#Etched stone paper

[scrollgirl1]

Darkness and Light

"Every moment of light and dark is a miracle." -Walt Witman

“Every moment of light and dark is a miracle.” -Walt Witman Sometimes I like to create dark and dramatic artwork. Other times I do something soft and light. I guess it depends on what mood I am in. This week, I happened to do both. Many artists have a certain style or tone when creating. We can sometimes look at a painting or drawing and just by seeing it, know who the artist is. Like seeing a…

[nvuy]

palingenesis — il capitano

summary. oh, to the gods, and to be reborn again from your rib.

notes. “nvuy do the corpse bride capitano fic” said about three people so i did it. is this actually corpse bride? no. do i care? also no. my halloween present that only certified freaks are allowed to read. capitano is geniunely not mentioned by his name or his status, so LOWKEY. you could read this as any male lead you want, i guess. but uh… it’s capitano. well. it’s supposed to be.

warnings. mentions of death. mentions of decay (but the khaenri’ah version of decay). capitano is literally a dead man walking. tangents about god and love. standard nvuy fic where everyone is miserable. angst if you squint.

“You used to love me for me, but I don’t even know what I am anymore.” 

There’s a small huff of laughter as you bring your knees to your chest. You wonder how he would react to you after all these years. You surely look different, and rot has set its teeth into your skin, and it morphs into his least favourite colour. 

You wonder briefly, if he would even remember you, was he to ever return. How childish.

You pick up a lone stick in the soil next to you and poke at the withered and abandoned white and yellow orchards surrounding the stone. 

His grave sits idly, silent. 

“I lost myself the day you died,” you admit. Your throat constricts for a moment and you struggle to breathe. “I had no idea what to do.” You lean against the tree stump, as you always do. “I still don’t.” 

His name is etched from many many centuries ago. Not by you, no. You hadn’t even attended the funeral, and to this day, you regretted it. Regret was a terrible ache that never quelled nor strayed too far from your heart. 

The flowers were dead now. You’d laid them here almost a hundred years ago. You hadn’t expected them to live, but the petals were now an ashy black, and the edges that used to be soft and rubbery were now crumbling like paper against your fingers. The petals fell to small pieces. 

The land was withering. Of course, the flowers would rot as well. 

“You’d hate what your home has become,” you tell him. “We’re all rotting. And it all hurts.” You grimace next, but almost playfully. “Everything is blue. You hate blue. You used to tell me it upset you.” You look down at your forearm, and the withering aches upon your skin. “Even I’m turning blue.” It’s more so black than it is blue, but whatever colour it may be, it scars and will never leave. It is your fate, as it is your people’s. 

The forest is quiet. 

His body was buried amongst his favourite orchard field, but those flowers are long gone now, and all that remains is the black and blue prickly grass that you sit in, and a stone with his name left in it. He is somewhere below the ground, his body long decayed and faded and given life to the soil that once grew the most beautiful greenery you’d ever seen. 

Not even that remained. 

“If you were alive, you’d… y’know…” You tilt your head. “You’d rot, too. And for that, I’m grateful you died with glory.” You stare out into the dead fields. “Though, I can’t help but be selfish. I think it would hurt less if you were here.” 

And there it is. 

You hum soundly. “Yeah… you made everything hurt less.” 

There’s a ring in your palm. It’s small, just large enough to slot nicely around the swell of your fourth finger, but the rot has dug into your flesh just enough that it doesn’t fit anymore. Not the way it used to. 

It’s beautiful, however. Silver with white and blue diamonds. He bestowed it to you one night, though it was significantly after his proposal. The proposal itself was… special. Not in a bad way — but in his way. He had been missing for several days after his army had been struck with an ambush. Only a few men had initially returned to seek refuge and aid from the city. 

It was only two months later, after the city had mourned the soldiers’ losses, that they had returned. Bloodied, battered, beaten, but they had returned. 

He’d spotted you that day when he’d ventured out alone to visit his favourite field of flowers. You were sitting amidst the orchards, because this was where he’d usually be. 

And by your wishes, he returned. 

“It’s you,” you heard him whisper. 

You’d never heard a more beautiful sound. 

You turned quickly and dropped the flower from your hands. The colour almost drained from your face before a newfound pleasantry blossomed across your cheeks. You smiled, and it’s the first time you’ve done so in months. “You’re alive.” 

You took a hesitant step forward, as if unsure if his body would crumble to dust the moment you touched him. 

You sobbed pathetically. You held his face, or what remained of it. “You’re here. I thought you–” 

“I am here.” 

You think it silly now, believing he was dead over and over again. Every time he departed he’d come after the expected arrival date, and even then you used to panic and flourish and do everything but accept he was really gone this time. 

And now. 

Now that he is gone, it only took you three-hundred and ninety-four years to accept it. The rest of those you were busy returning to his grave and retelling your day as if he was alive and listening. 

The few people that were left on this side of the city pitied you. Even the grand old Mage had whispered that you’d better off leaving the dead to sleep soundly before he’d left for Snezhnaya. There was nothing you could have done to prevent this, or what occurred afterward. 

You had asked the Mage, once, if necromancy was truly a thing possible. 

“I am sure, even if it was, living dead is worse than living alive,” he had told you one day. “The past is finished.” 

“Is it selfish to think this way?” 

He looked down at you, and there was pity in his glance. “Very.” You eyed the ring still captured around your finger. “But, love is selfish. To want one person for yourself. It is indulgent.” 

“I suppose,” you whispered. “But possession is beautiful.”

And it had been beautiful. 

Just you and him. 

It was hard to adapt. Still is, really. You forget him for days at a time, and then you remember, and then you return. You stop and stare at walls. You glance to where he would be standing if he was around; next to you, at the dinner table, on his side of the bed. You never truly made the bed your very own. It was his, once. 

Just as your heart was — you weren’t able to develop the courage to move onwards with your life, so you were trapped within purgatory; swindled in a void of pure blue, like his eyes. 

Because isn’t being someone’s everything so special? 

Especially someone like him. 

Someone so brave, and courteous, and gentle. 

You never deserved that, really. So it makes sense why he disappeared just as quickly as he appeared in your life. Unfairness. 

You look down at the ring again. 

“You would be mine?” he asked one day, laying beside you in the field. “If I asked?”

You stared up at the sky. “I already am.” 

That pulled a small puff of laughter from him, and he sat up. You followed shortly, facing him. “I have a ring. And a proposition.” 

Oh. You looked down on what he was offering you. 

“It is your burden to oblige, and it is your choice.” You couldn’t see his face clearly through his armour, but there was a flash of that awful treacherous blue he hated so much. “But, if you’ll have me, I will have you. In this life, you and I will be as one, and never apart again.” 

“That is a bold claim to make,” you told him. “There is no guarantee you will not die soon.” 

“To which I rephrase: even when I am gone and you still walk these plains, you will be mine, and I will be yours, and my love for you will blossom through the soil and bloom the flowers that you love so much.” 

You laugh gently. Such a stupid man. 

You want to crush the ring until it welds flat and unwearable. 

Marriage is a privilege to the blessed, and you’re far from it. You receive no watchful eye from the Gods; they don’t care. They killed everyone you ever knew, and loved, and shared this miserable life with. 

The jewel squeaks in its confines as you squeeze. 

Such a stupid ring. 

You breathe in shakily. Stupid, stupid fantasy. Stupid games. Stupid delusions and useless pining and all of this heartache was for nothing and–

How hard do you have to believe in love to love the same person for an eternity? How hard do you have to imagine a world where everything is perfect when what is foretold to be eternal dies with the soul and the flowers in the rot? 

How long do man and Gods have to continue fighting each other before they realise it is futile? Gods are not kind, man even less so. 

Beautiful rot and ruin. 

That’s the world. 

The crows that sing in the trees screech their awful song to mock you. 

So, you drop the ring. You abandon it right where he had abandoned you in the soil. The silver rolls along the stone until it comes to a stop on the cracks. 

And it sits. 

You consider picking it back up. 

You don’t. 

Instead, you stand and turn to leave. 

Fate is fickle, however. 

If you had picked the ring back up, perhaps none of this would’ve happened. 

The breeze hits hard behind you and it sends chills down your spine. 

You glance up. 

The crows are making awful noises again, and you grimace. Though the spindly trees are ugly, you find there’s nothing uglier than the sound of those birds. 

He rather liked them.  

You step away.

Something sharp scratches against your ankle and then twists, and you scream. 

It’s a branch of some sort, and it moves and wriggles like a worm when you free your foot from its grasp. It twitches as if it has not moved in years, as if the bones inside of it were finally coming to life. 

It retreats into the soil beside his grave. 

Then, nothing. 

Nothing moves. 

The crows still and quiet, and you feel as though you can’t find the energy or courage to breathe. Your ankle is covered in soil and scratches, and you’re sure from how weak it stands when you try to apply weight to it that it’s twisted at best and completely sprained at worst. 

The soil does not stir. 

Until it does.

A hand pops a hole through the ground, and it is as still as the branch was, twitching and writhing and feeling through the open air for leverage. 

A hand. A hand like yours—covered in rot and ruin, purple and blue, and the phalanges are swollen with wither and time.

You step back and bite your tongue. A wrist reveals itself next, consistent with blue and bruise, and it reaches until the bloodied terrible fingers squeeze the soil and begin to pull. The hand claws and claws and digs itself from the ground, fingernails dirtied and brown. 

You want to scream. 

Nobody would hear you all the way out here. 

An elbow. It climbs and climbs, revealing more rot and decay. It writhes as if in pain, and you don’t doubt it so. 

You swallow hard. 

A shoulder. Sides of the neck reveal itself through the soil, caked in mud and wear and tear. It’s other arm tears free from the ground. 

And then a face. 

A face unidentifiable and ruined. Sullied with rot and bruise and wear and fade and filth. Two horrific blue lights of sort cast through the pain and the shadow that shrouds its face, and it only prompts you to step back even further. 

To that, the creature leans forward as best it can to try and grab your ankle. It’s waist is stuck in the soil, and it tries to pull itself out, despite how weak it is. 

“It’s you…” the creature whispers. 

You can’t move. You don’t even blink. Your breathing only comes out in short pathetic bursts. 

You’re not sure what it is, but rot has completely disfigured it beyond recognition. It’s sickening to look at. It’s worse than anything you could ever comprehend, and you imagine one day that you will appear the same. 

It manages to free itself from the confines of the soil, though it cannot stand. It hasn’t done so in centuries, nd the feeling of moving limbs are foreign to it, being entrapped below the ground for so long. 

It tries again to reach for you. It’s fingers brush just shy of your foot.  

You swallow hard. “Who…” You feel as though you already know the answer. 

There’s a single eye that you barely recognise. Deep blue like violet satin robes. Darker than the dead blue spruce. Darker than the sky, and lighter than the depths of the ocean where the sun could not reach. 

You know him. 

You bite your tongue. 

Waves of black hair as deep as shadows drown you on both sides until the world has swallowed the two of you whole. 

“I’m yours,” he reminds. “Correct?” He raises the ring you let go of.

It is him. 

You fall to your knees in front of him despite the fear and nausea churning in your stomach. He almost leaps on top of you, but settles in front, hands reaching forward to rest on your legs. He has not felt the warmth of another person, or anything, for five-hundred years, and he only simply freezes at the feeling. 

You furrow your brows and try to control your breathing. You try to push him off to sit up, but he does not budge. 

“You kept my ring.”

Your fingers curl around what remains of his shoulders and he takes your hand. 

“It is you,” you whisper. “How’re you–” 

His old uniform he was buried in is caked in soil, and it’s covered you, as well. He does not bring himself off of the floor, but he leans back just enough to allow you to sit up. You feel you can’t turn to run just yet, and you’re not sure if you want to. 

You can’t steady your breathing. 

He cannot move his legs properly, and so while you freeze, he uses your corpse as leverage to climb further up and rest upon your shoulder. He is heavy, as heavy as a corpse is, but you find comfort in the weight, somewhere. 

“You look so different,” he comments. Rotten fingers come forth to graze the same textured remainders of true flesh across your cheek. “What has this world done to you?” 

“You died,” you say. His lips rest against your cheek and he hums. “I…” 

“I abandoned you.” 

“I grieved over you for five centuries,” you quickly finish. “You were alive this entire time in the ground?” 

“I don’t know,” he answers. “I don’t think so. I feel as though time hasn’t moved at all. But it has.” He looks around, your face still in his hands. “This is the field.” 

You nod briskly. 

“Everything’s dead,” he comments. 

“It has been,” you reply. “For years.” You look elsewhere. “Everyone’s dead.” 

He holds you tight. “I left you in a world like this.” His hair is matted and disgusting, but you reach up and rest a hand on his crown. Guilt presses into his chest like a weight, and he wills himself to ignore it, despite how heavy it is. 

He is a corpse. A corpse. Like you. Like everyone that remains in this place. 

And he scares you. 

Despite how tight he holds you, you fear him. You feel for a moment you are hallucinating; this can’t be real. Your husband cannot spring from the soil and restate his love. Not like this. 

True death was incurable, and he had died many moons before the war in battle. He had sacrificed himself for victory and peace, only for it to end when the Archons set forth and destroyed your home. You still remember them, even if most of them were dead now. That Barbatos and Rex Lapis remained, despite everything, and you wanted them both dead in return. Dead and buried and never to return in the soil. 

“This isn’t real,” you whisper. 

“It is.” 

“No,” you try. “You died. You cannot reverse death.” 

“It is not reversed. I am still dead.” He wants to kiss you, but the fleeting warmth of your skin as you try to pull away and the soil and filth that rests upon his face shies you away with a flinch. “I can be yours again.” His fingers grace over the rot along your face. 

“It doesn’t make sense.” 

“I proposed that I would never part from you, and you I, even after death.” He holds the ring close to your face before he takes your hand. He rests it against your knuckles, perhaps admiring how the silver still shimmers against your skin. “It was a vow.” 

A vow, he says. Your face scrunches up in frustration. “I never married you.” 

“Marriage or not, the ring was a promise of my word, and you kept it all these years.” 

He takes your fingers gently before he parts them and slots the ring where it belongs. It nestles gently close to your knuckle and you swallow. Your finger felt strange without the piece, and wearing it again after only minutes satiated that discomfort. 

His face is… nothing you remember. 

His eyes are barely the same as they were before, and you turn away when he draws close again with a shaky breath.  

“Are you afraid of me?” He’d asked you that many years ago, many times. 

Even now, you feel the same. “Should I be?” You look out towards the dead fields, and you feel something cold bump against your cheek. 

His nose squishes against your skin when he kisses you close to your ear. “No.” 

It is only then through a gentle whisper and his lips do you muster the courage to look at him. He is so different. 

But, he’s still yours. 

“Are you the same man you were five-hundred years ago?” you ask him. 

He leans in as close as he can and his nose brushes against yours. His fingers lock tight around your hand and he squeezes; the silver ring imprints on your finger. 

He smiles, and you fall in love again. 

“I can be.” 

[myfictionaldreams]

I saw your post about poly marauders x reader inspo. What about angst and fluff where the reader is working really hard and doesn't take care of herself? She ends up fainting, hitting her head and having a seizure. (This is common for me.) The boys freak out and rush her to the infirmary. Maybe they take her back after she's given the all-clear and take care of her.

-🐍

Working Hard // Poly!Marauders x Fem!Reader

A/N: hello, thank you so much for this request! I hope I've been able to write the information about seizures ok, I personally don't have them so was worried I'd get the information wrong but hopefully, this is alright!

Tags: angst, fluff, fainting, head injury, seizures, not looking after yourself, anxiety/crying, emotional hurt, protective marauders, cuddling/kissing etc.

Words: k

my masterlist 📚 AO3 Link

The library was fairly vacant of students as it approached the evening time, not that you’d noticed. At one swift glance, anyone could have seen the state of disarray that you were in. Ink stained your fingers and clothes, the whites of your eyes were bloodshot and dry from the lack of blinking, sweat on your brow and hair unkept from the number of times you’d brushed it out of your eyes.

Not to mention the disorganised surroundings you were sitting in with multiple stacks of books covering the desk space with different length parchment paper, ink pots and a single quill also messing up the area.

“How long has she been like this?”, Sirius asked Lily, concern etching deep into his face as he’d just arrived at the library following his day of lessons. Lily briefly looked up at Sirius with the same look of worry on her face from where she sat at a different desk, having been there most of the day just to keep an eye on you as she knew you were slowly spiralling into madness.

“She’s been like this since this morning. I’ve tried to convince her to have a break but she just wants to finish the work. I’m kind of getting worried about her, she hasn’t stopped in hours and keeps pushing my glasses of water away saying she’ll have it later but she’s yet to have any”, Lily explained to Sirius who was now clenching the strap of his school bag so tightly in his hands that his knuckles turned a ghastly shade of white.

“Thanks, Evans, I’ll stay with her don’t worry”, Sirius explained, patting his friend on the shoulder as she stood, having packed her bags ages ago but was reluctant to leave you on your own. “If you see Moony or Prongs, could you tell them where we are please?”

“No worries, I hope you can get through to her”.

Sirius sighed, shaking his head hard enough that his shoulder-length, silky hair flew in all directions as he walked over to your desk. You didn’t so much as flinch when the chair next to you scrapped along the stone floor as he dumped his bag onto the floor.

As he began to talk to you, he kept his voice calm, not wanting to frighten you out of the deep focus you were in. “Darling? Is everything alright?” When you again didn’t respond to having heard his arrival, he reached across and took the quill out of your fierce grip. This snapped you out of your trance as your head whipped in his direction, body jumping in a startle at finding one of your boyfriends casually sitting next to you. Your heart was already racing before the jump scare are you looked between Sirius and the quill you so desperately needed.

“What are you doing? I’m not finished my work yet Sirius and I am not in the mood to mess around, I just want to get it finished”, you demanded to him, reaching out with a trembling hand that had Sirius’ worries increasing.

“What was the last time that you even ate anything? Or had a drink of water?” Sirius asked whilst continuing to hold your quill out of your reach.

Shaking your head in annoyance, you shrugged your shoulders, “I don’t know, a couple of hours ago maybe, I can remember. Now please, can I have my quill back!”

Sirius looked at the mess on the desk surrounding you, “Honey, this assignment isn’t even due for another week. You’ve got plenty of time to finish it another day but you need to look after yourself. Let’s have a little break, maybe go and get something to eat and drink and then depending on how you’re feeling, we could potentially finish this later”.

The marauder spoke calmly and slowly, taking in all the signs of your declining health. There were only a few occasions where you had been like this, neglecting to look after yourself and it usually ended with you crying from exhaustion or sleeping a whole day away feeling ill so he needed to be a good protector and make sure this didn’t get any worse but he feared that it was already at that stage anyway with how reluctant you were to listen to his advice.

“No, you aren’t listening to me! I don’t need any of that right now, I just need to finish this today because there’s still the potions assignment due in two days and I need to plot this week's stars for astronomy. There’s also the herbology that I haven’t even started yet so I don’t have time to go for your breaks! Just give it back to me Sirius!” As you were beginning to raise your voice, you caught the attention of the handful of other students who were studying. Sirius didn’t react to being shouted at, especially as it was never something you’d done before, he knew he was getting to the point of no return and was unsure just what it was that he was supposed to do. Let you carry on? Force feed you a snack and make you have a break but then would that anger you more?

Thankfully backup had arrived in the form of Remus and James. “What’s going on here?” the taller Marauder asked, his scarred face flicking back and forth between Sirius and where you were glaring at him.

“We were just about to have a little break”, Sirius began to explain with caution but you were quick to interrupt.

“No we aren’t Sirius! I’m fine, just let me continue other I’ll forget what I’m going to write!”. You were breathing heavily now, like you’d just run up a flight of stairs and Sirius couldn’t tell if it was because of your anger or just another symptom of how worn down you were getting.

It looked like you were close to a panic attack with the way you were reacting irrationally and the two Marauders that were standing took a protective step forward, placing their bags onto the floor.

“My Love”, James spoke carefully, “just take a deep breath for us, okay? We’ll just have a small break and then we’ll help you finish this assignment”.

Your hateful gaze turned to him, “I don’t need help James”.

The way you spoke didn’t falter him in any way as he continued, “Why don’t we just quickly get a drink of water and some fresh air and then we can come back-”

“Don’t talk to me like a child James, I know my limits. I’m just studying, I’m fine, I just need to finish this, but you’re all prolonging it!” You glared at all three of them, not thinking clearly at all and when Sirius once again held the quill away from you, you snapped. “You know what? Fine. Keep the quill. I’ve got plenty more in my dormitory which luckily doesn’t let guys in so I can continue this in some peace and quiet.”

You gathered as many books as possible into a messy pile, bundling them into your arms, along with your parchment paper.

“Wait, Sweetheart, just give us a moment-”. Sirius began reaching forward as you stood abruptly.

One minute you were taking a step forward and then next, it felt like the floor was moving, your eyes unfocused as the books dropped to the floor, swiftly followed by your body as you fainted, accidentally knocking your temple on the corner of your desk as you fell.

Remus, James and Sirius all lurched forward trying to soften your fall but to no avail, as they all watched you hit your head and collapse to the floor However the panic didn’t end there as your body began to convulse, eyes rolling back in your head as you didn’t respond to shouts.

“Shit! Go and get Madam Pomfrey!”, James demanded to Sirius who was out of his chair and sprinting within a second as a crowd began to form of scared students. This didn’t stop James though as he remained calm, kneeling next to your head but holding out a hand for Remus, “Hand me your jumper”. Remus pulled the clothing over his head and handed it to his boyfriend who balled it up and gently placed it under your head. “It’s ok baby, it’s going to be ok, it’ll be over soon, you’re safe, everything with be alright”.

With each word that he spoke, he remained calm, even managing to loosen your tie so that it didn’t restrict your breathing as you eventually calmed with your convulsions and remained unmoving on the floor, breathing heavily.

“Remus, help me roll her onto her side”, he asked the man who was also on his knees next to you, looking paler than usual. He followed James’ movements until you were lying in the recovery position, your hair carefully being moved out of your face so that they could assess your head injury as well. Thankfully there was no cut or blood but the area had already begun to swell into a small bump.

Remus shook his head, trying to process anything that had just happened as he then gazed towards James. “How…how did you know what to do?”

“My mum had seizures, usually she takes some potions to stop them from happening but on rare occasions they still do so she and Dad have taught me what to do if they were to happen, It’s not like I’ve done much anyway”. James looked you over, as Remus shook his head in disbelief, feeling guilty that he hadn’t come and found you at an earlier time but just assumed you were doing your usual revision in the library.

Sirius soon arrived with Madam Pomfrey who did her own assessment and praised James for the bits of care that he provided like putting you into the recovery position. You were then moved to the Hospital wing where you remained asleep for the next 12 hours which is what you needed, lots of rest and sleep.

When you did eventually awake, the sun was just beginning to rise over the mountains and you were disorientated and confused, being in an unknown area and alone, not remembering how or why you’d gotten there.

Thankfully the Matron was already working and hovering nearby so was able to come over and explain the events that had occurred whilst making sure you drank the numerous healing potions she’d decided you needed. With each glug of the horrible tasting, colourful concoctions, you could feel life beginning to pour back into your body, no longer feeling dehydrated or shaky, however, there was still some memory loss but she explained that was the side effect of the seizure. Your stomach twisted with guilt at not prioritising your health which was also the same sentiment expressed by Madam Pomfrey as she gave you a talking too as well about looking after yourself and making sure to take regular breaks, having food and drink nearby during long study sessions.

Finally, after she declared that you were safe to leave but only if you returned to the dormitory to rest for the next few days, she explained that James, Sirius and Remus had been by your side until late at night. Each of them outright refused to leave your side but as they all fell into their own emotional and physical exhaustion, Madam Pomfrey called for McGonagall who helped to send them to their beds.

The guilt now only increased tenfold at the thought of how worried they must have been. The Matron tried to encourage you to not worry about those emotions for now, but to go and rest and that you’d need to return every morning for additional potions and investigations for the seizure.

Every step towards the Gryffindor common room, nerves bubbled in your stomach, wondering if you should follow the woman's advice and just go to your own dormitory and sleep the day away or knock on the Marauders’ room and discuss what had happened.

Thankfully for your exhausted mind, you didn’t need to decide as soon as you entered the homely common room, the three of them were already rushing down the stairs, dressed in their casual clothes and looking like they were about to run somewhere. They were all startled to see you standing there, relief and worry expressed on each of their faces, along with dark circles under their eyes from the lack of sleep.

Hating the uncomfortable silence, you nervously twisted your fingers together, glancing at the floor, unable to hold their burning eye contact anymore. “Madam Pomfrey said I was okay to leave but said I needed to get some rest”.

Another wave of relief rushed through your boyfriends as they each visibly dropped the tension from their shoulders as they stepped forward. “How are you feeling?”, Remus asked carefully, not being able to watch your nervous twitches anymore as he grabbed your fingers and linked both of your hands with his.

“I feel fine”, you answered honestly, looking guilty up at them still through your lashes.

“What about your head?”, Sirius continued the question, standing to your left and stroking the strand of hair away from the area that he’d seen hit the corner of your desk.

“It doesn’t hurt at all but Pomfrey said those sorts of injuries are easy for her to fix anyway. I um, I don’t actually remember what happened, or even from the last few days but everything else is better, my head doesn’t hurt at all”.

James was the last to approach to your right and you were thankful to see a loving smile on his handsome face as he pushed the rim of his glasses up his nose whilst asking, “And what about the seizures?”

“She said they could happen again but it was mostly triggered because I hadn’t eaten, drank or slept properly and that I needed to be careful in the future. I think it’s something that I had dealt with in my childhood as I remember my mum saying that I used to have some sort of seizures but it’s been so long that I didn’t think it was an issue anymore. She also told me about what you did James and I just… I can’t thank you enough and I’m so so sorry for putting you all through this”. Your eyes were full of tears that quickly escaped and flowed down your cheeks.

James couldn’t watch you cry and rushed to wrap his arms around your body, cupping the back of your head to hold you against his warm, firm chest. Remus and Sirius also managed to join the cuddle. The three of them didn’t expect any sort of apology from you, the anger that had been there initially for you not looking after yourself had swiftly changed to worry and fear so just making sure you were okay was their only goal.

“Shh Sweetheart, please don’t cry. We’re just glad you’re safe. You scared us so much, all I could think about last night was having you in my arms again”, Remus calmed your cries down as he kissed your shoulder, trying not to unload too much of his worries onto you.

The three of them held you for long enough that other students began to wake and enter the common room, rushing past so as to not ruin the sentimental moment. As your sobs turned into hiccups and the tears stopped staining Sirius’ shirt, the long-haired Marauder pulled away to cup your cheeks. “Come on, it’ll do us all no good crying in the middle of the common room and you’re supposed to be resting and to be honest I think we could all do with a rest so let's go upstairs”.

Wiping your nose with your sleeve, you smiled and accepted his outstretched hand, his much larger palm engulfing yours as he gently tugged you along to the boys’ room. The sight of the magically enlarged bed only increased your exhaustion as your body seemed to slump with the need to crawl beneath the sheets.

Before you could do as you wished whilst still wearing your day clothes, James stepped behind, his arms around your waist and held you for a second, swaying slightly on the spot as he dipped to kiss your cheek. “Do you want my jumper? Might be more comfortable than what you’re wearing?” he asked with hope in his voice and you knew he always loved seeing you in his clothes.

Turning in his arms and stroking your fingers through his hair to brush it out of his face you nodded tiredly, “Yes please!”

James grinned, pecking your lips before swiftly pulling his jumper off and then helping you to underdress down to your underwear and helping you into his jumper. Remus and Sirius were already down to their boxers and in bed, Sirius in the centre with his arms open and you smiled in relief, crawling over his body and settling on top of his chest. Everything seemed to fall into place as James followed behind you and lay next to Sirius, all three of their arms wrapping around you like a weighted blanket and a breath later all four of you were asleep.

When you woke next, it was because something was tickling your nose. Squinting open your eyes, you were welcomed to the sight of Sirius’ silky hair completely covering your face and his warm breath only an inch away from yours. Laughing under your breath, being careful not to wake the Marauder, you brushed the strands out of yours and his face, tucking it behind his ear.

As your fingers settled back cuddled into your chest, Sirius’ eyebrows furrowed followed by him groaning and bringing your fingers back up to his hair. You giggled louder now as you began to play with his hair and scratch your nails against his scalp, loving the sweet smile on his pretty-boy face.

“You know Pads, asking her to pet you, isn’t what I’m sure Madam Pomfrey classed as resting”, James mused from across the room, no longer by your side. Peaking open your eyes once more, you lifted your head as Sirius flipped off James who was sitting across the room, playing with his gold snitch with a pile of food waiting beside him.

“Is that pancakes?” you asked hopefully, sitting up further by pushing off of Sirius’ chest. Remus who was also still resting on the bed perked up at his, opening one eye and rolling over, his hair sticking up in all directions nearly as dramatically as James’ as he looked for the food.

“It is indeed, and there’s also toast, sausages, eggs, bacon, fruit, anything you might need”.

The four of you repositioned on the bed, leaving space in the middle to carefully lay the trays of food that James had managed to steal from the kitchens and all ate until stomachs were full and happy.

