#I can still feel the echoes of a life I may have once lived just outside my periphery

[imitative-magpie]

Recovery has been a bit difficult. I worry that with each time that my body breaks down and develops more issues, it becomes harder for people to overlook and I become more difficult to love- which I know of course when I write it down that it's a terribly stupid, and ableist thought.

I would never think such things about someone else in my position, but when I haven't put words to that gut feeling and it only has to be directed inwards I worry about it on a near visceral level. It keeps me awake at night. Nobody could love what I've gone and become. This is too much for anybody. I'm even too much maintenance for myself

[girlsworldillusion]

Scream for me little lamb

Ghostface!Aemond x Fem!Reader

Summary: You don't know him, you haven't even seen him before. Yet this cruel killer is in your mind, entangled like a parasite. For just one night you want to get rid of this feeling - to get rid of him. What's the worst that could happen?

Rated: Explicit (+18)

Dividers: @cafekitsune

Word count: 5k

Author's Note: This story contains themes that may be disturbing or triggering for some, such as: DETAILED DESCRIPTIONS OF PANIC ATTACKS, BLOOD, MURDER, OBSESSIVE BEHAVIOR, THREATS, AND SEX. Your health (mental and physical) should always be your priority, if any of these themes are too heavy for you to handle I beg that you ignore this post. To those who choose stay, I wish you a good read!

The reader suffers from some emotional issues. But who doesn't, right?

English is not my first language, I apologize for any mistakes you may find.

Come on, it’ll be fun, she said.

You urgently need to relax, she said.

It’s just a quiet night, what’s the worst that could happen? She said.

Quiet night my ass, you think.

“Come on, pumpkin, you’re not even trying!” Your roommate scolds you, shouting too close to your ear, causing you to flinch with a uncomfortable grimace. “There’s life outside the dorms, you know? Is it really that much of a challenge to just enjoy the party?” Her pout is exaggerated enough for anyone in the room to see, even with the shitty stereoscopic lighting in the place.

“Hey, just try, okay? Smile, drink more, find someone cool to flirt with a little. I don’t know, do something other than just studying nonstop! Please try to have fun!” The liquid in the red cup clutched between your fingers nearly spills onto your clothes with the not-so-subtle push she gives you, her shrill, excited voice echoing louder and louder in your ear, managing to accomplish the impressive feat of overcoming the already criminally loud volume of the music playing on the speakers.

"Your idea of ​​fun is very different from my idea of ​​fun." You say, a good few decibels below her tone, grudgingly sipping another sip of your sickly sweet drink. "Ugh, this is horrible!" You wince at the syrupy, artificial taste of alcohol on your tongue, the bridge of your nose wrinkling in disgust - the exact same reaction as the last four times you've had a drink. Mako notices it too, if the wry laugh that leaves her lips is anything to go by. But what in the world is this anyway? And why in the hell do you keep drinking?

"Here I am, just trying to be a good friend by getting you out of that depressing cave you call a dorm to bring some action and joy into your life to, you know, expand your horizons, and you pay me back with complaints and boredom? That hurts, pumpkin, really hurts!" She's a total drama queen and your completely unimpressed expression makes it clear.

"Seriously, gaslighting now?" You roll your eyes so hard you think you can feel them in the back of your head.

"Don't blame a girl for trying!" She holds up her hand in a peace sign, another unrepentant smile on her lips.

You shake your head in denial.

"Anyway, I still find it really weird that they're throwing a party so soon after those students were killed." Your voice drops lower, looking out at the noisy crowd with a frown of disgust.

She snorts, knowing full well that something like this was coming.

"Look, I'm sad about what happened too. But it's okay to relax once in a while, okay? Shit, you're young, single, and hot as hell. You should be enjoying your life. We can't let some weirdo with a death god complex stop us from having the best time of our lives!" Your friend gestures wildly with the hand that isn't holding her glass, the alcohol in her system making her even more giggly and reckless than usual.

She exchanges 'Rated: M' glances with a buff guy across the room - a popular member of the football team and one of the hosts of the party, you recognize - winking provocatively as she shrugs her shoulders to show off her breasts, being completely and embarrassingly open about her naughty intentions toward him tonight.

"Come on, you can't honestly tell me you don't think any of these frat guys are good enough to eat in one bite."

There’s a hint of reprimand dancing on the tip of your tongue, an almost natural instinct to tell Mako exactly how selfish she’s being right now, insensitive even, with everything that’s happened recently. You weren’t close or even knew those students directly, it’s true. But they were still students at your college, faces you saw every day among the masses. They were people who had been around for a short time, walking and breathing. And then they weren’t anymore. Their young lives were taken away before they could know exactly what they wanted to do with their futures, who they were going to be in the grand, merciless scheme of things.

You don’t feel comfortable celebrating when there are parents at home crying over their children whose bodies have barely cooled underground.

But Mako was right about one thing.

The idea of ​​living in daily fear of a man you had never seen in your life was draining every bit of spare energy from you. This mysterious killer had managed to disturb you, making you constantly paranoid, scared, and fearful. You spent your days looking around, suspicious of everything and everyone, with the electrifying feeling that at any moment he could jump in front of you and make you his newest victim. He even controlled your schedule. Because of him, you barely left the dorms anymore, always declining your friends' invitations with lame excuses. Not that you were a social butterfly before this, but this was a completely different level of seclusion - high even by your standards.

The thought that this man, who probably didn't even know you existed, was dictating the way you lived your own life was disturbing, to say the least.

You looked around, uncomfortable at how everyone was shouting, dancing, smoking, laughing, singing loudly - acting as if nothing had happened. As if three college friends hadn’t been brutally murdered a few days ago. It’s wrong, and your whole body screams it. It’s not respectful, it’s not safe. And yet, for some reason beyond explanation, you seem to be the only one terrified; the only one who’s actually having your life changed to avoid becoming a statistic.

And in that moment, with that realization in mind, Mako’s words make some sense. You don’t want to give this psychopath that kind of power.

“God, is sex all you think about?” That’s what you choose to say after a long pause, sighing in boredom at the nothing less than shameless winks your friend is giving the guy through her eyelashes. The guy, surrounded by his usual horde of friends who are just as scoundrels as he is, is returning Mako’s advances with double the intensity and lack of decorum; splaying a large hand over his jeans, right where the bulge of an admittedly sizable erection is, grinning at her like a mediocre porn star. Any more obvious than that and they’d be fucking right here on the floor, in front of all these people.

That, coupled with the creeping onset of a growing headache with each deafening beat of the speaker and the unstoppable chatter of the students around you, is making you more anxious than usual. The mass of bodies squeezing against each other to the rhythm of the music is so thick that you can barely tell one person from another; the smell of alcohol, shared sweat, sex, and cheap weed makes you wrinkle your nose every few minutes.

For socially stunted people like you, there were few things as overwhelming as a frat party roaring at the top of its lungs.

“Hey! Don’t blame me for this, blame those thirsty youthful hormones.” She shrugs as she speaks, tilting her head to slyly wrap the straw between her lips and suck on some more of her drink, her catlike gaze dancing indecisively between you and the guy from the football team.

You roll your eyes, but can’t help but feel a bit tinge of envy at her easy, playful attitude, the way she could just tune out her problems and enjoy the ride. She’s at home here, you notice; a natural in her habitat. This is normal for her — just another night amidst the noise and blatant flirting, playing with lewd looks that by itself carry more sexual activity than you’ve experienced in months.

Mako has always been your antithesis; bold and vibrant, seeing a bright and fun side to every situation — no matter how fucked up it was. Always trying to color the monochromatic palette of the world with the eccentric catastrophe that is her personality.

You, on the other hand…

Suffice it to say, your way of seeing the world is far less optimistic.

You pinch the bridge of your nose in exasperation for a second, already knowing that you’re going to regret your next decision.

But you were already here, right? And she said it would be fun. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to try and enjoy it.

You sigh deeply before changing your expression, looking up at an expectant and anxious Mako, practically bouncing on her feet as she awaits your decision.

"So...you think I'm hot, um? Tell me more about it." Your lips stretch into a forced smile as you awkwardly shake your hips in that stupid Sailor Moon costume she forced you to wear, trying to have even a fraction of the blissful ignorance that naturally flows from your friend. You want to enjoy the ride. Even if the base boost of the music is threatening to tear down not only the walls of the frat house, but also the ones in your skull.

Mako's loud laugh assures you that you've managed to make her happy.

It's like she said...

What's the worst that could happen?

▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎

"No, no, no, not now..." You get your answer about two hours later, with your hands resting on the bathroom counter of a random suite upstairs, staring at your helpless reflection in the mirror.

There is some kind of purple LED in place of the conventional bulbs, flooding the entire bathroom with low lighting typical of a gaming room or something, a fact that only serves to make you even more distressed. The nuances in light and dark shades of violet almost mockingly highlight your blatant desperation in the mirror's reflection.

It is true that the intense blush on your cheeks and the bridge of your nose and the skin damp with sweat could easily be justified by those drinks and every attempt at electrifying dance and involuntary contact with countless heat bodies in the cramped party room, as well as your unstable breathing and disheveled hair.

But the way your hands are shaking violently where they’re flat on the granite, or the way your heart trapped in your ribcage seems to swell until it threatens to burst, and how your throat is tightening to the point where you’re choking on tiny, fragile wheezes…

These symptoms speak of something else…

You’re about to have a panic attack on irrefutable evidence.

God, how long has it been since you’ve had one of these? A year? Maybe longer?

It doesn’t matter. Fuck, it doesn’t matter now!

You sigh a thin, impatient sound between your teeth, the strands of hair on the side of your face trembling along with your entire body, your hand letting go of the edge of the sink to palm in anguish the space between your breasts beneath the garish purple lace of your costume — where your heart feels like it’s being crushed in a tight fist.

Could it have been the deafening beat of the music? Has your seclusion for so long left you so unprepared to deal with something like this? Or could it have been the incessant chatter of the students? Maybe the sheer number of people crammed into this godforsaken frat house that was clearly not designed to hold so many at once? Could it just be a consequence of your obsessive neurosis about him?

"97..."

You're falling. Or maybe flying?

"89..."

Floating in time and space. Deaf to anything but the terrors of your own mind. Reciting decreasing prime numbers like your therapist had taught you, a conscious effort to control and distract your collapsing nerves and the painful pounding of your heart.

"Fuck...fuck...83 -, ugh!"

Your eyes squeeze tightly together, unwilling to face your ravaged reflection in the mirror any longer, your head spinning in denial. The walls are too close, the floor too far beneath your feet, your own skin too tight around your flesh.

"79," you force the number from your lips, force your breath out in shallow puffs, cold sweat trickling down the back of your neck.

The thumping music downstairs is a bit muffled now, though the party is as lively as ever - but up here you feel your world shudder and crumble beneath your feet. 

But you'll survive. You always survive.

Keep breathing...just keep breathing -

▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎

"7..."

You've been counting prime numbers for longer than you can keep track of right now, but somewhere along the grueling hell that is imploding in your own mind, your voice has regained a bit of strength. Your fingers are also shaking less, you notice distantly.

With a pained sniff, you look up at the mirror as you feel you've regained a fraction of control of yourself, taking in the humiliating image before you.

Your gaze is dull and tired. Your nose and cheeks are redder than before, your skin sticky with sweat that's now almost dried. Your whole body still trembles slightly in the aftermath of the panic attack, and the hair around your face is messier than before from all the times you pulled it in the middle of the crisis. You're a mess, undeniably. But you feel less like shit now than you did a few minutes ago, and that should count as some kind of bittersweet victory in your book of failures.

With a tug, you pull the long white gloves off your hands to turn on the faucet, letting the water run down your cupped palms to spray a little on your face. The cold water on your overheated skin makes you sigh.

This is the kind of person you had become, isn't it? Someone incapable of going to a simple frat party without having a damn panic attack. How pathetic.

"That's it, no more parties for you, young lady." You mumble as you dry your hands and cheeks on the fluffy towel hanging next to the sink, silently praying that your shaky legs will cooperate on the walk to your dorm on the other side of campus.

Mako wouldn't much like knowing that you were already leaving, but you'd like it even less for her or any of your friends to know about your little meltdown in the upstairs bathroom. It was bad enough that you had no control over it, you didn't need to see the pity reflected in her eyes when she found out, only adding to your humiliation.

Poor little broken thing, she would think.

Maybe you could just slip away without being seen and text her when you got dorms to say you were okay, leaving her questions to deal with later. You had already handled more than you could handle tonight, she would understand eventually. Not that she would notice your absence for a while, busy as she was swapping saliva and other bodily fluids with that guy.

Your phone vibrates abruptly on the counter and you jump at the unexpected noise, blinking rapidly at the letters on the screen.

Unknown Number.

With a eye roll and a still-racing heartbeat, you decide to just ignore the call, as you usually do every time an 'unknown number' pops up. Honestly, who still makes calls these days when you have a messaging app that works just fine, thank you very much? But whoever is behind that call doesn't feel the same way, and soon your iPhone's screen flashes again, bright as a beacon in the purple bathroom lighting, the device moving a few inches across the counter with the vibrations. You sigh and ignore it once more until you're done, but it vibrates again on a third try. And a fourth, when the last one doesn't work.

On the fifth try, you pick up your phone and answer with an exasperated huff, summing up your mood perfectly.

"Hello?"

The person on the other end of the line has the audacity to let out a sigh of relief - dramatic even, you might say, upon hearing your voice.

"There she is. For a moment there I thought you weren't going to answer, princess." The voice that greets you is soft, laughing, a satisfied and calm masculine purr.

"I tried. What do you want?" You answer sullenly, not in the mood to deal with this probable pervert who has nothing better to do with his life than to disturb random people late at night. You were never the brightest star when it came to social chess, and you certainly wouldn't start being so soon after your first panic attack after so long without any episodes. You were out of practice. Your head throbs, your nerves are frayed, your voice is fragile, the muscles in your body ache from the time you spent tense and trembling during the crisis. You just want to go bed.

"Easy now, little girl. I just want to know if you're okay." He hums, oblivious to your irritation.

You know he clearly hears the disdainful snort that leaves your lips. Before you can respond, however, he continues with the sentence that would change your life forever.

"That was really bad...are you sure you're better now?"

You blink at the mirror, your brows furrowed in irritation and headache. You know you should just end the call, not entertain any malicious intentions from this stranger. Yet, you find yourself answering before you even realize it.

"What are you talking about?"

"Your panic attack, love. That was a big one, hm? I thought it would never end." He hums nonchalantly, as if discussing his favorite ice cream flavor, and you part your lips at your reflection, a warning shiver settling at the base of your neck and slowly making its way down your spine.

"Um," you swallow uncomfortably, subtly glancing up at the walls and tight corners of the bathroom, looking for possible openings or hidden cameras. You had the bad luck to walk into some weird, perverted frat nerd's room, is that it? "So you're at the party too. Having fun time?" You shrug in the mirror, trying to sound blasé about what he said, but your voice is noticeably shakier than you’d like.

There’s no reason to be nervous, you try to reason with yourself when your visual scan doesn’t point to any apparent cameras. This guy probably just saw you hurrying up the stairs and is curious about your delay in returning to the party, that’s all. Although it’s still weird, since you made sure to hide in the privacy of the bathroom before your meltdown was actually noticeable to any prying eyes.

And how the hell did he have your number anyway?

"Oh yeah. Having a great time." The man answers, the lightheartedness in his voice fading to a deeper, darker tone at the end, though the smile in his voice is clear - mocking, even through the call line.

"By the way, I loved your costume. Which Sailor are you?" He prompts, returning to his airy tone, and you entertain once again the urge to just hang up on him, your already severely damaged nerves not quite able to handle the load of honest, and pointless, curiosity in the stranger's husky voice. The abrupt change in intonation makes your headache throb more by the second.

"Uh, Sailor...Mars...I guess?" You shrug, unsure why exactly you bother answering, the tip of your index and middle finger on your other hand coming up to massage your temple in slow circles, eyelashes resting on the top of your cheeks as you squint tiredly. Honestly, you're not sure if your answer is right. Having barely time (or interest, to be honest) to assess the costume before tonight - when it was shoved rudely in your face by a Mako determined to bring you to this party. You don't trust your knowledge of Sailor Moon, or any anime for that matter, to confidently answer the man's question. But...yeah...you think you might be right.

"It looks so cute on you, sweetie." He purrs on the other side; sickeningly sweet, sweet as molasses. And that's what makes you straighten up in front of the mirror - his voice suddenly sweet. Your eyes become fixed, a small hitch in your breath; suspended, alert, waiting for his next words. "I've thought so since you arrived at the party. So cute and so fucking pretty. Tiny and pretty in that silly costume."

"W-what? Who's...?" You swallow uncomfortably, but he interrupts you.

"So pretty, and so lonely too. Always lonely, aren't you sweet girl?" The way he says it, confident and calm, as if he’s absolutely certain of what he’s saying, as if he knows you. You squirm, agitated and raw, but you clench your fist at your side.

“And how would you know that?” You want to sound sharp, but you know your voice betrays how much he’s upsetting you.

“Oh, I can see that, princess.” He breathes, followed by a low hum, stretching out an enigmatic pause until your fingers are trembling around the phone. “I see how you’re always alone; misfit and scared, like a little deer hiding from the glare of headlights to avoid being caught. Isn’t that what you do, love? Trying everything to get away from that airheaded friend of yours and others equally idiotic, burying your nose in some book in the quietest part of the library so you don’t have to talk to anyone. Your hiding place, isn’t it?” He laughs with clear disdain and you feel your vision blurring, the discomfort in your stomach worsening with each word he utters.

But he doesn't stop there.

"I see how those beautiful eyes are always brimming with emotions, emotions that you deliberately refuse to share with anyone, no matter how much they insist that you open up. It's interesting how you have social options, but you choose solitude every single time. Not that that's a complaint, of course. Solitude suits you well, sweet thing."

Your breathing is faster now, loud enough for the stranger on the other side to hear, but you don't care about that. All you can think about is the information the man spewed into your ear.

He knows where you retreat to escape the incessant noise of the world around you, he knows the walls you've built around yourself, the emotional blockage in opening up to anyone - your complete unwillingness to do so. He’s not just talking about the color of clothes that you usually wear around campus — a quirk that anyone could notice and use to scare you at a time like this. No, it’s not that simple. He’s talking about intimate things, about feelings; things that only someone who lives with you could say.

The thing is, you’re not an idiot. A self-imposed hermit with anxiety issues? Of course yes. But not an idiot. You understand enough about human psychology to know that every word that comes out of this stranger’s mouth is a threat cloaked in a teasing, sugar-coated tone. And the fact that he’s telling you personal things isn’t coming from some bizarre attempt to initiate a social interaction with you, but a demonstration that he knows exactly who you are. The game is blatantly in his favor, because he knows you, but you have no idea who he is. He holds the power here, and he’s making that clear to you.

"Are you okay there, princess? You've gone so quiet on me sudden." His voice snaps you out of your trance once more, eyes flickering rapidly to your horrified reflection in the mirror.

"W-who are you, a fucking stalker? How the hell do you know this things about me?" He laughs at the false bravado in your voice, your discomfort obvious and clear to him, no matter how much you don't want it to be.

"Nah, more like a secret admirer, I'd say." He answers you matter of factly, the acidic smile on his lips bleeding through the line. "Secret not for long, of course." There's a hint of suspense in it, something ominous that lingers in the silence that follows, as if he's purposefully fermenting you in his dark insinuation.

That's it, you need to hang up.

"Don't call me again or I swear I'll report you to the police, idiot." You threaten with a venomous sigh. A bluff, of course. There was no way you could make a minimally consistent complaint when you not only had no information about who this crazy man could be, but there wasn't even a real number registered for that call that could serve as evidence in a future police report. Unknown Number, that was all you had to work with. He knew that too, judging by the amused laughter buzzing on the other side of the line. You still hear it clearly when you pull the phone away from your ear to click the red icon on the screen, ending the call.

You're shaking when you look up at your reflection in the mirror, the woman in front of you staring at you with wide eyes and a scared face, the rush of raw adrenaline in your veins making your body vibrate like a power cable.

She said it would be fun.

Mako said it would be fun.

You shouldn't be here tonight if it weren't for that damned promise.

The prospect of change wasn't appealing to you; safety was appealing. Habits and routine were appealing. Habits and routine kept you healthy, safe. Nothing outlandish ever happened in your life, and you almost preferred it that way — if there were no surprises, there would be no disappointments, no risks, no panic attacks.

You weren’t supposed to be here tonight, and there was no other explanation than the folish notion that some cosmic misalignment had occurred and you were stuck right in the middle of an anomaly.

You try to take a deep breath, the discomfort in your chest indicating a possible second wave of panic approaching. No, no, not again. You just want to leave, you want to get out of this damn house and back to the safe confines of your dorm room before any more horribly improbable things happen to you tonight.

Rationally, you know that leaving the bathroom doesn’t seem like the most sensible option, especially when the stranger on the phone has offered you clues that he’s lurking outside. But all your scared, adrenaline-fueled mind can process at the moment is the urgent desire to get away from this place as quickly as possible. And that’s why you take one last deep breath, offering one more look at the forlorn woman in the mirror before quickly grabbing your gloves from the counter and turning to open the bathroom door, walking out without looking up as you unlock your phone with trembling fingers to text Mako.

"Ouch!" You gasp as you hit your forehead on something solid as soon as you step out, your phone dancing between your hands with the impact until it falls to the floor with a loud thud, along with your white gloves. Your instinctive reaction is to bend down to pick it up, already fearing possible damage to the screen, a damage that you certainly couldn't pay at the moment, but the tip of a black boot immediately appears in your line of vision, kicking your phone into the bathroom with a rough blow.

"Hey, what's your problem?!" You growl, looking up, your neck craning to glare at the rude idiot in front of you.

However, the indignation dies on your tongue and your heart sinks in your chest when the empty eyes of a masked figure stare back at you.

It's a costume party, of course, and the guy is in costume. There's nothing really suspicious about it. Nothing you should think twice about.

But when your eyes slide to what he holds between his fingers; the blade of an intimidatingly large kitchen knife, dripping thick liquid in fat crimson drops onto the floor, the smell is ferrous and acrid and so unmistakable; so strong that not even the smell of cheap weed and wet sex that seems to be embedded in every square inch of this frat house is enough to cover up that odor. Blood. Human blood. Dripping and heated.

And you just know.

You know it's him.

God knows how many days (fucking weeks) your hyperfocus has been on this man. The search bar of your browser and social media was full of questions about him, hunting like a detective in the safe solitude of your dorm room, eagerly searching for any clues to his identity. Nothing but "tall masked man" was what you came up with, no matter how hard you tried. His victims didn't live to tell the tale and the few, rare glimpses of him were too vague to confirm anything.

It’s insane the idea that you could tell it was him when there was barely any information about who he might be or what he looked like, but you know — you just know.

He stands there, relaxed and unfazed as you study him with growing horror, as if it were the natural thing to do — as if he’d been waiting all along for you to open the door so he could enter. And then the masked figure takes a casual step into the bathroom, the easy confidence in this simple act foreshadowing his ease in overpowering his victims.

You swallow hard, backing away slowly as you lock eyes with the killer’s empty mask holes. The notion that there’s no way out of the room becoming painfully obvious to you. The man takes up the entire space of the exit; the width of his shoulders spanning almost from one side of the doorframe to the other, his long legs slightly apart to fill any gaps.

The only way out of here would be if you stepped over him; and that wasn’t going to happen.

So much for a fun night.

(Part II in progress, if you are interested.)

[scarletttries]

When Baldur's Gate 3 Companions Fall in Love...(Baldur's Gate 3 Request)

Pairings: Astarion x Reader, Wyll Ravengard x Reader, Gale Dekarios x Reader, Shadowheart x Reader, Karlach x Reader

Author's Note: It's been a while! I haven't posted in a while but I've got some time at the moment and I'm just finishing a first playthrough of BG3 so wanted to write some headcanons for our charming companions. Consider me open for any BG3 request too, let me know if you want to see more pieces like this :)

Astarion:

- Travelling with you makes Astarion feel grateful he's had hundreds of years to perfect his flirting technique. He knows exactly how to let you know what he's thinking without ever giving away too much of himself, how to flash his smile without ever lowering his guard. He thinks once again he knows exactly how to capture your attention, and possibly your body, without losing an ounce of control. That is until you say something that catches him completely off guard...

