#i tried to write the first half in the past tense but i got confused so sorry if the tenses r weird

[amoristt]

anon: can you write a ghost x reader fic about y/n being wrongfully accused of being a spy and she makes a run for it and ghost finds her? YESSSS . LOVE ITTTT

-as always comments/reblogs are appreciated! - wanna tip me? heres my kofi!

The Accused | Simon "Ghost" Riley/Reader

- Heavy footsteps, the air thick, the wall in front of you even thicker. Never did you think that beige wallpaper would be such an obstacle in your way as the echoing sound of footsteps gain on you. The door is shut tight, but the room is still under construction and lacks any furniture to help barricade you in. There isn't even a fucking closet for you to hide in. The only thing other than light brown plank flooring and a door with a half-painted white frame, was a window overlooking a yard.

It was roughly a five-story drop- too high to continue your run unscathed, but at this point, you've got some pretty heavy options to weigh. On one hand, potentially cut your life short, on the other, get caught and dragged out fighting.

Not that it would be much of a fight. You didn't even have time to grab your gun or knife before you made your escape.

Your heart aches. This wasn't right. While you weren't sure what dirt Shepherd had on you, what documents had been falsified as evidence of your alleged 'treason', but whatever they were they must have been pretty damn convincing to have Graves up in arms almost instantaneously. Tears bite at your eyes- had been since you first ran, but now they were heavier. Angrier. You wipe them harshly and red blotches bubble at your cheeks.

Shaking, you bring your radio to your lips. You can't hear them, but they can surely hear you, switched to a different station so you couldn't use their chatter to work around them.

"Please," you damn near sob. "Please, there's a mistake. There's been a fucking mistake, I haven't done anything. You really think I'd do this to you guys of all people?"

Grave answers your pleads like a poison, settling deep into your lungs, replacing all the air in its wake.

"Enough running. Come out and no one has to get hurt."

There was no use in arguing, you realized. They would never hear of it- not the people that truly mattered when it came to imprisonment, anyways. Even if you could convince your humble squad of your innocence, it would never hold up in the end. Besides that, by the way Graves spoke to you, the way he had looked at you, like you were a fucking bug that needed squashing, told you all you needed to know when it came to fighting against Shepherd's allegations.

You knew, ultimately, that running wasn't going to exactly help your case, but you didn't know what else to do. It felt like everyone had turned against you in a moment. You hadn't even had time to process anything. One moment you were joking with your crew, and Graves scampered off the take a rather important call.

Shepherd, was all he had said before disappearing.

And god, when he came back, red-faced and tense, the accusations poured.

Soap tried to defend you. Ghost fought to question, to figure out what the fuck was happening, but the supposed 'evidence' was apparently damning enough to convince Graves through and through that you were a spy.

A rat.

Ghost's voice, laced with desperation and confusion, when Graves began to 'explain' your betrayal haunted you. More so than the act of being accused of treason, even. You just stared at him, past that skull mask, into those familiar dark eyes. Even now, as you ran for what could possibly be your life, that half-hidden expression was all you could see.

The moment Graves brought up arresting you, and even moved to try and grab you, your brain damn near malfunctioned. Your body reacted on its own.

You fucking ran.

Though you weren't sure how someone had found you, this was the position you were in now. The curtains blew out with the breeze, soft and inviting, almost like it was beckoning your jump. They unfurl before you like great wings, and you stare down at the green grass below. You'd surely be crippled by this fall. If not that, it could very well kill you.

Your heart seizes, your lungs struggle to take in air as panic begins to sets in like vines creeping over your nerves. For a moment, you freeze. There was no other way out.

But then there's a slam on the door behind you, so great that the frame creaks and sharp chunks of wood launch off and scatter onto the floor around you. You flinch and your body once again takes priority over your mind, tossing your leg over the sill and swallowing hard. You're going to have to make the jump for it.

You heave yourself up and over, planting your feet flat on the sill, your entire body shaking with both fear of the leap and the deeper issue at present. One hand braces against the top of the window, the other covering your mouth.

Behind you, the door bursts open. Wood splints and tears as it slams into the wall.

"Enough!" A voice shouts, thick with accent and heavy breaths. "You're going to break every damn bone in your body."

You can practically feel Ghost's gun pointed straight at you. You cringe.

Would he pull the trigger?

"Might as well do it now before someone else does trying to beat a confession out of me that'll never fucking come." You didn't mean for your voice to carry so sharp, so laced with the pain and hurt of being hunted by your own friends.

By Ghost, of all people.

How could he be so fucking blind after everything you'd been through together? You wanted to reach out and smack him upside the head. You'd patched each other up more times than you could count, you trusted him with your life, he'd trusted you with his.

Or so, you had always thought.

But the way he's looking at you has to second guessing.

But, ultimately, you knew the game at play. He was a good soldier- the best. He was a former lone wolf, distrustful to his core. You'd worked so fucking hard to get close with him and now it was all crumbling down. Even if you stayed and explained yourself, there would be no point. You would be arrested, processed, thrown in jail labeled a traitor to your country and more people than not would be celebrating it. You'd never see the light of day- shackled and stuffed into a prison so far off the map that God himself would struggle to find you.

And you would be damned if you were going to just sit there and accept your fate. Even if it meant you appeared just as guilty as Shepherd had painted you. You just needed to get away for a bit, collect yourself, and have the time to figure out what the hell was going on. But it seemed that was never in the cards for you. 

The ground below looks menacing, but more forgiving than the fate that awaits you.

You can hear Ghost taking heavy steps forward, and you wonder why he hasn't just come up and ripped you from that sill already.

"Get down," He barks, and you shake at the tone, refusing to look back at him. Defiance shines through as you refuse to climb down.

"I'm not going down for something I didn't do!" Exasperated, your knuckles whitening with your iron grip. It takes what feels like eons to prepare for gravity to play its course, but in reality, it's been mere seconds. You try to force down air through the boulder in your throat.

For a moment, everything stills. You knew the outcome that was bound to come to this. You knew, deep down in your heart, that your fate was not a good one at this point. Either you die on impact, or you'd be wheeled into the interrogation room on a stretcher. That alone makes your skin crawl- interrogation. Knowing you had not a single detail to offer despite the amount of 'tactics' that would be used on you... The torture would essentially be never-ending.

You were well and truly fucked.

"I have to do this." You try to keep your voice level, but it betrays you. You hear Ghost suck in a sharp breath, the sound of his gear shifting. At this point, you don't even care if he shot you. At least you'd die with the person you loved.

"You don't." Ghost's voice is quieter, closer. Now you can really hear it- the sadness. The desolation. It wracks you to your very core.

With a hasty glance over your shoulder, you take in the sight of him. Maybe the last sight of him you'll ever get the chance to see. His looming figure stands feet away, gun still fixated on you. He looks defeated. Or, perhaps, torn. Riding that fence and teetering on the edge between believing you or hauling your ass back to Shepherd kicking and screaming.

Tears well in your eyes when realize his finger isn't even on the trigger. You nod at him sadly.

"I do."

And then, you give yourself to gravity. For a split second, you're weightless. Without much family back home, you found yourself thinking about your squad. How would Soap react? Gaz, or Price? Would they try to find your innocence, or would they take your cowardly actions at face value? Would Graves struggle with the weight of your life if he discovered his manhunt had been unwarranted?

Would Ghost be okay after firsthand witnessing such an awful, selfish act?

Would he ever forgive you?

With a sickening crack, your body slams into the brick wall of the building and you're left dangling in place. Your shoulder screams as you hang, and when you snap your attention toward the searing pain, you see two large hands grasped tight at your wrist and elbow.

"Damn it!"

Ghost's voice reaches you like a bullet had been ripped through your chest. He'd caught you, holding fast and unrelenting. You tried to fight, struggling against him, trying to reach up and pry those fingers away but they didn't budge.

It was over. You'd been caught. You were going to fucking prison and forever labeled a traitor to your country and everyone you ever knew. Everyone you ever fought with, and for, would remember you as a rat. A stain on the fabric of the U.S. Army.

"Let go!" You cry, feeling yourself reeling back into that room with Ghost's unwavering grip. "Just let go!"

Ghost grunts a sharp no before you're hauled up, into the room, and held fast by his arms caging you against him. He crushes you to himself, fingers near digging bruises into your skin and he's shaking you realize. Tears well up and flush past your waterlines, disappearing into the cloth of his gear. You haphazardly beat on his chest with a loosely formed fist.

"They're gonna fucking kill me" You sob. "It's not me, I didn't do anything."

You feel Ghost's arms leave you, and you realize now is when you'll have to surrender. You'll have to hang your head low and saunter away and into the clutches of the armies worst. You're crying into your hands now, not caring what you look like. Not caring this was the first time Ghost had ever truly seen you cry. And god, did you cry.

"Simon, please, I didn't do anything. It wasn't me!"

He's silent as he watches you fall apart right in front of him. Though he uncurls his arms from your shaking frame, he doesn't back away, looking down at you, like he's unsure of what to do. Unsure of what to believe anymore. As you press your forehead to his shoulder, your legs threaten to give out from underneath you.

"Why is this happening." Your voice escapes you as a whimper, broken up with sharp, painful breaths. "What could I have done for someone to do this to me of all people? I know I'm not a saint, but,-" Finally you look up at him, babbling. "Fuck, what do I do?"

Ghost's eyes narrow as he watches you, taking in every word. He places his hands on your shoulders, the first familiar gesture you've felt yet.

"You think you've been framed?" He asks, tone cool despite the waves of emotions in his eyes. You nod.

"That's the only explanation I can think of, but why? I would never do this to my country, my home." You flicker your eyes up to his own. "I would never do this to you."

You can see him trying to work it all out in his brain. Weighing the evidence he'd been presented with versus the fact that he fucking knew you. Knew you like the back of his hand, knew you without even having to think about it. He knew you as he knew himself, and he just knew you wouldn't do this.

"So what is it then." He starts harshly, so terribly confused it brings about anger, like he needs the answer right now because he doesn't know what to do next and time is running thin. 

Shaking your head, you shrug. "I don't know. I just-... I know that there's something going on here. Maybe by mistake, maybe intentionally, I don't know. But I didn't fucking do anything."

Ghost digests your words. You continue.

"I just need time to figure it out and I don't have it. I've got 141 and god fucking forbid, the Shadow's coming for this at this point." your face falls. "...Did anyone try to defend me after I left...?"

Ghost stiffens and swallows hard. You nod, laugh hoarsely. Of course.

"It was fast. There wasn't time to think." He offers. It made sense. You wondered what would have happened if anyone found you up here. If it had been Soap, or Gaz. Or Graves.

His eyes are softer now, his breathing leveling. Surely he's made a choice, but you aren't sure of which. You pray it's in your favor, that he realizes that this is you you're talking about. You pray he remembers all the time, the trust. As you watch him, like he's miles away from you, you can't help but notice him staring at you like you're just mere arms reach away.

Like you'd never left his arms at all, actually. Still flush against him a crying mess of pleads and hurt.

"Ghost, how copy?" Grave's voice pipes up from Ghost's radio.

You still. Ghost lingers a moment, like he doesn't want to answer, his eyes dart from his radio and then back to you, and you press your lips into a tight line.

Don't fucking answer it, your mind begs. Don't do this to me.

When Graves repeats himself, urgently this time, Ghost drags the radio begrudgingly up his clothed lips. Mouth running dry, hands shaking, you take a step back.

'Please,' You mouth. Ghost shakes his head and refuses to meet your gaze.

He was going to turn you in, after all.

He was a good soldier.

You, in that moment, recall the moments you spend side by side with this man. This scary, intimidating man, that you'd found comfort in. The person you plucked from the litter and thought to yourself, this one.

And he hadn't wanted you in. You bulldozed your way through until he found himself picking you out in crowds, remembering all those little things about you that no one else seemed to give a damn about. Waiting for you in the morning, sharing his thoughts and time.

You had always hoped, in another world, you two could enjoy life without all the pain together. A life outside of the army. 

Surely, it would have been enough.

Face downcast, you hear him take a breath to speak.

"Clear." He says. "No sign."

There was no stopping the tears that spilled down your cheeks at that moment, mouth covered to muffle yourself, crouching down as your knees shook.

"Sonofa bitch! Regroup back at point A." Graves says with a sigh.

"Copy." Ghost says quickly, shoving his radio back into his belt. He takes a knee in front of you, and his hands cup the side of your wet face. You eye him, babbling thank you over and over again, sick with fear, gratitude, and confusion. A cocktail that left an unnaturally horrendous taste on your lips. He retrieves a hand just long enough to set his knife down o the floor in front of you.

"Now you've got time." He says matter-of-factly, but you can still sense that urgency in his words. He wants you to escape. To figure this out and come back to him his friend and partner.

He takes your discarded radio and switches it to the proper channel so you could keep tabs on their whereabouts and plans. The voices of your squad chatter on the line, Soap's voice above all wondering how the fuck this was even happening. Bless his heart, he even mentioned being worried for you, which was quickly shot down by Graves reminding him of your betrayal.

As Ghost crouches before you, massive, all-powerful it seemed, you watch his eyes. He pats your cheek. His gloved finger points to the window.

"Ever try a stunt like that again, I'll kill you myself." He bites. You nod, struggling to compose yourself. He stands and your mind begs for him to stay, to be with you during this, but you know he can't.

He lingers in the doorway like he's thinking the same thing. 

"I will... Do what I can. Watch your back, soldier."

And then he's gone, and It's silent save for your harsh breaths. You shakily pull yourself up from the floor, grasping the knife he'd given you- his favorite blade entrusted to you. You'd wait for nightfall and make a run for it, find shelter day by day, and hopefully reconnect with him somewhere to go over what the hell was going on.

You prayed he'd find a way to convince them of your innocence, ask the right questions to the right people, and have more players in your court.

It would likely be your only way out of this awful nightmare.

#mw2 #ghost mw2 #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #cod mw2

[juey20000]

The Cub Chapter 1

Warning: Explicit Language, brief mentions of sex acts

AN: Hello, everyone; this is my first fanfic. I became OBSESSED with The Bear and Sydney and Carmey and had a little fanfic idea come up in my head and decided to write it. I'd rewatched both seasons and I hope I didn't make the characters too out of character. The story takes place 2yrs after season 2, and Nat has a 1yr old girl; criticism is welcome, but be nice, please. Also, I'm not going to write smut for this fanfic; all sex acts will be in past tense or implied; Im not that good at writing smut. So I've decided not to write any, but if I do change my mind I will put the proper warnings for the chapter.

Summary - It happened so fast, one minute they were trying out new recipes at Carm’s apartment and the next they were ripping each other’s clothes off. It’s been two years since the opening of The Bear, business has been doing good and they are still working on getting a star and Uncle Jimmy finally got his money back. Natalie had a little girl, Amy, who is one and a half and Sydney and Carmy had been secretly hooking up for a year. Everything was going great.. until Sydney’s period came late.

Sydney stared at the two pregnancy tests, one was negative and the other was positive; what the fuck is that supposed to mean?

She had been feeling off for a few weeks now, certain foods either tasted like shit or had her running to the bathroom, her breasts were sensitive and sore, and she’s been having this terrible mood swings which would cause her to snap at everyone from Tina, to Carmy, she even snapped at Natalie at one point.

And she’s been having these weird food cravings all week.

After she missed her period she finally decided to take a pregnancy test, her heart started racing all she can think about is how disappointed her father would be, and how is she going to take care of a fucking baby while working at the bear? How is she going to tell her dad?

How is she going to tell Carmy?

Her and Carm has been hooking up for a year and a half now, but they been careful they were using condoms and she was on birth control, how the fuck did this happen?

Three sharp knocks on the bathroom door snapped Sydney out of her thoughts. “Yo Syd, you good in there?” Carmy asked while trying to open the locked door. “And why is the door locked?”

She had spent the night at his apartment like she had done every other night since they started hooking up. Sydney quickly grabbed the tests and the box and bag it came from, “Um, yeah just let me, FUCK!” Sydney dropped one of the tests behind the toilet while she was trying to clean up.

Another knock on the door “Hey Sydney, you ok?” “Yeah” Sydney said while crouching down on the floor trying to reach the test, “I’ll be out in a minute I’m just not feeling well” Why the fuck did this fucking test had to fall behind the fucking toilet?  After a few good tries Sydney finally managed to get the test and put it and the second test and box in the bag.

She then grabbed the bathroom trash cans trash bag and stuffed the pregnancy tests inside, and walked out of the bathroom with the bag in hand. "Hey, everything ok?" Carmen said while eyeing the bag.

"Yeah, I'm- I'm just taking out the trash cause the trash was full so..." "OH yeah, you didn't have to I could take it" Carmen said while reaching for the bag. "No! " Sydney shouted while yanking the bag away from his grip.

"I mean, I'll take care of it; it's no problem," Sydney said nervously. "OH," Carmen said while recovering from shock, "So uh... give me a minute, and I'll drive us to work. Ok"

"NO, I mean, i-it's fine; I need to go to the store anyway." Carmen furrowed his brow and said to her in a confused tone, "The store?" "Yeah," Sydney said nervously, "I promised my dad I would get a few things for him before I went to work" "Oh, well, I can take you if you want." Carmen offered.

"No, it's fine." Sydney said, " I don't want to make you late, besides It shouldn't take me too long." "Syd, you sure? I don't mind driving you."

"No, it's fine, you go ahead." Carmen hesitated but left the bathroom. Sydney let out a sigh of relief and started to get ready.

It didn't take her that long to get ready; she quickly freshened up and left Carmen's apartment in a hurry, and arrived at the store. She brought a pack of Clearblue tests and took the train to the restaurant.

Her stomach was in knots the entire train ride, and she couldn't wait to get to the bear and take the tests. As soon as she got to the bear, she quickly bolted into the bathroom, barely saying a word to anyone.

She nervously opened the box and took out the test. She pulled down her pants, sat on the toilet, and peed on the stick.

BANG!

The door opened with a thud, and Sydney dropped the test in the toilet. "RICHIE!!!!!"

#sydney x carmy #the bear #the bear fanfiction #carmy x sydney #syd x carmy #carmy x syd #sydney x carmen #carmen x sydney #sydcarmy

[ailendolin]

For the Christmas prompt 800folloeer celebration

ship: The Captain/Thomas

Prompt: Fluff, Fireplace

Thank you so much for this prompt! This is my first Captain/Thomas fic so I hope it does not disappoint. I also hope you can forgive me for the angsty beginning but I just got this idea in my head and just had to write it. Hopefully the fluff at the end will make up for it.

List of prompts is here. Filled prompts are here, here, here, here and here on AO3.

Prompts are closed.

————

Thorn(e) [AO3]

“Ah, there you are!” the Captain said when he finally spotted Thomas by the fireplace in the drawing room. “I’ve been looking all over for you. It’s nearly time for Film Club!”

Usually, Thomas would turn around and smile at him now, bright and beautiful and happy. Over the last few months, the Captain had come to love that smile and found it hard to believe that it had taken him so long to take notice of it. But he was taking notice of it, had even come to expect it ever since this gentle, loving thing between them had begun. So when Thomas kept staring into the fire and merely acknowledged his presence with a half-hearted shrug rather than that lovely, boyish smile of his, the Captain frowned in confusion.

“Thomas?” he asked cautiously, stepping closer to the sofa.

Thomas sighed. It was a quiet, weary sound; one the Captain had truly believed to be a thing of the past. “I’m afraid I’m not in the mood for Film Club today.”

“But – it’s your turn to choose!” the Captain stammered, perplexed. He knew better than anyone how much Thomas had been looking forward to this. Just last night, he had talked his ear off in his excitement, and the Captain found it difficult to reconcile that energetic and happy Thomas with the disinterested one before him.

“You can choose for me,” Thomas said as if he couldn’t care less. He shifted so he was facing the fire a little more. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to get back to my work.”

Stunned, the Captain stared at the back of his head for a moment. Somewhere behind him, the old grandfather clock chimed, announcing the hour and with it the start of Film Club, but he stayed rooted to the spot, unable to shake the feeling that something was very, very wrong and it was somehow his fault.

“You’re upset,” he realised with a sinking feeling that only grew worse when Thomas’s shoulders tensed, confirming his suspicions. Gripping his swagger stick tightly, the Captain rounded the sofa and sat down, though not as close as he normally would. He swallowed hard, trying to find the right words. “Is it because of me? Have I done something to upset you?”

Thomas’s breathing hitched, and even though the Captain still could not see his face he knew Thomas was biting his lip to keep whatever treacherous sounds were trying to claw their way up his throat muted. It was a predicament he was only too familiar with, and it hurt to see Thomas battling with it now. They had grown so close over the last few months – close enough that the Captain had thought they’d reached the point where they could talk to each other about everything: Anthony, Isabelle, the ones who came before them – all the love that had never gotten a chance to bloom, and all the wounds that had never quite managed to heal.

But it seemed he had been wrong.

“Thomas,” he tried again, placing a hand on Thomas’s arm. “Talk to me. Please. If I don’t know what I’ve done, I can’t make sure not to do it again.”

“You won’t want to anyway,” Thomas whispered, hanging his head. He sounded so defeated that the Captain felt fear rise in his chest. This felt like Havers all over again, only more hopeless. The ball was in his court and the Captain suddenly knew with awful clarity that Thomas would slip through his fingers just like Havers had if he didn’t do something now. So as gently as he could, he moved his hand down Thomas’s arm and laced their fingers together.

“Please,” he said and gave Thomas’s hand a squeeze, hoping the reassuring touch would be enough.

Almost unwillingly, Thomas looked down at their intertwined hands. He stared at them for a moment, and there was heartbreak written all over his face when he finally whispered, “You called me Thorne.”

The words were so faint the crackling fire almost swallowed them but they rang as loudly as bells in the Captain’s ears. He did not let go of Thomas’s hand but he involuntarily tensed as the instinctive urge to defend himself took over. “We’ve talked about this, Thomas. We agreed we would not change how we behave in front of the others, at least for the time being.”

Thomas huffed out a humourless laugh before he untangled their hands and wrapped his arms around his chest, almost like a shield. “I told you you wouldn’t want to change.”

“Now listen, it’s not that I don’t–“ The Captain stopped, suddenly struck by the realisation that Thomas expected him to argue. No, worse – that Thomas had resigned himself to the fact that he would stand his ground and not move an inch from his position. That was why he hadn’t wanted to say anything in the first place. Lack of trust was not the issue here and never had been; it was the inevitability of the outcome. And he had almost proven him right.

The thought made the Captain sadder than he’d felt in a very long time.

Taking a deep breath, he firmly pushed down the instinct to argue and instead asked quietly, “Why does it bother you so much?”

Thomas’s fingers tightened briefly on his vest before he went completely still. For a long moment that felt like eternity to the Captain, the only sound in the room was the crackling of the fire to their right and the faint laughter from their fellow ghosts filtering through the old wood from above.

They must be watching a comedy, the Captain assumed, and part of him bristled at the thought since the others had not even waited for them – had not even bothered to ask Thomas if he was okay with someone else choosing the film today. There were rules to follow and he was severely disappointed in them, not to mention angry with them on Thomas’s behalf. They might be getting away with it now but the Captain vowed to himself that next Film Club, he would make sure Thomas would get his rightful turn.

“Did you know my mother remarried when I was young?” Thomas suddenly asked, pulling him out of his thoughts.

Confused as to where this was going, the Captain shook his head. “No. I don’t think you’ve ever mentioned it before.”

“Well, she did,” Thomas said. His voice was brittle, like the branch of a dying tree. “I was too young to understand why my father had left but not young enough not to realise he wouldn’t come back. The man my mother married a few months later was always loving and kind to her and my younger half-siblings – the perfect husband and father. Just not to me. To him, I was like dirt under my mother’s shoes she’d dragged into their home and he couldn’t get rid of. He fed me, clothed me, educated me, yes, but he never saw me as his son. When my mother took his name, I was made to keep my own: Thomas Thorne. A constant reminder that I was quite literally a thorn in his side and did not belong.”

Thomas sniffed and seemed to curl in on himself as if the weight of the memories was too much to bear, even after all these years.

“Whenever he was displeased with me, he would call me Thorne, just like you used to,” he continued and the Captain’s heart fell as he realised how many years he had poked and prodded at an open, bleeding wound without meaning to.

“I didn’t know,” he whispered, stricken.

“You couldn’t have,” Thomas said, always quick to forgive, even now. “But you did remind me of him. And that’s why it bothers me, Captain. That’s why it hurts so much more now and why I cannot bear to see the same derision that has haunted me my whole childhood written all over your face when we’re around the others. It might not be real – I know it’s not, it’s just pretend – but it feels real, and my heart breaks a little more with each sneer and every mocking word.”

There was so much pain in his voice, so much hurt, that the Captain felt his throat close up. How had he not realised how much suffering he had caused? He should have noticed how quiet Thomas had become during the days, and how he tended to hold his tongue now when Julian tried to get a rise out of him; how desperate he seemed for gentleness when they found themselves alone in the evening, and how mournful he looked when dawn broke and they parted ways for the day.

“I’m sorry,” the Captain choked out as he realised how terribly he’d failed Thomas, both as his partner and his friend. He’d honestly, genuinely believed they were on the same page when Thomas had agreed to keep their relationship a secret. It had not even occurred to him that he might have done that out of love, just to make things easier for him, but now that he knew, it took his breath away. The last time anyone had loved him so much, so unconditionally, the Captain had lain dying on the floor, holding onto a swagger stick and warm, gentle hands for dear life, and just like then the weight of it all made it hard to speak. “I’m so sorry, Thomas. I … I–“

Thomas exhaled softly and finally turned around to face him. His eyes were shimmering wetly in the flickering light of the flames, and there was understanding and forgiveness in them the Captain didn’t think he deserved. “I know this is hard for you – I’ve always known that, even before we shared our first kiss. I’ve never minded waiting for you to be ready, Captain.”

Waiting …

The Captain had spent most of his life waiting for someone to look at him as if he were the centre of their universe. And for one brief, fleeting moment, he’d had it all in his grasp when his name fell from Havers’s lips and their hands touched with all the love and tenderness they were never able to put into words. But when the pain in his chest became unbearable, the Captain had known he had waited too long. They could have had it all if he had just been brave a little sooner.

Looking at Thomas, he realised he was about to make the same mistake again. By pretending there was nothing between them he was holding him at arm’s length just like he’d had Havers, and just like Havers Thomas was letting him take the lead. But a relationship did not require a leader – it required love, patience and understanding. Sometimes, that meant putting the other first. In his case, it also meant their relationship could not continue to revolve around his own comfort, least of all if it came at the cost of Thomas’s happiness.

“You shouldn’t have to wait,” he said softly before he lowered his eyes in shame. “You have already waited long enough.”

Somehow, Thomas managed a trembling smile. “It’s about the only thing I’m good at.”

Good Lord, the Captain thought and pulled him close. His heart broke at the small, broken noise Thomas made. One of his hands found its way into Thomas’s curls while the other came to rest in-between his shoulder blades, and Thomas melted against him as if he had been waiting to be held the entire day.

“What would you have me do?” the Captain whispered against his neck, desperate to make this right.

Thomas’s fingers dug into his uniform, almost as if he was afraid the Captain would disappear if he didn’t hold onto him with all his might.

“Don’t call me Thorne again,” he begged. His voice, thick with emotion, broke on his name. “I don’t need us to hold hands in front of the others or – or kiss in public but I would ask that you call me Thomas. If it’s not too much.”

“Heavens, no,” the Captain said and closed his eyes against the emotions surging up within him. “It’s not too much, Thomas.”

Thomas sighed softly against his neck.

“Thank you,” he breathed. Slowly, the tension drained from his body, and when one of his hands found its way over to the Captain’s aching heart, the Captain reached for it and held it in his own with all the gentleness he usually reserved for the privacy of their bedrooms. A part of him wanted to tell Thomas not to thank him; that this small compromise wasn’t worth any words of gratitude. But even he knew this was not the time to argue so he simply pressed his lips to the top of Thomas’s head and let them linger there in silent reassurance.  

From somewhere above them, laughter echoed through the house, faint but joyful. It was a reminder that someone might walk in on them any moment and Thomas tensed, ready to pull away. Carefully, deliberately, the Captain tightened his hold and tipped them backwards until they were lying against the cushions.

Questioningly, Thomas tilted his head up to look at him. The Captain smiled. “Let’s enjoy the fire for a little while.”

Thomas’s eyes softened. He might not need to hold his hand in public but the Captain knew that didn’t actually mean that Thomas didn’t crave moments like this – romantic situations he had read about in books and seen in movies countless of times yet never experienced himself. The grateful smile on his face said it all when he rested his head on the Captain’s shoulder and relaxed in his arms again, content. “This is nice.”

It was, the Captain thought as he gazed at the flames. They obviously could not feel the warmth of the fire but there was something mesmerising and, dare he say, soothing about watching it crackle merrily away while the house was mostly quiet around them; peaceful even.

Still …

“I hope it’s a little better than nice,” he couldn’t help but tease.

He didn’t need to look down to know that Thomas’s eyes were crinkling at the corners.

“It’s lovely,” Thomas smiled before he added with a wistful sigh, “Almost like a dream.”

The Captain pressed another kiss against his hair – an apology for not having done this before, and a reassurance that all the secrecy would end one day. He was not quite ready for the world, small as it might be in their case, to know about them; too many years spent hiding who he was had left their mark. But he could feel it becoming easier to imagine with every smile Thomas graced him with, be it small and shy or wide and full of joy. It was that smile he wanted to be brave for, and if that meant walking into the drawing room with Thomas holding hands one day and enduring Julian’s no doubt merciless teasing about it, then so be it. Their love deserved to be out in the open, not hidden away like some shameful thing.

“Thomas?” he asked softly. When no reply came, the Captain glanced down and found him fast asleep against his chest. Smiling softly to himself, he dropped another kiss onto Thomas’s head before he allowed his own eyes to close. If his calculations were right, they had about another hour until Film Club was over – long enough for them both to get some rest. The Captain realised it was risky but he trusted that the old grandfather clock would wake him in time.

And besides, if he had learned one thing about love it was that some people were worse the risk.

————

The next morning, after they’d all gathered for Food Club and it’d been Thomas’s turn, the Captain straightened his back, cleared his throat and, swagger stick pointing at Julian, said, “Now, Julian, personal feelings aside, Thomas’s choice for breakfast is perfectly reasonable. You’re just arguing for the sake of arguing now.”

He chanced a glance over to Thomas and was met with a small but breathtakingly beautiful smile.

Ah yes, the Captain thought to himself, pleased, as Julian rounded in on him with a lecture on respectable breakfast choices that did not include any mention of him using Thomas’s given name whatsoever. Well worth the risk.

#thomas thorne #the captain #capthorne #bbc ghosts #bbc ghosts fanfic #my fic #ask game prompt ficlet

[chocol4tte]

Greed!Hawks AU pt. 2

Note: I forgot about this until now that I read some dabihawks fics. Some things may have changed.

Greed didn't ask to join the LoV, he decided to become more of a friendly neutral "ally" with them. Even if he asked to join them, it was creepy not having anything from his origins, someone must know of this mutant man or something... but there is nothing. It's void.

He doesn't say mucha bout himself other than having a complicated background and one hell of a family, which I will later add in some HC.

In the meantime, Hawks is having two lives, as a hero with a sense of duty and happier persona, as well, as an ancient being named Greed, with more human-like emotions and someone being freer than he has even being in his most recent 20 years of life! He tries to get some information from the LoV, but he takes his sweet time as Greed as he builds their trust with them.

Thing that he gains when the LoV encounters the mafia woth Overhaul and just when things were going to get ugly and he attacks Magne, Greed is there to put himself as a barrier and while the quirk on him doesn't work at first glance he is more attacked until he is close to dying... but making sure that the LoV team got out of there safely.

He gets away from there in another direction and meets Eli, who is the first one who gets Eli out and supposedly leaves her in a safer place... which he couldn't accompany her since he was being chased out, but because of that, Eli meets Midoriya.

When Greed goes back to the main base in one piece, everyone, or almost everyone is glad to see him and try to patch him up... despite him being already healed. He appreciates the sentiment tho.

After that, they are closer to him and vice-versa.

He can see them now as more than villains, their motivations and ambitions, some not as noble as others, but as hurt people who is hating the world because the world hated them. He can relate to that as Greed back before he was the representation of the ambition of that old man, and how he wished to belong, only to be faced by the fact that he would never be human and accepting it.

When he thinks of the past which is a little more often, he misses his friends, even the little pea of Edward, and his soulmate and friend, Ling. He tried to find more information about his legacy and kingdom in old books, which ended up being one of the largest empires in China, he lived a long life before he succumbed to an illness... nothing much of him or even Edward or Amestris is documented, it haunts him, even if he denies it, he wishes to meet them... he would be satisfied by that.

The LoV notices that but don't know how to help him other than maybe distract him with some bs or something, since he still is a secretive fucker.

It's not until the LoV, after the attack woth Overhaul, that they meet one of the most dangerous people in the Chinese mafia, and it's none other than a young Ling, who scheduled a meeting Ina wah to analyze if the LoV was worth it.

Ling does meet Greed again, in the most tense place... the meeting. You see, Greed can become obnoxious when he is bored and wouldn't give a shit about manners (he would do as Hawks....when he is being watched) and casually enters the meeting room and when is about to be attacked by guns, everyone froze as Ling, the leader of the Chinese mafia and Greed murmur their names and Ling throws himself towards Greed in a ferocious bear hug, leaving everyone confused af.

Ling, after.crying of happiness of seeing his soulmate being alive and kicking he tears him.a new one about his last.sacrifice and how it broke him for years. In that rant, the league learns some incredulous things about Greed. (I'll add more details later)

That's all I can give for now, I'll write more.tomorrow... it's too late and I'm half asleep.rn

#bnha #boku no hero au #greedling #kinda #greed!hawks au #dabihawks #au #bnha au #hawks bnha #ling yao #dabi bnha #league of villains #im tired #i mean ling and greed as soulmates like brothers/friends

[niennandil-me-writes]

owed a life

CN: gore, violence, murder, war, trauma, gaslighting, characters in this writing voice opinions that go in the direction of the “trauma makes you evil” trope

Not a spell gonna be broken With a potion or a priest When you're cursed you're always hopin' That a prophet would be grieved Oh, Lazarus, how did your debts get paid? Oh, Lazarus, were you so afraid?

The Brothers Bright – Blood On My Name

Only when he had already opened the tent flap and walked inside, and the elf sitting hunched over the table looked up in disdain did Teo consider that maybe he should have asked if he could come in first. He cleared his throat.

“Christine Lys?”

“That’s me.” She stood, setting aside the knife she had used to dissect something placed on a wooden board set on the table. “Is there something I’m needed for?”

“You are the one who…” Teo needed a moment to find the right word. “Who brought me back?”

She was looking at him more attentively now, her eyes lingering on his face – and probably the big new scar stretching across it – a moment longer. “Yes, I remember. If you want to thank me – “

“That’s not why I’m here.”

Her brows furrowed again. Teo tried to remember if he had thanked her after he had woken up, but he couldn’t tell. It had all been so blurry then, and he hadn’t even known what exactly had happened. That he had been dead. He didn’t even remember her face afterwards, had had to ask around the camp if anyone knew which cleric it had been. Even now, it was hard for him to focus on her features, like it was often these days, like trying to hold on to fog. It felt like sleepwalking, in a way, impressions drifting past him without touching him. Ever since then, he couldn’t sleep, but he felt awake only half the time as well.

“I think something went wrong.”

Lys narrowed her eyes. “You are alive, are you not?”

This was a very loaded question.

“It doesn’t exactly feel like being alive,” he said, hesitantly.

She sighed. “Oh,  get it. We are years into a war that has been going on way too long, we are all stretched way too thin, I am assuming this is affecting you people just as much as us. I get an average four hours of sleep each night, and that’s not even counting the all-nighters I have to pull, trying to keep your comrades alive or – “, another sigh, “bringing people like you back to life. It’s hard work, and your higher-ups apparently expect me to work miracles. I have no doubt you feel similarly exhausted by all this – seeing all that violence and death sure can’t help.”

He tensed, but she didn’t seem to notice, just continued on: “So, if you don’t have any specific reason to talk to me, I’d suggest –  ”

“I don’t have a heartbeat,” he interrupted her.

