#I hate it when I have to tag this many characters ;-;

[sentientcave]

Masquerade

You've come to this masquerade ball to finally dispatch the man you've wanted dead for nearly ten years, but he's always ruining your plans, one way or another.

Contains: 2nd POV OC (sorry about all the blushing), werewolf MMC (sadly he doesn't do any fun werewolfy things he's just a guy with sharp teeth here), vague fantasy setting, murder attempts/reminiscence of murder attempts, a long and storied history only alluded to, what do you do when your bitter enemy turns out to be a silly little guy who just wants you to love him?, oral sex (w receiving), P in V sex, this spawned a whole ass novel and it's so so different but this lowkey holds up.

See end for Notes

~10k words - NSFW - 18+ MDNI

“My, don’t you look exquisite,” a voice purrs in your ear.

You freeze in place, glad that the mask hides the colour that springs to your cheeks. You feel like a naughty child caught with your hand in the cookie jar, an unwelcome guest at his masquerade. You thought you could escape notice, slip through the crowd of finely dressed nobles and plunge your knife into his chest at last. But he had managed to find you first. You weren’t ready. You hadn’t been to the garden to pick up your hidden cache of weapons, you had nothing but your silver hair-stick to dispatch him with.

His heavy hands land on your shoulders. “Don’t muss up your pretty hairstyle just yet, darling,” he whispers in your ear, his voice rasping like sandpaper. It’s as if he can read your thoughts. Or perhaps, after all these years, you’re simply predictable. “There will be plenty of time for that later.”

You flinch at the cold press of his mask against your bare shoulder. You shouldn’t have disguised yourself as a guest. You feel defenceless, wrapped in silk and sheer chiffon, a neat little morsel delivered straight into the wolf’s jaws. He could shift in a second and shred you into little pieces, like he had threatened to do so many times before. You try to still your frightened, thumping heart, and pull away, turning to face him at last. “I’m afraid I’m not sure what you mean,” you say, because it’s worth a try at least, but he’s laughing before you can even finish, the smiling mouth of his gold wolf mask mocking you. His yellow eyes glitter from it’s depths, watching you.

“Oh darling, I would recognize you anywhere. I hoped you would be unable to resist my invitation.”

“Your invitation?”

“Yes, dearest. All of this was for you. I knew you could not resist the chance to get so close to me again.”

“To kill you,” you remind him hoarsely.

He chuckles and takes your hand. “Perhaps. For now, a dance, I should think. You haven’t danced all night.”

You dig in your heels, trying to resist his insistent pull, but he simply wraps an arm around your waist and tugs you closer. “I don’t dance,” you tell him sharply. “Let go of me.”

“You’re a liar,” he replies, spinning you into place, one hand on your lower back, pinning you against his chest, and the other still clasped around your wrist, sliding up to engulf your hand. He simply tugs you along with him as he moves, sweeping you along to the music, holding you so unbearably close. He could lift you off your feet with ease, if he chose to, and you don’t have enough power to resist. His scent clouds your mind, cedar soap and clean, animal musk, one of many hints of the wolf that dog him even in his human shape. “You forget, I knew you in your past life. Or have you forgotten that I once sat in your father’s halls? I have seen you dance.”

It was so long ago now, another life, before he was only the wolf to you, and before you were the thorn in his paw, that you almost had forgotten. You had hardly given him a second thought at first, he was just another visiting knight, here one day and gone the next, handsome, but beyond the concerns of the girl you once were. “You failed to make an impression,” you tell him sharply, although it’s not true. You do remember his yellow eyes watching you one night, though he never asked you to to dance. He never spoke to you at all.

Not until after. He saved you, of course, from the bloodbath, because he had claimed you. He hadn’t so much as said a word to you before he burst into your bedchamber, monstrous jaws dripping with your fathers blood, yellow eyes wild. You still remembered beating him back with the fire-place’s iron poker, and jamming the tip into his chest before you ran for your life.

“I knew you were mine from the first,” he continues. He seems frighteningly aware of your thoughts, as if his own version of the memory is playing out behind his own eyes. “My lioness, avenging her wicked father with a poker. I still bear your mark, just above my heart.” He presses your entwined hands to his chest for a moment. “I’m certain you remember that, at least.”

“Unfortunately.”

“The only unfortunate part,” he says patiently. “Is that I did not take you as my mate that night.”

His words lance through you like lightning, burning everything in their path. Your knees nearly buckle, and if he were not holding you so securely, you would sink to the floor in a useless puddle of silk. How dare he make you weak, after everything he’s done to you? But anger gives you strength, reinforces your spine with steel, and you wrench away, glaring at him, wishing you could set him ablaze with your eyes.

The music falters. You look up, at the musicians gallery, then around the room. Everyone watches, pretending not to, jewelled masks concealing furtive eyes and whispered words. Your own mask feels insufficient, lightweight and flimsy under the wolf’s eyes when your eyes return to him. He takes your arm, his grip tight, but not bruising, and guides you out of the ballroom, into the cold night air. The dark gardens are just a little too far for you to jump down from the wide stone balcony, and there are no stairs leading down. If you jump, you’d probably break your leg, and then you’d be helpless.

“What do you think of our home?” he asks. “Have you snooped around yet, my darling? Planned all your exits and hidden away your weapons and armour? I made sure you’d have plenty of opportunity. I know how you love to prepare.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t found them already.”

“I have been busy with other preparations,” he says mildly. “But I thought I smelled something of you in the corridor by the library.”

You flinch, only confirming that you had in fact been there, hiding your leather armour inside a large vase. “Preparations for what?”

“Your homecoming. The king has made it clear that it’s time to reign you in, or he will have someone else deal with you.” He pulls the mask off at last, setting the golden wolf on the balcony. Sweat glimmers at his temples, catching light from the ballroom behind them. He offers you a wry smile, his sharp white teeth flashing. “I’ve been too lenient with you.”

“Lenient?” you ask, incredulous. “I’ve been trying to kill you.”

“Those who attempt such things do not usually live long,” he reminds you. “I don’t often show mercy. I’ve allowed you to live free, in the hopes that you would come to me willingly, in time. Now it seems I can no longer afford to continue our little game. You will stay with me, or someone else will be sent to arrest or kill you.”

You press your palms into the smooth railing, wishing desperately that you could absorb the cool, dependable steadiness of stone through your skin. You look at him for a moment while he stares out over the dark gardens, his yellow eyes tracking movement you can’t see.

He’s always dressed in black, like a man in mourning, his black curls cropped short around his slightly pointed ears, beard neatly trimmed. He wears little jewellery for a man of his station, just the yellow-gold signet ring with it’s heavy, dark blue sapphire on his finger, and the gleam of jet buttons down the front of his tunic. You were more used to seeing him in his armour. The heavy black plate suits his brutality better than black-embroidered silk.

Silk offers no protection, no shield over his wicked black heart.

You pull the hairpin from your own neatly arranged curls and move fast, striking at his chest, but he catches your hand easily, his amber eyes meeting your fury with amusement. “You just can’t help yourself, can you?” he asks. “Stubborn creature.”

He plucks the pin from your hand and spins you around, pushing you into the railing with the oppressive weight of his presence. Your protests are weak and hardly noticed, but you fall silent when you feel the rough pads of his fingertips on the back of your neck. He gathers your hair up and pins it back in place, not as neatly as you had done earlier, but sufficiently.

“What are you doing?” you ask numbly.

He turns you around, still standing far too close. You stare forward, at the point where his skin meets the collar of his tunic, your eyes glued to his pulse. You wish for teeth as sharp as his own, so you could tear out his throat. His fingers curl under your chin, nudging your face up, forcing you to look him in the eye again. “Just returning your pin,” he says, smirking. “Why do you seem so flustered, darling?”

“Why don’t you just kill me?” you ask. Your hand lifts up to knock his away, but you touch him instead, fingertips ghosting over his knuckles. You know he’s capable of crushing you with hardly a thought. You’ve spent the last ten years learning all you could about him, hunting him down again and again and again with a single-minded determination. He likely could have killed you a thousand times over, if you’d been just a little less careful, or he a little less eager to capture you instead. He should have killed you. You don’t know how to stop anymore, you don’t know how to let go of the terrible anger that burns you up every time you think of him. You want him to suffer, to lose everything, to hurt the way he hurt you. “I’ll never stop.”

There is a flicker of sadness in his eyes, and it pings against your heart uncomfortably. “I never could,” he says, all traces of his smirking, superior air gone. His thumb strokes along your jaw. “I begged the king for your life. Your father may have been a traitor, but you were an innocent girl, and I do not enjoy killing innocents.”

“I’m not innocent anymore.”

“No, I suppose not. But you’ve committed no crimes that I cannot forgive.”

“I don’t want your forgiveness.” Your voice is hardly more than a hoarse whisper. You want to shout, but his hand on your skin seems to leech all the power out of you.

“You have it regardless,” he whispers back, low and intimate as a lover. He touches his forehead to your mask, his eyes boring into yours, twin suns scorching everything in their path. “And someday I will earn yours.”

“Never,” you hiss. You return to your senses and push his hands away, shoving hard against his chest. “I hate you. I’ll always hate you.”

He tugs your mask off and tosses it to the side, tired of pretense. “If you hate me so much, why does your heart beat like that?”

“I’m afraid of you,” you snap.

He laughs harshly. “No you’re not. You’ve never been afraid of anything, my darling. It is one of the things I love best about you.” He leans in closer, the tip of his nose just brushing yours. You can feel his breath on your skin, the sharp smells of whiskey and mint setting your nerves on edge. For a moment, you think he’s going to kiss you, and you freeze, heart pounding, face turned towards him, waiting for the axe to fall.

But he withdraws instead, leaving you to face the consequence of unrealized want. His words prick at you like the point of a sword. Love. As if he would know the first thing about it. As if he knew you.

But he does know you, you realize with a start. He made you. His actions had set you on your path, and his choice not to kill you, each time that he should have, had created the determined, single-minded, furious woman that you had become. The carefree girl who you had been was long gone, dead the first time the wolf’s jaws closed around your throat. It burns you to think that he’d shown you mercy all along, that you had escaped capture or death by his leave, rather than by your own cunning and skill.

His eyes remain on your face, reading your thoughts like you’re a book laying open, waiting for him to happen by and discover all your secrets. “You have become worthy of me,” he continues ardently, pressing your hand to his chest again, anchoring it with both of his own. “I would have kept you like a bird in a cage if I’d taken you then. A pretty thing to amuse me and adorn my halls. But you are no trophy, my love. You will not survive in captivity. Even now, with the king’s sword hanging over your head, I will not force you to stay.”

“Is this some sort of trick?”

“I used to wonder the same thing. A cruel trick of fate, that my mate would hate me so fiercely.”

“You killed my father,” you hiss at him. You yank your hand away, desperately stoking the anger that has kept him at bay all these years. Each time he calls you mate and darling and love your resolve quakes, and you have no sword in your hand to make him regret it, like you usually would.

“He was a traitor. I had orders.”

“And what comfort will that be when your orders are to kill me?” you ask, sneering up at him. “What will you do when your orders are explicit and undeniable, and you are to kill me on sight?”

“I’ll never see you again.”

You aren’t sure what you expected, exactly, but it always trips you up when he speaks plainly. “What’s that supposed to mean?” you snap.

“What do you think it means?” He hurls the words back at you, his anger lighting from your own. “It means I would pluck my own eyes out before I’d kill you. If the king ordered me to hunt you down I’d stay one step behind you until we reached the very ends of the earth. If he came outside this very moment and told me to snap your neck—” He shudders, shaking his head like a dog shakes off the rain, and when he looks back at you the anger is gone, hidden away again behind his steely resolve. “Loyalty only goes so far. He knows not to make an order I cannot follow. If he truly wants you dead, he’ll ask another.” He glances over his shoulder, keen yellow eyes fixing on a point somewhere inside. “I hope it does not come to even that.”

“But why?”

He lets go of your shoulders and turns around, stalks a few feet away, and turns again, pushing both of his hands through his hair in frustration. Because I love you!” he snarls. “You had me the first day you tried to run me through. Oh I wanted you from the first moment I laid eyes on you, beautiful thing that you are, but it was the first moment that you tried to cut my heart out that I knew there could be no other. You have no idea what it’s like, to love such a stubborn, foolish, bitch of a woman? Do you understand what it will do to me, when you leave? But I have never been able to keep you by force.”

“But you let me go,” you say numbly. “You said—”

“Let you go?” He laughs, striding back towards you. “Oh my love, you misunderstand. Just because I couldn’t kill you does not mean I didn’t try to keep you. But you have slipped every chain I’ve placed upon you. I’ve never pulled my punches. I would not disrespect you so.”

“You called it a game—”

He inclines his head towards you. “I did. Perhaps I should not have. But it was easier to think of it as a game. A test of my own worthiness. I admit, I have always looked forward to your attempts on my life. It’s good, I think, for a man to be beaten once in a while, to keep him sharp. Otherwise he forgets to be vigilant.” He sighs, touching the edge of an old, silvery scar on your shoulder, brushing a loose strand of your hair out of the way. “Besides. We’ve both made our marks upon the other.”

“I’ve gotten you more times than you have me,” you say, lifting your chin imperiously. “Two or three times I really thought I’d finished you off.”

“Are you so certain of that?”

You think about it. “Yes.”

“Care to make a wager, dearest? If you’ve left more marks on me than I on you, you may ask anything of me.”

You draw in a steady breath. “And if I lose?”

He grins. “Not so confident now, are you? I only want what is freely given, so you needn’t worry. You can name your own penalty.”

“How magnanimous.”

“I can be,” he says. “Now, shall we inspect each other here, or would you prefer somewhere more private?”

The thought of being alone with the wolf makes you shiver, but it’s not revulsion that you feel, it’s something far worse. The dark, cold balcony seems a world away from the golden ballroom with all it’s legions of beautiful, elegant guests, but it’s only panes of glass that separates you from them, hazy from condensation, opaque enough that you doubt anyone can see through them. It makes no material difference, in the end, but it’s winter, and the cold seeps through your dress easily, your skin only warm where he touches you. “Ah, yes,” you say nervously. “Perhaps somewhere more private.”

“And warmer,” he adds. “As stunning as you look, I do not believe you are dressed for the weather.”

As if on cue, a snowflake descends from the dark sky. You reach out your hand, catching it against your palm. A moment later, the sky is thick with snow, fat, fluffy flakes catching the light and turning the world white. You look back at him. He looks softer, somehow, with that little dusting of snow catching in his thick curls, melting flakes glittering like diamonds on his shoulders. For the first time, you’re struck by how young he looks. He was a man grown at your first meeting, and you had always thought of him as much older, but you know now that he couldn’t be ten years your senior. You suspect it’s much less than that.

It changes something in your perception of him. Softens him.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks, stepping in close again. Although you’ve hardly moved an inch since you came out to the balcony, he’s full of restless energy, moving away and back again like he’s tethered to you by some invisible string. He tilts his head to the side, his keen predator eyes practically glowing in the soft light.

You were glad your face was already flushed from the cold. “I was just thinking. You look so…” You trail off, thinking of the best way to phrase it.

“Handsome?” he suggested. “Strong? Irresistible?” He wiggles his thick black eyebrows, grinning wickedly, making you laugh despite yourself.

“I was going to say young, actually,” you say. “I was wondering what sort of boy you were.”

He holds a hand out to you. “I’m sure there’s a portrait somewhere, if you’re curious. Now come along, pet, I don’t want you catching a cold out here. I do have a wager to win.”

You hesitate. All the ancient, bitter anger and sadness wars with something new in your chest. It’s been so long since you wanted anything more than vengeance. Ages since the last time you felt deep, aching want for someone’s hands on you, if you ever even had. The obsession between you, at least, was mutual, and you had traded the excitement of romance for the thrill of the hunt, the clash of your sword against the wolf’s. His taunting sounded better than flowery poetry to your ears, and you could not help but seek him out every time the loneliness of your new life became too much to bear. He had been your focus, your centre, your reason for existing for so long that you can no longer deny what this is.

Love is not always kind. Between the two of you, it’s become a desperate, wretched thing, living on scraps of attention and hungry looks traded in battle.

His fingers close around yours, and you realize that you’ve reached out and taken the offered hand. You look at him, and he’s smiling in a way you haven’t seen before, half-hitched up on one side, almost shy.

He twines his fingers through yours and leads you back through the ballroom, slipping around the edges of the crowd like the wolf he is. No one seems to pay either of you any mind, although you feel curiously bare without your mask, as visible as a hare in a field to the eyes of a hawk. But your hunter is holding your hand, his thumb stroking over yours soothingly, like he can sense your unease.

Despite that small reassurance, you’re grateful when you step into a nearly empty corridor. A few well-dressed servants carrying trays bustle between the ballroom and the kitchens at the far end, but your wolf leads you the other way, through a few hallways littered with decorative items and portraits of long-dead nobles with eyes that seemed to follow you. You had been there only a few days earlier, but it looks different now. Perhaps it’s that you aren’t on constant guard for the wolf. He’s already here, holding your hand, pretending that he’s not watching you, just as you pretend to look at the portraits and statues and expensive looking vases you pass by, stealing glances at him only when you think you can get away with it.

The silence between you is almost comfortable, both of you too caught up in your individual tumble of thoughts to put anything to words. It’s impossible to tell what he’s thinking. You wonder if he feels like he’s won already, but there’s none of his usual taunting or his infuriatingly handsome smirk. He looks serious, black brows lowered in a sort of pensiveness that you’ve never seen from him. Of course, you had only once gone so long in his company without attacking him physically, and you had been tied to a chair, at the time.

“Do you remember, a few years ago, the hunting lodge just above Lake Pym?” he asks.

You laugh. “I was just thinking about it. Why?”

He stops in front of a door and leans against the frame. “Do you think you’ll be able to go as long without trying to stab me this time around?”

“That depends on whether or not you tie me up again,” you quip back.

“Don’t say such things,” he warns you, opening the door and holding it open, letting go of your hand for the first time in ages. Your fingers feel cold without his touch. “You’ll give me ideas.”

“You’ve made far too many confessions tonight for me to believe that you didn’t already have ideas,” you tease. Funny how easily that comes, like you’re old friends and not enemies. A tidy little fire burns in the stone fireplace, with a cozy arrangement of rugs and furs laid out before it. A low table sits ready, carrying wine and glasses and a few plates of the sort of interesting finger-foods that they had been serving in the ballroom. Raising your eyebrows, you look back over your shoulder at him. He hadn’t spoken to anyone on the way in, which meant that it had been all prearranged.

He closes the door behind himself and leans against it, grinning sheepishly. “I live in hope.”

The room - his room- is neat, a big bed with four posts carved like small trees, green-velvet curtains tied back neatly, is the first sign that he might actually like colour. You imagined him always in sombre black and white, dark hair, white teeth, dressed like the reaper and often so employed. But perhaps he isn’t as stark as you’d always thought. His furniture is solid and well-made of warm-toned wood, and the bookshelves that flank the fireplace are stuffed with books, the odd space cleared out for knick-knacks and trophies. You had never considered that he might like to read. It isn’t something that has ever come up before.

The wolf sits down on the furs and nudges a black lump by the fire. The shape uncurls into the biggest, fattest, blackest cat you’ve ever seen and pads over to you, sniffing your skirts suspiciously.

“You have a cat?” you ask, because it seems unlike the picture you’ve built up of him over the years. Another thing you missed. You had been so focused on him as an enemy that you had hardly stopped to consider him as a man. You sit, and the cat drapes itself across your lap, purring already in anticipation of a good scratch.

“I don’t have a cat,” he corrects you loftily. “Smudge is the matriarch of a proud line of excellent mousers, and she is a valued member of the household. One cannot own a cat, I have learned. One co-habituates with cats.” He leans over and gives the cat a little scratch under the chin, his knuckles just barely brushing your knee as he withdraws. “She isn’t usually very friendly, but she must recognize a fellow assassin when she sees one.”

“I’m not much of an assassin, I’m afraid she’d be terribly disappointed in me. I’ve failed to kill my only target, and I have been at it for quite some time.” You give the cat a scratch behind the ears. “I’m sure her record is much more impressive.”

He frowns and looked at you in a funny way. “Have you never taken a life?”

“I’ve tried very hard to avoid it. You’re the only person I ever wanted dead, and I— I wanted to be better than you. I wanted my hands to stay clean, so I could beat you and still keep my sense of…” You look down at the purring black puddle of fur in your lap rather than at the wolf. “Oh I don’t know. Righteousness, I suppose.”

“So sweet that you wanted me to be your first,” he teases.

You know he means first kill, but you turn pink anyway, and there is no cold wind to blame for your rosy cheeks this time. There were many firsts that you had missed out on, in your bid for vengeance. “Perhaps I still do,” you snap, not thinking about the double meaning until after the words have left your mouth. You scramble to clarify. “My first kill— Not— Ugh.” He begins to laugh, and you cover your face with both hands, wishing the floor would open up beneath you and swallow you whole. “Stop laughing!” Your voice is muffled by your hands, but there is no way that his keen wolf’s ears don’t hear you perfectly. “That’s not what I meant!”

He snorts. “I know, pet. It’s a bit late for that, I should think.”

You peek at him between your fingers, and his eyebrows shoot up.

“Darling.” He leans over and gently takes hold of your wrists, prying your hands away. He is mercifully no longer laughing, but the look in his eyes only makes your face burn hotter. “Please don’t tell me that you’ve never taken a lover.”

“There was never a good time,” you manage to squeak out. It was half true. There had been offers, and moments when you’d been sorely tempted to share someone’s bed for the night, but the few fumbling kisses you’d shared with young men had failed to thrill you the way that crossing swords with the wolf did.

He sits back with a groan. “You’re always throwing wrenches into my plans.”

“How on earth could that have anything to do with your plans?” you ask hotly.

“Darling, don’t be so naive. My plans were obviously to seduce you into my bed so I could out-perform every man who had ever touched you, forcing you to admit to yourself that we belong together. But I suppose that would have been too easy.”

“Too easy!”

“I would never imply that you would be easily seduced, my love, only that I am fairly confident that you would have a harder time denying what we are if I were to employ my considerable athletic ability with the task of making you come undone.” He smiles ruefully. “But seduction isn’t fair if you’re a virgin. I’ll have to win your heart the old fashioned way.”

“The old fashioned way?” You stare at him, incredulous. “What, you’re going to court me?”

“I’m certainly going to try,” he says, turning toward the table to pour you a glass of wine. “It’s the long road, but you’ll find I’m usually more than willing to take the scenic route.”

“You’re insane,” you say weakly, accepting the offered glass. “You must be.”

“Must I be? Like you said, I’ve made far too many confessions tonight, you must know that I do not mean this as some passing fancy. I think it would be a waste to continue this bloody crusade of yours. For both of us. I confess my bias in the matter, as I rather enjoy living.” He shrugs, looking at you over the rim of his own glass. “Do you? Has your life been all you wished for, these past ten years? You’ve forgone comfort, education, friends, romance, children— Do you want none of those things?”

“Of course I do—”

“Then take them. Everything you want is yours if you stay.” He takes a sip of wine and winces, face screwing up like a child tasting something bitter. “Ugh, I hate wine.”

“I know. I was wondering if you were going to drink from that glass you’ve been waving around.”

“I just wanted to indicate that it wasn’t poisoned.” He sets the glass to the side, still grimacing. “Just in case you were wondering if I was still trying to trick you.”

“It had crossed my mind.”

“Perish the thought, my love.” He stretches out in front of the fire, propped up on one elbow. “I’ve laid down my arms. If you must end this once and for all to free yourself, so be it. But I do think my alternative is better.”

You set your wine to the side as well and reach back to pull the silver hair-stick from your curls. You consider it, for a moment, pressing the point into your fingertip, not quite hard enough to draw blood. He watches with an inscrutable expression, making no move to disarm you. The cat slips out of your lap and stretches, moving off into the shadows again, either unaware or uncaring of the danger to her house mate. Or perhaps she’s simply more aware than you that there is no longer any danger.

You reach out and place the make-shift weapon on the rug in front of him.

The crackle of the fire is the only sound for a long moment. The wolf was rarely rendered speechless— getting him to shut up was usually the more difficult task. But he simply looks at you, like you’ve performed a miracle in front of his very eyes.

You slide one of the plates of food off the table and set it on the floor between you, something to hopefully distract his attention a little. You pick up one of the little triangle pastries and take a bite, catching crumbs with your other hand. You eat two more, realizing that you haven’t eaten in hours, and wait for him to break the silence.

He sighs and rolls onto his back, tucking both hands under his head. Firelight dances over his skin, burnishing his features like well-polished bronze. Although you have known him a long time, you’ve never studied him like this, while his eyes are closed and his usual grin is smoothed out into a peaceful smile. He looks noble, like a hero from the epics you used to read as a girl, more like you remembered from the days before everything changed.

“You’re staring,” he says without cracking an eye.

“How would you know? You haven’t opened your eyes in ages.”

“And how would you know that, if you haven’t been staring?”

He has you there. “Alright, fine. I suppose I was. I was just thinking about… about before.”

