#I spent way more time on this than it deserved

[oyasumihikari]

(Here's a bunch of familial drama for you people. Get your popcorn. Also, I'm going to leave a lot of details of specific conversations out.

The TL;DR is that my dad was about to leave Mom and me to move in with a scam artist who stole a bunch of his money in one of those BS crypto investment schemes and I've never mentally recovered from the betrayal because I refuse to seek therapy even though I probably desperately need it.)

Shortly after my mom told my dad she wanted a divorce, my dad started talking to this random woman from Facebook Dating.

Long story short, he fell for one of those crypto schemes, and was fully willing to move in with said scam artist before it sunk in that he was being scammed.

Before it sunk in though, he was all gung-ho about moving away. He was going to move halfway across the country to Atlanta, Georgia. He would have left Mom and I with virtually nothing if I didn't bring up the possibility of one of my buddies becoming our roommate and him, me, and Dad splitting the bills.

He was going to abandon me for someone who couldn't have given any less of a shit about him. I played it off like I didn't care -- because, truth be told, as much as I hate the guy now, I do still want him to be happy, and I was excited he was finally going to leave -- but once shit hit the fan and he realized his mistake, I felt the anger finally hit me.

This fucker spent the past decade treating my mom like shit (possibly treating her like shit for all 21 years of their marriage), started treating her even worse after she got sick with long COVID, showed his true manipulative, narcissistic colors when he almost got me on his side, was about to leave us for some woman he'd never properly met before (my parents still haven't started the divorce proceedings, they're still legally married), and got all pouty and "oh poor me" after he realized he pissed away his money.

I have never thanked God more for not taking away my anger issues than during this process. There was one day during the earlier days of this whole ordeal when I had a verbal outburst at Mom while she was smoking on the porch. I let 'er have it with all of the (extremely wrong) information my father told me -- how she was the narcissist, how she wasn't in her right mind, etc. -- and showered. However, after my shower, she very calmly (way more calmly than I deserved) explained her side of the story. Everything clicked almost immediately, and I broke down into tears when I realized just how wrong I had been.

If I never had that outburst, I probably never would have given my mother the time of day to explain her side of the situation.

— Franz Kafka; January 25, 1922

[777bae]

ALWAYS YOURS JACK HUGHES

Summary :: Jack finally realises he was truly always yours

Warnings :: kissing

Word count :: 2.1k

The locker room is alive with the chaotic energy of celebration. Laughter echoes off the walls, loud and boisterous, and the clatter of equipment fills the air. Jack sits in the corner, his skates still tied tight, his hair damp and messy from the game. The adrenaline should still be coursing through him—after all, they’d won tonight. Another tally in the win column, another moment to add to his growing list of career highlights. Yet, despite the great victory, his thoughts are elsewhere.

His mind keeps wandering back to you.

He remembers the way you smiled at him before the game, standing just outside the locker room, bundled in a coat too big for you, your cheeks kissed pink from the cold. It was the kind of smile that could quiet the loudest of arenas, one that reached your eyes and made him feel like he was the only person in the room. It had lingered with him all night, far more potent than the cheers of the crowd or the rush of the game.

Jack finishes untying his skates and runs a hand through his damp hair, staring absently at the ground for a moment. The sounds of his teammates fade into the background as his heartbeat picks up. He knows where you’ll be—where you always are after every game. And the thought of you standing just beyond those locker room doors, waiting patiently for him, fills his chest with warmth that no win on the ice ever could.

He doesn’t rush as he gets up, but there’s an eagerness in his step that he can’t quite suppress. By the time he pushes open the heavy door, the world outside feels quiet and still. And there you are, leaning against the wall in that effortless way only you can pull off.

The sight of you stops him in his tracks. Your hair falls loosely around your shoulders, catching the soft fluorescent light overhead, and your hands are tucked into your coat pockets. There’s nothing overly remarkable about this moment—you’re just standing there, looking up at him with a gentle smile—but to Jack, it feels extraordinary. He drinks you in as if you’re the first light of dawn, a quiet sort of beauty that demands no attention but steals his completely.

“You were amazing out there,” you say softly, your voice carrying a sincerity that wraps around him like a blanket.

Jack’s lips tug into a lopsided grin as he moves closer to you. “Trying to impress you,” he teases, though there’s a slight tremor in his voice that betrays the weight of the words. He’s never been good at hiding how he feels about you.

You laugh lightly, the sound like music to his ears. “You don’t have to try, Jack. You already have.”

The words hit him square in the chest, and for a moment, he’s left speechless. His gaze lingers on you, taking in the way your eyes hold his, unwavering and full of warmth. It’s a look that makes him feel seen, not as the rising hockey star everyone expects him to be, but as just Jack—the guy who gets nervous around you, the guy who’s never been more certain about anything in his life than he is about you.

He steps closer, close enough that he can see the faint freckles dusted across your nose, the way your lashes cast delicate shadows on your cheeks. His hand brushes against yours, and even through the fabric of your coat, the contact sends a jolt of electricity up his arm.

You tilt your head, studying him like you can see right through the walls he keeps up around everyone else. “You don’t have to carry it all by yourself,” you say, your voice soft but steady. “I’m here, Jack. Always.”

Your words stir something deep within him. He’s spent so long trying to be everything for everyone—his team, his family, his fans. But here you are, reminding him that he doesn’t have to shoulder it all alone, that it’s okay to let someone in.

“I don’t deserve you,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. His eyes flicker to yours, filled with something raw and vulnerable.

You smile, a quiet, knowing smile that holds no pity, only love. “That’s not for you to decide,” you reply, your fingers reaching out to brush against his wrist.

The simplicity of your words is what undoes him. There’s no grand declaration, no overly complicated sentiment. Just you, standing here, promising to stay.

He steps even closer, his hand lifting to cup your cheek with a tenderness that makes your breath hitch. His thumb brushes over your skin, tracing the curve of your cheekbone like he’s memorizing it. For a moment, neither of you speaks. The air between you is heavy with unspoken emotions, a quiet understanding passing between your gazes.

“You’re too good to be true,” Jack murmurs, his voice low and thick with emotion, almost as if the words are spilling out before he can stop them. His eyes search yours, wide and vulnerable, like he’s laying every piece of himself bare for you to see.

The weight of his confession lingers in the space between you, and for a moment, it feels like the world has stopped spinning. The air is heavy with the kind of electricity that makes your pulse quicken, yet somehow, everything feels impossibly still. His hand lifts, trembling slightly, as if he’s afraid to touch you and ruin the fragile moment. But when his palm finally cups your cheek, his fingers spreading gently against your skin, it’s as if a piece of him falls into place—like he was made to hold you like this.

Your heart swells at the tenderness in his gaze. There’s no bravado now, no teasing grin, no easy confidence. Just Jack, raw and unguarded, looking at you as if you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground.

A small, knowing smile tugs at your lips as you lean into his touch. His skin is warm, and the roughness of his calloused fingertips contrasts with the softness of your cheek. “So are you,” you whisper, your voice gentle but steady, like a quiet promise you need him to believe.

The words seem to undo him. His brows furrow ever so slightly, and for a moment, he just stares at you, as though he’s memorizing the curve of your lips and the softness of your expression. Then, without another word, he tilts his head and leans in.

When his lips finally meet yours, it’s soft—so soft at first, like he’s testing the waters, trying to savor the moment before it slips away. The first brush of his lips against yours sends a shiver down your spine, and he lingers there, his breath mingling with yours as though he’s memorizing the taste of you. Then, slowly, his mouth moves against yours, more deliberate now, with an aching tenderness that makes your knees feel weak. It’s the kind of kiss that demands nothing and yet gives everything, unspoken emotions pouring into every second.

There’s a quiet desperation in the way his lips mold to yours, a searing intensity that speaks louder than words. It’s as though he’s been holding this inside for so long that now, faced with the reality of it, he doesn’t want to let it go. He kisses you like this moment could end at any second, as if this might be the last chance to tell you how he feels without ever saying a word.

The taste of him is intoxicating—a mix of the lingering sharpness of spearmint gum and something else, something unmistakably him. It’s warm and familiar, like the comforting scent of home after being away for too long. The sensation makes your head spin, and all you can focus on is him—how close he is, how he feels, how this moment is everything you never dared to imagine.

His free hand moves with purpose, sliding to your waist, his fingers curling into the fabric of your coat. The touch is firm yet careful, as if he’s afraid of pushing too far, but the way he tugs you closer speaks volumes. He needs you nearer, closer, as though the space between you is unbearable. His grip on you tightens slightly, his fingertips pressing into the fabric like he’s anchoring himself to you, holding on to something he’s terrified of losing.

Your hands rise instinctively, trembling slightly as they find their place against him. One threads through the damp strands of his hair, the soft messiness of it slipping between your fingers. The strands still carry the faint coolness of the rink, but the warmth radiating from him overpowers it. Your other hand rests flat against his chest, where you can feel the wild rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your palm. It beats fast—so fast—and you realize it mirrors your own, an unspoken acknowledgment of how deeply this moment has shaken you both.

The sound of his heartbeat, steady yet frantic, feels like the only thing in the world grounding you. The heat of his body presses into yours as the kiss deepens, and the weight of his emotions bleeds into every movement. His lips become more insistent now, as though he’s trying to tell you things he doesn’t know how to say out loud—how you’ve somehow become the only constant in his world of chaos, how your presence has anchored him in ways he didn’t even realize he needed, how he’s never felt more alive than he does right now, with you.

There’s an urgency to him that’s almost overwhelming, and yet you meet it with just as much intensity. Your hand tightens in his hair, and the press of your palm against his chest grows firmer, as though you’re trying to memorize the feeling of his heartbeat beneath your fingers. The connection between you feels electric, raw and unfiltered, like a spark has ignited and there’s no putting it out.

When Jack finally pulls away, it’s not because he wants to—everything about him screams that he’d stay like this forever if he could—but because he has to. His chest heaves as he tries to catch his breath, and his forehead comes to rest gently against yours. For a moment, neither of you moves, as if even the slightest shift might break the fragile perfection of this moment.

His breath is warm and uneven against your skin, fanning over your lips as he exhales shakily. His hand is still on your waist, his grip firm but not confining, like he’s afraid to let go. The thumb of his other hand strokes slow, soothing circles against your cheek, the gentleness of the motion contrasting with the intensity of the kiss that just ended.

Your breaths mingle in the stillness, shallow and unsteady, and the air between you feels thick with everything unspoken. His gaze is locked onto yours, his blue eyes impossibly bright, shimmering with an emotion you’ve never quite seen in him before. Vulnerability. Awe. Something like quiet wonder.

His voice, when he finally speaks, is barely above a whisper. “I’ve wanted to do that for so long.” The words tumble out of him, raw and unpolished, like a confession he couldn’t hold back any longer. There’s a quiet reverence in the way he says it, as though admitting it out loud makes it feel more real, more permanent.

Your lips part, still tingling from the kiss, and you smile softly. “You didn’t have to wait,” you reply, your voice equally quiet but filled with certainty. Your fingers trail lightly along the sharp edge of his jaw, your touch feather-light but grounding. “I was always yours.”

