1 month

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𝐚 𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐬𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧

summary: joel secretly watches you shower.

warnings: 18+ mdni. older!joel miller x afab!reader. dubcon -> reader has no idea. reader has a bush but no other physical descriptors. male masturbation. joel is a conflicted, dirty old man but we love him so. w.c: 1.3k

author's note: the title is way too sweet for this. thank you @ghotifishreads for looking this over!

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭 ⋅ 𝐅𝐢𝐜 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐬 ⋅ 𝐉𝐨𝐞𝐥 𝐌𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭

Joel is a bad man.

A very, very bad man.

Still, he couldn't think of a reason to stop as he gripped the base of his cock and began to stroke while he watched you dance like a sprite under the flowing stream.

It was a miracle the two of you stumbled upon a YMCA this far from the city. Joel figured it'd be swarming with people or worse, but it was oddly barren aside from crawling vines and small critters living in the alcoves.

It was even rarer that the water would still be working, but after you begged him with those big doe eyes, Joel checked it out.

You wait anxiously on a pathway in the center of a large washroom, shifting back and forth on your feet between the shower stalls while Joel stands in one of the less scary cubicles. The room was a mess. Mud cakes the floor and walls; once pearly white tiles are now smeared with dirt. Various tiles and mirrors are splintered and broken.

"'ere goes nothin'." Joel turns the knob, and the pipes behind the wall make a slew of thuds and loud creaking noises before a rush of water flows from the tap like a waterfall spilling over the edge of a cliff.

"No, shit." Joel curses in shock and tests the water's temp. "S'ice cold." he hisses before stepping out of the tiny stall.

You squeal elatedly. Uncaring about the cold, you move closer and cup your hands under the stream. You let out a soft moan at the frigid temperature. The unruly summer days were doing a number on you both.

Joel swallows hard at the sound and shifts his eyes to the floor before spying a few bars of soap a few feet away. He grabs two and tosses you one. "I don't know about you, but I'm taking a shower now," you announce, dropping your bag into the path between the stalls.

"Guess I should, too," Joel says, looking at the other, relatively clean stall across from yours.

"You definitely should." You quip and playfully wrinkle your nose as you shuck off your shoes.

"Shut up." Joel bites back with a sly grin. He takes a few short steps and turns the shower knob. Sure enough, crystal clear water streams freely from the head.

"See ya when we're clean." you send him a smile before tugging your curtain closed.

Joel shifts on his feet in the small space as he watches you pile your clothes on top of your bag from behind the curtain. He should keep guard and give you some privacy, but all coherent thought evaporates when he sees and hears you step under the stream.

Sunlight pours down into your stall from a window above, creating a tempting silhouette as you shimmy in the water and let loose an unrestrained moan. The sweet sound echoes off the washroom walls and slithers into Joel's brain. It races down his spinal column, and reaches home in his groin. His cock fills with blood instantly, forcing him to bite his cheek and mute his own moan.

"Ah, what the hell," he mumbles, setting his pack next to yours and closing the curtain to his stall. He's out of his clothes quicker than he remembers moving, chucking them carelessly on the other side of the curtain. His cock stands hard and raging, but he ignores it, choosing to step under the freezing stream with the hope it'll curb his arousal.

"Fuck." Joel groans when the cold rains down on his sweltering body.

"Told you." he hears you tease.

Joel shakes his head with a smile. It was by chance that your paths crossed. He wasn't looking for anyone to share in this new way of life, especially after Tommy left, but as luck would have it, you stumbled into his world at the right time, and now he's not quite sure he wants to live without you in it.

He'd kept his distance over the last few months. He was too old to get caught up in sappy feelings and didn't need the distraction when life was on the line. However, that raw, gnawing need never went away. It took him a while to relax and feel secure enough to get off, but when he did, he was able to let go and succumb to the urges he remembered enjoying so much before the outbreak.

He scrubs his fingers through his salt and pepper hair, across his broad, hairy chest, expelling dirt and grime from his skin as it swirls down the drain. His erection still hasn't faded; if anything, it's even harder now as your airy singing fills the room.

He teethes his bottom lip as he succumbs to the urge once more and curls a soapy hand around his twitching length, circling the girthy base with a tight grip. Blood pulses in the crown— a desert sunset red, throbbing and weeping.

Joel knows it's wrong, but he's past the point of caring. With his left hand, he eases the curtain to catch another glimpse of your inviting silhouette but gets more than he imagined.