He opens his eyes. “How long? We do have a rather storied history, don’t we, love? I myself have been thinking of Lake Pym.”

You smirk. “I bet you have. I had a feeling you were rather enjoying yourself.”

“I was. It would have been more fun if you were a more willing guest, or if I at least didn’t have to keep you tied to a chair the whole time.”

“You wouldn’t even let me feed myself,” you lament, though you can’t help the traitorous note of amusement in your voice. “It was terribly humiliating.”

“Revisionist drivel!” he snarls playfully. “I did untie you so you could feed yourself, and you tried to stab me. You forced my hand.”

You blink. “I suppose I did.”

He leans closer. “I suspected you just wanted me to take care of you. You were too proud to ask me for what you wanted, so you forced the situation. And snapped at my fingers the whole time like an absolute menace.” He holds up his right hand and displays a white mark around the first knuckle of his thumb. “That’s one, by the way.”

“I only bit you because you stuck your finger in my mouth,” you reminded him.

“Ah, I suppose I did get a bit carried away, didn’t I? There was just this moment when I touched your lip…” He reaches out as if he wants to repeat the remembered gesture, perhaps hoping for a better outcome, but he hesitates, dropping his hand. You almost wish he hadn’t. “Are you still too proud, my love?”

“Yes,” you whisper.

He senses your weakness. The way the answer drips with doubt like blood from a wound. “Will you let me kiss you?” He moves closer, anticipating your answer before it leaves your lips.

Your breath catches in your throat. “Yes.”

At long last, he closes the distance between you, hands cradling each side of your face. He just barely brushes his lips against yours, and holds you back when you try to chase him, his familiar wolfish smile lighting up his face. “Not so fast, my darling. You’ll have to ask nicely, if you want a proper kiss.” He unbuttons the cuff of his black shirt only a moment later, his eyes dropping away from yours for a moment, and then rolls up his sleeves. “Two and three, respectively,” he says, pointing out two more scars along his forearms. They were both from similar situations. Two times that you had disarmed him and made him bleed for it. You reach out and touch the silvery marks, feeling the smooth gap in his arm hair and the fully repaired muscle underneath the flawed skin. “You’re a better swordsman than I,” he says, reaching up to unlace the top of his tunic. “I might have had the edge of experience, at the beginning, but you quickly caught up to me, didn’t you? It was a good thing you were so scrupled about killing people other than me, or I’d have lost far too many good men to your blade.”

“You’re just trying to flatter me.”

“Is it working?” He pulls the tunic and shirt off in one go, baring his chest. There are a few scars there that you could not claim, and two that you can, although your eyes are drawn to one in particular. The ugly, uneven star right next to his heart, where you had run him through with the iron poker on the night of the wolf. “This one is my favourite,” he tells you, pressing one of your hands to the scar. “The first time you tried to kill me. Jon had to half-heal me himself, or I wouldn’t have made it to a proper healer in time. It’s partially why there’s such a scar. He’s always been terrible at the more subtle magics, but if you want something blown up, Jon’s your man.”

You laughed. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Make sure you also note, in that treacherous little mind of yours, that he will not employ his considerable magical gift with the task of making me explode. He is still rather fond of me, even after all these years.”

“It is good, I think, to have a king that is so well-versed in the art of restraint,” you say mildly.

“Oh yes, I imagine it is.”

“So is it really just the five scars?” you ask. “That’s all?” Despite the truce the two of you had settled into, you felt strangely disappointed that your obsession with killing him over the last decade had resulted in only a handful of scars. It all felt like a waste. You try to console yourself with the knowledge that he heals more rapidly than most men. The scars you have left are despite that.

“There’s one more, on my thigh, but I imagine you probably don’t want me to take my pants off.”

You do want him to take his pants off. “Yes, that’s very thoughtful of you,” you say instead. “I suppose you’ve won, anyway. I have a lot more than six scars from you.” You had expected that his life as a warrior would have marked him more significantly. You’re covered in scars, faded and fresh alike, and there is no getting around the fact that you feel like you’ve stitched yourself up so often that you look as worn down as your oldest, ugliest shirt.

The disappointment in his eyes is gone so quickly that you aren’t entirely sure you hadn’t imagined it. “Well, I suppose I’ll have to take your word for it, won’t I?”

“You’re just trying to get me out of my dress,” you say hotly.

“Obviously. You look very lovely in it, of course, but I have been hoping for the chance to peel it off of you.”

You shake your head. “I think you’ll be a bit disappointed.”

“Never. What would possibly deter me at this point, darling? If stabbing me through the heart didn’t erode my affections, what could?”

“Oh I don’t know,” you say thoughtfully. “I could have scales, or a tail—”

“I have a tail,” he reminds you. “And I’m quite positive that you’re human, so I’m not worried about scales. Or strange birth-marks or stretch-marks or scars, either, by the way.”

You take a deep breath and stand up, turning your back to him. “It would help if you could undo all these buttons for me,” you say, sweeping your hair in front of your shoulder. “There are so many of them.”

He jumps to his feet and scrambles to help. A few buttons plink to the floor, torn free in his haste. “I’ll have it fixed,” he says hastily. “And I’ll buy you new gowns. As many as you can stand.”

You glance over your shoulder, nervous laughter stilling on your tongue when you see the look in his eyes. You turn forward again, sliding your arms through the sleeves and shimmying the gown to he floor. He gives you a hand to steady yourself as you step free. “I— I don’t want— I won’t stay.”

He hums in response, gathering up the gown and laying it over the back of a chair.

“I won’t,” you repeat yourself, as if the words will sound convincing the second time. They don’t.

“I already told you, darling, I won’t make you stay. It’s up to you.”

He draws you back to your seats in front of the fire, and you offer him your arms. You’re riddled with fine scars, most of them faint, little nicks from his blade. His hands slide up to your shoulder and gently tug the capped sleeve of your chemise to the side, baring the imprint of his jaws. His thumb runs across the marks, his other hand landing on your knee.

“I wondered if I’d bitten you that night.” He moves closer, his tongue moving over his sharp canines as he sighs. His fingers trail down your arm as his touch drops away. “You never turned, so I wasn’t sure.”

“It doesn’t always take,” you say, using his shoulder to help you back up to your feet. “I think it depends on the moon. New moon, that night. If you were any other wolf you never would have shifted.”

“I suppose that makes sense.” He settles back on his heels, looking up at you. “I can’t say I’ve thought about why some bites take and some don’t. I’m not as observant as you, my love.”

Laughable, when his senses are many times greater than your own. It’s not his observations that are the problem, it’s the connecting cause and effect, thinking about consequence for more than a moment. He’s faced so few consequences in his life that it doesn’t come naturally to him. You, on the other hand, are a mess of consequence, action and reaction measured and weighed, failures poured over until you can see every mistake you’ve made, follow the tracks to how things could have been, if you’d done it all just a little differently.

You pull your skirt up so you can untie the ribbon that holds up your stocking, and he slides it down to your ankle. “This one’s only indirectly your fault,” you say, angling your leg so he can see the trail of pocked scars that wrap around your knee and up your thigh. “When I jumped down that ravine. Scraped myself up on the rocks.”

He tuts, hands reaching for these scars too. It’s just an excuse to touch you, certainly, but you make no move to stop him. You just hold your skirt up, giving him unfettered access to your skin. His amber eyes flick up to your face, and he leans forward, pressing his lips to your knee.

There’s no halting the soft “Oh” that falls from your lips, but he would have heard even the softest catch of breath. There’s no hiding from him, and it terrifies you, leaves you so unsteady.

His eyes flutter shut for a moment, his exhale warm against your skin. “You shouldn’t show me any more,” he tells you. “I find myself wanting to kiss every inch of skin you show me, and I worry that you won’t stop me if I try.”

You sink back to his level and pull your stocking back up, tying the ribbon around your thigh again. “Would that be so bad?”

He groans and lays back on the furs, hands neatly folded on his stomach. “I am trying to be a good man for you, darling. You deserve more than I can give in one night. I need at least a few weeks to make you fall hopelessly in love with me before I can do anything that would tempt me to take you to bed.”

You run your palm over his stomach, feeling the soft pelt of hair over his warm skin, letting your curiosity guide your fingertips. You feel the expansion and contraction of muscle as he breathes in and out, tucking one hand under his head so he can watch you more easily, his eyes barely open.

You have to admit, he is handsome, especially relaxed like this. Only a few short hours ago you would have found the idea of him kissing any part of you abhorrent, but now you find yourself similarly compelled. You take his hand and kiss his knuckles, the tips of his fingers, the palm of his hand.

“Come here, you little minx,” he growls, trying to pull you down on top of him. You pull back, and he lets go, still worried about pushing you when you’ve made so many overtures in such a short time.

You had expected him to hold on tightly, however, and overbalance, tipping over the other way with an inelegant little squeak. He laughs as he sits up, and you do too as he helps you back upright. He lays back again, and there’s no resistance when he takes you with him this time. He tucks you into his side, and you look down at him, chin propped on your hand.

“I rescind my earlier statement,” he says.

“Which one?”

“You don’t have to ask nicely for a kiss, darling. I worry that you’re too prideful to admit that you might like one, but if you can steal one whenever the mood strikes you, I might be lucky enough to receive a few impulsive ones that your good sense isn’t fast enough to stop.”

You huff. “Is this your way of asking for another?”

“It’s my way of asking for as many as you might want to give me,” he says. “There is, of course, a standing offer of anything you might like that is within my power to supply. I think it prudent to remind you.”

He’s a ridiculous kind of man. You’d always thought his tendency toward verbosity was just him grandstanding, but now you see it for what it really is. He wants to be understood by you so desperately that each sentence becomes overwrought, less clear for his efforts to imbue each word with meaning. Your own tendency toward blunt, inelegant language is an almost laughable counter. You say little, and hide everything you can, and he reads you plainly. He speaks like a poet, puts everything out in the open, and you misunderstand him on purpose.

Perhaps that’s why you didn’t see this for what it is a long time ago. If you were not so determined to make an enemy of him, perhaps you would have noticed the softness in his eyes, the way he looks at you as though you’re the sunrise and set, like you’re the moon and all the stars in the sky.

You kiss him, before he can open his mouth to speak again. There’s nothing lacklustre about the way your lips slide over his, the way your breath mingles, the way he makes little noises of satisfaction, unable to be quiet even with his tongue flicking over your top lip, encouraging you to open up for him. Angling your head to keep your noses from smushing together, you oblige, letting him lick into your mouth, his arms circling you, holding you tight against his body.

You can't put a name to the feeling that sparks between you, but it's the thing that's been missing from every kiss you've had before.

The heat, the need of it all burns away all that remains of your carefully maintained resolve. He loves you, fool that he is, and you're not sure you could survive without him now. Is that what love is? To mourn even the thought of their absence from you, to cling tightly and never let go? To sink into each other until you're one, two halves of the same whole?

He kisses you until you're breathless, lips swollen from the tug of his sharp teeth, jaw curiously sore from moving in a new way. You pull back first, braced on one arm as you look down on him. He's beautiful, more than human, wild-eyed and fey, but solid and warm beneath you in a way only a man could be. His imperfections make him dearer to you, not just the marks you've drawn on his skin, but the gap between his two front teeth, the way one brow arches a little more than the other, giving him that permanently skeptical look that had always made you feel he was making fun of you. The crooked smile, the notch in one ear.

You know his face more intimately than your own, but you still want to look at him, especially through this new lens.

“I don’t think I want to wait,” you admit. You’ve waited long enough, haven’t you?

“Are you certain?” he asks.

“I don’t see what difference it makes, really.”

“It makes a great deal of difference. I’ve taken enough from you, I don’t want you to regret it.” He gazes up at you, tracing along your jaw with careful touch.

Your heart races rabbit-quick in your chest, and although you're the one looking down at him, you feel pinned in place by the wolf's eyes alone. "Then make sure I don't," you say softly. "I can even promise not to make another attempt on your life until the morning."

"Darling…"

"Please. I don't know how I'll feel tomorrow, but tonight I think I want your hands on me."

"You think?" His fingers catch around the back of your neck, as though he's waiting for some cue before he pulls you back into his arms.

“I know.”

He pulls you down for another kiss, rolling the two of you so his big body stretches over yours, your underskirts bunching up as he slots his thick thigh between yours, pressing against your core. He holds most of his weight off of you, but you’re still trapped beneath him. For the first time in a long while, there is no panic, no desire to fight furiously for freedom. You feel quite content where you are, especially when his thigh flexes, rubbing against you firmly, sending a shower of sparks through your belly. You gasp against his mouth, your hands skimming down his sides gingerly. When he does it again, you dig your fingers into the muscle of his back reflexively, murmuring apologies as his lips leave yours and slide down your bared throat.

“Don’t,” he growls against your pulse, dragging his tongue roughly over your skin. “Don’t apologize. You won’t hurt me.”

His teeth graze the slope of your shoulder, finding the older scar from his lupine jaws. You let out a shuddering gasp when he bites down lightly, not even hard enough to leave a mark. There’s a part of you that wants him to leave a mark, a bruise if not something more permanent, but you’re not sure you’ll be able to convince him out of gentleness tonight.

He kisses down your chest, grinning up at you when he reaches the top edge of your corset. “You are still wearing far too much clothing, my love. Come here.” He stands in a smooth movement, and you’re untethered without the weight of his body against yours, but only for a moment. He helps you to your feet and leads you to the bed, taking a seat on the edge and pulling you between his knees, turning you so he can loosen the laces of your corset.

You shed the garment as soon as you’re able, as well as the extra petticoats. Your chemise is thin, loose material, obscuring little, but you leave it on while you sit beside the wolf, toeing your heeled slippers off and nudging them under the bed and out of the way. Hands folded, you wait, heart beating like a drum. You feel so strange, almost outside your own body, watching him unlace his boots and tug them off impatiently.

He stands to strip off his trousers, and you quickly avert your gaze, looking down at your hands rather than see him in his fully undressed state. You have a rough idea of what you’d find, you’ve been in the public baths more than a few times, and even doing your best to be respectful, it’s hard not to see something. But seeing something in a setting where everyone is minding their own business is a lot different than seeing something up close, especially when you might be expected to do more than just look.

“We don’t have to do this, love,” he says, kneeling in front of you, clasping his hands around yours. Your eyes fly back up, landing on his face. His chuckle makes your cheeks burn. “If you’re nervous—”

“No,” you say quickly. “I want to. I’m just— I hate not knowing what I’m supposed to do.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that darling. It’s your first time, I should think the responsibility rests on my shoulders. All you have to do is tell me when you like something and when you don’t.” He leans forward, forcing your thighs apart to accommodate the bulk of him, and kisses you, all sweetness. “And if you want to stop, we stop. Anything more than that can wait at least until the second or third time.”

It sounds so simple, put like that.

“Besides,” he adds, giving you a wicked grin as his hands move to your hips, the movement rucking your chemise up further on your thighs. “You’ve always been a quick study.”

Well, he’s right about that. His lips find your throat again, pressing languid kisses down your chest until he reaches the edge of your chemise. His eyes flick upwards, seeking permission before he goes further. You untie the simple knot with one hand, the other petting through his soft curls.

He noses aside the thin fabric to find your nipple, latching on with a contented hum. The act sends tremors down into your core, intensifying as his tongue flicks across. You pull in a shuddering breath, and your exhale becomes a whimper when his teeth nip at you, his other hand coming up to grope at your other breast, his touch warm and appreciative before his grip slides down to your hips and he tugs you to the edge of the mattress.

He pulls away from your breast and kisses you properly again. “Do you want more?” he asks. “Can I taste your pretty cunt, darling?”

The desire in his words sends a shiver down your spine. You nod, and he sits back on his heels and kisses all the way up your thigh, although he pauses and pulls back to your other knee, kissing his way up again, this time sinking his teeth into your inner thigh, not hard enough to really hurt, just enough to make you jolt, your pearl begging for any kind of friction. When he passes over your cunt to mouth at your other thigh, you whine, shifting even closer to the edge of the bed. You can feel your cunt dripping, the air strangely cool on your wet skin.

A pair of mischievous eyes glance up at you. He’s doing this on purpose. He started all of this, and now he has the gall to tease you. Glaring in response, you grip him by the hair and pull him in, determined to put his clever mouth to better use than smirking and biting you when you need him elsewhere.

To his credit, he makes no complaint and does what he’s directed, slipping his tongue between your folds, lapping up the slick arousal. His big hands push your thighs up so he can get a better angle, and he kisses your cunt with as much passion as he did your lips, if not more.

The feeling is electric. His mouth scorches, sets you alight in ways you’d never imagined, the occasional scrape of his too sharp teeth against you thrilling. It’s too good, has you fighting his grip even as your fingers are still tightly wound into his hair, holding him close. It’s too much, but if he stopped it would be so much worse.

If he minds your writhing, he doesn’t show it. You can’t help the sounds he pulls from you, but he’s louder, as though this is more for himself than for you. He groans when your hips buck against his mouth, pants when he lifts himself away enough to breathe, his amber eyes gleaming, fixed on your face, except the few times they flutter closed, just for a moment, savouring your taste.

His nose nudges your pearl as his tongue presses inside you. You grip him so tightly to your core, your hips shaking so hard that you’re surprised you don’t break his nose. The hot, molten cataclysm that’s been pooling somewhere behind your belly button overtakes you, sweeping you away, limbs seized, unable to out-swim the current. You can’t see past the stars in your eyes even after your legs relax and you force your hand to unclasp his hair, finger by finger, so you can lay back on the mattress, breathing hard.

He crawls up onto the bed and pulls you toward the centre, a self-satisfied grin on his face. His cock presses into your thigh, insistent for attention, the tip peeking out and leaking against your thigh. He ruts against you when he kisses you again, his close-cropped beard soaked with your arousal. You can taste yourself on his tongue, tangy and bitter-sweet.

You lay twined together, forehead pressed against his as you both catch your breath. One hand gently brushes up and down your spine, the other pulling your leg up over his hip. “How was that?” he asked.

There may not be words for what you feel. Maybe there are, but they’re beyond you right now, washed away with all the resistance in your body. You settle on nice, which makes him laugh.

“Only nice, hm? I suppose I’ll have to work harder.”

“Better than nice,” you assure him. “I— I liked it a lot.” It’s still insufficient, so you kiss him again, hoping he won’t ask any more questions.

He does, after a long moment. “Are you ready for more?”

“There’s more?” you ask. “Or— for you? Do you want me to—”

“No, there’s no need for you to do a thing, love. The next part is for both of us.” He rolls onto his back, taking you with him effortlessly. He reaches past you with one hand while he kisses you sweetly, tongue pushing into your mouth at the same moment you feel his cock slot against your entrance. He pushes in gently, halting when he meets resistance, fucking shallowly into you until you relax enough to let him bury himself deeper into your body.

You tuck your face down against his chest, focusing on the feeling of his cock stretching your cunt, so deep inside you that his presses against your womb. He tries to keep himself still, but his hips buck slightly, tearing a groan from your chest. There’s no stopping the way your cunt squeezes down on him in response, nor the way your hips grind against him. He makes a choked sound, breathing out shakily when you push yourself up to look at him.

The angle change nearly has you collapsing back down, but he takes pity on you and flips you both so he can take the lead. “Hello, pretty thing,” he says, giving you another kiss and a firm grind into you before he starts moving his hips, slowly working himself in and out of your cunt, lips settling against your ear so he could tell you how well you’re taking him, how good you feel around his cock.

Any ability to respond is quickly fucked out of you, your breath punched out with every deep thrust, your world shrinking down to a handful of sensations: his lips on your ear, the weight of his body and the delicious drag of his cock against your inner walls.

He works his hand between you to rub at your pearl, the heel of his hand pressing down on your lower belly. The thought that he can feel himself inside you with your hand is one of the last fully formed ones that cross your mind, because he growls and picks up the pace, unrelenting until you’re shaking and babbling and clinging so tightly to him that you’re certain you’ll leave permanent marks.

He drags you up another precipice and throws you over, his forehead pressed to yours, watching your face as you shake and cry out. He ruts into you, and you can feel him fill your cunt, his cock twitching, rooted firmly inside you. He doesn’t pull away, just throws himself onto his back, holding you tight to his chest.

His heart beats like a drum under your ear, slowing gradually as he catches his breath. His cock slips free, and you stiffen slightly as his spend leaks from your swollen cunt, spilling onto his belly. He pops his head up as soon as you tense, and huffs out a laugh, kissing the tip of your nose.

“Sex can be a bit messy. Come on, love. Let’s get cleaned up.”

Your legs wobble when you try to stand, but he happily slides a supportive arm around your waist, leading you into the adjoining tap room. Once you’re both cleaned up, he coaxes you out of your sweat-soaked chemise and wraps you in one of his shirts and you both sit back down in front of the fire.

You pick up your abandoned wine glass, holding it with both hands as you eye the wolf. He looks content, satiated, like he’s had his fill of you. There’s a little tremor of unease that settles in your belly. Now that the chase is over, will he still want you? Do you still want him to want you? At the beginning of the evening you had been determined to kill him, and now…

He looks back at you through half-closed eyes, and unfurls his arm. “You’re too far away,” he tells you, voice a warm purr. “And you’re thinking too much.”

It’s still unfair, how easily he reads you. An open book, pages left open for him to flip through at his leisure. Despite your trepidation, you walk forward on your knees and sit against him, knees tucked under his arm. His fingertips trail up your thigh, over your knee, down your calf, and back, over and over, as he waits for you to speak.

“What happens now?” you ask at last. “Do we go our separate ways?”

Hurt flashes across his face before he can hide it behind a neutral mask. “If that’s what you want.” His fingers continue retreading their path while silence builds between the two of you. At last, he pulls in a fortifying breath. “Is that what you want?”

There’s raw desire in his eyes, not tempered in the least by your coupling. He offers you everything so easily that it feels like it must be a trick, but he wouldn’t work so hard to hide his feelings if he didn’t care for you, if this were a trap. If you stay, it has to be your choice, not made because of his own want for you to remain by his side.

The anger that kept you warm in all your years out in the cold is gone. Killing him won’t bring your family back from the grave, it would just place another soul in one. The desire for revenge truly burned out a long while ago, and you couldn’t admit that only embers remained. It was why you were so desperate to end it tonight, to close the chapter and look forward to something new.

It’s so like your wolf to ruin your plans. This time, you’re not sure you mind.

“I’d like to stay,” you say at last.

He’s on you so fast that you drop your wine glass, spilling red over the furs. It’s hard to stop laughing enough to kiss him back, trying to point out the mess to him. He growls something about not giving a damn as he gives up trying to kiss you through your smile, and presses his lips to your pulse instead.

In the end, with all the history between the two of you, what’s one more mess?

It's been almost five years since I started writing this short story, and I had fully expected not to finish it. I was caught up in the story in the peripherals, the potential history between Cat and Valter. This scene no longer fits in the overall narrative, even if there are still threads of it that remain unchanged, so I feel like it's safe to share. I'm working on the third draft of The Night of the Wolf, sorting out the mess of my second draft (so many changes it might as well be a second first draft) and I think there's a very real possibility that I can actually finish it, and that's in no small way thanks to all of you. I have been writing for a long time, but it's only been in the past year that I've shared my work with anyone, and it's been a really lovely experience. Thank you for reading my silly fanfictions, thank you for reading this, and I hope to share more bits of original work going forward, if there's any interest. (But don't worry, I'm still gonna finish the fanfictions. I show no signs of stopping yet)

C. T. Cutter

(Also, special thanks to my best human person @dragonnarrative-writes for making me finish this and being so so kind to me about my work and encouraging me always. I am bad at accepting compliments but I appreciate them all the same)

Image Credits: 1 - 2 ~ Dividers by @/cafekitsune

[rootedinrevisions]

Since Forever

SUMMARY: After a harrowing near-death experience in the sky when a routine training exercise goes wrong, you and Jake are forced to confront the unspoken tension that's always simmered between you. With a crash landing and a moment that changes everything, the line between squadmates and something more begins to blur.

A/N: Thank you to the person who sent this request in! I'm sorry it's been like 3 weeks since you sent it in, but hopefully, it's worth the wait! Hope you enjoy it! xx

WARNINGS: Angst, Mutual Pining, Plane Crash (Smoke, Impact, Head Injury, Blood), Cussing

WORD COUNT: 3.6k

TAG LIST: IN COMMENTS

If you would like to be added to any of my Tag Lists please feel free to comment, send an ask, or send a DM and I'll be happy to get you added! Below are the fandoms I currently write for.

Glen Powell: Himself (RPF), Characters He's Played

Twisters: Tyler Owens, Boone, Scott, Javi

Top Gun: Maverick: Rooster, Hangman, Bob

Marvel/MCU: Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers

WWE/Wrestling: Cody Rhodes, Corey Graves, Damian Priest, Drew McIntyre, Finn Balor, Jimmy Uso, Jey Uso, Kevin Owens, L.A. Knight, Pat McAfee, Roman Reigns, Seth Rollins (if there is someone you're thinking of from WWE and they aren't on the list feel free to ask! There are so many guys on the roster that these were the ones that came to mind.)