“What time is it?”, Sirius asked, still trying to wipe the sleep out of his eyes.

“Just after lunch, so we’ve only slept for a few hours but seeing as we missed breakfast I thought it might be a good idea to get some food into our systems”.

“Thanks, Prongs”, Remus said before taking another bite of his toast and looking in your direction. “How are you feeling after a bit more sleep?”

“Good, like nothing even happened, I feel like I’m back to normal”. Remus nodded at your words, giving you a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, causing you to sigh and place your fork back onto your plate that was balanced on your nap. “I know we need to discuss what has happened and I’d rather do it now instead of waiting”.

The three Marauders looked at each other, unsure of how to approach the subject before James took one for the team and spoke first. “So you said you don’t remember anything, is that still the case?”

“The last thing I remember is going to Potions on Monday afternoon which was apparently a few days ago, I don't remember anything up until waking up in the hospital wing”.

“Do you understand what’s happened though? And how serious it was?”, James continued, his usual light and laughter not present in his eyes and you had to look at your fingers holding onto your plate as you felt the intensity of his emotions.

“Yes, Madam Pomfrey explained everything and why I had the seizure. I know I hadn’t looked after myself that day, but sometimes I feel like I’m drowning in my assignments for classes and if I don’t do them as soon as they are given to me, I’ll run out of time to complete them and then I’ll fail and then they’ll kick me out of the school and-”.

A scarred, rough hand pulled the plate from your grip so that he could gently hold both of your hands, tipping your chin back so that you were looking up at him as Remus came through with his words of wisdom. “You know that’s just your anxiety talking, there’s no way they would ever kick a talented witch like you from Hogwarts. You’re nearly top of all classes, always help others with their work and get good grades on your own. But you really need to look after yourself. To even get to the point of fainting is so dangerous Sweetheart, imagine if we weren’t there when this all happened?”

It was Sirius who began talking next, “We aren’t saying you need to completely change your ways but you fought us so hard in the library to even just have a little break. From now on, maybe we should put a bottle of water and some snacks in your bag and please, if you’re studying, just give yourself a rest every hour or so, even if it's to have a walk around the library to stretch your legs. Is that ok?”

The way he was speaking to you so softly and kindly had your heart melting and you hated how quickly tears were in your eyes again. You were so thankful for them, expecting them to be angry in some sort of way but once again proving how much you loved them and they loved you.

Unable to form any words, you nodded your response towards Sirius who smiled and opened his arms for you to crawl into again, his hands rubbing up and down your spine, soothing the emotions away.

James sighed away his own anxieties, moving over to kiss the back of your head before clearing away the food, waving his wand and everything disappearing back to the kitchens. “Right, a day of relaxation coming your way my love”, he began, trying to cheer the atmosphere and already causing you to laugh through the tears. “We will be having regular naps throughout the day, and plenty of food that will be ready whenever we are, All I need to do is summon one of the house elves. We have books, Sirius record player, we could even venture down to the common room if we’re feeling adventurous. Oh! I also caught Lily on my way back from the kitchens and she gave me some fruity bubble bath that her muggle parents have sent her that’s supposed to be nice so a nice candlelight bath will be ready whenever you are Love”.

You were beaming at all three of them, “Thank you! For this and everything else you’ve ever done, thank you”.

James shifted closer so that he could peck your lips, slowly and with love. The action was repeated by Remus and Sirius as you all naturally linked together in a cocoon of warmth and safety as you all hugged each other.

“I love you”, you whispered against whichever one of their shoulders you were nuzzling into. The three of them promised their love back to you before deciding on the first plan of the day.

[reidsworld]

Scars of Time Chapter One: Gimme Shelter

Summary: Tension grows as Logan's failing healing abilities take a toll on your relationship yet simultaneously bringing you closer together as you begin to navigate the situation with Laura.

Pairing: Logan Howlett x Fem!Mutant!Reader

Category: Fluff, Angst

Content Warnings: Canon-typical violence, alcohol use, use of Y/N, pet names (darlin’, my love)

Word Count: 4.9k

Song... Gimme Shelter by The Rolling Stones

Mars speaks… Wow, this is a long one. I’m honestly so excited to write the next chapter, I had a lot of fun writing this one and did my best to stick close to the plot of the movie.

Masterlist | Series Masterlist | Next Part >

2029

The dark sky hung heavy over the barren landscape as Logan pulled the battered limousine into the driveway. It had been a long day and an even longer night, the hours blurring together in a haze of exhaustion and frustration. His hands tightened on the steering wheel, the knuckles white and bruised, and he exhaled a deep sigh. His bones ached in a way that wasn’t just physical; it was a bone-deep weariness that had been building for years, a heaviness that never seemed to lift.

He cut the engine and sat in the silence for a moment, gathering the strength to move. The old warehouse loomed in the distance, a relic of better days, now more prison than home. He pushed open the car door with a grunt, his joints protesting, and made his way inside. Caliban was waiting, his pale face stark against the dim light.

"Where is she?" Logan asked, his voice rough from disuse.

"With Charles," Caliban replied, his tone clipped. "She’s been with him most of the night."

Logan nodded, a flicker of something softening the harsh lines of his face. "Thanks."

The metal door to Charles’ tank creaked as Logan pushed it open, the familiar scent of antiseptic and old paper filling his nose. The dim glow of the sun peaking through the holes in the tank bathed the room in an eerie light, casting long shadows on the walls. Charles was seated in his wheelchair, his frail form barely more than a shadow, with you beside him, holding one of his hands between yours. You glanced up as Logan entered, offering him a small, tired smile.

"Hey," you greeted softly, rising to your feet as he approached.

Logan leaned in, pressing a kiss to your forehead, the gesture filled with a tenderness that was rare for him. He brushed a strand of hair from your face, his touch lingering.

"What's he on about this time?" Logan asked, nodding towards Charles, who was muttering under his breath, his eyes unfocused.

"I'm not even sure," you replied, glancing back at the professor with a sad smile. "Just wanted to keep him company. I feel bad that he's locked up in this tank all the time."

Logan grunted in agreement, his jaw tightening as he looked at the man who had once been the most powerful mind in the world, now reduced to this. "He deserves better than this."

"We all do," you murmured, your gaze meeting his. The unspoken weight of those words hung between you, a reminder of the life you both once had, now lost to the passage of time.

Charles began to wheel in a circle, muttering incoherently about Taco Bell before Logan stepped in front of him, blocking his path. Charles’ confusion was palpable, his eyes darting around with a mixture of bewilderment and irritation.

“Who are you?” Charles asked abruptly, his tone sharp and accusatory.

“You know who I am,” Logan replied as he leaned down, rolling up Charles’s sleeve with practised ease. His expression was a blend of weariness and concern, a familiar routine etched into his features.

“You’re the man who puts me to sleep,” Charles said, his voice tinged with a mix of resignation and bitterness.

“We all could use some sleep,” Logan murmured as he flicked the syringe. His fingers moved with a certain roughness, betraying his frustration with the situation.

“No, no, no!” Charles protested vehemently, his body tensing and fighting against Logan’s hold. The commotion escalated quickly; Charles fell backwards in his wheelchair, hitting his head on the floor. His voice was filled with fear and confusion as he cried out, “What are you doing to me?”

You called out his name, desperation lacing your tone as you tried to calm him down. Before you could say more, Charles suddenly stiffened, his eyes wide with panic. The seizure hit with a sudden, violent force. The room seemed to tilt and sway as if caught in the grip of an invisible storm. You barely had time to react before the psychic shockwave rippled outward, its impact hitting you like a physical blow.

Instinctively, you reached out to steady Logan, who staggered, clutching his head in visible pain. His face was etched with strain, his usual rugged composure cracking under the weight of the psychic assault.

"Charles!" you shouted, your voice barely piercing through the chaos in your mind. You rushed to his side, trying to provide comfort, but it felt like trying to halt a tidal wave with your bare hands. The intensity of the seizure was overwhelming, and your efforts seemed futile against its ferocity.

Logan gritted his teeth, his hands gripping the edges of the tank as he fought to remain upright. The pressure in his skull felt as though it was building to a breaking point, but he pushed through the agony, his determination to protect both you and Charles evident in his strained movements. With a guttural roar of exertion, he forced his way towards Charles and jammed the syringe into his chest, injecting the medication that would hopefully calm the storm within his mind.

Gradually, the room stopped shaking, and the pressure in your head began to ease. You took a shuddering breath, your body trembling from the strain of maintaining your composure. Logan turned to you, his eyes filled with concern as he reached out to steady you.

"You okay?" he asked, his voice rough but soft as he moved to pick up Charles, carefully placing him back onto his bed.

"Yeah," you whispered, though the uncertainty in your voice betrayed your own shaken state. "I’m fine."

Logan gave Charles’s his pills as you moved to clean up the mess on the floor and gather his scattered wheelchair. Your movements were mechanical, driven by the need to restore some semblance of order amidst the chaos.

You positioned yourself near the door, waiting for Logan to finish tucking Charles in. As you watched, Charles suddenly grabbed Logan’s face, forcing him to meet his gaze.

“What a disappointment you are,” Charles said in a low, accusing tone. The words landed with a visceral impact, visible in the way Logan’s body stiffened. The flicker of pain in Logan’s eyes was unmistakable, and you felt a surge of empathy, wanting to offer him comfort.

He turned to look at you before turning his full attention back to Logan, his voice heavy with unresolved issues. “When I found the two of you, you were pursuing a career as a cage fighter. A warm capper to a life as an assassin. Hooked on barbiturates. You were an animal and she was a singer, a match made in heaven.”

Logan got up, having heard enough.

“We should have taken her and left you,” Charles continued, his voice sharp with regret. “But we took you in. I gave you both a family.”

“They’re gone now,” Logan grunted out as he turned away, his voice trailing off into a mixture of anger and regret. His accusations continued to pierce the air, his voice a harsh reminder of past decisions and their consequences.

Logan’s face was a mask of anguish as he opened the door to leave. Before Logan shut the door, Charles shouted, “No one should live like this, drugged in a fucking tank.”

“It’s for your own good,” Logan replied, his tone firm but laced with a sense of hopelessness. Before leaving, you reached out, grabbing his arm and pulling him gently toward you.

"Don’t listen to him, Logan," you murmured, your voice soft yet resolute. "He doesn’t mean it."

Logan’s expression remained grim, his jaw clenched tightly as he gently pulled away from your embrace. "He’s right," he muttered under his breath, his eyes dark with self-loathing. “Things would’ve been better off if they had only taken you.”

You offered him a sad smile, shaking your head. "No, they wouldn’t have, Logan," you said gently. "I don’t know how I would have lived without you."

Logan’s gaze softened slightly as he looked at you, but the tension in his body didn’t ease. Frustration was evident in his every movement as he ran a hand through his hair. "I need a drink," he muttered, turning on his heel and leaving the room before you could say anything more.

You watched him go, your heart heavy with worry. You knew him well enough to understand that he wasn’t just going for a drink—he was trying to escape the guilt and pain that had been gnawing at him for years. With a sigh, you moved to sit beside Charles’s bed, taking his hand in yours and offering a reassuring smile.

“You’re waiting for me to die, aren’t you?” Charles asked solemnly, his voice tinged with resignation.

“No. We’re going to get out of here one day, and you’re coming with us,” you promised, your voice steady despite the heaviness of the situation.

Charles sighed, his gaze drifting. “Sing me a song. Please, it’s the least you could do for me, keeping me locked up here in this fucking tank.”

You smiled softly, beginning to sing a soothing melody. The song flowed gently, a comforting presence amidst the chaos and pain. By the time you finished, Charles was sound asleep. You pressed a tender kiss to his forehead, whispering a soft goodnight before leaving to find Logan.

You found Logan in the small, dimly lit bedroom, slumped on the edge of the bed. The room was gloomy and cold in addition to the lingering smell of whiskey. Logan was hunched over, his face set in a grimace as he struggled to extend his claws. Two of his adamantium claws were extended, the metal glinting ominously in the low light. The struggle to fully extend the third claw was etched in the lines of pain on his face, and the frustration simmering just beneath the surface made your heart ache.

"Logan, stop that, you’re hurting yourself" you called softly, stepping into the room and closing the door quietly behind you.

He didn’t look up, his attention fixated on his hands as he fought against the stubborn adamantium. "I’ll heal," he grumbled, his voice thick with irritation and exhaustion.

“You and I both know that’s not true,” you crossed the room with determined steps and gently moved his hand away from the claw. "Let me help you."

"No," he snapped, his hand jerking away from you. "You don’t need to waste your energy on me."

"Logan," you said firmly, your voice unwavering as you cupped his face in your hands, guiding him to meet your gaze. "I’m not wasting anything. Let me help."

He looked into your eyes, and the raw pain and anger reflected there made your breath catch. For a moment, you feared he might refuse, but then he sighed deeply, the tension in his posture slowly easing as he leaned into your touch.

You guided his hands to rest in yours, your healing energy flowing from you to him. The familiar warmth of your power radiated through your fingertips, and you could feel the strain it put on your own body. Despite the effort it took, you focused on the relief that gradually appeared on his face as the pain subsided.

"Stop pushing yourself so hard," Logan murmured, his voice soft but edged with concern.

"I can handle it," you replied, though fatigue was beginning to seep into your bones.

Logan’s expression hardened, and he pulled his hands away. "I don’t want you hurting yourself because of me."

His frustration was palpable, and it ignited a fire in you. "And I don’t want you suffering because you’re too stubborn to accept help!" you retorted, your voice sharper than you intended.

Logan flinched, his eyes narrowing in reaction. "I’m not some helpless—"

"No, you’re not," you interrupted, your voice trembling with emotion. "But you don’t have to do this alone, Logan. You’ve never had to."

The silence that followed was thick with the weight of unspoken feelings. Logan’s shoulders relaxed slightly as he sighed, his voice softer. "I’m sorry," he said, his tone laden with vulnerability. "I just… I don’t want to lose you, too."

Your heart clenched at the rawness in his voice. You moved closer, wrapping your arms around him in a comforting embrace. "You’re not going to lose me," you whispered, your voice steady with quiet resolve. "We’re in this together."

He didn’t respond with words, but the way he held you close, his grip almost desperate, conveyed more than any words could.

You shifted to lie down next to Logan as he sat solemnly on the bed, holding his dog tags in his hand while simultaneously holding back tears. You rubbed his back in an attempt to comfort him.

You eventually managed to convince Logan to lie down beside you, though sleep remained elusive for both of you. The weight of the day’s events hung heavily over you, casting a long shadow of uncertainty and danger that neither of you could fully escape.

Later that evening, Logan stirred beside you, his movements deliberately gentle as he tried not to disturb your sleep. But the shift in the bed's weight was enough to rouse you slightly, and you blinked in the darkness, catching a glimpse of him as he quietly grabbed his blazer from the chair. The dim light from the hallway illuminated his figure, casting long shadows across the room. He looked back at you once, his expression unreadable, before slipping out the door.

As you lay there in the stillness, the muffled sounds of Logan and Caliban’s argument seeped through the thin walls. The tension in their voices was palpable, each word carrying a weight that pressed down on your chest. You heard the sharp crack of a mug shattering, followed by the heavy thud of Logan’s boots against the floor as he stormed closer to the bedroom. The door creaked open, and in the faint light, you saw his silhouette move towards you. He leaned down, his breath warm against your skin as he pressed a tender kiss to your temple.

"Where are you going?" you mumbled, your voice thick with sleep and worry, your hand instinctively reaching out to find his.

"Out," he replied, his tone clipped and distant, a stark contrast to the softness of his touch.

"Be safe," you whispered, your eyes already growing heavy with the pull of sleep again.

He didn’t reply with words, but the lingering kiss he placed on your lips was full of unspoken promises and the familiar comfort of his presence. It was a silent vow that he would return, no matter what.

As the night slowly gave way to the first light of morning, you stirred awake to find Logan lying beside you, his eyes already on you. The way he looked at you, a mix of relief and something deeper, made your heart ache.

“You know it’s creepy to stare, right?” you muttered with a sleepy smile, trying to lighten the heavy atmosphere that had settled over you both.

“M’sorry, just couldn’t help myself, darlin’,” he replied, his voice low and filled with warmth as he leaned in to press a soft, lingering kiss to your lips.

“When did you get back?” you asked, concern lacing your words as you reached out to trace the lines of his face.

“Don’t know. Late, the sun was almost up,” he admitted, his tone carrying a weariness that went beyond just physical exhaustion.

“Logan…” you began, your heart clenching at the sight of him. The shadows under his eyes, the tightness in his jaw—it all spoke of battles fought both inside and out.

“I know,” he cut you off gently, his hand finding yours and squeezing it reassuringly. “Soon we won’t have to deal with this shit hole.”

But his words didn’t bring the comfort they were meant to. There was something else behind his eyes, something he was holding back. "I need to talk to you about something," he said, his voice rough with hesitation.

“Anything,” you whispered, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze.

“I got offered a lot of money,” he started, his gaze dropping to the bed as if the words were too heavy to meet your eyes. “Have to drive this girl and her daughter to North Dakota. They’re being chased by some bad people, people I don’t wanna get involved with. I don’t wanna do this, don’t want you to get hurt. But she’s offering me $50,000 ‘nd I can’t just let this little girl and her mom get killed.”

The room was silent as you processed his words. The weight of what he was saying settled heavily on your shoulders, but you knew there was no other option in his mind. "I’m coming with you," you said firmly, your voice leaving no room for argument.

“Like hell you are,” Logan shot back, his protective instincts flaring up.

You sat up, your eyes locking onto his with a determination that matched his own. “Logan, I’m not letting you go alone.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but the look in your eyes told him it was a battle he wouldn’t win. He sighed, the fight draining out of him as he leaned in to kiss you again, this time with a desperation that spoke of all the fears he couldn’t voice.

"Fine," he muttered against your lips, his breath warm and familiar, his hands pulling you closer as if he could shield you from the dangers ahead.

You and Logan sat across from Charles as he meticulously tended to his plants, his frail hands gently brushing the leaves. The quiet hum of the room was broken by Charles' soft voice.

“I like those,” Charles remarked, nodding toward Logan as he adjusted his glasses and pulled out his phone.

“Huh?” Logan looked up, slightly distracted.

“The glasses,” Charles clarified, a small smile playing on his lips. “They make you look younger.”

You couldn't help but smile, glancing at Logan through the lens of affection. The glasses did something to him—softened his edges just a bit.

“I like ‘em too,” you added, leaning over to plant a kiss on his cheek. Lowering your voice to a whisper, you teased, “make you look hot.”

Logan paused for a moment, his hand freezing mid-motion as he slid his phone back into his suit pocket. The smirk that tugged at your lips didn’t go unnoticed by him, and you saw the faintest hint of color rise to his cheeks.

Clearing his throat, Logan shifted in his seat. “I gotta go… uh, I gotta go away for a few days,” he began, his tone suddenly more serious. “I got a long ride for some good money, and Y/N’s coming with me. But when we get back, we’re gonna get outta here.”

You nodded, your hand finding Logan's for a reassuring squeeze. “We’re gonna drive down to Yelapa, get ourselves a boat, and live on the ocean,” you added, painting the picture of the future you both longed for.

Charles' eyes met yours, a flicker of concern in them. “Will you be safe there?”

Logan hesitated for a split second before nodding, his voice steady. “Yeah… yeah, we’ll be safe.”

Just then, Caliban entered the room, holding Charles’ meds. The moment felt like a brief interlude between the past and the uncertain future. Logan stood, his hand still in yours as he pulled you gently to your feet.

As you both made your way to the car, Logan exchanged a few words with Caliban, promising to be back in a few days. The weight of what lay ahead was heavy in the air, but there was also a quiet determination in Logan’s stride, a sense of purpose that you couldn’t help but admire.

On the drive, the heat of the desert sun beat down relentlessly, the landscape stretching out endlessly before you. Logan was silent behind the wheel, his focus on the road, while you sat beside him, your thoughts swirling.

You reached the outskirts of the city, and Logan’s brow furrowed in concern. Something felt off. As you drove closer to the motel, Logan tensed, and you followed his gaze, noticing the abandoned car parked haphazardly in front of one of the rooms.

Logan killed the engine, and the two of you stepped out cautiously. The air was thick with tension, a silent warning that something was wrong. You followed Logan to the motel room, your heart pounding in your chest as you noticed the broken door.

Logan cautiously pushed it open, and the sight that greeted you made your stomach drop. The woman, who had come to Logan for help, was dead, her body slumped in a pool of blood on the floor. Logan cursed under his breath, his eyes scanning the room for any sign of the girl, Laura.

"She’s gone," you whispered, your voice filled with dread.

You both quickly searched the room, finding her phone with an unsent text to Logan that read, They here, Pleas

"Let’s go,” he grunted out, reaching for your hand and walking back to the car.

The drive back was suffocating, the air thick with unspoken fears and regrets. Logan gripped the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles turned bone white, his jaw clenched in a silent battle against the thoughts swirling in his mind. The engine's roar was the only sound, filling the void left by words neither of you could bring yourselves to say.

You stole glances at him, your heart breaking at the sight of his hardened expression. His eyes were locked on the road, but you knew his mind was miles away, lost in the chaos of what had just unfolded.

"Logan…" you began softly, unsure how to bridge the widening chasm between you.

"Don’t," he cut you off, his voice rough and strained, barely masking the turmoil beneath. "Should’ve never gotten involved in this shit."

His words stung, but you understood the weight he carried. You both knew this wasn’t just another job gone wrong—this was something darker, something that reached into the parts of Logan’s past he tried so hard to bury.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, the warehouse came into view, its shadow stretching long and ominous across the dusty ground. Logan parked the car, his eyes darting around, scanning for threats even as he tried to suppress the gnawing fear that had taken root in his gut.

When you stepped out of the car, Caliban was already approaching, his expression wary. “What happened? Something go wrong?”

“The job was wrong to begin with,” Logan muttered, his voice barely more than a growl as the two of you made your way inside.

Before you could fully step into the safety of the warehouse, Caliban’s voice called out behind you. “Who does this belong to?” He held up a small bag and a ball, turning just in time to hear the distant rumble of an approaching vehicle.

“Who’s that?” Caliban asked, his tone edged with concern.

Logan shot him a look, frustration lacing his words. “Thought you were supposed to see shit coming.”

Caliban bristled, a rare flash of anger crossing his usually placid features. “I’m a glorified truffle pig, not a goddamn clairvoyant.”

Logan’s eyes narrowed, but before he could retort, his focus shifted back to you. “Go inside, keep Charles quiet,” he ordered Caliban, his voice brooking no argument.

Then, turning to you, his gaze softened, though his tone remained firm. “You too.”

You hesitated, your instincts screaming to stay by his side, but the look in his eyes told you there was no room for debate. With a sigh, you reluctantly turned and headed inside, the weight of leaving him alone gnawing at your resolve.

The moment you were inside, a loud crash echoed from outside, followed by the unmistakable sound of a struggle. You rushed back out just in time to see Logan narrowly dodge a metal bar thrown with surprising force.

“Logan!” you shouted, panic lacing your voice as he caught the bar mid-air, his muscles coiled, ready to retaliate. But as you stepped closer, you saw who had thrown it—a young girl, her eyes wild with fear and defiance.

“She’s just a kid,” you urged, your voice softer now, pleading with him to stand down.

Logan’s jaw tightened, his grip on the bar unwavering for a moment before he finally relented, lowering his arm with a frustrated sigh. The tension in his body was palpable, but the anger faded as Charles appeared, stepping into the scene with a calm that belied the chaos.

“This is Laura,” Charles said, his voice carrying a gentle authority as he called out for Caliban. “This is who I’ve been telling you about,” he continued, switching to Spanish as he spoke to the girl.

You watched, your heart pounding in your chest as Laura’s gaze flicked between you and Logan, wary and untrusting. But there was something else in her eyes too—a glimmer of hope, perhaps, or recognition.

As they made their way inside, a laugh escaped your lips, the tension breaking for just a moment. "She’s got some fight in her," you remarked, your voice a mix of admiration and relief.

“Yeah,” Logan muttered, the smallest of smiles tugging at the corner of his mouth at the sound of your laugh. He nodded toward the door, signaling for you to follow Charles and Laura inside. You gave him a reassuring look before slipping inside after them.

Inside, the atmosphere was tense but calmer. You found Laura sitting at the table, her expression guarded, still wary of her surroundings. Charles sat nearby, watching her with a mixture of sadness and understanding, the sight pulling at your heartstrings.

You knelt beside her, your voice gentle as you spoke. “You did good, kid,” you said, offering her a small, encouraging smile. “But we need to stay inside now, okay? It’s not safe out there.”

Laura nodded, her eyes wide and trusting as she tentatively took your hand. The simple gesture made your heart swell, and you squeezed her hand gently before leading her and Charles further into the building, away from the danger that still lingered outside.

When Logan finally joined you inside, the sight that greeted him was almost surreal—Laura eating quietly at the table, you beside her, coaxing her to eat a bit more. The scene was a stark contrast to the violence and fear that had dominated the day, a brief respite in an otherwise tumultuous world.

Charles watched you all with a sad smile, a bittersweet look in his eyes as he observed the scene. For a moment, it was easy to imagine a different life—one where the three of you, maybe even four, could have been a family. But the harsh reality was never far behind.

Logan’s eyes softened as he took in the sight, but the moment was fleeting. The weight of everything that had happened pressed down on him, pulling him back to the harshness of the present.

“Where’s Caliban?” you asked, noticing his absence.

“Outside,” Logan replied, his voice clipped, the tension in his body telling you that whatever had transpired, it wasn’t something he wanted to discuss.

You didn’t press him, but when he moved to grab the bag from the table, his actions were frantic, almost desperate. Laura’s hand shot out, grabbing the bag, her expression fierce.

“You can get it back after I figure out what you and your mother have got us into,” Logan ground out, his frustration boiling over.

“Logan, calm down,” you said softly, reaching out to place a hand on his arm. The touch was meant to ground him, to remind him that he wasn’t alone in this. “We’ll figure this out.”

But Logan was teetering on the edge, his hands shaking as he dropped the bag, overwhelmed by the sheer weight of it all. “We don’t have time for this,” he muttered, the words barely making it past his lips, more a desperate mantra than anything else.

“Logan,” you repeated, your voice firmer this time as you stepped closer, forcing him to meet your gaze. “Look at me.”

His eyes finally lifted to yours, and what you saw there broke your heart. The storm of emotions swirling behind those familiar hazel eyes was a torrent of fear, anger, and exhaustion. But underneath it all, there was something else—something that mirrored the unspoken fears you carried too.

You didn’t say anything, just held his gaze, your eyes conveying the reassurance words couldn’t. Slowly, you watched as the tension in his body eased, his breathing evening out as he let the connection between you anchor him.

“Okay,” he finally muttered, his voice barely above a whisper, a single word carrying the weight of his surrender.

He was watching you with an unreadable expression, his eyes portraying a swirl of emotions. You gave him a small nod, a silent understanding passing between you. There was so much more to your story, a past filled with moments that had shaped who you both were. As you watched Laura quietly eating, you remembered how it all began, how you and Logan found each other in a world that seemed determined to tear you apart.

Mars speaks... (again) Thank you for reading, if you wish to be added to removed from the taglist, let me know. Any and all feedback is always appreciated🫶

Tags... @annagraceevanss @jane-the-virgin0 @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @paintlavillered @morganas-pendragons @lanabobana @inthetub @kellyxo1 @lillycore @twinky-wink @politicstanner @emiemiemiii @savy-luvs-dilfs @charlyrmv @rockerchick05 @londonbeachgirl @lefroggie

[jokeringcutio]

Jealousy - Stepdad William Afton x Male Reader (SMUT)

Summary: When Stepdad William Afton comes home and sees you with a friend, he grows jealous. Warning: This story contains explicit sexual content (SMUT), Stepdad William Afton x Stepson Reader, not beta-read AN: I literally just wrote this now, hope you enjoy anon:

You tapped your pen against the notebook, eyes flitting between the scribbled equations and the clock. Your friend leaned over the table, his voice a hushed whisper laden with urgency.

"Come on, man, think. What's the next step in solving this?" he urged, tapping the paper where a complex algebra problem taunted you both.

"Isolate the variable," you murmured, but your concentration broke when the front door slammed shut with a resonance that seemed to ripple through the house.

"Damn it," you muttered under your breath, feeling the familiar knot of apprehension twist in your gut.

William Afton, your stepdad, loomed in the doorway like a dark omen. His shadow stretched long and ominous across the kitchen tiles, a harbinger of the mood that followed him home from whatever hellish workday he'd endured.

"Evening," he grunted, his voice gravelly, unused. He shrugged off his coat, movements stiff and deliberate, the fabric whispering threats as it slid down his arms.

Your friend's eyes darted toward the man, then back to you, an unspoken question hanging between you. But you knew better than to acknowledge the tension. You kept your focus on your homework, pretending the atmosphere hadn't shifted, pretending the air wasn't now thick with the sour tang of his displeasure.

"Long day at work?" you ventured, a feeble attempt at normalcy. Your stepdad was usually gruff when he got home – had never been soft since your mother’s passing a few years ago. But today his mood was exceptionally sour.

"Every damn day's a long day," William snarled, the sound of his work boots heavy against the floorboards as he trudged closer, his presence filling the room with a pressure that seemed to squeeze your chest.