A breeze from the open window above your stall must have pushed the curtain open without you realizing. It was no bigger than a small gap, but it exposed enough of your body to Joel's prying eyes.

His jaw clenches tight as his deviant gaze travels along the wet, soapy expanse of your body. Water drips from your hairline, over your clavicle, between your breasts, and trickles down your soft belly. A mess of droplets and soapy suds cling to the patch of curls that covers your mound. Joel's cock throbs at the sight of your bush; he always loved the taste of a sweaty, hairy pussy.

You wash yourself, utterly unaware of his stare. The knot in Joel's abdomen twists, an unyielding cramp cinching ever tighter. He swirls his large, slick palm over his drooling tip, expertly moving with the right touch, trying his quickest to get off before the floor opens up and swallows him whole.

His sac tightens, drawing up as an intense wave burns through his gut. He watches with shameless infatuation as you run your soapy hands around your breasts and between your legs before rinsing away the filth. He roughly thrusts into his grip, imagining it's your cunt as it hugs and swirls around him while he greedily fucks into your warmth. He wants nothing more than to feel you under him, writhing from his illicit and soothing touch.

His spine curves as he hunches over and leans one hand on the wall for support as he comes with a mess of deep, broken grunts. Fingers scratch the tile, body quivering with searing pleasure as thick white ropes splash against the dingy tile; he pictures you gasping for him while he fills you to the brim.

Shame creeps in, swarming hot and fast like the midday sun after a summer rainstorm. He yanks his hand from his cock like he's been burnt when you suddenly appear on the other side of the curtain.

"Are you almost done?" your voice cutting through the white noise of the shower stream. Joel peers around the side of the curtain, eyes piercing yet sorrowful. "Yeah, gimme a minute."

For now, Joel shakes off his shame. He cleans himself up and haphazardly splashes the wall with water, washing away any evidence of his perverted seclusion.

"Here," he hears you say as you hand him his clothes. He opens the curtain a bit and notices your eyes are cast downward. Joel instantly feels the sharp fangs of regret sink into his flesh; you must've heard him.

"Thanks," Joel mutters. His fingers brush yours as he grabs his clothes, making your big eyes snap to his before they curiously travel down over his bouldering, sun-kissed shoulders. He watches your jaw drop with a silent gasp, and your knees slightly buckle at the dewy sight of him.

"Be out right out," he smirks when you forget to let go of his clothes, forcing you to mumble a mortified apology before he closes the curtain.

Maybe he was wrong.

Maybe he's not as bad as he thinks, and just maybe he might have a chance with you.

feel free to scream at me -> 💌

reblogs & comments are extremely appreciated! follow @ozzieslibrary for new fic updates!

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #pedro pascal #joel miller smut

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luveline · 9 months

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𝐢𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐠𝐨 𝐛𝐚𝐝 | 𝐚𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐧𝐞𝐫

when an unknown intruder breaks into your apartment, you call hotch. he races to make it to you in time. requested here. fem!reader, 3.7k

cw home invasion, assault, attempted sexual assault, reader is badly hurt/held at gunpoint, please read with care for the content warnings above

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

"Hotch?" you whisper into the phone, your voice barely audible.

"Who is this?"

Hotch doesn't always look at who's calling at night, he just answers. Bad habit. You curl in on yourself where you're on your knees in the closet, trying not to wheeze breathlessly down the receiver. "Hotch, it's me. I need you to come and help me."

"What's wrong?" He doesn't ask why you're whispering. "Are you at home?"

"There's someone in my apartment."

"You're sure?"

You shift backwards into the embrace of your hanging coats and dresses. It feels as though tens of hands are petting your shoulders, a shiver racing along your spine as a floorboard creaks somewhere in your kitchen.

"I heard them open my door. I don't have my taser, I…" You stop talking when you hear more movement, terrified you'll be discovered. Regret clings to you. How many times has Morgan offered to teach you self defence personally? "I don't know how they got inside."

It doesn't take more than that for Hotch to click into work mode. "Stay on the phone with me. Don't talk. I'm going to put you on hold to call Morgan. I will be ten seconds at most. Don't panic. Don't hang up. If you think you can leave without being seen or heard, leave, but if you can't, don't show him where you are."

The invader's footsteps track to the bedroom. You know at once that your tired mind isn't hallucinating a bad scenario to keep you up —this is real.