The dry California air carried the hum of activity on the tarmac, the heat shimmering in waves off the asphalt as you stood in your flight suit, clipboard in hand. The roar of jets echoed in the background, a familiar symphony you’d grown accustomed to over the years. North Island was as bustling as ever, a mix of old faces and new ones prepping for the upcoming training exercises.

You were focused on your pre-flight checks, meticulously going over every detail on your clipboard. Attention to detail had always been your strong suit, something that had earned you respect in the cockpit and plenty of snide comments from one particular squad mate.

“Still babysitting that clipboard, Ace?”

You didn’t have to look up to know who it was. Jake “Hangman” Seresin’s voice was unmistakable—smooth, cocky, and always laced with that infuriating Texan drawl.

“Still babysitting your ego, Bagman?” you shot back without missing a beat, your eyes remaining on your checklist.

From the corner of your eye, you saw him saunter closer, his helmet tucked under one arm, a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. Jake had a way of walking that oozed confidence, like he owned every space he entered. It was both maddening and, if you were honest with yourself, slightly impressive.

“Touché,” he drawled, stopping a few feet away. “But seriously, Ace, you’ve been doing this long enough to know the damn thing’s not going to sprout wings and fly off without you.”

You finally glanced up, arching a brow at him. “Says the guy who spent fifteen minutes arguing with the crew chief yesterday about the ‘perfect’ alignment of his seat harness.”

“That’s called being thorough,” Jake replied, unfazed. “You should try it sometime.”

You rolled your eyes, turning your attention back to your jet. “Is there something you actually need, or are you just here to be a pain in my ass?”

Jake’s grin widened. “Can’t a guy check in on his favorite squad mate?”

“Favorite?” you echoed, snorting. “You must be losing your touch, Hangman. Last time I checked, I was the one gunning for top marks on this run.”

“That’s what makes you my favorite,” he said smoothly, his tone dropping just enough to make your stomach do a small, unwelcome flip.

You hated how he could do that—how he could make the simplest comment sound like it was loaded with a thousand unspoken things. It was part of the tension that had simmered between you two for years, a strange, undefined thing neither of you had ever acknowledged out loud.

“Well, don’t get too comfortable,” you replied, setting your clipboard down. “I’ve got a jet to fly, and you’ve got an ego to stroke somewhere else.”

Jake tilted his head, his green eyes glinting with amusement. “Careful, Ace. One of these days, that sharp tongue of yours is gonna get you in trouble.”

You stepped closer, narrowing your eyes at him as you adjusted the strap on your helmet. “And one of these days, Seresin, you’re going to realize that not everyone is impressed by your southern charm.”

For a moment, neither of you moved. It was like a standoff, the air crackling with the kind of tension that was all too familiar between the two of you. Then Jake stepped back, a soft chuckle escaping him as he raised his hands in mock surrender.

“Fair enough,” he said, his grin still firmly in place. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

He turned and started walking toward his jet, his gait as cocky as ever. You shook your head, exhaling slowly as you tried to refocus on the task at hand.

Damn him.

Even now, years after you’d first met, Jake Seresin still had the ability to get under your skin in a way no one else could. And despite the irritation bubbling in your chest, you couldn’t entirely shake the small, secret part of you that liked it.

* * * *

The sky was a perfect blue—no clouds, just an endless expanse stretching out in front of you. It was supposed to be a simple exercise, just another day in the air, but your instincts had been nagging at you all morning. Something felt off.

You were flying at full throttle, running through the mission parameters, your fingers lightly grazing the controls as you focused on the task at hand. In the distance, you could see Jake’s jet—smooth and precise, cutting through the air just like always. You kept your distance, the tension between you two still palpable, even miles above the earth.

Then, without warning, the engine sputtered.

"Shit," you muttered under your breath, eyes flicking to the gauges. The warning lights blinked red, and your stomach dropped like a stone. The engine—your primary engine—locked up.

“Ace, you copy?” The crackling voice of your Captain came through your comms, sharp and urgent. “What’s your status?”

You took a steadying breath, trying to keep your pulse under control. The jet was starting to lose altitude, slowly at first, but it wasn’t going to be slow for long.

“Engine’s locked,” you said, voice tight. You glanced down at your instruments again, hoping for a miracle. “I’m losing power. Going down.”

 Jake’s voice exploded through your earpiece. “Don’t do anything stupid, Ace. You hear me? Eject if you have to!”

The words felt like a slap in the face. He was always the first one to play the hero, always telling you what to do like you were some rookie.

“Don’t tell me what to do, Seresin,” you snapped, teeth gritting as you struggled to maintain control. You banked hard to the left, trying to level out, but the jet was sluggish—too sluggish. It was dropping faster now, and the ground was coming up at you way too quickly. “I’m not ejecting.”

“I said—” Jake’s voice broke through again, but you could already hear the Captain cutting him off.

“Ace, listen to me. You have two options right now,” the Captain said, his tone firm, no room for negotiation. “Eject, or try to bring her in. But you don’t have much altitude left.”

You had a split second to make a choice. The sky was shrinking, the earth creeping closer with every heartbeat. Your mind raced—ejecting would be easy, sure. But it would cost you the plane, and it would mean another mission down the drain. And there was always that sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach when you had to rely on someone else to pull you from the wreckage.

You focused, blocking out the voices in your comms, focusing on the controls, on what you could do.

You had one good engine. It wasn’t ideal, but you had just enough altitude to make a hard landing. If you timed it right.

“I’m landing this bird,” you said, your voice steely with determination. You could feel the sweat building under your helmet, your pulse pounding in your ears, but your hands were steady. “I’ve got this.”

“Ace!” Jake’s voice came again, a mix of frustration and panic threading through his words. “You don’t have the altitude—”

“Shut up, Seresin,” you cut him off, your jaw clenched as you took a deep breath. The ground was closing in fast now, the harsh reality of the situation crashing over you. You had seconds to decide how you were going to do this. You could almost hear your heartbeat in your throat as you worked the throttle, pushing the remaining engine to its limits.

“Ace, eject now!” Jake was practically shouting now, but you didn’t have the time to argue. You were already lining up the rough terrain, calculating the risks in your head. You’d done it before—this was just another challenge to overcome. “If you crash—”

“I said I’ve got this!” you growled, pushing the throttle forward and making a last-ditch effort to pull the jet back into some semblance of control.

The sound of the engine was sickening now, almost wheezing, but it was still holding on. You could feel the nose of the plane dip, and you knew it was time. There was no turning back now.

You aimed for the small strip of flat ground, mentally calculating the distance between you and the crash site, praying to every deity that you could pull this off.

The jet dropped faster.

Your stomach lurched.

You could hear the voices of your team—your Captain—fading in the background, their instructions turning into static. All you could hear now was the roar of the engine, your breath, and the sound of your own heart pounding in your ears.

And then the wheels hit the earth. It was harder than you expected. The jet groaned under the strain, the fuselage screeching as you fought for control. The wheels bounced once, twice, and the jet jerked to the side as you fought the controls with everything you had left. The impact was brutal. You slammed into the seat, the world going black for a split second before your mind jolted back into reality.

Your head throbbed, a sharp pain searing behind your eyes. You blinked rapidly, trying to focus, but everything felt off. Dizzy. The pain was sharp, but you couldn’t focus on it now.

Your hands still gripped the controls like you were trying to hold the whole world together. You could feel the tension in your neck, the tremor in your hands.

And then, the voice you hadn’t realized you were waiting for came through your comms, strained and desperate:

“Ace, talk to me. Are you okay?”

You were silent for a moment, trying to find your bearings. The crash had knocked the wind out of you, but you had to focus. You had to focus.

“I’m... fine,” you gritted out. Your vision was blurry, your head swimming, but you needed to keep it together. “I just need to—”

The world went black for a few moments. The crash had been rough, everything moving too fast, and then you were suddenly weightless, disoriented, and struggling to remember how you had even ended up in this situation. The impact had jarred you, rattling your body so hard you weren’t sure which way was up. The cockpit was filled with smoke, the once-pristine view of the sky now replaced by the harsh, metallic scent of burning fuel.

You could hear the sounds of the control tower in your headset, distant voices now muffled and indistinct. Your head throbbed, dizziness clouding your thoughts. Something was wrong—you were wrong—but the panic started to subside as your mind tried to latch onto something, anything familiar.

The sound of a plane's engines revving pierced the air, and that was when you realized you weren’t alone anymore. Jake's voice cut through the haze.

"Stay with me, Ace, I’m almost there" he barked, his tone uncharacteristically sharp, the usual cocky bravado gone. His voice was full of urgency, tight with a level of fear you hadn’t expected to hear.

You managed to open your eyes, the world around you spinning, but through the haze, you saw his plane descending in the distance—he was landing, landing without permission. Your heart skipped a beat, knowing he was disregarding protocol to get to you.

Within seconds, Jake's jet was on the ground, its wheels screeching as it touched down, and he was already sprinting toward you. There was no waiting for rescue teams, no giving orders. It was just him, and you.

Your chest was tight, your breath shallow, and for a brief moment, you wondered if it was all just a nightmare. Then, through the haze of your spinning mind, Jake’s face appeared—his eyes wide, his expression frantic as he reached the wreckage.

Without hesitation, he pulled open the hatch, the cockpit door groaning under the force. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t waste a second. He carefully pulled your helmet off of you. His eyes moving to the blood that was caused from the impact. His hands then started working to undo your harness, fingers shaking as he snapped the straps free, pulling you into his arms before you could even comprehend what was happening.

His breath was frantic, like he was holding it in, waiting for some kind of confirmation that you were really there. That you were still alive. And in that moment, as his arms wrapped around you, pulling you into his chest, the world started to stabilize. Your breath came in shaky gasps, your head pounding as the dizziness slowly began to fade.

You blinked a few times, trying to clear the fog from your brain. The weight of your body felt heavier than normal, your limbs still stiff from the crash. But it wasn’t just your body that felt like it was slowing down—it was your mind. Everything was racing too fast, the adrenaline still pushing you into action, but in Jake’s arms, there was a moment of stillness. A second where nothing mattered but the fact that you were safe.

"Don’t you ever do that again," Jake muttered, his voice trembling despite the tough exterior he always wore. His words hit you harder than any of the physical pain, and you felt a strange, overwhelming wave of emotion rush through you. It was as though all the walls you’d both built over the years had crumbled with one unspoken truth. Jake was scared, and in this moment, it wasn’t about flying, or missions, or protocols. It was about you.

You barely registered that you were leaning into him, your chest falling against his as you came back to yourself, your body reacting without thinking, your mind still spinning. His hands were gently running over your back, soothing you, grounding you, even though you could feel the anxiety still vibrating through him.

“J-Jake,” you stuttered.

"I'm here. I’ve got you." His words were a soft mantra, repeated over and over as if he needed to hear them as much as you did.

You shook your head, trying to clear the fog. 

“I... I’m fine,” you said, your voice shaky as you pulled away slightly, lifting your head from his chest. But the moment you tried to step back, you felt his arms tighten, keeping you close. The intensity in his gaze was enough to make you stop moving entirely.

“No, you’re not fine,” he shot back, his voice low but full of conviction. His hands still rested on your back, holding you steady, like he wasn’t going to let go anytime soon. He wasn’t just holding you. He was holding you like he was terrified of losing you.  “You scared the hell out of me, Ace.”

You swallowed, feeling a weight in your chest you hadn’t been prepared for. The vulnerability in his words was jarring. He had never let his guard down like this before. But there it was—raw, unfiltered concern.

The words stuck in your throat, but somehow you found yourself meeting his gaze, feeling the space between you two close, the tension palpable. 

"Since when did you ever care about me like that?" The question slipped out before you could stop it, more of a breathless thought than anything.

Jake froze, his hand still on your arm as he stared at you, his jaw tight, eyes searching yours. For a moment, the world felt suspended in that one breath between you two. He didn’t back away. Instead, his face softened, his expression caught between frustration and something deeper, something he wasn’t saying.

“Since fucking forever, you idiot,” he replied, his voice thick with emotion, almost a growl.

Jake stepped closer, his hand slipping from your arm to the back of your neck, his thumb brushing the skin there in a rare, intimate gesture. The contact sent a jolt through you, and suddenly, nothing about this situation felt like just another close call. This felt like something else entirely. Something you couldn’t ignore any longer.

“I thought I was gonna lose you today,” Jake murmured, his voice low, steady now but still thick with emotion. His forehead rested against yours, his breath mingling with yours. “I can’t lose you, Ace. I don’t think I’d make it.”

The weight of his words landed heavily in your chest. The truth between you two was finally out, raw and real. You swallowed, trying to hold back the lump in your throat.

“I’m not going anywhere, Jake,” you whispered, your voice hoarse. “Not without you.”

Jake sighed and then asked you again, “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” you said, your voice softer now. You still felt the ache in your head, the sharp sting in your chest, but it wasn’t nearly as important as the way Jake was looking at you now.

His hands slid down your back, lingering for a moment longer than necessary. You could see his jaw clench, the words stuck somewhere between his teeth, and then he shook his head.

“Are you? You sure as hell didn’t look fine in that damn cockpit,” he muttered, his voice low and tight. “You could’ve—You’re the closest thing I’ve got to family out here, Ace," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "I... I don’t know what I’d do without you." His words were a stark contrast to the cocky bravado he usually carried. This was real, and it was raw. "You don’t get to put me through that again, got it?"

You swallowed hard, your heart beating so fast it felt like it might explode in your chest. All the tension, all the unspoken things that had hung between you two for years, were now laid bare in the open. There was no hiding anymore. No pretending like you didn’t feel it, too.

“Jake…” you started, but the words wouldn’t come. 

Instead, you pulled him down into a kiss—soft at first, tentative, but it was as if something broke open between you. You felt the fear, the relief, the longing all tangled up in that moment. His lips moved against yours, a little desperate, a little shaky, but it was real.

When you pulled away, you were both breathing heavy, eyes still locked, both of you trying to process what had just happened.

“I don’t know what this is, Jake,” you whispered, your voice trembling just slightly.

“I don’t either,” he admitted, running a hand through his hair as if trying to pull himself together.

The words hung between you two, thick with meaning. You didn’t know what was going to happen next, but for the first time in a long while, it felt like maybe you didn’t need to figure it out all at once.

You both stayed there, in the middle of the wreckage, still alive, still here—and for the first time in a long time, that was enough.

But then, all too soon, reality crashes back in.

A voice from outside the cockpit, sharp and professional, cuts through the intimacy of the moment like a splash of cold water.

“Hangman! Ace!” The search and rescue team has arrived, and the urgency in their voice snaps Jake out of his daze. “We need to get them out of there, now. Base is requesting immediate transport.”

Jake pulls back slightly, his forehead resting against yours as he takes a deep breath, like he’s trying to steady himself. His hand still lingers on your waist, the warmth of it grounding you, but his eyes betray a hesitation—reluctance to let go of the moment.

“Come on, let’s get you out of here, Ace,” he mutters under his breath, almost to himself as much as to you.

You nod, feeling your heart hammering again, but for a different reason now. His gaze softens, and there’s a flash of something unspoken between you—a promise, maybe. You can’t quite find the words for it, but you feel it deep in your bones.

The medics are waiting outside, and with one final, reluctant glance at you, Jake starts to lift you away from the cockpit. With his steady presence, and one arm around your waist, he helps you out of the cockpit.

“Easy now,” he murmurs as he guides you down, keeping you close to his chest as if he can’t bear to let you out of his arms just yet. “Take it slow.”

As soon as your feet touch the ground, the search and rescue team rushes to assist you, but Jake doesn't let go immediately. His fingers linger on your arm, his gaze flicking between you and the team as if he’s weighing something—like he’s not quite ready to leave you in someone else’s hands. He hesitates, looking like he wants to say something, but the team is already ushering you toward the waiting helicopter.

“I’m coming with you,” he says, voice firm.

“Jake, you don’t have to—” you start, but he interrupts, his tone brokering no argument.

“No. I’m staying with you.”

The hum of the helicopter’s blades is loud against your ears, but everything else seems muffled as you lie back on the stretcher, still reeling from the crash and the kiss that’s left a strange warmth in your chest. The medics are busy around you, but you can barely focus on them, your mind still racing, spinning from the events of the last few minutes.

The moment Jake climbs in beside you, his presence fills the space. He doesn't hesitate, sitting down next to your stretcher and taking your hand immediately, his fingers curling around yours like it's the only thing tethering him to reality. His face is tight with worry, but the way he holds your hand gives you a strange sense of comfort, something steady amidst the chaos.

The medics move quickly, checking your vitals and assessing your condition, but you can barely register it, your heart still thumping in your chest as the adrenaline from the crash ebbs away, leaving you exhausted. One of the medics starts to remove your flight suit, carefully peeling it off your shoulders to get a better look at any possible injuries, leaving you in nothing but a thin tank top that clings to your skin.

You feel exposed, vulnerable, as the cool air brushes against your skin. It’s an unsettling feeling, but Jake’s hand is still in yours, and when the medic starts to prod at your ribs, you squeeze his hand instinctively, a shiver running down your spine.

“Hey,” Jake murmurs, his voice low and soothing as he leans in closer, his gaze never leaving you. “Focus on me, okay? Look at me.”

His voice is calm, reassuring, and even though you're still reeling, his presence is grounding you, pulling you out of the haze of discomfort and medical poking. His thumb rubs small circles over the back of your hand as the medic continues his examination, but Jake doesn't flinch. He doesn't pull away.

“Just look at me,,” Jake repeats, his voice steady. “You’re fine. I’m here.”

You manage to meet his eyes, and the intensity of his gaze sends a strange warmth flooding through you, cutting through the nervousness. In this moment, it’s just you and him, as if the rest of the world has faded away. You want to say something—tell him that you're okay, that you don’t need all this attention—but the words get lost in your throat.

Instead, you hold onto him tighter, needing him to keep you tethered, to keep you from feeling so exposed and raw.

The medic moves on to checking your head, and you wince at the touch, the sting of pain making you flinch. Jake immediately leans forward, his hand tightening around yours as he shifts closer.

“Easy, Ace,” he murmurs. “You’re okay. Focus on me. That’s it.”

You nod, trying to focus on his words, trying to push the discomfort and the questions swirling in your mind to the back of your head. His presence is like a lifeline. His voice is the one thing that makes you feel like you’re not alone in this. Like you're not just another casualty.

“Once they’re done poking and prodding, we’re going to get you something strong to drink,” Jake says softly, the corner of his mouth quirking into a half-smile as his thumb brushes against your hand once more. “And I’m not talking about water. I’m thinking something a little more... celebratory.”

A part of you wants to laugh, but you're too exhausted, too wired from the whole experience. Still, there's a glimmer of something in Jake’s eyes now, something more than just the mission or the tension between you. There’s something new in his gaze, like a shift, and you feel it too—this unspoken understanding between you both that things are different now.

"You're gonna be the death of me, you know that?" you murmur, your voice hoarse from the adrenaline. "One minute, you're flying like a maniac, and the next, you're talking about taking me out for a drink like it's a... date."

Jake’s grin widens slightly, the kind of smile that only happens when he’s completely unguarded. “I’m thinking it’s more than a date, Ace,” he replies, squeezing your hand again. “Maybe it’s a... celebration. You know, to celebrate you not getting yourself killed.”

His tone is playful, but there’s something real behind it, a tenderness that wasn’t there before. Something that’s been waiting to come to the surface for a long time.

The helicopter ride drags on as the medics continue their work, but Jake stays by your side the entire time, never letting go of your hand, his steady presence like a quiet promise that he’s not going anywhere. His words from earlier echo in your mind, and you realize that, for the first time, you don’t feel alone. Not with him here. Not after everything you’ve been through.

When you finally land back at base, you’re still a little shaky, but the thought of what Jake said—of what he hinted at—keeps you grounded, keeps you looking forward to what comes next, whatever that is.

[kaspbra-cant-even]

Never Tear Us Apart (Spencer Reid/Reader)

This is one of my works from AO3 where I post under the user-name fish_cloud. Under the cut will be the entire work as it is already finished. Have fun reading and feedback is always appreciated 💛

Rating: Mature Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions of Violence Category: F/M Fandom: Criminal Minds (US TV) Relationship: Spencer Reid/Reader Characters: Spencer Reid, Reader, Elle Greenaway, Penelope Garcia, Jennifer "JJ" Jareau, Aaron Hotchner, Jason Gideon, Derek Morgan Additional Tags: Soulmate AU, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Mutual Pining, Angst, Violence, Torture, Sexual Content Language: English Chapters: 7/7 Words: 17k

Summary: Soulmates exist but they are rare. So rare, that some people doubt their existence. (Y/n) is already struggling trying to hide her feelings for Spencer but then she finds out they're soulmates, just as they take on a case about a serial killer targeting couples, he thinks are soulmates, things get complicated and dangerous.

Notes: The title is inspired by Never Tear Us Apart by Paloma Faith (I swear that woman has a voice to die for). Also this is kind of dedicated to my best friend, I love her so much. Enough from me, have fun reading :))

Chapter 1

Having a soulmate was a rare occurrence. You could consider yourself lucky if you had one and even luckier if you ever found them. It was kind of like winning the lottery. There were people who had devoted their entire life to finding their other half, without even knowing if they even existed. Isn’t it only human to crave connection? The longing to belong to someone. This is not to say, that you were alone, just because you didn’t have a soulmate or didn’t find them. But this kind of connection was hard to grasp for someone who hadn’t experienced it. A one in a million connection.

Most known things about soul-connections were purely speculative due to the fact that they were so rare and even when some would find each other, there was nothing easy about trying to explain it. Like with all spiritual things there were some people who chased the idea with cult-like devotion and there were people whose life remained inherently untouched by it.

(Y/n) was the latter. In her now 1 and a half years at the BAU she had come into contact with the subject. Mostly it had been people who justified their crimes with their search for their soulmate or they were fueled by their hate for others who had found “the one”. (Y/n) knew that their loneliness didn’t stem from the lack of a soulmate. It was just something to project their loneliness onto.

There were several ways to know if you even had a soulmate but like with most things, they weren’t scientifically accurate most of the time. Soulmates could feel each other’s pain, physical as well as mental. The problem is, who hasn’t had random bruises that showed up out of nowhere or a sudden change in mood. Do you just not remember where those injuries came from and maybe you’re more empathetic than some people or is it your soulmate? Of course, with major injuries there was no doubt but taking into consideration how few even were unmatched souls and out of those how many suffered such significant damage that anything else could be ruled out, needless to say it was an uncommon occurrence to find out this way.

Another thing were shared dreams. Not in the sense that soulmates would dream about the exact same thing, but the overall tone would synchronize. If one was having nightmares, the other would too. Psychological consequences were mostly unexplored.

The last known indicator was that once having met your soulmate you’re lives were intertwined, no matter if you knew they were your soulmate or not.

As you see, all of these indicators weren’t exactly clear. As a result, you could meet your soulmate without ever figuring out they were the one.

When she was younger (Y/n) had fantasized about having a soulmate, like most teenagers did, but as she got older, the fantasy faded. Other things had become more important. She had picked up on some signs but there had never been definite proof and after a while it wasn’t important anymore. She had started working for the FBI as a profiler and from that point on

her mind had been preoccupied with anything else. She wouldn’t waste her life searching for someone she didn’t even know existed.

As (Y/n) walked into the bullpen one morning, the bad dream from the night before still lingered. She couldn’t remember what it had been about, but she hadn’t gotten much rest. She sat down at her desk. She hadn’t even unpacked as Spencer walked up to her with an extra cup of coffee in his hand. (Y/n) couldn’t help but notice he looked tired. “Morning, panda boy.” “Panda what?” “Because of the bags under your...nevermind, you look tired.” Spencer let out a sigh. (Y/n) took a sip of coffee. “Nightmare again?” Spencer nodded and leaned on the edge of her desk.

When (Y/n) first started to take a liking to Spencer she couldn’t stop herself from interpreting something into every one of these common experiences but after a while she’d resigned herself to accepting the were just coincidences. She had read somewhere that people would sync up after spending a lot of time together and there wasn’t a person in the world, she spent more time with than Spencer Reid. The only people who came in close second were the others on the team. When you worked for the BAU, the people you worked with were your family, so much so, she barely had any relationships outside of work.

“I’m sorry, do you want to talk about it?” She brushed his arm ever so lightly with her fingertips as to not overstep any boundaries. Spencer and (Y/n) were close but she herself wasn’t a very physical person and so she would go out of her way as not to make other people uncomfortable. There were of course exceptions. One of those exceptions was Penelope Garcia, (Y/n)’s best friend at the BAU. Over time she had gotten so comfortable with Penelope that physical touch was a given.

But with Spencer it had always been something different. After they had become friends, it hadn’t taken too long until (Y/n) had caught feelings and she felt like taking advantage of their friendship if she used it to get closer to him.

Spencer’s eyes flickered to her hand on his arm for a split second before she retracted it quickly as to not make him uncomfortable. Their eyes met for a second but before she could try to read him and overthink the situation Spencer spoke up. “Conference room in 5.” He walked back to his desk to get some papers before heading to the conference room.