- "I'm really sorry to hear that." You should have laughed at his expense, his self-deprecating humour and haunted tales from his past worn like the toughest armour over silky open shirts. But you hadn't laughed, or scoffed, or replied with some equivalently sarcastic tone. Instead you'd offered empathy, a warm look and an extended hand that somehow didn't feel like pity to Astarion either.

"Well that's enough self-pity for tonight my dear." He quickly excused himself from the campfire, turning his back as he entered his tent to hide any visible blush his cheeks may muster from the way you said good night. Of course his blood didn't circulate that way any more, but he was almost sure he could feel his heart rising in his chest as it had when he was still a mortal man. No, this didn't feel right at all.

- It would be easy for Astarion to pretend he was only interested in a night of carnal pleasures with you because of all the beauty you possess, and he'll let everyone else think him a shallow man just the same. But when he lets his mind wander freely it's your kindness he finds himself dwelling on, or your firm but fair moral code that seems to carry you through these intrepid lands without doubt or tribulation. He almost wishes he had met you sooner, so sure that his life (and after-life) could have turned out quite different with you by his side at those strange early steps.

- Suddenly all his effortless flirting feels a lot more challenging and he can't decide if he should risk a small amount of sincerity to let you know how we feels, or just to double down on letting you know one night with him would ruin you for any other lover. Luckily both approaches are met with the affection he craves, and slowly but surely Astarion starts to feel like he might be able to have something real for once.

Wyll:

- Ever the hopeless romantic, Wyll was already a firm believer in love at first sight by the time he ran into you and experienced it firsthand. He fears he cannot be too bold, his staunch commitment to his duties governing his life in a way that does not leave much room for any other kind of commitment. He tries to let his feelings settle at the back of his mind, in the hopes that in time they will become nothing but a dull ache he can learn to live with.

- That could not be less of the case for poor Wyll though, your face filling his every nightly dream and your voice echoing through his mind in every moment of silence. His heart grows heavier and heavier with each passing day you travel together and soon it feels almost inevitable that he will be yours, even if he can't quite bring himself to admit it yet. Once he has accepted that thought he must wrestle with the possibility that you might not feel the same and you will be added to his list of those he cares for most that have rejected him with scorn.

- Still he lets the lighter thoughts carry him through the toughest of times; what it might be like to hear you offer your own feelings back, how it would feel to see you smile only for him, what kind of life the two of you might be able to build in a simpler times, what he could finally do if you agreed to a wedding night together. He lets himself ruminate on that more often that he'd like to admit, all gentlemanly efforts banished from his mind when he sees you walk around his camp.

- While he builds up the courage to make his feelings known, you might catch him practicing the steps of an intricate dance one night when he thinks everyone is fast asleep.

Gale:

- Gale has known love and loss before, the intensity of his past life making him consider keeping his heart closed off from others forevermore. But the gods have a funny way of keeping Gale on his toes, and introducing him to you certainly did that.

- At first you are just the warmest of friends to him: an ever-willing audience for his lifetime of tales and knowledge, a reliable companion for the throes of battle, a selfless treasure seeker who helps him fend off hunger. But over time he finds himself desperately scanning his mind for more and more facts that it would be worth waking you up to share, more tales to capture your attention, anything the two of you might do together to keep your focus on him and no one else.

- It's about when he wonders if the two of you might just camp in one tent together, that he realises he no longer views you as simply his closest friend. No, you have long passed that threshold into an entirely new realm of love. It feels so different to anything he has felt before, like your company is the warmest summer breeze after decades of stormy lightning in his heart. It feels safe and easy to be with you, like he could be content with almost nothing as long as you were by his side, looking at him with your near endless appreciation. Gale can't be sure exactly what to do about it, but he hopes the next time you draw back the opening on your tent and usher him in for another night of exchanging tales, that you might permit him to never leave.

Shadowheart:

- It's hard to know love when you barely know yourself. That's what Shadowheart tells herself when she finds her mind wandering back to you after your memorable first impression. She has so much to learn about herself, and while she's grateful for the reliable company and kind sounding-board you provide, there's simply no room in her life for anything more.

- And yet the more she uncovers about herself, the more important it seems to have you by her side. It's like she cannot exist in this new fully realised version of herself if she doesn't know you. If she doesn't get to see herself through your eyes, to hear what you think, to have your presence beside her as he continues to take more and more steps forward down this path home.

- Without ever trying you have become the other half of Shadowheart, and by the time she realises it, she knows you must have the same awareness. There could be no way that you aren't as in tune to the depth of your bond as she is, leaving her only one question. Not if to address it. But when.

Karlach:

- Though Karlach may not have a traditional heart anymore, she is more than capable of falling for the travelling companion that seems to bring out the best in her at every step. After years spent working for the devil and his underlings, having someone in her life that strives to make the world better and put her strength to good use is like the first sip of water after countless nights in the arid desert of the hells.

- Karlach knows she's as strong as they come, so she finds her eyes frantically searching you out in battle, pushing herself on and raging forwards to always keep you safe, to get you behind her, to make sure you go on to keep her company another day.

- Her time in this plane of existence may be more limited than some of the other characters, but that only means Karlach knows how important it is to truly 'live.' While the other companions may bide their time and carefully deliberate how best to inform you of their inconvenient feelings, when Karlach knows your heart is true, she's going to let you know she is all yours at the earliest, and steamiest, opportunity.

[crucifyjonnie]

Someone to you

Mattheo Riddle x Reader

Warnings: anxiety, depression, self-loathing, medication, dark thoughts, violence, death, denial.

A/N: I wanted to write something angsty and here's the result of it. (For more vibe while reading, listen to Someone to you by Matt Hansen)

Diary entry; 12th of May.

It’s like I still can feel her skin touching mine. Her fingertips trailing patterns on my back. Her breath, still caressing the nape of my neck. Her hair, still tickling my cheek. Her laugh, oh, her pretty laugh. And her eyes, that burning inferno in her eyes that was for me and only me. How she melted into me, like she was made for my arms. Her head shaped to fit perfectly on my chest. 

But that’s not the case. I haven’t seen her for two months. Everybody thinks she’s dead. I don’t. I can’t. I can’t believe she is gone. It’s like I still can hear her voice. Echoing between the cold brick walls in my dorm. 

I thought I heard her today. A quiet whisper echoing through the hallway of Hogwarts. She called my name. I swear to Merlin, it was her voice. She called out for me.

I still can’t believe that the last words that left my lips were so harsh. I just told her to leave. To never come back. And all she responded with was, “But I love you.” Those words have burned into the stem of my brain. I hope she knows that I never meant for it to be like this. I hope she knows that I love her more than anything. That I would die for her. If I could trade places with her, I would. She deserves life; she deserves to bloom—like a flower.

But it’s always like this. I always push people away. And now, she’s nowhere to be found. And I just can’t believe what the others try to tell me. She’s not dead. She’s NOT DEAD. SHE’S NOT DEAD. SHE’S NOT DEAD. SHE’S NOT DEAD. SHE’S NOT DEAD. SHE’S NOT DEAD. SHE’S NOT DEAD. SHE’S NOT DEAD. SHE’S NOT DEAD. SHE’S NOT DEAD. SHE’S NOT DEAD. She can’t be.

M.R

Mattheo hadn’t been sleeping much for the past couple of months. Not since the day you disappeared, and it showed. Dark circles under his dark, deep coffee eyes, hair tousled, fatigue creeping in every corner of his being. He went on with his lessons, but he wasn’t there; not really. He tried to keep peace with himself, but he lost a piece of himself when he couldn’t find you after the war.

The hallways of Hogwarts were restored, but the ghosts of everyone losing their lives haunted the halls. Their painful screams still echoing between the walls and paintings; souls too young to lose their lives. Souls that were far too easy for the Death Eaters to take. Souls that had not yet gotten the chance to live, to bloom, to be free. Now, they’re stuck between the walls of the castle. Doomed to walk these halls for an eternity.

Mattheo, Theo and Pansy were ready to leave the Great Hall after supper. Per usual, like the past couple of months, Mattheo hadn’t been eating—at least not enough. His temper had grown short. And if his tolerance for shit-talking bastards was low before, it had reached its breaking point now.

The three friends rose from their table, gathering their things, and were about to leave when they heard some student’s whisper from behind them. “He’s pathetic.” Mattheo stopped in his steps, knowing very well they whispered about him. Pansy gave Mattheo a glance while tugging on the arm of his shirt lightly. “It’s not worth it, Mattheo. Come on, let’s go.” And for once, Mattheo was actually about to leave it be—until they spoke again. 

“You’re pathetic, Riddle. You had one job, and now we all have to walk around in pain. Only because you couldn’t do one thing.” Mattheo swallowed hard, his heart racing in his chest. Blood boiling in his veins, he turned around with gritted teeth. “And what, exactly, is that?” The words left his lips through his still gritted teeth.

The Ravenclaw boy—who Mattheo didn’t even know the name of—smirked, knowing he had gotten under Mattheo’s skin. What the boy didn’t know was that he was about to regret his next words. “Keep her alive.” Mattheo’s features darkened, closing the distance between them before his fist was buried in the boy's face. “What did you say?” One more punch, “Say it again,” one more punch, “I dare you.”

Mattheo spent the rest of the day in Snape’s classroom, in detention. While sitting by the table, he heard your voice again. A low but soft whisper, echoing through the room.

“Mattheo…” 

He tried to ignore it, but then it came again. “Mattheo”. 

Letting out a trembling breath, he shook his head. “You’re not here. Why do I keep hearing you? You’re not here. You’re gone. The boy was right. I was supposed to keep you alive. I was supposed to protect you. I was supposed…” But Mattheo got cut off by a light squeeze on his shoulder. Body stiffening, he turned around harshly only to see—nothing. “I’m going insane.” 

Diary entry; 14th of May.

I thought I heard her again today. It was also almost like I could feel her. I swear I felt a squeeze on my shoulder. But it can’t be her. She’s not here anymore. All I want, all I beg for, is to see her again. Please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please.

I’m going crazy. I’m broken. I’m alone. I’m nothing. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t live like this. I can’t do this. Please, make it stop. Make. It. Stop.

M.R

A few days went by. Mattheo had succeeded in being let out of detention. The only good thing about not faring well with his mental health was that he could blame it to escape detention. The Ravenclaw boy, whose face was refurbished by the one and only, had been sent to St Mungo's for severe injuries. But Mattheo didn’t care. All he could care about was you; all he could think about was you.

Mattheo was curled up under a blanket in the Astronomy tower, feet dangling out from the railing. It was way past curfew, but that had never stopped him before. He took a long drag of his cigarette, the tip glowing. Mattheo’s eyes gazed over the star-clothed night sky, a million thoughts swirling in his mind. 

“What would you do if you were here? Would you tell me how stupid I am for smashing a boy's face? Probably a stupid question. I know you would make me tell him I was sorry. And I would do it. I would do it for you. But I just can’t… I can’t take it when others tell me what I have done wrong in this. I know I should’ve protected you. I know I shouldn’t have told you to leave. I know I was stupid. Would you forgive me if you were here? Would you?” Mattheo scoffed, shaking his head. A soft smile tugged on the corner of his lips while a sigh left his nostrils. The smile was not because he was happy but because he was feeling pathetic. He was talking to himself, for Merlin’s sake.

“I would.” Your whisper swirled through the air, and Mattheo felt like the air left his lungs. His eyes filled with tears. Gritting his teeth, he took one more long drag of his cigarette before flicking it away over the railing. And just as he did, a falling star fell. “I wish for…” But he got cut off by your whisper again.

“Shh… It’s bad luck to tell.” Mattheo gazed up at the stars, smiling with teary eyes. “I know you’re here. Somewhere. I just know it.”

As the days kept on passing, Mattheo tried to keep to himself. He spent only a few nights in the common room together with his friends, but for most of the time he tried to spend his time with himself. Reading, writing, keeping his mind off anything else. But tonight was tough.

He tried to keep calm, but the demons in his mind kept knocking on until they broke every wall down in his mind. Mattheo really tried to keep his posture, but it was in vain.

“Why? Why? Why? Make it stop. Make it stop. Make it stop.” His voice was barely audible, more like a strangled cry than actual words coming out. The tears couldn’t stop running down his cheek while his hands pulled on his brown curls.

Theo could hear Mattheo’s cries, and even though Mattheo had been very clear not to bother, Theo couldn’t do this anymore. He walked from his bed and over to Mattheo’s. As he sat down, Mattheo stiffened slightly, but he was too wound up in his panic attack to tell Theo to piss off. Theo curled up behind Mattheo, who was sitting up, and pulled him into his chest. At first, Mattheo tried to push Theo away, but Theo’s grip was like iron.

“Shh. Mattheo. Everything will be alright. I’m sure she’s okay. I can feel it. But please, just try to breathe. You’re breaking my heart. You’re my best friend, my brother. All I want is for you to just… calm down. Let me be here for you.” And that was all that Mattheo needed to hear. That was enough for him to break for real, and the tears wouldn’t stop running. 

Theo hugged Mattheo for nearly one hour before speaking again. “Mattheo, listen to me. I get it; everything feels like shit. But please, you have to stop blaming yourself. I’m sure she’s okay. I don’t think she’s gone. But you have to do something about this. I don’t recognise you anymore.”

The next day, Mattheo asked for permission to leave for St Mungo's. He had to get some help for all of this. And then, he was going to find you.

After speaking with the doctors and getting some medication, Mattheo was about to leave. But one of the nurses stopped him right before he opened the entrance. “Please, Mr Riddle. Follow me. There’s someone I want you to meet.”

Mattheo glared at the nurse, thinking she only wasted his time. He followed her to the second floor and to the door on the end of the hall. She didn’t say anything, and Mattheo found her a little bit odd. The nurse gestured for the door before disappearing through another door.

A strange feeling flared in Mattheo’s stomach. But he opened the door. The room was pure white, almost glowing. He looked around and saw that a couch and a fireplace were the only things existing in this room. His gaze travelled to the window, and his heart stopped. A girl stood with her back facing him, her deep brown hair falling over her shoulders and down to the small of her back. Mattheo took one more step into the room before letting out a deep breath.

The girl turned around, meeting Mattheo’s face with a gentle smile. A scar travelling down from her eyebrow to her cheek. But her eyes, oh, her eyes. The prettiest he has ever seen. The girl’s lips parted slightly before speaking.

“Hi Mattheo.”

© crucifyjonnie 2025. Please do not copy, translate or repost any of my works. Reblogs, likes and comments are welcomed though ♡ you are accountable for your own media consumption. 

Taglist: @riddleswhcre @belovedenzo

[strawberry-bubblef]

Hiya! If you're still doing requests can you please do one of Malleus having a dino s/o? Idk why, i just thought it was cute They could be considered reptilian lovers 🥲

Malleus with dino!reader

Malleus Draconia had always been drawn to the strange and the unique. So, when he met you,a creature both ancient and powerful in your own right,he was fascinated beyond words. You weren’t just any student at Night Raven College,you were something different, something primal. A dinosaur, a relic of an age long past, yet standing before him in the present, carrying the weight of history in your every step.

At first, others found it amusing. A dragon and a dinosaur,two beings bound by their reptilian nature walking side by side like creatures from a forgotten myth. But to Malleus, it was more than mere coincidence. It was fate.

He admired you from the start. Your strength, your resilience, the way you carried yourself with the quiet dignity of a species long gone yet never truly forgotten. He saw in you something familiar,an echo of his own isolation, his own longing for connection. While others feared his presence, you remained unfazed, as if understanding the weight of his existence in a way no one else could.

“You are a marvel,” he once told you, watching as the moonlight illuminated the rough texture of your skin. “A living remnant of an era lost to time. Do you ever wonder what it would be like, to walk among those who came before you?”

You blinked at him, your gaze thoughtful. “Sometimes. But I think I belong here, now. With you.”

Malleus smiled at that, a rare and genuine expression of happiness. From then on, your bond only deepened.

Malleus was ever the gentleman, treating you with the same regal care he gave to all things he cherished. When you walked together, he matched your stride, his presence a steady shadow beside you. He never balked at your claws or the sharp edges of your form; instead, he traced them with reverence, as though committing every ridge and scale to memory.

You weren’t soft, not in the way humans were. But Malleus never sought softness in you,he sought the warmth of your companionship, the quiet strength of your presence. He was the prince of a mighty lineage, a dragon feared and revered, yet with you, he could simply be Malleus.

When others gawked, he simply raised an unimpressed brow. When someone dared to mock, they found themselves at the mercy of his sharp gaze, their words dying in their throat before they could utter another insult. It wasn’t that Malleus needed to defend you,you were more than capable of that yourself but he did it anyway, because to him, you were precious.

There were moments of quiet intimacy, ones where words were unnecessary. Malleus would rest his hand against your own, feeling the pulse of life beneath your skin. He would brush his fingers over the curve of your nose his touch feather-light, as if honoring the history etched into your being.

And then there were the playful moments, the ones where he let himself indulge in the joy of simply being with you. He found great amusement in watching you react to new things,especially the modern quirks of the world you now lived in. The way your eyes lit up at glowing trinkets, the way you tilted your head in confusion at the oddities of technology,it delighted him more than he cared to admit.

One night,he reached for your hand, clasping it gently in his own. His grip was cool, steady, a reminder that though time may move ever forward, some things remained unchanging.

“You are with me,” he murmured. “And I am with you.”

And in that moment, with the night as your witness and the stars burning like ancient memories above you, you knew that no matter how much time passed, you would never truly be alone again.

English is not my first language !

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The House Guest 10

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Bucky Barnes

Summary: an old acquaintance calls in a favour, leaving you with an unexpected house guest.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

You stare through the window as hammering echoes through the glass. Despite the muffling of the barrier between you, it’s loud enough to put you on edge. Or maybe that’s because of the man calmly bringing the iron down on the nails. 

As if he can sense you, he looks up, his dark hair flopping back. You quickly spin away. You have to be going stir crazy. Bucky was just concerned. A lot of people come up this way and get freaked out by the wilderness. You used to when you visited as a child. 

You go back to the kitchen and take out the ingredients for your grandma’s classic turkey stew. It’s always a comfort as the temperature starts to drop. Still, it’s never as good as she made it. One day, you might figure out the secret. 

Cooking is a good distraction. There isn’t much to do up here. Often, you enjoy that facet of your existence. You work then disconnect and just do your own thing. Now you can’t help but feel the desolation. 

Thunk, thunk, thunk. The hammering continues. You put the turkey into roast. It’s always better to season and cook it first then shred it up for the stew. You set the broth to simmer with the chunked veggies and pace the kitchen as you wait for it all to come together. 

You use a fork to pick the meat of the turkey legs and dump it all in the boiling pot. Another hour to meld together and it’ll be ready to serve. The longer you let it, the better. It’s always best the day after. 

The silence doesn’t hit you until you hear the back door. The smell of pine follows Bucky inside. You put your attention to the pot and stir it. 

He sniffs and sighs loudly as he enters. “Ah, smells delicious. Chicken?” 

“Turkey,” you correct him as he twists on the faucet and squirts soap into his hands. He lathers up and looks at you. “It’s funny. Back in my day, not to sound like a crotchety old geezer, women cooked. They had recipe cards on the counter. These days, half the girls I talk to can only use some app to order pizza that tastes like ketchup on cardboard.” 

“Oh, yeah? I kinda miss fast food,” you say dully. 

“Huh. ‘Cause I miss the home cooking. It’s just... simpler.” He shuts off the tap and shifts closer, drying his hand on the dishcloth as he looms. “If it hadn’t all gone to shit, I probably woulda found a good woman. Settled down, lived the good life.” 

“Right,” you nod awkwardly and set the spoon down.  

He clicks his tongue and turns, putting his hand on the counter as he leans on one foot. His other hand goes to his hip. “But then I wouldn’t be here.” 

“Fair,” you say, distancing yourself as you step around him to get to the fridge. “I got some cider left over? Want some? It’s mulled. Julian down by the Rocks makes it--” 

“Think I’m good,” he says. 

You put the large glass jug on the counter and open the cupboard. Bucky catches it and shoves it closed with a snap. You face him in surprise. He’s strong. You know that but feeling it is something else. 

“Sorry, I... I’m in your way?” You wonder. 

“No, you’re right where you should be,” he says. 

You try not to lean away from him. Your heart is racing. You swallow and peer over at the dimming window. 

“I could help you cover up the lumber before--” 

“Already did that,” he interjects. “You know, I think I’m where I need to be too,” he edges closer. “Think after everything, I did find that good woman.” 

You blink, speechless. You can barely think above the tempo behind your ears. 

“I hear it.” He puts his fist to his chest and knocks on it. “I know you feel it too.” He stills his hand and holds it over his heart. “I was pissed when Sam brought me up here. Dropped me off like some stray dog. The longer I’m here, the more I realise he did me a favour. He didn’t dump me on you...” you wince as he pulls his hand away from his chest and opens it to cradle your face, “he gave me you.” 

“Bucky,” you latch onto his wrist but can’t move it. “I think we need some space. Don’t you?” 

“No,” he says flatly. 

“You spend too much time in the same proximity, and it starts to get weird--” 

“No,” he repeats. “I’m right. It’s perfect. You’re strong, you cook, you’re handy, not afraid to get a little dirty,” he slides his hand down to cup your chin. You flinch but can’t pull away. “And you got a nice ass.” 

“Bucky,” you breath and gently shove his chest. “I’m saying to you that you’re wrong. I’m flattered and all but no.” You push harder as he squeezes tighter. You whimper, “ow, let me go. I’m calling Sam-” 

“Shh,” his other hand swoops up to back of your skull. He lurches you closer, bringing you to your nose as he snarls down at you. “You’re not calling anyone.” 

“Bucky--” 

“It’s the way you say my name,” he growls. 

“Please, you’re hurting me--” 

He hushes you again as his thumb rubs behind your jaw. He turns you so your penned in against the counter. You splay your fingers across his chest, dragging them down to his stomach as you push on him. He stands unmoving. 

“Let go--” 

“You. Let go,” he insists calmly. “You built this wall around you. Let it down,” he drops his hand from your head and lets it trail down your back, “let me in.” 

“No, I’m telling you.” You squirm against him. “Stop this, right now.” 

“I know you want me. I found that toy. The little flower, hm?” He tickles along your side, your jaw aching in his grip. “You wanna feel the real thing? Huh?” 

“Please,” you clasp the fabric of his shirt in your fingers. 

“Doll, I want you think about this,” he buries his thumb behind your jaw until you whine. “You’re up here all by yourself. Lonely days, lonelier nights. Anyone could catch on. They could figure out just as fast as I did.” He leans in until you’re nearly bent backwards. “You need a man because any old beast could snatch you up.” 

Your eyes glisten and you search his face. He doesn’t look human. He’s animalistic. His eyes are dark and dilated and his jaw is set with slathering hunger. Your lip trembles. 

"Wouldn't you rather have the beast on your side, doll? Instead of tearing it down?” He purrs and shifts his hand around your chin, bringing his thumb up to poke at your lower lip. “I can be good for you, all you gotta do, is the same.” 

[just-dreaming-marvel]

Crimson Ties ~ 23

CRIMSON TIES MASTERLIST

< previous chapter

Word Count: 2,235ish

Summary: The team rushes to rescue Tony.

Warning(s): talk of rape, talk of abuse, torture, death, mental health, violence

Note(s): MAKE SURE YOU'VE READ THE PREVIOUS CHAPTERS! This is my third update in the last 24 hours. So make sure you haven't missed anything before you read!

Reminder: I DO NOT do taglists. Please don’t ask. Please follow and interact! I appreciate any reblogs, likes, comments, and asks!

Rhodey sighed as he watched Happy’s lifeless body get rolled away. He stood on the sidewalk outside of the therapist office, unable to wrap his mind around it all.

“Obadiah knew he couldn’t attack the house,” Natasha said. She was sitting on the curb. Yelena and Bucky were close by getting stitched up. “It didn’t have enough people to do that again… He’s been watching us… watching her.”

“Steve said he got her to the penthouse,” Rhodey stated. “She’s safe.”

“For now,” added Yelena. “We need to end this.”