You had the hindsight to close your laptop and push it under the bed along with your go-bag, a rucksack full of clothes that you take on cases in different states as part of the BAU. You'd made a quick assessment —your job more than prepared you for this— based on the little information you had. Either the invader knows nothing about you and has assumed you'd be home, or they watch you enough to think you'd be elsewhere. If they think you're here, you're in danger of being assaulted, kidnapped, or murdered. If they think you're away, you're in danger of being robbed. One scenario is a thousand times more preferable than the other.

You can't help but think of the horrible things you've seen. You know intimately what kind of damage one person can do to someone at their mercy.

The hold sound is a quiet droning that freaks you out. If you can hear it, the intruder might be able to, too. Like the low hum of the fridge at night or the bumping of the dyer.

You hang up the phone.

"I know you're here."

Your pulse flies through the roof. It pounds so hard you can feel it everywhere, the tip of your nose, your eyelashes. You look through the dark of your closet and panic in the fullest definition of the word. Your heart can't sustain this for long.

You failed to think of a third possibility. The intruder watches you enough to know you're home. The BAU has a lot of enemies. Anyone could be waiting for you on the other side of the door.

"Come out and I'll be kind," the intruder sing-songs.

You type out a text with shaking hands, your message nearly illegible.

They knowa 8m hjome. Cant talkk dontcall me

Thirty seconds elapse. A reply comes through. You smother the chirp with your chest. It sounds loud as a shot in the relative quiet.

Police dispatch 5mins. I'm 10mins. Morgan 12. I will be there as soon as I can. Protect yourself

That's easy for him to say. You drop your phone in defeat but scramble to pick it up again when you realise it's your best weapon. Or… You crawl to the opposite end of the closet to your shoe rack and slide the shoes apart with honey slow movements, your breath coming in quick, too-loud pants. You never expected to feel this way, you thought you'd know exactly what to do, how to react, but this feels outside of reality.

You brace the long heel of a shoe between your fingers. Your hand is a vice.

In your bedroom, the intruder goads you. "I know you're home, Y/N. There's only so many places for me to look, you know? But if you make me check each one, I'll be unhappy when I find you."

What the fuck? you think. Breaking apart the fear like a knife is anger, a new shot of adrenaline. Who is this guy? You want to spring from the closet and show him how unhappy you are, but your chances of survival improve the longer you can hide. If he has a gun, that's it. You could be dead in the next two minutes. No amount of anger would save you.

You could be dead in the next two minutes.

thank you dpr everything, for being my friend aaron, you text. You know how embarrassing it will be to have said goodbye if nothing bad happens to you, but you also know how haunted Hotch will be if he can't get to you in time. You aren't foolish enough to unravel your feelings for him over text, but you're sentimental enough to think they'd matter to him. He'd want to know.

If things go bad please knoeew that I loved my life and my work and you and the tram more than anything

After a moment, you add, If things don't go bad please nevrr mentiom this

Footsteps at the closet door. A pause that feels gargantuan, the silence so heavy it threatens to snap the floorboards beneath your knees.

"Found you."

You leap up and throw yourself at the closet door as hard as you can, gasping when it swings on the hinges and clips your opposition in the leg. You don't think, you don't look at his face, you simply drive the point of your shoe into his collar.

He gasps. Something hard and rigid whips upward, your neck snapping to one side as the skin of your cheek splits, gunmetal glancing off of bone. You drop down onto your ass, half out of necessity and half to get away from the pain. You can't outrun it, nor can you escape the forthcoming assault, grunting in shock as the bottom of the gun comes down atop your head. It was likely meant to incapacitate you, but all it does is hurt.

You flip onto your front, stagger onto your hands and knees, and launch yourself up through the bedroom doorway. You only have to get away.

He sweeps your legs from under you barely ten feet down the hall.

You fall. Your knees hit the hallway slats and your face follows, the nerve endings in your teeth ringing one by one and your eyes tearing up as your nose makes a huge thwacking sound. Gasping, you rush to cover your face though the damage is done. Your gasp turns to a sob, hands quickly wetted by blood.

"Stupid bitch," he hisses.

You crawl into the kitchen. He steps on the back of your thigh.

"I have a G43 pointed straight at the back of your fucking head."

"Good for you?" you say, eyes squeezed closed.

