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Sorry for bpthering you but in your description it says 18+ blogs don't interact,as in only minors should consume your work? This is a genuine question,I'm not judging. I just wanted to make sure that it wasn't like a writing error (idk how they're called in English sorry) since most smut blogs do nkt want minors interacting.
Hi anon. It says doesn’t say “18+ blogs dni”. It’s saying “18+ blog (as in my blog), minors dni. I think you may just be reading it wrong. Hopefully this helps!
Summary: When a case in New York drags you back to a place you’d rather forget, you find yourself pulled in two directions— face your truth, or continue to live in your lie.
Pairing: Spencer Reid x Mutant!Male!Reader
Word Count: 21.4k
Tags/Warnings: canon-level violence, anti-mutant sentiment, sexual talks, theme of sibling loss, unresolved trauma, Charles Xavier Slander, canon-level cases, I make my own canon. friends-to-lovers.
A/n: in honor of turning 21, here’s a 21k word fic and this is a part 1
PART 2
Close. Close to catching the killer. Close to getting on that jet and returning home. Close to putting this case behind you. Close to having the families get some type of closure.
And close to losing your shit.
You hated many things; your mother would often say you were the cynic of her three kids. But one of the things you really hated was fucking Nebraska. Known for Warren Buffett (an old white billionaire), Arbor Day, and carhenge; Nebraska wasn’t high on your favorite states list. It was definitely a state you could cross off on your map and be glad to never return to.
The case was beyond yourself, another stupid white male, between 25-35, probably blends into the crowd, has a car big enough to hold a body— which is every fucking car, mind you because they’re meant to hold bodies— and who got his motivation because of his crush rejecting him. It, of course, was the man who worked random odd jobs and lived between homes. It was nothing absolutely anyone could’ve guessed, as if the past ten cases didn’t have the same exact profile.
Emily and Spencer went to check his mother's house, Hotch and Rossi went to check at his grandmother's house while you and Derek went to his aunt’s house. JJ was back at the precinct, double-checking the facts and ready to dispatch units to whoever’s location with Penelope.
Derek drums his fingers on the steering wheel to the beat of the music. The drive had gotten impossibly quiet after everyone had stopped talking and planning. Your earpieces were still on but there wasn’t much to say while everyone was still driving to their locations.
It’s not awkward by any means; you’ve known Derek since you joined the BAU, so around eight years now. But it’s just hard to find conversation as you’re double-checking your gun and handcuffs, then doing the same for his gear. His vest was a little loose so he doesn’t mind when at a red light, you quickly adjust the straps and then pat his chest. Although he takes a second to remember the fact that you’ve done the same thing every single time someone on the team wears a vest. Since your first case, really. It’s become second nature to let you adjust the team's vests.
At the aunt's house, it’s decided that Derek goes first. He’s the more approachable one of the two of you. He knocks on the door to the apartment while you stand behind him, looking up and down the hallway. The air feels stale, not many people walk around and judging by the floor being damn near spotless, you assume the building is new or for rich people who never actually step foot inside.
The door opens just a crack and you see the blue eye of the aunt. She looks between the two of you, her eyes settling on your vests before she huffs and closes the door. The chain drops from the door and she opens it up.
When she does, you both turn your heads and you wipe your nose.
“Oh,” She says as she slowly closes the door again. “You aren’t here for the… ah… erm…” She laughs. “Party?”
“No, ma’am,” You say and look back at her. She apologizes and grabs a robe from behind the door and tosses it on. “We’re with the Behavioral Analysis Unit—FBI, looking for your nephew? Westly Vel, is he here?” She makes a face, thinking before shaking her head.
“No,” She finally answers. She looks at Derek and smiles, as if she’s only addressing him now. “I haven’t seen West in a month or two, why?” He’s there, or at the very least, she knows where he is. Penelope has doorbell footage of West at her apartment the week prior.
“Just wanna ask him some questions, ma’am.” Derek lies and you nod. “Do you mind if we take a look around?”
“Let me ask everyone to get decent,” She disappears into the apartment and you squint at the door. Derek makes some comment about swingers because of the upside-down pineapple mat. Something he learned about on a cruise. You just snort and wait for the door to open.
“Stay here,” You tell him as you step inside the apartment. He nods, waiting in front of the door while the aunt walks after you. As you venture into the apartment you see people, they’re sitting and talking. Fully clothed. Nothing is messed up, there’s no fluids on the floor.
The apartment smells… sterile almost. It’s this medical sort of smell. Definitely no smells akin to a sex party.
There’s someone standing in front of a floor-to-ceiling window, the sun cast straight down on them but as you look away you can’t help but notice there’s no shadow attached to them. And it does nothing but confirm your suspicions.
There aren’t many doors to the apartment, but there’s one that’s closed and you head towards it.
“That’s just a closet,” The aunt says, her voice catching up to her as she walks behind you. You raise an eyebrow, feeling something more than a closet behind the door. “Can I see some—“ Throwing the door open, you see what you had honestly expected.
The aunt, the actual aunt, is lying on her bed. Her throat is cut and judging by the color of the wound and the blood-soaked sheets, she’s been dead for a day.
“C'mon man,” Westly says as his skin twists and shifts until you see the man you’ve been looking for. “You really shouldn’t have looked inside.” As he talks, you notice the sounds of the ‘party’ completely disappear. He digs into his pocket and pulls out a gun, pointing it at you. He flicks his hand, motioning for you to raise yours and you do.
“What gave it away?” He asks, backing you into the room and then closes the door with his foot.
“No shadows,” You shrug. “And it didn’t smell like a group of people who just fucked. Guessing you wouldn’t know that smell since…” Making a motion to his crotch, he grits his teeth and flexes his fingers.
“I fuck,” He swears and you just give a noncommittal nod. “I do!” He shouts and stomps his foot. Hmm. Childishness definitely wasn’t in the profile. As he stomps his foot a second time, again swearing that he gets laid, the door slams open and he’s knocked forward. Accidentally pressing the trigger, you duck and quickly pin him while he’s already on the floor.
“You definitely don’t,” You laugh, pinning his arms behind him with one hand while grabbing your cuffs with the other.
“We got him,” Derek tells the others as you’re cuffing him. “He killed his aunt…” He pauses as he looks at you, bringing the man to his feet. He’s shifting between forms, trying to find one that makes your grip loosen. “…and tell the PD they’re going to need the power collar.”
“Mutant?” Emily asks and Derek confirms.
—
A celebration is in order following the case. It’s the team's first mutant case in three years and this time no one got away from it with any injuries. The last time Derek walked away with a scar on his back but he says it helps him with the ladies so he doesn’t mind it anymore.
The actual celebration happens the day after you land back in DC. And of course, you’re going straight to the bar. Penelope asks for all the details, minus the blood and death. So not many details, just the action and Derek is more than willing to tell her as you’re ordering a second glass of vodka party punch. It’s heaven in a drink; vodka, Hawaiian punch, ginger ale, pineapple juice, and orange juice. With an orange slice.
Squeezing the juice into the cup, you put the slice into your mouth and listen to them talk, enjoying the slice as Spencer slides you his own lemon slice. He’s in the middle of his own conversation but he doesn’t miss a beat as he passes it over.
He doesn’t drink all that much; there’s mostly soda in his drink with maybe a hint of alcohol. If you ask him, he’d probably say something about not liking being inebriated, which is valid and definitely one of the reasons. But you think he’s read about the side effects, he’s afraid that too much alcohol will raise his chances of… well, becoming his mother.
So it’s incredibly rare for him to drink, aside from a shot every other bar trip, you’ve never seen him drink. Except that one time he said fuck it and did a line of shots with the team. He did end up throwing up after ten minutes, but he did it.
Putting the orange slice on the napkin, you take a slow sip of your drink before picking up the lemon. It’s not overly juicy, you think the salt on the rim of his glass had taken most of it away but it’s still sour.
“You look like a child,” Emily notes as she stares at you, the lemon wedge between your lips and you’re messing with the mini umbrella that came with your drink. You frown and it’s big and exaggerated due to the lemon slice. “How did you make it into the FBI again?” She jokes. Rolling your eyes, you lean back in the booth and look around the bar.
It’s a Saturday, so there’s a ton of people inside. You can see countless people bordering on blackout drunk, another person who’s definitely already thrown up, and a bachelorette party. The bride-to-be is wearing a large plastic crown and a white sash while the others wear black sashes. With matching outfits, you see the maid of honor walk up to the soon-to-be bride. She’s wearing a bronze sash and you make eye contact for a second.
She laughs and you remember the lemon slice and smile. It only makes her laugh harder and you chuckle, leaning forward to spit it out.
She’s cute, sure, but you’re not one for flings. Plus, you doubt you’ll meet anyone worthwhile at a bar, nothing against them. It’s just that you only ever go there for work. They’re at the bar for fun.
“Go and say hi,” Derek encourages as you’re wiping spit from the corner of your mouth. You hum and then shake your head. He makes a noise and pushes your shoulder. “You caught a mutant yesterday, I think you deserve to get laid.” He adds and your face scrunches.
“Whaddya mean?” You ask to which Derek gives a noncommittal shrug and rolls his hand.
“It could’ve gone real bad.” He explains. “I heard of a squad going up against a woman who controls blood. None of them survived.” He sighs and leans over to knock his knuckle against your forehead. “Luckily that dude only had shape-shifting powers.” Nodding, you rub the spot and look back to the other patrons of the bar.
The bridal party is gone, bar hopping no doubt. In the spot they once stood at, you see some college students. Looking away, you reach for your drink and take slow sips as the conversations around you merge into talks about mutants.
They all talk, giving their opinions. You try not to care, to act as if you’ve thought about mutants from a normie perspective but you can’t. God, you wish you could. But you can’t and all you can do is down the rest of your drink before the need to speak overcomes your need to not tell government workers you’re a mutant.
Sometimes you wish there were different work events. Like renting out a hall or going out to eat. That way you won’t go home with a headache from the music or an empty stomach because you’d forgotten to get food and smacked on the free peanuts at the table.
With no one sober, everyone stands a distance away from the bar waiting for their respective Uber. Everyone is a good couple of feet away from one another, something you’ve learned over the years. Drivers tend to think you’re all trying to ride together and cancel it. But you and Penelope always split one, considering you’re neighbors it saves money and time.
“This is us,” Pen tells you as a silver car rolls up to your location. Nearly everyone else is gone. Rossi had actually called up a taxi company, which you had forgotten were still around. It was a little weird.
“You sure you don’t wanna come?” You ask Spencer as he’s the last one there. His plan is waiting for an actual taxi, considering he doesn’t have any ride app on his phone and got the number from Rossi.
He shakes his head but you sigh and tug him along. He lets you, stumbling over his feet before you have him slide in after Penelope. Awkwardly sitting with his knees high up, you follow after him and make sure everyone else is comfortable. You don’t mind sitting up front if need be.
Glancing at Spencer, you find him twiddling with his thumbs and eyes forward on the road. You wonder what he’s thinking, maybe if you’d been a telepath, you would’ve figured out ages ago just which thoughts race through his mind the most. But no, you can just tell that your driver really needs to pee but the apartment building is still another ten-minute drive.
He glances at you as you look away. His mind flashing the way you smile with the lemon slice, how Derek describes the take down with the mutant. God, he wishes Derek hadn’t gone into so much detail because Spencer has never wanted to be an UnSub more in his life.
His eyes flutter back to the road as he tries to get the pictures out of his mind. Facts, he thinks of every single fact he can. Anything to distract him. His mind wanders to cases but he finds you in all of them. It wanders to Doctor Who but he finds you in those, too. And he doesn’t even know how or why. You’ve never spoken about the show!
“Hunky,” Penelope calls, leaning forward to look past Spencer and at you. You hum, looking at her with a smile. “Do you think you could check on my sink? It’s been making this noise and you know I hate to ask Josh—“
“Course,” You nod. “Give me an hour to wash off bar germs and I’m all yours.” She smiles and looks at Spencer. He’s trying not to get in either of your views, pressing himself impossibly close to the faux leather seats.
“Who’s Josh?” He asks and she groans, pushing herself back into the seat.
“He’s one of the maintenance workers. He lives in the building so he’s always on call. But he sorta hates Pennie,” You explain with a huff. Spencer almost laughs, he can’t imagine someone not liking her. She’s like the most lovable person alive! He asks why and you snort while she reaches over to slap your leg. “He found out she’s a hacker and said that’s not a real job, so she ‘accidentally’ flashed her badge.”
“Ah,” He nods. He knows well enough how fragile men’s egos are and a part of him worries that she isn’t safe. Shit, Pen couldn’t go through another crime happening in her apartment. She only moved into your apartment building following her getting shot and he’d hate for it to happen again.
“He’s harmless, though,” You reassure him. “He’s more of the passive-aggressive type. He’ll talk shit about her decor or won’t answer calls until a week later.” But how many times had you heard that same exact phrase? How many times did no one expect the killer to be the killer? “And I know him. He’s sorta afraid of blood.” Ah. Okay, that’s better.
“He fainted once,” Penelope laughs at the memory.
“He faints every time,” You correct with a snort.
Soon enough the three of you are piling out of the car and you’re in the middle of unlocking the front door when you turn to Spencer.
“You want to spend the night? Or I could get you an Uber… if you want.” Checking the time, he purses his lips and thinks about it.
“You don’t mind?” He asks and you shake your head.
“I have some clothes that would fit you and a guest bedroom.”
“After my sink gets fixed.”
—
Awkwardly standing in your doorway, Spencer watches as you toss your shoes into a rack. There are about seven pairs, various shoes he’s seen you wear to work before along with a pair of house slippers that you immediately put on. He looks at the walls where there are framed pictures of the team together. Nothing predating you joining the team, he quickly notes.
“Come in,” You beckon him. He listens as you venture further into the apartment, now standing in your living room. For some reason, whenever he imagined your home, Spencer pictured something more… masculine? He pictured weights and exercise equipment lying around. Protein powder jugs on the kitchen island. Some sort of apartment from those fitness men online.
But no, it’s a normal apartment. You decorate it pretty frugally. A sofa and two chairs, a coffee table, tv, and lamp. No rug, though. Each piece is different: the leather chair, the velvet chair, and the cotton sofa. A second-hand coffee table, he figures, has several different items scattered about. It almost makes him nauseous with how much stuff is on there.
“I put some clothes in the guest bed. Feel free to pick whatever or go into my closet,” You tell him as you lean against a wall. There’s a towel over your shoulder and your shirt is a little unbuttoned. Not to mention the pants are already undone and he sees your boxers peeking out. “There’s a bathroom across from the guest bedroom. Feel free, again.” You tell him and start to walk away before you turn around.
“And a closet with towels and rags, it’s to the right of the bedroom.”
“Thanks,” He nods, unable to say anything more than that until you’re away.
Mentally, Spencer strangles himself on the way to the guest bedroom. With an IQ as high as his, he should be able to form proper sentences. A proper thank you at least. But no, he gets thrown off by a little bit of skin like a teenager.
As he’s sorting through the clothes you’d given him, he hears you walk down the apartment again.
“There’s also a washer and dryer. It’s in the room that has a frosted glass door.” You explain, vaguely pointing down the hallway.
Rich. He wants to say, to tease but he just nods and thanks you again. But he can’t imagine having a washer and dryer inside of his one-bedroom apartment. Hell, he doesn’t even have an elevator! Old buildings are good, though. They’re more structurally sound and last longer than the more modern apartments.
Not that he minds your apartment. He likes it… he’d live there if he could.
Twenty minutes comes and passes and Spencer is fresh out of the shower, moving his clothes into the dryer while you’re still in the shower. He doesn’t know what to do while he waits.
It would feel a little invasive to explore but he doesn’t want to just sit on the guest bed until you’re done.
He ends up venturing into the living room again, this time he settles onto the couch. As he sits there in a pair of blue sweatpants and one of your old band t-shirts, he finds a small library on a wall. There’s ten or so books and it all but draws him closer. Luring him in like a siren's song he picks up the first book he can and goes to sit down.
Another five minutes pass before he hears the shower stop. It had become background noise in the otherwise silent apartment that it nearly scared him when it turned off. He tries not to listen as the glass door slides open and instead he rereads the book, the voice in his head filling the space the shower had left.
“Heading to Pen’s, wanna join?” You ask, fixing your shirt over your sweats. Spencer looks up from the book and you see him physically pause at the shirt. It’s a yellow star under the words My Tummy Hurts in various bright colors. Then he sees the pants and has to look away for a moment, minion sweatpants. “Not too much on my outfit.” You warn.
“Didn’t say anything,” He says as he sets the book on the spot next to him. You just wave him after you and head across the hall in your house slippers. He follows, hurriedly putting his converse back on as you knock on the door.
“Just in time,” Penelope whines as she pulls the two of you inside of her apartment. She’s watching music videos, her way of winding down for the night. Spencer feels more at ease in her apartment; he’s been in her old one a handful of times.
They chat as you grab the tools from under Penelope’s kitchen sink. She laughs at your pajamas, telling him about the others you have. The Hello Kitty fluffy pants, the Scrooge gown, the Cookie Monster sweats, and, most infamous your Sugar Daddy crop top.
“I’m a little surprised he had those,” She admits, referencing the outfit you’d given Spencer while the three of you head to her bathroom.
“I have normal night clothes,” You defend. They share a look and then stare at you. Clearly, your track record shows a different story. Rolling your eyes, you get to work under the sink.
Spencer watches as you unscrew various parts of the pipe and grab a long, metal pipe cleaner and swirl it. All the while you and Penelope talk, she offhandedly mentions a girl visiting your place the day before the team left for the case and you brush it off. He thinks that’s a tell, that maybe you like the girl. Maybe you’re already dating and by the way she describes the mystery girl, he’s sure you are.
Nearly sighing, he watches as you remove the cleaner and flick the hair clumps into a plastic bag and push it back into the pipe. He almost gags and has to look away from the damp drain hair. You’re sure it’s clear by that point and re-screw everything into place. And with a quick water test, her sink is fixed.
The whole thing lasted less than five minutes and he now knows who to call if he needs household repairs. Unintentionally, his mind wanders, imagining you at his door with a white tank, a tool belt, baggy jeans and heavy boots. He’s probably ill-dressed, just his pants, because his landlord likes turning the heat up—
He stops himself, focusing back on the conversation as you’re checking Penelope’s windows and locks. He assumes it’s some sort of tradition, since it’s like clockwork for the two of you.
Once every nook and cranny is checked, you head out and back into your apartment, where you immediately check your own windows. He doesn’t miss the three locks on the front door, although only two are locked. On purpose, he notes. He’s unsure of what to do with himself, if he should help or stay out of the way. If he should even speak at all, he honestly hasn’t spoken much the entire night.
“I’m going to bed,” You tell him in a soft tone, dimming the hallway lights. Damn, you have a washer and dryer and a light dimmer. “You can stay up, eat, drink, whatever. Just clean up, yeah?” You smile at him and then offhandedly look towards the kitchen. “Cups and plates are in the cabinet labeled cups and plates.” You add with a small laugh.
“Thank you,” He says and you nod before walking away. He doesn’t miss the fact that as you’re closing your bedroom door, you’re already discarding your shirt.
Mystery girl sure is lucky.
—
You loved your job, you truly and wholeheartedly did. But you didn’t like it. You didn’t like the fear that, as you’re sitting at your desk, someone is getting murdered. The fear that you’re never going to be fast enough, there’s always going to be serial killers and kidnappers and rapists. And you won’t always catch them.
But you loved your job, you loved the closure, you loved the sense of family the team had. You loved that no matter how late you were, there would always be one less killer on the streets thanks to you.
And yet, sometimes you find yourself drifting to the paperwork to quit. You can’t help but wonder if this job, doing this is what you want to do. If it’s where your skills are being used to their best. There are several things that keep you at your desk, keep you on the BAU’s payroll and on that jet.
One of them is Spencer.
You like him more than you’d admit; he’s your closest friend aside from Derek. You joined with Derek, the two of you were basically brothers by the time Spencer joined and found a quick friendship with him. Both are special in their own way.
Emily liked to joke that the two of you were Spencer's bodyguards, and you’d never be too far from the doctor.
Maybe that’s why you stayed. Maybe it wasn’t for him specifically, maybe it was that you couldn’t leave him behind. His head was too big to worry about getting hurt, but yours had more than enough space to worry about you and him.
Maybe not, maybe so. You didn’t care; all that mattered was getting your work done faster so you could relax. You do end up finishing your files in record time and spend a second thinking of something to do. There’s not much, aside from making something to drink.
“Spence,” You call and he looks up from his book. “Why can’t we stop inflation if it’s made up?” He grins, setting the book down and you know you had his full attention.
That’s his favorite type of question.