“We will. But we can’t do anything that could put Tony’s life in danger.”

~~~

The penthouse wasn’t home. It felt cold. You felt trapped. You were curled up on the leather couch in the living room. Your knees were tucked to your chest and Steve had carefully thrown a blanket over your shoulders. Rhodey, Peggy, Natasha, Bucky, and Yelena joined you and Steve there, but you didn’t move. Didn’t acknowledge them. They began laying out information on the large dinning table, trying to figure out how to get Tony back. They kept glancing over at you, wondering if you’d ever be okay again. 

They hadn’t told you that Happy was dead. But you knew. You had seen his body laying across the concrete and knew that there was no coming back from that. You could help but imagine all the terrible things your father was doing to Tony. You hated to think of the pain your father could inflict and that you may never see Tony alive again.

“I want to help,” suddenly and quietly slipped from your lips.

The room stilled and everyone turned to face you.

“Y/N… what?” Steve questioned.

You squirmed under their gazes, pulling the blanket around you. “I want to help,” you repeated a little louder. “I want to help find Tony.”

“Sweetie,” Peggy said gently, “you’ve been through—“

“I know what I’ve been through. But I can still help… please.” Everyone remained silent but had eyes on you. You took a shaky breath before continuing. “He’s the only man who ever made me feel like I was more than what happened to me. He’s… the only thing that’s truly felt safe since… well, since ever.”

“Y/N…” Bucky stepped forward.

“He’s my home,” tears gathered in your eyes. “Let me help. I’m not asking to go with you. But my father’s home was once my own. I may know things you don’t.”

The others shared a silent conversation through looks. Rhodey nodded, stepping up.

“Alright, Y/N,” he said. “You’re in.”

~~~

Tony couldn’t remember when they stopped. It was hard to measure time here. No windows, no clocks. Just his pain. His body was slumped sideways in the chair— one arm unshackled, useless at his side, shoulder dislocated from where they’d yanked too hard during the last round. His lip was split. One eye was swollen shut and there was more blood oozing out of him than he cared for. Breathing hurt. Everything hurt.

He blinked slowly, vision swimming in and out of focus. A flickering light above him buzzed. The hum of the camera’s lens shifting in the corner echoed louder than it should. He hated this silence the most. It gave him too much space to think. And right now, thinking was a battlefield.

“She’s safe. She’s safe. She’s safe,” he kept repeating in his mind.

Tony let his head lol back against the chair, gasping shallow breaths through his clenched teeth. His mind focused on you. He saw your face. Heard your voice.

“Hold on for her. Hold on for her.”

Footsteps outside the door made him tense, every nerve in his broken body flinching. Not again. Please, not again. But they passed and the silence returned. Tony let his head fall forward, hair damp against his forehead. Every breath felt like a fight. But at least he was still breathing. Still here. Still yours. He would make sure to tell you that if— when he got out of here. That he was yours. He would promise to do better. To take you somewhere safer than what he had provided so far. He would move heaven and earth if that’s what it took. Because that’s what you deserved.

~~~

The city buzzed below, but it felt like lightyears away. Everyone decided to call it for the night. It was a hard call, but they had taken a hard hit and everyone needed sleep. You were still fully dressed, curled on the end of the bed. You stared out the tinted window, hating that you couldn’t see any stars. 

The silence in the room was heavy, pressing against you like a ton of bricks. You blinked, swallowing hard. Something wasn’t right. Slowly, you sat up. Your chest was tight. Not with the usual panic. This was different. A deep ache. A throb in your ribs like you’d been bruised from the inside.

“Tony,” you breathed out.

You couldn’t explain it. No alarms had gone off. No update from the team or new intel. But something had shifted, like the thin thread between you and Tony had gone taut. Like he was trying to hold on but slipping. Your hands trembled as you slid off the bed. You stumbled over to the window, like some how but staring out it you could see Tony. Tears welled in your eyes as you pressed your forehead against the glass. 

“Please…” you begged to the universe. To anyone that would listen and grant your request. “Please… don’t let him die.”

You slid down the window, sobbing.

~~~

The dawn broke with you having got no sleep. It hadn’t even been twenty-four hours since Tony was taken and you were already a shell of yourself once again. You sat at the table, the others standing around it. A blueprint of your father’s house was rolled out. You leaned in and looked it over.

“It’s not right,” you mumbled. Your shaky hand reached out and pointed to a blank spot. “He’s office is here. There’s stairs to a basement. Like Tony’s… He’d be kept down there.”

“We need more men,” Rhodey stated. “We’re not going to get him out of there alive without extra help.”

“Then we need them gathered quickly,” Steve said. “We can’t waste another day.”

“I’ll stay with Y/N,” Peggy offered. “I’ll get her back to the house.”

“No,” you shook your head. “Please… I can stay here?” You couldn’t be in that big house without Tony there. 

“Of course,” Yelena said, sensing your growing distress. “This penthouse is probably safer anyways.”

~~~

Obadiah felt like he was winning. He was confident in his plan to gain control of all that Stark had. There was only one more step.

“I need her in our hands tonight,” Obadiah told his men. “She needs to be alive, but you can kill anyone in your path to get to her. My daughter will come home. And she will be the thing that causes Stark to hand everything over. If I put her life in jeopardy, he’ll have no choice but to cave.”

A bomb going off shook the whole house. Before Obadiah could say anything about it, a second bomb went off. This time it was closer, throwing him off to the side with his other men. Obadiah coughed, struggling to get to his feet.

“Secure Stark!” He ordered. “Bring him to me!”

“On it, sir,” his men said, rushing to do as they were told.

~~~

“We’ve breached,” Steve stated over their comms. 

They weren’t stupid. They weren’t going to go into the house, but had formed a plan to blast a hole where the basement was. They knew it was risky, but it was the best plan they could come up with.

“Then go!” Rhodey ordered. “We’ll handle Obadiah!”

Steve and Bucky entered the hole, smoke blinding them. They could hear the gunfire echoing from upstairs. The lights overhead flickered as Steve and Bucky moved swiftly through the hallways, taking out anyone who got in their way. They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. 

They moved fast, quickly spotting the only room with a closed door in the hallway.  Steve got there first. He threw the door open. Tony was slumped in the metal chair, no longer cuffed because he was too weak to do anything. His right eye was completely swollen shut. Blood stained his torn clothes and any skin it could latch onto. His breathing was shallow. So shallow that for a terrifying second, Bucky and Steve thought they were too late. But then Tony’s good eye blinked, slowly.

“About damn time,” he rasped, voice like sandpaper.

“Shit, Stark,” Bucky muttered, already at his side.

Steve dropped to one knee. “We’ve got you, Tony,” he said. “We’ve got you.”

Tony let out a broken laugh that turned into a cough. “To—Took you… long enough.”

“We had to be dramatic,” Bucky smirked. “You know how it is.”

“Y/N— Y/N… How is she?”

“She’s safe. She’s waiting for you to come home.”

Tony nodded, sliding off the chair. Steve quickly caught the man.

“Hey, stay with us,” Steve coaxed. “We still have to get out of here.”

“He… He’s going after her,” Tony continued. “Are you sure she’s safe?”

“Peggy’s with her and another group of guards. She’s in the penthouse. They’d be stupid to get her there.”

“Come on,” Bucky urged, helping Steve pick up Tony.

“We have Obadiah cornered,” Rhodey’s voice came through the comms loud enough for Tony to hear. “We’re going to end this.”

“Tell them to wait,” Tony ordered. “I want to end him myself.”

“Are you sure?” Steve asked. “You need to be looked over. We have Banner outside and—“

“Take me to Stane.”

~~~

Despite the pain, Tony refused to let Steve and Bucky help him into the room Rhodey had Obadiah cornered in. Natasha and Yelena were there too, refusing to point their guns anywhere else but that man. Tony stepped inside the room, limping heavily.

“You look like hell, Stark,” Obadiah taunted. “Did you come all this way to gloat?”

“No,” Tony replied, voice firm. “I cam to make sure you heard me.”

“What could you possibly say that matters now?”

Tony took a step closer. “You lost. You had all the power, all the leverage. And you still lost.” Obadiah glared. “You don’t get to touch her again. You don’t get to inflict pain on her again. Y/N is protected. Always.”

Obadiah scoffed. “You think this is over? She will never escape my pain.”

Tony raised his hand and Rhodey placed his gun in it. “Threaten my wife again. I dare you.”

“You’re wife?” Obadiah cackled. “She’s not wife material. She’s barely anything. You’ll throw her away eventually. And I’ll be there to remind her that she is nothing. She is—”

The shot was quick. The bullet left the barrel and shot through Obadiah’s head quickly, causing the man to slump back, dead. Tony dropped the gun, stumbling back as his adrenaline wore off.

“Take me home,” he muttered as Steve caught him. “Take me to her…”

~~~

The penthouse was too quiet. The only sounds were of your feet as you paced the floor. Peggy stood still, off to the side as she watched you. They hadn’t updated her and she was growing anxious as well. She watched you paced from the window, to the kitchen, back again. Every minute that past felt like it was crushing you. Your whole body was trembling as your thoughts spiraled.

What if they’re too late?

What if he’s dead?

What if your father is on his way right now to you?

A sudden buzz broke the silence— the alert panel by the door flickering on. It turned green as you heard the elevator rising. You froze, not daring to move or even breathe. A chime. The doors slide open and there he was. Tony. Bloodied. Bruised. Injured. But it was him. And he was alive. Your eyes locked with his. Tony tugged away from the others as he staggered forward. You ran, throwing your arms around him without a second thought. Tony caught you, his good arm pulling you in while his whole body practically folded into the embrace like its as the only thing keeping him standing. 

“You’re safe…” you whispered, voice cracking. “You’re safe…”

Tony let out a breath like it had been trapped in his lungs for days. “I did it,” he whispered, voice still rough. “Obadiah. He’s gone. It’s done.”

You pulled back just far enough to look into his eyes. “He’s… he’s dead?”

Tony nodded slowly. “I made sure.”

Your tears fell freely. “I’m free?”

“You’re free, Y/N.”

“And you came back…”

He rested his forehead against yours. “I will always come back to you, honey.”

“I… I felt it,” you whispered. “When it got bad… I knew something was wrong.”

Tony’s lips trembled, but he couldn’t get the tears to fall. “I kept seeing your face… Even when I wanted to quit. You were there. Pulling me from the edge.”

The two of you stood there for a long time, wrapped in silence, pain, and relief. With a shaky breath, you pressed a kiss to his cheek, so softly that it was barely felt. Tony let out a pained breath.

“I was so scared,” you admitted.

“I’m here,” Tony said, his good arm tightened around you. “I’m right here.”

next chapter >

[jungkoode]

死 KKANGPAE | #08 死

† chai †

"Sweetness doesn’t have a place in Jeon’s life, or at least it didn’t, until now. Because he’s been craving vanilla and cardamom and… chai? Hoseok is as annoying as always, and the fact that you may be at tonight’s celebration is… something he doesn’t quite know how to process."

next | index

⚔ chapter details ⚔

word count: 6.3k

rating: mature

content: snippet into jeon’s head, jeon’s POV, jeon being emo, sad vibes, insomnia, mental health issues, pills, suicide jokes, j-hope being a good friend and also a good doctor, celebrations, booze, female friendships, moon being surprisingly good at mixing drinks

☠ author's note ☠

I can literally HEAR all your "I can fix him" screams from here and honestly? SAME. I, too, want to fix the emotionally constipated sniper who probably sleeps with his combat boots on (￣ω￣)

Here's the thing—I started this whole endeavor thinking I'd stick strictly to the protagonist's POV. Very tunnel vision, very "we only know what she knows" vibes. But then Jeon's broody ass started living rent-free in my head and I was like... fuck, I want to show what's happening in that disaster brain of his too???

I'm sure you know the feeling. When reading, you just NEED to know what the hell is going on behind those cold eyes and that jaw that could cut glass. But it gets tricky, especially when you're trying to do this whole slow reveal thing without dumping too much info at once.

And trust me, the character of Jeon is like a cocktail made by a bartender who's having an existential crisis—way too many conflicting ingredients, definitely going to give you a hangover, but you're still going to drink it because you hate yourself. Or love pain. Or both.

So I decided to include snippets of his POV sometimes. It feels necessary—some conversations need to happen when our protagonist isn't there, and some emotional baggage needs unpacking for you readers to understand what's actually going on (like back in chapter 2 when we got that glimpse into his head).

Now, I'd love to ask for your opinion on this whole POV-switching business, but let's be real—this story is pretty much gonna be completed by the time you're reading this author's note. So... I'm just gonna trust my chaotic writer instincts on this one.

And if you don't like getting glimpses into Jeon's beautiful disaster of a mind? Well... you're gonna like it today anyway (•̀ᴗ•́)━☆ﾟ.*･｡ﾟ

⚔ socials ⚔

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tumblr/twitter: @jungkoode

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☁︎

Jungkook doesn't do sweets. Never has.

His world operates in darker shades, tactical operations and precise calculations. Sweetness belongs to a different universe—one of bright colors and soft edges that he left behind long ago.

Sometimes a piece of candy appears in his pocket, usually after a meeting with JM who keeps bowls of them everywhere. He'll unwrap it absently, the crinkle of plastic echoing in his quiet office. Let it dissolve on his tongue while reviewing mission reports. The initial sweetness isn't unpleasant, stirring something old and forgotten in his chest.

But it never lasts.

The sugar becomes too much, coating his mouth like an unwelcome invasion. 

Cloying. 

Suffocating. 

He usually tosses the rest, wondering why he even bothered.

Lately though, something's changed. 

He finds himself reaching for vanilla cookies in the cafeteria. Ordering cardamom tea instead of his usual black coffee. Small impulses he can't explain, like his body's searching for something his mind hasn't caught up to yet.

And now?

Now the clock reads 4:16 AM. 

It's yet another night of minimal sleep—three and a half hours if he's being generous. The neon numbers mock him from his bedside table, surrounded by an array of pills that could probably tranquilize an elephant. 

All prescribed by J-Hope.

All increasingly useless.

Benzos. Narcotics. Nothing touches the corners of his insomnia anymore.

He's been fighting with his sheets for the past hour, tangled evidence of another failed attempt at rest. The black covers pool around his feet like spilled ink. His bedroom surrounds him in familiar darkness—walls painted to absorb light rather than reflect it, matching the void that lives behind his ribs.

The king-sized bed stretches out like empty territory, conquered by nothing but restless thoughts and the occasional phantom of memory. His room is a fortress built of clean lines and minimal decoration, a cell of his own design where even the shadows know better than to dance.

But lately, even this usually comforting solitude feels... different. Like something's missing. Something warm and sweet that he can't quite name.

Jungkook steps into the cold, the floor a shock against his bare feet. The shadows stretch across his bedroom, making the space feel hollow and vast at 4 AM. His movements are silent—years of training making even his insomnia graceful.

The lounge area of his wing feels abandoned. Empty sofas and tables wait like props on a stage, missing their usual cast of lieutenants and strategists. During the day, this space buzzes with mission plans and tactical discussions. Now it's just him and the quiet.

He closes the door to his wing, crossing into the neutral territory of the entrance hall. It's the DMZ between his domain and V's—a thought that makes his head hurt. Even at this hour, he can feel the shift in energy. 

V's presence lingers here like a bad taste.

The access card feels heavy in his hand. A small piece of tech that reminds him of his rank, his responsibilities. AD's security system responds with a soft beep, elevator doors sliding open on silent tracks. He steps in, presses the button for the common area. It's not his usual haunt—too exposed, too public—but lately he's been drawn there.

The descent gives him time to think. His mind drifts between fragments of nightmares and that strange, persistent craving for sweetness. It's been haunting him for weeks now, this urge for vanilla and cardamom. 

For chai and spices.

Maybe his brain is trying to balance out the bitterness that fills his days, or maybe he's finally losing it.

The elevator announces his arrival with a quiet ding. The corridor stretches before him, dark and empty. Somewhere down there is the snack area, and maybe, if he's lucky, a moment of peace.

He moves towards the corridor. Posters and artwork splash color across the cream walls—a jarring contrast to his stark quarters. He never quite understood the need for decoration, but the members insist on making the space "lived in." Whatever that means.

After 3 minutes, the common lounge sprawls before him, so different from his wing's militant precision. Here, rank means little. Divisions blur. The high ceiling should make the space feel cold, but somehow it doesn't. Maybe it's the worn leather sofas or the gaming consoles scattered about like abandoned toys. 

The air smells of polish and something unknown yet weirdly tranquil—comfort, maybe. 

He pushes that thought away.

Vending machines hum quietly in the snack area. Behind the glass, rows of sweets beckon. His eyes linger on a vanilla protein bar, then drift to some cardamom cookies. The craving hits again, piercing and mercilessly insistent.

But he's not alone.

AD slouches in a puff chair, bathed in the blue light of his game screen. His face twisted in its usual scowl, fingers jabbing at buttons with unnecessary force. 

The sight stirs something in Jungkook's chest—regret, maybe. 

Or guilt. 

Both emotions he'd rather not examine.

Their eyes meet. The air grows heavy. Unspoken words. Shared trauma.

The gaming console beeps softly. AD's character dies on screen. The silence that follows feels like an accusation.

Jungkook notes the way AD's blonde hair glints in the dim light as his eyes snap to Jungkook. His fingers still on the controller, body shifting into something more guarded, more alert. 

Jungkook feels his muscles tense automatically. The late-night sugar craving fades to background noise as AD's frosty stare pins him in place. 

Like a fucking needle cutting into skin. 

His hand hovers over the door handle, and he can't decide whether to stay or retreat. There's too much history here, too many buried regrets—and AD's presence brings it all rushing back—memories Jungkook would rather keep locked away with his other nightmares.

He immediately clocks the way AD's face contorts—sharp and bitter—and it makes Jungkook's chest tighten with familiar remorse. 

The younger man has never quite forgiven him. 

Probably never will.

Just as Jungkook decides to leave, to return to the safety of his isolation, AD's voice slices through the silence.

"No need for you to scurry off." The words barely mask the hostility underneath. "Was about to leave anyway."

Jungkook forces his shoulders to relax, though his jaw remains tight. Their paths cross rarely these days, and when they do, it's always like this—loaded silences and measured distance.

AD sets the controller down. Sharp. Angry. His movements are stiff as he rises, radiating enmity in waves that fill the common room. The scent of fresh lemons—AD's signature—grows stronger as he approaches.

But Jungkook doesn't move. 

Doesn't flinch. 

He deserves this, after all. This anger, this hostility, this remorse that reminds him of betrayals he can never make right.

The collision comes swift and deliberate—AD's shoulder slamming into his with force. The impact jolts through Jungkook's body, but the physical pain is nothing compared to the guilt that floods his system. His throat tightens with dusty apologies he knows AD would never accept.

He watches him stride away, the blonde's back rigid with years of accumulated anger. The sound of his footsteps fades down the corridor, leaving Jungkook alone with the quiet hum of the vending machines and his own thoughts.

There was a time when AD looked up to him, when their dynamic was different—better. Now all that remains is this bitter aftermath, this chasm Jungkook carved with his own choices. The memory of who they used to be makes the present cut deeper.

The gaming console's screen still glows, enhancing AD's absence in the empty chair he left behind. The 'GAME OVER' message blinks mockingly. Jungkook's fingers twitch, remembering late nights spent teaching AD new gaming strategies, back when trust wasn't such a foreign concept between them.

He should feel angry at the shoulder check; at the constant hostility that feels like a reprimand. 

But all he feels is hollow. 

Empty. 

Because how can he blame AD for hating him when he did this? When he destroyed something irreplaceable with decisions he can never take back?

He can't help but stare down the empty corridor where AD disappeared, the bitter taste of their encounter lingering longer than he'd like. His craving for sweetness feels almost desperate now—a childish attempt to wash away the guilt that gnaws at his chest.

His throat tightens. He swallows hard, trying to maintain the aloofness expected of Kkangpae's deadliest sniper. 

But it's hard, when AD's hostility has cracked something open inside him, letting old memories seep through like poison.

The vending machines hum quietly, offering a welcome distraction. He scans the selection without really seeing it, until—

Croissants.

Something shifts in his stomach at the sight of those packaged pastries. They're nothing like the fresh ones from the cafeteria, the ones you always grab during breakfast. Not that he's been watching. It's just that you're always there when he is, picking up one of those flaky pastries along with your coffee.

He's noticed, despite himself, how early you arrive to snag them before they run out. Same time as him, though his early mornings are spent running from nightmares rather than hunting down breakfast.

The memory of your routine feels oddly grounding after his encounter with AD. It's something simple, predictable. 

Unlike the mess of guilt and regret that follows him through these halls at night.

It's a strange comfort, this knowledge of your habits. 

One he doesn't understand.

One he probably doesn't deserve.

The scent of fresh lemons still lingers in the air, like a ghost of bridges burned and trust fractured. But as Jungkook stares at those artificially-made croissants, he finds himself thinking of chai tea instead.

He tears his gaze away, scanning other options until he spots a nutty protein bar. Practical. Sensible. The kind of choice the Chief of Tactical Assassinations should make. 

He jabs at the keypad hastily, and then, the machine whirs and drops his selection with a dull thud.

The wrapper crinkles in his grip as he retrieves it. Such a simple thing—choosing a late-night snack. No one gets hurt. No trust gets broken. No consequences ripple through the gang's hierarchy. 

Just him and a protein bar at 4 AM.

The common room feels different now that AD's gone. Quieter. Jungkook lets himself breathe, really breathe, for what feels like the first time since AD's shoulder slammed into his.

He should feel worse, probably. Should let the weight of past betrayals and broken friendships crush him like they usually do. But something about this moment—this stupid protein bar in his hand, the quiet of the room, the lingering thought of croissants and early mornings—makes everything feel a bit lighter.

His lips almost twitch into what could be a smile. It's weird, this tiny bubble of something in his chest. Almost like contentment. He doesn't examine it too closely, afraid it might shatter.

The corridors don't feel as suffocating as he makes his way back to his wing. The shadows seem less interested in reminding him of his sins. 

For now, in this small hour between night and dawn, he allows himself this moment of peace.

He probably doesn't deserve it. But for once, he takes it anyway.

Jungkook stares at his lunch without really seeing it. 

The cafeteria bustles around him, but he's carved out his own bubble of silence at the far end of a long table. It's better this way—no small talk, no pretending to care about division gossip.

His chopsticks push a piece of fish back and forth across his plate. The encounter with AD keeps replaying in his mind, each memory tasting bitter like the coffee he's been nursing for the past hour. Some wounds, he's learning, don't heal with time. They just scab over, waiting to be picked open again.

And then, a tray clatters across from him. 

J-Hope drops into the seat, his white medical coat slightly rumpled from what's probably been a busy morning in the infirmary. The doctor's eyes scan Jungkook's face with scrutiny, his mouth pulling into that familiar worried frown.

"You look like shit," J-Hope announces, ever the picture of bedside manner. "Two hours of sleep? Maybe less?"

Jungkook shrugs, still focused on mutilating his fish. "Don't count anymore."

"Those new meds I gave you—" J-Hope starts, unwrapping his sandwich with more force than necessary. "You're actually taking them, right?"

"They don't work." The words come out flat. "Nothing does."

"Jesus christ," J-Hope mumbles through a bite of sandwich. "Have you tried, I don't know, taking them before you spend six hours staring at your ceiling? Maybe with some tea?"

The concern in J-Hope's voice makes something twist in Jungkook's chest. 

He doesn't deserve this—the worry, the care, any of it. 

Not after everything. 

But J-Hope is one of the few people who still treats him like a person rather than a cautionary tale, so he tries to sound less dismissive when he responds.

"I don't need a lesson on how to take pills. They just don't work for me."

The doctor sets his sandwich down, eyebrows pulling together. A bit of lettuce falls out. "Look, I know you've built up tolerance, but we need to find something that works. You can't keep going like this."

"I'm fine." He's not, but he doesn't truly care. "Function better on less sleep anyway. More efficient."

"That's bullshit and you know it." J-Hope's voice rises slightly, anger seeping through. "You think I can't see what this is doing to you? The mood swings? The isolation? This isn't healthy, Jungkook."

Jungkook flinches at the use of his real name. "I don't need a lecture. I'm handling it."

"Oh yeah, real healthy coping strategy." J-Hope's scoff holds more concern than mockery. "Just pretend everything's fine while you run yourself into the ground."

Exhaustion weighs heavy on Jungkook's bones. Three hours of sleep and memories of AD's hostility from last night make his tongue looser than usual. "Maybe you should prescribe me your finest benzos. Let me wash them down with vodka. That ought to do the trick."

The slam of J-Hope's palm against the table makes the silverware jump. Several heads turn their way, but Jungkook can't bring himself to care. 

"If you want to kill yourself," J-Hope's voice is deadly quiet, trembling with rage, "don't you dare make it my prescription."