The words hit him like a tidal wave, and for a moment, all he can do is stare at you, his expression a mixture of disbelief and overwhelming relief. A small, almost shy smile tugs at his lips, and his forehead presses more firmly against yours. His hand on your waist pulls you a fraction closer, and his thumb never stops its gentle circles against your cheek, as if he’s trying to memorize every curve of your face.

The world around you feels far away, the echoes of the rink and the chaos of the night fading into nothing. It’s just you and Jack, wrapped up in this moment, this connection that feels unbreakable.

For the first time in what feels like forever, Jack feels at peace. And as he looks into your eyes, still catching his breath, he knows one thing for certain: he’s never letting you go.

[comatosebunny09]

carpe noctem [ climax 2.0 ] | sylus

— summary: he takes you to a safe house. reasoned it was the safest option while his men tied up whatever loose ends remained from your mission. you get the feeling there’s more to his words than what floats at surface level. — cw: reader is not mc, reader implied to be femme, assassin!reader, profanity, sexual tension, minor character deaths, mentions of blood & violence, terms of endearment, self-deprecating thoughts, a sprinkle of romance, self-indulgent, unhinged moment, mdni — notes: special thanks to @alfredosaws for helping me write this. thank you so much for reading! — now playing: i follow rivers - lykke li

Silly woman. Getting your hopes up for nothing. Still...

He’s yet to set you down—Sylus. Your enigma of a boss, cradling you in his arms like an offering to be bestowed on an altar. Long fingers crooked under your knees, a possessive arm swept under your back.

You’re not hurt—he saw to that when he safely lured you to the ground with his Evol. So why does he insist on carrying you like you are?

You try not to get caught up in how he smells—petrichor during the spring. The leftover carbon of spent bullets. Suede and the freshly-broken skin of a clementine. 

How he feels—strong yet firm, honed from years of boxing and a past you know little of. Tender despite the violence he’s capable of. Big and comforting, like a blanket fresh out of the dryer on the coldest days of the season. 

How he breathes—even, as his heart thrums a steady tempo against your chest. Soothing like ocean waves rolling over your feet, lulling you into tranquility. 

Tch. Since when did you become so poetic?

You’ve long since traded the cacophony of bullets ricocheting off his Evol—of Nikolai’s men shouting obscenities, bleeding malice and vitriol as they spit orders—for the serenity of the night.

Passersby mill about on the moon-laden streets. Couples laugh, bundling together to ward off the night’s chill. An occasional drunkard stumbles down the sidewalk. Sylus effortlessly sidesteps them, refusing to let you walk on your own despite the perturbed looks he garners. You try not to dig too deep into things. And yet…

He’s carried you like this for at least a mile through the city’s heart. Past historic buildings jaded by time, under twinkling string lights, hung over shopping centers and outdoor cafes bordering the street. 

It’s something of a dream. Something like a romantic film, but you don’t feel like you deserve to be its star.

He’s made no move to set you down. You’ve also made no effort to untwine your arms from around his neck. Instead, you study the flexing tendons in his throat. The bob of his Adam’s apple when he chuckles something murky and guttural after he catches you staring. You look away with bashfulness creeping beneath your skin, only to repeat the ritual all over again. 

It feels like old times—a memory far off when he carried you like this once before after you led him on a hunt through the docks. After you took down one of the most prominent human trafficking rings in the underworld, and after he thought he would lose you forever. 

You’re sure you were heavy then—he spent most of the night searching for you, reducing anyone who got in his way to ash and bone. He was exhausted, violet bags hanging beneath his eyes, blood speckling his collar. Yet he still held you so tenderly. Walked you towards the horizon, clutching you like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go. 

You’re sure you’re heavy now.

And he shouldn’t be holding you like this. Despite how delightful it feels, a voice admonishes you from the deepest regions of your mind for getting too comfortable. 

He’s not yours. This isn’t right. 

She might be gone, swept up in the mountains playing escort, but you can’t help feeling like you’re betraying the hunter. You’ve already crossed her so many times in your mind before. 

You squirm a bit. His gaze slides to you. Scarlet eyes gleam beneath the tawny lights like multifaceted rubies. His brows lift slightly, and the beginnings of a smile prod his lips. 

You clear the phlegm from your throat, tamping down the hot flush rising from your chest to stain your neck and cheeks. He’s effortlessly beautiful, like something spawned from a Rembrandt painting. 

“You can put me down now,” you urge, your voice uncharacteristically soft. “I’m perfectly capable of walking by myself.”

He looks forward, wearing a full-bodied smile. “I know.” He continues walking like you didn’t speak, making no effort to let you go. 

You give him a deadpan look. Try again, a little more insistent this time. “Sylus.”

“Yes?” he returns, humored, patient. 

“I said you can put me down.”

“I know.”

You sigh, exasperated after a few moments spent glaring at his side profile. His devastatingly attractive profile. That sloped nose. Those heart-shaped lips. Those pretty, grey-fringed lashes. 

“Aren’t you afraid of someone seeing us like this?” You gesture to your conjoined bodies with a nod. “People might get the wrong idea.” 

You might get the wrong idea.

He huffs a laugh like you’ve said the most absurd thing. “When have I ever been concerned with how others perceive me?” Those softened eyes flick back to you, something cold prickling low in your belly at the weight they carry. At how his voice dips like he’s drawing you into a secret. “Since when have you?”

Your lips twitch. He poses a fair argument. You’ve never cared much about how people view you, save for Sylus and the twins. More recently, Ms. Hunter. 

Guilt twists in your throat. Burns like ash. “Sylus…”

“Am I making you uncomfortable? Because if I am, I’d be happy to set you down.” There’s a beguiled edge to his voice. A challenge. A plea. Almost like he wants you to say, ‘No.’

Surely, you’re being delusional.

Regardless, you blanch. And it’s comical how quickly you shake your head, eliciting a thick, low purl of laughter from your savior. Your argument dies in the back of your throat. The drape of your arms around his shoulders slackens. But you still don’t let go. You don’t want to let go. 

You decide she’ll have to be upset with you—Ms. Hunter. Decide to be a little selfish, but only for a little while. You’re growing too comfortable with the sharp click of his heels against the cobblestone. With how he lightly jostles you in his arms after each measured step. You could fall asleep like this, ushered to dreamland by the source of your fantasies and suffering. 

After some time spent wordless, Sylus slows to a stop. When you glance at him, he nods at something ahead, finally setting you down. You’re bereft of the warmth and safety his body provides as he helps steady you. Smoothing out your dress, you take in your new surroundings. 

A structure stretches before you, much like the ones you passed before, only the upkeep is better. Three stories of dark, historic brick and an awning dotted with sepia-toned lights loom overhead. The building's name scrolls on a marquee sign in its center, blaring through the frosty haze of the night. It reminds you of an old movie theater, repurposed for something more upscale. 

You turn quizzical eyes to Sylus. “A restaurant?” Come to think of it, you are a little famished. Murder always manages to stir your appetite. 

Sylus pushes back the tails of his suit jacket, shoving his hands into his pockets. Exhales slow. The spotlights highlight his smile as he looks between you and the entrance. “Not hungry?”

“Yeah, but…it’s a little short notice, isn’t it? Don’t you normally need a reservation to get into places like this? Will they even let us in?”

With a huff caught in his throat, Sylus brushes past you, bounding up the few steps to tug the door open. A swell of noise spills outside, the soft stroke of piano keys, the clatter of cutlery against plates. The savory scent of cooked meat and sautéed vegetables assaults your senses. Your stomach growls. You pat it placatingly, casting Sylus a wary look.

“They should,” he says with a shrug, patiently waiting for you to enter. “I own the place.” His eyes shine with playfulness, posture lax.

You scoff. Of course. He owns half the city. It makes him more attractive, knowing he can buy anything at the drop of a hat. 

“Wow. That’s awfully Bruce Wayne of you, don’t you think?” you mock, stepping up into the restaurant, guided by your fingers wrapped around his forearm.

“Wait,” you start, inadvertently tucking into his side. “Why are you hungry? I’m the one who did all the heavy lifting.”

Sylus shrugs again, feigning innocence as you clear the restaurant's entryway. “Watching you work always makes me peckish.”

You whack his broad chest, rolling your eyes. Can’t help smiling. Giggling. Letting your defenses waver.

The air between you feels lighter, reminiscent of times spent carelessly flirting when the line between employer and subordinate blurred beyond recognition.

—

It’s lively inside, but not overwhelmingly so. 

Colorful conversation brightens the atmosphere around you. Patrons of new and old money, dressed in designer clothing, sip expensive wine. Prattle on about their reckless ventures, about fickle things you can’t be bothered to entertain. 

It’s a high-brow restaurant, with the gentle croon of live music and light fixtures dangling overhead to simulate candlelight. The interior is Art Deco inspired. Jaw-droppingly beautiful. You’ve found yourself eyeing the bar more than once, impressed by the expansive shelves housing vintage wine and spirits, stretching towards a yawning, stained-glass ceiling. 

Had you not known better, you would’ve thought you were on a date and not lying low while ornery men tore the city apart looking for you. But that’s not the case. 

At least, you don’t think it is. 

You bite down on your fork, bleeding warmth, ignoring the scarlet eyes boring into your face for the umpteenth time.

You’re tucked away in one of the restaurant's corners with your boss, seated at a booth, shying away from the spotlight. Away from the prying eyes of the other patrons, though that doesn’t stop the occasional gaze from wandering over you. Curious clients raise their wine glasses at you with tense smiles, scrutinizing the pair of you as if you’re celebrities. 

You do stand out, still donned in your attire from the banquet. And Sylus commands attention wherever he goes, standing a good foot over most of the populous, his hair a riotous shock of white. 

Also more perplexing is that he hasn’t booked the place out. He prefers solitude, the comfortable quiet. And yet, he’s brought you here, surrounded by people, treating you like something to be shown off, and you're lightheaded from the whiplash he’s giving you.

He’s been nothing short of a gentleman. Pulled your chair out for you, ordered on your behalf, ensnared you in idle conversation. Kept your champagne glass full when your waiter was out of earshot, even lauded you for another successful kill. It’s all so uncharacteristic of him, and you can’t help feeling like he’s building up to something big. 

It’s grown quiet between you since your meals arrived, and your thoughts have crept in, robbing you of any bliss you began to experience. 

You’ve caught your boss watching you several times. And he’s never appeared guilty, shamelessly peering into your eyes, smiling, slowly ticking away at your resolve. 

Your skin prickles with warmth as you push around the vegetables on your plate. The meal is lovely. Savory, but your appetite’s abandoned you. Something’s off. You’ve sensed it for the better part of the night. Sylus is being more attentive than usual, and it’s unsettling. 

What’s his angle? Have you offended him? Is he keeping an eye on you, afraid you’ll run away? Will tonight be the night he lays you off?

You decide to confront him, having had enough of this ambiguity. This farce he’s put up. You clear your throat, smoothing out the napkin on your lap. Set your fork down, gaze hesitantly sliding to him across the table as you attempt to make light of your situation.