Spencer, as he’s most known for, houses a ton of information in his head. He loves information, in some ways he’s a glutton for information. He digests information at the same rate that he breathes and he loves it. But something that he loves more is sharing that information, he spills and spills the words laying dormant in his head. They beg to be heard, flying out of his mouth faster than he can process that the person has checked out.
But not with you.
They never fly, he never loses that focus a person first has when they ask him a question.
You’ve always engaged with him, you nod and you ask questions. What he loves the most is when you remember what he said. He loves that feeling more than anything he’s felt before. That feeling of teaching— someone has learned something because of him, sometimes he wishes he’d become a teacher just to experience that. Give his never-ending wisdom to the youth or even college students.
Spencer loves your questions almost as much as you love hearing him talk. He learns a bunch of random facts, knowing sometimes your questions aren’t about anything in particular. Sometimes they’re about history or a college sort of science but he likes the random questions. It makes him feel less like a robot.
He explains, watching as you let out a great big exaggerated huff before returning back to him. It's confusing, but he explains it as many times as you need. With no secret frustration.
He smiles, the corners of his lips reaching his nose when you finally get it; explaining it back to him just to ensure you’ve understood him correctly.
“Still stupid,” You mutter and he nods.
Spencer watches you with barely hidden heart eyes, he commits you to memory every time he sees you. His… crush of sorts has only gotten worse since the impromptu sleepover the week prior. Never had he woken up to breakfast being made, freshly squeezed orange juice, and soft music coming from a hidden record player he’d yet to find.
Penelope didn’t join, which you said was normal. She tended to take longer to get ready so you prepared a separate bowl for her, for while she’s on the road. So for the entirety of his morning, it was just the two of you. Hanging around… talking, eating… it was nice. Too nice. The poor kid didn’t know how to act, choosing the yes and approach to nearly all the conversations.
You’d even gotten him a toothbrush!
Derek snickers from behind him and he huffs, rolling his chair so he was facing Derek and not you. Derek just makes a kissing motion with his hands before messing with Spencer’s hair and walking away.
He shakes his head and quietly fixes his hair as you and Derek walk to the exit of the bullpen to grab lunch for the team. He would’ve joined but he’s needed by another team, requested to have the infamous Spencer Reid look over their case files.
Inside Derek's car, the two of you listen to the radio, mindlessly rocking your head to the beats until he lowers the music at a red light.
“So,” He starts, looking at you with a wide grin. “You and Pretty boy.” You roll your eyes and look forward. There’s a black SUV in front of you, the back window has those family stickers and there’s about seven kids and a pregnant woman sticker. “Don’t give me that look,” He laughs, pushing your shoulder. You just look at him, unamused.
“So, you’re telling me that nothing happened between the two of you?” He asks, now looking forward. Chuckling as you see his eyes widen at the number of children.
“Nope,” You shrug. “It’s almost as if I can take someone home and not sleep with them.” Rolling his eyes, he inches the car forward when the light switches.
“I’m just saying, you two have a lot of chemistry.” He shrugs back. Pursuing your lips, you sigh. “What? You don’t like Spencer?” Glancing at you, Derek’s eyebrows furrow.
“It’s not that,” Shaking your head, you change the station as Taylor Swift plays. “It’s just… I dunno. I don’t really think about dating,” Dating normies, at least.
“You’ve never dated?” He asks, his voice thick with what you can only assume is disbelief.
“I have. Just— I mean, Spencer is great. He’s funny, smart, he has goals, he has hobbies, definitely not a serial killer, and he’s shown he can be committed.”
“But?” Derek urges.
The silence following his question is thick.
You sit in your seat, thinking about the negatives that would come from dating Spencer. If you even liked him romantically. You think about it and dating Spencer seems nice in your head. Waking up next to him, date nights with him. But it wouldn’t be a dream and there would be actual issues with dating him. There's paperwork, no doubt. If either one of you progressed to unit chief then you’d be transferred to another team or branch entirely. If you can even keep your job. If things lasted, then you’d have to tell him you’re a mutant. He’d meet your family, know the truth.
It’s not worth it. You decide. You can’t trust someone to that degree, not even if you’re dating them.
“It’s complicated.” You finally tell him. “I think… I do like him. But,” Shaking your head, you almost groan as there’s another red light. “I know I couldn’t date him.”
“It’s not because of some hidden homophobia, right?” Derek laughs and you laugh back, shaking your head.
“Please, I’ve sucked too much dick and fucked too many men to be ashamed of being bi.” He holds his hands up, playfully surrendering before he looks at you.
“What’s the worst that could happen? Honestly,”
“One of us dies and the other has to deal with the grief.” He kills you for being a mutant or gets killed trying to protect you. The first one just seems highly unlikely.
“Oh,” Licking his teeth, you nod. “Well, what’s the best that could happen?”
“Nothing bad happens and we get married and adopt two kids. Maybe a cat. Definitely a cat.” He accepts you for being a mutant and doesn’t kill you.
“And what most likely will happen?” He asks and you think about it.
“We date, test the waters and see what happens from there, probably come to the mutual understanding that while we do have feelings for each other our careers come first and end things.”
“God, you’re sad.” Morgan sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“I’m realistic about the negative sides of life.”
—
For the first time ever, it’s your turn to host the team's movie night. Truthfully, you don’t know how you’ve managed to evade it for three years, but it’s caught up to you. You think because Spencer had mentioned your apartment to Derek and Emil,y causing them to think if they’ve ever been. Which led to you opening your door to the team.
You’d gone all out, truthfully, you’d been nervous and made snacks to calm yourself down. It didn’t fill all of your time so you even steam cleaned your couches— it wasn’t as bad as you thought it would be. Just a little murky.
Normall,y you’re not such a worrier but this was a momentous occasion. It was a tradition you had avidly avoided for nearly four years without getting caught and now, oh lord, now they were aware of it.
“Hey, guys,” You greeted them after Penelope had knocked on your door for a minute straight. To think you would’ve gotten there in the same amount of time if she’d knocked once.
“This was on your door?” Emily hands you a paper and you take it while letting them inside. It’s a note, written in a language you’re all too familiar with.
Krakoan.
You don’t read it yet, if it was an emergency, you would know. Rather, you lock the door and put the note on your bed for later.
“You have a nice place,” Derek comments when you return.
“Thank you,” You smile. “What movie are we watching? I have like all the movie apps,”
Everyone settles on a movie: The X trilogy. While searching for it, you and Spencer get up to serve everyone. It’s really just moving everything from the kitchen into the living room, everyone self serves during movie nights.
“I didn’t know you baked,” He admits, eyeing the cookies he knew for a fact weren’t store-bought.
“I stopped some time ago,” You sigh, staring at the cookies, a recipe your younger sister had created. “But I might start back up, I missed making them.”
“They smell amazing,” It’s true, he swears he’s not just saying that. The cinnamon and white chocolate smell from the cookies makes his stomach rumble a bit. They look even better, large cookies with crispy edges.
“Thank you,” Guiding him back to the others, you move to turn down the lights and double-check that everything is going according to plan.
The girls all share a couch and a blanket, knees knocking together and sharing shoulders. Hotch and Rossi had taken the chairs on either side so that left you, Derek, and Spencer on the floor. Not that any of you minded, the girls definitely didn’t mind messing with you and Spencer’s hair every so often.
Derek made it a point to have Spencer next to you, even claiming that he didn’t want the blanket so the two of you were forced to share it. Spencer wasn’t as uncomfortable as he thought he’d be, especially sitting on the floor that he didn’t clean himself or see get cleaned, but your floor had this smell to it. An almost jasmine scent that didn’t linger for long, so you obviously cleaned.
Plus he saw the couch cleaner when he was helping you bring the food.
His hand brushes yours under the cover, an honest accident because the glass of soda had made his hands ridiculously cold. He flinched away but you didn’t even acknowledge it, so he tested the waters and put his hand back. With his heart racing, his hand finds yours and you turned your palm up, holding his hand.
You can feel his blood rushing, feel the air in his lungs rush out and rush in before they slowly calm down. You don’t think the movie is scary, shocking for sure. But Pearl definitely isn’t scary. Side glancing at Spencer, you find he’s biting his thumbnail before he drops it and messes with the fabric of the blanket.
Weird.
Spencer can’t even focus on the movie anymore; your hand is so warm against his. Your thumb is gently caressing against his hand and he can smell your hair. He gulps, blinking to try and focus on the movie. She’s chasing the neighbor girl; why?
A knock on the door startles him and Penelope. It’s two sharp knocks and you excuse yourself, the warmth from your hand makes Spencer frown, his hand now feeling incredibly empty.
Checking the peephole, you glance back at the others before exiting the apartment with the lock out so it wouldn’t lock on you.
“Did someone leave a note on your door?” Josh asks while messing with his nails. They’re dirty, he’s undoubtedly been digging in the dirt again.
“Yeah, why?” Moving him away from the door, he messes with his hair. The long blonde strands fall in front of his face before he sweeps them away. You can see bits of dried blood on his roots and squint. “You’re hurt.”
“Yeah,” He stutters out a nod. “I think there's a mutant hunter in the building,” He says and looks around, you know there’s no one else in the hallway so you don’t look with him. “I-I had a note on my door. In Krakoan, was yours also…?”
“It was. I haven’t read it yet, I have friends over,” He nods and continues to pick at his nails.
“I just wanted to let you know, cause I’m heading to the school in ten minutes. Yeah, so, stay safe. Hank already knows and he’s sending a temp super for the building.”
“Okay, do you want help with anything?”
“Mm-mm, I got everything packed and ready to go. I’m just really shaken, y’know. After the sentinels ‘n’ shit we dealt with.”
“Yeah, no, I get it, J.” He smiles but looks up and down the hallway again. “Stay safe, remember there’s a couple of safe houses between here and the school.”
“I have them in my GPS— you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine, haven’t sensed anything wrong.” He nods and then takes a step back.
“Well, I’ll see you. Maybe in a week, hopefully this place is still standing.” You laugh to calm his nerves and watch as he leaves before going back into the apartment.
Josh isn’t a paranoid man; maybe he does hate technology but that’s not because of the government or anything. You try being stuck in a computer for a year and see if you wanna use one again. But you’re not worried about mutant-hunters, you would be able to tell if someone was sneaking up on you. Not to mention they were rarely ever quiet or hush-hush about what they did.
Going back into your apartment, you lock the door and rejoin Spencer. The movie has since ended and everyone is waiting for you to return.
“Where’s the bathroom?” Derek asks once you’re on your way back.
“Down the hall to the right, the door is open.” He thanks you and gets up, his feet echoing in the empty hallway. “How’d the movie end?” Settling back down next to Spencer, you grab a cookie.
“She killed Mitsy, lays down with her mother before posing her parents dead bodies for one last dinner. Howard returns from the war and finds them,” Emily explains.
“Pretty sure we had a case like that,” You muse and Penelope gags. How she agreed to watch a scary movie is beyond you, not to mention she’s queuing up the next movie.
Derek returns from the bathroom soon after and she plays the movie. Your hand ends up under the blanket again, unable to focus on the movie as you think about Josh. You should’ve used the bathroom break to read the note— or read it once Emily gave you the damn paper.
Spencer’s hand finds yours again in the middle of a sex scene. It’s awkward, watching a sex scene with your boss in the room. Derek makes jokes, of course he does, and Emily makes counter-jokes.
“I bet (Y/n) made more girls scream than you,” Emily chuckles and you look back at her, mouth agape.
“Is that some type of insult?” You squint and she covers her mouth.
“Oh, please, how many women have you been with?” Derek rolls his eyes.
“Two,” You shrug and he hollers, clapping his hands as if that proves his point. “I’ve been told I’m an amazing lover— besides, you’ve been a hundred women for one night, I was with two women for three years.” There’s some ohhhs from the girls and you laugh.
“Let’s watch the damn movie,” Derek grumbles.
When the movie is over, everyone agrees it’s late and starts heading home. Spencer is the last one out, helping you clean up the little things that the others hadn’t. The lights are turned up, not by too much, but enough that you can see what you’re sweeping up.
He’s wiping down the counters, chewing on his bottom lip.
“(Y/n)?” He calls and you look over. He blinks and thinks for a moment; he didn’t even mean to call you. “Are there any more cookies?”
“Yeah, should be.” Setting the broom against the wall, you head over to the kitchen and grab a Tupperware from the fridge. There are five left and you hand him the container. He thanks you and takes one, you grab one too and a napkin to catch anything that falls. He stands across from you, holding a hand under the cookie to catch the crumbs.
He’s nervous again, for some reason. His heart is racing and he’s sweating. Especially on his hands.
It’s clearly because you’re staring at him with a twinkle in your eyes; something you’re not aware of. You finish the cookie and toss the napkin into the trash before relaxing against the counter.
“You wanna spend the night again?” You grin, head tilted to the side. He’s probably worried about going home or something.
“Sure,” He nods and you smile wider. Clearly, you can read him like an open book.
“I’ll get you some clothes. Come,”
He follows you into your bedroom, taking it in. There’s a smaller dresser next to the closet, your bed is in the middle of the room, big enough for three people with large blankets and pillows. There are a lot of decorations, too. Trinkets, pictures, books, journals, posters, records— he still hasn’t found the player. You take the time he’s distracted to hide the note inside your dresser.
“Pick whatever, I don’t mind.” You tell him while finding your own night clothes. He nods and follows after you, picking up the first shirt he finds. A yellow and blue shirt with frayed edges and a pair of red pants with two white stripes going down the outer side. You omit a shirt, grab a pair of baggy shorts and head into your bathroom.
Spencer gets changed in the other bathroom and waits in the hallway. Was this an invitation into your room? He’s not sure yet again. He really should speak up.
“Was the movie too scary?” You joke when you exit the bathroom. “We can share a bed, if you’d like,”
“Sure,” Like an excited puppy, he rushes into the room and you turn the lights off with a yawn. You lay down first, placing yourself closer to the door and then pat the bed. Spencer joins and stares at you for a second before he gets comfortable.
“G’night, Spence,”
“Goodnight,”
—
It’s shocking that there’s another case only two weeks after the first one. There are typically three and a half weeks of downtime between cases but everyone is called into the meeting room by Hotch. Penelope rushes in, her kitten heels loudly echoing on the concrete path.
“Today's case,” Penelope sighs as she taps on her tablet. “The Big Apple, we’ve been called in by um…” She trails off, her eyes darting to Hotch for a little assistance.
“Professor Charles Xavier.” He finishes and it just feels as if the word is collapsing on you. It feels like the life you’ve built up is coming down without leaving you any time to save it. Never has Charles asked for the FBI to help him; Erik sure as hell wouldn’t let him do that, either. You’ve never taken a mutant case in New York either, he handles those personally.
“Like the leader of the X-men?” Rossi asks, and god, you’re praying there’s a difference, Charles Xavier in New York. That this professor is like Spencer, a really smart cop in Brooklyn or something. Anything but the rich, bald man you’re imagining sent in this request to JJ. He probably bypassed her altogether, now that you think about. Telepathically spoke to Hotch and convinced him to take the case.
That's so something he would do.
“Yes.” Hotch confirms.
After that you space out, you can’t bring yourself to focus on the details. Not when your head is spinning and it sounds like you’re underwater, struggling to get to the surface as your hearing goes in and out. You stare at nothing but the table, unable to feel a single emotion. Or maybe you’re feeling them all at once, you can’t tell.
Your lack of mental attendance is noticeable to everyone else since you normally love going to New York for cases. You get to visit family and check out your old neighborhood. It’s odd, they don’t know why this is any different from the others until it clicks. There’s only one real difference between this case and the others.
Mutants.
“Wheels up,” Hotch says, eyeing you as you’re the first to stand up and grab your stuff. Spencer looks at Derek, confused but Derek is just as confused as he is. They give each other a nod and go to collect their to-go bags before heading to the airstrip. You’re already there, sunglasses on and you’d thrown a sweater on. Which is even more strange, since you never seemed affected by the weather before.
Spencer tried to speak to you, but you’re gone. Your head is somewhere so far even with him standing in front of you, you don’t acknowledge him. You head onto the jet last, despite being the first one there. You check your phone, nervously looking at the empty notification bar until you decide to put it face down on the table.
The jet is a little tense during take off, but it’s broken by Garica who’s been asked to join the others. She’s so excited to see the school for gifted youngsters, even more to see Wolverine who she says is her absolute dreamboat.
Everyone hears you try and silently snicker, sinking yourself into your seat when she says that.
Derek’s eyebrows knit together. He’s known you for a decade and he’d never thought you were a bigot before. Hell, he’d never seen you angry before. Not when someone spilt red wine on a brand new, very expensive shirt. Not when a family member of a victim had sucker punched you because they weren’t believing what you said. Not when you were being chewed out by Hotch or Strauss.
No one had ever seen you so much as frown, not seriously anyway. The wrinkles on your forehead were new despite how deep and prominent they looked.
You sigh, deep and heavy as you look out the window of the jet. There’s nothing some fucking BAU agents can do that a team filled with telepaths can’t. This is just some stupid ass plan by Charles, you know it.
Grabbing one of the files from the table, you look them over.
The case isn’t anything new, by any means. Aside from the fact that they’re mutants, it’s pretty identical to certain cases you’ve had before. A kidnapping followed by a three-day wait before their body is found dumped in Central Park with the Genovia Act stuffed in their mouths. Why this was hard for Charles to figure out, you don’t know. You’re sure there’s someone who can talk to the dead, or have Wanda talk to her husband and they do some magic and figure it out.
You don’t know any of the victims, you haven’t been back to that mansion since you left so you’re not all that caught up with who lives inside of there. You wish you could keep it that way but the plane lands and you’re all shuffled into government issued SUV cars.
Inside, you’re given the news that makes you want to kill yourself.
Your accommodations for the stay are at the school.
The large, older than anyone you knew mansion was something you honestly never wanted to see again. In your opinion, it would do the world a lotta good if it was gone. The only good thing about it were the open fields and woods surrounding it and if you focus you can feel the lake to the east of the mansion.
It’s calm, there’s no one around it, you guess it’s too cold this time of year to go for lake swims. You feel the wind flow back to the mansion, there are several dozen kids hanging about. Playing sports or sitting in the grass, they’re all scattered across the acres of land. There’s more inside the mansion, since it is a weekday, afterall and they still had school.
Pulling yourself out of the wind, you find that the car is rounding a corner and the Professor is waiting at the entrance. He’s different from the last time you’d seen him, most notably is that he’s back in his wheelchair with Cerebro nowhere in sight, but you still feel the same burning hatred for him as he sits there. To his left is Erik, and to his right is Logan.
“One hell of a welcome wagon…” Derek trails. You silently agree, waiting until the car comes to a stop before leaving the SUV.
“Greetings, BAU.” The professor presses his fingers to his temple and the bags float out from the car before anyone could move to grab them. He looks incredibly stupid, in your humble opinion. “Erik will show you to your rooms,” He lifts the bags after him as he enters the school, Logan following behind him.
“Our rooms?” Penelope gasps, buzzing in her shoes. She hadn’t been in the car when Hotch had explained that small, tiny little fact for the case. You swallow whatever you were wanting to say and your eyes flicker over to Logan. He greets you, silently and in a way only the two of you understand.
“To keep everyone safe, the team will be staying here.” Hotch explains. “Remember to be on your best behavior.” It feels targeted to you, but you don’t seem to care as you stare at Erik. You smile at him and he smiles back, his silver hair moving with the tentative breeze that blows past.
“Follow me,” He nods to the team and steps inside. You follow after, seeing the familiar halls of the school. You can hear the classes happening around you, you can feel the potential of young mutants. You feel everything around you, how the wood creaks and how there’s a single wooden panel that’s rotten and about to fall on someone’s head. You feel how people move around, using their powers and writing their essays.
You sigh, looking at the portraits on the walls and the way they once felt filled with hope. They feel like a painful reminder now. You see your old team, you see you, standing in that stupid suit with a half-face mask. With that stupid grin.
The steps aren’t covered in carpet anymore; they’re a glossy wood and you can only imagine it’s because speedsters and cloth don’t exactly mix.
“Your rooms.” Erik stops at the entrance to the East Wing dorms. You hadn’t even realized where he was taking you. But you can’t exactly say you didn’t expect this, of course, Charles would do this. “Your bags are in front of your doors. When you’re done, head down to the study.” He slips past everyone, his hand gently squeezing your arm as he passes by without another word.
“This is so cool!” Emily says, seeing her bag at the end of the hall. “God, I hope Storm is here!” The others chime in about their favorite mutant heroes, all of them finding their bags in front of a door.
You don’t need to look to see yours, you know your room.
Standing in front of it, you feel your eyes sting with tears. You can’t bring yourself to twist the golden knob. It’s gotten that dirty copper look after not being used for so long.
