#Clois Prompt 3

[just-my-latest-hyperfixation]

A & 🕶️, the rest is up to you! <3 (@a-little-unsteddie)

Thanks for the prompt. I'm having way too much fun with this mafia AU! 🤣😎

@a-little-unsteddie

Forbidden flowers

Words: 971

Rated: M

Tags: Mafia AU; mob boss Dick Harrington; mobster Eddie Munson; obsessive behavior; stalking; lust at first sight; sexual fantasies; violent imagery

Notes: Part 1

Richard Harrington’s house is a fucking palace. 

The fact shouldn't be as surprising, maybe. It pays well, being the boss of the city's criminal underbelly, even Eddie knows that. Not like he's planning on staying one of Harrington's lowly little hitmen forever. Don't get him wrong, he's good at what he does, but that doesn’t mean he wants to go on doing it forever, bloodying his hands fighting the boss's fights. He wants his own share of the money, the power, the splendor of it all. A guy can dream, can't he? 

Speaking of dreams, even his wildest ones seem pale and bland, now that he's seen the house from the inside. Leaving the higher-ups to talk business in Harrington's office, he has strayed through light-flooded halls decked in expensive art and sculptures, footsteps echoing on marbled floors, until he finally found a pair of glass doors leading outside. 

The patio opens into a lush garden. It looks like something from an Italian postcard - dominated by gleaming marble and lean pillars, overgrown with a sea of white and purple hydrangea bushes. Their fragrance hangs in the hot summer air, thick and sweet and almost cloying. Sparkling behind the blossoms is a huge, lavish pool. 

In the water is a fucking nymph. 

Eddie pauses, unlit cigarette halfway to his mouth, ducking between the flower bushes to hover closer. The boy in the pool doesn't notice him, too focused on doing his laps. Eddie watches his lean muscles flex as he glides through the water, watches how sun-bronzed skin glistens in the sun, and feels something curdle in his gut. 

Want. 

White-hot and all-consuming, more overwhelming and intense than anything he's ever felt in his life. 

He doesn't know how long he stays hidden between the flowers and stares. At some point, the boy swims over to the far end and hoists himself out of the pool - one long, graceful ripple of those muscled arms and shoulders. He shakes the water from his thick, chestnut hair before padding over to the deck chairs standing a small way off, still blissfully unaware of Eddie’s eyes following his every move. A small water bottle is standing at the ready on a side table, droplets of condensed liquid glistening on the glass. The boy takes it, tips back his head and empties it with a few deep, greedy gulps. His throat - long, and graceful and dotted in moles - bops with it. Then, not bothering with the towel hanging over the backrest, he flops down on one of the chairs, sopping wet and half naked, stretching out in the sunlight like a content cat. 

Eddie decides one thing, then and there. 

Fuck the money. Fuck the splendor and the power and the glory, fuck all of it. Let him just have that boy. 

Let him feel that body writhe under his. Let him tangle his fingers into that glorious swoop of hair and tilt back that head, let him sink his teeth into the soft, golden skin of that neck. Let him hear his own name, near unrecognizable with despair and pleasure, fall from those pink lips. Let him have all of this, and he'll die a happy man. 

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” 

Eddie lets out a startled noise he'll absolutely deny making later and whips around. Gareth is leaning in the open patio door, regarding him with crossed arms and a furious expression. 

“H-how long have you been standing there?” Eddie croaks. 

Gareth shakes his head at him. 

“Long enough to see you slink around in the bushes, staring at the boss's son like a total creep,” he hisses. “C'mon, let's go. Harrington will take out your eyes with a rusty screwdriver if he catches- are you listening to me?” 

“No,” Eddie says absentmindedly, already pushing apart the branches again. Lilac petals rain down onto his boots. “That's Harrington's son? Didn't even know he had one.” 

“No, that's his gardener,” Gareth scoffs behind him, but still goes on to answer Eddie’s unspoken question. “Rumor has it daddy and him don't … get along that well. Harrington wants him to take over the firm but Junior isn't exactly interested. Likes the money and the lifestyle, obviously, but not so much the violence and bloodshed that comes with it.” 

Eddie thinks he'd drench the entire world in blood for one taste of those lips. 

Gareth tugs on his arm.

“C'mon,” he says again. “Before anyone sees us. I'd like to keep my eyes, I'm sorta attached to them.” 

Eddie sighs in defeat, casting one long, reluctant glance through the leaves and petals. Then, following a sudden impulse, he reaches out and snaps off a branch with a thick, vibrant cluster of violet blossoms on the end. 

Gareth gawks at him. 

“Are you insane? You can't just pluck flowers from the boss's garden!” 

Eddie shrugs lazily, bringing the blossoms up to his nose. Their scent is sweet and enticing and full of forbidden possibilities. 

“Don’t see him around, do you?” 

Gareth groans and turns to go. “I dunno why I put up with you.” 

Eddie smiles, slowly following after his retreating back. At the threshold, he pauses and turns one last time. The boy is dozing in the sun, eyes closed, droplets of water glistening on his body like so many tiny diamonds. Eddie raises the branch in his hand - a secret parting salute. 

“See you soon, little nymph,” he mutters. 

He strides towards the front door with a new spring in his step. Because he knows exactly what it is he wants now, and he knows that he will not stop before he has it.

And if that means wrestling Richard Harrington’s crown from his cold, dead hands, and setting his empire aflame, and painting the ashes red? That is something he will gladly do.  

Steve, meanwhile: Huh, wonder who that loser lurking in the flowers was. What a weirdo. Kinda cute, though ...

Part 3

More celebration ficlets

[coffeeghoulie]

and/or 15. and Dewther for the smut prompts?

"I want to hear you beg" and 15. "You're mine" from this prompt list

I had a lot of thoughts about possessive, jealous Aether and writing this was v fun.

Could be read as dubcon but both Dew and Aether are very into it. Contains scent kink, grinding, and a late night handjob.

divider by @wrathofrats <3

He can almost taste it. It clings to the roof of his mouth, cloying and taunting. Aether's nostrils flare, unable to escape the scent that isn't quite right. It's late. Too late. The room is pitch black, and all Aether can hear is the soft breathing, gentle snuffling snores that come with each of Dew's exhales.

His mate is settled on his chest, one hand gently curled into the collar of Aether's sleep shirt, the other tucked around his shoulder. Aether holds him close, wide awake despite the hour, despite having Dew so close.

In fact, it's because Dew's so close that he can't find sleep. Aether is intimately aware of the ghoul in his arms. Knows him better than he knows himself at this point, how he takes his coffee, how he scores his picks, every superstitious ritual he's ever been privy to. How his piety looks more human than any of the other ghouls Aether's ever met.

It could be argued, then, that Aether knows what Dew smells like. But under the campfire smoke, the caramelized sugar that comes with his sleepy contentedness, and the faint, ever-present tobacco is something carbonated and sharp. Quintessence.

Normally, Aether would take no mind of Dew smelling of quintessence. But therein lies the problem: Dew doesn't smell like his quintessence.

The logical part of Aether's brain knows why. Dew's been sharing a lot of space with Aeon in rehearsals and in the commons, the younger ghoul brushing up against him in search of approval and comfort. No outright scenting or challenging. But the animal part of Aether's brain doesn't give a shit about that.

His mate smells like a different quintessence ghoul. This needs amending.

A tiny voice breaks the quiet, mumbling with sleep. "Aeth?"

Aether realizes too late that he's growling.

Dew shifts on top of him. His movements kick up another wave of his scent, and that's all the animal part of his brain can take. He surges up, flipping them until he's straddling Dew's hips, looming over and dwarfing him.

Dew's body thuds against the mattress, copper eyes fluttering open with a squeak, narrow chest heaving. Aether knows what Dew's seeing: two glowing violet eyes hanging in the pitch black of their room.

The growl still bubbling in his throat, Aether bends to rub his cheek against the line of Dew's jaw, along his throat. He can hear the way his stubble scrapes against Dew's skin, catches on what remains of his gills.

"You're mine," he rumbles, low and dangerous into Dew's ear. The sharp scent of fear and confusion fades to something almost irritated but fond, muddy with sleep. Dew tips his chin back, whining soft and placating.

"'M yours, starshine," he agrees, voice and posture softer than Dew will ever show anyone else. Aether preens, doubling down as he rubs his own ozone scent against Dew's scarred throat.

"You don't smell like mine," he says, huffing as he catches another faint whiff of Aeon's scent. His hips press down, pinning his little mate to the mattress.

Dew gasps with the sudden force of it, taking a deep, shaky breath. "I smell like yours," he mumbles, not quite awake yet even with Aether's cock hardening against the line of his hip. "Dunno what you're talking about."

Aether growls louder, pressing the flats of his fangs against the matescar in the crook of Dew's neck. "You smell like them," he says, shoving a thick thigh between Dew's, feels him start to chub up in interest. "I'm gonna fix that."

He takes both of Dew's bony wrists in one hand, pinning them above his head as he starts to rut against his hip. He mouths at Dew's jaw, kissing and licking a stripe along his scarred gills. It draws a strangled groan from his throat, breath hot against Aether's skin. "Fuck, make me, make me yours again," Dew gasps, pushing his hips up off the bed, bucking into the crease between Aether's thigh and hip.

Aether stills, something almost feral in his eye. "I want to hear you beg for it," he croons, low and dark and dangerous. He pins Dew's hips to the bed with the hand not holding his wrists, putting a stop to any and all bids for friction. "Beg me to make you mine."

He feels more than hears Dew's panting breaths, already so worked up. He always is when he leverages his size like this. Words don't come to him, whining soft and offering the line of his throat to the bigger ghoul, tilting his head to expose the matescar Aether left on him all those years ago. Dew's wrists flex in Aether's grip, but there's no real struggle.

"Give me words, darling," Aether says, settling into a slow, filthy grind. He's not cruel, even like this. He shoves his thigh back between Dew's legs, using his grip on his hip to drag him up and down the tensed muscle.

Dew keens, back arching and copper eyes fluttering shut. "Fuck!"

"Yeah, darling?" He tightens his grip, hoping that it'll bruise by morning. Dew pants under him, pinned and unable to move. Aether can feel his body heat radiating, burning hotter and hotter with each grind of his hips.

"Kiss me?" he asks, and Aether's blindsided for just a moment. Aether's never been able to deny Dew anything.

He dips down, catching his mate's lips with his own. It's surprisingly tender, despite the thick scent of sex that's starting to fill the room, of their combined scents. Dew melts into it, back arching as he tries to get more contact with his mate, straining against Aether's grip.

Aether only breaks the kiss to press his face against Dew's sharp collarbones, rubbing Dew with his scent. He presses a kiss to Dew's matescar just to feel him shudder beneath him. He mouths lower, playing with the silver barbell through one pink nipple. Dew gasps, rutting his hips against Aether's stomach.

"Please, Aeth, starshine, please make me yours again," he whines, doing his best to rub his own cheek against him.

Aether grins, his gold fang glinting in the dark. He ruts against him, groaning in Dew's ear as his cock throbs against his hip, leaking pre until he's just as wet as Dew. "Yeah, darling boy?" He croons, almost growling as the pleasure and possession swirl inside him, coiling in his gut. "You want me to make you mine?"

Dew nods, bucking his hips up jerkily to meet his thrusts. "Please," he breathes, desperately hooking his leg around the back of Aether's thigh, trying to get a better angle.

"I will, baby, I will," Aether promises, pushing him into the mattress with the force of his thrusts. "Make sure they all can smell it, you're mine, darling."

Aether's so worked up that it only takes a few more thrusts before he's keeping his promise. He cums between their stomachs, grunting with each pulse of his cock. He digs his teeth gently into Dew's matescar, groaning loudly into his too-warm skin. He lets go of Dew's wrists to prop himself up, not trusting himself from just crushing his mate

"Fuck," Dew pants, carding through Aether's mohawk. "I smell right now, huh, starshine?"

Aether nods, gently as to not irritate the matescar too much, his teeth still clamped down. He feels it calming, panting into Dew's shoulder as the aftershocks fade.

As his mind clears, Aether's suddenly much more aware of the hot line of Dew's cock pressed into his hip. He releases his bite, kissing apologetically up his throat until he takes his lips again. "'m sorry for waking you, darling. Let me make it better?" he asks, curling a big hand around his length.

Dew's breath hitches, and he keens into Aether's mouth as he sets a merciful pace, twisting his wrist at the tip just the way he knows Dew likes. His hips buck, and Aether lets him chase his pleasure. It doesn't take long before Dew's spilling over his knuckles.

Aether swallows every one of Dew's cries, whispers praise and thanks against his lips. When Dew slumps back down against the mattress, both of their messes smeared on their stomachs and scents strong with each other, Aether wipes his hand on the sheets and pulls Dew close.

They're both too exhausted to care about the mess, though that will not be the case when morning comes. Aether, ever the good mate, will clean him up almost sheepishly, though proud that Dew is his by scent and scar.

[sorceresssundries]

Writing prompt - Gale surprises Tav with a bunch of red roses and a candlelit dinner.

The Rose of Reithwin

Pairing: Gale x gn Tav - SFW

Word Count: 2k

You must have sensed i'm struck in a rut! Here you go, my lovely anon. I got a bit carried away. I hope you enjoy <3

Tav ached all the way down to their bones. The lack of sunlight, breeze, and even the stagnation of time itself was a burden which they could feel cloying in their veins. Tav dreamed of flowers and sunlight, of food that wasn’t dried out and looted from long-rotted barrels or the backpacks of fallen soldiers. Tav ached for comfort in a land which still throbbed with ongoing pain.

After a long needed wash in whatever water they could find amongst the shadows, Tav headed back to camp, hoping to find some solace in Gale’s warm words and strong arms. It had been a couple of nights since they had spent their first, proper night together. Just the memory of it was enough to spark a small flame of comfort, but Tav needed to be in his company for it to fan into a heat warm enough to melt away the icy shards of the shadow curse. 

To Tav’s surprise, Karlach was hovering outside Gale’s tent,  excitement evident in the sparks and flickers glowing from her engine. She couldn’t stay still, practically vibrating with energy. She was dressed... unusually.

“You’re wearing a bow tie?” 

“I know!” Karlach’s ability to light up with even the slightest taste of joy was enough to keep even the darkest shadows at bay. “I found it on a corpse!!” She added with unbound enthusiasm.

“Oh, well... well done?”

“Thanks! Oh, wait a minute.” She rummaged around in her pocket and pulled out a piece of paper covered in elegant writing, along with a single, slightly flattened, rose. “Sorry, it looked better before I sat on it.”

Tav took the paper, perplexed. “This... is a menu.” They read over the intricate, swirling script in total confusion.

“Yeah! Gale asked if I would help him, and well... he said I may have gone a bit too far with everything, but I thought I could help! He, um, said the Simulacrum freaked you out a bit last time.” She mimicked the jaunty pose that Gale’s mirror image had performed a few nights ago, and Tav tried their best not to laugh at the impression. “And he was busy concentrating on other magicky, wizard stuff, so I told him to leave it with me.”

“So... here I am, my liege.” She bowed dramatically. “Mr. Dekarios awaits the pleasure of your incom... incom... incompra...” She suddenly unfurled another, smaller note from her top pocket and scanned over it, mouthing the words soundlessly. “Fuck it, his handwriting is awful. Gale is waiting for you at the Waning Moon.”

The abandoned pub was not far from where they had set up camp, and Karlach pointed to a trail of floating lanterns illuminating a path for Tav to follow. They glowed with gentle magic, and Tav grinned to themselves, amused by the wizard's flair for the dramatic. Gale was always one to create a sense of wonder, and it seemed like whatever he had planned for the evening would be no exception.

When Tav reached the building and pushed open the doors, they could not believe the view. 

In the centre of the room stood Gale, his hands aglow with arcane energy as he conducted a symphony of magic. With a wave of his hand, ribbons of light twisted and twirled, weaving themselves into elaborate decorations. Flowers bloomed from thin air, their petals unfolding in bursts of colour to settle upon various neglect-scarred surfaces.

“You’re here!” Gale said, his voice filled with warmth and excitement. “I’m almost finished.”

Tav watched in awe as Gale orchestrated the magic around them, bringing the abandoned building to life with his spellcraft. Tables appeared, draped in luxurious fabrics and adorned with silver candelabras that flickered with ethereal flames. Chairs formed from wisps of mist solidified under their touch, their cushions embroidered with intricate patterns that seemed to shift and shimmer. The cracked wooden floorboards were mended, and gleamed under the soft glow of floating candles. The grimy, stained walls had brightened, and were now streaked with vines of ivy that bloomed with small, colourful flowers.

In the centre, a table for two stood, set with fine china, crystal goblets, and a centrepiece of roses that flitted between various shades of rich red in the candlelight. The once dingy bar was now a haven in a hellscape.

“You… you did all this? For me?”

Gale made his way over to hold Tav’s hand, and the contact immediately relieved a tight coil within their chest. “I meant what I said. If we had more time… well...” He gestured to the scene around him. “I would do it all better.”

Music spilled from an unknown source, soft and comforting. It had been so long since Tav had heard music, since the air around them had been filled with anything other than death and shadow. The song was familiar, warm...

Gale seemed to pick up on their thoughts. “You may not remember, but... it's a song Alfira played at the party with the Tieflings.” He blushed slightly, the pink in his cheeks glowing in the soft candlelight.  “It was playing just after our conversation, after I told you to go enjoy your evening.”

Tav let a smirk play at their lips, recalling their attempt at propositioning the wizard. The heady mixture of joy and wine had urged them toward Gale, to flirt with the man with the disarming smile, who had very gallantly turned them down. 

“So… you did want me that evening?”

“Oh, I wanted you.” All hint of self-consciousness dropped from his expression, leaving only raw sincerity. “This song was playing when I realised I was falling in love with you.”

Tav’s heart fluttered. The music made the air feel lighter. For a moment, they were not soldiers in a battle-scarred town but two lovers in the bliss-filled infancy of a new relationship. Where possibilities crackled with lively potential. Where each touch and loving word was a promise heavy with pure, unfiltered intention.

“I remember that night,” Tav said softly. “I remember wishing for more moments we could just be us for a little while.”

Gale’s eyes were a mixture of hope and regret. “Maybe we can still have those moments. Maybe we can find a way.”

Tav squeezed his hand. “Maybe you already have.” “I hope so.” He kissed Tav’s poor, battle-worn fingers. “I am torn between wishing you had never had to endure any of this horror, to being extraordinarily grateful to have met you.” He was suddenly aching with sadness. “It is a heartbreaking realisation, to know the person you love is in your life due to a tragedy you wish had never befallen them.” He cupped the face of his love, and stroked his thumb along fresh scars and the fading stain of bruises which lurked just under their skin. “No-one should ever have to learn how brave they can be.”

He leant forward then, and brushed his lips against theirs. Chaste and gentlemanlike, the kind of kiss one would expect from a gallant partner on a first date, and Tav couldn’t help but think of the heavy, moaned kisses which Gale had lain across every inch of their body just a few nights prior. He really was doing everything backwards. 