She sucked in the air through pursed lips. “That is one side-effect resurrection can have. There is sometimes a quasi-undead residual to patients who were resurrected under sub-optimal conditions.”

He looked at her in confusion. He understood some of those words. “Undead?” he asked. “Like a zombie?”

“No, no!” Lys lifted her arms defensively. “Like someone who was already dead and got brought back. It didn’t affect any of your other bodily functions, did it?” She waved her arms at his general frame. “So I don’t see a problem.”

“But it did,” he said. “My senses are all wrong.”

“Uh huh…?”

“That’s the first thing I noticed. I don’t taste anything. Or rather, I do, but it doesn’t… feel like anything? It’s the same with smells. Textures. Anything, really. It’s all muted.” He struggled to find the words to describe it. How did you even describe something that was missing? Especially if you hadn’t even noticed it until it was gone. He had needed days to realize something was off, and even longer to be able to put his finger on it.

Lys didn’t seem impressed. “You have to excuse me for saying so, but that just sounds like trauma, and a pretty usual reaction at that, given the circumstances. You will have to forgive me my lack of empathy, but I really don’t have the means to handle this.”

“I thought that as well,” he said, still hesitant. “But that can’t be the only thing. I don’t think it is.” He thought for a moment. “I can’t sleep. I haven’t in two weeks. But it’s like my body doesn’t even need that anymore.”

“Well, that seems like an advantage – ”

“But it isn’t normal. Something changed in me when you brought me back. Something more than a missing heartbeat.”

Just another sigh, even more annoyed now. He only now realized what he must sound like to her with his voice flat and emotionless. She must think he had no urgency, just minor complaints.

“I don’t feel alive,” he repeated, searching for a way to make her understand. And then the words he hadn’t wanted to form before: “I don’t feel human. I don’t feel anything at all.”

“Now, you listen to me.” She walked around the table, leaning against the top, arms crossed. “I tried to have some patience here, but you came in here without even asking or knocking or whatever the hell you’re supposed to do before entering a tent, making accusations about how I do my job, when all I wanted to do is get my work done so I can finally catch up on some sleep. Do you know how long I sat there scratching every bit of your brain off the ground and reassembling it like a fucking 1000 part puzzle?” She pointed at the scar on his face.

“And did I even get a thanks from you?” she asked. “No, of course not. It’s back to battle, back to kill more people or get yourself killed so I can resurrect you right again. It’s all ‘Christine, resurrect this person, resurrect that guy, heal that battalion up quick’ so they can get back to bashing each other’s brains in like there’s no tomorrow. Never fucking mind that I don’t get any sleep, that I’m working overtime, that half the times they don’t even give me all the materials I need. And here you are, having the fucking audacity to complain. You would be dead without me, have you spent any thoughts on that at all? You know how many people die each day, how many people me and the other healers can’t save? Of course you know, you’re there when they drop like flies during the battles. So maybe show some fucking gratitude that you were one of the few deigned too important to be allowed to die. Not everyone’s that lucky!”

Teo waited for her to finish her rant. There was no anger in him. That still surprised him, but he was slowly getting used to that. That was the part that worried him the most.

“I have a family at home,” he said then. “A husband and a daughter. People I used to love more than anyone else. Now I have to strain to even remember their voices. All of that was just gone when I woke up.”

Lys rubbed her eyes. “You think you’re the only one – “

“It’s the same with people here,” he interrupted. “People who I used to consider friends. One of them died yesterday and all I thought – “ He stopped himself. “It’s like I’m all numb. Like I can’t feel anything, for anyone.”

“That’s what war is like. I didn’t think I’d have to tell you this, but that’s what it’s like when you’re surrounded by death. You start shutting it all out because – “

“Because you can’t carry the burden of everyone you fail to safe and everyone you’re forced to kill.” He rattled it off flatly. “I’ve been doing this for years, Lys. I know what that feels like. It isn’t this.”

She still looked unimpressed, tapping her fingers impatiently. Fuck it then.

“The only times I feel alive right now is during battles,” he explained. “I don’t remember the faces of the people I used to call friends, but I remember the faces of the people I’ve killed. Every detail of it.”

“Well –“

This time he didn’t even let her start the sentence. “When you start being a soldier, you remember the first person you killed. The second as well. You’re horrified at yourself. Around the tenth, you stop counting and start shutting it out, as you put it. No sense in carrying that with you. But I’ve started counting again. I’ve started looking them in the eyes again. And this time it’s not horror I feel, but joy.”

It was silent in the tent for a long while, as he waited for her reaction. She took a deep breath.

“Isn’t that what makes a soldier?” she asked then. “That you take joy in killing.”

Again, he wasn’t angry, but there was another thing rising up in him. He couldn’t place it yet, but he liked it. It filled the emptiness.

“A lousy soldier at best.” That’s what he used to think, anyway. Now his retort just sounded like a hollow phrase, even to himself.

“To me it just sounds like you got a lot better at doing your job. If you have a problem with murder, maybe you shouldn’t have joined.”

He stared at her. “There has to be something you can do. It was your – “

“No!” This time she interrupted him. “This has nothing to do with me. I’m exhausted, tired. Sick and tired of your accusations. I saved your life, that’s all I did. I’m a healer. And if you think that something changed, that there’s something wrong with you – well, sorry to say, but that was probably there before.”

He clenched his fists. “This isn’t normal. I can’t even look at anyone without thinking about how I want to kill them.” He stared her in the eyes.

“Are you threatening me?” she asked sharply.

Yes. “No!” Yes! “I’m asking for your help.”

Her body tensed. “There’s nothing I can do. Maybe you are fucked in the head, but that’s not my doing.” The disdain in her icy blue eyes was slowly replaced by fear. And oh, after all her bullshit seeing her afraid was so satisfying. “Leave. Now. Or I’ll inform your higher-ups of this.”

He stormed forward, closing his hands around her throat before a scream could escape from it. He squeezed until she was gasping for air and her eyes were bulging out.

“Let me go, you bastard”, she whispered with what little sound she could muster. She grabbed his arms, clawed at him, tried to get him off herself, but it was no use.

A part of him knew he should be horrified at himself. But he wasn’t. There was just that relief, feeling returning to his fingers right where he was cutting off her air, and spreading through his entire body from there. It felt like he was in a battle again, adrenaline rushing through him and making him feel alive for a short while.

“Do you still think that’s just normal for a soldier?” he said. His voice was trembling with excitement. He felt a grin stretch over his lips.

And there was that sweet fear in her eyes, asking how far he would take this, and he realized he didn’t know the answer. He knew he had proven his point. He also knew she’d start screaming for the night watch the moment he let her go. This would have consequences. None of that mattered to him right now. All he knew and all that mattered was the feeling that he hadn’t taken it far enough yet.

He threw her backwards, bashed her head against the table. A choked-up scream. For a moment her eyes rolled back into her head. Blood was streaming down from the laceration, clotting her long silky hair, and soon tears followed.

It was beautiful.

Suddenly, her arm shot to the side, and then the knife was in her hand. She stabbed at him, pierced his arm. Pain shot through him, making him let go, just long enough for her to catch a breath, but before she could call out, he was crushing her throat with one hand again, closing the other around her wrist. He chuckled, even as blood was running out of his burning wound. Her struggle was making this even more enjoyable for him, he realized. He twisted her hand until she let go of the knife and then grabbed it himself.

He held the blade to her throat. “If you scream, I’ll kill you,” he said.

He could see in her fear-speckled eyes that she believed him.

“Now tell me: Do you know any way to fix me?” He loosened his chokehold just enough for her to be able to suck in some air.

She sobbed: “I don’t know. It’s not my fault. I brought you back. You’d be dead if it weren’t for me. This isn’t my fault. Please!”

Her answer didn’t really matter. Teo had never killed anyone outside battle before. Had never ended the life of someone who hadn’t intended to do the same to him. This was new. This was exciting. He felt the resistance of her skin, her flesh, her windpipe against the steel as he pushed the knife down. When Lys started her last scream, he clamped his hand over her mouth so the blood bubbling from the gash was the only sound escaping her.

Teo took in every detail of her death. A murder, he noticed, gave him so much more time to pay attention, much more than a battle where after one kill he had to turn right to the next enemy. It gave him the opportunity to watch her body shutting down. Her hands cramping one last time around his arms and then letting go, arms falling slack. The slowing and then end to her attempts of breathing. The ceasing of her blood flow. And finally, the light in her eyes vanishing.

As he watched her skin grow pale and felt the warmth leave her body, Teo realized his mistake of making her death this quick. He should have cherished this, taken his time. But it was what it was.

He was trembling. He hadn’t felt this good in weeks. He held on to the feelings flooding through him, even as the first rush of euphoria left him and the consequences of his actions dawned on him.

If they found him here, he’d be tried for murder, found guilty and executed, there was no doubt about it. He found he wasn’t that upset by the idea. It wasn’t like what he currently had felt much like being alive anyway. If there was no way to fix him, death might be the better option. Maybe he should just turn himself in. That might even be seen as honorable, even if he didn’t give much of a damn about honor anymore. They might let him choose how he’d be killed, though. Might make his end a bit more fun. He wondered how they’d explain what had happened. What they’d tell his family.

He halted. His family. Dexter and Fey.

How would they react if they heard he was a murderer? He found he didn’t care that much. But he knew he should, and he knew – he hoped – he would care about them again, as soon as he returned.

That had to be it. He’d wait out the war, enjoy every battle and feel alive while he slaughtered the enemy soldiers. And then he’d return home, see his family again, and make new memories, memories that meant something to him, and he wouldn’t be this empty anymore.

But all of that couldn’t be if he was found with this corpse now. This had been a mistake. He regretted what he had done – at least he told himself he did. But what would it bring to be punished for it? What would it help Dexter or Fey if he was executed, and they were known as the family of a murderer? What would it help Christine Lys?

He got up, pulled the knife out of her wound, wiped it on her jacket and laid it on the table. The candles had fallen on the mud ground during their struggle, but some were still burning. He kicked them over to the tent walls, making sure a fire was spreading before he left.

He took care nobody saw him on his way back to his tent, cleaned and dressed the wound on his arm before he went inside, where everyone else was sound asleep, and laid down on his bedroll. He could hear screams outside as others became aware of the fire, but they were distant enough that nobody in his tent woke up, and nobody called for them, so he just ignored the noise.

Unable to fall asleep, he spent the hours until sunrise staring at the engravings on the axe lying on the ground next to him, while the high of the kill slowly faded away, along with all emotions and sensations it had brought.  

#my writing #oc writing #teo dagger #christine lys #gore #violence #christine is somewhere between customer service worker and doctor who doesn’t take your symptoms seriously #this whole story hinges on the idea that there is no competent murder investigation at this military camp

[spacedikut]

the very insecure dr reid ; spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x gn!reader

summary: “Could you write another fic about early Spence where he’s all insecure” combined with another request :) 5730 words

a/n: title taken from s1e5!! i wrote this months ago aka before i decided to try to make my fics gender neutral and i tried to make the appropriate changes but im also a dumbass so! yeah! 

masterlist

Spencer is a man of science, if you didn’t already know.

This means he doesn’t spend his time fretting over what isn’t there, what doesn’t have facts and evidence to back it up. Of course, he dabbles in reading conspiracy theories and enjoys learning about various religions and things of that sort, but these are to expand his already infinite knowledge, not because he particularly believes in them.

The first time he believed there was some kind of God was when you kissed him.

It was after the case where both Elle and Spencer were trapped on a train with a paranoid schizophrenic – he still remembers how you reacted when he agreed to being sent in, how you tried to keep it light-hearted but pulled him aside to solemnly tell him you didn’t think you’d be able to live without him (if you do something rash and stupid, Spencer, I swear to God-). You threatened to nipple cripple him if he did die, and it was weirdly motivating.

After he was checked over, and teased Elle about saving her life, you came crashing into him with an audible oof and a whisper of, “God you smell so good I’m so glad you’re okay don’t ever do that again.” It was probably the adrenaline, the near-death experience high, but instead of gently pushing you away like he’d do with anyone else, he discovers your waist has a wonderful dip that his arms fit perfectly into as he tugs you close.

He’s hugged people before, obviously, but it’s always different with you.

You must think so, too, because when you pull away just enough that you’re still in his arms but can clearly see his face, you take a minuscule intake of breath that Spencer wouldn’t notice if he wasn’t, you know, Spencer.

A strand of Spencer’s hair falls from where it was tucked, falling into his line of sight. Without hesitation you’re pushing it back, fingertips brushing against Spencer’s cheek as you fold the hair back behind his ear. Your eyes meet when there’s no obstruction, electricity crackling in Spencer’s ears when he realises there’s nothing between you, nothing stopping you, and there’s something about the lack of space between you and how he holds you that just makes you ask-

“Would it be weird if I kissed you right now?”

Immediately, Spencer thinks yes. Not because he doesn’t want you to (he couldn’t think of anything better to do, to be honest), or because of where you are (although, knowing the whole team is not far away does make him feel a little funny), it’s because he’s him. Gangly, awkward, with very sweaty hands that feel at home on your body, and you don’t want to kiss that. You can’t want to.

Yet, he shakes his head, and finds himself copying you when you lean in and close your eyes.

It’s short, sweet, and somewhat weird. He thinks he blacks out, loses himself in your lips despite it happening so quickly.

When you pull back, Spencer’s eyes remain closed for a good few seconds before he’s brought back to Earth. And he doesn’t know what to say - pretty people don’t just… kiss him. They certainly don’t ask if they can kiss him, then follow through, and… stare at him like that.

“Has anyone seen Reid? Y/L/N?”

Whatever was supposed to happen after, whether it was good or bad, you’ll never know. Hotch’s footsteps are thundering towards you and, despite your daze, you step away from Spencer just as he spots you.

The second time he believed there was a God, he asked you on a date. And you said yes.

Neither of you mention the kiss. In your defence, he supposes, it happened merely an hour ago – everyone’s rushing to get back to Quantico so no one’s had time to make any kind of small talk, let alone have the talk after a kiss.

Elle gives Spencer a look of confusion when she slides past him, moving into the jet as he hovers in the entryway. He’s obviously waiting for someone, passing out tight lipped smiles to the team when they all squeeze past. Spencer isn’t a big guy, but it’s bizarre for him to be standing there like that, swaying like the palm tree he is – he’s usually setting up for yet another game of chess with Gideon at this moment.

Then you shuffle on, faltering when you catch him waiting for you but smile nonetheless. He straightens, hands remaining in his pockets when his mouth opens to speak. You interrupt him (before he can make a fool of himself, thank God).

“Wanna sit together?” You ask, eyes never leaving his. He nods and follows you like the lost puppy he is.

The second you invite him to sit next to you instead of opposite he wants to pull you tight into his side, but that seems like too much. He’s not Derek, for Heaven’s sake, and you’re not Garcia – all you’ve done is kiss once and really, when he thinks about it, you were probably on an adrenaline high too, so it might’ve been a heat of the moment thing. It happens, Spencer’s read about it, and although it would break his heart that it meant nothing, it’s likely. Oh, it’s so likely.

Spencer might be the first one on the team to cry on the BAU jet.

Halfway home, the team is lost in their own pass-times to notice when you bookmark your page and place your book on the table.

“Spence,” You whisper, testing if he’s awake.

He is. He hasn’t been able to catch a wink of sleep, no matter how hard he tries. “Yeah?”

“I’m sorry if what I did earlier- you know-“ You gesture vaguely in the air, completely oblivious to the fact Spencer is very familiar with what happened earlier because he can’t stop replaying it, “-If that made you uncomfortable. Or if I forced you, or-“

“Would it be weird if I asked you on a date when we land?”

The grin you send him shoots straight to his heart, eyes crinkling with laughter at his echo of the words you used earlier. If you notice you don’t mention it, but his hands can’t stop fidgeting under the table, slick with sweat.

“It’d only be weird if you don’t kiss me after.” You say.

His brows furrow, a small incredulous laugh leaving him. “What? Why?”

“We’ve already had our first kiss, so it’s out of the way.”

“Are you saying… You want to kiss me again?”

You thought that was obvious from when you kissed him earlier, but you’re happy to remind him. “Yes. I would like that very much.”

“Okay,” He says, bashfully, with a lick of his lips. “I can- I can arrange that.”

This time, when you turn back to your book, your head finds his shoulder and Spencer thinks his it has turned to gold, blessed by being touched by you. Would it be too much if, the second you get back to base, he writes about this moment in great detail to his mother?

+++

All of that leads to now, where The Date is in three days.

He plans to take you to his favourite book café, a place you’ve always wanted to go but never had the chance to, and he was so, so excited. Any time he gets to spend with you is cherished and means more to him than it does to you, because to him it’s an excuse for you to give him more reasons to fall in love with you. And he does - fall in love - every single day.

Was is the important word here. He’s not excited anymore.

It’s terrifying how quick the tides can change.

Just this morning, he was glancing with child-like excitement at the outfit he’s already chosen for the date. You brought him some coffee, whispering an endearing, “Three days!” as you did, and, according to Derek, Spencer’s love eyes (what the hell does that mean) were so big even Derek fell in love with you for a second.

Now, Spencer’s not territorial, but that comment stuck with him. Maybe that’s why he’s here now.

He has to cancel the date.

It pains him – God, does it pain him – but he has to. He can’t go on that date with you. He can’t… put you through that. Make you spend time with him and have to let him down gently, slowly, like you’re talking down a temper tantrum. He can’t then pretend everything’s okay in front of the team. He won’t be able to pretend, because he’s liked you for months.

He won’t force you to go on that date with him. You deserve better than that, and better than him.

That’s what it comes down to: you deserve better than him.

It started that morning with Derek, as previously mentioned. Then the team was whisked away on a case, and the detectives were all over you. JJ, too, but they were too intimidated by Elle and Morgan, who just laughed at their attempts to impress you. It was borderline inappropriate, but you were too concerned with the victims and finding a serial killer to pay some officers and detectives you’ll never see again any attention.

Spencer noticed, though. And he couldn’t concentrate.

The detectives are dressed too well – by that, he means the suits and the Rolex watches are way above their paygrade – and they keep emphasising how good looking you and JJ are and how lucky the BAU is to have such dolls working on the team. What is this, the 40s? Who calls anyone doll anymore? And, yes, the team is very lucky to have you and JJ, but because you’re both great minds and wildly intelligent people that, yes, are also very gorgeous, but your looks aren’t all you have to offer, thank you very much.

There’s a detective approaching you, again, as you stand by the water cooler.

Spencer frantically looks around, trying to find a member of the team. “Morgan!” He weakly calls, because Spencer won’t scare him off. Maybe Morgan can chase them away like they’re stray cats, with his big muscles and scary eyebrows. Or Elle, who earlier merely lifted an eyebrow and the officers scattered like cockroaches.

All he catches of the conversation between you and the model/detective at the cooler is, “I appreciate it, but no thank you,” and that’s all he needs to hear.

He should’ve known someone would eventually make a move. You’ve said no, clearly, and Spencer doesn’t understand why. I mean, yes, he knows why – you have a prior engagement – but the detective… As much as he’s kind of a dick, he complements you better than Spencer does. Physically.

And there starts the spiral.

There must be something in the water, because every officer and detective and everyone in between is in peak physical condition with dashing looks to boot. They’re all straight out of a magazine, as if the popular kids from Spencer’s high school graduated and followed him here to remind him he is incredibly unworthy of you.

Spencer is lanky, unlike the broad men and curvaceous women here, and slicks his hair to the side rather than up like the others. He wears sweater vests, not blazers, and he’s so skinny that his trousers always look like hand-me-downs – nothing is fitted, like so many outfits are here.

They’re all everything Spencer is not. And Spencer is realising, quite quickly, that they’re the better ones – and that’s what you deserve. Better. The best.

It gets worse when they deliver the profile.

He finds his spot next to you, gives you a tight lipped smile, then looks at the outfits of his team compared to his own. Both Hotch and Morgan wear dark suits, well-proportioned and sophisticated in a way that Spencer is sure isn’t even in his calibre. Elle wears a deep green t-shirt, tucked into her tight black pants, and looks wonderfully intimidating with her double gun holster wrapped around her shoulders.

And you. You.

You wear a white shirt tucked into nicely tailored trousers, hair effortlessly styled with a pen tucked behind your ear. You all look like FBI agents. Intimidating. Prepared. Put-together.

Spencer… looks like he’s still in high school. He threatens no one, intimidates no one, and definitely does not make anyone feel inferior with his masculinity. He’s not an alpha male, is what he’s trying to say, and for each person he encounters in this wretched police department he feels himself shrinking.

So when they give the profile, he tries to say as little as possible. Tries to attract as little attention as possible, so when Hotch says his usual, “Thank you.” He can slip away unnoticed and hide from the superior beings.

It works, given everyone is too busy trying to save lives. Except you notice, and Spencer has to pretend he’s okay when you find him at the evidence board and tell him you’re excited for the date. He wants to believe you, truly does, but no matter how hard he digs into his brain to find a part of him that can fathom you see him as a better option than literally anyone else, it doesn’t exist.

You don’t seem to notice. He tells himself he’s glad, but there’s no denying the disappointment.

+++

Hotch calls it a night when the clock nears midnight. He says the team should get as much rest as possible and come in with fresh eyes tomorrow – despite this, the team knows most if not all of them will get little to no sleep, given that they’ll all be going over everything they’ve got so far in their hotel rooms.

You slink up to Spencer, a pep in your step even though you’re running on pure caffeine and nothing else. It’s then Spencer realises he has to do it now, because if he does it in the police department then he’ll be called unprofessional, but if he waits any longer than that he’ll be cutting too close and that’s a bad look.

“Y/N,” He says, coming to a stop before the elevators, allowing the rest of the team to head up. “I need to say something.”

You nod with a smile, covering a cute yawn when he takes a couple seconds to gather his thoughts.

You’re not sure what he’s gonna say, but you assume it’ll be to do with the date. Maybe a change of time, or a change of venue – he did mention the library café can get super busy on weekends – or, worst case scenario, the date will have to be postponed for whatever reason. And none are particularly bad, because you’re excited and just want to be with Spencer – it doesn’t matter if it’s not when he originally planned or where he originally planned.

But Spencer has always unwittingly been full of surprises.

“We can’t go on that date.”

Instantly you ask, “Why not?”

“Well-“ He seems caught off guard, like he wasn’t expecting you to question the sudden change of heart, “It’s complicated-“

“I’ve got time.”

“We should go to sleep-“

“Is it your mother?”

“No. No, it’s not.” Of course you look empathetic when you consider his mother might need him – a stab to the start. Add in the flicker of concern in your eyes – two stabs to the heart. “It’s not her. It’s- it’s nothing. Just, can we cancel?”

“And reschedule?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

The disappointment is clear on your face and makes Spencer feel so guilty, but not guilty enough to take it back. You’re not disappointed that you’re missing out on dating him, you’re frustrated that you’ve been building up to having plans on the weekend and they’ve suddenly been cancelled without reason. By Spencer, of all people. In a couple months’ time you’ll thank him, when you’re dating some bodybuilder who can grow a mean beard. You’ll thank him for not making you go on that date with him and forcing you to tell him you’re just not my type, Spence, and making everything awkward.

He can’t look at you. Maybe that’s why he misses the genuine sadness, the sudden glassiness of your eyes that humiliates you enough to make you angry. His words have ignited a fire in your chest that burns through your body like you’re made of gasoline, and you wish you could turn your thoughts off so you don’t start questioning how long he’s been wanting to reject you, if he even wanted to date you in the first place, how embarrassing it is to have been so openly eager when, apparently, he was very much not.

“I’m sorry.” He says, like it’ll do anything. He still can’t look at you and he feels like a coward.

“Yeah.” You sniffle.

He decides to take the stairs. You head for the bar, just for one drink.

+++

The following day, when an officer tries to talk to you, you blatantly ignore him. You tell him that unless it’s work-related, you’re really not interested, and word spreads quick that your pleasantries have died out and you’re not in the mood to tolerate creepy compliments.

There’s a permanent frown on your face that haunts Spencer the entire day. He knows exactly what’s going on – it’s his fault, after all – and he finds himself simultaneously avoiding you whilst witnessing your downcast mood.

Morgan starts investigating not long after you barely react to his terrible joke. He makes them for you, because you either choke on laughter or throw your pen at him, but this time it was like you weren’t even in the room. When Morgan poked you and asked if you heard him, your lacklustre reply was, “Hm? Yeah, good one.”

Morgan perches on the desk Spencer’s using. “You got any idea what’s going on with Y/N?”

“They’re mad at me.”

“You’re the reason they’re like this?”

Spencer doesn’t physically react, just says, as casually as possible, “Unless another person asked them on a date then cancelled without reason, then yes. It’s my fault.”

There’s no point in lying. Especially to Derek. Spencer doesn’t know how you’ll go about explaining your sudden poor mood, if you’ll curse his very existence or lie about it, but Spencer’s never been a good liar and the sooner everyone knows it’s his fault and he sucks, the better.

Morgan leans forward, attempting to make eye contact with the doctor who very much does not want to. “There’s a story there.”

“Obviously.”

“…You wanna go ahead and explain it?”

“Not really.”

“Alright,” Derek shrugs, “You stir in your sadness and continue being a sourpuss, I’ll go check up on Y/N and find out what really happened.”

Derek’s barely moved off the table when Spencer stops him, voice small like a child, “Wait, Morgan, I-“

You walk past then, too focused on a suspect list faxed in by Garcia to pay attention to anyone else. Spencer’s eyes follow you the whole time, and the look in Spencer’s twinkling eyes make Morgan slump back onto the table in realisation.

“Why’d you cancel, Reid?”

“I had to.”

“You had other plans?”

Spencer chews his bottom lip. “No. But I… I couldn’t take them on a date.”

Derek waits for him to elaborate.

“Have you seen the kind of guys hitting on them?” Spencer asks, scooting his chair closer so no one can eavesdrop. “They’re all… They’re- they’re like you, Morgan. All cool and put-together and actually look their age, for one, and I’m not that. I could never be that – and that’s what Y/N wants-“

“Have you asked them that?”

“No. But I’m a profiler, in case you forgot, and I think it makes sense that these big-shouldered, super muscly guys are all over-“

“But you haven’t actually asked them what they want.”

“No.” Spencer sighs, leaning back in his chair.

“That’s your first, and most vital, mistake, my man.”

Spencer purses his lips, catching you watching him over Derek’s shoulder. You immediately look away, shooting off to the evidence room as an escape, and Spencer’s cheeks burn with guilt and embarrassment.

He can’t believe he thought he had a chance with you.

“I feel like this should be obvious, Genius, but Y/N said yes to a date with you, then turned down every offer that came from someone that wasn’t you-“

“That’s because they already made plans with me and they’d feel terrible if they had to cancel for another, better offer. I made it easier for them.”

Derek gives him such an incredulous look Spencer wonders if he should burn his PhDs. “Are you serious?”

The crestfallen expression on Spencer’s face is enough of an answer.

“Come with me.”

“What?”

“C’mon,” Derek tugs Spencer up from his chair. “I need to show your dumb ass something.”

All that’s missing is classic spy music when Derek and Spencer sneak into the conference room the BAU is using. Only Hotch is in there, scribbling something down, barely glancing up when the two agents creep in like they’re on a mission.

Spencer doesn’t say anything until Derek reaches for your bag. “Whoa- Morgan-“

“Relax.”

Spencer just stares, brows halfway down his face, and watches silently.

“That’s they’re journal, Morgan, you can’t just read it-“

“It’s not, pretty boy.”

Hotch watches the interaction, mildly confused, then nods to himself when he realises what Morgan’s holding.

Morgan splays the journal on the table in front of them, flipping through pages with precision like it’s his notebook and not yours. When he lands on his desired page, it’s slid towards Spencer.

He reads it.

The Doctor Spencer Reid cheat sheet. (Because I do not have an eidetic memory and feel bad whenever I forget something he tells me)

He’s too stumped by the words cheat sheet to look further, so Derek does it for him, flipping to the next page where very basic information about Spencer sits – full name, date of birth, hometown. As he looks to the page next to it, he realises it’s full of his favourite things – favourite coffee, favourite candy (which has multiple answers, by the way), even favourite pair of socks. Like a switch has been flipped, Spencer comes to life, frantically switching between pages that are overflowing with facts and tidbits about him, from his favourite monologue from his favourite film to his favourite shelf in his apartment. All things he’s told you either in passing or when he’s confided in you at random times, you’ve taken note. You’ve listened, and for some reason you’ve written it all down so you’d never forget.

“What…What is this?”

“It’s everything there is to know about you, Reid.” Derek watches as Spencer slips through the rest of the book, filled with random to-do lists and phone numbers of various people, looking for the same information about the rest of the team. “There’s only one for you, you know. And if you ask me it’s a little creepy, but it’s saved our asses when it’s come to buying gifts for you a good few times.” He slaps a hand on his friend’s shoulder, smirking at how Spencer’s awe-filled eyes never leave the pages before him. “They care about you a lot, Reid. More than you think. So…”

“I need to talk to them.”

“Yes, idiot, you do.”

+++

That night, Elle and Derek invite you to join them for some drinks at the bar, promising they won’t let it escalate to arm wrestling and childish bets like they always do. Even though they make a compelling argument, add on that you’re stressed and upset and really, really want to forget emotions exist more than anything else, you’re half tempted to accept and lose yourself in some cocktails.

Then you spot Spencer talking in hushed tones with Gideon and everything comes flooding back. So you tell Elle to have a drink for you, please don’t make a ruckus when she gets back to your shared room, and bid them adieu.

In your room, you distract yourself by renting one of your favourite movies. It’s overpriced, and a part of you wants to look over the case files again, but being sad and burnt out won’t lead to any good outcomes.

It’s a futile attempt at switching your brain off so you don’t have to think about how excited you were for the date. You’ve had twenty-four hours to get over it, but every time you see him you’re thrown back into the bitterness you feel – bitter that you fooled yourself into thinking it’d work out, bitter that your hopes were so high, bitter that you let your feelings for Spencer become such a big part of your life.

You’re lying on your scratchy hotel bed, thinking about Spencer and how he’s going to be complaining to Morgan about said scratchy beds, when there’s a knock at your door.

Naturally, you assume its Elle. She reminds you so much of your older sister who used to slide you some money so you’d stay up late into the night and quietly let her back into the house after she’s sneaked off to go to a party – except Elle is probably swaying outside your hotel room after losing her keycard rather than swaying on your doorstep.

So when you open the door, teasing quip ready, you legitimately choke when you’re faced with a fidgety Spencer Reid.

He tries to ignore how the way your face drops when you realise it’s him feels like a punch to the gut.

“Hey-“

“No.”

“Oh.”

“You-what-“ He’s never seen you so flustered. “Are you lost?”

Just in case, Spencer leans back to check the number beside your door is in fact 208. It is, and he turns back to you, “Please don’t slam the door in my face.”

It slips out. “I wouldn’t do anything to jeopardise your pretty face.”

You’re humiliated that he has this effect on you, the ability to obliterate all your filters and common sense just by existing. But the look on his face alleviates the want to jump out of the window – his mouth opens, twitching into the smallest, most bashful smile before it falls and morphs back into disbelief. You just… You just called his face pretty, a word that makes some feel emasculated but no, never with you. You compliment people and mean it, which makes Spencer’s guilt worsen and the urge to tell you he loves you with his entire heart more intense.

You speak at the same time.

“Why are you-“

“I wanted to-“

You roll your lips together, holding back a smile, and nod for him to go on. He does the same, so you shake your head with a, “I was just asking why you’re here.”

He holds up a finger, signalling one moment, and opens his satchel to start rummaging in it. “I know this is a complete invasion of privacy, and theft, really, but Morgan showed me it and I just- Why do you have this?”

You gasp.

In his hand is the journal you’ve been working on since a month into your employment at the BAU. The gifted notebook was initially used to jot down any bits of advice your superiors gave you (on your first day, Elle gave you a list she lovingly titled “If I wasn’t an FBI agent I’d sock these people in the mouths”) but, before you knew it, it had an entirely different purpose.

It started when you witnessed Derek stumble when asked Spencer’s favourite colour, to which he said no one remembers stuff like that! Aptly followed by Spencer reeling off everyone’s preferred colours (even delving into second favourites and favoured colour schemes) and you realised then that… Spencer’s whole life, he’s remembered so much about the people around him and very rarely have they returned the favour. So, in an attempt to build friendship and because you had the fattest crush on him already, you started the Spencer Reid cheat sheet.

You didn’t think he’d ever see it, even if it’s always used by the team on various occasions. It was the team’s little secret, bar Spencer, that assisted in nearly every decision made on Spencer’s behalf – what to order from restaurants, drinks, birthday and holiday gifts, how to comfort him when he’s stressed or upset.

The responses vary. Derek thinks it’s weird, as did Elle at first, but JJ and Garcia insist its sweet and, really, no matter what they think they’ve all come running to you when time has called for it.

“How… Did you steal it?”

“Yes,” He tells you, guiltily, “I had to read it – it’s incredibly accurate, by the way.”

You don’t know if that’s a compliment or not.

“So… Why?”

“I don’t know,” You say, a bold-faced lie and Spencer can tell, but he lets you continue, “You remember everything about everyone else, so I wanted to… do the same for you, I guess.”

“I have an eidetic memory.”

You airily laugh – does he think you forgot that? “I know that. Doesn’t it get tiring recalling all this information about your friends and not having it reciprocated?”

He clicks his tongue at that, eyes falling back to the notebook in his hands that he fiddles with while he thinks. It is tiring, he supposes, but that’s how it’s always been. He remembers everything, the people around him just… don’t. He realised at a young age that he’ll often have to remind himself that friendship isn’t measured by what they remember, but by other ways – like this. You, with your unassuming journal that is full of things Spencer assumed no one would ever care to remember.

You, with your tensed jaw and fluttering eyes because you’re embarrassed.

You, who’s done quite possibly the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for him, and it’s been happening for years right under his nose.

You, who he cancelled a date with because he was so sure you were dating him out of pity, out of obligation after he asked and you felt forced to say yes, but now he realises you care about him just as much as he cares for you.

Touched feels like an understatement.

“Y/N…”

“If you find it weird, I’ll burn it the second we get home. Pretend it never happened, we can… discuss a restraining order if we must-“

“Y/N.”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

“Oh.”

He smiles at you, hands tight on the book in his hands, smiles so big that his eyes crinkle and his teeth show and he looks gorgeous. It tugs directly on your heart strings and just for a second you forget that he cancelled your date, forget that you’ve been pining for years, and bask in the warmth that radiates from him.

“This is… Insane, really.” He laughs, “But also so… so cool. I don’t deserve this, at all, and to think we could’ve gone on a date but I chickened out-“

“What?”

He shrugs with faux-nonchalance. “The-um- the reason I took back the date was because I think you deserve so much better than me. In a, you deserve someone like all the police officers down at the PD, kind of way. I don’t want a pity date-“

You scoff, then with an indignant, “Come in here,” You grab Spencer’s satchel and tug him into your hotel room, closing the door with a forceful push as he turns to face you.

With your hands on your hips, you stare him down with furrowed brows and a look that screams really? “Is that really what you think, Spence? It was a pity date?”

“Well, yeah,” He tells you. The conviction in his voice is so strong that, if you weren’t this riled up, you’d probably tear up at how sure he sounds.

You give another scoff. “Not only am I offended you think I’d do that to anyone, but I’m also mad that you don’t see how I look at you! Spencer, I’ve been into you since I started working here-“ His mouth falls open. You’re exasperated. “-and the notes were a way to get to know you, yes, but they were also because I couldn’t stop watching you and had to play it off like I was doing it for a reason. You’re my favourite, Spencer.”

His heart aches a little, full of such a tenderness he’s never quite felt before. He feels loved, and so, so touched that someone would put so much effort into getting to know him and… years. Literal years you’ve liked him, and he’s been blind to it.

“I like you a lot.” You’re breathless after your little speech, “And if you still don’t want that date, that’s okay. But I like you, Spence, I really like you.”

Your gaze never wavers. Spencer wants to scoop you up and place kisses all over. For the first time in a while, he feels worthy. Like what you’re saying isn’t being said for the sake of it, because you’re his friend and you have to support him, but because it’s what you genuinely think and feel and Spencer might be in love.

He swallows deeply before speaking.