The cafeteria suddenly feels too small, too crowded. J-Hope's worry tastes bitter in the back of Jungkook's throat, mixing with guilt he doesn't have the energy to process. He shouldn't have said that—shouldn't have joked about something so dark. But three hours of sleep and a lifetime of regrets make it hard to care about much of anything anymore.

Silence stretches between them. Jungkook stares at his mangled fish, not really eating anymore. He knows what's coming—J-Hope never could leave well enough alone.

The doctor's voice softens, trying a different approach. "Have you considered meditation? Or maybe some calming music? I know a sleep therapist who—"

"I don't need a damn therapist." Jungkook's tongue plays with his lip ring, a nervous habit he can't shake. 

The metal tastes bitter, or maybe that's just the exhaustion talking.

Because J-Hope is wrong. Therapy won't fix this. Pills won't fix this. Nothing can erase what happened, what he let happen. Some stains don't wash out, no matter how hard you scrub.

"Look, Jungkook." J-Hope uses his real name again, and his throat constricts uncontrollably. "Ever since what happened with—"

"Don't." The word comes out sharp enough to cut.

J-Hope holds his gaze, unflinching. "You can't keep punishing yourself forever."

"I'm not discussing this." His voice turns to steel, matching the cold weight that's made a home in his chest.

Another sigh from J-Hope as he leans back. "Fine. But you know where to find me when you're ready to actually try and fix this."

Jungkook's jaw clenches so hard it hurts, a muscle jumping under his skin. But he stays quiet. What's the point of arguing when J-Hope doesn't understand? 

Some things aren't meant to be fixed. 

Some people don't deserve to be.

Jungkook pushes his half-eaten lunch away with a tired sigh. He can feel it coming—the same conversation they have every year.

"So," J-Hope starts, right on cue. "Making an appearance tonight or pulling your usual disappearing act?" He peers at Jungkook over his coffee mug, eyes too knowing for comfort.

"Haven't decided." The words come out clipped, because he feels already exhausted by the mere thought of socializing.

"You should come." J-Hope takes a careful sip. "Might help to interact with actual humans instead of just your rifle for a change."

"I interact plenty." It sounds defensive even to his own ears.

"Glaring at people from across the room doesn't count as interaction." J-Hope's voice is dry as desert sand. "Neither does grunting one-word responses."

Jungkook's tongue finds his lip ring, playing with it absently. "It's just a casual thing. Not mandatory."

"Right, just our leader's rise to power celebration. Totally insignificant." The doctor's sarcasm could cut glass. "Definitely not something a Council member should show face at."

"RM himself said it's not formal." 

"Maybe not officially. But you know what it means to everyone else. Especially the newer ones—shows them what we're about, what matters to us."

Newer ones. The words make him hold his breath. He thinks of Yunjin's bright enthusiasm, of your sharp wit. Of how you'll probably be there tonight.

The thought doesn't help him decide whether he wants to go more, or run faster in the opposite direction.

"You seem perfectly capable of handling traditions without me."

"For fuck's sake, Jungkook." The doctor's frustration bleeds through. "This isn't about tradition. It's about you actually being part of the team for once. Don't you ever get tired of the whole lone wolf act?"

Something bitter rises in Jungkook's throat. His tongue presses against his cheek—a habit from childhood he never quite shook.

Silence. He takes a slow breath, measuring his words. 

"I'll think about showing up."

It's not a yes, but J-Hope takes what he can get. The doctor's shoulders relax slightly as he leans back, apparently satisfied with even this crumb of compliance.

"Got patients waiting," J-Hope says, collecting his things. The coffee mug scrapes against the tray. "Try to sleep before tonight, yeah?"

Jungkook makes a noncommittal sound, already drifting into thoughts of empty corridors and quiet corners where he won't have to pretend to be social. Where he won't have to see AD's hatred or V's cruel smile. Where he won't have to watch you move through the crowd, chai-scented and d̶i̶s̶t̶r̶a̶c̶t̶i̶n̶g̶ irrelevant.

J-Hope's footsteps fade into the cafeteria buzz, leaving Jungkook alone with his cold coffee and colder thoughts. 

Another conversation that changes nothing, fixes nothing.

Just like everything else in his life.

"What?"

The word tumbles out of your mouth before you can stop it. 

Smooth, real smooth.

Chaewon snorts, eyes crinkling. "Right, keep forgetting you're still a baby gang member. Tonight's the whole 'RM took over this shitshow' party."

You frown, because seriously? Four months in and you're just now hearing about this? Some Seduction Division recruit you are.

"It's not a big deal," Chaewon adds, probably seeing the confusion on your face. "RM didn't even start it. We just got drunk on the first anniversary and now it's a thing."

Eunchae pops her head between you and Chaewon, her light brown hair tickling your cheek. "Plus, you know. Give gang members an excuse to drink and we'll run with it."

You lean back against the couch, letting your head fall back softly. 

Great. 

Another Kkangpae tradition you and Yunjin missed the memo on. At this rate, you'll still be the clueless newbies when you're both grey and wrinkled.

"So what, we just show up and get wasted?" you ask, trying to sound casual. Like you're not low-key freaking out about what to wear or how to act around the higher-ups when they're three sheets to the wind.

Chaewon shrugs, picking at her nails. "Pretty much. Some people get all fancy, others come in sweatpants. It's not like RM gives a shit either way."

A flash of bubblegum pink catches your eye. Yunjin shuffles in, hair wrapped in a towel and dripping onto her shoulders. Perfect timing, as always.

"Did someone say alcohol?" She plops down on the sofa arm, water droplets flying everywhere. "Because I'm not playing nurse again tonight."

"That was one time!" Eunchae's voice pitches up in defense. "And that mark needed me to drink!"

Kazuha snorts. "You could've said no."

"To free drinks?" Eunchae spins around, hand on her chest like she's been mortally wounded. "In this economy?"

"She's got a point," Sakura drawls from her sprawl across the couch. Her long legs dangle over the armrest, taking up way too much space.

Yunjin tugs at her towel, rolling her eyes. "Well, don't come crying to me when you're hugging the toilet later."

You can't help but laugh. These idiots are really your team now. "I take it parties get pretty wild around here?"

"Oh honey." Kazuha's lips twitch. "There's a reason strip poker got banned."

"I'm sorry, what?" Your eyes go wide. Because what.

"It was brief but iconic." Eunchae grins, nudging your shoulder. "Sakura tried to slide across a table."

"And I would've made it!" Sakura calls out, not even bothering to lift her head. "That loose board was sabotage, I swear."

"Sure, blame the table." Eunchae turns to you with a conspiratorial wink. "Just wait till you see what happens when someone breaks out the tequila."

You raise an eyebrow, already mentally noting which Council members to avoid when the drinks start flowing. 

"Thanks for the warning. I'll stay away from any furniture surfing attempts."

Your teammates' laughter fills the room, and something warm blooms in your chest. It's weird how these chaotic idiots have become your f̶a̶m̶i̶l̶y̶ friends in just four months.

Chaewon leans back, crossing her legs. "Tonight's pretty chill though. Eat, drink, try not to pass out in a bush somewhere."

"Now that's what I'm talking about." Eunchae bounces in her seat like an overexcited golden retriever.

"Open field, 8 PM." Chaewon's voice shifts into what you've dubbed her 'mom tone.' "We're doing BBQ, and there'll be enough booze to knock out a small army. Wear whatever, but bundle up—it gets cold as balls out there."

"That's two hours from now!" Eunchae flops dramatically across the couch. "Two whole hours. I'm starving now."

"Is food literally all you think about?" Kazuha rolls her eyes, but there's fondness in her tone.

"I could think about other things." Eunchae wiggles her eyebrows. "But food's never disappointed me like men do."

You snort at that. She's not wrong. In your four months here, you've learned (mostly from Yunjin's gossip) that Kkangpae men are like a box of chocolates—mostly bitter, occasionally nutty, and always complicated.

The girls dissolve into giggles again, and you find yourself joining in. Maybe it's the promise of alcohol, or maybe it's just the way these dorks make even a deadly criminal organization feel weirdly homey, but you're actually looking forward to tonight.

God help you.

It's 8:10 PM when you finally head out. You went with comfy over fancy—oversized grey hoodie over a white turtleneck, because fuck freezing to death. The thermal lining is probably the best purchase you've made since joining Kkangpae. That, and these loose jeans that actually have functional pockets.

A flash of pink appears in your peripheral vision before Yunjin loops her arm through yours, practically vibrating with enthusiasm.

"Aren't you excited?" She bounces on her toes like a kid with a sugar rush. "I heard these parties are insane!"

You can't help but laugh. Her enthusiasm is s̶w̶e̶e̶t̶ infectious. But the elevator dings before you can respond, doors sliding open to reveal—oh.

V lounges inside, arm draped over JM's shoulders like the Finance Chief is his personal armrest. JM seems unbothered, wearing that patient smile he gets when dealing with V's... everything. His salmon-colored hair looks soft under the elevator lights.

"Ladiessssss!" V draws out the word like he's auditioning for Parseltongue lessons. He shifts to make room, though his arm stays firmly around JM. "Coming to party with us common folk?"

"Free food's free food." You shrug, stepping in beside Yunjin who's still clinging to your arm.

She giggles at your response, squeezing your arm tighter. You catch JM's eye and nod—proper respect for a Council member and all that. He returns it with a warm smile that makes his eyes crinkle behind his round glasses.

The elevator feels smaller with four people, especially when one of them is V taking up space like it's his job. But hey, at least it's not AD. Or worse, J̶e̶o̶n̶ certain other Council members.

"Evening, JM." You smile at him, because it's hard not to. His aura always feels like a warm blanket—the complete opposite of V's chaotic energy.

"Good evening." JM's voice is soft, gentle. "I hope the night finds you well."

"What is this, fucking Shakespeare?" V waves his hand dismissively. "Save the fancy talk for business hours. Tonight's for getting wasted and making bad decisions. Luckily we will be free of certain judgemental stares."

"V." JM's warning comes with a poorly hidden smile.

"What? Just saying what everyone thinks." V grins, all teeth. "Not my fault someone walks around like they've got a steel rod up their ass."

"Pretty sure that's just the natural reaction to dealing with you for years." The words slip out before you can stop them.

"Wow. Wow." V pretends you've stabbed him in the chest. "Already picking sides? And here I thought we were gonna be besties."

You roll your eyes. "Not picking sides. Just speaking from personal experience."

"Brief experience," he corrects, wagging a finger at you. "You haven't seen all my charms yet. I grow on people, like mold."

"That's... not the selling point you think it is."

Finally the metallic doors open to the ground floor. Through the glass gates, you can see the open field where everyone's gathering. The sky's already dark, stars peeking through like tiny paint droplets.

Here goes nothing.

The field buzzes with activity, gang members scattered around like the stars peppered across the night sky. A bonfire crackles in the middle, throwing warm light over everyone's faces. The smell of BBQ makes your stomach growl—you haven't eaten since lunch.

RM's white hair catches the firelight, making him look almost ethereal. It's weird seeing him like this, gesturing animatedly as he talks. The fearsome leader of Kkangpae, actually laughing. Who knew?

Moon hovers by the drinks, playing bartender—although still maintaining his usual polite efficiency. Though tonight his smile seems more genuine, less 'I'm being nice because I'm your superior' and more 'want another beer?'

Jessi and Chaewon huddle together near the fire, probably plotting world domination or sharing gossip. The flames dance in Jessi's red hair while Chaewon leans in close, looking more relaxed than you've ever seen her during training.

V drags JM toward the grill, still attached to him like a very loud, very clingy octopus. "Make way for the master chefs!" he hollers, making JM shake his head with fond exasperation.

Your eyes scan the crowd before you can stop yourself. Looking for broad shoulders in black leather, for silver piercings catching firelight. For that scent of pine and wood that's become way too f̶a̶m̶i̶l̶i̶a̶r̶ noticeable lately.

But Jeon isn't here.

You feel something waver in your chest—disappointment maybe, or just hunger. 

Yeah, definitely hunger. 

You push the thought away and focus on the party. There's food and alcohol and your friends are here. That's what matters.

Yunjin tugs you toward the bonfire, and god, the warmth feels good after the castle's perpetual AC chill. It's weird seeing everyone so relaxed—like someone hit pause on all the gang politics and murder plots for one night.

You sink onto a log bench, letting the fire chase away the evening cold. The flames bathe everyone in soft gold, making even the most hardened killers look almost n̶i̶c̶e̶ normal for once.

J-Hope appears through the crowd like a ghost in his white medical coat, looking like he's about to collapse. The bags under his eyes have bags of their own, but he's still got that manic energy that keeps him running on fumes and spite.

He drops onto the bench nearby with a groan that sounds like his soul trying to escape. The scent of sandalwood follows him, mixing with woodsmoke.

"Rough day?" you ask, eyeing his very out-of-place doctor getup.

His laugh comes out more like a wheeze. "You could say that." He waves vaguely at his coat. "Didn't exactly get a wardrobe change break."

Yunjin giggles beside you, still clutching your arm like a pink-haired koala.

Your eyes scan the crowd again, definitely not looking for anyone s̶p̶e̶c̶i̶f̶i̶c̶ particular. "Where's the rest of the Council?"

"Well," J-Hope snorts, "AD's busy losing at League of Legends. Says he'll grace us with his presence when he's done raging at his screen."

"And Jeon?" The question slips out. Smooth. 

J-Hope answers your question with a nod toward the field entrance. Your eyes follow and—oh.

Jeon strides in with Takama, both of them loaded down with enough meat to feed a small country. The firelight catches on his silver piercings, and fuck, he shouldn't look this good just carrying groceries. Your heart does that stupid little skip thing it's been doing lately whenever he's around.

But it's like... something's different about him tonight. The usual ice-prince vibe is dialed down a notch, replaced by something almost... approachable.

Unapproachably approachable.

Takama actually has him engaged in conversation—a miracle in itself. His shaved head immediately grabs your attention as he says something that makes Jeon relax slightly.

They drop the meat by the grill, and you notice how Jeon's eyes sweep across the crowd. It's quick, casual, but you catch it anyway. There's something searching in his gaze, like he's looking for... well. Probably just checking the perimeter or whatever security shit he does.

You turn back to J-Hope, trying to ignore the warmth in your cheeks. "Even party night comes with duties, huh?"

"That's Kkangpae for you." J-Hope's voice carries a touch of dry humor. "We don't do proper days off here."

He's right. Even now, surrounded by laughter and firelight and the promise of good food, you're all still playing your parts. Though watching Jeon handle those heavy bags like they're nothing makes you think some roles aren't so bad to watch.

Get it together. 

You sink deeper into the bench, letting the bonfire's warmth seep into your bones. The sound of laughter and sizzling meat hovers around you; everyone's guard lowered just a fraction under the stars.

Takama then leads Jeon toward the fire, some members sprawled out on the grass around them like lazy cats. The deputy's eyes find yours, his smile genuine—a rare sight in your line of work.

"Ankle doing better?" he asks, and you're touched he remembers.

"All healed up, thanks." You return his smile, because Takama's one of the few higher-ups who actually seems to give a shit about the recruits.

Jeon just nods at you, dark eyes meeting yours for a split second before sliding away. You're starting to notice is his thing—minimal effort, maximum impact. Your skin prickles despite the fire's heat.

The conversation naturally flows around you, mission stories and inside jokes mixing seamlessly even between different divisions. You half-listen, too aware of Jeon's presence at the edge of the group. He pulls out his cigarettes with those r̶i̶d̶i̶c̶u̶l̶o̶u̶s̶l̶y̶ ̶n̶i̶c̶e̶ steady hands, placing one between his pierced lips in a way that makes your mouth go dry.

But before he can light up, J-Hope shoots him a look that could freeze hell. Some silent doctor-patient communication passes between them, and Jeon clicks his tongue, shoving the cigarette back in its pack. Frustration flashes across his face before he quickly shoves it down. 

But you catch yourself studying him—the way his fingers fidget with the lighter he can't use, how his jaw clenches when he's annoyed. Little details that paint a picture of the man behind the cold exterior. 

Not that you're paying special attention or anything.

Moon's got a nice little bar setup going by the drinks station. You could use something to take the edge off this weird night. So you stand up, already missing the bonfire's warmth whilst stretching your arms above your head.

"Getting drinks," you tell Yunjin, who's deep in conversation with some other recruits. "Want anything?"

Her eyes light up. "Beer, please!"

You glance at Takama, still chatting with his boss. "Beer run. You in?"

"That'd be great, thanks." His smile is genuinely warm.

You look at the doctor—J-Hope's been quiet, watching everything with those too-observant eyes—and ask him too. 

"Can I grab you something?"

"I don't drink." His tone is light but final. Like a door closing.

You nod, not pushing it. Your eyes drift to Jeon last, catching him staring into the flames like they hold all life's answers. He meets your gaze for a second, and you'd swear something unreadable flickering across his face before he looks away.

"Whisky on the rocks," he mutters, barely audible over the crackling fire.

You bite back a smile. Of course he drinks whisky. Probably the expensive kind too, the pretentious a̶s̶s̶h̶o̶l̶e̶ guy.

Moon's showing off his bartending skills to an impressed crowd when you approach. Time to see if the Deputy Commander makes drinks as precisely as he runs operations.

His back is turned to you as you approach, mixing something that probably has enough alcohol to knock out a horse. But he moves confidently, like he's done this a thousand times before.

When he finally finishes serving another member, you step up. His serious bartender face melts into something more welcoming.

"What can I get you?" He wipes his hands on a towel, all proper and polite as usual.

"Vodka lemonade for me," you say. "Plus whisky on the rocks and two beers for the others."

He nods, already reaching for bottles. "Coming right up."

You watch him work, impressed despite yourself. "Where'd you learn all this fancy mixing stuff?"

"Been around a while," he chuckles, measuring vodka into a shaker. "It's useful—nothing settles gang politics like a good drink."

"You're really good at this," you say, leaning against the counter. "Like, seriously good."

His hands pause for a split second. A small smile tugs at his lips. 

"Thanks. It's an old passion. Actually wanted to open my own bar once—somewhere quiet, away from all..." He gestures vaguely at the chaos around you.

"That's... not what I expected." You watch him pour whisky over ice with perfect precision. 

"Life's funny that way." He slices a lemon expertly. "We all had different plans before this. Different dreams. But here we are."

Something in his voice makes you pause—because yeah, it's so easy to forget sometimes that everyone here has a story, a before. Even Moon, with his perfect posture and formal suits, had different dreams once.

The thought sits heavy in your chest as he lines up your drinks. You wonder what dreams everyone else gave up to end up here, in a criminal organization's makeshift bar under the stars.

"What about you?" Moon asks, stirring your drink now. "Got any derailed dreams?"

You consider the question, because it feels surreal to be having this kind of talk with the Deputy Commander—usually conversations here stick to missions and murder plots.

"Pretty sure we all left something behind when we joined." The words come out slower than intended. "Different paths all leading to the same fucked up destination, right?"

Moon hands you the drinks, and his expression is softer. "That's gang life for you. Trade in your old self, get a new family and some trauma in return."

"Any regrets?"

He gets this far-away look, like he's seeing something beyond the makeshift bar. Then he shakes his head. 

"Made my choice. Even the darkest paths have their bright spots."

You take the drinks, mentally filing away this unexpectedly deep conversation with Kkangpae's second-in-command. Who knew he had a philosophical side under all that formality?

"Thanks for the drinks. And the..." You gesture vaguely with your chin, since your hands are full. "This whole thing."

His smile actually reaches his eyes this time. "Anytime. Now go before those drinks get warm."

"You joining us later?"

"Once dinner's ready." He's already turning to help another member.

You nod, somehow managing to stuff the beer cans in your hoodie pocket while balancing two glasses. The bonfire calls you back, its warmth promising more interesting conversations ahead.

Though probably none as surprising as this one.

next | index

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[himasgod]

ANGST! Scaramouche x Reader

(0.8k words :p)

Where you met, after having been running away from each other for so long.

The gentle breeze of Sumeru caresses your face, but the air, despite its warmth, fails to dispel the emptiness you feel in your chest. You have been traveling for weeks, trying to forget. Trying to escape. Although, deep down, you know that you cannot escape something that lives inside you.

In front of you, a familiar figure stands against the horizon. His wide, extravagant hat, his carefree, haughty walk, everything about him speaks of arrogance, of an ironclad confidence that nothing could break. But you know better.

It is he, the Wanderer. Or Scaramouche, as you used to call him in those days full of betrayals and shadows. Now, nameless, homeless, it seems that he has always been on the run, just like you.

“What are you doing here?” you ask, louder than you feel. Your voice trembles, betraying you.

He doesn’t bother to look at you at first, just keeps walking, his footsteps echoing in the dust of the road. Finally, his gaze falls on you, as cold as the blizzards of Snezhnaya. “Did you expect me to run into your arms or something? Ridiculous.”

You try to contain the trembling in your hands. You know him well enough to know that beneath that mask of indifference, there are overflowing emotions. Pain. Anger. Despair. Just like you.

“You’ve always run away,” you murmur, more to yourself than to him. But something in your voice makes him pause, his eyes narrowing as he examines you.

“And you? What have you done but run after me, chasing the shadows of what you think I am?” His words cut like sharp blades, each one aimed to wound with surgical precision. But, instead of flinching, you take a step forward.

“You’ve been haunted by your own ghosts, too, Scaramouche. You can pretend you don’t care, that you don’t feel anymore, but…” Your voice breaks, and you can’t go on. He watches you, a sardonic smile curling his lips.

“Feeling is a weakness, don’t you understand? I’m a puppet. A being without a heart, without a soul. None of this matters.” But even as he says it, you notice how his fists clench, the small signs of an anger he hasn’t learned to master. An anger directed as much at you as at himself.

“If none of this matters, why are you still here? Why didn’t you just go into oblivion, like you so wanted to?” The silence that follows your words is overwhelming. You see the internal struggle in his eyes, the memories that torment him, the decisions that led him to this point.

Finally, Scaramouche takes a step towards you, his face closer to yours than it has been in a long time. “Because, in the end, even a puppet can hate those who made it feel, those who betrayed it… even those who tried to understand it.”

His words are cruel, but behind that cruelty you recognize the cry of someone who has suffered more than he would ever admit. The Wanderer, the being who gave up everything so he wouldn’t have to deal with the weight of pain, is still unable to break free from the chains of the past.

“I never wanted you to be hurt like that,” you whisper. You’re not sure if he hears you, but you say it anyway. He remains silent for a few eternal seconds, his gaze fixed on you.

“It doesn’t matter what you wanted. In the end, everyone betrays. It’s the nature of humans.”

You move even closer, searching his gaze for any trace of the person you once knew, the puppet who had learned to feel, to trust, before everything fell apart. “But you’re not like the others. You are not just a puppet, Scaramouche. You have lived, you have loved… and you have suffered.”

His laugh is bitter, almost heartbreaking. “Loved… Do you think that makes me anything more than a broken toy? Love has no place in a life like mine. It never did.”

But then you see it, the small chink in his armor, the vulnerability he has tried to bury for so long. And you realize something: he may be broken, but so are you. And, perhaps, in that shared brokenness, there is a spark of understanding, of connection.

“That may be so,” you say, your voice shaking. “But that doesn’t mean we have to keep running away.”

He looks at you, surprised by your words. For a moment, something in his expression changes, a shadow of doubt passes over his face. But, as always, he quickly composes himself, taking a step back, his countenance cold again.

“There is nothing to run away from anymore,” he replies coldly. “Because for me, the whole world has ceased to matter.”

And with those words, he turns his back once more, slowly walking away, while you stay there, in the same place, watching as the distance between you grows ever greater.

Perhaps he will never be able to free himself from his chains. Perhaps, in his endless journey, he is doomed to get lost again and again. But, even so, you can't help but call out to him one last time, with a small hope lit in your chest.

“Scaramouche.”

He doesn't stop, but in the whisper of the wind, you swear you heard a single word:

“Goodbye.”

Here is my masterlist, in case you are interested in any more of my work or want to send me a request <3

[eveningepiphany]

reconnect | h.s oneshot

my masterlist

summary: lockdown is tough on both you and harry. you miss the feeling of physical touch so much you start chasing to fill that void in one another.

warnings: sweet and dirty smut, unprotected sex, fingering (fem rec), spitting, deep conversation, lil bit emotional, touch starved harry & y/n, lockdown and covid mentions.

a/n: something hot and sweet for y’all ily!! highkey wish I had harry during my lockdown era writing this, my god.