Tav decided they would play along with the honourable behaviour, for now, and instead turned their attention to the beautiful display of roses. 

“A very traditional choice, Mr.Dekarios.” 

“‘Rose is a term of endearment in Waterdeep. To refer to one’s beloved.” His eyes were soft and shimmered in the light. “I thought they would be fitting.”

Tav picked up one of the roses and admired the velvet of its petals, the rich, wine-like scent, and the sharp bite of thorns.  “I hope you do not think the thorns are due to any slip in my arcane proficiency. I know it’s just illusionary, but.. I wanted to make the whole thing as.. human as possible. The old ways, if you will. Thorns and all.” 

“Well, whatever you’ve done - the food smells incredible.” The savoury scent of roasting meat mingled with the earthy, buttery smell of cooked vegetables and fresh herbs enveloped Tav in much-needed comfort. 

“That is no illusion, my rose.” He pulled out one of the chairs, and motioned for Tav to sit and with a click of his fingers two mage hands appeared with plates of fresh, steaming food. “That is the dedicated endeavour of a man with exceptional culinary skill and limited resources.”

“How on earth did you find all this?!” 

“Well, I may have used some of my charm and resorted to a bit of bribery.”

“You’re rubbish at bribery!

“Yes, okay, that’s true. But Astarion isn’t, and for a small fee, he was able to get me what I needed.” Gale raised his hands at Tav’s indignant expression. “I did not ask too many questions, and he gave no answers—so, for all intents and purposes, this food has been legitimately acquired and therefore should be enjoyed guilt-free.” He smiled his lazy, heart-melting smile and tucked into the meal.

The food was delicious, the wine full and rich, the company unrivalled. 

Tav thought how full of life this little pub in Reithwin must have been all those years ago. How locals would come through the doors after a day's hard graft. How mason’s would grip pint glasses with dusty hands and let the cold beer soothe their calloused fingers.

This place must have been filled with wine-fuelled singing, drinking games and endless, mindless, repetitive stories of the residents of Reithwin. A place for midday companionship, and late night solitude. This little heart of Reithwin town would have beat with stories and laughter of those lost to shadow.

And for a little while, in the long-dead town of Reithwin, life returned. The glow that enveloped Gale and Tav outshone that of even the moon’s blessing. There was light enough here to cast out curses, just for a little while. Just for two lovers in that hopeful, crack of a dawning relationship, where the impossible danced and shone, and took no notice of lurking shadows. 

As they ate and laughed and shared stories of times before tadpoles and curses and nautiloids, Tav took in the unrivalled beauty of the setting Gale had conjured with awe.

“I’ve never seen illusionary magic like this.” Tav ran their finger through one of the flames from a candle, and felt the heat bite their skin.

“That's because this is no ordinary illusion.” He reached over to hold Tav’s hand across the table, stroking them gently with his thumb.

“This is a promise of things to come. This is an illusion that I intend to make into reality, and the magic is all the stronger for it.”

There were no words, conjurations, or illusions powerful enough for Gale to express his gratitude, or his genuine intention. He knew that promises and declarations would not be enough, that these conjured roses were just saplings in the entire sun-filled garden he wanted to grow for Tav. It would take time, it would take nerve and messy, mortal dedication. But he would do it. 

He would plant seeds, feed them with water pulled from the deepest well . He would sweat and toil under the relentless summer sun, remaining vigilant through the bleak winters. With human hands, he would grow flowers, watching patiently as the slow spell of time brought life and beauty from nothing. He would wait, earning each soft-petaled rose, cherishing the joy they would bring, ribbon-tied and wine-scented, to his brave love. He would place them in crystal vases, where light would dance through and spill colour throughout their home.

And, when the inevitable happened, when the petals curled and dipped and eventually fell like feathers. It will have been worth it. All the toil and grief and mortal determination of it all will have been worth it, just to remind his love of the promise made in that hopeful night in Reithwin. 

[c-e-d-dreamer]

When We Howl, the Moon Will Cower: Chapter 3

A/N: when I heard that today's @nestaarcheronweek prompt was wolf, I just knew I had to do some more werewolf Cassian 😉 Sorry this update has been a long time coming, but I promise this chapter is a good one! Hope everyone enjoys!

Read on AO3 // Chapter Masterlist // Previous Part // Next Part

Nesta

Nesta supposes she shouldn’t be surprised when she wakes alone.

She certainly didn’t expect to wake within some sort of lover’s embrace. It was clear last night that her and Cassian’s marriage was nothing more than duty, he to his pack and she to her family. But still…

With a soft sigh, she shifts and rolls over beneath the blankets, reaching a hand out and finding nothing but cold sheets. Early riser or didn’t even bother to stay the night? With another huff she sits up, rubbing the final remnants of sleep from her eyes. The room and the cabin doesn’t look much different in the light of day. The rays of sunlight spill in through the windows, painting patterns across the blankets and turning the wood beams of the ceiling into amber.

It could almost be described as homey if it weren’t for the frigid, cloying air still clinging to the room from the previous night.

Pushing the blankets off her legs, Nesta climbs off the bed. She starts to pad over to her trunks before a thought strikes her, her eyes dancing toward the bedroom door. Cassian made it clear last night that he doesn’t trust her, so does that mean he would lock her in? Keep his new wife locked away in the tower?

She steels her spine and stalks toward the door, hesitating for just a moment with her hand outstretched in front of her. Slowly, her fingers curl around the knob, but thankfully, there’s no resistance as she twists. Unlocked. Small consolations.

Shaking her head, Nesta spins on her heel and returns to preparing for the day. With running hot water and no one around, she dares to take another long bath. Loathe she is to admit it, there’s a lingering ache between her thighs, a delicious soreness to her muscles as she stretches out beneath the water. She tips her head back against the lip of the tub and closes her eyes, breathing deeply.

As much as she’d like to, Nesta knows she can’t hide in the warmth and safety of a bath all day. This is her life now, Archeron or not. This is her life here. She’s married to the alpha, a member of this pack even if they don’t fully trust or accept her. A witch amongst wolves.

Heaving herself out of the bath, Nesta finishes readying for the day and steps out of the bedroom. The rest of the cabin is just as quiet, but she pads her way into the kitchen. It takes some rooting around in the cupboards, but she’s able to find everything she needs to prepare a cup of tea, the strong taste and warmth of the drink at least helping to soothe some of the knots twisting around in her stomach.

It’s only when she settles at the small, wooden kitchen table that she notices the letter, her name scrawled across the page in familiar, crisp cursive. She snatches it up, flipping it over quickly. She supposes she shouldn’t be surprised to find the wax seal already broken, but annoyance flares like low burning embers in her chest nonetheless. She opens the letter and skims through her mother’s words. It’s all polite and basic, reporting on her sisters, inquiring if she’s settled, but she notices the ink pressed into the right, bottom corner.

A crow.

Nesta pushes to her feet and finds a candle, placing it on the kitchen table and lighting it. She holds the letter over the flickering flame until the ink swirls, bleeding to the edge of the paper and melting away into nothing. She closes her eyes and says the incantation quietly beneath her breath before blowing across the page, revealing the ink and message hidden beneath.

A meeting.

It’s a meeting request that Nesta is sure was also sent to both of her sisters. No new husbands though, a meeting of just the Archeron ladies. Cassian is already suspicious of her, so she’ll have to figure out an excuse that will allow her to attend. A problem for her to work out later. For now, Nesta holds the letter over the candle again, this time until the corner of the parchment catches, the entire letter going up in flames.

She returns to her tea, the cup almost drained when the front door of the cabin swings open, Cassian striding inside. He’s dressed in surprisingly casual attire, a loose shirt tucked into his pants, the sleeves rolled up to expose the lines of tattoo and golden skin of his forearms. His hair is pulled back and piled into a bun at the back of his head.

“Oh, good. You’re awake,” Cassian says in way of greeting. He gestures with his head toward the door. “Let’s go.”

Nesta crosses her arms across her chest, raising an eyebrow and refusing to move. “I did sleep well. Thanks so much for asking.”

“You want to do fucking pleasantries?” Cassian scoffs, shaking his head.

“Oh, but dear husband, how did you sleep?” Nesta asks, offering a saccharine smile. The sight of Cassian’s lips pulling back in a snarl has it building into a full blown smirk.

“Do you want to see the village or not?”

“I’m surprised you’d allow a witch such free range around your pack.”

“If you’d prefer, we can stay here and continue our marital duties,” Cassian offers, his tone derisive, the golds of his hazel eyes practically sparking with the challenge.

Nesta’s smile drops away. “Fuck you.”

“Are you sore this morning, sweetheart? I’d be willing to bet that was the first time a prim princess like you has taken a real cock.”

“You wish,” Nesta growls, finally pushing to her feet just so she can glower at Cassian.

She wants to hate the way he doesn’t balk from her ire, the way his smirk almost seems to twitch and grow at her response. The way the golds of his hazel eyes practically spark at the challenge. The sight has Nesta’s scowl deepening, her mind grasping for a way to wipe that stupid expression off his face. Perhaps, she’ll threaten to curse him with impotence.

“Going to curse me, sweetheart?” Cassian drawls, raising an eyebrow and all but daring her.

Nesta refuses to let the surprise at him reading her so easily show. “You’re not even worth the waste of magic.”

Cassian snorts quietly, gesturing with his head again. “Are you coming or not?”

With a quiet huff, Nesta takes a moment to straighten out the skirts of her dress, striding right past Cassian and out the door. The village certainly looks different beneath the sun, and from this vantage point atop the hill, Nesta can see the various members of the pack milling about. There’s a group of women, baskets full of vegetables on their arms, a group of young men unloading crates from a wagon, and children running around. There’s even a few members of the pack moving about in their wolf forms.

Cassian leads the way down into the heart of the village, pointing out different places for her as they walk. The hall where the pack council meetings are held. The market square. The butcher and the bakery.

It’s almost strange the way everyone is so friendly and open with Cassian, smiling and greeting him as he passes, the way he gives the same energy back. It’s clear that he’s a beloved alpha, clear that he cares just as much for his people. It makes it all the more awkward the way everyone eyes her suspiciously, whispers of witchcraft swirling in her periphery.

They come to a stop in some sort of clearing between the trees. Circles are carved into the ground, creating three rings, and Nesta spies who she remembers are Cassian’s second and third sparring in one of them. Wooden dummies are set up along the other end of the clearing, wooden and steel weapons beside them. A group of young boys and girls alike run through a series of maneuvers, a woman with pure white braids along her back leading them through the steps.

Cassian whistles, and his second and third both snap their attention toward them, practically pausing mid swing. The woman gives the man one final shove, as though for good measure, before they’re jogging over. On instinct, Nesta’s spine is straightening, chin pinching higher in preparation.

“Nesta,” Cassian begins. “This is my second, Emerie, and my third, Balthazar.”

“My friends call me Baz,” Balthazar tells her easily, placing a hand on his heart.

“You can call him Balthazar,” Cassian says gruffly. Nesta scoffs and rolls her eyes, but neither Emerie or Balthazar seem to disagree with the order. “And over there is Cresseida. You’ll begin training with her each morning starting tomorrow.”

Nesta doesn’t bother holding back her glare, anger already simmering beneath her skin. “Excuse me?”

“My wife needs to be able to defend herself.”

“What makes you think I don’t know how to defend myself? What do you think I was taught growing up?”

Cassian steps closer into Nesta’s space, the sneer on his face sending her annoyance skyrocketing. “I don’t think you want me to answer that, princess.”

Nesta raises her chin higher to hold his gaze. “Fine. You want me to prove it? I’m more than happy to step in the ring right now.”

“I’m sure we can find a beginner opponent that will be willing for your little demonstration.”

“And miss the opportunity to knock you on your sorry ass?”

Cassian laughs, the sound nothing short of mocking, but he gestures toward the training rings with his arm. “Fine then. After you, Nes.”

Nesta scowls at the nickname, but she stalks forward into one of the three rings. Cassian follows behind her, stepping over the line at the opposite end. They’ve already drawn the attention of the group training, and Nesta is sure that word will quickly blaze through the rest of the village. The witch challenging the alpha.

She’s sure there will be more sneers, more whispers and snide remarks. She’s sure that if her mother could see her now, she’d call Nesta foolish, chide her for letting her emotions get the better of her. But Nesta swore to herself a long time ago that she would never be weak again, and she refuses to let Cassian or his pack see her as such. Alpha or not, marriage sham or not, she intends to meet that fire she’s seen sparking in his eyes head on. Intends to burn just as bright until she wipes that cocksure smile clean off his face.

“I’ve got Cassian in this,” Balthazar murmurs.

“Oh, I’m definitely taking Nesta,” Emerie answers.

Nesta closes her eyes, letting the village, the pack, Cassian, all fade away. She centers herself the way she always has, sinking beneath the rippling waves of her well of power. Even the birdsong around her dampens to nothing, warmth trickling through her veins and pooling in her fingertips. She opens her eyes, allowing the power to swell to the surface, knowing it’s now flickering within her gaze.

Cassian’s own eyes widen, his movements pausing, but he’s quick to shake his head and set his stance, mouth pinched in a firm line. The beast within Nesta gives a low growl of approval. She can feel it pressing down onto its haunches, desperate to be released, and she dares to turn the key in the lock, keeping the cage firmly closed. For now. She widens her feet and raises her fists in a defensive positioning, raising a single eyebrow in challenge to the male across from her.

He moves faster than she expects, Cassian all but charging toward her. His arm swings out, but Nesta is quick to duck beneath the arching punch. It seems to be the exact response Cassian was expecting, what he was hoping for. The palm of his other hand slams into her collarbone, the force enough to throw off her balance and send her toppling onto her ass with a soft grunt.

Cassian lets out a derisive snort above her, but Nesta glares up at him, jumping back up to her feet. She loosens that leash on her magic, feels the familiar heat of flames twisting and wreathing around her wrist. She drives her hand against Cassian’s chest, releasing all that magic through her fingers. The alpha goes careening back, landing hard in the dirt sprawled on his back.

Cassian sits up, spitting to the side and wiping his now split lip with his hand. “Using magic is cheating.”

“Because war is all about rules and fighting fair,” Nesta drawls sarcastically.

“Touche,” Cassian comments idly, pushing back to his feet. “We can play it like that, sweetheart.”

It’s like watching the whole thing in slow motion. The way that Cassian’s muscles seem to ripple and bulge. The way fur sprouts and cascades down his skin. The way magic practically shimmers around him as he shifts. One blink and a large world stands before Nesta’s eyes. His fur is a dark brown, lighter along the chest and down the belly and a black that seems to match Cassian’s hair around the face and ears. But there’s no mistaking the golden glow of his eyes, pinning Nesta firmly in place.

Cassian snarls, the sound low and viscous. It’s Nesta’s only warning before he leaps and closes the distance between them. Nesta doesn’t have time to react, to move out of the way or call forth her power again. Pain radiates down her spine as her back hits the dirt, large paws pinning her shoulders down. Cassian’s canines are dangerously close to her face, hot breath panting across her cheeks, but Nesta doesn’t look away from those golden eyes.

He doesn’t scare her.

A calm washes over Nesta, but that beast within her tugs at the leash, practically chomping at the bit. Just as she’s always done, she imagines slipping fingers through fur, even as she finally opens that cage door. With a deep breath in, power fills her chest, expands between each rib and twines around her lungs. She pictures curling her fingers and grasping the beast’s fur.

Giving permission.

Flames burst out of Nesta in a cascade of silver, crashing around her. With a surprised yelp, Cassian goes flying through the air as those flames curl around his limbs. The force of her power sends him all the way outside of the training ring, skittering and sliding through the grass beyond before his wolf form finally comes to a stop.

“Holy shit.”

~ * * * ~

Cassian

With a grunt, Cassian tosses the large stone out across the water, watching the ripples as it bounces once, twice, before vanishing beneath the surface. His arm is sore with the effort, but it’s a welcome feeling. One that he can control. His entire body still aches, and he doesn’t even dare to look to check for the bruises he’s sure are mottling his skin.

He’d known the Archerons were powerful, everyone knew that, but to witness it in action had been something else entirely. That power had rippled around him, pressing and scraping along his skin until every hair had stood on end. For a moment, his heart had stuttered to a painful stop in his chest. With the silver flames burning and engulfing her eyes, Cassian hadn’t even been sure it was truly Nesta staring back at him. And then all that magic crashed into him with an almost sickening crunch. It threw him hard and far enough that had he been in his human form, Cassian is confident his shoulder would have shattered with the force of his landing.

Huffing quietly, Cassian reaches down, sifting through the rocks at his feet until he finds another flat one. He tosses it gently in his hand, testing the weight of it, allowing the familiarity of it to center him. This deep in the woods, none of the sounds of the pack or the village reach him. It’s just the small, gentle waves lapping along the shore, a birdsong further in the forest, and the wind whispering through the branches and leaves.

“Have you finished sulking yet?”

Cassian throws the rock in his hand hard enough it merely plops beneath the water. “Fuck off.”

“I couldn’t help but notice that Nesta doesn’t have mating marks this morning,” Emerie comments. Her tone is idle, but Cassian doesn’t buy it for a second.

“She’s my wife, not my mate.”

“Is that so?”

Cassian knows what that sarcastic drawl means. He whirls around on his second, a growl rumbling deep in his chest. “Don’t.”

“Just like your father then.”

“I said don’t.”

Emerie rolls her eyes at his clipped voice, crossing her arms and raising an eyebrow. “Do you plan on taking other females to your marriage bed as well, then? Plan to have a whole brood of little bastards just like yourself.”

With a snarl, Cassian closes the distance between himself and Emerie until he’s looming over the female. “Don’t make me relieve you of your post.”

She doesn’t even flinch, doesn’t step back. That same unimpressed look is painted across her face, exasperation spilling through her brown eyes as she continues to meet his gaze.

“You and I both know you made me your second because of this,” Emerie reminds him, shoving hard at his chest until he steps back. “Because I call you out on your bullshit. Did you forget there’s a war coming? Hybern may be quiet for now, but we both know too quiet is worse. Especially now that he has the Cauldron. Our pack is strong, but we’re not that strong. What happens when your wife, when her family, abandons you? Abandons us? Because you had a stick up your ass?”

“And what would you have me do?”

“Stop being a dick to your wife,” Emerie tells him, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “If you respect her, the rest of the pack will respect her.”

Cassian sighs, crossing his arms across his chest. “I’ll try, alright?”

“I guess that’s the most I can ask for from an idiot male such as yourself.”

Emerie leaves Cassian alone with his thoughts after that, trekking back through the trees and toward the village. He stares out across the water of the lake, letting out another sigh. He hates that Emerie is right. The whole reason he agreed to this alliance, why he went through with this marriage, is for the pack. Loathe as he is to admit it, they will need Nesta and the Archerons if they want to stand any sort of chance against Hybern, no matter his own thoughts or feelings or opinions.