“I really like you, too, Y/N. And I’m-I’m sorry that I cancelled the date and- I should’ve talked to you, maybe, before doing it, but… We’re here now, right?”

“You want to have a date right now?”

Thumbing through the book, he says, “Actually, there’s some blanks in here I’d like to fill, if you’re not busy…”

You’re very clearly on board with the suggestion, basically skipping to your bed, plopping down and patting the space beside you with a grin. “I’m not busy at all, Doctor Reid. Tell me everything I don’t already know.”

So he does, thigh pressed against yours and blush on his cheeks when you let your head fall onto his shoulder.

The night is spent giggling over the most random information you’ve gathered, correcting only one mistake (his favourite socks change every week, not your fault), and adding onto the already plentiful fact file.

And the date that weekend happens, ending in a sweet kiss on your doorstep that leaves you both with shy smiles and thundering hearts.

It’s the first date of many, followed by the creation of a new journal full of all there is to know about your and Spencer’s relationship.

+++

tags: @pinkdiamond1016 @bluerose512 @andreasworlsboring101 @bitchyreids @roses-and-grasses @ta-ka-shi-ma @chiffonchronicles @rexorangecouny @unmistakablyunknown @goofygubler14 @jasongideonapologist @gublertoon @averyhotchner

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds x y/n #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds fanfic #i tried to write the first half in the past tense but i got confused so sorry if the tenses r weird

[plush-rabbit]

The Brothers + Diavolo Making You Flustered

Request: Hi!hi! The aphrodisiac writing was absolutely *chefs kiss*. I have this habit of when I get embarrassed/flustered I immediately bury my face into the surface in front of me. Like if I’m sitting on the floor I’ll lean over and bury my face on the carpet, sitting at a table I’ll lean over and plant my face on the surface etc. How do you think the brothers (+diavolo if that’s okay) would react to seeing MC do that for the first time when they make them flustered? You’re so talented by the way! ily!

Word Count: 1K each

A/N: I hope you like this!! It was a bit difficult since i didn't want to make everything the same, but yeah!!

-

Lucifer:

His sleeves are rolled up, flour coating the tips of his fingers and dusting across his apron, and the smell of garlic and onion fills the room. It smells lovely, it smells like a home. You stand beside Lucifer, watching as the water boils, bubbles fizzling out and steam rising. A box of noodles is held in your hands, your eyes peering over to where the bread is held in his hands. Your tongue peeks between your lips- it’s a soft pink, tinged with blue from candy and for a moment, he forgets himself, wanting to taste the candy that rests on your tongue, wishing that he were your lips to feel the gentle caress of your tongue.

“Remind me what we’re making again?” You ask, sniffing at the pot, only to scrunch your nose at the scent. “And why it’s us making it?”

“A Devildom dish,” he responds, giving a side glance. “It’s similar enough to a human cousine, so you needn’t worry about it being anything unsavory.” He turns to you, his smile almost teasing. “And we’re making it because it’s our turn on cooking duty.”

“If you wanted to spend time with me, you could always ask.” While your words are true, he tries to hold his composure, not wanting to reveal that you had hit the nail on its head. “You don’t have to assign us both to cooking duty. It’s pretty sneaky for you, dear Lucifer.” Your hand pats at his back and he promptly turns away from you

Walking away from you, he starts the timer on the oven, the preheat button lights up as the oven begins to glow. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I drew our names on a complete random.” He turns to you, his smile making you unable to see what he’s really thinking. “Do you not wish to spend time with me?” he asks cooly, walking towards you. Despite the flour on his hands that dusts over his face, and the apron wrapped around him, he still holds an aura of confidence and authority that makes you break away from his gaze first.

“You’re absolutely awful,” you mutter, giving him a grin to let him know that it was a playful insult.

“And yet, you’re still here,” he coos, his grin wicked and cool at the same time. “I must not be totally awful if you still wish to spend time with me.” You groan, shaking your head with a smile on your lips and he turns to hide his more giddy smile, smiling calmly when the oven beeps. The preheat session is done. He opens the oven, a wave of hot air making him knit his brows together for a moment. “There’s no need to be ashamed of being so fond of me. I am Pride, it’s only natural that you would gravitate towards me.” He grabs the rack of bread, carefully slipping it inside the oven and closing the door.

“Well you’re a lot more than Pride to me.” His eyes widen and he turns to you, his body facing towards the oven with his head half-turned. “You’re Lucifer. You’re someone close to me and well, I actually am glad that we got to spend time together. I would love to hear you admit that you simply wanted to spend time with me, but-” you shrug- “you’ve got that stubborn pride that I can’t help but adore.” You turn to him, a cheeky smile on your face that matches the light in your eyes.

It’s silent between the two of you. It’s comforting, one that is welcomed and isn’t making either of you awkward. He watches as you carefully stir the pot, your index skimming under the words of the cookbook. Your brows furrow as you carefully read over the direction, careful to not add the wrong ingredient or wrong measurement. You’re methodical, carefully going about everything, and in the kitchen with Lucifer, he can’t help but smile at you, his smile soft and eyes crinkled as he watches you carefully.

“I know I haven’t told you this enough- or perhaps before-” silverware clinks together as he reaches over from a baking brush, his eyes never leaving yours- “but I’m actually quite proud of you.” He tears his gaze away from you, his smile widening and his chest puffing. “You have this knack about you that makes it so easy for others to fall for you, that I have to admit that even I have fallen victim to you.” The baguettes are painted over with a mixture of garlic and spices, his words never stopping or falling to hesitation as he speaks. “You’re-” he sighs, not knowing how to put what he wants to say into words- “I’ve been Lucifer for such a long time, living and holding power, but I must say, when I’m around you, I feel more me than I ever had in my entire existence.” He turns his body to you, his hands open and knuckles brushing over your cheek, a thin line of white left against your face. “I’m glad that I’ve gotten to meet you.”

His eyes widen, his words finally registering to his ears. He looks up, eyes meeting the stone wall before he turns to you, his mouth agape and hands still holding a baguette, and the baking brush. The garlic and onion sizzle on the stove, the yellow glow of the kitchen and the buzzing sounds of the outside do everything to fill the room, not a single ounce of silence is graced to either of you.

“You can’t just say stuff like that!” You say in a hurried tone, your face hot enough that you can feel sweat start to bead. “It’s- It’s-” you can’t find the proper words, it isn’t embarrassing but it isn’t something that you hear everyday- “Ah!” You decided, burying your face further into the table, your hands cushioning the blow.

His hand claps over your back, slowly rubbing between your shoulder blades in an attempt to soothe you over. “I would have thought you would have enjoyed hearing the truth,” he teases lightly. “Was I wrong about that assumption?” he presses, his elbow nudging against your shoulder where you still lay with your head rested in your hands.

You peer upwards, your face slowly revealed to show a flushed color that makes his chest puff with pride, his smile . “You wanna know why I know that you wanted to spend time with me?” Lucifer raises his brows in confusion. “I hadn’t written down my name yet.” His smile twitches away for a moment. “You called it before I could even write my name down.” You smile at him, your smile gentle. “I still have the paper in my pocket. You really like me, huh Lucifer?”

Mammon:

Textbooks are left open, pencils and pens sprawled over the coffee table as you and Mammon rest on the couch. He talks vividly, and as he’s excited to tell you stories of his past, his mouth works faster, skipping over details and returning to them moments later. Your hands are wrapped tight around his bicep, your face hidden as you try to stifle your laughter. He can feel your hands tighten, the way that you cling to him and even try to push yourself closer to him. “So that was when I decided to just grab all the things I could carry and just book it!” Mammon exclaims, clapping his hands together and extending his right arm forward. “You should’ve seen how angry those witches were, but hell, they deserved it for thinking they could pull one over on me.” He turns to you, his grin wicked, slowly widening as he leans back cautiously to not let you move away from him. “Fuckers should’ve known to not touch my stuff.”

You let out a laugh, shaking your head and leaning onto him. His smile twitches for a second, softening into a gentler smile, watching as you turn your face into his arm, trying to stifle your laughter. It’s loud, infectious and it’s something that reminds him of a spring day that he once spent in the Human Realm. He isn’t sure how to explain it- something about it that screams life and youth, something that sounds so unapologetically like you, that it makes him breathless. When you start to pull away, he lets his grin widen, eager to look at you again.

He’s so close to you, your hand within arm’s reach that if he really wanted to, he could just take it in his. His mouth goes dry, his tongue too invasive in his own mouth and he watches as you adjust your hair, his eyes fixated on how your hair slips through your fingers. There are words stuck in his throat, but no matter what he thinks of to say, he isn’t sure what he should say. He’s at a loss, wondering what would be the perfect way to bring back the mood, to continue the conversation without it being forced, but in all honesty, he’s fine, just sitting here with you. He’s more than fine with just staring at you.

“Hey, Mammon?” He jolts at his name being said, a shock running through his spine. He nods his head, swallowing what little saliva is in his mouth. “I really like hearing your stories, you know?” You smile softly at the book in your hands. He watches you with unblinking eyes, wondering what it is that you’re getting at. “I really just like listening to your voice. I know you were stuck with me at first-” internally he flinches, he doesn’t like to reminisce when you were first put under his charge- “but I’m glad that it was you.” He is left breathless, his muscles tense as you look at him, a smile stretching past your lips and gracing your lips. You look at him for a moment, your eyes darting to where his hand is clenched tightly and you nod to yourself, turning your attention back to the book.

You’re facing away from him, your fingertips tracing over the edge of a page as you try to focus on the words but he can tell from the pout on your lips that you aren’t registering anything from the book. What should he say? What can he say? He knows he has to say something. He knows that he should match your energy or at least attempt to but he can’t. There are so many things he wants to tell you, and they all seem so disorganized. You’re pretty. You’re nice to him and you always let him sneak into your bedroom late at night. You rely on him and as much as you need him, he needs you more. You have such a soft touch that it leaves him tingling all over as if some ghost were the one responsible for it. He lets out a slow breath, his lips parted slightly as he breathes out. “You know,” he says quietly, his fingers twitching and moving to clutch at the end of your shirt, “you got a real nice laugh. It’s nice to spend time with you, ya know?” Once he’s started talking, he’s unable to quiet himself, unable to register the things that he’s saying to you. “I like hanging out with other demons and all, but there’s something about you that I like more. It’s like with you-” his hand waves in the air, eyes glancing around your room- “I get to just feel safe. I get to relax and know that I can count on you. And I want you to know that no matter what, I’ll always be on your side. Forever and ever.” Mammon turns his head, his smile stretched wide and hand going to cover yours. “You turned me into a sap, ya know?’”

The moment is tender as he smiles down at you, only to slowly realize the weight of his words as you stop in your movements, your fingers letting the page fall back to the others, words lost upon themselves as your shoulders rise. His eyes widen and his lips thin. Heat creeps upwards from his chest and scorches its way to mar his features, his face turning into a darker shade as he flushes. His mouth goes dry, unable to produce any type of saliva as he sits beside you. Slowly, his mouth parts, and he’s unable to find the words to deny what he just said, but before he can, you curl in on yourself, burying your way into your hands, your hands spread and fingers parting to cover as much of your face as it can.

“I-” he coughs loudly into the rook of his elbow. You can tell that he wants to resort to his usual denial of feelings but he stops himself before he can even reach the middle of his sentence. “Listen, just because you-” you can feel his eyes on you- “will ya look up at me? I’m not gonna tear your head off or anything, I just don’t want you getting a bigger head than you already have.” You slowly turn to him, watching as he tries to avoid your gaze. “Let’s just go get a bite to eat. We can’t study on empty stomachs or whatever.” He rises quickly, his hand held out to you as he keeps his attention out on the door. “Come on, I’ll pay for ya and everything.”

Your lips thin and you look at his hand. You inhale a sharp breath of air, slowly letting it go. His face is still flushed, a deep color that burns against his skin. “Like a date?” You ask, hoping to see more of his reactions. He stiffens at your question, his brows furrowing to meet each other. He stammers out a response, clearly flustered. You lay your hand on his and he immediately quiets down. You smile at yourself, your heart skipping a beat as you realize that it was you who brought him to such a state. Slowly, his hand curls with yours and he gives a brief nod of his head.

Leviathan:

Leviathan sits alone in his room, a blanket pooled around his lower half, his eyes have begun to burn, tinged with red from lack of sleep as bright colors flash across his pale face. An empty bowl save for kernels that rest at the bottom of the bowl, his fingertips tinged with red and he can feel his mouth heavy with acid and past snacks.

His hands tap against his controller, his fingers already reaching toward a button before he can even register what he should press. His mind is on autopilot, reaching and stiffening when an enemy nears and even so, his character is still killed. He lets out a frustrated groan, careful to throw his controller towards his pillows and not the walls- he can’t risk losing yet another controller; least of all having to patch a hole- or in his case, covering it with a poster. His hands are thrown into the air, fingers outstretched before they are curled into a fist. He arches his back forward, the heels of his hands cushioning his eyes. He tears up slightly, wincing at the sudden realization of burning pain that lingers in his eyes. Slowly, he pulls away just in time to hear his door creak open.

“Password,” he says with a lack of conviction, turning slightly to watch as you enter with a bag in your hand. He raises his brows, his arm stretching outward as he blindly searches for his controller. “What do you have there?” He jerks his chin, returning his attention to the game in front of him.

The light clicks on- something bright that fills the room in a soft blue that stretches around him. He winces at the sudden light, the controller dropped onto his lap as he rubs his eyes vigorously. If it weren’t obvious enough that he kept himself secluded in his room, it was obvious from the way that he rubbed at his eyes, and had to blink multiple times before he could finally look at you without shielding his eyes. You end him a wicked smile that slowly grows until you reveal your teeth, the bag in your hand held slightly tighter. In response, he sticks his tongue out at you, his cheeks tinted with a pale shade of pink.

“I’m surprised it’s taken you so long to defeat the boss,” you say, walking towards the bathtub where he sits. You sit in front of the porcelain, your gaze fixated on a television system that he has set up for a more immersive gameplay experience. When you are met with a lack of response, you turn your head to see him with narrowed eyes. “What? No witty remark?” Once more, you’re met with silence. “Levi?”

He sucks in a sharp breath. “I- Fuck, you know?” This time, he’s met with silence. “First, I can’t get the concert tickets, then I can’t even get the new figure and now, I can’t even defeat this stupid game.” His cheeks fill with air, and he slowly lets the breath go past his lips. “And the concert was going to have passes to meet them behind the stage and the figure was signed and-” his character dies once more and the controller is tossed pitifully onto the pillow. He leans over the tub, his arms crossed under his chin, and his eyes on you. “My luck isn’t usually so bad, you know?”

You pat the floor beside you, your hand meeting the cold tile. “Come on, sit beside me,” you comment, shuffling over a few inches to give him even more space. With a huff, he rises out of the tub, small bits of crumbs falling onto the porcelain. He sits beside you, his arm brushing against yours but neither of you make an effort to move.

“I’m sitting, now what?” He asks, the television blurry as it replays his death with the words “Game Over” in bold letters.

“Well, Levi-” you hand him the bag, with fingers pinched over the handles- “since you’re having such rotten luck, why don’t you open the bag?”

He gives you a narrowed stare, slowly retrieving the bag from you and pulling out the pastel colored tissue paper. At the bottom of the bag sits a box, the words of a favorite anime of his stamped beside with the usual font. His heart skips a beat, as he slowly clasps his hand around the box, his fingers pushing against the plastic and he gaps, reality crashing onto him like a wave.

“It’s-” he doesn’t even finish saying the sentence, your nod is an answer to everything. “The figure that I wanted- I- How?” He asks, looking at the box, so worried that if he were to take his eyes away, the box would vanish.

“Ah, ah-” you wag your finger in the air- “that is a story for another time, my dear Leviathan.” You sound so smug and a smile is already evident in your words.

He bounces in his seat, his legs shaking rapidly, knees softly knocking against each other as he lets his excitement show. His hands flap eagerly, his smile wide and eyes closed. A sharp breath is sucked between his teeth, as he stares at you with bright eyes. You’re startled, your shoulders raising a few centimeters into the air with wide eyes as you stare at him. A nervous smile stretches across your face with him so close to you and looking at you with such eager eyes. If you were to be honest with yourself, you’re a bit flustered with how he looks at you. Your heart races and it beats against your chest, rattling at your ribs and echoing against your body. You nod rapidly, gulping what little moisture you have in your mouth when he grabs your hands tightly in him.

He shouts your name, enthusiasm laced into his word, his hands pulling yours close to his chest. “Ah! You’re the absolute best!” His smile is so wide that it’s almost comical, leaving you smiling both in response to and because of him. “I’m so glad that you’re here! Of course, you’d be my Henry!” He drops your hands and pulls you in for a hug, squeezing tightly around you, his head nuzzled into the curve of your neck. “I don’t know what I would do without you, but I’m just glad that you’re the one that’s with me!” He pulls away, his hands now holding onto your biceps. Deep breaths exhale through him, his chest rising and dipping rhythmically. He calls your name and it’s sweet like honey on his tongue. “You really are the best. I mean,” his tone becomes softer, his smile less eager and more true, “you do so much for me. I couldn't ever imagine my life without you. You mean so much to me.”

“Levi,” you mumble, and when his hands fall from you and return to hold the box, you pull the bag towards your face, hiding away from him. Your neck grows hot, scorching your skin and making you breathless. “I’m glad that you like it,” you manage to squeak out, the bag further pressed towards you.

A few seconds pass until he finally realizes why you’ve pulled the bag to your face. Leviathan stiffens, clearing his throat and turning away, his hand covering his lower half of the face. The figurine sits beside him with a delicate smile plastered on their face. With the air so light and heavy, he reached into the tub, eager to pull out the controller. With a meek cough, he fumbles with the controller, passing it over to you, with his eyes still glued on the figurine. “Would you like a turn? Maybe you’re better than me.” He can feel his chest tighten when his fingertips brush against yours and the hundredth time, the game tune plays in the room.

Satan:

Satan’s eyes narrow unconsciously as he reads over the same page for the tenth time. No matter what, he is unable to focus on the words, the letters and lines meshing into one that nothing fully registers past the first word of the page. If he were to be honest with himself, nothing has registered since the last few pages that he’s read. With a huff, he closes the book, a small gust of air blowing at the hair that rests over his forehead. The book rests on the table beside him, nudging against the lamp that makes the room flicker for a brief moment.

The room is filled with sound, the hum of the air conditioner unit, the distant sounds of footsteps and talk across the house, the demonic animals that roam around outside. He’s sure that if he were to focus, he’d even hear the scratching of a pen. Scratch that- he can now that he thought about it. All the sounds make his skin crawl, uncomfortable and itchy and as he drags his nails across his arm, he’s only offered a second of relief before the feeling returns. He leans against the chair, his neck arched over the back of it, as he lets his eyes flutter to a close, the bright light of the library barely shining through his closed eyelids. It’s not like to be so distracted- especially when it comes to a favorite pastime of his. And yet, his mind is distracted, wandering to images of you where you were talking to others that weren’t him. He isn’t the jealous type- at least, not when he compares himself to his brother, but it seems that you brought out something different for him.

His leg twitches and there’s a burning sensation on his arm that he chooses to ignore. It only intensifies when he hears footsteps approaching. The sensation spreads and becomes sharper, insatiable as it burrows itself in the demon. There is a presence standing beside him and he already knows that it’s you. He can tell by the steps, by the breathing, by your scent. He frowns at the thought. He doesn’t know if it’s romantic or not to know such small details about you.

Something clicks- your knee, perhaps- and your hand rests above his slender one, cupping and still, there are gaps where his skin is unfortunate enough to not to be touched by you. “Satan?” You call out to him in a quiet voice- not quite a whisper but not your usual volume either. “Are you asleep?”

“Is it you wondering or someone else?” He responds, slowly opening his eyes and turning his head, meeting the top of yours. “Is there something that you need?” He makes no effort to move, stuck in his position as he is content just sitting on a chair with your hand over his.

“It’s me,” you answer him, turning your head to meet his eyes. His lips slowly turn into a smile with his eyes slowly growing heavy. “You don’t normally sleep in the library without cause. You okay?” Your hand slips from his and his eyes widen his hand closing into a fist, already missing your touch. But, he is soon reconnected with your hand as it rests on his forehead. You soon look down at him with pursed lips. “I- uh, I can’t tell if you have a fever or not.”

He smiles at you and sits up straight, holding in a moan when his back is already sore, feeling the muscles whine as they had already grown taut. “No- No I just, I have quite a few things on my mind, is all.” He gingerly goes to grab your hand in his, uncaring that your eyes are on him and that the door is open for anyone to walk in and see Wrath so tender. “I’m sorry that I worried you.”

Your hand in his is turned, pulled slightly away but not enough to be taken away from his grasp. You walk from the side of the chair to stand in front of him, and when you meet his eyes, you nod down, gesturing to his lap. He smiles softly, nodding his head and leaning back, humming under his breath when you situate yourself on his lap, your head resting on his shoulder.

“You’re oddly touchy today,” he comments, his hand curved on your lap as the one he held is moved to behind his neck, your fingertips barely touching his collarbone. “Did I do something to deserve this?”

You give a half-hearted hum, and in the corner of his eye, he can tell that you have closed your eyes. “Think of it as a way to make you feel better.” You give him a play tap and he nods, his eyes staring straight ahead, lost against the colorful spines of the books. “So what does have you so worked up?”

Is now his chance? Is he now able to tell you the full extent of his feelings? He has you sitting on his lap, comforting him in a way that few people would ever dare to. There's feelings there, bubbling and forming on both ends and he knows that it’s both ends. It’s you that is on his mind. Filtering in when you shouldn’t, invading every space of his that he has until he’s completely overwhelmed. It’s a strong feeling, something that rivals his own wrath and for the first time, he welcomes it- he doesn’t put up a fight against it. He wants to feel whatever it is that you make him feel. He wants the intensity of it until he’s exhausted, until the wrath that has been boiling inside of him ever since he can remember, can finally evaporate, can finally be extinguished.

You call his name once more and he looks at you, his smile tight and eyes closed for a moment. “How do I tell you that I care for you in a way that says exactly what I’m trying to say without scaring you off?” His eyes close and his hand turns over on your thigh, palm open and empty. “How do I tell you that you’re the thing on my mind? That it’s you that is reducing me into a mess at the simple thought of you.” He turns his head enough, shrugging his shoulder to make sure that you’re looking back at him, your chest still and the hand that you had relaxed, is slowly crawling over to his open one. “The thought of you warps into this- this jealous demon that isn’t exactly something I’m fond of. I you to myself and yet, that I want you to myself and that the thought of you with anyone else, makes me more of wrath than I have ever been.” Your hand closes above his and he nods slowly, clasping his hand over yours. “It’s you, and it’ll always be you.”

With a jolt, his words finally register to him. He turns to face you, but you’re buried into his shoulder, your hand holding tightly onto his, as if he were your lifeline and the one over his shoulder is grasping at his sweater, bunching the knit fabric into a mess. Your heart beats over the sound of the room, the hum of the electricity erased, the steps and chatter muffled under you. He smiles softly, a slow chuckle taking over, until he’s laughing widely, his chest shaking and vibrating under you with every laugh. You moan his name and he can only say the first letters of an apology before his laughter takes over.

“Really, really- I’m not laughing at you,” he says through an attempt at laughter. “I just forgot how different you are. How you always seem to change depending on your mood.” He feels a harsh pat against him, your head shaking as you press further into him. “Please, never change,” he says with a laugh at the end, his head turning, his lips meeting against the side of yours in a quick press.

Asmodeus:

He’s flawless. He has to be. Or, maybe he’s just naturally like that. You are not the best when it comes to reading Asmodeus- too enthralled by him that you can’t seemingly tell when he’s told a joke or not that pertains to his beauty. Very little of it matters to you- you may appreciate that he is quite gorgeous, but you’ve also gotten to know the demon that embodies Lust.

Perhaps it’s because he knows who he is, that he is Lust, that he has to appear the best at all times. He can never make a mistake or it’ll be all that’s talked about- he knows as well as anyone else how easily a reputation can be damaged. However, when he looks at you, he doesn’t have to worry about that. He still wants to look his best for you, but he knows that if he were to slip, you wouldn’t see him any differently than how others see him.

You sleep beside him, nestled under his covers, the blanket pulled a little bit past your lips. Your hair is askew, small strands that stick up or curl around your face. Slowly, he takes a slender finger and softens the hair back to you, smiling when you try to lean into his touch. Your eyes flutter open, and you turn before he can see you, yawning and stretching your arms upwards, the cover crumpling above you. You lie still for a few more seconds and he sits upwards, daring to peek at your face. As if already knowing that he was going to watch you, you run a hand through your hair in an attempt to make yourself look more refined, to fix your appearance before him. You rub your eyes with a knuckle, turning to him and opening your mouth only to have a yawn cut through.

“Did you have a good nap?” Asmodeus asks, watching as you stretch your limbs, your muscles pulled taut as you let out a whine of satisfaction. You nod in response to him. “I’m glad. You know, I do have to tell you that you were right. I try not to ruin my sleep schedule but that nap felt simply divine. I think I feel more rested than I usually do.”

You smile at him, turning over to rest your head on his chest. His hand immediately comes to curve over the back of your head. “I like sleeping with you. You have such a soft bed and you always give such nice hugs.” He laughs in response, his hand lowering to hold near your shoulder. “It’s true. Devildom is still-” you take a brief pause- “different. And somehow, when I’m with you, all my worries are just-” you blow out a gentle puff of air- “gone.”

“I’m here for whenever you need me. All you have to do is just call,” he comments, his hand running past the sleeve of your shirt, his index and middle fingers touching against your warm skin. “I think it’s almost time for dinner. Would you like to accompany me? I’d be more than happy to take you to that little restaurant we found the other day.”

The edge of your sleeve is toyed with, pinched between the fingers and released. His hand returns to where it lay only to be disturbed when you rise, causing his hand to rest beside him. You give him a blinding smile that makes his heart flutter as he looks at you. “I’d be more than happy to, but I would like to get ready before we go out.” He raises a brow at you, tilting his head to encourage you to continue. “I want to look my best for you.” You lean forward and he smiles, fully ready for a kiss, only to have you pull away and kiss his shoulder. He frowns, his lips pushing towards a pout as he looks at you.

“Not even a kiss?” He asks, a tease of playfulness loosely attached to his words. “I have to say that I’m hurt.” He watches as you move, curling your legs underneath you as you watch him with a hint of smile on your face. “After all that I do for you, and yet, you have the gall to deny me a simple kiss?” he lets out a huff, not trying to hide the smile that graces his features and you. “You should be ashamed of yourself. There are demons who would kiss my steps to even look at me.”

“Asmo,” you call to him and he quiets, looking at you with expectant eyes. Despite him being the demon who can be considered one of the strongest- and is- you’re still the one who holds all the power in the relationship. He nods, encouraging you to continue. “Why do you want to go out with me?”

He can’t help the smile that forms, that twists the already playful one into something more bitter. It’s a question that he asked himself the first time he realized his feelings towards you. He could have it all and you’re just a human with minimal magical abilities. He’s met countless lifeforms who were and are beautiful, their beauty forever imprinted and never seeming to age. But, he still chooses you. And he’s content with that. He’s more than happy that he’s with you.

His thumb traces over your bottom lip, his eyes focused on your cupid’s bow. “You know, there are times when I look at you and I wonder if you see yourself the way that I see you.” He knows what to say, it all comes so natural to him when he compliments you. “Your scars and blemishes, the stretch marks around your tummy and how they pale and wrap around you. The little moles that you have are kissed along your sides and cheeks.” His thumb moves down and now his hand holds yours. “I have to be perfect- I have to be loved and admired, but then I see you and I think to myself how as long as I’m loved by you, that’s enough. You really have changed me in a way I never saw myself. Beauty means everything to me- or at least it did. But now I have you, and I have to admit, that I prefer you over anything else in the world.” He leans forward and lets his lips press against the corners of yours. “I want to go out with you, because to me, you’re the best that there will ever be.”

It all happens in a flash, seeing your face darken, feeling the hand slowly shake and then your face is hidden by the covers. He can hear you whine his name, and when his hand touches between your shoulder blades, his nimble fingers reaching above the collar of your shirt and touching your neck, he can feel how hot it is. He laughs as his arms reach around you and pull you close to him, giggling and accepting your odd human behavior.

Beelzebub:

Detention is quiet, save for the ticking of the clock, but other than that it’s silent. The room is occupied by a total of three people- you, Beelzebub, and the unfortunate professor that is stuck to watch over the two of you who scrolls through their D.D.D. while music plays loudly every now and then. You suspect they are on an app similar to one from the Human Realm, complete with word play and aesthetic from Devildom.

You turn over to Beelzebub, quirking your brows when you see him scribbling over a paper with a pen. You peer over, sitting straighter to get a closer look only to find him mindlessly doodling, similar drawings cover the paper in blue ink. As if feeling your stare, he turns to you with slightly wide eyes before relaxing them, sending you a smile and raising his paper, to show you his work. You return the smile, pleased at his cute antics and his boyish smile. You send him a thumbs up, before the professor coughs, catching the attention from the two of you.

They stand up, their tail curling around their leg and with a yawn, they expose their teeth. Their phone is stuffed into their pocket as they slowly walk to the front of the desk. “I’ll be back. I expect the two of you to still be here. You both have an hour left.” With that, they walk to the door, the heels of their shoes clicking, the door creaking before it finally closes leaving you and Beelzebub alone in a room.

Immediately, you turn to Beelzebub, your chair squeaking as you shift it hastily. “Beel,” you say excitedly, patting your hands on your thighs. He answers with a hum, tilting his head to the side to show that he is listening to you. “You have power over the professors, don't you?” You see the corner of his lip twitch upwards. “I mean you're the Avatar of Gluttony, can’t you just get us both out of here?”

The pen is set down and he leans back on his chair, his legs sliding underneath the desk until they are stretched to their full length. He turns to you, his smile lazy and eyes half-lidded. “I don’t feel like getting in trouble anymore than I already have.” His smile is crooked, teeth barely glimpsing from behind his lips.

“But we’re already in trouble,” you try to argue, pushing forward. “Please?” You lean forward, holding onto his bicep, with a pout on your lips. “If I use the pact powers, I’ll probably be the only one in trouble.”

He snickers, crossing his arms and lowering his head to side his smile. “We have an hour.” He looks up at you, a hand coming to cover yours. “Just sit and wait, okay? I’ll treat you out later.” You stick your tongue out at him and he laughs, pulling away from your touch and turning his own chair to face you, his hand resting over the desk, pulling on the tip of the pen until it is pulled underneath his hand. “What makes you want to go home so early anyways?”

“Why don’t you wanna go home?” You shoot back, your arm bent above the desk, with your chin resting on the palm of your hand. He shrugs in response, his attention back to the paper as he starts to bounce the pen between his index finger and thumb. “What are you drawing, anyways?” it doesn’t go unnoticed that he stiffens at your question, his lips pulling into a thin line as his leg starts to bounce. “It’s the same image, right? Like the same character that you’re drawing?” You lean closer, watching as he bounces the pen faster in his hand.

“It’s- It’s for art class,” he responds, clearing his throat. His hands grab at the paper and for a moment you think he’s about to crumble the paper, but instead he slips it between a notebook, careful to not let an edge slip out before it’s stuffed into his bag. “We have to draw-” he hesitates, squirming under your attention- “a thing.”

“I thought sports took care of your electives?” He sucks in a breath through his teeth, turning his attention to the board smeared with chalky remains. “Oh? Are you lying to me?” Your hand flutters to your heart, your voice faux hurt as your slump over in your seat. “Beelzebub, I’m actually hurt. Here I thought we were close and yet-”

“I’m drawing you,” he says, effectively making you stop in your theatrics. You turn to him, your mouth parted. “I wanted to draw you and give it to you as a gift but I can’t get your smile right.”

“Well that didn’t take much probing,” you mutter, scooting your chair closer to him, the toe of your shoe nudging against his backpack.

“I don’t like lying to you,” he states, his body becoming still and eyes returning to where you sit so close to him. Close enough where he can smell your cream. “I just didn’t want you to find out.”

There’s silence between the both of you, your lips pursed as you nod. “My smile?” He nods. “It should be simple, shouldn’t it?” Just a curve and some smaller curves for the lips and boom, you’re done.” You grab his backpack, holding it in your hands, the opening pointed towards him.

“No,” he says with a frown, pulling the same notebook out and slipping out the paper. Upon closer inspection, the images of what appears to be you are roughly scribbled. They aren’t the best but the thought of him drawing something for you and being nervous about you finding out makes the drawing much sweeter. “You have a nice smile. It’s like- like,” you look up at him to see his brows furrowed. “I don’t know how to explain it. Your smile is nice. It’s a lot more than nice. When you smile at me, it’s just nice. I like seeing you happy. You smiling at me makes me feel special and I don’t want to half-ass some drawing of you. I want to make it special because you’re special to me. Your smile makes me feel warm, like I’m being hugged and everytime you smile, it always reaches your eyes and when your eyes crinkle, it’s like you’re just looking at me and that makes me feel so-” he takes a deep sigh and releases it slowly- “so safe.” His words come to a soft close, his face a warm shade of red. He lets out a nervous chuckle. “That sounds dumb, doesn’t it?” When he looks at you, you’ve curled into a ball in your seat, your face buried into his backpack. He calls your name frantically, his hands on your shoulders, only to pull away when you let out a high-pitched whine. “Did I offend you?” His name is muffled between the fabric. “Yeah?”

“You’re really sweet,” you moan pitifully, clutching the bag tighter, hoping that it effectively hides your burning face. “I think I’ll actually die from what you just said.” Your heart beats in your chest, the sweet confession echoing in your ears and when you smile, you can only hide it, not wanting him to see the wide grin that is now plastered across your face. “I’ll take any drawing that you give me.” You hold your hand out, ready to receive the unfinished work, not yet lifting your head.

His hand covers your outstretched one. “Maybe if I can see your smile right now, I’d be able to get it right,” he teases slightly. Your only response is shaking your head, giggling through the fabric as you feebly try to shake his hand away. He laughs widely, holding your hand tighter as he urges for you to look upward at him.

Belphegor:

The room is quiet, no footsteps that echo from above, no noise that travels from the stairs into the room that was once Belphegor’s prison. Beside him, you lay curled on your side, resting against him, your hand playing with a drawstring of his hoodie, playing with the frayed ends at your fingertips.

“I thought being around you would make me sleepy,” you murmur, an ill-placed yawn ruining the validity of your statement.

Even where he lays, he knows that you’re pouting, with your brows knitted together. “It seems that I am already making you quite tired. You only lasted how long?” He’d make a show of checking his nonexistent watch, but he rather not, already too comfortable in his current position to risk moving. You blow a raspberry in response and he lets out a giggle, his hand that is placed underneath you is bent to hold a strand of your hair in between his fingers. “Come on, be nice now. I can also make you unbelievably tired but unable to sleep.”

“You’re so cruel Belphegor,” you say in a whisper, your hand finally still from playing with his drawstring. “You’d take away my sleep for a simple noise? How juvenile,” you tease, nuzzling further into his side, humming when his fingers part through your hair and scratch lightly at your scalp. “Here I am, whisked away from my homework to come and nap beside you. And what do I get in return? Teasing.” The last word slowly drifted off into a simple breath of air that was tickled against his side.

It really hadn’t taken you so long to fall under his own sleeping spell. A part of him is a bit bitter, wanting to spend more time with you where the both of you were conscious and could actually talk, while the other part of him, is simply glad that you’re resting beside him, that you’ve taken time out of your day to lay next to him.

“It’s not like you don’t deserve it,” he says through a smile, twisting your hair around his index. “I mean, out of all the reactions I can get, yours is possibly the best of them.”

“Thank you,” you say, sounding a bit more like a question. “You know, I’m glad that you invited me up here. I haven't been getting the best sleep as of late.”

“You can always come to me,” he’s quick to say, eager so evident in his voice that he’s drowning in it. He wants to be near you, he wants to be with you.

“I don't want to bother you,” you confess with a faint voice.

“You could never bother me.” It’s the truth. He’d crawl to you if it meant even a fraction of your attention would be given to him. He’d do what he could just to hear your voice. You’d never be a bother to him. You’d be his saving grace. It’s silent for a moment, one where he can hear the house come alive under him and feel your breath with even more vigor than before, feeling each and every pause, every gust of air a kiss against his skin that makes him yearn for more. He calls your name, and it’s thick on his tongue- foreign and light, and yet it sounds like he’s said it countless times before, as if he knew the name by heart. You hum in response and he takes a deep breath.