You watched, heart pounding erratically, as William's eyes narrowed on you, the ghost of a scowl etched deep into his weathered face. He was a relic of a life before, a reminder of things best forgotten, things that lurked in the corner of your mind, clawing for attention.

"Focus on the problem," your friend said, but his voice wavered, betraying his calm facade.

"Already am," you replied, though your gaze never left William. You were caught in his gravitational pull, a moth too close to the flame, anticipation curling hotly in your belly.

His eyes, steel traps snapping shut, fixed on you. William's gaze burned, a silent blaze scorching through the room.

"Studying hard?" His voice dripped with sarcasm, each word a laden weight in the charged air.

"Trying to," you replied, the words sounding hollow even to your own ears.

Your friend shuffled papers, a nervous rustle amidst the growing storm. He must have sensed it – the electric crackle of William's mood, the kind that precedes lightning, dangerous and unpredictable.

"Think I'll head out," he muttered, scooping books into his arms with trembling hands. He was a pretty boy, one of the prettiest in your class. With a youthful blush on his cheeks, long black lashes and plump lips to die for. His chair scraped back, a desperate plea for escape etched into the sound.

"See you," you murmured, your voice steady despite the quickening beat of your heart. Your friend nodded and offered a tight-lipped smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. And then he was gone. His footsteps retreated, a fading echo against the tense silence left in his wake.

The front door closed softly, a definitive click sealing your fate. Alone now, with him, the air seemed to shift, became thicker, laced with something unspoken but palpably present.

William moved, a shadow stretched across the floor, reaching for you with dark tendrils. You sat, still as stone, yet every muscle screamed to flee.

"Good riddance," You heard your stepdad say. There was a smile in his voice – but it was the kind that has teeth, sharp and unforgiving. The smile of a predator who has cornered his prey, and you, frozen in place, could only wait to see what form the pounce will take.

You tilted your chin up, eyes narrowing as you met his glare. Your spine straightened, an act of silent defiance. You knew what was coming; the unspoken challenge hung heavy between you. "Anything wrong, William?"

The title of 'stepdad' was stuck in your throat, a deliberate omission that does not go unnoticed. You did it on purpose, of course. Relieved to see your stepdad hadn’t been ogling your classmate. Relieved that envy radiated from his pores, a thick jealousy drenched with desire.

A desire for you.

Just as you wanted.

Just as you had allowed yourself to indulge in ever since you’d become of age. To tease him, to challenge him, to draw out that desire.

His jaw clenched, the muscles ticking in his cheek. "Don't push me, boy," he warned, the words low, the threat clear and pointed.

"Didn't think I was," you replied, the edge to your voice was like a razor. Sharp, dangerous. You locked your gaze with his, unflinching, daring him to make the next move.

He moved swiftly, his large hand clamping around your arm with bruising intent. Roughly, he dragged you from the chair, your body a mere object to his force. "I've had enough of that clever mouth of yours."

"I could put it to good use, sir…” But your clever protest was crushed under his grip as he bent you over the table, punching the breath from your lungs. His other hand stroked past your shoulders, finding the back of your neck, pressing down hard, a vice of control.

"Time you learned some respect," he growled, his breath hot against your ear. Fear spiked through you, chased by a forbidden thrill. You were trapped, caught in the snare of his power, your body enjoying the struggle until your cock twitched tightly against the inside of your jeans.

"William..." It was a gasp, your voice strained. You were at the mercy of whatever was to come next. As expected, you didn’t have to wait long for your stepfather’s hands to leave your neck and pull your jeans down.

Leather bit into your ass, the sound of the belt cutting through the air amplified in the silent room. You cried out, the pain white-hot and searing, leaving you trembling. Your cock was heavy and leaking pre-cum against the table’s surface. You were grateful you had the table in front of you to rest upon since your legs threatened to give out.

"Teaching... you... a lesson," William grunted between each strike.

You gasped. The pain coiled in your stomach, roiling, insistent, and, to your disbelief, there was an answering heat. It was wrong, you knew it is, but the adrenaline, the edge of danger, sparked something deep within you.

“Think you can just date other boys?” You knew it wasn’t really a question. It was just William showing you what was on his mind, how he’d gotten worked up. His jealousy.

The belt stilled – your ass given a short reprieve. You moaned, suppressing a shiver when a cold liquid was dribbled generously into your hole, your muscles quivering. Goosebumps formed on your skin, you could see them on your bare forearms.

Suddenly, the belt dropped, clattering to the floor. A zipper could be heard as it lowered, and before you could process it, your stepfather’s hard length pressed against your entrance, seeking entry.

"No, William, we can't – "

"Oh, we can," he whispered, and then he was inside you, filling you to the hilt, stretching you in ways you never thought possible. You bit your lip, tasting blood as the sensation overwhelms your senses.

His hands gripped your hips, holding you in place as he thrust, brutal in his intensity. Each time he bottomed out left you gasping, your vision blurring.

"Feel that, boy? This is what happens when you disobey me." Panting, harsh.

You couldn’t form words, reduced to moans and whimpers as your body betrayed you, your cock rubbing painfully tight against the wooden surface of the table. It felt so, so good.

To feel your stepdad deep inside, the head of his cock battering that sweet spot deep inside. He knew just how to stimulate your prostate, drove into you like a pro – as if he hadn’t always had wives before you. As if he was used to making love to young men.

It must have been why you stayed, why you remained in his home after your mom died and you grew old enough to go to campus.

Faster and faster he pushes into you, his breathing labored in your ear, the smell of sweat and leather mixing, intoxicating. "You like it, don't you? You like being under my control."

"No," you breathed, but your voice was unsteady, a fractured denial. You sure as hell did.

Faster Daddy, deeper. But all that escaped you was another sinful moan. Sopping-wet sounds of the lubricant around your stepfather’s cock filled the room, betraying how easily he could slide into your tight hole. Your muscles spasmed, your fingers clawed at the wooden surface of the table – grasping nothing.

With a grunt, he picked up the pace. "Liar," he hissed, his grip on your hips bruising. "Gonna make you come, boy, and you're going to beg for it."

And that was the last straw; the humiliation, the pain, the pleasure, all of it crashed over you like a tidal wave. Just as you were about to come undone, he pulled out, and with a devilish smirk, jerked you off, milking your release onto your stomach and all over the kitchen table.

Gasping, spent, you collapsed onto the table, your heart pounding in your chest, your body aching. You didn’t care having slumped down upon your own cum. All your mind repeated was the feel of your stepdad’s strong fingers around your own shaft as he pushed and pulled, the way his veined hands had worked the veined flesh, the way his thumb had brushed past the slit of your cock the moment you’d started to orgasm, how cum now coated his hand.

"Next time, think twice before you defy me," you heard his low voice like a growl behind you. You heard the wet sopping sounds of his hand on his cock, jerking himself off at a rapid pace before you heard the low grunt and felt the warm release hit your back.

You gasped for air, your body pulsing with every heartbeat, consumed by a heady mix of shame and satisfaction. The lingering ache between your legs was a reminder of how you crave more. So much more of him.

“No other man,” William started, his husky voice cracked, “or boy, may ever be inside of you. Got it? Just me. Only me.”

You lay sprawled across the cold surface of the kitchen table, every heaving breath a testament to the turmoil within. The aftermath clung to your skin – a mixture of sweat and something far more primal. His satisfaction filled the air, thick and suffocating like the summer humidity that sticks to everything it touches.

"Only you," you whispered, the vow etched deep into the marrow of your bones. It was a promise to yourself, a line drawn in the sand of your own will. You would not let anyone else breach your walls, seek solace inside your body. Your clenched fists were symbols of your newfound understanding, knuckles white as the fierce determination took root within you.

You turned to look at your stepdad, who was immaculately dressed once more. The trace of his spent dripped from your inner legs. His pants showed no stain. Everything was on you. You looked debauched, while he looked fatherly. Put together. In full control.

William straightened his tie with slow, deliberate motions, an air of ownership radiating from him. His eyes, dark and fathomless pits, reflected a twisted sense of achievement. They bore into you, heavy with unspoken words. Words that screamed of dominance and possession. He had exerted his control, marked you like you had silently begged for.

"Look at me," his voice commanded, low and gravelly. You resisted, but only momentarily. When your eyes finally met his, you saw the smug curl of his lips, the shadow of a man who reveled in the power he wielded.

"Good boy," he sneered, the condescension in those two words cutting deeper than any physical touch could. Each syllable was a brand upon your spirit, marking you as his in a way society would never condone.

He turned away then, leaving you alone with the echoes of what had transpired. But his departure did nothing to alleviate the weight of his influence. It lingered, a specter haunting the corners of the room, a reminder that he could – and would – return to claim what he considered rightfully his.

And boy… you couldn’t wait.

[durrtydawg]

Look, Don't Touch.

(Sam Drake x F!Reader smut) 3rd person

CW: It's smut, it's sex polleny, and it's got a big, fat, dubcon warning. Also a bit of angst, hurt/comfort, internal conflict, etc etc. For detailed tags, please check out ao3, as funnily enough, I literally cannot add any more text into this post 😛

Masterlist

This is long. Horrendously long. Like... *18,000 words* or so, so I don't want to hear any yapping if you click 'read more' and don't actually want to read. Dare I say, quantity over quality? Sorry to those that wanted this split into parts, but honestly... I couldn't make it work, so here we are. Regardless, I hope someone out there enjoys this!! It's been my baby for a while, and whilst not the best thing I've written, I need to let it go before I, too, become a reprobate by force x

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭

“In the wake of the Second World War, the elusive Polish alchemist Dariusz Cassimir left behind a legacy shrouded… ooo… in mystery. Hmm. Shrouded is a fun word.”

“Big door. Ominous etchings. Doesn’t get more ‘shrouded in mystery’ than that. This has gotta be it.”

“O-kay… But how do we get in?”

She shrugs, turning back to him with a raised brow. “Oh, I don’t know, Sam, maybe the huge lever right next to said mysterious door?” She purposely targets her flashlight at his face, making her way over to the lever. He swats her with the notes in his hand.

“Okay,” Sam sniffs, striding ahead with a crack of the knuckles after he fixes his own torch to his belt, “‘Cause of the attitude, I get to open it.” He grins sarcastically, making sure to gently nudge her shoulder as he passes, thrusting the papers he was reading from into her hands.

Her eyes roll, but she finds the cockiness endearing- and he knows it.

“Known for his work in chemical weapon and explosives development throughout the Great War, and the start of the Second, Cassimir's true genius lay in the shadows, where he conducted secretive experiments with potions, remedies, and poisons, yada yada… yeah, right.”

She continues reading out from where he left off as Sam checks around the lever for any dodgy set-ups that might send the two of them plummeting into an inescapable pit, falling victim to some sort of horrific creature ready to maul the two of them to death, or perhaps crushed by a flurry of falling boulders, etcetera, etcetera. No death trap is too garish in this line of work.

“Oh. Listen to this. Ahem. Despising intrusion into his work, Cassimir was rumoured to eliminate those who stumbled upon these experiments without permission.” She hums. “So, not only was this guy insane, but he was a murderer too- hey, be careful with that lever, please... I don’t want a repeat of the Tuscan trap door incident.” She sighs, fingernails trepidatiously digging into the straps on her backpack as he braces his hands against the lever.

“Still not over that, huh?” Sam snorts, turning back to her with an arrogance-tinged smirk as she grimaces, folding the paper and stuffing it into her jacket pocket.

“My ankle isn't.”

He scoffs. “Every possible trap we’ve come across today has either rotted itself out of action or has been destroyed by some other poor bastard that got here before us. Besides,” He stamps a boot against the ground to prove his point, “It’s a dense stone floor. I don’t think trap doors are a cause for concern here.”

“Famous last words.” She murmurs as he pulls on the lever, a soft grunt signalling that it takes more effort than initially predicted. “You sure you don't want to find another way in before you start fiddling with- nope? Okay.”

“What’s…the worst…” he pauses, re-positioning himself to give a little more force to the lever, “that could- Ow, Jesus!” He cuts himself off with a hiss of pain as the lever finally gives and he stumbles upright, wincing.

“Aw. Too much strain on your big, strong, man muscles?” She questions teasingly as Sam glares at his hand, flexing his fingers with a frown.

“The damn thing pricked me.”

A sudden deep rumble through the ground prevents her from quipping back as both of their attention is now taken by the stone wall in front of them slowly sliding to the side with a wince-worthy scrape.

“It’s always fascinating how something so archaic can still be so…mobile.” Sam says inquisitively, causing her to snort.

“Talking about you, or the door?”

He offers her no more than an unimpressed glare, lips pursed and eyes heavy-lidded, still scrunching and un-scrunching his hand.

“You’re lucky you’re cute, ya know.” He grumbles, watching a cheeky pout form on her lips.

“Thank you. Anyway, it's probably not that old. Cassimir used this place as his base between the first and second world wars, which, in the grand scheme of things, isn't that long ago. I’m guessing, with all the influence he had-”

“-He spruced up the place. New doors. Lick of paint. Few booby traps for good measure. The usual stuff.” He concludes for her with a slow nod, eyes narrowed at the lever, attention diverting back from the door to his palm.

She snickers.

Her smile deepens into a grin as he bares his teeth in irritation at his tiny little injury.

He grumbles, thumb rubbing small circles on his palm.

She steps forwards, “C’mon, grump. Serves you right for touching things you shouldn't.”

“Well, thank you for exhibiting the utmost care and patience.” He responds, brows knitted together as he continues to scrutinise his hand.

“Don't guilt-trip me.” She turns back and holds onto his wrist gently to inspect the palm of his hand. A little more than a pin-prick sits in the centre; a fresh bead of blood oozing to the surface each time he wipes one away. 

She pouts as she examines it, then offers a quick glance to the lever to see…nothing interesting at surface level. She turned to him with a moue. “What is it? A splinter?”

“Don’t think so.” He mutters, wiping the speckles of blood onto his jeans, nose scrunched into an expression of disapproval.

“Well…You’ve gone through far worse. C’mon.”

He hums in amusement at her dismissal of interest before the two of them begin to walk down the newly revealed corridor.

As she disappears off into the distance, Sam takes a glance at his assailant, cringing as he notes a tiny divot in the centre of the smooth, varnished wood of the lever- furthermore, two engraved letters beneath it. ‘I D’.

“The hell does i-d mean?” He mutters, glancing at his hand again and wiping it on his jeans for the second time with an irked grunt. Strange.

“Noooo!” Her voice echoes from around the corner, attracting his attention back to the task at hand. Or… away from hand, rather.

He turns in her direction, approaching from behind as she grumbles at yet another obstacle. She frowns down at a dormant stone pressure plate on the floor.

“Guess old Cassimir really doesn’t want us getting in there, huh?” Sam mutters, making his way beside her as they both look at yet another enormous door blocking them from proceeding any further.

“Yeah. What an asshole.” She turns to Sam, tongue swirling contemplatively around a molar as he looks down at her with narrowed eyes. “Any lever this time? Stupid thing won’t do anything.” A tut from her makes him chuckle, watching her impatiently scuff the toe of her boot against the plate as if it’ll make it do something other than sink into the ground a little.

He shakes his head, hands on his hips as he ponders their next move. After a moment, he pouts.

“You… think you can squeeze through there?” Sam questions, eye-line fixing onto the discoloured stained glass of a small window framed by stone above the door.

Her cheeks puff up as she assesses the window held ajar by some sort of rusted hinge. A slow exhale deflates said cheeks before she shrugs.

“You severely underestimate the size of my ass, but yes. If you can get me up there, I can certainly try to ‘squeeze through’.”

“Hmm.”

He leans back, making a show of inspecting her rear with exaggerated intrigue.

“Oh, y- yeah, you might be right.”

She flashes a middle finger. “He's here all week!”

“You'd love that, huh.”

“Stop flirting for a sec and help me up.” She teases, feeding his ego slightly.

Ready to crack on, Sam crouches a little, a small grin pinned to his face at her quip. He puts his arms out as she takes a few steps back.

"M'lady."

"Alright, Patrick Swayze." She chuckles, diluted sarcasm in her tone. “Watch those hands.”

He scoffs in response, patting his thigh as if to non-verbally tell her to shut up and get on with it.

After a little run up, the pair manage to execute a relatively successful boost manoeuvre, resulting in boots scuffing against the stone wall as she scrambles the remainder of the way up to the window.

“Nobody puts Baby in a fuckin’ corner.” he commends her dexterity from the ground, his continuation of her reference sending a grin creeping onto her face as she pushes the window further open, wriggling her way through the gap.

“Damn right.” She replies, eventually disappearing out of his sight. She slides down the wall, dust and flecks of rubble curling off of the surface as she approaches the ground.

Dusting her gravelly hands off on her leggings and adjusting the torch clipped to her backpack strap, she begins to look around.

“Shit.” is all she can muster.

Sam glances up at the stained glass, thumb rubbing at the sting in his palm, eyes focusing on coloured Latin lettering separated by intricately crafted lead framing.

Firmitudo Intus Aequilibrio

“You okay?” He pushes, his voice muffled from behind the wall, head tilted to the side in thought as he reads the stained glass. The cogs turn, congruous smirk etching its way onto his lips- his knowledge of Latin permits a little smugness, or so he tells himself.

She nods slowly, before realising that Sam can’t actually see her, almost too distracted by her new surroundings to offer a verbal response.

“Y-yeah, I’m all good.” She clears her throat, turning off her torch. “This place just… you ever seen Shrek 2?”

The stone walls, worn and weathered, stand sentinel, bearing witness to the passage of time. They’re tall. Imposing. But there’s a beauty to their eeriness, aided by the soft, colourful glow from the bottles that haven't succumbed to time.

"Sure. Great hangover movie."

Dust particles dance in the air, caught in the soft rays of crisp winter moonlight filtering through thick tree roots that make up the ceiling, casting ethereal streaks around the room.

"Well, picture the shelves in the dinky potion room."

The shelves, carved untidily into the walls, cradle a trove of relics from bygone eras. Flasks, vials, and jars, now cloaked in the patina of age, their contents long untouched- some clearly from medieval times; when the crypt was first used as an underground apothecary, to more contemporary receptacles used by Casimir himself to store whatever insane concoctions he experimented with; early 20th century brand logos indented into glass, less worn and more transparent than others.

"The one that cat gets the potion stuck in?"

"That's the one." She titters. Sam hums in understanding. "Ha. 'That cat'."

The lair’s height is imposing, a testament to the grandeur of Casimir’s forgotten pursuits. Yet, amidst the stone walls, pockets of soft, colourful radiance emanate from a select few frosty flasks perched high on the shelves. These remaining potions, survivors of the relentless march of time, cast speckled, saturated glows of purples, pinks, and blues around the plethora of other vials and tubes that have greyed and muddied over the years.

It’s all quite something.

She steps back, lips parted as she takes in her surroundings, fingers wrapped around the straps of her backpack. Her breath catches as she feels sudden give in the ground beneath her, calming when she realises she’s trodden on another pressure plate, though this time it doesn’t remain unresponsive.

As the door behind her rumbles and begins to grate upwards, she turns as her heart rate spikes in shock. Sam, still standing on the corresponding slab, watches in intrigue as the room she’s in reveals itself to him. He smiles when he sees her, the mechanism suddenly making sense.

Wagging a finger up to the latin-scribed stained glass window, he chuckles knowingly.

“Balance.” He says, winking at her as she tilts her head cluelessly.

“What?” She asks as he saunters into the room, shining his torch around.

“Latin. See, I’m the brains of this whole operation.”

“Hm.” She huffs. “Thought you were the beauty.”

He scoffs in response to her attempt at sarcasm, walking past her to the heart of the room as the door scrapes shut again. “Hey, you said it.” He smirks over his shoulder at her as she shakes her head.

A stone slab serves as what Sam presumes was once Casimir's makeshift desk, worn and weathered and mossy like the walls that surround it. On its surface, an array of flasks and mixing bowls, each bearing the damage of countless failed experiments, sitting in a dusty mosaic of scientific chaos.

“Spooky.” She mutters, crouching to inspect some brittle bird bones sprawled out on the stone surface. Aged twigs and fibres, remnants of ingredients that probably pulsed with life once upon a time, now lie in withered repose, their potency surrendered to decay. Sam huffs.

“Oof. It is stuffy as balls in here.” He mumbles, hands skimming through parchment laid on the surface.

The room's cold dampness has left its mark on scrawled notes and papers, ink faded, edges curled, bearing witness to the crypt’s neglect.

“Cold as balls.” she contradicts with a punctuating shiver.

Sam gawks at her as if she’s just said something completely insane, but she’s too busy plinking flasks around to notice. It's goddamn roasting.

That, and her idiom makes no sense whatsoever. He’d laugh if he wasn’t so preoccupied with how antsy he feels.

He rolls his neck, an uncomfortable crack making him huff again, yet as his head hangs sideways, he catches a glimpse of something a little more substantial than a few sheets of faded parchment.

Nestled within the clutter, a chunky, leather-bound notebook sits, worn from use, but still relatively intact. “Hell-o.” He purrs, pushing aside some of the papers to grab it.

“What’cha got?” she chirps, still facing one of the many shelves, crystalline clinks reverbing off of the walls as she continues imbibing in her own curiosity.

“I think,” Sam's fingers delicately trace the timeworn pages of the notebook, each page imbued with the secrets of Casimir’s elixir recipes and incantations, “we have got our hands on Mr. Magic Man’s recipe book.”

“Ooo. Anything juicy?”

He leans a hip against the stone, cupping the book in one hand whilst the other tugs at the sherpa collar rubbing against the back of his neck. It is stuffy.

"Uh, yeah, there's... there's definitely some interesting stuff in here," He replies vaguely, his mind preoccupied with the subtle shifts in his body's temperature.

“Spill.” She says, finally diverting her attention from the shelves, a frosty puff of air billowing from her lips as she speaks.

As his eyes scan the complex instructions and cryptic symbols, a particular recipe catches his attention, intrigue somewhat subding his discomfort. "Here's somethin’," he murmurs, his voice just managing to keep his uncertainty under wraps. “'Whisperwind Tonic,’” Sam scrunches his face up, his brow furrowing in concentration as he reads the intricate script.

“Grants the drinker the ability to move unseen and unheard for a short period of time.” He scoffs at the page, subconsciously rubbing his injured hand against the corner of the notebook in an attempt to relieve the subtle ache that’s beginning to radiate from the centre of his palm. 

“Bullshit.” She snorts, putting a bottle back to its rightful place on the shelf in front of her.

“Right.” He clears his throat as he continues to peruse the notebook's contents. Did he eat something funny?

“Keep going. I’m intrigued.” She turns around, making her way towards him to take a peek at the book herself.

His eyes narrow as he faces her, her proximity suddenly more pronounced, the surrounding heat sending him into a slightly dizzying haze. He shakes off the feeling, rolling his shoulders before reading again.

"There’s... potions to manipulate memories... truth elixirs. Nonsense. All this stuff for people who can’t get laid. Probably just a bottle of rohypnol, right? I mean, how else can someone make a ‘passion elix--”

He coughs suddenly, choking on his words before looking at her with some sort of incredulous bewilderment that makes her stop in her tracks.

“What?”

“Jesus, girl. You got enough perfume on?”

“I don’t- what do you mean?”

He scoffs, grimacing. “Whatever you’ve got on? Ease up on it, next time, huh?”

She grumbles, hopping up onto the table beside him, pulling the collar of her jacket up to her nose. She sniffs. It smells like nothing. Just… her. Not good, not bad. She kicks his shin playfully.

“If you think I smell like shit, just say. It’s been a long day.”

“Nah, you don't…” He scratches his palm again, a faint frown creasing his brow as he notices a faint discolouration at the centre. He rolls his wrist to determine whether or not it was just a trick of the light. “You smell really good, actually.” He speaks, though it’s like he’s unaware he’s said anything.

She does. Good enough to eat, in fact, and as she leans in, resting her chin on his shoulder with an amused smirk on her face, Sam's line of sight is dragged from his hand to her eyes, narrowed slightly by her bemused smile. His vision blurs slightly and his brows furrow as he struggles to refocus.

She inquisitively tilts her head, and slowly, he finds his eyesight refocusing on the part of her neck left exposed between her hair and the collar of her jacket. It looks soft. Smooth.

Inviting.

The gentle glow of colour coming from the shelves behind them, reflecting off of her skin mesmerises him, and he finds himself wondering what it would be like to bury his face in the curve of her neck, to dig his fingers into its nape, and let his teeth leave small, speckled bruises behind, to hold her in place and breathe the sweetness in as her breath cools his skin. It's an urge, almost. Raw and overwhelming.

One that he quickly snaps out of.

His cheeks flush as he realises the deviance of his own thoughts, the suddenness of it all leaving him... reeling, to say the least.

“Okay, Romeo.” She teases. “Sometimes I think we’re lucky that this line of work doesn’t have an HR department.” Her voice feels like a hug and a punch to the jaw at the same time, nonetheless, her giggle pulls him back to reality, his attention snapped back to his aching palm.

He frowns deeper, a faint purplish hue beginning to emerge at its centre, subtle discolouration spreading slowly like tendrils of ink on cotton, becoming more pronounced by the second.

He swallows hard, the thickness of the scent oozing down his throat still, leaving him momentarily breathless.

"I, uh..." he stammers, his mind racing to find an explanation for the sudden onslaught of whatever-the-fuck-just-happened, whilst all the layers on him begin to feel like cling film. It’s irritating. It hurts, even.

Her smile falters a little. “I’m… just kidding- hey, you good?” She reaches for his wrist to see what keeps grabbing his attention.

“It’s nothin’, forget it," he stammers, voice a little strained as he closes his sore hand into a fist. He shakes her off of him with an unconvincing snort in a poor attempt to save face.

His attempt at self-preservation only causes her to mirror his embarrassment, and as Sam feels the scent dissipate slightly, an uncomfortable tension takes its place.

He watches her eyes narrow in the corner of his vision, suspicion flickering in their depths as she studies her companion's sudden unsettled demeanour. 

“Right.” she mumbles, slapping her thighs awkwardly. “Well… I’m not one to waste perfume on a job. Especially with you for company, so…” her voice trails off, waiting for what she thinks is an inevitable clapback. It doesn’t come. Her face reddens as her eyes move around awkwardly, though fortunately, he’s too focused on turning the pages of the book to notice.

”Hey.” She says, prodding his temple with her forefinger. “You… sure you’re okay?”

Sam flinches at her touch, a jolt shooting through him as he sniffs to maintain his composure, standing up to distance himself.

“Mhm,” he replies hastily, his gaze darting away from hers as his mind races to find a plausible reason behind the overwhelming sensation. “Yeah, yeah, fine…just- think I ate…” God it’s hot. “-Damn jacket.” He grunts, putting the book down to tug the denim off of an arm, shaking it off of the rest of him impatiently.

She hops off of the stone and backs away, a perplexed laugh escaping her.

“Don’t be evasive!”

“What? It’s…I’m hot. Shit.” Sam mutters, his irritation mounting as he tries to regain control of the situation. He scratches the palm of his hand, and, with a sigh, moves further away from the stone counter, throwing off another layer.

Left in his t-shirt, she gawks at him as he preoccupies himself by looking at his hand once more.

“Samuel, It’s like… sub-zero in-”

“Look. It is warm. I am warm.” He scrunches up his hand with a sigh, frustration progressing strangely fast as he cuts her off. “So, I’ve taken my jacket off. That a problem?”

Her grin falters. She awkwardly teeters from side to side as she decides to keep quiet.

“I could smell… somethin’, thought it might’ve been you, now it’s gone. Just…” He trails off, taking a deep breath as he tries to steady himself. Tilting his head up to the ceiling, he basks in the brief recess from the sweltering heat clinging onto his body, “Just…park it. Please.”

She frowns, her gaze lingering on Sam for a moment longer before she holds her hands up defensively, dismissing the strange encounter with a slow nod as she turns her head back to the shelves.

“Parked. Dick.” she retorts, a façade of amusement decorating her tone in an attempt to lighten the mood, covering the awkward swallow and slight flush in her cheeks one might get after being scolded by a teacher in front of their class. Meanwhile, Sam fixates his attention back onto the notebook in his hands.

As he continues to flip through the brittle parchment, a developing sense of unease begins to tighten his chest. From the corner of his eye, he watches her hop off of the table, tightening her ponytail as she ambles awkwardly back over to the shelves. He parts his lips to apologise, but a painful pulse coming from his hand re-diverts his attention.

He squints between his hand and the intricate symbols and arcane diagrams, words written in faded text, but just as he begins to take it in, he feels himself struggling to focus.

That same sickening sweetness from moments ago slowly assaults his senses again; it’s like a thick, unshakable mist, seeping into his nose, clinging to his throat and settling heavily in his lungs.

Attempting to clear his throat without drawing her attention, Sam shakes his head, a slight furrow forming between his brows as he does so. The back of his hand instinctively rests against his nose, as if warding off the unexplained, worsening discomfort. 

"You…” he swallows, the room seemingly closing in on the tension his outburst had created, “Y’sure you're not wearing perfume or something? Jeez, it’s givin’ me a headache," he mutters with a meekness that she finds irksome.