“Kid, you okay?” Morgan asks, suddenly behind you with a hand on your shoulder. “I know the rooms are kinda plain but you’ll live.” He reaches over you and opens the door. It swings open and you shudder at the sight.
“How come he gets a decorated room?” Morgan groans and everyone flocks to your room. They take in the room you’d grown up in, not a single part of it has changed. Your lip quivers as you remember what happened and that’s enough for you.
Snatching your bag from the floor, you toss it inside before slamming the door shut and heading downstairs. The others follow, a little concerned but also they don’t want to get lost in the huge school.
Emily notices how you move through the halls with ease, as if it’s muscle memory. How you know to be careful on the second to last step and walk with this vigor you never used to have. Spencer frowns, watching as you throw open a set of doors. He’s not too far behind, so when he reaches the door he sees the Professor sitting at the table.
“I need a different room.” You demand, walking past him to find a seat. Your seat, you’ve always sat in the seat closest to the window that overlooks the pond.
“I’m afraid they’re all occupied. Unless you’re willing to switch with one of your friends,” He says and glances at the others before his eyes settle back to you. He’s almost daring you, egging you on. He sighs and you concede. You know he’s lying, there are a dozen of empty rooms in the school.
“Fine.” You grit. “Let’s talk about the case, then.”
—
“How could you let him call us?” You whine to Erik, sitting on his desk as he cleans the books lining the walls. It’s lunchtime and the others were scattered about. Hotch had gone out for lunch, despite Charles's insistence that there was plenty of food for the team. “I can’t sleep in that room, Erik. I can’t.” Pulling your feet to the edge of the desk, you lay your head on your knees.
“I’m truly sorry,” He shakes his head, setting the feather duster on the shelf. “I wasn’t aware of his intentions until I saw the cars pulling up. I would’ve stopped him had I known.” He stalks over to you, caressing the top of your head before his hand reaches your back.
“I know,” You mutter. “I feel so angry now that I’m here. My team— my friends have noticed. They think I hate mutants,”
“I assume they don’t know.” Nodding, he sighs and takes his seat in front of you. “Why haven’t you told them?” Looking at him through your lashes, he raises an eyebrow, encouraging you to talk.
“I’m afraid,” You stress, dropping your legs. “They’re government agents and you know how much they like us! Hotch knows… kind of. He knows Bug is a mutant but that’s because they had a fling in law school,” Rubbing your head, you look at him. “I’m so afraid, Erik. I’m this…”
“Mutant?” He finishes but you shake your head.
“I’m Derek and Spencer’s best friend, I make sure Penelope’s house is safe because she got shot in her last apartment and she’s terrified of it happening again, I have monthly movie nights with the others. I’ve met their kids. They know that I cry when I watch Cujo because he didn’t deserve that. They know I have to eat my eggs with ketchup because otherwise they taste like too much egg. But I-I can’t even think about telling them this!” You ramble.
“You’ve adopted a normie life,” You nod and he continues. “Why? You’re an omega-level mutant, you could be so much more than an agent.”
“It’s better than that,” You shrug, gesturing to the picture of your old team hanging behind his head. His children were on your team, too. Polaris and Pierto at least. “My current team doesn’t worry about being attacked because they were born with the X gene or some world-ending event anymore. I don’t cradle their dying bodies, pushing their blood back into their system, and I’m not pulling the toxic gas from their lungs. I don’t get buried alive anymore! I can live a life!”
“Are you happy?”
“Am I happy? I’m safe!” You shout and immediately cover your mouth. He frowns and you can’t meet his face, your eyes staying on the floor.
“But are you happy? I’ve seen you online, you’re hiding. I know your smile,” He grabs your hand but you stand up and move away, holding yourself. “(Y/n),” He sighs. Your lips purse and you shake your head. “Are you even allowing yourself to love? To connect to someone romantically?”
“No.” Licking your lips, you stare at the door. “I can’t.”
“You cannot continue down this path, Charles mentioned feeling your affection towards Dr. Reid. Why not pursue him?”
“Man,” You scoff. “Tell your bald ass husband to stay out of my head!” He chuckles and lays his hand flat on your head. He’s going to let you avoid talking about Spencer for now; but not forever.
“He was concerned for you, he’d seen the news of your latest case. And you’ve ignored his calls,”
“I don’t want to talk to that British fuck.”
“Understandable,” He laughs. “Come on, your friends are waiting in the lounge for you.”
The lounge is a room that was originally meant to talk about missions before it was moved down to the basement. Nowadays it’s filled with arcade games and a pool table. Not to mention various seats in various states. The team is crowded around one of the tables, grabbing their food when you walk inside.
“I’ll leave you to it,” Erik says as he closes the door behind you.
“Er, this one is yours!” Penelope says, holding out your food. Thanking her, you take it and settle on one of the recliner chairs. It’s the funky one with the handle you have to jiggle five times up and then down once to make it leanback, you don’t, despite the urge to.
“Hey, kid,” Derek says, his voice barely hiding the tension he wants to push down. He sits on the couch that’s had enough blood on it to fill an Olympic-sized pool, but you can’t tell him that. Plus, it’s been cleaned well enough that you can’t even tell. You greet him back while ripping open the tissue paper, keeping the sandwich together. “You okay? You’ve been… off since Hotch said we’d be working this case.” It’s hard to miss the ears that tune in to the conversation, the not so sutble conversation quieting until it’s nonexistent.
“I’m fine,” You look at him and then Spencer. He tucks his hair behind his ear when your eyes meet before he looks down at his sandwich. “Just tired.” He nods, pretending to understand.
“Because I’m here if you want to talk, get something off your chest.” He adds and you nod into your sandwich.
“I’m good, trust.”
—
It’s late. You’ve gone into the city and spoken to the witnesses who found the victims, you’ve gone through all the evidence and begrudgingly worked with Charles to try and find a necromancer who wasn’t away or evil. Which is harder than you expected it to be. He could also be lying.
But, the moon was rising and it was time to turn in for the night. Everyone had gone upstairs to their room but you made the excuse that you were fixing up the paperwork to stay down longer. Instead, you ventured outside and sat in front of the pond.
The water is deeper than most expect it to be, it connects to a secret room the water mutants use from time to time. You dip your hand inside the water, feeling the fish dart away from the sudden movement and the plants move with the soft ripple of water. Your hand travels to the mud and you find the earthworms eating away, the air moving through the roots of trees and flowers. You find the animals making their homes underground before your hands touch the grass. The snails and ants crawl on blades, one is strangely close to you and you find it.
The snail glides on your finger, moving up your hand before it settles on your knuckle. It’s tiny, barely the size of your fingernail, and stares at you before it turns around. It goes back onto the grass and disappears from sight.
Laying flat on your back, you close your eyes and imagine yourself anywhere but there.
“Get your ass inside,” Logan says from above you. Cracking your eyes open, you stare up at him.
“Your tits are blocking the moon,” You tell him. He growls, flexing his hands. “Oh, please stab me. I want to go home.” He sighs, it’s deep and heavy and then he moves so he’s opposite to the moon.
“You can’t sleep out here,” He says and you shrug. “You have to go inside.” He urges again. Logan doesn’t try to sound convincing, despite his words. It’s oddly void of any concern and it’s mainly annoyance in his tone.
“I don’t have to do anything but die.” You correct him. He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighs heavily.
“Fine,” He grunts. “When Ororo drags you inside, don’t say I ain’t warn you.” He walks away and you close your eyes again. It’s some time before the moonlight is blocked again and you crack your eyes open, half expecting it to be Erik.
“Spence,” You blink, sitting up. He fiddles with the sleeve of his shirt and looks back at the school. “What’s up?” Nervously, he gives a half smile and points his thumb back to the school.
“It’s late and it’s not good to sleep outside without the proper equipment,” He says. “I can see you from my window. It’s expected to get colder and possibly drizzle, so you’re more likely to catch a cold if you stay out here.” Looking towards the East Wing windows, you see Emily sitting on her windowsill, watching you. Hotch is at his, too.
“Okay,” You sigh, standing up. He nods and follows after you while staring at the grass stains on your shirt and pants. There’s bits of grass in your hair and he thinks there’s a snail on one of them but he’s not too sure about that last bit. You remove it with ease as you walk up the stairs, setting the grass on the banister and dusting yourself off.
“Do you want to switch rooms?” He asks once you’re at your door. “Or-or share?” He adds when you look at him, eyes heavy with regret.
“No, I’m fine. Thank you.” He doesn’t miss the deep breath you take as you push into the room. The knob feels impossibly cold in your grip and the door is heavy as you push it open and close. Thankfully, all the lights are off and the curtain is drawn so you can’t see anything. It’s muscle memory as you strip out of your dirty clothes and climb into the bed.
The covers are the same, it’s still so warm as you pull them up to your chest and imagine you’re home. Anywhere but in that room.
That night, for the first time in eight years, you have a nightmare. You don’t remember it when you wake up at five in the morning, you just feel the heavy beating of your heart, the sweat building on your forehead and the tears falling from your face. You see it in the fire burning in the center of the room, the small flame in the exact position you’d been all those years ago. You see it in the way the blanket is pulled taught, holding you safely to the bed.
The fire snuffs out and the blanket loosens so you can leave the bed and head into the bathroom. You just stand under the water, not bothering to get undressed or even turn the light on. It’s blistering hot but you can’t tell, it just feels wet. The temperature is nothing on your skin, not as the water goes arctic cold just as you’re taking your boxers off.
Grabbing the fresh washcloth from the sink, you wash yourself for what feels like an hour. The familiar-smelling soap does nothing to calm your nerves and you get out, feeling the water slip from your body and go down the drain.
You don’t know where to go as you’re getting dressed, but you know you can’t stay in your childhood room any longer than needed. You grab your phone, badge, and necessary items before leaving the room. Spencer is awake and exits his room at the same time you do, you acknowledge him with a glance and keep it pushing.
Your feet bang against the wooden floors while he barely leaves a sound. He follows you down the stairs, through the empty corridors until you enter the kitchen.
“(Y/n)?” He softly calls as you open the fridge. “The Professor didn’t say we could eat whenever…”
“That rich asshole can deal,” You grumble, stealing some eggs and cheese. “You hungry, Spence?” He hesitates but eventually nods. You nod back, pointing an egg at him. He goes to take it but you place them on the counter and check the cabinets for bowls. Finding one large enough, you throw it onto the counter and dip into the freezer for some frozen waffles. “Blueberry or chocolate?”
“Blueberry is fine,” Tossing the blueberry eggos next to the bowl, you flick the pilots on and start whisking the eggs. Spencer doesn’t like his eggs with anything, no salt or pepper, no adobo either. And you don’t feel like making two batches either.
“Wanna make me an omelet?” Scott grins and you nod, pointing to the fridge. He grabs three eggs and butter and you set them aside, throwing some butter onto the pan. “I’m Scott, by the way.” He introduces himself to Spencer.
“Spencer,” He dips his head down, trying to avoid looking at Scott’s glasses.
“He’s a doctor,” You grin, tossing four eggos into the toaster. Leaning against the counter, you grab an apple and hold it between your fingers. “Peppers in the omelet or plain?” Scott takes the apple and bites into it.
“Impressive,” He pats Spencer’s back. “And plain. I’m bulking.” Nodding, you pour yours and Spencer’s eggs into the pan.
“Twink death, I suppose.” With a large, exaggerated sigh you lean against the counter again, fanning yourself.
“Because you know all about that, right?” The two of you laugh, like really laugh and Spencer looks between the two of you. You’re loose, compared to yesterday. You’re smiling and happily engaging with Scott, you’re even making him food. Willingly. He doesn’t look past the clear history either and chews on his lip.
What type of history could the two of you possibly share?
“So,” Scott clears his throat. “You’re a doctor?” His eyes (Spencer thinks, he can’t tell) flicker to Spencer while you tend to the eggs.
“I have several PhDs, I’m not a medical doctor,” He explains and clears his throat. “So, technically, I am a doctor, just not a medical professional. But I am EMT certified as per the FBI guidelines.” Scott looks at you, eyebrow raised and you smile, looking away.
“That’s cool, I have red beam eyes.” He shrugs, lowering the glasses and blasts the apple. It sprays everywhere and one chunk hits you square in the forehead.
“I’m not cleaning that.” Scrambling the eggs, you move apple guts off of the stove while Scott grabs a paper towel.
“Where’s the bathroom?” Spencer asks and Scott points him in the direction. He thanks him and leaves while Scott throws away the paper towels. Once he's gone, Scott leans against the counter with his arms crossed.
“What?” You sigh, piling the eggs onto the plate.
“You always like the chatty ones,” He grins. “Wade, Tony for a week, Pierto, Jenn, and what was her name?” He snaps his fingers and you hush him.
“Misty and she was not chatty!”
“Mmhm,” He looks forward, his ankles now crossed. “You should date him.” He mutters. “You’d make a cute couple. A cute little FBI, mutie couple.” His nose crinkles and you roll your eyes.
“He’s not a mutant,”
“But you like him.” He tilts his head closer to yours and you push him away from you. Focusing on the omelet, you peel the sides and check to see if it’s ready to flip.
“Did Charles or Erik tell you to do this?”
“They talked about it,” He shrugs, pushing himself away from the counter. He walks over towards the kitchen island and sits down. “And I agree. You don’t have to only date other mutants. Your track record shows you mostly date normies.”
“My longest relationships were with mutants, though.” You add, looking back at him. “That track record says I should only date mutants.”
“Maybe he is,” Scott grins. “Like a super smart mutant. What then?”
“Then I’d jump his bones— I’m joking!” You shout as Scott cackles. “Nothing changes. I don’t date anymore.”
“Ah, straight to marriage.”
“Scott,” Adding cheese into his omelet, you blink. “Im good being single.”
“Sure, but you’re pushing forty and still single…” Scoffing, you face him and point the spatula towards Charlie’s office.
“Charles is like a hundred and still won’t admit he loves Erik. I feel like there are bigger issues than me not dating!” He waves his hand, dismissing your entire statement. “Besides, there’s nothing wrong with not wanting to date someone. I’m happy being single,”
“I know aromantics and asexuals— you’re not one of them. That’s sexual frustration speaking. All that anger and libido built up isn’t good,” Flinging his eggs at him, he grabs the plate and manages to catch all of it. “See. Someone who’s happy doesn’t do that to breakfast.”
“I really want Jean to divorce you.”
Spencer walks back into the kitchen soon after and Scott motions his head towards him as he leaves with his food.
—
The case is going… not horribly. But not good, either. Another two mutants have been found and you’re sure you’re going to strangle Charles soon. Your latest theory is that he’s faking the deaths, they’re clones or something. You don’t know. But you think all of this is hocus pocus.
You’re three days in now, talking with the others about possible suspects and trying to find some type of rhyme or reason to how they’re picking out the mutants. (It’s Charles, duh.)
“Crossing every possible line- race, gender, age, type of mutant,” Derek lists through a frustrated sigh.
“Were they runaways? Had loving parents?” You ask, only to humor Charles into believing this was a real case and not some weird ploy. The man in question thinks for a second before flipping through the pictures again. Of course you’d find some missing link in this case.
“I’ve met all of their parents, they’re from mutant families.” He lists off their families, naming the mutants they’re related to. Some of them aren’t well known to people, even heavily tied with the mutant community. You doubt most of the people in the mansion had heard of them— hell, you hadn’t.
“We need to talk to the families,” Hotch surmises.
“I fear it won’t be possible. Most of them are under the mutant protection act and cannot be contacted.” That’s not real. That’s something he just made up, but hey. Leave it to the telepath to lie. Charles sighs as he looks at you. Shrugging, you watch as they believe the lie with a little influence from the professor. “I can gather all the mutant families I know and have them know about this threat, though.” Your eye twitched as what he said sunk in.
This fucking asshole.
“Until then, we need to work on the profile.” Hotch says. “The geographical profile won’t be of any help, considering the dump sites are all within Central Park and victims go as far as Queens.”
“It’s likely the Unsub is a mutant himself,” Reid speaks up while fiddling with his pen. “He probably comes from an unsupportive family and envies those who have familial support or understanding.”
“Teleportation mutant isn’t uncommon,” Emily adds. “It would explain how he’s getting the bodies into the park without being noticed.”
“But the placement of the Accords wouldn’t make sense.” Rossi shakes his head.
“Throws us off the trail,” Hotch explains. “Professor, can you create a list of mutants with teleportation powers and narrow it based on who has an unsupportive family? Garcia, I want you to pull up all the footage from the area where the victims were taken, review it with Reid frame by frame.”
“Yes, sir,” She nods and the two of them head over to her station. It’s in the room, which is strange considering how many rooms the mansion has but this is a fake case, you don’t expect much.
Looking over the files, your leg continues to bounce. It’s a matter of time before Charles mentions your family. Hotch will if he doesn’t. You know him, he’s not going to keep something so important to the case a secret. Raking your hand through your hair, you shudder and lean back in your seat. This isn’t going how you wanted it to. You never wanted them to find out.
You’re fine having feelings for Spencer in private. You don’t care if he never knows, you don’t care. This part of your life was buried for a reason and you didn’t need to uncover it for the sake of a fake fucking case.
Looking around the room, you see Erik standing at the door. You think him and Charles are having a telepathic conversation by the way his face keeps switching emotions. He looks at you and offers a sympathetic smile before glaring at Charles and leaving. They’re back to the divorce stage, then. Great.
You wonder what the team will think. It’s been eight years of knowing them, eight years of working together so well you consider them family. A family that hates secrets, especially giant ones. They’ll view this as you not trusting them, that you’ve been lying for almost a decade. They’ll hate you.
“I found a possible victim,” Derek calls and you pull yourself together. “Nine years ago, a teenage girl was killed in Central Park by her boyfriend.” Your eyes widen as he says that, snapping to the professors while he just sits there. “Danella Harkens, she was a student here. Her parents were in the original X-men.” He nods, as though he’d just remembered her.
You feel sick to your stomach as all of this settles in. Your sister's death has been something you tried to warn him about— you knew her boyfriend wasn’t any good but she was a rebellious teenager who didn’t want to listen to anyone. You begged him to make her stop, you were away on a mission, you couldn’t do anything. He could’ve. And he didn’t.
“I remember her,” He turns to Derek while you’re breathing hard. “She was a lovely student. It’s a shame—“ He stops, holding his throat as the air in his lungs is removed. Quickly, his face starts turning shades of red and the others scramble to help him. They don’t know what’s wrong, how could they? You walk to the middle of the room, staring at him as he loses more and more air. He silently pleads to you to stop but you don’t. You like it. Watching him suffer.
“Stop it,” Scott whispers, placing a hand on your shoulder. You shake your head, face tight. “(Y/n), let him go.” He urges.
“He killed her,” You whisper.
“Let him go.” Closing your eyes, you push the air back into his lungs. Charles gasps, holding onto the chair for support while you’re pulled out of the room. No one notices, busy attending to Charles.
Scott takes you to the training simulation room, something he used to do when you still lived there. He clears out the class who don’t hesitate to leave, loving the free period they’ve been provided. He boots up some of the harder simulations, watching as you quite literally burn through them. The fire burns a powerful blue, turning the (holographic) metal into (holographic) puddles. It doesn’t matter that they’re fake, the programming feels so real that there are phantom injuries whenever someone gets attacked by one.
He watches the sweat build on your face and then get turned into tiny knives that fly through the air.
“What’s the Avatar doing?” Emma asks, standing next to Scott with her arms crossed.
“Blowing off steam,” He cringes when your fire fills up the entire room, leaving scorch marks along the wall. “The Professor brought up Ella and he thinks it’s a fake case.” She hums, tilting her head as you suck the fire back in and form a fire sword with it.
“Is it?” She asks. She wouldn’t put it past Charles to do some fucked up shit like that.
“No,” He shakes his head. “It’s very real.”
—
Danella Harkness, a name she’s given herself because she fell in love with the book character with her first name. Danella (L/n) is your younger sister, she was several years younger than you, fifteen when she died. She wasn’t the strongest mutant ever; she didn’t have much control over her power. It wasn’t anything crazy or new, controlling light. You’ve seen it used in amazing ways but she never got the hang of it.
It wasn’t often that a mutant family all had similar powers. The X gene didn’t carry what type of powers someone got. At least to your knowledge. But your mother has moon powers, your father has the wildest energy powers you’ve seen in a long time, your older sister controls gravity, and you have the most basic, elemental powers.
You stare at the family portrait inside one of the common areas, you’re all in your suits, smiling and alive. It was painted four weeks before Ella died. You’re thankful that she’s been immortalized in such a happy state but it still aches you to your core. She would’ve been twenty-four this year. It's been nine years since she’s died, nine years since you’ve been angry with the world.
You’ve been angry with Charles since you could be angry— he’s a shit person in general.
“There you are,” Spencer gasps, clearly out of breath as you sit with your back to the door. “Hotch is calling us, it’s dinner time.”