———

You felt entirely numb as you heard the familiar news reporter say the words you had been dreading of hearing. Tahnee was was always on at this time of the day— you didn’t even know her name however many months ago.

Restrictions had been easing just a week or so ago.

Her voice continued to echo through the lounge room as you cupped your face in your hands with a sigh.

“—we understand the effect this news may have on viewers at home. In these unprecedented times we must stick together as much as we can. Look after yourself everyone… we’ll see you next with our sporting updates after the ad break.”

She sounded glum, like she hated being the one to deliver the news to people. In the end, she too has to go home and cope with the numerous amounts of restrictions on her life.

You reached for the remote, turning off the tv and throwing it back into the duvet that now permanently lived on the couch, good for the cold nights and binge watching TV shows because you had nothing better to do.

Other than ignore your upcoming college assignments. Which you’re going to continue to do. And procrastinate finishing them and how much you hate the pressure of online schooling.

You had other shit to dwell on too.

You miss your family. You miss your friends.

You’re sick of living out birthdays and your college life on video calls.

You missed being hugged, and kissed and touched.

You were so grateful to have your best friend of all people stuck with you. But you still craved so many kinds of social interaction.

Now you just wanted to cry.

You stood up, knowing harry wouldn’t know yet. Probably in bed on his phone, and you just needed his company.

You quickly went to escape the silence of the lounge room, padding down the hallway in your sweatpants and a baggy tshirt you know for a fact you stole from your dad.

His door was only half shut, and you gently said his name.

“Harry…?” Your voice wavers.

“Yea, love?” His voice is soft, welcoming as it always is.

You push through the door to see him laying in bed, also in sweatpants and a rolled up long sleeve.

He looks at you and tears immediately start to spill over your waterline without you even realising.

He props himself up, “y/n, what’s wrong?”

You invite yourself over to his bed, and his arms pull you into his chest the moment you’re close enough.

A gesture that is just too much given the circumstances, and although the sweetest, it tips you over the edge.

You feel the tightness in your throat as his hands move to caress your back. Before you know it, your chest is rattled with a sob. You felt so dramatic but you needed to let it out.

He waited no time to wrap you straight into his tightest hug, trailing his hands up to your the back of your neck, stroking the skin there with his thumb.

“Darling.” He whispered, concerned of what had happened, but not wanting to push you to tell him. Just letting you cry.

Eventually it wracked out of you,

“We’re— we’re going back into stage four restrictions.” Your reasoning came out with a shaky voice.

You felt his intake of breath once you’d said it, and it got held in his chest for a few seconds before getting let go all at once.

“Fuck.” He cursed out defeatedly.

You sit in silence, but not once does his grasp on you loosen.

“I just want to see my family outside of a fucking FaceTime.” You whisper.

“I do too…” he closes his eyes, “I wish there was something I could do to make it better, y/n. I’m sorry.”

He grabs your hand, amending what he said before.

“I know this is shit, but we’ll get through it. We get through everything together.” He smiles, it doesn’t quite crinkle the corners of his eyes like it usually does, but it’s an attempt at the least.

“I’m so sick of feeling so alone, Harry. I’m glad i have you here, but it’s so lonely at the same time with just us.” You say quietly, hoping not to offend him.

He nods against your head, which is tucked into his shoulder, letting you vent without interruption.

“We can’t do anything. We can’t see anyone. I havent felt another persons touch outside of yours in weeks.”

He doesn’t get offended, he understands exactly where you’re coming from and you’re so grateful for that.

He just plays with your hair as you talk.

“Same here, baby.”

“I don’t mean it in a rude way, you’re very affectionate given our circumstances, but I just…”

Your sentences falls off short, and you shrug. You missed romantic touch too.

“Y’miss being touched.” He enunciates the word in a more suggestive way.

You nod, “not to sound… gross or anything. But I do miss being touched, and held, and kissed.”

He pulls you in a little closer as you speak, almost without realising he was doing it. Absentmindedly ready to do any thing to make you feel a bit better. A bit more connected.

“It’s not gross. It’s normal.” He frowns, “We have gone months without seeing our own family. I can only guess neither of us have had anything romantic going for us. Nothing wrong with missing that.”

“It seems kind of— i don’t know— weird to miss in comparison to the other things.”

“Y/n, tell me you’re not feeling guilty for missing getting kissed. Or laid.”

“I’m…” you sigh as you realise you can’t even pretend you’re not, and he rolls his eyes lightly.

“Jesus.” He let’s out a breathy laugh.

“It’s not just that, atleast, that I miss.” You shake your head, still feeling a little embarrassed.

“I miss the connection. The feeling of it.”

His facial expressions quickly get more serious as you talk. All of the words coming from your mouth can be interpreted in varying ways, but his mind can’t help but veer towards the more sexual aspect of it. Especially since you didn’t deny you missed getting laid.

“I get it. I miss having the opportunity to want someone.” He nods again, watching your reaction to what he says like a hawk.

You look away, almost shy, “To really want it.”

“Yea…” he glances at your lips without realising he’s doing it, and the feeling you’re both discussing at this very moment is welling in the pit of his stomach.

His hands reach out to wipe away the damp glaze on your cheeks from your tears.

“I’m proud of you.” He sighs.

“What— Why?”

“Because. You may think you’re not, but you’re doing so well.” He looks utterly sincere as he says it.

“Harry…” you shake your head as his name slips past your tongue, and you bury your face further into the crook of his neck, breathing in his scent, lips accidentally brushing the base of his neck.

This has him tingling, your soft mouth so close to his pulse point, he wonders if you can feel it racing.

“Y/n.” He squeezes your hip, “If you want me to kiss you, just know all you have to do is say the words.”

He swallows as you still, processing the offer he’s just put on the table.

“But—“

“I miss it too. The really wanting it.” He caresses the soft skin of your waist with the hand that’s now slid underneath your shirt.

You go quiet, suddenly the air so thick with tension you couldn’t breathe.

“If you want anything from me, I’ll give it to you.” He whispers, so softly. Like he wants you to hear him, but also not at the same time.

You’re not sure how to even react.

You’re horny. Emotional. And frankly a little bit too infatuated with his lips to breach into the territory of being able to touch them with your own.

“Harry.” You repeat, sounding unsure.

“Baby, if you wanted it, I would do it.”

He scratches his fingers down your spine, noting the absence of a bra strap.

You shudder at the sensation. Realising no one has made you feel like this in so long.

“Very sudden.” You blurt, trying not to push forward with you hips whatsoever, despite the ache that’s quickly conjured between your legs.

You fear that if you feel him, all sense of rationality will be gone.

“I know.” He says, lips dragging down your temple.

“M’beginning to realise, y/n, that i would do just about anything to keep you happy.”

Your heart pangs and you indulge a little, hands coming up to weave through his hair and pull on it gently.

And he groans, sounding so pretty.

“You deserve this too.” You carefully say. You’re not even sure where the line is between the two of you. But you continue talking anyway,

“Always so sweet… so giving. Who would I be to not make you feel loved on too.”

“Christ.” He whispers as you tug on his brown curls again, which slide against your fingers like silk.

“How far is this gonna go, H.” You ask, needing clarification before you go insane.

“Far as you want it.”

“I need specifications.” Your hands come to his cheeks, “I don’t want to be making any assumptions here.”

“Angel, If you asked me for my mouth on your pussy, I would give it. Want my cock? It’s yours. Use me, touch me, anything you want you already have.”

You feel yourself melt at the words.

You cave, leaning forward and capture his perfect lips, feeling their shape slot against yours like an art piece.

His lips feel heavenly, and you nearly black out at the sensation that overtakes your body.

“Fuck, that feels so good love.” Harry says against your mouth, his tongue jutting out to swipe over your bottom lip.

You hum in the back of your throat, and he tugs your hips so you’re properly seated into his lap.

You can’t miss his erection underneath your core. His clothed length is pressing into you and a moan slips out of you before you can even stop it.

“Need it. Please.” You start to beg, no matter how desperate it comes across.

His hand comes to your waistband, “you’re sure you want me to touch you?”

“Yes, yes.”

It dips underneath the fabric, finding you without underwear and almost dripping you were that wet.

The thing is, going so long with just your hand and a vibrator, the second any kind of prospect of getting dicked down is there— you’re immediately slick with arousal.

“Jesus fuck, y/n.” He drags his middle finger through your cunt, feeling the wetness along his finger tip. “You’re soaked.”

“Harry— oh my god—“ he slid it back down, teasing your entrance with his fingertip.

“Been that long huh. Just the thought of it works you up this much?” He chuckles.

Your hands fly to the collar of his shirt, tugging at the soft material, gripping it in your fists.

You hum in agreement. “More, please.”

“Mm, so glad you’re letting me do this.”

He pushes in further, and just his one long finger is touching places that has you clenching around him.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you.” Praise is spilling from your lips as he curls his digit in you.

You slouch into his strong frame, hand slipping down between the two of you, palming over his erection.

He peppers your neck in open mouthed kisses, moaning at the feeling of you squeezing his clothed cock.

“Can I— fuck— get you out.” You ask, reaching to dip under his sweatpants.

“Yes. Don’t even have t’ask, pretty.”

You flush, hand moving underneath his waistband, finding him also without underwear.

Relief flooded you as you got your hands on the smooth skin of his cock.

He moaned at the contact, “Shittt. That feels amazing. S’much better than my own hand…”

He slides another finger into as you begin stroking along his length.

You both begin to move in sync with one another, the sound of your pleasure beginning to echo around the room.

“Can hear how wet you are.” Harry grunts, fingers curling inside you.

Your hand squeezes around his cock as he does that, causing you both to moan.

“Harry. I need you inside me… please.” His fingers were already close enough to making you come and you weren’t sure how he’d react if you came before he even got close to being in you.

“Can I make you come first? Want you to feel good, baby. If you can handle more than one orgasm, please?”

He wants you to feel good.

Before himself.

You realise this man in genuinely a saint. Like more than you ever could have imagined.

“Seriously?” You still don’t even believe he means it. Maybe he’s just saying it to be nice, and actually wants you to say no?

“What do you mean?” He looks a little confused, slowing down the kisses he was placing along your neck.

“I— sorry. I’m just not used to being so… looked after, I guess?”

“Have other guys not made you come first…?” He looks shocked.

“No… not usually? Occasionally, if I’m really horny and it wouldn’t take long.”

“I know there’s some scumbags out there, but with a pussy like yours… they should be begging to please you.” He shakes his head, not finished talking.

“For the record, lovie, if you weren’t so adamant in getting filled with my cock, I’d be making you come atleast twice before I fuck you.”

He pulls his hand entirely away from your cunt, allowing you to feel his absence as he talks. “Then I’d edge you with my fingers to the brink of your third. Until you’re begging me to stretch you out.”

He delivers a gentle slap over the hood of your clit once he’s done talking. Sliding his middle and pointer finger back down into your entrance to gather the arousal there, and slip it up to your clit.

“Oh.” You breathed out. A whiney noise following from your throat shortly after.

You were surprised. Not because it was Harry, if anyone would be like this it would be him. But you’re used to being a second thought sometimes. Just an aid to an end goal.

You’d become accustomed to it. Now there’s a man in front of you, who wants to please you because it seems to make him happy.

He reaffirms that thought, “I don’t think you’re aware how happy I’m gonna feel when your cunt is pulsating around my fingers in a few minutes.”

With saying that, he pinches and rolls your clit between his fingers and you struggle to find words to respond to what he said.

“Fuck— I— thank you.” You’re shaking a little as he increases the speed as he works over your clit.

“Nono. Thank you. You’re so nice under my fingers. So wet and warm.” He hums as you begin to squirm against his touch.

Your hand movements around his hard cock have gone to a lax and languid stroke, and almost stop all together when he dives his fingers back into your hole.

“Mhm— Harry!” You gasp, quickly starting to lose all your sense of self as he plays with you.

“That’s it, Y/n. Let me take care of you.”

He works you expertly, and your cunt is so unprepared for the attention from someone other than yourself. Its making it hard to hold yourself together.

You’re clenching around his fingers, and the tension in your stomach is quickly building.

“I’m gonna… fuck I’m gonna come soon, H.” You moan, followed by another curse of his name as he flicks your clit with his thumb.

Your pushing your hips against his hand, grinding into every movement. Chasing that explosion of pleasure in your abdomen.

“Wanna feel it. Come on, let it all go f’me.” He coos, keeping a hard and fast pace with his hand.

You cry out his name, nails scraping down his skin as you beg for the final push, which comes quickly.

A curl of his thrusting fingers and your movement lapses immediately, jaw going slack as you come around his hand.

It’s better than he could ever imagine, the noises coming from your lips are sinful, and you lean forward, open mouth panting over his cheek.

Hot breath fanning across his face while you’re still clenching around him.

He moves to bite your bottom lip, earning a jerk of your hips and another moan from you.

After your heart rate slows, he gently removes his fingers out of you.

“Good girl. Took it so well.” He pecks your nose with his lips.

“Can take your cock better.” You let out a breathy laugh.

He smiles, dimples popping out.

“Little minx. C’mere.”

He draws you into a hug, pulling your middle flush to his chest.

“D’ya need a minute, or no?” He asks gently, voice close to you ear.

“No, I’m ok, I’m good.” You blush.

“S’it too much to ask to take your shirt off?” His hand pulls at the hem of your tshirt.

“Can yours come off too?” You chuckle, leaning back to settle your eyes on the long sleeve covering his chest.

He nods, still smiling as he lets you take his off first. Revealing his toned chest and inked skin.

You run your hands along the ridges of his abs as he reaches for to pull off your own shirt.

Lifting your arms, you hear his little intake of breath as he remembers you don’t have a bra on.

The shirt gets tossed elsewhere as he is focused solely on your chest.

He looks transfixed as he trails a hand up to ghost over the skin on the side of your breast.

“Fuckin’ hell. Look at you, Angel. Got the prettiest tits.” He says it with such endearment.

You squirm with pleasure as he cups you in his hand, bringing your nipple to his mouth. His hot, velvety tongue slicking over the sensitive skin there.

Your back arches immediately, a moan sounding from you.

“Fuckkk…” you drawl out, letting him suck it into his mouth.

The sensation is enough to have you a mess in his hands again. The way he works his mouth over you like it’s nothing.

You take his cock back into your grip— having momentarily let go during the haze of your orgasm— and run the head of him through your folds.

His mouth falls open around you, moaning, letting his breath fan over your sensitive nipple.

“Jesus Christ, Y/n.” He groans against you.

“So hard…” you whisper, rubbing his tip over your clit.

He lifts his head away from your chest, glancing down to see the connection between the two of you.

And he moves a hand down, lacing it over the top of yours.

You felt so connected with him. Just with his hand now over yours, and his length pressed into your clit.

You can’t even imagine the state you’ll be put in when he’s inside of you.

“Harry… need you.” You plead again, without care of if he’s sick of hearing it.

You need him. Need him so bad it’s consuming you. All you can think about is him. Not even in the sense that all you want his cock.

You just need to feel like you’re close as you possible can be to him.

“I know baby, I know.” He kisses your cheek, “Y’want me to use a condom?”

“Only if you want to. I’m clean and still on the pill.”

“I trust you. If that’s what you want.” He reaffirms with you.

“H, I have to feel you. Just need to be close to you.” You lean into his neck, kissing the skin there.

“And s’this position comfortable for you?”

“Yes, yes. I’ll take you anyway, any position. Whether you want me on top, under you, bent over… don’t care. Just want you.”

“God, you’re such a good girl. So amazing f’me.”

You let him guide your hand to the base of his length. And then slowly, with his hand interlocked over yours, drag his tip to your entrance.

Your already letting out whines, free arm coming to lace into the hair at the nape of his neck.

You lower your hips down on him, feeling the head of his cock slip up into you.

You both let out a moan at the sensation, whispers of each others names falling from your lips. Gently you keep sliding him in further, soaking in every second you feel him stretch you out.

This was what you missed. The feeling of connecting with someone. Not necessarily with just the sex. But feeling intertwined. Like you couldn’t tell where your body ended and his begun.

“You’re better than I could’ve dreamed, lovely.” He praised, earning a clench of your cunt. One he wasn’t expecting, that had him moaning into the shell of your ear.

He sounded perfect. Like an Angel. And you melted further into him at the sound.

“This is perfect, Harry. Needed it so bad.” You stroked his hair as you spoke.

He removed his hand from over yours, coming to rest both of them on your hips, guiding you down further.

Once you moved your own, you could let him slide you all the way. Your clit brushing over his pubic bone once you reached the base.

“Clenching ‘round me like that—“ he hisses, “gon’ make me come too fast, darling.”

“Let me feel you for a second.” He holds you in place, letting you sit still over his thick cock.

“So wet, so warm. Made to fit my cock, hm?” He squeezes the skin of your waist.

He bucks his pelvis up to you after you moan out an agreement, “Made just for you, Harry.”

And he’s starting to thrust slowly in and out, guiding your hips through the movements.

“Lay on me.” He rearranges himself so you can lay your chest onto his, and rest your head next to his cheek.

Your breasts press up against him, and clit is now being stimulated even more by his front.

“Need you close to me.” He whispers, and you start to bounce onto his cock gently. Bum slapping on the strength of his thighs.

“Me too, H. Have to feel every part of you.” You moaned, circling yourself on him. Each rotation hitting your clit, causing you to moan.

He also is in shock at the sensation of being inside of you. It almost like a surprise to his entire nervous system.

He draws his fern-adorning hips back, only to snap them back upwards. Skin slapping at the movement.

Not to mention the sound of your wetness gliding along his cock each time you got thrusted into, which was echoing through the room.

“Listen to how wet you are. All for me.” He groans, picking up the pace.

Your lips find a spot to suck below his ear as he talks, nipping at the skin.

“I’m so… you make me so wet.” You agree, pussy pulsating around his bare cock.

“Love it. Don’t you? Us using each other like this.”

He says it, knowing the dirty talk in turning you on even more. But you both know it goes beyond getting a quick fuck.

This is everything to you both. Feeling like, for the first time in so long, you are truly not alone.

“Want you to use me, Harry.” You roll your cunt, pushing your clit onto any part of him it reaches, still clenching at the contact.

“Dirty Girl. So fucking desperate.” He laughs, kissing your hair.

“Who would I be to talk, though.” He grabs at your ass, “I’d beg you for this everyday. This sweet cunt around me. For you to touch me. Anything.”

He admits it with a moan following after it, your pussy fluttering.

You feel it building it inside the pit of your stomach.

“Want you to fill me up.” You state, panting as your thighs start to shake, and you realise in a few minutes your going to come. And hard.

“With my come, huh? Want me to put it deep inside y’baby?” He asks you, hips bucking excitedly at the prospect.

“Yes! Fill me with your warm come, Harry.” You’re starting to go delusional.

Filthy fucking words flying from your mouth as your arousal overtakes every rational part of your brain.

“Shit—“ He is pressing you flush to his body, holding you as close as he possibly can. The pace of his cock slapping into you increasing by the second.

“I wanna see it drip out of you, Y/N.” He groans, fucking into you hard and fast.

You feel amazing, your heart racing in your chest, and your whole body vibrating. You’re being stimulated in so many places. Your nipples pressed up to his toned chest, clit being rubbed by his pubic bone, god— and his cock fucking you.

“Thankyouthankyou—“ your mind is quickly turning to a mess with him swallowing you up like this.

You feel your orgasm approaching with a tension in the pit of your stomach. It’s quickly becoming the only sensation you can feel outside of the harsh thrusts Harry is giving you.

“Good little slut.” He grabs your face, lust taking over the both of you like you’re teenagers.

His pace doesn’t let up, and he stares at you with half lidded eyes.

“Spit in my mouth.” You beg, not even sure where the fucking thought was from before it came out of your lips.

“God… fuck— open your mouth.” He grunts, tilting his head to angle his lips to yours.

You open it, sticking your tongue out a little past your bottom lip, ready to catch anything that would drip given the fact you’re still on top of him.

He purses his lips, gathering up his saliva and dropping it down onto your tongue.

It was fucking feral, and you loved every second of it.

It tasted of him, and you swallowed it without even being asked.

Just watching that happen had him fucking you like it was his sole purpose in life. His thrusts became despeate for you.

You shook with anticipation, “I’m— I’m gonna come!”

“Yes… fuck yes. Come on, baby, finish all over my cock.”

His words were your breaking point, your cunt clenching so hard around him that he groaned aloud.

“Fuckfuckfuck— make me come, Y/N.” before he started to pulsate in you, putting his load deep into your pussy.

Having it happen almost all at once prolonged your orgasm, making you continue to moan and writhe in his grip for what felt like forever. Squeezing him until he had nothing left to give you.

Once you slowly both regained your awarenesses, you stayed on top of him. Sweaty and sticky, but you stayed close as possible to him.

You couldn’t fathom that just happened.

“Harry…” you whispered, and he hummed to the quiet chant of his name.

“Thank you. Thank you so much.”

“Stop thanking me baby. You did just as much for me.” He smiles into your cheek.

He brought his arms up to cage you to his chest, “and it’s so nice to be holding you.”

You move to kiss his lips, gently sucking his bottom one into your mouth. Lulling your tongue over it, letting it go with a pop.

“I haven’t felt this present in… in months.” You say quietly.

“Neither have I. Y’make me feel safe. Which might sound odd, but s’true.” He glances at you, watching you smile at his words.

“Im so glad we did that.” You make sure he knows you don’t have a single regret in following through with everything.

“Once we’re showered, gonna have a serious conversation about the fact you asked me to spit in your mouth.” He chuckles.

You flushed, not sure whether to be embarrassed about it or not.

“Got a little uhm.. carried away.” You tried to justify.

“Don’t worry, don’t worry,” he laughs, indicating he was just teasing, “thought it was so hot. Just never would have expected it.”

“I wanna know what else you’re into, yknow.” He licks his lips.

“What other dirty little secrets your hiding up in that head of yours.”

You shake your head, “shut up.”

“M’serious. We’ve got a lot of time to kill.” He’s still chuckling, hand coming to stroke through your hair.

“And I loved that. Loved feeling you so close. You’re a dream.” He pecks your cheek again.

“Make me some of your good cooking and I’ll think about it.” You joke.

“But really…” you pause, “thank you too, H. That meant everything to me.”

He didn’t reply with words, they wouldn’t be enough, so he just kissed you. Kissed you with every ounce of his being.

———

[thescrapwitch]

Tolkien Reading Day 2025

Happy Tolkien Reading Day! Since the theme for this year is Fellowship and Community, I thought I would recommend a few fics that I feel reflect it:

Tend to the Flame by @maglor-my-beloved

The Fëanorians, returned at last, move to Formenos and turn the ruined fortress into a city of crafts and creation, a place of second chances and a home for those who do not know where they belong. Their family grows over the centuries, and Míriel's last work is in time completed. (Or, what if all my blorbos were friends and lived in a cool city together and bonded over an arts&crafts project)

Department of Song and Craft Safety, Review, and Approval by @icryyoumercy

there is a plan to prevent the re-embodied Fëanorians from once again engaging in questionable behaviour or craft. strangely, it doesn't work

White Water Flowing by @starspray

In Valinor and homesick for Imladris, Celebrían decides to build a new one.

The Last Spring by @clothonono

"Perhaps they've had another baby," said Lalwen. "How many are they up to now, five?" "They cannot possibly have had another baby," said Findis. "Can they?" "Perhaps he's coming to visit," said Finarfin. His siblings all glared at him.

to speak, to scream and laugh with the echo by @clockworkcrabofea

In which Maedhros once told Maglor that Angband’s government was very might-to-right so, upon waking up in the past after haunting the shores through the Fourth Age, he decides that he could probably beat up a balrog or two and marches his ass across the Ice to bitch slap Sauron. Sauron finds himself unexpectedly okay with this.

Songbird by @tanoraqui

It was not with heavy heart that Paladin Took approached the Bird's Nest. But his ribs might've been weighty and his liver positively annoyed, and not just from the many fine ales and finer wines he'd consumed throughout his life. It was that damn Lotho again, Lotho Sacksville-Baggins from up Hobbiton way with his air and his Big Men—well, two could play at that game! And if anyone was going to be calling themselves "Chief" in this day and age, it would be the right and proper Thain of the Shire! His blood up, he knocked rather hard on the oversized door. "Maggie! Are you in there? Open up!"

To Live in the Undying Lands by @tathrin

A smattering of snippets set throughout the (im)mortal lives of the remaining members of the Fellowship on the other side of the Sundering Sea.