His finger twirls around a small piece of your hair, letting the hair curl around his finger before he releases it, only to do the same thing once more. “I’m always surprised that you let me get so close,” he says in a quiet voice, careful to not ruin the moment but a part of him knows that it might have been ruined already when it alludes to him. He can feel your eyes on him, watching him carefully as your lips part. “I know that I’m not exactly a knight in shining armor or anything and uh-” he lets the strad of your hair go, watching it bounce in freedom- “I just want you to know that I appreciate that you even let me touch you. I really like you, you know? I think you’re a much better person than I’ll ever be.” His lips stretch into a bittersweet smile that soon falls into a frown, twisting his features into something more somber. You say his name and it makes his breath hitch, a hiccup in his throat as his name fills the momentary silence. “I mean it. I think that’s why I- why you mean so much to me. I could never be like you. I can only admire you from afar and want you for myself.” He lets out a breathless puff of air that has humor etched into it. “I just wanted you to know that you mean a lot more to me than I’ll ever be able to put into words.”

With every continuation of his words, you felt your body respond to him. Your stomach twists with butterflies causing a storm inside of you, your chest tight and the sweet relief of air has escaped your lungs, and you’re hot, heat flush against your face and creeping from your chest and upward. You wonder if he could hear every change in your breathing, in your heart that beats, in just you.

He looks at you through half closed eyes and for once, you don’t think that it’s sleep that’s causing his soft smile and tender eyes. You stiffen, your muscles going rigid under his stare. The pillow is cool under your face as you stay hidden from him, gripping at the edges and turning away from his gaze, unable to keep as tight face as a smile creeps across your face.

He laughs as you lower your head, hiding your face from his after the tender words that were shared. “Come on, was it that easy to make you flustered?” He teases, the bed dipping as he moves. His hand tugs on the pillow that is held tightly in your grasp. “Oh come on, just look up,” he whines, weakly tugging at the pillow. “Seriously, you’re so dramatic and for no reason. It shouldn’t be news to you that I like you.” His smile is clear in his voice, light and full of kittenish behavior. “If you don’t pay attention to me, I’m going to continue, you know.” His grin widens when you finally peek at him, and he can’t help but laugh.

Diavolo:

There is chatter in the room, accompanied by the heels of shoes that click against the tiled floor. The room is lit in an orange glow that makes the atmosphere of the room seem almost dream-like. You tug wine glass, pulling it closer to you, careful to not let a drop spill over and stain the pristine white tablecloth. You glance around the room, watching people chat amongst themselves, their own eyes glued to their partners.

You look at the prince before you who takes a sip from his glass, his tongue peeking to wipe at the taste on his lips. “Diavolo?” The glass is set down and he looks at you with slightly widened eyes. “When I said I wanted to go out for dinner, I was fine with just some Akudonalds or ya know-” you glance once more around the room, your gaze focused on the silverware set carefully in front of you- “anything.

“This is anything,” he says, his smile cool and hands resting above the table. “We hardly go out and when we do, the others tend to accompany us. While I enjoy their company, I’d also like to just enjoy yours. So I thought, since this is a rare occasion, we’d make the best of it.” He leans close to you, and you know that there is no malice or hidden intention with him. He is honest, able to tell you what he wants without finding it necessary to hide himself. “If you are uncomfortable with such a restaurant, we can always go somewhere else, next time.”

“It’s not that, it’s just-” you clear your throat, leaning against the table, lowering your voice- “I’ve never been to such a high-end place. I don’t want you to overspend because of me. I’m fine just going somewhere low-key.”

He laughs, shaking his head and his fingers drum against the table. I’m a prince. There’s no such thing as overspending and even if there were, I don’t mind it if it’s you that I’m doting on.” You nod slowly, your fingers running at the edge of the fork handle. “Really, there is no need to worry. I’m just happy that you agreed to join me on this outing.”

You do your best to not shake your legs, mindful of the wine beside you. “‘M glad I was able to join you as well. I- I like spending time with you.” You smile sweetly at him, a hint of nerves tracing against your smile. “I just have to admit that I was taken aback when you invited me out. I know you mentioned how it’s always us with the others, but I don’t know-” you fingers find themselves tracing around the base of the glass- “I guess I always figured you liked me because I was able to get you out of work since you know, I am part of your work. I never would have assumed that you actually wanted to spend time with me.”

For a moment, it’s silent, a brief moment that couldn't even be considered silent, just a short pause but it's enough for him. “May I admit something to you?” Diavolo asks, his hands fiddling with the napkin beside himself. You nod, leaning forward, urging him to continue. “I was always fascinated with humans. I loved humans- they were these beings who had free will and they all lived different lives but in the end they shared the same fate.” He chuckles softly and his hand goes to the stem of the wine glass. “It’s the same for demons, of course. Any life can be taken and for the most part, they have free will, but I think I love humans. Or at least I thought I did.” He looks up at you, his smile faltering for a moment as he struggles to keep it up. “But I think rather than love, I hold admiration for their humanity. For their tenacity, and kindness; their love and warmth that they have with each other. And when I look at you-” his hand leaves the glass and is left open towards you- “I’m reminded of how beautiful humans can be.” His smile turns bitter for a moment, falling and he makes no attempt to keep up the facade. “I’m reminded just how fragile they are. I need you to know that I admire humanity, but I think I love you. I love how you do your best to help those around you, how you adapt to your environment, and just how easily you can make others fall for you.” He lets out a short laugh through his nose. “If I have to be honest, I think I’m also jealous of you. I wish I were the only one who could have the opportunity to fall for you.” His hand is still held out towards you, vacant without yours.

Throughout his monologue your body has been on fire, pooling in your stomach and against your back. You stare at his empty hand, trying to will yourself to hold it but the most that you can do is lay your head on the table, silverware clicking together and a dull thud heard. You want to let out a whine but you’re sure you’ve already called attention to yourself and- oh dear. What will people think of when they see Lord Diavolo with a human who has planted their face against a table. Your thoughts race, clouding your mind as the silence in the room is deafening, echoing in your ears as you rest with your face down.

“Is this a human custom?” Diavolo asks, his voice full of genuine wonderment. “Should I also be doing it?”

“Dia,” you mumble, your body slowly squeezing against itself in order to make yourself smaller. “You can’t confess so nonchalant,” you say in a hushed whisper, wanting to let out any type of noise that is slowly building up inside of you. “It’s- It’s too much for me,” you whine, slowly raising your head to peer at him.

“Well, I am a prince- a demon one at that. I suppose you can say that there are different customs for us as well.” His smile is jovial, and he reaches across the table, his hand open and this time you take it. Unable to look him in the eye, you resort to watching as his hand slowly threads to intertwine himself with you. “I must say, if that’s the response I were to get, I might as well continue it. I rather liked whatever it was that you did.” He’s so honest, looking at you with a wide grin that shows his pointed teeth and you can’t help but bury your face once more, grinning when you hear him let out a small laugh, his hand closing around yours.

#obey me #obey me lucifer #obey me mammon #obey me leviathan #obey me levi #obey me satan #obey me asmodeus #obey me asmo #obey me beelzebub #obey me beel #obey me belphegor #obey me belphie #obey me diavolo #obey me headcanons #im gonna scream #this took so long #someone fight me #why did i over do it #oh god please enjoy it #like im crying and laughing #finally done #one requests out #now i got others to do #gonna scream #also i should have lunch #what should i have

[d0llpie]

Angry confessions

Summary: You’ve tried everything to make Kyotani realise you like him but he thinks you’re joking

Kyotani x reader

Warnings: cursing

angst to fluff, mutual pining

a/n: i might make a part 2 but i’m not sure, lmk if you want one!

wc: 2.5k

Kyotani couldn’t stand you. Your annoying smile and indifferent attitude while he told you to get lost. Couldnt you take a hint? Apparently not as you continued to greet him the same warm way every time you saw him, slipping him notes during class and flirting with him. Couldnt you flirt with some other poor soul? he couldn’t handle it anymore, knowing you weren’t really flirting with him. Maybe you did flirt with others, that only made it worse, knowing it wasn’t just him who got to see your smile and teasing laugh everyday. Honestly he didn’t know which way was worse, all he knew was that he was sick of you.

It started at practise, he was used to Oikawa’s fan girls attending their practise just to ogle at the captain, that always annoyed him but he soon found you to be worse. Oikawa has tossed him a ball to spike down and you started cheering for him. He whipped his head around to see you smiling brightly down at him, waving. He was taken back, his scowl dropping for a minute as the tips of his ears turned red before he continued on with practise, trying to ignore your cheers everytime he spiked. You trailed behind him to the school date, chatting on about your day and how amazing Kyo’s spikes were while he just grunted and continued walking in front of you, trying to speed up. Every time he sped up, you did too, he wasn’t sure if you were just stupid or if you didn’t care that he was trying to get away from you but either way it confused him.

Since then you’d follow him around, having one sided conversations with the back of his head on the way to the gym, in between classes and sometimes even during lunch times when you weren’t with your friends. He wished you wouldn’t flirt so much, it was the worst part of your whole fan girl act. You’d compliment his hair, his spikes and his eyes often, it came out so naturally that it made him tense up and pause every time, trying to calm down the beating of his heart in his ears. Why couldn’t you just stick to fangirling over Oikawa? Kyotani could take you following him and talking about your day if it wasn’t for the flirting act. He even liked hearing about your day, it was cute to hear you ramble on until you decided to give him false hope with your remarks, sometimes even trying to hold his hand or rest your head on his shoulder.

~

It had been a few months now and you weren’t sure what to do. You were in a small cafe with your cousin Iwaizumi, opting to seek out the spiker for advice as a last resort.

“I don’t know Iwa, i’ve been flirting with him for months and coming to all your games to cheer him on and he doesn’t even look at me” you fiddling with your fork, huffing out dramatically.

“We’ll have you actually told him you like him or asked him to hang out?” you glared at his condescending tone

“I shouldn’t have to tell him! I don’t know how much more obvious i can get...plus i ask him to have lunch with me all the time” you sighed, feeling your heart sink. You’d thought that he didn’t like you, it was obvious at first that he found you irritating but overtime you thought he’d warm up. Maybe you were just being stupid, setting yourself up for heartbreak at your inevitable rejection. Still, you held on tight to the tiny bit of hope you still had.

“hey.” Iwa waved his hand in front of you, pulling you from your thoughts “I mean surely him ignoring you can’t get any worse if you actually confess right? Plus maybe i’m wrong and he does like you so you’ll actually make some progress” you hummed in agreement, though you were hesitant

“How am i supposed to confess though? He doesn’t even look at me when we talk, well, i talk..” you realised just how pathetic you sounded, how desperate. Was this how Oikawa’s fan girls felt? Ignorantly hopeful for someone who was out of reach? Well at least Oikawa spoke to his fan girls...

“Y/n...not to sound rude or anything, but why do you like this kid? He’s not exactly treating you very well..” you looked up at your cousin who was looking at you with eyes full of concern.

“Well he may not seem like the sweet type but i’ve seen him when he’s alone, he’s really cute when he doesn’t look like he’s on the warpath, plus i think he’s just shy around me and doesn’t know how to act around others, he’s sweet though, he doodles in his notebooks. Also, he’s really passionate about volleyball! i remember the first time i saw him spike, he actually smiled!” you giggled at the memory, blushing at the thought of Kyo. 

“Whatever y/n, you need to confess before i do it for you.” you gasped in feign shock “You wouldn’t dare iwa-chan~” you laughed at Iwaizumi’s enraged expression “Stop hanging out with Oikawa ugh” you laughed at him, sipping on your hot chocolate you’d forgotten about. 

~

Kyotani had woken up earlier than usual, deciding to go for a walk. While he was walking his mind drifted back to you, looking behind him half expecting you to be there talking his ear off about random things, making him blush with your flirting. It was cruel how you could flirt with him so shamelessly and not mean it. He so badly wanted you to mean it. He grunted in frustration, picking up his pace until he was running, he was running past a few shops and cafes when he saw you. You were sitting by the window as the sun hit you, his eyes widened, you truly were so pretty to him. He almost stopped running until he saw who you were looking at, Iwaizumi was there. Of course you’d be on a date with him, he was so strong and open. You deserved someone like Iwaizumi he supposed, someone who could actually talk to you, someone who was better than him. He continued running despite feeling his own heart in his throat, making it harder to breathe. 

~

“I’m not writing him a letter Iwa.” you rolled your eyes at his suggestion, looking out the window to see a familiar head of blonde flash past in a blur. “Iwa! He just ran past” you stood up from your seat excitedly, smile crossing your face. “Wow you’re worse than i thought. Y/n, you’re a simp.” You weren’t even offended at his words “i mean can you blame me?” you sat back down, “Yes y/n, yes i can. You probably want to go after him right now” although he was joking he looked up to see you staring back at him hopefully. “Oh my god y/n, fine! Go. I’ll see you at school tomorrow. “ You got up and hugged Iwa squeeling, “Thank you thank you, if i don’t come to school tomorrow i’m either crying about being rejected or on a date with my handsome boyfriend, bye!” “Do not skip school y/n!” Iwa yelled after you as you ran out of the cafe, heading down the same path Kyo took. 

As you passed by a park, you noticed Kyotani sitting under a tree, panting heavily. “Kyo!” You called out, smiling brightly as you made your way over to him, ignoring the frustrated frown on his face. “What” he gruffly replied, clearly annoyed but you were ecstatic to get a reply from him. “I actually wanted to tell you something!” It’s now or never you thought, this was a perfect time to do it, you were ready for either response, you waited for him to look up at you before continuing.

“Um, i haven’t really thought of what to say so i’m just going to say it, i like you. I was wondering if you wanted to go out with me? You don’t have to of course but i really wanted you to know” you played with your hands while you waited for him to say something, silence was not what you expected but- “are you serious right now?” he was angry?, you tilted your head to the side “of course, i’m surprised you didn’t already kn-” “What is wrong with you? First you follow me around everywhere, flirting with me and annoying the fuck out of me, now this? haven’t you played around enough? Honestly i didn’t think you’d take it this far, that’s just low y/n.” the tone in his voice was enough to have you back away a little, confusion covered your face, you definitely hadn’t anticipated this kind of response. Despite your heart sinking at the rejection, you couldn’t help but feel a little angry as well. Who was he to talk to you like that. “What the fuck are you talking about Kyo. A simple ‘Sorry i don’t feel the same’ would’ve sufficed, honestly this is the most you’ve ever said to me and it’s this?” He was taken back by your reaction. You were serious? “Why would you try confess to me while you were just on a date then huh?” you furrowed your brows in confusion before it dawned on you, he thought you were dating Iwaizumi. Now you understood more of what he was saying, you opened your mouth to speak but he interrupted you. “Yeah, I saw. You can drop the act now it was very funny. Now you can fucking leave me alone and stop acting like Oikawa’s clingy fangirls. I’ll finally stop having to hear you yapping in my fucking ear all day.” he wasn’t expecting to look up and see tears rolling down your cheeks. “Iwaizumi is my cousin..” you whispered meekly before turning back in the direction of the cafe, running home. 

Kyotani sat there dumbfounded. You were serious. He just called the girl he liked annoying and clingy after she tried to confess all because he was too insecure and jumped to conclusions. “Fucking idiot.” he cursed himself out under his breath.  

~

He didn’t know what to do, he couldn’t sleep, every time he closed his eyes he just saw that heartbroken look on your face, eyes filled with tears. Because of him. He groaned before going to his desk, he begun to write a letter. The thought of you never coming to his games anymore, you never cheering for him again, telling him about your day and that new show you start, even the flirting, he knew he couldn’t get through the day without it. You weren’t annoying, you were the only person who managed to make him stop scowling, he was relaxed around you.

You walked into your first class, finding a letter on your desk. Your eyes flitted over to Kyo who was sitting a few seats away looking away nervously, you could see how red he was from here. You tucked the letter into your bag, he didn’t deserve your attention and you were determined to not talk to him or look at him anymore. Kyotani watched you put away his letter, he frowned, you’d probably just read it later. He didn’t want to get discouraged so he waited for you during lunch but you never came. He was getting antsy, it was so quiet. After his final classes he was excited to go to practise, getting there on time for once, only you weren’t there. Instead he was met with an angry Iwaizumi “what the fuck did you do to her!” he boomed, gaining the attention of everyone in the gym. Kyotani looked down, surprising everyone “where is she?” he asked quietly, Iwaizumi quirked his brow, crossing his arms over his chest. “She’s probably at home or the cafe.” Kyotani looked up, running out of the gym ignoring Oikawa’s calls to come back and train.

You were sitting in a booth at the cafe, scrolling on your phone when you remembered the letter. You opened it despite your hesitation and began reading.

Y/n,

I used to find you irritating, i couldn’t understand why someone as pretty as you would follow me around and talk to me when i was so cold to you. I took your flirting as you either making fun of me or just you having a flirtatious personality so i would get annoyed. About yesterday, i misunderstood completely and i’m so sorry for snapping at you. I never meant to lash out on you and i never wanted to. I was fed up with the person i liked toying with me and when i found out you liked me back i didn’t believe you.

I’m sorry for hurting you, if you let me be yours i swear i’ll never hurt you again. I never want you to cry because of me ever again, i like you too y/n and i’m sorry i was too much of a pussy to tell you sooner.

I hope you forgive me

-Kyotani.

You smiled at the letter, looking up at the sound of the cafe bell ringing to see Kyotani, out of breath staring at you. You smiled up at him like usual and he returned it, moving towards you quickly. “Kyo-“ he cut you off, smashing his lips against yours, his lips were gentle despite the desperate hold he had on you, cradling your head in one hand and gripping your collar in the other. You smiled against the kiss, cupping his cheek before pulling away. “Hi” you giggled as he sat down in front of you, holding your hand on the table “Hi” he smirked at you. “Y/n, can i take you to dinner?” you nodded happily “of course you can handsome~” he blushed furiously and this time you got to see, you cupped his cheek again, leaning over to kiss his cheek softly, only making it worse. “C’mon doll” he pulled you up, holding your hand as you exited the cafe, walking side by side as he intertwined your fingers, smiling down at you with a soft expression. How was he so blind?

#haikyuu #haikyuu fluff #hq fluff #haikyuu angst #kyotani headcannons #kyotani #kyotani fluff #kyotani angst #kyotani kentaro #kentaro kyotani #kyoutani x reader #kyoutani fluff #kyoutani angst #kyotani x reader #kyotani kentaro x reader #kyoutani kentarou x reader #kyotani kentarou x reader #hq kyotani #hq angst #haikyuu confession #iwaizumi hajime #iwaizumi x reader #aoba josai x reader #seijoh

[mellowswriting]

I saw that requests are open! would it be possible for you to write a follow up to Second Chances with javi and reader? Maybe you have another kid and this time javi is able to be there for you throughout the whole pregnancy, and get to experience the first kick, you giving birth, etc (I am a sucker for domestic!javi if you can't tell haha) I think it would be really cute!!

From the Beginning

pairing || Javier Peña x afab!Reader

summary || Javier gets to experience the chaotic excitement of welcoming a new baby to the family.

word count || 6,466 

warnings || kid fic, pregnant reader, non-graphic childbirth, some spiciness but no smut, dad!Javi being adorable 

a/n || I can’t even express how much I love writing about the boys as dads, especially Javier! I really hope you all enjoy this, it was so very much fun to write.

Main Masterlist  |   Join the taglist!

Early spring mornings always had a special quality about them. The air was never too hot, pleasantly warm with a hint of a cool breeze that still lingered from winter’s sharp grip. Plants were beginning to bloom, the trees regaining their bright green foliage that ruffled in a symphony with every pass of the wind. Spring was the bringer of warmth after the ice and snow, the nurturer that coaxed seeds to sprout and flourish, the guide for new life and hope.

Ironic, then, that those very qualities you had grown to love were the ones causing you so much inner turmoil that you couldn’t even enjoy the gorgeous morning happening around you. You hadn’t even realized what was happening at first. Mother nature hadn’t exactly gifted you with a cycle that could be easily followed and predicted. Instead you had the supreme pleasure of having to carry around menstrual products everywhere you went and having to replace your underwear far more often than usual. So when you went two months without the waves of cramps and frustration of your period, it wasn’t all that remarkable.

It was when you were doing some last minute grocery shopping the night before that you realized something was off. Well, more off than usual. The sight of the shelves of tampons made your stomach bottom out with realization. You must’ve made quite a sight as you stood in that aisle with a cart half full of food, just staring at tampons with dread. Two boxes of pregnancy tests got tossed in with the various other items in your cart and you hoped that Javier was too tired from work to insist he help you put away the groceries.

For once, the universe appeared to be on your side. Your husband was sitting on the floor with Elianna, a spread of coloring books and crayons scattered on the living room carpet, and he actually listened to you when you waved him off to carry the bags in yourself. The tests were tucked away in the bathroom behind your tampons - ironic, yes, but it was the one place Javier really wouldn’t be poking around.

Honestly, a part of you felt bad for not telling Javier right away. He had more than proven himself as a great father and husband in the nearly two years since he returned to your life. Those irrational little fears of him leaving you and little Ellie had been crushed into nothing in the wake of the role he readily took on with his daughter, but this was different. Maybe it was pretty naive of you to not have that conversation with him, but it was something you thought you still had time for.

The plus sign on the pregnancy tests told you the time for that conversation was now, apparently. You were grateful for the timing of your little realization. Saturday mornings saw the standing trend of your sister whisking Ellie away for some ‘auntie and niece time’, and you really didn’t want her to feel the tension you were carrying. She was such a perceptive little girl that had an eye for everything.

Javier was still asleep. You usually slept in with him on the weekends, but you were restless to find out if your period was just pulling a fast one on you or if you actually were pregnant. Now you had four positive tests sitting in front of you and a sleeping husband who you couldn’t decide whether or not to wake up. Luckily, you ended up not having to make that choice since two sharp raps of his knuckles against the bathroom door snapped you out of your trance.

The door opened a millisecond after you snatched up the tests and hid them behind your back, not so unlike Ellie when she was hiding a treat she wasn’t supposed to have yet. The difference was that you didn’t know if this would be a treat to Javier. He was still half asleep, his thin pajama pants slug low on his hips and his eyes squinted against the bathroom light.

“G’morning,” He grunted as he moved to shuffle past you. “Move over, I gotta piss.”

You were rooted to the spot, though, your brain floundering to gain control of your muscles. “Uhm…”

“What’s wrong?” Javier slowly perked up through his sleepy haze at the realization that you looked downright terrified. He put his hand on your bicep and squeezed slightly. “Is Ellie okay?”

“What? No, yeah, Ellie’s fine. She’s with Amelia.” You spluttered, cringing at your inability to function.

“Then why do you look like you’ve seen a ghost?” Javi pressed. There really wasn’t any hiding things from him. Ellie must get that sharp eye of hers from her father. “What are you holding behind your back?”

You tried to swallow down the thickness that enveloped your throat to form some sort of words, literally anything to convey to him what the hell was going on, but your body was seized with fear. So you held out the tests wordlessly. His eyebrows furrowed as he took the bundle of tests from your hand, staring at them with a split second’s confusion before it dawned on him. “This…? You…?”

“Yeah.” You whispered. The worry in your voice must’ve been obvious because Javier was on you in a second flat, his arms crowding you into his chest with a crushing strength.

“You’re pregnant?” Javier croaked into your neck and the dam of emotion in your chest crumbled. His voice was full of excited disbelief, and relief crashed over you.

“Yeah, I am.” You said with a tearful chuckle, winding your arms around him to burrow yourself even further into his chest. “I know we never really talked about having another kid but… is this something you want, Javi?”

“Fuck, this is ironic.” Javier laughed quietly and when you looked up at him, he avoided your eyes with an almost bashful look. “I was gonna ask you today if you ever thought about it. Do you have any idea how many times I went over it in my head?”

You couldn’t help it - you cracked up laughing. The whole thing was almost ridiculous - the both of you worrying despite wanting the exact same thing. Tears of relief and laughter soaked into his t-shirt as you both broke into chaotic laughter, fingers clutching at each other’s shirts as you tried to catch your breath.

“So, uh… are we doing this?” Javier sounded nervous, his hands rubbing up and down your back as if to reassure himself. “You really wanna have a baby with me? Again?”

“Yeah.” Your voice was choked with a tense mix of emotions, so you cleared your throat and tried again. “Yeah, I do.”

“I can’t… fuck, I can’t believe you - you’d… thank you.” He babbled, nearly unintelligible in his scramble to convey how fucking grateful he was, but you knew. It wasn’t the first time you had heard the desperate need to spit words he couldn’t really find, the words that matched the swell of emotions in his chest that still wasn’t used to voicing. “Fuck, Ellie’s gonna be such a good big sister.”

That choked you up more than you expected. She really would be, you knew that for a fact, but it was a dream you had boxed up and shoved on a shelf with all your other unrealistic dreams for your future. Never in your life did you let yourself really think you could have the whole package deal - the loving (albeit gruff) husband, the big house, the sound of little feet chasing each other through the halls…

“Wait, how long have you been…? Or do we have to see a doctor first? Oh shit, we have to find a doctor for you, what the fuck are they called..? A fucking... obstetrician!” Javi rambled in a mix of nerves and excitement, breaking from your embrace to pace the length of the bathroom. “How are you feeling? Are you okay? Is there anything I can do to help, because -”

“Javi, breathe!” You calmed him with both hands out to stop his walking and braced your hands on his shoulders to rub at him firmly. “We have plenty of time, okay? Let me go make some coffee for you and we can sit down and make a plan. First, didn’t you have to go to the bathroom?”

“Oh… yeah.”

----------

Javier couldn’t stop bouncing his knee. It was a subconscious thing, something he stopped the moment he realized but soon found it moving of its own volition all over again. He really was trying not to let his nerves show even though he knew that you could tell. It was all so new to him, which wouldn’t be a problem if the reminder didn’t gut him every goddamn time. He couldn’t imagine how alone you must have felt the first time around when you were pregnant with Elianna, especially in these cold, sterile doctors offices.

His grip tightened on your hand. The feeling of your fingertips pressed against the top of his hand kept him grounded, helped him remind himself that there was no going back and changing everything else that happened. All he could do was be there this time around, be the best version of himself that he could be for you and his kid - well, kids now. Plural. The excitement was almost enough to drown away the guilt. Javi really could barely believe that he was getting the privilege of experiencing this with you.

“I’ve seen files on drug lords shorter than all that.” Javier nodded at the pile of forms and paperwork you held in your lap and you laughed brightly. He preened a little at the sound. It was something he could never get enough of, that laugh of yours. “I love you.”

You looked up at him, the pen in your hand stopping its constant scratching for the first time in forever, and gave him a lopsided smile. “I love you, too.”

There was no way he wasn’t going to kiss you after that adorable little display. Your cheek felt soft against his palm and the little sigh of relief you huffed against him was addictive. Just knowing that he was an anchor for you made Javier feel so incredibly loved and important and all he wanted to do was imbue you with that same sense of security. He held you close, his hand slipping back to the back of your neck to keep you right where he wanted you, and gave you those soft little kisses that never failed to make you melt.

“Mrs. Peña?” A nurse called out and he had no choice but to let you go with one last peck against your lips. He followed you and the nurse into the exam room, nerves and excitement soaring even higher in his chest.

It was kind of fascinating, watching you answer the nurse’s barrage of questions. Questions about your medical history, how many pregnancies you’ve had, all about your menstrual cycle. The two of you went back and forth for at least fifteen minutes, tossing questions and answers back and forth like a tennis match. The nurse left with the promise of the doctor being in momentarily for an ultrasound.

“Come hold my hand?” You asked, and how could he deny such a sweet request?

“Of course,” He pulled a chair from across the room and settled himself next to the exam table, both of his hands wrapping around one of yours as he brought it up to his lips to kiss your knuckles. “So what happens now?”

“The doctor will give me an ultrasound. She’ll probably want to run some blood tests, too.” You sighed, obviously uncomfortable at the thought of needles.

“I’ll hold your hand then, too.” Javier promised.

“It’ll be good practice for you, ‘cause once I’m in labor I’ll probably break your hand.” You teased and yeah, broken fingers didn’t sound all that great but fuck, he was more than ready to let you do just that. Javier wanted to be your rock, wanted to support you through it all - especially since he couldn’t the first time.

Two quick knocks sounded against the door made Javier straighten up hastily. The doctor came in with a smile and a large machine wheeling in behind her. “Good morning, mom and dad! How’re we feeling?”

“All good here, Dr. Hall. A little nauseous, but still… good.” You gave Javier’s hand a little squeeze before letting go to unbutton your jeans and fold the waistband down, followed by pulling the hem of your shirt up. It was hard to believe that the beginning of an entire new life was right there between your hips.

“Good to hear!” Dr. Hall fiddled with the ultrasound machine for a moment before turning to you. “So today we’re going to take a look and find out how far along you are, make sure mom and baby both look healthy, okay?”

“Okay,” You and Javier said in unison, and he took your hand again, needing to feel you there with him.

The gel must’ve been cold based on the way you hissed slightly. Javier watched the screen as Dr. Hall trailed the wand over your belly, lips parting at the sight of the black and white image. It was hard to make out what exactly he was seeing at first, but the image shifted slightly and he could make out the tiniest, vague shape of the newest edition to his little family.

“It looks like you’re about ten weeks along.” Dr. Hall murmured without taking her eyes off of the screen. “Baby is about the size of a plum.”

Javier squeezed your hand lightly, the both of you sparing a glance at each other before staring back at the screen in wonder. The doctor pointed out the baby’s head and a little foot as she took her measurements, reassuring you both that everything looked perfect. He gave a rushed “yes, absolutely” when she asked if he wanted the ultrasound photos - there was a spot in his wallet that he had in mind for it already.

It wasn’t as if he hadn’t been in situations that left him shocked before. This was Javier Peña, after all. Life and career experiences had given him plenty of moments where his mind was completely washed blank with surprise, but never had it been such a good thing. There were so many times that the shock was accompanied by grief or anger, but excitement? Gratefulness? That was new to him, left him reeling the entire drive home, all throughout dinner. Something in the back of his mind nagged at him that he couldn’t be like this when Ellie got home the next day. She was smarter than he could’ve imagined any kid being at three years old and even though he agreed with your assertion that no one should know about your pregnancy for a few more weeks at least, Javier was certain his daughter would be able to needle it out of him.

Those expert interrogation skills must be hereditary.

It wasn’t until he was getting ready for bed that it really hit him how real it was, that you really were sitting in the bed you shared with him, pregnant with his baby and making plans for the usual Sunday brunch and park visit you all did every week. As he set his wallet on the nightstand, he couldn’t help but pull out the little ultrasound picture. He had a feeling he would be doing that a lot, especially when the new cadets were driving him crazy at work. It all swelled up in his chest, the appreciation and excitement and disbelief, because holy shit, how did he get so lucky? One finger traced the little image in his hand, and he couldn’t help but blurt out, “Thank you.”

The confused look you gave him made him flounder for the words.

“I just… I know everything was fucked up the first time around but I swear, it’s going to be different this time. I am not going anywhere.” Javier slid closer at the sight of the tears in your eyes, easily welcoming your arms around his neck as you practically drug yourself into his lap. He held you close to his chest, trying to instill the certainty and promise of it all. “God, fuck, and I thought I couldn’t get enough of you before…”

“Javi…” You croaked, laughing wetly into his neck.

“I’m serious! You’re gonna have to tell me to fuck off when you want space because I can’t keep my hands off you.” Javi teased, relief washing over him at your seeming acceptance of his promises. “And now like this, growing my baby… fuck, I am in this with you. Me and you and Ellie… and our little plum.”

That night, Javier fell asleep with his head on your shoulder, his face buried in your neck, and his hand tucked into the waistband of your sweatpants to cradle that precious space that held his newest child.

----------

Ellie couldn’t stop touting her new title to anyone who would listen.

“I’m a big sister!” She told the cashier at the grocery store, the other kids at the park and their moms for good measure, and even the mailman when they came by each morning. The brightness in her eyes when she said it made your heart flip in your chest. You had expected some sort of confusion or even for her to be upset at the idea of a new sibling, but she launched right into a story about how her friend from playgroup has a baby sister, and you knew that she would be just fine.

With your sixteenth week rapidly approaching, you couldn’t be more grateful that Ellie was excited for the new addition to the family. It was one less thing for you to worry about amidst the chaos of bringing a new person into the world. The fatigue was something you definitely didn’t miss about pregnancy - it washed over you without warning, left you nodding off wherever you sat. Thank god Javier was such a hands on father. He had no problem herding Ellie off into the backyard or off for a walk to let you get some much needed rest.

You hadn’t expected him to be such a hands on husband, though. Sure, you knew he was excited and you knew he already loved everything about your body, but he really wasn’t lying when he said pregnancy made him want you even more. Every night, Javi’s hands gravitated to your body to ease the kinks out of your muscles, to rub your feet until the aches went away, to cheekily offer you an orgasm if you were up for one. It made you feel cherished, something you sorely missed the first time you were pregnant.

“Thank you, Javi,” You groaned lowly as those strong hands of his worked at your lower back. He easily hitched your thigh up slightly to ease some of the pressure on the new swell to your belly. There was a slur in your voice when you said, “Feels so good.”

Javier chuckled behind you, moving on to rub your feet. “Be quiet, you don’t want to wake Ellie.”

“Did you ever see this being our life?” You murmured though your voice was muffled by the pillows you buried your head in. “Telling each other not to wake the kids, making bacon smiley faces for a toddler’s breakfast?”

“I didn’t think I’d actually get it, but I wished for it. Dreamt about how pretty you’d look all full of me.” Javi placed a teasing kiss to the inside of your thigh. “The real thing is so much better.”

You could only groan under his praise. His thumbs dug into the arch of your foot and rubbed in methodical circles, drawing another pleased groan from you that you muffled in your pillow. The pain slowly melted from your tired muscles under his thorough ministrations, leaving a pleasant warmth in his wake that made you all pliant and drowsy beneath him.

“How are you feeling, sweetheart?” Javi asked as he rubbed his hands up your calves and you smiled. You knew exactly what he was gunning for.

You eased yourself onto your back and reached out for him with both arms, bringing him forward with grabby hands that he could never refuse. Javier settled between your thighs, a knowing smirk on his face, and leaned down to kiss you deeply. “‘M feeling good, Javi.”

“You know I love making my girl feel good,” Javi murmured as he kissed down your neck, one hand trailing back and forth over your hip and thigh lovingly. “Can I make you feel even better?”

“Please?” You asked breathily and your husband was more than happy to oblige. The loose tank top you wore was the first to go, followed quickly by your shorts and underwear.

Javier set about lavishing your neck and chest with affection, his touch more gentle than usual on your oversensitive breasts, and once again you were struck by the surrealness of it all. The fact that this had begun in Colombia all those years ago as two coworkers using sex for stress relief and had blossomed into this beautiful life you shared together was a thing of dreams. But there you were, with Javier Peña making love to you, quietly as to not wake your daughter and gently as to keep you and your baby safe and happy, and you could barely believe it.

“I love you,” You choked out through the tears that sprung into your eyes and Javi sat up to look at you with a concerned expression.

“What? What’s wrong?” He asked, his eyes roaming all over to find the apparent source of your tears.

“Nothing’s wrong.” You tried to pull him back down to you but he didn’t budge, the concern unwavering.

“Then why are you crying?” Javier brushed a thumb under your eyes to wipe away the evidence of your strong burst of emotion.

“Because I love you,” You chuckled as you held his hand close to your cheek and pressed a kiss to the middle of his palm. “And I’m pregnant, so everything is a thousand times more intense and you don’t get to tease me for that.”

“I would never,” Javi muttered but the mischievous grin on his face betrayed him. “Let me make you feel better, baby,”

“I’m already better, Javi - oh,”

----------

Two o’clock in the morning was not an ideal time to wake up, especially since Javier knew that Ellie would be awake and full of energy by seven, but something felt off. Even in his unconscious state, he could feel the absence of you in bed and his mind nagged at him to get up and find you. The hardwood was cold beneath his feet as he wandered from the bedroom, finding the bathroom empty before he made his way down the stairs. You often would rest on the recliner in the living room when your back was bothering you particularly bad, especially since your center of gravity had so drastically changed the further along you got in your pregnancy - but you weren’t there either.