“Why do you keep looking at me like that? Is there something on my face?”

Sylus’ eyes crinkle with a quiet mirth. A soft youthfulness as he props his elbows on the table, twining his long fingers together. A grin blooms behind his fists. You hold your breath.

“Has anyone ever told you how adorable you are while you eat?”

You choke on your spittle. Violently pat your chest to dislodge it, reaching for your flute of champagne to wet your throat as tears form. Adorable isn’t something you’d use to describe yourself. And adorable isn’t something you’d ever imagine Sylus classifying you as, either.   

“Maybe you should lay off the champagne,” you cough, the burn in your esophagus subsiding. 

He isn’t much of a drinker, so you suspect he’s spewing nonsense because he’s tipsy. You set your glass down, snatching the bottle of bubbly from the table’s center. It’ll be safer on your side, out of reach, where your boss can’t use it as an excuse to utter more absurd things. 

Sylus’ brows knit, mock hurt descending onto his face. “What? Am I not allowed to compliment you?”

You cough again, bringing the bottle to your lips. Drink straight from the source, crisp liquid drizzling down the sides of your mouth. How ladylike.

Maybe you should stop drinking. You’re starting to hear things, your daydreams coming to fruition. This isn’t happening. Your boss isn’t pouting at you like a child, calling you cute, and making you feel things that should be buried beneath the Earth’s crust. He’s typically stingy with his compliments unless given to a specific person. So why suddenly aim them at you? 

The bubbly’s got your head a little fuzzy. That, coupled with the adrenaline slowly seeping into your veins, emboldens you to get to the heart of his strangeness. You decide to poke the proverbial bear. 

“What’s your problem?” you prod, setting the bottle down with a definitive thunk. You fix him with a look, one of tight lips and furrowed brows. 

Sylus chuckles, seemingly in disbelief at your brazenness. He’s fucking with you. He has to be. Maybe he’s trying to get a rise out of you, sensing how vulnerable you’ve felt throughout the night. How vulnerable you’ve been the past few months. 

“Whatever do you mean, sweetheart?”

You ignore how the term of endearment tingles in your skin. It feels more weighted than usual tonight. Everything’s heavier tonight. 

You sigh, looking at your lap with a forlorn smile. Toy with a loose thread on your napkin, steeling yourself for this unavoidable conversation.

The champagne’s got your tongue a little loose, and the people surrounding you give you a boost of courage—witnesses in case Sylus decides to kill you. 

“You’ve been really nice to me all night.” You sound mousy, contrasting the crass asshole you were moments ago. “It’s kind of…weird.”

A silver brow lifts. Sylus adjusts in his chair, leaning closer to hear you better, the faint note of his cologne wafting off his skin. Threatening to derail you. To change your mind.

“Have I not been kind to you before?” He momentarily scrutinizes the lacquered wood of the tabletop, seemingly lost in thought. Gazes back at you, inspecting your face.

You swallow against the sandy grit of your throat, powering past your nerves, an anxious titter on your tongue. You toy with your necklace, dizzy. “No. No, you have. Just…not like this.”

Your tongue darts out to wet your lips. Sylus wordlessly encourages you to continue, watching your mouth, your eyes.

“I mean, the gala. Rescuing me from Nikolai’s goons. Carrying me. Dinner. The compliments. I don’t get you, Sylus. One minute, you’re pushing me away. You’re ignoring me, and then the next, you’re…confusing the hell out of me.”

The words are out before you can contain them. Silence stretches between you, stiff like a bowstring drawn back. You can’t look at him now, feeling so small and stupid beneath the blistering weight of his stare. 

You’re disbelieving that he could be so kind. Romantic. Considerate, treating you like something closer than a subordinate. Like he doesn’t have someone else occupying his mind, and you’re wondering if he’s playing some twisted game with your emotions tonight, using you to fill the gap the hunter left while out saving the world. 

“Am I truly that difficult to understand?” he replies, his voice gritty yet soft. 

Something pinches in your chest at the fragility of his tone. You want nothing more than for the world to open up and swallow you whole. 

You flinch when the flat sides of his nails graze your temple. He briefly stops before tucking a lock of hair behind your ear. Then, his fingertips blister down your cheek. He tilts your head back, cupping your chin, coaxing you to look at him. And you do, reluctantly, a warm film of something wet washing over your sight. 

He studies you with a reverence you don’t deserve. A look you haven’t been subjected to in a very long time, yet it still manages to constrict your heart. Still makes your stomach jump like you’re descending downhill, and your lips part slightly, quivering. 

Time slows to a crawl around you, the world seemingly carving out a pocket of space for only the two of you to exist. The sights and sounds of the restaurant fade into obscurity. You’re focused solely on the scarlet wash of his eyes, how they shift back and forth, studying your features, searching. Seeking answers your mouth refuses to utter. 

“If I’ve made myself anything less than transparent, I apologize.” The sincerity there, the quiet vulnerability, it makes you sick because you’re undeserving of it. You feel like you’re taking part in a naughty secret. Witnessing a side of him usually reserved for the hunter. “But I assure you, I’m not as mysterious as you think.”

You snort despite the moment. Despite your pulse thudding in your eardrums, a trickle of optimism seeping through you like molten liquid. You don that arrogant, playful front as if rolling over and showing him your belly will be viewed as a sign of weakness. He could still very well be screwing with you. Getting your hopes up to shatter them like waves breaking against the rocks.

“Yeah, right. And I’m the Queen of England,” you retort, rolling your eyes.

Sylus shrugs, resigned. Still, he doesn’t relinquish your gaze, the soft curl of his fingers around your face. Instead, he grows more tender, his irises twinkling a youthful shade beneath the ambient lighting as he leans closer. His voice is wispy like he’s murmuring something confidential. 

“You don’t have to believe me. But I am no liar, sweetheart. You know that.”

With that, he releases your chin, fingers slowly dragging over your face, leaving a searing path in their wake. You breathe again, unaware you weren’t, as if released from a spell. You watch him take up his champagne flute, slender fingers curling around its stem, and he stirs its fizzy contents. 

You’re jealous of that damn glass, still feeling those ruinous digits burning themselves into your skin.

He decides to shift gears. You’re thankful because you need time to process things. To get your heart rate down from the sky. 

“Besides, you looked like you could use a break. I figured tonight would be a good time for some morale boosting.”

You snort again, sipping from your own flute to assuage a flare of anger. “Me? A break? Morale boost? Yeah, sure.” 

Taking a breather with your boss, playing around on a date like you didn’t just murder someone? Was he serious? And is that all this was? A figurative pizza party to say, ‘Thank you’ for being an obedient little pet? 

You knew you were an idiot, getting your hopes up for nothing. 

“You know, contrary to popular belief, I’m not as much of a slave driver as you think,” he says, parting the tumultuous sea of your thoughts.

“Really? Luke and Kieran might say otherwise.” There’s more vitriol in your voice than you intend to let out. But you’re deflecting, protecting yourself. 

Your chest tightens when Sylus looks down, idly twisting the glass stem between his fingers. His gaze softens, and something in his voice shifts. “Can’t I just spend some time alone with you? Show you how much I appreciate you for being loyal to me all these years?” 

You stiffen, feeling like someone’s thrust a knife into your gut and twisted it. You must not have heard him right. For a moment, he sounded exposed. Wounded. And for a moment, you feel bad for doubting his intentions. 

You’re about to pursue it when your waiter reappears. He’s all smiles and professionalism as he sets two martini glasses on your table, crystalline liquid swirling ominously inside.

You look up at him with quirked brows. He stands in good form, folding his hands together behind his back. 

“Courtesy of the couple over there,” says your waiter, gesturing over his shoulder with a nod. 

You peer behind him. A middle-aged man and a younger-looking woman dressed in eccentric textures smile and wave enthusiastically at you. You lift your glass to them in a quiet toast, pasting on a smile. The gesture is sweet, but what’s the occasion?

“They said, drinks for the lovely couple, and congratulations on celebrating your anniversary.”

You sputter, sending drops of your martini flying every which way. 

Sylus laughs at your plight, taking up a glass for himself and lifting it in appreciation towards the couple. You glare at him as he sips. 

“Happy Anniversary, darling,” Sylus teases. Winks for added effect. He laughs a wealthy man’s laugh while you choke. 

You contemplate correcting the generous couple, but the martini is delicious. And Sylus doesn’t seem affected by it. 

And maybe it feels good pretending that, just for a moment, he’s yours and yours alone.

—

Someone had a sweet tooth following dinner.

That someone, of course, being you. 

The dessert menu at the restaurant looked appetizing. But you had a craving for something cold. Soft-serve. Besides, you were growing uncomfortable the more that couple ordered you drinks. At one point, they’d been so bold as to stop by your table on their way out. 

They kept ogling you. Winking, laughing drunkenly, spewing out their hotel room number upstairs. When they left, you leaned over the table, cupping your hand around your mouth.

“I think they’re swingers,” you whispered to Sylus. 

He laughed, sitting back. Raised his glass to you, a brow tilting up to match the cant of his lips. “Wanna go find out?”

“Hell no! I’m a one-partner kinda gal.”

You didn’t miss how his gaze shifted. Darkened into something you couldn’t quite place. 

You find yourselves in a 1950s-inspired diner— a modest hole-in-the-wall joint with retro decor and bright lights. Only a couple of other diners inhabit the restaurant. You’re nursing a milkshake, courtesy of your boss, buzzing like a child who’s gotten everything they wanted. 

He teased you about your cravings—only you’d want ice cream when it’s cold out. But he didn’t put up much of a fight, humoring you after you wore him down with those puppy eyes and your fingers buried in his sleeves.

He entertained you further by playing the claw machine in the corner at your behest. Watching a man so big, feared, and elusive fiddle with such a garish machine—you felt honored.

You cheered him on, the sleeves of his jacket draped over your shoulders, puddling around your elbows. After several attempts, he was successful, sheepishly shoving a purple koala bear into your hands. Your face burned hot, and your cheeks ached from smiling and laughing. 

It feels like a dream. The ideal date. And for a moment, you forget that Sylus is your boss. That he could never be yours and that you’re anything but a killer. 

You fiddle with the jukebox, earning curious glances from the diner’s other customers. They’re whispering things, eyeing you warily. You ignore them, queuing up a song. And you’re dancing, silly at first, but muscle memory kicks in. Soon, you’re moving your hips, smoothing over the contours of your body, spurred by Sylus observing you from his place atop a stool. 

You wish he would smile more—an authentic smile, unhindered by sarcasm or smugness. He’s much more handsome like this. 

You think about all the times he’s smiled this way for the hunter, and you stumble in your steps. You flash him a smile when it looks like he’ll get up to help you. Carry on dancing, doing one of the things you do best.

You pretend you’re at Lux, and he makes you feel like you’re on a stage just for him, your nerves flaring at his attention. There’s a gleam in his eyes as he leans back on the countertop on his elbow, watching you with muted appreciation. How long has it been since you’ve danced for him?