Besides, it’s not like they have to love one another, they just have to be amicable with each other.

Cassian groans, tilting his head back and scrubbing his hands down his face. Rolling his shoulders, he heads back toward the village. He stops in at the blacksmith, chatting easily with Elis while he works the flames and testing the weight and balance of the newest swords. He hits the bakery next, selecting some fresh goods to take back to the cabin. But as he steps back out, he catches the eye of Cresseida at the shop across the way. She’s wearing the same unimpressed expression that her wife did, and Cassian can practically hear Emerie’s voice in his head, chastising him for stalling.

He flashes Cresseida the finger, earning a fond shake of the head in return, but he gets the message. He trudges the rest of the way back to his cabin, taking the stairs slower than he normally would, but there’s no delaying the inevitable.

He pushes the door open and finds Nesta sitting on the sofa in front of the fire. She has a book open and propped on her knees, one he has no idea where she got it from. She doesn’t even bother to look up or acknowledge him, pointedly turning a page, so with a soft sigh, Cassian turns his attention to the kitchen. He starts pulling out ingredients, lining the counter with everything he’ll need, and grabs a pan.

“Have you eaten?” Cassian calls out, sparking a flame.

The sound of a book snapping shut lets Cassian know he heard her. “Are you intending to cook for me?”

“I promise not to poison it and everything, sweetheart.”

“How generous.”

It’s with a familiar ease that Cassian begins chopping up everything he needs, adding everything to the pan to saute. He mixes up the spices and prepares the sauce just as his mother used to when he was growing up, the smells swirling and filling the kitchen tugging at his memory as much as they tug at his heart.

He feels more than he hears Nesta step into the kitchen. Even with his back to her, his every nerve ending prickles with awareness of exactly where in the room she is, always zeroing in on her presence. The tickle of her breath skates across the skin of his neck as she stands just behind him, pressing up onto her toes to peer over his shoulder.

“Don’t trust my promise?”

Nesta huffs quietly, taking a step back from him. “I want to see my sisters.”

Cassian hums, so she knows he heard her, but he continues to prepare their food. He gives it all a good stir, scooping some onto the wooden spoon and holding it out toward Nesta in offering. She hesitates for a moment, gaze dancing between the spoon and his face, but then she slowly leans forward, accepting the taste.

“I want to see my sisters,” Nesta repeats, crossing her arms. “I want to make sure they’re alright.”

“Is it the vampires or the Vanserras that you don’t trust?” Cassian asks, plating up their food. “Or is it both?”

“It’s not about trust. You agreed to this marriage because you knew it was the only way to keep your pack safe from Hybern. I did it for my sisters, to ensure that Elain and Feyre would be safe. So I want to see them. My mother wrote a letter, and she will arrange it all. I just need a carriage.”

“Fine.”

Nesta blinks a few times, reaching out to accept the plate Cassian extends toward her. “Fine?”

“But either Emerie or Baz will accompany you. You can choose which.”

“Did you hit your head when I knocked you on your ass or something?”

“You wish,” Cassian tells her, settling at the table with his own plate. “You said so yourself, we need each other if we want to stand any chance against what’s coming. But I can assure you, sweetheart, I won’t let you get another chance like that again.”

Nesta hums noncommittally, but she settles in the seat across from him nonetheless. Cassian doesn’t miss the fact that she waits until he’s fully taken a bite of his own food before digging into her own. He doesn’t take it too personally.

They eat in relative silence, just the quiet clink and scrape of utensils. When they’re finished, Nesta snatches up her book again and retires to the bedroom. Cassian continues to putter around the cabin, sorting through the papers on the desk in his study, studying the information and intel about Hybern his wolves have been able to discover, scrutinizing the map and the markings on it.

But as clouds continue to move across the sky, masking the silver glow of the moon, as shadows continue to stretch across the floors of the cabin, exhaustion begins to tug at Cassian’s limbs. He knows that, realistically, he should retreat to the extra bedroom in the cabin, the one he always keeps made up in case one of the younger wolves needs a place to crash. But that voice in the back of his mind continues to whisper, continues to prickle and scrape for his attention. His nerve endings still feel on high alert, all too aware of the witch between these four walls.

Emerie just told him to stop being a dick to his wife. She never said anything about needing to trust her.

Cassian doesn’t even bother knocking, strolling straight into the bedroom. Nesta is already settled beneath the blankets, pillow propped at her back and that same book still in her hands. She glares over the pages at Cassian, making an affronted sound when he closes the door behind him.

“What are you doing?” Nesta demands with an annoyed huff. “There’s no magic dictating us anymore. Don’t you have another bedroom you can stay in?”

“Did you forget that you’re in my bedroom?” Cassian fires back.

He can feel Nesta’s glare sinking into his shoulder blades like knives as he turns his back on her. Can practically hear the way she’s seething. But she doesn’t say anything back, and Cassian refuses to be bothered. He fists a hand in the back of his shirt, tugging it up and off and tossing it aside. He continues stripping down until he’s comfortable to sleep, pulling the tie from his hair until his curls tumble comfortably around his face and shoulders.

When he turns back toward the bed, Nesta’s eyes are glued to his chest. Already, Cassian can feel a smirk tug across his face, a teasing comment on the tip of his tongue, but then he takes in Nesta’s expression. The slightly hollowed look to her blue eyes, the pinched brow and downturned lips. He looks down at his own chest, and barely holds in a wince at the sight. Purple and red patches are mottled across his skin, stretching up over his ribs.

“Is that regret I see on your face, Nes?”

That all too familiar scowl is back in a second. “Not if you keep calling me that.”

“Do I need to sleep with one eye open?” Cassian asks, stepping over to the bed and slipping beneath the blankets.

“Just fuck off, and go to sleep.”

Nesta rolls over and places her book on the small, side table, extinguishing the lantern and casting the bedroom in darkness. Cassian snorts softly at the dismissal, but he settles back against the mattress. He closes his eyes and wills his body to relax, but Nesta shifts, clearly getting more comfortable, and he’s painfully aware of her presence beside him.

She hasn’t been here long, but already her scent has permeated the cabin, and with her so close again, vanilla and lilies flood Cassian’s nose. He can feel the warmth of her, and when she shifts again, her foot brushes against his leg. He dares to turn his head to the side, toward her. Nesta has her back to him, but the blankets still cling to her every curve, rising and falling with each slow, steady breath. Her hair is fanned out across the pillow behind her, the strands practically glistening under the moonlight spilling through the window.

Cassian can still remember the way those strands of golden brown hair felt twisted between his fingers. He can still remember her body pressed against his, the sweet sounds of her moans echoing in his ears. He can still remember the tight heat wrapped around his cock. He squeezes his eyes shut against the onslaught of memories, suddenly feeling like a livewire. It would be too easy to turn to her fully, to press his body against hers. To latch his lips to the skin of her neck. To slide his hand across her waist, down her stomach, lower still.

Nesta’s name weighs heavy on his tongue, but Cassian is quick to swallow it back down. He rolls over onto his side, away from Nesta, giving his pillow a hard punch. These are the last type of thoughts he needs. Sighing softly, Cassian forces his mind to empty, to quiet, forces himself to give in to sleep’s embrace.

—

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[whump-tr0pes]

Honor Bound 6 - 31 (Headache/Migraine) - @badthingshappenbingo

Red X for posted, white X for requested! Send in your requests! If you don’t see a prompt here that you already requested, please send it again!

~

This is a series. Start here, continued from here.

This is a sequel to Honor Bound, Honor Bound 2, Honor Bound 3, Honor Bound 4, Honor Bound 5, and the prequel Vera.

AO3

Masterlist

Contents: sick fic, past captivity, unsure of reality, past forced confession, past offscreen murder of a child, self-hatred, past hallucinations, past murder, fear of taking pills, so much angst

~

The cloying sensation of pain reached Gavin through heavy waves of nausea and exhaustion. He squeezed his eyes shut and winced as the pain sharpened to a hot, pulsing point behind his left eye. A chill shuddered over his shoulders, down his spine, back up into the tight muscles of his neck. His own clammy fingers pressed against his forehead in a feeble attempt to relieve the pain.

There was no relief, down here in the basement.

He was a little warm, at least, under the three blankets he had earned with his confessions. They hadn’t been wild and desperate, like the confessions pried out of him by the drugs or the razor-sharp edge of Schiester’s knife. Each one had been deliberate. He had known the bargain he was making with each one.

“My coming back was my fault. Not theirs. I… I sh-should have died. It wasn’t their fault.”

“I… I shot Gray. In the chest. Back when I was… when I was still fighting them. I shot them in the chest and left them to die.”

“Wh-when I was sixteen, my mother offered me a child… I see it was a test, I see that now, but at the time I just saw a plaything that I knew I should – that I knew how to hurt. I… I killed her. Quickly. I—”

Schiester had backhanded him across the mouth before he could finish the sentence.

Each confession had been worth it. Each one had come with a beating that had left Gavin screaming in pain, but each was worth it. He had confessed his crimes to someone who would punish him for them, and properly, not with easy forgiveness. And what was more – each confession earned him a blanket that held off the cold. Still, despite the blankets over him, he shivered with cold sweat.

He didn’t try to raise his head or look around. He simply lay still, frozen in place with the pain, trying and failing to cease to exist. Terror was a steady thrum alongside his heartbeat, as he knew at any moment his tormentor would return and use this agony against him. There was nothing he could do to stop that now. He could no sooner stop the pain than he could stop the sluggish beat of his own heart, matching the dull thud within his own head. Each breath whooshed softly into his nose, huffed softly out of his mouth. His body was a heap of mechanical processes that carried on, even as his every reason for living had abandoned him here. His life was simply a serious of moments extended by the sadistic whims of the man still keeping him alive. Schiester made his commands, and his body obeyed. Nothing would stop the pain. There was no such thing as relief in this basement. There was no ice, no rizatriptan, no mercy.

Isaac had stopped looking—

“Gavin.”

Gavin cried out and flung himself upright. Isaac stood at the side of the bed, one hand outstretched and almost touching him. Gavin quaked with each panting breath as his arms shook under him and finally collapsed. Pain seared behind his eyes as he stared up at Isaac, who was starting to blur with tears.

“Are you alright?” Isaac murmured.

“You… g-got me out,” Gavin croaked. His mouth was so dry. His left eye felt like it was starting to melt out of his head.

Isaac sat carefully on the side of the bed, hand still outstretched. His fingers gently brushed through Gavin’s hair – Gavin realized then that it was soaked with sweat. “Yes,” Isaac said heavily. “I… I got you out, Gavin. Bad dream? Or…?”

“Migraine,” Gavin said, and pressed his face against the pillow. “Isaac, I—” He shoved a hand against his own mouth and dry heaved.

“Gray brought your rizatriptan,” Isaac said, rising again. Gavin groaned as the bed jostled. “Let me go get you some.”

“A-and water,” Gavin said weakly. “Please.”

“Sure,” Isaac said as he left the room.

Gavin trembled and clutched at the pillow beneath his head. As much as it pained him, he forced himself to look around, to take in the sight of the room – the peeling paint on the walls, the curtains lit by the sun slanting into the windows, the warmth of the light, the size of the room. It looked nothing like the cold, dark basement that had been his prison for what had felt like months. It felt nothing like the cramped, cruel cell where he had been kept. When Isaac entered the room again with a glass of water and a pill pinched between his fingers, the tears in Gavin’s eyes spilled over.

“N-not fucking going back,” he rasped. He dropped his head and muffled a sob against his pillow as Isaac sat beside him once more.

“No way,” Isaac said, every word sounding strained. He held the pill to Gavin’s lips, and Gavin took it, willingly.

Schiester could have drugged me this way.

The thought was a brick in Gavin’s stomach. He could have put it in my food. He didn’t have to fucking… inject it. But… An entirely different thought crossed his mind that brought a chill to his heart. This could all still be a hallucination. This could just be how he’s keeping me drugged.

As Isaac tipped the glass of water to Gavin’s lips, Gavin hesitated. Isaac froze with the glass still held out. “You alright?” Isaac rasped.

Gavin trembled as he raised his gaze to Isaac. Isaac’s eyes were brown, not blue. And he hadn’t hurt Gavin at all. Not yet. But Schiester could be playing the long game. After all, he’d been playing the long game by letting Gavin think he had escaped to the north safely back in May. This could all just be another fucking joke to him, like faking the hanging after he murdered Lucy and Topher.

Isaac swallowed hard. “Gavin?” he said softly. “Is… What—”

Gavin raised a shaking hand and dug the pill out of his mouth. It was already beginning to disintegrate and leave a gritty residue on his tongue. He stared at it between his fingers, then looked back to Isaac again.

Isaac’s eyebrows pulled together. “Gavin, what are you—”

“What happens to me if I don’t take this?” Gavin breathed. Light pulsed on the left side of his vision.

Isaac’s eyes widened. “What happens…? Nothing, Gavin, nothing happens to you. Except maybe your migraine doesn’t get much better. I don’t…” He reached out to gently stroke Gavin’s cheek.

Gavin flinched at the contact. Isaac jerked his hand back like Gavin had bitten him.

“Gavin,” Isaac said, realization crossing his face. “No. This isn’t… come on, Gavin, this is—”

“Prove it, then.” The words barely made a sound as they passed Gavin’s lips. He reached over to the nightstand and rolled his fingers together until the sticky pill dropped onto the wood. He nearly threw up then, just from the effort of holding himself up with his head pounding so ferociously. Shaking, he returned his gaze to Isaac – or the specter that could be wearing Isaac’s form. He braced for the collapse of the illusion: the sneer of contempt, the flash of violence in Isaac’s eyes, the snap of his fingers as he ordered the guards who must be currently outside of Gavin’s vision to step into the cell with him and hold him down and hurt him—

Instead, a horrible, guilty brokenness crawled across Isaac’s face. The lines around his eyes deepened, and a terrible sadness tugged at his mouth. He held his hands out, at his sides, empty and harmless. His eyes swam with helpless tears.

“I… w-won’t make you take anything you don’t want to, Gavin,” he said weakly. “I was just trying to help.”

Gavin’s throat tightened, and he could feel nothing but heat and pain. He squeezed his eyes shut and grasped at the relief of the momentary darkness. Then, he blinked his eyes open and reached for Isaac. Isaac’s shoulders fell, and he let Gavin take his hand.

“P-please,” Gavin whispered. “Please, I just…” He sobbed weakly and whimpered when that only ratcheted up the pain in his head.

“Here,” Isaac said, tears falling down his own cheeks. He guided Gavin to lay down again and stretched out beside him. “No… no pills. Just… I can just be with you. And hold you. Would that be… would that… help?”

“Yeah,” Gavin croaked, his throat still tight. He could barely see out of his left eye, and every heartbeat was agony. Still, Isaac was here. Isaac had his hands on him, and was pulling him close, and was holding him. He buried his face in Isaac’s chest and let out another broken sob.

Even as he shivered and twisted in Isaac’s arms from the pain, his heartrate slowed. The Isaac holding him was solid and real, even nothing else in the world was.

Something prickled in the back of Gavin’s mind. He swallowed hard, swallowed back the terror and pain that quivered beneath his skin; the Isaac holding him was real, because Daniel Schiester would never, ever have allowed Gavin Uriah to say no to him. The pill lay on the nightstand beside the bed still, beside the untouched water glass.

Continued here

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[defectivevillain]

this winding labyrinth

chapter 3: reflux

pairing: Hannibal Lecter/Reader (reader is not gendered, race-ambiguous, and no physical descriptors are used)

summary:

You wish you never met Hannibal Lecter. But you yearn for his presence. You want to forget him. But he never truly leaves your thoughts. Now, you’re left to pick up the pieces of a broken design. A battle of instinct rages on in your mind—one of bittersweet relief and cloying grief, fearless resolve and poignant regret; a clashing between affection and antipathy, pride and pain. What will win, in the end? Only time will tell.

this is chapter 3, act 2 of this broken design. if you haven't read act 1 or chapters 1-2, this won't make too much sense.

ao3 version | Spotify playlist

typical warnings apply.

You blink your eyes open to a pounding headache and ringing ears. The ceiling above you is reeling as you’re pushed along in a gurney. Voices murmur and mumble around you, and your vision swims tauntingly. Your arm burns, stings, aches. Your eyelids feel incredibly heavy. You feel a hand on your cheek, prompting you to look into worried eyes. You blink dazedly, your vision blurring and spiraling. It doesn’t take long for you to fall into unconsciousness again. 

You dream of nothing and everything. You dream of winding halls, a labyrinth that never ends. You dream of harsh corners, broken glass, shattered reflections. You dream of glinting metal, sharpened blades, and cruel smiles. You drown in soil and breathe in rot and decay. Through it all, blood sticks to your skin like a vice—a reminder of your sins. 

When you finally wake, after an immeasurable amount of time, you find there to be little fanfare. There is no one for you to wake up to, nothing for you to look at save for a nearly empty hospital room with chipped paint coloring the walls. You take a deep breath and look up at the ceiling. You can hear the EKG’s steady beeps at your bedside. Your arm still hurts, but the pain isn’t nearly as bad as it was before. Upon closer examination, you realize your arm is bandaged. Blood seeps through the white bandages, threatening to mar the white sheets around you. In the still quiet of the evident night, you are gifted a brief reprieve: an escape from interaction and accountability. You’re grateful for it, even if the silence seems to vibrate with unease. 

The nurse comes before long—he’s not the same one you had before. You don’t bother to question it. He reapplies your bandages and sighs. “You are immensely lucky,” he remarks, turning away for a moment. “Just a few inches to the side and you’d be dead.” 

Yes, lucky, you think to yourself.  

The nurse doesn’t say anything else. You have to wonder if he was told about you—told you’ve been here quite a few times within the past year, told not to bother with pleasantries. You’re left to wonder as the nurse leaves the room, promising to return in a few moments. 

Nothing about this moment feels real. Maybe that’s why the guilt of your actions hasn’t quite caught up yet. You’ve felt a hint of remorse prickling along your skin, but nothing as strong as you had expected. It sort of feels like you’re dreaming. Perhaps you’ll even wake up soon. 

Unfortunately, you soon have to come to terms with the fact that you are not dreaming. This is reality: bleak, unassuming reality. The weight of it all is pushing you further into this thin hospital mattress, forcing you to remain bound and silent without confines. Your arm is bandaged, because you stabbed yourself. You stabbed yourself… to engineer a situation where Clark Ingram’s death— murder , a voice in your head coos—would be justifiable. Your arm burns, both from the knife and from the knowledge of your crimes. 

For the first few days of your hospital stay, you don’t get visitors. You suspect the visitors who typically stop by are growing tired of showing up. After all, this is your third or fourth time in the hospital. It’s likely more of a chore than anything else. Teetering on the edge between life and death is a scary situation, but you’ve occupied that grey area for so long now that almost nothing seems to truly surprise you.

Beverly highlights the notion when she arrives one morning. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” she quips, shoving her hands in her leather jacket after closing the door behind her. She leans against the wall. 