Anastasis by @chthonion

"Forgive me,” Frodo says in his accented Quenya, the syllables strange in his ears. “I—I have an old wound. It troubles me still, sometimes." "It is I who must ask your forgiveness," says the stranger. "I believe I may be the one who put it there." In Aman, Frodo and Celebrimbor and Finrod forge a friendship, talk about trauma, and deal with the fact that Sauron's ghost is haunting Celebrimbor.

Old bonds remade by @deadqueernoldor

“When the flower blooms, the bees come uninvited” Or Maglor is in banishment as decreed by the Valar, but it seems he is the only one who remembers that ‘banishment from elven society’ means that he is supposed to be alone

I forced myself to stick to nine recommendations (to match our favourite Fellowship) but PLEASE add more fics to this list! There are so many amazing Tolkien fics so make sure to reblog this with your own favourites.

Have a lovely day!

[spencerified]

Hiii, well, English is not my first language, sorry for that. I'm not a writer, but a big reader, so welcome to the community ^^

I was thinking about a reader who works in BAU, gets kidnapped, and for some reason the su-des was filming, and the reader is forced to confess that she like Spencer, (The whole team saw it).

As if the su-des were playing a game like truth or dare, and ended up reluctantly confessing that, the reader having a lot of confidence. If you read this and do it I would be very grateful, ily^^♡

(Can be fem!reader or g!reader, it doesn't matter, I repeat, if you read it and do it I will thank you for the rest of my life)

hiii!!! first of all thank you so much for trusting me with your request 🫶 this came out a little (a lot) longer than I thought it would but i hope it's still what you expected and that you enjoy it!! any other requests are very welcome ♡ lots of hugs for everyone

✿

"Stop."

You're relieved that your weak attempt, your last resort at trying to get the Unsub to show you mercy, makes him stop in his tracks. You still feel the ghost of the edge of a knife itching against your skin, when it was unclear if he really wanted to hurt you or if it was just an attempt at getting you to break. To get you to spill your most deepest, darkest secrets, the ones hidden within the depths of your heart. 

Hidden even from Spencer, who looks at you from (presumably) miles away, through a sketchy live transmission sent to Garcia. Untraceable, of course. He desperately wishes he could just snap his fingers and make it all go away. Every tear, every ache, every whisper of pain. Wants to build a world where you won’t know suffering ever again.

Hotch's voice when he first trained you for what Penelope called 'The Non-Fun Parts of The Job' resonates in your hazy mind. Be aware your surroundings, he said, and you wonder if he might be disappointed on the other side of the camera haphazardly propped up a few feet in front of you, it's red light mocking you with each blink.

"Why are you doing this?" You say, emitting now only a pitiful vestige of your voice which is usually never afraid to speak on anything. It seems amusing to him because seconds later, a cheshire grin blossoms in his face, causing the hair on the back of your neck to stand. 

"Oh, you have no idea who I am, do you?" He says. You've never thought a person could inflict so much fear with only a look and a few words. "I don't remember you either, so no hard feelings. But the BAU has... humiliated me. Took everything I love away from me. My family, my job, my friends..." His voice grows low to the point that if you weren't so on edge, you would have to strain your ears to hear him. "They may think getting away for years feels like a reward to me, but they don't live what I live. 

Watching the TV waiting for the next time the BAU finally remembers me over the rest of the cases they have to push away to the… dusty corners of their file room because of their incompetency and decides to spread my picture all over the news once again... it's no way to live." 

The man's voice is so calm you constantly wait for the other shoe to drop. Like when you're so scared on a rollercoaster and your only option is to close your eyes and wait for the inevitable drop. It doesn't come. It seems like years of inflicting pain on others, and then years of hiding away from the consequences are an upstanding process on how to numb a person.

Spencer sees it too. He sees that this Unsub just won't lose control, and that scares him. Because someone this put together – in a rather bizarre way, wouldn't even bat an eye were he to decide on hurting you. And Spencer would have to watch it all, powerless, scribbling over and over again over his wide map spread out on the conference room's table. 

"I'm sorry..." You lie through your teeth. "That you have to live that way."

Fake empathy towards him, Hotch echoes on your head again. You must be reliving his instructions in your head as a way to keep your cool. You bite your lip so hard you fear it might bleed when you realize you're doing it. He's delusional, you reason. He thinks the BAU wanting to catch him for murdering at least 7 couples in public parks is somehow a way to wrong him. 

"Well, thank you," he says, a bitter tone bleeding into his words. "But it's not enough. Luckily for you, you know just what to do that will be." 

"I don't have any secrets," you confess. Outside of the BAU, you don't have a very interesting life. Go home, say hi to the neighbors in your building, sometimes smile at someone while shopping groceries. No burning, forbidden love affair – mostly because the only candidate you want is endearingly oblivious –, no superhero side quests that would make for an interesting conversation at lunch break with your coworkers. No skeletons in your closet, no secret vices or scandalous secrets that would obliterate your pristine reputation amongst your coworkers. Not even one involving the most important one of them. Of course not. 

"I'm sure you do. Everyone does," he circles your chair. You want to sob when you lose sight of him and feel his presence looming on the back of the chair. Not knowing when your life could potentially be taken away from you is jarring. 

"I don't," you say. You don't need to use the word 'please' for him to know that you're begging for your life. "I really don't." 

Pull yourself together, you think. This is not how a BAU agent must react when faced with a threat. But then again, you've only been here for less than a year, and maybe you just don't have it in you to keep your cool the way the rest of your team would. You take a harsh deep breath. 

Spencer has a rather uncanny ability to tune the world out. When he's engrossed in his job, his books, his facts, it's easy to lose himself on them. Specially when the only person who usually listens to him when he externalizes them is away. 

Not away, he thinks. That makes it seem like you're taking a vacation. A small voice in the back of his head wonders where would you go if you were given the chance to. Then, he remembers he might never find out if he doesn't figure this out soon. The case has the team's complete and utter attention, and he knows these are some of the best minds in the Bureau. But he still feels like it's his responsibility to figure it out; he can't help but think that it's what it's expected of him. He wonders if that expectation stems from being a prodigy, or because he's so close to you that it only makes sense it would be him. 

He feels a rush flowing through his veins when he feels like he's close to figuring it out. Then, he's harshly brought back to the reality where he hogs the conference room's table with his map and the team scatters over the rest of the room, working on who-knows-what, by a series of worrying hurried breaths of yours. 

"Okay, okay!" You say, when he roughly yanks you by the hair to keep you still. The knife you thought was previously discarded hovers over your ear. 

"One clean slash, and you'll be out like a light."

You don't find it in yourself to want to test the veracity of that theory out. 

So you realize your only shot at getting out of here might be giving him what he wants. You can't stall anymore, and one side of your brain tells you that it's your team, they'll get here in time, and the other asks itself if that might be a thing that just happens in unrealistic crime shows. 

"I..." You start. You wonder if Spencer is watching this. You would rather have every agent in the FBI hear this, all 35,000 of them, instead of him. You whimper when the knife inches closer to your skin. You can't die. Not here. Is keeping your perception of dignity worth losing your life? "I like my coworker." 

It doesn't satisfy the Unsub. "Which one?" 

You want to refuse to answer, to curl into a ball and cry until you recover the false sense of confidence you walk around with that has now been shattered. You'll get it back, eventually. Not if you die. So you toughen it up, and breathe deep. "Spencer." 

It sounds so stupid. A mere speck in the grand scheme of things, of problems and situations anyone would expect an FBI agent to have. But it's the hardest thing you've ever had to say.

And it's the hardest thing he's ever had to hear. If it were in any other situation, he wouldn't have put it past him to jump in glee. You, with your head always held high, never one to shy away from showing who you were to the world, with your gentle soul that lured him in even when he tried to keep his heart safe from rejection... You liked him. But that's not his focus right now. Even if every single train of thought in his brain has come to a catastrophic halt, he has to focus, because he can't take one more second of seeing you trying to keep calm with a knife to your throat. 

A picture of Hannah Davis, one of the victims from the original case, hung up on the wall behind you ends up giving the Unsub's whole act away. Still, it doesn't make a lot of sense for Hannah to have hung up a picture of herself in her own house, so the team splits to cover both the boyfriend's house and Hannah's. 

It's just a precautionary measure. Spencer knows exactly where you are.

"Oh, Dr. Reid. Idiots interrogated me about once or twice as a witness and he was a real boom with the ladies at the precinct back then. Let me tell you, if I had his charm, I wouldn't have had to resort to killing couples to get off." 

The Unsub lets go of your hair with no warning and your head hangs down as if you were a rag doll. You find it in yourself to hum uninterestedly at his sick attempt of joking. 

You don't think you've ever felt your heart beating as hard as it is right now. And when you tune out the sound of the man talking and rambling about God knows what, you realize that the thumping you hear in your ears isn't your heart. That maybe the creaking on the stairs isn't a product of your delirious mind conjuring up a sequence where you magically get saved from the bad guy.

You sigh when the man behind you yanks you back again. This time, you feel the need to put on a facade. Make it look like you’ve come to terms with it; if this is how you go, then so be it. The knife on your throat makes your heart rate pick back up, but you don't whimper. You wonder if you're trying to keep it together for yourself or because you are ashamed of the image your team will have of you after this if you don't.  

You hear Morgan kick the door down. Usually, you're on the other side of this. You help talk an Unsub down, and then make fun of Morgan after for kicking the door instead of opening it like a civilized FBI agent. Talking them down doesn't always work. Sometimes, you end up with another casualty added to the case. In the worst outcome, you end up with two more. You're not as unafraid as you thought. Please, God, you think. This cannot be the end. 

Morgan screaming at the Unsub to put the knife down falls in deaf ears. It's only white noise to you now, and maybe that stems from the fact that you have been held hostage for what felt like days with no food, no water, no sun, and you feel so close to it being over. Soon, you'll be on a hospital bed, eating food that only the thought of makes you feel nauseated but even that is better than this. Maybe Spencer will sneak you a treat. Or maybe that's wishful thinking. 

As you're dwelling on what the consequences of him potentially hearing your confession might be, you hear a gun go off. You don't even react when the pressure exerted on the right side of your neck, the weight of the arm holding you in place suddenly fades away as your head falls forward. 

You hear the thud of a body hit the ground. Maybe we can still be friends, you try to reason. Spencer drops his smoking gun to a side as Morgan tries to untie your hands behind your back. Maybe he'll reciprocate, or is that too much of a delusion to have even in your incoherent state? Spencer holds you in his arms when you have nothing pushing you back against the chair anymore. 

"I'm sorry," you sob into his shoulder, not an ounce of strength remaining in your body. You were not made for this. Not made for withstanding this kind of torment. If you mean the torment of being kidnapped, or the torment that awaits you once you're not hysterically sobbing in front of the man you're not ready to admit you love, you're not sure. "I'm so sorry." 

"Hey," he says, tenderly. You don't know how much time it's gone by since the last time you saw him. The only thing you know is that this kind of gentleness is now unfamiliar after harsh hands engraved themselves all over you. "Hey, it's okay. What are you sorry for?" 

"I'm sorry," you say, worn out, the words echoing around your head like a DVD screensaver. You then register his question. "For saying that." 

You don't specify what. It's not necessary; it never has been with Spencer. Somehow, you both know exactly what the other means, with just a glance, a brush of an arm when somehow you find yourself trapped in his orbit once again. 

"It's alright," is it? Part of him wonders if being with you might have become even more unattainable now than it was before. If you'll push him away because the memory of the circumstances of your confession is too painful to bear. His hand hovers in the air before he finds a moment where he feels like you won't get up and run away from him if he touches you. You shudder, but ultimately stay right where you are. "Don't cry. You're okay." 

Are we okay? You have to ask. But maybe right now is not the moment. Maybe right now all you want is to be held before everything goes down the drain. You've hit rock bottom, and everyone probably sees it too. Spencer just wishes you find it in your heart to let him be the one to help you out of there. You don't need to yell for help if you have him – the most minuscule mutter of your burdens will be enough to have him snapping into action. He knows what it's like to give every sign that you could ever think of and still have them ignored. He isn't about to let you go through that. 

"We're going to go home now, yeah?" You nod. When you come to it, your fingers ache from holding onto his shirt so hard you want to apologize to him in case you had hurt him. You don't find the words. The rise and fall of his chest had lulled you into the deepest, calmest sleep you have managed to get in a while, even before the kidnapping happened at all, and in this moment, you almost swear that it'll all be okay. 

When you wake up, there's a steady hold in your hand as the ambulance rocks back and forth. 

"God, they need to get that street fixed," you say. You don't recognize your voice, the rasp in your throat being the only thing to confirm that it is indeed you speaking. It takes you a moment to realize that the hand that holds yours firmly is Spencer's. 

You'd be lying if you said you weren't scared to look at him. What would his expression be like? Disgust? Perhaps Morgan made him ride with you until they got to the ambulance. Perhaps he offered to do so because he wanted to do something nice for you before he completely tore your heart to shreds by saying he doesn't like you back. Perhaps-

"We're almost there." The way his voice manages to shut every deprecating thought in your head should be studied. As a reflex, you turn your head to look at him. You wish you hadn't, because the way he looks at you like you're a masterpiece – a rather flawed one, even if he doesn't think so, isn't helping the ache in your chest. Your first thought is that it's awe, but then you think you might want to get that get that checked out when you get to the hospital. 

You barely notice his hand shifting around yours, until it holds your wrist, his thumb pressed softly but firm against your pulse point. He can probably feel the way your heart quickens when he leans in to take a look at your face. 

"Does the light hurt your eyes?" You nod, sluggishly. He turns over to look at the paramedic who sits next to you. You feel a little bit of relief at the fact that no one's hovering over you. It means you're okay. It's all minor. And mostly psychological. Spencer starts listing studies and tests they apparently need to run on you, and while you love the way he rambles, you don't think you can keep up with him without getting a stroke in the process right now.

You doze off again. God, you needed that. You hadn't closed your eyes for more than a couple of seconds during all of your stay in that house. Stay. You don't know what else to call it. 

Emily stayed with you while they checked you out and in her words, it was like you were moving on autopilot. It was unnerving, but the doctors had informed her that there was nothing wrong besides a couple of nasty bruises you would have to spend extra concealer on. 

Spencer offered to stay overnight. One can only imagine how unsettling it was for him to lift his head from his book to see you sitting up like a spring at 2:45 am. 

"Hi," he says, his voice a hushed breath as he sits on the edge of your bed, smiling awkwardly at you. There's no one else in the room, but it's like if any of you speaks louder than a whisper, the bubble you're in will burst. Your chest heaves with hurried breaths, and you rub your eyes.

"Hey." You're already dreading this conversation. Is there any way to go back to before you were kidnapped and forced to confess you're in love with your best friend/coworker? Anyhow, you don't want to stay in the dark anymore and hurry to speak directly to the point. "I don't want things to be weird between us." 

"We haven't even talked for a minute, what do you mean?" 

You let out a short, humorless laugh, which could be easily just interpreted as a hum. You scramble over the clutter that is your mind right now to find a topic that will help you evade the awkwardness. "... Why are you still awake?" 

He didn't expect you to ask that, if the way his gaze drifts to the side is anything to go by. 

"The book was very... interesting, to say the least," he blatantly lies. You don't know if he's a bad liar or if you're just an expert in the Spencer Reid sciences. 

"I'm sure it was." 

You don't speak for a minute. A minute and 33 seconds, he counts, and you're heading strong for a second one when his voice breaks the uncomfortable atmosphere. 

"Listen, I..." 

"I know you heard it." Everyone probably did. And it'll be less humiliating if you act like you don't wish you could just crawl out of your skin and hide. "I'm sorry. I just didn't want to die." 

"I'm glad you said it." 

You don't know if he's glad you said it because otherwise you would have probably bled out before they even got to the house or because the fog that used to sit atop of whatever weird tension you both seemed to develop whenever you were the last ones in the conference room, paired to interview a witness, or sharing the big couch on the jet, is finally cleared up. 

You can't lie and say you're not relieved you did, too.

"I'm glad too," you say, mostly to yourself. Where do you go from here? Spencer knows a lot of things, none of which seem useful at the moment. He's almost tempted to bring Morgan in for moral support; otherwise, he's about to perform the worst ridicule he's ever had the pleasure to star in. 

You wait for him to speak. He doesn't, and instead stares at the bedsheets that look like their sole existence is an offense by the way his brow creases. 

"You look like something's bothering you," you say, tentatively testing the waters. Can you already joke with him, or is it too soon to pretend like everything's okay? "Is it not a nice pattern?" 

He smiles for a split second. You didn't realize the air had been lacking from your lungs until this very second. "The pattern is geometrically off. If you look at it closely, you'll see that the diamonds aren't quite aligned properly. It seems minor, yet it's still evident enough to unconsciously make the pattern less appealing to the eyes. I suppose that's what you get with mass-produced and machine-made products nowadays."

You smile warmly at him. Only then it's that your chest tightens as the realization of just how much you missed just hearing him talk about things that would have never even crossed your mind in a thousand years, dawns upon you.

"Sorry. I forgot my magnifying glass at home." 

"I see you didn't left the wit back there." You smile at him. It feels foreign. Just a second ago you were avoiding looking at him like the mere action of doing so would make you burst into flames on the spot. Your smile is like fuel for the burning courage consuming his insides as he opens his mouth again. "I... I think- No, sorry. I mean, I am certain that..." Okay, Spencer. Great way to start. He tries to gather his thoughts, which proves to be a much harder challenge when they're all a jumbled mess. 

"You like your coworker too?" 

"Yeah," he says. His lips curl into a warm, genuine smile that does wonders at speaking of the deep affection that harbors in the depths of his soul. One only reserved for you. He's quick to repress it because he doesn't want to seem stupid. 

You don't let him throw you off your feet. "Dr. Reid, can you wait until I don't feel and look like a bus just ran over me to confess your unconditional and undying love for me?" 

He wouldn't have expected a different answer from you. The confidence you wear on the outside is a mask for the way he makes you melt like a bar of chocolate in warm weather on the inside. You don't need him to answer to that. He touches your hair, and you turn to look at the bag of skittles placed on the bedside table, and you know he'll gladly wait until you don't feel like you've been stripped of all your defenses. Until you feel like yourself again. 

[ancha-aus]

Ghosts and medium - Ghost Types Guide

hello!! I figured i should make a list of which type of ghosts/spirits there are! It seems fitting as i never explained and i doubt i will give a clear list in the drabbles themseves!

(Also i havent given content on this in ages and it was about time haha)

Warning!! These are about people who died very bad deads. There will be mention of murder and trauma and abuse and rape.

It doesnt go beyond mentioning but people be aware.

Ghosts

This one isnt actually like other undeads at all and actually very misleading. This is the only spirit type that still has their complete soul, and so are actually considered a monster type. And not an undead. And once a monster ghost finds the right vessel and has a high emotional state, they can fuse with the vessel and become corporeal. Making them effectively a monster of another subtype. (They will always be ghost type first, but they will get a second monster type based on the vessel. Be it like Doll or Robot or even an skeleton (yes they can possess dead matter and a human skeleton could work as vessel))

So. Ghosts! How they are formed is a bit of the mystery as the only people who know are ghosts and it is a mystery they hide fiercely. (Ghosts can both form from dead humans. And from ghosts themselves procreating)

It is rather ironic that most people still call spirits ghosts when ghosts actually refer to the living monsters. (Yes that makes the name of the drabble serie also very ironic because none of them are technically ghosts but that is beside the point.)

.

Next up the undead spirits. First rule with a spirit forming, almost always a traumatic or painful death of some kind is needed for them to form. A spirit is made of the left over magic and lifeforce/energy of a living person and these can be evoked and passed on through very strong emotions. Starting with the weakest.

Shades

Shades are the weakest type of spirit. They are hardly more than an echo. Their powers are limited to being shortly visible and very minimal interacting with things. They are also never fully there anymore personality wise. They are just a weak echo of the person they used to be. Often only remaining because of unfinished business that they may not even remember. It depends on how they feel in life. Often having very hopeless deads can cause shades to form. Most spirits in the world are shades and they just watch unable to interact or reach out for help.

Ask was VERY close to becoming a shade after his own dead. The only reason he didn't is because Dust managed to bring take revenge FOR him on Ash's rapist and murderer. (Sidenote. If you were to check in the cell the coach is stuck in. You would just see an empty and emotionless husk. Withering away slowly as Ash got all the lifeforce and soulenergy the coach had left BECAUSE Dust took revenge for him. Spirit and medium rules get weird like that. Neither Dust or Ash are aware of this.)

Phantoms

Phantoms are the next weakest but are the first type of spirits to keep their personality and all their memories when they die. They have a limited form and abilities as all their energy went into perserving their sense of self and identity. Phantoms are often the spirits who interact with ouiji boards. They are still invisible and rarely visible to the normal people. They could expand a lot of energy to be seen but that would be too tiring for them to maintain for long.

They often just want to be heard and tell their stories. They often want things to have mattered. Their existence to have mattered.

Ash only ended up in this section thanks to Dust as mentioned in the before section.

Horror is also in this sectionbut much stronger than Ash. Horror's dead made him realise how many things had been messed up and how he never truly had any influence in his life. He wanted deeply to have anythign he did matter. To be able to still do things and change things. Which is why he can still interact with the world and things around him. All things considered with how traumatic and depressing his death had been it is honestly a miracle he had still been as strong of hope and determined to make a difference.

Wraiths

Wraiths are the first spirits to be completely visible to people, monsters and humans alike. They appear completely normal and alive. But that is a trap, as these spirits only want one thing.

Revenge.

Once they get revenge against the person who hurt them while alive this feeling does not disappear. These spirits are consumed and motivated by rage and hatred alone. They want to hurt others the way they have been hurt. They want those they find guilty yo be punished.

But the longer a wraith exists to more removed they become from their original target. The longer they exist the less they will care about details. Maybe they originally wanted revenge against their abusive partner. Once that person is taken care off they will start looking for other abuse partners to kill. Once they can't find any more they will get into relationships and kill their partner for even the smallest argument. Until eventually they just target everyone in a relationship.

It is a slippery slope and the older a Wraith gets the more dangerous they become.

Dying with a lot of hatred and rage in your heart/soul leaves you as a Wraith.

Spectre

A spectre is not as much stronger than a Wraith as they have more control. They can chose if they want to be visible or not and are not consumed by their rage. They feel all the emotions as they did when alive but their emotions shift quickly. The smallest things can bring both joy but also sorrow and rage to a spectre.

And depending on their mood they will react.

They do not lose their rational thoughts but that makes them more dangerous as they learn and adapt to challenges.

While an old Wraith is dangerous as it targets everyone. An old Spectra is dangerous as they learn all they can about their target and they are patient enough to make your life a living hell to get their revenge. As a spectre is aware that death is just a possible end and escape for their target, and if they don't wish you to die you won't.

Spectres are often the cause of old hauntings in houses. The ones where you see something move or fly by but nothing attacks you. If you did not directly harm a spectre they will not care about you. They will ignore you and you can safely ignore them.

A cold need for revenge and an unfavouring focus on this gives you the ability to return as a Spectre after death.

Poltergeist

The poltergeist is stronger than the before mentioned spirits because they have all the same abilities as the other two but are truly free with their emotions. Tehy don't feel just rage or hatred or feel superchargest emotions like the spectres.

Poltergeists truly feel what they felt when they were alive and they are rare to form.

Rare enough that it is not common knowledge of how one comes to be. Very few in the story know how one can form (what makes them form is finding a freedom and relieve in death. If a person dies believing that death will just be the next adventure and freeing there is a posibility to return as a Poltergeist. This is not a matter of that someone wishing to die and for death returns as a Poltergeist, it is about wanting to life and wanting to continue but seeing death as a means to it. It is a chaotic way of thinking. To look at what everyone thinks is the end and see a new beginning. Killer, the glorious bastard, died a horrible death. But as he was laying there dying, being bitten by rats and mice as he could not even move and felt the hunger eat at him. He realised that death would be freeing. He would be free of the pain and the chains. It isn't that Killer wanted to die, he never did, but he did see it as a freedom to break free of all the chains holding him. And it did.)

Becuase Poltergeists don't feel the need for revenge they rarely focus on that. Instead they move on and start to explore their abilities and their options. It is why they will often make mischief happen. As they grow bored and want to play in a way they can. They want interaction as there are hardly any spirits that are on their level.