So swept up by the music, you hardly register the diner slowly emptying. Not even the servers seem to be bustling about anymore. You get an ominous prickling sensation on the back of your neck, the fine hairs there standing stiff. You stop. 

You exchange a look with Sylus. He raises a brow, tapping his temple. “Keep going,” he rasps, doting, coaxing. Entranced.

He has whatever’s about to transpire under control. You trust him fully. The Bonnie to his Clyde. 

The wispy tendrils of his Evol materialize around the diner’s interior to form a barrier, tossing the restaurant into a misty haze of red and black. It’s reminiscent of hellfire, and you feel like Lilith taking part in a sacrilegious waltz. 

He doesn’t take his eyes off you, attentive as you continue to dance. And you smile, putting on a damn good show as Nikolai’s men funnel in, their cries of agony tempered by the music spilling from the jukebox and your laughter coloring the air as Sylus rends flesh from bone with his Evol. 

—

He takes you to a safe house as the night reaches its peak. 

He reasoned it was the safest option while his men tied up whatever loose ends remained from your mission. Like dining and holding hands out in public didn’t warrant an ambush. 

Someone snitched. Saw that familiar riot of white, those brawny shoulders. Heard that gritty voice mixed with your distinct laughter and sent Nikolai’s men to finish you off. Sylus picked them off while you danced unhindered, but there was no telling how many stragglers were left, ducking into the shadows, creeping along the historic brick walls. 

Again, he insists on carrying you as you break through the door of a quaint, quiet home perched on a hilltop. Secured by his biometrics. Bordered by evergreens and the calming symphony of the forest. Isolated, like him. Hidden from invasive questions, from prying eyes. 

You’re tired. The night’s adrenaline sloughed off, leaving you tenuous and agreeable, which is why you don’t put up much of a fight as Sylus walks you through the foyer, smiling down at you like you’re his precious bounty. It’s infectious. Your lips tug, too, though a little less enthused. You blink slowly. Breathe evenly, lulled by the mollifying thump of his heart against your cheek. 

He drops your stilettos on the hardwood floor halfway to the living room. Deposits you on a dark leather settee, fixing your dress over your legs and his jacket around your shoulders. Draws back. Your chest tightens. You don’t know what hits you when your fingers close around the pleated sleeve of his button-up, eyes beseeching when he looks at you from over his shoulder. 

You don’t say anything. Don’t have to.

Don’t leave. Stay.

You don’t want the dream to end. Not yet.

He chuckles low, all smooth like whisky poured into a glass. Softened, scarlet eyes pan in through the low light, his silhouette haloed by amber. He lifts your legs to settle onto the upholstery beside you. Pulls your feet onto his lap. They’re irritated. Rubbed raw from being strapped to too-tall heels all night, running and gunning like you had no limitations.

He sensed your discomfort. Always such a gentleman.

Large, sweltering hands close around your feet, kneading through pressure and knots of tension. Knuckles at the balls of your feet. You exhale slowly, pleased. Thankful. The attention’s nice. There’s a small voice wading through the murky sea of your mind, telling you this is wrong. That you don’t deserve it, his tenderness. 

You’re getting pretty fucking sick of your conscience. It’s just a foot rub. It’s not like you’re kissing him. 

“You’re good at this,” you note offhandedly. 

“My hands are more useful than you think.”

Something dark threads through his voice. Something cheeky. You ignore how your stomach flips, your mind sparkling with impure ideas. 

Drowsiness sweeps in around the corners, bordering your vision like a vignette. He’s masterful with his hands. You wouldn’t expect anything less from the king of the underworld. You doze off, shepherded through the inkiness by the faraway tick of a clock. By trees rustling beyond the massive window, the moon dragging itself to the center of the sky, cloth moving as Sylus rubs over your calves. 

You stir when he shifts. When he moves to get up and lay your legs on the couch. That feeling returns. That ache. The call of loneliness. Your sleepiness abandons you, making way for cold fright. You stumble from the settee. Rush to stand at full height, gripping his shirt at the crooks of his elbows, halting him.

Your mouth opens. Heart thundering. You don’t know what to say—what you were thinking. His gaze is unyielding, studying your face like the slow flicker of a flame. Silver brows knot. Peach lips fall slightly open. He’s waiting for something. Asking for something. 

You’re on autopilot when you cautiously angle yourself closer. Your gaze falls to his mouth, and he mirrors you, holding your elbows as if he’s afraid to break them. You’ll blame it on the bubbly you consumed later. On the spell he somehow cast over the night, enthralling you with his chivalry. 

You tug, and he meets you halfway. Not like you have to put in much effort. He’s already leaning down. Eyes already half-moons, breath already shaky. 

He tenses when your lips meet. Shoulders drop once the initial shock peters, and then he’s kissing you with those full, molten lips. He draws you closer, hands splayed possessively at the small of your back. Thumbs cruising over the meat of your hips. Up and down your sides. Wherever he touches, you burn.

You exhale through your nose, and your arms snake around his neck. Fingers sift through the fine hairs at his nape.

He teases your mouth open with his tongue. Sighs something anguished when you grant him entry, licking into your mouth. Pulls you impossibly closer. He’s rigid and warm against you. Gathers your cheek in his palm, angling your head back. He kisses greedy. Selfish. Plunders your mouth, milking the sweetest little sounds from your body. Sounds you didn’t think yourself capable of making.

You kiss and kiss until your lips are chaffed. And even then, you don’t stop. He’s ravenous, moving against you like he’s waited eons to do this. Like he’s fought a war with himself and lost. You’re his Gettysburg. His Kryptonite.

You’ll feel sorry for yourself tomorrow. Blame it on the air, charged with something heady, your inhibitions and common sense thrown to the wolves.

It’s just a kiss. He’s your boss. And tonight, he’s been something of a friend. Friends kiss all the time, right?

So why do you feel so guilty?

— tags: @emneedshelp, @reiofsuns2001, @crazy-ink-artist, @vonev, @subliminalwish, @ikiru-wa, @inkonparchment, @regandoesthings, @szired, @alyyylog, @leekingsman, @beewilko, @an-ever-angry-bi, @abbylee0710, @sunnyf4lls, @himiko-omikami, @midiplier, @ari-shipping-stuff, @karespocketboyfriends, @glamouroki, @babygirl-panda19, @im-in-different-universe, @sillyfreakfanparty, @lunebulous, @vilehrs-blog (sorry if i missed anyone.)

climax | masterlist

[thebestsetter]

Karasu was a coward. It was as simple as that.

He looked for the weaker enemies. He thought he was mediocre, so he never went for the stronger people. Always the weakest, the ones underneath him. The ones he knew for sure he could beat.

And, being a coward, he also never admitted his feelings for you out loud. After all, being your one and only academic rival was way better. The look of what could only be described as pure loathing when he got 1% more than you on a random exam, the look of pride and smug smile on your face when you beat him, the sneaky and sarcastic remarks... it was all so... exciting. He didn't need your relationship to change. You were both clearly "comfortable" with it (if going at each other's throats is deemed "comfortable," that is.) That's why he kept quiet, firing smart and cleverly hidden flirtatious lines every now and then. It was all fine.

Until it wasn't. Until he couldn't keep his feeling hidden anymore.

It was during a random chemistry class. Being the top 2 students of the advanced class (the top 1 was always changing, yet it always showed the same result: either you or him), the teacher assigned you both to do a project together, wanting to see "what kind of amazing project will come out of the smartest students she ever had", and that also meant sitting together during classes.

Neither of you was really happy with this, but decided to treat it as a challenge: whoever managed to stay the longer without outright verbally attacking the other would win. And you both were not the kind of people who backed down from a challenge.

That day, you had spent hours working on that project during late hours. So, you were just so sleepy you couldn't help but lay down your head and rest for a bit, trying to get a well-deserved close eye.

"A bit" turned into half of the period.

"Psst, smartie pants" Karasu nudged you with the tip of his pencil "The teacher's looking funny at you. I mean, he always looks funny, but it's even worse right now."

At your lack of response, Karasu nudged you a little bit harder

"Hey, I'm being serious. Open your eyes or else we'll be in trouble." He then rested his head on his hands with a sigh, admiring your sleeping face. A small smile appeared on his face "You know, you're kinda cute when you're not being a total nerd. Or glaring at me. Or laughing at my 97 when you got a 98"

He gently removed a hair that fell on your face, putting it behind your ear. "I wish I had the courage to tell you this." He whispered "I like you. A lot, actually. Way more than I should."

He doesn't know why, but he waited for a response. He waited for you to suddenly get up, point at him and laugh at what he said. Because no way you'd ever like someone so... mediocre as him.

"You're really sleeping?" He nudged you once more, obtaining yet again no response. His smile widened, and he couldn't help but continue to stare at you, completely zoning out for the rest of the lesson.

He wishes he could say this was the only time this happened, but it wasn't. Everytime you slept during chemistry class, Karasu quietly declared his feeling for you. Saying what he liked about you, what he wanted to tell you when you were awake, talking about which dates he wanted to go with you.

It became a routine, honestly. But he'd never admit everything to you out loud.

And he actually didn't even need to.

Because little did he know, the only time you really slept was during the first one. And little did he know, the project wasn't the only thing you were working on. February 14th was getting close, after all.

Well, his sleeping confessions really reassured you, at the very least.

Based on this request!!

Not proofread!

[revelboo]

I'm crying and kicking like a child for more crumbs of "give up/give in". Please You can continue to write to our Angelina Jolie from Cybertron 😭😢🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏

Sure! 🤣 Megs is entering unconscious nesting mode

Give Up/Give In Pt 15

Earthspark Megatron x Reader

• Venting as he pulls things he’d ’borrowed’ from Ghost out of his subspace, he’s knows that he might have gone a bit overboard. Setting the bed down and pulling blankets, pillows, and sheets out to pile on top. He might have cleaned out every soft thing in the dormitory that he’d been able to reach kneeling on the ground and reaching through the door. And it still seems wholly inadequate. Aware of you sitting crosslegged on his berth watching him curiously, he glances at you. “I know it’s not much,” he says. “I’ll see what else I can find for you.”

• Feeling guilty as he worries and fusses over you, you twist your hands in your lap. Know you should be an adult and go home, instead of clinging to him like your giant, alien security blanket. “It’s fine. More than fine,” you reassure him, forcing a smile. Because you’re not disappointed, just worried about eventually going back to reality. Know that the way you’ve latched on to him probably isn’t healthy. And not wanting to admit that you’d already had anxiety problems because you’d crossed his path. That the idea of going to that empty house makes you so miserable you want to be sick.

• Optics narrowing when you offer him a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes, he leans to gently tap a servo under your chin. “You know you can talk to me.” Are you having second thoughts? Missing your human comforts? Tells himself that if you have changed your mind, he’ll take you home. But he’s not entirely sure he’s not lying to himself. Wishes he’d paid more attention to his adopted human sister. Listened when she’d talked about how she’d met Alex. What he’d done to win her over. How humans court a mate.