You huff. “Hi, Bev,” you say, managing to get past the raspiness of your unused voice. 

“I’m convinced you’re single handedly burning through the injury budget for our department,” Bev says with a sigh. You take a deep breath. This banter with Beverly makes you feel… normal. 

“Hey, someone’s gotta do it,” you shrug goodnaturedly. Beverly rolls her eyes, before crossing her arms over her chest. 

For a few seconds, there is only silence. An unfamiliar tension settles in the air. “Seriously though,” Beverly says. There is nothing but sincerity in the expression on her face. “There’s only so much of this my heart can take.” And that hits you like a knife to the gut. 

You never considered how your friends must feel in these types of situations. You’ve probably caused Beverly so much unnecessary worry and concern.  Selfish. “I’m sorry,” you grimace. The statement doesn’t feel like enough.  

“Just… be more careful, okay?” Bev sighs. “Never thought I’d have to be the one to say that to you.” You’re not sure you trust the weight of your own words anymore, so you don’t respond. You don’t promise anything, because you’re not sure you can. Thankfully, Beverly doesn’t seem to be expecting a response. Instead, she elects to sit in the chair at your bedside. Not for the first time, you wonder how you managed to get such a good friend. 

Beverly stays for a while, before the nurse comes by and kicks her out. She leaves, albeit with a grumble under her breath about unnecessary precautions. After Beverly, there is no one and nothing. Every time you close your eyes, you see Ingram’s face—the genuine fear that overtook his expression when he saw your finger inch closer towards the trigger. You see his victims, drowning in soil and suffocating. Every time you blink, you see blood spilling down your arms, coating your skin in murky crimson. 

You fade in and out. The days melt into one another, stretching out into an indistinguishable, tangled mess. The healing process seems painfully slow, as if your body is forcing you to slow down and come to terms with the consequences of your own actions. These injuries are starting to take a toll. Your abdomen stings—from remembrance or genuine pain, you can’t be sure. 

In the midst of a hazy and dimly lit afternoon, you get another visitor. 

“Agent,” a familiar voice says. You look up and towards the door, only to find Jack Crawford standing in the doorway. He looks the same as ever, save for the concerningly tight pull to his lips and shoulders. Indeed, he looks rather tense—almost uncharacteristically so. 

“Jack,” you remark. “I wasn’t expecting you.” Indeed, Jack has visited you every single time you’ve found yourself injured and confined to this hospital. It’s highly unusual for someone as high up as Jack—the Head of the Behavioral Analysis Unit—to consistently find the time to make hospital visits. It’s as your teacher once said: “When you go out, you go out alone. You will wake up alone…  You will be alone.” There had been a haunting expression on her face as she said that, almost as if she were recalling a past experience. The class had been eerily silent. 

Jack shoots you a disbelieving eyebrow, before his face falls back into stony callousness. The room feels a lot colder. Looks like he’s going to get right to business. “You may be wondering why you were never given another psychological evaluation,” he begins, before taking another step, “After all, Lecter did yours—and there’s no guarantee he didn’t have an ulterior motive.” 

Somehow, despite all the events that transpired recently, you avoided another psychological evaluation. Any other agent would surely have been thrown into a psychiatric evaluation and several mandated therapy sessions for surviving such an ordeal… You received a grip on your shoulder and a murmured remark from Jack about doing well. You’re still not sure how to feel about that.

“Truthfully, I didn’t think you needed another evaluation,” Jack says, his lips set in a firm line. There’s something else coming. Sure enough, he continues. “I find myself questioning my judgment now. You’ve sent yourself to the hospital three times now.”

“Sent myself?” You repeat in disbelief. A shiver rolls down your spine, sending your skin prickling. “Jack, I didn’t intend for any of this to happen.” You don't enjoy the implications of his statement. 

“That may be,” Jack acquiesces. His hands are clasped behind his back and he’s the picture of quiet, calm authority. “But you’ve had extensive training that deals with these kinds of situations, that teaches you what to prioritize in those kinds of moments.” You bite your tongue and keep silent.  

“What disturbs me…” He breaks off once more. Jack always finishes his sentences—this kind of syntax is unusual for him. “ This -” He motions with a hand, “isn’t born out of a lackluster combat ability. You’re a damn good fighter.” You want to be honored by the compliment, but all you can feel is an unsettling apprehension. Sure enough, Jack isn’t finished speaking. “I’m going to book you for another psych eval.” 

The sheets thrown over you suddenly feel far too thin, as goosebumps run along your skin. You’re brutally aware of the expression on Jack’s face—conflict and resolution fighting for prominence in the set of his jaw. “Jack-” You try to say, scrambling for something to say. It’s beginning to feel as if the walls are caving in on you. 

“You haven’t made this easy, Agent,” Jack responds in lieu of an answer. He pulls something from his jacket pocket—a slip of paper with notes scrawled on it. Your heart drops into your stomach as you realize that he had planned this from the outset. “2:00 p.m. next Monday.” It is clear that Jack’s visit had one purpose, and one purpose only. He walks away, leaving you to stare after him in stunned disbelief.

In the wake of your conversation with Jack, your recovery feels nearly meaningless. What does it matter if you heal? You’re still barred from returning to work, unless you receive a signed form from the psychologist. Although, will that really be so difficult for you? A few years ago, it might have been. But since then, you’ve changed. You’ve developed, morphed into a person who has learned to be defensive, wary, covert. Indeed, haven’t you been keeping the pretense of composure this entire time? If you kept your knowledge of the Ripper’s identity hidden from him for so long, surely getting through an hour-long psychological assessment will be easy. 

And, indeed, it is easy. 

The psychologist you’re paired with is nice. That’s all you really have to say about them. Perhaps you’ve grown accustomed to discussions laced with existentialism while seated on expensive leather, a palpable tension sinking into the air. Or perhaps you’ve grown accustomed to answering questions with whatever the person wants to hear. You’ve gotten good at maintaining an illusion of calm and collected rationality when needed.

Plus, the evaluation protocol is extremely outdated. You have to do a Rorschach inkblot test, which makes you both thankful and extremely concerned for the future of the FBI. Safe to say, you walk out of the building an hour later with a signed paper in hand. It doesn’t take you long to decide to head right to the Bureau. Your heart is still hammering away in your chest as you drive there—even when you’re a good distance away from the psychologist’s office. 

When you finally get to the Bureau and arrive in Jack’s office, you place the signed form on his desk wordlessly. For a moment, he seems too caught up in the files in his hands to notice. After a few moments, he blinks and drags the paper closer to him. Jack examines the paper with a critical eye, before turning his attention back towards you. 

“Surprised?” You ask, as he studies your expression. Jack seems to be looking for something. You try to maintain a flat affect, if only so that he doesn’t find whatever he’s searching for. 

He sighs. “Agent, you know this is just protocol,” Jack responds. “No, I’m not surprised. It would be highly unprofessional of me to have expectations of the result.” He finishes. You want to believe him.

But you know deep down that Jack expected you to fail—perhaps even wanted you to fail. “Welcome back, Agent.” You know your mind is conjuring up the tone of resignation in his voice.  

You exit his office and walk back down the halls, an unexpected guilt stirring in your chest. You shouldn’t have lied to the psychologist. On the other hand, you knew that if you were truthful, you would never be able to return to the field. And there are lives at stake. You’re not foolish enough to think that your mere presence is enough to decrease criminality at large, but you know that the Bureau needs as many agents as possible on the front lines. 

There’s a buzzing, humming sound along your skin. “If you truly cared about the lives at stake, you would stay away,” a voice reasons. It takes you a few moments to realize that it’s Clark Ingram. A social worker has joined the group of tormented souls inhabiting the shadows of  your mind. The irony is not lost on you. You shake your head, before taking a deep breath and continuing to walk down the hall, your muscle memory navigating you towards your office even when your attention is elsewhere. “How many have been killed in the wake of your complacency?”  Ingram continues relentlessly. “Your neutrality is just as dangerous as my cruelty.” 

Your head pounds as you turn the corner to get to your office. When you finally find yourself standing in the doorway, you remember that you haven’t used the space in a bit—there’s dust collecting on the edges of your bookshelf and the surface of your desk. You close the door and sit down in your chair, ignoring the chilling recognition that you’re sitting right where Franklyn died. For a moment, you can feel phantom burgundy tears slipping down your cheeks. When you blink, you’re subject to the illusory sensation of someone reaching deep into your eye sockets and tugging, ripping at your optic nerves and tearing your sight away from you. 

Your leg bounces restlessly. The clock’s hand makes its routine journey across the smooth surface of the instrument, and its movements flit before your eyes in flickering flashes. You rub your eyes roughly. Conversations from the hall reach your ears, until they distort and morph into voices that continue to haunt you. Your fingers are twitching. 

Time is a fickle thing. Your office doesn’t have windows to let in sunlight, so you’re forced to take in the noise from the hallway to determine how long you’ve spent fading away in your chair. A rattling breath overtakes you, prompting you to breathe in and breathe out in a shuddering movement. You dig the heels of your hands into your eyes, letting the spiraling colors that manifest overtake your vision. 

When you open your eyes moments later, you’re briefly assaulted with a wave of sharpness and clarity. Then, your vision adjusts and you’re left staring at your unassuming office: the remains of your neat and tidy life. Somehow, deep-down, you know things will not stay that way. 

Your hands itch and you roll up your sleeves, despite knowing you won’t see soil caked on your skin like you’re imagining. Indeed, your arms are bare—save for the bandaged wound that you’re sure will scar. Looking down at it provokes a stirring feeling in your gut as memories of that day reach the forefront of your mind. 

For a while, you had lingered precariously on the edge between morality and criminality. Have you since slipped off that edge? When did your balance first falter? Were the scales already tipped—perhaps from the moment you sleep walked onto the road, finding yourself looking into the darkness and locking eyes with a crimson gaze? When did your grip start to weaken? 

And… where does that wavering leave you now?

next chapter

thanks for readingggg!

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[fairy-writes]

Hi, can i please ask for prompt 19 with Jouno? Thank youu<3<3

THE SCENT OF IRON

Reblogs and Comments are greatly appreciated!!

__________________________________________________________________________

Prompt: “It’s funny. Nowadays, people always expect a gun, but never a knife.”

Fandom(s): Bungou Stray Dogs

Pairing(s): Jouno Saigiku x Reader

Word Count: 0.3k

Genre(s)/Tag(s): Gender Neutral!Reader, Blood, Injuries, Knives

Notes: Yes I’m stealing my own title from a BSD/Tokyo Ghoul story I wrote. Don’t come for me. 

(I’m also getting conflicting answers about what Jouno’s first name is. So lmk if I got it wrong, and I’ll edit this.)

YES, I KNOW IT’S SHORT. DON’T COME FOR ME

__________________________________________________________________________

It was hard to hide things from Jouno Saigiku. 

Especially something like the overpowering scent of iron.

So it’s no wonder he picks up on it immediately when walking back to the Hunting Dogs headquarters. Typically, yes, he would take a cab or just call a car from the base to come and pick him up. But he had this nagging feeling that he wanted—no, needed to walk home from his mission today.

So he did. It wasn’t that far. In fact he could make the walk in about thirty minutes. 

And all was well and good until he caught the scent of iron and the sharp odor of pain. 

Saigiku paused, fingertips brushing against the stone and concrete of an alleyway entrance. He really should keep walking… He shouldn’t care about whoever was in pain down there.

At least, he didn’t care until he heard a gasp and realized it was you.

His feet carry him faster and faster until he almost trips over your extended feet and crouches at your side. He can feel the sticky, oozing blood soaking into his boots and realizes just how bad the situation is. 

“Sai? What are you doing here?” You wheeze, and he feels his lips tug down into a frown. 

“What happened?” He asked sternly, and you hissed out a stuttering laugh. 

“Heh… It’s funny. Nowadays, people always expect a gun, but never a knife.” You whimper, and he hears your hand squish in the torn flesh of your side. 

He probes your side, and you cry out. The wound is deep, and he can’t quite tell if there’s more than one stab wound or not. Knowing your luck, there likely were. But he presses on, removing his gloves to get a better idea of what’s going on. 

All the while, he’s overpowered by the scent of the iron. It’s cloying and nauseating, making his stomach twist and turn in his abdomen. Usually, he’s fine. After all, he’s a Hunting Dog. But something about it being your blood makes it worse. 

He ignores your cries and scoops you up into his arms. Your clothes are already soaked through, and he can hear the “pitter-patter” of the drops of blood falling onto the concrete. 

You needed medical help. 

Now.

He only hoped he could get you the help in time. 

[aspiringtrashpanda]

I don't know if you've ever heard the song "You, Me, and Steve" but I think it would be such a funny idea with how clingy some of the characters are.

The two ideas I have are Mephistopheles trying to hang out with Diavolo and Lucifer, Barbatos, and Mc keep popping up and Diavolo being Diavolo gets distracted immediately.

Or a character trying to hang out with Mc but the brothers keep popping up like crazy and they just won't leave.

AH thank you so much for reminding me of this song. I haven't heard it in SO LONG AND IT'S SO GOOD. (For those unfamiliar, you really should listen.)

Characters: Mephistopheles, Diavolo, Lucifer, MC, Mammon Mephisto POV, fluff and shenanigans No warnings apply

Mephistopheles was on cloud nine. 

His cane tapped against the cobblestone path with such vigor, he briefly considered its use redundant. The slap of his shoes already bounced up towards the grand entrance of the Demon Lord’s castle, a testament to the highest quality of leather that he could afford. He was certain that a knockoff brand would never capture such a skip to his step. 

The moon shone bright in the afternoon sky, the hue of the night more of an indigo haze than an inky abyss. The dark bushtits sang a creepily cloying melody, their wings rustling the sharp leaves of reaching tree branches. The mild temperature clung to his uniform - not too hot to welcome sweat, but not too cold to catch a chill. Truly, it was a good day.

A good day that had gotten even better with the buzz of his D.D.D., sounding in time with the end of his last class at RAD. 

2:59pm - Lord Diavolo

Good afternoon, Mephisto! I was hoping you would be free to join me for tea today?

3:00pm - Mephistopheles

It would be my pleasure, Lord Diavolo. I will call for my driver this instant.

3:00pm - Lord Diavolo

Oh please, Mephisto. “Lord” is not necessary. I await your prompt arrival! There are sweets here that I put aside for you! 😀

Mephistopheles could barely contain his excitement, each step towards the ornate doors of the castle sending endorphins rushing through his veins. The creak of the hinges always made him nostalgic for the first time he ever set foot into the maze of hallways and ballrooms and bedrooms. He and his little brother could get lost for hours, playing hide and seek with the Demon Prince himself. Ah, to be the most trusted confidant of Diavolo once more…

Of course, an invitation to tea was a step in the right direction!

With a roll of his shoulders, a quick peek at his reflection in a framed photo to ensure his hair remained perfectly coiffed, and the determination of a thousand rampaging wildebeest, Mephistopheles marched directly to the garden. He put on his best smile, sharpened his mind like a blade. Perhaps he could discuss the latest meeting of the House of Lords with his old friend. They could exchange controversial takes on the difference between the ruling generation and the successors! What an opportunity for an intellectual discussion that could also demonstrate Mephisto’s thorough understanding of Devildom politics. 

It was a good day. A perfect day to take back what was his rightful place at Lord Diavolo’s side.

A good day that was instantly soured by Lucifer’s smug face smirking over the lip of a teacup. 

“Ah, Mephisto!” Diavolo stood from his seat to spread his arms in welcome. His large frame knocked the table ever so slightly, a bit of tea sloshing out of Lucifer’s cup. Mephistopheles couldn’t help the twinge of satisfaction he felt at Lucifer’s frown. 

Lord Diavolo was speaking. Mephisto could see his lips moving, his hands gesturing to the seat across from him at the table. However, Mephisto’s mind was too busy racing, clinging to the swiftly dying embers of hope, calculating how best to get rid of Lucifer. Could he curse the man’s tea? Make it so he has to leave with stomach troubles?

No, Lord Diavolo would see through that. And if he didn’t, Barbatos would, Mephistopheles was sure. A quick survey of the surroundings told him Diavolo’s all-mighty butler was absent, which was… odd. He had expected Barbatos. He hadn’t expected Lucifer.

Regardless, the poison his tea plan was off the table.

The table at which he settled himself, Lord Diavolo rushing to pour a delicate herbal tea into a mug. Bitterly, Mephistopheles wondered if the Demon Prince had poured Lucifer’s tea for him.

“I’m so glad you could join me today, Mephisto,” Diavolo beamed, pushing a plate of pastries - his favorite flavors, Mephistopheles noticed with satisfaction - towards him. “I hope you don’t mind that Lucifer decided to drop by as well! The more, the merrier, as they say!”

Mephisto did mind. He minded quite a bit actually. Still, he bit his tongue and offered a diplomatic smile, tactfully avoiding Lucifer’s arrogant glare. “I’m grateful for the chance to catch up with you, Lord Diavolo.”

“Really,” Diavolo’s smile wilted into a grimace, “You don’t have to be so formal, Mephisto. We grew up together! Call me Dia, if you want. I don’t mind!”

Mephisto couldn’t help it. His chest swelled with pride. He preened his invisible feathers (Absently, he considered that if he had been an angel, he would have had fourteen wings. Two more than Lucifer, at least)  - Diavolo was okay with him calling him a nickname! That just showed how close they were! 

“I’m honored that you still hold me in such high regard, Dia,” Mephisto drew out the name, exaggerating it as one would grant a lover a pet name. He could see Lucifer bristle in his peripheral.

“Well of course!” Diavolo laughed, “I enjoy casual familiarity between friends, isn’t that right, Lucifer?”

Lucifer did not avert eye contact as he dipped his head in acknowledgement, “That’s correct…Dia.”

And Diavolo’s laughter only became more boisterous. He clapped his hands together, delightment practically dripping from his pores. “Oh, would you listen to that! How fun! We’re the closest friends, are we not?”

Mephistopheles was ready to accept this fate. It was fine, he had decided, resigned to the truth that separating Diavolo from Lucifer was a task too impossible to pull off. He could still be in Lord Diavolo’s good books alongside the aggravating ex-angel. Maybe the three of them could become an unstoppable trio! He wasn’t keen on direct communication with Lucifer, but perhaps Diavolo could act as a mediator. 

Unfortunately, his mild manner fizzled out the moment the door to the gardens slammed open. There you were, in all your captivating glory, storming towards the tea party with a fire in your eyes. You weren’t alone, either. Barbatos watched you with amusement glimmering in his gaze as he held the door open for Mammon, who was unable to match the former’s energy. No, Mammon looked like a balloon animal drained from any helium. He dragged his feet, trailing after you like a petulant toddler who had just been told he had to eat his vegetables before getting ice cream. 

Mephistopheles wasn’t entirely sure why Mammon decided to choose the seat next to him, though he was too interested in the unfolding situation to really care.