Before Javi could start really worrying, he heard the refrigerator open and found you peering into the illuminated fridge in search of… something. A pint of ice cream was already in your hand, a spoonful of it hanging from your lips as you browsed with a frustrated look on your face, and honestly… Javi loved how you looked. It was so domestic and sweet, the sight of you in your pajamas that barely covered your belly as you raided the kitchen.

Thirty-six weeks and four days. He could barely believe how much time had passed since he saw those positive tests. It felt like forever and the blink of an eye at the same time, and he was beyond excited to meet his newest little one.

“What are you looking for, sweetheart?” Javi asked after a moment of watching you helplessly search around.

The sheepish smile you gave him made his heart swell in his chest and he automatically opened his arms as you shuffled over to bury your face in his chest. “Your kid is driving me crazy with the cravings.”

Javier hugged you tightly, relishing in the way you relaxed against him. “Well, if they’re anything like me, they probably want those barbecue chips, then.”

It didn’t take long for him to get you herded back up to bed with the chips in hand and the sight of you sleepily munching away while burrowed in the blankets eased an almost innate need Javier had to see you safe and happy, all nice and taken care of in his bed. He climbed into bed once he was sure you didn’t need anything else, settling on his side with his head propped up against his hand to watch you despite his own sleepiness.

“Let your mama sleep, troublemaker.” He murmured to your belly as he rubbed gentle circles over the spots he could feel the nudges of his little one retaliating to their father’s stern words. “Need some lotion?”

“Hmmm, please?” You hummed.

Rubbing lotion into your skin was something Javi had taken a particular liking to. The first time he had seen you doing it yourself, he was quick to take over. That was the first time he felt his little one kick at his hands and he fell even more in love - something he hadn’t thought was possible. It was a good way to feel closer to you both, to his wife and the baby you were bringing into the world, and the way you dozed slightly as he helped you relax made him feel needed, like he was doing right by you. That’s all he ever wanted to do.

A nudge to the edge of his hand made Javier glance back down to where his hands were running all over your belly, but it was the sight of the baby rolling that made him do a double take. “Holy shit,” He whispered, hands frozen as he saw what had to be the imprint of a little foot or hand poke out before disappearing. “There really is a whole person in there.”

“You’re tellin’ me,” You grumbled, grimacing slightly at the feeling. “It’s aerobics hour, apparently.”

“That’s fucking crazy.” Javi tentatively resumed massaging the lotion into your skin. It was hard to fathom, the idea that your body was so capable of creating and nurturing a brand new life, and for the millionth time he found himself thanking the universe for letting him have this second chance.

----------

Gabriel Peña came early, quick, and with a sharp cry you were sure could be heard throughout the entire hospital. His little nose was scrunched up, his face all red from his wailing, hands curled into angry fists over his sudden eviction from the warmth and darkness he was accustomed to. It was a short labor, so very different from your first with Ellie for so many reasons but the biggest being the strong presence of Javier at your side. The moment the contractions began at the crisp hour of six a.m., he was alert and full of nervous excitement.

True to his word, Javier let you clutch onto him through it all - every contraction, every push, every angered grumble you threw his way for getting you pregnant in the first place. That sharp mind of his kept up under the pressure. He spoonfed you ice chips and let you use him for support as you rocked your way through particularly bad contractions.

There were tears in Javier’s eyes as he carefully set his hand on his son’s head, carefully musing the shock of dark, wispy hair on his head. You leaned your head against Javi’s shoulder, exhaustion, relief, and happiness warring with each other after hours of labor. You felt his lips press against your temple before he sniffled and whispered, “Thank you.”

Javier stayed by Gabriel’s side the entire time the doctors checked him over and cleaned him up, per your instructions, and he was the one to return your son to your arms. It was the most careful you had ever seen him, his movements slow and deliberate, eyes on the baby’s adorable, chubby face.

“Seven pounds, nine ounces,” Javi murmured as he drug a chair as close to your bedside as possible and settled in, his hand resting on your thigh. A disgruntled whine came from the baby wriggling in your arms and you smiled, knowing he was hungry and could probably smell the milk your body had been preparing to make for his arrival. You pulled the gown down to expose your breast, propping your arm with a pillow to better support him, and adjusted his latch to settle in.

“Nice latch, mama,” One of the nurses said as she finished settling the blankets around your feet.

“Not my first time at this rodeo.” You chuckled quietly. It had been a while since Ellie weaned but you still remembered the struggle of figuring out how to get a newborn to latch properly when you had no idea what you were doing. You set your hand over Javi’s, smiling at him when he blinked sleepily up at you. Neither of you had gotten much rest before Gabriel decided to make his appearance into the world. “Can you hand me some water, honey?”

“Of course,” Javi perked up with the small task you gave him. There wasn’t much he could do at this point, but you wanted him to feel involved, to feel like he was helping you, and even though his mere presence helped you relax, you knew he was an ‘action’ kind of man. He needed something to do to feel useful. He held the straw steady for you and everything, your sweet husband. “How’re you feeling?”

“Tired.” You answered honestly, leaning into his hand when he brushed stray hairs from your face.

“I know this wasn’t easy. I’m proud of you.” It was a simple statement but it hit you right in your chest. As excited as you were to have another baby, it was hard. Exhausting. He could see it all, how tired you were and how hard you were working just to carry on like normal through your pregnancy, and while he did everything he could to ease some of that burden, the plain acknowledgement of how hard you worked felt good.

“I love you so much.” You whispered, pulling his hand close to kiss his palm.

“I love you, too.” Javier leaned over the side of the bed and kissed you softly, careful not to jostle his son where he sleepily nursed against you. “How are our kids so damn cute?”

You huffed a laugh, which made Gabriel shift against you before settling back down, sighing suspiciously similar to his father. “It helps that their dad is incredibly good looking.”

“True,” Javi said, trying for that cocky tone you loved but you didn’t miss the pink tinge to the tips of his ears. Compliments always got him like that, all red-faced and adorable - though he would never admit it.

A short nap later and you had one very excited Ellie fidgeting in the chair next to your bed, impatiently waiting to meet her baby brother. Javier stood behind her, quietly reminding her to be careful as you helped keep the squirming newborn steady in her lap. Your heart damn near exploded when she began cooing at her brother and very gently touching his soft cheeks. She was enamored by him, asking so many questions that you and her father could barely keep up.

“Can we share my bed?” “No, he can’t sleep in your bed, baby. He has to sleep in a special bed in mommy and daddy’s room.”

“Does he get a special seat like me?” “Yep! Daddy’s putting his carseat in next to yours right now. You’ll get to talk to him the whole way home.”

“Is he gonna cry a lot?” “Yeah, he will. That’s how babies let people know they need something since they don’t have words like we do.”

“Can I share my crackers with him?” “Not yet! Right now, he only drinks milk.” “Milk? Like for cereal?” “Kind of, but it comes from your mommy.” “What?!” “You ate the same thing when you were a little baby, too.” “What?!”

The entire drive home was full of little Ellie chatting away at her baby brother, mostly about the stuffed animals she had at home that she promised to show him the moment they got home. There was a small smile on Javier’s face as he drove, his hand curled around yours on the center console. He practically radiated contentment and damn did it look good on him.

----------

For what felt like the millionth time, you woke before the sun had a chance to rise. Though this time, it was to the feeling of a full bladder rather than the sound of a hungry baby, so that could be counted as a small win at the very least. You tried to ignore the ache in your healing body as you stumbled your way to and from the bathroom, near silent in your movements even though you were half asleep. It was a well practiced dance, getting out and back into bed without waking your sleeping children.

But something was off. The sheets were cooler than usual, missing the fire-like heat that Javier radiated constantly. You sat up, blinking against the drowsiness and darkness to see your husband passed out on the rocking chair in the corner of the room with Gabriel curled up on his bare chest. Skin-to-skin contact was something Javier couldn’t get enough of. He told you how close it made him feel to his son and you couldn’t complain. It was a precious sight. Avoiding the creaky floorboards, you carefully covered Gabriel with a soft baby blanket and smoothed it down his back.

“S’wrong?” Javier mumbled, words slurred with sleep, his eyes barely cracking open. On instinct, his hands shifted over the little baby asleep on him to hold him closer, even more secure.

“Shh, nothing’s wrong.” You soothed as you gently tucked his curls back away from his forehead. “Go back to sleep.”

“M’kay.” And with that his eyes were closed, back to dozing like he was never interrupted in the first place. You were glad. Tomorrow was an early morning, and paired with all of the midnight feedings and diaper changes, you all could use some rest. So you laid back down, sleep dragging you back under swiftly.

Javier was practically bouncing with nerves just hours later, even though he was trying not to show it. It brought you back to that first appointment when you were pregnant, only this time he held a sleeping one-month old who he was trying not to wake up with his nervousness.

“I just want it to go well.” He grumbled when you asked if he was okay.

“It will.” You reassured him, rubbing circles into his knee. “They’re both perfectly healthy, the pediatrician will tell you that, too.”

You were right - then again, when weren’t you? Gabe was a healthy nine and a half pounds, strong heart and lungs, and good reflexes. Javier was hooked on the pediatrician’s every word, nodding along and giving you a relieved smile with each positive statement. And of course, Ellie’s rambunctiousness had the pediatrician and nurses completely captivated as she told them all about her preschool and the antics she got up to while they checked her over.

The pride on Javier’s face with every positive comment and reassurance that both of his kids were on track developmentally made your heart flip. You felt so beyond lucky to have this little family of yours, with two beautiful children and the man you always loved. It felt too good to be true sometimes, especially when Javi pulled you close for a tight hug and a kiss to the side of your head before he worked to get one wiggly Gabe back into his onesie.

One impromptu trip to the park later and you and Javier had two very tired kids on your hands. Ellie was already passed out by the time Javier pulled into the driveway but Gabe was quickly venturing into ‘overtired’ territory. He was grumpy, wriggling around in your arms like he couldn’t get comfortable, all the while giving little whines and grunts that threatened to turn into full on wailing. He didn’t want milk, he didn’t need a diaper change, he just wanted to sleep but was too frustrated to let a nap take him.

“Give ‘em here.” Javier offered and you freely handed him over. The postpartum fatigue was no joke, and even though it was lessening with each passing day, you were damn tired so you had no issue with letting your husband put the baby down for a nap. You curled up on the couch, not quite going to sleep but still letting your mind and body rest as you listened to Javi try to negotiate with Gabriel as if he were some sicario and not just a particularly stubborn baby.

“C’mon, little man. Just go to sleep. All of your problems if you went to sleep right now? Solved. Completely solved. Instead of crying you could just… go to sleep.” Javier whispered over the cooing and grunting of his son. “Oh, don’t give me that face, mister.”

You snorted a laugh - you knew exactly what face Gabe was pulling. His nose and eyebrows would scrunch up, lips pursed as he huffed angry breaths like a little baby bull. It was an exaggerated copy of the face Javier pulled anytime he was frustrated, which you found ridiculously adorable. Slowly, the grumpy grunts became more and more quiet until they disappeared completely, and a few moments later, Javier flopped down on the couch next to you with a sigh.

“Got him down.” Javi said as he pressed close to you, burying himself between the back of the couch and your body to press his face into your neck. A blanket of drowsiness must have settled over the entire house as both kids napped peacefully in their beds and you cuddled up to your husband in the living room. The both of you would doze until the sound of little feet on the hardwood or the sounds of a hungry baby woke you, and then it would be back on the grind of parenthood, but you knew… with Javier by your side, you could do it.

{Taglist}

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[angelicyoongie]

Christmas in abundance

— pairing: hybrid bts x human f!reader — genre: fluff! — word count: 4.5K — summary: If the boys wanted to play Secret Santa, who were you to deny them? Though maybe, just maybe, you should’ve thought twice before adding a penalty to the mix. — a/n: Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays!! I hope you’ve all had a good and safe time. This Abundance christmas special does not have anything to do with the original story, so nothing that happens here will affect it. This is a little rough, ngl, but that’s what I get for not writing for a month lol. Either way, I hope you enjoy it!! 

"I'm home!" You shake off the lingering cold with a shiver, the warmth in the house wrapping around you pleasantly as you shrug off your coat. You barely have time to slip out of your boots before a body crashes into yours, a pair of strong arms pulling your body flush against a firm chest.

"You're late," Hoseok whines. The dog hybrid tucks his face into your neck with a huff, nose skimming against your throat as he works to cover the myriad of scents on your skin with his own.

"Sorry, I got held up a work," You sigh. "The office wants to do Secret Santa this year, so we had to figure out who would gift who.”

“Secret Santa?” A puzzled expression crosses Hoseok’s face as he pulls back.

“Oh, it’s a pretty simple game many people like to play during the holidays! You draw a random name, buy that person a gift, and then try your best to keep it a secret that it’s you,” You say, a smile tugging at your lips at how adorably confused the dog hybrid looks. The golden tail behind his back halts its quick movement; Hoseok’s head tilting slightly as he takes in your explanation. His eyebrows furrow as he thinks, an emotion you can’t quite place flickering in his eyes before he suddenly breaks out into a big grin, “Can we do it too? It sounds like fun!”

“Of course!” You say. “Just ask the others if they want to do it to? It won’t be much of a game if it’s just us two.” You reach up to gently ruffle his hair, the dog hybrid nearly falling over himself as he tries to lean into your touch.

“I need to go freshen up, I’ll see you guys for dinner?” You let out a soft laugh as Hoseok nods into your palm, a pout forming on his lips as you pull away.

“I’ll go ask them,” He gives you a bright smile before you turn to hurry up the stairs, more than ready to get into some comfortable clothes. Hoseok watches you leave, his smile falling into a frown as you round the corner.

He quickly walks down the hallway, mouth set in firm line as he turns into the kitchen and says, “We have to be secretive Santa’s.” The room grows quiet as six pairs of eyes find Hoseok’s form in the doorway, their stares a mixture of apprehension and bewilderment at the sudden declaration from the dog hybrid.

“What?” Namjoon sputters.

“Are you okay, hyung?” Taehyung rushes forward to place his hand against Hoseok’s cheek, his fox ears pinned to his head in worry.

“Did you hit your head?” Yoongi leans against the counter with a faint smirk, his dark tail swishing playfully behind his back as Namjoon shoots him a sour look. Hoseok only gives Yoongi a huff in response before he gently removes Taehyung’s hands from his face, pressing a soft peck against his palm at the worried expression on his packmate’s face.

“I’m fine Tae,” Hoseok assures him. “Y/n told me about a game humans play during the holidays. They draw a random person and have to gift them something, and since she’s playing it with her co-workers, we obviously have to play it too. We have to give her the best gift.” Looks of understanding flashes across the other hybrids’ faces, and Namjoon lets out a hum of approval at his packmate’s quick thinking. They can’t have their courting be upstaged by a human.

“But it has to be a secret,” Hoseok’s words are met by a displeased hiss, Jimin narrowing his eyes at the dog hybrid. Yoongi places his hand at the back of Jimin's neck, giving him a comforting squeeze as he says, “Well, it doesn’t really matter who gives her the present, right? As long as whatever we give is better than what the human gives her.” Jimin looks like he wants to protest, but a quirk of Yoongi’s brow in his direction settles him quickly, the younger cat hybrid leaning against his alpha with a defeated pout.

“What about the rest of the presents?” Jeongguk’s soft voice takes them all by surprise, the bunny hybrid hardly ever speaking up when they’re all together in one room. Jeongguk keeps his eyes trained on Hoseok, trying his best to ignore how his body grows more and more tense for each second as the attention shifts to him.

“Uh, I guess the rest will just gift each other something?” Hoseok clears his throat, heat creeping up the back of his neck as he finds himself pinned under the bunny hybrid’s big questioning eyes.

“Boring,” Jimin mutters. As Yoongi’s gaze narrows at his packmate, Seokjin hurriedly adds, ”If it’ll make Y/n happy, then I’m in.”

“Me too,” Jeongguk murmurs.

“Me three!” Taehyung grins.

“Sure, we’re in too,” Yoongi waves them off, his hand still tight on the younger cat hybrid’s neck.

“Fine,” Jimin sighs. Namjoon rolls his eyes with a faint smile as Jimin’s tail betrays his indifference, the younger cat hybrid obviously excited at the prospect of receiving a gift judging by the excited flick the end of his tabby tail does. “So we’re all in then,” Namjoon says.

“Great!” Hoseok beams, “I’ll go tell Y/n.”  

❅ 

You grab another box, wobbling slightly as you take your first step down the ladder. You can’t believe it’s almost Christmas already. The last weeks have passed by in a blur of important court cases, and aside from greeting the boys when you leave and come back home from work; you haven’t had any spare time to spend with them. You feel bad. Not only because you miss them, and you know they miss your company too, but also because this is your first Christmas together, and you had wanted to make December as magical as possible. But, thanks to all the late nights you pulled at the office earlier in the year, you’ve earned yourself some extra days off. So, while you might not have been able to make all of December an adventure for them, you’re going to try your hardest to make the next three days leading up to Christmas Eve as fun as possible.

“Hey Namjoon, can you help me with this?” You call out over the boxes stacked in your arms, gritting your teeth as you try to make it down the attic ladder in one piece. Maybe you only should’ve done one at the time, but where’s the fun in that? There’s nothing quite like the idea of falling and breaking a bone to really get the Christmas spirit pumping through your veins.

You let out a sigh of relief as heavy box on top is removed, but the sight that greets you over the cardboard wasn’t one you were ready for. The wolf hybrid has a sweet smile on his face, dimples on full display as he easily hefts the box under his arm. It’s just so domestic that it makes your heart skip a traitorous beat; almost making you miss the last step as you stumble down into the hallway.

“You okay?” Namjoon takes a step closer as he looks you up and down, his free hand reaching for your arm in case you feel unsteady on your feet.

“I’m fine!” You wince inwardly at the high pitch of your voice, plastering on a strained smile as you try to get a better grip at the decorations in your arms. 

“Just, you know .. excited for Christmas!” You barrel past him before he can see the flush creeping up your neck. As you hurry down the stairs, you can’t help but mentally curse yourself for how just seeing Namjoon holding a box and looking cute manages to short-circuit your brain. How the hell are you supposed to survive seeing the rest of the boys decorating the whole house?

❅

“Yoongi, that’s not ..” You bite back a laugh as the cat hybrid ignores you, practically folding himself in half to make sure he fits inside the empty cardboard box. You watch as Yoongi gets up and sits back down, folding his limbs this way and that way until he’s happy with his position.

“What?” He glares in your direction when he notices your amused stare, his tail puffing up defensively as you shake your head.

“Nothing. It’s cute,” You giggle. You turn before you can see the faint flush in Yoongi’s cheeks, the cat hybrid sinking down lower in the box to hide how pleased he is at your comment. You open another box, pulling out the rather tiny assortment of tinsel and garlands you’ve saved over the last years. It might have taken up a lot of room in your old apartment, but you doubt it’ll be enough to decorate past the first floor in this house. You do have time to run to the store and get some more, but even just imagining the crowds doing all their last minute shopping makes you want to shudder. It’ll just have to do this year.

“Hyung, I need those,” You hear a soft grumble from the couch as Jeongguk pushes Seokjin away from the nearly empty popcorn bowl, the hamster hybrid making a discontent noise as it’s moved away from him. The popcorn and cranberry string is looking a little short considering how much you gave them earlier, but you quickly realize the problem when Seokjin turns in your direction. He’s storing his snacks.

The hamster hybrid’s cheeks are so puffed out you’re honestly surprised he can even close his mouth. You stifle your laughter as you turn your attention back to the tinsel, not wanting to make him feel uncomfortable. It’s honestly adorable, but you know the boys can get embarrassed over instincts they can’t control, so if it’s something as harmless as eating popcorn and taking up residence in a box, you’re more than happy to pretend you haven’t seen anything.

“Hobi, can you help me with this?” You call over the dog hybrid, gesturing to the tinsel. You’re sure it’ll go much faster putting it all on the tree if you’re two people doing it.

“Sure!” Hoseok grins.

“If you go stand on the other side of the tree, we can just pass it back and fourth,” The dog hybrid easily follows your instructions, and you’ve already gotten the tinsel wrapped around the tree a few times before it abruptly stops. You frown, giving it a few tugs in case it got caught on the wrong branch, but it’s not moving. You peak around the tree, confused as to why it’s stuck when you have so much length left, but the reason becomes apparent when you find Hoseok’s hand tightly wrapped around the glittery garland.

“Hobi?” You give it a small tug, and the dog hybrid only smiles sheepishly in response as he immediately tugs back.

“Sorry,” Hoseok whines as he pulls his hand back again, the golden ears on top of his head drooping. “I didn’t let go of the tinsel before you pulled and ..” Ah. You let the garland go slack in your hands, and the dog hybrid only stares at the glitter for a few seconds before his grip loosens as well. His instincts thought you were playing tug of war. “Sorry,” He repeats.

“Hobi, it’s fine! I really don’t mind. Maybe we can play some actual tug of war later if you want to shift?” You offer.

“Really?” You can see the uncertainty still lingering in Hoseok’s eyes, but the tail behind his back can’t help but do a few excited wags.

“Of course. We can go outside the moment we finish decorating,” You grin. Hoseok’s face lights up, his eyebrows furrowing in concentration as he gently nudges you out of the way, taking the tinsel out of your hands. You don’t think you’ve ever seen someone decorate a tree that fast, the dog hybrid practically vibrating with excitement as he shoves a container of ornaments into Jimin and Taehyung’s hands.

“Hurry, hurry,” Hoseok mutters as he throws a look at Namjoon, confirming that the alpha is stringing lights above the window like he's supposed to.

“Right,” You smile, grabbing the closest ornaments to hang them on the tree. You let your eyes drift around the room as you place the first ornament, your chest almost feeling like it’s going to burst with fondness as you see all the hybrids look so focused on their different tasks. It’s moments like this where it’s easy to forget all the arguments and nasty behaviours that have transpired between the packs. You’re not gullible enough to believe that it’ll just be smooth sailing from here on out, but can you always hope. That’s what Christmas is for, after all.  

❅

“Okay! Is everyone ready?” You say, taking your place on the floor in front of the pile of Secret Santa gifts. You honestly feel like you’re going to roll away on the floor if you happen to topple over, your belly full and sated with all the delicious Christmas foods you’ve eaten over the last hours. Jeongguk and Jimin are the first ones to reach your side, each taking up the space next to you as the others settle down in a circle. You’ve been collecting gifts from all over the house, trying your best to keep the whole game as anonymous as possible. You’re about to reach out for the first gift when you remember something you used to do with friends when you were younger, something that make the game a little more exciting.

“Boys, how do you feel about adding a punishment to the game?” Jimin and Hoseok both sit up a little straighter at your words, all the hybrids snapping to attention. The three alphas all share a look, a weird glint in them you haven’t seen before.

“Punishment?” Jeongguk stiffens as the air in the room grows heavier. Maybe that was a poor choice of words.

“Oh no, I meant like a .. penalty? Like if the receiver can figure out who their gift is from, then the giver has to do a penalty?” You say, placing a comforting hand on the bunny hybrid’s knee.

“A penalty is fine,” Jeongguk says, beginning to relax under your touch, “but what would it be?”

“How about the receiver decide the punishment?” Taehyung offers, a lazy smirk on his face as he leans back on his hands, “Wouldn’t that be fair?” You know the fox hybrid always tries to win by whatever means necessary, and that it usually spells trouble for you, but it’s Christmas Eve, so if there was ever a day to indulge Taehyung, this would be it.

“Sure. I don’t mind if the others are okay with it,” You shrug. There’s immediately a small chorus of agreement, and you take that as the go to give out the first present.

“First one is .. Seokjin!” The hamster hybrid takes the present from your hands cautiously, the room falling silent as he unwraps it. Hoseok snorts as he sees the item, the furrow between Seokjin’s eyes disappearing as soon as it shows up.

“Shampoo,” He announces.

“Well?” You prompt when the hamster hybrid places the item behind his back and out of sight, “Who do you think it’s from?” You swear you see the quick flicker of Seokjin’s gaze to Jimin, but it happens so fast you can’t be sure. The cat hybrid still has an easy smile on his face, and there’s nothing in his face that gives him away if he was the one behind Seokjin’s gift.

“I have no idea,” Seokjin shakes his head. “Let’s move on to the next one?”

“Sure,” You try to shake off weird feeling in your gut as you pick up the next gift. There’s no reason for them to pretend they don’t know who gifted them their presents, you must still be stressed after the intense week of work you had before your days off.

“Let’s see .. Namjoon!” The wolf hybrid gives you a bright smile as he takes his present, the grin never leaving his face as he rips through the paper. You notice the bunny hybrid stiffening next to you as Namjoon sees his present, his gray ears twitching slightly.

“A comb,” Namjoon waves it in the air quickly, the motion almost a blur as you only pick up the dark colour before he places it between his crossed legs. The wolf hybrid’s gaze scans quickly around the group before he shrugs, “No clue who it’s from though.”

Jeongguk lets out a small breath of air next to you, and when you think about it, didn’t that blur look similar to the comb the bunny hybrid uses for his ears? Before you can open your mouth to ask, Jimin hands you the next present with a sweet smile. Normally, that would put your worries at ease, but the lazy swishes of the tabby hybrid’s tail just makes you more suspicious. They’re definitely up to something.

The feeling only grows as you work through the presents. The boys casually hide their gifts before you can get a good look at them, and they somehow never know who the giver is, despite it being glaringly obvious whom it’s from with how the other hybrid perks up when their gift is unwrapped. You can’t figure out who gifted you the customized ink pen either, although Namjoon looked particularly proud when you couldn’t wipe the shocked smile off your face.

“This is just what I wanted!” You say. You think you might have mentioned it in passing a while back, but you never expected someone to actually remember it.

“Is it a better Secret Santa gift than the one you got at work?” Hoseok asks. The dog hybrid looks a little anxious, his canines digging into the soft flesh of his lips as his gaze shifts between your face and the gift in your hands.

“Of course it is! Soo-hyun got me an ugly Christmas mug she knew I would hate,” You snort, “There’s no way it could beat this!” You look down at the pen again, just missing the shared expression of relief that crosses the boys’ faces as you admire the sleek black and silver design.

“Anyway, let’s move on to the next gift!” You say. “It’s for .. Yoongi!” You hand the second to last gift to the cat hybrid, Yoongi’s sharp nails slicing through the paper with no trouble.

“A book, wonderful,” He smirks before he places it behind his back. You frown as you see the cover that is all too familiar, is that the book your aunt gifted you those years ago? The heavy atmosphere is back in the room as eight pairs of eyes shift to the last present on the floor. You swallow thickly, trying your best to school your features into something neutral. It’s your gift. And there’s no way you’re going to let him figure out it’s you, not when you were the one to come up with the penalty in the first place.

“Me!” Taehyung exclaims with a boxy grin as he picks up the last gift, his slender fingers carefully opening the paper. The fox hybrid lets out a delighted gasp as he uncovers the console games, his tail swishing wildly behind his back in excitement.

“Thank you Y/n!” Taehyung’s eyes sparkle as he meets your gaze, and the “You’re welcome!” tumbles out before you can stop it. You wince as something mischievous settles in Taehyung’s handsome features, the fox hybrid looking pleased with himself that you managed to slip up.

“How did you know it was me?” You groan.

“You have a tell,” Taehyung says.

You have? .. Crap. “What is it?”

“It’s a secret,” The fox hybrid smirks. Secret Santa was definitely not a hybrid game – the boys had come to realize that as soon as the first gift was handed out. The presents reek of the giver, but of course, that’s not something your human nose would be able to pick up.

“Fine,” You pout, tracing your finger over the pen in your lap, “What’s my penalty?”

The fox hybrid’s face grows serious as his gaze shifts around the room, searching for something to use as your punishment. You can’t help the way your stomach flips with nerves – or is it maybe excitement? – as you wait for him to figure it out. If it’s one thing you’ve come to learn, it’s that these boys are never predictable. Taehyung’s orange ears perk up as his eyes suddenly catch on an item, and Yoongi lets out a low hiss as he follows the fox hybrid’s line of sight. You barely have time to blink before Taehyung springs to his feet to grab your hand, dragging you along with him over to the living room entrance. You suck in a surprised breath as you find yourself standing directly underneath the mistletoe, Taehyung’s hand warm around yours as he gently pulls you a step closer.

“Only if you want to,” He says. Taehyung’s low murmur soothes the nerves prickling under your skin, the obvious fondness on his face easing your fears. The problem isn’t that you don’t want to, it’s that you do. And not just with Taehyung, but with all seven of them.

“It’s okay,” You hesitantly place your hand on Taehyung’s shoulder, the fox hybrid’s muscles jumping under your touch. You spare a glance back the rest of the boys when you notice just how silent the room has become, a flush creeping up your cheeks as you find all six of them staring at the both of you with an intensity you haven’t seen before. You quickly turn your attention back to Taehyung, the fox hybrid’s eyes fluttering shut as you begin to rise up at the tip of your toes.

You ground yourself in Taehyung’s firm grip around your hand, the fox hybrid’s warm breath spilling across your mouth as you lean in closer. Your aim is a little off, the lush dark lashes across Taehyung’s cheekbones distracting you enough that the kiss that was meant for his cheek, ends up at the corner of his mouth instead. When you pull back, you find Taehyung’s wide sparkling eyes already trained on your face, the fox hybrid gazing at your reverently for a few seconds before he dives down to bury his face in your neck.

“This is the best Christmas ever,” You let out a choked giggle at Taehyung’s words, stroking his back affectionately as he tries his best to rub your shared scent back on your skin.

“Me next,” You nearly jump out of your skin as you find Hoseok standing next to you, the rest of the boys lined up behind him with sheepish smiles.

“I thought this was supposed to be a penalty?” You quirk a brow, gently untangling yourself from Taehyung as the dog hybrid begins to move impatiently in place.

“Kissing Taehyung is just nice, it’s not a penalty unless you do it to all of us,” Hoseok whines. You catch Jeongguk nodding his head behind Yoongi’s shoulders, his long ears flopping from the force. Well, you think, what’s the harm?

“Fine,” You usher Taehyung over to the couch, turning back around to face Hoseok. “One mistletoe kiss coming right up.” The dog hybrid practically vibrates out of his skin when your lips touch his cheek, and he doesn’t waste any time mixing his scent like Taehyung had once you pull back.

You can see Namjoon’s silver tail wag behind his back as you place both hands on his shoulders, needing a little extra boost to reach his cheek. A dimple blooms where you delivered a soft peck, and Namjoon briefly touches his cheek against the top of your head before he joins his pack on the couch.

Jimin steps up next, placing his hands behind his back as he offers his cheek with a playful grin. “One penalty please,” He says.

“Of course,” You place your hand on Jimin’s jaw, holding him in place as you kiss his cheek. You catch the slight disappointment in the cat hybrid’s eyes as you pull back, but the gentle touch of your fingertips tracing his jaw is enough to wash it away. Taehyung might be the fox, but Jimin is by far the slyest when it comes to getting what he wants.

“Not yet,” You murmur, taking a step back. Jimin nods, his eyes filled with warm understanding as gently rubs his cheek against your shoulder before he lets Yoongi take his place. The alpha regards you with hooded eyes as you peck his cheek, a faint purr spilling from his chest as he rubs your mixed scent against the opposite shoulder. The soft fur on his ears tickle your throat, and the cat hybrid offers you a low thank you before he steps away.

“You okay?” Jeongguk’s cheeks are bright red as he takes Yoongi's place, but the bunny hybrid hurriedly nods in response. You can almost feel the jittery energy coursing through his body as you step closer, Jeongguk inhaling sharply as your lips make contact with his skin. The bunny hybrid shyly takes your hand in his, bringing it up to rub your wrist against his freshly kissed cheek. Jeongguk hurries off before you can say anything, his tail twitching rapidly behind his back as he joins the rest.

Seokjin has a fond look in his eyes as he steps closer. The hamster hybrid leans down slightly, just enough that his mouth graces you ear as he murmurs, ”You took your punishment well.” You feel plush lips against your cheek before Seokjin pulls back, a knowing smile spreading across his face as your fingers trace the spot he kissed. You stand there a little stunned as Seokjin joins Jeongguk on one of the couches, praying that the hamster hybrid didn’t notice the shiver that bolted down your spine at his words.

You awkwardly clear your throat as you realize they’re all waiting for you to join them, gesturing over to the TV as you say, “Do you want to watch a Christmas movie?” 

You let the boys argue over which movie to watch, quickly putting on your old copy of Home Alone once they’ve decided. You squeeze into the spot between Yoongi and Namjoon on the couch, the two alphas shifting closer the moment you’re settled; their sides flush with yours as you press play on the movie.

As the minutes begin to trickle by, you catch yourself watching the boys more than the colourful screen, a pleasant and comforting warmth spreading through your body as they laugh and giggle at the funny moments. Truthfully, the seven hybrids fill a space you hadn’t even realized was empty. And now – sitting here in your cozy living room with lights twinkling all around, you don’t think there’s anything else you could ever want.

You already have it all right here.

#hybrid bts #hybrid!bts #hybrid au #bts x reader #ot7 x reader #bts poly au #bts fluff #hybrid jungkook #hybrid yoongi #hybrid jimin #hybrid hoseok #hybrid taehyung #hybrid namjoon #hybrid seokjin #bts au #bts fanfic #hybridbtsnetwork #abundance

[tsukishumai]

pairing: Sakusa Kiyoomi x f!reader word count: 2.7k (idk I’m sorry) tags/warnings: fluff, smut, NSFW, bondage, oral(f!receiving), MINORS please DNI with this post a/n: a big thank you to @forgetou and @neobakas for beta-reading this piece for me. ilysm <3

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

You were always incredibly considerate of Sakusa. It had been that way from the moment the two of you had met. You didn’t scoff at how he needed to be the first one in the locker rooms after practice, or laugh at his post-game rituals. You quietly adjusted to his odd habits, no fanfare or complaints. You never did so with any disdain nor treated his quirks as if they were a nuisance. You just accepted those parts of him without a second thought, considering it just as important to him as his limbs.

So yes, Sakusa fell for the kind girl that made him feel normal – the one that avoided taking him to crowded places, and stitched his jersey number onto a face mask. He thinks your jokes are hilarious, and he feels proud when he’s the one making you laugh. He likes it when you cook his favorite meals, and he appreciates the way you stay up to wait for him when he gets home a little late. He notices the effort you put into always looking pretty for him every day, always waiting for him to initiate contact for fear of invading his personal space.

But that’s just the thing.

Sakusa doesn’t want any personal space from you. He loves the way you smell, and the way your skin feels beneath his fingers. He daydreams about holding you in his arms, and rubbing circles along your back as you relaxed against him. He gets butterflies in his stomach when you kiss his cheek without asking him first, and he revels in the timid look on your face when you apologize for doing so.

He doesn’t mind. Why would he? Despite any preconceived notions one might have of him, Sakusa enjoys affection – from the right person. He’s not going to give Bokuto a high five, nor is he going to shake Hinata’s hand. Sakusa never fails to get the odd look from Atsumu when he slides his hand into yours without a second thought, or when he ‘allows’ you to brush his hair away from his face.

Sakusa wants to scoff whenever he hears that phrase. He doesn’t allow you to touch him. He yearns for it like his lungs need air.

So of course he notices when you try to keep him at arm’s length.

You were never afraid to tell him how you felt, easily slipping I love yous and I’m missing you into daily texts and conversation. It made his heart flutter, but Sakusa wasn’t a man of many words. He’s not sure how to write a love letter, and he’s never even picked up a poetry book. When you ask him how much he loves you, he’ll just look you dead in the eye and say “A lot?”

No, you won’t be receiving sonnets nor prose about his undying affection. He’d much rather just show you.

His every touch is filled with so much care, delicate but sure as they travel across the stretch of your skin. He places gentle kisses along your pressure points, feening for the feel of your pulse against his lips. He wants to taste every inch of you, and commit the sensation of you on his tongue to memory.

Yet whenever he tries to lower his head past your navel, you push him away. You try to distract your rejection with your kiss, rolling him over instead to take him entirely in your mouth.