“I’m not hungry,” You respond and the doors close. Sinking into the seat, you stare at a nineteen-year-old you. You’re hardly smiling in that picture, but you’re happy. You can tell. You’ve never liked your smile all that much so you faked a nicer one for the painting. Your parents didn’t like that, they always wanted it redone to get your true smile but…
“Are you okay?” Spencer settles next to you. You scoot over, making room for him. His eyes follow yours, finding the painting. “Is that Danella?” He knows her face, of course, he does, he’s seen it once. He knows the slope of her nose, he knows how she had gotten a messy lip ring but he doesn’t know that she ran her finger along her nose to calm her down or that she’d gotten the lip ring because your older sister had gotten one.
“Yeah,” You bite without meaning to. “Yes,” You say in a calmer tone, silently apologizing.
“We didn’t get a file on the rest of her family,” He points out, a sense of urgency growing in his voice. “The sister and the brother could be in danger.” Your sister is flying in from her latest mission, according to Jean tells you. She’ll be back within the hour. You don’t know what you’re going to do. You don’t know what your life is going to look like after today.
“Who said danger?” A shrill voice says as the doors to the room slam open. You close your eyes, knowing the voice, while Spencer jumps.
“Excuse me?” He stutters, watching as Wade rushes across the room and flings himself onto the couch. His knee hits your head and you groan, holding the side of your head while he scrambles to sit down properly, squishing himself between you and Spencer. To Spencer’s credit, he moves over to give more space before eventually giving up and standing instead.
“Y’know, this is a niche crossover,” Wade sighs while looking at a wall. “I’ve only ever read beanstalk over here and Gambit boning for this crossover.”
“Fuck are you talking about?” You groan, checking your hand. There isn’t any blood, of course there wouldn’t be. But you felt that you should still check.
“Nothing.” He quickly says and then sighs dramatically and crosses his legs. “What were you two talking about?” He plays with the ends of your hair, smiling under his mask as you glare at him.
“None of your business,” Smacking his hand away, he hisses and blows on his hand. “God! Kill me!” Standing up, you circle around the couch to grab your sweater and gun holster when the others walk inside.
“We’ve been looking for you two!” JJ sighs, tucking some hair behind her ear. “The Professor wants to talk about the case, something about the Danella’s girls family.” Your eye twitches again, you never thought that was a real thing but leave it to Charles.
“Oh,” Wade drags out before he jumps over the couch and spins you into his chest. “And here I thought you were here for little ole moi,” He frowns as you push yourself away from him, angrily fixing your hair. “You used to like that.” He says while staring at the wall again.
“Do you ever shut up?” You seethe, looking for your gun holster. You were sure it was next to your sweater. Scanning the room, you find it next to the fireplace and squint. How the fuck?
“You know a couple ways to shut me up,” Wade sings, following after you. “Wink wink.” Grabbing your gun, you check the weight and then stare at Wade. “Wink.” His head moves as though he’s making an exaggerated wink.
“You two know each other?” Derek slowly asks.
“No.”
“We used to fuck raw.” Wade grins and you shout, ripping his mask off and shoving the barrel of your gun into his mouth. He moans, eyes shut while you can feel his tongue licking along the gun.
“You freak,” You spit, taking the gun off of safety. The others shout, begging you to stop but Wade pulls the trigger with a loud moan, his eyes rolling back. He drops to the floor without a sound, blood and oddly enough his teeth land on your face. “Some fucking peace and quiet!” You groan, wiping your face before you put the gun's safety back on.
“You just killed a man.” Penelope whispers, her eyes trained on the wall. Her eyes are red and there are already free flowing tears running down her face.
“Look man,” Derek takes a hesitant step forward. “We know you hate mutants but this is too far!”
“What?” You ask, hands on your hips.
“You killed him!” He shouts, a vein bulging out of his forehead.
“Do you guys know who that is?”
“Doesn’t matter.” Hotch pulls himself together, blinking away from Wades ‘dead’ body. You can see his head reforming already, steadily breathing again. “You killed a man.” Blinking, you turn to face your family painting. Thankfully, there’s no blood on it, protected by a thick bulletproof glass, considering how many different accidents happen in the school.
“He’s not— I’m so going to kill myself.” Pinching the bridge of your nose, you let out a loud sigh and turn around again. Charles and Logan stand at the door, slowly letting themselves in.
“Professor, I am… there’s no words to describe how sorry I am.” Hotch stumbles over his words. Xavier holds his hand up, staring at you as him and Logan move closer to you and Wade.
“You had to make it messy?” Logan grits, staring at the blood-soaked rug and the brains on the wall.
“He’s being a little bitch!” You defend, pointing your gun at him. “‘Sides he pulled the trigger this time.” He chuckles, shaking his head.
“Course he did,” He puts a cigar between his lips and leans over expectantly. Taking it, you hover it over the fireplace and put it between his lips. “Not what I wanted.” He mutters but takes a long drag from the cigar.
“Suck a dick.” Scrunching your nose as he blows smoke towards you, Logan rolls his eyes.
“I hope that got everything out of your system.” Charles sighs, watching as Wade starts to breathe again.
“If you weren’t in a wheelchair, I would’ve thrown you off of the Empire State Building by this point.” You admit, low enough that only the three of you hear.
“You should still do it,”
“Logan.” Charles blinks.
“My God, that was hot!” Wade shouts as he jumps up, his face still molding itself together. The others scream and you blink, you’ve never heard Hotch scream before. It’s strange. “Do it again.”
“No, you freak!” You spit. “You nearly got me locked up!”
“Bet you’d like that,”
“Wade,” Closing your eyes, you step away from him.
“My apologies for not explaining the situation earlier, Wade here has a mutation that rapidly grows his cells, a regeneration mutation.” Charles explains. “Simply put, Wade is impossible to kill by normal means.”
“I know how,” Logan offers.
“How did you know that?” Spencer asks you.
“Because,” You shrug.
“They used to date.” Logan blows out another puff of smoke.
“I’d rather not tell people that, I was desperate.” You blink, unable to look at the team.
“To a cancer patient,” Wade gasps, hand on his chest. “You know i’m sensitive about my skin.”
“I preferred you without a mask and gagged, I think we know why the relationship didn’t last.” You bite without meaning to.
“You gagged him?” Emily stares and you close your eyes. Unsure of what was worse, admitting to your sexual escapades in front of your crush and boss or nearly spilling your own secret for the sake of killing Wade.
“Can we not? There’s a case.” You mumble.
“Right,” Charles clears his throat and you side glance at him. “Daniella’s family is here.”
The sentence feels like the end of the world. And you’ve experienced the end of the world before. Several times in fact. And those have never left this type of pit in your stomach, this type of dryness to your mouth that you’re sure drinking all of the world's clean water could hydrate. It makes your head spin and your knees are about three seconds from buckling.
So many years, so many memories and shared with the team, and so— so— much love was about to be put to the test.
You crumble with each step, feeling as if you’re being walked to your public execution of your own making. Your neck is burning from the inevitable blade coming down and you just hope it’s as swift as a guillotine was.
You never should’ve taken this job. You never should’ve lied to them. You never should’ve gotten so close to them. You should’ve been more open with them.
You don’t know which never is right and you suppose you never will. You’ve made your bed and it’s time to lay in it.
The team is guided to the elevator that leads down to the basement. No one really talks, still shocked and trying to piece together the last three minutes. Spencer is especially quiet, his eyes are traveling with each of his thoughts and he’s picking at the end of his vest. It must be hard, he has a million and five questions and yet, he can’t ask them. He won’t get the answers fast enough and you don’t know if you’ll be around to ever give them to him.
Logan opens the door to the hanger, it hisses as the seal breaks before it slides open without making a sound. The jet is parked and the door is open, three pairs of footsteps echo through the bay and Hotch is the first to react.
He turns to you.
That’s the first thing he does when he sees them.
His head snaps to you, his eyes wide as his mouth is pressed into a thin line. A knowing line. You avoid his gaze, staring down at the floor as your chest tightens again. Your lips curl into an emotion you can’t place just yet. Because just like that, just by seeing your family Aaron Hotchner is the first to figure out that you're a mutant.
He knows because he knows your sister. He could have never forgotten her— he’s only ever been with two people.
Your family stands in front of the BAU, their careful eyes scanning over the team and when your sister sees Hotch, she gives a small smile. Nothing more, nothing less. He gives an even smaller one back, a mental dilemma clearly written over his face.
“So, we’re all here?” Your mother nods towards Charles.
“We’re still waiting on your son, ma’am,” Derek eyes, as if it was obvious. Charles had said everyone from the family was flying in but, clearly, they were down a person.
“My son?” Your mother blinks from him and then to you. She frowns, her crescent-shaped lips almost unnatural-looking as they pout. Emily pauses, tilting her head ever so slightly as the pieces fall into place for her. Her eyes shift to you and she makes a small expression. Barely visible but it lets you know everything.
Two people.
Inhaling, you turn towards Logan. Begging him, pleading with him to do something. Anything. Logan isn’t one for pity but he’s not exactly an asshole. He grunts, feigning boredom and ushers everyone back upstairs. Into the meeting room you’d been working out of.
“We believe that your daughter was the first victim for our UnSub,” Rossi starts the conversation as everyone settles down. You’re still at your seat, your sister to your left, Spencer to your right. In front of you are your parents. “Can you tell us about Daniella’s death?”
“We were gone,” Your mother starts, her eyes drifting as her mind does. “A mission to take down a factory creating Sentinels. She couldn’t go, I didn’t want her getting hurt and she found no issue, they were having a trip that day. But the kids,” She looks at your sister and then you. Spencer tenses for a moment and you can feel the air push from his lungs as he tries not to stare at you.
Three people.
“They begged me not to, not to leave her or not to go. Begged Charles. We returned to the news, her boyfriend. A secret boyfriend. He’d stabbed her in Central Park because he found out she was a mutant.”
“You knew?” Derek’s eyebrows furrow as he looks at your sister. “How?”
“We— me and my brother, we knew the kid. His dad, at the time, was working for the government. Working on legalizing sentinels again. She didn’t believe us and then she said he wasn’t like his father. She trusted him,” She explains and you swear it’s like you’re back there again. That you're pleading with everyone to do something, to save your sister from the fate you know she’s about to walk into.
No one did. No one helped. And you lost yourself that day, you lost your baby sister, your parents, and you lost your trust with the older generation of X-men.
“Can you think of a reason why someone is copying Danella’s murder?” JJ softly asks as if her tone would cushion her words. You lower your head a little while your hands reach up to massage your neck and then the sides of your head. Your fear is turning into anger and soon enough, if—when someone says the wrong thing you’re going to explode.
“No,” She shakes her head. “He’s an only child, his mother is alive and his father died four years ago.”
“I…” Your dad starts, his voice sounding like he’s afraid to say what’s on his mind. Which is unusual. “I can. It’s a strange reason but…” His lips purse and your mother shakes her head, silently telling him no. Slightly, you perk
up while your eyes narrow.
“Anything is helpful,” Rossi nods, leaning forward in his seat. “Even if it doesn’t seem that way.” Your dad nods and looks at your mother, waiting for her to concede. She does and exhales slowly as he speaks.
“We moved her grave recently.” He finally says. “We moved her here.” It’s like time froze, like you could finally feel the temperature around you, the chill in the air rushing through your lungs, your veins, and into that well of emotions you’ve kept under lock and key for nearly a decade. You’re not thinking straight, not thinking of the consequences as your voice fills the room faster than your mind can catch it.
“You what?” You shuddered, looking between the two of them. They avoid your betrayed gaze until you stand from the table, your fist clenched at your side as the chair nearly falls down. “You fucking moved her?” You shout, face twisted with fury that grows with their silence. “Answer me— what the fuck did you do?”
“This is why we didn’t tell you,” Your mother's voice is almost a plea as she looks at you. “Look at you, (Y/n).”
You grit, shaking your head. “Don’t spin this back to me,” You tell her, trying to keep your voice steady. “My sister was murdered and we laid her to rest next to her favorite park. And you two moved her back to the place she hated.”
“You hate it here,” Your father softly corrects as if he’s talking down one of his patients. “Ella loved it here.”
Lifting your chin, you stare down at him. “Ella hates the X-men. She hates missions, she hates living in this school—“
“Ella is dead.” Your mother reminds you, looking away as the words formed a bitter taste on her tongue.
“Fuck you.” You spit, nearly enjoying the hurt that flickers across her face, like the air was sucked out of her lungs. “Y’know what? Fine. Ella hated the X-men. She hated how Charles treated us like show ponies. She hated living in a dorm instead of an apartment. She hated how you made us go to courts to watch as people called us cruel words as they treated us like we weren’t people. She didn’t go on that mission because she was tired of being reminded that the world fucking hated her. She was never mutant and proud. She didn’t get a hang on her powers because she didn’t want to.”
“(Y/n),” Your sister looks up at you, eyes bleary. “Stop.”
“What?” You laugh this bitter laugh that feels like it scrapes against your throat. “We’re just being honest, aren’t we? Ella told us how much she hated this place but she wanted to make them proud.” Lamely, you gesture to your parents. “You would’ve known that, had you stopped to think of us outside of being legacy mutants.”
“We never did,” Your mother stands up, hurt written clearly on her face. “(Y/n), you need therapy. This—this isn’t healthy, you’re still so angry,”
“I’m not angry.” You grit. You’ve never been the angry one, sardonic maybe Cynical. But you didn’t like being angry, that weird burning feeling in your chest, the way the anger would cloud a person's judgment. That was never you. “Stop calling me angry.”
But she nods, solemnly like it hurts her to do so. “Look at you. Look behind you,” Blinking, you turn around and see that the floor is on fire, a line trailing from your feet, across the room and traveling up the wall. Shaking your head, it snuffs out and you turn back, blinking away the embarrassment lingering in your eyes. “You’re scaring your friends; you’re scaring us.”
Licking your lips, you shake your head again before leaving. You can’t deal with this, deal with them or the sounds of your mother crying as you leave. You’ve fucked everything up, again. You always do.
“(Y/n)—“ Spencer’s voice calls after you, a little panicked as he follows the burnt footsteps. The heat that’s radiating off of your body. “—wait, please!”
“I need to be alone!” You warn, pushing through a set of doors that leads to the basement. “Stay with the others, Spencer.”
He waits at the door for a moment, just one, solitary moment to think about it before he shakes his head and follows you down. “Talk to me… please,” The basement is a metal, but not the type that radiates the heat rolling off of your body; it’s cold down there, reflective in a way that makes the fire in your eyes shine when you face him.
“I can’t hurt you,” You’re pleading, the anger gone from your body as he only gets closer, a cold fear quickly replacing it. “Spencer, please. Stay back— I when I get like this—“ Stopping yourself, you shake your head and head inside the room. He follows, again because for some reason he can’t stop himself. It’s like he needs to prove himself, to who, he’s sure it’s you. He’s not sure why and he’s not sure how but he enters the room just before the doors close.
It’s dark, impossibly so. The type of darkness that’s no longer just the color black— this must be what it’s like to be completely blind. But even more so. He can’t tell which way is up or down and it’s so silent. The hall had been quiet but this was silent, silent enough that he could hear the blood rushing through his ears, his soft breathing. But he can’t hear you. And a part of him is afraid to call out, to break whatever this is that’s going on.
“You need to go,” Your voice echoes from across the room, in some area he can’t pinpoint. He flinches, trying to figure out where your voice came from, his eyes desperately trying to adjust to the darkness. “The room is going to fill with water in fifteen seconds. The door will shut for an hour. And I don't want to have to force you out,”
“What about you?” He’s panting, and he doesn’t know why. One foot steps in front of the other, venturing deeper into the room.
“I’m—“ Your voice catches in your throat, the words ringing as not important. Not the focus of right now. “Spencer, you have ten seconds. Leave. This is my… timeout room. Go!” His hand wraps around yours, at first he stutters, unsure in his movements— actions before they hold you tightly. “Spence…”
“I trust you.” The door hisses, the seal clicking into place and your eyes close. Another seal hisses and water starts to pour into the room from behind you. His heartbeat picks up, slightly but enough that you notice.
“It’s going to fill the room entirely. Floor to ceiling.” You warn, looking at the water. You can’t see it but you can sense it, understand where it’s coming from and going. “Fifteen percent Epsom salt, so we’ll float but still be able to swim. Air gets pumped through… some system, I’m not sure.”
“How do we…” Breathe, he means. The water’s up to your knees by this point but he hasn’t moved. And it feels like he’s staring at you.
“I can breathe underwater. It’s a skill I learned, filtering the water out before it enters my nose, so I just get the oxygen. I can… make a large air bubble for you.” You’ve done it before, back when you were an X-Men and once, when the team went to the beach and Henry slipped from his floaters faster than anyone could react.
He leans back, letting the water hold him up and you feel it, his body lying on the surface, slowly drifting about. You do the same; it’s the purpose of the room, after all. By the time your stomach hits the ceiling, you’ve wrapped Spencer into the bubble of air. It moves around him— he’s talking and you swim closer to him before widening the bubble to incase the both of you.
“Do you want to talk about it?” It, the situation or the other situation. Because, while you don’t want to talk about either, one is certainly better than the other. Then again, knowing Spencer, he’ll want the bigger picture first.
“The point of this room is to not talk for an hour,” You softly remind him.
“Still,” It’s up to you, that’s the thing. You can say no, give a firm, black or white yes or no and he’ll drop it. Hand to God he would, but… you want to. You want to tell someone about this, someone like Spencer. To get this off of your chest, to let him see you and see all of you. Not just SSA (Y/n) (L/n).
Despite yourself, there’s an immediate need to defend yourself. “I’m not angry— I’m not an angry person,”
“I know,”
“I’m not.”
“I know.”
“It’s just; they make me angry. My parents, Charles… they’re so… self-righteous. Mutant and proud. Putting yourself on the line. These—the great, grandiose expectations about how you’re supposed to be great and this poster boy for mutants. Proud of your mutations, to ignore the vile words, the hatred that normies spew at us. To still help them when they spit at us, treat us like infections. I was the only one of my siblings to try and tell them that we didn’t want this life, they didn’t believe me and it frustrated me. I…I got angry and…” Trailing off, you feel your eyes sting as the memories come back. “I didn’t mean to. I just… I lost control of my powers and ended up burning them. Everyone. My mom, dad, Rose, and Ella.” His breath hitches and he reaches forward while you lean back. “That's why they built this room. It makes me focus on water and not fire.”
“Ella was different, she was always… scared. Of her powers, of people— it really didn’t matter. And then she met him. Walking in a park, he was…normal, that’s what she called him.” Running your hand over your head, you exhale. “She saw the life she wanted in him. Going to high school, living in an apartment with just his family, no one hated him. Nothing that she had in her life. She told us about it, told me and Rose. Swore us to keep it a secret, Rose wanted to but I knew something wrong was happening. She needed an escape, not a boyfriend. And not him. I told them— I stalked him,” It’s the first time you’re admitting this, your arms crossed over your stomach as your eyes dart around, the memories slowly rolling in.
“I followed him home, this brownstone in Manhattan. I saw him, the Senator who’s the main endorsement for the Sentinels. They looked so similar and seemed too close that there was no way that they didn’t have the same views. I tried telling her, and then Rose, and then our parents. No one listened. Ella thought I was being a protective big brother. Rose wanted to let Ella make her own choices and my parents just… wanted to focus on using her to get close to the Senator.”
You just continued to talk but it felt more like word vomit, your words growing more and more hoarse until you just started sobbing. It was uncontrollable, pent-up feelings bubbling to the surface like a volcano that you couldn’t contain. And Spencer didn’t want you to. He listened and he didn’t judge, not even when you admitted to robbing a liquor store after finding out about her death and getting black out drunk in the middle of the woods. He just sat there, letting you lean on him for the first time.
By the time you caught your breath, the water was being drained in the middle of the room and the lights were starting to come back. It was a slow progression so as to not hurt your eyes. The water slipped between the new slots in the floor and whatever somehow managed to stay inside the room would be steamed out once you left.
“Are you ready to go back?” He asks, still squinting due to the bright, white lights flooding the area.
“No,” You admit, voice steady where your eyes are still red, lips still holding a small tremble. “I’m going to find Ella,” He nods, letting you guide him back upstairs before you leave him to get back to the others.
—
It’s almost an hour before you return. The team had been trying to focus on the case but it was hard. Especially for Morgan who kept huffing and slamming things on the table; everyone knew why, too. He was hurt, hurt in ways he couldn’t describe. One of his closest friends, someone who he calls when he’s at his lowest, didn't trust him as much as he trusted them. And that stings, Spencer will admit. But he gets it.