You whimper as he grinds his foot into your leg.

"Don't think I won't use it when I'm done with you."

You shake your head from side to side. That can't be what he's here for.

You should ask him what he wants, or threaten him with the approaching police sirens. You should've tried to climb out of your fire escape. You should've set the door alarm as soon as you came home, but you're just so fucking tired lately you must've forgot. Everything feels like a chore. Right now, you're exhausted.

"What are you going to do?" he asks you.

You won't negotiate. You don't answer.

Forceful, no time to protect yourself, he kicks you in the side of the face. It hurts worse than the fall, that shattering pain like a firework under your skin. You struggle to keep your mouth shut, hoping that your whining cry is less audible to him than it is to you, scrambling backward toward the cabinets. You're defeated. Maybe you deserve it, for it to happen so easily. Three minutes and you're down.

"I asked you what are you going to do, Agent?"

"What am I supposed to say?" you ask. Even to your own ears, you sound pathetic.

"Whatever I want you to. Now get up, honey." You cringe. "Unless you want to stay on the floor like a dog?"

"Don't call me that," you say, wincing at the grinding sensation of your jaw.

"What, a dog? Or… honey?" His tone is smug. "I thought you'd like that. It's what your boss calls you, isn't it? Late at night when he drops you off. Not strictly professional."

You groan and turn onto your side. The police sirens are getting close. You live in a busy place near a main road, the sirens could be for anybody, but you need them to be for you.

"Get up, honey. You can pretend I'm him, if you like. I'll make it easy on you. I can be nice."

You deliberate. Do as he says, or risk further agitation. Do what he says. Live to see the end of the night.

Or drag it out. Give Hotch enough time to get here.

"You'll pretend to be him?" you ask, sniffing. You can't tell if you're crying or there's blood on your face.

"Aw. To begin with, sure."

You sit up. For the first time, you look your attacker in the face. It's difficult to tear your eyes from the barrel, but you do. He has a cruel face, as tall and formidable as Hotch is but with none of his lightness. You put on your softest expression, gazing at him through tears. When you speak, the fear is real, even if you're attempting a facade. "You'll be gentle?"

"No. You think he'd be gentle? Agent Hotchner?" His lip curls in disgust.

"I don't know," you mumble, looking down at the floor. "You said you'd be nice."

"We both know you don't like nice."

"I do," you say, finding your footing in the charade, the sorry victim, whatever he needs you to be for now. You hate giving him anything, but you know in the moment that you'll do what you need to do to save yourself from injury. "I haven't… I haven't done stuff in a long time, I can't just rush into things."

The gun makes a quiet clicking sound as he points it with more fervour. "Like I believe that. You're probably fucking Hotchner on the side."

There, that jealousy. He's been watching you, he knows where you live, what you want, and he's still convinced that you're fucking Hotch. It's not logical.

You cling to the threads, trying to pull apart his composure. You'd assumed him an anger-excitation rapist, unafraid to hurt you as he already has, but now you're thinking something else.

"You think I'm sleeping with my boss? Why?"

"Besides your constant need to be touching him? It's disgusting, you throw yourself at someone who doesn't want you. You're pathetic. I can make you better."

You see movement in the corner of your vision. Dark hair, a stony expression. Hotch stands at the precipice of the kitchen in a bulletproof vest, a finger to his lips. Sh.

Your relief knocks a breath out of you. The invader takes it for pain at being read.

"Look," he says, softer. Not genuine softness, but practised. As soon as you give in, he'll drop it. You're both acting for one another, but only one of you is a profiler. "You'll forget all about Agent Hotchner once we're done. So just get up."

You hold out your hand. His eyes light up with malice as he leans down to take it, his gun finally aimed away from your face.

Hotch moves in.

"Drop the weapon."

Your attacker whirls. Hotch doesn't hesitate. Front sight, controlled trigger press, follow through. A bang like a clap of thunder fills the room.

You flinch down into yourself. Everything goes a little white for a while, people running into the room, a gun skittling across your kitchen tile. Your ears ring from the bang of two bullets and you're sure you've been hit, you're hurting so much, but hands squeeze under your arms to tell you otherwise.

"You're okay," Hotch says, knee against your thigh, face ducked down to meet your eyes. "Hey, can you hear me?"