(Y/n) let out a sigh. Spending time with Spencer had become increasingly more difficult. It wasn’t his fault. It just became harder to hide her affections. She could feel them drifting apart in her effort not to jeopardize their friendship. She buried her face in her hands. There was no good way out of this. Clearly her feelings weren’t going away, and she knew she couldn’t hide them forever. The BAU must’ve been the worst place on earth to have a crush on your coworker.

The inevitable next step was Spencer finding out about it one way or another. The only question was how he’d react. (Y/n) had ruled out the possibility of him reciprocating her

feelings pretty fast. She remembered a case in LA where they had to catch Lila Archers stalker. Spencer had been smitten from the second he laid eyes on her. It had taken (Y/n) weeks and a few bottles of Hennessy to get the image of them kissing in the pool out of her head.

She shook her head as if to get rid of the memory. She stared at her desk from between her fingers. The other two options were either him being ok with her having feelings for him but at this point she doubted she could still be friends with him even if he had a good reaction, or he wouldn’t want anything to do with her anyway.

“Fuck...” (Y/n) whispered. She looked up, fixed herself and grabbed her cup before walking into the conference room. The only free seat was next to Spencer. He gave her a small smile before she sat down. Instantly she felt the small butterflies in her stomach. She smiled back and emptied her coffee hoping to drown those fuckers.

Jennifer Jareau was standing in the front explaining their new case. The unsub was targeting couples in the Las Vegas area. The couples went missing sometimes for weeks. There had been 16 bodies already. They showed clear signs of torture. JJ showed them pictures of the symbol every victim had carved into their chest. It resembled a stick figure of a human with four arms and four legs.

“We can safely assume that the killer’s motivation has something to do with the soulmate myth.” JJ concluded.

(Y/n) couldn’t help but smile. She knew Spencer was about to speak before he even opened his mouth.

“Plato said: According to Greek mythology, humans were originally created with four arms, four legs and a head with two faces. Fearing their power, Zeus split them into two separate parts, condemning them to spend their lives in search of their other halves.”

(Y/n) turned to the others. “So, what er we thinking? Is this guy delusional and chasing some fantasy or were those people actually soulmates he found somehow?” “We won’t have definite proof if these people were soulmate or not as they’re dead, but it would be statistically very unlikely that they were in fact actual soulmates.” Spencer responded.

His eyes lingered on her for a moment. He would never admit it but the way (Y/n) chewed on her pen when she was in deep thought made him feel things. It took him a second to tear his eyes away from her before turning his attention back to JJ.

“We’re dealing with a highly organized serial killer. His motivation is power and control, we’re looking for someone with an outwardly normal looking life, someone charming, charismatic and very intelligent. Later victims have shown signs of post-mortem sexual behavior. So, we’re dealing with someone who feels alone, who fears rejection. When his victims are dead the possibility of being rejected is gone. He also inserts himself into the couple’s relationship. We have to assume that whether they really are soulmates or not, he believes they are. It is possible that he also has some sort of god complex, putting himself in the role of Zeus who separates the soulmates from each other.”

The atmosphere on the jet was buzzing with conversation. The soulmate subject had that effect on people. It was a heavily discussed and controversial concept.

“I don’t think soulmates actually exist.” Morgan said and leaned back in his chair. “How can you say that? There have been cases where soulmates have actually found each other!” Elle protested. “It’s all fake, how can you believe them? Let me guess, you also read your horoscope every day too?” Morgan let out a light laugh but Elle furrowed her brows. “They’re two totally different things, even if I did believe in astrology, which has no relevance whatsoever in this discussion, you can’t just ignore facts!”

(Y/n) leaned back in her seat looking at Spencer, who sat next to her. “What do you think?” He seemed to gather his thoughts for a moment. “I mean there is some evidence but it’s all very speculative.” He looked at her for a second and he swore he saw a glint of disappointment in them but then it was gone. “But who knows,” He added quickly “maybe Soulmate are real, it’s a nice thought that there could be someone out there who has such a special connection to you.”

(Y/n) nodded. “But how is that even supposed to work? What if I do have a soulmate but I like someone else? Or I have a family or something?” “There are platonic soulmates as well, you know.” He gave her a small smile. For some reason this gave him comfort. Spencer wasn’t one to indulge in fantasies and he was decidedly to pragmatic to dream of his soulmate but if he had to chose someone it would be (Y/n). The probability of her liking him in a romantic way was even lower than her being his soulmate so the option of platonic soulmates eased his mind, even if just for a bit. He shoved those thought in the back of his head, he didn’t like to dwell on daydreams.

“Well, if some random guy walked in tomorrow and it turned out he was my soulmate, I’d still want to stay with you.” She said, decidedly, not really thinking about the implication. When she caught herself it was already too late. Spencer let out a small laugh. “You don’t have to stay with me, believe me you won’t want to when you find them.” “Shut up, more likely than not I don’t have one anyway, so I guess you’re stuck with me.”

Spencer let out another small laugh, but his heart sank a bit. If he was being honest with himself it was one of his greatest fears. That one day, (Y/n) would walk into the BAU and announce she’ found the one and she would quit to spend her life with them. He couldn’t bare the thought of someone taking her away from him. But this was totally normal for a friendship as deep as theirs, right?

After a while Spencer got up to get himself a cup of coffee. Elle and Morgan were still fighting, JJ had taken Elle’s side, Hotch just listened and Gideon sat by a window rereading the case file. No one was paying attention when it happened. Spencer had gotten distracted by something Elle had said to Morgan and almost tripped, a cup of hot coffee in his hand. As she saw the scene unravel before her, (Y/n) felt the burn on her hand. It took her every ounce of self-control not to make a sound. Spencer hissed and sat down next to her again. He handed her the coffee so he could clean up his hand with a napkin.

(Y/n) stared at him, her mind running a hundred miles per hour. This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be. Spencer shot her a concerned look. “(Y/n) are you ok? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” She stood up. “Excuse me for a second, I don’t feel so well, must’ve been the food or something.” She walked to the bathroom without looking back. After she closed the door behind her she sank to the ground with her back against the door.

(Y/n) felt panic rise in her chest. This was not possible. Sure there had been moments when she’d suspected something was up but she had always dismissed it but now it was so obvious there was no denying it. She felt tears of frustration gather in her eyes. As if everything hadn’t been already complicated enough. Not just did she have feelings for Spencer but now she knew almost certainly that they were also soulmates. She felt anger build up. Whoever came up with this soulmate stuff had been a real asshole. She would have been perfectly happy with not having a soulmate and just having Spencer by her side. What if he didn’t want to be her soulmate? Had there ever been a case where one of them just wasn’t into it? Shouldn’t there have been some signs from his part that he felt more for her? But then she remembered what he had said abut platonic soulmates and her stomach sank. Maybe he had known all along, and he’d just been giving her hints that they could just be friends.

Maybe they could make a deal somehow, they didn’t have to spend the rest of their lives together if he didn’t want to. She had resigned herself to not having a soulmate a long time ago, she didn’t need him.

She buried her face in her hands. Suddenly all those thoughts were gone and what remained was a heavy emptiness. There was no good solution for this, and she couldn’t hide in the bathroom forever. She took a deep breath and looked in the mirror to see how good her poker-face was after just having gone through the seven stages of grief in under 5 minutes.

As she walked back into the sitting area, she was greeted by Spencer’s worried looks. “Everything ok?” She sat down next to him. “Yeah, everything is fine.” “You don’t look so well, are you sure everything is ok?” He put his hand on her forehead to feel her temperature. His hand was cold on her warm face. Her breath hitched in her throat from the sudden touch and she had to fight the urge to close her eyes. She gave him a soft look. “I’m fine, Spencer, I promise.” His touch lingered for a second before he retracted his hand.

“You know you can’t lie to me.” He gave her a small smile. In a sudden burst of confidence she put her hand on his. “It’s alright, I’ll talk to you if I need to, don’t worry about me.” His hand wrapped around hers and he gave her a little squeeze. (Y/n) almost got sick from the explosion of butterflies in her stomach. Until now she’d attributed these strong physical reactions when they touched to the fact that she had a crush on him but looking back she couldn’t remember experiencing something like this with anyone else. Working with Spencer would be a real challenge, now that she had not one but two secrets.

Chapter 2

“Life is short, break the rules. Forgive quickly, kiss slowly. Love truly. Laugh uncontrollably and never regret anything that makes you smile.” – Mark Twain

(Y/n) had a hard time concentrating from the moment they got off the jet. She felt like moving in a dream as they checked in with the local PD, going over the case again, went to the last crime scene. Only when she entered the expensive suite, she felt like shook her awake. The champagne-colored furniture was covered in dark red blood. But it was not the image that snapped her back to reality, it was the smell, it was always the smell that got to her.

The bodies were no longer in the room, but they had been laying here at least three days before anyone even noticed. One of the detectives turned to her when he saw her going pale. “Ma’am is everything alright?” “Yes, I just...excuse me, I just need a minute.”

(Y/n) stumbled out of the expensive hotel room into the corridor. She had trouble breathing and her hands started to sweat profusely. She knew the symptoms, that didn’t make it any less bad. When she reached a side corridor, she slid down the wall. She tried to remember what she knew about panic attacks. Breath. In, out, in and out again.

A pair of shoes came into her field of vision. She didn’t need to look up, to know it was Spencer. He was the only FBI agent she knew of that wore converse. Without a word he sat down next to her, back to the wall. She heard him breath slowly. She knew he was doing it so she could synchronize with him and after a while the panic had subsided.

“Are you better now?” (Y/n) nodded. “Yeah, thanks.” “What happened in there? You’ve seen worse before, what is it?”

She didn’t know how to respond. It wasn’t just the fact that she had just figured out they were soulmates; it was something else. Their unsub was actively seeking out and killing what he thought were soulmates. She had been the unsubs ‘type’ before but now it wasn’t just about her, it was about Spencer too. She felt bad for withholding information like this. He didn’t even know he was a potential target. She wanted to tell him, tell him to be careful but something wouldn’t let her. Fear of rejection loomed over her like a dark cloud.

“I don’t know, Spence...I’ve just had a rough week, I guess.” “I know you’re not telling me the truth.” He put his fingers under her chin to make her look up at him. “I want to help you, but you need to tell me what is going on with you.”

There was nothing but kindness and goodness in his eyes. She wanted to tell him so bad. “I thought we weren’t supposed to profile each other.” She gave him a small smile to signal him she wasn’t mad about it. Spencer frowned.

“I’m serious, somethings not right and I need to know what it is. It doesn’t need a profiler to see somethings eating at you, it just takes a good friend.”

(Y/n) stood up. “Come on, we don’t have time for this now, we have a crime scene to profile.” She held out her hand to help him get up. He let out a sight and took it.

Back at the police station the team presented their profile but (Y/n) didn’t hear a single word. Her gaze was fixed on Spencer as he spoke. All she could process was the way he talked, how he moved his hands a s he gesticulated and the way he looked with his messy hair and the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows.

This was getting out of hand. Until now she had at least been able to do her job properly. Only when Hotch had called her name out for the third time her mind returned to reality. “Agent would you please tell the officers what our next step will be?” “Yes, of course, I’m sorry.” She gathered her thoughts for a second before standing up in front of the precinct. “Our best shot is going undercover and try to attract the unsubs attention. We will have two agents pose as a soulmate couple. We know that the unsub doesn’t stay at the same hotel for too long. We also know that he probably targets these couple at special events. Based on the profile we gave you he will appear sophisticated and he probably has some friends in high places. He will be successful in his career as to compensate his feelings of inadequacy regarding his personal life. He has to have some connections, otherwise we would find these victims much faster. He’s paying people to keep their mouth shut.

Tomorrow there will be a fund raiser at the Bellagio. There will be a lot of people and because of the nature of the event there will most certainly be a lot of couples, people usually don’t go alone to those things. This means our unsub will be there. The last victims were found today and killed three days ago; he’s looking for is next victims.”

She could still feel Spencer’s eyes on her when she sat back down. The crowd dissolved slowly. The BAU gathered around one of the desks.

“I think we all agree to send (Y/n) and Spencer as our soulmate couple.” Hotch said and shot them both a look. If (Y/n) hadn’t been so taken by surprise by Hotch’s proposal she would have noticed Spencer blushing lightly. Did they figure it out? Was that why Hotch had chosen them? No, it couldn’t be. Logically, they were the best match. They worked very well together, none of them would pose a great physical threat to the unsub and they were close after all. It wouldn’t be hard to make it believable. (Y/n) almost let out a laugh. Of course, it wouldn’t be hard. She wouldn’t even have to pretend.

“Are you ok with this?” Hotch asked. Both nodded. There really was no good reason to say no.

Spencer sat in front of the case files, but he couldn’t concentrate. He couldn’t stop thinking about (Y/n) and how strangely she was acting. Maybe he had crossed a line and made her uncomfortable? He tried his best to keep a respectful distance, but it got harder every day. It

was almost as if she attracted him like a magnet. It felt so right when they touched hands or when she would brush his hair out of his face when he was too caught up in something else.

He loved to hear her talk. And he loved it when she listened to him. She never seemed to get bored of anything he had to say. Ever. She’d been awfully quiet the entire day. Something was up, he could feel it but for some reason he couldn’t read her. He knew that she would get fidgety when she was nervous, he knew that she carried herself with caution, she had been hurt by people in the past. He knew that she would cover her insecurities with little jokes, and he knew that she had a hard time opening up to people sometimes. But for the love of god, he did not know how she felt about him, and he didn’t know what was wrong with her right now. Some things she held to close to her heart for anyone to see, even him.

Spencer wanted to tell her that she could tell him anything and he wished she would believe him. There was a longing in his heart he couldn’t explain, and he didn’t know what to do about it. His fear was paralyzing him. He’d been hurt before too. For the time being he was content with the little he got, the quick glances when she thought he wasn’t looking, the way she laughed at his jokes and the way she made him feel like their friendship was something special. All team members were close, but he would be the first one she would talk to in the morning and the last one to wave goodbye in the evening. She was always there.

Spencer jumped when he felt a hand on his shoulder. “Are you coming? We’re checking into the hotel. Or are you to busy dreaming about our little Miss Commitment Issues?” Morgan teased and walked past Spencer. “I’m not – she doesn’t have – I’m coming wait up!” He grabbed his jacket and the files before following Morgan out the door.

The hotel was almost booked out. Hotch stood at the reception, arguing with the woman working there. “I don’t care that you don’t have enough rooms, we booked in advance!” She didn’t seem too bothered. She looked up from her phone for a moment.

“I’m sorry mister, that’s how it is, can’t throw the guests out that have already checked in. Should’ve come earlier.”

Hotch slammed his hand on the counter. “Listen here, I can get you fired in the blink of an eye. Get us our rooms, now!” His voice was calm but anyone who knew Hotch knew not to mess with him when he talked like this. The receptionist seemed to sense it too. “Ok, ok. I have a few rooms left but you’ll have to partner up.”

“Just give me the keys.”

(Y/n) and Spencer looked at each other like to school friends look at each other when the teacher says you can choose your partner for a project. It was understood they would share a room. But when (Y/n) turned the key around and entered their room she wanted to turn around and never come back.

“It’s just a-a queen size bed.” She stuttered. They stood side by side in silence. There was no couch, no armchair. Finally, Spencer spoke up. “It’s ok I can take the floor.”

(Y/n) gave him a light slap on the arm with the back of her hand. “Don’t be ridiculous. We can share unless you’re so uncomfortable with me you’d rather take the floor.” The last part had been meant as a joke, but Spencer began to stammer. “No, no of course not – I’d love to sleep with you – I mean share a bed.” His face was getting redder by the second.

It took her all her strength not to laugh. “Calm down, Spencer.” She gave him a reassuring smile. He seemed to let out a breath he’d been holding. He was so cute when he got flustered, she thought. She would like to see him like this more often if she didn’t know how much it stressed him out.

“I’m gonna go change.” She said pointing at the bathroom. “Y-yeah go ahead.” “Thanks for your permission.” She gave him another smile but this time she was teasing him. “I didn’t mean –” “I’m just messing with you.”

Spencer sat on the edge of the bed while (Y/n) was in the bathroom changing. He tried to calm himself down. His hands were shaking ever so slightly. There was no way she would ever want to be with a nervous wreck like him. Just like that one time Lila Archer had kissed him in the pool. He had predicted very accurately that she had only shown interest in him because of his role as protector. It had been too good to be true. He had become more cautious since then. His heart wouldn’t open as easily. But if he was being honest with himself it was already too late. He couldn’t even pretend (Y/n) had slipped in slowly and quietly. She had kicked the door in the first time he saw her and then she had made her home in his heart, barricading herself inside.

When (Y/n) came out of the bathroom her hair was damp. He hadn’t even heard the shower. There was something so endearing about seeing her like this, fresh out of the shower in an oversized FBI training t-shirt, something so domestic. “You’re turn.” She nodded at him. It took him a second to react before he stood up and followed her example of showering and changing into something more comfortable.

Later that night they laid side by side in the dark. The only light source were the colorful lights of Sin City. (Y/n) turned her head to look at Spencer. She could only make out his silhouette in the dark. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” He turned his head towards her too. “For acting so weird. You’re right there’s something wrong but I don’t know if I want to talk about it yet.” (Y/n) felt her throat close. “It’s just...I’m really anxious about the undercover mission tomorrow and that never happened to me before...” She tried to control herself, but she couldn’t help but let out a small sob. “I’ve never chickened out before.”

Spencer didn’t know what to do. He had never seen (Y/n) cry before. “You’re not gonna chicken out, it’s normal to be anxious about these things. And...and you don’t have to worry because you’re not alone. I’ll be by your side the entire time, ok?” (Y/n) nodded but then she remembered he couldn’t see her.

“Ok...thank you. Just promise me you won’t put yourself in danger, ok? I don’t know what is up with me I’ve never been like this before a mission...I’m worried about you and I have a really bad feeling, I can feel it in my gut, you know?”

Spencer didn’t respond immediately, instead his fingers found the hem of her sleeve and tugged at it. (Y/n) understood and closed the distance between them until Spencer had his arms wrapped around her. “Is this ok?” He asked, almost regretting having been so bold.

“Yeah, this is nice.” She could feel him take a deep breath and relax. She felt his heartbeat against her back and her own heart began to beat faster.

Spencer almost couldn’t believe his luck. The faint smell of the shampoo in her hair made him dizzy. He never wanted to let her go ever again. “Spencer?” Her voice trembled. “Hm?”

“I need to tell you something...”

Chapter 3

Spencer’s breath caught in his throat. (Y/n) turned around in his arms until she faced him. She had never been so close to him. He tried to study her face, but the darkness was making it hard. “What is it?” He asked cautiously. “I think it’s better if I show you.” He watched her as she raised her hands in front of him. When she pinched the back of one of her hands, he could feel it. He stared at her for a second. He felt the realization dawn on him. His mind short circuited and a quiet “Oh” escaped him.

(Y/n) felt her face heat up. She retreated hastily from Spencer’s arms to sit up with her back against the headboard. After 2 minutes Spencer still hadn’t said anything. “I-I’m sorry...I shouldn’t have said anything.” (Y/n) stood up. Now she felt stupid. Suddenly she felt like she was intruding. “I’m just gonna...” She pointed at the door and before leaving in a hurry. Spencer wanted to say something, but the words never left his mouth.

Before he could gather his thoughts, she was gone. It all made sense now. He couldn’t believe she had caught it before him, how could he not notice it until now? His first instinct was to run after her but what if she didn’t want to see him? Maybe she hadn’t told him because she didn’t want to be his soulmate. The only reason she had told him at all had to be the undercover mission tomorrow. Full disclosure so he knew what he was getting himself into.

Had something like this happened before? He tried to remember every single thing he had ever read or heard about soulmates but there was nothing. Another thought crept up on him. She knew when he was having nightmares, every night he had woken up covered in sweat, she had shared with him. Somehow, he wanted to apologize for that. She had to have been in so much pain because of him.

(Y/n) didn’t come back for the rest of the night. She had probably spent the night in Elle and JJ’s room. Spencer needed to talk to her before they started the mission but through the entire day, he couldn’t get her alone. He was almost sure she was avoiding him.

Some time in the evening they were getting ready for the fundraiser. The first time he saw her again was in front of the Bellagio. He wanted to say something, but they were wearing wires and he didn’t know if she’d told Elle or JJ about the soulmate thing, not to mention that the entire Las Vegas PD didn’t have to know about their personal issues.

(Y/n) couldn’t help but give him a small smile when she saw Spencer in his tuxedo. She had never seen Spencer dressed up like this before. “You eh, you look good.” She didn’t dare to look him in the eyes. “Thanks, you too.”

“Guys you need to step your game up if you want to make it believable for the unsub. You look like two teens going to a school dance.” Morgan’s voice rang through their earpieces.

“Shut up, Derek, next time you can go undercover.”

She took the lead and walked into the entrance hall. Spencer walked behind her and in a moment of braveness he put his hand on the small of her back. She flinched under his touch but before he could take it back, she eased into the touch. There was too much on the line to let personal issues get in the way of the mission.

For the rest of the night, they walked around, watching people, trying to identify the unsub, to no avail. The tension was killing them. “Ok, this is getting ridiculous, we won’t get picked if we keep going on like this.” Spencer took (Y/n)’s hand and dragged her into an empty hallway. Before she knew what was happening, he had muted both of their mics.

“We need to talk about this. I’m sorry, I didn’t say anything yesterday I was just...” “Shocked?” She interrupted him. “I get it, can we go back to the mission now?”

She was already about to go back when he grabbed her hand and dragged her back. “Look, I get it, I’m not what you had hoped for in a soulmate, but you need to get your shit together.” (Y/n)’s eyebrows were furrowed. “What the hell are you talking about, if there would be anyone I would chose as a soulmate, it would be you!” “You’re not...you’re not mad?” “No, I’m not mad, I thought you were the one unhappy with this whole thing.” “Why would I be? If there’s anyone who should be unhappy, it’s you. You’re way out of my league –” “Oh my god, Spencer just shut up.” She cracked a smile. “You’re my best friend, why would I spend so much time with you, if I didn’t like you?”

He looked at her for a second. “I...I don’t know.” “Look at me.” She took his face in between her hands. “Don’t you ever say that you’re not good enough ever again.”

Spencer never wanted to kiss her more than it that moment. His eyes wandered to the hall again and then he saw it. “That’s him.” (Y/n) was still caught up in the moment. “What?”

“Our unsub, that’s him!” “Are you sure?” “Yes, now come on.”

They turned their mics back on. “Reid? What happened?” Morgan questioned but he didn’t get an answer. “We have our unsub, it’s the guy in the dark grey suit by the champagne fountain.” (Y/n) whispered. “We have a visual. Try to get near him.” “Roger that.”

As they walked out of the hallway Spencer placed his hand around (Y/n)’s waist. Her heart was beating faster again. They made sure to be in the unsub’s field of view when Spencer took her hand. “Wanna dance?”

(Y/n) just nodded, she felt her cheeks heat up and she hoped Spencer wouldn’t notice. Unfortunately, he was still a profiler and so he bent down to whisper in her ear. “You know you’re cute when you blush.” The red on her face only intensified. “You know they can hear us.”

They heard a laugh from Morgan. “Yeah, we can, looks like our boy’s got moves, careful (Y/n).” Spencer gave her a smile before taking her to the dancefloor.

“I didn’t know you could dance.” (Y/n) whispered as they swayed to the music. “I’m full of surprises, what can I say.” He hadn’t stopped smiling at her the whole time. Her arms wrapped a little tighter around his neck as she laid her head on his chest. She could hear his heart beat fast and she could smell his cologne. She raised her head slightly so that her nose grazed his neck. She felt him shudder lightly as if he was getting goosebumps.

“Guys he’s approaching you.” As soon as Morgan had alerted them, they heard a voice.

“I’m sorry to intrude like this. But you two just looked so beautiful together. Can I buy you a drink?”

(Y/n) had to peel herself away from Spencer. She never wanted to let him go again. “Sure, thank you, Sir.” She gave him a smile.

The man was a bit older than they had expected. The rest was dead on. He looked sophisticated enough with his expensive suit and his well-groomed physical appearance. The three of them sat down at the bar.

“So, what are you two lovebirds doing here? I can tell you’re not from Vegas.” He took a sip from his Whiskey. (Y/n) had to squeeze Spencer’s hand under the bar before he could open his mouth and correct the unsub, that he was, in fact, “from Vegas”. Instead (Y/n) took the word.

“Well, I know you’re not supposed to brag about this stuff but...” She gave Spencer an endearing look that instantly melted his heart. “We just found out we were soulmates and we wanted to get married as fast as possible and what better place than Las Vegas, the City of Marriage, right?”

The man eyed both of them for a moment. (Y/n) had never felt so exposed in her life. She wanted nothing more than shove her gun into this guy’s face and arrest him right then and there, but they had to wait. He had to take them to the hotel room, they had no concrete evidence yet.