• “I know,” you say, catching his servo. How can he be so intimidating looking and act so soft sometimes? As silly as it is, you wish he was human. That this could go somewhere. Be more than just him feeling obligated to take care of you. He doesn’t deserve to be saddled with you just because you’re anxious and afraid. Because you want to stay and hold on to the warmth and safety of him. Fall asleep listening to his spark thrumming under you, his deep voice soothing you as you talk about nothing important. Does he secretly resent having to take care of you and just hide it so well?

• You’re troubled, but watching your lips press into a thin line, he doesn’t push. Wants you to talk to him because you want to. Not because he’s hounding you. Servo sliding over your cheek, he vents and reluctantly pulls away. “I borrowed some cases of water and food rations from GHOST.” Along with a camp shower, towels, soap, and anything else he could grab that you might even possibly need. Just because he’d spent time around humans, doesn’t mean he’s that knowledgeable. Wants you to be comfortable, though. And maybe you’ll decide to stay. He won’t have to be so lonely anymore, have someone waiting for him to return to. Someone happy to see him.

Previous

Alright… Soundwave, Starscream or Waspinator? I’ll be making a Soundwave regardless since my brother accidentally ruined my Symbiote Studios Soundwave that was my Jeep’s mascot, but I’m trying to remind myself how to sculpt wool fibers since it’s been a bit, so: test plush head

[ghostmoon1]

Task Force Headcanons

A lil writing of the boys and their anxieties and habits, slightly angsty!

Who's included? [ bc I decided to do more than just the boys ]

Simon 'Ghost' Riley, John 'Soap' MacTavish, John Price, Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick, Konig, Kate Laswell, Nikolai

CW: Angst, mentions of death, anxiety, major character death at the end.

Simon has gotten into the habit of sitting away from the rest of his team while they are doing something, whether working out or having a bit of downtime while not on deployment.

He'll just watch, he won't interact. He'll watch with a smile as Johnny lifts his weights, breathing heavily as he throws the barbell back down with a satisfied grin. He just needs to remind himself that they're all still there with him, they're all okay. He hasn't lost any of them, they are alive and happy.

If any of them notice him, he'll simply walk away. He doesn't want to distract them, he just needs to remind himself that they are there. If anyone gets wounded while on deployment he's always mentally beating himself up over it, telling himself he should've done better, he should have protected his team. It's his job to help, to protect those who can't protect themselves.

While, yes his team can protect themselves, he just can't help but feel horrible if he sees them hurt. If they get hurt bad enough, to go to the med bay or even the hospital, he'll sit by their side until they are well enough. Telling them stories to pass the time and ensuring they eat and drink. He just wants them to be okay, they're all he has.

Johnny is constantly trying to do his best, even if that means he's overworking himself. He needs to be good enough for his team, to never let them down. He's seen enough people die in front of him and he doesn't want to be that burden on his teammates.

He works out too hard, spending most of his time running laps and lifting weights. He needs to prove himself time and time again. He worked hard enough to get into the task force, he wants to make sure he deserves that place.

There have been more than enough times when Simon finds him pushing himself to the brink of exhaustion, having to stop him and remind him he needs to rest sometimes. He can't always be pushing himself, or he'll push himself to the point of no return. If he's not pushing himself, he's always doing something to distract himself.

Working on his skills in some way, or one of his favourite things, drawing. He needs to be doing something to distract himself from the horrors of his job, otherwise, those thoughts are always plaguing his thoughts and he can't deal with that. A job like this can send even the best insane.

Price is constantly doubting himself. He's the team's captain, he needs to be the best captain for the best team. But it gets hard, it's exhausting. Late nights spent doing paperwork, missing out on much-needed sleep, and one too many close calls during deployment.

His heart races whenever someone in his team gets hurt, and he wants nothing more than to rush up to them and help them. But he can't, he's the captain. He has to stay strong. Sometimes he just doesn't want to.

Sometimes the thought of retirement comes to mind, maybe a nice cottage out in the wilderness, lush gardens and picket fences. Maybe a dog, or a cat to keep him company. He knows he can't, he needs to keep fighting. Their hands remain dirty so the world can remain clean, as he always says.

Every day is a battle for him to stay, telling himself ‘one more day’ every day. In the back of his mind, he knows he won't retire. His way out of this job will be a bullet through the head if he's lucky. He's come to accept that. You can't fight death with a fear of death.

Kyle often doubts if he's worthy of his place on the team. He worked hard, he's one of the best. Price wouldn't choose him to fight by his side if he wasn't good enough. But did he fight so hard to become a part of the team like the others?

That's why he finds himself trying so hard, coming out on top of the pack and still not feeling like it's enough. Is he really worthy? He feels like he's not. Long nights staying up, revising the things he already knows, mentally beating himself up over everything he does. He misses his shot, which could have been an innocent death. He stumbles, that could have been a bullet to the head.

It's Price who notices how much he beats himself up over it all. Although he never admits anything. It often becomes late nights with a cold drink, to burn his throat and not his heart. He silently pays respect to each innocent person he sees fall, wishing he could have been good enough to save them.

Konig is always wishing he could do something else. He wished he would have become that sniper. He tried so hard, that he thought he would be able to get there. He could've if it wasn't for his size. He pushes through to become the best of what he does since he couldn't become the best sniper. But really, he hates how he is. He hates that he's so fucking big, that his dreams were ruined because of himself.

He has no one to blame. He often finds himself going out to the run range alone, grabbing a sniper and practising, even though he knows these skills will never be put to use. He just takes in the sound of the trigger and how perfectly it hits the target in the centre and the splinter of the wood. He lets himself live a few moments of the job he could never have.

He enjoys what he does, but sometimes it feels too gruesome. Something that could be done with a single bullet, and everything goes dark, compared to fighting with everything you have for your own life just feels so dark sometimes. Late nights are always filled with the things he's done, and who he's become.

Kate overthinks so much nothing can drown out her thoughts. She cares for the Task force like they are family to her and it's her job to make sure they get the intel they need to get the job done and survive. But there's always that itch at the back of her mind, what if she got something wrong? One wrong move and their deaths will be on her shoulders.

She trusts them more than anything to be able to withstand whatever is thrown at them, but there's always that fear that lingers. Whenever she hears the comms go quiet for even a moment, she has a small panic attack, waiting for them to update her or their banter to start up again. As much as she tries to act annoyed over their jokes, she loves them. She knows they’re okay when they’re cracking jokes over the comms.

Even when things go bad and it's not her fault, she blames herself. She ran it over and over through her mind, how could she have helped them more, what could she have told them to stop this from happening? If something happens she blames it on herself and no one can stop her from blaming herself. Sarah often worries about her, and what she will end up doing to herself because of all the stress she puts herself under.

Nikolai always worries and wants to do more. Sometimes he wonders if he should have thrown in a few more guns, or maybe an RPG in the weapon stash he gave John. What if they run out of ammunition mid-fire-fight? It’s always in the back of his mind, that when he pulls up with his heli for evac, he’ll see John’s bloody body being hauled into the back.

It scares him, what if he can’t provide the help they need for a mission? He is always worrying, what if he is just the tiniest bit late when providing evac? He wouldn’t ever be able to forgive himself if he was to see one of them drop while running to him, who was supposed to be their helper, their saviour.

He always finds himself checking on John whenever he is wounded, making sure he’s eating and drinking, bandaging his wounds and cleaning them. He knows how they all are, the only one he’d trust the most to keep their wounds clean would be Kyle. He always wants to do more to help, to protect them all.

The thought of not being able to help them always plagues his mind, so whenever he gets the chance to see the team again he spends as much time as he can catching up with them, discreetly looking over them for any injuries he wasn't aware about. He always hugs John for a little longer after each deployment, telling himself he’s still here with him.

After Soap's Death...

After Soap passed, nothing was the same. 

When he saw Makarov raise his gun, he knew it was over. It's crazy how slow time goes when you're an inch away from death. His heart broke in those moments, and regret hit him like a landslide. He wanted to do better and live up to his expectations. He felt like he didn’t. He wanted to turn around and tell the team how much they meant to him. He just wished he was all he could be in this life. Maybe another time. Maybe another time he could’ve told Simon how he felt. But death comes quickly. Nothing happened, no pain. Everything just went black.

It hits Simon the hardest, witnessing your best friend's death does shit to you that no one can go back from. With Johnny, he spoke over comms with the team and had a bit of banter. Now, his voice isn’t heard besides one-worded commands and grunts of acknowledgment. He turns into a husk of a man again, something that they all had feared. He still follows Johnny’s routine, finding himself sitting next to his chair in the mess hall, staring off at where he did his usual workouts. He grabbed his journal before his room was cleaned out. He treats it like his most prized possession.

Price blames it on himself all the time. His heart dropped in the moments he heard the gunshot and the splatter of blood against the cold floor. He couldn't protect his own team, he didn't even get time to grieve his fallen teammate, he had to keep being the captain, staying strong for them. If he let himself fall apart, the rest of the team would be with him. He spends his nights staying up late, for a different reason now. Sitting at his desk with a photo of Johnny, having his cigar and placing a glass of bourbon next to his photo. Sharing many drinks that he never got to, he just hopes to be able to share a drink with his friend again. Sometimes retirement feels closer than it should be.

Gaz feels alone. The base feels oddly quiet without the loud scot telling jokes and pulling pranks. It's not the same. He misses his accent flowing through the hall, he misses how annoying he was. He regrets not being able to do more to help save him, but those seconds went by so fast yet so slow. He finds himself zoning off a lot, thinking about him and praying he won't forget his voice. He'd never forgive himself if he did.

[notapradagurl7]

Still Himself.

Black Fem! / Plus Size Reader x Bucky Barnes.

Summary: You returned home from work, Bucky was home, trying to forget some saddened yet memories from his past, the two of you try to comfort each other.

A/N: I'm a Marvel fan, and wanted to write about Bucky, I need to write more but Here y'all go, don't forget to like, comment and reblog!❤️ don't be scared to drop a request, because they're always open.

Warnings: fluff, soft yet dark Bucky, comfort, no smut, shot fic, subtle tears, bad flashbacks.

Taglist: @megamindsecretlair @sweettea-and-honeybutter @westside-rot @mymindisneverhere

@mind-somewhere-else

@kindofaintrovert

@5starr-staciii

@lady-olive-oil @23jammy @zillasvilla

@yassbishimvintage

@musicisme333 @ramblingthoughtsofayoungadult

@chaoticcoffeequeen @saturnville

@enchantedillumination

@kaylalb @mogul93

@theereina @uzumaki-rebellion

@blyffe @fakxmbj @kumkaniudaku @ranikyani

@mama-2001

@ororosdaughter @satoruya @mermaidchansons @hxneyclouds @planetblaque @playgurlxoxo @xblackreader @rawflwrs

—————————

He started out of the window as the crisp wind brushed across his smooth face, his icy blue eyes gazed into the subtle tower greenery surrounding their farmhouse. He heard the animals make subtle noises of greeting as he smiled, his sigh of relief left his lips.

“Bucky! I'm home!” You announced, closing the front door behind you.

You kicked off your heels and plopped on the couch, instantly stretching your limbs as you yawned, you were utterly exhausted. But glad you were home safe and sound.