He looks at the cases— your file and slips through countless mission reports. The details in them are gruesome. Buried alive at eleven, thrown into a lava pit at nine, set on fire, kidnapped and tortured, and something about being sent to an alternate universe. Then there’s the press, he skims through videos of you and your family at rallies, protesting at capital buildings, in court— a video of your mother getting arrested at one while you’re struggling to contain yourself, bending the wooden table in front of you before you’re tackled to the ground and placed in a mutant collar. You’d been seven at the time.
The room itself was quiet, whispers of information passed around like a game of telephone until rapid footsteps approached the door. It swung open like a storm was hitting, bouncing off of the hinges and everyone turned to the door, seeing you frantic.
“Is Josh here?”
“No,” Scott shakes his head, beginning to stand up. “We sent Logan and Kitty on a search for him.”
“And?”
“Nothing yet,” He sighs. “They’ve checked each safe house and nothing's been touched. Logan hasn’t picked up his scent, either.” He’s speaking like a doctor breaking bad news to a family, taking slow steps until he’s in front of you. Something flashes across your face; guilt, maybe sadness and you whisper to him, shaking your head. Spencer can hear faint I know and it's not your fault from Scott.
“Cerebro,” Your voice gets higher, eyes snapping towards Charles. “Use cerebro to find him.”
Charles doesn’t give an indication if he can or even will, but he makes his way over to the two of you and the three of you start talking. The air starts to feel hotter, like it had when you learned they moved Ella and Spencer sees the smoke rising from the floor underneath you. Sees the shifting air around Scott’s hair, the way your face twists and contorts as though you have no control over it. And then, a break.
Your body falters, blearly eyes look between the two of them. “He’s not… he’s…”
Charles shakes his head. “It’s the most likely scenario. Logan will do one last sweep today for him,”
“So, there is a mutant serial killer,” It’s not a question, it’s a realization. That these past couple of days of bullshitting had been for nothing, that you should’ve taken this more seriously. Scott nods. “Okay— have we asked Jean, Wanda, or Hotoru to take a look at the bodies? See if they can get any information from them?”
It’s weird, now you can place yourself into business mode. Because you’re walking around the room, using your powers to guide files over to the board, standing straighter and that tone, Spencer knows it well. You and Scott work together well, he notes. The man is at your side in seconds and it’s strange how well the two of you balance each other out. He wonders just how connected the two of you are, considering what happened during breakfast.
“Spencer, did you get a look at the letter on my door?” He snaps out of it, seeing your serious face and nods, standing up with his dry-erase marker to the board. “Both Josh and I got one— I didn’t get a chance to read it. Maybe the others did, too,” You hurriedly explain, arms crossed and teeth finding purchase on the inside of your cheek.
“So, you’re a potential victim,” Scott notes, arms crossed to mimic you when you turn to him as if he asked a stupid question. “You are. And don’t bring up the fact that you can hide inside of a volcano, again.”
“Well, I can hide inside of a volcano!” There’s a pause, your eyes shift before your eyebrows shoot up. “And Josh can dig underground. Deep enough to not be found by detectors or search dogs.”
While it convinces Scott, his lips purse. “There are hundreds of miles of dirt between your building and here. It would take you days to search it,”
“Julio and I can— and maybe Jean. She can try and fly with me, sense him. Are there any other earth based mutants?”
He thinks for a moment, recounting all the students in his care. “A couple, but none of them have that much power. It’s just you and Julio. And even he’s not on your level,”
Grinning at him, you move towards the board where Spencer is. “You’re making me blush,” Standing next to him, you look at the board. “That’s everything?” He hums, blinking over at you while you read it over, lips pulled to the side and eyes jumping around.
“This is weird,” You admit, waving Scott over. “It’s all broken,”
“Broken?” Hotch echoes and you no,d turning to him.
“This is Krakoan. It’s a language for an island, and if you were on the island at any point, you’d know the language as if it was your native tongue,”
“This is written like someone’s learning the language,” Scott finishes with you nodding in agreement.
But now the question was, who’s teaching them? “Making a list of all the mutants on the island wouldn’t take too long. Not many of us left it. So, we can start from there.”
—
“This isn’t crazy to you guys?” Derek whispers during dinner. You’re gone, off with Scott and your friends, making a plan to find Josh— who Penelope was surprised to figure out was the same Josh from the apartment building— and connect the letters to the current murders. “He’s been lying for years!”
Hotch is the first to speak, his head shaking slightly with a slight frown etched into his skin. “It’s not that simple,”
Derek scoffs, leaning back in his seat. “We’re not bigots, Hotch. He could've trusted us like we trust him.”
“You’ve seen him,” Hotch starts, slow like he’s still piecing together his evidence. “How he reacted ever since we took this case. He’s scared, he’s barely sleeping, outbursts, and withdrawn. This wasn’t something he wanted to talk about with anyone,” Of course, Derek can sympathize with that. He knows that feeling well but it doesn’t stop the hurt in his chest. Something so deep in his soul that he doesn’t know how to get over this feeling fast enough to make logical choices.
Outside, they hear someone’s loud laughter and the conversation dies on Derek’s tongue. “He’s cute— he’s cute, I don’t see the harm,” It’s a woman’s voice, one they haven’t heard before.
“Jean,” That’s you, undeniably that’s your voice. “Name one mutant who's found love in a normie,” The team eyes each other, trying to figure out where the conversation is going.
“Wanda,” She immediately responds to which you scoff.
“Jericho is literally the sorcerer supreme,”
It takes a moment but she snaps her fingers. “Ororo and T’Challa,”
“He’s the king of the most powerful nation and has powers,”
She huffs. “You’re impossible,”
“I’m practical and you’re not fitting the criteria. I want a mutant and a non-mutant without any powers in a stable relationship where one of them doesn’t die.”
The silence that follows is heavy. “It could be you and Spencer,” She finally says.
Her words hit most of the team like a truck, the two of you weren’t just talking in general. This was a specific conversation about you and Spencer getting together. The logistics of someone like you and someone like him being together for the long run. When they look at him, his ears are burning red and he’s staring at the window as if you’d climb through and…confess or something of the sort.
“You said it yourself, you wanted to kiss him in the sensory room,” If Spencer wasn’t red before, he is now. Avoiding everyone’s gazes and sinking into his seat.
“Shut the fuck up.” Your voice is fast, embarrassed that she’s speaking about it out in the open. “And I told Scott that in confidence— he's such a loud mouth,” There’s a twinge of a whine to your voice while Jean laughs.
“I’m his wife,”
There’s no rebuttal for that and the two of you start walking, albeit slowly. “So what if I did, it’s not gonna happen. You, Scott, Charles, Erik, and Derek need to understand that.”
She sighs and it’s this big, loud disappointed sigh that only a mother could pull off. “You need therapy. And I’m saying this to be nice but you and Spencer could be really cute and go the whole way. But your fear of normies not accepting you— all of you is holding you back. You’ve known him for eight years, doesn’t that count for something? You said the two of you held hands—“
“He was scared, we were sharing a blanket and he wanted to hold my hand,”
“You slept in the same bed,”
“Again, he was scared. We watched a scary movie,”
“The X trilogy. Stop interrupting me. He likes you, I've never met him and I can tell. You like him. The two of you are cute and clearly, he’s not going to turn out to be some evil mutant killer or end up kidnapped by an evil mutant killer,”
“He could, though,” When you speak, your voice is smaller, almost breathy. “I’m never going to be separated from this life, and if I merge him with this, who knows who’s going to find out? The wrong person could and I lose Spencer— forever. I could lose all of them, Derek already hates me,” The way you say it, like a child scared they’d disappointed their parent,
makes Derek feel bad. Guilt builds in his stomach as the others glance at him as if he’d refute your claim. He should— he will, he knows that. Just… not right now.
“No, he doesn’t,”
“You weren’t there, Jean. I saw his face, I know Derek. He’s upset with me and I can’t find it in myself to wish I had told them sooner. I would’ve taken this to the grave,”
“…(Y/n)…”
“What? It’s not like I’m going to pass along the X gene, there was no reason for them to know. And sure, none of them have their pitchfork and torches but what now? Are they going to be nervous around me during work, passive-aggressive, or maybe I’ll just be quietly shunned out until the only thing for me to do is quit? Because I’ve heard the way they talk about mutants. They don’t want us dead, but we need to fit into their boxes.”
“What?”
“They’re FBI agents, they’ve dealt with mutants. Big and scary ones, ones with what they call inconsequential powers, and everything in between. You’re always lucky to survive a case with them. It's a cool story to tell to pick up chicks in a bar, a war story about what could’ve gone wrong. It’s something you keep hush-hush, don’t assume the UnSub is mutant, it’s taboo. It’s like calling them the devil.”
“If you’re scared of them, then why stay? You could get a job anywhere else, but you’ve stayed with them,”
“Honestly,” You shrug, passing by the window. “They’re amazing people. I just think they’ve been subjected to so much propaganda, they don’t notice it.”
“Y’know what your issue is?”
“Oh, please tell me another issue I have,”
“You dim your light in situations where you’d shine.”
“How about we go look for Josh? We’re burning daylight,”
“It’s nighttime,”
“I don’t have time for your mind games, Jean. Get in the air already,” The sound of the two of you leaving leaves something short of a sonic boom that makes the glass shake and the team shudder.
—
That night, while you were still out looking for Josh, most of the team had gathered inside of Penelope’s room. Everyone but Hotch and Rossi couldn’t sleep, their minds filled with the information that not only were you a mutant, but you used to be one of the most powerful— probably still are, if what Scott had said was true.
None of them have that much power. It’s just you and Julio. And even he’s not on your level.
Your level, your own separate league for just your earth based powers. Who knew about the other three elements you could bend to your will?
Pen had dug up all the videos she could of you and sent them all one single text: check this out. Which is how they ended up huddled around her desk, chairs pulled up and the curtains drawn as if it would shield them from being found out.
The first video isn’t bad. It’s a news clip about the school, you’re in the background, playing with Scott and a man they’ve yet to meet. It’s grainy, clearly dated by the bad camera quality when Pen zoomed in, but it’s obviously you. The next video is mission footage, clips recovered from a warehouse. You’re a teenager, maybe even a tween, running with Ella in your arms as robots chase after. They’re huge, skin changing to steel as you shoot waves of fire at it. There are bodies— other mutants, scattered across the floor that you’re trying to shield Ella from seeing.
At some point, you meet with Rose and your parents. From there, you Ella off to your mother before you and Rose turn back to the creature. “It’s a sentinel,” Emily breathes, quietly as if the word would bring it out from the screen. “In the report, they’re robots who adapted to mutant powers, it nearly wiped the mutant population out,”
In the video, Rose holds her hands up and the room shakes. It’s like everything feels heavy and you strain, trying to use the air to rip it apart when from behind, just out of view, Spencer sees it. A shine on the floor, then a black metal foot before three prongs pierce your chest. If the sound had not been recovered from the footage, they would’ve heard Rose’s screams, and heard the ground split as the gravity became too hard for even the sentinel to handle and collapsed under their weight.
“He was eleven,” Derek points out, looking at the date on the corner of the screen.
“He was a baby,” Pen’s voice is filled with pain that only grows when the next video plays. You’re there, on a makeshift operating table. This time, there’s sound and they hear all of your shouts, hear the wind blowing across the room because there wasn’t any anesthetic. This is somewhere in the warehouse, untouched by the sentinels. Blood is rushing from your wounds, there’s an organ poking out from one of the holes, and you’re screaming. There shouldn’t be air in your lungs to make any type of noise, but it’s like your powers are working on autopilot to keep you alive.
“Where is Silver?” Scott asks, he’s there, holding your hand to keep you from getting up.
“Rose is finding him now,” Erik replies. He’s somewhere in the room, pacing around.
“She needs to hurry— he’s losing—“
“I’m aware,” He’s at your side, kneeling down to brush the sweat from your skin. “Just a little longer, I promise it.” You manage a nod through gritted teeth before sobbing again. You’re muttering so they can’t hear the words but they know the tone.
The video skips as Penelope wipes her face. This one is easier to stomach. It’s homemade footage that starts with Scott pointing the camera in the mirror, showing off his new suit.
“Hey, heat beam—“
Scott sighs, pointing the camera over to you. You’re about thirteen in your new suit, grinning madly. “It’s a concussive punch—“
“Yeah, whatever,” Waving your hand, you inhale while Scott exhales. “These suits are kinda ass, gotta admit. But Lorena said I look good and I was thinking of asking her out— don’t tell Erik, please. Delete this—“ You hold your hand out and the camera flies into your hand, showing your scared face. Scott shouts and a chase starts, showing off the halls of the mansion until they see a familiar door.
It’s your room, your current room. It's the same hallway and the inside is filled with whatever items a thirteen-year-old omega-level mutant could want.
“Scott! How the fuck do I delete this?” You shout, turning the camera over in your hand.
“Just— gimmie the camera, I’ll do it.”
You stare at him, eyes narrowed. “You said that last time and now Hank knows that we all think he’s on furry chat rooms selling his body!” Looking down again, you grin. “Found i—“ The footage doesn’t end there, though. It just cuts to another video, dated the same day, just four hours later.
The camera is on the ground, grass blocking some of the view but most of it is still visible. It’s chaotic, like a war zone in the middle of a field. There’s a crashed airplane in the distance, that’s what caused the fire in the background and there’s a team. Two people fall to the ground. Scott is on his knees, clutching his chest, Lorena is just now standing up and Quicksilver is bringing supplies from the plane.
“Cyclops— don’t breathe it in! Don’t!” Your voice is hoarse, you must’ve been shouting for a while. Your hand plants itself on someone’s chest and they watch as the person convulses before green air is pushed out their body. Pietro places a breathing mask on the person's face as you run to the next person, repeating the process.
By the time you reach Scott, he’s face down on the grass. “Q— can you see if the— the black box is still in the plane? Someone needs to tell the Professor what happened?” He zips back, returning less than a second later with a solemn look on his face. “It’s okay— it’s okay. Just… move them away from the plane, yeah?”
You lug Scott up, limping towards the camera and they see a piece of metal sticking out from your leg. It’s straight through but you’ve been working through it, using your powers to keep pressure from the leg.
The video ends there, cutting to a picture of you and a guy with red eyes in front of a grave, giving it the middle finger. It reads Charles Xavier. The next picture of the two of you again, taken by someone else as you’re both hanging your heads at the sight of Charles, alive and back in the mansion.
Again, it’s a video. It starts with a banner that says it’s prom night. The theme is Under the Stars and there’s terrible music playing in the rented-out hall. “This is proof— because we all know (Y/n) will deny this later,” Jean laughs into the camera as your group of friends rush towards the bathroom. There’s Scott, of course, and three other people they can’t see. The door to the bathroom opens without anyone touching it and they see you, standing with Kurt sat on the bathroom sink, making out.
The group shouts when the two of you pull away and Kurt bites your lower lip, pulling a noise from you. It doesn’t last long, as your head snaps over and you shout, chasing them throughout the party.
Then starts a string of videos. Taken at different points of your life but you’re training your powers in all of them. Flying, holding up Olympic-sized pools with just a finger, freezing giant robots midstep, creating tornadoes— incredible feats that continue to top each other with each new clip. It’s somehow but incredibly terrifying and amazing and then they’re reminded that the person they’re watching is the same person they’ve known for nearly eight years.
The same person that they would’ve said didn’t have a single dangerous bone in their body, whose muscles were for carrying them home from the bar— not the guy who broke off the top of a mountain to fight Apocalypse.
It’s so weird, like you’re two separate people. But, Spencer guesses that the death of Ella truly did change you, since none of the videos are dated after her death.
Before the screen turns back, there’s one final picture. It’s a funeral, Ella’s. The rain is heavy, impossibly so and Spencer remembers it— that storm. The rain was so heavy and strong that it reached Vegas, towns flooded and some of the damage is still being recovered to this day. The background is hard to read but there’s a break in the rain, a perfect rectangle above the casket where a golden sun shone down on the beautiful bouquet.
You’re off to the side, not far from the casket but notably away from everyone else, staring at the brown wood, fist clenched tightly in your suit, two sizes too small for your body.
Spencer gets it— you are on a completely different level from the other mutants.
Small rant and reminder that this is my blog and i can block, delete, etc. whatever i want:
cw: talking about epstien, ice, etc. not in detail but mentioned.
I want to start by saying that I stand with the victims of JE and obviously these were horrible crimes that should not be just swept under the rug.
I do, however have a hard time having the same surprise, shock, and overall emotion that a lot of (white) people have while reading the files.
the things that were talked about in the JE files were things that happened to black Americans for CENTURIES. the idea that we need to be angry now when the victims are predominately white is very telling.
this same ideology can go for Renee Good and Alex Pretti, when they were murdered by ice, it was a wake up call to people to start protesting, not because it was happening, but because it was finally happening to white people.
things like this have been happening to black people, and other poc for a long time, but now it only matters because it's happening to those who thought it would never effect them.
welcome to the america that POC have been living in.
Truthfully, ghost doesn't know much about relationships, but he's convinced he's doing something wrong.
Why else would you continuously turn down his attempts to take you to bed?
He pulls every trick he knows of, which admittedly isn't much. Letting his hands wander over you, whispering how much he wants you after a heated makeout, flat-out asking if he can fuck you.
Truthfully, ghost doesn't really want to fuck you, he just knows it's what people do when they're dating. He's had bed partners in the past, apparently he's great in bed, but it doesn't mean anything when the body under him is just a body and he is more worried about what to have for breakfast.
Still, he tries, and every attempt is met with an excuse or diversion. When he asks soap about it, the expression on the scots face tells him everything he needs to know.
"Do you...not find me attractive?" He asks one morning at the breakfast table, unable to fight the anxiety that he somehow isn't good enough because of the things that happened to him.
"What? Si, baby, no. I find you plenty attractive!" You reply around a mouth full of cereal. "Are all the kisses not proof enough?"
That only serves to confuse ghost further. If you find him attractive, why not sleep with him? Isn't that...what couples do? He loves you, he wants to do it right.
You must see something in ghosts expression, because you face falls in dissapointment "is it because I won't sleep with you?"
"...yes."
"It's...not your fault, si." You avoid meeting his eyes by pushing your cereal around in the bowl "i just– I don't like sex, I don't have any desire to have it. Uh– asexual, is what it's called."
"That's an option?" Ghost asks, and you look back up to see his eyes spark with hope.
Oh.
Which is how you and ghost end up crawling in bed together, not to fuck but to share body heat and watch a movie on your laptop. All that pressure and anxiety ghost felt about not being enough has vanished, and he notices how you relax around him too. Free from the expectations he unwittingly placed on you.
He doesn't care if whatever he is with you has a name, only that you both are happy together.
For whatever reason, Shane hesitated when he went to unlock the door to his parents' summer house. He had the key halfway inserted into the lock, his heartbeat beating against his ribcage with the intent to burst through his chest. His arm dropped to his side, his breath coming out a little shaky.
(Y/N) stood behind him on the little path leading up to the door, quietly speaking into his phone with Ilya, who'd stayed behind in their apartment to keep Irina company for the evening, instructing him on how much to feed her.
Shane looked back at him, his lips immediately forming a little smile as he took in the ironed black button-up shirt and black pants, an attempt to impress people who already loved him.
"Ready?" Shane asked quietly once (Y/N) stuffed the phone back into his pocket, pretending as if he'd been waiting for him rather than trying to bury his own nerves.
At the very least, (Y/N) looked nervous, too. "Yep." He popped the 'p' and shot him a quick smile, his shoulders shaking with a little shiver. "Ready as I'll ever be."
It wouldn't be the first time Shane brought someone home to meet his parents, but it'd be the first time he ever brought a guy home. His parents usually liked the girls he brought home, often doting on them and being genuinely interested in learning more about them. Somehow, even if Shane knew they'd accept (Y/N), things felt different.
Maybe because part of him had known things wouldn't go anywhere with the girls he dated, while he hoped he and (Y/N) would retire and start a proper life together someday.
As flustered and silly as it made him feel, Shane wanted to eventually get married to him and perhaps live permanently in the cottage.
After retirement, of course.
Taking a breath, Shane inserted the key again and unlocked the door, plastering his signature small smile as he stepped inside. He shut the door behind them and headed deeper into the house, peeking his head into the kitchen to find his parents cooking together.
"Hey." He greeted, raising his arms for embraces.
"You're here!" His mom smiled brightly, handing the wooden spoon over to his dad so she could hug him tightly. "How was the drive? The traffic?" She asked, pecking his cheek and moving on to (Y/N).
"Same as always," Shane replied, giving his dad a side-hug so he wouldn't have to step away from the pot he was stirring. "What's for dinner?"
"We'll be having shepherd's pie. Your father's feeling a little under the weather, so he'll be having chicken soup." His mom answered, pulling away from (Y/N) to retrieve a stack of plates and some silverware. "Why don't you two set up the table?" She smiled, the glint in her eye so obvious Shane was surprised (Y/N) hadn't realized her matchmaking efforts sooner.