It’s not that Sakusa is complaining; how could he when he’s pumping his dick into your silky throat, watching your saliva dribble past your chin as you choke on his length?

He forgets about your denial until his next attempt, when he’s nipping at the skin of your hips, moving his mouth to forge a wet trail that lead to the space between your legs, and yet again you pull him up from his spot, kissing him and grabbing him until he plunged himself inside of you instead.

As he collapses next to you in bed, wrapping his arms around you while you nuzzle your face into his chest, for the first time ever, he feels unsatisfied — as if he hadn’t done all that he could have.

He brings this issue up to you the next day, unabashedly asking why you wouldn’t let him kiss you.

“What do you mean, Omi?” You asked, confused. “We kiss all the time.”

“No, I mean,” he turns slightly red as he gestures to your crotch, “There.”

The flustered look on your face shouldn’t have made him hard, but it did. He liked the way you stuttered and widened your eyes, searching desperately for the right words to say.

“I dont know,” you answered finally, “I figured you thought that kind of stuff was gross.”

You cut the conversation off there, no longer wanting to speak on the subject, but it haunted Sakusa for the rest of the day.

Gross? Why would you think that of him? Don’t you know that he wants to claim ever single inch of your body, wants to dip his fingers into you and watch your eyes roll to the back of your head, wants you to sit on his face until he can’t breathe? Had he not been doing a good enough job showing you this?

Sakusa shakes his head, feeling disappointed in himself.

It’s alright. He’s got a plan.

Later that night, as he ran his hands along your waist, lightly dragging his nails across your stomach, he leaned down and whispered in your ear, “I want to try something new tonight.”

You didn’t even think about it as you nodded your head eagerly like he knew you would, gazing up at him with half-lidded eyes that screamed of lust.

He sits up, and you try to sit up with him but he just pushes you back down onto the mattress. You looked up at him curiously as he reaches down the side of the bed to where he placed a plastic bag with his earlier purchase.

Sakusa’s hand emerged holding a pair of silver handcuffs, and he smirks at the way your eyes gleamed with excitement.

“Hands up,” he commands, and you quickly obliged. He looped the handcuffs behind the bars of his headboard, cuffing one of your wrists on each side. He left it slightly loose so as not to injure your skin, but as you struggled against your bindings, Sakusa was pleased to find that it would be impossible for you to get out.

Your arms were outstretched above you, and Sakusa roves his hungry eyes over your dips and curves, so exposed and vulnerable to whatever he wanted to do.

But only one thing was on his mind.

He begins with a soft kiss placed in the crook of your neck, ghosting over your collarbones before leaving marks all across your chest. You fidgeted beneath him, and he placed two hands on your waist.

“Stay still,” he commanded, and you simply gulped.

Sakusa dips his head back down, supple lips enclosing around your hardened nipple, and you arched into his touch. You shiver when his teeth nips at you, while he brings his other hand to cup your other breast, fingers pinching and twisting the previously ignored bud until you were a whimpering mess.

He disconnects his mouth a loud pop, but it wasn’t long until he begins to drag his tongue across your stomach. His direction slowly moves further down, and he can feel you slightly tense up. He ignores the way you try to wiggle your body away from his ministrations; you have nowhere to go, and he has you right where he wants you.

Sakusa draws circles around your navel, his hands finally coming down to rest on your hips.

“Omi,” you say nervously, the handcuffs lightly clinking against the metal bars they were attached to, “I’m not sure if...”

Your words died on your tongue when Sakusa’s grip tightened on your hips, looking up at you through his lashes before darting his tongue out to wet his lips.

“Relax,” he cooed, “Be a good girl for me.”

You nearly choked, your throat feeling dry watching Sakusa move his hands down to your thighs, kissing his way down to uncharted territory. You felt uneasy, and nervous, unable to keep your insecurities at bay when you felt Sakusa lick at the junction of your thigh and pelvis. He was so close to you – what if he thought it was dirty? Or didn’t like your scent? You could feel the warmth of his tongue trace up your pussy lips, and it was involuntary the way you tried to kick him away.

Suddenly, you felt a hand grip you tightly behind your knees, forcefully pushing your legs apart and up against your chest. You gasped in surprise, face turning red at your position. You squirmed against Sakusa’s grip, but his hold on you was strong, and the silver cuffs around your wrist were doing their job well.

“I thought I said be a good girl?” Sakusa questioned, his expression stern while he had your legs pinned down. “Or am I going to have to punish you for being such a disobedient little slut?”

The butterflies in your stomach manifested themselves as the slick wetness between your legs, and Sakusa smirked at the starstruck look on your face.

“I’m a good girl,” you whispered, though the position you found yourself was anything but.

Sakusa responded by pushing your legs even wider, looking down to admire the view. He could feel the tip of his dick struggling against his boxers, a large wet spot on the material indicating just how much he wanted to wreck you. But that could wait.

You start to feel shy under his intense stare, trying not to wiggle away and get another reprimanding.

“Omi, what are you – ahh!”

Sakusa licks one long stroke up your slit, and you couldn’t stop your entire body from shivering. He could feel your legs tremble beneath his fingers, and who knew just one lick could already elicit such a reaction from you?

He moves one hand away from your leg, using two of his fingers to spread apart your folds. Like a man finding treasure, he plunges his tongue onto your swollen red clit, sucking and nipping at it gently before flattening his tongue, drawing patterns that made you feel like your entire body was on flames.

Your head was thrown back against the pillows, back arching as you struggled to catch your breath. Sakusa flicked his tongue against your pussy so expertly, alternating his speed and rhythm in a way that had your legs shaking violently.

“Ohh fuuuuckk,” you managed to groan out, gripping onto your bindings so tightly, your knuckles were turning white. The lewd sounds of him lapping at your clit could only be heard in between your gasping breaths.

Sakusa flicks his tongue up one last time before pulling away slightly, staring up to drink in your flushed expression. Your tongue was lolled out the side of your mouth, eyes rolled back and chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath. Your arms hung limp from its tether, and Sakusa can’t think of a prettier picture.

He looks down at your shining cunt, glistening and swollen and Sakusa didn’t think twice about slipping two fingers into your slopping entrance.

He hooks your leg over his shoulder, smiling as you thrashed helplessly, body reacting fiercely to the way he hooked his fingers and found your gspot with ease.

You squeezed your eyes shut, screams and moans filling the room, unable to adjust to the pleasure of Sakusa rhythm.

You could feel the heat pool into your stomach, tightening in a knot so fraught with tension, it was only seconds before you snapped.

Sakusa could feel the way you pretty little cunt began to tighten around his fingers, quickly slipping in a third one and burying them in deeper.

“Ki...kiyoomi.. I’m .. I’m gonna —“

Sakusa latches back onto your clit, flattening his tongue and sucking in rhythm to the way he pumped into you.

Your legs tightened around his head, but Sakusa didn’t stop. He could feel every tremble, every shake of your thigh against his cheeks, blocking out the sounds of the way you called out his name.

You bucked your hips up into his mouth, and he could feel you gush on his tongue. Sakusa lapped up every single drop, and you felt your body twitch as he continued to lick your sensitive clit. Finally, he surfaces from his meal, looking up at you with your sex dribbling down his chin. It was sinful the way he withdrew his fingers from your cunt and reached up to shove them in your mouth. You sucked on them eagerly, eliciting a smirk from the wavy haired man.

“You taste so fucking good, don’t you?”

Sakusa pulls away, standing up to get rid of his boxers before quickly returning to his spot on the bed.

Your arms were numb, and your legs felt weak, but Sakusa gave you no chance to recover from his previous performance, grabbing your ankles once more and pressing your legs down into a press.

“Such a good fucking little whore,” Sakusa murmurs in your ear, nearly crushing you in the process. “You just let me do whatever the fuck I want, don’t you?”

Without a warning, he slams into you in one hard thrust, the only retaliation coming from your mouth was a strangled groan.

“This pretty pussy is all mine,” Sakusa muttered, keeping your ankles steady by your ears, his cadence unforgiving, and unwavering.

“Omi.. I.. I can’t —!”

Sakusa responded by angling his hips to hit your sweet spot, reaching deeper than you thought possible.

“Yes, you fucking can.”

The crude sounds of his drive were only amplified by the way you gushed all over his dick, the mess you made staining the 400 thread count sheets he so carefully picked out for the both of you.

Sakusa wanted to hold out longer, he really did. But the way you looked under him right now, so fucked out and stupid, he couldn’t help but feel himself get closer and closer to his limit.

“Kiyoomi— please!! I can’t —“

In one swift movement, Sakusa pulls out, pumping his cock until he spilled hot white all over your stomach.

You hadn’t done anything but lay there — bound, at that — but you were desperately gasping for air, your heart beating so fast, you thought it would explode out of its cage.

Sakusa sits back on his heels, equally out of breath, his dick growing limp in his palm, though it still twitched at the sight of you covered all over his cum.

He leans over to give you a peck on the nose, leaving you to walk to his attached bathroom.

He returned a few seconds later with a warm towel, gently cleaning the mess he had made all over your stomach. You nearly fell asleep at his touch, only opening your eyes when he unlocked the cuffs around your wrists.

Your arms fell back down limp, and Sakusa chuckled, kissing the red marks left by the cold silver metal.

“I’m sorry for this,” he mumbled against your skin.

You smiled at him lazily, bringing a hand to tuck a loose strand of wavy hair behind his ear.

“Don’t be sorry.”

He smiled once more before planting a soft kiss on your lips. He settles into the empty space next to you, pulling you on to his lap. You laid your head on his shoulder, and your hand settled on top of his chest, sketching soft circles with the pad of our fingers. He rested his cheek on top of your head, while he supported your back and held your thigh.

“Did you… like that?” He asked quietly, his deep voice disturbing the calm that had nearly engulfed you.

You felt your face heat up, burying further into his chest. He chuckled lowly, holding you tightly and placing a kiss on your temple.

“I did… d-did you?”

Sakusa brings his hand up to your chin, tilting it upwards until you were facing him.

“I loved it.”

He leaned down to place a gentle kiss, filled with all the tender love and care he never gets to say.

Suddenly, He pulls away.

“Hey, what are you—“

He slid his hands beneath the back of your knees, picking you up bridal style in one easy movement. He turned around and made his way back to the bathroom.

“Come on, let’s take a bath first.”

#sakusa #sakusa kiyoomi #sakusa x reader #sakusa kiyoomi x reader #sakusa smut #sakusa kiyoomi smut #sakusa drabbles #sakusa kiyoomi drabbles #sakusa kiyoomi x you #sakusa kiyoomi fluff #sakusa fluff #sakusa x y/n #sakusa kiyoomi x y/n #haikyuu #haikyuu!! #haikyuu!! scenarios #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu imagines #haikyuu smut #haikyuu!! imagines #hq #hq hcs #hq smut

[secretbangtnn]

Best Of Me | One

Pairings : →ot7 x reader, poly!BTS x reader

Genre : → vampireau, yandere!au, age gap, gore, obsessive behavior, ddlg/caregiver, poly, fantasy, supernaturals

summary : It’s quite unusual to find a little baby on your doorstep, especially that their area was not of the poorest - you could say that a vampire town was efficient with money and snobby creatures. However over time the first idea of just giving back the little girl seems more and more radical and those moody vampires slowly start perceiving deeper feelings to human they even wanted to kill.

notes ~

So im not really as happy as i wanted to be with this chapter, but its the first one that i needed to translate. Suprisingly Its easier for me to write the whole thing myslef than translating it from my native language. + Remember to leave something and im happy to say that we can start an ask game with the characters from my books

next

Surprisingly this day was awfully ugly for such a beautiful season. Heavy rain was falling on the ground creating the big sheets of wall with those millions droplets that practically covered the whole view outside of the freshly cleaned window.

Tired sigh pierced the quiet, as for the household members, house only causing the weird tension to increase that was there from the early morning. Dark hair of the boy moved with him, now facing the cold, wet window.

Hyung…” Groaned the boy crashing on the couch closing the eyes in the process a little frustrated. Walking just next to him, a little taller man with bright yellow hair, looked at the dark haired one with a tired stare.

“I don’t have time Jungkook, go torture Yoongi or something.” A snort came out of the older one after the not so innocent proposition, as he kept carrying the big basket full of clothes.

And again he was alone. The youngest of the brothers, being the one who never knew what to do with his free time, wandering in the halls and every couch he could spot in their cosy house. His dark chocolate hair falling on his face, a little too long for his liking, but he was too lazy to actually do something with them.

Again that not happy groan left his lips, and wriggling similar to a child that did not get a toy he wanted, in the end forcing him to sit on the couch with a big pout. It was not normal in this household, the whole quiet and calm act, especially considering the residents he shared the home with.

They are more similar to animals than gentelems that appreciate a quiet time. So the weird atmosphere was definitely an unsettling thing for the youngest.

Again looking at the dark view outside the window, he tried to see the cause of all of this. Completely as if something was meant to happen, like the quiet before the storm.

And let me tell you, Jungkooks 6th sense never fails. Just as he thought that maybe just maybe this time he was wrong, a ring echoed in the whole household.

“Someone is gonna open it?!” He shouted being too irritated to even do it himself, despite being the closest to the doors.

Of course, nobody answered. So angry he was at this moment he got up from a nice cozy couch and with heavy steps he came to the big chunk of the wood.

He opened the door not that gently, mumbling an annoyed “what?”

So how irritated he got when he saw nothing, a void, the same doorstep and gate that stood there everyday, now with a big wall of rain to spice up the view. He looked around, now a little confused, while thinking that maybe someone was in the mood for jokes. But how stupid the idea of that was when he remebered, that for his hundreds years of living in this world the first time that actually someone managed to make fun of him was today.

And oh god he started to get so pissed.

So imagine how shocked he was when just before he closed the door he heard a really unusual sound coming from his feets. Unhappy sobs rang in the quiet afternoon immediately attracting his attention.

The young vampire was more than shocked, looking at the child in the pille of pastel colored blankets. Small sobs now increased in a big crocodile's tears with disturbing sounds of the kids crying.

“”No, no, no, please be quiet, we don’t want to wake up the old, ugly, moody grandpa. do we?” He panicked, whispering the words to the child that now laid in his arms. He just prayed that the actual old vampire really didn't take up because of the cries.

As the kid started to calm down, he stared at it with an unreadable emotion. It was a weird feeling, holding the delicate creature in his arm, knowing that just one wrong move, and the child would never cry again.

So what was that feeling that stirred down his stomach as the little creature grabbed his finger with a big open mouth. The sick emotion only made him panic even more, while looking back inside the house.

He decidied,. Sneaking was nothing new for his ninja move, and he strongly believed in his skills of not getting caught with a surprise in his arms. In the end the spiderman socks were a good choice, as their soft material made nearly no sound on the floor.

His stress level went higher with each step that brought him closer to the room that he knew he could not miss. The sound of a knife and cutting rung in his ears is similar to the music in horror music he likes to watch, now making him understand a feeling of pure fear.

Eyes closed while praying that the blonde man won’t turn around catching him in his act. But how wrong he was to believe in such a miracle. Nothing and absolutely gets past Kim Seokjin.

“Jeon Jungkook…” He died, completely freezing in place. Not opening his eyes he waited thinking that maybe it was just his head messing with him, and the blonde boy never actually turned to him. “What have you done again. If I need to clean the mess once again from the ketchup, I'm not going to…”

And as Jungkook thought that nothing can go worse, the little chil laughed a happy giggle while making the grabby hands for his bracelet.

“Jungkook?...What exactly are you holding?” The question like a knife cutted the heavy atmosphere in half. The silence just after that louder than everything he has heard before. He was even sure that he felt his nonexisting heart stopping. “Did you fucking steall a child?! I can’t be…”

“No! It’s not like that I swear I found it on our doorstep.”

“Do you really think think I am that stupid? How even the child could just appear there hm? Rolled there or better flyed on its plush unicorn?”

“Hyung, please you are going to wake up others.” He didn’t even hesitate to beg, looking at the blonde with such terrified eyes. The child in his arms happily munching on his bracelet completely unaware of the tension.

“Why would I care about others! You brought a child Jungkook, how can i be calm!?”

Dark haired unconsciously looked around with gritted teeth, now just waiting for the rest to appear. And he did not need to wait long, as just after he looked back at the blonde, someone came from the other side of the kitchen door.

Tall man with peachy hair and raspy voice, trying to get rid of the rest of his sleep, now scratching his head with confused expressions. Who wouldn’t be confused in this place, seeing a literal child in a house full of old vampires.

“What is this mess all about? You know what hour it is?” Said the tallest one. Blondie one only snorted as if offended while crossing his arms. “What?”

“Nothing.” Oldest mumbled irritated. The tallest only raised his brow, and repeated the question once again. Jungkook being now forgotten with the child trying to catch his attention with little sounds. “You dare to remind me of the hour?! Do you know how many nights I didn’t sleep because of you! If I just could silence you for good, you would have long ago ended like the voldemort, yes i'm talking about that nose of yours”

The taller one immediately touched his nose gasping not believing in what he just heard, now trying to silently disappear from the harash stare of his older brother.

As the peach hired one hid behind a counter, the attention now came back to the snaking Jungkook. More pairs of footsteps rang in the quietness of the home, slowly showing other people.

“Jin-hyung is angry again? What happened I want to see.” Announced the newcomer, sliding on his perfectly white socks.

“Who is angry here?! You want to see how angry I can be you...you…”

“You silly goose?”

“No that's to lame.”

“Dipshit?”

“You dipshit! Thank you Namjoon.” He finished with a red face. The newcomer only rolled his eyes, while making the shortest of the brothers that came with him laugh.

“Since everyone is here…” The tallest started.

“Wait, where is Yoongi.” Asked the red haired one, while leaning on the counter with a mysteriously made coffee.

“Here.” All of them shouted, hearing the sudden voice, and seeing the new person that appeared with a lightning of thunder. “So what’s this mess about?”

Everyone in the room simultaneously looked at the dark haired boy that immediately stopped in his tracks hoping for some power that could help him disappear. All the eyes slowly drifted down his arms, now staring at a bundle of blankets that started to move as if it knew of the attention.

“What is that?” Asked the tallest looking straight at the irritated blonde.

“Don’t ask me, I’m not the one that gives such a stupid example, making those idiots steal children.”

The kitchen is now again quiet, all the eyes on the little creature in the arms of the youngest. Only sound now being the child starting to sob again, making everyone tense.

“Shut it up you morons.” Said second oldest, annoyed at the loud cries. The blonde didn’t waste time, knowing how bad noise is for the black haired. Small body now shuddering because of the sobbing making the oldest coo at the little child.

His arms soon hold the bundle of blanket, trying to calm the kid down with his baby voice. It wasn’t hard to get lost in its eyes, them being mysterious and full of innocence, drawing up the blonde one. His big hand now on its red cheek, trying to feel the texture of the soft skin under his fingers.

And as the cries never happened, the child started giggling again trying to grab Seokjin hands with such a beautiful smile. It was a really soft sight to see making them all calm and giddy inside. But as the child opened its mouth Seokjin's smiles disappeared.

“What the matter?” Asked Namjoon a little bit taken aback by the change of his hyungs mood. The oldest only looked back at the rest of them with a terrified expression.

“It's a human.”

#bts fanfction #bts fanfic #bts fic recs #bts x reader #vampire bts #bts poly #poly bts #bts polyamory #bts ot7 x reader #ot7 x reader #yandere jungkook #yandere taehyung #jimin #jimin x reader #namjoon x reader #hoseok smut #yoongi x reader #seokjin x reader #yandere bts #yandere seokjin #yandere yoongi #yandere namjoon #yandere hobi

[extremelyblackandwhite]

rock and roll and leather skirts.

pairing: rockstar!sebastian stan x writer!reader

warnings: swearing, smut (18+), slight breeding and choking kink

a/n: i just really love returning to this pairing. enjoy xx

It was torture.

Sebastian was sure that the way his wife looked in the crowd was nothing but torture designed to ensure he had a hard on for the whole of the show. He just couldn’t help it. How could he when she was dancing in the front row in nothing but the skinniest pair of heels, a thin strap black top and the tightest leather skirt ever designed by man. Adding to all of that, he hadn’t seen her in the past three months, stuck on an European tour his wife couldn’t accompany him on, thus he felt like he was three seconds away from pulling her on stage and having his way with her. He just couldn’t help it, his eyes couldn’t leave her. She was almost like his very own rock muse, a nymph tempting him with flowing locks as she danced to his music and soft skin illuminated by the bright halcyon light. He could hear unwritten music whenever he looked at her and god if he couldn’t help to hear the music that would come out of her scarlet tinted lips when he got his hands on her. 

The set seemed to last forever and while he adored his job and adored to play a sold out stadium, he loved to watch his wife squirm under him. As the last chord played, he was out the stadium, finding the first water bottle to throw over himself before the next morning headliner became his and his raging hard on, which he guessed wouldn’t be the first time that happened. Pushing his hair away from his face, he saw her strut backstage, the red backstage pass resting against her breasts. God damn it, that woman would be the reason he’d someday get caught and arrested for public indecency. She smiled with a grace that was so typically hers, wrapping her arms around him before leaning over to kiss him. 

How in the heck had he even scored her? He still looked like a crazy man, with messy hair and tattoos he regretted scattered all over him and she, god, she was fantastic. He could never write enough love songs about it and he couldn’t even write enough songs at how fucking good that skirt looked on her. He interrupted the kiss himself to look at her, at how fucking delectable she was even after all these yers. Of course, she now hated him less than when she first met him. 

     - Baby, that fucking skirt ... - his hand sneaked up to her ass, cupping it shamelessly as if there wasn’t staff or any of his bandmates around. 

     - I missed you too. - she teased, her hands warm against his shirtless shoulders. His fingers traced her arm, lips ghosting over her shoulder and up her neck, just below her ear. - Seb, the boys ...

     - Shouldn’t have worn that skirt then, baby bunny. - he nibbled the soft skin under her ear, hard enough to leave a mark so the dad who always sized her up at school drop offs would know he was back in town. - Fuck, you come here after I haven’t seen you for months dressed like every rocker’s wet dream. 

    - I wanted to look good for you. - she flushed under his gaze.

Fuck, she couldn’t look any sweeter with her little hot cheeks and watery eyes as if they hadn’t been married for 5 years and trying and testing both his and her fantasies; however, this skirt seemed to do it for him. He could feel his trousers tighten just thinking about it and those heels making her legs so long did not help either. His hand cupped her thigh, pushing it to hook against his own leg as he kissed her neck, sensing the nice soft flower scent from her perfume. God, he fucking missed her. 

    - You’re gonna let me fuck you, baby? - he whispered against her ear, breathy laugh escaping as he heard that soft little moan she wanted to hide from him finally materialise. - Hm? You want me to fuck you silly backstage? You want it, bunny baby?

     - Seb ... - she whined her eyes gazing the set around her, worried anyone was watching but everyone mostly ignored it. It was a rock concert backstage, sex was as ordinary as clouds in the sky. - Seb, the people ...

      - Aw bunny baby ... - he pinched her chin, pulling it up so she was looking at his eyes, his blue eyes which were now midnight blue clouded by lust. - Don’t worry, don’t want any fucking roadie getting any ideas. 

She didn’t even know what to say, instead nodding as she herself started to get uncomfortable with not being flushed to him. He hoisted her up, his hands gripping her waist as he made his way into the first room he could find. It didn’t matter where they were, if he couldn’t be inside her, he felt like he was going to explode. He pinned her against the door, his hands travelling and roaming her body while he kissed her neck and pulse, lightly bitting onto her skin as if he wanted to claim her. He wanted to claim her. 

     - Looking all sinful on the front row. - he growled recalling that view from the stage. - Getting all those stupid boys with their girlfriends all fired up. Raising their hopes up ...

     - I’m not. - she moaned as he bite harshly on her neck. 

     - You’re mine. - his voice was strained, partly from singing, partly from pure jealousy. He normally kept it under wraps yet she couldn’t help but feel attracted to it whenever he acted possessive about her. His lips crashed against hers, hands pushing her skirt off and onto the floor, causing a bit of tear to the fabric. Not that any of them minded. - I’ll fucking prove to you just how much you’re mine.

     - Please. - she begged, parting her legs for her generous lover. However, he was not in the mood for gentleness. As her hands travelled up his chest, feeling every ripple of his skin, he caged and trapped her hands above her head, mockingly smiling as she looked at him confused. 

     - Aren’t you pretty? - he mocked her, tongue licking his lips as he observed her chest raise up and down. - So fucking pretty, baby. Wanna know what it felt like seeing you and not being able to do anything?

His distance from her didn’t last long enough, he was back on her like a wolf. He wanted to bask on her scent, lips climbing up from her neck to her lips in slow, desperate motions. She whined wantonly, wanting to be freed from his grip to touch him, try to undress him, anything, but he didn’t allow her. No, Sebastian liked control and he was going to remain holding power over it. Pulling her underwear to the middle of her legs, he started to torture her sex, his fingers slowly thrusting in and out of her heat. Her chest rose up and down in slower motions, head trashing from side to side as she tried to deal with how his feeling felt dragging against her walls. God, he could make that vision the cover of his next album. Her breathe was rapid and uncontrolled, hands and fingers tensing as she felt her abdomen tighten up only to loosen up as he took his fingers off her heat. She looked at him betrayed and upset but he only smiled, bringing his fingers to his lips, licking them in sin. 

     - Felt like that. - he almost mocked her state, proud he had gotten his satisfaction but that wasn’t enough. Looking at her only fired her up even more. He let go of her hands, both of his hands cupping her face to kiss her fervently and harshly as if she was going to disappear. Her nails dragged up his back, leaving marks which were sure to make her proud until they reached his leather trousers. She quickly made way of unbuttoning them, trying to push it down but her slowness saw him help her out. 

He guided the head of his cock towards her folds before he quickly sheathed himself inside her heat. He growled, eyes rolling as he seemed to find himself in his personal eden the more he buried himself in her. Her hands pulled at him, holding him closed as he reached a hilt. His lips quickly founds hers as he started to thrust in and out of her slowly and filed with wanton. Her moans were musical and breathy, her walls contracted around him almost in sync and he swore he could die happy like this. 

     - Fuck, baby. Had forgotten how good you fucking felt around me. - he spoke through wet kisses, his hands slowly guiding her hip movements. - Aren’t you a fucking minx? My own little sex muse. 

     - Seb, please. - her nails buried onto the skin of his back, trying to quicken her movements. He wanted to go fast, rough, ignore her pleasure and merely take his but how could he when she looked so delectable, so sweet begging for him. - Please.

     - Oh, baby ... - he growled out, hand holding her neck against the door as he snapped his hips forward. She broke on in a long moan as his cock dragged in and out of her wall, mixing with the lewd sounds of his skin hitting hers. Her breathe struggled to recover, shaky from the sheer pleasure of him snapping his hips in and out of her without a care and from his grip on her neck. Her hands gripped at his body as he continued his assault on her cunt, lips sometimes stealing dirty, messy kisses from her, drinking from her lips. - Are you gonna let me cum inside of you, bunny baby? Have you dripping with my cum as you step outside? Huh? You gonna let me?

     - Please. - she moaned pathetically, no longer caring how she’d look once she stepped outside. He smiled through the kiss, hand leaving her neck to toy with her clit, the other helping him pull himself in and out of her in almost animal movements. He wanted it, he wanted her to fall apart, he wanted the world to know she was his. His moves grew uncontrollable and out of pace until his hips jerked still, a dirty, raspy moan leaving the rocker’s mouth as ropes and ropes of white cum painted her walls, some of it slightly trickling down her leg.

She held herself against him, trying to hold her legs up despite how trembly they felt. He panted through a smile, looking down to bask in another one of her kisses, holding her against him before she could fall. The two collapsed onto a nearby couch, her half naked body flushed against his as both tried to regain some sense of regular breathing. 

     - Three months is too long, baby bun. 

     - I know. - she rested her chin on his chest, looking up at him with a mischievous little smile. 

     -  Sex’s incredible though. - he stole a playful kiss from her. - I might just put your moans in a song one day.

     - Don’t you dare. - she herself peppered kisses onto his lips, jokingly pointed her finger at him.

     - Fucking love you, baby. Fucking love you. 

#sebastian stan #sebastian stan x reader #sebastian stan/reader #sebastian stan x you #sebastian stan/you #sebastian stan x y/n #sebastian stan/y/n #sebastian stan imagine #sebastian stan smut #rockstar! sebastian stan

[lustbile]

The Journal

TenxReader

Word Count: 7.3k+

Summary/Warnings: Smut with plot, semi public, a lot of biting, mentions of supernatural and just general weirdness, and small amount of blood play

Apart of the Club X series: Masterlist (can be read alone or within the series, but unlike others it might just be the slightest amount confusing)

“So that’s what you’re into now,” your best friend’s voice is bored and distant, her task of wiping down the bar that stretched out in front of her taking a majority of her attention away from the babbling you’ve tried to subject her to since you entered the empty restaurant only about 20 minutes before, “weird demon sex clubs?”

—

—

“Ah ah, I never said they were demons,” you correct quickly, the thought of defending yourself never crossing your mind as you petulantly slap your hands against the polished wood, “I just said it was…. weird.”

“Weird is an understatement,” she scoffs quietly as she turns to dip her dirtied rag back into the bleach water and ring it out, “I mean look, I’ve always been supportive in the witchy stuff you’ve been into but this…. is a bit much.”

“I don’t see how this is any different than any other thing I’ve read into.”

“Oh you don’t see?” you finally manage to pull her attention towards you as she harshly slaps the rag back onto the wood with a stern glare pulled on her pretty features, “you’re talking about vulnerability and abandoned warehouses and public sex. That last one is definitely new.”

You fully expected this type of response, only hoping she’d be busy enough that you would dodge the motherly scolding she liked to give you when you pitched your schemes to her with your eyes wild and wide, but nevertheless, she was completely right.

It came from an old book, tattered and torn from being flipped through one too many times, that you found at your favorite antique store. The store itself was already notorious with your tight inner circle of friends as the creepy shop that was corrupting your brain, a constant taunt being that the little old woman that ran it was the actual devil and she was just waiting for the right time to jump you and eat you whole, but this did nothing to stop you from visiting at least once a week.

But the book, it was different from any other you had found. It was completely handwritten, including amazingly done sketches in a deep unfading ink, and spoke of outlandish things.

Some were easily brushed off, like a murder that happened in the 50’s that was known to stay in the mouths of the older folks, both to them and the book it was widely believed to be the doing of some long tongued and wild eyed creature, until a local sweet old man admitted on his deathbed that it was instead his one crime of passion.

He had been a young soldier that snuck into his lover’s room one night, and upon learning that she was to marry a nice lawyer the day after he was meant to deploy, his mind went blank and his hands were carving out her heart. He luckily escaped any questioning after being shipped off, and once he returned home he captured the heart of a pretty young girl and lived out a long life sitting on top of a horrid truth.

So yeah, stories of those sorts, having been solved in your lifetime, meant very little to you, but the one you were going on about now, meant the world.

The writing looked like it had been put down by a panicked chicken rather than the woman who’s name was written neatly in the front. It lived in some of the pages towards the back of the small book and spoke of a dark club. Club X.

She went on and on about stumbling across the club purely by accident, and meeting another woman with glittering eyes. Graphic details of being taken in the middle of the dance floor with a million eyes looking but not fully seeing her as she fell apart against a dancing and eager tongue made your heart thump lodged in your throat. But the more and more she visited the club, the more incoherent her words became, but towards the end the writing had become stained and obscured by a deep brown stain, before it stopped altogether.

Thankfully, the details of where the building was was completely visible regardless of being the thoughts of a mad woman, and with a lot of thinking and staring at the town map, you’ve come to believe that you knew exactly where the mysterious club stood.

Only a street down from the restaurant you sit in now.

“Listen, I know it sounds ridiculous, and it probably is, but what’s the problem with just going to check right?” you scramble to pull the delicate book from the bag that sits in the stool beside you as your friend moves closer and closer to where you sit, laying it flat to show her the page you’ve had bookmarked since you read it, “and look at the name she puts, I think it’s the man who ran it and it’s a long shot, but maybe he’s still alive, or if not maybe some family is! Right here, Asm-“

“Don’t say it again,” she’s quick to interrupt, sliding her free hand to hover above the page you’ve glued your eyes to, “I don’t wanna hear any old man names, especially that one it gives me the ick.”

“It’s just a name,” murmur to yourself, but move to put the book away regardless, “but anyways, I have something that most people who were going to the club didn’t, knowledge of what exactly I’m walking into. I can just go and look around, worst things worst its still a freaky sex club and I just go home, but I’m willing to bet this lady was just off the shits and its just an empty building with some funky vintage beer bottles that you can add to your collection.”

You feel like you’ve won an award you weren’t even trying to compete for when she finally breaks out into a soft smile. The huff that leaves her chest is endeared, and you swear your heart began to vibrate when she reached to run a gentle thumb across the swell from your cheekbone.

“Fine, do what you want, but if the bottle isn’t completely intact when you find it I don’t want it.”

“So you’re not coming with me?” your head tilts to the side in confusion as with things of this nature in the past, she’s always followed along to ensure that you didn’t do anything to stupid. You never felt like the company was fully necessary, but it was appreciated regardless.

“Baby, as much as I’ve enjoyed your info dumping you’ve done tonight, the other person that was meant to clean with me had to leave early with a stomach bug so I’m busy pulling a clean up job that’s truly a job for about five people. But you seem to really believe in this little adventure of yours,” she leaves the rag in a damp mass next to the stack of dirty glasses beside you to take your hands in her’s, her slightly wrinkled fingers are still warm and the way they lace with yours makes you feel like nothing in the world could hurt you, “besides, you’re as smart as a whip and I know you have me on speed dial. I trust you.”

——

You no longer love the feeling of being trusted.

When your friend had given you the heartfelt speech only a little over half an hour ago, you felt like you had been put on a nice pedestal before she handed you a cookie with a pat on the head.

Now the “cookie” had turned to rot in your belly and you were faced with your own perfectly dreamed up reality.

It was already late by the time you had walked into the restaurant your friend works at, the sun already setting and the last few customers gathering their things and paying the bills, so once you got her stamp of approval and we’re heading out the door, the only light left was a bright and full moon, and flickering street lights.

You took your time walking in the direction that your book and personal sleuthing had pointed you in, the closer and closer you got to the one warehouse in town that seemed to never be bought back from the city, the knots in your belly pulled tighter and tighter.

But regardless of the almost painful twist in your gut, you surprisingly almost missed the building in its entirety.

It was as if your entire being blocked out the thumping bass that shook the sidewalk and the blinding red light that spilled from beneath the entrance and out the fractured windows. Your brain trying to force itself from entering the building you spent so many weeks trying to locate.

But the way your heart thuds in your chest when you stand in front of the entrance is something you couldn't even pretend you didn’t feel.

Your tongue digs into the side of your jaw, and you're confused at the feeling of warm tears burning at your waterlines. It’s exactly the way the owner of the journal described it in her manic writings, weirdly exact considering the other stories that surrounded it that dated it back far before you were even born.

You want to go in, the shaking steps your legs take is evident to that, but the tense muscles of your shoulders and stomach makes you hesitate and even grumble out into the air.

You almost jump out of your skin when you hear a shuffling to your side, your throat tensing when you look over, and are put slightly at ease when you see two men who you assume are acting as some type of security. You almost expect them to look up and ask you for some type of ID when you’re being very weird and blatant about your presence, but they seem too preoccupied with the dim screens of their phones and the way they lean forward at different times as if they’re waiting for someone.

Your hands are shaking slightly as they scramble down to grab for your bag, desperately looking for something to occupy you to walk by them without being even more weird, and when your fingers wrap around the flaking leather that binds the book, you grab it like a lifeline.

Your fingers flip through the pages with perfect muscle memory as you trip up the few steps that lead to the door, the tabs you carefully placed on the first page mentioning the club not even necessary with the way you could find the page even in your sleep.

You subconsciously hold your breath when you walk past the two men, almost as if the book is instead something wildly illegal and you're trying to sneak past your parents, and your washed with a temporary wave of relief when you pass through the doors without even a glance from the two.

Though the relief is stolen from your bones the second your feet touch the floor of the club.

It’s as if you’ve entered a place you’ve known your whole life, and from the amazing descriptions from the woman in the past, its not a completely surprising feeling.