There were usually days like this when he didn't feel like himself, from the fights in the army to becoming a brainwashed weapon to regaining his memories.

And then there was you, when you and Bucky got married it was a a fresh start for both of you. He was your anchor, your safe haven in the storm of his past. As you walked into the living room, your presence brought a warm smile to his face.

"Hey, doll," Bucky greeted, turning away from the window to face you. "Tough day at work?"

You nodded, letting out a tired sigh. "Yeah, it was one of those days. But seeing you here makes it all better."

Bucky's eyes softened as he approached you, taking a seat beside you on the couch. He reached out to gently brush a strand of hair behind your ear. "I'm glad I can bring you some comfort, sweetheart. You deserve it."

You leaned into his touch, feeling a sense of calm wash over you. Bucky always had a way of making you feel safe, loved, and understood. It was a bond that had only grown stronger with time.

"I'm here for you too, Bucky," you told him, your voice filled with sincerity.

"I know some days are harder than others. Just know that I'm always here to listen, to support you."

“And I'm here for you to Y/N..”

Bucky's grip on your hand tightened slightly, his eyes welling up with unshed tears. "Thank you, Y/N."

You leaned closer, resting your head on his shoulder. "You don't have to thank me, Bucky. We're in this together, remember?"

You cupped his face with your hands, leaning in as your lips coiled with his. The soft smack filled the living room, you pulled away from him with a smile on your face. Running your fingers through his ink-black hair.

He wrapped his arms around you with his eyes still on yours, and the two of you spent the rest of the day watching Lifetime movies.

He loved how you could lose yourself in the cheesy romance to thriller crazy love and laugh at the clichés.

As the movie ended and the credits rolled, you snuggled deeper into Bucky's embrace. "I don't know how you can stand these movies, Y/N. They're so predictable," He chuckled.

Bucky chuckled along with you, his chest vibrating against your back. "I guess I just like seeing the plots and cliff hangers."

You turned your head to look at him, a soft smile on your face. "You know, we have our own happy ending, right?"

Bucky's eyes lit with gratitude as he kissed the top of your head. You intertwined your fingers with his, squeezing his hand gently.

I love you Bucky..”

“And I love you more sweetheart..”

——————–

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Steven Beschloss at America, America:

Anyone who’s spent time with an abusive narcissist understands the dilemma: If you just go along to get along, you’ll never escape their grip. And if you confront them, they will do anything they can to make your life a living hell—until you get away or they leave forever.

America is trapped right now in this ugly nexus, thanks to millions of Americans who identified with Donald Trump’s anger and hatreds or didn’t comprehend the dangerous choice they were making. But we have a chance to overcome this dark chapter with a clear, fearless opposition. That will require elected officials refusing to work with him and abandoning the idea that collaboration is the only way they can mitigate the damage he will cause or accomplish something themselves. The more they give him, the more he will take. The more they communicate that they accept his dominance and respect his power, the more he will exploit their vulnerability, particularly because he sadistically relishes harming and demeaning others. We saw that dynamic play out yesterday when the president of Colombia initially rejected two military planes carrying deported migrants, demanding that the U.S. create a protocol that treats these people with dignity before they would be repatriated. It was a moment when a significant trading partner and ally reminded all of us what we are fighting for.

“A migrant is not a criminal and must be treated with the dignity that a human being deserves,” Colombia’s President Gustavo Petro said. “That is why I returned the U.S. military planes that were carrying Colombian migrants.” Petro went on to say that his country would receive these citizens only if they are transported “in civilian planes, without being treated like criminals.” The bellicose, over-the-top response from Trump? He would immediately put a 25 percent tariff on Colombia and issue a travel ban revoking the visas of Colombian government officials as well as their allies. “These measures are just the beginning,” Trump threatened in a Truth Social post.

Could Trump have picked up a telephone and had a simple conversation? Of course, he could have and should have. It’s not like there wasn’t an easy solution. Colombia received 475 flights with migrants deported from the U.S. between 2020 and 2024, according to the Associated Press, including 124 in 2024. But the abusive Trump preferred to bully this strategically important ally, which buys billions of dollars in U.S. exports, including corn which is important to U.S. farming states. Reluctant to escalate the unnecessary dispute, Petro’s government subsequently announced that the country would make available their own presidential planes to pick up the migrants and provide them “dignified conditions.” Classic Trump case: Escalate a minor dispute that could have been resolved calmly and simply. Exploit the “crisis” he created to pound his chest and pretend that it demonstrates how powerful he is. “I have directed my Administration to take…urgent and decisive retaliatory measures,” Trump posted.

This extreme reaction concerned less than 200 migrants, but late last night Petro reversed course to avoid a trade war by allowing even military aircraft. And the false Trump response, delivered by White House press secretary Karoline Leavitt: “Today’s events make clear to the world that America is respected again.” Donald Trump doesn’t care about or respect laws. He doesn’t care about or believe in American democratic values and principles like equality, diversity and justice. He rejects free speech and despises the peaceful assembly of those who disagree with him. He is bored by the details of policy and governance, belittles the value of expertise, only wants attention and spectacle, and is determined to surround himself with sycophants who will bow down to him. He doesn’t care about or comprehend the pain he causes other human beings. He is more than ready to use political violence to get what he wants.

He will never make an effort to unify the nation. He will never rely on inspiration, only stoke fear, seek to intimidate and threaten violence. He will never work to gain the trust of the majority. Is this an American president? Are we obliged—are elected Democrats obliged—to treat such a man with respect? This is the person who pardoned over 1,500 convicted felons who attacked the U.S. Capitol; just this weekend he invited the remorseless Oath Keepers founder Stewart Rhodes—freshly released from prison and his 18-year sentence for seditious conspiracy—to appear behind him in a Nevada rally.

Should Democrats find ways to work with Trump or oppose him at every turn? Is there any reason to believe he will do anything to make lives better rather than commit acts to glorify himself and enrich himself and his billionaire cronies by stealing from the wealth created by hard-working Americans? As I see it, going along with even some of Trump’s policies in order to minimize the damage represents collaborating with a man bent on the destruction of American democracy and aiding his effort. I understand the decision of 13 Senate Democrats (many from border states) to sign a letter to Majority Leader John Thune, offering to work with him “in good faith” to craft border security and immigration legislation. But do they really think Trump will ever work with them in good faith, especially as he’s focused on mass deportation, building a wall (again) and demonizing refugees and Democrats?

As the transgressions and degradations and the acts of corruption and criminality mount—and, yes, they already have been at an alarming pace meant to shock the unsuspecting—we should demand that Democratic leaders and anyone who is committed to overcoming this dark chapter in our history refuse to work with this regime. That will become even more important as he is surrounded by dangerously reckless cabinet secretaries and others in leadership positions motivated to carry out his agenda, satisfy his hunger for vengeance and dismantle the very government programs and agencies they have sworn to serve. Soon the deeply unfit Defense Secretary Pete Hegseth will likely be joined by the retribution-minded Kash Patel at the FBI, the Putin-supporting Tulsi Gabbard as the Director of National Intelligence and Robert F. Kennedy, Jr. “running” Health and Human Services.

[...] We have to prove that we will not be drowned, not just to be resilient in the face of hostile forces, but capable of confronting and overcoming them.

In the first week of 47’s reign of terror, he has rapidly slid the country into the toilet.

[eridanidreams]

A little something I worked on today for my ongoing Starfield longfic stars through my fingers like grains of sand. I just posted a new chapter, and this is the beginning of the next.

***

Cait shivered as she stepped into the ready room; Devine hadn't spent too much money on insulation, and the howling wind outside sucked the heat right out. The Constellation suits didn't have the same kind of protection she'd built into the Mantis and Paladin suits—but the Constellation suits wouldn't give away their secret identities, either. Fortunately, there was a workbench; she could probably cobble something together to give them a little more oomph. "Bring your suit over here," she said, resolutely keeping her teeth from chattering. "I want to give them a once-over before we go out. Just to be on the safe side."

"Mei's people would have had access to the suit storage lockers," Sam observed, following her direction.

"Yeah," she agreed. "Wouldn't put it past them to get 'creative'."

He made a derisive snort at the idea. "Hey, hang on a sec." She turned to see him half-out of his jacket. "Put this on—you're cold enough you're about to make me start shivering." He gave a mock-shudder. "See?"

Cold as she was, she wasn't about to argue. As she slid into it, she was surrounded by the warmth of his body that still clung to it, as well as the faint scent that was, now and forever, lodged in her memory as Sam. "You'll tell me when you need it back," she said.

"Don't worry about me. You know I like the cold." He winked at her. "Warm all the way down, remember?" There was something about the satisfaction coming off him that went beyond just warming her up. "Gotta say, you wear that old thing almost as well as I do."

Cait thought about it for a moment as her practiced hands started the diagnostics going. "This is one of those guy things, isn't it?"

"What's a guy thing?" Sam sounded innocent as the long day, but his silent laughter fizzled against her skin.

"Me wearing your jacket?" she responded tartly.

"Ohhhh," he said, in tones of sudden—and feigned—understanding. "You mean the desire of a man in a romantic relationship to see the woman of his dreams wearing a piece of clothing recently removed from his body, so that the intimacy of touch is transferred via the garment?" She turned to look at him incredulously—he looked like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. "That guy thing?"

"Something like that," she said slowly.

"Maaaaaybe…" His eyes crinkled, and his lips curved into a warm smile. "Not that I would admit to such a base urge." He took a step closer to her, his voice softening. "And I sure wouldn't want to distract you from being all knotted up with tension before we throw ourselves into danger, now would I?" Behind her, the diagnostic continued to run. "That would be just terrible." Cait managed to keep her suspicious face through most of his spiel, but the mock-gravitas he laid on the word 'terrible' broke her into a fit of giggles. "There we go." His voice dripped satisfaction. "Feeling better now?"

"Much," she sighed, as the diagnostic beeped. "You're a bad, bad man, Sam Coe, and one of these days I'm going to give you exactly what you deserve."

Sam chuckled and pulled her into an embrace. "Don't threaten me with a good time, darlin'." The kiss they shared was slow and lazy, a promise rather than a demand. "Might just take you up on it."

She was laughing when she turned back to the workbench.

Gooooood Morning! It’s WIP Wednesday Thursday!

Just:

Reblog this post with a snippet of what you’re currently working on attached, and I’ll rb with comments/encouragement !

It doesn’t have to be Dragon Age, it can be whatever you’re working on!

Very chill, no pressure! Thanks for sharing, and have fun!

[my-religion-greek-myth]

Freedom far away - R

Happy Lunar New Year! I've been struggling with my life, which has kept me busy since the end of last year. One of my favourite movies is Howl's Moving Castle.