She scoffs in irritation. "Oh my God, no! What are you talking about?" she retorts, pointing emphatically toward the shelf of vials, her impatience palpable as his attention remains surgically attached to the notebook. “Will you focus?” She looks back at the shelf.

Five of the vials remain untouched, surrounded by that same soft glow he was fixated on moments ago. 

“We need those ones, right?”

Sam, however, remains frozen, his eyes now locked onto a specific page.

“Id. The word- it wasn’t a… damn abbreviation.” Freud's structural model of the goddamn psyche.

“Huh?” She prods, arms folded, brows arched.

“Freud…Id and ego.” Unable to detach his attention from the inked pages, he ignores her as his lips move silently, mimicking the phonetics of the symptoms written on the frail parchment.

The pinprick- sore, burning now, in fact- has become the centre point of a spider's web of dark hairline veins, matching the worrying description in front of him. His gaze shifts between the book and his own hand, a growing realisation drilling into his brain as he watches the deep colour reach his wrist. This is when he remembers the engraving on the lever. Id. the insatiable id, the book says. He scoffs at the audacity of it all. Wonderful!

His own blood flow pulses through his ears, clouding him with more anxiety and indignation, and dread pitches in his gut-

"Sam!"

"What?" He snaps, abruptly smacked back to reality as her irked voice pierces through his fearful focus.

As her gaze settles on him, flustered, brows knitted together in vexed concern, she momentarily holds back her annoyance, her brows furrowing as he blinks, attempting not to entertain the gravity of the situation unfurling in front of him.

 “Jesus, are you PMSing or something?” Her sarcasm goes hand in hand with her raised brow, smirk combo, amused disbelief taking her over. Yet, her own annoyance gives way slightly to genuine worry as she observes the uncharacteristic vulnerability in his expression. "What’s in that stupid book that’s got you so worked up?"

She looks… good. When she's flustered. Annoyed. The flyaway hairs and the frown. He supposes she thinks she looks intimidating. It's having the opposite effect- nope. No. That's enough. 

"I’m not-'' he fumbles an attempt at trying to reassure both himself and her. "Just…” he clears his throat again, the musky sweetness still violating his respiratory system as his eyes twinge with guilt at his sudden attitude change. “Nope. Doesn’t matter." Quickly closing the notebook, Sam clutches it under his arm, straightening his posture, and offering a nod and an awkward smile. “I, uh, didn’t mean’ta…” He trails off, a soft haze forming over his vision. 

She's not stupid. She sees the growing urgency in his eyes that hints at a deeper worry, and it makes her huff. Why can’t he ever just say what he’s thinking? Or, perhaps better, apologise properly?

She sighs and shakes her head. She spends far too much of her energy stressing about him and his wellbeing, when he probably couldn't give a shit about her outside of a job. Enough self sabotage.

“Whatever…can you… get me up to those shelves? Place is starting to give me the creeps.”

Should he show her the book? He looks back to the dark colour continuing to weave through the veins in his palm.

He considers the danger he’s in- that she’s in, if this isn’t, in fact, total bullshit. His blood flow picks up the pace, and he gets hotter. His mouth feels tight. Wet and dry at the same time. God, he feels sick-

“Oh my God, Sam, snap out of it!” She steps closer to him, making him stiffen in apprehension. “I need to get on your shoulders. Focus, please.”

Please. Please please please- the rasped desperation lodged at the back of her throat makes him shudder. He wants to hear her say it again and again and again-

“Do I need to smack you?” The thought of her palm thwacking against his cheek slices through his thoughts, her voice low, bordering irate. He swallows again.

A strained shake of the head is all he can manage in response, and the urgency of their situation propels him into action- if they could just get out of here, he can distance himself. Fresh air cures all ailments, no?

"Alright, just-" he mutters, voice tight as he takes a hesitant step closer, throwing the book to the ground and kicking it aside. His stare flickers briefly to the discoloured veins now reaching his fingertips, and he swallows in silent acknowledgment of the dangerous path he seems to be treading. Still, with a deep breath, Sam carefully lowers himself to a knee, jaw clenched, skin clammy as he beckons her over.

Oblivious to the tumult going on inside him, she moves, adjusting her stance over him. His hands find support on her hips as she sits on his shoulders, but as their skin brushes directly for no more than half a second, his breath catches and he almost chokes.

“You okay?” She asks out of obligation, looking down at him warily.

Sam inhales deeply, nodding in response, jaw clenched, desperately trying to ease up his heart rate as he pushes himself up, raising her to the height she needs.

He tries to steady himself, but as every sense intensifies to an unfathomable degree, he has no choice but to close his eyes to try shutting them out.

Sam can feel the rhythmic rush of her pulse resonating through him, every beat amplifying that strange suffocating sweetness that continues to overwhelm his senses whenever he’s close to her.

“Hurry it up.” He winces.

“Pot, kettle, black.” She retorts, leaning forwards, backpack unzipped as she reaches for the first vial, and as the softness of her voice reverberates through him, his spine is graced with a shiver.

As she reaches up, her body shifts slightly, and he tightens his grip to keep her steady. He can’t help but notice the way her breath hitches, just for a second. It’s a small sound, almost imperceptible, but it makes his chest tighten with a fierce, protective… is it desire?

"Almost there," she says, her voice a little breathless from the fear of falling off of him. "Just...keep still."

"Doin’ my best," he murmurs, his voice rough with suppressed emotion. He wonders if she can feel it too—the electric current. A persistent, dull thrum tugging and squeezing and pulling at every cell and synapse in his body.

Her thighs tighten around him ever so slightly as she reaches for a further vial; the fabric covering them brushes against his ears, the sensation overwhelming enough to make him grunt and dig his fingers even deeper into the flesh of her hips.

As he does so, the details of her body become vividly apparent beneath his fingertips– every fibrous contour of muscle, the softness of fat, the rush of blood beneath her lycra-clad skin– his senses are heightened to an almost unbearable degree, and his head turns sideways as he tries to steady his shaky breathing- the dichotomy of duty and… maybe temptation… playing out in a near-excruciating loop in his mind.

He feels a pull. His nose- his mouth, are lured towards her inner thigh. He swears his stomach growls at the scent of her. If only he could taste her. Drink her down- devour her until he drowns- Shit. No. No-- they need to wrap this the fuck up. Get the hell out of here.

“C’mon.” he grits- whether it was more to her, or his way of trying to pull himself together, he doesn’t know. He lays his head against her thigh, willing for it all to be over.

He wants to yell at her- tell her to stop being so inquisitive-- to stop finding the need to read the labels on the fucking vials she’s still gathering, but if she speaks back to him again his knees might just give.

You're going to be fine, he unconvincingly tells himself. That's what you do. Deal with things. More importantly, she’s going to be fine. Fresh air, he thinks again, they’ll be out of here soon.

Sam’s eyes begin to glaze over again, fingers pressing ever-so-slightly deeper into her as he tries to keep his vision focused.

He’d be able to control himself, he’s sure of it. He’d stare down at the floor as they both retrace their steps out of the crypt, in his head repeating the notion that whatever’s affecting him will just… go away- it’ll be fine if he just pushes through it, it’ll be fine if he just pushes through it-- diminishing any thoughts of how easy it would be to grab her whilst she walks just ahead of him, blissfully unaware of what he wants to do to her.

Oh. What he wants… to do to her.

Pinning her against the wall. Tearing through that perfectly stitched seam on her leggings right between her thighs before even giving her a chance to react, or, God forbid, to protest before he breaks her in.

He absentmindedly licks his lips.

Thoughts of the financial reward, the glory of finding this place- fulfilling their client’s desires, blah, blah, fucking blah, fade into the background as a primal spark flickers deep. The awareness of the perilous temptation turns into some sort of hypnotic drumbeat in his head, rational thoughts singed at the edges, slowly burning into ash and flaking away into thin air.

As his nose and mouth press against her inner thigh, the tension peaks and he becomes overwhelmed by her; Sam's breath quickens, and a possessive hunger simmers behind his eyelids.

His lips part, brushing against her, teeth grazing against fabric- an exploration that hovers on the edge of giving in to something far removed from sanity.

Feeling a warm tickle, she diverts her attention from the shelves in front of her to Sam’s head between her legs.

She swallows, a fleeting pull in her core as she takes in the sight of his fingers dug deep into her hips, but quickly shrugs it off in favour of understanding why the hell he’s breathing so heavily against her, and why on earth his mouth is pressed against her leg.

Sam inhales, opening his mouth wider, taking shallow breaths.

Then, he bites. 

It’s a feral snap into temptation he was trying so hard to fight against.

As his teeth clamp down into the meat of her thigh, she squeals, wobbling, then falling back and off of his shoulders, her skin grazing harshly, simultaneously snapping him out of whatever sick trance he'd fallen into.

“Fuck!” She shouts as her body thuds against the ground. She painfully drags herself into a sitting position, face contorted into an expression of complete disarray as he gawks at her, horrified.

“Shit- are you-” Sam rushes over to see if she’s hurt, but as his hand brushes against her shoulder, he has to fight against himself in order to suppress a groan. It’s too much. He painfully wrenches his hand away, subduing his own body's desire to keep it there. He cowers back. “Oh, God.”

One hand cradling the back of her head whilst the other pulls at the fabric of her leggings, she frowns, cracking her neck and rolling her shoulders uncomfortably as she leans herself away from him.

Wide-eyed frown fixed to her face, she checks her hands for blood. Nothing, thank God, other than a dull ache that sears through her upper thigh.

“Did… did you just fucking bite me?!” She asks, voice quiet, dipped in anger.

Sam doesn’t reply. He’s shaking, hand clasped to his forehead as he glares at the floor, unable to bring himself to look at her. His hand obscures his vision and he breathes heavily at the sight; the purple steadily darkening into the veins in his wrist, fading into his forearm. The book is right. And he’s absolutely fucked.

Meanwhile, she double takes. Sam, leggings, Sam, leggings. There’s a slight fray in the fabric.

She pulls herself to her feet, wincing at the all-round ache in her body, astounded.

“What the hell is up with you?!” She hisses at him, taking a step closer before he holds a hand out defensively.

“I- I’m- no, stay over there, I… I don’t know. I don’t-” He splutters, doubling over as if he’s been punched in the gut as she gets closer. He stumbles backwards, back smacking against the stone table with a force that makes him grunt. “Somethin’- something’s happening t’me.” He rasps, wide eyes glued to the palm of his hand.

“Yeah, no shit.” She spits, looking at her leg again. “You broke the fucking skin- how-” Her voice is tinged with exasperated irritation… that quickly morphs into extreme concern when she finally takes in his appearance. “Jesus. W-what is going on with you?”

Sam’s sweating, despite it being cold enough to see their own breath, his sleeves clinging to his arms, fabric glued to his torso as his chest heaves unsteadily. His eyes are wide, and as they traverse away from his palm, down his body, it’s clear that they’re wide in realisation. 

“You-” He’s fucked. Which means she’s fucked. How on earth is he supposed to explain what’s going on here? “You’ve gotta go.”

She huffs, ignoring his plea. “Do you need… water, or something? Painkillers?” She asks, panic creeping into her voice, dropping to her knees as she throws her backpack to the ground. She holds it open, hands ferreting around for her water bottle, clattering around the vials that miraculously remain intact, whilst Sam’s eyelids grow heavy.

“N-no.” He shakes his head, turning back to her to make sure she’s unharmed, but as soon as he looks at her, he’s unable to avert his gaze from the fullness of her thighs as she kneels. “God.” He mumbles, salivating.

Jesus fucking Christ, he’s losing himself.

He musters the strength to force his eyes shut, and it hurts. Every part of his body wants her. To look at her, to touch her, to… taste her, even- but the slither that remains of his weakened mind can't allow it.

Shaking her head, she retrieves her flask. “Here. You’re sweating.” She says, walking over to him. “It’ll cool you down.”

Sam swallows a whine, and lowers himself fully down to the ground with a self-loathing groan, hunched over, eyes squeezed shut as he attempts to drive out all sorts of depraved, wanton thoughts that keep flitting in and out of his head unprompted.

“N-no. Don’t come near me.” his hushed murmur comes out gravelly as she wearily dips her head down to meet his eye line, concerned at how he’s lowered himself to the ground. She takes a nervous breath, kneeling to his level as he lets out a defeated sigh.

He keeps his view of her hidden by his arm as she extends her own, ignoring his plea to instead tilt his chin up and hold the flask up to his lips. He shudders, his whole body trembling as his eyes unwillingly fix on hers, cursing under his breath at the touch of her cool hand on his skin. His gaze draws lower to her waist, her hips, her soft stomach- his hands clenched tight into his jeans as he fights against the impulse to lunge at her.

She tilts the flask and upwards and watches his throat bob as he swallows. She swallows too, almost choking on her dry throat. The longer she looks at him, the more the chill in her bones dissipates- the more she feels warmth seep into her bloodstream.

Her skin against his feels like molten metal, and he shakes with the ever-growing impulse to grab hold of her. To touch, and to be touched. He pushes the flask away in a brash attempt to get her away from him, then holds his breath as he tries to focus on the small bit of reprieve the cool water has granted him, even if it is no better than a bucket thrown over a forest fire.

“Any better?” No answer. She huffs, screwing the lid back on before backing up a little. “Can I trust you to get me back to the window so we can get out of here, or are you gonna bite my other leg, too?”

“Can’t-” Sam blurts panicked, eyes wide as his head darts in her direction.

“Oh my-” She laughs mirthlessly, strenuously rubbing her face before eyeing the room to see what else she can come up with. “Where’s that book?”

No. He’s going to throw up. He can’t let her find out. If he just waits it out, everything will be fine. His gaze moves to where he’d kicked the notebook- just under a shelf. Out of sight, out of mind, right?

“Jesus chr- where’s the notebook, Sam! The one you were reading!”

Unfortunately, her eyes follow suit, and as she catches a glimpse of the frayed leather binding, she crawls towards it.

He watches in a sort of trance-like state as she flattens herself against the ground, moving her torch around underneath the dusty shelves in search of the book he’d kicked under them minutes ago. “If you’re not going to tell me, I’ll look for answers myself.”

This is perfect. He could go for her right this second. Pinning her down would be easy- she's so small compared to him. So weak. A pretty little lamb, all ready for him to slaughter. He suppresses a moan at the thought.

“Got it.” She jumps up, fragile book in hand, and he smacks himself in the face with a grunt.

Revolting. Selfish.

She starts flicking through the pages, face riddled with ire as Sam's breath hitches. “No. Don’t- don’t look in th-” He lets out a panicked whimper as his body reacts to the feeling of his shirt peeling on and off his skin; he starts to hyperventilate. Clasping his hand over his mouth as he strains painfully against his jeans, he winces. “Shit.” He swallows, covering his face with his hands as he leans back against the stone. 

She watches his Adam's apple bob as he quietly gulps down air in an attempt to calm himself down.

“You’re hardly in any position to tell me what to do.” She reads; pages upon pages of notes and diagrams elude her as she takes cautious steps towards him, but as his hands shoot out to stop her coming closer, she stills, and takes him in.

She notes the uneasy tremble, the sheen of sweat, flushed cheeks, and the uncharacteristic panic. Perhaps even more alarming than the complete absence of his calm and collected nature is the wispy nebula of blackcurrant-purple bleeding outwards from the more concentrated black in the centre of his palm, up into the veins leading towards his elbow.

She steps closer.

"Don't." He snarls, flecks of frightened spittle coming through his teeth. And this time, she does as she’s told.

She exhales shakily, eyes fixed on the sight of his hand- she swears she sees the dark wisps expanding.

"I- I need to find out what that… purple shit is."

She keeps flicking through, rubbing at her thigh as it twinges with discomfort.

"Yeah, well," He mumbles through gritted teeth, shoulders heaving as if he's fighting the most ferocious of fevers. “Sometimes ignorance is bliss.”

"Ignorance is only making things worse." She snaps, fingers desperately frittering between pages of Casimir's stupid fucking disintegrating notebook. "Why don’t you just tell me what’s happening?" She laughs- no mirth in sight, eyes watering as her head throbs and her insides churn with dread. “Tell me what’s going on. I bet I can fix it.”

“You can’t fix- Shit, there’s that goddamn smell again.” He laughs ironically, before hissing in discomfort and writhing slightly.

She rests the book on the stone desk with a frustrated grunt, holding it open with one hand whilst the other arm wrestles off her jacket absentmindedly, sighing in relief as the cool air ventilates under her t-shirt. She shakes her head in disbelief before flicking to the next page.

She looks at Sam dead in the eyes, trying to steady her own heart rate as she does so in hopes he’ll pass her red cheeks off as some sort of side effect of the cold. Cold. It was cold a second ago, wasn’t it? 

As soon as she looks back at him, a stifling humidity continues to build. It must be the intensity and the… abruptness of the situation. She goes to remove her jacket, until she realises it’s already off. She feels like she’s wrapped in a layer of plastic- hot, flustered, and her leg fucking kills- This is the last time she lets herself get so… pent up over him.

“You’ve- gotta go.”

“Go?” She huffs, annoyance permeating her tone. She shudders, her face running even hotter, his voice alone enough to render her knees weak, and her throat tight. “You'd love that, wouldn't you? Ever the hero. Asshole.”

“No, I- Fuuuck!” He groans loudly into his fist, trembling. Admittedly, it unnerves her, so she turns her attention back to the book, fingers scrambling from dog-eared page to dog-eared page.

“So, you’d rather I let your stubborn ass stay here, suffering from- who knows what- ow, my God.” She hisses, the urgency and irritation in her voice making a return as a dull ache throbs through her thigh. 

“You can’t be near me.” He mutters into his hands as he doubles over, just loud enough for her to hear.

Inhaling sharply, a brief but intense pang of emotion stirs within her, an ache born not only from the profound lack of understanding of what’s transpiring, but also, admittedly, the slight sting of… is it some sort of infantilization? She thought they were over that! They’ve been partners for months now, and he still doesn’t trust her? Why is he trying so hard not to let her know what the problem is?

And then there's the rejection, of course. That hurts almost as much as her developing headache.

“Well, unfortunately, I have to be near you. I can’t get out.” She points to the stained glass window. “I need you to get me up there-” He cuts her off abruptly with an irritated grunt, jaw clenched in warning.

“I can’t!” He shouts.

“Why?” She shouts louder, stepping closer again.

“Stop-”

“Don’t tell me to stop-'' She follows his eyeline, landing on the writing on the window that he’s transfixed on again. “Firmitudo Intus- what?” The script grates clumsily out of her throat as she rubs feverishly at her sore leg. “Tell me what it means! What’s wrong with you?!”

“S-stability in- in balance. How- ughh, shit- how the pressure plates worked.” Sam huffs, words punctuated with a flurry of uncomfortable grunts. “Why can’t you-- ah, God dammit- just take a hint!” He groans loudly into his fist, trembling.

“Take a hint?!” She spits, voice wavering. “Screw you! Just tell me what's going on- or, or better off- tell me the fact that you can't stand the sight of me."

“No, no, no- stay there— It's not like that, I- you don't get it, it's —”

“Spell it out for me then! Stop being so fucking secreti-”

“I’m going to fucking jump you.” He bellows, his face twitching as a wave of blistering, blistering heat courses through him. His fingertips dig painfully into the stone behind him, finding leverage.

She ogles him, bewildered.

Then, after a moment, she guffaws, her fear momentarily usurped by such a ridiculous statement.

In that moment, as she mocks him, Sam feels a surge of strength shoot through him, perhaps a side effect of his desperation not to face further humiliation. It's as if some dormant force within him has been nudged awake, overpowering his rational mind, and with a grunt, he drags himself upright against the table; movements fluid. Predatory.

“You’re going… to jump me?” She sneers, her voice low, teeth bared in a sour smile as she turns to the window, momentarily considering how to get up there herself. “Hah! Of course you are. Any threat to avoid telling me what’s happening, huh? You're such a-”

Her insults die in her throat as she’s shoved harshly into the wall. The fragile book slips from her fingers, thudding onto the floor.

She stares up at Sam, wide-eyed and startled. His painful grip on her wrist, the back of her head pulsating after colliding with so many hard surfaces- it’s all making her ears ring. His grip is firm and bruising as he pushes himself onto her, his stare intense. Unrelenting.

“What are you doing?" she stammers, her voice trembling, brows furrowed in frightened confusion.

But Sam doesn't answer. Instead, he leans in closer, his breath hot against her skin, eyes locked onto hers with an unsettling intensity that makes her stomach flutter. She can feel his heart pounding against her chest as he presses into her, matching the now frantic rhythm of her own as heat radiates off of him.

Sam's certain he can hear her blood flow as he holds her gaze, his senses heightened to the point of overload. The warmth emanating from her skin, the rapid rhythm of her pulse beneath his fingertips, and the heady, sickly sweet scent of her- it’s all driving him to the brink of madness.

“What… the hell are you doing, Sam? Let go.” she whispers, her other hand tentatively going for him in an attempt to wrench herself free, though, with an instinctive speed, he captures her other wrist, pinning it on the other side of her head as a startled gasp leaves her lips. She struggles against his grasp with an anxious whimper, but he only tightens his hold, his wild expression a frightening mix of confusion and horror. Yet his grip on her remains tight. 

"Make it stop-," he stammers through his tightened jaw, his voice trembling with remorse. "I don't know what… I didn't mean to- I need-” A wave of dizziness washes over him as he speaks, a growing tightness in his chest, threatening to send him spiralling into oblivion- he feels like he’s going into cardiac arrest.

Her eyes are wet with anxiety as he cages her in, brows wavering as if she’s attempting to prevent herself from tearing up.

But he’s frozen. Mind rapidly toing and froing between wanting to let her go, and wanting to see her cry. What he’d give to see her eyes brimming with tears, his fingers tight against her scalp while her lips grow swollen, drenched by her own drool as he rams himself down her throat. “I can’t- I can’t stop thinkin’ about… Jesus, the things I wanna do to you.”

His fingers tighten their grip further, pushing himself harder against her, keeping her painfully upright against the stone. Their eyes meet once more as her own chest starts to heave. God. The way he’s looking at her. It’s… carnal.

Amongst this sudden yo-yoing of fear and confusion, she feels herself heat up more, a cramping feeling tugging at her abdomen as he stares at her, breathing deeply- slowly.

“What?” She just about manages to rasp, lips parted, wrists aching, head pounding. “What are you talking about?”

She knows exactly what he's talking about. She can feel him pressing against her.

“You s- sound like a mouse.” He mumbles as if inebriated, one side of his mouth twisted into an almost malevolent grin that makes her stomach drop as he presses his forehead against hers, rendering her virtually immobile. “So small. So scared.” He mocks with a pout as she shudders. “But you’re not just scared, are you?” He speaks through his teeth, eyes trailing down to watch himself push his hips against her with a deep groan.

The sudden friction sends an embarrassingly high-pitched gasp spilling out from her mouth before her teeth have a chance to trap it. Fuck.

His eyes go back to hers, darkened, pupils blown. “Thought so.” He smirks. “I can pretty much taste you from-” a grunt permeates the end of his sentence as his darkened resolve wavers.

He shakes his head, a sudden maelstrom of panic and culpability in his chest making his eyes water. 

“Not- me. I didn’t mean-” She remains glued to the wall, wide-eyed and disoriented, as he stumbles over his words, her heart racing as she watches him lose balance and fall into her, palms braced at either side of her waist as the vice-like grip on her wrists finally relents. “I’m s-” he hisses, his body burning as if demanding him to succumb to what it wants.

Much to her own dismay, she doesn’t move her freed hands- there’s no attempt to push him away again. She’s so caught up in the shock of how good that felt and all of the confusion and guilt that are beginning to plague her head. She must've hit it hard.

Sam’s hand digs into the small of her back, his shoulders slumping as his fingers slip just beneath the hem of her shirt. His grip is tight and desperate as he drops his head against her chest, leaning into her for support as he whimpers, gasping for air. “I can't help it- I want- to stop, but-” 

She takes in a shaky breath, momentarily paralysed, as if her body and vocal chords are in combat against her brain. There's something hypnotic about the way he's looking at her, something frightening about the desperation and the spontaneous Jekyll-and-Hyde-ness of it all, yes, but equally… satiating… as if this is something her body's been vying for for ages.

She swallows hard at the feeling of his skin on hers, and the soft, needy sounds coming out of him- at his weight keeping her firmly pressed against the wall, and the smell of his sweat, cheap detergent, the gift set aftershave he feels obligated to use that’s making her heart thump even harder.

All such normal things- usually so unnoticeable. But it’s a sudden assault on her senses that she can’t shake off- it clings to her, burning her eyes, creeping up her nose, down her throat, settling in her stomach. It’s grounding. Exhilarating, to the point where she wants to tug him closer and inhale him to the point of suffocation.

And she’s baffled by this revelation. Nauseated, almost. She should be angry with him. Furious. How dare he manhandle, bite, bruise and then withhold an explanation from her. Instead, she can’t help but feel an intrinsic need to keep him as close to her as possible. To see, smell, hear, taste him.

Why is her body reacting in such a way? Why is she soaking wet? 

Sam’s terrified. The thoughts he’s had in the past few minutes have been depraved. Actions violent, and he would rather die than cause her harm, so he’s trying with all his might not to let himself give in. Even if he wants nothing more.

From day dot, she’s been off limits. And he's always stuck to that.

He's aware of how she reacts every time he's pushed their banter a bit too far, leaving her flustered. Every hint of jealousy she's let slip when he's talked about his ‘dating’ life. He knows about her ‘crush’– cute, he thought, but inevitably fleeting, surely. Unlike his own feelings- oh no! They’ve fused to every fibre of his being like hot glue.

This whole situation is nothing but a cruel joke. Like fate has conspired to mock him- to force him into getting his way via a horrible, depraved, manipulative circumstance since he's been too much of a pussy to act upon it otherwise. She’s right. He is stubborn. He should’ve let her pull the damn lever. At least that way, she wouldn't be a victim. Or... perhaps less of one.

His stomach lurches and he slumps to his knees, hands maintaining an unstable hold on her hips. He feels pathetic. “Makeitstop.” He heaves again.

He tries to speak again, but as he bucks his hips again, completely against his own will, the blazing friction against his own jeans causes him to hiss, his forehead collapsing against her thigh, eyes wide as he pants for air. “Holy shit.”

She looks down helplessly, shaken and clueless. She watches his hand dig into her thigh, holding it in place as he burrows his face into it.

“You smell so fucking good, I-” He cuts himself off with a groan, shaking his head and pursing his lips. His voice comes out rough again. Dark. Crumbled asphalt, absinthe poured straight down her throat, settling into her bloodstream. “No, no, no…” He just about pulls away to give himself air, eyes flitting up to her, warring between despair and yearning.

The sight of it makes her… warmer still. Hot, even. The bite on her thigh burns as his proximity agitates it. “What should I do?” She rasps, fingers anxiously pulling at the curls by the nape of her neck as if she’s trying to withhold from touching him. “I don’t know what’s… happening.” She whispers, vision losing focus for just a moment.

"I need..." he grunts, struggling to find the words. He weakly tugs at the collar of his t-shirt, but his strength is failing him. "I need you to... take it off... please," he begs, his voice barely more than a desperate whisper.

He looks so pretty like this. On his knees… whining softly, cheeks flushed, his hands grasping at her. It’s so unlike him. Samuel Casanova Drake- reduced to this. The flirtation. The teasing. Getting her all worked up on purpose, only to be reminded that she’s nothing special- that that’s just the way he is. All bark, no bite. Is he being taught a lesson?

She swallows thickly.

She thinks about how it felt when he grinded himself onto her and forcibly suppresses a moan as a pleasurable jolt shoots up her spine, setting her hairs on end. Her head is swimming. This is all so… artificial. So odd. She’s always been attracted to him, but fuck, this is wrong.

She hesitates, her heart pounding in her chest as a wave of guilt-ridden nausea rushes through her. Is- is she taking advantage of him?

“Please.” He repeats, his plea punctuated with a desperate whimper. She blinks, nodding, and with trembling hands, she crouches and reaches for the hem of his shirt, her fingers brushing against his heated skin. Gently, she lifts the shirt over his head, her touch lingering on his arms as she pulls it free.

Sam gasps as the cool air hits his bare skin, a momentary relief from the feverish heat consuming him. He leans heavily against her, his breathing ragged, his body trembling. "Thanks," he murmurs, his eyes closing briefly as he savours the sensation.

She swallows hard, feeling a strange mix of fear and sickening lust fester in her bloodstream. Her hands remain on his arms, steadying the both of them.

"What now?" she asks, her voice barely audible.

Her eyes are drawn to the sheen of sweat covering his body; the way dark hairs lay matted on his chest, softly trailing down his stomach, past fading ink and mottled scars, beyond where his belt keeps his jeans smouldering against his skin.

She watches her own hand rest under his chin, tilting him up to her. It’s like she’s watching it unfold through a TV screen.

Delicate wisps of condensation coming from his parted lips makes her mind wander; What would they taste like? How would the roughness of his stubble feel against her? Her mouth, her neck, her bare stomach, down down down- she's had these thoughts before; fingers delved between her thighs as she stares breathlessly up at the ceiling.

Saliva pools under her tongue as she imagines rutting against his pretty nose and open mouth like a bitch in fucking heat- oh god- her teeth graze her lower lip as her thoughts begin to spiral further than usual- why are they spiralling like this?