But another part of you feels like this is the first time you’ve seen human beings in the flesh.

You can't help but to feel like you must look like an absolute nerd as you pull the book up to your face as you start to survey the club, but thankfully the book told at least one truth, and many of the club goers are too busy grouping and grinding against one another to even acknowledge your existence.

More truths come to light as you flick your eyes between the pages and the walls.

The bar is still tucked in the same far corner as she described, the flittering red and blue lights making it feel like a beacon of calm regardless of it being surrounded by drunken forms and its intimidatingly pretty bartender.

The dj is just a stoic and unimpressed looking as the one from so many years ago as he subconsciously bobs to the beat that he creates as he messes with the nobs and switches in front of him. He’s actually so similar, you wonder if you were right and the owner did have family floating around, and maybe the dj is one of them.

You stumble further into the room as you pick out small details she wrote about so lovingly. Your legs carry you to the back of the building as you smile at the sight of the wine stain the writer claimed to have created when her lover shocked her with a playful bite to the neck.

You almost feel like the universe is gifting you everything you could have possibly asked for when you see the loose board that she said a friend of hers would always trip over, and electricity zips up your spine in excitement when you spots the large painting that still hangs over the booth she claimed as her favorite, and she meticulously sketched out next to a paragraph about what she thought the artist was feeling.

All these things though, lead to the things that make your jaw hang slightly open.

The large balcony above you is larger than you ever imagined. The hundreds of bright red carnations she loved to sketch drip from the golden bars like water, and the black velvet curtains that hang over the room it leads to look heavy enough that they suffocate someone if they fell.

She seemed so intensely in love with the place you stand in, and the woman she met there, and those emotions were more than evident from the way the recreated the energy of the club with her words and art. Which only tips you towards the part that caught your attention perhaps the most.

It was exactly where it was meant to be. Just below the balcony that hangs high on the wall, gaping wide and dark like the mouth of a hungry monster coaxing you to enter its throat. The only issue that you can see being the hanging rope that blocks you from entering, but with only shining bright clasps holding it onto hooks on the walls, you don’t think you're above sneaking past it with little guilt.

The hall was the one thing that taunted you the most about the story the woman spun in the little worn book. The empty and dark vass space being something that coaxed her as well, but unfortunately for you, and maybe her as well, the parts of her journal that began the tale of her passing the temping rope, was the exact spot that was stained with bleeding ink and a suspicious brown color.

You survey the space around you, looking for anyone that could possibly be a worker or just a stickler for the rules, but seeing as everyone in your range of vision was attached by the mouth on someone’s neck or sloppy lips, you figured you were in the clear.

You drop the book gently back into your bag before you step slowly forward. Your heart feels like a wild animal trying to break out of the cavity of your chest, and it feels like your intestines have been successfully replaced with writhing worms that are desperately trying to reach your gut. You feel heat traveling up your chest and neck, and as you get within a few feet of what feels like the end of your life, your body begins to shake.

If you had the ability, you would have screamed, and if you had the strength, you would have fought back. But right when you're about to reach the threshold of the hall, and right when you feel like your legs are about to collapse from underneath you, strong fingers clasp over your trembling mouth, and an arm wraps tightly around your waist.

You’re turned faster than you can blink, the sudden motion making your brain swirl in your skull and making you go lightheaded and dizzy. And while keeping their hand clasped tightly over your mouth, the person that cages you in slams your back into the cold wall and knocks the air from your lungs.

The eyes that meet you are cat-like and dancing wildly, the grin the man you're faced with now smiles at you wickedly, and when your hands dart up until your nails dig harshly into the skin of his forearms, his smile only widens.

“Now,” he starts, the remains of a chuckle shaking his chest and his words slightly, “what exactly are you up to?”

You wait for a moment for him to release you from his hold, and when after a minute or so he still hasn’t budged, all you can offer in response is an annoyed arched brow.

“What?” he has the audacity to ask with taunting sincerity, “you thought you were smart enough to go wandering around, so you should be smart enough to figure out a way to talk around my hand right?”

It’s with immense irritation that you realize the two possibilities you’re faced with.

From the book you know about the weird concept of soul mates or whatever they were meant to be. The woman and the mysterious dancing girl she met so many years ago, and similar stories from the friends she met during her many visits to the club who had almost identical tales that she had to recount.

So with that information you know the possibility of this grinning man being your person is high, but your person or not, he was lighting a fire in your chest regardless.

You don’t think or even weigh the negatives before you send him a hard glare, and you show very little hesitation when you push forward to sink your teeth into the first finger you can catch.

His yelp is covered by the blaring music, but you hear it loud and clear before he reaches his free hand up to pinch at the bridge of your nose to pull you off like a rabid kitten.

“You know what I’m up to,” you huff petulantly as you lean back into the wall with your arms folding over your chest, “or at least I’d assume you’d be smart enough to use your context clues right?”

His lip curls when he glances back up to you as he pets at his now bruising finger, but even with the thin veil of irritation on his pretty features, you can tell he enjoys the sarcastic tone you’ve adopted.

“Yeah you’re sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong,” he bites back as he steps closer, crowding your personal space and pushing his chest tightly against yours, “you’re lucky I’m who caught you and not boss man.”

“Boss man?” you ask, trying not to show you excitement over him spilling the treasured information about the club that you want so desperately.

He doesn’t answer you verbally, and the sly wink he throws at you shocks you more than you would like to admit, but when he tilts his head back quickly you don’t hesitate to follow his line of sight to the edge of the balcony.

If it weren’t for the thin wires of light that create hatching over his eyes and mouth, you probably would have missed the masked figure that leers at you from over the railing. His hands and shoulders are covered by the masses of flowers, and the hollow black where he hides his eyes stares down at you two with a look that you assume is annoyance and possible curiosity.

The moment you two look up, the figure jerks back. Your eyes flick quickly between him and the man in front of you, and from the bratty grin he wears as he looks up, you feel as if the masked man didn’t have any intention at being caught.

You get lost slightly in staring at the man pressed against you, his teeth that look sharper in the red lighting and his eyes twinkle in mischief, and even with the obnoxious start to your interaction, you’d be lying to say you don’t find him beautiful.

It takes you a second to regain your senses, tearing your eyes away from the fascinating side profile of the man, but when you glance back up to the balcony, the mask man has retreated back.

“He doesn’t like much when we take people back there before they’re ready,” he attempts at an explanation as he turns back to you, and seems unfazed when he misses the mark and just confuses you further, “he let the two goons outside have a little exception, but that's because they don’t know how to go easy y‘know.”

“No,” you shake your head at him with a quiet scoff, “I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I think you know more than you think,” his voice drops as he speaks now, and as he speaks he reaches out his hand to hold himself propped against the wall next to your head while his other hand moves to run gently up the side of your neck, “I mean, you know who I am at least right?”

“I have an idea,” you admit with a huff, but you also admit to yourself that this probably means you won't be getting into the hall. You do mentally jot that down as a loss, but decide to take the man pressed against you as a win and you reach to grab at his shirt in retaliation, “but you could at least give me a name to work with.”

“Hm, I didn’t expect you to be one for such formalities,” his head tilts in amusement at his own words, and the action nudges the tip of his nose into yours and makes your heart flutter up into your throat, “but you might as well know the name of the man you’ll be destined to fall in love with.”

You roll your eyes hard enough for them to start to ache, and he quietly laughs and moves to press his nose into the soft flesh of your cheek as he feeds off your annoyance.

“Ten,” he answers quietly, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he moves to whisper the syllable in your ear, and you never thought that with just one word he’d have a shiver rushing up your spine.

You respond quietly with your name, but the word comes out strained and rushed when he begins to nibble on the lobe of your ear and pushes his knee harshly between your thighs.

Both your hands now hold tightly onto the sides of his shirt, and when his lips move to trail against the side of your neck that isn't enveloped by his hand, you tug roughly at the fabric and your back arches slightly away from the wall.

His tongue is hot when he lays it flat on the center of your throat, and when he swipes it up until it flicks against the end of your chin, you can't help but cringe slightly at the feeling regardless of the way it makes heat pool in between your thighs.

The wicked grin on his face never falters, it only grows wider and more hungry when your eyes meet again, and with his staring so deep that you fear he may be collecting every ounce of your soul, you two have a silent agreement on the unnatural waves of electricity that connect you.

When his lips finally land on yours, it's the roughest and clumsiest kiss you’ve experienced. Both of you fight each other with hungry and eager tongues and the way your teeth gently knock together has your skull rattling in a way that, if you weren’t so hell bent of devouring each other whole, you’d probably have to take a breather.

Your hands reluctantly release the wrinkled fabric of his shirt, and in a desperate attempt to stay occupied, they shoot up the tangle tightly into his hair. You admit, you probably tug harsher on the strands than you probably should, but the groans he pours into your mouth, and the way his hips rock roughly into yours, has you tugging again and again.

He presses you further and further into the wall, and without thinking your hips begin to kick and tilt down until you're grinding harshly and sloppily against his tense thigh.

You let out a quiet whine that's muffled and garbled by his moving at the feeling of him pressing his thumb gently into the dip beneath your jaw, and pressing into your jugular. The sound is followed almost immediately by a small yelp when he latches his teeth to your bottom lip and gives you a stinging bite.

You’re frustrated almost immediately with the lack of friction you can feel from the layers of clothing between you, and now the slight shooting pain from the tensing skin between his teeth, you can feel the impatience in your belly crawling up and invading your chest and throat.

He’s quick to pull away when you retaliate with your own nipping bite to his top lip, your teeth still sinking down when he does and making his sting probably just as much as yours. And when he eyes you as his eyelids droop down into an accusatory squint, you assume he’s not used to getting a taste of his own medicine.

He mutters something to himself about your feistiness, and a sly comment about how he shouldn’t be surprised as he was expecting to get a handful, but he gives you no time to make a snide comment or even question about any of the words, before his fingers are closing firmly but loosely around your neck.

He keeps you rooted in the spot that you stand, the only change in your posture he allows is pulling you slightly away from the wall, just wide enough for him to slink behind you and tug you roughly back into his chest.

“You like poking around into business that isn’t yours?” he asks rhetorically as his free hand reaches around your shoulder to push past the neckline of your shirt, and right as he pressed down the center of your chest and his fingers brush the bottom of your rib cage, his fingers curl and he starts to drag his blunt nails up your sternum as he continues, “need to know and see every single little thing right? So… what’s the harm of being on the other side of it for once?”

“What are you on about?” you as sharply as you try to turn your face towards him the best you can, but his hand tilts under the bottom of your chin until your head is forced to lean on his shoulder and he’s nothing but thrilled at the way it makes you struggle.

“To be seen, or not?” he presses his lips back against the shell of your ear, and the way he whispers roughly makes you shiver again as your thighs press tightly together, “you know what I mean, and you know the answer I want, but its all up to you in the end.”

The electric and slightly humiliating buzz of being seen in a mass of bodies committing the same sins as you was something the woman in the book went on about frequently. She mentioned that there were a few times where she and her lover snuck off to get alone time of course, but the almost blinding pleasure that came from being worshiped by not only one person, but the eyes of an entire room, was addictive. And you wanted just a taste.

You grumble in response, the idea of admitting to the already confident man that you did indeed wanted the same amount of attention as he did made your chest burn even more than it already was, and you’d rather take your chance with his terrifying looking boss than to give him the satisfaction of your verbal confession.

He seems unaffected by your nonverbal confirmation, the way you press into him as his hand wraps around your waist again and creeps down to the button of your shorts, and your own hand grabbing onto the sleeve of his rolled up long sleeve shirt to guide him to undo the clasp or just dip below the waistband, is enough of an answer for him to know.

He chooses to pop the button, and once he has the zipper pulled down enough that he can work with, he begins to shove the worn denim down your hips along with your underwear until they are wrapped around your knees and he can push his fingers roughly between your thighs.

You try to clear the fog that he creates in your mind from his teasing fingers long enough to reach your free hand back to give the same treatment to the dark jeans that wrap tightly around his hips and thighs in a way that had you mentally drooling from the moment you got to get a full look at him, after he ambushed you of course.

You’re not sure how he undid your shorts so quickly without being able to see, but as you fumble and scratch your nails against the sensitive skin of his hip, you give yourself the benefit of the doubt seeing as your trying to work while his middle and ring fingers tease over your entrance and the heel of his hand presses clumsily into your neglected clit.

He, on the other hand, doesn’t give you any benefit of the doubt. He at least has the decency to press his lips across your cheekbone and temple to muffle his quiet laughs, but to make your task even more difficult, his fingers shallowly curl up into you just enough to make you twist and curl.

Once the button of his jeans finally releases, you instinctively let out a huff and sink your shoulders back into his chest as you reach past the fabric to wrap your hand around his stiff length and pull it from the confines until you can press it against his lower belly. And you get just one tally on your side of the boards you’ve created in your mind when his amused laughs devolves into pleased grunts and tilting hips.

“Please,” you start quietly, trying to rock more against the parts of his hand that press against you while running your palm up and down the length of him and smearing him with his own pre come, “I can tell you’re just as impatient as me.”

He swears in your ear, using his hold on you with both hands to shift your hips up and pull you closer before he clears his throat to speak, “well could you imagine, looks like we are a match made in heaven.”

“More like hell,” you retaliate, digging the heel of your own palm into the skin just below the tip of him to egg him on even further, “but either way, that's the point isn't it?”

“I should have expected you to be just a little bit of a smart ass,” he mutters a half hearted complaint, but he only contradicts his own words when he pushes your hips away enough for you to guide him between your thighs and to glide against the arousal that spilled from your body and his hands spread messy along any available inch of skin.

He thrusts smoothly against your back a few times, bringing his arm down to guide him towards your entrance painfully slow, but when you let out a gravely moan of his name, he cant deny himself for any longer, and he’s sinking into you until your eyes start to gently flutter.

Once he’s seated inside you, his hand tenses slightly tighter around your neck, and when you both start pushing towards each other to meet in the middle of your thrusts, his other hand takes the opportunity to map any inch of you he can reach.

He gropes almost painfully at your chest, traveling over your stomach and up your shirt to dig his fingers into your skin until you swear he’s tattooed his finger prints onto you, all while nipping and lapping at the skin of your jaw and neck.

No one immediately in front of you is watching, they’re all in their own worlds of flesh and saliva, but you can still feel eyes of someone on you. His first and foremost as they burn holes into the side of your skull and glance to watch where you push back against him desperately, but there’s another feeling you get of being seen and studied thats so intense that you’re a little shocked when you chance a glance up and see that whoever the masked person was from earlier wasn’t there at all.

So no, you have no idea who, or what is watching you right now, but you can feel the unusual heat it stirs in you as your body flutters around him as he fucks you sloppily. You feel a deeper relation to the woman that owned the book that still rests in the bag that feel unceremoniously from your shoulder when he first put his hands on you, and you hope that maybe you’ll eventually slip into the life of bliss that she meticulously wrote about and possibly learn what happened that demolished the stories that lived in the back of the journal.

You could feel the pleasure crawling up your spine like a monster out creature, your panting breaths tipping the man that works you over off to this even though you’re sure he was already aware before you were, and you think your legs are back to the edge of collapsing when his creeping fingers dance along the expanse of your stomach to find their place back between your thighs.

Your back stiffens at the first touch of his rolling finger on your clit, and your head tilts even farther back onto his shoulder than he already had it. He doesn’t seem interested in coaxing you to your finish slowly, at a pace that would have mercy on your melting mind and shaking form, but he instead abuses your clit until your whimpering out and stumbling and stepping slightly on his toes.

You feel like you’re waiting out the suspense of a horror film that’s score is too obvious to the incoming jump scare. You tilt your neck in a way that seems normal to him, but in reality your trying to feel the many rings that decorate his fingers with the delicate skin of your throat to test if any of them could possibly be sharp enough to cut you and draw blood. You know what blood means to him, and you know it's something he’ll have to do soon if he truly can feel how close you are to the edge.

You feel like you’re floundering a bit, confused from the possible deviation from the story you’ve committed to memory. Was there any chance in this world that this wasn’t your person?

You push this thought away as soon as your panicked mind can construct it though, because there’s no way the spell that it feels has been placed on you would be there if that was the truth, and your body is heated almost like a furnace, but you suddenly love the idea of being burned by him.

You pull in a gasping breath of air that pierces through the music and grunting that rattles in your ears, the taste of your orgasms dancing on the back of your tongue and your back arching so harshly you fear that one of your muscles might seize up and cramp. And right when you feel his hips start to stutter in tandem with yours, and when you’re only seconds from blabbering out mixed syllables that you could only hope would come out as a coherent question, you feel it.

His teeth latch onto you again, his canines not sharp enough to make a clean cut as they dig into the muscle of your shoulder, but his determination is strong enough.

It burns painfully, and makes hot tears well up in your eyes, but almost embarrassingly, is the exact thing that pushes you scrambling over the edge.

You feel like it hurts to breathe, your lungs so focused on letting out puffs of air and broken moans that they can't seem to remember how to bring oxygen in, and your eyes roll for a completely new reason for the man and much more painfully.

It’s when you feel him start to suck the rushing blood from your newly christened wound that you also feel the rumble of his groans against your skin and feel him start to come inside of you. His fist tightens again around your neck as he pushes aftershocks through your nerves with his own orgasm, and with flying hands you grab at both of his wrists, not to ask in any way for him to ease up, but from a sudden wash and need to hold onto him possibly until you die.

He lets you collapse to the floor once he pulls out, but he follows your sinking form and sits alongside you and partially underneath you as you both try to catch your breath.

The club scene in front of you is now blurs of flashing lights and abstract writhing forms, and if it wasn’t for the zaps of energy you feel from every brush of his finger tips, your brain would probably be too muddled to register him fixing both your clothes and his.

You become just slightly more aware when he shifts your body against him enough to grab at the strap of your bag with the heel of his shoe, and you try to sit up faster than necessary and give yourself a small head rush when he pulls it to himself and flips it open.

“You seemed a little weirdly unaffected by the whole,” he flails his hands in front of you for a second as he speaks, and your lagging mind takes a second to catch up with his attempts at implication, “not the fucking part clearly,” he teases, “but the leading up to it. The meeting part and all.”

“I know what this place is,” you admit, and if your legs had gained just a bit more strength you probably would have stood and requested a glass of water just from how gravely your voice had become, “I knew I was probably going to run into you.”

“But you weren’t looking for me,” he tries, and fails, at hiding the slight edge of offense his voice shows, “if you knew I was here why didn’t you look for me?”

“I didn’t worry about it,” you say, warming up a bit again in the fear that it may have come off slightly rude, “or, like, I mean I knew you’d be able to find me easier than I could find you. I was more interested in finding answers.”

“Answers to what? You said you knew this place, or at least what it is?”

“Well I only know the basics,” you shift in his hold, knocking his hands away as they sift through your bag, and grabbing blindly until you can pull out the book, “I found this journal and it-“

“A journal?” he asks in a volume that could have been obnoxiously loud if it weren’t for the thumping bass that shook the floor beneath you, and pulls the small book from your hands.

“It was written by a woman who came here a long time ago,” you explain, deciding to not take offense to his rough and grabbing hands, “I found it and tracked the club down, I needed to see if it was real.”

“Oh it's real alright,” he laughs as he starts to flip through the pages, stopping for a moment to smile at a simple sketch she had done of a cat that she said lived in the back alley, “hey wait I think I know this name, and these people.”

“What are you on about?” you ask with a scoff as you tug the book from his grubby fingers, “you can’t possibly know these people, this was written in like the fifties. Stop pulling my leg.”

“Oh I see,” he smacks your thigh playfully as he leans over your shoulder to glance at the first page that mentioned anything about the date, the ink clear enough to read 1953 in the swirling handwriting, “you think you know everything.”

“I do know everything, fuck you,” you glare playfully at him over your shoulder, “or I would know, if you’d let me go into that weirdo hall.”

“No hall, for now at least,” he sighs, the gears in his head turning as he thinks of the next thing to say, “but you know, time doesn’t exist the same way here, the woman who wrote this probably didn’t know that at the time, so I’m not surprised you don’t either.”

“What do you mean time doesn’t exist?” you look at him as if he’s grown a second head, but do you really have the nerve to question him like that? Considering that entire concept of the club you are very aware of its existence now, a time situation shouldn’t be the most shocking should it?

“Well, it's hard to explai-“

“Then don’t explain it,” you almost jump fully out of his lap at the deep voice that rattles above you, and both him and you look up at the figure that looms over you now.

The man is tall, his black hoodie looking weird in contrast to the clothes of the other club goers, and with a squinting observation and a familiar and annoyed sigh from the man seated behind you, you realize you’re being stared down by the mysterious entity that is the DJ, his hands shoved deep into his hoodie pocket in annoyance.

“Huh?” Ten lets out more in the form of a noise than a word, as his arms wind tightly around your form.

“I said don’t explain shit,” the man begins to tap his foot in irritation as he speaks, and you wonder if he’s aware that he’s in rhythm with the song that surrounds you, “you need to chill out with the loose tongue, its bad enough we have the big mouths outside.”

“I wasn’t gonna go that far,” Ten sounds reminiscent of a scolded toddler, and considering the man is hindering you from getting information that you wanted so badly, you can feel yourself mirroring the pout he wears, “I know what I’m doing alright man? Why are you over here anyways, shouldn’t you be at your little booth minding your business.”

“No one minds their business over at that booth, and you should know that better than anyone pervert,” the words are sharp, but the curl to his lips and the underlying playfulness to his tone tells you the likeliness of them being friends is high, “anyways, I know we don’t follow any regulations or anything here, but I’m still gonna take a fuckin’ break or two.”

“Well breaks over,” Ten reaches out a hand to playfully swat the man away, “I didn’t wait this long for you to just interrupt my bonding time with my person alright?”

“Alright, alright,” he finally starts to shuffle away, throwing one last comment about Ten being bitter his person showed up first over his shoulder with a grin.

“What a loser,” Ten starts, looking at you playfully and rolling his eyes, “too bad he’s like my best friend or whatever.”

“You seem to have a lot of fun around here don’t you?” you take a shot at voicing your observations, your heart fluttering in a completely new way at the warm smile he shoots you.

“Just wait a see, my love. Just wait and see.”

#nct smut #ten smut #chittaphon smut #nct imagine #nct series #nct fic #ten imagines #ten oneshot #nct oneshot #kpop smut #wayv smut #wayv imagine #wayv oneshot

[bluejayblueskies]

in the reciprocal

Words: 8.3k

Relationships: Jon & Martin (QPR)

Tags: Season 1, Scottish Safehouse, Light Angst, Queerplatonic Relationships, Gray-Aro Martin, Kiss-Averse Jon, Kiss-Averse Martin

Warnings: internalized arophobia, mild external arophobia, mild internalized homophobia, canon-typical Lonely depression and dissociation, teasing someone about a crush (in a friendly manner), mention of canon character death, Martin briefly pretending like he still has romantic feelings for Jon and participating in a romantic relationship that makes him uncomfortable (this is addressed and resolved)

Ao3 link in source

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Martin’s relationship with romance has always been … complicated.

He has distinct memories of his early teenage years, when the major topic of conversation had shifted abruptly to who had a crush on who and who had kissed who after school and who had asked who on a date. Martin had never really participated in those conversations, though that could be owed more to the fact that he didn’t have many friends than that he wasn’t interested.

Because Martin was interested. The idea of romance had always intrigued him—a fairy-tale thing where there was somebody who would choose you and love you and never let you be alone ever again—and he wanted, more badly than he knew what to do with sometimes, to be in love.

The world, as Martin quickly learned, was not a fairy tale. No matter how much Martin tried to pretend otherwise. In fairy tales, when people got sick, they eventually got better. In fairy tales, parents always loved their children and showered them with affection. (Or were villainous and cruel, locking their children away in towers and treating them like objects to be discarded. Though Martin was never fond of those stories.) And in fairy tales, love was always easy. It wasn’t something that had to be learned or forced. It was instead like breathing—nearly effortless unless you thought about it too much—and, like breathing, it was something that everyone did.

So Martin couldn’t understand why he was so bad at it.

Just before he’d dropped out of school to work full time after his mother couldn’t anymore, he’d been asked on the first and only date of his entire life. Nino had been his friend for nearly a year and a half, and Martin loved spending time with him more than he loved most things in his life back then. School was growing more difficult as Martin had to take on a second part-time job, his mother was growing sicker and shorter with her temper, and he was quickly coming to the realization that he was … different.

After all, he’d never once felt the same kind of affection toward the girls whose names he attempted to doodle in the corners of his notebooks as he felt toward Nino.

Coming to terms with the fact that his first real crush was on his very lovely, very male best friend was … hard. But one day, Nino had bumped his shoulder against Martin’s as they sat in the library and had said something funny that Martin has long since forgotten, and he’d found himself smiling widely. His heart was a stuttering mess in his chest, his stomach twisted up into knots, and … things hadn’t been so bad, then.

Loving Nino had felt safe. Looking back, Martin is sure that Nino had been able to read all of Martin’s stutters and flushed cheeks and clumsy attempts at affection for what they were, but at the time, it had felt like a private indulgence. Just another way for Martin to spend time with the boy who was gradually becoming the most important person in his life. (Behind his mother, that is. She would always come first.)

What was funny about the whole situation, in a way that was actually not very funny at all, was that Martin was even considering asking Nino out. He liked to fantasize about what it would be like—creating clumsy scenarios in his mind where he would slip a note into Nino’s backpack before they parted ways or blurt it out on their way to the tube or whisper it quietly under his breath in the library so that nobody else could hear it but them. He imagined what it would be like if Nino said yes, his face lighting up with a smile and his hand reaching for Martin’s.

He tried to imagine what would happen after that—the date, the kissing (which he could never quite picture without grimacing and pushing the image quickly away), the hand-holding, the…

Well. He actually wasn’t quite sure what was meant to come after.

(Like breathing. It was supposed to be like breathing.)

It was funny, except it wasn’t. Because when Nino pulled Martin aside on their way home one day, face flushed slightly darker than normal, and hesitantly asked if Martin would like to go to a movie with him in a way that was very clearly meant to be a date, Martin expected to feel happy. He expected to feel relieved, that he hadn’t had to muster up the courage to ask Nino himself, or nervous, that he was finally going to be pursuing a romantic relationship with the boy he cared so much about.

Instead, he felt … stiff. Uncomfortable, like his skin was suddenly just a bit too tight. He felt the sudden urge to hide, or maybe to run, or to vanish into thin air so he didn’t have to be standing here anymore, now desperately trying to avoid the eyes of the boy who had just bared such a vulnerable part of himself to Martin.

Confused, Martin tried to look within himself for that warm, stammering affection that had been there a minute ago and found it transformed into something awkward and tense and devoid of all desire for romance. But that didn’t make any sense, he thought as he stared blankly at Nino, who was becoming increasingly nervous, shifting from foot to foot as his mouth pinched into a thin, anxious line. He remembered liking Nino. He remembered the fantasies, remembered coming up with a thousand scenarios just like this one, remembered stammering and stuttering and wanting so badly to take Nino’s hand in his own.

It was like remembering a story he’d been told. Just a fairy tale.

“You … can just say no,” Nino said finally, and Martin felt a curl of guilt in his stomach at the clear upset in Nino’s eyes. “If you have to think this long, it’s … probably not a yes. Is it.”

Yes, Martin tried to say. It’s a yes—of course it’s a yes, I’m just … surprised. Maybe things would make more sense if they actually went on a date. Maybe Martin would just … sort himself out. He was just surprised, or maybe in shock.

He loved Nino. He did; he knew he did. He just … had to figure out how to bring it back.

He didn’t get the chance. (Though, thinking back on it now, Martin knows that even if he’d tried, it wouldn’t have worked.) Nino pulled back slightly, hands going to the straps of his backpack self-consciously. “Right,” he said, sounding terribly embarrassed, and Martin felt himself mirroring the emotion. “S-sorry, I … I guess I was reading things wrong. I—I thought that you … never mind. It doesn’t matter.” Nino forced a smile then, and it lacked all the bright and shining things that Martin liked about it. “S-suppose I’ll … see you in school tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Martin managed to say. And then Nino was gone, and Martin walked home alone.

He dropped out a few months later. Nino said that he would call, but Martin has always been good at lying and even better at telling when somebody else is doing so. And Nino hadn’t been putting much effort into it.

That was … probably for the best. At least Martin didn’t have to feel that dizzying, sickening sensation of guilt and awkwardness every time he looked at Nino anymore.

So, there it was. The world was nothing like a fairy tale. His mother only ever got sicker, her affection for him only ever grew more a thing of the past, and love was…

Well, love clearly wasn’t for him.

That didn’t stop him from falling hopelessly, irrevocably, head-over-heels in love with Jonathan Sims.

.

.

.

Martin, as a rule, makes a habit of not talking about his love life. For one, because there is a distinct lack of it (a fact that he much prefers but doesn’t generally feel like explaining in detail). And for two, because Martin just knew it would turn into something like this.

Martin places his head in his hands to hide the flaming red of his cheeks. “Can we not talk about it?”

“I think we’re actually obligated to talk about it now,” Tim says with what Martin is absolutely certain is a cheeky grin. “Given that you’ve just admitted that your not-so-mysterious crush is Jonathan Sims.” He drops his voice to an exaggerated conspiratorial murmur. “Is he the one you’ve been writing poetry about then?”

“I don’t have to say anything,” Martin mumbles into the very clammy palms of his hand.

Tim, fortunately, drops the poetry topic. He unfortunately does not drop the crush topic. “I mean, don’t get me wrong,” he continues. “You’ve got good taste. The whole … sweater vest, ‘disgruntled professor’ vibe is attractive, and he’s funny, you know? In his own way.”

Martin lifts his head from his hands and gives Tim an exasperated look that he hopes screams can we please stop talking about this. Tim must misinterpret it as jealousy instead because he holds his hands up in the air placatingly. “Hey, no competition here. We’re just friends, and I’m not really interested in dating anyone at the moment.” A pause. “Though, I suppose if Jon asked, I wouldn’t say—you know what, that’s not helpful.”

“He is pretty hot,” Sasha pipes in from her spot on the break room couch. “I definitely get where you’re coming from.” Then, after Martin turns that same exasperated look onto her: “Just trying to show our support for the cause, Martin.”

“Yeah, well—don’t.” Martin stands, maybe a little bit too abruptly, and crosses the room to where the kettle sits on the counter. He fills it in the sink and then clicks it on, the blue light reflecting off the countertop and faintly illuminating his hands.

“Hey,” Tim says, leaning against the counter next to him and giving him a surprisingly serious look. “I’m sorry. If talking about this makes you uncomfortable, we’ll drop it.” He mimes zipping his lips closed and throwing away the key. “No questions asked.”

“I’m pretty sure talking afterward negates the ‘zipping your lips shut’ thing,” Martin says, which earns him an amused huff of laughter and a gentle elbow in the side. He finds himself smiling, if only briefly before it falls from his lips once again. “And it’s … fine. I’m not upset. It’s just…” He hesitates, considering, and settles on a suitably vague, “It’s complicated.”

Tim makes a noise of understanding. “Say no more, Marto. Consider the subject dropped.”

“Thank you.”

There are a few moments of silence between them, filled only with the gentle hum of the kettle. Martin reaches for the mugs, and as he pulls four from the cabinet, Tim says abruptly, “So wait—is that why you always bring him tea?”

Martin nearly drops the mugs. “Tim.”

“Sorry, sorry.” Tim grimaces at him sheepishly. “I’m dropping it.”

Martin nods and pulls the box of tea from the cupboard. As he gets the mugs ready, however, he can feel Tim’s eyes on him, heavy and curious. Finally, it gets to be too much, and Martin sets the box down with a sigh. “I bring him tea because he never leaves his office and at least this way he’s hydrated. If you absolutely must know.”

“Caffeine is a diuretic, you know,” Sasha says from where she’s still sitting on the couch.

“Yes,” Martin says tersely, grabbing the kettle as it clicks off, “but it’s better than nothing.”

The tea isn’t related to the crush. It really isn’t. But Martin knows that the more he tries to make excuses, the more it’ll seem like he’s deflecting, which will just be counterproductive. So he prepares the tea and passes Tim and Sasha’s mugs to them. Then, fully aware that Tim and Sasha are watching, he grabs Jon’s mug and makes his way to his office.

He doesn’t knock. He found out his first week here that Jon doesn’t like it when people knock and prefers them to verbally announce themselves instead. It wasn’t because Jon had told him; Martin gets the feeling that Jon is too stubborn to admit to that sort of weakness in front of him. It was because of the subtle tension in Jon’s shoulders every time Martin opened the door after rapping three times on the doorframe; the way his voice sounded ever so slightly pinched when he asked what Martin wanted.

So Martin says, just loud enough to penetrate the thick oak door, that he’s coming in, and then, after a moment, he opens it.

Jon is sitting at his desk, mountains of papers and files stacked on either side of him. His laptop is open in front of him, and he’s currently focused intently on something on the screen, the harsh white light of the LCDs reflecting off his glasses. He doesn’t seem to notice when the door opens, but when Martin takes a few steps closer and gently clears his throat, he looks up from the screen, blinking a few times as his eyes adjust to the dimness of his office.

“Ah,” Jon says, his gaze landing on the mug. “Right. You can…” He looks at the disastrously cluttered surface of his desk and, after some consideration, pushes a stack of papers to the side to make a mug-sized gap in the mess. “You can place it there.”

Martin does. He doesn’t mean to linger afterward. Even though things are ... better between them now that Martin is staying in the Archives and Jon seems to have softened slightly toward him, they’re not quite at the ‘hold a casual conversation’ stage of their relationship yet. Still, Martin finds himself standing in front of Jon’s desk long enough for Jon to glance back up from his computer, a small furrow forming between his eyebrows.

“Did you … need something else from me?” he says, sounding more confused than annoyed.

No, Martin means to say. I’ll be going now.

Instead, he says, “How are you doing?”

Jon stares blankly at Martin, like he doesn’t understand the question. Martin briefly curses his complete lack of a verbal filter at the worst times and purses his lips, telling himself that frantically trying to rescind the statement will only make things worse. “I’m … fine,” Jon says with a hint of incredulity in his voice, like he can’t fathom any reason why Martin would want to inquire after his well-being.

Good, Martin opens his mouth to say. Let me know if you need anything else.

Why he says instead, “I just … noticed that you haven’t been going home lately,” he doesn’t know. He hasn’t had a crush in so long—is this what it was like the last time? God, it’s a bit embarrassing, isn’t it?

Jon still looks bewildered, though there is an edge of irritation to his voice when he says, “There is a lot to do here, Martin. I assure you, I can take care of myself.”

“Right, yeah.” Martin fights the urge to rub his hand along the back of his neck, settling for the inside of his wrist instead. “Just … I know I’ve taken your cot recently, and if you’re not going home at night, I—I would hate to feel like I’m making you sleep at your desk.”

“You are not making me do anything. I can make my own choices.” Jon purses his lips for a moment before saying, more gently, “Besides, you … have more need of the cot than me at the moment.”

Martin can’t help the little shudder that goes through him at the reminder of why, exactly, he is in need of the cot. “Yeah,” he concedes. Then, because it’s only been a week or so and he still feels like he hasn’t said it enough: “Thank you again, for … for letting me stay here.”

Jon’s expression softens into something almost sympathetic, just for a moment, before growing closed-off and shuttered once again. Martin’s traitorous heart thuds in his chest at the sight, just like it had when Jon had listened to his story impassively and then matter-of-factly offered him the cot like it was the only logical thing to do.

(He hadn’t understood why he’d reacted like that—pounding heart, sweaty palms, cottony mouth—until that night, staring at the dark, cracked ceiling of the Archives and running Jon’s words over and over again in his mind. But it wasn’t surprising, was it? Of course Martin would find himself attached to his prickly, no-nonsense boss who kind of hated him the first moment he showed him an ounce of kindness.)

“It’s … really no problem at all,” Jon says, sounding a bit stiff in a way that’s hopelessly endearing, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with Martin’s gratitude. Then, even more stiffly: “You’re … doing all right?”

The tentative concern in Jon’s voice is enough to bring a flush to the tips of Martin’s cheeks that he desperately hopes can’t be seen in the low light of Jon’s office. “Y-yeah. As well as I can be, I—I suppose.”