“Congratulations you two. I hope I’m not overstepping here but would it be alright to give you a wedding gift?”

“That is so kind of you, right honey?” She looked at Spencer who forgot for a second the situation they were in. His mind had tripped over itself when he heard her call him “honey”. “Right, right, very kind.” He had to tear his eyes away from her. “I want to pay for a night in a suite, the most expensive in Las Vegas.”

“We would love that, but can I ask why?” (Y/n) asked. They couldn’t be too willing to come along with him or he would get suspicious.

The man let out a theatrical sigh before downing the rest of his Whiskey. “I lost my wife a few years ago and I want to do something good for such a sweet couple like you.” They both knew that was a blatant lie. “I’m so sorry for your loss.” Spencer watched (Y/n) play her role with perfection.

“Let’s not talk about me, this is your special night. The car is waiting outside.”

With every step they took (Y/n)’s bad feeling only got worse. She couldn’t pinpoint what it was exactly, but something was off. When they got into the car, she heard the doors lock and panic began to spread. She tried to calm herself down. The team knew where they were, and they would follow them to the hotel where they could finally arrest this guy. She felt Spencer’s fingers slip between hers. She tried to put on a smile but then she saw the man’s face and her blood froze. He knew.

“How funny...” He spoke. His smile made her skin crawl. “The FBI send me an actual pair of soulmates.” (Y/n) let out a nervous laugh. “I don’t know what you mean.” He pulled out a gun and pointed it at her. Spencer wanted to make a move, but the man shot him a look. “If you move, she’s dead.”

(Y/n) could hear Morgan’s voice in her ear. “They’ve been compromised we need to get them out now!” “Your microphones and earpieces please.” The man held out his hand. They had no choice. Hesitantly they took them off and handed them to him. (Y/n) could only watch in horror as the man took them and put the microphone to his mouth. “You can collect your agent’s bodies in a few days.” As soon as he had stopped talking, he crushed the devices.

(Y/n) prayed that the team would find them in time. She could feel how she began to lose it. Spencer felt it too. He squeezed her hand. “Don’t worry, we’ll be fine, they’re gonna find us.” The man laughed. “They will, but by then it will already be too late. I’m gonna have so much fun with the two of you.”

She felt Spencer’s hand wipe away some tears from her cheeks. She hadn’t even noticed she had started to cry.

They arrived at the hotel with no interruptions. (Y/n) knew he had shook the surveillance. As soon as they entered the luxurious suite, (Y/n) was just seconds away from a breakdown. There was no way out anymore. It would take the team an eternity before they found them.

There were about 150.000 hotel rooms in Las Vegas. There was no way they’d be found in time.

(Y/n) fell to her knees. “This is all my fault, I’m so sorry Spencer.” He kneeled next to her, putting an arm around her. “This is not your fault, why would you say that?” “Because I was so distracted. I haven’t been able to focus, I should’ve said something, and we should have sent someone who could do their job properly.” “Look at me.” Spencer cupped her face with his hands. “This is not your fault, do you understand?” She let out a sob. “We’re gonna die...” “We’re gonna be fine, I’m right here, ok? I’m right here with you.”

The man had sat on one of the armchairs, two security guards by his side. “I can assure you that the other agents wouldn’t have been chosen. I know the difference between real and fake soulmates.” Spencer looked up. “How?” He saw the man’s face turn into a grimace.

“Because I can recognize an abomination of nature when I see one.”

(Y/n) let out another sob. Spencer turned his attention back to her. “(Y/n), breath, look at me.” He saw the terror in her eyes. “Look at me, we will get out of here.” She nodded but the tears wouldn’t stop flowing. He had never seen her this scared. They had been through some bad stuff in the past but never had he seen her lose her cool. Something was very, very wrong.

Chapter 4

Everyone on the team was on edge. Morgan’s forehead was covered in sweat. Gideon was standing right behind him, Elle and Garcia sitting just a few feet away.

“How funny...” They heard the unsub’s voice. Something was not right. “The FBI sent me an actual pair of soulmates.”

They exchanged concerned looks. “What is he talking about?” Morgan turned around to look at the others. Garcia shrugged. “She never said anything to me. Do you think that’s what they were talking about earlier when the mics were off?” Gideon’s brows were furrowed. “Could be. Regardless we need to help them.” “They’ve been compromised we need to get them out now!” Morgan addressed the swat team.

Before they could do anything else, they heard the unsubs voice again. “You can collect your agent’s bodies in a few days.”

The horror in Garcia’s eyes grew before the signal died. “We need to do something now!”

A few hours had passed. The unsub, whose name turned out to be Rory Marshall, had left them alone in the suite. There was no phone, and the door was locked. One look out of the window told them they were at least on the 30th floor. There was no escape. Even if they managed to figure out what hotel they were in, they had no way of communicating with the team.

Spencer had gotten (Y/n) through another panic attack. Now she was sitting on the floor with her back leaning against an armchair. Spencer sat right next to her while holding her hand. After a while he moved his position to sit in front of her. He took her other hand too. “(Y/n) look at me.”

She raised her head. The color had drained out of her face. Her eyes were wide open and red. “I know this is very stressful.” Spencer continued. “But we will get through this. I won’t let anything happen to you.” She nodded. “I’m sorry.”

“Stop saying that; none of this is you’re fault. If anyone is at fault, it’s that unsub who is killing people.” “Spencer? What is going to happen to us?”

They both had seen the victims. They both knew what he had done to them. Spencer didn’t need to answer. There was no need to remind (Y/n) of the cruelty that had taken place in the other suites.

Spencer cupped her face in his hands. “Do you remember the Luxor Hotel? The one that looks like a pyramid with the light beam coming out of it?”

“Yes I remember.” “Did you know that the light attracts so many insects that it has established a new ecosystem with moths, bats and owls.” (Y/n) started at him for a second before she realized what he was doing. A small smile made it’s way on her face. Spencer caressed her cheeks with his thumbs. “And did you know that bats can live more than 30 years?” Her eyes became glassy as she scooted closer to him. “And did you know that they can fly at up to 60 mph, in fact the Mexican free-tailed bat can reach up to 100 mph, making it the fastest mammal on earth.”

(Y/n) was so close to him, their noses almost touched. Spencer’s heart began to beat faster. His hands were still on her face. He wanted to pull her closer and kiss the pain away. His eyes flickered to her lips and then back to her eyes. “Thank you, Spencer.” She whispered.

Before she could close the distance between them, the door opened with a bang. The sound made them jump and separate.

Marshall walked in with a grin on his face. “Look at you lovebirds, I hope I’m not intruding.” (Y/n)’s eyes fell on the suitcase in his hand. Two other men followed Marshall into the room. Both were armed. Marshall gave one of them a signal. The man left and came back with two chairs and rope. (Y/n) felt her stomach cramp and the thought what was going to follow. Her and Spencer didn’t move. The other two men left, leaving them alone with Marshall.

“I really didn’t want to interrupt.” he spoke. (Y/n) shot Spencer a quick glance. None of them spoke. She could see Marshall’s facial expression change slowly but surely. The self-assured, mocking look was being replaced by impatience, anger and aggression. “Go on.” He continues while pulling out his gun. “Go on, Dr. Reid, do what you were about to do!”

Spencer looked at (Y/n) but he still didn’t move. He could see the tears gather in her eyes. “I said do it!” Marshall shouted. He was losing it. There was nothing left of his cocky grin. Instead, his face was distorted into a grimace. “Do it or I’ll shoot her right now.”

Spencer straightened his back. “You won’t. You need her, you need us both for your revenge fantasy.” “Do you want to test me?” There was something absolutely insane in Marshall’s eyes. The clicking of the safety being disabled rang through the room. “I said do it.” He was calm again but there was something in his voice that made (Y/n)’s stomach turn.

“It’s ok.” She whispered to Spencer. He didn’t look half as calm as he looked an hour ago. He cupped her cheeks again. “You’re going to be fine; I promise.” He pulled her in until his lips were on hers. They tasted salty from her tears, but they were soft. For a moment he forgot where they were. He had wanted to kiss her for so long. She melted into him, grabbing his dress shirt to pull him even closer. The urgency in her movement almost drove him insane.

“Get in the chairs.” Marshall’s voice interrupted their moment. Spencer pulled away, locking eyes with (Y/n). Her cheeks were flushed and there was a glint in her eyes.

The ropes rubbed against her wrists and ankles. They were too tight to move. Marshall paced in front of them. He had opened the suitcase on a small coffee table. (Y/n) didn’t need to be an expert to know it was full of torture instruments. Every fiber in her body wanted to run when he pulled out a big hunting knife and walked towards her.

“Don’t touch her!” Spencer struggled against his constraints. “Leave her alone!” Marshall let out a laugh. “You know it doesn’t matter which one I chose you’ll both feel it.” He pretended to ponder for a moment before he continued talking. “I still think I’ll start with her. How does it feel not to be able to do anything to help her?” He shot Spencer a look. That shit-eating grin had returned to his face.

He turned to (Y/n). “Where do we start?” He lazily dragged the blade across her collarbone before making a cut. (Y/n) hissed. She felt something warm drip down her chest. Involuntarily she remembered that the killer would spare her face like he had with all his other victims. Her best guess was that he liked to look at them when he had his fun with them after they were dead.

Marshall made another cut, right under the first one. (Y/n) squeezed her eyes shut. Her jaw tensed as she tried not to make a sound. She heard Spencer inhale sharply. She remembered, Rory Marshall wasn’t hurting just her, he was hurting Spencer too. She would have given anything to protect him. If he would hurt only her, she could endure it knowing he spared Spencer, but this wasn’t the case.

The only thing she could protect him from right now was the first hand experience of being tortured and hopefully the mental scars that would remain. She knew she could handle it, for Spencer. He didn’t deserve this, any of it. She just should’ve told Hotch about the soul mate thing and they could have prepared differently. But now it was too late for that and minute to minute the pain made it harder to think.

There was a loud ringing in her ears and her mind was in a fog. After a while she couldn’t hold back the cries. She didn’t want to give Marshall the satisfaction, but it was too much. As if that wasn’t enough, she could hear Spencer too. She didn’t know how much time had passed when Marshall finally backed away from her. Her whole body was sore, and her cloths were damp from her own blood. She struggled to keep her eyes open, but she kept staring back at Marshall. It took her a moment to realize, why he had stepped away from her. His phone was ringing. He took a look at the display before letting out a groan and answering.

“What!? I’m busy.” He snapped. Silence followed. “Alright I’ll be there, give me half an hour.” Then he hung up. “Sorry, kids, I’ve got places to be but don’t worry, I’ll be back.” Before leaving the room and locking the door, he undid Spencer’s ropes.

As soon as they were alone Spencer jumped from his chair rushed over to (Y/n). He still felt the echoes of her pain, but it wasn’t half as bad as the pain she was going through. While his body was intact, hers was cut and bruised. He tried to untie her, but his fingers were trembling too badly.

“Are you ok?” Spencer looked up in surprise as he heard her talk. A nervous laugh left his throat. “You’re asking me if I’m alright?” She nodded. “He hurt you too, didn’t he?” “It’s ok, it’s fading.” That wasn’t entirely true. He still felt the sting of the cuts. He took a deep breath and started to undo the ropes. Finally, the knots loosened.

“Can you stand?” He asked. (Y/n) shook her head. “Ok, I’m going to help you get to the bathroom, we need to clean you’re cuts.” He managed to get his arm under her to give her some support. After ten painful minutes they reached the bathtub. Spencer unzipped her dress. “Is this ok?” (Y/n) just nodded absentmindedly. He left her underwear on and sat her into the tub. He found a towel, held it under warm water and proceeded to clean her up. She watched him with half lidded eyes as he carefully dabbed the cloth over her wounds.

“This is not how I imagined you seeing me naked for the first time.” The ghost of a smile appeared on her face. Spencer paused for a moment to look at her. “You imagined that?” A tint of pink appeared on her pale face.

“I know you find it hard to believe, that girls think about you that way, but they do. I do.” Spencer stared at her. He hadn’t realized she really liked him like that.

“How did you imagine it?” He asked as he continued to clean her. As much as he wanted to know, he also needed to get her mind off what was happening right now. She shot him another look. “Wouldn’t you like to know, lover-boy?”

He let out a laugh. “You don’t need to tell me if you don’t want to.”

After a moment of silence, she spoke up. She didn’t look at him. Instead, her gaze was fixed on the marble floor of the bathroom. “I don’t know. Maybe we both would have been working late and there was no one else except us. And I would walk over to your desk to ask you something and of course you’d know the answer. You always know the answer to anything. I’d listen to you talk...I love when you talk...” She looked so tired. “And I wouldn’t be able to keep it to myself anymore and I would tell you how I felt about you...and you’d kiss me and I would kiss you back...” She hissed as he cleaned on especially deep cut.

“I’m sorry, are you alright?” His worried eyes found hers. “Yeah, I’m fine.” “I’m sorry.” He repeated and placed a kiss on her forehead. When he pulled back, she looked at him with wide eyes. “Can you do it again?” “What?” “Can you kiss me, like you did before?”

Spencer searched her face for a sign of what was going on in her head. Her telling him about what she imagined him doing to her and asking him to kiss her did things to him. Things, he

hadn’t experienced before. He didn’t really know what to do. He didn’t want to take advantage of her vulnerable state, but he felt like she needed him.

He leaned forward to kiss her forehead again but before he could, she grabbed his face and pulled him down. “I meant like this.” She whispered before closing the distance between them and capturing his lips. The smell of his cologne still lingered, she needed it like oxygen. She needed him. She placed several more desperate kisses on his lips before pulling back to look at him. A second later Spencer’s hands were on her cheek and on her neck to pull her back again into another kiss. He had imagined this a hundred times but the reality of her soft and lips against his finally made him understand what Edgar Allan Poe had meant by “We loved with a love that was more than love”.

He felt her shiver. He pulled back. “Come on, let’s get you into bed.” He helped her out of the tub. After he had dried her and given her one of the bathrobes, he helped her into bed.

(Y/n) was tired...so tired. Her head was spinning but she knew she wouldn’t be able to get any sleep. “Can you stay with me?” She asked. “Of course.” He sat down on the bed. Her eyes wandered over his figure. He had taken of the tuxedo, so he was left with the white dress shirt. He had rolled up the sleeves to his elbows, just the way she liked it. The shirt was stained with her blood and it took her back to this reality.

“You know he does this on purpose.” Spencer’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?” “He gives us so much time alone, so we get closer and it’s even more painful when does those things to us.” “I don’t care, I won’t leave you alone. Also, we must find a way out of here.” “There is no way out. We have to pray the team finds us before it’s too late.” “There has to be a way out. And we’ll find it. Try to get some rest now.” “I can’t sleep.” “You haven’t even tried yet.” “But I know I can’t.” “But you have to. Pain tolerance is reduced by sleep deprivation.”

(Y/n) shot him a look. “Thanks for the heads up.” Spencer slipped under the blanket and laid an arm around her. She buried her face in the crook of his neck. She felt the vibrations through his chest as he began to talk again. “Randy Gradner holds the record for the longest period without sleep. It was 11 days and 25 minutes. He set the record in 1964 when he was only 17. They monitored his health. He had problems concentrating and struggled with paranoia and hallucinations. On the last day he was asked to subtract 7 repeatedly starting with 100. He stopped at 65, when asked why, he said he’d forgotten what he was doing...”

(Y/n) didn’t hear the rest, Spencer’s voice had lulled her to sleep. He felt her shallow but regular breath on his neck. He closed his eyes. He would get her out of here.

Chapter 5

(Y/n) woke up exhausted. They didn’t sleep much. When they woke up it was still dark outside. It took her a second to realize what had woken her up. The door had been opened very loudly and her and Spencer were dragged into the living room area. They were tied to the chairs again. The ropes burned against her already bruised wrists and ankles. To their surprise the two men who had tied them up left. They were alone again.

(Y/n) turned to Spencer. “Please tell me you have a plan. We need to get out fast. If Marshall stays on track, we have less than 48 hours.” Spencer’s brows were furrowed. She could practically hear his mind work. “We need to check the windows if they open. Maybe we can get some sort of sign outside.”

“What if it doesn’t work, what’s our plan B?” “Currently we don’t have a plan B...”

They sat there almost 4 hours before Marshall entered the room. He looked exhausted. (Y/n) felt a twinge of hope. The FBI knew his identity, there was no way he could hide for much longer. “You know, they’ll catch you. You won’t get away with this.” She said.

Marshall turned around at her with a surprised look on his face. “I thought I had messed you up pretty good last night. And you’re still talking back.” He gave her a smile that made her skin crawl. “Maybe this time I’ll try your little boyfriend.” (Y/n) saw the blood drain from Spencer’s face but his expression didn’t change. She knew he was stronger than most people would give him credit for. She wasn’t most people but the thought of him getting tortured made her sick. It wasn’t about the fact that she would feel it too, seeing Spencer in pain was almost worse.

“So, what’s your deal?” She asked. Anything to get him talking, to figure out why he was killing these people. Marshall let out a laugh. “So brave today, aren’t we?” “Why do you keep killing soulmates? Feeling lonely? Didn’t mommy give you enough love when you were a kid?” She saw his smile fade. “Or what, maybe you were in love and she turned you down because she had found her soulmate?” Bull’s eye. His face turned into a grimace again.

“Shut your mouth!” He raised his hand to slap her, but he caught himself just in time. For a second he seemed to try to get his rage under control. Then he leaned down to whisper into her ear. “You’re nothing but a filthy whore and by the time you get out of here there will be almost nothing left of you to identify the body.”

(Y/n) held her breath. She had gained precious information. His main target were the women. He was projecting his abandonment on them. The men were just there because it made the whole ordeal more painful. He had raped the women after their death to regain power, power over the soulmate bond.

“You’ll always be alone, killing and raping these women will never compare to a true connection and you know it.” (Y/n) said. Spencer stared at her. She wasn’t interrogating anymore; she was making him angry. And then it clicked. “(Y/n) stop.” He shot her a pleading look. But she didn’t pay him any mind but instead continued.

“So, how did she break it to you? Did she at least tell you in person?” Marshall took on the color of a plum. “Oh.” A cold laugh escaped her lips. “She didn’t. You weren’t even worth telling face to face.”

“SHUT UP!” Marshall grabbed a glass from the coffee table and threw it at (Y/n). She managed to dodge it and it shattered on the wall behind her.

Spencer began to panic. “(Y/n) stop, I know what you’re doing, stop it you’re going to get hurt!” While he was tied up, there was no way he could help her.

“Is that all you got!?” (Y/n) threw the word in Marshall’s face. His hands were trebling. “You’re ruining everything!” “Oh, am I? Am I ruining your little revenge fantasy? You know that it doesn’t matter how many people you kill; it will never be the same as the time you killed her. She couldn’t fight back, could she?”

“THAT’S ENOUGH!” Marshall took the hunting knife in his hand making his way to (Y/n). To her surprise he didn’t cut her, but the ropes. He grabbed her arm and threw her on the ground. “I’m gonna show you fight!”

(Y/n) struggled to get on her feet. She was still weak, but the adrenaline kicked in as soon as he swung the knife in her direction. She turned her head frantically to look for something she could use as a weapon. Her eyes fell on an expensive vase. She grabbed it and threw it at him. While dodging it he lost the knife.

Everything moved in slow-motion as both made a run for it.

And then she had it, she had the knife. Her fingers curled around the handle. She raised her arm but before she could slam the blade into her attacker, she heard a gunshot.

The first thing she felt was her arm going limp. A few seconds later realization hit her and then a wave of pain washed over her. For a moment she thought she had to throw up. Her vision went blurry and the last thing she felt was a burning hot sensation and wetness on her arm. She heard Spencer yell her name before she lost consciousness.

When (Y/n) woke up again she was sitting in the chair, arms and legs tied up. The pain from her arm radiated through her entire body. She had trouble focusing. The first thing to catch her eye was Spencer whose gaze was fixed on her.

“Oh, thank god you’re awake!” She had never heard him sound this scared. “(Y/n) look at me.” Her head was heavy...her eyes were heavy. “(Y/n) look at me.” She managed to raise

her head, so she was making eye contact. “Listen, you have lost a lot of blood and you’re still bleeding. You need to somehow put pressure on the wound. It’s in your right arm near the shoulder. Try to lean against the chair with that part of your arm. It won’t save you, but it’ll hopefully keep you from bleeding out till I can help you.”

She struggled to hold her eyes open, let alone understand what Spencer was saying to her. Another person appeared in her field of vision. “Just let me help her!” This was Spencer’s voice. “Why should I? I’ll let the bitch bleed out, it’s what she deserves and you’re gonna watch her die.” Was this the unsub’s voice?

“But this is not how you operate normally. This is not how you get your satisfaction, do you want all of this to have been for nothing? You really let one of your men take the kill-shot? She won’t die by your hand but by that guy’s.”

There was silence. After what felt like an eternity, she felt the ropes loosen around her hands and legs. She felt two familiar arms around her. Everything went dark again.

“(Y/n) can you hear me?” This was Spencer’s voice again. “Spencer...why did you put me in the tub again?” She murmured. “What are you talking about? Open your eyes, look at me.” The panic in his voice hadn’t faded. “I’m wet, why did you put me under the shower?” “I didn’t please just open your eyes.”

(Y/n) felt like her eyes were glued shut. After a struggle she finally managed to open them a bit. She was greeted with Spencer’s face hovering over her. Her eyes wandered over his figure and widened as she saw him covered in blood. She wanted to sit up but a sharp pain in her arm held her down. She hissed.

“Spencer what happened, are you hurt, why is there so much blood? Let me help you...” “Calm down, it’s not mine.” He hesitated for a second. “It’s yours. You were shot and almost bled out.” “What? What happened?” You had the knife but before you could do anything, one of the bodyguards came in and shot you, he must’ve heard the commotion.” “Are you ok?” “Will you stop asking me that? You got shot!” “Exactly! You must be in pain too.” “I’m managing, it’s not so bad.” “You’re lying.” “Please don’t worry about me, ok?” “But I do, I worry about you all the time, I know you can handle yourself, but I care about you and I don’t want you to be in pain because of me.” “It’s ok, really.”

They looked at each other for a moment. Spencer bent down to place a kiss on her forehead. “Let’s focus on how we get out of here.”

“Have you checked the windows?” “They won’t open, it doesn’t surprise me though. We’re on the 30th floor, of course they’re shut.”

(Y/n) let her head fall back onto the pillow. “We’re screwed.” Spencer’s brows furrowed. “What are you thinking?” She asked. “The glass...”

“I don’t follow. The shards aren’t big enough to use as a weapon when he comes back.” “No, that’s not what I mean.”

Without saying another word, he got up and walked into the bathroom. (Y/n) heard glass shattering. “Spencer are you alright?” He came back into the room with a piece from the mirror.

“We can use this to send out an S.O.S. signal.” “How?” “Just watch.”

Spencer walked over to one of the windows. The sun shone into the room. He positioned the mirror in a certain position so that it reflected the sunlight and threw a patch of light onto the ceiling. He moved it so the light would go out of the window. He moved the shard in specific intervals.

“You’re a genius.” (Y/n) almost wanted to laugh. With a little bit of luck, someone would see the light signal. “I know.” He gave her a small smile.

Spencer repeated the pattern until the sun went down. “Now we pray someone saw that.” “Let’s hope it won’t be too late.”

He walked back to the bed. “You have to promise me something.” “What is it?”

He waited for a moment before answering. She looked awful. The bathrobe was soaked in blood, so was her hair. The parts of her skin that showed were covered in cuts and bruises. Her eyes were framed by dark circles. “Promise me you won’t make him angry again. I know you’re trying to protect me, but I wouldn’t know what to do if you sacrificed yourself so that I can get out of here.”

“I can’t promise you that.” “(Y/n), I’m serious.” She could see tears gather in his eyes. “Please...” The urgency in his voice made her heart ache.

With her good arm she reached out to put her hand on his cheek. “Alright, I promise.” Spencer closed his eyes and leaned into her touch. She managed to sit up and then position herself on his lap so that she was facing him, legs hooked around him. When he looked up at her there was nothing but adoration in his eyes.

“Thank you for taking care of me.” (Y/n) whispered before leaning down to press a kiss on his lips. Spencer wrapped his arms around her waist, careful not to touch her injured arm that was now bandaged and resting in a makeshift sling. Their chests were pressed together, and she could feel his heartbeat. Her breath became heavier as her fingers made their way into his hair and she tried to pull him even closer. (Y/n)’s cheeks began to heat up. She pulled away to whisper in his ear. “I need you so bad...” She felt him shiver underneath her. She continued to kiss his neck, relishing in the small sighs that escaped his throat.

She was just about to undo the buttons to his dress shirt when he grabbed her hand. “Wait...” “What?” “You can’t do this.”

“What? Why not? I thought you...” She looked around for a few seconds, anything not to meet his gaze and stood up as fast as she could. “I – I’m sorry I shouldn’t have assumed...I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable...I’m sorry.” Embarrassment washed over her. “I don’t know what came over me, I should’ve asked – I...”