(Y/N) and Shane exchanged an amused glance and stepped into the small dining room connected to the kitchen, setting the plates around the table and getting the cups, too. His parents entered the kitchen, his mom with the shepherd's pie and his dad with his bowl of soup, and they all sat down.
The conversation began normally, the usual chit-chat about the upcoming season, some updates on family friends, mentions of work-related drama.
Shane hummed and nodded along, pleased to eat his parents' familiar and comforting cooking, until he felt two taps on his shoe. He swallowed the food in his mouth and glanced at (Y/N).
"Uhm," He licked his lips, wiping them afterward with a napkin. "Mom, Dad.. I have something to tell you guys." Shane announced, his leg pressing against (Y/N)'s calf to ground himself.
"What is it?" His mom asked, sipping on her glass of wine. His dad swept his eyes over him in faint concern. "Everything alright?"
"Yeah, yeah, everything's fine," Shane reassured them with a quick nod. "I..."
His mouth remained parted, his face warming the slightest. He glanced at (Y/N) again, cleared his throat, and reached for (Y/N)'s hand. He almost laughed at his mom's quiet gasp.
"(Y/N) and I are.. together. Officially. We're, uhm," Shane couldn't resist the big smile that spread on his face. "We're boyfriends."
"Oh, my god, Shane!"
The chair's legs scraped against the floor when Yuna stood up, swiftly rounding the table to wrap her arms around Shane's shoulders and kiss the top of his head.
"I'm so happy for you guys!" She gushed, similarly embracing (Y/N).
David smiled warmly, his eyes crinkling with playfulness. "Should I do the whole 'if you hurt him, I hurt you' speech?"
"No offense, David," (Y/N) chuckled, rubbing his free hand over Yuna's arm. "I'd be more afraid of Yuna hurting me than you."
His father's laughter made Shane beam, as it usually did whenever (Y/N) brought out smiles and laughter from his parents. "Fair, fair." He nodded agreeably, gazing at his wife tenderly when she sat back down. "I'm scared of her, too." He cooed gently.
Yuna rolled her eyes affectionately. "Oh, shut up."
Shane suddenly had a vision of himself in a couple years, sitting at the dinner table in the cottage with (Y/N), teasing and poking fun at each other with Irina lounging in her bed nearby and the insects singing outside.
The more he thought about it, the more he imagined Ilya sitting at the table with them, adding his own mischievous comments in that heavy voice of his.
He realized that Ilya was an addition he hardly minded.
"So," Yuna took another sip of her wine. "How are we doing this? Are we telling people? Are we-"
"No, no, no." Shane shook his head swiftly. "Not yet, at least. We're.. taking everything slowly. We were thinking about.. coming out to the public after retirement."
She frowned and exchanged a glance with his dad. "Honey, that's a long time to keep such a big secret. Are you sure?"
(Y/N) gave a close-lipped smile. "We're sure."
2017, Tampa, Florida, All-Star Weekend
"Fuck, I missed the sunshine."
"We have sunshine in Canada, too, (Y/N)."
(Y/N) stood in front of the sliding doors, letting the sunlight pouring in through the glass warm his skin deliciously while the faint sea salt tickled his nose. He couldn't wait to sink his feet into warm sand and taste salty seawater on his tongue.
It was rare for him to go to the beach, and he usually had to make the most of it whenever they visited sunnier, more coastal cities. He liked snow, but nothing could beat having a cold beer while lounging at a sunny beach.
"It's different," (Y/N) said, looking over his shoulder at Shane, who busied himself sorting through the clothes in search of something specific. Shane paused briefly to shoot him a look. "It feels different." He clarified with a chuckle, stepping away from the balcony doors to approach one of the double beds in their room.
The perks of dating a teammate: nobody batted an eye at the two of them rooming together, and they'd taken full advantage of it. He assumed Ilya had secured himself a fancy suite somewhere deeper in the beach resort that he'd have all to himself. Sounded great for a bachelor, but he had a feeling Ilya wouldn't be bringing any locals back to his room.
"It's the same sun," Shane muttered, tugging out a woven belt from his meticulously packed suitcase.
Everything was folded and sorted, shirts on one side, pants on the other, shoes tucked in between. He'd done the same to (Y/N)'s suitcase unprompted before they'd left for the airport, and (Y/N) had to assume it was a habit he'd get into once they officially lived together.
Shane would make a good husband. A nagging one, but a good one nonetheless.
"What do you think?" He brought it to his waist over the slate blue pants.
(Y/N) grinned. "Trying to impress Ilya?" He asked teasingly, and heat flooded Shane's cheeks. Bingo. "You totally have a crush on him, baby! Welcome to the club. Glad to have you here." He cooed, laughing at Shane's furious blush.
"I don't have a crush on him." Shane huffed, sliding the belt through the loops and securing it. He raised his head to look at (Y/N) expectantly and relaxed at the approving nod he received. "I admire him. I always have, even if he's the most aggravating man in the league. He's attractive; anyone can see that."
"Uh-huh." (Y/N) giggled at Shane's scowl. "Come on, don't tell me you haven't thought about what it's like to kiss him at least once."
(Y/N) kept his voice light, teasing, trying not to nudge Shane into territory he'd be uncomfortable with while still cracking the door open for exploration.
Ilya had been a touchy subject for them before, and even with the blossoming friendship between Shane and Ilya, the last thing he wanted was to make Shane feel insecure again.
Shane took one of his rolex watches, his eyes rolling a little, and rounded the bed so (Y/N) could help him put it on. He watched (Y/N) fiddle with the watch, his tongue swiping over his lips.
"Would you have a threesome with him?" He asked quietly, and (Y/N)'s eyes darted up to meet his gaze. "You think.. he'd be interested?"
(Y/N) ran his thumb over the watch's silver strap, his heart skipping a beat. "Are you interested?"
Shane shifted his weight from foot to foot. "Maybe. I've never had a threesome before. Not even with girls. I mean, how would that even go with three guys?"
"It could go a lot of ways," (Y/N) smirked, and it widened when intrigue sparked in those dark eyes. Shane licked his lips again, more slowly. "Ilya's good. I know he seems like your average asshole, and he kind of is, but he takes pleasure seriously. You'd have a good time." (Y/N) dragged his fingers over Shane's wrist and up the sleeve of the linen shirt. "Do you want to?"
"Maybe," Shane repeated. (Y/N) assumed he wasn't willing to admit quite yet that he, Shane Hollander, was attracted to Ilya Rozanov.
"I need a yes or no, baby." (Y/N) kissed the curve of his cheek even though he knew Shane well enough to know it was a yes. Shane tilted his head to kiss him properly. "Maybe won't cut it for this. Either you're all in, or we wait until you're ready. Do you want to ask and give it a try this weekend?"
Shane's face burned a soft red, his feet shuffling forward to press his chest to (Y/N)'s. "I think it'd be hot." He admitted with a small nod. "I want to, but... you should ask him. I don't know what I'd say."
"You'd say, 'Ilya Rozanov, I think you're so hot'-"
Shane groaned, the heels of his palms pushing at (Y/N)'s shoulders without any real force. (Y/N) cracked up, slinging his arms around Shane before he could walk away and bringing him in close for a kiss. Shane gave in immediately, his fingers grabbing at the collar of (Y/N)'s shirt and his mouth parting for him to lick into.
Shane grunted, pulling away when (Y/N)'s hand dipped to squeeze him through his pants. "You'll crinkle the fabric." He complained softly, glancing down at his carefully put-together outfit.
After years of almost exclusively wearing gym clothes and suits, Shane had decided to follow sophisticated fashion trends. He'd hired a personal stylist and everything.
"Seriously?" (Y/N) raised his brows at him. "That's what you're thinking about right now?"
Shane laughed softly. "You can take everything off later." He pecked his lips to seal the promise. "We should head down. Ilya should be here, right?"
"Yeah, he got here a couple hours before us." (Y/N) nodded, patting his pockets for his phone. He peeked at the last message Ilya had sent him about having arrived at the resort. "He's probably down at the bar."
"Should... should we ask him today?" Shane's fingers pinched the collar of (Y/N)'s shirt, rubbing the fabric between his fingers nervously. "We have most of tomorrow free." He pointed out.
The All-Star weekend would officially begin Saturday, the following day, in the late evening and continue on through Sunday into Monday. It gave them the rest of the day to explore Tampa, get some early training in... Or have a threesome with one of the hottest guys in the league.
"Think you could recover by then?" (Y/N) arched a teasing brow, setting his hand over Shane's hip and squeezing it.
Shane puckered his lips. "I recover quickly! And.." His head rolled to the side, his smile cheeky. "I don't mind feeling you for a bit." He murmured coyly, leaning in to drag the tip of his nose along (Y/N)'s cheek.
(Y/N) groaned quietly, and Shane snickered. "You're killing me, Shane."
After a few more kisses, the two left the room and strolled down the brightly lit halls, their ears filled with the distant sound of rolling waves and the chatter of other guests.
Tall palm tree leaves swayed lightly with the warm breeze that carried the salty air across the resort grounds, the heat of the day bearable enough to walk around downtown but hot enough to entice anyone into the pool or rolling waves.
As presumed, (Y/N) and Shane found Ilya sitting at one of the resort's bars, clad in a stupid, bright red Hawaiian shirt covered in palm trees that screamed Ilya Rozanov in the best ways.
(Y/N) chuckled softly at the sight, but before they could approach, fans and other players alike flocked to them to mention their excitement and shake their hands. They were polite, smiling and exchanging pleasantries until they could finally make their way to the bar.
"You look pretty." Ilya jerked his chin toward Shane, raking his eyes over him in what might've seemed like a judgmental once-over, but (Y/N) could see the intrigue and approval in his gaze. His vibrant eyes softened when they looked at him. "And you always look good."
"Thanks." (Y/N) propped his arm over Ilya's shoulder, grinning at him.
"Nice shirt," Shane complimented, his eyes crinkling with amusement. (Y/N) swore that Ilya blushed a little when Shane similarly looked him over. "Looks good on you."
"Mm." Ilya dipped his head to hide his little smile and leaned into (Y/N)'s side a bit. "I hear you met Rose Landry. People think you are dating her." He mentioned with a small snort, raising his head again to glance between them
(Y/N) gave a little huff, still in disbelief over the whole ordeal. He turned his head toward Shane, finding him already grinning at him, and scowled playfully at him. "I can't believe the one time I don't go to a restaurant with you, Rose fucking Landry's there! I had a damn doctor's appointment."
"If it makes you feel better, she's been begging me to give you her number," Shane revealed with a small shrug, his knee bending to bump lightly against (Y/N)'s leg.
(Y/N)'s brows raised. News to him; he assumed all the two talked about were movies, hockey, and the rumors surrounding their friendly outings. It was cute to watch Shane's face light up whenever she messaged or called, like a little brother eager to hear from his cool big sister.
"She thinks I keep forgetting to ask you."
"Jealous?" (Y/N) teased.
Shane raised his hand to flag the bartender down, ordering two beers for them before he looked at him. "Maybe." He replied, half-playfully, half-genuinely.
(Y/N) wanted to kiss him until Shane forgot all about Rose Landry and her pretty face. Shane took a few gulps of his beer, his fingers tapping on the bar counter, and his brows lifted questioningly at him.
(Y/N) licked his lips, drinking from his own beer to help with the courage. He met Ilya's curious eyes, but before he could ask if they could speak somewhere privately, Mike Brophy slung his giant arms around them.
"Hollander, Rozanov, and (L/N)! Who woulda fucking thought?" Brophy laughed loudly, the vibrating anticipation blatant in his large grin. "It'll be a game for the history books, huh?"
Shane smiled warily, wriggling himself free from Brophy's muscular arm. "It definitely will."
Brophy winked at them, a few more encouraging words falling from his mouth as he playfully punched their arms before heading off to greet some more familiar faces around the bar area.
Mike Brophy played for New Jersey, and while he was a generally nice guy, (Y/N) never really enjoyed being on the ice with the defenseman. Taking a hit from him was like getting hit by a train.
"Anyway."
(Y/N) laughed, shaking his head lightly. He took another swing of his beer and leaned against Ilya a little more, his grin growing. Ilya straightened up, his curiosity piqued.
"Shane and I wanted to show you the view from our room." He told him lowly, his head cocking. "Come by 924 later tonight... If you're interested."
"It's a really nice view," Shane added a bit awkwardly, trying to match the vibe (Y/N) gave out flimsily, but endearingly. His ways of flirting wavered, often surprisingly confident or sweetly clumsy. Ilya chuckled. "Think about it."
"I will," Ilya murmured, propping his chin over his fist. "I definitely will."
"Great." (Y/N) chirped, ruffling the back of Ilya's curls and taking a step back. "We should go say hi to everyone else, but we'll be waiting, yeah?"
Ilya's fingers raised to cover his mouth, concealing his smile. "Okay."
With a wink, (Y/N) stepped away, taking his beer with him and finally letting the wave of nerves crash into him. It'd be the first time he and Ilya hooked up in a while. He let out a quiet breath and looked at Shane with a small chuckle.
"Was that so hard?" He teased lightly, nudging him with his elbow as they began making their way over to Carter.
"Good thinking, about the view and all that." Shane said, taking a nervous sip of his beer. Shane usually never drank during the season, but (Y/N) supposed they both needed alcohol to soothe their buzzing nerves. "I don't think I would've come up with that... now we wait?"
(Y/N) nodded. "Now we wait."
The rest of the day seemed to speed by them between hanging out with the guys and checking out the amenities the resort had to offer, from a games room with different arcade games to a large fitness center and equipment rentals for jet skis and paddle boards. Most of the fans they encountered were polite, never crowding and accepting gentle rejections.
If he could vacation at the resort every summer, he would, but he enjoyed staying at the cottage with Shane.
By the time the sun began to set, most players had dispersed back to their rooms or off deeper into Tampa to check out the bars and clubs. Shane and (Y/N) began making their way back to their room, sharing excited glances, until (Y/N)'s phone buzzed and he took it out.
Crybaby
1002. Better view.
Crybaby
Come prepared.
(Y/N) turned the screen toward Shane for him to see, watching color rush onto his cheeks. "Still interested?" He double-checked with him, leading the way to the elevators.
Shane quickly nodded. "I am."
"Alright."
Arriving at the door of Ilya's suite after stopping by their room for some condoms and lube, (Y/N) only had to knock once before the door swung open and Ilya stepped back to let them in. He shut the door, twisting the lock, and slid his hands into the pockets of his pants as he took a few steps away from them.
It was undoubtedly a more luxurious room than theirs, more spacious with a bigger kitchen and living room area, but (Y/N) cared more for the bedroom.
The guys followed him, amusing him the slightest bit, and he gave an approving hum at the size of the bed. Big enough to fit at least four people. Plenty of room for the three of them.
(Y/N) turned around to face them, noticing the way they stared at him expectantly. The common denominator. Right.
Truthfully, (Y/N) had only had one threesome before, and it'd involved a girl whose name and face he couldn't remember, but he could still vividly recall the tattoo along her lower back.
Three guys wouldn't be impossible to do, but it'd be a whole new experience for him.
(Y/N) took the small bottle of lube and condoms out of the pocket of his pants, tossing the things aside on the bed for later. He moved toward them, pleased when they remained standing side by side, and pulled his boyfriend in first, kissing him gently. Ilya's quiet, sharp inhale reached his ears.
Shane kissed him back shyly at first, and then slowly relaxed, kissing him back harder until he parted his lips so their tongues could brush. His hands grabbed the front of (Y/N)'s shirt, holding him, not quite pulling him closer as if caught between wanting to check Ilya's reaction or losing himself in the make out.
(Y/N) leaned away, giggling at Shane's quiet whine, and took in a breath when he looked at Ilya. His eyes were filled with hot desire, moving back and forth between them, his body tense like an animal ready to pounce. (Y/N) cupped his neck, pressing his thumb over Ilya's throat to feel him gulp, before he leaned in.
With Ilya, kisses were rarely chaste. Ilya Rozanov always went in tongue first, and it felt like coming home.
He licked into (Y/N)'s mouth immediately, tongue grazing over his teeth and lips suckling on his top lip. His hands curled around (Y/N)'s waist to pull him flush against him, pressing him against his body so tightly that it was like he wanted to crawl into his body to fuse together as one.
(Y/N)'s hand raised, fingers tangling in Ilya's hair, tugging lightly and feeling Ilya's hips buck forward to grind. (Y/N) leaned away from their kiss, letting Ilya latch onto his jawline for the sake of familiarity, before he pushed at Ilya's shoulders gently.
He cupped the underside of Shane's chin, pulling him gently toward Ilya, his grip loose enough that Shane could jerk free if he wanted to.
Ilya licked his lips, turning his attention to Shane. "You want?" He asked breathily.
Shane gave a weak nod. His bulge demanded attention, straining against his pretty blue pants. "Y-Yeah, I want."
Heat pooled in (Y/N)'s gut as he watched Shane and Ilya lean into each other, their movements cautious, experimental. They'd grown used to keeping distance, to only touching each other through rough shoves or hard fistbumps for sportsmanship on the ice.
Ilya made contact first, delicately cupping Shane's face, touching him as gently as (Y/N) knew he would. He pecked his lips, letting a beat pass them to allow Shane time to process and decide what he wanted. Shane let out a small breath and tilted his head up a little more, his lips parting for him.
Ilya leaned in again, kissing him harder, slipping his tongue that made Shane shudder and quietly moan. Shane's hands grasped Ilya's shoulders, steadying himself, and Ilya's dropped to paw at his ass through the pants.
(Y/N) chewed lightly on his bottom lip, entranced at the sight of their tongues sliding together, the heavy pants and sighs that slipped through. Shane rolled his hips, grinding against Ilya, and Ilya grinned against his mouth, pulling back for some air. He looked away from Shane, only briefly to grab (Y/N)'s shirt and yank him closer.
Huffing out a little laugh, (Y/N) leaned in for a messy, clumsy kiss between the three of them. They laughed and giggled through what was more like frantic licking than actual kissing, occasionally suckling on whatever skin their lips could latch onto, whether it was another pair of lips, a jawline, or a chin.
Despite the lack of cohesion or finesse, it managed to soothe away any leftover nerves.
Ilya pulled away first, wiping away the saliva coating the lower half of his face with the back of his hand. "I want to watch." He said, his fingers working on unbuttoning his silly shirt. "Want to see how you fuck." His grin was wolfish and hungry, feet leading him backward until he found a chair to sit on.
(Y/N) raised the hem of his shirt to clean his face, chuckling when two sets of eyes darted to look at the exposed skin. He tugged his shirt over his head and tossed it onto the floor, facing Shane with a little grin. "Let's put on a show, yeah?" Shane blushed and nodded.
While he seemed fully comfortable, his nervous habit kicked in, and Shane began folding his clothes as he took them off to keep his brain occupied on something.
(Y/N) watched Ilya stare at Shane, dumbfounded yet with a small, growing fond smile, and felt his chest warm. Shane had plenty of quirks, each endearing to (Y/N), and he was glad someone else could appreciate them.
Shane stood in his underwear, his thumbs hooked along the waistband, his blush deepening at the way Ilya stared at him intently. (Y/N) wrapped his arms around him, pulling him against his chest.
When he pressed his mouth over Shane's neck, he could feel his heartbeat racing against his tongue. He lightly nipped, and Shane gasped softly.
He peppered wet kisses along Shane's shoulders and down his chest, over his flexing abdomen, until his knees met the floor. He curled his fingers over the waistband of Shane's boxers and dragged them down his thighs.
Shane's hands twitched, likely with the instinct to cover himself in front of Ilya, but he kept his hands at his sides. He was hard, flushed pink and with pre already smearing the tip.
(Y/N) took him to the base with practiced ease, and Shane cursed sharply, drawing a breathless laugh from Ilya. Shane's hands flew down to clutch his hair, wheezing like the air had been knocked from his lungs, and he squeezed his eyes shut with his mouth hung open as (Y/N) bobbed his head.
Shane was good to give head to; he never failed to make (Y/N)'s ego grow when he fell apart quickly.
"Fuck, babe-"
Shane's gasp hitched in his throat, hips stuttering when (Y/N) fondled his balls with one hand while the other massaged one of his asscheeks. (Y/N) pulled back with a lewd, wet pop, chuckling at the groan Shane released.
"Jesus." Shane exhaled.
"Not quite," (Y/N) cooed, giving Shane a few strokes as he got back on his feet. He glanced at Ilya, finding him palming himself through his pants. "Enjoying yourself?"
Ilya's shoulders shook with a shaky laugh. "Yes. Better than porn."