Fem Reader X Agatha X Rio

Part A | Part B | Part C&D | Part E | Part F | Part G | Part H | Part I&J | Part K | Part L | Part M | Part N | Part O&P | Part Q | Part R | Epilogue

Warning: Imply of miscarriage may be disturbing to some readers

The days after your awakening passed in a blur of quiet moments, whispered reassurances, and an undercurrent of unspoken tension. Though your body was still sore, Rio and Agatha’s unwavering care surrounded you like a protective shield. Each of them had their own way of comforting you—Agatha with her sharp, focused attention and Rio with her softer, playful banter. The two were always by your side, except for brief moments when one would leave to attend to something urgent, though you suspected they never went far.

It was during one of these quiet evenings, the fire crackling softly in the hearth, that the conversation shifted to the future.

“We’ve closed all the gates,” Agatha said, her voice calm but resolute as she stood by the window, her gaze fixed on the star-filled expanse of their realm. “All except one.”

You sat curled up in a plush chair near the fire, Rio’s hand resting lightly on your knee. “The one to my city?” you asked, your voice still hoarse but gaining strength.

Agatha turned to face you, her sharp blue eyes meeting yours. “Yes. It’s heavily warded—no one can pass through it uninvited.” Her lips tightened before she added, “I left it for you. If you ever decide to see your sister…or your brother again.”

The mention of your siblings brought a pang of emotion, both longing and apprehension. You hadn’t seen them since that fateful night, and while part of you yearned to reconnect, another part feared what lay beyond the safety of this world.

Rio’s grip on your knee tightened ever so slightly. “It’ll be there when you’re ready, love,” she said, her voice warm and steady.

For a moment, silence settled over the room, broken only by the gentle crackle of the fire. You glanced between the two women who had become your everything, your heart swelling with gratitude. “Thank you,” you murmured. “For everything.”

Agatha crossed the room in a few strides, kneeling beside your chair. Her hand brushed against your cheek, her touch warm and grounding. “You don’t need to thank us,” she said softly, her sharp features gentled by the vulnerability she rarely showed. “This is your home now, just as much as it’s ours.”

You reached for her hand, intertwining your fingers with hers. “It means more than you know.”

-------

The decision to move wasn’t born out of dissatisfaction; it was born out of love. Agatha and Rio wanted to show you the world, to remind you that life existed beyond the safety of their sanctuary. That quiet realm would always be there, a constant in your lives, but they both knew it wasn’t enough. You deserved to see and experience more, to step beyond the comfortable boundaries you’d built around yourself since your awakening.

It was Agatha who brought it up one evening, her sharp eyes softened by the flickering firelight. “You’ve spent enough time hiding away from who you are,” she said, her voice steady but tender. “We want to show you the world, on your terms, of course. Somewhere you can come and go as you please.”

Rio, lounging beside you as usual, added with a grin, “And what better way than with a house infused with our magic? One that can take us wherever we need to be. A little taste of adventure, with none of the hassle.”

You glanced between them, your heart swelling with gratitude. They had already given you so much, and now they were offering this—a home that could be a gateway to the world. “I’d like that,” you said softly, your voice laced with quiet excitement. “I’d like to see what’s out there.”

The house came to life with their combined magic, every inch of it woven with care and intention. It was cosy, with dark wood beams and stone walls, the kind of place that immediately felt lived in. A fire always burned warmly in the hearth, and the scent of fresh bread and herbs lingered in the air. It was a sanctuary in its own right—but its true wonder lay in the door.

Crafted from enchanted wood, the door stood at the centre of the house, marked with four distinct sigils. Each sigil represented a different place, and with a simple turn of the handle, the door would shift to reveal a new world beyond its frame.

-------

The first sigil led to a seaside town, its air thick with the scent of salt and brine. The fish market buzzed with life, vendors calling out their wares as boats bobbed in the harbour. The waves crashed rhythmically against the docks, a soothing melody that followed you wherever you went.

The first time you stepped through the door, the scent of salt and brine filled your lungs, crisp and bracing. A gust of wind carried the calls of seagulls overhead, their cries mingling with the distant chatter of merchants. The cobbled streets beneath your feet were damp from the ocean spray, and before you even took another step, Rio stretched her arms over her head and grinned.

"Now this is more like it," she sighed, closing her eyes as if soaking in the very essence of the town.

Agatha, standing at your side, remained composed as always, but there was an unmistakable glint of satisfaction in her sharp blue eyes. "It’s a working town," she noted, scanning the busy port ahead. "You’ll like it here."

And she was right.

The town was alive with movement—fishermen unloading crates of fresh seafood from their boats, shopkeepers arranging their displays, children running barefoot along the docks with wind-tangled hair and sunburnt cheeks. The market was the heart of it all, bursting with energy as people haggled, laughed, and shared stories over counters stacked high with glistening fish, fragrant spices, and woven baskets filled with dried seaweed.

Rio, always drawn to the livelier parts of a place, immediately made herself at home. You watched as she leaned over a stall, chatting with an old woman selling skewered seafood grilled over hot coals. Moments later, she returned, passing you one without hesitation.

"Eat," she said simply, grinning as she took a bite of her own.

The taste was smoky and rich, laced with a hint of salt from the sea air. Warmth settled in your chest as you chewed, watching Rio’s excitement as she scanned the stalls for the next thing to try. Agatha, ever the observer, simply took it all in, her gaze lingering on you every so often, as if assessing how you were adjusting.

That evening, you stood by the docks, watching the waves crash gently against the wooden posts. The lanterns swayed in the breeze, their golden light reflected in the dark water below. The town was nothing like the realm you had come from, but it was beautiful in its own way—alive, untamed, full of stories waiting to be told.

"You don’t have to love it right away," Agatha murmured beside you, her voice low and steady. "But you should at least give it a chance."

You exhaled, the weight in your chest loosening just a little.

"I think I already do."

-------

The second sigil opened to a meadow of wildflowers, vibrant and unending. The breeze carried the sweet aroma of blossoms, and the grass seemed to shimmer under the golden sunlight. In the evenings, fireflies lit up the horizon, painting the scene in soft, glowing hues. It was a place of serenity, where time seemed to stretch and still.

The transition from the bustling seaside to the meadow was almost jarring. One moment, you were surrounded by the salty tang of the ocean; the next, you were enveloped in the scent of sun-warmed grass and wildflowers.

The world stretched out before you in endless shades of green and gold, rolling hills blanketed in vibrant blossoms. The sky overhead was impossibly blue, the clouds drifting lazily as if they, too, had nowhere to be.

Rio spun in a slow circle, arms wide, breathing in deeply. "This," she declared, "is paradise."

And it was.

The meadow was quiet, but not silent—birds chirped from the nearby trees, the wind whispered through the tall grass, and somewhere in the distance, a small brook babbled over smooth stones. The ground was soft beneath your feet, and the sheer openness of the space made it feel like you had stepped into a dream.

Agatha led the way to a lone tree near the crest of a hill, its thick branches offering shade from the warm sunlight. It became your spot almost instantly, a place to lay back and watch the clouds shift, to listen to the rustling leaves and let your mind wander.

Days here passed slowly, unhurried and peaceful. Rio would chase after butterflies with mock seriousness, her laughter echoing through the open fields. Agatha would find a quiet spot to clean her dusty tomes or read, though she was always aware of everything happening around her. And you… you simply existed in a way you hadn’t in a long time.

At night, the meadow transformed. The fireflies came first, glowing softly as they flitted through the grass, like tiny stars that had fallen from the sky. The air cooled, carrying the distant hoot of an owl, and the world became something utterly magical.

One evening, as you lay beneath the tree with Rio’s head resting in your lap, Agatha sat beside you, her fingers idly tracing patterns in the dirt.

"You like it here," she observed.

You smiled, watching as Rio dozed peacefully, the fireflies reflecting in her dark hair. "Yeah," you admitted. "I really do."

And just like that, the meadow became another home.

-------

The third sigil brought you to the bustling heart of a foreign capital city. Streets teemed with life, the hum of countless conversations blending with the music of street performers. Market stalls overflowed with treasures from around the world, and towering buildings framed the sky, glowing with lanterns and lights as night fell. It was a place of discovery and excitement, where new adventures awaited at every turn.

If the seaside was full of life and the meadow was a place of peace, then the capital city was pure energy.

The door opened to a narrow alleyway, its walls adorned with vibrant posters in a language you couldn’t read. The air was thick with the scent of sizzling street food, smoke curling into the fire-lit sky. Beyond the alley, the streets pulsed with life—vendors shouting their wares, musicians strumming their instruments, carriages and horses weaving through the crowded roads.

Rio practically vibrated with excitement. "Now this is my kind of place."

Agatha, on the other hand, immediately fell into observation mode, her gaze sweeping the streets, calculating every possible escape route, every place someone could hide a weapon.

You simply took it all in.

There was something intoxicating about the city—the way the streets pulsed like veins, the way the people moved like they were part of something bigger than themselves. Every corner held something new—smoky teahouses hidden behind plain wooden doors, underground bookshops where rare tomes were traded like secrets, towering palaces that stood in stark contrast to the chaos below.

You spent your days exploring, tasting foods you couldn’t name, losing yourselves in the twisting streets. Rio thrived in the chaos, always darting ahead to see what was around the next corner. Agatha remained at your side, her steady presence keeping you grounded in the overwhelming tide of sound and colour.

One night, as you stood on a high balcony overlooking the glowing sprawl of the city, you found yourself smiling.

"You don’t seem overwhelmed," Agatha remarked, studying you with quiet curiosity.

You turned to her, feeling the hum of the city beneath your feet. "I think… I like it here," you admitted. "It’s alive."

And for the first time in a long while, so were you.

And the fourth sigil—the one that meant the most—always brought you home. Back to their realm, their sanctuary. No matter how far you travelled, how much you explored, there was always a door waiting to take you back  to the place where you were safe, where you were loved.

The sanctuary was unchanged, its quiet presence as steady as ever. The familiar trees, the ever-burning hearth, the way the realm hummed with power—it was your anchor, your foundation.

But as you stood before the door, ready to choose your next destination, you realised something: you weren’t the same person who had stepped through it the first time.

Agatha had been right. You had spent too long hiding away. But now, you had seen the world, breathed in its air, tasted its stories. And you weren’t done yet.

With a glance at Rio and Agatha, you reached for the door.

"Where to next?"

-------

The fire crackled softly in the hearth as the three of you sat together, the warmth of the flames casting long shadows across the room. You rested between Agatha and Rio, your head on Rio’s shoulder while Agatha’s fingers played absently with yours. The comfort of their presence was as familiar as the rhythm of your own heartbeat, yet tonight, something unspoken lingered in the air.

“I’ve been thinking,” you began softly, breaking the silence. Your voice wavered slightly, and you took a steadying breath. “About…about the baby.”

The room seemed to still, even the flames quieting their dance. Rio’s hand tightened slightly on your shoulder, and Agatha’s fingers stilled against yours.

“I didn’t even know,” you continued, your voice trembling. “And because I didn’t know…I couldn’t protect them. I couldn’t protect what was ours.”

Rio leaned down, her lips brushing against the top of your head. “You didn’t fail them,” she said quietly, her voice filled with conviction. “What happened wasn’t your fault, love.”

Agatha’s grip on your hand tightened. “You didn’t even have the chance to know,” she murmured, her voice unusually soft. “And it was stolen from all of us.”