She’s sweating.

There’s so much desire- so much insatiable hunger in his eyes alone as he looks at her that it makes her thighs tense together. As she does so, she’s reminded of the bite again. It fucking hurts, snapping her out of her depraved trance; her eyelids flutter unsteadily as she regains focus, her cheeks burning.

His pulse thuds frantically against her thumb, and her nails stroke gently at his skin as his shoulders rise and fall harder, amplifying his restraint which is growing more and more painful by the second. 

“You…” he pauses and grunts, fighting himself as his eyes remain shut. “Don’t… know what to... ugh- hurts. It’s too- too much." Every tiny little touch feels like he’s being swallowed whole. It’s like a cold spring and a flow of lava all at once, and he wants to scream. 

She pulls her hands away, looking at them as though she’s the cause of the problem. Hoping to herself that her sick mind will sort itself out if she distances herself from him.

He shakes, sweat beading off of his chest, blood pumping through him at a dizzying pace as his eyes pine for her.

“N-no.” He’s craving- starving. A trembling hand raises to her wrist, and he winces as his fingers wrap around her. As his fingertips dig into her forearm, the thought of sudden absence of her touch feels like a death sentence. “Don’t.”

He swallows audibly as his body jolts again at the touch. The contact hurts him. Arouses him to such a painful degree, but he’s not letting her get away. He can’t- he doesn’t want to. He’s too far gone.

Sam’s eyes squeeze shut and he screws up his face in some sort of pained internal conflict. He grabs her wrist tighter and she winces, but as he drags her hand back to his face, her eyes follow.

“Help.” he blurts, finally deciding it’s time to bite the proverbial bullet as he sits fully and leans back against the stone table, accidentally pulling her with him. “I need- need you- your help. The last pages- another way to-” He eyeballs the notebook. “Make it stop. Before I hurt you again.”

She picks up the book and kneels. Her thumb swipes across his cheekbone as his hand rests over hers. Her hands on his bare skin are fucking excruciating; he can feel every single ridge of her fingerprints despite her stillness, like thousands of knife edges grazing his skin all at once.

“Okay- I- I’m looking.” She says, and oh, she sounds like velvet. Liquid gold that he just wants to swallow forever and ever and ever. He’s transfixed by her lips as she speaks, absentmindedly snaking his other hand up the nape of her neck and into her hair.

His fingers tighten their grip, gently pulling her head backwards, and with watery eyes he nuzzles into her neck, breathing deeply- slowly. “Hmmm, God.”

His hips buck towards her, and the feeling of his lips grazing over her neck make her swallow hard. She doesn’t need to read the book to know what’s going on. He whispers breathless apologies, guilt making his heart ache whilst he loses control of the rest of his body.

Her eyes continue to flit around the pages nervously, no longer to read, but to hide. This is ridiculous. Her skin hasn’t felt this sensitive before.

Her eyes fall over a likely explanation; a sketch of a lever mechanism, an embedded sharp needle, designed to assault the user of the lever- the intruder, all annotated in scrawled purple ink.

This artifice serves twofold: first, as a deterrent to the audacious; and second, as a penance, a punishment to those who dare disrupt the harmony of my sacred space. May they find the scales tipped; themselves lost within the labyrinth of their own psyche, ensnared by the very primal urges that govern the basest instincts.

She looks at his hand again, and takes in the details written on the page. Primal urge. Base instinct. Her cheeks flush as she converts the words into layman's terms, confirming her theory.

“It’s an… aphrodisiac.” She affirms.

As the wayward thief succumbs, such symptoms shall manifest: The skin shall burn, the point of breach becoming the source of a webbed discolouration as dark as ones fevered desire, and the pulse shall quicken with an infernal craving, subjugating the relentless pursuit of knowledge with the all-consuming tug of the insatiable id. The mind, entangled in the labyrinth of unbridled lust, shall forsake rationality. The thief shall be led astray from their pursuits, ensnared by their own voracious yearnings, knowledge plundered.

Sam hears the uncertainty in her voice as she grapples with the implications of the infection. Their eyes meet for a split second, and he feels a surge of humiliation that’s so unfamiliar to him he’d probably wretch if his mouth wasn’t preoccupied.

She takes in a shaky breath returning to the page again as the pieces begin to fit together.

“S’there another way?” he murmurs into her, the low vibrations of his voice making her close her eyes for a moment. She grunts to herself, forcing her eyes back to the page.

In the safety of companionship, the afflicted may find respite. Should the infection remain unchecked, the heart will strain beyond its limits, ultimately succumbing to the weight of its own longing.

The ‘cure’  is plain and simple. Two people. Balance. Or, by the sound of it, death.

She shakes her head.

The thought of said cure makes her shiver, tongue rolling over her bottom lip.

A coil begins to tighten in her abdomen as he groans into her skin. His hips buck towards her, and the feeling of his lips on her neck make her exhale harshly.

She looks at her leggings as another sore, shooting pain emanates from the bite mark, Sam’s wandering hands peeling apart the small tear in the fabric as his teeth graze against her throat.

Realisation fills her lungs, a bubble forming by her tonsils; the disorienting mix of undeniable, rising pleasure and panic creeping into the forefront of her mind.

Her skin looks mottled, veins deep purple.

Just like his.

The telltale discolouration, mirroring the ominous staining making its way up Sam's arm sends a shiver through her as she comprehends it all. As she watches his brows waver in internal dispute, her own contort in… concern, yes. But also a sense of desperation, wanting to feel more as Sam drags himself more upright with a cracked groan that makes her lips part and her throat seize when she’s pushed harder against him. More importantly, perhaps, the relief from knowing that neither of them can help it. That, for what it’s worth, is a mutual need.

She takes a gamble, grappling with the part-insidious, part-alleviating truth as she looks back to him, legs parting to straddle him properly.

Her chest heaves; the air feels thick, and there’s a strong pulsing ache between her thighs every time her nipples rise and fall, sore and tender underneath her tight sports bra. All of her clothes feel tight, creating tangible friction all over; her whole body, her face, her skin- is clammy and sticky and so fucking overwhelmingly hot.

A small part of Sam is still trying to stop, to control himself, but as he drags himself away from her neck to look at her, it’s clear that this prolonged contact has its consequences; his psyche swells with a sudden growth in appetite as she settles over him, and suddenly, he barely registers that he’s doing anything at all.

Moving his hand to the back of her head, he pulls her closer in a sudden move that draws a gasp from her as her hands brace themselves on his chest- the sudden harshness of his desperate fingers tugging at the roots of her hair is unexpected. The strength coming from this movement alone renders her unable to pull away- even if she wanted to.

He pants harder, unable to let her go, but so afraid of causing her harm all the same. His fingers impulsively flex at her scalp, and she gulps down a whine at the sensation as her eyes squeeze shut.

“I’m- I’m s- I can’t stop. I’m sorry-”

A hand moves from his chest to the back of his neck. With a gentle pull, she guides his gaze downward, her fingers pulling apart the material to trace the mottled purple that’s started snaking across her skin.

Sam's heart lurches in his chest, an undercurrent of panic rising up his throat like bile.

"No, no- what did i do? I-“

“Sam.” She hushes, pressing her forehead onto his, forcing him to stay still- to focus. She silently implores him to find solace in her. “It’s... we’ve just gotta...” Her eyes non-verbally tell whatever flecks of her Sam that’s still in there that she’s here for as long as he needs her to be. That she wants this. She's wanted this. That she’s willing- God, she’s willing.

This is where he feels himself begin to dissolve away completely. Prolonged closeness. Her voice. The heat rising throughout her pretty little face, the growing heaviness of her eyelids, her freckles subdued by an involuntary heat spreading through her cheeks.

And, he can feel the warmth pooling between her legs.

It doesn’t take a genius to realise that this kind of reaction from her is fuelling him. He needs more of it. Craves more of it.

He’s slipping just beneath the surface, but he’s too tired to drag himself up for air. He supposes he doesn’t really need to, now. He could drown in her and die happy.

She’s starting to feel it worsen, too. The ache. The coercion of mind from body.

Her lips brushing against his feels like molten sugar; a searing heat that’s so sickly sweet he can’t pull away despite the blistering heat that’s destined to leave a nasty burn.

“We’ve just… gotta…” she repeats slowly, voice low and speech slurred. She can’t finish her sentence- every part of her is swarmed by the need to close the gap. She has no idea how he’s managed to hold out for so long.

With a shaky exhale, he nods, releasing the tension he's been painfully holding onto, allowing himself to surrender to the overwhelming heat pulsing through him. He finally allows himself to sink under as she plants a tentative kiss on his lips. A kiss which he only returns, though much more urgent- more voracious; it’s like stumbling across an oasis in the middle of the desert- it’s his first sip of fresh water in days, and it makes her eyes widen.

She brings a hand round to the back of his neck, clinging to him eagerly, her thighs spreading further- non-verbal consent, a silent plea for more as she begins to feel the simmering deep in her belly hurriedly rise to a boil.

He grinds himself upwards without a thought, and she whimpers into his mouth. The friction, the sweet, fucking friction has him press back into her desperately, wanting more, sending a groan up from deep in his chest.

He’s gone. Rationality dwindled entirely as the slightest bit of pressure is applied, steadily being replaced with a frightening strength and burning need to have his way no matter the consequences.

She feels her heart rate quicken as she takes in the sight of his pupils. They’re fucking blown out. The pretty specks of amber that normally contrast the darker brown in his irises have been eclipsed by a deep amethyst.

“… want...fu-” Sam’s voice becomes lower still, grating through gnarled teeth, and as his fingertips dig into her back, keeping her in place, he shifts again- he’s so hard, so perfectly angled underneath her- she salivates as she chokes out. “Want to f- fill you up.”

Hey eyes gloss over and her brain numbs. She nods frantically. Heat floods between her thighs with a vengeance, rationality waning as a shockwave shoots through her arched spine. She wants everything to be touched by him.

The third time comes quicker; more brutal, more needy, taking advantage of her lack of composure as she succumbs to his grip, his mouth hungrily taking a dive for her neck again, except this time there’s less restraint. None, even.

“Oh-- sh-mmf-” Her body shudders as she slurs her words, and as his teeth pull harshly at her skin, she cries out into her hand.

Her legs tremble, knees aching as the stone beneath them digs in, breath pitching in her throat as she’s hit with a shamefully sudden climax.

Her wide eyes water as her hand remains clasped around her mouth, chest heaving as she struggles to register how little action it took for her to come, waiting for the pressure to abate and the fog to clear.

Instead, as she feels his hands roam, and watches his frantic eyes fail to decide what to settle on, the fog only thickens, overruling any semblance of critical thinking.

It hits her like a fucking tidal wave, in fact; she can’t fathom anything other than the fact that she needs more.

And in that split second, she surrenders to the pull, inhibitions fizzling away as she leans in, closing the distance between them again with a fierce determination. A surge of adrenaline tips her over the edge and she takes control, seizing him hungrily, fingertips digging harshly into his scalp to bring him back up to her. He protests, growling, biting harder until he feels himself pried away by force, her nails pressing into his jaw, leaving crescents as she gets him where she wants him, lips crashing together again in a tumultuous collision of lust and fervour.

She doesn’t know what to do with herself. She wants everything off- to feel her skin pressed up against his, but the time it would take to unbutton and unzip is a repulsive notion that ignites an almost animalistic frustration within her. The thought of it drives her insane- feverish fingers move from his hair and chin, and instead scramble for his belt buckle, clumsily tugging it apart as his teeth mirror the action at her bottom lip.

The messy exchange of teeth, tongue, and spit takes precedence over Sam’s brain, and he feels himself fall into her, torsos glued desperately together as the heat in his belly burns stronger. Hot blood pumps rapidly to his cock as her choked mewls drag him perilously close to the edge after no more than some mere friction.

His mouth traverses down her chin to her throat, ravenous groans muffled against her skin as he grips onto her for dear life, beginning to feel some give in the confinement of his jeans as she unzips them. She doesn’t even try to pull him away this time- her objective has changed.

He’d swear if he could, but his brain can’t even conjure up letters any more.

His teeth pierce the delicate skin of her neck, and a startled cry escapes her lips as she loses balance and tumbles backwards onto the unforgiving stone beneath them.

Sam looms over her, his weight pressing down until she feels almost crushed beneath him. Only his hand, gripping the back of her head with a fierce intensity that verges on violence, prevents her skull from meeting the ground with bone-shattering force.

His weight bears down on her, the back of one hand planted firmly against the ground underneath her head, while the other moves to maintain its bruising hold on her jaw, thumb hooking around her bottom teeth.

Every nerve in her body seems to betray any remnant of morality as she keens, her thighs tightening around him, trapping him in place as grinds himself against her. He selfishly draws tiny pinpricks of blood from her neck, and she claws at his arm, holding it against him as she bites and sucks what he gives her- almost every inch of her has become an unforgiving erogenous zone; it's all too much but not enough. It’s not enough. Teeth piercing her skin, tongue lapping up the mess- It’s an exquisite sort of agony, and she wants- needs- 

“More.” She murmurs around his thumb- or is it his finger now?

His teeth leave a trail of fire along her collarbone, her jawline, finally settling on her pulse point as it throbs beneath his lips. He grunts in response. There, he bites down harder, eliciting a guttural sound from deep within her throat as she struggles to catch her breath beneath him. Every break of the skin permits small bleeds of that relentless purple colour, rendering her virtually feral as she grows increasingly more overruled by the substance.

Rough hands roam beneath her t-shirt, sending goosebumps rising over heated skin as speckled blood bruises settle around her neck wherever his teeth have failed to puncture. To find some semblance of control amongst the chaotic frenzy, her trembling fingers pull at the waistband of her leggings, her urgency matching his own.

Fumbling clumsily, he joins her, his fingers tugging at the fabric with an urgency nigh on feral as his other hand harshly kneads at her waist. God, he wants to dig his fingers into her flesh, to break the skin, tear her apart, and fucking consume her from the inside out.

Before the waistband can even reach her thighs, she’s reaching down, pulling him out, drawing him towards her as a dribble of precum trickles over her fingertips, and he pushes up his torso to watch.

He’s sensitive. So, so, sensitive. In her desperation to pull him closer, she squeezes her palm around his shaft, and he chokes on his sudden gasp, hands smacking hard against the floor to hold himself up. 

Fuck. She wants to hear him do that again.

She grips him harder, stroking up and down with a cruelly tight fist. He’s all breathless whimpers and fluttering eyelids, allowing her to revel in the sounds as he drinks in the sight of her hand wrapped around him.

He shudders, undone, from virtually nothing, shaking violently and audibly moaning behind pursed lips. He can’t even think to muster up a verbal warning before he comes, pearly hot liquid spurting over her hand, dripping down onto her stomach. Yet, similarly to her, there’s no comedown. No time for shame about such a short build up. He’s still hard, red hot and weeping, body vying for more as his eyes glue themselves to the mess he’s made on her t-shirt, seeping through to her skin- Christ, her skin-

He’s hooked; her plushness, every recess and every convex curve, how her t-shirt clings to her stomach, made tacky by him. If it were possible, he’d cover her in him just so he could spend minutes watching it drip and bead and roll across and in-between her soft, smooth, warm skin. Sam’s so mesmerised that he barely even takes in the fact that he’s pushed her t-shirt up, his tongue and teeth licking and pulling at her stomach until his hips buck harshly at the saltiness of her sweat mixing with the flavour of his own stickiness. He shudders.

Her hands slide and scramble, clumsily unhooking her bra, scraping her knuckles on the floor beneath her before pulling it all off, over her head; all just in time for his mouth to open and cram as much of her left tit inside as he can. Sam sucks with a ferocity that’d be frightening if this wasn’t a shared affliction, rutting his hips sporadically against the bunched up fabric of her leggings rolled down to her thigh.

Her nipples are hard, sore, aching, and the pressure of his teeth rabidly biting and pulling, contradicting the soothing warmth of his tongue rolling in tandem, make her jaw go slack and her brows knit tightly together as she tries to navigate the fluctuating sensations.

Her hands slide over the back of Sam’s neck and down his shoulder blades, to his waist, his hips, sticky fingers stretching, running over hairs and scars and flexing abdominal muscle as they reach for his cock, slick, swollen, and heated as it meets her palm. Squeezing him closer to her, Sam groans, mouth pausing its assault on her chest, face falling flat into it, bucking harshly as she impatiently pulls him close, close, closer, writhing restlessly ’til her leggings are low enough for her thighs to part enough to let him in.

Incoherent, mumbled moans are hummed and panted into her tender chest, hands digging into the flesh of her waist as his shaft is squeezed and dragged against her sopping cunt. She moans, a languid, filthy thing as he meets her swollen, sensitive clit, the sodden cotton of her underwear brushing tortuously against it as she brashly pulls them aside.

His impatience builds, fingers digging into her deeper and deeper until they become restless and tug fiercely at her leggings. She hisses sharply as her naked back scrapes suddenly against the floor, her body shunted downwards til one of her legs are fully exposed to air, allowing Sam to hook his knee under hers, pushing up harshly and pinning her thighs apart- access that they’re both burning for. She urges him on with a whine as he pushes down on top of her, words lost to the both of them, communication reduced to vying grunts and desperate writhing.

His pupils dilate enough to make him look feral, purple-flecked irises madly dancing left, right, up, down, as if committing the sight of her, greedy and parched, to memory, before he finally complies, long groan grating out of him as his tip breaches her slightly. He can’t hesitate any longer. His lips part as his thick cock sinks into her inexorably, leaving her completely pliant beneath him. Despite how impossibly wet she is, the stretch is still so intense- she feels like she’s being split in two; it’s both the best and worst thing she’s ever felt, but something she never wants to end.

“S-ss…” She hisses, screwing her face up in frustration as she tries and fails to say his name, nails digging into him more. “Pl-P…” She grunts again, frustrated with her inability to conjure words. Her thighs tremble, the sharp, tight warmth in her stomach tugging and pulling and obliterating every sense as she tightens around him, eyes flickering, rolling back almost painfully as he fills her deep, retracts, and fills again, each time not stopping until he’s buried to the hilt.

For a moment, head spinning, he stares down at the way her head falls back, eyes squeezing shut, arms flopping, knuckles smacking against the ground as she traps a warbled cry behind her teeth, greedily sucking him into her. He grunts, brows drawn together, and thinks he’ll never be sated again like this. It's perfect. If only it weren't manufactured.

Heat sears him apart from the inside out, savage gluttony evident in the way he gasps and he groans when his hips slam forward, over and over, pressed so tightly against her that each movement reverberates astoundingly against her clit. She’s so tight, so perfect, so wet, around him as she whines and bucks up into him.

Sam holds her down; hand pinning forearm, fingers digging deeply into stomach and waist, knee prying thigh from purple-stained thigh, pumping into her at a relentless pace; She groans as he harshly works her open, arching into him as her stomach tightens— tighter, tighter, tighter, until she’s screaming, unpinned arm smacking into his back, nails clawing crescents into his sweat-slicked skin as another wave of arousal floods every sense of her being.

She can’t breathe- she doesn’t want to- the energy needed to do so would take away from the white hot pleasure coursing through every inch of her. Liquid gushes, her cunt clamping down hot around him and squeezing, milking him so tight it makes him choke on his own sharp inhale, so good it burns- it’s almost excruciating. He shudders as he breaks, palm slamming against the floor to hold himself up when he comes, too.

She groans at the fullness and the warmth of him spilling inside her, breath coming out in messy, uneven bursts as she feels herself suck in every drop.

For a moment, she watches him come down from his peak, heavy-lidded eyes grazing over the vulnerable crease in his brow, the way his cheeks flush as he catches his breath above her, and his parted lips- she wants to kiss him. Sweetly. She wants him to let her show him she's not a ‘kid’. She wants to feel what it's like to be wanted by him. She's strong, capable, undeniably and irrevocably attracted to him, and… God… She still feels hot. Despite coming twice- or is it three times, now- the need for more is already becoming unbearable, and she fails to decipher if these thoughts are coming from the chemical festering in her veins, or if they're being made apparent due to its diminishing strength. She stings. Oh, she's a mess.

He’s still hard inside her, twitching, demanding still. The question gnaws at her, but her body burns for more, more, more. He slows above her, the lack of physical stimulation, and the completely deriding overstimulation of her mental state making her eyes water. She wriggles slightly, an impatient grunt echoing around the small room as she tries to roll her hips under him. The stillness of his cock inside her has her mewling, still spasming softly around him.

“S- Sam-” She sputters, eyes widening in realisation of her somewhat rehabilitated ability to speak.

For just a few seconds his mind’s feverish occupation dilutes, replaced with a glimpse of a soft, sated afterglow… he falters, his mouth hanging open like there’s something he wants to say. 

“Mm…more. Need more.” She beats him to it, murmuring between shallow breaths, feeling the rising ache cloud her mind already.

His heart thuds so fast it’s a surprise it’s not sat in his throat- is it gratitude he’s trying to muster? Or, an admission perhaps? “I-” Just like her, the words are fighting to get out of him, but just as he strings a sentence together in his head, he starts to tense again. “Gotta… I- I’m-”

For a second, she feels sympathetic as she watches him war with himself. But her body doesn’t let the sympathy hang about for long, and she finds herself making his mind up for him, tugging him down by the back of the neck, tongue meeting tongue as she ferociously bucks up, calf hooking around thigh to pull him tight against her, giving her leverage to twist her hips and roll them both around.

It burns, the white hot anticipation, and he can barely move. His brain has been dumbed down; near-irrevocably stuck between wanting to split her open again, to keep biting and bruising and claiming, or to actually feel- to savour her in her entirety. His indecisive stupor makes him ache even more, brows knitting together tightly as his mind tries and fails to establish where to go next.

Sam can barely process anything outside of the softness of her sticky palm on his chest, the ridges of her fingerprints and the gentle sharpness each time her nails brush against his skin as she pushes him against the ground. She rolls her hips, soft curses spilling out of her lips as she feels his hands clumsily dig into her ass. He shuts his eyes, head lulling sideways as he swallows hard, choosing to feel.

Grip loosening momentarily, his eyes open at the feeling of her fingers branching up, wrapping themselves around his throat; loose, but just enough pressure that he can feel his own pulse reverberate against her thumb. She squeezes harder, turning him to face her, his head numbing with a pleasurable fizz as his vision transfixes on her.

He's too tired to fight against her- truth be told, he probably wouldn't try if he did have the strength. Jesus, she's so pretty, he thinks. Well that makes a change. Significantly less violent than the thoughts circulating his head earlier. She could squeeze tighter and tighter if she wanted, and he still wouldn't protest if it meant he could watch her, like this, from underneath her. Especially when she comes again, back arching as she moans like a fucking animal- and still she doesn't stop.

“So- you’re-” Between the pressure on his throat, her relentless pace, and his own spasmodic panting, he can barely string a sentence together, “s-damn tight- so good- fuck.”

He finds himself completely and utterly caught up in how tight she still feels around him- how fucking gorgeous she looks with her eyebrows drawn tightly together, eyelids heavy as she ferociously rocks her hips, stomach flexing, tits bouncing- the speckled bruises and drying blood stippled across her neck and collarbones- and then there's a hard pang of guilt; he did that to her- made her bleed- infected her- it's his fault that she's being made to give him this-- exactly… what he's wanted…for months.

He expects the thrumming ache to cloud him over again, but it never comes. Instead, a strange clarity claws its way through the haze of his mind. This is what he has longed for for months, but now that it's here, the moment is tainted by anguish. It took this entire horrible ordeal to force him to act upon his feelings, and he mourns the likelihood that this will be the one and only time he gets to be this close to her.

And then, beneath the sorrow and the dread, there lies a deeper, more corrosive guilt. It gnaws at him, a conscience-grating burden that leaves him nauseous. Despite the mental torment, despite everything, his body betrays him, running rife with boiling hot pleasure. The contradiction tears at him, a cruel reminder of his own skewed morality and the complex, painful nature of his...is it his love for her?

The obscene squelching sounds and the wetness leaking out of her and down her inner thighs, forming small puddles on his skin, and the floor, and, fuck, as she murmurs an exhausted plea, the taste he's getting of being wanted- needed- used by her- it all sends him over the edge.

She whimpers and falls into him, moaning incoherently into the crook of his neck as her fingers tighten, nails scraping against stubble, and-- jesus, he's coming again.

His hands meet her upper back, holding her down as he fills her once more, rasped groans and a string of murmured curses vibrate against her skin as he swallows against her hand. He holds onto her selfishly, savouring the feeling of her weight on top of his- bare skin on bare skin, the way she seeks comfort in him- he's thought about this countless times… and he hates how much he's enjoying the consent-less reality of it.

Her movements slow, becoming sloppier, lazier, her energy dwindling as she tries to chase the release she desperately needs. She whimpers, tears squeezing out of the corners of her eyes, dampening Sam's shoulder as they fall, and she finds her swollen, sensitive clit with one hand while the other moves from his throat to his hair.

He continues to hold her as his sensitive cock twitches inside her, nose nuzzling into her hair as he whispers; "Did you...?"

She shakes her head, a soft whimper coming out of her as she tries to push herself into another orgasm. The sound of his voice. Raw, raspy, quiet in her ears makes her tear up even more, and all of a sudden, her body's pursuit of pleasure has become torturous. She looks at Sam, his eyes clearer, amber flecks of colour visible again, his expression one of concern and exhaustion. Guilt churns in her stomach, sharp and nauseating, as the fog in her mind grows lighter by the second- the physical pain persists.

Her body, still wracked by the effects of the drug, betrays her with every shiver, flush of heat, and every desperate circle of her fingertips. She feels humiliated, the intense need now a source of shame, tucking her head back into his shoulder as she arches her back despite herself. Tears well up in her eyes, and she can’t meet Sam's eyes. "I... I'm so sorry," she whispers, her voice breaking. "I still need to-" she sniffs, "I can't- hurts."

Sam’s heart aches at the sight of her distress, and he nods, one hand smoothing down to her soft hip as the other stays on her back. He breathes in the scent of her hair, wanting to savour the moment- hell, he probably won't see her again if this is how she's reacting before she's fully recovered.

He wants more of her, he knows he does. But he's sensitive… and the clarity is still there. The clarity. The stabbing, blunt, serrated knife sawing in and out of his gut that makes him realise that he's never going to have this again. And that none of it was real anyway. But she sobs, and the sting in his chest wanes from his pain to hers. For now, curing hers takes precedence. 

Gently, he pushes against her, and exhausted, she complies, rolling back round to her back, eyes closed, borderline hyperventilating. He pulls her hand from between her legs and she huffs out a shaky breath.

“Sorry…hgnn- I'm sorry.” She whispers, her chest tightening.

He watches her try to cover her face with her forearm, and as he slides out of her, she sobs quietly, tensing her thighs together and rocking her hips softly to try and give her clit the friction it needs as she's left empty.

He rubs the palm of her hand with his thumb, gently lacing his fingers between hers, eyes glued to the way their skin glistens with their mixed arousal. “None’a that.” He says, squeezing her hand as he gently pries her thighs apart. “Not your fault.”

She whimpers up to the ceiling.

“God, it really hurts, Sam.”

“I know, sweetheart.” He holds himself up on an elbow and exhales. His free hand traverses down her torso, giving her waist a reassuring squeeze before reaching between her thighs.

She keens at the nickname, making a shuddered whimper as his fore and middle fingers gather some of the copious amount of shared arousal, rubbing against her carefully.

“This okay?”

Her chin trembles as she nods. “I need more.” She whispers, and almost immediately he pushes two fingers knuckle-deep into her aching cunt, pearlescent slick oozing out onto the palm of his hand down to his wrist. She squeezes his hand instinctively, a groan bubbling out of her throat.

His eyes follow the trail as his fingers stroke her from the inside and his thumb flicks softly at her clit, her soft moans permeating his mind. He's hard again; the thick liquid warms his wrist as it trickles down further, up to where the veins in his forearm meet the inside of his elbow- the veins that were deep purple not too long ago. He looks at his hand, then her thigh; still a small webbing of colour coming from the bite mark, whilst nowhere to be seen on him.

He swallows. There's a soft haze over his brain again, but it's gentle this time. Normal, even, bar the bittersweetness of it all. There's no burn. No malicious desire eating away at him… He just wants to savour her; to soothe, to make her feel better. She looks so ashamed. He wants to take that away from her.

Sam glances back up at her, eyes shut and arm crossed to cover her chest and it feels like a kick in the stomach. He purposely slows his hand, and her eyes open.

Before she can choke out another plea, he leans over her again, pressing his lips to hers gently, slowly building up his hand’s pace as he feels her sigh heavily. His chest thuds as he takes the time to memorise the softness of her lips, acknowledging that this might be the only time he gets to be so soft with her. It breaks his heart- another unforseen circumstance.

Her stomach flutters as he kisses her, the unexpected softness of it making more tears prick at her eyes as he works her closer to her peak. She moves her arm from her chest back to his hair, gently massaging his scalp.

After a moment, he moves from her lips, gently licking and pecking at each bruise and break in her delicate skin, relieved that there's no more purple, but unable to shake the guilt as he mutters apologies interspersed with each break for breath.

She squeezes his hand back, her whole body tensing.