You shake your head. You can hear him, but you're far from okay. Hotch bites commands over his shoulder, holding your waist in his hands like he's worried you'll slip out of them. Tight. Too tight. You suck in as big a breath as you can manage and choke on it, coughing, the wild sting of your wounds a ringer.

"You did so well," he says as he catalogues your injuries, his frown deepening. He tilts your head up to the light.

"I knew you were on your way," you deflect.

"You were talking him down."

"No, I was surrendering."

"You didn't give in until you saw me. You weren't surrendering."

"But I would have," you whisper, closing your eyes.

"Doing what you need to to survive isn't easy. But you do it."

You hang your head.

—

Hotch winces at the sound of your skin being sewn closed. Morgan sits beside you in the back of the ambulance holding your hand, your fingers twitching between his with every tug. They dosed you and applied a general anaesthesia, but the pain is pervasive. His eyes keep moving back to your hand in Morgan's. He isn't jealous —he's annoyed with himself. Hotch should be the one holding your hand.

He should've hugged you. The absence of it feels awkward between you, though he's positive that that's the last thing you're thinking of right now.

"Will you have to set her nose?" Morgan asks.

The paramedic shakes his head. "Not broken. Just very badly bruised. Even the bone."

"That doesn't need a cast?"

Hotch should hold your hand, should hug you, should be organising the scene. Should, should, should. The only thing he's managed to do since he incapacitated your stranger is watch you for signs of life.

You're despondent. In shock, no doubt. You let your friends pass you from place to place with little more than pained sighs for input.

JJ does an excellent job of surveying the goings on, while Rossi and Reid take care of some of the bigger questions: who is this guy, what did he want, and how did it come to happen?

What did he want? Hotch can guess. Rage collects like the heart of a furnace, a molten cup of steel in his throat as what he heard you say plays over and over in his head.

You'll be gentle?

No. You think he'd be gentle? Agent Hotchner?

He'll never forget the way you sounded asking that question. Terrified, begging for a scrap of mercy.

Emily approaches from behind. "We have a name." Hotch tips his head to show he's listening. "Paulo Danvers. He was part of a crew that installed her security parameters a few months ago. He was vetted. This shouldn't have happened."

"No, it shouldn't have." Hotch lowers his tone, "She said she wasn't sure she set the lock."

"It wouldn't have mattered. He disengaged it from the outside." Emily takes a few steps closer to the ambulance. "Hey. Morgan taking care of you?"

"Don't I always?" Morgan asks, clapping your arm gently.

You don't answer.

"What, you're not talking to me?" Emily asks. She's not mad, the opposite. Concern lines her eyes, thin brows pinching together at the starts, though she does her best to smile through it.

"I don't feel well," you say quietly.

"Yeah? You're not squeamish, are you?"

"Don't think so."

"It's shock," says the paramedic.

"What's your pain like?" Hotch asks. He's the only person you'll give a straight answer to. "Bad?"

"Yeah." Your hand is lax in Morgan's.

"I can give you slow release tramadol to last the night or codeine pretty much immediately. It's up to you. And I'm really not comfortable with releasing you without next of kin. Do you have family in the area?"

You shake your head. "It's just Hotch. Agent Hotchner," you correct yourself, nodding at him.

"You're her partner?" the paramedic asks. He can sense the disapproval.

"Her boss."

"Not her partner?"

"He's my closest friend," you say.

He's never heard you say that before, but it's true.

"I wish you were my boss," the paramedic jokes, turning back to her supplies as she peels off her gloves. "Maybe I'd get better sick pay."

You're given slow release tramadol and officially pronounced to be on the mend. If he didn't have an FBI badge, you'd be spending the night on a ward. He'd prefer if you did, but you clearly don't want to be somewhere alone right now, and he just wants to give you what you want after having your choices held over your head.

He's not offended when Emily asks if you'd prefer to stay with her. It's harrowing what might have happened to you had you not heard the initial break in, and the perpetrator would've been a man like Hotch. Tall, white, dark-haired. He wouldn't blame you for needing space from him to feel safe tonight, but he's relieved when you turn her down.

"You don't have to act like something happened to me," you say.

Hotch clicks down the locks of his car and turns on the overhead light. You squirm in the passenger seat, looking wrecked. Your chin is split, your nose a dark purple mess cut by white splint. You have a cut on your cheek and another just above your eye.

"You don't think something happened?" he asks, hands on his legs. He can tell you wish he would start the car and take you home without pressing.