“Dia! Lucifer! We need your help!” You began, snagging a pastry from Mephisto’s plate (the one curated by Lord Diavolo) to nibble on. “Mammon lost a very expensive piece of jewelry and the thief seems to have set up a scavenger hunt! We think the clues will lead us to the necklace!”

Mephisto stifled a snort. One look at Mammon told him everything that remained unsaid - there was no thief involved at all, only a demon who had set up such a scenario in hopes of gifting something special in lieu of confessing his feelings. It seemed that Lucifer could read between the lines as well, his eyes darting to fix his younger brother with an unreadable stare. 

Diavolo, however, took the tale at face value. “Fascinating!” He exclaimed, already rushing to his feet, “Lead the way! We have to decipher the clues!”

And as you led your parade of support from the Demon Prince and the Avatar of Pride, Mammon hung back. He sighed, long and low, letting his head loll on his shoulder. His eyes dull with defeat, he chuckled a sound that held no mirth. “You too, huh?”

Mephistopheles sniffed, “I am nothing like you.”

“Fine. Be like that.” And then he pulled himself up, a puppet with loose strings sauntering towards the castle. “I’ll let ya know how Diavolo likes the necklace.”

“Wait!” Just like that, Mephisto found himself back at Mammon’s side in an undignified display of desperate sprinting. He eyed the fallen angel warily, “Any chance you can pretend you didn’t see that?”

“Sure,” Mammon shrugged, “But you owe me one.”

*・゜・*:.。.*.。.:*・☆・゜・*:.。.*.。.:*・☆・゜

The favor was repaid with princess dia and prince Lucifer stickers. I usually prefer to format the chats differently, but I'm a little restricted with Tumblr, unfortunately. My requests are open! Find out more HERE!

[queerofthedagger]

Maemags 24 please ❤️🙏

Ahh hii, thank you for the prompt!! <3

Sing, O Muse

[Maedhros/Maglor | T+ | 1,1k | ao3]

Maemag + a kiss in danger from this list

When it happens, Maglor is entirely unprepared.

He and Maedhros are out hunting for the first time since they moved East, spring finally spreading its fingers across the cold north. Both the Gap and Himring are still more construction than actual stronghold, but the winds have changed and the sun offers tentative warmth, and so, they had thought, things were looking up.

It made them careless.

Maglor should have been prepared. It is nigh on unforgivable that he is not. But he is not, and so the Orcs break through the treeline just as Maedhros turns his back, and everything descends into bloodcurdling chaos from there.

They are surrounded and separated within moments. If they had been prepared, they would have been fine. If they had seen this coming, if Maglor was not so distracted by Maedhros fighting in his periphery, by their guard trying and failing to break through to him—

If Maglor had been prepared, they would have been fine. But he was not, and so the Orcs fall not as quickly to his blade as they ought to.

They might not win. They might lose, the possibility crystallising like all his most well-worn nightmares come true.

And so he does what he promised himself never to do, by some tenacious remnant of hope that there might be one thing of himself not to be sacrificed to this accursed land. He does what he promised not to and raises his voice in song—after all, what is the point of keeping a part of himself untainted if it means accepting the grim resignation on Maedhros’ face as the Orcs swarm him?

And so Maglor sings. Sings of jagged mountain tops and their breaking, of tearing earth asunder. Sings of loss and guilt and the bright, dazzling rage of it, sinking into the hollow places between bone and sinew. He sings of blood, the price its drawing demands, and how it feels on your skin once it cloys. He sings and sings and sings, until the world goes still and he no longer feels like breaking open, like spilling all his failures across the frozen ground until he finds his lifeless brother’s mangled body at the end of them.

The world has gone still, and when Maglor drags himself back from the brink, he surveys the result of it all.

It has, he notes with strange detachment, been far more effective than he thought possible. Songs of Power are nothing new, but in Valinor, they are not used for this—for violence, for the breaking of things, for anything but delight.

He had expected them to give him an edge. He had not expected to level the battlefield and the forest, everything but Maedhros who remains, untouched and staring at Maglor as if he has been awoken from a long and terrible sleep.

Even their horses are gone. Maglor’s throat feels as if he has swallowed glass.

If he had known. If he had so much as suspected, he might have—he could have—

“Makalaurë,” Maedhros says, his voice cutting through the silence.

He looks like he wants to say more, but behind him, even parts of the forest have been levelled, and Maglor—

Maglor crosses the distance between them, across the bodies of Orcs and crumbled weapons; invades Maedhros’ space, one hand to the ruined face of him, and pulls him down into a kiss that tastes of blood and ash and promised spring days.

They have not touched since Fingon had brought Maedhros back. Maglor knew he had no right, no matter what they used to be to each other—his hands too stained, too useless. He had not dared to lay them on Maedhros again, whether in affection or to help with the healing, to help with all that came after; endless hours on Mithrim’s shore as Maedhros clawed his way back to mastery of his sword and body.

Maglor had not touched him. After all, what use had he been? But now—now—

Beneath his touch, Maedhros freezes. Reality comes back in increments and then all at once.

Maglor pulls away, shame and guilt trying to rise before he meets Maedhros’ eyes, sees the familiar consideration in them. Finds that he cannot move back any further, Maedhros’ hand having found his waist, holding him still.

They hover there, a breath of space between them. There is a small crease between Maedhros’ brows and blood on his cheeks, and after moments or an eternity later, he hums. Lets his gaze drop back to Maglor’s mouth and leans down, kissing him lightly once, twice, before pressing close.

He licks into Maglor’s mouth, slow and deliberate; sinks his teeth into Maglor’s bottom lip, just this side of too much, and it is this, more than anything, the familiar, sharp pleasure racing down his spine, that finally makes Maglor believe that this is real. That Maedhros means it.

He pushes closer, makes a noise so far removed from the famed minstrel that at any other time, he would be embarrassed about it, and cannot bring himself to care. He is flying, higher and higher as Maedhros keeps kissing him, precise and devastating and wonderfully, shockingly alive beneath Maglor’s hands.

When they break apart, both their breathing is going fast. Around them, the forest is still quiet, almost peaceful in its desolation.

Maedhros runs a thumb across Maglor’s jaw, tilts his head. “I was not aware Songs of Power could do that.”

There is no accusation in it, no question. Maglor shrugs and says, deliberately light, “Me neither.”

Maedhros’ eyes alight on him. “Why would you have—you should not take such risks, Káno.”

“I should have taken more of them,” Maglor snaps, his voice like gravel. “I will not lose you again, Nelyo. I cannot.”

For a moment, it looks like Maedhros is about to say more, and Maglor knows exactly what it would be; that Maedhros is not something that needs protecting. That Maglor needs to take care of himself. That he should not worry, should not punish himself so.

In the end, though, Maedhros merely pulls him close once more; presses his lips to Maglor’s forehead, the corner of his mouth, his lips. Exhales against him, slow and steady, as if their falling back together is as much relief to him as it is to Maglor.

Perhaps it is; perhaps it is not, Maglor does not have the answer.

What he does know is that there is no world where he will not forge his voice into a weapon to sink all of Beleriand if it means he may keep his brother safe.

[philistiniphagottini]

congratulations on 400 followers!!! 🫶 sending love from all anons teehee

if domestic bliss was still open, i’d love to make a request since there’s a lack of fem characters. so long as its open ofc!! i was torn between kafka and firefly (and i’m also open to blade).. i was hoping you could choose between whoever you felt most up-to writing with the nail polish prompt :> either female reader doing blade/kafka’s nails, or firefly doing ours please? if i’m too late then i understand ❤ THANK YOU SM even for reading this and considering, i hope your day is going very well <333🫶🫶

Hi! Thank you so much for the love, I appreciate it <3 Not gonna lie, I had trouble choosing because I had an idea for all the characters but I picked Kafka so I can have some practice writing her. Thanks again, I hope to see you around.

cw. fluff, female reader

Domestic Bliss

It was early in the evening when Kafka decided to drape herself over you. You were just simply relaxing on the couch, playing a game on your phone when she sauntered up to you and practically fell into your lap. The couch shifted from her sudden weight as she threw her legs over yours, squishing herself into your side as she peered over to look at your phone screen. You could see her reflection on the screen and the subtle purse of her plump lips told you in an instance that she wanted something. You did not even have to ask, she would let you know what she desired. She idly curled a lock of your hair around her finger, her gaze lidded as her lips parted around a sultry purr of your name. 

“Dearest” she said, her voice barely above a breathy whisper. “Would you so kindly do my nails for me again? I adore how you paint them.”

She kissed the wisps of your hair that weaved around her slender fingers, her nails sharp like daggers as she playfully wriggled them in your line of sight. A soft hum bubbled up your throat as her cloying words sank deep into your bones, ringing in your ears like a chime from a shimmering bell. You nodded in response to her words, head already feeling giddy at the thought of painting her nails again. 

“Sure, just let me go get my kit.”

You leaned forward and pecked her on the cheek, a soft chuckle breezing past her lips as she purred like a contented cat. You put your phone to the side and gently tapped her legs. She moved and allowed you to wriggle out from underneath her so you could fetch the nail polish. You were only gone for a moment before you wandered back to her, a small box in your hands and a beaming smile stretching your lips. You dragged a small, wooden table in front of Kafka, getting her to rest her hand upon it as you sat down on the other side. You started to rummage around the box, bottles of nail polish softly clicking together as you dug around.

“What colour do you want?” you inquired.

Kafka hummed in thought before she shrugged. “How about you decide.”

You nodded as you picked up a few bottles of purple and pink from the array of colours littering the box. A small noise rumbled in your chest as you brought the different bottles close to her face, trying to best match the magenta colour of her lipstick. Once you were satisfied that you found one you put the others away only to pick out one of bottles of bright, glittering polish.

“I think I'll do two coats” you mused as you started to shake the bottle of nail polish. “I'll put the magenta as the base and the glitter as the top coat. How does that sound?”

“Suits me just fine.”

You smiled in response as you popped the lid of the bottle and set about your task. Kafka's nails were always immaculately manicured, not a single chip in her long nails and always sharpened like the claws of a predator. They were the perfect canvas to paint as you started to apply the coat of nail polish. She sat perfectly still for you, eyes shimmering in amusement and a coy smile tilting her lips as she watched you concentrate. She could paint her own nails if she wanted to, but it wasn't the same as when you did it. You were always so delicate with her, not a single mean bone in your body as you applied the nail polish with such a softness that she barely even felt a thing. She offered you her other hand when you asked for it and continued to watch you work with mild fascination. You were good at what you did and it was obvious with every single stroke of the brush. You were wearing a bright smile once you were done with applying both coats, allowing Kafka to have her hands back. 

“Done!” you exclaimed. 

Kafka held her hands up to the light, admiring the way her nails shimmered and sparkled like jewels. 

“Well done” she praised. 

Before you could put the nail polish away she snatched both bottles off the table, an expectant look in her eyes as she gestured to you. 

“Now, it's your turn. We need to match” she cooed. 

[coffeeghoulie]

“Fucking doesn’t involve this much talking usually”

Swiss/aether

Ghockey au if you’re so inclined

ohhhhh hell yeah, I was thinking about how I hadn't done any Swiss/Aether in the hockey au yet

please ignore the way there's literally one line that puts this in the hockey au lmao

Contains lazy sex and Aether's praise kink he refuses to admit he has

prompt from this list, and divider by @ghuleh-recs <3

It's always a treat to have Swiss like this, Aether admits. The view is... fuck. The view sure is something. Aether can't find the words for it on a good day, never mind right now. He props himself up on his elbows to get a better angle.

Big, brown eyes stare back up at him. Swiss's smile is just as bright as he leans his face against his thigh, knelt at the end of the bed between Aether's legs. He can hear the way his stubble scrapes against the denim of his jeans. Aether reaches down to card through his dark curls.

"Oh, come on, Aeth, lemme?" Swiss says, teasing and warm. A big hand skates up the front of his stomach, slipping underneath his shirt to card through the thick trail of hair disappearing under his waistband. His cock throbs, filling out in interest as Swiss's breath fans hot against it even through two layers of fabric.

Aether rolls his eyes. "Like it's even a question," he says. "'M not gonna say no to you."

Deft fingers immediately attack the zipper and button of his pants. He's considerate enough to lift his hips so Swiss can pull down his pants and underwear in one fell swoop. His cock, thickening and filling out faster than he'd care to admit, smacks against the swell of his stomach.

Swiss tucks the elastic of his boxers under his balls. He never once takes his eyes off of Aether's face, even as he leans in and rubs his cheek against the coarse fuzz there.

Aether groans, eyes rolling back. He hisses through his teeth at the feeling of Swiss's stubble against sensitive skin.

"Oh, big guy liked that, didn't he?" Swiss coos, wrapping long, calloused fingers around his cock. He presses a kiss, wet, sloppy, against the base. Clever tongue trailing up the vein running up the shaft until it teases at his foreskin.

Aether's fist curls into the sheets, the other hand rucking up his shirt further. His cock throbs hard as he sees the glint in Swiss's eyes.

"Such a nice dick, Aeth, feels so good in my hand," Swiss says, letting his eyelashes flutter as he kisses the head. It's getting ruddier with every passing second, even with the minimal stimulation. His cheeks are flushing the same color. "You always make me and Dewey feel so good with it, figured it's time to return the favor."

He braces himself for the wet heat of Swiss's mouth, of teeth tucked behind lips and mind-numbing suction, but the next thing Aether feels is the nip of teeth against his hip, moving up the exposed skin of his belly.

"God, love feeling you like this," Swiss whispers reverently before sucking a mark above his hip. He rubs his stubble against the sensitized flesh as blood pools under the surface already. "All of that strength, sure, I get to watch it when we work, but there's nothing better than this."

Aether does not whine, thank you very much, but it's a close thing. His dick throbs and he throws an arm over his eyes. Suddenly the sight of Swiss between his thighs is too much, even though the only skin visible is a bit of sternum where he's unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt.

"Aw, too much?" Swiss says, almost cloying. His hand moves on Aether's cock, the wet stripe where he licked enough to smooth the way. "Don't worry, I'll be so good to you, Aeth. You deserve to be taken care of good and proper, the way you watch out for us."

Aether tries to ignore the way Swiss's silver tongue makes his chest ache. He instead tries to focus on his hand on his dick, but he's not moving. "Swiss," he says, not quite a warning. This isn't a thing, just something spontaneous after a lazy afternoon spent laying together on the couch, no obligations except for Dew herding Lady into her carrier to go to her vet appointment for shots an hour or two ago.

"What?" Swiss laughs, tonguing through his slit. "You mean to tell me you don't deserve it?"

Aether groans, hand reaching to Swiss's curls again. He doesn't pull or push. Just something to hold onto. "Oh, don't start with this again," he begs. "Please, just- Fucking doesn't involve this much talking, usually."

"You're one to talk, Mr. 'I'll Sing Everyone's Praises But My Own,'" Swiss laughs, but he actually tightens his grip and starts stroking Aether's cock with purpose. "Besides, we're not fucking. I'm making you feel good."

"Then make me feel good," Aether snips, but there's no heat. Besides, he's still carding through Swiss's hair, petting him softly.

"Ask nice for what you want, Aeth, and I'll do it," Swiss promises, and Aether's known him long enough to know he's a man of his word. "Anything."

Aether smiles, expression breaking with a groan as Swiss mouths along his thick shaft. There's the barest, tiniest hint of the flats of his teeth. "Fucking-" He cuts himself off, taking a long, shuddering breath. "I want your mouth on me, Swiss, please give it to me."

Another flash of that grin makes Aether's brain go offline. "As my good boy wishes."

The groan Aether lets out is immediately cut off as Swiss swallows him whole.

[rosella-writes]

happy friday! for dadwc this week, perhaps "Using your body to shield them from attack." from the acts of service prompts for a pairing of your choice :3