“Well,” Jon says in a businesslike voice, like he’s delivering a report, “if you need any further accommodations, please let me know. Given that this was a workplace incident and you were investigating the Vittery building on my request, the Institute and I are responsible for ensuring that you remain safe while you’re … displaced from your previous home.”

Martin has always been good at reading people. And for all that Jon wears various masks of professionalism and skepticism and authority, he’s still surprisingly easy to read. It’s easy to control an expression, to control a tone of voice, but Jon’s eyes are always so much more emotive than he probably means them to be. Right now, they’re flitting around the room, from Martin to the floor to his desk to the floor again, like they’re afraid to settle on one place for too long.

It’s easy to identify the emotion as guilt. It takes Martin a few more moments to place what, exactly, Jon is guilty for.

“It’s … not your fault, you know,” Martin says slowly. “What happened with Prentiss. You’re not … responsible for it.”

Martin expects Jon to brush him off—to tell him that he’s being ridiculous. He doesn’t expect him to say, with a voice that leaves no room for argument, “I am not responsible for Jane Prentiss’ presence in the Vittery building, yes, nor for the fact that she followed you home. But I would be remiss not to acknowledge that you encountered her while following up on a statement, per my request, and that I … was not as cautious as I should have been with regards to sending you on dangerous assignments.” Jon’s eyes are sheepish now, and a touch concerned. “I will be sure to take the appropriate precautions in the future, as it would be unacceptable for you to be injured or … otherwise hurt whilst performing your duties as an archival assistant.”

It’s not a heartfelt statement by any measure. Really, it’s just common decency, and definitely what should be expected from one’s superior in a line of work that is (apparently) much more dangerous than it appears to be on paper. But Jon’s eyes when they finally turn to Martin are softer than he’s ever seen them, even as his expression remains carefully neutral and professional, and it feels like Jon has just said something profoundly kind.

Martin’s heart has some stuttering, skipping things to say about that particular fact.

“Um,” Martin says eloquently. “Th-thanks.” He considers mentioning again that Jon really isn’t at fault for sending him into a building that, for all Jon knew, contained nothing more than a few very persistent spiders. But he doesn’t. Instead, he holds the little scrap of kindness he’s been given close to his chest, stammers something about getting back to work, and leaves Jon’s office before he says something embarrassing like I like it when you care or you have kind eyes or we could share the cot if you stay too late.

Tim wiggles his eyebrows at Martin as he takes a seat back at his desk, and Sasha gives him a much more subtle knowing look. Martin ignores both of them and busies himself with the statement sitting on the corner of his desk, diving back into the formatting he’s been struggling with all morning.

Jon is his boss. Jon doesn’t even really like him, when he’s not feeling guilty for almost getting Martin killed. It’s never going to work between them.

A bit of the tension bleeds out of Martin’s shoulders. His eyes drift back toward the door to Jon’s office—the golden nameplate outside it, embossed with Jon’s name, the frosted window, the old, warped wood—and he feels something light and comfortable settle in his chest.

Jon is prickly and lovely and blunt and awkwardly conscientious and completely unattainable. Jon is never going to look at Martin with affection in his eyes and ask Martin to run away with him to pursue a romantic, fairy-tale ending, and Martin is never going to feel that intense, awful discomfort that seeps into the gaps where the love once was. He can blush and stammer and imagine holding Jon’s hand and kissing the inside of his wrist and tangling his foot with Jon’s underneath a table, and nothing will change.

It’s never going to happen between them. And it’s better that way.

.

.

.

The car ride to Scotland is quiet. Jon keeps sneaking glances at Martin when he thinks Martin isn’t paying attention, as if Martin will vanish if he doesn’t keep a watchful eye on him. It should be irritating, but … maybe he’s right. Martin doesn’t feel fully here yet. He still feels empty and numb, like all of the emotion and life and things that make him him have been cut away, consumed by the salty fog that had filled his lungs and stung his throat as he inhaled.

Peter Lukas is dead. Martin had felt it happen with a sort of empty detachment—the ripples of fog as Peter disintegrated into nothing but mist and static. Jon hasn’t spoken about it since they left the Lonely, but Martin had seen the tension in his shoulders as they’d returned to their flats to pack and taken the keys to the car from Basira and made their way painstakingly through London traffic.

Martin had wanted to tell Jon that it was all right—that everything was going to be okay. But his throat refused to form the words. It took all of his energy to remain present and solid, and he just … couldn’t. So he remained silent and gripped Jon’s hand as tightly as he was able and focused on not giving in to the Loneliness that still lingered underneath the surface of his skin.

Now, both of Jon’s hands are on the wheel of the car, his fingers and elbows rigid and stiff. Generic pop music spills out of the radio, the signal distorted enough that Martin only catches about half of the song, the rest swallowed by static. Better than him, he thinks absently. Right now, he feels as if he’s only static.

He can’t remember if he was like this before the air opened wide in front of him and he was swallowed whole by the fog, the panopticon gone in an instant and replaced with nothing but endless gray. He was … close, he thinks. Every day, things grew dimmer, his own thoughts and feelings more difficult to get a handle on. It grew harder and harder to remember why he was resisting at all. What his goal was, other than to just … be alone. He thinks he would have forgotten entirely, had Jon not been three floors beneath him, alive and breathing and reminding him that he was doing this—all of this—for a reason.

It had been … lovelier than Martin ever could have imagined, falling in love with Jon. It grew within him like a garden, new flowers cropping up every day. Some were white and delicate, blooming in his lungs when he looked at Jon and felt the all-consuming need to bundle him up in a blanket and make him tea and hide him away from the things in the world that wanted to hurt him. Others were purple and angular, blossoming with every lunch they had together and story Jon told him. And some were red and thorny, roses with waxy petals that made Martin’s cheeks grow hot every time Jon said his name like it was special or treated him kindly or smiled.

So when things grew difficult—when the loneliness crept too close, when he grew too comfortable being invisible, when he had to look Jon in the eye and tell him that he didn’t want to see him—Martin retreated to the quiet garden in his soul. He ran his fingers along the petals and stems and leaves and reminded himself that he needed to do this, or he’d lose Jon again and the garden would shrivel and die.

It had been an easy decision, in the end.

There’s a soft crunching noise, and Martin breaks free from his thoughts to see that they’ve transitioned from the smooth asphalt of the motorway to an unpaved gravel road. It’s bracketed on either side by trees, and though the sun has long since set, Martin can still see the gentle swell of hills around them, outlined softly in the moonlight. He thinks, for a moment, that he sees fog, clustering around the bases of the hills and swirling around in tight eddies, but when he blinks, the image is gone.

“We’re almost there,” Jon says quietly. It’s one of the few things he’s said to Martin the entire trip. Then, after a moment: “It’s … rather nice out here.”

Martin supposes it is. The landscape around them had been a vibrant green before twilight had washed it out into deep blues, and there have been cows dotted around the fields, shaggy and brown and grazing contently. It’s a stark change from the grays and browns of central London, with buildings on all sides and people everywhere and no chance to ever really see the stars. If circumstances were different, Martin thinks he would be cooing over the cows and trying to get Jon to stop so he could take pictures and enjoying his first trip outside of England.

Instead, Martin just nods.

Jon seems to understand. He sneaks another glance at Martin—full of something soft that Martin, in his foggy state, doesn’t quite know how to parse—but remains silent for the rest of the trip. It could easily be a stiff, uncomfortable silence, but … it’s not. It feels companionable.

When did being around Jon become so easy?

Daisy’s cabin is small and squat, nestled between two hills and idyllic in a way that doesn’t match the rough-hewn, steel-eyed woman Martin had known. The inside is dusty and cold, and Jon mutters something about central heating before disappearing down the corridor and leaving Martin standing in the living room, staring at the place he’ll be living in for the foreseeable future.

The place he’ll be living in with Jon for the foreseeable future.

Martin feels something in his chest stir at that—a strange, twisting emotion that’s there and gone before he can put a name to it. He shivers, in a way he doesn’t think is from the cold, and goes to find Jon.

He … doesn’t think he should be alone right now.

They find an old, rusted radiator that miraculously still works, pumping out hot air with a groan of metal. Jon digs a set of musty sheets out of the linen closet and begins dressing the bed. Martin notes the lack of a second bedroom, and he thinks he might object to the implication that they’ll be sharing a bed if he weren’t aware of the fact that he might vanish if left alone for too long. (Or if he were himself enough to feel embarrassed. Or to feel anything.)

He doesn’t think anything shows on his face, but Jon’s always been keen, even more so now that knowledge drips into his mind like water from a leaky faucet. Jon’s hands flutter over the sheets for a moment before he says, “I … hope this is all right?”

Martin tries to find his voice to agree, but the energy required to summon it is too much, so he settles for a shallow nod. He doesn’t think it’s a sufficiently enthusiastic agreement, but Jon doesn’t question it. He worries his bottom lip between his teeth for a moment, then says, “And … you’re all right?”

It’s a bit of a ridiculous question, really. No, Martin isn’t all right. No, there’s nothing Jon can do about it. No, he doesn’t know when things will be better. Or if they’ll ever be better.

Martin just looks at Jon, eyebrows slightly raised. Jon lets out a small, dry laugh. “Right. I … suppose that was a silly question. I—I meant…” Jon hems and haws for a long moment before finally saying, “Do you feel … safe, here? W-with me?”

That question has a much easier answer.

When Martin nods without hesitation, Jon visibly relaxes. “Good,” he says, voice rough around the edges. “That’s … that’s good.”

They stand there for a moment longer, the silence between them thick and heavy but not uncomfortably so. Finally, Jon clears his throat and says, “Well, I—I suppose we should rest then. We can … talk tomorrow?”

Martin nods and tries to smile. He doesn’t quite manage it, but … that’s all right. For now, this is enough.

Jon retreats into the bathroom, and Martin finds himself overcome with exhaustion. He slips into the soft pajama trousers he’d absently stuffed into his duffle bag, climbs under the covers, and is asleep before the sound of running water from the other room abates.

.

.

.

Martin doesn’t remember what happened in the Lonely. Things had been foggy and disjointed, slipping through his grasp when he tried to hold onto them. He barely remembers what came after, when Jon had led him away from the sand and the fog and the waves, his palm a searing heat against Martin’s. His first few days at the safehouse are spent in a similar fog, like each muscle in his body is frozen solid and he’s slowly attempting to warm them with a matchstick flame.

His third day is … better. His fourth, better still. By the end of the first week, Martin feels more himself than he has in months, if still acutely aware of the fog that now lives in his lungs and creeps out of his throat when he thinks too hard about what’s transpired or when Jon is out of sight for too long.

Martin remembers what it’s like to be happy. He feels it when he shuffles sleepily into the kitchen on their eigth morning in the safehouse and sees Jon standing in front of the stove, hair tied up in a neat bun and eggs sizzling in a pan in front of him. He remembers what it’s like to be frightened. He feels it when he wakes at night, shivering and shaking with the lingering memory of dreams of nothing but endless fog and aching loneliness.

And he remembers what it’s like to be in love.

He remembers it just in time to lose it.

The worst thing, Martin thinks, is that he’d almost managed to convince himself that it would be different this time. He knows, logically, that it’s not that simple. He’d done a little bit of research after what happened with Nino, reading through a few web pages on aromanticism before becoming overwhelmed and closing out of every single one of them. He tentatively returned to them a few years later after realizing that this wasn’t something that he was going to grow out of or move on from.

He had difficulties settling on a label, partly because of the sheer number of them and partly because he … didn’t quite know how to categorize his feelings. How could he categorize something that he’d only felt once before? Gray-romantic seemed the safest option, so that was the one he settled on.

(Not that he ever told anyone that he was arospec. It never seemed important, even when Sasha would needle him about his crush and Tim would make too-loud suggestive comments that could surely be heard through the door to Jon’s office.

… Martin misses Tim and Sasha. He thinks, if he’d had the chance—if he’d had more time—they would have been the first people he told.)

Martin knows that his relationship with romantic attraction is complicated. Yet somehow, he’s still found it within himself to hope that this time, things will be different. This time, when he tells Jon that he’s very in love with him and has been for a while, those words will continue to be true even after they’re spoken. (He ignores the fact that the actual thought of saying them aloud makes his stomach twist and his mouth grow chalky.)

But, just like with Nino, Martin doesn’t get the chance to try. Jon beats him to the punch.

“I … I love you,” Jon says quietly. He has Martin’s hand in his, and he’s holding it so gently Martin might cry. There were things Jon said before this moment—a conversation that has led them here—but Martin is having a hard time recalling any of them. All he can think is no, no, not now, not here.

His skin crawls. His hands are clammy, and he’s sure that Jon can feel it. He has the instinctive need to get away, but he’s also frozen in place, the lump in his throat sealing away all of the words that he should be saying.

He should be saying something.

The silence stretches on between them, the vulnerability on Jon’s face slowly morphing into concern. “... Martin?”

He sounds so confused, and Martin … he can’t. He just can’t. He doesn’t think he’ll survive the moment when that confusion turns to hurt.

So Martin swallows sharply and forces his hand to squeeze Jon’s and says, “I love you too.”

And he does, in a way. He wants Jon here, by his side, eating breakfast next to him and rambling to him about whatever latest thing has piqued his interest and listening to Martin describe the cows he’s seen on his walks. The thought of Jon leaving—of losing him, the same way he lost Nino—makes his stomach twist into knots, because Martin loves him.

Just … not in the way that Jon thinks he does. Not anymore.

And Martin can’t help but feel guilty about that fact.

Jon frowns at Martin for a moment more, like he can tell that something’s wrong but he’s not entirely sure what. Martin breathes out slowly and gives Jon as genuine a smile as he can muster, trying to convey that everything is fine. That nothing’s wrong—why would anything be wrong?

It must work, because Jon exhales slowly, his expression softening into one of the gentle smiles that Martin has grown so fond of. He rubs a thumb over the back of Martin’s hand in a motion that should be comforting but only reminds Martin of the fact that Jon is doing it because he loves him.

Martin thinks that Jon is going to kiss him then—isn’t that usually what comes after things like this?—and dread coils in his stomach. But Jon doesn’t. Later, Martin will find out that Jon dislikes kisses just as much as he does (though for different reasons). For now, though, Martin can only feel relief when Jon squeezes his hand once more before letting go and standing. “I’ll go make us some tea,” he says quietly, then retreats to the kitchen.

Thinking back on it, Martin wonders if Jon knew then. That something was wrong. But for now, he just feels relieved that he has the space he needs to breathe.

.

.

.

It’s their second week at the safehouse, just a few days after Jon told Martin that he loves him, that Jon finally sits Martin down after dinner and says softly, “Martin, am I … am I making you uncomfortable?”

“What?” Martin says, like he has no idea what Jon’s talking about. (Like a liar.) “No. What … what makes you think that?”

Jon wrings his hands together. He’s wearing one of Martin’s sweaters, and Martin doesn’t know how he feels about it. The clothes sharing is fine. The fact that Jon is clearly perceiving the clothes sharing as a romantic gesture is … less than fine.

Martin told himself that it would be okay if Jon perceived their relationship as a romantic one and Martin didn’t. He was good at pretending. And besides, how different could things be?

Very different, as it turned out. In all the ways that mattered.

Jon seemed to take any opportunity he could to touch Martin—a hand brushing against the small of his back when he passed behind him to grab a mug, an ankle nudging against his underneath the table as they ate, a head resting on his shoulder as they sat side-by-side and read. Martin had never been particularly touch-averse or touch-starved; touch was just … touch. He’d liked it when Tim had tousled his hair or when Sasha had thrown her legs across his on the breakroom couch, but he didn’t feel like he was missing out on anything on the days he went without any human contact at all.

Now, it’s all Martin can do not to flinch away from Jon’s touches, knowing that each one is delivered with love and affection that Martin can’t return. Though perhaps he hasn’t been doing as good of a job as he’d thought, judging by the concerned look Jon is giving him now.

There have been other things too—whispered I love yous in the early mornings and soft smiles that seem somehow more and little gestures that are so Jon but also so romantic—and Martin wants so badly to disappear back into the fog in those moments. But that … that wouldn’t be fair to Jon. It’s not his fault that Martin is like this, after all.

(It’s not Martin’s fault either. He knows this, logically. He’d spent a long time hating himself for what happened with Nino, for how he couldn’t just be normal and go on dates and enjoy something that the rest of society seemed to prize above all else. It had taken him years to finally come to terms with the fact that he wasn’t broken, and he couldn’t be changed. That this was just … who he was.

It doesn’t mean that sometimes, he doesn’t wish that he could be someone else. And he’s never wanted it more acutely than when he stares at Jon’s kind brown eyes and soft smile.)

So Martin lied and lied and lied. And he thought he’d been doing so successfully. But here Jon is, frowning at him, a careful distance between them, and Martin feels his chest begin to tighten.

“I just…” Jon begins, then stops. He looks down at the couch, studying the ugly floral pattern with apparent rapt fascination. Martin doesn’t know what to say, so he waits anxiously until Jon finally continues, “It doesn’t feel like you’re … happy. I know that things have been hard, a-and … it’s all right if you still need time after the Lonely, but it…” Jon swallows. “It feels like some of it may be because of me? W-when I touch you, sometimes you get … tense. And sometimes…”

“Jon?” Martin prompts after a moment, the word strangled by the growing lump in his throat.

“Sometimes,” Jon says quietly, “when you tell me that you love me, it … it feels like you’re lying.”

And the way Jon says it—tentative, with wide, hesitant eyes, like he’s the one that’s the problem—makes Martin’s desire to keep up the ruse crumble away in an instant.

It still isn’t easy to come clean. But he forces himself to do it anyway.

“It’s complicated,” he begins, then winces. Not a good start. Sure enough, Jon’s shoulders grow tense, and he shifts slightly further away, like he thinks Martin wants more space. Because he thinks he’s done something wrong. “You haven’t done anything wrong,” Martin adds quickly. It’s not you, it’s me, he thinks wryly. “It’s … not your fault.”

Jon opens his mouth—to say what, Martin doesn’t know. He barrels on before Jon gets the chance to speak, his haste making his words harried and blunt.

“I’m aromantic.”

Jon blinks at him, clearly surprised by the abruptness of the statement. After a long, awkward moment, during which it becomes abundantly clear that Jon is waiting for Martin to make the next move, Martin continues, “My relationship with—well, with relationships—i-is complicated. I-it’s, um … it’s hard to explain? A-and I don’t want you to think that I—I don’t care about you. I want to be here, w-with you, just…”

“Not in a romantic capacity?” Jon finishes softly.

Martin exhales heavily, feeling a bit like a hole has been punched in his chest and he’s slowly deflating. “Yeah.”

Jon is looking at him with soft, kind eyes, and Martin doesn’t know what to do with them. So he buries his face in his hands. “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice coming out muffled.

“Hey, hey.” Jon’s hand brushes against Martin’s shoulder before pulling away quickly, and that just makes Martin feel worse. “You haven’t done anything wrong either.”

“Yes, I have,” Martin says into his palms. “I lied. I let you think that I—I was still in love with you, and … Christ, that was shitty of me.”

“I … do wish you had told me sooner,” Jon concedes. “But … only because I care about you, Martin, a-and I don’t want you to be uncomfortable around me.” He hesitates. “You … do know that I’m not mad at you, right? Th-that I wouldn’t have been mad, o-or upset, or hurt, if you told me that you didn’t feel the same way about me?”

Martin takes a deep breath, then another. “But I did,” he says raggedly. “For … for so long, I did. Ever since Jane Prentiss locked me in my flat for two weeks and you believed me when I told you about it a-and let me stay in the Archives. A-and I didn’t lie, in the Lonely. I did love you, a-all the way up until…”

Martin trails off. Jon lets the silence linger for a moment before saying gently, “If you don’t want to explain it to me, o-or if it’s hard, you don’t have to. But … if you can, I’d like to understand. For myself, a-and for you.” He wraps his hands tightly around his knees where they’re tucked against his chest. “This is important, and … I want to get this right.”

Martin exhales. He picks at a loose thread on the couch between them, focusing on it so he doesn’t have to meet Jon’s eyes and can pretend like he isn’t so extremely exposed and vulnerable right now. “I … I do want to explain. O-or I want to try. It’s … hard, though. Mostly b-because I’ve never had to explain it to anybody else? But also because … I don’t really understand why I’m like this.”

Jon opens his mouth, and Martin holds up a hand. “I know, I know—you don’t … have to comment on that.”

Jon closes his mouth and tentatively shifts so his knee is pressing against Martin’s. Martin waits for the tingling of his skin, the pins-and-needles discomfort, but it never comes. Maybe it’s because he knows that this is an act of comfort rather than one of affection. It’s … really nice.

He presses back with a sigh, feeling a bit of the tension and nerves drain out of him. “I—I get that love is difficult for me,” he says quietly. “I’ve just … always had trouble with the fact that what makes it difficult is that I’m someone who apparently never actually wants their love … requited. And if it is, I just … can’t anymore. It all goes away, a-and I just … fall out of love?”

Martin can feel Jon’s eyes on him, inquisitive and searching, but Jon doesn’t say anything. There’s a moment of silence between them, during which Martin tries and fails to collect his mess of feelings and thoughts and emotions into something that he can verbalize. Finally, Martin sighs and says, “It’s ironic, isn’t it. I’ve loved you for so long, a-and I still do, but … not in the way you love me. Not anymore. And now you’re the one who—who loves someone w-who doesn’t … who can’t…”

“Oh, no, Martin.” Jon’s hand is covering his then, and it’s warm and gentle and lovely, and Martin could cry. “I’m not…” He hesitates, squeezing Martin’s hand once. “Well. I am still in love with you. In the … romantic sense. I—I don’t want to lie to you about that. B-but I also love you in … so many other ways. Y-you’re my friend, Martin, a-and you’re someone that I can trust. You … you make me feel safe, e-even when there’s … so much in my life that’s dangerous and unpredictable, and I know that you’ll … always be there for me when I need you to be. I want to be here with you, always. I would … be happy in a romantic relationship with you, yes. But I would also be happy to just be with you. In whichever way you will have me.”

Martin’s throat feels very tight. “Oh,” he says faintly. He feels a pressure at the corner of his eyes and realizes, with a flush of embarrassment, that there are actual tears collecting there. He stares hard at the lamp just behind Jon, trying not to let any of them escape.”You, um … you really … mean that?”

“Of course,” Jon says, like there’s no question to be had about the matter. “You are … such an easy person to love, Martin. In all the ways it’s possible to love someone.”

Martin tries—he really does—to keep the tears back. But it’s just … so much, and Jon is so lovely, and this is more than Martin ever thought he was going to be able to have. So he takes a shaky breath in, and on the exhale, a few tears slip free and trail down his cheek. He brings a hand up and scrubs them away, mutters a sorry underneath his breath, but Jon just squeezes his hand tighter.

“It’s okay,” he says. “It’s okay, I’m … I’m here. I’m not leaving you.” Jon hesitates. “Provided that that’s … all right with you, of course.”

Martin can’t help the shaky laugh that escapes him. “Yes, it’s all right with me. Of course it is.”

Jon smiles, and Martin aches with it. “Good.” He nudges his knee gently against Martin’s. “Because this cottage would get very dull without you in it. Who would I talk to about all of Daisy’s awful romance novels?”

Martin laughs again, and it chases away most of the lingering tension in his body. “Be careful what you wish for. I’m going to start doing dramatic readings next.”

Jon’s eyes sparkle with humor, but his voice is sincere when he says, “I look forward to it.”

True to his word, over the next week, Martin does increasingly dramatic readings of the worn, water-warped romance novels stacked haphazardly on the safehouse shelves. (Skipping the, quote, ‘unnecessarily erotic’ bits to avoid Jon’s pinched look of discomfort and his own beet-red face as he stares down at words that should really not be used in a sexual context ever.) He bakes cookies, laughing when Jon drops the cup of flour he’s holding and ends up covered in it. He spends the first three walks after their conversation wringing his hands together before finally asking, in a series of nervous stutters, if Jon would like to hold hands while they walk.

“But not in a romantic way!” he hastens to clarify. “You just have very nice hands, a-and I’ve always liked the idea of holding someone else’s hand, but—you know, th-the romantic connotations of it aren’t … great, and … you know, now that I think about it, this was a stupid question, you don’t have to—”

And then Jon takes his hand and squeezes it gently, and Martin feels a warmth spread through him that he doesn’t quite know what to do with.

That’s been happening a lot lately. He … doesn’t think he minds at all.

Then, a few weeks after their conversation, Jon turns over in bed to face him and says, without any preamble, “Have you ever heard of a queerplatonic relationship?”

Martin has, but only in passing, so he shakes his head. Jon explains, sounding very much like he’s reciting the wiki page for the concept, which is … more endearing than it has any right to be, probably.

“Does … does that sound like something you might be interested in?” Jon says nervously. “W-with me, of course. If that wasn’t … clear.”

Martin nods before Jon is finished speaking. “Yeah,” he says, maybe a bit too eagerly. Then, quieter: “Yeah. I’d … I’d like that.”

Jon smiles then, bright and wide and lovely, and it occurs to Martin—not for the first time, and probably not for the last—that he can have this. That he can be with Jon—maybe for the rest of his life, though that’s a … big thought that he definitely isn’t ready to look at head-on yet—without the dates and the kissing and all the other romantic gestures that Martin always thought were necessary for something like this. That they can be happy, together.

That Martin can have his fairy tale ending, and it doesn’t have to look like he’s always been told it should.

Martin smiles back at Jon, reaching across the bed to brush his fingers lightly against Jon’s. And for the first time in a long, long while, he finally feels like he’s home.

#tma #the magnus archives #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #jonmartin #(in a queerplatonic capacity) #my writing #my fic

[the-last-kenobi]

Most of your fics absolutely destroyed me emotionally so, on my own risk, may I request #13 “You shouldn’t be this easy to carry" with Qui-Gon and padawan Obi-Wan? Thank you!

Ohhh I’m happy to write this one! Thank you! (Always pleased to hear I’ve emotionally wrecked innocent people lol)

From this various prompts list.

_

Qui-Gon descended the ramp of his ship with something less than his usual grace, his expression was rather sour. Other than that, he looked his usual self, untidy but comfortable and serene.

He waved to the attendant heading towards the ship, and bowed to a small mechanic droid that squeaked with excitement, ran in circles around him, and then darted off after the attendant.

Qui-Gon chuckled. He paused to take a deep breath, tasting the metallic scent of Coruscant on the air, but also the warm and familiar notes of the Temple, of home. It was good to be back. Tedious diplomatic assignments that ran well overtime were nothing worth dwelling on, especially when it was done alone.

“Master Jinn!” a warm voice called.

He turned his head and saw Shaak Ti walking towards him, a smile on her lovely face with its striking colors.

“Knight Ti,” he greeted her. “How are you?”

“I’m well,” she answered. “I’m just about to depart to Alderaan; it’s a royal wedding and I’m the token Jedi invitee,” she informed him, but there was no offense in her voice. Alderaan was well known to be genuinely welcoming, and had been more than courteous in their dealings with the Order for centuries on end.

“Enjoy it,” Qui-Gon advised her. “Weddings are rarely something you’d like to miss.”

“I will,” she promised. “Oh, is your Padawan around? I was hoping to catch him when he returned, he forgot to sign off on his departure notice and was scheduled for three shifts in the crèche, which he obviously missed.”

Qui-Gon’s head tilted to one side, and he frowned.

It was obvious that Shaak Ti believed that Obi-Wan had accompanied him on his mission, which had in fact been a solo assignment. The twenty-one-year-old Padawan had remained behind for class rotations.

And Obi-Wan had never missed... well, anything. He was notoriously early for everything, beyond punctual. It was almost annoying.

Perhaps he’d finally slipped into a belated teenage fit of laziness, or he’d fallen so behind on class work that he’d forgotten about the crèche. Both would be extremely out of character, but one instance of this in nearly nine years of training could perhaps be excused.

Shaak Ti was waiting for an answer.

“I’ll talk to him,” he promised, revealing nothing. “Thank you for letting me know. I had no idea.”

She waved it off. “These things happen. You have a good student on your hands; he’s easily forgiven.”

Qui-Gon smiled.

~

The door to their quarters opened for him with a casual wave of the hand. Jedi did not lock their doors often; privacy was an understood thing, something not casually breached. No Jedi would enter another’s rooms without first asking permission.

He wasn’t sure what he expected.

Obi-Wan in the common area, reading.

Or Obi-Wan out and about, somewhere off with some of his more trouble making friends. (Quinlan Vos.)

He was not expecting to find Obi-Wan huddled in the corner of their kitchenette, half-hidden in his cloak, knees drawn up under his chin, crying.

Obi-Wan saw him enter and flinched away, shuddering.

Qui-Gon stared.

The entire scene was so unexpected, so wrong, that for a full five seconds he simply stood there, unable to process it. Obi-Wan had buried his face in his knees and was attempting to stifle his tears, seemingly by holding his breath, which was only making him shake harder.

Qui-Gon jolted out of his paralysis and stepped nearer, dropping onto one knee, sensing that looming over his Padawan was not going to help.

“Padawan?” he asked cautiously.

Obi-Wan looked up reluctantly. His face was a sickly grey; his cheeks were bright red and his blue eyes were feverish. They darted around, seeming to fix on nothing.

“Obi-Wan,” the Master tried again, warily reaching out a hand and resting it on top of one of Obi-Wan’s, clenched around his knee.

Obi-Wan took a rattling breath, more tears spilling down his cheeks. “...What... day is it...?” he gasped.

Qui-Gon’s chest tightened with something close to terror. What in all the galaxy was going on here?

“It’s the 29th,” he said gently. “Taungsday. I returned a day late from my solo mission. Do you remember that?”

Obi-Wan’s tears had increased throughout the brief speech. “Y-yes.”

“All right,” said Qui-Gon, struggling to remain as calm and patient as possible. “All right. Can you tell me what’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

Obi-Wan shook his head, his expression crumbling. Suddenly he very much resembled the boy Qui-Gon had met on Bandomeer, uncertain and frightened, although even then he had not cried. This was different.

“Are you sure?” Qui-Gon pressed.

Obi-Wan nodded, strangling a loud sob by clapping one hand over his mouth. He said something, but of course it was impossible to understand behind his clamped fingers.

“What?” asked his Master.

“...so...stupid,” Obi-Wan burst out angrily through his tears. “I just... don’t feel well.”

“Don’t feel well?” Qui-Gon stared at his apprentice in confusion. “You’re sick? Obi-Wan, why didn’t you just go to the Halls?”

Obi-Wan shuddered. More tears slid down over his flushed cheeks. “I...I...I fell,” he said, sounding deeply uncertain. “I was working, and it was late, and I fell. I think I fell. I can’t walk. I can barely move. I don’t know how long it’s been—”

Qui-Gon was already moving, alarm ringing in his head like sirens. In two seconds he had Obi-Wan in his arms, cradled like a child, his head resting under Qui-Gon’s chin.

“You shouldn’t be this easy to carry,” he said tensely. “You haven’t had anything to eat or drink since you fell?”

“Some... some water,” Obi-Wan murmured. His skin was blazing hot against Qui-Gon’s, a sick and feverish heat. He had stopped crying — his tears seemed to have stemmed from a combination of confusion and shame, not pain — but he seemed on the verge of passing out. “I... I got some water... don’t remember when...”

“Stay awake,” Qui-Gon ordered. He was striding down the hallways, ignoring the few bystanders who watched them pass with bewilderment and concern. He did send a grateful nod to one young woman who raised her comm in her hand at him, asking a silent question, and at his gesture raised it to her lips and murmured ‘Tell the Healers that Master Jinn is bringing in his Padawan. Have someone ready.’

Obi-Wan murmured something vague.

“Stay awake,” insisted Qui-Gon. “Don’t fall asleep.”

Obi-Wan moaned but nodded, forcing his eyes to stay open. “I...I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologize.” The words came out harsh and insincere in Qui-Gon’s urgency, and he realized it, because he dropped a swift kiss to the top of the fevered head in apology. Obi-Wan relaxed ever so slightly.

They arrived in the Halls of Healing and were immediately received by a Healer and his apprentice, who had Obi-Wan safely tucked in a bed and monitored in less than two minutes. Obi-Wan had closed his eyes against the bright light and seemed in danger of falling asleep again.

“Stay awake just a little longer, Padawan Kenobi,” the Healer instructed kindly. “I’m fairly sure of your diagnosis but I have to be more certain before I can administer treatment. Then you can sleep.”

“Yes, Healer,” rasped the young man.

Qui-Gon watched from the wall, his hands tucked deep in his sleeves to hide how they trembled. The shock of the last quarter hour was setting in, and he scrambled to keep his wits about him, worried about what this diagnosis might be. He still remembered Obi-Wan’s confusion about the day, his bewildered tears, and that memory was not going to be going away anytime soon.

He had been far too light in his arms.

Just how long had Obi-Wan been trapped in their rooms, unable to call for help and too confused to figure out a way around that? How long had he gone without eating and sleeping?

He found out.

An hour later, Obi-Wan was fast asleep, hooked up to an IV and blissfully pain-free due to a dose of pills he had managed to swallow. The Healer turned to Qui-Gon with a weary smile.

“You’re all right?” he asked.

“I’m fine. I’ve just returned from a mission, but I wasn’t hurt.”

“That’s good to know. I was asking about shock, however,” the Healer said gently. “I know this can’t have been a pleasant homecoming.”

Qui-Gon’s throat tightened, but he said nothing.

The Healer seemed to understand. “Obi-Wan has contracted a strain of the flu,” he explained, moving past the brief surge of emotion. “As you know, most strains of the flu are easily combated these days and many species have evolved or inoculated to the point where it’s hardly a concern. But sometimes the flu is stronger. In this case, it’s clear that it’s job was made easy. I don’t think Padawan Kenobi was eating or sleeping properly before the sickness began to set in. It would explain the severity of his malnutrition, and his confusion.”

Qui-Gon’s eyes flickered to the bed where Obi-Wan was sleeping, the fever still burning in his cheeks.

“...How long?” he asked.

“A few days at most,” the Healer said. “But I suspect it’s a habit that’s related to stress and overwork. Does Obi-Wan struggle with stress or insomnia?”

The Master hesitated a moment, opening his mouth to deny it, and then stopping to think better of it.

“...Maybe,” he admitted. The hesitation stung. Shouldn’t he know? “He’s very private with his habits when we’re in Temple. He prefers to study alone in his room, and we usually only manage to share one meal a day during his busier semesters, if that.”

The Healer nodded. He didn’t look or sound at all accusatory when he said, “That’s understandable. I’m going to suggest keeping a closer eye on that. Don’t force him out of his comfort zone, at least not right away, but make sure he understands that three square meals — or better yet, a light meal or snack every two or three hours — is expected of him. As is sleep.”

Qui-Gon nodded, his throat tightening again to the point of pain.

“Rest easy, Master Jinn,” said the Healer, briefly laying a supportive hand on the taller Jedi’s shoulder. “He’ll pull through this. The illness, and everything else. I believe it’s nothing more than a bad habit formed from good intentions. There are crueler demons out there.”

“Yes, I know,” said Qui-Gon. And he did know. One didn’t reach Jedi Mastery without learning the galaxy for what it was.

But he didn’t think he would ever quite move past the shock of today, of carrying his adult apprentice in his arms, sick to the point of tears and helplessness, and then discovering that he could possibly have prevented this if he had paid a little more attention to Obi-Wan’s work habits.

Well. They would, as the Healer said, overcome this.

Qui-Gon drew up a chair to the side of the bed, resolving to wait until Obi-Wan woke, and slowly reached out and set his hand next to his Padawan’s. After a moment, Obi-Wan stirred, and even in his sleep he gave a contented sigh and shifted his hand, his fingers searching blindly for his Master’s hand. Qui-Gon took it and held it tightly.

They had overcome so many things in nearly a decade together.

They could handle this.

And besides, Qui-Gon told himself, even after Obi-Wan was Knighted, he would always be here to watch his back.

He would never abandon Obi-Wan.

_

#spoiler alert he definitely did abandon obi-wan #but shhh for now it’s okay #star wars #star wars fic #my writing #writing prompts #angst #hurt/comfort #tw medical #tw neglect #tw bad eating habits #tw insomnia #poor self care #obi wan kenobi #qui gon jinn #qui gon and obi wan #just hug okay #more hugs needed #this got more angsty than I intended #hahaha whoops