His mouth traverses lower; down her sternum, all the way to her lower abdomen, until he reaches the tops of her thighs, where tacky quickly turns to wet as he moves lower still. Her breath catches as his eyes lock onto hers, and her lips part slightly, a subtle invitation, or perhaps merely surprise, but it's enough to keep him rooted, suspended between action and restraint as he feels himself salivate. In that silence, he waits, desperately vying for the smallest sign of consent.

She winces, her body aching as it waits for release, but she doesn't break eye contact. Instead, she takes a deep breath, and her fingers, trembling, unhook from his and reach out to rest on his jaw, her thumb brushing lightly against his lower lip. It's so brief and gentle it almost feels imagined. Yet, it's there— an undeniable gesture that heats his blood- organically, this time; He tastes them both on her skin and fuck, it's nothing short of heavenly. 

He swallows, eyes flitting around, learning the sight of her by heart before looking back up at her. He licks again and his cock twitches.

With a mixture of reverence and hunger, he closes the distance between them, movements measured and purposeful, each stroke of his tongue filled with a tenderness that belies all of the turmoil eating away inside him.

Her grip on his hair tightens as she sighs up to the ceiling. He loses a little restraint as she breathes out his name, begging him for more, and small, neat licks turn more rabid when his hand wraps around his shaft. He pumps himself with the same intensity as his tongue as it works in and out of her, his soft groans making her hips buck into his mouth as her breaths become more shallow.

She moans- cracked and raspy with exhaustion- at the feel of his lips, his nose, his tongue licking and sucking and savouring the satiating nectar dripping from between her trembling legs. His tongue broadens to gather and swallow before alternating to target her clit with the tip, wet and hot as he laps and swirls and buries in and around her. He tightens his fist around his cock, causing her stomach to roll as he moans into her- it's sloppy and messy and downright vulgar, but there's something so enamouring about his enthusiasm. His forearm wraps under her thigh, pulling her tight against his mouth as he grows closer to another climax of his own, and she gasps and arches even closer.

"Fuck, Sam-I, I'm-" she can feel him looking up at her as she struggles to string a sentence together, using the sight of her to coax his own pain-numbing, breathtaking orgasm. He moans, stimulating her tenfold as he releases warm ropes onto himself, his eyes rolling back as he near-suffocates against her.

He keeps going, and going, even when he lets go of himself to grip her stomach and pin her down- and she almost chokes, unable to breathe as she's utterly overwhelmed by the pleasure and the raw, visceral feelings for him that stabs relentlessly into her heart. She feels the pain raking its way through her body dissipate with each second that goes by.

He's so good. So fucking handsome.

She finally comes, a warbled cry trapped behind her teeth as her eyes squeeze shut and a rapturous wave of coolness floods her body. It's overwhelming- asphyxiating, even; tears streaming, fingers knotting rougher into his curls as he holds her tightly in place, devouring her through and past her climax. He takes and takes and takes-- shit, he loves this.

"S-sam,"

He loves this.

"Agh- Sam, pl- stop-"

He loves this. He fucking loves this- her. He- he loves-

She yanks hard enough on his hair that he's forced away from her with a pained hiss, gasping heavily like he hasn't taken a proper breath in minutes, his entire face from the bridge of his nose down glazed and glistening. He looks so pretty. She aches.

His eyes traverse, conflicted and somewhat melancholic from her thighs, up to her face, and she sees that he's... crying too. It's alien to her. What has she done to him?

She holds his gaze, her own eyes red-rimmed and tear-filled. The regret feels like a physical ache in her chest, mingling with the remnants of aftershock and the soreness between her legs and all over her broken skin across her thigh and décolletage. Despite the excruciating shame, she wants to reach out, to tell him that it's okay, that they had both been caught in the same storm. But the words don't come.

Instead, she sits up ever so slightly, wincing as she scoots closer, their bodies brushing as she nervously pulls his head to her shoulder; a tentative, fragile gesture, but she hopes it speaks volumes nonetheless. He stiffens at first, but eventually relaxes, his arm scooping beneath her to hold onto her gently.

She cradles his head against her, staring at the ceiling with tears pooling at the corners of her eyes. The physical pain was dulled now, but the emotional ache was fierce. She had never fantasised it being like this, tainted by necessity and confusion, and she doesn't know what to do. It's suffocating.

For a moment, they both just breathe, soaking in the sickly, unfiltered aftermath of the whole ordeal.

Minutes pass, or maybe hours—they've lost all sense of time in this weird fucking space where the boundaries have been irreparably corroded. They're cold. Exhausted. Emotionally bare. And now he feels like a damn coward, letting her stroke his hair and cradle him against her chest, after all he's put her through. He grits his teeth in an attempt to keep his watery eyes from spilling over.

But the attempt fails, and he hates how uncharacteristic this is. Screw this place. Screw Cassimir. Screw their client, screw his own greed that brought them here in the first place, and screw- fucking screw her for taking away his ability to remain a husk- and for letting him hurt her.

Finally, she pulls back as she feels her skin dampen and his shoulders jolt ever so slightly, her hand forcing his chin up. Her eyes search for him, and in that moment, she fully takes it in, and sees what she hopes to be the same fear, the same shame, and yet, the same insane level of care that has gnawed at her heart for so long.

Sam opens his mouth to speak as her brows furrow, but no words form, let alone come out, aside from a pathetic, choked sigh that hints at the tumult of emotions stirring inside him. His tongue rolls over his lip, and the lingering taste of them has him shudder and shut his eyes.

He can’t bring himself to look at her, the shame too sickening, too palpable. But then, as he pulls away, getting up to his knees as he fumbles with his jeans, he feels her hand on his arm, steadying him. He looks down, and in her eyes, he doesn't see pity, or accusation, but- and for a second he considers pinching himself- understanding, a non-verbal acknowledgment of his vulnerability.

Delicate and trembling, her fingers reach up to touch his face, tracing the line of his jaw as if to reassure herself that he is real, that this moment, however fleeting and fraught with confusion, was real. At least she'd have it stapled to her memory. Sam closes his eyes at her touch, a self deprecating huff leaving his lips. He turns his head slightly, pressing a kiss to her palm; a silent apology and a desperate plea for reassurance that she's actually thinking what he hopes she is. He even hazards a look to her thigh for any sign of coercion from the drug still coursing through her, but there's no purple in sight.

She reaches one of her arms above her head, just about reaching her shirt. She grunts in disgust, the material sodden, and she drops it back down with a shaky huff, the room's frigid temperature finally having an effect once more.

Sam pushes himself up again, rubbing his damp cheeks with the back of his hand as a sense of normalcy seeps back into his senses. And with that normalcy, grief.

He finds his t-shirt, quickly sliding it over his head despite the excess of sweat and bodily fluid covering both his skin and the material. He grimaces as it clings to him, and she watches on with a poignant shiver, pulling her knees to her chest after adjusting her soaked-through underwear, her boots scraping against the ground as she does so.

He clears his throat, picking up his plaid overshirt from where he'd discarded it earlier before looking over his shoulder at her as he pulls the sleeves through the right way. 

Someone has to speak sooner or later, she thinks, but can't bring herself to. Her nails scratch nervously at her skin as she weighs up what to do, trying not to cry at the prospect of Sam's walls being rebuilt so fast after pouring everything- mind, body, soul- into her moments ago. She feels so naive- so fucking silly-

“What was it you said earlier?”

Her head shoots up as he speaks, caught off guard by how much he sounds like his usual self. Charming, cocky, collected.

She tilts her head slightly, her eyebrows drawing together and her eyes narrowing in a mix of confusion and curiosity. Her lips part just enough to show she's on the verge of speaking, but she holds back, waiting for his next words to clarify the moment.

He extends his shirt out to her, lips quirking into a soft, somewhat reassuring smile. She looks at him for a moment, taking the shirt and putting it on.

“Somethin’ about an HR department?”

She looks at him, a soft laugh fluttering to the surface. It's a quiet sound, tinged with shyness and still wrapped in the lingering sadness of their shared ordeal. Her eyes lower for a moment, the weight of everything that happened settling in.

Seeing her reaction, Sam gets up and moves to where her water flask lies discarded. He unscrews the cap and pours some onto a clean part of his t-shirt. She begins to button her shirt, but he stops her, silently asking for a moment longer.

“Can I?”

She lets go of the shirt, and with gentle, still slightly shaky hands, he dabs the wet cotton softly over her wound-ridden skin.

She watches him, the sadness in her eyes gradually giving way to something softer, his tenderness speaking volumes. As he continues to tend to her wounds, his mouth twists in thought, like there's something he wants to say. So he does.

“I'm sorry.”

He's not the type to apologise, so eye contact is impossible.

“What?”

He continues dabbing at her skin in silence.

“Sam.”

She covers his hand, stopping him from finding any other distraction.

“You didn't ask for this."

He frowns. “I- I just put you through… somethin’ not far off of assault, and your response is-”

“No. Not one part of that was assault-”

“She says, as I wipe up blood from bites I gave her.”

“Yeah, with the mouth that's covered in my cum.”

He opens his mouth to retort, but he can't find anything to say. His cheeks redden.

She sighs again. They're going in circles and she wants to put an end to it all- she's tired. Filthy. Possibly concussed. Which she uses to excuse what she does next.

“Can I try something?” she asks. Fuck it.

“Try what?"

Without another word, she steps closer, her eyes searching for any sign of protest. When she finds none, she leans in and kisses him, her lips soft and warm against his, holding none of the desperation or haze of their previous encounter, completely free from the influence of any perverted pill or potion.

What's she got to lose?

Sam is shocked at first, his body tensing. He instinctively pulls her off, his eyes flitting around her face as his jaw loosens and tightens in search of something to say.

Her heart sinks and she steps back, “Thought so,” she smiles sadly, backing away, knowing it was a mistake to try. "Can we... can we get out of here?"

He should hate himself, right? He's gone against everything he's ever stood for- let every non-committal brick he's built since teenagehood crumble to dust. He's gone soft. Sentimental. By force, to begin with, yet he still hasn't stopped himself. It's… Pleasant. Is this the balance Cassimir fetishised over?

Screw it, he decides, Because if he has to stand by and watch her grow apart from him when she's just shown the same as- if not more vulnerability than him, what use are a few walls?

He pulls her back, his lips finding hers again. This time, it's different- there’s no urgency, no magical compulsion, but rather something deep- genuine. The kiss is tender, filled with all the emotions they’ve been too afraid to voice, and he feels years worth of tension escape him. His sore muscles loosen, hands cupping her face softly, and she melts into him.

When they finally pull apart, their foreheads rest together, and this alone feels infinitely more intimate than anything that had transpired beforehand.

"So... is it safe to assume that we're both on the same page, or...?" She swallows hard, her voice barely above a whisper, but her usual playfulness breaks through, and it makes him smile.

"What, that we're both in dire need of some good laundry detergent and a shower? Or was there somethin' else on your mind?"

She snorts, gently kicking his shin, the enormity of months worth of repressed feelings finally worn on the proverbial sleeve. She takes a deep breath, the worry in her eyes softening as she looks at him.

"We have a lot to figure out."

He chews the inside of his lip contemplatively, still not entirely sure there’s any reason why she’s being so gracious. So calm, despite it all, like he deserves any of it.

There’s a beat.

And then he nods. Because that’s why she makes his entire psyche shift off-kilter- makes him notice his bad habits.

"We'd… uh, better cash those vials in."

She sees a million-and-one thoughts behind his eyes, but he needs to rest. So she waits, head tilted, suspecting he's got something else to add. 

"How else am I supposed to afford a five-star first date?"

The other million thoughts can wait.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭

I promise to write something short and funny next time x

[thedevilrisen]

Imagine - You are honeymooning with Jack overseas.

Y/N's eyes sparkled as she navigated through the maze of colourful stalls, each one brimming with treasures she had never seen before. The scent of sizzling street food wafted through the air, mingling with the sweetness of freshly made pastries. She tugged on Jack's sleeve pulling him toward a vendor selling intricate trinkets carved from wood and stone.

"Look at this," she said, picking up a tiny elephant. Its surface was etched with delicate patterns. "Isn't it adorable?"

Jack grinned, hands in his pockets. "You've already bought three souvenirs. Where is this one going to fit?"

You stuck your tongue out at him before turning back to the vendor. Y/N haggled confidently, enthusiasm infectious. Jack couldn't help but smile as he watched her hand the money over to the vendor in exchange for the small elephant.

They continued wandering, stopping at a stall where a man was making fresh dumplings. "Two, please," Jack ordered, handing over a bill.

The vendor handed them a paper bag, Jack looked at you with a knowing look, offering one of the steaming dumplings. You bit into it, eyes widening. "This is amazing!"

"Better than the elephant? Jack teased.

"Close," you brushed some grease off your chin.

As you together, wandered deeper into the market, as street musician began playing a hauntingly beautiful melody on a violin. Y/N stopped, captivated by the sound. Jack admired her, noticing the way the lantern light reflected in her eyes.

“Dance with me,” you said suddenly, grabbing his hand.

“Here? In front of everyone?” Jack asked, looking around nervously.

“Why not?” you replied, already pulling him into a makeshift waltz.

Reluctantly at first, then more confidently, Jack followed your lead. You twirled between the stalls, laughter blending with the violin’s melody. Other shoppers watched and smiled, some even clapping along.

When the song ended, Y/N rested her head on Sam’s shoulder, her breath warm against his neck. “I think this is my favorite night ever,” you whispered.

Jack smiled, his heart full. “Mine too. Even with the elephant.”

You laughed, swatting his arm. Together you wandered on, the night wrapping around you like a soft, starry blanket, every moment feeling like a story you would tell for years.

[pininghermit]

Spring of Longing

Request: Hello friend! I got she fell first but he fell harder 😘

AN: Perfect timing with this one anon. I am still recovering from a particularly angsty book I just finished reading. Enjoy!

Tropesvania Event- feel free to request

Genre: hurt no comfort

Pairing(s): Adrian Tepes x gn Reader

Summary: S/O fell first but he fell harder

It is the mundane that wounds him most. After decades of living with you, a life now faded into the past, Adrian shouldn’t be like this, a sobbing mess on the cold, hard kitchen floor.

Clutching the brittle packets of seeds, he presses them to his heart, his body wracked with sobs.

The chill dawn breeze creeps in through the window he had just managed to pry open, its icy fingers matching the freezing tears that fall down his face.

Like a dam breaking, the grief he has buried for so long comes rushing forth, unstoppable and all-consuming.

Etched on the back of each packet is your handwriting, the elegant cursive preserved across the ages.

In cramped spaces, you had written meticulous instructions: dates, months, irrigation tips, and care. Each word was a tender promise, a piece of you now reaching across the chasm of life and death to find him.

“How do you do it without me noticing?” Adrian had once asked, standing amidst the vibrant blooms of the garden.

It was as if spring had snuck into his father’s dreary grounds overnight, scattering flowers in an explosion of life.

Daffodils, peonies, snowdrops, and primroses heralded the early days of the season. Later came the roses, jasmine, and marigolds, ending the spring with their heady perfumes. Each year, a different arrangement appeared, unfurling as if by magic.

In the center of it all stood the small gazebo, draped in fragrant vines. It was your shared spot for evening teas and soups, or for quiet nights spent snuggling and stargazing.

Adrian turned to you, astonished yet fond. “It’s like they appear out of nowhere. When do you even find the time to do all this?”

You’d grinned at him, a playful light in your eyes. “It’s a secret, my love,” you chuckled, crouching to caress the delicate petals of a petunia.

Standing, you tucked the bloom behind his ear, your fingers lingering against his cheek. “One day, you’ll know. But until then, let me do it for you.”

Then you kissed him, your eyes full of a love so deep it made him weak.

But you never did tell him.

And now, you never could.

Adrian hadn’t dared to set foot in the garden since illness had taken you. He hadn’t even looked its way, not after it had whisked you from his arms. Curtains had been drawn, windows nailed shut, keeping out every wisp of spring breeze.

Grief had consumed him, and with it came wrath. He had abandoned Castle Dracula, along with every promise he had made to himself, to Trevor, and to you. He had left it all his lineage, the Belmont knowledge of the ancient, and the echoes of your voice, left to decay in silence.

In his mourning, he had raged and cursed the world for its cruelty.

Then, decades of wandering foreign lands had numbed him. On good days, he could forget the sound of your laughter, the feel of your hand in his. On bad days, he stood unmoving for hours, waiting—praying—for you to find him.

Perhaps that was why he had returned. The walls of his childhood home still stood, their cold stone preserved by his father’s enchantments. But walking through its hollowed halls, Adrian found himself a stranger in a place he had once known.

Your room had long since been stripped bare. That had been his doing, burning every piece of furniture, every remnant of your presence, in a fit of grief. Better ashes than the thought of strangers claiming them.

The kitchen, however, had gone untouched. It wasn’t until a faint scuffle of mice drew his attention to an old cupboard that he discovered them. Tucked high above the cobwebs and dust, he felt the crisp edges of stacked paper: the seed packets.

Somehow, even in death, you had found him.

Adrian sits frozen, clutching the packets. “You never did tell me,” he whispers, his voice raw with emotion. “How am I supposed to…?” His words break, drowned by another wave of sobs. “You never told me.”

It takes a long time for him to stand. His legs tremble beneath him as he leans against the counter, willing himself forward. Step by step, he walks toward the one place he had forbidden himself to go.

The garden.

He expects to find it barren, overrun by weeds or swallowed by the encroaching forest. But what greets him is a sight he cannot comprehend.

The garden blooms, vibrant and alive, as though time itself had held its breath. Daffodils sway gently in the breeze, roses climb the trellises, and the gazebo stands untouched, draped in fragrant vines. Dew glistens on the petals, catching the soft light of dawn.

For a moment, Adrian forgets to breathe.

He steps forward, his heart pounding as memories flood back with every flower. He half-expects to see you there, stepping out from behind a rose bush with that proud grin he adored so much. Or perhaps seated in the gazebo, fussing over an errant vine that refused to climb properly.

But there is only silence.

The sun rises slowly, its mellow rays spilling over the dew-covered blooms. Adrian stands amidst it all, surrounded by the love you had left behind. His tears fall freely now, unrestrained.

In this sacred place, he mourns you anew grieving with the flowers that carried your touch.

It was never-ending. His grief would bloom with every season like the garden that still remained bound to your neatly written notes.

[yeyinde]

Lev? Uncle Simon? I’m excited. I don’t even know what it’s about but I like the sound of it already

out of all the untitled documents to choose from who knew the uncle Simon one would stand out so much lmao this is super choppy but here's my little idea for the new version:

At first, she's a name on a piece of paper. 

An abstract concept. Black lines stamped into stark white. An idea—

(a phone call in the middle of the night that he wasn't expecting. 

"Mr Riley? Is this—right. Well, the reason I'm calling is because the adoption agency received a request from one of the adoptees about tracking down their biological family, and you were the only match.")

—a ghost. 

Out of everyone, he thinks he mourned her the most. This tiny, insignificant thing swathed in pale pink and cradled in the arms of her mother, his almost sister-in-law. Tommy leaning over her shoulder, eyes glazed in an artificial gloss (c'mon, Tommy) as they smile, vacantly, at the camera.

At the time, elbow deep in a shallow grave as he stared at the photo his mother sent him, all he could think was: she never stood a fuckin' chance. 

And she didn't. Her first night home from NICU was when his past came back for revenge. Bloodthirsty, vengeful. They sunk their claws into his family, tearing them into pieces. A nightmarish massacre they called him to discover.

(pinch me, Tommy, pinch me—)

Better off this way, he remembers thinking. Cruel. Callous. Staring down at a tiny grave—her name etched in stone; only days old before the monsters in his closet came searching for their due—and knowing that this was all his fault. And then: sorry, little bird. 

Sorry. Sorry—

But that little bird crawled out of the dirt. Made it out alive somehow. 

(better this way, the higher up said, resting a neat, unblemished hand on the folder marked Simon Riley. next to it, a mask lay on the table. generic. he hums around his grief, thinks of Tommy in the grave—milkwhite bones. "a clean break—"

he thought it was their attempt at humour. maybe an odd way to comfort him. but with the roaring in his ears, he couldn't hear much beyond the ache in his chest, and the ice-cold fury coiling in his belly.

"she's in a better place."

fuckin' hell—

he thought they meant some idea of heaven, not Salford.)

And now—

That name on a piece of paper has a face.

A pretty one, too.

And though he tries to find pieces of Tommy in the symmetry of her profile—and feels antsy, restless, when he does—she takes after her mother. Same complexion. Eyes. The slope of her nose. All of it the woman he met once—stumbling home to find them both passed out on the couch, heads knocked together as a dense cloud of smoke plumed around them. Her eyes, heavy lidded and red, gazing up at him uncomprehendingly.

"who're you?" slurred out in a smokey rasp. Tommy didn't even stir at the sound of her voice.

It's her but healthy. Youthful. Clear eyes. Hands that don't shake. Teeth that gleam white under the fluorescent light of the cafe she works at, not willow-brown. Stained yellow with nicotine. She's softer, too. The harsh, fragile angles of her mother tucked away under a thick pelt. Solid. Steady.

Happy.

He spends a lot of time just staring at her in the back of the dimly cafe, hood pulled over the black ballcap hung low on his brow. Medical mask in place of his typical knit balaclava. Barely blending in to the passel of the teenagers that seem to congregate, em masse, in the small coffeeshop.

Sometimes, she looks back at him. Catches his eye. Offers a smile that's only a little wobbly around the edges, brow pushed together as she tries to make sense of his presence here. With the chocolate trim and the cream walls, the heady scent of ground coffee in the air, chatter of schoolkids and professionals that skirt around him with a considerable dearth to reach the trashbin next to his table. It's clear he doesn't fit.

Doesn't belong.

It glues to the roof of his mouth. The passing, mean thought that neither does she.

Or—

She wouldn't.

If Tommy survived, she'd be leaning against the wall with him, listening to the distant echo of flushing toilets while the world seemed to carve out a steep chasm between them. Them and us. That's how it's always been with him and Tommy.

But she—

She fits.

Offers smiles as easily as breathing. Something that would have netted them a black eye from their raging old man, bellowing out that he'd give them something to smile at.

She doesn't look like anyone has ever raised a hand against her. And he supposes, thinking back on the information he managed to get the private detective hired by her new parents to squeal out, that she doesn't. Not her. No.

Grew up in Salford with her adoptive parents—much older than most looking to adopt, already in their late forties when she was just a year old. Lived a life on the right side of the tracks: spelling bees, private tutors. Vacations to Disneyland. They weren't rich. Not exorbitantly so, but they managed a comfortable lifestyle. Food on the table every night. Chores. Movie nights on Saturday where she got bring a friend for a sleepover. Pizza and popcorn and candy and her mother asking, want some more snacks, honey? Soft and gentle. That's what they were. Are. Doting. Kind.

Punishments were drenched in disappointment. Voices never raised. Hands never furling into fists.

She was a good kid raised by good people.

And he should be happy for her.

He is happy for her.

They raised her good and proper. Put food in belly. Never let her know hunger. Or pain. Neglect.

But he finds Tommy in her smile. The little dip of her chin, tucking her happiness into her collar as if she doesn't want it to be seen. It's all—him. Them.

Simon just can't seem to think around the idea of her belonging to someone else—

(she's his family, after all. his baby bird. his brother's daughter. his niece. his. his—

and maybe it's time baby bird—Baby Riley—came home.)

[amathslutsguidetofandom]

No Excuses

PAIRINGS: Simon "Ghost" Riley x Wife!Sri Lankan!Reader

WARNINGS: HEAVY FLUFF, Simons a fucking simp for the missus, good food :)

SOME INFO: 'Avurudda' means 'New Year', and Kottu and Appa are some famous Sri Lankan traditional food

WORD COUNT: 1,484

ENJOY!

"Yes, Amma. Yes, I cleaned the house like you told me to," you confess softly to your Sri Lankan mother, a tender smile gracing your lips as you recall the gentle encouragement she always provided.

Avurudda season has arrived, a time when the essence of your Sri Lankan heritage fills the air with warmth and nostalgia. In homage to your roots, you meticulously prepared your home, ensuring every corner gleamed with the promise of new beginnings. 

And with a sense of reverence, you sought out a traditional Sri Lankan lamp online, a beacon of light to guide you through the festivities of the new year

When you married Simon, Your parents hesitated, their reservations echoing the unspoken fears of marrying outside your culture lingered in your heart

Yet, can they really blame you?

You fell in love with the Lieutenant while you were a techie for one of the TF-141 missions. The mission was primarily automotive, so the team, especially Simon, heavily relied on you. You didn’t think that you had it in you to thaw the ice around the Lt’s heart, but to him, you were his solace, his light.

In the steady rhythm of time, Simon's heart quietly yielded to the gravity of your presence, each day etching deeper into the stone of his resolve, sculpting a silent monument to the unyielding strength of his love for you.

After a few tense debriefs, he finally had the courage.

From the tension of your first encounters to secret touches, which morphed into silent kisses behind closed doors. Your both grew needing the other, the love you have for him and him, you, just became heavier in the depths of your hearts.

Soon, you moved into his flat. And a year later, you’re sleeping next to the love of your life with a gold band on your finger and his last name after your first.

Your parents soon backed off when they realized how much Simon cared for you and you for him.

Your mother's voice breaks you out of your reverie.

"Have you seen the recipes I’ve sent you, the Kottu and the Appa ones?" Your Amma questions, and you tilt your head back and close your eyes. "Yes, Amma, I did. Haven’t I told you that already?"

-----

You hear the door open as you sauté some vegetables the way your mother said to, in her recipe.

"Love? Are you here?" you hear the gruff voice of your husband through the entrance hall of your home.

You holler that you’re in the kitchen.

With a gentle embrace, Simon enfolds you in his arms, his touch igniting a spark of warmth that spreads through your body like wildfire. You lean into his embrace, relishing the comfort of his touch as he buries his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling the sweet scent of your skin. "Hi, handsome," you whisper softly, your voice a tender caress that lingers in the air between you.

Simon grunts out a laugh and hugs you tighter, "missed you, love."

You both stand in silence, letting Simon take you in.

"Have you brought the things I asked you to?" you whisper gently, switching off the heat of the stove. Simon nods, "it was tricky to find them, but I managed to."

 Simon finally releases you and goes to grab the paper bags from the table near the door and places them on the kitchen counter.

You smile at him and give a little squeeze to his bicep and dig through the bag. "Great, everything is here, thanks babe," you lay out everything and start to cook your Kottu. You start chopping up the fresh thin, soft rotti until it's the right size.

You feel Simon peek over your shoulder and then go back to the pot and get a whiff of the food you made already. "Jesus, love. It smells incredible," he leans against the kitchen counter watching you chop the last of the rotti and throw the shredded fine bread into your pot.

You inhale deeply, "well, it's Avurudda. Sri Lankan new year." You say sheepishly, as you throw a glance at your husband over your shoulder.

Simon’s eyes go wide and he nods slowly, "I see." He rubs a hand over his chin and takes in the information you just gave him. He pieces everything together and scolds himself for not remembering, "love, I'm sorry I didn’t know."

You chuckle and shake your head, "honey, it’s fine, really." Simon shakes his head, "I should remember my wife’s cultural holidays. No excuses, love." You pout at Simon beating himself up, "hey, I know what can make you feel better."

He looks up at you confused and raises a brow. "I bought a Sinhala lamp, could you help me set it up?" you smile at him as he nods eagerly before you finish your sentence. You give him the instructions and show him the package that came in this afternoon. "Alright, I’ll get on with it," he whispers, rubbing a hand on your lower back and kissing your temple.

You smile and finish your work in the kitchen.

-----

Simon sets the table and you plate the food. 

Then you sit down to enjoy the meal you've prepared together, the flickering light of the candles casts a warm glow over the table, bathing you both in its gentle embrace. 

Now he sits in front of you and looks at the crispy Appas and delicious looking Kottu sitting between the both of you.

"Alright, so. This is Kottu, it's basically pieces of thick paratha or rotti, cooked with veggies and shredded chicken. It’s my ultimate favorite dish," you point at the plate of food, and talk animatedly.

You don’t see the subtle smile on your husband's face as he sees you talk passionately, and he opens a file in his mind and files in the information that Kottu is your favorite meal. You then point at the crispy upside-down domes.

“These are Appas, or Hoppers, they are amazing with chicken curry," you point at the curry you made a little while ago, "alright that’s it, dig in! And, Suba aluth avurudak weva, mage rattaran.” Simon has learned a little Sinhala for you since you first got married, and he translates your words in his mind.

Happy new year, my darling.

-----

As you and Simon delve into conversation about your respective days, you both begin to enjoy your meals. With each bite, you savor the taste of home, the flavors of your heritage filling your senses with a sense of belonging.

You take occasional sips from a glass of wine, Simon leisurely drinks from a bottle of beer.

“It’s absolutely delicious, love,” he says, reaching for your hand across the table. He rubs his thumb on the delicate skin of your hand. You smile and say your thanks.

You meet his gaze, your eyes locking in a silent exchange that speaks volumes without a single word. And in that moment, as you sit together in the soft glow of the candlelight, you know that you are exactly where you're meant to be, with the man who holds your heart in his hands.