Thank you!! For @dadrunkwriting

Pairing: Eilonwy Amell x Morrigan Rating: M for gore and violence Tags: darkspawn gore, wounds, body horror Words: 439

~~~

Eilonwy sensed the hurlock before it struck — its sickly song was more than its gurgling groan, more than the whistle of air around its striking weapon, more than the patchwork armour that creaked when it moved. But even her sense for the creature couldn’t help her turn fast enough to intercept its blow. 

But Morrigan could. 

Her body furled around Eilonwy like a closing petal. Bones groaned, skin stretched, and the tang of her magic on the air was thick and cloying with pain — she disappeared into a burst of feathers and a drip-drip-dribble of blood. The hurlock, bewildered and lacking its weapon, reached for Eilonwy now with bare hands. 

Her thudding heart threatened to choke her. Rage, such as the Templars had guarded against, felt like fire in her veins. The charred tip of her staff flared coal-bright — the skin on the hurlock’s fingers peeled back like burnt paper.

Eilonwy’s own two hands reached back — her staff lay between them, no more use to her than a scorched branch — and her pale skin was lurid and bright as sunlight against its rotten skull. Its gnashing teeth nearly caught one of her fingers. Its burning hands scrabbled against her Warden armour. Its face began to melt like wax beneath her palms. 

She hooked her nails between plates of bone.

Its screeches of battle dissolved into screams. She felt the rip of that noise in her own throat — maybe she was screaming too. 

Its body was beneath her now, pinned by her knees. She hunched over it — primal as the magic she’d once rejected in favour of the study of entropy — and clawed into its face, down its throat, into its sinuses, its brain. All burned at her touch.

Wild magic snapped and crackled around her, completely out of control. 

Something ripped at the creature’s throat. 

Eilonwy glanced down, nearly blind with rage and tears, to find a familiar ferret, black as night, trying to help. A great wound gaped in its side, but it wriggled in between Eilonwy and the hurlock’s chest, chirping and scolding and pausing only to gorge on darkspawn vocal chords. 

The hurlock was no longer moving. 

Eilonwy fell back on her haunches, something she now recognised as sobs ripping through her chest and throat. The ferret came with her — it wriggled up to span her shoulders instead. It still scolded, sounding not unlike the witch herself on a normal day. Eilonwy clutched it close. 

“Morrigan, why did you do that?”

The ferret only chittered. Eilonwy petted the length of its spine, murmuring and sobbing, and slowly willed the wound in its side to knit closed.

[oogaboogasphincter]

black jaguar | dave york x f!reader

dave returns home from a job and can’t wait to indulge in you.

word count/warnings: 1.1k+ words // EXPLICIT (18+ ONLY) MDNI!: reader and dave are married, reader has no physical description other than she has stretch marks, slight dub-con due to consensual somnophilia, primal kink like woah, masturbation (m and f), marking/love bites, mild blood mentions, dave is dark!coded and like slightly possessed in this bc it’s spooky season babyyy hehe 😈

a/n: i’m so excited to be participating in kinktober this year! i’m not following a specified prompt list or anything, but i have four pieces planned that i’ll release throughout the month (and possibly a series that i’ve been working on, but it might need more time to develop tbh) i hope you enjoy! <3

Dave comes into your bedroom and shuts the door behind him impossibly quiet, leaving you undisturbed in your peaceful slumber. The bottoms of his boots stick to the carpet, the blood of his slain enemy cloying with the fibers, and root him to the spot. The smart decision would’ve been to take them off downstairs and not trail evidence throughout the house, but right now, his rationality is plagued by a fog of desire; a ravenous compulsion clawing its way from his stomach and tearing pangs of hunger, thirst up his throat, leftover adrenaline from his job webbing the whites of his eyes with red. From the foot of your bed, he greedily drinks in the image of his perfect wife and plots his feast.

Your cheek is turned on the pillow, the eerie moonbeams that stream in through the window are reborn into holy light as they touch your face. On your stomach, one leg is hiked up, exposing your glistening core. A vibrator lays dormant just out of reach of your hand and there’s a wet spot on the sheets betwixt your thighs.

This is the only time that Dave allowed you to touch yourself, when he was away on a job. You would fret so much over him, wondering and worrying which dark corner of the world he found himself in, what morally questionable people he came into contact with, what dangerous conditions he had thrown himself into this time… all in the name of making sure he could take care of you. There was no other option but to fuck your self stupid in order to fall asleep every night. Of course, it was nothing like his brand of ecstasy, but it had to be enough to tide you over until he returned.

His gloves, ripped from his impatience to get them off, follow his bloodied jacket to the floor. He prowls forward with footsteps that hold the weight of the world but don’t make a sound. He sits next to you on your side of the bed, leaning in so close he can smell your arousal, surrendering his control to your allure like the tides to the moon. He studies your body, assessing exactly where he’d like to lay claim tonight. His lips, chapped from the bitter chill outside, press against your naked lower back in a litany of kisses, prepping your skin for his impending release.

Unable to stave off the craving any longer, he takes his cock out of his slacks and begins dragging his fingers along his length, stroking himself to hardness until the veins that run perpendicular to his girth are rigid with depravity. Resting on his forearm, he drops his nose down to the sheets and nestles the pool of slick you left in your wake, a groan shaking up his back and rumbling through his teeth. He drags his tongue along the wet spot, grunting with a newfound softness at your taste. Your essence is so sweet, so honest; deep down in his heart, he feels unworthy of such salvation, but he keeps gorging on you in the hopes that some of your purity might lodge itself in his heart.

His eyes rove over the slopes of your body, seamlessly riding along your every curve with awe. He reaches his fingers out to touch you for the first time in weeks and it’s like he’s been struck with a lightning bolt. Heart rate picks up, sweat breaks out on his forehead, his hips hump the air in a pathetic jolt. He traces the stretch marks that encircle your hips, dipping into the deeper ones like a ravine and following their length with reverence, swept away by their current.

His touch falls over your ass, depositing him at the precious apex of your thighs. With surgical precision, keeping you suspended in the dream realm, he finds his way into your folds and gathers some of your fresh wetness. It’s like you could sense that he’s there, priming your body for him subconsciously. Bringing it to his mouth and engulfing it, he doesn’t allow himself to drink directly from you because he’s entertained enough sins tonight. Tainting your sweetness with his stroke of malevolence would be irredeemable.

But Dave is far from a saint. His rough fingertips slink to your clit and circle it, eliciting some soft whimpers from your parted lips. His grip on his cock tightens at your sounds, gliding from base to tip at a frenzied speed. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying not to burst so soon, because the sight of your angelic form only propels him toward his peak. With his other senses heightened, your arousal feels even more luscious against his fingers; your sleepy, pitiful moans worm into his mind and make a deep magenta pound behind his eyelids. The air in his lungs is knocked out of him, a choked-out gasp squeezing out of his chest.

Some primal urge maws its way from inside his bones and unleashes itself in his body, flooding him with a raw mixture of possessiveness and love. Hunched over your back, he lurches forward and takes the flesh of where your neck and shoulder meet between his teeth as he comes hard, growling lowly in your ear. You awaken with a gasp, but not one of distaste; your voice quickly melts into a passionate moan as you recognize the distinct timbre that underlines Dave’s groaning. If it were anyone else but Dave, his sounds would be dramatic, silly even. But you know he’s not putting on any kind of show, that those animalistic sounds reverberate from his chest organically, and it puts a satisfied grin on your face.

The sticky drops of his release land on your lower back, their paths curving with the slope of your body. Once he’s emptied himself completely, Dave puts a hand in between your shoulder blades, keeping you pinned beneath him for his viewing pleasure. He stares at your marked skin, from the translucent glimmer of sweat and spend on your back to the bite on your neck that is already blooming purple with blood. He collapses and molds himself to you, pressing dainty kisses to your neck as his instinct to nurture begins stemming back into his psyche. His fingers ghost against your wound almost apologetically. Almost.

He would feel a little more remorseful if it weren’t for the adoring glow in your eyes when you finally meet his gaze. God, he’d been aching to see you. He practically has a portfolio of you in his mind, countless memories that he can replay like film whenever he chooses, but nothing will ever come close to simply being in your presence. For the first time since he left you, a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. Your mirror it, as his true counterpart.

“Welcome home.”

main masterlist ♡ join my taglist!

💘taglist (if you’re crossed out it means i couldn’t tag you): @pascalpanic @melody13522 @tenderwhat @maievdenoir @pedrostories @uncassettodiricordi @harriedandharassed

[masterwords]

all is bright

Summary: After a long series of failed dates, Hotch and Morgan finally come to their senses thanks to some well-placed mistletoe.

Pairing: Hotch/Morgan

Words: 6.3k

Warnings: stomach illness mentioned, migraine, foyet mention...99% mutual pining turned first kiss

Read on AO3: all is bright

Notes: Hey there! It's been a hot minute since I posted anything. A long holiday vacation and some major flooding in our town and our house has meant not much writing time. But, I have this for you today. <3 The first of many wintry Christmas themed fics this month, and one of two that are not Secret Santa gifts! This one was written for @imagining-in-the-margins Office Party Challenge using the prompt: Characters end up beneath very suspiciously placed mistletoe at the holiday party. (I have a 2nd story in the works for this challenge as well, different prompt but same pairing of course.)

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“I saw you last night,” Derek said casually, stepping into Hotch’s office with his bag still slung over one shoulder. To Hotch he looked a little tired but he was dressed up in a black button down and slacks, put together in a way he wasn’t usually and it was a little distracting. “At the bar.”

“And you didn’t say hello?” Hotch barely looked up, just a flick of his eyes, then back at his paperwork. Derek entered like that was an invitation, just a little further. He’d wait another minute before coming in completely, let Hotch warm up or push him on his way. He didn’t have a lot of time anyway.

“You looked...occupied. A date?”

“You could call it that. It was an attempt anyway.”

“Good for you!” He meant that, too. Haley had been dead a year, and it seemed to rock him right back to the moment of his divorce, maybe worse. He’d been paralyzed completely, but the loneliness had started to feel crushing. Hopeless. And the longer it went on, the harder it felt to claw his way back out. Derek took his opportunity to drag a chair over and perch himself right in front of Hotch’s desk, to sit and talk with him for a moment. A spot of real connection after a long period of silence. He thought things would be different, but they’d settled back into uncomfortable silence as Hotch retreated into himself.

Hotch couldn’t help looking up at the sudden intrusion.

“It didn’t go well.” He didn’t look too upset by it. He kept his features carefully guarded, but it did sting to admit. He’d met Noel at the gym, not exactly the best place to meet someone but not the worst by a long shot. They’d started going around the same time, Hotch because he needed to supplement his physical therapy as he attempted to regain his fitness after Foyet’s attack and Noel because he was trying to lose ten pounds for a part. Of course he was an actor. He thought Haley would have laughed at that. In any case, they’d managed to talk about theatre while running on the treadmill, avoiding any topics of real import. After a couple of weeks and a successful audition, Noel casually asked Hotch out for a drink. “To celebrate,” he said and Hotch found that he had no real good reason to say no.

He was so damn lonely.

He gave himself a fifty fifty chance at success, having been out of the dating game long enough to be rusty but he still had a pretty firm grasp of the basics. By the end of the night he knew it wasn’t a match. Even when Noel said “I’ll call you,” and tried to kiss him on the cheek, he knew that was it. And that was okay. Like Rossi told him earlier that morning, at least he went out and tried. He got out of the house, he met someone new, he tried an appletini for the first time because his date insisted it was the best drink the bartender made (and hated every second of it, the cloying sweetness making him gag on every sip). He got out of his comfort zone and the loneliness was abated some, overall a success even if the attempt at a match was an abysmal failure.

“How is that even possible? Aaron Hotchner doesn’t fail at anything.”

Hotch sighed and put his pen down, knowing that he was unlikely to get out of this conversation without giving up some details. He put on his bravest face and sucked in a breath, not thrilled about admitting this failure to Derek Morgan of all people. There were layers to that reasoning. “For starters, he was attached to his phone the whole time. His notification sound was Minnie Mouse. He wanted to get all of my social media handles and seemed incredibly concerned when I told him that I had none. He asked me how I could possibly live without having at least one.”

“Yeah, I run into that a lot too.” Derek wouldn’t comment on the Minnie Mouse bit, but the guy sounded like a disaster. He was a little glad it didn’t work out because from his vantage point, that guy was hot as hell and he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t been a little jealous. From where he sat, it looked like Hotch was smiling and having a good time. He had to fight every instinct in his body not to go break in and ask Hotch to dance when the jukebox kicked up with some old Dwight Yoakam.

“He wanted to take photos of me and I asked him not to. At one point he insisted that SnapChat was safe for me to use because the photos disappeared. I tried to be polite but it’s hard to tell someone you can’t be in their photos without explaining why. They tend to think you’re just a jerk.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Just that my job requires me to operate cautiously.” That was an understatement, of course, and there was a lot more to it than that. He’d been stalked and stabbed in his own home, it wasn’t just his job that made him operate with an abundance of caution. He’d always been reserved even with people he knew well, more since Haley died. He’d practically sealed himself off. This date...he was stepping so far outside of his comfort zone and realizing quickly how very not ready he still was. He might never actually be ready.

Derek just nodded and smiled, leaning back in the chair. He crossed his legs and couldn’t hide the jaw cracking yawn that followed the movement.

“Late night?” Hotch asked, changing the subject abruptly. He’d had enough of talking about Noel, in fact if he never talked about him or saw him again he thought that would be just fine. It might have been a worthwhile experience but it still hurt. There was an ache in his chest he couldn’t quite shake and it didn’t have as much to do with Noel as it did simply being aware that he didn’t know how to do any of this. He wasn’t used to that feeling. And if he didn’t know how to do this, then he couldn’t shake the loneliness of an empty bed. “I saw you too, you know.”

“Yeah? So you saw me get my ass kicked to the curb huh?”

“It looked a little heated, but I figured you had it handled.”

“I don’t know if I’d say that, but I’ll bounce back. Plenty of fish in the sea.” He was so tired that he’d started using his mom’s words now. Every time he told her about a heart break, which was more often than he’d like to admit (and more often than anyone would believe) she told him the same thing. “You’ll be okay, my darling boy. You’re a catch.” He was starting to seriously doubt that statement.

“If you don’t mind me asking, what happened?”

“Classic BAU problem. I don’t make time for him. He’s been asking me to go on this cruise with him. And okay, yeah, some time off would be nice...but you know how that is. And I love beaches and sand and cocktails...but a cruise? Man, I don’t wanna be on a boat for a week with a bunch of screaming kids and drunk retirees.”

“Sounds like a nightmare.” Hotch had been on a cruise once with Haley and her family, before Jack. It was worse than Derek could imagine, of that he was certain. It had been a sensory nightmare for a man who enjoys peace and quiet. Even the room was overstimulating, and when he got back on land all he wanted was to hide in his backyard for a week recovering, tinkering, gardening. For a man who loves boats, the novelty wore off fast. He didn’t think Derek could do it.

“Right? That’s what I said. But he got these tickets, all inclusive, and he’s been after me for weeks.”

“I’d approve the time off, if you wanted to give it a shot.”

“Nah. I realized last night that we’ve been trying to force something that wasn’t right anyway. The physical stuff was fun but that’s about it. We’re incompatible. He likes soccer.”

“I like soccer,” Hotch said a little indignantly, his lips ticking up at the corners in a little smirk. Derek laughed.

“Well there’s no accounting for taste, but I can forgive you for it.”

Hotch let out a small laugh and lifted his pen again, just for something to do with his hands. He ran his fingers along the smooth line of it and flipped it over his knuckles. There have been times over the years that he’s wondered about he and Derek, if things were different, if they’d met under different circumstances. Playing in the land of make believe, that’s what his dad would have called it. No what ifs, those didn’t exist and would never exist because the time had passed. They were compatible in nearly every way, sometimes to the point of it being a little ridiculous, but he simply could not indulge himself in that way. He couldn’t ask Derek out, not ever, because it would be so wildly inappropriate of him to cross that line. And Derek would probably not be interested in him anyway, that was a pipe dream. Having things in common didn’t exactly mean romantically compatible, he was smart enough to know that.

Except when he glanced up again and met Derek’s eyes, there was something there that looked dangerous and inviting. Like he was indulging the same thoughts. It was so hard to turn the inner profiler off, especially when you can’t do anything about what’s on your mind. He’d be silly to think Derek hadn’t ever considered it too, really, even if it had only been a passing thought. Another what if. It took them almost no time at all to discover that each of them was bisexual, even if Hotch was married at the time. Haley made it well known to Derek over plenty of late night dinners and too many glasses of wine that Hotch was a theater kid, “if you know what I mean”. And Derek, well he was simply confident. It had taken him a long time to gain that confidence, a lot of years of hiding and shame built up before he decided it didn’t serve him and he was losing precious time to be happy. Plenty of fish. He was a catch. He deserved to be happy, or so his mother said. Fran Morgan said a lot of things, he had come to find out.

Except as he sat in that chair across from Hotch, he knew that kind of real happiness was just out of reach. Because he’d come to realize that Hotch was that happiness. And so he became Captain Ahab and there weren’t plenty of fish, there was one white whale. Hotch’s principals were too strong, his code when it came to work was ingrained in him so deeply that he would never ask Derek out, and he couldn’t just ask his boss out. None of it was fair.

“I suppose things could be worse,” Hotch said finally, offering a small ray of hope. “Single isn’t the worst thing in the world. It does get a bit lonely, though.”

“At least you got the kid. He’s great.” Now. He had the kid now. Because Haley died and now he was forced into being a single parent. Derek felt awful for saying it but Hotch didn’t seem to think too hard about it, he just nodded in response.

“You have Clooney.”

“Well then we’re both doing just fine, huh? Anyway, I’ve got a meeting with Strauss in fifteen. I should drop my things off in my office before I have to see her.”

Hotch hummed in response and watched Derek lift his bag, heading for the door. He paused there in the door frame and looked back, only for a moment, offering a small smile.

“Plenty of fish in the sea,” he said, a little sadly and his white whale nodded. “Don’t lose hope.”

“I won’t if you won’t.”

(x)

The holidays always seemed to creep up on him. One minute it was summer, he was spending every minute with Jack he could outside of work, soaking up the sunshine and the little adventures that felt huge in the eyes of his young son. They spent a lot of time by the small courtyard pool, Hotch lying in the shade of a huge sun-bleached umbrella with a nostalgic 90s pattern still barely visible while Jack and his multitude of bright floating toys find endless amusement in the pool. Occasionally some of the neighbors would pop down, offer him a beer, let the other kids play a while, but it was always them first, them every day. It was their little sanctuary surrounded by cast iron gates and a bright blue sky. All day, camped out. He couldn’t go far, couldn’t take big long trips, he was tied to his job but they could go to the pool. Every day, sometimes. He’d pack up some hot dogs or take a frozen pizza from the oven and they would eat and enjoy the water well into the evening. It seemed to last forever and be over in the blink of an eye. Suddenly they were back to school, carving pumpkins, trick-or-treating, cooking a little Thanksgiving dinner for two (or three if Jessica didn’t have plans). And then he blinked again and it was Christmas Eve and he hadn’t done anything but work his tail end off and try to squeeze in some shopping when he could. It was Christmas Eve and he hadn’t taken Jack to see Santa, he hadn’t done much of anything.