"No, I know, I look awful, but he didn't do anything to me." Why is it so hard to say what it could have been? "You don't have to act like I'm gonna wig if you touch me."

"You won't mind if I hug you?" he asks.

"No. No, I want you to."

It's thankfully a short gap to cover as Hotch leans over the console. He's careful of your face and still you mumble a tired, "Ouch," in his ear.

He rubs your back, slow and soft. "You okay?" he asks.

You don't answer for a while. It doesn't matter, Hotch'll sit here in his parked car for hours if you want him to, hands on your hunched back. Your face hides away. He can feel and hear your distress building, and he wants you to cry if you need to, but it'll hurt.

"Sh," he hushes you gently, "it's okay."

"I'm fine." You sound welled up.

"Someone broke into your home and held you at gunpoint. You don't have to be fine."

"Yeah, I do. It's my job."

"No, that's not your job," he says, closing his eyes. "This has nothing to do with your job. This is about something bad happening to you. Don't put walls up now. It won't work, it never does."

He tries to back away in case you're overwhelmed.

"Wait," you say, your panic like a cough.

"I'm not going anywhere," he says.

You sniffle, nodding into his chest. Hotch has comforted a hundred victims of violent assault. He's held the faces of women he didn't know hoping to give them something solid to lean on. But it's different with you, because you and Hotch aren't simply friends. There's a deeper vein of affection, and tonight's event is a jagged slash against it, bringing every unbidden feeling he has for you to the surface. He can't get how scared you sounded out of his head. He knows that feeling is still there.

"How did you get here so fast?" you asked.

"I took the side road. And went unavoidably fast."

You make a small, small sound. He's known you for long enough to understand what it demarcates, unsurprised when the trembling of your shoulders turns to pained shaking. Hotch holds you delicately. He's done so much in his life, made a thousand and one mistakes, used a heavy hand when he could've been sweeter. He's determined to get this part right.

"I'm with you now," he says. "I'm sorry I couldn't–" This is harder than he imagined. He presses on. "Couldn't protect you from the start."

"You know why I called you?" you ask, your tone similarly soft.

Hotch doesn't bother answering. The answer is unsaid, loudly heard.

"I knew you'd come," you finish.

He puts a hand on your neck to encourage you into place, kissing the side of your head. Hotch will always come when you call.

That night, you ask to sleep in his room. I'll sleep on the floor, just don't want to be alone. You're in ragtag clothes he'd scraped together for you, and after helping you wash the blood from your hair and face, you're even more impossible to say no to than usual, looking small in a way you haven't before. Hotch sets you up in bed next to him and wonders if he'll ever sleep next to someone he hasn't let down.

You put that notion straight in your sleep. Hotch lays awake sick with the idea that he's failed you, and you, frowning, snoring, covered in cuts, curl into his side. You cling to his arm so hard he's certain you're awake at first, a bouquet of bruises painted across your cheek.

Hotch pulls the blanket up over your shoulder, planting a chaste kiss to your forehead.

He whispers your name, not sure what he'd say if you answered.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed♡ I haven't written long form (ish) for Hotch in a while so I'm nervous but I hope it's good!! let me know also if you'd like a second part cos usually I don't feel like there's much left to tell but for this one the could actually confess :o

#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner x y/n #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner fic #aaron hotchner blurb #aaron hotchner drabble #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fic #aaron hotchner imagine #aaron hotchner fanfic #aaron hotchner fanfiction #criminal minds #hotch x reader #hotch #hotch x you #hotch blurb #hotch drabble

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look-at-the-stars-tonight · 1 year

Text

Me: I’m so sad no one loves me

My friends: shut the FUCK up we’re right here

#I’m just. I’m so happy #like after the Bruce thing I’ve been pretty down #because how am I supposed to trust someone! I told him so much shit about my life #cause he asked #and then he just fucking decided I wasn’t good enough to be around #and now I have FRIENDS #and I’m sooo goddamn annoying I’m fully aware #and they still constantly reassure me that they like me and want me around #like without me even asking #because my face gives everythign away Uhhh #like I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop but I think. it’s possible that I have friends #like yesterday everyone had said they weren’t coming to catan tonight #and then today several of them texted me and went WAIT ur leaving soon #and now they’re all coming cause they wanna see me one more time before I leave and I’m just 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺#fuck everything I don’t need a boyfriend

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entitled-fangirl · 4 months

Text

It's like heaven.