Spencer stood up too walking towards her. She moved back and let out an insecure laugh. “I’m really sorry.” “No don’t be, it’s not that I don’t want to it’s just...” She still couldn’t look at him. “I don’t want to do this when there is a possibility that you just want this because of the circumstances. You might just be feeling about me this way because we’re in a life-or-death situation and I’m taking care of you. I don’t want this to happen just because you project these feelings onto me and regret it once we get out of here.”

(Y/n) stared at him but couldn’t say a word. Instead, Spencer continued. “It’s just, this has happened to me before, kind of, and I don’t want to...” “You don’t want to go through that again, I get it.” She slowly walked towards him. “Then we wait. But I want you to know that I’ve wanted this before we got caught up in this mess and the only things I regret are the ones I didn’t say to you sooner and that I didn’t have the courage sooner. I know this is important to you. I would wait a hundred years if that’s the time you needed. Just promise me you won’t forget me in the end.” She gave him a small smile. He smiled back and pulled her into a hug, still careful as to not to hurt her.

“I could never forget you.” “Can I still kiss you?” Spencer looked into her eyes and he knew he would never be able to say no to that. “Yes, please.” His voice barely a whisper, he cupped her cheeks and pulled her in. This kiss wasn’t desperate, it was sweet and full of unspoken promises and confessions.

Chapter 6

The BAU team had gathered around a table at the precinct. They had defeated looks on their faces. Hotch turned to look again at the wall where they had gathered their information. Morgan and Elle sat at the table, going through the casefiles again. Morgan closed the files and let the folder slap on the table.

“Hotch, please tell me we have a plan?” Hotch didn’t answer immediately. Before he could, JJ walked in. “I have news. There has been an S.O.S. signal from a hotel window at the Palazzo. It could be nothing, but it could be them, we need a SWAT team.”

Morgan jumped up. “I’ll call Garcia to see if she can find them on security footage in the lobby.” “Right, Elle and I will talk to the SWAT team, we may have to prepare for a possible hostage situation.” Hotch said and walked out, Elle right behind him.

(Y/n) and Spencer sat back-to-back with the couch, facing the window. Marshall had come back earlier and this time he hadn’t let (Y/n) distract him from Spencer. He didn’t look good. (Y/n) had taken care of his cuts, just like he had done for her.

“Tonight, is the night...” (Y/n) said while looking out the window. “It’s gonna be alright.” Spencer turned his head to her for a moment. She didn’t seem panicked anymore. She had been when Marshall had tortured Spencer, but after she had taken care of him it was like she had resigned herself to the fact that there was no way out.

“Spencer?” “Yeah?” “I need to tell you something.” “No, you don’t.” “I – I don’t?” She raised an eyebrow.

(Y/n) positioned herself to face Spencer. “Why?” Spencer turned around too. “I know the speech. I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want you to talk like we’re going to die tonight.” “But we could die, and I don’t want to die without having told you how I feel.” “Then I guess you’ll have to survive tonight if you want to tell me how you feel.”

They looked at each other in silence for a while. “I lo –” “No.” Before she could end her sentence, Spencer dipped down to shut her up with a kiss. “You tell me when we get out of here.” “You’re a horrible person.” A smile tugged at her lips.

It was almost idyllic, sitting in a room somewhere over Las Vegas, sun shining through the window. (Y/n) rested her head on Spencer’s shoulder.

“Can I tell you something else?” “Like the time you told me how you imagined me seeing you naked for the first time?” (Y/n) shot him a look. She felt her cheeks heat up. “I think we can both agree that was a moment of weakness.” Spencer let out a laugh. “I think I like your moments of weakness.” She gave him another look but then looked out the window again.

“You know, I still remember the first time I saw you.” She gave him a small smile. “I had just started working for the BAU. They called us in on a Saturday night, it was about the Keystone Killer.” Spencer smiled. “Yeah, I remember.”

“You were so quick to find clues in that word puzzle and...I don’t know. I thought it was cool. Also, you telling Ryan on what page of his book that Francis Bacon quote was on, was kind of funny. And you looked cute with your vest and you had your sleeves rolled up, just like now.”

“You thought I looked cute?” Spencer looked at the carpet, still smiling. (Y/n) nodded. “I did. And every time I saw you after that, I liked you a little more.” She paused for a moment. “The day I realized that I lo – I mean...you know, was on that case with Lila Archers stalker. I knew that I cared for you, but then I got jealous, I didn’t expect that. I had no right, still I knew then.”

He looked at her incredulously. “You were jealous?” She nodded and laughed. “It’s stupid, I know.” “I don’t think it’s stupid, I think it’s cute. Did you know shrimp can feel jealousy too?” “Are you comparing me to shrimp?” “Well apparently you do share some similarities.”

(Y/n) rested her head back on Spencer’s shoulder. “I’m so tired.” He gently stroke her hair. “Me too.” “Do you really think we’ll get out of here?” “I do.” He heard a quiet sniff escape her. When he looked down at her, he saw her cry. Spencer wiped away a tear with his thumb.

“Spencer, I’m scared.” “I know, me too.” He cupped her face. “But I need you to be strong.” “I don’t want to die.” She had trouble holding back sobs. “I just found you, I don’t want to go yet.” They scooted closer. Spencer pulled her face to his, so his forehead resting on hers. “I know, baby, it’s going to be ok.” “I can’t do it.” “Yes you can! You’re strong, I know that.” Spencer brushed his thumb over her lips. “Do you know what I thought when I first saw you?” (Y/n) shook her head.

Spencer brushed a strand of hair out of her face. “When I saw you for the first time, I wanted to talk to you, but I didn’t really know what to say. You were so confident, despite being new and I whished I could be as confident as you. So, I tried to impress you, I guess I know now that it worked.” He let out a small laugh. “I didn’t think someone like you would ever go for someone like me. I guess I tried to get you out of my head with Lila. Obviously, it didn’t

work. What I’m trying to say is that I’ve always admired your bravery, you never give up and you can’t give up now.”

“I’ve got them.” Gracias voice rang through the speakers of a laptop surrounded by the other team members. “They’re on the security footage from two days ago in the lobby of the Palazzo. Rory Marshall is with them. They take the elevator, from there I lost them.” “It’s alright, thank you Garcia.” Hotch said. “We know the signal came from the 32nd floor. “That’s still a lot of hotel rooms.” Morgan chewed on a pen.

“Garcia, check how many suites are on that floor.” Hotch turned to the laptop again.

After a few seconds of keyboard clicking, Garcia spoke up again. “There’s five suites.” “Thank you.” Hotch turned to the others. “Get ready, we have to go in now, they don’t have much time left.”

(Y/n) had fallen asleep on Spencer’s shoulder. She woke up from a loud noise. Marshall entered the room, gun in his hand. “Stand up! Both of you. Get in the chairs.”

Something was wrong. Marshall didn’t wear his normal cocky grin. His was erratic, sweat covered his forehead. They didn’t move. “I said now!” Marshall shouted, pointing the gun at Spencer. They hurried to the chairs. Not two minutes later, they were tied up again.

“Your friends are here.” Marshall’s face had returned to that grimace he wore when he was getting angry.

(Y/n) felt hope rise in her chest. But as soon as the feeling came, it left her. Marshall had no reason to keep them alive anymore. He had no time to live out his fantasy. On the other hand, her and Spencer were his ticket out of here. Correction, her or Spencer could be his ticket out of here.

Marshall’s phone rang. He struggled to pick it up with one hand, his other one still clammed around the gun, uninterruptedly pointing it at Spencer. “Hello?” (Y/n) didn’t know if it was the tiredness or the desperation, but she could swear the voice on the end was Gideon’s.

“They’re right here...yeah...” Marshall shot them a look. “Yeah...” He repeated and handed the phone to Spencer, or rather held it to his ear. (Y/n) could see Spencer visibly relaxed as he heard Gideon’s voice. “Yeah we’re fine.” He said and shot (Y/n) a look. “(Y/n) was shot but we’ve got it under control.”

“Ok, that’s enough.” Marshall took the phone back. “I want a helicopter. And cash. By 9 p.m. sharp.” He hung up.

(Y/n) shifted in her seat. There was no way, Hotch would give him a helicopter. Regardless, there was one more thing she wanted to know. “How could you tell?” She turned her head to Marshall. “Tell what?” He snapped back. She had to be careful, he was on edge, everything looked like a possible threat right now.

“How could you tell we were actual soulmates? I only found out the day before myself.” Marshall shrugged. “I don’t know, I just knew when I saw you.”

“Actually, I could have an explanation.” Spencer chimed in. “There are studies that show that predators can pick out people that have previously been victims. They subconsciously learn to read body language and micro expressions to identify them. Because of this you’re chance of getting assaulted are higher, if you’ve been assaulted before.”

“Ok, enough of this psychoanalysis-bullshit. Shut up, I need to think.” Marshall started pacing around the room again.

It didn’t take long before the phone rang again. (Y/n) could hear Gideon’s voice again. He tried to negotiate the release of one of them. “One of my agents has been shot, let her go and we’ll prepare your demands.” Marshall hesitated. “I’ll send one of them to the roof, but I’ll decide which one.” Without waiting for the answer, he hung up.

Spencer immediately propped himself up on the chair. “Let her go, she needs medical attention.” The grin had returned. “No, I think I’ll keep her. You can go.” Spencer began to pale. “Please, let her go, you can keep me.”

“Shut up, I’m calling the shots and I say she stays!” He waved the gun around.

(Y/n) turned to look at Spencer. “It’s alright, I’ll be fine, please just go.” He could tell she was scared again and this time there was nothing he could do to help her. Every fiber in his body screamed to stay by her side and not to leave her alone with this psycho.

Marshall undid Spencer’s ropes and pointed the gun to his head. “Go.” Spencer hesitated. He shot (Y/n) one last look. She mouthed the word ‘go’. The second the hotel door closed behind him Spencer started to sprint to the elevator. He pushed the button to the last floor a few too many times, as if that would get him up there faster.

When he finally arrived on the roof, where they had negotiated the exchange, he was greeted by the rest of the BAU. JJ pulled him into a hug before he was put in a bulletproof vest. “What happened?” Hotch and Gideon were by his side in seconds. “What does the situation look like down there?”

Spencer closed the last Velcro straps on his vest. “As far as I could tell, Marshall is alone. I’m guessing some of his men left, when they got wind that the FBI was raiding the place. (Y/n)’s been hurt pretty badly. One of Marshall’s men shot her in the arm. We could stop the bleeding but I’m afraid it’ll get infected. She’s tied up and Marshall is losing it. We need to go in now.”

“I understand.” Hotch nodded. “But we need to be careful. If we move too fast, he could panic and kill her.” He turned to Spencer. “I understand you’re impatient, but we need to keep a cool head.” Spencer nodded. As soon as Hotch stepped away to talk to Gideon, Derek came up to Spencer, reassuringly putting a hand on his shoulder. “Is it true?” He asked. “What do you mean?” Spencer’s head was every except on the roof. “Is she really your soulmate?” Spencer nodded. “She told me the night before, but we didn’t get a chance to talk about it.” “We’ll get her out of there, don’t worry, man.” Spencer gave him a small smile. “Thanks.”

Derek’s brows furrowed. “Wait, if she’s been shot, didn’t you feel that too? You need to get checked up by a medic.” “I’m not leaving until she’s out of there.” Derek had rarely seen this level of determination on Spencer’s face. He nodded. “I understand.”

(Y/n) felt the panic come back. Now that Spencer was gone, she realized just how much of her mental stability had depended on him. He was only gone for two hours now and he already seemed so far away. She would have given anything to be in his arms again now.

Marshall was still pacing through the room. She could tell he was weighing his chances of coming out of this alive. (Y/n) just hoped he wouldn’t come to the conclusion that there was no way out and decide that he would take her with him as his final act of revenge. It didn’t look good. He was talking to himself, but she couldn’t understand the words. She took a deep breath. Spencer would try to talk his way out of this, but because she had antagonized herself the day before, there was a slim chance he would listen to her. She had to try.

“Rory?” He snapped his head around, bewildered by the fact she had used his first name. She could tell, he wasn’t used to that. As a person with this much power and money, she could imagine that he had few people who were so close to him that they would address him by his first name. “Rory, I know what you’re thinking about –” “You don’t know shit! Why would you know what I’m thinking about?” “You’re feeling trapped and you try to decide what to do.” “Shut up!”

(Y/n) waited for a minute. “What was her name?” “What!?” “What was the woman’s name? The one that broke your heart.” Marshall hesitated before answering. “Heather.” “What did you like about her?” “She was smart, and beautiful. I couldn’t believe it when she said yes to going to dinner with

me.” (Y/n) could tell by the look on his face that he was reminiscing that time in his life. There was this almost soft look in his eyes. “If you walk out of here alive there is a chance you might find someone new someday.” She said cautiously, never letting Marshall out of her sight. Marshall’s face hardened.

“What the fuck do you know?” She had made a mistake. “There will never be anyone else for me and now she’s dead because of me!” He started to raise his voice and his movements became more and more erratic. “Why did she have to meet that guy? It’s her fault I had to kill her, if she’d just stayed with me, we could have been happy!” The crazy look had returned to his face. “You’re all like this! You go around, thinking you can play with people until some fucking asshole comes along who’s supposed to be your soulmate and you think that gives you the right to drop everyone!” In three big strides he was right in front of her, pressing the barrel of the gun directly to her forehead. “I should just kill you too, one less bitch to walk this earth, I bet your little boyfriend will be heartbroken.” She saw the ecstasy in his eyes. “Maybe then he’ll know what it feels like.”

(Y/n) squeezed her eyes shut. She tried to conjure up images of Spencer. If she died here and now, she wanted him to be the last thing she thought about. She tried to remember the feeling of his lips on hers, the smell of his cologne, the softness of his hair and the sound of his voice hen he told her everything would be alright.

“I love you.” She whispered so quite that Marshall couldn’t hear it. A gunshot rang through the suite.

Chapter 7

When he heard the gunshot, Spencer froze. The SWAT team had stormed the suite, but he was still behind them in the hallway. The moment seemed to drag on forever. The sound burned itself into his mind. He wanted to move but the thought of what was waiting for him in that suite wouldn’t let him. In that moment he hated himself for not letting (Y/n) tell him those three words.

It wasn’t until Derek appeared by his side that he woke up from his trance. Spencer’s feet moved by themselves. He didn’t want to go into that room. As soon as he did, whatever had happened would irrevocably become reality. He hated himself for being such a coward.

“Spencer?” The floor was covered in blood, brain splattered across the carpet, that undoubtedly cost more than his entire apartment. She looked up at him with big eyes. He could see the body of Rory Marshall, who had spent his last seconds in shock as the SWAT team had kicked down the door and taken him out, before he could pull the trigger. His head was empty as he rushed to her, taking her into his arms, holding on to her like his life depended on it. He felt her sob into his shoulder. It was so good to hear her voice. “I love you, I love you, I love you...” She whispered. He pulled back just a bit to look at her. “I love you too, I love you so much and I’m so sorry...I could’ve lost you without telling you.”

She let out a weak laugh. He buried his face in her neck. “I’ll never leave you ever again, I promise.” “I’ll never leave you too, promise.”

The hospital room was dimly lit. Spencer sat at (Y/n)’s bedside. He had laid his head in her lap and fallen asleep with her fingers tangled in his messy hair. She watched his chest rise and fall peacefully. After a while she fell asleep too.

A few days later (Y/n) was released and Spencer insisted to take her home. As they stepped into her apartment, Spencer remained at the door, unsure of what to do. (Y/n) turned around. “Don’t you want to come in?” “Do you want me to come in? I thought maybe you wanted some time to yourself...”

(Y/n) dumped her bag on the couch and walked back to him. He was a bit taller than her, so she had to stand on her tip toes to reach him. She pressed a small kiss to his lips. “I want you.” She said quiet but determined. Spencer let out a nervous laugh. “Maybe you should rest, you’re just tired.”

She grabbed his face. “Spencer, listen to me. I’ve had a whole week to rest. You don’t need to worry I’m not in the right state of mind to make a decision. I haven’t changed my mind about you.” She was so close, their lips almost touched. “If you want me to stop, I will...”

Spencer looked at her, feeling like he was in a dream. She kissed him and it was like his head was empty again. That didn’t happen very often to Spencer. There was always something, some thought, some doubt, eating away at him but when she took his bottom lip between her teeth, everything was gone. She took his hand leading him to the bedroom. He sat down on the edge of her bed, while she stood in front of him, taking her shirt of.

“Let me show you, how much I care about you.” She said, before straddling him. Spencer couldn’t take his eyes off of her. He had dreamed about this moment for so long, he was mesmerized by her. The signs of torture were still visible. He traced a few healed cuts with his thumb. He felt her shiver under his light touch. He looked up at her, meeting her half- lidded eyes. A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.

“Are you nervous?” Spencer nodded. His fingertips kept wandering over her waist, caressing her soft skin. “You tend to have that effect on me.” (Y/n)’s smile grew. “I make you nervous?” Spencer nodded again. She raised her hand to run it through his hair. The slow strokes seemed to calm him down. He closed his eyes and leaned into the touch. He felt her hands travel down his face, his neck, to the collar of his shirt. “Can I take it off?” Spencer opened his eyes again. “Yes please.” He watched her fingers unbutton his shirt. She moved painfully slow. Undoubtedly as to not overwhelm him, but something told him it was more then that. She was teasing him, and it was working. He felt the tension grow.

(Y/n) slid the shirt over his arms, fingers tracing over his skin. She felt him getting goosebumps and a slight shiver making its way through his body. She brought her hands back to his face, lifting it to make him look at her. “Do you know, how beautiful you are?” She whispered before stealing a small kiss. “I could look at you for all eternity and never get bored.” “Beauty in things exists in the mind which contemplates them.” “So we’re quoting Hume now?” (Y/n) smiled. “God, I love you so much...” Spencer pulled her back into the kiss. One of his arms wrapped around her waist to pull her closer.

(Y/n) pulled away. “Aren’t you getting impatient?” She stood up to take of the rest of her clothes, but Spencer stopped her by putting his hand on her arm. He stood up, so (Y/n) had to look up again to look him in the eyes. “Let me...” His hands wandered over her waist to her back, unclasping her bra. For a moment she mused where he had learned to do that so well, but the thought was gone as fast as it came when her undergarment fell to the floor and she suddenly realized how bare she was in front of him. The urge to cover herself up never came though. Spencer looked at her like he had never seen anything so beautiful in his life, and truthfully, he hadn’t.

They got rid of the rest of their clothes before (Y/n) led Spencer to the bed. She waited a moment on the bedside. Spencer grabbed her arm, to pull her into the bed. She landed in his arms but before she could get comfortable, Spencer rolled over, trapping her underneath him. A grin spread on his face.

“You can’t tease me forever.” His locks fell into his face, framing it perfectly.

He dipped down, capturing her lips in a hungry kiss. He didn’t want to waste another second. He had waited for so long and then he had almost lost her. His lips traveled to her jaw, down to her neck. A sigh escaped her mouth. “Spencer...” She whispered. He continued to pepper kisses down on her chest, over her stomach. She felt his lips graze the skin on her inner thigh. One kiss at a time he came closer to the place she was aching for him to touch.

(Y/n) buried her fingers in his hair, guiding him. When his tongue slid through her wet folds, she couldn’t hold back her moans anymore. Between the obscene sounds, that filled the bedroom, she repeated Spencer’s name over and over, like a mantra. He loved to hear his name fall from her desperate lips. Her breath was getting irregular, he could tell she was close. He pulled back, only to lift himself up, so he could kiss her. He knew she could taste herself on him as he slipped his tongue into her mouth.

After a while, (Y/n) broke the kiss to sit herself up. She crawled over the bed, guiding Spencer, until he sat on the edge and she was kneeling on the floor in front of him. She ran her hands up his thighs, never breaking eye contact. She could tell, he was holding his breath.

“Relax...” She placed a few kisses on his thighs before slowly taking him into her mouth. Spencer inhaled sharply. Now he was the one with his fingers tangled in her hair, lewd sounds and profanities leaving his mouth.

(Y/n) could feel him trying to hold back but he was struggling. Satisfied with the effect she had on him, she started to work her way up his abdomen until she reached his neck, sucking on it, careful not to leave marks above where the collar of his shirt would close. She seated herself on his lap. Her hands reached around his neck for support when she slid down on him. Both took in a sharp breath. Spencer’s eyes were closed and his mouth slightly agape when he let out a soft moan. That sound alone could have driven (Y/n) over the edge. She waited a second to adjust to the feeling of being filled up by Spencer.

“You feel so good...” Spencer whispered in the crook of her neck. He sank his teeth into her soft skin, sending shivers down her spine. “You too.” She managed to say between breathy moans. Spencer had started to move slowly. His hands were tightly gripping her thighs to guide her own movements.

“Oh god...” She moaned while dropping her head on his shoulder. Her nails dug into his back. “Spencer, I won’t last very long...” “It’s ok, baby...” His strokes were getting deeper. “Say my name again...” “S-spencer I –” She felt her orgasm build up.

“Again.” “Spenc-aah”

Spencer could feel her tighten around him. Her nails left bright red scratch marks on his back. She cried out his name again and while she was wrapped so tightly around him, he felt his own release.

(Y/n) and Spencer were both panting heavily, sweat covering their foreheads. They just stared at each other for a few seconds. “You’re amazing.” A smile spread on Spencer’s face. He took her hand and pressed a kiss to her palm. Her cheeks were glowing red.

“I’m not the only one.” She smiled back.

After cleaning themselves up they laid back in the bed. (Y/n)’s head was resting on Spencer’s chest. He was playing with her hair while she drew small patterns on his stomach. “Was it how you had imagined?” Spencer asked. She raised her head to look at him. “Better.” A smile tugged at her lips. “I never imagined it could feel so right to be with someone.”

“Me neither.” He paused for a moment. “I love you so much, it’s driving me crazy.” (Y/n) propped herself up to get a better look at him. There was nothing but pure adoration in his eyes. “I love you too, I never want to spend another day without you.” “You don’t have to, I promise I’ll never leave your side.”

(Y/n) put her head back on Spencer’s chest. After a while she had fallen asleep. 

“Love is composed of a single soul inhabiting two bodies.” - Aristotle

[theealbatross]

Headcannon: Sebastian takes care of people

Tags: fluff, kinda low self esteem, kinda unhealthy codependency, short read had to get it out of my head

He takes care of strangers

Like silly little first years lost in the moving stairs, albeit with a frown and a sharp lecture about the dangers of walking around the castle and being too prideful to carry a map when they could barely locate their dorm rooms, firmly putting a quick end to older students' teasing when their jokes cross a line, and even ending up as the reluctant volunteer tutor (live training dummy) for Defense Against the Dark Arts after Professor Hecat assigned him the role to complete his detention.

This, in turn, makes him surprisingly popular with the kids to his bewilderment as they gravitate toward their grumpy but reliable senior.

"Have a good day, Sebastian!"

Both of you frown in confusion at the gaggle of cheerful first-year Hufflepuffs who eagerly greet him as you pass the halls. One even waved at him before they turned into a corner.

"What was that?"

He shrugs. "Hell if I know."

He takes care of his friends

"Amitt! Watch out!"

The Ravenclaw could barely turn to the familiar booming voice before he was shoved to the ground.

"Hey! You aren't allowed in the field!"

"Are you alright, Amitt?" He realizes the concerned voice of his friend, Sebastian, brought him out of his stupor. And in his hand is the bludger that nearly had an intimate interaction with the back of his head.

"Oh! Sebastian! Many thanks! I didn't know Slytherin practices ran this late. I was on my way to the top of the bleachers -- the best views of the summer night sky, I tell you."

"Thakkar, you don't have permission to be here!"

Sebastian rolls his eyes, feeling Amitt's anxiety rising as Slytherin quidditch players land one after another, looming over him. "Back off, all of you. He nearly got hurt. I'll handle it."

"But --"

"My apologies everyone! I truly meant no harm --"

"The captain's right, Sallow. Who knows if those Ravenclaws are using this nerd over here to spy on us --"

"I said back off, Thorncrest," Sebastian turned his back on Amitt to face all of his teammates, daring any of them to take another step. "The next time you ignore my orders, I'll stop using words since they can't seem to penetrate through your skull. So you either learn to play nice or I won't let it pass that it was because of your subpar performance that a bludger almost hit my friend."

Sebastian and the other Slytherin student glared at each other until Imelda smacked Thorncrest's head, cutting through the tension. "Listen to your Vice-Captain," he turns to Sebastian with a nod. "I'll take care of him, you get Thakkar out of here."

Sebastian nodded back at Imelda, ensuring everyone was back in the skies before turning to a guilty-looking Amitt.

"I'm sorry, Sebastian. I did not think I would cause such a disturbance."

Sebastian just waved him off with a friendly chuckle and a comforting hand on his shoulder. Amitt can't believe his fellow Ravenclaws don't believe him when he tells them Sebastian is a warm person, laughing to his face was just quite rude. To be fair, they could barely believe they were friends at all. "Don't worry about it, athletes are assholes during Quidditch season."