(Y/N) hummed and took off his shoes, kicking them to the side before he pulled his pants and underwear down in one go. Shane was on him the second he untangled his pants from his ankles, his mouth latching onto (Y/N)'s throat and body pushing against his. They stumbled backward toward the bed, and (Y/N) spun them around to pin Shane onto the mattress.
(Y/N) loved many things about Shane, but he especially loved making out with him. He could get lost in it, feeling his plush lips on his, swallowing the little, sweet noises Shane let out, savoring the way Shane leaned into him, wanting more and more.
His hands groped freely, squeezing the flesh of his thighs and hips, dipping beneath him to massage his ass again. Shane rutted shamelessly against him, palms dragging along his back.
They made out until their lungs demanded air, and they pulled apart, lips raw and slick with saliva. Shane's head rolled to the side, and he grunted quietly, his hips rutting a little harder against (Y/N)'s hip at the sight of the blond.
Ilya remained in the chair, though at some point he'd rid himself of his pants and underwear, leaving them pooled around his ankles while he stroked himself slowly. (Y/N) grinned at the sight, teeth nipping at Shane's cheek.
"You like what you see?" He asked lowly into Shane's ear, and felt him twitch against his hip in response. "You'll have a taste soon."
(Y/N) leaned back and made a turning motion with his finger, chuckling at the way Shane scrambled to get on his hands and knees. He crawled further into bed until he was in the middle and adjusted Shane so they'd be facing Ilya.
(Y/N) gathered some spit in his mouth and spread Shane's asscheeks apart, his eyes raising to hold Ilya's gaze as he let the spit fall from his lips over Shane's entrance. Ilya grinned, stroking himself a little faster.
"Shit." Shane hissed, his body flinching when (Y/N)'s thumb rubbed over his hole, smearing the spit.
Dribbling some lube over his fingers, (Y/N) gently worked him open, curling his fingers in the right spot that made Shane release his pretty, strangled whines.
Shane's hands fisted the sheets beneath him, his head dangling between his shoulders, and his chest heaving with pants. (Y/N) steadied himself on his knees, prodding at Shane's entrance with the tip of his cock teasingly.
Shane raised his head to glare at him lightly over his shoulder. "Jus' fuck me already." He meant to sound demanding and annoyed, but his voice proved too whiny and needy for that. (Y/N) snickered.
Because he knew Shane could take it, he pushed himself in deeply, his head tilting back with a groan at the squeezing warmth that engulfed him. Shane whined out another curse, his upper body toppling onto the mattress, his cheek smushed against the sheets.
(Y/N) took a second to catch his breath and then clicked his tongue. That wouldn't do.
Blindly reaching behind him, (Y/N) yanked one of the pillows and tucked it beneath Shane's hips to keep them lifted at a good angle before he draped himself over him, sliding in deeper and dragging an approving moan from his boyfriend's throat. He hooked an arm around Shane's shoulders, grabbing his chin and forcing his head up.
"Look at him, baby," (Y/N) instructed softly, and Shane parted his eyes to meet Ilya's.
He squeezed Shane's cheeks lightly and ran his thumb over Shane's bottom lip, his head turning toward Ilya to watch him. He looked utterly entranced, jerking himself off wildly and quietly grunting, a soft pink covering his exposed collarbone and cheeks.
(Y/N) slowly moved, shallow thrusts at first, and then the familiar, lewd pap pap pap began filling the room once he picked up the pace, mixing with the erotic noises that fell from their lips.
Shane writhed beneath him, cursing and moaning, alternating between pushing his hips back to meet his thrusts and simply taking it. (Y/N) kissed the cluster of freckles Shane had along the back of his neck, maintaining quick yet deep thrusts that almost had Shane sliding along the soft sheets. (Y/N) tapped Shane's cheek, hooking his chin over his warm shoulder.
"His-" (Y/N) cut himself off with a groan when Shane clenched around him. He laughed airily. "His mouth is pretty empty, Roz."
Ilya shot up from the chair and crossed the room in two short seconds, his eyes dark and wild as he looked down at them. Despite the lust making his body rigid, he raised Shane's chin contemplatively. "You-"
"Yes," Shane grunted, his hands reaching out and grabbing Ilya's bare thighs, tugging and tugging until Ilya kneeled on the bed in front of him. "I want- Fuck. I- I want you." He assured him, strands of his raven hair clinging to his forehead.
Ilya set his hand over Shane's head, his fingers holding his short strands, keeping his head still as he guided the tip of his dripping, flushed cock to Shane's lips.
"Shit, Shane," Ilya whispered, his eyes widening slightly when Shane wrapped his lips around him, clumsily and loudly suckling.
His startlement was amusing. Shane Hollander was, by all means, someone who looked like the freakiest thing he'd do in the bedroom was doggy instead of missionary.
He was prim, proper, and polite, always saying and doing the right thing, never cracking a sex joke or making a lewd comment in public. He folded his clothes before sex and despised leaving a mess on the bedsheets. He stayed silent whenever the guys talked about sex.
But behind closed doors, Shane was a completely different man from the one people thought of him as. He liked having the mess on him, and it took very little to turn him on, as if he were some hormonal teen let loose.
(Y/N) knew his desire and readiness to go at any moment's notice embarrassed Shane, but (Y/N) considered it one of his hottest traits.
And it seemed like Ilya thought similarly.
Ilya's teeth caught his bottom lip, watching Shane's erratic bobbing of his head, his brain likely mushy from the pleasure. He continued to suck Ilya off to the best of his abilities, moaning and groaning around him, trying to take him deeper but having to pull back whenever he gagged.
Eventually, he stopped trying to move his head and let his jaw go slack, his eyes squeezing shut. He trembled and jerked with his orgasm, his body tensing and then going limp with exhaustion.
Ilya attempted to pull his cock from Shane's mouth, but Shane's fingers dug into his thighs, keeping him there. Ilya muttered lowly, hungrily, in Russian, and began moving his hips in shallow thrusts, fucking Shane's mouth.
(Y/N) dug his teeth into Shane's shoulder gently, the sight of Shane blissfully letting them use him like a toy making the knot in his stomach snap.
Shane's whine came out muffled, his hips twitching and weakly grinding back into (Y/N), his ass pressing flush against (Y/N)'s hips while he filled him up. (Y/N) pressed most of his weight on Shane, knowing Shane loved to feel him completely.
With some Russian gibberish, Ilya tugged his cock free from Shane's mouth and stroked himself a few times, his come spurting over Shane's flushed cheeks and parted lips in thick streaks. Shane closed his eyes again, his nose crinkling slightly, before his features relaxed.
"Fuck..." He exhaled, voice hoarse. He gave a quiet chuckle. "That.. was fun."
"Yes." Ilya agreed, tugging the shirt off his shoulders, a groan vibrating in his chest when (Y/N) turned Shane's face toward him to lick the pearly white fluid from his skin. Shane squirmed with a little, tired giggle. "But I am not done yet." He breathed out, and (Y/N)'s heart skipped a beat.
Mindfully, (Y/N) slid out of Shane, his eyes flickering down to look over the reddened skin of his ass and the little trickle that slid from his sensitive hole. He pressed a fleeting kiss to the back of Shane's shoulder and leaned back on his calves, watching Ilya climb on the bed toward him.
Ilya kissed him, hard, and ran his hand over (Y/N)'s stomach until he could wrap his fingers around his softened cock. (Y/N)'s breath hitched.
"We have a lot of catching up to do," Ilya murmured against his throat, dragging his teeth over a pulse point. He flashed Shane a smirk. "You will have fun watching, Hollander."
MINNEAPOLIS IS A WAR ZONE RIGHT NOW. WE NEED TO TALK ABOUT SURVIVAL.
I sat down a few days ago to write a standard “Know Your Rights” post for everyone on the ground in the Twin Cities. I wanted to tell you about the Fourth Amendment. I wanted to tell you that they need a signed judicial warrant to enter your home. I wanted to give you the script to say “I do not consent to this search.”
But I realized I would be lying to you if I said that mattered right now.
The reality on the streets of Minneapolis is that ICE is operating as a lawless, paramilitary force. They are pulling people out of cars without cause. They are snatching people off the street. We have seen them murder innocents like Renee Nicole Good and Alex Pretti, and face zero consequences. When federal agents are tearing gas peaceful protestors and ignoring court orders, “legal rights” feel like a fairy tale.
You cannot recite the Constitution to a jackboot on your neck and expect it to save you.
So, screw the “legal” advice. If you are in Minnesota, or if you are anywhere in this country watching this nightmare expand, here is the SURVIVAL advice.
IF YOU ARE IN A VIOLENT ZONE / PROTEST:
Do not engage alone. ICE relies on isolation. If you see them grabbing someone, do not physically intervene unless you have the numbers to de-arrest safely (and know what you are doing), but do not let them operate in the dark. Film everything. Stream it. Scream. Make sure they know the world is watching.
Biometrics are dangerous. Turn off FaceID/TouchID on your phone. If you are detained, they will try to force your phone open. Set a long, alphanumeric passcode.
If you are near the protests, wear nondescript clothing. Cover identifiable tattoos. Carry saline for tear gas. Write a lawyer’s number on your arm in permanent marker.
FOR EVERYONE (CITIZEN OR NOT) DEALING WITH ICE:
If they knock, DO NOT OPEN THE DOOR. It doesn’t matter what they say. It doesn’t matter if they say they just “want to talk” or “check your papers.” Unless they batter that door down (which is rare but happening), you keep that physical barrier between you and them. Talk through the door. Slide nothing under it.
Scrub your social media if you are undocumented or organizing. Use Signal with disappearing messages. ICE is using data dragging and AI surveillance, don’t make their job easier by posting your location in real-time.
Know your neighbors. Who is vulnerable? Who has a safe basement?
Minneapolis, we are with you. We see you. We are screaming with you. The law has left the building, so we have to protect each other.
Stay safe. Stay together. Don’t let them take anyone else.
It felt like he bought cat food every other damn week.
Almost every time he looked in the pantry, where he usually kept Irina's wet food, he'd discover that they were running low on the packets she scarfed down every morning and evening.
He was certain that if he looked in his bank account, he'd see half of his recent purchases went into buying food for the furry, ravenous creature.
Clicking his tongue, (Y/N) lifted the grocery bags from the trunk of his car and shut the door, his strides quick as he made his way inside the complex toward the elevator.
He'd been considering adopting a second feline, mostly out of guilt over having to leave her alone multiple times throughout the year. Glancing down at the bag filled with cat food, however, he began reconsidering the idea.
He watched the numbers tick by on the floor indicator, a hint of excitement bubbling in his stomach. It'd been exactly two weeks since he and Shane had come to the decision to call each other boyfriends again officially, and in a couple of days, they'd be heading over to Ottawa to have dinner with his parents and tell them.
Even though he knew Yuna would be over the moon, he couldn't help the nerves that came with the excitement.
His first time meeting the parents of a partner. Technically. Somewhat. Not really, since he'd known Yuna and David for years now, but it was still thrilling!
He stepped off the elevator and headed down the hall, mentally going through the list of things they had that they could make for dinner. (Y/N) considered making some streaks or ribs, though it'd be nice to cook something new together.
Shane was a bit strict about following the recipes to a tee, but (Y/N) loved watching him pour all his focus into ensuring everything was perfect.
Unlocking the door to his apartment, he stepped inside and kicked the door shut behind him. Shane stood in the living room, his eyes flickering away from him a couple of times to glance at the hallway leading to the bedroom.
"Hey, baby," He greeted, shooting Shane a quick smile as he locked the door. "You okay?"
"Yeah, yeah," Shane nodded, clearing his throat.
(Y/N) hummed, eyeing him for a second longer, before he set the grocery bags on the island and began taking everything out of them. "I was thinking we could search for something new to make tonight. It's been a while since we tried a new recipe out." He mentioned, glancing around the floor for Irina.
Shane approached him, his lips quirking up. (Y/N) couldn't help but notice that he looked nervous, unsure. "That sounds great, actually." He said, leaning in to quickly peck his cheek. His eyes jumped away. "(Y/N)-"
"You can cook, Hollander? I thought you would have people for that."
(Y/N) froze, his breath catching in his throat, the bag of apples he'd been tugging out of a grocery bag nearly slipping from his fingers. He knew that voice well, knew the tone, the accent, the inflection. He could be blindfolded in a room of men, and still know who it was. (Y/N)'s brows twitched, his head turning to look at Shane first.
Shane... who smiled at him a little sheepishly, his gaze tentatively hopeful. "Surprise?"
With an inhale, he turned around, and there stood Ilya. His dark sunglasses were propped up on his head, standing out amongst his bronze curls, and he wore one of his leather jackets that (Y/N) liked to steal. He held in his arms the furry companion (Y/N) had been looking for.
Ilya Rozanov was in his apartment, in Montreal.. in Canada. (Y/N)'s mouth opened, but no words came out, so he shut it again, his jumbled mind unable to comprehend what he was looking at.
"Rozanov and I thought it'd be good for the three of us to... hang out. Or talk, I guess." Shane explained, his fingers twisting together and eyes studying (Y/N)'s face, searching for displeasure. (Y/N) gave a quiet hum of acknowledgment. "He'll be staying over at the Chateau Versailles hotel, just a few blocks down. We could show him around Montreal."
"If you.. want me to stay." Ilya added quickly, bending down to gently set Irina on the floor before straightening up, his shoulders rising with tense nerves. His gaze jumped to Shane briefly, his adams apple bobbing. "Do you?" He asked, his nose slightly crinkling with a wince, as if he were bracing himself for rejection.
"Yeah.." (Y/N) breathed out, setting the apples aside and taking a couple of steps forward. "Yeah, yeah, stay. Please."
Ilya's mouth formed a small smile, and he walked forward, too, his eyes locked on (Y/N)'s with that sweet, fond glint. They stood in front of each other, uncertain, fingers and hands twitching, their eyes flickering over each other's bodies with uncertainty.
It was faintly awkward, not that (Y/N) could complain after the mess that had been their last physical interaction.
(Y/N) raised his arms first, sliding them around Ilya's midsection, and practically melting into his arms when Ilya wrapped his arms around his shoulders. It was a loose embrace, at first, and then Ilya tightened his hold as if he were afraid (Y/N) would float away.
He smelled like cigarette smoke, coffee, and his usual cologne, an almost intoxicating combination, yet (Y/N) still wanted to lecture him on smoking. It wasn't his place anymore, he reminded himself.
Instead, he whispered. "I'm glad you're here."
"Me too," Ilya replied, reluctantly leaning back and smiling at him, his palms dragging over his shoulders and down to gently grasp his forearms.
(Y/N) noticed the faint bags under his eyes, the exhaustion that crept up on his face. He'd prod about it later once Ilya looked more comfortable. He looked like he was ready to make a leap for the door.
"Was Hollander's idea, really. I... was not sure if you wanted to see me."
(Y/N)'s arms fell to his sides, opening his mouth to reassure him before confusion slammed into him. "When the hell did you two start getting along?" He asked, bewildered, his head moving back and forth between Ilya and Shane, trying to rack his brain for the last time he'd seen the two even stand next to each other without glaring.
Shane chuckled, his hands working on grabbing a few of the groceries to begin putting them away in the fridge. "At the award show. We bumped into each other and exchanged numbers. Rozanov wanted updates on you."
Ilya puffed out his cheeks, which flushed a soft pink when (Y/N) arched a brow at him. "That was meant to be secret, Hollander."
"Oh," Shane said simply, sticking the meat in the refrigerator. "Oops."
"Oops." Ilya mocked with a light shake of his head, his lips jutting out slightly. "Must be what Coach Theriault said when they drafted you: oops."
"Fuck you, Rozanov."
Unlike all the other times Shane uttered those words, there was no heat or bite to them, just a breathy, quiet chuckle that followed. (Y/N) never thought there'd come a time when Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander stood in the privacy of his home, grinning and smiling at each other without an ounce of fakeness behind it.
It almost felt like a dream, one he was worried he'd wake up from and discover he had neither of them anywhere close.
"So.." (Y/N)'s head tilted. "You two are buddies now?"
Ilya scoffed. "Нет."
Shane immediately shook his head. "No way. We're... acquaintances."
"Yes, exactly. We have... mutual interest. Many, really, but mostly you." Ilya shrugged, as if that barely sounded complicated. (Y/N) bit his tongue. "We get along fine, is all. We can be.. mature adults."
"Yeah?" (Y/N) crossed his arms over his chest, his brows lifting challengingly. He severely doubted that years of their rivalry had been so easily set aside. "Prove it."
That competitive spark immediately lit in their eyes, and they turned their heads toward each other, silently communicating like they were old pals reuniting.
Ilya slid his jacket off and draped it over the back of one of the barstools at the kitchen island, and Shane walked over to the coffee table where the tablet sat.
(Y/N) watched them move curiously, slightly surprised by how easily they connected, but he'd always known the two had the capability to be friends.
While the boys washed their hands and muttered to each other, (Y/N) grabbed himself a cold bottle of beer from the fridge and took a seat at the kitchen island. He leaned back into the backrest and opened the bottle, his eyes tracking the two as they began grabbing the ingredients needed for whichever recipe they agreed on.
Ilya suddenly made a face.
Here we go.
"We do not need this much, Hollander."
"The recipe says-"
"The recipe is for ten people! We are three. Split it-"
"But what if it messes up the recipe?"
(Y/N) dug his teeth into his bottom lip to bite back the little grin that threatened to split across his face. Ilya stared at Shane, gobsmacked, his body frozen, one hand holding the two potatoes he meant to set down and cut. Shane had essentially taken half the items out of the fridge in preparation, ever the overthinker.
"Hollander," Ilya exhaled, a mix between exasperated and shocked, his hand gingerly setting the potatoes down. Shane flushed, embarrassed but too stubborn to back down. (Y/N) propped his head on his fist, more than happy to sit back and watch. "You cannot be serious. The recipe will be fine-"
"It says five cups of shredded mozzarella cheese, Rozanov. If we take away too many cups, it won't be cheesy enough!" Shane protested, his finger swiftly swiping over the propped-up tablet's screen to jab his fingertip over the instructions. "See!"
"You are not feeding the entire building."
"If there's leftovers, we'll take them over to my parents' place." Shane shrugged. "If we don't follow the recipe, then when we mess up, we won't know where we went wrong. Instructions exist for a reason, Rozanov, and we should follow them."
"Who cares if we mess up! This is not hockey, Shane." (Y/N) and Shane's eyes met for a split second. That was new. "This is food. Food we are eating, no? We do not need that much cheese."
Shane licked his lips, his eyes darting away momentarily and his lips twitching upward. He looked contemplative, his gaze focusing on the island's counter before raising to meet Ilya's. "Okay, Ilya." He relented quietly, stacking two of the small cups together and stepping toward the cabinet he'd retrieved them from.
Ilya pressed his mouth into a line, seemingly registering how they'd referred to each other, and swallowed thickly. His head tilted toward (Y/N), his body deflating with easing tension at the encouraging smile (Y/N) shot him.
"Thank you, Shane." He murmured in response, a bit shyly, picking up the knife and beginning to chop the potatoes.
"My two boys are finally getting along. What a sight to behold," (Y/N) cooed teasingly, his feet swinging back and forth, his heart fluttering the tiniest bit. The two rolled their eyes at him in sync, and a laugh bubbled up in (Y/N)'s chest. "What are we making, exactly?"
Shane spared the tablet a glance and then did a double-take, having to squint slightly. "French onion potato casserole." He answered, rifling through one of the lower cabinets for a large pot.
"Go put your glasses on," Ilya told him, scooping up the potatoes he'd chopped and dumping them in the pot once Shane set it on the island.
"I know I should, but-" Shane halted. "How do you know I wear glasses?"
(Y/N) took another swing of his beer and slid off the barstool. "I'm going to go change." He announced with an innocent grin, shrugging his shoulders at Shane when his boyfriend squinted at him in disbelief. "I'll grab your glasses for you, baby." He cooed, and the small, lighthearted glare softened, only to sharpen again when Ilya quietly snorted.
Taking his beer with him, (Y/N) headed toward the bedroom, glancing back at the guys with a small smile as they swiftly began bickering again over the amount of potatoes and onions they needed to chop for the casserole. He giggled to himself, dodging Irina when she darted past him, and took another gulp.
"What do we think, Irina?" He asked quietly, setting the beer on the nightstand and beginning to change out of his clothes. Irina hopped onto the bed and curled up in her usual spot, blinking at him slowly. "Think they'll be friends?" He reached out, dragging his fingers over the top of her soft head. "Or... more?"
Would they? Could they?
Shane and Ilya were similar, yet oh so achingly different. They were fire and ice, chaos and order, the moon and the sun. Yet one always managed to remind (Y/N) of the other, be it with their similar bluntness, their warm gazes, the way they touched him like they were starved, the constant need to win.
It was funny. They were almost like twin flames.