Felix Catton x reader

SMUT

Summary: Felix can't keep his hands off his angel at the party. Smut later in the story.

Words: 1,676

Warnings: p in v, cursing, Oliver being a perv

Author's note: This is from an ask! Y'all are so creative, I love it!!!

Masterlist

18+ please!

.......................................................................

He was utterly speechless.

When he saw her, he was speechless.

She had wanted to surprise him, of course, shooing him from their bedroom when he was finished getting ready for the party so she could get dolled up.

Now, here she stood in a somewhat scandalous piece feeling beautiful, a halo placed on her head for the theme.

He simply stood in the doorway, his jaw dropped.

She saw him in the mirror, whipping around, "Felix! I said to wait until I was done!"

He shook out of his stupor, moving towards her with a smirk, "I forgot my angel wings but JESUS am I glad I came back." He placed his hands on her waist, "I mean, look at you, pretty girl…" His eyes held a look of admiration and lust.

She stepped back with a giggle, "Not yet. I'm not done. Shoo, Lex…" She then turned around, moving back to finish her eyeliner in the mirror.

He pulled her towards him again, her back hitting his firm abs. His lips began to trace her neck as he looked at her in the mirror, mumbling, "…what is there left to finish, angel?"

She stood when she was satisfied with the eyeliner, turning around in his arms. "…just my shoes. And… I'm no angel."

He smirked leaning down to give a kiss, his voice a slight growl, "you're my angel."

The kiss was sweet and held a lot of emotion, considering how it was soon going to become something more. She pulled away, placing a hand on his chest, "…Lex."

He pulls away with a groan, "Forget the party, beautiful."

She laughs, "No! I got ready for this, Lex. Even if you don't like the birthday boy, we still have to go!"

He would always give in to her.

He smiles, leaning in towards her again, hands beginning to wander before she stopped him, "What's going on with you tonight?"

"You're just so fucking pretty. My pretty angel. Can't keep my hands to myself."

She reaches down, taking her hand in his before she pulled him out of the bedroom and towards the party.

…

She was sat on Felix's lap when Oliver opened the door.

Felix was sitting on the small table of the overly-crowded bathroom, the pretty angel balanced on one of his thighs. He sighed when he saw Oliver.

"Felix, can I talk to you for one second?"

She looked at Felix to gauge his reaction, seeing that his eyebrows was slightly raised. He then ignores Oliver's question all together, lighting a cigarette, his other hand on his girl's thigh.

Oliver cleared his throat, "You can't ignore me forever."

He immediately rebutted, "I can try."

"Felix, we need to talk." When Felix didn't move, Oliver became insistent, "Felix, come on!"

He sighed, reaching up to place the cigarette between his angel's lips. She gladly accepts, "Look, man, I tried to be nice, but can you fuck off and bother somebody else?"

The others in the room chuckled at the interaction as they did lines off the table and floor.

Oliver stood in the doorway for a while in thought, his eyes now falling to the angel on Felix's lap. He observed her. Watched her watching him. He then turned, leaving the bathroom.

"Who was that?" Someone asked.

…

"C'mon, Lex. I wanna dance!"

She pulled him through the crowd by his hand, his wings getting hit as he passed by people, muttering quick apologies.

"Yes, angel, yes. I'll dance with you. Anything to get you close to me."

The music was blaring, the lights overstimulating, but they didn't care. They were two college kids in love, and nothing would stop them.

He pulled her to him, their bodies pressed close together as they began to dance.

A frown suddenly pulled to her face.

He leaned down, trying to whisper but having to yell to communicated, "Angel? Are you alright?"

She nods, her eyes staring at something in the distance.

He turned, following her gaze.

Oliver sat at the sidelines, hoarding a bottle all to him, drinking his problem away.

But it wasn't working.

Because he wouldn't quit looking at them.

And now they noticed.

Felix frowned as well, leaning down to her once more, his eyes not leaving Oliver's, "Fuck him. Don't let him ruin this for us."

She turned back to look at him, "I don't know…"

He laughed, "You got all pretty for me, angel! Let me enjoy it for the night, yeah? No need to worry about what's tomorrow's problem!"

She nodded, letting him pull her back to him.

As his hands began to wander, so were his thoughts.

God, she was pretty. He was blessed by the gods above for sending an angel so pure and kind as this one. His own little pretty girl. His pretty angel.