Your leg brushes against his ankle, the fabric of your sock gliding over his skin. Simon grins and gently clasps your limb, placing it tenderly on his lap. Your smile broadens as he begins to caress it, sending waves of comfort through you.

The atmosphere is filled to the brim with your love for each other, the only source of light is from the candles lit on the table and the traditional lamp next to your dining table.

Simon reflects on his fortune, marveling at the serendipity of finding a woman as remarkable as you. He finds solace in the thought of a love so deeply reciprocated, where every beat of his heart echoes with the resonance of your affection, intertwining your souls in a bittersweet symphony of devotion.

-----

You stir from slumber to the not-so-gentle melody of your phone's alarm.

Blinking away the remnants of sleep, you reach out to silence it, yearning for the familiar presence of your Simon beside you. 

Yet, as you turn, you find only the empty space where he once lay, his absence palpable in the morning light.

With a soft exhale, you sit up, the soft rays of dawn casting a warm glow around you. It's then that your gaze drifts to his bedside table, where a bouquet of delicate pink and white tulips awaits, their petals kissed by the soft light of dawn. 

Nestled among the blooms, a note written in his hand catches your eye.

It’s in his handwriting, the ink scratchy and blotchy. His sinhala words marking their spot on the hard paper.

A rush of emotion floods your senses as you read his words, each stroke of the pen a testament to his adoration. 

Happy New Year, my love.

🎀🎀🎀

OMG!

My first Simon Riley fic!!

And

My first Sri-Lankan!Reader fic!!!

One of the main reasons I wanted to start writing is because there is very minimal representation of brown girlies in the fanfic world. Especially, there is lack of rep for South Asian women. And even though I do associate myself with being a WOC, there is still a difference in between cultures.

I srsly keep in touch with my Sri Lankan heritage, and value that part of me.

It's why I try to make my Fics as inclusive as possible, but sometimes ya girl's got to represent her girlies back home.

(dw desi babes, I got a Diwali fic planned for y'all)

Sorry for the ramble and I'm sorry if this is not what most of you lovelies wanted😅😅.

But I've planned this for a while.

Suba Aluth Avurudak Weva, my loves!

(Also, please lemme know what you lovelies think about the fic!!)

Till' then,

Stay Coquette-y,

Anya 🫶🏽🕊️🎀

[crosshairlovebot]

falling for mr. batchbury (part two) / hunter x f!reader

pairing: hunter x f!reader

description: your long-awaited reunion with mr. batchbury has finally come, and so do you.

REGENCY AU

word count: 8,107

warnings: NSFW 18+ explicit sexual content. loss of vriginity (f). p in v s*x. oral s*x (f receiving). lots of kissing. handj*bs. biting. unprotected s*x. cr*ampie. outdoor s*x. partly clothed s*x. religious comparions.

thank you so much for your support on part one.!! the regency hunter/bad batch art that has come from this has been amazing to see i love it so much!! i got v carried away but i enjoyed writing this sm, so i hope you enjoy reading it <3

also posted on ao3. feedback is welcomed, reblogs are appreciated. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

PART TWO

According to his letters, Mr. Hugo Batchbury earned the nickname “Hunter” due to his uncanny ability to seek out enemy ships and find hidden encampments during the war. You had always known his senses to be more attuned than a normal person, so it seemed fitting for him. And it was why you ventured into your estate’s gardens, knowing he’d be able to find you with ease.

You hurried down the stone steps, lifting the skirt of your gown so you wouldn’t trip as you left the din of the ball behind you. 

The ball had been to celebrate your father’s return from war. Of course, that meant the Batchbury Brothers had also returned, each with a nickname of their own. William had come to be known as ‘Wrecker’ due to his enthusiasm with the ship's cannons. Thomas became ‘Tech’ as his knowledge of engineering and other contraptions was second to none. Carlisle’s superior aim with a pistol had bestowed him with the name ‘Crosshair’. You had read it all in Mr. Batchbury’s letters, which were frequent enough that missing him was only agonising, not excruciating. 

In the years that passed while they were at sea, writing was the only comfort you had – and knowing they served under your father who was a master at his profession. Your heart raced when the footman brought in the post and there was a letter from Mr. Batchbury. Usually, he would write two – one for you and one for Meg. 

His letters to you varied, sometimes they told you of what he’d been doing, sometimes they held a tale from the decks of the ship, some mischief played as they rode the waves. But each contained his voice through written script, the words of the sentences so familiar you could hear them in his voice as you read. 

You fell more in love with him through his letters, and he with you. Each one he sent would always detail his love for you, his eagerness to come home and love you at a nearer distance, his wish to marry you when he returned. It all sent thrills and pangs through you.

My thoughts of you only seem to increase the longer we are apart, he’d once written. My sketchbook has run out of pages, and until I can find a new one to fill, I draw your face in my dreams.

Your entire being longed to be with him.

You would write to him too, but the time between letters being sent and arriving for both of you seemed to grow more extensive as the months and years went on. 

What was it they said, absence makes the heart grow fonder? Well, your heart's fondness for Mr. Batchbury was so strong it ached. You even requested he send you a self-portrait, just so you could see him face. He’d given it in his next letter – his face so beautifully etched in charcoal, his brow strong over intense black circles of eyes, the curve of his jaw shaded with his birthmark. You had to be careful you didn’t drop tears on it when you gazed upon it.

Meg missed him too – she missed all her brothers dearly, and she followed the papers diligently for news, thrumming with excitement when she received a letter from any of them. She had grown so much in the years that had past. Now eighteen, she had matured into a young lady; she was kind, compassionate and amiable. She was as tall as her brothers and seemed to have absorbed all their best traits too, even if they were far away. 

You had been with her as she watched from the window, waiting for their carriage to arrive the afternoon just gone. She bounced on her toes in excitement while you sat on the lounge nearby, just as excited but simultaneously so anxious to see Mr. Batchbury you felt like you might be ill.

What if he saw you and you were not as he remembered? Or what if he saw you and his feelings for you were merely spurred by distance, and now were non-existent? You knew his heart to be mountainous, but mountains did fall victim to erosion when weathered by strong winds.

When you heard Meg squeal, you had jumped from your thoughts. “They’re here! They’re back! They’re here!”

She raced from the room, and you gaped for a moment before following her, your footsteps just as quick. Despite your anxieties, you were still desperate to see him.

And you father, too. You couldn’t forget about him.

You followed her outside and watched as Meg skidded to a stop as the carriage slowed and the horses stilled. The carriage door was thrown open as William– Wrecker emerged. You knew it was him from his build. He guffawed as he wrapped his arms around Meg, lifting her up and spinning her. You heard Meg laugh as you approached. 

You realised Wrecker now sported an impressive scar from his ear and across one side of his face, an eye patch covering one eye, his head completely shaved. The other brothers filed out of the carriage, Thomas– Tech had a limp and now held a cane on his left side, Carlisle– Crosshair had a burn scar on one side of his head, the same side as the smattering of port wine that splashed over his right eye. He also had a wooden attachment on one hand to replace one he had evidently lost. 

They each had been changed by their time at war, but they still gathered Meg into their arms, their love for their sister eternal.

Your breath hitched when you saw Mr. Batchbury– Hunter move down the carriage steps, his boots crunching on the gravel. 

His hair was longer, and the bandana had changed from bright red to a rich colour that matched his port wine birthmark, but apart from that it was as if no time had passed. How was it possible he looked exactly the same? In fact, he looked even more handsome, as if the time spent in the sea air had not weathered him, but ripened his beauty.

You watched as he held his arms out for Meg, who jumped into them. He smiled into her neck, arms wrapping around her tightly, squeezing. You heard Meg begin to cry into her older brother’s shoulders, her own shaking. Your heart squeezed for her. 

Though her brothers were everything to her, there was something different about her bond with Hunter. He was more than her brother, he was her guardian too, the one she always turned to, the one who had taken her in and cared for her no questions asked. Hunter was Meg’s mountain, and being without him had been harder on her than she liked to admit. Hunter soothed her with gentle shushes, one of his hands running up and down her back. 

“It’s alright, Meg. I’m here now,” you heard him console her gently. “I’m not going anywhere ever again.” 

You felt your eyes sting with tears at the heartfelt reunion. They pulled away, and you watched Hunter wipe away his sister’s tears with the pad of his thumb, a smile matching his misty eyes. You watched his hands grab hers as he took a step back, seeing her stand at his height.

“You’re so big now,” his voice cracked.

Meg laughed lightly, wiping her eyes. “You missed a lot.”

“Too much.” Hunter shook his head. “Never again.”

“Never,” Meg agreed.

“Hey!” Wrecker’s loud voice boomed when he spotted you. “Look who it is!”

You held your breath as Hunter’s eyes landed on yours. You watched the way his eyes and shoulders softened, his mouth parted. You watched his mouth turn up at the side, and the stain on his cheek darken at the sight of you. It appeared his penchant to flush at the sight of you had not changed either.

You flushed. Why had you even been worried again?

You cleared you throat and took a step forward. “The Batchbury Brothers have returned.”

“You bet!” Wrecker cheered. “And in one piece!”

“Speak for yourself,” Crosshair sneered, his remaining hand gripping the wrist of his prosthetic.

“We are, mostly, unharmed,” Tech adjusted his glasses with his free hand. “Hunter is the only one of us to remain unscathed.”

Hunter sighed and shook his head. “We all survived. That’s what matters.”

“And we’re rich!” Wrecker laughed proudly.

“I heard about your acquisition of prizemoney,” you said. “Congratulations. It is a great accomplishment for you all.”

“It gives us many opportunities now,” Hunter said carefully, meeting your eyes knowingly. You felt your heartbeat pick up.

Did he…mean…?

You felt your expression lift as you gazed at him hopefully, and you watched his birthmark darken again as he smiled softly at you. The smile conveyed all the love he held for you, steadfast and immovable even after five years, even through a war. Your heart squeezed and you felt as though you might faint.

He did mean that.

“Is my father on his way?” you inquired, slightly breathless as his words danced around your head, the realisation so fanciful it hardly seemed real.

Hunter nodded. “He said he had some paperwork to drop off in London, but he should arrive by this evening.”

“Wonderful,” you breathed, smiling at him with what you hoped conveyed the same amount of love, if not more. 

Now, under the cover of the moon and the ball long behind you, you raced through the maze to the centre of it; the very maze where your love for each other had blossomed. You were breathless, and you could feel the bones of your tight corset cutting into your ribs, but you didn’t care. 

He would be here soon.

“Hey,” you heard his smoky tenor from behind you. You whirled around to see him standing there, holding a lantern he had taken from the courtyard adjacent to the ballroom. Along with a grey waistcoat, he wore his newly tailored dresscoat, black with some red embroidery stitched into the cuffs and collar. His black boots glistened in the light of the moon, and in lieu of his bandana, he wore a red cravat instead.

He looked dashing.

“Mr. Batchbury,” you breathed as you took in the sight fo him.

How was it fair that he looked beautiful in all lights?

He chuckled. “Are we still using such formalities?”

You were unable to hide your smile. “What shall I call you then? ‘Hunter’?” you teased lightly.

You watched as he inhaled sharply, hands that were once relaxed now clenched. “Yes,” he rasped, his eyes never strayed from you. “Hunter is perfect.”

“Very well…Hunter,” you smiled. You liked the way it sounded on your tongue, and Hunter seemed to as well, returning a closed-mouth smile at you as he continued to gaze longingly at you. Your face felt hot as you fiddled with your fingers awkwardly. The moment of silence passed through you both. You looked at him before tittering nervously. Hunter cocked his head. 

“What is it?”

“All these years, I thought I would be gushing with things to say, but words have seemed to escape me,” you joked.

Hunter chuckled, a hearty sound, and walked towards you slowly with the lantern before setting it down on the stone bench beside you both. Now, in the dim orange glow, you were close enough to see those familiar brown-grey eyes, unchanged despite the time that passed. 

“It’s been a long time. Far too long,” he murmured, eyes travelling across your face like a caress. You swallowed, flustered by his attentions. 

You wished you were more articulate, but you had missed him so much, it was taking everything in you not to just kiss him, to instead prelude such a thing with pleasantries so it would not be so forward. It had been a long time, and you had only a few hours together where you knew of each others feelings before he left. This whole thing was unfamiliar territory for you. You knew how to be in love with him from afar, from across an ocean, but had no idea how to do it in such close proximity.

“You look well,” you said. It was a severe understatement.

“You look beautiful,” Hunter told you earnestly, his fingertips gently nudged your hands and you let them latch around yours. Your breath hitched as you felt his warm touch against your hands as he held them assuredly, his thumb drawing circles over the back of your hand. “My sketches and my memory did not do you justice.”

You felt butterflies take flight inside you. “I was worried about this part,” you breathed, too overwhelmed to think about the words that now seemed to fly out of you with no hesitation.

Hunter looked genuinely confused. “Why?”

You swallowed again and averted your eyes, focusing on the concrete next to you. “Because I hoped I would still be what you desired, after half a decade.”

Hunter tilted his head as he moved into your eyeline, forcing you to meet his eye as you both lifted your heads again. His brow was furrowed as he tried to understand. “How could you think I would no longer desire you? Did you not read my letters?”

“I did but…things can change,” you told him quietly.

Hunter’s frown deepened and he searched your face before he shook his head. He let go of one of your hands so he could cup the hinge of your jaw, the pad of his thumb gently caressing your cheekbone, his words quiet but sure. 

“Not this,” he told you. “Never this.”

Your heart squeezed. He was not real. He could not be. You loved him so much you thought you might collapse, knees buckling because of how much it consumed you. You leaned into his hand and closed your eyes, breathing in deeply at how nice it was to hear such a thing. To know his heart remained as mountainous as it was when he left. When you opened your eyes again, you saw his brow was drawn together, his lips pressed together. You needed them on yours desperately.

“No,” you agreed, breathless.

You tilted your chin up a little, gaze falling to his lips, a silent begging for him to kiss you. You watched his eyes move to your lips and his words came out as he stared at them.

“I have something…I need to ask you,” he said slowly, like he was nervous, like he was reciting words he had practised. You felt your whole body ignite. He met your eyes once again. “I suspect you know what it is?”

“Yes,” you nodded, your voice barely above a whisper in disbelief. You knew what he was going to ask, and yet you felt yourself thrum with anticipation for hearing the words out loud. “I waited,” you told him.

Hunter nodded, a mirthful smile on his face, like he could hardly believe it either. “You waited.”

You smiled and you both gazed at each other. The warm glow of the lamp lit the side of his face untouched by his birthmark, and the ballroom felt like it was on a different planet, it was so far away. Only the stars were your witnesses above you, glowing dots painting the sky. His hands were warm on you, tethering you to him. It was just the two of you, in the maze – where you both began, and evidently, would be where you continued to be together.

“Marry me.” His husky voice spoke in the space between you, and those two little words made your heartbeat race and your stomach flip over. “Please. I…adore you. It would be my greatest honour to be wed to you.”

Tears of joy stung your eyes, and you unleashed an unbridled smile that you did not dare hold back. You nodded your head quickly, eager to tell him your answer, which you need not take time to consider, you’d had five years after all.

“Yes,” you laughed. “Yes, I will marry you.”

You watched Hunter’s face light up, joy stretching his mouth wide and squishing part of his port wine stain into a triangle on his cheek. He laughed happily as he brought his other hand to your face and pulled you in for your first kiss in five years.

Your hands moved to clutch his lapels as you kissed him back. You had dreamed of kissing him again, and it felt surreal to finally be doing it. His mouth was still as hot, gentle and coaxing as you remember, and you felt yourself pressing into him as he slanted his mouth over yours. You couldn’t stop smiling though, your mouth tipping up involuntarily with your immeasurable happiness as you kissed him. In response, Hunter’s mouth did the same, chuckling before he pulled back. He shook his head and kissed you chastely before he spoke again.

“In the morning, we’ll find the vicar. I don’t want to wait,” he said, his voice hoarse but full of conviction. 

“Neither do I,” you agreed, watching the way the moon illuminated his curls.

“It’s been long enough. To be apart from you for any longer,” he pressed his forehead into yours. “It would be agony.”

“I cannot be without you another moment,” you told him before bringing his lips down to yours again. Hunter groaned as he kissed you, his hands travelling down towards your waist as he pulled you flush against him. You moved your hands to the nape of his neck, fisting the hair there. Hunter groaned again before he wrenched himself back, breathless. Apparently, he still had things to say. Could they not wait? You had struggled with words before, why did he want to say them now when there was kissing to do?

“Your father cannot disapprove of me.” he rushed out, like he was telling himself, reassuring himself. “I am no longer poor. He will let us marry.”

You smiled softly at him. All this doubt he had held, all these thoughts and apprehensions that had held him back before, they no longer existed. There was no war to fight, he was no longer destitute, Meg was well and he’d already set up a trust for her. His brothers were safe. And so was he. Everything had been taken care of. Hunter could finally allow himself to have something that he wanted. Something completely his own that did not require anyone’s opinion or approval. He had been a mountain for everyone, and now the storm had passed, the sun shone on his heart and there was no need to be worried about his family.

Though none of it had been a burden to him, Hunter could finally breathe, and he wanted to fill his lungs with you.

You brushed some hair off his forehead. “Even if he did disapprove, I would marry you anyway. I am yours, in whatever circumstance. I always have been.”

Hunter smiled, his expression soft and full of adoration. “I love you.”

“I love you,” you told him moments before Hunter brought his lips back to yours. 

Hunter wrapped his arms around you and made a soft sound as you pressed into him. You felt his mouth guide yours open, and you let him, trusting him implicitly as he gently moved his tongue against yours. 

You hadn’t kissed him like this before, but the hot wet of his mouth was obscenely wonderful and you were quickly obsessed with how it felt. You tried to stroke your tongue against his in the same motions and felt him moan into your mouth.

“Heavens above,” you felt him mumble as he dragged his mouth away from yours, moving it down your neck as he left open-mouthed kisses across your skin. You tilted your head back, mouth open as you caught your breath, overcome with the feel of his mouth on places you had only read about. You felt between your legs begin to get hot as you cradled his head to your neck, and when you felt him nip at your collarbone, you to let out a high-pitched cry. You were sure you were going to collapse any second. 

“Hunter…” you panted. 

Hunter moved across your collarbone, kissing the swallow of your neck as he did. His hands moved from your waist to hold your ass, his palms squeezing there. Your chest rose and fell rapidly as you watched him move down towards the swell of your breast which spilled up the neckline of your gown, pressed by your corset. 

He kissed the crease between them. “My love, if you will permit me.”

“Do whatever you wish with me,” you hastened to say, desperate for him not to stop.

Hunter did not need to be told twice before he kissed along the neckline, the soft flesh of your breasts meeting his lips. You mewled as his tongue lulled out and licked, before his teeth sunk into them.

“Hunter!” you moaned, head falling back.

You felt his hot breath on your now wet skin. He pulled away with a groan. 

“My love, can I…can I please?” Hunter looked at you.

You blinked, trying to remember how to speak. “Can you what?”

“Can I feel you there? I fear I will perish if I do not,” he begged, eyes pleading like if you refused him, he might actually fall apart.

“I told you, do whatever you wish with me.”

A low sound came from the back of Hunter’s throat as he lowered to his knees in front of you. “Sit down on the bench.”

You followed his instruction and then he bunched up your gown before placing a hand between your legs. When you felt his fingers brush against your extremely wet folds, you whimpered and he groaned, a guttural sound that travelled right to your centre.

“Oh, Christ, you’re fucking drenched,” he rasped, moving his fingers against your seam. You panted, clutching his shoulder as pleasure travelled like lightning through your entire body. “And this is all for me.”

“All yours,” you whispered.

Hunter groaned again and pulled his fingers away. You whined at the loss of touch and then watched as he placed his fingers, wet with your slick, into his mouth. You whimpered as he moaned, his eyes closing as he tasted you.

“God, you’re heavenly.”

“Hunter,” you said breathlessly.

He wet his lips. “Can I taste more?”

“Stop asking and just do it,” you said quickly.

Hunter moved under your gown and you slid towards the edge of the bench a little more, hands gripping the stone as you felt his breath on your pussy. You cried out loudly when the flat of his tongue licked up your folds. The sensation was obscene and you felt like you were ascending when you felt his mouth move on you. You shuddered, indecent sounds coming from you as he licked and sucked, tongue moving across your most intimate part. You said his name like a chant as he moved his mouth and tongue expertly, his arms encircled your thighs, forefingers toying with the edge of your stocking, and you felt his moan vibrate against you. 

“Hunter,” you strangled out, the sensations moving through you taking away your ability to utter anything but his name.

He placed your knees over his shoulders and continued to move his mouth on you. Your grip on the stone bench tightened as you leaned back at a new angle, your nails digging into the grains of the rock as you panted, the pleasure blooming inside you so heavenly you could barely put words to it. 

Hunter’s tongue moved through your folds before he sucked on the small nub there. You jerked, yelping as he run his tongue over it, gently sucking as he continued to pull pleasure from you. You whined as he artfully moved his mouth over you. How was he so good at this? 

You had only read about such things in novels, the descriptions making you blush and tingle all at once as you imagined what it would be like to experience it. You had experimented on your own, of course, too curious to wait until Hunter had returned home to feel the pleasure the heroines felt in your novels. But nothing you did to yourself felt as good as this. 

You clenched your knees around his head and felt your body begin to shudder as the familiar coils of heat began to build in your stomach, but this time more intense than what you’d felt on your own. 

“Hunter,” you told him breathlessly, intending to say more but the words felt like they were floating in a mist above you, and every time you tried to grasp them, they alluded you. “I’m–”

You heard him groan under your skirts, voice muffled between your thighs and under the silks. “Let go.”

You felt his tongue flick that nub, his hands on your thighs tightening as he performed one last ministration that caused that pleasure to erupt from you. You cried out, hands clutching the bench so hard you thought there might be indents in the stone as you came apart on his tongue. Your legs shook and your chest heaved as you moaned and whined, head thrown back as Hunter’s tongue lapped at you. You weren’t sure if the stars above you were real, or ones he had made you see. 

As the pleasure waned and your body’s aftershocks slowed, you felt Hunter remove your legs from his shoulders and he fumbled with your skirts as he re-emerged. His curls were a mess, and the port wine stain on his cheek was flushed a deep purple from the heat of being under your skirts. He panted, his mouth glistening with your slick, but his eyes were bright, invigorated, like performing cunnilingus on you had energised him. He licked his lips and smiled lovingly at you.

“Amazing,” he told you, his tone awed. “Is that the first time you’ve come?”

You felt heat rise up your neck. “No.”

Hunter’s eyes widened in surprise. “No?”

“Well, I got very tired of waiting for you.” You shrugged innocently despite your face flaming. “I had to take matters into my own hands.”

“Christ,” he said, the words scratching out of his throat roughly. “Are you serious?”

You met his pleading eyes. “Yes.”

Hunter buried his head in your lap and groaned. “I can’t believe I had to stay away so long.”

“Never again.”

“Never again.” He leaned up and kissed you languidly, and you could taste yourself on his lips. 

He stayed kneeling on one knee between your legs, your skirts bunched up to your hips as he kissed you, his hands moving up your body back to your breasts. You gasped when his fingers curled around the neckline of your bodice, fingertips brushing the swell of your breast, skin burning. 

“Can I take this off?” He tugged on the edge of the neckline. “Please.”

“Yes. Yes, please,” you practically begged him. 

You felt his hands go to the ties at the back of your dress, and he deftly tugged them loose as he brought his mouth to yours again. You felt the fabric of your dress loosen before he retreated to pull the dress off from the front, moving it down your arms. You watched as Hunter rumpled the fabric and threw it to the side so it was out of the way. 

You were glad the night was warm, now that you were only in your corset over your chemise and stockings. You watched the garment fall to the ground as Hunter let out a growl of frustration.

“Why are there so many layers? I need more of your skin on my mouth,” he grumbled. You giggled as he started to unlace your corset.

“What is it they say? Patience is a virtue?”

“I’ve never been virtuous and I’m not about to start now,” Hunter rasped as he opened your corset, your breasts falling to their natural position under your chemise as they were no longer held up by your stays. You let out a breath of comfort. 

Hunter smiled ruefully. “Better? How tight did your maid tie you up?”

“Tighter than usual. I had someone to impress.”

Hunter grinned and kissed your breasts through the thin cotton, your nipples tightening and pointing through the fabric. “I’m always impressed by you.”

You smiled and kissed him once more before pulling away. “It hardly seems fair that I’m almost indecent while you’re basically fully dressed.

Hunter laughed heartily, a sound that made your chest squeeze. He kept smiling at you, still on one knee between your legs as he pulled off his coat, bunching it up and throwing it into a pile with your dress. He pulled off his cravat roughly and started to unbutton his waistcoat when your hands reached out to stop him.

“Let me,” you told him quietly and your fingers brushed his. You started undoing the buttons of his waistcoat, quiet between you. You felt his eyes on you as you unbuttoned and when you looked up to slide the garment off his shoulders, he was gazing at you with this look you couldn’t decipher. Perhaps it was adoration. 

You threw the waistcoat on the pile and Hunter was only left in his shirt, breeches and his boots. You smiled as you ran a hand slowly down the neckline of his shirt, your fingers touching his sternum and the nest of dark curly hair there. You remember watching him train in this years ago, and now here you were.

You met his eyes and watched his eyes smile at you, softening at the sides as he started to untuck his shirt and unbutton it, his eyes never leaving your face. 

You watched, mesmerised as Hunter shrugged the shirt off and revealed his bare chest. You took in a breath as you realised how muscular and broad he was. The tendons of his shoulders and collarbones were taut and strong, and his stomach flat except for the raised muscles in a six formation. His hair extended across the expanse of his chest and down into his breeches, but what surprised you the most was the port wine stain that appeared on his face also travelled down his torso, painting one side of his chest a beautiful burgundy across his brown skin. You traced your fingers across the outline and watched the way he shivered under your touch, goosebumps erupting across his skin. He was sculpted by the Gods; Michaelangelo had surely modelled the statue of David from him. 

“You’re beautiful,” you breathed, fingers trailing down his chest before you met his eyes, a small smile tugging the corners of your lips.

Hunter’s eyes widened for a moment at your declaration before his lips twitched, like they itched to smile. He placed his hands on the sides of your thighs, the thin cotton a poor barrier for the heat of his hands as he rubbed circles into your skin. 

“You think so?” he replied quietly, like he didn’t quite believe you.

“Yes,” you told him, your smile turning big. “Heavenly. That’s what you are.”

Hunter studied for face, his expression pensive before he spoke.

“I’ve heard people say this–” his fingers skimmed his face and down his chest, knocking yours, “–is the mark of the devil.”

You frowned. “Who said that?”

“People. When we were children. I…faced ridicule. And in turn, it marked my brothers. It got worse when Crosshair was born, and the stain across his eye became known. We were outcasts already, but this made it worse.”

Your heart broke thinking of Hunter as a child, facing ridicule for something he could not control, for something that made him unique. If he was protective over his family now, you could only imagine back then. What a silly superstition. How could anyone look at Hunter, see how he was with his family and with others, and think he was anything but an angel? No mark upon his face should dictate who he was. 

You shook your head and pressed your hand against the centre of his chest, right above his heart. You felt it beat steadily under your palm, the rhythm matching yours. You met his eyes.

“They could not be more wrong,” you told him softly in earnest.

You felt his heartbeat speed up underneath your palm, making you smile. You watched an expression pass through his face. Was it relief? You felt his hands on your thighs squeeze before he captured the hand that lay on his chest between both of his and kissed your palm softly.

“That’s…very nice to hear.” You heard his voice break a little as he spoke, his mouth pulling into a sincere smile that conveyed so much love, you felt you might burst with it.

Hunter leaned in and captured your lips in his once more, this kiss slow and passionate as it told you without words the depth of his feelings for you. You pulled him closer as you deepened the kiss. You let him drape your arms around his neck, and he shifted so his hands grabbed your hips. He pulled away only for a moment, his lips murmuring into yours.

“‘M gonna switch us,” he mumbled. You only nodded, and a laugh rippled from you as Hunter hoisted your body against his. You instinctively wrapped your legs around his waist as he swiftly switched your places, so he sat on the bench and you straddled his lap. Hunter pulled you in so your centre was pressed against the ties of his breeches. It was a scandalous feeling that flowed through you as felt Hunter’s bulge against you. You gasped as he let out a strangled sound. You pulled back to look at him, a mix of an amused and tortured smile on his face as he looked up at you.

“Oh, I like this position,” you told him.

“Yeah? Me too,” he said and buried his head in your neck, kissing there as he pulled your body against his again, rocking you into the hardness of him through the cotton of your chemise. You moaned, feeling your folds slick again, despite only coming a mere five minutes ago.

“Hunter, I need you,” you told him. 

Hunter groaned into your collarbone. “I need you too. I’m out of patience.”

You felt him shift his hold on you, so one hand held you at the small of your back and kept you from sliding off him, and the other quickly untied the fastenings of his breeches and shifted them down slightly. You slid a hand down between you, fingers knocking against his as you felt his cock spring up against his stomach. You gasped when your fingertips brushed his length, the skin hot and hard. He groaned and wrapped his hand around your wrist.

“Please.” His voice practically trembled. 