Part of that this year he could chalk up to illnesses that had stacked up, one after another in their home. School had away of sucker punching them, and just when he thought they were coming out of one they’d be hit with another. The last illness was a brutal stomach virus that terrorized his home for a whole weekend. First Jack, then Jessica, then him, all taken down. None of them felt well enough to do anything more Christmasy than turn on a holiday movie and lay on the couch hoping not to need the bathroom. Hoping to sleep. Dreaming of eating something again, anything at that point. Hotch could have killed for a bite of dry wheat toast, but even that was too much during that awful weekend.

Jack bounced back first, followed by Jessica, and finally his body got the memo and allowed him to start eating and drinking again. “You’ve been through a lot in the last year,” Jessica said when he moaned about taking longer to feel better. He didn’t bounce back, he was crawling. “You have to give yourself time.”

He was still not feeling great, but he was back at work after almost a week. That awful weekend left him drained, and though he’d intended to go to work the following Monday, his body had other plans. He was knocked on his ass by a migraine from hell, no matter what tricks he employed it was completely debilitating. Three full days on his couch unable to do anything but the most basic functions of living. Jessica called it his illness hangover, everyone was feeling better and his body finally ran out of fumes to run on. He’d been taking care of everyone in spite of his own needs and when Jess went back to work and Jack went back to school, he all but collapsed. It wasn’t pretty. He cried more than once out of sheer frustration, a particularly low point he wasn’t proud of. But Jack made him a bowl of oatmeal with cinnamon and raisins and Jessica picked up his dry cleaning and did his grocery shopping and somehow he saw his way through it to the other side.

Three days was his limit. By the fourth day he was at least able to be upright, he could function. He’d be able to work at his desk and push through a pile of consults and administrative work. His jaw ached down into his neck and shoulders and he was wearing his glasses instead of his contacts out of pure necessity, but otherwise he was doing alright. Just exhausted. So exhausted, he didn’t even care that Christmas was almost over. And neither did Jack, really. They were all sort of ready to be done with it. He thought the hardest part would be dealing with the grief of a full year without Haley, their first real Christmas without her (because he could barely remember the first one, it was all such a blur of pain and work that he wasn’t even sure they did anything at all).

His routine upon entering his office was simple. Flip on the overhead light, do a quick walk through, set his briefcase in a corner within arm’s reach, turn on the space heater beneath his desk. After that first round, he would walk back and turn on the lamp, turning off the overhead light. Headache lighting. Finally, he started a pot of coffee. He could get a cup from the common area, but he had the stuff he liked right here and it would hide the dusty smell of his space heater.

With that done, he sat himself down and reclined in his chair, breathing a few times just to settle himself. Bring him here into the moment, ease the throbbing in his temples. He would make it a few hours at least if he moved slowly, if he was deliberate about how he spent his time.

His eyes caught on a small envelope, bright red and addressed in glitter pen to Sir Hotch. Penelope’s looping scrawl with a heart in place of the o in Hotch. He wondered how long it had been sitting there and he felt a small pang of guilt over it. Ridiculous and misplaced guilt for not being here, for leaving his team in the lurch. With a little hesitation, he grabbed his letter opener and sliced through the top of the envelope, sliding out a small white invitation emblazoned with brightly wrapped gifts and other various Christmas drawings. Hand drawn, he could tell. She made it herself.

A party invitation, at first glance. His eyes scanned the little pictures first, then lit on the actual information and he felt his stomach twist.

That night. 7pm. Bring a white elephant gift.

“Sir!” Penelope exclaimed as he read through the note a second time. “I didn’t realize you’d be back today. I sort of thought you’d be out until after the holiday...how are you feeling?” She didn’t bother to try and mask the way she looked him over with concern in her features. He didn't hold it against her, he knew he looked like death warmed over.

“Better, thank you,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry I’m only seeing your invitation now.”

“No, no, don’t worry about it. You don’t have to come. I’m sure you still need to rest. I actually just wanted to come up and say not to worry about it...I didn’t know you were sick when I brought it in here.”

He scanned the invitation again and offered her a smile. “You know, we haven’t done a single fun thing this season. I’m hoping to take Jack to the mall to see Santa tonight as a last ditch effort to save the holiday, it’s near your place. We could stop by afterward.”

The way Penelope’s face lit up set his heart on fire. She never expected him to come, that much was clear. Even if he hadn’t been sick, she had already prepared herself for him to politely decline. And he almost did, too. He knew he wasn’t likely to feel up for a party that night, he didn’t feel up for one right then either, but something told him he had to go for it. Even if it was just a quick pop in.

“That sounds...so great. Thank you sir. You don’t have to bring a white elephant gift...just...you guys just come. That’s the gift. Having you and Jack in my home.”

“I’ll bring something. I don’t want to throw off the count.” He smiled at that, hiding the fact that while he’d always been good at gift giving, white elephant exchanges had always eluded him. He was better at sincere than silly or broad. He’d have to ask Jessica, she would know what to buy. “Is there anything else you need? Food or drinks, utensils?”

She was beaming now, hardly able to contain herself. He could scarcely believe that him coming to her party was such a good thing. “Nope. Nothing. Just come.”

(x)

From the street, they could already see Penelope’s apartment. Jack had been there a few times for gatherings and once or twice when Hotch was in a pickle and needed someone to watch him for a few hours. She had really come through for him more than once. Her apartment window was lit up with bright twinkling lights from the inside, a gaudy Christmas tree drenched in decadent decorations right in the middle of the display. Shadows moved at the periphery, everyone was already inside. He knew he’d be late but he hadn’t realized just how late. The line to see Santa was shockingly long this late in the season, he really thought he’d be one of very few failures standing in line waiting for the last glimpse of the man in red. He had to leave early to begin delivering gifts, of course, so they were on a pretty strict clock. He made it just in time.

“Are we late, dad?” Jack asked as they entered the building, the air inside warming their cold noses and fingers. He was parked a few blocks away, somewhere with easy access to the mall and her place.

“A little,” he replied, nudging Jack past the elevator. They took the stairs up, Hotch insisting they’d warm up faster if they get their blood pumping. Jack didn’t think that was true, he just guessed his dad was afraid of elevators. He never took them if he didn’t have to.

They could hear Christmas music coming from Penelope’s apartment when they entered the hallway, and as they got closer they could begin to make out the song. Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree, the good version Hotch thought. The classic. He enjoyed all Christmas music, but he had a special affection for the oldies, the stuff his mom used to play on crackling vinyl when he was a kid.

“The Home Alone song!” Jack squealed, rushing toward the door and knocking excitedly. They had just watched that movie over the weekend and he’d been cleaning up all sorts of Jack’s little traps ever since. No wet bandits would be getting into their apartment on Jack’s watch. Penelope answered the door in a dress that almost hurt Hotch’s eyes, twinkling lights all over that reflected off of his glasses matched the biggest smile he’d ever seen.

“You made it! Did you see Santa?” She crouched to talk directly to Jack right away, leaving him standing there watching. He scanned the party and noticed that the entire team was packed inside of that little apartment.

“Yeah! I did!”

“What was he like? Did he smell like cookies? I always remember him smelling like sugar cookies.”

“He smelled like...candy canes!” Jack wrapped his arms around her neck when she extended her arms to him without hesitation. His hug was full and tight.

“What did you ask him for?”

“It’s a secret!”

“Oh, oh yeah...I guess I forgot that part. Come inside you two! It’s cold out here!” As Hotch entered, he extended his hand with a small wrapped gift inside. It was a little box, the smallest thing on the table and he was a little concerned he chose the wrong thing. He’d had plenty of ideas, all of which Jessica said were wrong or boring – she made the choice in the end, insisting that he would bring the one thing everyone in this crowd would need and no one would ever think of. No one would ever see it coming, especially from him. He wasn’t sure that was such a great thing, but it was done now. He’d committed.

They dove into the gift exchange almost immediately. He barely had time to get a mug of coffee in his hand before they were choosing numbers and stealing gifts from one another. His little box stayed put for a long time, almost insultingly long really. The big gifts were pulled first, followed by the more obvious secondary gifts. By the time his number was called there weren’t many left, and his options were slim so he decided just to take the box he’d brought and slink back into his little corner. Worried the gift was wrong, or might be interpreted incorrectly, he hoped he could just go back home with it and maybe return it after Christmas.

Once everyone was holding a gift from the pile, the real fun began – Penelope announced that one at a time, in their original order first, everyone could begin stealing gifts. One exceptionally large box made the rounds the longest, not because anyone thought the gift would be particularly good so much as they were curious what was hiding inside. Reid had brought the gift, Hotch knew it just by the look on his face as people passed it around and around curiously and he imagined it probably had a sock or something of equally little value but high amusement inside. For someone from Las Vegas, Reid's poker face left a lot to be desired.

Out of nowhere, Derek appeared in front of him with a grin. “I want that,” he said, indicating Hotch’s little gift. Reluctantly Hotch handed it to him and accepted what he had in his hand in return. They couldn’t trade back. That was it. Derek was the final trade and everyone was stuck with what they had.

His heart sank at the thought of Derek opening what he brought, of all people.

“Okay, on the count of three...everyone open your gift! Good luck!”

Hotch let Jack open his gift, even though Jack had a pile of gifts beneath the tree of his own to open when it was time. The little boy scrunched his nose once he got a peek and handed the gift to his dad to finish opening – it was a pair of mittens, nothing interesting to him. Nothing fun at all. He rushed back to where Henry sat beside the tree, eager to get into the really good stuff. Hotch examined the mittens, pulling them gingerly from the rest of the wrapping and holding them up to his hands – they would fit. Penelope made them, he could tell her handiwork (and he’d seen her in her office toiling over them during her lunch hour more than once in the last month). Mittens weren’t exactly his style but his hands did get cold easily and they were a deep, rich gray flecked with blue. He could wear them when the arctic chill in his office got unbearable. His circulation wasn’t what it used to be, if it ever was good in the first place. He tried not to watch Derek too closely when he opened his gift – pulling the little velvet bag out of the box and examining the contents with an amused smile on his face. There were three oversized wooden dice inside with words and little pictures burned into the sides. Date night dice, Jessica insisted they all needed this gift. She’d been hoping JJ would get it, probably, but each of them could use the help in that department. Date nights were spontaneous at best in their line of work, and you didn’t have time to sit and talk it out or make long term plans...it had to be quick and it had to be fun. Make the most of whatever time you get. She’d picked out the appropriate dice, simple food & activities, though she did try to push the sexy ones at him more than once. He drew the line at sexual gifts for his subordinates. Well, he drew the line quite a ways before that even, but that was definitely not going to happen.

The look on Derek’s face as he read the sides of the die made him smile in spite of himself. He seemed pleased with them, or amused maybe, and carefully slipped them into his pocket before heading back to the kitchen for a new drink. Hotch thought about following for a topper on his coffee but Jack’s voice called him to the tree where Penelope wanted the kids to start tearing into their pile of gifts before they went rabid and did tore apart her whole apartment. He made his way through the crowd and stood beside JJ and Will, the feeling of joy at seeing their kids happy and the dread of having to take all of this mess home and find places for it almost palpable between them. JJ was holding a small disposable camera in her hand that looked like it had been pulled right out of someone’s attic. “That from Reid?” he asked and she nodded, smiling. A little yellow Kodak disposable camera inside that enormous box. Reid outdid himself.

“I haven’t seen one of these since college. You think it still works?”

“Only one way to find out,” he replied, hoping she might test it out. The film was probably long since ruined, but the thought of having some of these memories preserved in that way was enticing. He’d always loved the look of real film. Or maybe he was just a nostalgic, sentimental old man now.

“They really went all out,” JJ said, shaking her head as her son ripped wrapping paper to shreds like a wolverine. “I don’t think Henry’s room is big enough.”

Hotch smiled and nodded in agreement, watching as Jack made it into the first of his many gifts. The whole team brought something for the kids, it was too much. Superheroes, books, legos, everything he loved. “Dad, look!” It was squealed over and over as Jack held up gift after gift and Hotch rubbed at the bridge of his nose where his glasses suddenly felt heavy and tried not to let on just how anxious all of that stuff made him feel. Knowing it would have to be in his home, exploding out of Jack's room. The boys finished and rushed around the room, hugging everyone before returning to their spoils and ripping into the boxes, comparing, relishing, delighting in the bright shiny new. Hotch’s head was starting to throb again, the heat and sound of the room was too much. The coffee wasn't helping as much as he'd hoped, but alcohol would have only made things worse. He began thinking about leaving, before it got bad enough that he didn’t think he should be driving Jack around on icy roads. This was the most time he’d spent off of his couch just about all month and he was feeling it now.

“Hotch?” Derek asked, touching his elbow from behind. He turned and took a few steps away from the crowd, getting close to where Derek was so he could hear him over the conversation and Bing Crosby crooning. “It’s good to see you.”

“You too,” he replied a little too quietly. The room was spinning in a way that made him feel intoxicated, a side effect he often felt being a little too close to Derek. Smelling his cologne, sandalwood and spice, something deep and woodsy and warm. It momentarily distracted him from the pain in his head. “I hope my being out hasn’t been too much strain on you.”

“Nah, it’s all good. Everyone pitched in.”

“Good,” he said, unable to pull the words he really wanted. He’d like to say thank you, say how much it meant to him knowing that Derek could step into his role and let him have time off when he needed it, he’d like to say a lot of things right then but his mind was a blank pulsing throb. He could feel every nerve ending in his body when Derek closed the distance between them and, with one lithe finger, pointed casually to the ceiling above them. Hotch let his eyes follow the line Derek’s finger drew, up up up to a plant hook with a big mangled bunch of leaves hanging from it. A fist sized ball of green and white, and suddenly his mouth was going dry.

Mistletoe.

Right above them. He was no expert on the rules, didn’t have a lot of experience in this arena, but he knew what you were supposed to do. Did that apply now? At an office party? Who did Penelope hang it for, anyway?

“Right.” He said it and regretted it immediately. He wasn’t even sure what he meant by it. Derek laughed and nodded in agreement for some reason. Maybe he understood. Maybe he just thought it was funny.

“Right.”

On bated breath, Derek hooked his hand on the back of Hotch’s neck like right was an invitation, and maybe it was. His warm palm rested against Hotch’s skin, rough finger pads pulling him close until their lips met. Gently at first, a little timid, just a brush and a pause, searching eyes and held breath before pressing harder. Hotch wasn’t sure what to do with his hands, whether he should fall into the kiss or wait it out. What he wanted and what he should do were battling it out in his mind until he found himself nipping helplessly at Derek’s lower lip, smiling into the kiss, into his rich wine breath, and then his hands were settling on Derek’s hips and squeezing. His thumbs were hooked in Derek’s belt loops, and he had become acutely aware that the noise and chatter in the room had died out, left with nothing but the skin tingling intoxication of Otis Redding singing White Christmas.

It was Hotch's favorite Christmas song, and he knew he was helpless to do anything more than enjoy this moment. Derek began to sway along with the music, one hand still hooking the back of Hotch’s neck, the other cradling his jaw. He traced Hotch’s jawline, to his lips and back with one thumb, fingers splayed over his face a little possessively. He broke the kiss, coming up for air only briefly, smiling against Hotch’s lips. “Been thinking about doing that for a really long time…”

Their foreheads touched and rested against one another, each of them coming to terms with this moment. The first time, the first kiss. A long-awaited, fat chance, when pigs fly kind of kiss that hardly seemed real. Hotch closed his eyes and breathed out. “Me too.”

“Think maybe we could give those date night dice a spin sometime?” Derek asked and Hotch felt a flush rise in his neck, his cheeks burning. He’d forgotten all about them, honestly. He’d sort of forgotten everything in the moment. He nodded, just a slight movement.

“Sure,” he said before he couldn’t think about words anymore and found himself going in for another kiss. Derek’s lips, cherry chapstick and wine, were intoxicating. “Merry Christmas Derek,” he whispered between breaths, between kisses that made him forget where he was and how many people were watching. Who was watching. How many rules they were violating.

And if that realization weren't damning enough, Hotch heard a small clicking sound followed by a quick blinding flash and a shout of joy. JJ had used her little Kodak disposable camera on them. She wound the film excitedly and began wandering around the room clicking photos as quickly as she could, distracting everyone momentarily.

“Merry Christmas Hotch,” Derek replied, anchoring him in place, blinking the flash from his eyes. Holding him there in the moment a while longer. He could feel it starting to slip away.

Everyone in the room was trying not to watch and failing miserably in their pursuit. JJ and Will were helping Henry clean up the mess of boxes and toys he’d created while Emily and Rossi argued over the names of Santa’s reindeer. Reid was frowning as he looked through a rather pornographic tarot card deck he found in one of Penelope’s kitchen drawers, simultaneously repulsed and intrigued.

Jack tapped on Penelope’s arm, pulling her attention from her kissing friends. She wasn’t even pretending not to watch. Quickly she crouched beside the little boy, never taking her eyes off of Derek and Hotch. “Yes hun?” she asked and Jack began whispering in her ear.

“I can tell you now,” he started with a huge grin, his lips tickling her ear as he cupped it with his little hands. Kid whispers were always a little wet and hot and she could feel a shiver at the base of her spine when he talked again. When he divulged his secret. “I asked Santa to give my dad something that would make him happy.”

“Oh,” she gasped, tears in her eyes. Of course he did. He would know that his dad would take care of any presents he wanted, and it was silly to think he hadn’t noticed how sad and lonely his dad was now that he lived with him full time. Surrounded by photographs of the life he’d lost. “Oh Jack. You did good. You did so good.”

“No...Santa did good. I only asked.”

Hotch hoped that little camera still had some life in it.

He'd like to see that photo.

[hopefuloverfury]

Omg hi! May I request something with harvey and gn!reader in which they are in a game of truth or dare with the other balchelors/rettes and one of them dares the farmer to kiss the doctor (farmer and harv are not necessarily in a relationship yet but they are close friends...or more ?)

Drink water! XD

Hello!! This prompt was a lot of fun to do, and Harvey is so cute! Thank you for the request anon, I really appreciate it! I don't have a beta reader unfortunately, so this might have typos or awkward phrasing (english isn't my first language agh) but I hope you enjoy anyway!! This one took me a bit longer, sorry about that! Also I drank water just for you, anon <3

2329 words, foul language, alcohol consumption, general dumbassery. GN!Farmer, implied Sam/Penny, a little suggestive at certain points but this is overall pretty tame, it might be a little ooc near the end but i tried my best whoops, manipulative Haley(but it's for everyone's benefit, don't worry), uhhhh did I miss anything? OH YEAH someone eats a spoonful of mayo sorry about that LMFAO

Harvey doesn’t like drinking anything that isn’t wine.

Wine lets him unwind—it loosens up his tense, stressed muscles, and after one glass, he’s usually set for the night. He doesn’t go crazy. He doesn’t drink liquor.

The Farmer, however, apparently does.

They’re squeezed in on the loveseat between Elliott and Shane, with one arm thrown over the back of the cushions, and they’re intermittently stealing Shane’s beer to down a few gulps at a time. As their doctor, he’s concerned, but as their boy—as their friend—his nerve endings are singed, and an uneasy feeling is building in his gut.

If he was an idiot, he’d blame the feeling on the nasty liquor Alex and Haley brought to the farmhouse, deep brown and thick like molasses on the way down. Unfortunately, he’s more self-aware than that.

Which means he knows that the sudden stab through his chest when the Farmer leans in a little too close to Elliott—harsh and thrashing, like a green sludge cloying up his throat and gluing his tongue to the back of his teeth—is just jealousy.