(Y/N) slipped into a t-shirt and sweatpants, picking up his phone and scrolling through the contacts. He tapped on one and brought it to his ear, running his hand over Irina's fur as she began to doze off.
"Hey, man!" Scott's cheery voice greeted him on the other end, not quite as energetic as it'd once been. (Y/N) wondered how long it'd be before he finally dropped by Straw+Berry and begged Kip to take him back. If he hadn't already. "What's up?"
"So..."
Scott barked out a laugh. "Which one did you sleep with? Tweedledee or tweedledum?"
(Y/N) plopped down on the bed and chuckled airily. "Shane. We, uh, we decided to give it another shot, actually. We're officially boyfriends again."
"I knew it." Scott snickered. "Hey, six months are six months, yeah? You did a good job."
Fix months, technically, but (Y/N) hardly needed him rubbing it in his face further.
"Guess what, Scott?"
"What?"
(Y/N) glanced at the door, leaning back until he could see their figures in the kitchen. He double-checked they were both still fumbling around with ingredients before he dropped his voice into a whisper. "Ilya is here, in my apartment right now."
"Don't tell me you're cheating-"
"No, no, no, I'd never do that. Shane invited him," (Y/N) swiftly clarified, because it was true. He'd rather slam his head into the wall repeatedly than ever betray Shane, or anyone, like that. "He came up with the idea completely unprovoked."
(Y/N) heard what sounded like the soft squeak of bedsprings and assumed Scott had sat up in bed out of surprise. "Hollander invited Rozanov to Montreal? In some like... power move?" He could practically see Scott cocking his head to the side like a confused puppy.
"Shane isn't like that. Apparently, they bumped into each other at the NHL Awards and.. exchanged numbers. Shane invited him here to talk. Clear the air, let bygones be bygones, I don't know. But they're in the kitchen right now making dinner and... I don't know, Scott. I really like the look of them cooking and getting along."
"What, you want them to ditch you and get together?" Scott asked teasingly.
(Y/N) ran his finger over the bedsheets, considering the image of Ilya and Shane together. He knew Shane would be able to handle Ilya's occasional roughness, his biting kisses and hard paces. He knew Ilya would treat Shane with care and respect, only giving him what he believed Shane could take.
He took a deep breath, his brain intent on imagining them clashing in the bedroom. It'd certainly be something.
"(Y/N)? Seriously?"
"Well, I don't want them to ditch me, but... if they wanted to, you know, indulge in some curiosities about each other.. I don't think I'd mind. Shane could use the experience of being with someone other than me, and maybe it'd soften whatever reservations Ilya has about him. Ugh, is that bad to imagine?" (Y/N) pinched the bridge of his nose, his neck and face flushing with heat.
"I.. don't think so. It's not like you're ignoring your boyfriend in this scenario. Pretty sure there's a word for it, like, uh... it starts with a C.. Cuck?"
"Oh, god, am I into..." (Y/N) couldn't even bring himself to say the word, the heat burning hotter. "No, no, I can't be. Ilya's the only person I'd ever share a partner with. Besides, I don't think Shane's the type to do threesomes. He's..."
"A prude?"
"Traditional." (Y/N) chuckled, rising from the bed and walking around it to fetch Shane's discarded glasses on the nightstand.
Scott was the last person who could call Shane a prude, considering he always grew teary-eyed at the mere thought that Kip had moved on from him. A threesome with someone Kip was completely into would probably give him a stroke.
"I don't know, Scott... I'm.. I'll take what I can get, and if they're fine being friends.. then I'm happy. It's all I ever wanted since I joined the Metros, anyway."
Scott gave a low hum. "And you're certain you can handle being friends with Ilya and dating Shane at the same time?"
"Yeah..." Probably not. "I will definitely try."
Scott was silent for a moment, and right as (Y/N) went to say his goodbyes, he spoke, "(Y/N), can I ask you something?"
"What's up?"
"Do either of them know you're seeing a therapist? That- That you're considering medication?" (Y/N)'s lips pursed, and he let out the air in his lungs through a heavy exhale. Scott sucked his teeth. "(Y/N), you should tell them, or at least tell Shane. He's your boyfriend now. He should know what's going on."
"I know, I know. I will, eventually." Truthfully, (Y/N) hoped he could eventually stop going to therapy altogether before having to tell Shane. "I just... I want to figure out what I want to do before I tell him."
If he told Shane or Ilya, they'd worry. Shane would ask questions that had answers (Y/N) still had to come to terms with, and Ilya would hover out of concern. He appreciated them, and he loved them both to hell and back, but the last thing he wanted was to feel like a child unable to take care of himself because of their well-meaning anxiety.
"I'll talk to you later, Scott. I have to go make sure they aren't stabbing each other or burning down my kitchen."
"Okay." Scott sighed. "Call me if you need anything, alright?"
"I will."
(Y/N) slid his phone in his pocket and stepped out of the bedroom, a smile naturally spreading on his face again at the sight of them. Ilya stood at the stove, mashing up the potatoes he'd chopped while Shane buzzed around him, adding different things to the pot like salt and black pepper, stopping every so often to squint at the tablet.
"Here, baby," (Y/N) snickered, rounding the island and sliding Shane's glasses onto his face. Shane smiled at him, and (Y/N) couldn't resist leaning in to press a quick, chaste kiss to his lips. "There you go."
"Thank you."
Ilya glanced over his shoulder at them. "Your boyfriend is pain in the ass, (Y/N)." He said, huffing lightly, but (Y/N) caught the teasing grin he shot Shane.
"He's got a stick up his ass, I know." (Y/N) laughed when Shane grabbed a rag and lightly slapped his bicep with it. "You'll get used to it."
"Fuck you both." Shane scowled, his eyes rolling and mouth pressing together to resist the grin desperately trying to appear on his face.
(Y/N) leaned against the counter with his arms folded over his stomach, unable to contain the thrill that spilled over while he chatted with the guys and watched them cook.
Shane and Ilya managed to orbit around each other fluidly, moving in tandem as they worked on getting the onions mixed into the pot, then spreading the mixture over a baking tray.
"You want to pick out a movie?" Shane glanced up at (Y/N), holding the baking tray and waiting for Ilya to pop open the oven.
"Anything you guys want to watch?" Their mouths opened. "Other than Zombieland, Wall-E, hockey documentaries, or reruns of past games."
Shane's brows furrowed, sliding the baking tray into place and nodding for Ilya to close the oven door. "What's Zombieland?"
Ilya gaped at him. "You do not know Zombieland? (Y/N), we must watch now."
"Can we please watch something new?"
(Y/N) laughed at Ilya's pout, turning on his heel and heading to the living room to search for the movie selections available. He heard the soft tick of Shane getting the timer ready.
"How about... uh... Alice in Wonderland? The one with Anne Hathaway and Helena Bonham Carter? The new movie came out not long ago."
Shane hummed. "Sure."
"Fine." Ilya sighed theatrically, his head rolling back dramatically and everything. "But we will watch Zombieland later. You will like Columbus, Shane. He reminds me of you."
"In a good way?" Shane's small smile pressed into a line when Ilya only grinned, his brows dipping and eyes jumping between him and (Y/N). "What does that mean? Who's Columbus? (Y/N), who's Columbus?"
(Y/N) shot Ilya a light look when the Russian walked past him to drop down on the couch, a soft chuckle tumbling past his lips. "We'll watch the movie later, alright? We could... watch it in the morning if Ilya stays the night?" (Y/N) tilted his head over his shoulder to peer down at him. "The guest room has never been used, but it's comfortable."
The mischievous amusement on Ilya's face melted away into uncertainty. "Uhm," His gaze flickered away to look at Shane, and (Y/N) realized Ilya didn't want to overstep or overstay his welcome in Shane's eyes. "Hotel is- is not a problem for me."
"No, no, you can stay over tonight," Shane reassured him, taking a seat on the opposite end of the couch and tucking his legs in. He smiled a little cheekily when he looked at his boyfriend. "We'll survive not having sex one night, yeah?"
(Y/N) blinked, startled, and then blinked again when Ilya hummed, his arm propping up along the backrest. "Shame. Was hoping to hear the two of you. Would have been hot." He flashed Shane a smirk.
"Shame." Shane echoed, his ears turning pink.
(Y/N) had never felt the urge to look through someone else's phone before, but he really wanted to know what type of conversations the two were having to feel comfortable talking about sex in front of each other. He also wanted to see if they gossiped about him in their little chats.
He wouldn't be surprised; Ilya loved to talk shit about everyone.
"(Y/N)," Ilya drawled, holding Shane's gaze even when (Y/N) turned to give him his full attention. "Did you know your boyfriend likes it when you grab his ass?"
"Ilya!" Shane hissed, his face completely flushing red. "Ilya likes it when you grab his hair."
Right. Okay. Totally normal behavior from these two.
"Good to know, I guess."
(Y/N) sat in the middle of the couch, turning the volume up once he picked the Alice in Wonderland movie and tossed the remote aside. He curled his arm around Shane's shoulders and leaned his head back slightly until Ilya's fingers brushed against his ear, feeling his fingertips run over the cartilage of his ear.
Shane leaned into him, resting his head over (Y/N)'s shoulder, and Ilya's hand slowly came to curl around the back of (Y/N)'s neck. If there were a heaven, it would be between the two men he loved most without having to worry about them fighting.
(Y/N) barely paid much attention to the iconic Walt Disney Pictures opening logo, which played out over fast-paced music with a harmonizing choir. He could feel the faint callouses on Ilya's fingers and smell the minty shampoo that clung to Shane's hair, his senses gradually growing overwhelmed by Ilya and Shane, Shane and Ilya.
It took him a few minutes, but he eventually managed to focus on the movie. It was trippy, similar to the original animated Alice in Wonderland, with half-believable CGI and an intriguing version of Wonderland.
By the time the Cheshire Cat was introduced in a dark forest, the timer in the kitchen went off, and (Y/N) stood up, forcing the two back down onto the couch with nudges.
"You cooked, I'll serve." He told them sternly, and they reluctantly obliged, but he could feel their eyes piercing into him as he walked into the kitchen.
Slipping on some mitts, (Y/N) took the casserole out of the oven and set it aside to chill while he grabbed three plates. Carefully, he cut out three even slices on each plate, bringing two to the living room first.
"Careful," He warned, looking at Ilya pointedly when he immediately cut himself a steaming piece with his fork. "It's hot."
(Y/N) returned to the kitchen and popped open his fridge, grabbing a ginger ale for Shane and a coke can for Ilya. The two smiled at him endearingly when he offered them their drinks, and he chuckled under his breath when Shane crinkled his nose at the coke. He turned around, going back for his plate and another beer bottle while Shane lightly lectured Ilya on his unhealthy choice of drink.
Ilya cracked open the can and took a long, big, fizzy gulp while holding Shane's gaze. "Ah," He smacked his lips obnoxiously afterward, his mouth forming a grin. Shane rolled his eyes, scooting aside slightly so (Y/N) could sit back down. "Very good."
"I'm sure," Shane muttered, poking at his plate a few times. It'd likely be the last time he'd be eating cheese, because once training officially began, he'd jump right back into his diet to prepare for the season. "Your kidneys must love you."
"Please," Ilya scoffed quietly, balancing his plate over his thigh and yanking up his shirt to show off his abs.
(Y/N) allowed himself a quick, innocent glance and looked forward, only to notice Shane gazing at Ilya's muscles for a little too long from the corner of his eye. You're imagining things... Maybe.
"My body loves me."
"It's true," (Y/N) said, taking a bite of his food and humming in delight at the sweet yet savory blend. He licked a little cheese off his lip, and grinned at Shane when his boyfriend realized he'd been caught staring. His pretty cheeks flushed again. "Ilya could eat everything at a buffet and still look like a supermodel by the end of the day."
"Lucky you," Shane commented, his voice a hint sheepish.
"You look like supermodel, too, Hollander," Ilya said, complimented rather, and shrugged his shoulders. "A below-average supermodel, but still." And a little asshole addition to smooth out his kindness.
Shane deadpanned. "Thanks, asshole."
They spent their time eating, watching the movie, and chatting idly. They spoke about the movie, about Montreal's weather, about the upcoming season, about the All-Star team they'd all be on.
It would be the first time Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander would be in a rink together on the same team, and the media had been buzzing about it.
(Y/N) was.. excited. It would either be a walk in the park, or their playing styles would clash miserably. But if they managed to find a good rhythm, the other team hardly stood a chance against the three of them, and everyone knew it.
The movie ended by the time they finished their meal and drinks, and (Y/N) searched for the second movie while Shane stood up to tug on the blinds and block the setting sun's glare from blinding them.
Shane pressed a kiss to his cheek when he made his way back, his fingers grazing the top of (Y/N)'s thigh affectionately before he gathered the plates up.
(Y/N)'s eyes trailed after him, warm contentment spreading through his body. He had Ilya beside him, slumped back on the couch, relaxed with his feet propped up and completely immersed in the movie. He had Shane nearby, his mouth in that little smile of his, his focus on getting the plates in the dishwasher.
No arguing, no nasty looks, no tension. The three of them were good, fine, happy.
"I'm gonna take a shower." Shane piped up after he got the dishwasher started, glancing with half-interest at the television when the White Queen began explaining to Alice that she had to travel back in time to save the Mad Hatter's family. He reached down, rubbing his fingers over (Y/N)'s shoulder. "You're going to finish the movie?"
(Y/N) tilted his head back to look up at him. "Mhm."
"Okay."
Shane leaned down, kissing him properly, and offered Ilya a smile before he headed off toward the bedroom. (Y/N) looked forward again, attempting to focus on the explanation of the chronosphere, but his attention continued to drift from the television to settle on Ilya. His brows were fixed in a focused furrow, his mouth pulled in a neutral line, but the weariness was blatant in his eyes.
"Ilya," (Y/N) spoke gently, shifting around on the couch to face him. Ilya hummed absentmindedly. His focus on the movie was cute, but (Y/N) knew him too well to simply stay quiet. "Are you okay?" He asked, setting his hand over Ilya's knee.
"Yes." Ilya glanced away.
"Liar." (Y/N) squeezed his knee and moved closer, his brows lowering in concern. "Tell me what's wrong, Ilya. Is- Is it us? Shane and I being together?"
Ilya's gaze fell onto his lap, his mouth tightening into a small frown. "Sort of." He admitted, his hand falling away from the top of the couch to rest over (Y/N)'s. "But... I like that you are happy.. makes me happy."
"What else is going on, Ilya?" (Y/N) prodded again, turning his hand around to curl his fingers around Ilya's palm. "You can tell me anything, you know that, right?"
"Yes, I know."
There was a silence, filled by the movie that slowly grew forgotten, as Ilya searched for the right words to explain what weighed on his shoulders. God, he looked exhausted, worn out, as if the whole month had been riddled with nothing but trouble for him, and he needed a three-week-long nap to recover.
(Y/N) wondered if it was about the team, if they were giving him a hard time. It'd been a rough season for the Metros and Raiders, and he was certain a handful of the Raiders were displeased by what'd gone down between him and Shane.
Or perhaps his mother's memory haunted him a little more. He'd never dared to ask him when the anniversary of her death was, too afraid Ilya would shut down at the thought of it.
Ilya raised his head, his eyes straight forward, but distant, his mind somewhere else. "My father is... sick, (Y/N). Very sick. He has, uhm.." He stopped himself when his voice threatened to crack, and (Y/N) pressed himself to his side, a gasp hitching in his throat. Ilya's head dropped again. "He has Alzheimer's. He is... not the man he once was."
"Ilya..." (Y/N) exhaled, his heart squeezing in his chest with sympathy. He pressed his hand over Ilya's cheek, tilting his head so he'd look at him properly, yet Ilya's eyes remained downward, growing watery. Fuck, he should've known something had been up sooner. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"I knew you would worry. You always worry." Ilya tried to smile teasingly, but his lips quivered, and his expression fell. The heel of his palms pressed over his thighs repeatedly, trying to calm himself. "I did not- did not want to make you worry. I knew you would-" He sniffled. "-would drive yourself crazy."
(Y/N) twitched forward with the desire to lean in and kiss the corner of his mouth, but he caught himself. He chose to rub his thumb back and forth over Ilya's cheekbone, his head tilting to press his forehead to Ilya's temple.
"I'm so sorry, Ilya." He whispered, unsure of what else he could possibly say to bring him comfort.
"Is fine."
"No, it's not, and it's okay to cry, honey."
Ilya cracked, his lips trembling and brows scrunching together as the hot tears began to tumble down his cheeks. (Y/N) cooed quietly, bringing Ilya's head to his chest and wrapping his arms tight around his shoulders.
Ilya curled up into a ball against him, his fingers weakly clutching the hem of (Y/N)'s shirt, quietly sobbing into his chest.
His body twitched and shuddered with his weeping, and (Y/N) tried to soothe him, murmuring under his breath whilst running his fingers through his curls. "I've got you, Ilya. You're okay, baby.. you're safe." Ilya buried his face deeper into his chest in response.
They remained like that for a couple of minutes, the movie continuing to play in the background, masking the muffled sobs until Ilya was done. He pulled back, his eyes red and puffy, his cheeks stained with tear streaks that (Y/N) rubbed away with his thumb. Ilya leaned into his palms, his sigh soft but tired.
"Go take a hot shower," (Y/N) told him. "I'll get some clothes for you."
Ilya nodded weakly and stood up, the mask that he'd had on his face gone, leaving the aching raw wound visible for anyone to see. He looked like that young, nineteen-year-old boy again, and (Y/N) wanted to cradle him in his arms forever.
He turned the television off and showed Ilya to the guest room, going into his own room to grab some of Ilya's old clothes he'd taken for himself.
Ilya cracked a smile at the sight of them. "And you would get mad at me for taking your things." He teased lightly, stepping forward, and then back, catching himself. Kissing each other had become instinctive, and now, it was a bad habit they'd have to learn to break.
(Y/N) only smiled in response and left the room, hearing the shower turn on in the guest bathroom right as the shower in his own room shut off.
He scooped Irina off the bed and into his arms, peppering her squinty-eyed face with kisses until she wriggled free from his grasp and left the room to find some peaceful privacy again. He chuckled to himself.
"Thought you were finishing the movie?" Shane appeared in the doorway, rubbing a towel over his hair.
"We got bored," (Y/N) told him, sliding his arms around his waist and nosing at his throat. "Thank you for the surprise, baby."
Shane smiled, tossing the towel aside and curling his arms around (Y/N)'s shoulders. He shuddered a little at the feeling of (Y/N)'s breath against his skin. "Thought you'd like it. Ilya isn't... that bad."
(Y/N) laughed. "That's what I've been saying, and no one ever believes me."
With another kiss, (Y/N) and Shane parted so (Y/N) could shower, the warm water relaxing his muscles and letting him focus on something other than the worry building in his chest.
He wondered if Ilya had found himself a new best friend in Boston, or if he sat in that dreary house all alone all the time. It made (Y/N) nauseous. He needed someone there with him.
When he stepped out of the shower, he found his pj's waiting for him on the bathroom counter and grinned to himself. He changed into them after drying off and climbed into bed, peppering Shane's cheeks with kisses.
Shane laughed lightly, his arms flinging around him, and then he sighed pleasurably into a hard kiss on his lips. "(Y/N)," Shane breathed out. "Should... should Ilya.. sleep in the bed with us?"
(Y/N) stared at him, a smile threatening to break out on his face. "Do you want him to?"
"I.. I don't know. He seems... lonely. He might feel better if he sleeps beside someone, and this bed is big enough to fit at least five people." (Y/N) could feel the heat radiating off Shane's skin, and Shane turned his head away, embarrassed. "Forget it-"
"No, no, no," (Y/N) chuckled breathily. "No, go ask him, Shane. It's a nice thought."
Shane rubbed his lips together in consideration and then nodded firmly, untangling himself from (Y/N) to get out of bed. He set his glasses aside and left the room, returning a moment later with a cautious Ilya. (Y/N) grinned at them, his skin buzzing with possibilities at this massive step forward. Ilya relaxed at Shane's beckoning nod.
Shane climbed into bed on his usual side, and Ilya on the other, leaving (Y/N) sandwiched between the two of them. He settled down on his side, his back to Ilya and front to Shane as he usually preferred with them, and the two slid against him like puzzle pieces coming together.
Ilya dipped his arm beneath (Y/N)'s pillow and pressed his chest to (Y/N)'s back, his arm draping over (Y/N)'s side while Shane curled up against (Y/N)'s chest to tuck his face into it.
(Y/N)'s gaze slid downward, watching Ilya's fingers hesitantly brush against the side of Shane's shirt. Shane scooted closer, pressing further against (Y/N), and Ilya's arm extended until it was draped across both of them. Shane's eyes slid shut, his arm settling over Ilya's and fingers loosely holding his forearm. (Y/N) smiled.