A song ended, and Felix reached down, grabbing her hand. He started to pull her away, and she wouldn't resist.

…

They walked out towards the maze, holding hands. They exchanged giggles as the alcohol kicked in.

When they neared the entrance, she stopped, "Do you know what you're doing, Lex?"

He nodded, "'Course, angel. Wouldn't take you here if I didn't." He kissed her head, pulling her once again.

They both entered the maze, happy and in love.

What they didn't know, was that Oliver had entered too.

…

What felt like hours later, and too many turns to count, the two lovers were now in a passionate kiss, their hands wandering over each others bodies.

He pulled away just enough to speak, "…you want me, angel?"

She nodded, "please…"

He pulled away completely, holding her jaw in his hand, a grin on his face, "I need to hear you say it."

She looked up at him through her eyelashes, her voice soft, "I want you, Felix. Please."

That was all he needed.

They began to pull at each other's clothes, anything that would separate the two from each other.

She reached up to pull off her halo, but his hand grabbed her wrist, "Don't."

She smiled into the kiss, pulling at his tank top.

Now, maybe half dressed, Felix pulled her up on to the base of the statue, holding her in place. Their kiss never broke as he began to move his fingers further down her body.

Her mouth opened slightly in an intake of breath as his gently pressed a finger into her core.

He smiled, his voice soft, "You can take it, angel. Feels good, yeah?"

She could only let out a whimper as he began to gently pump it in and out of her.

He whispered in her ear the entire time, his voice slightly gravely with lust, "Good… doing so good… stretching you out for me, baby… sweet girl…"

When two fingers were added, she pushed her head into his shoulder to avoid making too much noise.

He found it all amusing, watching her eyes close in concentration as her throat made small noises in pleasure.

When she was finally considered ready by his standards, he gently pulled his cock out. It was already hard at this point. It had been almost the entire night after seeing her in the outfit.

He grabbed at her jaw again, "You're very sure, angel?"

She was a begging mess, her mind already mush, "please, Lex. Make me feel good, please…"

He smiled, "Anything for my angel."

He gently pushed his cock into her, both letting out a small hiss.

She grabbed his biceps tightly, her eyes strunched a bit, trying to relax herself.

His hand were on the bottom of her thighs, giving himself leverage, "… doing so good for me…"

He stopped when he bottomed out, giving her a moment to collect herself and adjust. He used this moment to kiss her neck softly, "God, being in you is like heaven."

And he began to thrust.

She let out small, soft little grunts and moans, her hands moving over his body in search of where to find relief. One hand eventually found his hair, pulling slightly as he let out a small, "oh, fuck."

Only the sound of skin pressed against one another was heard throughout the heart of the maze.

"You're my angel… such a pretty little angel, aren't you?"

She whimpered, his cock hitting her g spot just right.

"You're gonna cum for me, aren't you… ugh… good girl… cum for me…"

Her voice was barely heard, "…Lex…."

He grinned, his lips still kissing at her neck, "C'mon, pretty girl. You can give me one-"

Oliver's voice came from the bushes where they entered, "Felix…"

Felix stopped, staring at his sweet little angel, whose eyes were wide with fear. He sighed, "Oh, Jesus Christ!" He pulled his pants back to their original position, zipping them up. He turned around, covering her body with himself, "What the fuck are you doing here?"

"I need to talk to you?"

She placed a hand on Felix's back, her head peering over his shoulder, "Were you spying on us?"

"No, I wasn't." He began to walk forward.

Felix stood a bit taller, continuing to block Oliver's view. "Mate, let the fucking lady get dressed. You sick fuck."

Oliver held his hands up, turning himself around.

Felix quickly turned, helping his angel get redressed.

Once done, he pulled her to him, gently kissing the top of her head. He leaned towards her, whispering in her ear once more, "…go to the bedroom. I'll be there."

She nodded, her eyes filled slightly with tears. She walked forward, going to move past Oliver.

Oliver reached out a grabbed her wrist. He pulled her to him, "May want to fix that." He straightened the halo on her head, watching her nervous reaction, "Wouldn't want people to think you're naughty, do you?"

Felix stepped forward, his voice dark and threatening, "Oliver…"

Oliver let go of the girl, a slight smirk on his face.

She left the maze to go to the bedroom, having no idea Felix would never see his angel again.

........................................................

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