As they are powerful the weaker spirits will try to stay away from poltergeists. Afraid they will play and hurt them for their amusement. Some may, some may not. It depends on who the person was.

The Poltergeist is dangerous as they are rare and people just don't know what they can expect of know their limits. Many believe these may have been the most powerful if it weren't for their seemingly mischivious and carefree nature. Ironic, for a spirit.

And last, the strongest spirit.

Banshee

Banshees are by far the strongest spirit as they gain magical powers on their death. They can sing a soft song which is enchanting and able to hypnothesize you and encourage you to remain near them. Which is dangerous as they will hold you close before stealing your lifeforce and life-energy to empower themselves.

They also have a cry/scream which can split walls and crush bones. Which is from a weak Banshee.

Banshees do not feel empathy anymore. They know they used to be alive but the power and magic available to them makes them feel mor eimportant and above mortals. They feel like they have risen above and deserve to be served.

They do not take kindly to you refusing to listen to their orders or if you do not serve them. They will take it as a personal insult and they will try their hardest to make you reject this decision.

Banshees are formed from other spirits. Who manage to collect enough life force and life energy of other spirits to grow stronger.

If you find a banshee you quickly need to find help against it, as if you don't have the right tools you will not win. And the banshee will figure out you are against them, and they will make sure you never do that again.

.

As mentioned above, A banshee is formed through taking Life force or Life energy from other creatures, specifically other spirits.

All spirits have a very limited amount of this energy. Living people generate it for as long as they are alive and use it to make it into mana or just energy.

Spirits can steal this force from living people. Which is why they will often haunt people to begin with. To gain a little bit of this unlimitted source. But it is hard to take this energy from people as the physical body protects this.

It is easier to take from their fellow spirits as they do not have a physical form to protect this energy. Which is why spirits are almost always alone, as the only thing they truly and naturally have to fear are their fellow spirits.

(Ash is safe as he is anchored to Dust. Dust is sharing his own energy with his brother without much of a thought. And because Dust is one, physical, and two, a very powerful medium who has many charms to protect both himself and Ash (and later the other spirits stalking him))

.

There is one more type of undead to talk about.

The living undead.

Revenant

The revenant is not a zombie. A eevenant is a spirit who somehow gained a physical form again.

No one is sure what makes this possible or even how a spirit can achieve this.

This is not the same as possession. This is a way that they truly gain a body that is truly theirs. A body that is specific to their spirit and no one else.

Revenant are immune to possession and most of the other spirits's abilities.

But for now? Not even the experts on spirits know what a revenant can or could do.

After all... It isn't like this options happens...

[mumms-the-word]

Deep Past the Heart

Characters: Emmrich Volkarin x Rook (You) Summary: (Spoilers ahead!) You have accompanied Emmrich to his final test before lichdom. You stand in a cold Necropolis vault as he walks away from you toward possible eternity, knowing he will die the moment he crosses the threshold. The only thing you can do now is wait. Wait and hope that if he returns to you, when he returns, he will still be the man you have fallen so desperately in love with. Nothing is certain but death. Love...that is a different question entirely. A/N: I think this is my first official Veilguard fic? And it's angst haha classic. Anyways, I have mixed feelings about Emmrich's Lich route but the cutscene where he becomes a lich has stuck with me as one of the most beautifully choreographed moments in the whole game, so I couldn't resist writing the scene from a more focused, anxious Rook's perspective. Enjoy! Read it on AO3 here!

I am come to be judged by the dead.

They are the last living words on his lips. The last words of a man who will be dead soon, one way or another. Nine syllables formed on an eloquent tongue, breathed forth with warm air from healthy lungs. In mere moments, those lungs, that tongue, those lips will grow still, and never move again.

It isn’t his time to die. But it’s the time he has chosen, and now that the words are out of his mouth, you know there is no turning back.

His words echo faintly in the vaulted chamber you stand in, soft reverberations you will never get back. You want to reach out and catch them, just one word, maybe two, and hold them fluttering and whisper-thin against your chest until you have absorbed them. The last vestiges of his voice, perfectly preserved in your heart. Just in case you never hear that voice again.

Or if you do, it will be altered beyond recognition.

It’s strange. You’ve spent the last several weeks doing all that you can to save lives—freeing slaves, fighting ghosts, slaying dragons, eradicating darkspawn, stopping enemies before they can hurt anyone else. And yet here you stand hundreds of feet below the surface in a spacious, isolated crypt, bidding farewell to your lover as he faces the end of his life. 

You make no moves to stop him, despite your every instinct screaming that you can, you could, you should . But you don’t. Because this is what he wants.

Emmrich Volkarin, your beloved, is steps away from death, standing at the threshold of a chamber that will steal his life from him and present him with one final test. If he succeeds, he will become a lich, a powerful undead mage that will stand outside of time, a being both paradoxically within and beyond your reach and understanding. His life’s work, completed with his death. But if he fails…

It is death, either way. You both know it. The best you can hope for now is not that he will survive…but that he will transcend . If he does, then he achieves undeath. Lichdom. Forever.

A vast leap , he had once said. Flesh cast aside for bone. Returned, immortal, for all time. 

You wonder if you’ve made a mistake. Not for encouraging him to take this path, but perhaps for coming with him. 

His kiss is still on your lips, the warmth of it fast fading in the chill of this Necropolis vault. You wish, suddenly, that you had placed your fingertips at the base of his throat or against his chest when you kissed, cherishing the final beats of his too-soft heart, the fluttering of his pulse as it thrums beneath his skin. Or that you had inhaled deeply of his carefully cultivated scent, expensive cologne, soap, and pomade, scents he may soon abandon after death when his new form no longer requires them.

You glance at the Lich Lords above, their cold veilfire eyes glowing in the sockets of their bleach-white skulls. Cold, barren, still.

Dead.

That is what he will become…but only if he passes the final test.

Too late you wish you had paid more attention to the elements that made up your lover’s living, mortal self. Already you feel the finer details slipping from your grasp. The exact shades of gold and green in his hazel eyes. Where the last stubborn dark strands of his hair melt into the gray and white. The tones of his quiet laughter when something amuses him. The press of his lips on your knuckles when he kisses your hand.

There will be no more of any of that, either way. Already you miss those things. Ache for them.

Why is it so much harder for you to let go of him, than for him to let go of life?

Your time together has been cruelly short. You arrived too late, he walked toward death too early, and the world never settled long enough for the two of you to find any real time together. You want to kiss him again, but you know better than to move. Because if a single thing goes awry…

The doors swing open, spilling out a brilliant white light so bright it’s painful to stare into, but Emmrich doesn’t falter. Aside from a single flex of his hands, you see no evidence of hesitation or fear.

And yet you still wonder. 

How fast does his heart beat in his chest, as if defying him to stop it? Is every nerve alight within him, desperate to soak in each last sensation, the chill on his skin, the prickle of gooseflesh at the back of his neck, the brush of fabric, the creak of leather, the jingle of chains? Are there tremors in his fingers that you cannot see? Is he terrified, or at peace with this decision?

You hope he is at peace. Even as your hands clench at your sides and your ears start to ring with the stress of watching him step forward into eternity, knowing he will die, he will inevitably die, he will certainly die , you hope he, at least, has no more of the terror that has plagued him since childhood.

It’s the only way you’ll see him again.

You have to let him go. You curl your toes inside your boots as if to anchor your feet directly down into the stone beneath you. You hold your breath to keep from using your voice. You cannot stop him. You cannot intervene.

But dammit, it’s hard .

Every step he takes is another step away from you. Another step closer to death. You have prepared for this. Sat in his study, curled up by the fireplace, watching him review scrolls about the rituals, watching him practice his glamor. You’ve seen the way his eyes grew distant at the daunting trial before him, taking him to a place where you couldn’t reach him…and the way his eyes drifted around his study, looking for a figure you both know will never return to brighten the Lighthouse again. You prepared your goodbye …and your welcome back… and your final goodbyes if it all went wrong. You thought you had steeled yourself to the fact that he might not return at all.

But now the moment is here. 

Every step is like a death knell, the chime of a clock striking midnight. The sound of his boot heels on the worn paving stones rings in your head like the peeling of chantry bells, ten, eleven…twelve. 

Silence.

He stops and turns to face you. The light of the chamber beyond is too bright, too harsh, a wash of milky white fog and light that silhouettes him until he is a singular shape in black. You search for his eyes, desperate to read his thoughts, or perhaps to memorize that particular shade of hazel you took too much for granted, but his every feature melts into shadow.

You look anyway, mastering your expression for him just in case he is watching you too. You will not look anxious. You will not look like you have even a shred of doubt. He will come back. He will come back. You hang onto the thought like a lifeline, and you watch, unwilling to look away for a single instant.

This is your last view of him alive. One way or another, he has to die. You’re prepared to walk his undeath with him, but you want to soak in this last living sight. Just in case.

Come back to me as yourself, Emmrich. Please.

Myrna and Vorgoth join him in the illuminated chamber and the doors begin to swing closed. You stare. You stare and you study and you will your feet to stay planted to the smooth stone floor and you look for a single glimpse of his eyes—

And you see that they are closed.

Your breath catches. You feel your heart start to crack, his name bubbling up from your chest into your throat, ready to be spoken, whispered, shouted, but you cannot let it escape. You swallow your voice as the doors shut with an echoing clang, a single note of devastating finality. 

Then…the silence of the grave.

—————

You stand as still as stone, imagining yourself as steady and cold as the carved marble and granite figures that line the vault. But your traitorous heart beats wildly in your chest, reminding you with every heartbeat that you are the last living thing in that room. You are the wrong thing here in this vault of silence, stone, and stillness. The audacious lover who dared to invade this sanctum of undeath and sully it with your mere presence.

You dare not invade any further. Emmrich is beyond your reach now. All you can do is wait.

You can feel the eyes of the Lich Lords upon you, veilfire glowing green and blue in their hollow eye sockets. Challenger of the gods , they called you. Volkarin’s beloved . You wonder if you are the first lover to stand at a lich candidate’s side to see them off for the final sifting of the soul. 

You wonder if you are the only lover who plans to stick around after lichdom has been achieved. Until death takes you, that is. You, but not him.

You know they are not there to judge you, and yet their faces remain fixed forward toward you, not the chamber beyond. You begin to feel as though you are as much a part of this final test as whatever it happening in the chamber beyond. Do the Lich Lords see you, truly, as they gaze out over the vault? Or do they see Emmrich’s soul, his thoughts, his memories instead?

Do they find you there among them? Is it better or worse if they do?

You know you’ll get no answers from the Lich Lords so you don’t ask. Which leaves you once again waiting. Listening. Hoping. 

Time crawls forward, impossible to track. Down here, deep beneath the earth, every light is artificial and cold, every chamber eternally lit by magical flame. It’s only the flickering of the torches and braziers that tell you that time hasn’t stopped altogether. 

And still you wait. It’s all you can do.

You breathe out, gently clouding the air. When did it get so cold? Or had it always been this cold in the Necropolis, and you never noticed it before? You rub your arms subconsciously, seeking warmth, but your hands do little to help.

What kept the chill at bay before? Was it Emmrich’s presence at your side, his hand eventually slipping into yours, that kept you warm among these patina green and slate gray halls? Or had he cast subtle spells over you, a bubble of warmth to carry you through the Necropolis, his mind on your comfort over his duty as a Mourn Watcher? Perhaps the chill had always been there, but you were too busy basking in the kindness of his hazel eyes and the soothing cadence of his voice to notice.

What happens now that those eyes, that voice, may be gone forever? 

You turn away from the Lich Lords and pace a slow circuit around the stone table. Over your head, the colossal sculpture of three crowned skulls looms like an omen, a second set of judges over the living and the dead. No matter where you turn, the hollow eyes of skulls peer down over you, reminding you of the inevitable. Now that Emmrich is in the chamber beyond, the only thing coming out of that room is a dead man.

How much of Emmrich will be left?

You strain your ears to catch any sound from the chamber beyond. The windows behind the Lich Lords appear open, letting in some of the white light, and yet you hear nothing. Even the crackle of the veilfire around you is muted and low. 

How much time has passed? Mere moments, or has it been an hour already? More than an hour?

You close your eyes briefly, your thoughts a silent prayer, the same as you prayed before. Come back to me as yourself, Emmrich. Please.

It’s the same thing you told him just before he walked away. One last plea, pulled from the depths of your heart, uttered before you could think twice about the words. And in return, he had smiled, his eyes crinkling slightly at the corners the way they always do—always did.  

I will, my darling. I promise.

A promise. One you hope—you know he intends to keep. Yet you know that even if he does come back, he will come back different. Everything will be different. His appearance, his senses, his feelings. He warned you of that just days ago.

Lichdom is a transformation of body and soul. A change in how I sense and feel. And I will still feel, but—

But he will feel differently. You know that. He does too. At this point, change is unavoidable, but how he will change…that is less certain. What will he lose, even as he gains eternity and power?

You recall his soft musing words the day you picked flowers together in the memorial gardens, when you asked if he would still be able to enjoy the flowers if he became a lich. He had answered simply, an academic’s thoughtful reply, but you caught the hesitant sadness in his voice at the end all the same.

I can’t say if the flowers would still hold their bloom for me. 

But what about you? For him to lose his sense of smell is one thing, but to lose a measure of his heart…

You can still picture the flower he once picked for you, the thin stem in your hand, the white petals luminescent in the light of the gardens. The scent has long faded from memory, but the magic of it is burned forever in your mind from when he transformed the soft petals into glittering motes of light. You, in the bloom of your life, basked in the glow of his magic, melting beneath him as he pressed you gently into the stone of the memorial and kissed you for the first time. That was the moment you realized you loved him, alive or undead.

So is it selfish to long for, even mourn what you have already lost of him? For you have lost something . The moment he stepped into that chamber, you lost something. You can feel it, hollow in your gut, even though you can’t name it. If he survives this last test, you will gain something back, but even so…is it selfish that you already miss him as he was in life?

Is it too early to mourn, knowing he was a dead man the moment he uttered those words at the chamber doors?

I am come to be judged by the dead.

You know he is more than his appearance, more than the skin and muscle and sinew that makes up his living body, more than that common, fleshy muscle in his chest that pumps blood through his veins but to which everyone attributes the deepest of mortal feeling and desire. Even when that heart grows still, he will surely still love you, you remind yourself. He had all but promised before he left your side. 

Hadn’t he?

If anything should perchance go wrong… My dearest heart. You are the most magnificent thing to ever happen to me.

You stop. You realize now.

This is why he didn’t look back.

You are a temptation. His last tether to this mortal world. If he had looked back, he might have wavered. Decades of his life’s work, lost at a single glance.

If he had looked back, you would have almost certainly lost him for good. 

You pause at the start of your circuit again, turning to face the chamber doors, your heart racing. Does he think of you now? In his mind’s eye, do you exist as the path back home, a marker for his soul to return to his new lich body, or has he cast you aside, unwilling to let you become his final weakness? Have you ruined it all simply by being there?

You were the one to reach out when he first stepped away. The one who held him by the arm, desperate for another few seconds with him, a final kiss, a last embrace. I love you , you whispered as his lips left yours, a confession you should have said days ago. 

I love you too, my darling.

What if that final kiss, that simple confession, has doomed him? You think of Johanna Hezenkoss, the failed lich, her body slowly shriveling on her skeletal frame, eyes burning with veilfire inside a withered face. Wrong. Half-undead. Stagnant, yet decaying.

Is that the fate you sealed for Emmrich with your kiss?

Suddenly you would give anything, a measure of your strength, your power, your own lifeblood, to ensure that he passes through the Lich Lords’ final sifting of the soul to successfully enter lichdom. You want nothing more than to see him again, no matter what vessel his soul is housed in. Was it not ultimately his soul that you fell in love with? Time is a thief that would rob you both of vitality, strength, and beauty no matter how you attempt to slow it down, but the soul is eternal. Or so everyone says.

All you want now is his soul with you again, rather than passing on to the Fade, or wherever it is souls go when they die. 

Please, Emmrich , you beg silently. Come back.

Perhaps the Lich Lords or the spirits of the Fade will hear your silent prayers, drawn in by your deepest desire, since the silent gods are no longer listening and may not even exist. If the spirits sense your hope, perhaps they can intervene on your behalf, driven by the strength of your wish to lead Emmrich’s soul back again if he needs the help. 

But no, you must have faith in him. That is what he needs from you now. You clench your fists at your sides, determined to mold your anxiety and desperation into faith instead. You can do this, Emmrich. Death won’t keep us apart. You won’t let it. 

A light clamor draws your attention back to the chamber—the sound of the latch unbolting. The doors are about to open. The wait is over. 

The judges’ verdict is set. The scales have been weighed, the soul measured, and judgment passed.

Emmrich is dead. 

—————

Your blood pounds in your ears, a steady roar that drowns out everything else as the heavy doors groan open. You force yourself to watch, willing your eyes to adjust faster to the white light that spills forth. You have to see. You have to know. Death or undeath? A lifeless corpse or an eternal lich?

Come back to me, my love. Come back.

Vorgoth emerges first, a ceremonial knife in his gloved and bangled hands. Wet, red blood drips, fresh and lurid, from the black and gold blade. Emmrich’s blood, dripping down onto the Necropolis floor, each drop glittering ruby red in the light before it splashes dark and black on the stone. Vorgoth sheathes the blade, tucking it inside the depths of his cloak, his task complete.

Then Myrna appears, promenading forth with an urn cradled in her hands, a canopic jar with a lid carved in the shape of a skull. A thin trickle of blood trails down from the seam between jar and lid. You dare not wonder what lays inside, what part of your beloved Emmrich they carved away to preserve inside that funerary urn. The mere sight of it makes your stomach twist.

Did it hurt? What they had done to him? Were his final living moments spent in pain as cold metal carved through his flesh? The thought leaves you ill, your knees weak. But no, the Mourn Watch are not inhumane. Myrna and Vorgoth respect Emmrich. He calls them friends. Surely his death had been as painless as they could make it. You have to believe it, or else the world around you will tilt out of focus and leave you crumpled on the floor, and you cannot let Emmrich see you like that. 

At last Myrna steps aside, leaving your view into the chamber unhindered. To your relief, there is no lifeless corpse crumpled on the ground. Instead, a figure stands where Emmrich stood. With a shift, it begins to walk forward.

At first it’s no more than a silhouette to match the Lich Lords above. A dark, shadowed figure with a crown of spikes and eyes glowing with veilfire. A lich at long last. But is it–is he your Emmrich?

As he draws nearer, out of the white light, more details emerge. Glimmers of gold, the rustling whisper of grave linen, the thick drape of black crape fabric. The doors close behind him and the silhouette melts away to reveal him in all his undead glory, standing regal in black and gold.

For one terrifying moment, you don’t recognize him. His skull could be anyone’s skull. There is nothing left of the hazel gold or green in his gaze. The heart you yearned to capture, the one he once said beats for you and no other, now no longer beats in his chest at all. It is missing, along with every other organ, his gold-reinforced ribcage left open and hollow. He is a walking skeleton now, draped in rich armor and finery, brimming with new power. 

You can’t look away. He has to be in there somewhere. You take an unsteady step forward as he draws slowly nearer to you, searching the polished bone surface of his skull beneath his golden helm for something you can recognize as Emmrich Volkarin. Your beloved.

“Emmrich?” you whisper. Your heart is a drumbeat in your chest, tempo allegro , relentlessly pounding in your ears until you’re almost dizzy from the rush. Please be in there. Please.

He stops and you can sense his gaze, harder to track now that it’s all veilfire, moving away from you to the room around you. His jaw unhinges and though he no longer has a tongue, his voice emerges from somewhere within him, like a spirit speaking from the beyond.

“I see so much more clearly now,” he says. Your breath hitches as you recognize the tones and timbre of his voice. It has an otherworldly echo now, but it’s his . “The deeper eddies of the Fade. The pulse of the Necropolis.”

You can sense the new power he has gained. Magic shifts around him as though he is draped in more than metal and fabric. As if he stands with one foot in the physical world and the other in the Fade. Even his voice sounds like it begins in another plane and is carried forth over a vast distance.

You can’t help but feel awed. You stand before an immortal being now. Yet, unlike when you stood before Solas, Elgar’nan, or Ghilan’nain, there is no fear or wariness in your heart. This is not some cold, unfeeling god. This is Emmrich Volkarin.

You feel his gaze settle on you as he continues, his voice full of wonder. “I have been through blood and darkness, and I have emerged into light.”

You breathe for the first time in several seconds, your lungs shuddering at the sudden cold air. Relief floods into you, even as a smaller part of you aches to think how painful this last test was for him—what trials of blood, what depths of darkness had he endured to earn this gift of immortality? But those trials are in the past now. What matters is not that he experienced them, but that he endured and emerged victorious.

He has returned to you.

You wet your dry lips, the question on your tongue tasting metallic from fear, but you have to ask. You have to know. “Emmrich, now that you’re…do you still feel…” 

You can’t put the whole question into words. He is here, but he is changed. How much? How deeply?

“Oh,” he says, and his voice is like a lovestruck sigh from the depths of his soul, breath simulated by tone alone. “My love.”

This time, his words wrap around you, sinking into your skin and settling deep within you. It’s the feeling of returning home, of a world made right again. It’s the thrilling sensation of a loving whisper on your bare skin, a promise of devotion and a song of praise, the tenor of his soft voice perfected by the subtle, echoing embellishments of his new magic. You nearly weep for the love you can sense conveyed in so simple a phrase.

It’s really him. And he is really yours. 

It’s all he has to say to convince you.

“Come,” he says. “Walk the gardens with me.”

He offers you his hand, now wrapped tightly with grave linen down to the tips of his fingers. You recognize the rings he wears as his usual jewelry, and the sight of something familiar calms your still-settling heart even further. Without hesitation, you take his hand and let him lead you out of the vault.

You can feel the shape and rigidity of bone beneath the linen, but his touch is gentle as he folds his hand around yours, matching your pace as you venture out into the Necropolis proper. Each step you take with your hand in his quiets your lingering doubts. His measured strides are the same as they were in life, the pressure of his touch no different from when he had muscles and tendons to control them. Even his presence at your side beats back the chill of the Necropolis just the way it had when you journeyed with him earlier. 

Everything is as it was in life, simply made more by the aura of magic that follows him. The moment the two of you reach the gardens, your steps crunching the gravel of the cemetery paths, you feel him relax at your side. You wonder what he sees now, now that his eyes have been opened, his spirit awakened to the subtle movements and patterns of the Fade. Where you see veilfire torches and the carefully tended blooms of the cemetery flowers, the cool air broken here and there by the playful twirl of a glowing wisp, what does he see?

You think of that moment in the Lighthouse weeks ago, when he took your hand and placed it on a skull, instructing you to breathe, to focus while he spoke a solemn incantation, the weight of his hand covering yours. When you opened your eyes, you could see the currents of the Fade in motion—glimmers of light fluttering through the air, ribbons of color weaving in and out of sight, and blue and green wisps dancing playfully high overhead, or lingering serenely around the two of you. Is that what he sees now? Brighter, richer ribbons of light, glittering notes of magic, twirling wisps, even spirits walking the grounds? Does he see beyond the Veil, two worlds overlapping, mixing together in a sympathy of color and light, or simply what bits and scraps are strong enough to push through, eager to brush against the physical world? You wish you could see. You wish you could share in the vision with him.

“It’s…beautiful,” he murmurs. You look up, studying his new profile. It will take some getting used to, but it doesn’t frighten or disturb you. When he turns his face toward you, you can feel the warmth of his gaze again, even though there is nothing left of the hazel eyes you once fell in love with. “To think, I can share this first glimpse of wonder with you, my darling. It makes this moment all the sweeter.”

If he were still capable of tears, you know he’d be weepy right now. He always did get philosophical around flowers. And it’s you knowing that, sensing it in his voice, that dispels the last of your doubts. You squeeze the bones of his hand and whisper, “I knew you’d come back to me.”

His next words are confirmation and promise, reassurance and affirmation, his affection as clear and warm as it was in life, even despite the new echo. It is confident, certain, and tender, and as before, it settles somewhere deep past the heart, where nothing can ever take it away from you again.

“Always, my love.”

[fatalforesight]

am i dragging this forever?

shauna shipman x jackie taylor (shaunahat hinted): An alternate version of s3e1 where Shauna heads into the woods instead of Mari. She wakes up injured in the pit. And with no one coming to save her, it's time to start speaking to ghosts again. Jackie, as always, is vindictive in her deathly appearances.

content: 18+, minors dni, sexual tension, angst, dead!jackie, grief, toxic yuri behavior

word count: 2,688

“You’re not my mother, Natalie. You can’t ground me!”