You looked at him and watched the way his eyebrows had slanted down at the ends, his mouth parted. You slowly grazed your fingernails against his length and he jerked underneath you.

“Christ,” he panted.

You wrapped your hand around his length, the way you’d read about, and you heard him groan. Both his hands went to your back, clutching the gaping fabric of your chemise. The way he was reacting only made your stomach tighten and your folds flood with wetness. And you’d barely touched him. 

You looked down between you and saw the head of his cock had pooled with precum already. You circled your thumb over the small slit there, coating it and Hunter hissed, head burying in your neck and teeth biting the meat of your shoulder. You moaned, heat running through you. The hilt of his cock was nestled with dark curls and you shifted your hand down and up. Hunter cried out, head falling back as he looked at you, eyes bleary.

“My love, I’m so worked up right now, I will not last if you keep doing that.”

“What?” You feigned innocence. “This?”

You moved your hand again the same way, squeezing a little this time, and Hunter’s eyes screwed shut as he yelped again, shifting your body closer to his. Your centre chaffed against your chemise which rubbed against his cock.

“Christ.” His neck strained before he reached up and smoothed a hand over your hair. “I need to be inside you.”

Nerves and excitement fluttered through you at his words. You had read about such things, of course, and had wanted so badly to experience sex with Hunter, but now being presented with the very situation you had dreamed of happening with Hunter filled you with uncertainty. You wanted this to go right, for him to enjoy himself with you.

“I need that too,” you told him.

“It…It might hurt a little at first,” he said, hand smoothing your hair again. “We’ll go slow. And you tell me to stop and I will.”

You smiled at his concern, his care. “I trust you.”

Hunter smiled at you and pulled you in for a lingering kiss before he pulled away. “Lift up for me, sweet girl.”

You placed your hands on his shoulders and raised yourself on your knees, the stone bench beneath them digging in a little as butterflies swooped in your stomach. Hunter lifted you against him, hands under your thighs as he moved you both to the ground.

“Next time we do this, it will be in a bed,” he told you, his voice light with mild annoyance. You laughed as he lay you back against the pile of clothes you had created, a makeshift mattress out under the stars.

You looked at him as he leaned over you, body in between your legs, dark curls falling over his shoulders and hanging down. The lantern by the bench provided a warm orange glow, but the moon did most of the work, lighting up his hooked nose and gorgeous face. With the stars behind him, you placed his hair behind his ear with a smile, in awe of him.

“What is it?” he asked, mouth lifting into a smile. You felt the lines of his smile stretch under your hand on his cheek.

“I love you,” you told him simply because it explained everything.

He smiled, and you felt his skin heat before he bent to kiss you once more. He kissed you deeply, tongue sliding against yours before he pulled back. His eyes stayed on you, a soft reassuring expression as he bunched your chemise around your hips, spread your legs so you were completely open to him and positioned himself. Your heartbeat quickened as you felt him at your entrance.

“Are you ready, my love?” he asked, his voice as soft as his eyes.

You let out a shaky breath before nodding and biting your lip.

Hunter nodded and in a hushed voice, told you to try and relax as he slowly pushed in. He moaned, face screwed as he sunk himself inside you, hands tightening on your hips. Despite your slickness, the stretch caused some pain to bolt through you and you hissed, your hands curling around his forearms.

Hunter immediately stopped, eyes flying open as he looked down at you with concern. “Are you okay?”

You nodded and took a breath. “Keep going.”

Hunter watched your expression as he slowly moved further in until he was fully seated inside you. You screwed your eyes shut, fingernails digging into his arms, and you felt one of his hands rub up and down your thighs as you adjusted to the feel of him inside you. It was full feeling, but not overly uncomfortable. The books you’d read glossed over this part. 

You felt embarrassed, waiting a moment for your body to be okay to keep going and opened your eyes as you rushed to say, “I’m sorry, I’m just–”

“Hush,” Hunter told you, silencing you gently, his expression soft. “We have all the time in the world.”

You let out a breath before he continued, mouth tipping up at the side. “Though the way you’re squeezing me…”

You grinned, a laugh bubbling out of you. “Good?”

“Incredible,” Hunter sighed.

You both laughed together like it was the most natural thing in the world. Hunter brushed some strands of hair back as he looked down at you and you felt yourself and your anxieties ease. He was so incredibly special.

You shifted underneath him as your body had grown used to him. “I think you can move now.”

“Nice and slow,” he confirmed with you.

Both you and Hunter made sounds of pleasure as he started to rock into you, pulling out a little before moving back in, the movement becoming more fluid and easy as he kept going. Hunter’s grip on your hips guided the movements, and you moaned as the nub of your folds bumped against him.

“Christ, you’re so pretty like this,” he told you as you moved your hips against him to match his thrusts. “Can’t believe you’re mine.”

He bent to kiss you once more as he slid inside you again. His hips rolled into yours in easy languid motions, his cock moving in and out of you. You moaned, fingers clawing his back as he began to quicken his movements, thrusts now steady and hard as the pleasure built inside you. You stockinged legs coming up and sliding around his waist, one ankle pushing in at the small of his back to pull him in deeper. 

Sex with Hunter was much better than anything you had ever read, better than your own fingers. His thrusts confident yet never painful, his hands firm but never hurting. The sensation of his cock sliding in and out of you was unbelievable, and you were so glad you were able to experience such a thing with him. That he survived the war, and your love for each other had endured. And now, under the stars, he took you in a way that showed all his love for you. 

You’d both been patient for this, and he may have said he had never been virtuous, but the way he was making you feel right now felt religious; the feverent way he held you and loved you was almost sacramental, the angel he was. 

Hunter’s grip on your hips tightened and you watched the way his need for you eclipsed his features. It was an expression you liked and wanted to see more of. His pupils blown, mouth parted, hair messy. It pleased you to know that you made him like that.

The only sounds that filled the night were both of your moans and groans and the slap of Hunter’s hips against the backs of your thighs. Hunter’s movements increased, as did the husky sound that came from the back of his throat with each one. Hunter’s grip moved to take your hands from his shoulders, pressing them next to your head as he laced your fingers together. Each thrust buried him inside you, the hilt of his cock brushing your nub enough that you felt the heat in you rising, coiling in your stomach. It was intoxicating, and you never wanted him to stop.

“I’m…I’m so close, my love,” Hunter panted, a sheen of sweat glistening on his brow in the moonlight.

“As am I,” you told him breathlessly, hands squeezing his.

“Where?” he asked, and you felt him twitch inside you, on the cusp of it.

You were familiar with the question; your novels prepared you for this part. “Inside,” you told him without an ounce of hesitation.

Hunter groaned, his pacing stuttering. “Are you certain? It could–”

“Yes,” you cut him off. “Please. I know the risk and I am unbothered by it.”

Hunter’s face fell into your neck, groan vibrating against your skin, teeth nipping there gently. “Christ,” you heard him mumble. “You’ve ruined me.”

After several deep thrusts that you felt hit the furthest part of your core, he faltered and you heard him cry out as he stilled, and you felt him spill inside you. His hands tightened on yours, palms pressing together they may as well be fused. 

You gasped, moaning as he shuddered above you, no longer able to hold his weight fully, he let himself drape his body on top of yours. Warmth pooled between your legs, and you rolled your hips against the hilt of his cock. Hunter hissed at the moment as he caught his breath, lifting his head to look at you with hooded eyes. Hunter stayed seated inside you as he slowly unlaced his hands from yours so he could shift off you slightly and lift himself up enough to slide a hand between your bodies. 

“Your turn,” he told you before he slanted an open mouth kiss over your lips as his fingers brushed your nub, making you jerk and gasp into his mouth. 

His fingers circled there slowly at first before they increased, rubbing with his fore and middle fingers which were coated in your slick. You felt the pleasure rising rapidly and you barely had time to say anything before you fell over the edge, that pleasure erupting from you as you cried out, mouth open under his and eyes shut. You shuddered and writhed underneath his body as he drew out your orgasm, legs trembling as you squeezed his length still inside you, making him moan into your mouth. The feeling was indescribable, more intense than your previous orgasm had been, and you clutched at his forearm and shoulder, wishing this feeling never came to an end.

You were completely his, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Then his fingers slowed, and your body came down from its peak, limbs feeling like jelly. You opened your eyes to see his brown ones staring back at you, noses knocking as you both smiled, feeling each other lips stretch with your own.

Hunter placed one last kiss on your lips before he pulled back. You laughed lightly, too happy to fully conceal it. You pushed his hair back and bit your lip. Hunter smiled down at you, birthmark flushed, then bent to kiss your cheek. 

“So beautiful,” he whispered.

Your face heated as he slowly slid out of you, the loss of him a dull ache as your body readjusted to the empty feeling. Hunter rose to his knees and tucked himself back into his breeches before reaching out to adjust your chemise, hands running down your stockings once he had. He smiled and shook his head at you.

“You should see how you look right now,” he said, a rueful expression painting his face.

Your hands flew to your cheeks, pressing your fingers against the hot skin. “Why?”

“You’re an angel,” he said, fumbling for his cravat to wipe you and his fingers with.

“No, you are,” you told him as the silk fabric slid across your folds.

Hunter laughed and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “Did I go too hard?”

“You were perfect,” you assured him, the soreness between your thighs a common symptom post-coitus, according to your books. 

Hunter lay next to you and propped up on his elbow and you turned a little to face him, smile unable to leave your face. He smiled lovingly at you, and you at him. He opened his mouth when a deep baritone bellowed from somewhere outside the maze.

“Hunter! You better get back here! The Commodore’s looking for his daughter!” Wrecker’s voice carried over the hedges.

You covered your mouth to stifle a laugh. Hunter smiled and shook his head.

“We better go,” he said, sitting up then standing and holding a hand out to you.

“How long have we been gone?” You asked, taking his hand. Hunter pulled you up with such strength you fell forward into his arms, pressed against his chest. He caught you easily.

“Long enough,” he said. “Can’t keep him waiting.”

You looked up at him reassuringly when you saw his expression turn thoughtful, hands on his upper ams and circling the skin there with your thumbs. “He will be pleased.”

Hunter smiled at your words and you returned it before pressing a kiss to his jaw. “I’ll need your help to lace me up.”

Hunter’s smile turned into a grin, his teeth white in the moonlight. “I’ll be gentle.”

“You always are,” you told him placing your lips to his one last time before the secret of the two of you would be revealed, and your always with Hunter began.

this is the last part of falling for mr. batchbury, but please let me know if you would like to see more of the batchbury brothers...because these are a delight to write! otherwise, i have more fics coming so stay tuned! thank you for reading and supporting me!

🏷️ @starrylothcat @sinfulsalutations @moodymisty @nahoney22 @freesia-writes @nobody-expects-the-inquisitorius @bobaprint @crosshairsnose @jesseeka @thegalaxys-edge @chopper-base @shredderwest @leavingkamino @r2d2staser @beckbucket @pb-jellybeans @mylifeisactuallyamess @padawancat97 @littlecrowtime @jedipoodoo @ezras-left-thumb @lovelycurls @fruitsaladtree @literallydontlook @burningfieldof-clover @queencousland101 @clonethirstingisreal @skellymom @hopelessromantic727 @rebel-ezra @lulalovez

TAGLIST FORM

[talonabraxas]

“Love is not written on paper, for paper can be erased. Nor is it etched on stone, for stone can be broken. But it is inscribed on a heart and there it shall remain forever.” - Rumi

Burning Heart Rhonda Libbey

[solmesia]

since i cant draw right now: has anyone else ever thought in depth about Astarion fixing his grave stone? y'all ever think about whatever family he has left visiting that?

I'd like to think his parents still mourn him, love him and visit his empty grave. Maybe on his birthday, every year, to clean it up and speak to their beloved son.

I'd like to think that when his parents see this "vandalism" they are at first outraged, cursing the wretches of Baldur's Gate who would dare to desecrate the last loving thing they could do for their child.

Then they read the etching over and over again, their anger slowly fading, making way for confusion and disbelief. They see a familiarity in it; the way the numbers are carved so carefully, a curvature in the script that is so reminiscent of the hand written paper work his father would review. Of the poetry his mother fondly read.

And for a moment they would dare to hope that somewhere, out there in this vast beautiful and often cruel world, their little star is still shining bright.

[girlkisser13]

athena cabin headcanons

children of athena

• they all have amazing penmanship.

• they help with any school/summer work when a camper needs it.

• they also offer a free tutoring service to other campers.

• they have a long list of study tips for demigods, including what has worked for them to help focus their adhd in school (as most demigods struggle with remaining on task in work environments).

• they secretly love police procedural/detective shows. law & order, criminal minds— you name it, they watch it. and there's always a "friendly" competition to see who can solve the crime first.

• someone engineered glow-in-the-dark paper for late-night studying and planning. they always have a huge supply.

• they have a pet owl that they all take turns feeding and looking after.

• they help organise camp events that aren't run by chiron and they have a calendar full of birthdays and dates that are special to other campers.

• they are the only people on earth to have discovered a constantly comfortable reading position.

• they all start to feel slightly nauseated if they're in water for too long. showers, the lake, a pool, the rain— any water. this comes from athena's rivalry with poseidon. the only way for it to be neutralized is if they are in the presence of a friendly child of poseidon.

• some of them trap spiders and use them in experiments. this helps them gain more knowledge, combat their fears, and take revenge on these spiders all at the same time.

• they aren't normally ones to break rules. however, they rarely go to bed on time. when other campers ask them why, they simply laugh and say, "we're all night owls." (get it? i’ll stop. 😔)

• they aren't scared of normal horror movies. they usually just laugh at how frustratingly stupid the characters are. the only movies that make them scared are ones where spiders are involved.

• they take monopoly way too seriously and take it as a personal affront that they keep losing to the hermes cabin.

• they have a website that you can only view inside of camp half-blood. it’s sort of a virtual log book, which makes it easy for the kids that have been away during the year or on quests to catch up on what they’ve missed.

cabin exterior

• their cabin is designed in a classic greek architectural style, reminiscent of the parthenon, with tall, elegant columns supporting a triangular pediment.

• the cabin itself is made of grey, marble-like stone. the stone is etched with intricate designs and ancient greek patterns.

• the exterior features intricate carvings and statues of owls. they are perched on the roof of the cabin and integrated into the designs on the columns.

• carvings of books and scrolls are incorporated into the exterior design, highlighting the importance of knowledge.

• celestial bronze shields and pieces of armor are displayed on the inside and on the outside of the cabin. these items are both decorative and functional, ready for use if needed.

cabin interior

• their cabin gives off industrial vibes with its marble and concrete exterior.

• this is balanced out with beautiful ornate rugs, cozy woven blankets, and hardwood (olive obviously) floors.

• two words: organized. chaos.

• they have a caffeine station for pulling all-nighters or for long afternoons of studying, debating, and inventing.

• their cabin always smells like peppermint oil because spiders hate it.

• they have floor to ceiling bookshelves and boxes of rolled blueprints EVERYWHERE.

• they all have a customizable personal space with a bed, a desk with adjustable lighting, and ample storage for personal items and projects.

• personal areas feature soundproofing options to allow for quiet studying or rest amidst the bustling cabin environment.

cabin traditions

• they have debate nights at camp half-blood that get more and more heated until the cabins start watching the two opposing sides instead of listening to the actual debate.

• they even have debate nights in their own cabin. huge cups of coffee are passed around as the "discussion" of the day begins, growing louder and louder as time goes by. books are pulled from the shelves, laptops are opened and the most obscure sources are cited just to prove the most minor points.

divider by @plutism

[ornii]

My Bitter Better Half, Part 12

Wednesday sits in the center of her room, reciting a dark chant as she holds the necklace mother gave her. Her dark whispers echo faintly in the air as a dark sense of dread fills the air.

"In case you're wondering, I don't hold séances very often. I can barely tolerate the living. Why would I want to commune with the dead? But my mother told me Goody is the only one that can train me to control my psychic ability. The sooner I master that, the sooner I crack this case." Wednesday opens her eyes as the door behind her opens suddenly, as if her sick prayers have been answered, but unfortunately it was not. It was Her brother (Y/n).

“I didn't mean to interrupt your... what are you doing exactly.”

"I was reaching into the black maw of death to contact our relative." Wednesday explained, and (Y/n) raised an eyebrow.

"Without me?" He replied.

"I don’t need to consult you about everything.” Wednesday stood up.

“I had naturally assumed if you were going to contact the dead, an occult specialist would be your first contact. Goody?” He asked, reading the name on the Ouiji Board.

"She was one of the original outcasts. Been attempting to summon her, but she seems to be ignoring my entreaties."

"Can’t blame her, i wouldn’t want you bothering my enteral rest.” (Y/n) shrugged, before Wednesday could chastise her brother, a slip of paper comes from under the door, they turned to face the door and (Y/n) approached it.

"..Maybe Goody answered you after all." Her brother picks up the paper, reading it cutout magazine letters "If you want answers, come to Crackstone crypt at Midnight."

"I doubt she communicates in magazine cutouts." Wednesday said, “Perhaps someone in the schools finally grown a spine. Let’s see.” (Y/n) handed his sister the paper and walked out the room.

Night had crept on Nevermore and the twins are exploring the graveyard, heading to Crackstone crypt. “Wednesday… there’s something I have to speak with you about..” he started, and Wednesday kept walking.

“At this time? With whatever Crackstone has in store on the horizon?” She obviously seemed upset, “It’s not about that.. it’s about Enid.” He abruptly admits. Wednesday halted in her footsteps and turned around, “I could care less about your abhorrent romantic feelings.”

“That’s not the point.” He retorts, “Then what is your point?” She said.

“My point is that, whatever evil we’re going to come across in the future… keep her out of this, she’s…”

“A fool.” Wednesday was blunt.

“Innocent.” His reply was sharp. “Promise me, promise me you won’t drag her into whatever we’re doing.” (Y/n) was serious, for all his sarcasm and humor, he meant every word. The two stare at each other, and Wednesday reluctantly agrees. “Fine.”

They approach the massive stone door, Wednesday inhaled, the stench of death lingered in her lungs.

"Smells like our childhood. Come on." Wednesday entered the crypt first, (Y/n) following behind closely as sounds of animals and the window shoo them into the crypt, inside the old building, a single tomb laid in the center and markings etched along the walls. (Y/n) scanned along the walls. “Hmm..” (Y/n) mumbled.

“What?” Wednesday asked, “The Etching… I can roughly make some out, speaking of a.. revival.” He turned back to his sister, but a whisper caught his ear, he and Wednesday lock eyes and nod. They both turned in direction of where they heard it.

"Whoever you are, show yourself. Try anything and you'll lose limbs." She said, expecting a monster from the depths of Hell, she saw something even worse.. a Birthday cake. Enid, Ajax and others surround the two.

"Surprise! Happy birthday to you, Happy birthday to you / Happy birthday, dear Twins / Happy birthday to you!" They sing, which makes the twins frown.

"I should have known you two were behind this. What part of "no party under the penalty of death" do you not understand?" Wednesday notices Thing on Enid’s shoulder, she presents the cake, which was a grim reaper, with a pink balloon, black chocolate.

"I thought my cake design was pretty inspired." Xavier says.

"The pink balloon was my little touch. Why don't you both make a wish?" Enid says, (Y/n) smiled, “Thats.. very sweet of you Enid .. Wednesday do you want to—“ (y/n) stopped talking as he looked to his side to his missing sister. Wednesday was reading Latin that was etched into the side of the wall.

"Wait, it's Latin. Fire will rain... when I rise."

"That's not really a wish..." Enid frowned.

"The first part of that was burned onto Nevermore's lawn. It can't be a coincidence." (Y/n) walked up next to her, looking at the etching. “Whoever burned the message was here, knew about crackstone..” (Y/n) touched the etching with his sister, and two very odd things began to happen, Wednesday’s body froze as she had a vision, and (Y/n) felt a hand on his shoulder, he turned around to a ghostly version of his sister, who seems to be the goody she was trying to reach.

“Are you prepared to die for the truth?” Her question made his ears ring, a pounding headache echoed and, a dizzy spell hits (Y/n) and he collapsed.

(Y/n) awoke the next morning, in his bed, exhausted. Brushing the covers from his chest (Y/n) sits up, thing was waiting by his beside table. “That was.. odd.” He shook the cobwebs out of his mind and thing makes a few gestures. “That’s what happened.. interesting. I had my own vision of Goody, or.. it was her spirit making contact with me.. meaning Wednesday wasn’t losing her mind… I need to speak to my sister.”

Thing makes more signs, informing him of Wednesday being at the cafe. With Tyler.”

“I see…” gets out of bed and quickly gets dressed, “I won’t let that creep anywhere near my sister.. anyway, where did you say they were heading? Gates manor?” (Y/n) knew the location and made an uncomfortable trip there, reaching the manor in the dark he noticed a red car awaiting in the driveway. That was a red flag, (Y/n) took the steps and opened the door, like a ghost entering the void he felt, at ease.. but Enid’s scream of terror cut him off. He turned and faced her, surprised.

“What are you doing here?” They said to one another, he turned back to the front to Wednesday and Tyler, and (Y/n) scowled like an owl. “So… you disobey the one thing I ask you..” he said, and stared daggers at Tyler. “And brought… him.”

“It was my birthday.” Wednesday said.

“Our.. Birthday.” (Y/n) corrects her, “It’s always about you.. what could you possibly want in here?” He asked, Wednesday walked to the garage, (Y/n) followed annoyed, but his face turned to shock as he saw blood red lights fill the room, a blue Cadillac was inside.

"This hit the mayor." Wednesday said to her brother, as this mystery became much more dark, it isn’t just some entity.. it’s a sentient being, a person.. a killer.”

“This is—“ (Y/n) fumbled his words, and Enid frankly spoke for herself.

"Okay. This just took a dark turn. We need to call Tyler's dad right freaking now." Enid says, worries of what’s to come

"Why? So he can take me back to Nevermore and get me expelled? It's not gonna happen." Wednesday explores more of the house, (Y/n) clenched his fist.

"This is the night I'm gonna die." Tyler says sadly, “That would be a plus for me.” (Y/n) walks past him.

Enid was whimpering, gripping (Y/n)’s arm for dear life. They entered the living room and to a large family portrait of the Gates.

"Here they are. The Gates family. They scrub up well for psychopaths. There's Garrett, his outcast-hating father, Ansel, and you must be Laurel. They're all long gone. So the question is, why did Goody lead me here?" Wednesday said, (Y/n) looked at the photo. “He tapped his finger against it. “The back end is.. hollow. Gimmie a moment.” He leaned his head to the wall, his ear laying on the wood as he knocks on different parts of the mural. A shift in a pillar caught his ear and he pressed up against it.

The sound of interlocking mechanisms and shift the panel suddenly drops down. revealing a mural to Crackstone. (Y/n) stepped back to revel in the disgust.

"Who doesn't have a spooky built-in altar in their family library?" Tyler said looking at it with the flashlight.

"Ours is in the living room. More seating for year-long Dia de los Muertos." (Y/n) Said, “It’s impressive, Gaudy though.” He said, Wednesday peers at the candles on the mural, and touches them.

"They're still warm. (Y/n), Tyler, you two check the rest of the ground floor. Enid and I will search upstairs."

"We will?" Enid says looking at Wednesday, then she desperately looks at (Y/n) to save her, he reluctantly pats her head.

"It'll be fine, if you get scared I'll be Downstairs. Okay?” He smiled. Reassured, Enid reluctantly heads upstairs with his sister.

"All right, you go left, I go right." Wednesday said and stepped off

"You seriously want to split up? In here? That is literally how every best friend dies in a horror movie."

"The faster we search, the sooner you can leave with my brother.” Wednesday said, before Enid walked off by herself in a panic

"Why am I even here? I know what my mom would say. "Enid, you're a doormat." "You're too needy." "Show some teeth. Nobody likes a desperate little furball." Shut up, Mom. Get out of my head!" Enid yells.

Downstairs (Y/n) peered into a laundry room, old and decrepit, he sniffed the air, smelling a faint smell of perfume, someone was here. A woman, he knelt down and felt the ground, using what occult magic he knew he grabbed a vial of water and put it on the ground, casting a spell the water slowly morphs and forms shoeprints. “Women’s… well.. that’s—“ a footstep echoes, (Y/n) turned around and felt.. unease. He walked to the living room, closing the door behind him. “Tyler?” He asked, and saw.. nothing, the shadow growing upon a dropped bloody flashlight.

The red background, (Y/n) took a step closer and couldn’t see the evil hiding in the shadow, as if a bell went off he put his arms up to block a punch. His body flew back though the door and his body slammed against the old wall, hard. He shook his head and stood up, stumbling out, he saw the beast heading to the garage and booked it upstairs to Wednesday.

He rushed into the room Enid and Wednesday were checking and yelled. “Enid! Wednesday! We have to go! Now!” He said, but they weren’t paying attention, moreso moving around looking. “Hello?! Are you listening to me!?” He stormed over to Wednesday to grab her, but his hand conveniently phases through her body. Wednesday felt a chill and turned around, looking through him. He looked at his hand to notice its ethereal, his body is most likely back downstairs, he turned to Enid.

“Enid.. please forgive me.” With one leap he does the unthinkable, Wednesday watches Enid’s body convulse and halt, “Enid” turns to Wednesday.

“Wednesday… You need to Run, now!" She spoke, which confused Wednesday. “What is wrong with you?”

“Are you seriously being this damn stubborn?” She replies, and Enid rolls her eyes. “It’s your brother, it’s downstairs!” They hear a boom from the lower floor. Enid turns to her again. “See! Take Enid and leave, now!” (Y/n) pulls himself from Enid, who looks oddly confused about what just happened.

"The dumbwaiter. Go!" Wednesday and Enid hide inside and shut it tight. (Y/n) races back down the stairs and quickly back to the laundry room, he spotted his “dead” body and leaped at it, back inside he sits up and sprints back, he spots it rushing up the stairs and throws a pillow at it. It bonks the monster on the back of the head. The beast slowly turned back to (Y/n) it charges at him and he leaps out the way, the monster barrels into part of the wall and he sprints up the flight of stairs. He gets to a room and realizes the only exit is the window as expected, rusted shut. he sighs and takes a running stance and rushes, with one hard slam he bursts though the glass and rolls, falling a full story and hitting the ground hard, he felt the warmth on his back, glass probably. He lies on the ground, he sighed, honestly expecting the monster to follow out and kill him, he saw flashes of pink in the corner of his eye and he saw Enid and Wednesday approach quickly, he felt ringing in his ear and a lot of yelling, Tyler crept up out of the house bleeding but safe.

Inside the Dorm, (Y/n) was sitting in a stool, his back to Enid as took her beauty tweezers to get shards of glass out of his back. A large and final shard was pulled from his back, nearing his spine. Enid saw him clench and grip his pants

"Sorry! Sorry!" She apologizes, (Y/n) turned and smiled. “It’s fine, long as you’re okay..” the two smile, until Wednesday enters the room. And the tension was back up, she saw her brother putting his shirt back on

"Are you alight?" Wednesday asked

"Oh, now you care." He responds.

“It’s going to be fine—“ she started but he cut her off.

“No, it’s not going to be fine.. i made you promise to not drag her into this and you did. The one thing I ask you, you can’t do?!” He yelled.

"(Y/n)—" Wednesday began but he cuts her off again.

"You’re selfish, you’ve always been selfish! You’re going to get someone you care about killed one day because you can’t think about anyone but yourself. I hoped going to the school and meeting people like you and me would make you change, make you realize that people are just tools for you to use, you’re my family but it’s obvious you don’t see me the same..” (Y/n) left, storming off, Enid had tears in her eyes, watching him leave. She began to pack a bag as well.

“Where are you—“ Wednesday started but enid didn’t let her finish.

"Yoko's room. Thornhill said I could crash there for a few nights." She kept packing, angrily.

"There's no need. I spoke with Weems. You and (Y/n) won't be punished."

"Am I supposed to thank you?"

"I already apologized. It's over."

"Over? Tonight was the icing on the birthday cake you couldn't even be bothered to cut. You'll use anyone to get what you want, even if it means putting them in danger. We could have died tonight because of your stupid obsession!"

"But we didn't. And now I'm one step closer to solving this case. That is what is important." Wednesday still didn’t understand her predicament.

"I've tried really, really, really hard to be your friend. Always put myself out there. Thought of your feelings. Told people, "I know she gives off serial killer vibes, but she's just shy." Enid explained

"I never asked you to do that—"

"You didn't have to because that's what friends do! They don't have to be asked. The fact that you don't know that says everything. You want to be alone, Wednesday? Be alone!" Enid, leaves with a bag. Wednesday is alone, Goody predicted what happened. Wednesday sits against the window, pushing her friend and family away..

"Goody warned I was destined to be push everyone away, to be alone. Maybe it's inevitable. But for the first time in my life, it doesn't feel good. There's also something else. A gnawing feeling. That death is close at hand. Watching me. But I won't be intimidated. And I will never give up. That house. That family. Crackstone. The monster. Somehow me. We all seem to be connected like a spider's web. And when Mayor Walker got too close to the truth, he was silenced. But I won't be. So whoever's watching me, know this. I will find you.

[julesofnature]

Love is not written on paper, for paper can be erased. Nor is it etched on stone, for stone can be broken. But it is inscribed on a heart and there it shall remain forever. ~ Rumi