He looked sheepish, "Can I still go up the bleachers?"

Despite his subdued character, Sebastian can see that Amitt has all the determination in the world when it comes to achieving the things that interest him the most. Maybe that's why he liked the Ravenclaw boy so much. "Yeah, go ahead, Amitt. Just don't let any prefect see you."

"Ah! Thank you, my friend! I shall be as quiet as a mouse!"

Sebastian waved as Amitt haphazardly said his goodbyes.

"If anybody bothers you tell them to talk to me!"

He takes care of Ominis

Despite his great interest in the dark arts and his pure-blooded status, Sebastian will take any and every opportunity to fight Ominis' family. He hates them simply because they hurt his friend, which is unforgivable in his eyes. He had every opportunity to get in their good graces but he blew all of that to pieces when he got in a crude fight with the eldest son of the Gaunts the moment he called Ominis a 'useless cripple'.

From then on, Sebastian has been banned from the Gaunt's estate indefinitely.

"Yeah, they better fucking ban me or I'll burn that haunted house to the ground and lock that prick inside of it."

Despite himself and his pacifistic tendencies, Ominis couldn't but scoff out a laugh while Sebastian nursed a bloody lip, glaring at the gates of the manor as it closed on them. "You didn't need to do that."

"I don't think I did enough," he sneers, blood boiling at the fact that Ominis seemed used to their cruel words. Not wanting to fester on their cruel treatment, he throws his hands across Ominis' shoulders. "Who the hell wants to spend Christmas there anyway? Feldcroft is way more cozy."

Ominis smiled, patting Sebastian's back, the closest 'thank you' he could show now that he knew he had found a true friend. "You're right," He thinks of Anne, Solomon's bland stew, and the blinking lights of the Sallow home.

"Are you alright?" And Sebastian -- kind, true, painfully loyal. His first friend.

Ominis nods.

"Let's go home."

He takes care of his family.

Even though Anne no longer communicates with him after 'the incident' Sebastian still religiously sends letters to Beauxbatons Academy along with whatever trinkets he finds that remind him of her. And even though he detested Solomon and barely felt bad about his death, he still made a point to clean his grave, knowing the old man didn't like it when things were messy, and even emptied his favorite whiskey on his birthday.

"Seb?"

He blinks as you slip your hands into his. He squeezes it, letting the heat on your skin ground him as the two of you stare at the gravestone. Just as remorseful guilt creeps into your heart, he cuts it off. "I don't regret it, you know," he mutters firmly. "He almost ... he was hurting Anne. He was going to hurt you."

You nod, leaning your forehead on his shoulders, trying to comfort him through his quiet struggles knowing words or pieces of advice won't help.

"But I know he did his best. It wasn't enough but it was his best," he empties the other half of the whiskey on the grave, and his grip on you tightens. "I owe him this much."

He takes care of you.

"Avada Kedavra!"

Sebastian flinches awake at the recent memory, his breath shaky as he looks around the dim light of the Room of Requirement.

He did what he had to do, he knows this. Solomon has been eaten up by his own anger, if he didn't stop him ... Merlin knows what would've happened.

If the three of you had gotten out of that fight alive, with your participation in his insipid plans, it wasn't unlikely that Solomon would ship you off to Azkaban with him. That can't happen, he dragged you into that hellhole, he had to get you out of there unscathed.

No matter how high the cost.

"S-Sebastian?"

He sits up from the couch, surprised to see you awake on the open door that leads to your personalized bedroom. The two of you had holed up in your safe haven after the events of the night but it would seem rest evaded the two of you.

"I can't ..." you sigh shakily, biting your lips. "I can't sleep. I'm scared."

As if your fear had overpowered his own, he swiftly set aside the last traces of his fear and guilt, extending his hands, which you eagerly took. Sebastian pulls you in his lap, preceding any thought of impropriety as he curls himself around you, letting you bury your face in the crook of his neck while he covers the two of you in your blanket.

"It's all going to be all right," he promises, pressing his lips on the crown of your hair. "I won't let anything happen to you."

And takes care of you.

"Hey, Sebastian is waiting for you in the common room."

"Sallow said he'll pick you up after class."

"She's not coming, Sebastian's got her."

"Your hound is here."

You turned with a frown from Imelda to what she was staring at with a mischievous grin and by the door stood Sebastian, smiling when your eyes met.

"I --"

"-- have to go," Imelda playfully rolled her eyes. You gave her a smile as you gathered your books.

"Same time next week?"

"Maybe let's hide somewhere your hound can't sniff you up?"

"Get your own witch, Reyes," a deep voice from behind proved her point. Sebastian grabbed your book and satchel from your hands, hooking it on one arm, and the other gently offered his free hand to yours. "This one's mine."

And wants to take care of you forever.

"You should marry me."

Your next step faltered as you turned to Sebastian on the shore of the Black Lake, the setting sun illuminating his face and the vulnerability and determination written across it.

"W-What?"

"I've thought about it," he swallows, walking closer until he is right in front of you, the cold shallow water above your ankles a welcome reprieve from your burning body at such an announcement. "I've thought about letting you go, letting you find someone better than me. "

"Sebastian --"

"But I figured that I'm a selfish man. I always have been. And I want you more than anything else," you shudder at his fervor. "I love you more than anything else in this world."

Gently, as he always does, he took your hand, placing it on his warm cheek. "I can't offer much, I know, but I ... I will make you the sun my world will revolve on."

He presses a kiss at your palm, a warm tear falls from your eyes.

"Marry me," he begs. "Let me be the one to make you happy."

[lachatalovematcha]

I hate I hate people who think they know everything but in reality they know nothing I saw the jirai kei post today hehe sorry for the delay but I'm new to tumblr seriously these people always do this to me especially with anime When I write something wrong they come running, correct me because they think I don't know And another thing, you can be sure that jirai kei is much more of a musical genre than depressive images created by *American* girls hehe SORRY to talk about this old subject now but like I said I'm new here and I love jirai kei and I also loved discovering your blog

🎀🌈🥕 Hi, I'm glad you liked my blog 🎀🌈🥕

🎀🌈🥕 This jirai kei story is really tiring, but 🎀🌈🥕

🎀🌈🥕 I agree with everything you said 🎀🌈🥕

People who think they know everything are really stressful 🎀🌈🥕

🎀🌈🥕 about people correcting you, I only agree to correct you when someone asks for my opinion, like in the case of sugarbunnies🎀🌈🥕

Sometimes when I post something I don't put the name in the tags

🎀🌈🥕 an example of vn (anime) 𝙉𝙀𝙆𝙊✿𝙋𝘼𝙍𝘼 I accidentally changed the names of two characters, a few minutes later about 5 people appeared correcting me....ok, because I imagine none of them acted badly So I don't take these things into consideration I have no resentments lol.... 🎀🌈🥕

🎀🌈🥕 What I don't like is when I post an anime and I don't include the tag due to lack of space or another reason 🎀🌈🥕

🎀🌈🥕 This really happened but it was with something else: 🎀🌈🥕

🎀🌈🥕 I posted KANON and didn't tag the name, then a genius appeared saying the name, you know, thinking I don't know it and he wrote like KANON IS MY WARMUP MAP 🎀🌈🥕

🎀🌈🥕 You know, like pretending I didn't want to do it, but doing it and loving it thinking I'm stupid, he was sure I didn't know what KANON's name was, just because I never tagged the name in my posts 🎀🌈🥕

🎀🌈🥕 because anyone who has known my blog for a long time knows that I only post what I know, and another thing I know is that I know a lot more about THE SUPPOSED KANON than he does, which I'm sure he only found out about because of the aesthetics on Pinterest, if you doubt it he doesn't even dream that KANON is a game lol 🎀🌈🥕

🎀🌈🥕 It's not even KANON that I'm talking about, I used the name KANON just as an example of another vn I don't want to expose the person 🎀🌈🥕Why this person acted badly?, well, maybe because the Supposed KANON is not famous at all and not many people know about it, so he went and said the name in a way that pretended he had known him for a long time 🎀🌈🥕but this type of person can't fool me, he just knows it and says he LIKES it because of the aesthetics I doubt he's ever played the game I really doubt it🎀🌈🥕sorry for being boring as always and the size of the text is clueless🎀🌈🥕and better late than never

🎀🌈🥕BYE BYE AND THANK U FOR ASK🎀🌈🥕

[noegrets]

I love him, and I love to hate him! Gin is a really wonderful villain. He's extremely skilled, extremely perceptive, and able to hold in that he knows something until the right moment — unlike a certain protagonist we know who just has to blurt out his deduction the moment he has it.

Example: Gin knew when Sherry was hiding in the fireplace — because he could hear her breathing! — but let her think she had escaped so that he could learn more about the situation and better confront her later. How many other times has Gin actually known more than he's let on? When Conan was hiding in the locker, did Gin really just coincidentally decide to stop looking right then — even with Conan breathing heavily right there?

Does Gin really forget the names and faces of the people he's killed? If yes, that's kinda cool in its own evil-zen way (and lol at the tag: #go ruthless guy with face blindness and shitty memory <3). But I also wonder if he really was being 100% serious when he said that, or if this is just another example of him being more aware of the situation than he's led us to believe.

Gin is also so so so horny to be an assassin. He's absolutely found his calling in life. He's got the classic car and the black trenchcoat and the long hair draped over the black trenchcoat because he doesn't even need to be subtle. And he's got the gun and the cigarettes and the cigarette lighter from his classic car and the cigarette smoke in the noir shadows... And he's gotten ever more impatient and homoerotic as the series has gone on. Which on the one hand is awesome, but on the other hand makes me a little bit worried that such a cool character as Gin is in danger of becoming flanderized for the sake of senselessly hot violence. He can maybe have a bit of senselessly hot violence sometimes, as a treat. Or as a character flaw, ooo, that would be awesome. But I think Gin would generally be much more into sensibly hot violence.

Example: Gin caught an FBI agent, stuffed his gun into the FBI agent's mouth, and asked the FBI agent if he'd be willing to spill the secret location? The FBI agent unintelligibly went murfmumrmah with the gun in his mouth. And Gin goes, hm? not willing to talk huh? And then Gin shoots the FBI agent dead.

Either: 1) it's a plotpoint that, actually, Gin doesn't need the secret location and this was all a ruse just for some sadistic fun! (hot and sensible, very good, yes). Or 2) Gin really does need the secret location but he got too horny to hold himself in check (hot but not very sensible and might veer into out-of-character territory if he does this sort of thing too often without it being addressed in some way!)

Like, this easily could be a flaw, and he has made other mistakes in the past that could be attributed to horny impatience (example: he made extremely predictable choices when ensuring the death of someone he really wanted to see dead). But if Gin keeps messing things up by being too horny, it's a bit weird that Vodka never comments on it (hey Aniki, are you sure that was a good idea?), it's never an issue for him, etc etc.

Gin messing up due to horniness is at odds with his other characterization of being so extremely perceptive and competent. He's also sadistic, yes, but you can't just throw his other characterization away for the sake of a sadistic scene. Unless you are writing it that way very much on purpose!! If written well, this would make Gin more complex and probably hint at the mode of his future downfall. But if written poorly, it could make Gin lose the cool characterization he had before.

So, ultimately, Gin is a character I love enough to worry that he might get flanderized! :X

[deadclockghost]

To Comfort The Moon

A lil doodly comfort crumb from this AU. I swear it's more lighthearted than this! ....Mostly, anyway.

Usually, comments like that slide right over Moon, it doesn't really bother him, that day was just a bad one, and the kids weren't feeling as nice as they usually do. It happens. And they know they have each other to just be there! They're not alone.

Most of the Daycare space is canon compliant, with a few extras just because; in this case, Moon's Nap Corner! While most kids prefer being outside of the little nook, some feel safer inside, which is why it exists :)

I was debating whether to add the other important guys in this comic, but decided that this moment happened prior to their intro, or there are plot related reasons they're not here! It doesn't really matter... ^^'

Under the cut is the comic without dialogue! I feel like it's still understandable without it, and I kinda prefer it anyway, so I decided to post! Anyways, see you when I actually introduce the others correctly! (Aka post their refs) :>

[lovesickeros]

☆ even the gods bleed [ pt 2 ]

{☆} characters furina, neuvillette {☆} notes cult au, imposter au, multi-chapter, gender neutral reader {☆} warnings none {☆} word count 1.9k {☆} previous [ 1 ]

This had to be a punishment of some sort – some kind of divine punishment.

She was bored out of her mind just watching the sleeping body – she hadn't blinked once in the past five hours, her eyes were really starting to hurt. Yet they still hadn't moved so much as an inch since she sequestered them away to the only place she had known to be safe.

But it'd been almost a week since then.

The only solace she found was that Teyvat had seemed much less hellbent on collapsing in on itself like a dying star.

That counted for something.

Not much, but something!

..Even if their position was no better then it was a week ago.

There was, after all, still the issue of what to do about the false Creator – the actual imposter – and the Archons following them like blind lambs. The other Archons wouldn't listen if she tried to reason with them, and it would only risk the life of Divine One if she spoke of their location to anyone else.

She also was pretty fond of having her head still attached to her shoulders.

So she avoided them all together. Partially because she wasn't sure she wouldn't have a breakdown at the sight of them..she'd never been a fighter, and fighting an Archon? Easy pass.

Instead she was forced to babysit the sleeping Divine until they woke up while Neuvillette handled taking care of the nation and dealing with the other Archons – and by extension the false Creator.

Really though, she would almost think them dead if not for the subtle rise and fall of their chest.

Though..this also left her with a lot of time to herself. A lot of time to think.

She really didn't like it.

There wasn't a lot to occupy her mind and what little there was only distracted her for a scant few moments before her eyes drifted back to the Divine like she was locked in their orbit, unable to escape.

She closed the same book for the twelfth time – she kept count – and returned it to it's meticulously designed place within her bookcase. A low, barely audible huff of frustration escaped her lips before she could bite it down, her stare boring a hole into the body of the Divine One with a sharp intensity she rarely showed.

She was tired, bored and constantly on edge, fearing that at any moment someone would find out about their presence here.

That, at the drop of a hat, she would be powerless to stop the greatest tragedy of her time play out before her eyes.

Neuvillette would have scolded her for being so petulant, especially around the Divine One, if he were here.

But he wasn't.

He was out running her nation, instead.

And what was she doing? Nothing!

She grit her teeth, nails digging harshly into the palm of her hands as she took a deep breath – now was not the time to think about that. She had..much more pressing matters. Sulking and letting her thoughts spiral helped no one, least of all herself.

Yet her attention was caught by a harsh inhale, the rustle of fabric – were they finally waking up? She was exhausted, but it all vanished at the sudden drop of life within the otherwise deathly still body of the Divine.

Her eyes followed the subtle twitch of their fingers, watching as their brow furrowed and their features twisted in something almost like..pain.

..She wasn't ready.

What was she supposed to say?

Should she even say anything? Would that be considered impolite? Does she wait for them to speak first? Should she kneel? Bow?

She doesn't get much time to find her own answer before their lashes flutter, chest heaving with every strangled breath. Every single thought vanishes from her mind the moment she meets their eyes.

For a long, silent moment she thinks that her heart must have stopped.

Their eyes glow like the cresting of the sun over the horizon, painting the world in hues of gold – yet it also reminded her of the dipping of the moon below the waves, casting the briefest, most gentle of lights upon the world engulfed in darkness. In the depths of their eyes was the birth and death of stars in the infinite cosmos – glittering stars in a sea of empty, blank space that left her feeling lightheaded and breathless.

Beneath the splendor is a spark of recognition in their eyes so vibrant it was like a shooting star piercing through the dark night sky, leaving nothing but the wonder in the eyes of the observer as the only proof it ever existed – brilliant in it's beauty, however brief.

It is the most beautiful thing she has ever seen.

"Focalors?"

The lilt of their voice nearly made her knees buckle beneath her – euphoria so consuming it left her feeling she was starving swallowed her whole, her mind blanking in a moment of utter bliss. It was..an indescribable feeling that she doubted she could ever hope to put into words – not in a way that could properly express it, try as she might.

She swallowed the words that threatened to spill from her lips – she couldn't make a fool of herself. Not in front of them of all people. She'd never forgive herself.

"Divine One," She rasps, clearing her throat and covering her mouth with a hand to mask both her nervousness and the small smile that creeps across her face. She quickly regains her composure, hand resting on her hip as she puffs out her chest with every bit of pride she can manage. "I am sure you must be confused, but worry not– your most loyal acolyte has seen the truth!"

The silence is deafening.

She opens one eye, peaking at the bewildered and almost distraught expression of the Divine.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

That..she was not prepared for. Surely they knew who they were! Surely they knew. They had to– she's been praying to them for as long as she's breathed, she's dedicated every hour of her life to living up to their ideals, they can't just–!

"Lady Furina?"

Neuvillette, thankfully, spares her the embarrassment of having a meltdown in front of the Divine, the gentle rap of his knuckles against the door making her and the Divine pause, the soft lull of his voice soothing her nerves and yet setting her on edge at the same time.

"Neuvillette." She clears her throat again, her steps hurried as she marches to the door and pries it open none too gently, a forced smile pulling at her lips. She wastes no time tugging the man into the room, shutting the door behind him with a short huff. The silence is, somehow, even worse then before as the three of them stare at each other in absolute exasperation.

Neuvillette, for his part, manages to get his act together with a sharp clearing of his throat, bowing so low even she looks unnerved. She steals a brief glance at the Divine, and she's taken aback by the uncomfortability twisting their features into a grimace.

Their expression is schooled back into one of empty apathy when he stands back to his full height, but she saw it – she knows she did! Did they not like their worship? Were they not respectful enough? For a moment, she feared the Divine would smite Neuvillette down on the spot..but they just stared at him like he was a ghost.

"Why aren't you killing me?"

The defeated, resigned tone combined with the way their voice cracks makes her heart ache in her chest – it feels as though her entire world is crumbling down at her feet, and she cannot explain why she feels such emotions so strongly, but it is suffocating. It is almost as if Teyvat itself is weeping, bearing down upon her shoulders like a heavy weight.

She feels the urge to weep herself, but she powers through, gritting her teeth long enough for Neuvillette to take his place at the side of her – though it feels more like their – bed, kneeling like he was going to pray.

"Divine One," He offers a hand with a quiet rumble of his voice, the words slipping off his tongue like honey. It's like trying to soothe a stray cat..though she'd never voice such comparisons of the most Divine out loud. "I..we mean you no harm. I swear on my authority as the Iudex of Fontaine and Chief Justice that you are safe with us."

The skepticism she expected, but the reverence in which Neuvillette must convince them – or perhaps they are simply so tired that they simply did not care any longer if it was all some ploy to drive a knife between their ribs. She didn't expect them to actually place their hand in Neuvillette's.

He didn't either, judging by the way he visibly brightened – not that they'd notice, but she did.

..Not that she could really blame him, her heels clicking against the floorboards as she shifted her weight to the other foot with a nervous energy that was practically bursting at the seams, more then a little jealous of the attention he was receiving. She was the one who found them, she was the one who stayed with them the entire time..but he gets all the attention?

How unfair.

"O-of course! We would never lay a hand on our creator," She adds, her voice a little higher pitched then she would have liked as she placed her hands on her hips, puffing out her chest and brushing off the sting of jealousy. "Least of all I– your most loyal, most devout acolyte!"

She felt baffled when she heard the sound of their laughter, her shoulders hunching and her cheeks flushing on mere instinct – she was expecting mockery, but the look in their eyes, still dulled by a pain she cannot even begin to imagine, made her hesitate.

..It was, perhaps, the most genuine thing she'd heard from them ever since before the hunt began.

She wasn't sure why her heart hurt at such an idea, but it was enthralling to see the beginnings of a half hearted smile on their lips.

For a moment, her mask of theatrics was forgotten as she stared at them in a mixture of awe and adoration– and though she didn't look at Neuvillette, she could imagine he must've shared such an expression.

Had she any doubts that they were her Creator, that they alone were the most Divine..they would wiped clean now. There was no mistaking the way the world itself seemed to grow clearer as they glanced up at her like she was worth something.

For a moment, she realized how cold the false Creators gaze had been now that she has felt warmth so gentle it almost made her knees buckle beneath her. It felt like a pale imitation, now.

Nothing could compare to the warmth that spread through her body at the mere semblance of a smile upon their lips. She didn't even mind if it was her they were laughing at anymore, she just wanted to hear them laugh again.

She'd make a fool of herself, if she had to.

She'd never felt so..ravenous for such a thing, but just the briefest glimpse was addictive.

She simply couldn't help herself from striding across the room and clasping their free hand in her own, her smile wide enough to unnerve as she leaned her weight onto the bed. For a moment, she considered pulling away at the way they startled, but her mind was made up by then – there was no going back.

"Again."

[snakeyp00]

*trips and falls over* oh noooooo *picks up raikov headcanons* *picks up raikov headcanons* *picks up raikov headcanons* *picks up raikov headca

[skeleton-mischief]

Erasing the aspect of Nightmare being a canon abuser of Killer is definitely something I would understand being something you wouldn't want to erase. I build my interpretations VERY differently, but I still love to genuinely look at how Killer's canon interactions are of a place of abuse when interacting with Nightmare in those timelines. The reason I tend to pull away from those things is how the canon creator of Dream and Nightmare feel so,,,empty? And weird. We all know how we feel about them😭 I hate seeing such a character being nothing but an abuser, when there's so much depth to Nightmare too and I want to think that Nightmare doesn't just outright become all evil like how some people like to interpret.

I always tend to try and find ways to write these characters in ways that make them have depth and flawed, but with the absence of them becoming abusers since the community is a place of comfort for me and there's so many ways to write utmv characters with flaws without that. (First thing that came to mind was how people used to write Red and Pitch.) I wouldn't want to erase how someone explores abuse in their stories on utmv characters, and I'm always up for checking it out and even having my opinions open when the abuse of a character is definitely canon or implied in a story.

It would just suck in my opinion to make a story where the abused becomes the abuser, and I have an entire story in my docs about a rewrite of Nightmare and Dream because of it! I like the depth of exploring how both were abused and how they eventually heal from it. I personally haven't been someone who indulges in the Bad Sanses unless it's basically a therapy group and it's a place of healing, anyways. I hope that with more knowledge I can possibly find a way to explore the horrible conditions Killer's been forced into, too, and just in general explore that interpretation of him even if I write his story differently.

Thank you so much for the tag btw! I love being able to hear people give me details on subjects I'm not the most knowledgeable in. You seem like a really cool person, so I'm eager to see your posts! With much love (⁠◍⁠•⁠ᴗ⁠•⁠◍⁠)⁠✧⁠*⁠。

Im having another one of my thoughts tangents but stars above do I wonder.

(this is just my interpretation btw I love multiple versions of the Bad Sanses)

Does Dust think that the bad Sanses would be selfish? Is there a reasonable reason for him to join the Bad Sanses in some versions? He killed his entire underground thinking it was a more merciful kill than them having to go through the constant resets and he couldn't take it anymore before losing his mind. I think just making him stereotypically "psycho" doesn't give him the justice I see much of. I think the idea of taking away the happy endings of others is impossible for him, especially in specific timelines. I think that the versions of each Bad Sans having their own reasons would be fun, like how I imagine he could've been convinced by Pap to go in order to not Starve.

Don't even get me STARTED on Saint, either. He, in my opinion, joins the Bad Sanses to provide safety and food for the underground. His whole character is defending and caring for the underground despite his rough edges. It's not like he would abandon his brother and village when they're victims of fate and cruel circumstances. The idea that Killer killed everyone to just FEEL something? At least there's some level of understanding for Dust even if he also would dislike him. I've always seen Saint as a character always wanting to protect the weak, or at least protect helpless monsters in bad situations. That could lead to a whole way of him bonding with Dust for that matter

If I'm to think of Killer in the way everyone™ in the fandom sees him, he would have the least justification.

,,,,BUT WHAT IF I THINK OF SOMETHING A LITTLE DIFFERENT?

What if Killer decided to join the human to try and stop the resets like Dust? That his method wasn't just to "stop feeling awful" or to "feel nothing at all." I think Sans as a character is very fascinating, and I like to personally think he would pair with Chara as a way not to stop Frisk, but rather to stop the player. It would be interesting to think a part of Chara and Sans are fused into a soul rather than Killer y'know,,,,killing them. I don't care for the evil Chara interpretations, and I think this could lead to a more empathetic light to a character (Killer) with a really cool concept. It's a shame to me that out of all the Bad Sanses, Killer has the least justification and doesn't have that slice of humanity in him that could give him empathy from people in the community

These are just my personal takes, even if whoever reads this may think they're bad takes. Again, I LOVE almost every version someone has of a character so many people can interpret in different ways. I just like adding my own twist to try and pump more depth into each of these silly guys

Thanks for reading if you read this much of my rambling🙂‍↕️🫶

[ohmytiredheart]

Honestly I feel for Sam but serves him right.

Even if we ignore the potential intermingling of the web or any other other spooky strings that are likely being pulled, there's a lot to unpack here.