There is a rage that has lived in Shauna Shipman her entire life. Only now, it takes front and center. Every moment of every day.

Natalie frowns. “I’m not grounding you. I’m–”

“Telling me to go back to my stick hut for a week sounds a whole lot like a fucking grounding,” Shauna spits. Mari is wide-eyed, saliva-stew dripping down half her face. “I made this dinner. I butchered the meat, I stirred the pot. You don’t get to ground me from the dinner I made!”

“You can’t spit in Mari’s food and then–”

Shauna almost screams. “Who cares if I spit in her goddamn stew!” She turns on a dime, stalking towards Mari. “If I did, you should be grateful. You want to have a ceremony in honor of my baby? That baby was me! He was me! Is my spit not holy enough for you, Mari?”

The entire team is silent as they watch the explosion happen. Mari is terrified. Shauna glances around her, locking eyes with each one of them. It’s impossible to know for certain what they’re thinking – do they pity her? Hate her?

“Fuck this. I don’t need any of you.”

She stomps away into the woods, away from the stupid ceremony and the stupid feast. The woods are quiet, but to Shauna, the quiet isn’t eerie. Having ceremonial dinners to honor dead best friends and babies is eerie, but the trees and crickets are static on a warm television. They’re safer than walls and a roof.

Gradually her pace slows. And as the anger cools, Shauna feels that she ought to turn back. But then she remembers the paper lanterns, the gravesite. If she goes back, Lottie may very well be in the middle of mumbling some incantation in French or Swedish over a pile of bones. And for everyone’s sake, Shauna decides it will be better for her to go back in the morning. So she takes another step away from camp, and screams when she realizes she’s falling.

~

Fucker. Fuck. Ow. Fuck.

Pain brings Shauna back to the world. It always does. Sunlight shoots through the canopy of trees, and she winces at the brightness. How long was she out?

And her knee. Her leg. Just a glance tells her that it’s bad. Dislocated? That’s probably the best case scenario. It burns like she’s been bit by a million ants. And she’s in… a hole. A massive hole. Someone dug this hole on purpose, like that kind of massive hole. Between the pain in her leg and the hopelessness of getting out of the ditch, Shauna can’t help it. She begins to cry, and that dumb face flush that happens every time something stupid happens to her is hot in her cheeks. The kind that comes from deep embarrassment, when you’re just embarrassed to be alive. Like when you get into your first car accident, or fall in front of the whole cafeteria, or the cops get called on the bonfire.

“Who digs a fucking hole in the middle of nowhere?” Shauna mutters. Her whole body is trembling now. From fear? Septic shock via dislocated knee?

“Who falls in a hole in the middle of nowhere?”

The words echo through the leaves. They come from everywhere and nowhere all at once. Shauna whips her head upwards at neck-breaking speed to find the voice coming from somewhere above her. But there’s no one. “Hello?” Shauna yells. No response. “... Jackie?” she whispers.

“Shauna,” the voice teases. A soft lilt, like Jackie was hiding just out of sight and beckoning Shauna to come find her. But still, Shauna can see nothing. No one is with her.

Shauna closes her eyes as tears continue to prick in the corners of them. From pain? Surely, but what kind? “Not real. She’s not real. It’s just me.”

“Not real?” Jackie scoffs. “Asshole. C’mon, Shipman. Open your eyes.”

She does. And there’s Jackie. Sitting on the far end of the hole, pressed against the wall, as far from Shauna as she can get. A blush in her cheeks. Her letterman jacket sitting perfectly on her frame, just like it did a year ago. She’s in the pose Shauna used to keep her in–

“Am I dying?”

Jackie just smiles. It’s one of those stupidly perfect smiles, the kind where people say it’s perfect because it’s imperfect. “You have a dislocated knee, Shauna, not a stab wound. Not happy to see me?”

The world seems to spin. One of the first things Shauna feared after Jackie’s death was that she would forget how she looked. She didn’t keep a picture of Jackie in her wallet, so all she had was memory. But the image she sees now is exact. The posture, the makeup, the skinny legs and the part of her hair. Styled, like how Jackie styled herself before the crash. “No, Jackie. I’m always happy to see you.”

The apparition nods. “Likewise.” But Shauna knows that wouldn’t be true. Then she looks around, taking in the hole. “This is strange. It’s like, perfectly rectangular. Dug, not natural for sure. Did one of you do this?”

“No,” Shauna responds. Her eyes are focused on the way Jackie’s lips move, and she’s barely listening to the conversation. Then the lull goes on too long, and ghost-Jackie raises an eyebrow in the silence. “I don’t think so. I guess Coach could’ve, but we’re pretty sure he’s dead.”

“No body, no proof,” Jackie counters. “That’s how all the best set up the plot twist, right? But I think it wasn’t him either. Looks older, if you ask me. Like I know anything!” She laughs, but Shauna doesn’t join in. “This tarp though… mighty suspicious if you ask me!” A painted fingernail taps the blue plastic. “Why are you here?”

Silence again. For a long time, Jackie says nothing, staring at the ground and plucking at the edge of the tarp Shauna had fallen through. When she looks up, she seems to have great concern in her eyes, but she smiles anyway. “Well, Shauna… you’re gonna have to set that knee.”

Shauna gulps. “I don’t need you to tell me that,” she snaps.

“Then why haven’t you done it already?” Jackie shifts onto all fours, crawling slowly to where Shauna sits. The heartbeat in Shauna’s chest accelerates at the image. Jackie comes forward just barely on every word she utters. “All you’ve got to do is… push it back into place. It’ll hurt, but it’ll be fast.”

The sun is right above them now. Seriously, how long had Shauna been knocked out for? Tears are falling fast down her cheeks. She isn’t panicking, but Jackie being this close is making her nervous. “I can’t. I can’t. I just have to wait, wait for one of the others–”“They’re not coming. You have to do this yourself. I can’t help you, they cannot help you. It’s just you. It’s only you.” Jackie is so close now, sitting on her knees just inches away from Shauna’s feet. Close enough to touch, to pull close, but Shauna won’t reach out. Something about this Jackie, this almost-ghost, always seems too fragile to touch. “You’re alone, Shipman.”

Shauna weeps. “I’m not. I’m not alone, shut up.”

“Okay, so you’re not. What you rather our teammates find, hm? Shauna Shipman, pathetic,” the word is like bile coming out of Jackie’s mouth, “begging for someone to take care of her. Or… Shauna Shipman, a leader, who set her own knee before anyone could get to her.” Her breath could be falling on Shauna’s knees if this was happening. If she was real. If it was just the two of them, all alone, in this stupid pit, in these stupid woods. There would be breath, and Shauna could just reach out to tuck the stray piece of blonde hair back behind Jackie’s ear. “Okay,” Shauna sighs.

“You need a stick to bite on?” Jackie murmurs. Shauna shakes her head.

“Put both of your hands on your knee, Shauna.”

Doing as she’s told, Shauna takes a deep breath and settles her fingertips on her left knee.

“On three, you’re going to push.”

Shauna’s chin quivers, tears still coming down against her will. “No, no.”

“Yes. I’ll be here the whole time. I’ll be here when it’s over.”

Hadn’t Jackie just said she was alone in this? Her hands are shaking. Her eyes are squeezed tight. All Jackie is now… is a voice.

“One.”

God, her knee hurts. Did Coach Ben feel it when his leg got crushed? When do you know the leg is past saving?

“Two…”

When do you know someone is past saving?

“Three! Push, Shauna! Push!”

The scream could be heard for miles, Shauna thinks, but she can’t hear it herself. Just feel her jaw ache from opening wide, just feel her body crumple like paper. And, with her eyes still closed, she swears she feels a hand on her face, a body wrapped around hers, an embrace from the most familiar body she knows that is not her own. 

“Bet you wish I was there to say that when the baby came,” Jackie quips. That’s how this falsehood always goes. Both entirely cruel and entirely kind, all at once and all the time. Volleying Shauna’s emotions and perceptions around until she’s dizzy and frustrated.

“Don’t talk about him.”

Jackie just hums into Shauna’s ear. A lullaby. “Don’t open your eyes yet, okay? Stay just like this,” Jackie shushes her. Small fingers glide through Shauna’s dirty, matted hair. Like magic, there’s no tangles in the wake of the finger combing. And the hand is warm, and the hug is warm, and for a small moment, Shauna is only seventeen years old, and nothing matters except for Jackie.

“Is this how Jeff held you?” A shocking question, running over Shauna like ice cold water. Kind. Then Cruel. And again. To balance it out, Jackie’s hand falls until it’s holding Shauna’s tear-stained cheek. “No, probably not. He’s not good at the sweet parts, not really. And nothing can substitute the way girls know how to hold each other. Right, Shipman?”

“Stop,” Shauna begs. “If you’re going to do that just leave me alone.”

“I’m always right here, even when you can’t feel me.” Her face is closer to Shauna’s now. The breath – the breath Shauna could not feel earlier – now lightly dances across her mouth, her nose, her chin. So close. So real. There are smaller fingers, then, tiny, tiny, tiny fingers touching Shauna’s hand. “Oh,” she whimpers, still with her eyes closed. She can’t look. She can’t bear to look.

“I’m taking care of him until you get here. But it isn’t time yet.”

Shauna does not feel peaceful. But for the first time in months, she doesn’t feel alone. “Why not? Why can’t it be time, Jackie? I don’t want to keep doing this.” The frustration pours out. Shauna Shipman does not belong with the other crazy girls and their ceremonies and their prayers and their storytelling. But she doesn’t belong at Brown, or Rutgers, or high school, or her home. She belonged to two people in the entire world, and they’re dead. “I can’t keep doing this,” she sobs.

“Shauna?”

The hands disappear. The warmth of bodies close to hers dissipate, and all that’s left is the heat of the sun. She feels empty again. Not whole, not complete. The world dims and loses its color. It had been brighter, she was certain, just a moment ago. Shauna looks up to where the new voice is, and finds someone standing at the lip of the hole.

“Melissa? How much did you hear?”

Melissa is alone, in her dumb, backwards hat. “I heard you scream. And… I just heard you say you can’t keep… doing something?” She seems to be taking stock as she looks Shauna up and down. Her eyes land on the leg. “Oh, God, Shauna, your knee–”A sigh of relief leaves Shauna before she can stop it. After what happened with Jackie’s body, she tries hard to not let anyone know about moments like that. She doesn’t even write about them in her journals. No input is necessary about whether or not Shauna Shipman is crazy, or connecting with a deity, or whatever.

“I set it. That’s why I was screaming.” Melissa doesn’t reply. “Can you help me out of here or not, Melissa?” Melissa smiles, and Shauna realizes that it’s kind of a nice smile. It’s gentle. Welcoming, even. Not perfect, not imperfect. Just kind. Maybe it’s just the timing, but Shauna considers the fact that Melissa may not be one of the eerie quiets, but one of the static quiets.

“I’m gonna get you out of there, okay? Let me get a stick, or something. Don’t move. Well, don’t try, at least.” Melissa stumbles over every sentence to some degree. Shauna only stares at her in contemplative wonder. One person from the entirety of camp hears her scream, and it’s the girl with the emotional support baseball cap. Strange.

Shauna glances around. No Jackie. No baby. Jackie had said no one was coming to help – but Melissa was up there, trying to help. Rustling through the brush, and looking for a solution. Did you send her? Shauna desperately wanted to ask. But it was pointless, and it’s not like she was going to talk to Jackie with Melissa around.

“So I couldn’t find anything to help, but I think I’m strong enough to pull you out. Can you get to one of the edges and stand?”

“You think you’re strong enough to pull me out without just falling in?”

Melissa frowns. “Carrying stuff is kind of all anyone will let me do around here. Summer conditioning couldn’t even get me this buff,” she jokes.

Shauna just shrugs. She pulls herself to her feet, wincing when she accidentally puts some weight on the injured leg. “Good job!” comes the encouragement from Melissa. She was waiting at the edge of the hole closest to Shauna. The earlier embarrassment returns as Shauna is forced to hop towards the corner Melissa is bending over. “You’re doing great! Now just take both my hands, and try to protect your leg as much as you can.”

Struggling at first, Shauna can only really try to push off with her one good leg to give Melissa any help. But the other girl was right – she is pretty strong. Melissa groans with effort, and Shauna feels her feet come off the ground. “Come on,” Melissa grunts.

And that makes Shauna feel… something. But she can’t put her finger on just what.

Finally, Melissa successfully pulls Shauna out of the pit and drags her onto even land. It isn’t without a price; Shauna’s knees drag near the edge of the hole and she moans in pain. Her hands drop from Melissa’s as soon as possible, immediately cradling her leg.

“Let me look at it,” Melissa offers, and crouches down next to Shauna.

“No!” Shauna yells.

The woods go quiet. Maybe too close to eerily quiet. But Melissa is so close to Shauna now. Just as close as Jackie was. This breath is different. More real. Not just a memory, but a current sensation. And Shauna doesn’t like that she can feel the difference. That she knows there is a difference between how physically real Melissa is and how physically gone Jackie is.

“I mean… I mean I just want to get back to camp. Right now. We’ll look at it there.”

Melissa nods, even though she looks like she may not understand. “Okay, Shipman. Sling an arm around my shoulder and we’ll get you there, um, lickity splat. Or something.”

This is not the kind of girl Shauna would have been caught hanging out with back home. Too awkward, too unsure. But out here, this is the most normal person in the world. Not a sycophant, not a psycho, not an action hero. And decidedly, not too boring either.

“Or something,” Shauna replies. And then she gives Melissa a tiny, tiny smile.

[1thesewordsaremyown1]

I Know Wherever You Are, You're Watching Over Me

In the face of a devastating loss, Buck realises that life is too short to not face how he really feels

Read here on ao3 or below

Buck sat on the park bench, watching the little girl being pushed on the swing by her father.  She was squealing in delight, urging him to push her higher and higher.  After a few more pushes, Buck watched as the girl braced herself, and once she reached her peak the tiny girl launched herself from the seat, long hair flying behind her, as she landed on her feet in the sand with all the grace of a gymnast making a successful dismount from the vault.  Buck smiled as the girl whooped and cheered, her father applauding and grinning proudly.

“She’s got a daredevil streak in her that one,” Bobby said from next to Buck.  “Just like her father.”

“God, I hope not,” Buck replied immediately.  “The amount of scrapes I got into – I’ve spent enough times in hospital waiting rooms, thank you very much.”

The little girl raced back to her father and Tommy scooped the girl up and spun her around with a laugh before placing her back on the swing so she could go again.

Buck sighed as he watched them.  “This is all I have ever wanted,” he admitted to Bobby.  “Kids, a family – to be happy.”  Buck swallowed thickly, a lump forming in his throat.  “But I know this isn’t real.  That this can never be real.”

“Why do you think that?”

Buck continued to watch his family for a few more precious seconds.  “Because that gorgeous little girl doesn’t exist.  Because Tommy and I aren’t together anymore.”  Buck finally turned to look at Bobby, tears glistening in his eyes.  “Because you’re gone.  Because no matter how my future goes, I’ll never have you officiating my wedding like you did for Chim.  I’ll never be able to introduce my kids to their Grandpa Bobby.  I won’t have you anymore.”

“But you can still have all of this Buck,” Bobby said gently, gesturing towards the two in the playground without taking his eyes off Buck.  “She may not be here now, but I have no doubt that one day you’ll be cradling that little girl in your arms.  And Tommy?  You two were meant to be together.  That man came racing to help you, breaking God knows how many laws all because you asked, and you weren’t even together at the time.  There’s no denying that he still cares for you – and you for him.  And as for the last thing…” 

This time Bobby tore his eyes from Buck and looked over at Tommy and his daughter laughing over at the swing set.  “Well, you’re right – I won’t be able to officiate at your wedding or be able to hold your kids.  But there is one thing that you’re wrong about.”  Bobby placed a hand on Buck’s shoulder and squeezed, his eyes back on Buck, his gaze intense and full of love.  “You will always have me, Buck.  You may not see me, but I’ll be there.  And know that I will be so proud of you kid.  No matter what, I will always be with you.  Always.”

******

Buck jerked awake, Bobby’s voice still echoing through his head.  For just the briefest moment he was confused before reality came crashing back down.  He touched a shaky hand to his cheeks and when he pulled them away and looked at his fingers, he found them damp from the tears that had fallen in his sleep.

Glancing around, Buck realised he wasn’t in his bedroom, and it took him a moment to recognize that he was lying on his couch in the living room.  Frowning, he tried to remember how he got there.  Oh, that’s right – after the funeral service, Buck had invited the 118 and their families to his house for an informal wake to celebrate Bobby’s life.  He had offered to host so that Athena didn’t have one more thing on her plate to deal with – ever since Bobby’s death, he had taken his Captain’s last words to heart and had been doing everything he could to be there not only for Athena and the kids but for the rest of the 118.  However, that, coupled with his inability to get a decent night’s sleep since the incident, meant that at this point Buck had been running on fumes.  When Tommy saw Buck swaying on his feet in the kitchen as he prepared to bring out more food, he insisted Buck get some rest.  While Buck had refused to go lie down on his bed (he couldn’t look after everyone if he was asleep, could he?) he had acquiesced into taking a few minutes to rest on the couch.  Clearly his body had agreed with Tommy’s initial suggestion because he had obviously fallen asleep, long enough for someone to throw a blanket over him at some point.

Throwing the blanket off his legs, Buck sat up and stretched.  He had to admit, Tommy was right – he had needed that rest.  He felt, well, not better, but at least more rejuvenated than he had in days.  The ache in his chest that had been present ever since Bobby had died was still there, but at least he didn’t feel like he was dead on his feet anymore.

Buck froze mid-stretch, his arms still above his head, and he cocked his head to the side to listen.  It was quiet – far too quiet for the amount of people that had still been in his house when he had sat down.  Glancing out the window, he noticed that the sun was far lower in the sky than when he last saw it.  How long had he been asleep?

A soft clinking sound from the kitchen drew his attention.  Rising, Buck headed to the source of the noise and was greeted by the sight of Tommy with his back to him.  The man had shed his suit jacket, and his shirt sleeves were rolled up as he finished washing up some dishes.

“How long was I asleep?” Buck finally asked the question aloud in a voice gravelly from sleep, and Tommy turned his head to look at him.  “Where is everyone?”

“A few hours,” Tommy answered, placing the last dish in the drying rack and draining the water.  “Everyone has gone home.”

“Some host I am, falling asleep on my guests,” Buck said wryly.

Tommy turned his body to fully face Buck, grabbing a hand towel and drying his hands as he leaned against the counter.  “No one minded Evan,” Tommy said.  “We could all see how exhausted you were – everyone was fine with you getting some rest.  And the last person only left maybe twenty minutes ago.”

“You stayed,” Buck said softly.

“Of course,” Tommy replied.  He tossed the towel onto the counter and grabbed a few containers full of leftovers and went to put them into the fridge.  “I thought I’d tidy up for you.  You’ve been working so hard doing everything for everyone else, I figured it was the least I could do to make sure you didn’t wake up to a mess.”

Evan felt something bloom within his heart as he looked at the man in front of him, something that for once wasn’t the familiar presence of sorrow that had been lingering for days, and he once again heard the echo of Bobby’s voice in his head, this time repeating something he had told Buck a year ago.  “Tommy’s good people, he’s good for you.”  And Bobby was right – Tommy was good for him, a good man.  And he had never felt for anyone the way that he felt for Tommy.

“I love you,” Buck said as Tommy closed the fridge, his voice soft but firm.  Sure.

Tommy froze and turned to face Buck, his blue eyes pained but holding a glimmer of hope.  “Evan, I know you’re grieving…”

“The way I feel has got nothing to do with me grieving Tommy,” Buck said.  “I’ve felt this way about you for months, I’ve just been too afraid to admit it to you.  Or to myself.”  Buck stepped closer.  “Bobby’s death isn’t clouding my judgment, if that’s what you’re worried about.  It’s made it clearer.”  

Buck took a deep breath, trying to process his thoughts and Tommy stood there patiently, waiting for Buck to say what he needed to say.  “Bobby’s death… it was a reminder of how dangerous this job is.  In the years since I’ve become a firefighter, I’ve had a truck land on me, been caught in a tsunami and struck by lightning.  I’ve seen my friends get stabbed and shot, contract dangerous diseases and get rebar through the brain.  And every time we have all come out the other side – until now.  We finally ran out of luck and I…”  Buck swallowed thickly.  “I watched Athena bury her husband today.  And I can’t even imagine what that’s like.  But she at least got to spend seven years with the man she loved.  And if something were to happen to you Tommy…”  Buck’s voice cracked.  “And I – I never told you how I felt, I would never… I couldn’t…”  Buck’s restraint broke and he couldn’t stop the tears from falling once again.  “I can’t lose you too Tommy, I can’t –”

“Hey, shhh, it’s okay,” Tommy said, immediately pulling Buck into his arms and holding him tightly.  “I’m here Evan, I’m not going anywhere.  It’s okay, you can let go.”

And Buck did.  For so long he had been keeping it together, trying his hardest to be strong for everyone like they needed, like Bobby had wanted.  Now that he was finally allowing himself to feel for the first time since Bobby had died it was like his own personal tsunami of grief was washing over him.  And he knew it would have overwhelmed him too, if it hadn’t been for Tommy’s strong arms around him, anchoring him, keeping him safe.  He grasped onto that feeling of security, letting the emotions overwhelm him, knowing that Tommy would be there to catch him if he fell – like he always did.  His body shook with violent sobs as he finally allowed the grief that he had been hiding from everyone to emerge, and he gripped Tommy’s shirt tightly in his fists like a lifeline, as he buried his head into the other man’s neck and cried long and hard until the tears would no longer come.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured.

After what felt like a lifetime, and Buck’s cries had eventually subsided, Buck stepped back just a fraction to give them some space but not enough that Tommy’s arms didn’t leave Buck’s waist.  Keeping one hand wound n Tommy’s shirt, Buck raised the other to his face to roughly scrub away the tears.

“You have nothing to be sorry about Evan,” Tommy insisted softly.

“But your shirt,” Buck said numbly, looking at the tear stains marring the pristine, white shirt.

“It’s just a shirt, it doesn’t matter.  You matter.”  Tommy moved one of his hands up to Buck’s face and gently swiped away one last tear that fell before cradling it in his palm.  “I love you Evan.”

A watery smile slowly appeared.  “You do?”

“Yeah, I do.”  Tommy’s thumb began caressing Buck’s cheek.  “I’ve felt this way for a while too.  And you’re right – life’s too short for us not to be together.”  Tommy smiled fondly, a twinkle in his eye.  “You know, this great guy once said to me “why be apart when we can be together”, and I feel like he made a very valid point, one that I wish I had listened to earlier.”

Buck let out a watery laugh.  “You don’t say?  He sounds like a smart guy.”

“He really is, one of the smartest I know.”  Tommy’s smile dropped and his gaze turned serious.  “Evan, are you absolutely sure that this is what you want?  I don’t want to be taking advantage of you if this really is your grief talking.”

“I am 100% sure,” Buck said firmly.  “Trust me when I say you are absolutely not taking advantage of me, just like I am not using you to make myself feel better.  I love you.”  Buck looked up through his eyelashes at Tommy, and in a flash of déjà-vu, he was transported back in time to another moment in this kitchen where he had asked a very similar question to the one he was about to ask.  “And what about you?  Can you believe me?  That I know how I’m feeling and that this, that you, are what I really want?”

“Honestly?” Tommy asked.  “I may need you to confirm it for me every now and then.  I do believe you Evan, but I have years’ worth of self-doubt that has a bad habit of rearing it’s head every now and then.”

Buck slipped his arms around Tommy’s waist and tucked his head back into the other man’s neck.  “That’s ok, I think I can manage that,” Evan murmured.  “As long as you keep promising to stay.”

“I’ll always be with you baby,” Tommy murmured back, unknowingly echoing Bobby’s words from Buck’s dream, and Buck smiled, seeing it as a sign that Bobby was indeed watching over him.

The pair of them stood in the empty kitchen, content with simply holding each other, a source of comfort in these dark times.  The pain of losing Bobby was still so very raw, and Buck knew it would be a long time before that pain would even begin to fade, but as long as he had Tommy by his side, to help shoulder that burden?  Well, he just might be able to get through this after all.

And he also knew that wherever he was, Bobby would be smiling at him.