Maru and Abigail cheer loudly on his left, piled onto the couch with Sebastian and Sam, and part of him wishes he’d stayed home. He could’ve faked sick, maybe, and blamed it on the cold slowly blowing in from the ocean during this time of year. He’s never really liked the winter season, anyway.

But then he’d have missed this, and even though watching the Farmer eat up the attention from Shane and Elliott is keying him up more than any surgery he’s ever had to perform, he never misses Thirsty Thursday.

‘Thirsty Thursday’ is what the Farmer calls it. They coined the term with their old group of friends back in the city, or so he’s been told. Rules are simple: once a month, everyone brings a bottle of alcohol to one person’s house, and they spend the whole night getting plastered while playing drinking games. The game is different every time.

Today's game of choice is truth or dare—or strip.

Everyone is in varying states of undress, and he’s already lost his vest, his tie, and both of his shoes. There’s a pile of clothes building in the middle of the living room, and eleven pairs of shoes scattered between half-empty bottles of alcohol.

Thankfully it doesn’t look like he’s going to be losing anything else, because the group has abandoned their attacks on each other in favor of ganging up on the Farmer, who’s still fully clothed. Their boots are still perfectly laced, strings untouched and swinging to-and-fro. He watches them like pendulums, and takes another sip from his cup.

Alex flops back on the floor and throws his arms up in defeat.

“I give up, this is impossible,” he shouts, and Haley pokes him in the side with her foot.

“Quit being dramatic, you big baby,” she scolds him, raising an eyebrow with all the judgement of an angel at the gates of the afterlife. She's always scared him, a little. Too keen, knows too much, sees too much. Reads him like he's a children's book.

“Oh come on, there’s gotta be something they won’t do.” Sam yells across the room, his laugh as boisterous as ever. Harvey winces. His ears always get more sensitive when he’s drunk.

The Farmer tosses their head back and laughs, the sound ringing sharply in his ears. Harvey licks his lips, and rubs off any residual alcohol clinging to his mustache with the back of his hand. The hair scratches his skin, and it grounds him, if only a little bit. He likes their laugh.

“Oh, I think I’ve got one,” Penny says suddenly, sitting up and pointing at the Farmer with an eager look on her face. Harvey knows for a fact that she’s stone-cold-sober, and he honestly can’t believe she’d even show up for Thirsty Thursday, given how she feels about alcohol, but maybe the fact that she’s been glued to Sam’s arm all night has something to do with it. He won’t ask. “Farmer, truth or dare?” 

“Bring it on, Pen. Dare,” the Farmer says.

“I dare you to eat a spoonful of mayonnaise.” Harvey’s face twists in disgust immediately, and the volume goes up to a hundred. Everyone’s laughing because they’re sure they wouldn’t. Not even the Farmer would do something so disgusting.

Harvey knows otherwise.

He watches with unsurprised horror as they lean forward, elbows on their knees, and give Penny a wild grin with their tongue bitten between their teeth. He wants to do that.

“That’s it?” Their voice is like a gunshot in the living room, silencing the group for half a moment before, like vultures to a corpse, Sam is jumping up and rushing into the kitchen with Alex and Leah hot on his heels. 

Within thirty seconds there’s a jar of mayonnaise sitting heavy between the Farmer’s thighs, and Emily is handing them a spoon. Harvey’s pretty sure at least seven of them are yanking their phones out of their pocket to video the whole thing, and while he gets it, he’s seen the Farmer do much worse.

He’s no longer surprised by anything they do. As their doctor, he’s well aware of the shenanigans they get up to during their free time, and if he’s being realistic, eating a spoonful of mayo is probably the tamest thing they’ve done in his presence.

It’s still fucking gross though. Harvey snorts to himself, watching the look on their face when they twist open the jar and dig their spoon into the devil’s condiment. Even when they talk a big game, he can read them easily. Harvey chuckles a little bit at the slightly green tinge on their cheeks as they bring it up to their mouth, and close their lips over the spoon.

They barely manage to get it down, to the resounding cheers of glee and disgust around them.

“Holy shit, you actually did it!” Sam cackles, shoving his camera in the farmer’s face. They flip him off and he devolves into a fit of giggles.

Sebastian gags behind him, shaking his bangs out of his eyes and flopping back down on the couch behind Harvey. “That was the grossest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”

“I don’t know whether to be impressed or disgusted,” Shane muses, holding his beer far out of reach from the Farmer’s grabby hands. “Nuh-uh, don’t even think about it, Farmer. You did this to yourself, and I don’t want your mayo mouth on my drink, go get your own.” 

The Farmer whines petulantly, and Harvey gets up on his knees to pass the bottle of cranberry juice Penny brought for the punch mix. There’s just enough leftover to wash down the taste, and the Farmer plucks the near-empty jug out of his hands gratefully.

“Oh, my savior, thank you.” They guzzle the rest of the jug without preamble, and in their haste, a single drop trickles from the corner of their lips and down their chin. Harvey watches it like a hawk, eventually losing sight of it under the collar of their shirt. He wonders how it’d taste to lick it off, and immediately turns his eyes to the floor.

His ears burn.

“That was disgusting, don’t make me do that ever again,” The Farmer says, and Emily throws a pillow at them. It bounces off of their head harmlessly, and Shane catches it as it falls to the floor.

“We didn’t make you do anything,” Shane reminds them dryly, leaning back into the cushions with a smirk. “You could’ve just taken off your boots or something.”

“But they have to protect their honor!” Leah laughs, sea-blue eyes bright and twinkling as she throws her arm over Elliott and the Farmer’s shoulder from behind the loveseat.

“Oh goodness, I can still smell it on your breath.” Elliott jokes, dramatically yanking himself out of Leah’s grip and leaning far over the arm of the loveseat.

“How do you think I feel?” The Farmer snaps at him without a trace of heat in their voice, and Elliott snorts into his palm.

“Well, if that didn’t work, I’m out of ideas.” Penny shrugs, sitting back against Sam’s chest. 

“Yeah, I’ve got nothing,” Sam agrees. “Anyone else?”

Silence follows, and Harvey almost gets ready to collect his clothes from the pile, when Haley raises her hand.

“I’ve got one more.”

“Can’t possibly be worse than making me eat mayo, so go ahead.” The Farmer shudders, setting the empty juice jug on the coffee table with a hollow thunk. Harvey settles back down, his heart making a distantly similar sound.

Haley cocks her head to the side, her hair swaying in front of her calculating blue eyes. “I dare you to kiss Harvey.” 

Harvey doesn’t like a lot of things. 

He doesn’t like liquor. He doesn’t like coral, or salmonberries, or the cold. He doesn’t like when the Farmer goes into the mines and comes back with a new gash on their skin, or a fractured bone in their limbs. He doesn’t like Thirsty Thursday.

He keeps his eyes glued to the Farmer, and desperately ignores every other pair of eyes currently digging into his skin. They’re probably all talking, but his ears have lost all functionality. The world sounds muffled and faraway, like his head is underwater.

“I, uh…” The Farmer stutters, and Harvey’s pulled back to shore. He hangs onto every syllable, his gut clenching, waiting for the sucker-punch of rejection. When it comes, he’s going to have to pretend to be normal about it, but everyone will stare at him with that glitter of pity in the backs of their eyes that he hates so much— “I’d have to brush my teeth. Harvey hates the taste of mayonnaise.”

Harvey’s lower jaw unhinges itself from his skull and falls into his solo cup with a splash.

He shakes his head, pushing his glasses higher on his nose. “I’m sorry, come again?”

The Farmer shrugs, but they won’t meet his eyes. “I mean, if you’re cool with it, I just have to brush my teeth. It was my dare, why should you have to suffer for it?”

They glance at him, at his lips, and Harvey’s launched to cloud nine.

“I—okay. Go brush your teeth then.”

The Farmer nods stiffly, their cheeks and ears flushing as they stand up. “Cool. Be right back.”

He looks up, suddenly afraid, and glances across the coffee table at Haley. She’s grinning, her teeth glinting like a lioness who just caught a gazelle in her jaws. Harvey rubs the back of his neck, his skin burning.

There’s a few hollers from the guys behind him, and he’s pretty sure Alex and Leah have both clapped him on the back. He didn’t even do anything.

“Okay!” The Farmer calls, their voice echoing down the hall and entering the room a few seconds before them. Harvey stays rooted to the floor, his wrists aching from leaning back on them for so long. His palms are probably indented with the texture of the rug beneath him. His eyes don’t stray from the Farmer as they walk around the couches and every forgotten bottle littering their living room floor. They crouch down in front of him, settling down on their knees, and Harvey’s brain finally catches up with him.

This is actually happening.

The Farmer is going to kiss him. He’s going to pass out.

“So, um. How do you want me to…?” They ask, and he thinks about it for a moment before realizing they’re looking at Haley. 

“You can’t figure that out for yourselves?” Haley asks, her voice sharp and cutting.

The Farmer’s hands flap around chaotically as they sputter, searching for an appropriate defense. “This is your dare! How am I supposed to know, I can’t read your mind!”

“Farmer.” Harvey sets his solo cup on the coffee table. “You didn’t brush your teeth just to argue with Haley, did you?”

It’s the fucking liquor. It always makes him lose his filter. It gives him confidence, but it chases his inhibitions away and makes him bolder. He’s impatient, and he’s been dancing around this ‘will-we-won’t-we’ thing he’s got going with the Farmer for months, and he’s sick of it. 

Another round of hollers and gleeful exclamations bounce off the walls, but he’s not paying attention anymore.

“No, I didn’t.” They say quietly, and they’re not paying attention anymore, either. “So how do you want me to do this?”

Harvey swallows hard, his eyes flicking down to their lips. “How do you think I want you to do it?”

“Messy,” they whisper, cupping his jaw in their hands, and he might as well be delirious. “But that’s not really appropriate when we have an audience, so you’ll have to settle for a little less.”

“Guess you’ll just have to do it again when there’s no audience,” Harvey hisses, and then their lips are on his. There’s condensation from the beer mixing with the sweat on his palms, but he brings his hands up to grip their waist anyway. They shiver against him, breathing slowly through their nose, and Harvey pulls them closer.

They taste like toothpaste, and feel like silk in his hands. He squeezes once, trying not to groan into their mouth, lest he put on a show for the rest of the group, but they rearrange themselves against his lips, and suddenly his glasses are digging into the bridge of his nose.

He yanks himself away, barely taking a breath as he tears his glasses off his face and tosses them onto the coffee table with a clatter. He pays it no mind. Someone whistles. Probably Sam. He drags the Farmer back in and slots their lips together, clicking together like puzzle pieces as they sling their arms over his shoulders. 

He slips his thumb under their shirt, just barely, and their voice rumbles deep in their chest.

He loves Thirsty Thursday.

[detectiveneve]

"you’re lucky you got away with only a scratch." for astarion/emrys? or whoever you feel inspired to write for it

prompts list. thank you! <3 this got away from me a bit. hereeeee's astarion bloodied up a bit, and paladin's lay on hands can be so personal. intimacy is stored in the healing spells and the snarky comments.

He likes this part the most. 

The slide–the click–the turn of a deadly mechanism. Hands steady, heart not pounding, dead in his chest, but he thinks it would be if it could. Astarion plies open the tiny compartment in the gargoyle's mouth, revealing the tiny ticks and turns of the incinerator within. Tools touch metal gears and teeth, twist, a slow... slow... turn. 

It's nothing to pick it apart; a twist, a flick of the wrist, job well done, rendering these deadly, stone beasts obsolete. 

Satisfied, he rolls back on his heels, stands, his knee-joints aching from the held crouch. 

That should be the last of them. There are two more incinerators a little further back, cracked open and unmade the same as this one. Alongside that, several pressure plates litter the temple's hallways, but he's marked them in his mind. 

The others tend to have enough collective sense to mind when he points them out. Tend to, being the operative word. Whether they explode or not, he'll smugly declare them all inept without him either way; wink and sly and, oh, she'll call him unbearable, and he likes it ever so much when she does.

Emrys comes into view first. She leans set against a wall, her head bowed low, red curls sweeping over her brow. Sunlight floods through the cracks in the ceiling, dappling her in shades of armored silver and fire and deep blue. Gale stands beside Emrys, leaning on his staff, and Shadowheart next, clenching and unclenching her aching god-wound. 

"Your temple awaits," he does a little bow and turn of the hand, tilts up his chin, waits patiently for his well deserved praise.

"Good." Emrys gruffs, straightening up. 

"Oh, not even a thank you? A little appreciation for how you’d be lost without me, perhaps?" 

Emrys gives the smallest, smallest shade of a smile, then turns away. 

Tch. Typical. Astarion steps back as she reasserts herself in the front, greatsword set on her shoulder. 

Gale says, "thank you kindly," and Astarion waves him off with an augh. Just not as fun. He thinks he hears Gale mutter something about no niceties for him anymore.

"Let's get a move on, yeah?" Emrys says. "Want to be out of here by sundown." 

"Worried about something?" says Astarion. He points out one of the pressure plates, and they all move to the side, stepping where he steps.

"Place feels wrong," she shrugs, "don’t want to spend the night here unless we must, is all." 

"I'd rather not linger either," Shadowheart pipes up from the back, looking around cautiously–as she tends to, so he doesn't feel much about it. "There's the stench of death all over this place."

"Yes, that's probably the death." He says, maybe a little snidely. "There's tombs at the end of this hallway. Might have valuables left behind. Worth a look at least..."

"No, we came to investigate. No dallying. No grave-robbing." Emrys returns, sidestepping another one of the plates. Ah, of course. The pitying little village girl they'd met on the road told them such sordid tales of disappearances in the night. Tadpoles, cultists, an unfortunate accumulation of greater enemies looming in the distance, and they stop to inspect strange sounds and, quote, "screaming in the night."

Lots of reasons for there to be screams in the dark, and not one of them could be less fun than this. He sighs dramatically again–far be it for him to not declare his general displeasure at any given opportunity–even as Emrys keeps her back to him, pointedly not taking to the bait. 

After another sigh, and still no reaction, he finally says: "Not even a little?" A little pouty and cloying maybe, but.

Emrys pauses. Grunts. Then gives him that particular headshake that says she won't interfere so long as it doesn't slow them down, and she doesn't see it happen. 

Excellent. For all her stubbornness, she really isn’t hard to wear down. A victor's grin spreads across his lips, and he waggles his eyebrows at Shadowheart. Shadowheart rolls her eyes and steps forward, ahead of him.

Pity. Well, he won't be sharing the spoils with her then.

"This architecture is fascinating, you know..." Gale babbles in the background, pointing out the unique nature of the struts or some such. Truth be told, Astarion isn’t really listening, and they make their way further in. 

The corpse-stench floods his nostrils as more and more tombs come into view. Tombs recently disturbed, it seems. 

Well, that could mean anything. Including undead, a very likely possibility, or worse, someone’s already raided this place for its valuables; also a very likely possibility, and terrible for him. If he doesn’t get someone’s family jewels out of this little expedition, there really will have been no point to it.

Turning all of this over in his mind, he misses it. 

There's a soft hiss, and the floor dips under his left foot.

Shit.

"Stop," he barks out, and the others freeze instantly, their heads swiveling to him. 

He points at the triggered plate with one finger, not daring to do much more. What did this trigger? How did he miss it?

At once, juts in the wall open with a soft, mechanical clank; inside, pointed spears are aligned and ready to fly. 

In a second or less, several things happen at once: Gale steps in a blur of magic, there and gone across the room. Shadowheart darts for cover, a radiant shield thrown up as she does. Shit. Shit. He’s too far from cover himself. He dodges, slides, too exposed, and–

A shout, hers, "move!" and the soft shing! of metal, tipped and cutting, flies past him.

The full weight of Emrys’ hard human body slams into him, throwing them both to the ground. Stinging. Ringing ears. His teeth knock into her pauldrons. Her greaves dig into his leg. Scent of sweat and iron. Her forehead cracking on his. A clatter as she covers his head with her grated arm, hand curling into his hair, forcing him to the metal. She curls over him, and a shimmering ward covers them both.

The piercing darts bounce off her armor in rhythmic thumps, hard exhales with each blow. Cheek to cheek, he can hear the way her teeth grind as the last darts and spears fly free. Not all of the darts hit them, but one cuts a chunk out of his thigh, and he swallows a groan through his teeth. 

A heartbeat passes, thigh burning and with it–hot breath on his scalp, warm throb of blood pulsing under her skin, her neck as close to him as anything now. 

They wait for another wave of projectiles to fly loose. One second. Two. 

No new darts, or flying spears. Not even a minor wave of fire. Emrys pulls away, just enough to meet his eyes. 

There’s a cut on her cheek, small and red and vibrant as paint. She murmurs, soft and low: "Are you alright?" 

"I’ll live," he grunts, hardly able to breathe and speak beneath her, "but you are crushing me."

"Ah. Sorry."

She comes off near completely, setting herself up on one propped foot. Her hand rests heavy on his shoulder, her downed knee between his own two, everything about her still coiled, tense and ready to dive again if something goes wrong. His chest twists a little, an ugly churn of something. 

Resentment. That’s what it is. He would’ve been fine without her interfering.

Emrys says, "you’re bleeding," and whatever the soft of her was, it’s gone again, returned to a hardened frown. Good. 

"Tch." Blood rivulets from his thigh, blending seamless with the black of his trousers, dull-red on the stone beneath. The throb pulses under his skin, through the blood; but he’s endured much, much worse. Still… "So much for your brave sacrifice." 

He goes for the snide blow, and winces for it. She had tried.

But she’s unfazed as always. "I’ll let you get skewered next time then."

"Oh, please do. At least I’ll never have to run errands for whimpering villagers ever again–ah–" 

She takes his thigh in hand, untender with her grip. Fresh burst of burning.

He locks his hand around her wrist, instinct to pull her away right before he restrains himself. There’s a flash, a tinge, a moment like this over and over again, but from one second to the next it's gone.

She freezes, confusion clear across her face. "Do you want me to heal you or not?"

"Gentler, perhaps?" He hisses. Her grasp is clumsy in its armor, and Emrys’ expression flinches. Sympathetic? Or merely irritated? He can never tell. But she considers something, and takes off her gauntlet. It hits the ground with a soft clank. 

Sweat rings around the divots of her fingers, he notes. Her palm is flushed and ruddy and meaty, heavy on the wrist. But she’s gentler, like he asked, and slower too as she bears her grasp on him again. The slightest touch of her thumb ghosts across his unmarred flesh as she turns his thigh over. Her four other fingers, he can feel through the cloth. The weight of them, so certain and untrembling. 

"It’s deep, but not too bad. Lucky it’s on the outside. Missed everything important."

"Ugh, yes. To bleed out in this wretched place would be a horror." He hisses through his teeth, looking at the split in his skin chunked and wretched. "But objectively hilarious."

"Here," she ignores his whine, her hand taking on a soft blue light as she presses it to his thigh. His blood slickens on her palm. The soothing flow of healing magic slides into his veins, warms him down to the bone like morning sunlight. 

This is, he hates to know, a kindness. He didn’t even need to ask. 

Close like this, he can see how sweat makes her curls stick to her forehead. Each individual freckle that spreads across her crooked nose. 

And more than that, he can watch how the cut on her cheek seeps slow like tree sap; it’s a steady streak of red now, curling sweetly under her jaw. And the smell. His throat itches. Sweet. Sweeter-scented than the rot of death and decay and smell of his own blood coating the floor.  

He reaches out with a mindless sort of impulse. In an instant, her free hand wraps tightly around his own. Halting, but not pulling away. 

"Just trying to be helpful?" He tries, blinking innocently.

"Aye. How kind."

"Aren’t I just? You can call it your good influence on me." 

"That would only insult us both." 

"Hm," he swallows the laugh, keeps eye contact, pointed. 

She doesn’t throw his hand aside–noted–and he continues on. His fingers caress to the curve of her ear, a lover’s touch in another scene, but here it’s all the proximity he needs to swipe the trail of blood away with his thumb. Her own grasp on his leg clenches, the blue light dimming out as her spell fades.

He tests the waters, jerking his wrist a little, and she lets him go; watching intently, but not stopping him. And how good that is for him. He never believed in waste; at least, not waste like this.

A pause. A breath. 

He slides his tongue across the red of his thumb, keeping her gaze all the while. She’s robust, like spiced wine, warm in his mouth. Not so satisfying as a drag down his throat, but a thrill all the same. 

He almost thanks her, but it sticks up on his teeth before he can get the words out, so he grins instead, wriggles his eyebrows, just to see what she’ll do. 

Emrys makes a quiet eugh sound, mottles to the cheeks, her face crushing into annoyance so severe he backs out a laugh. But just as he thought, she still stands and offers him that same, bloodied, bare hand to help him up. Gallant to the end, a fact that makes her endlessly easy to con.

He lets her yank him to his feet, muscles fluid and gliding, seamless again with her magic shuddering through him still. 

"Good?" She says, leaving herself open to the blow. 

"Oh, you’re always delectable, darling." 

And she doesn’t rise to that. Spoilsport.