I wouldn't say Sam "deserved" it, but Alice tried warning him for months. This is what he gets for sticking his nose in places it didn't belong.

Did I say the same thing about Jon in TMA? Yes and no. Obviously there isn't a story without someone doing something dumb, but I think Jon's situation and Sam's situation are a little different. Jon was an idiot, yes, but he (and everyone else around him) were forced to go in completely blind. He had no idea what he was doing and didn't have any warnings or help at all except from his creepy boss with ulterior motives.

Sam also went in blind, but he was warned several times by several people including the eldritch computer to stop and turn around. He could have avoided this if he just returned Alice's calls or looked at her messages.

But nooooo he had to poke around with his little crushy crush and get himself thrown into a portal to what we can only assume is the TMA universe. Serves him right.

[piko-power]

My Personal Headcanon On Why Amy's Love For Sonic Died Down Lately (and their dynamic)

When they were younger, Amy's love for Sonic was pretty extreme, and Sonic was, understandable, uncomfortable for the most part. He knows she means well, but that girl needs to calm down.

She can fight, but sometimes her hammer could only stun her enemies for a while. (It took her a long time to get rid of that robot that has been chasing her around Station Square.) She wasn't fully independent yet, even if she fought on her own a couple of times.

She often follows Sonic and his friends around. She is part of the team, but she was not a strong as she is now at the time yet.

She admires Sonic. A LOT. And Sonic knows that. Obviously, he could only run away from something like that, since he is NOT ready for that kind of thing, and whether Amy takes the hint or stop, she still loves him.

...BUT, I think things were slightly starting to change between her and Sonic after Lost World.

Remember this line?

You remember that? Okay, okay. Here's another totally unrelated question:

Before the events of Lost World, when was the last time Amy said "I love you" to Sonic out loud?

...YEP. 😈 (Unless I'm missing something, let me know lmao)

As more games and adventures come out, the characters get slightly older, and Amy is 12 to 13 now, and she is most certainly at that age where her body starts to change, but especially on how she views Sonic.

She knows she loves Sonic, but it was this moment during her change where she actually wanted to admit that she loves him.

I believe that Amy was all about sharing her affection to him not through confessions, but through obvious hints. Sonic totally got it, and there was no need to confess. Sonic knows she loves her.

...But she never said it. And she almost did, but she never did again for a while.

I think this was the moment in her life where, oh, God, she actually loves Sonic. SHE LOVES HIM, WHAT.

And she was looking back at all the times she had with Sonic that she can now see were unpleasant to Sonic (At least that's what she thinks) and that's probably why she isn't so expressive about her love to him than how she used to back then.

She wasn't sure what to do with this realization, and sets aside it for a while, and nearly stayed as her casual, peppy self... until the Eggman War happened.

During the 6 months of being with the Resistance, fighting Eggman's army all day and all night, all she can think of was Sonic.

She dreams that he still with not just her, but with her friends. She just wanted to see Sonic again, she just wants to be with her hero again.

But I'd like to think that she was also thinking about how she used to treat Sonic back when they were younger, how Sonic would almost always run away from her whenever she asks him out, or always look so uncomfortable whenever she gets so close to him.

Cringing at those memories big time, she wanted to change and hopefully when Sonic is okay and comes back, she can be better for him.

...Or will he still find her uncomfortable regardless? Would he even be happy to see her at all if he did survive?

But, hold on! She can't just give up her love for Sonic! He made her who she is today! A peppy, nature-loving, hammer-swinging, confident, brave... loud-mouth... annoying... Sonic obsessed... weak... pathetic... lonely little girl.

If she gives up on Sonic, it'll be like she gave up on the one hedgehog who saved her life. If she didn't she'll still be the same ol' Amy.

I also like to think she had parents a long while before she met Sonic, and was even expecting a little sister, but a robot invasion happened from where she was and attacked her parents and instead of trying to save them, after getting hurt, she ran away, hoping that they'll come back okay. But they never did.

She was all alone, and needed someone, a friend, a new family, someone who will hold her hand, anyone, to be there for her. But she was ignored by lots, and at that point, she's better off by herself, but still longed for company.

Eventually though, her tarot cards told her her future hero, and there might be hope after all. She encountered Sonic, held onto the belief of the cards tight, and the rest is history.

So, with that headcanon in mind, not only did Amy loose her parents that she didn't save because of her cowardliness (she was only so little at the time that happened) and also Sonic, who she thought will be her only hope, but now gone.

She doesn't even care if he did come back, he'd probably hate her now after everything she did to him, always talking about their "future wedding" or forcing him to go to Twinkle Park.

For the last few months of the war, it was nothing but Amy mentally beating herself up for either refusing to change or moving on, and they are both not fine choices.

She loves Sonic, but he does not love her, and she finally, finally realized it. And it's probably for the best if no body loved her at all.

But of course Sonic did survive and all of her worries wash away in an instant, she's just not expressive about her love for Sonic AT ALL now, since she's still worried about it but rather not mention it to Sonic because it doesn't matter.

If Sonic doesn't love her, then her feelings don't matter to him, and according to Amy herself, that is okay.

But also, I'd like to think that Sonic was thinking about his friends a lot up in the Death Egg for the past months, sometimes it's Tails (worried for his safety), sometimes it's Shadow (because he's wondering why he would join Eggman.) At some point, for a few days, Amy was in his mind the longest, and he felt bad about how he thought he was rude and pushy to her.

He wondered if she's not thinking about it too much, and if she is, will she give up on him? Yeah, he doesn't feel the same and still not looking for a relationship, but it's so strange but interesting how anyone could ever like someone like Sonic the Hedgehog. Amy was never afraid to show that, and she probably might be now.

He couldn't help but feel guilty. They were kids when she was like this, but he was so... arrogant at the time too. Not a lot happened at the time yet. He'd always have trouble expressing how much he value his friends, until he shattered the Paradox Prism. (I'd like to think Prime took place before Forces. It makes sense.)

She is such a sweet girl, and he probably made her believe that he didn't care for her. Just because he doesn't feel the same, that doesn't mean he hates her at all.

He wished he never ran away from Amy... Worrying for his little bro and wishing to be a good person for Amy was when Sonic cried in the Death Egg for the first and only time.

Frontiers, in my opinion, is kind of confirming their dynamic now. Sonic is a lot more sincere and kinder to Amy and she is not all hyperactive and lovey to Sonic. There is probably a real reason for this now.

They are both hiding their feelings from them, and they are both unaware of this. Amy, hiding her mental issues from Sonic, and Sonic, hiding his guilt away from Amy.

None of those things are important now. Sonic is with Amy and Amy is with Sonic. They are here with each other. They can be finally be better for each other now.

They don't care if they'll ever be something more when they get older. None of that matters anymore. They are here with each other. They can be finally be better for each other now.

Maybe someday they'll both talk about it, but for now, the present is important. They care about each other too much to think about it right now.

It's the kind of love that is unbreakable. It doesn't even have to be romantic. It's just love. Love is important for everyone, in any form. It's something Sonic and his friends need. And especially Sonic and Amy.

Amy Rose is the living embodiment of love, and without her, a lot would go downhill for Sonic and co. Heck, if it weren't for her, Shadow wouldn't have never remembered Maria's promise, which lead him to save the world with Sonic, before he temporarily disappeared from their lives for a while.

She is always there to lend a helping hand for anybody, even bad guys like Metal Sonic, and despite what she had been through, both in Forces and headcanon wise, she still fights back, even without her hammer.

She will pick you back up on your feet, reminding you that you are important and that you are loved, and that you should never give up. It's pretty much the words of encouragement she herself needed also...

She is still the happy, hyper, butt-kicking hedgehog we all know and love, but she still need someone to pick her back up on her feet after so long. Thankfully, she has her friends and her blue hero. The hero who made her who she is today.

I think Amy has no idea how important she thought she is, but Sonic does. Sonic knows fully well how important she is to a lot of people. It's about time he returns the favor to her. It's his turn to remind her how much a lot of people love her.

How much he loves her.

And I feel like The Murder of Sonic the Hedgehog was the moment where their dynamic really shined, but also the starting point of their relationship not only healing, but also the next chapter of what's to come for them.

Everyone, friends old and new, gathered around for a special birthday. A birthday for the confident, unshakable, and radiant Amy Rose.

It was such a special moment in Amy's life. After years of chasing and following the people she look up to, she is part of the team, but most importantly, she is part of the family.

She is fully realized as someone more than just a fangirl, but someone strong, courageous, creative, kind and a big inspiration for others.

I feel like this moment here...

-is where Amy is eternally grateful to call her friends her family. A family she thought she'll never have again. She's not alone anymore, and as long as they're by her side, she'll never will be again.

Her chasing days are over. She's finally caught up to them. She's finally home.

And it's all thanks to Sonic.

If it weren't for him, she'd probably be alone forever. Her past moments with Sonic might be embarrassing to look back on for a while, but they are good memories regardless, because they involve him.

Sonic saved her life in more ways than one, and despite everything, he's grateful to have her too.

He cares about her. He really does... And in her eyes, that all she needed to know. As long as Sonic loves her in his own way, she'll be happy.

Amy hasn't given up on Sonic. As long as Amy always supports him, he'll be happy.

Maybe sometime in the future, they can talk about their problems, but that's a story for another time. At this point, they need to. Right now, they are happy. They are okay.

They are here for each other. They are finally better for each other now.

"You guys won't ever leave me, right?"

"Wouldn't dream of it."

[uncanny-tranny]

Also, in response to the "testosterone making people angrier" myth, I've found that, personally, testosterone has given me the self-respect to recognize and call out when my boundaries are being overstepped in ways that I wouldn't have had the courage (or, frankly even liking of myself) to have done before. This is in addition to me working on my trauma responses, but testosterone was the spark that gave me the will to do this in the first place. When I see people sae that as anger and thus is a "bad thing," I wonder how much of that is just people being uncomfortable with us... having boundaries or enforcing them, and that the response to that overstepping is labeled as aggressive anger.

Frankly, I now actually respect myself enough to care when I am being mistreated. It seems that people sometimes take that as a personal failure on my end because I don't think I deserve mistreatment.

Caveat: Anger is a fine emotion, and it is a worthy thing to recognize and honour. I find that the accusation of trans men* and trans masc* people "being angry" on testosterone is a moot point simply because it is often a false accusation which uses anger as a punishment. My issue isn't that we're "angry," but that our perceived anger is used, often, as a transphobic bludgeon to punish those who either want to transition with testosterone or who currently are, and everything in-between.

[they-didnt-last]

anyone interested in talking about the iconic 2000's middle-grade-bordering-on-ya book series gallagher girls??

[dykedvonte]

(abt my last ask) thank you for the answer, your understanding of charas is trully stellar!

I wanted to ask, what's your take on recovery!au (unless you intend to cover it in your fic)? In the universe, where Jimmy happens, but the crew somehow survives. Everyone is traumatised, Anya is pregnant, Curly is disabled (could he even be able to afford disability aids? Pony express in no more, would they even be paid a sufficient compensation?). There is also a question of p*lice investigation (or whatever agency is responsible for space crimes), even more trauma... Man, it's bleak.

-💀

I like them sad but for emotional and physical recovery reason rather than all the actual legal stuff that would ensue.

I like when Swansea relapsing is explored and Daisuke losing a little bit of his light. I am clearly a big supporter of Anya and Curly remaining close friend after but I think exploring the unhealthy dynamics of the trauma bond they’d develop should be played with way more. I think it’s a bit annoying when people are on the nose about Anya telling Curly he should’ve done more, especially when he’s struggling through recovery.

I feel like people really want her to be a character to rub salt into wounds, just to give her something cathartic, but it’s just OOC for me. It’s not a kindness thing but I don’t think she wants that sort of guilt to stay with him like that? He did not do what Jimmy did, he could’ve done more to stop it but she would not intentionally try to direct what she can never take out towards Jimmy at Curly. At least when they all make it out. This is not to say she doesn’t think he shouldn’t have any remorse but she understands that no one else could have foreseen Jimmy crashing the ship or getting that bad.

I like when it gets psychoanalytic in fics with the crew. Talk about Curly finally opening up on details on how he and Jimmy were friends, have the others realize how bad Jimmy was to even Curly, not a lot of people realize that they don’t know how Jimmy was to him. Have Anya be angry and snippy, have her worry she’s becoming like Jimmy even though she could never be like him, it’s that fear though, that she is owed that cathartic release and may take it out on others in some selfish subconscious desire to reclaim control for herself. Have her actualize-herself, is med school the only option? What does she want now? Does Swansea divorce his wife, give up on the life he created because he was just following the path of a good man, one he didn’t believe? Or does he stay and use the time he has left to make it something he believes in. How is Daisuke? Is he more mature or does he lose a little light? What are his new aspirations if any? His relationship with his parents?

Ultimately, I think a recover au should really focus on just them actually getting to know each other and filling themselves. So much of their interactions were likely based on coworker dynamics first. With that out the window they are now people who can’t really move on from each other but need to move on in life.

[ehlnofay]

One day – as far-off as a century, as near as tomorrow – it will all be a grand old story.

The stories will speak of a handful of champions, rushing headlong against time and logic to save the world; the last Blades, the last Septim, and his hanger-on Hero, carving a bloody path to the Temple doors. The stories will tell of skies like burned blood, of fire and ash and uncountable legions of monsters – hundreds, thousands, millions, the quantity rising with each telling – the city streets cracked and quaking, every civilian locked up in their homes and businesses and praying for deliverance. The stories will tell of the appearance of Dagon, red-hot and roiling, a gory perversion of the sun; they’ll tell that when all seemed lost, Martin Septim sacrificed himself in a blaze of glory, calling down the avatar of Akatosh and casting Dagon and his ilk back whence he came. They’ll tell that the golden dragon threw back its head and roared, and the sky cleared and brightened at its word; they’ll tell how it petrified in place, a magnificent pillar of stone, a sacrosanct statue. A site of pilgrimage. A shrine, to the grace and glory of the gods, and the bravery and benevolence of the last Emperor, the best of men.

It will be a good story. All splendour and triumph, a bittersweet victory right out of the epics; the pages closed, the crisis done, the world saved in as golden a resolution as could be asked for. It doesn’t get better than this, a perfect saviour, a hallowed end.

What the stories won’t tell is how, under clear skies and sunlight, the Hero of Kvatch falls at the statue’s marbled feet and howls like the world is still ending.

“You fucking coward,” Pax is screaming, as best as she can. Her mouth tastes like smoke. Her voice is hoarse. “Stupid worm, fucking – selfish bastard – what’s wrong with you?”

His head is swimming, a bit; he shouldn’t have tried to stand, but he – but – he’s dragged himself up to the dais, just about, and managed to sprawl himself over the edge, a snail’s trail of blood smeared along the floor behind him. The copper tang of it is strong in his nostrils. The statue stands, proud and silent, one marble claw dug into the cracked stone of the rostrum. His whole body is beginning to ache – just because of a stupid stab wound in his side, he’d swear he’s had worse, it’s not that bad, it’s not that bad. His throat burns. He isn’t crying. He isn’t.

The sky is so fucking blue.

“What’s wrong with you?” he demands, again, and brings the heel of his hand thudding against the clawed foot hard enough that he feels the impact down his arm, through his blurry head. “Why would you – piece of shit – sorry spit-gill – I thought –”

None of their thoughts will go through to the end. “I thought,” Pax says again, and she’s not crying, and it hurts so much it’s looped back around to not hurting, and it’s all getting fuzzy at the edges, all the world narrowed down to this and this and this and all fucking hell she’d rather be anywhere, anything else. The statue is cold. Her throat is scraped raw. “Come back,” she’s begging without quite meaning to, “come back,” and she drives her palm into the stone again, and the pain sets her reeling.

And all hell, the sky is so blue; the statue enormous; and here they are, at its feet, vision blurring, staring up at its cold marble face. It’s so fucking tall, so proud, face tipped up towards the new-appeared sun, away from them.

“How could you?” Pax says, and then they can’t even see it anymore, blood unspooling from them like skeins of madder-dyed thread. Red has never been their favourite colour. The shape of the dragon, glowing like the sun, is fixed forever on the backs of their eyelids; gold, they think, is worse. The world is detached and floating about them. They taste smoke and then bile. Stone digs fierce into their spine.

It burned like the sun, the dragon; like all the divine light of Aetherius come to earth just to sear the moisture from her eyes. Where it clawed Mehrunes Dagon, his blood boiled; when it screamed, the world moulded itself to its call. Pax hadn’t known what was happening, while it happened; sure as shit doesn’t know now. What they do know is that he’s gone. What they do know is that the dragon didn’t look at them once. They don’t taste ash on their breath, now; just fear, stagnant, sour, blood jangling bitter in their veins and seeping out to soak their gambeson.

It doesn’t hurt, anymore, there’s just this spreading, vague numbness. It doesn’t feel like their body. It’s just a thing they’re putting on. Their ears are still ringing from the crashing-in of the Temple, but there’s a faint buzzing of noise outside. They might be dying. They can’t be assed to get up.

Skeeving asshole. They’re getting blood on the dragon’s immaculate feet. The hollow sounds of voices feels distant. Could well be worse.

Then, “… a healer, here!” they hear, much closer than anything else had been before, paired with the faraway thudding of the door, and “Pax. Pax! It’s – where’s –” and there’s hands on him, a cautious manipulation of his neck, a shifting of his legs. Pressure on his sternum, and then his stomach, and a pained grunt slips out of his mouth, bound up with a slurred curse.

“Stay calm,” says an unfamiliar voice, soft and steady. “I’m just accessing the wound.”

“Go away,” Pax says, or tries to say, but his voice is whispering-hoarse and the dragon looms in the dark even still. He could open his eyes, but what would be the point?

The hands stay on him even when he bucks, holding him steady; they whisper over the stab in her gut, pulling at the drying blood, mumbling words that she can’t be fucking bothered to listen to, one voice known to her already, one voice not; pressure again on the injury, and they try, half-heartedly, to breathe out a swear – and then light, copper-bright, behind their eyelids, and burning heat, and pain pain pain eclipsing all else as something inside them wrenches back into working order, and then their eyes are open and the sky is blue and they are very fucking aware, thank you.

Pax sits up, fast enough to send the world dizzily whirling, and shoves the mage-medic away from them.

“Piss off,” he says – and it’s still hoarse, smoke-throated and scraped raw, but there’s more bite to it this time, more sound. The strange hands fall away from his side, and he looks down. His gambeson is hanging open, cords untied, the emblem of the wolf split clean down the middle. His undershirt is rucked up around his chest, too, so much of his skin is bared to the clear, bright air; all to get to the wound tucked just under their ribs. It’s an underwhelming thing – smaller than they would’ve thought, a thin short slash like a very red mouth has opened itself up in their gut. It’s stopped dribbling quite so much blood, gone scabby with rough healing, though the stuff is still smeared all over their skin, damn near enough to bathe in. It’s barely anything, really. They’re barely even hurt.

“I’m not done,” says the mage-medic, all stern. The wound itches, the taste of hasty magic gone sour in the back of their throat with all the rest of it. “I might have to find my suturing needle. It isn’t too bad, but it can’t be healed all at once.”

“Piss off,” Pax repeats – and all fucking hell it hurts, and he’s sitting up against the statue, legs lolling. He’s dizzy. He ignores it.

Ocato – his fine clothes sooty, face tight as a wound-up spring – says, “Calm down, please – he’s a skilled healer, he knows what he’s doing.” His eyes keep skipping around the room like he’s searching for another enemy lurking hidden in the shadows. “What happened? Where’s the Emperor?”

Ah – not an enemy, then.

Pax tastes bile.

“Not very quick on the uptake, are you?” she says, elbow braced against the statue’s massive marble claws (she hates touching it, she hates it, she hates it, she wants to set it crumbling apart, she doesn’t want to let anyone else touch it ever again). She can’t stop leaning because then she might topple back down again. Fuck, she needs to keep her head on straight – or lose it altogether, whichever happens faster. Her fingers feel cold. “How’re you going to run an Empire when you’re this fucking clueless?”

Ocato looks them in the face; his brow, high and slanted in that way elves have, furrows. “You’re hurt,” he says, in a tone like he expects Pax to argue with him. “Martin Septim–”

“Can’t you see him?” Pax demands, tone torn in half and uglier than they’ve ever heard it before, and they slam the back of their hand against the stone for echoing emphasis. (They want to shatter all the bones in their knuckles, break every piece in their hand one by one, like wishbones. They want it bloody and bruising. They want to scratch its polished-smooth surface until their fingernails tear. They want – they want – they want –)

Ocato, the Empire’s de facto leader, says, “Ah.”

In his plummy robes, all fruit-rich and stained with ash, he looks very stark against the Temple’s cracked marble floors.

“The Avatar,” he says. “If – the Amulet – joined blood of kings and gods –”

“Ocato,” says Pax, leaning heavy against the statue’s hateful foot, “shut up.” Their voice is bowstring-taut; he looks at them, his eyes too golden to meet. His mouth twists. They tip their head back against the stone, glaring up at the chips of blue sky shown in the crater where the roof once was, and try hard to ignore the tugging ache hooked behind their ribs.

It really fucking hurts. Worse than it did before, maybe, like some gauzy veil has been ripped from it. A veil has been ripped from the world. All the colours are too-bright, hideous. Pax breathes, because there’s no alternative, and waits for the pain to ebb.

(It doesn’t, really.)

“The Gates are sealed,” Ocato says, slowly, and he’s looking at her again, she can see out of the edge of her eye. “We will speak later. I’ll have you put up in the Palace until you’re healed. Ah – Quintus, does –”

“As long as she doesn’t go back into shock,” says the mage-medic, busily flipping through some kind of supply bag at his belt, “her odds are good. Lost blood, but I don’t think anything important was too damaged – get a proper examination, all I did was give her a second wind. Stitches, rest, fluids should do it, with luck.”

“Can she stand?”

“Can or should are –”

“Shut the fuck up,” Pax snaps, “I’m right here.” Her back pressed against the cold marble of the statue, her plait half-loose and knotted, filled with ash. The sky is so fucking blue. It hurts like hell – if the healer took her out of shock, then shit, she wishes he’d put her back in. She can see in too much detail. She can feel the skin, damp and ragged and angry. She presses the heel of her hand to the injury; her palm is crusted with dust, tacky with the same half-dried blood streaked over the floors.

Ocato, in the edges of her vision, shifts, all a blur of rich clothes and sympathetic eyes and solemn voice turned soft like he’s talking to an easily spooked horse. “I know.”

The mage-medic clucks his tongue. “Let me take another look first,” he says, and takes a step forward –

Pax kicks out at him before he even gets close. “Don’t fucking touch me!”

“Pax,” says Ocato – and why, why the fuck is the Empire’s de facto leader here, now, babying them like a whimpering little puppy instead of anywhere fucking else, why is he bothering to talk to them all patronising soft, why does he care? They’ve barely fucking met – talked twice, if you can call either of those times talking. Is it because they’re the Hero of Kvatch? Is this what they’ve earned – a bit of leeway as they throw a tantrum, bleeding out at the marble feet of that stupid bloody statue? Ocato looks so fucking tired; Pax wants to hit him in the nose. “You need care.”

“I need –” and Pax chokes it off in a puff of air. The statue looms behind them. There’s blood on the floors. (Traitor liar coward come back come back I hate you come down I’ll knock your fucking teeth in stupid selfish fraud come BACK. LOOK AT ME.)

Pax closes his eyes.

“My gratitude,” Ocato says, “ – our gratitude for what you’ve done cannot be overstated. The Crisis if over. The gates are sealed. Mehrunes Dagon and his ilk can never threaten Tamriel again.”

The knobs of Pax’s braid are pressing uncomfortably against their scalp. They can hear footsteps, coming closer. They don’t respond.

“It’s a great shame we had to pay such a price,” Ocato says, and Pax would fucking love to know who’s we here, “but it’s done. Dagon is defeated. We’ve won.” He’s much too close, now; his voice pitches softer. “Martin – is dead. But he died an Emperor – and a hero to rival Tiber Septim.”

Pax shoves him.

It’s a good fucking shove – knocks him right to the ground, his elbow hitting the marble with a painfully audible crack, Pax standing over him, shirt rucked up, their handprint on his shoulder marked in blood. “You useless, prattling jackass!” they spit, hoarse, and deal a swift, savage kick to his side. “How dare you act like this is a victory! It should have been me!”

Then their head swims, and they’re sitting again on the edge of the dais, palm pressed to their side, the sweaty cloth of their gambeson pushed half off their shoulder and its cord biting into their hand. The mage-medic is kneeling over Ocato, who still lies, stunned; Pax can’t see his eyes, now, but they remember them, brassy with shocked fear. Their bow is off by the wall where they left it. Pax’s palms are sticky with blood. The sky is so fucking blue. No matter how hard she rages the dragon won’t look down at them.

By the time the mage-medic has helped Ocato up, they’re gone. The Kvatch guard gambeson remains, smoke-smelling and crusted with blood, left like an offering at the statue’s feet. The Hero of Kvatch is never seen again.