Your chest tightened at her words, and you turned to look at her, meeting her sharp blue eyes. “I can’t help but feel like I failed,” you admitted, tears welling in your eyes. “Like I failed you both.”

Agatha reached out, her other hand brushing against your cheek. “You didn’t fail us,” she said firmly. “And you didn’t fail them. What happened was because of him, not you.”

Rio’s voice, low and soothing, joined in. “We can’t change what happened. But what we can do is honour them by building the future they couldn’t have.”

You blinked back tears, your gaze shifting between the two women who had become your world. “Do you really think…we could have children? Even after everything?”

A soft smile curved Agatha’s lips, her usual sharpness tempered by something tender. “Of course, we can,” she said. “And this time, we’ll protect them. Together.”

Rio chuckled lightly, her dark eyes twinkling with affection. “We’ve already shown we’re excellent at protecting what’s ours,” she teased, her tone playful. “Why not add a few more to the mix?”

A small laugh escaped you despite the heaviness in your heart. “You make it sound so easy,” you said, shaking your head.

“It won’t be easy,” Agatha admitted, her fingers brushing against yours again. “But nothing worth having ever is.”

Rio shifted slightly, turning so she could meet your gaze fully. “Do you want this, love?” she asked, her tone serious now. “Do you want to try for children? Because if you do, we’ll make it happen.”

You hesitated, not because you didn’t want it, but because the weight of the decision felt so immense. Finally, you nodded, your voice barely above a whisper. “I do. I want that. I want to build something with you both. A family.”

Agatha leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “Then it’s settled,” she said, her voice steady and certain. “We’ll try.”

Rio’s grin returned wide and mischievous. “And you know,” she said, her tone turning playful, “with Agatha’s particular talents and my…creative enthusiasm, we’re bound to succeed.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, the sound light and free despite the lingering ache in your chest. “I’m going to regret agreeing to this, aren’t I?” you teased, your eyes shining affectionately.

Agatha smirked, her fingers trailing along your hand. “Only a little,” she said. “But trust me, it’ll be worth it.”

Rio pulled you closer, her lips brushing against your temple. “We’ll make sure of that,” she promised softly.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, the ache in your heart began to ease, replaced by a fragile but growing hope. As the three of you sat together, the firelight illuminating the room, you allowed yourself to dream of what could be—a future filled with love, laughter, and the family you’d create together.

Agatha, her expression soft but with a mischievous glint in her eye, broke the silence with a playful suggestion. “Why wait? We could start now.”

Your eyes widened in surprise, but before you could reply, Rio stood with you in her arms in one smooth motion, lifting you effortlessly. Her grin was devilish, her dark eyes sparkling with mischief. “I like the way you think,” she said, her tone playful yet warm.

“Rio!” you shrieked, laughter bubbling up as you tried to push her away, though your protests were half-hearted. “Not now!”

Agatha chuckled, leaning back with a satisfied smirk. “You’re lucky we adore you,” she teased, her tone light but filled with affection.

Rio’s laugh was rich and infectious as she gently set you back on your feet, her hands lingering on your waist. “Fine, fine,” she relented, though the mischievous glint in her eye remained. “But don’t think you’re getting out of this that easily.”

Still laughing, you shook your head, warmth blooming in your chest as you looked between them. You didn’t know what the future would hold, but in that moment, surrounded by their love and laughter, you felt ready to face it.

Agatha and Rio’s magic had created something extraordinary—a home that moved with you, a gateway to endless possibilities. And as you stood in the cosy living room, surrounded by the warmth of the hearth and the steady presence of the two women who had become your everything, you felt something you hadn’t felt in a long time: hope.

This wasn’t just a house. It was freedom. It was love. It was the start of something new.

[28harryssunflower]

Hating you was easier: Part 2

Dating Harry Styles felt strange at first - like slipping on a pair of shoes that didn’t quite fit yet. After years of trading insults and petty pranks, shifting into something soft and unfamiliar was a challenge. The first few weeks were tentative, like you were both testing the waters. Neither of you was entirely sure how to act around the other without the constant tension you’d relied on for so long.

But then, slowly, it started to feel natural.

It began with small things. Harry would wait for you after class, leaning casually against the wall with that lopsided grin of his. He’d carry your books without being asked, and when you complained about it, he’d just laugh and call you stubborn. You started spending time together outside of class - at first in secret, not ready to face the inevitable onslaught of questions from your friends.

The first official date happened about a month after Harry returned to campus. It wasn’t anything extravagant. Just a late-night walk around the quad and milkshakes at the 24-hour diner off-campus. But you remembered every detail: the way he looked at you like he couldn’t believe you were real, the way he teased you about always ordering vanilla but still let you steal sips of his chocolate, the way his hand brushed yours until you finally gave in and laced your fingers together.

You hadn’t planned on kissing him that night, but when he walked you back to your dorm and leaned against the doorframe, looking at you with that mix of shyness and confidence, you couldn’t stop yourself. The kiss was soft, tentative, but it left you breathless.

Being with Harry was different from anything you’d experienced before.

He wasn’t the person you’d built him up to be in your head all those years - the arrogant, insufferable boy who lived to torment you. Instead, he was kind, thoughtful, and surprisingly self-aware. He’d been working on himself since the night in his dorm, attending therapy and cutting back on drinking. He opened up to you in ways you never expected, telling you about the pressure he felt to live up to everyone’s expectations and how he used his cocky persona as a shield.

“I didn’t hate you, you know,” he admitted one night as you lay on his couch, his arm draped over your shoulders.

You turned to look at him, raising an eyebrow. “Could’ve fooled me.”

He laughed softly, shaking his head. “No, I didn’t. You just… you made me feel things I wasn’t ready to deal with. So I lashed out. I was a total dick to you, and I’m sorry for that.”

You stared at him for a moment, your heart twisting. “I wasn’t exactly innocent, you know. I gave as good as I got.”

“Yeah, but I deserved it,” he said, his tone light but his eyes serious. “I’m glad you didn’t let me get away with my crap. You’ve always been good at keeping me in check.”

The rest of the semester flew by.

You spent more time in Harry’s dorm than your own, studying together late into the night or binge-watching your favorite shows. He made you laugh like no one else could, always finding new ways to tease you in that affectionate, playful way you’d come to love.

Your friends were shocked when they found out about the two of you. Niall, of course, wasn’t surprised - he’d seen the shift in Harry long before you had. “I always knew you two had chemistry,” he said with a wink, earning a groan from both of you.

The biggest surprise was how easy it felt to be with Harry. For so long, you’d seen him as the enemy, someone you could never imagine being vulnerable with. But now, you couldn’t imagine your life without him.

One evening, you found yourself sitting on a picnic blanket under the stars, the faint hum of campus life in the distance. Harry had dragged you out of your dorm, insisting that you needed a break from studying. He’d brought a basket filled with snacks and a thermos of hot chocolate, and you’d spent the last hour talking about everything and nothing.

As you lay on the blanket, staring up at the sky, Harry turned to you, his expression soft. “I’ve been thinking,” he said, his voice quiet.

“Dangerous,” you teased, earning a playful nudge.

“I’m serious,” he said, his tone more serious now. He propped himself up on one elbow, looking down at you. “Do you ever think about… us? Like, what this is?”

You swallowed, your heart skipping a beat. “I think about it all the time,” you admitted.

He smiled, a little shyly, and reached for your hand. “I want this to be real,” he said. “I mean, it already is, but… I don’t want to tiptoe around it anymore. I want everyone to know how much I care about you.”

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as you stared up at him. “Harry…”

“I’m not perfect,” he continued, his voice cracking slightly. “I’ve messed up a lot, and I know I don’t deserve you, but-“

“Stop,” you interrupted, sitting up and cupping his face in your hands. “You do deserve me. And I deserve you. We’ve both been through a lot, but… I don’t want to be with anyone else.”

He leaned into your touch, his eyes glistening. “I love you,” he said softly, the words hanging in the air between you.

Your breath hitched, and for a moment, all you could do was stare at him. Then, with a shaky smile, you whispered, “I love you too.”

He kissed you then, slow and deep, as if he were trying to pour all his feelings into that one moment. And as you sat there under the stars, wrapped in each other’s arms, you couldn’t help but think that maybe all the years of fighting had been worth it - because they’d led you here.

To him.

[aperrywilliams]

Satellite Call. Part II: I Wish I Could Do More (Spencer Reid x Fem!BAU!Reader)

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Author Masterlist | Series Masterlist

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Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader.

Words count for this part: 4.1k

Series summary: Your world crushes when Spencer is arrested. Between finding a way to get him out and keeping you afloat, there is something else you need to focus on, too. And even when you thought things couldn’t go worse, a tragedy makes you question if you can make it through.

Part II summary: While Spencer is transferred to Milburn, you must be strong and find a way to get him out, even if you're hurt by what he did. Some news could make this even more difficult.

Series warnings: ANGST (with CAPS). 18+ (MDNI). Some heavy topics will be discussed and shown here. Prison arc, but mostly from Reader's perspective and Emily’s. More detailed under the cut.

Spencer lies to his wife. Drug consumption (against their will). Pregnancy symptoms. Spencer is in jail for more than three months. Hospital visits, doctor’s info dumping (not accurate). Alcohol consumption. Arguing. Strong language. A lot of crying. Emotional breakdowns. A car crash happens (as in the CM storyline). Character dies. More hospital things. Miscarriage. More angst. Depressing symptoms. Mourning. Self-doubt. Suicidal ideation, and almost consummated. Emily is everyone’s emotional support.

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You couldn't sleep that night. The mere thought of Spencer in a cold cell, alone, disoriented, and scared, makes you sick. You had been talking to Emily late into the night, trying to figure out legal options. She assured you she had an excellent lawyer who could defend Spencer and that they could visit him the next day to give him the news.

As planned, you and Emily arrive at the police station early in the morning. After a routine check, you are allowed into the cell block. Emily tells you to go first while she waits for Fiona, Spencer's new lawyer.

The moment he sees you, Spencer rushes to hug you. You hug him just as tightly, resting your head on his chest.

"Are you okay?" you ask, muffling your words in Spencer's old cardigan he is wearing. It gives him some kind of normal semblance, considering the circumstances.

"Yeah. I'm okay," Spencer says, kissing the top of your head.

His voice tells you he is everything but okay. You are sure he didn't sleep, the same as you.

When you part of your embrace, Spencer doesn't want to let you go, clasping his hands in yours. Inspecting your face, he knows there is something you need to tell him, and you don't know how.

"What is it?"

You sigh, tightening the grip of his hands.

"The FBI decided they won't support you legally. They refused to provide a lawyer to take your case."

"What?" He lets go of your hands, surprised by the news you are giving him. "But why? I didn't do anything!"

"We know, but you made that trip without your FBI passport and didn't tell anyone. They won't take responsibility for it." As you see Spencer starting to hyperventilate, you rush to explain Emily's plan.

"Hey, Spencer. Listen to me. It doesn't mean you won't have a defense, okay? Emily is here too, and she got a lawyer for you. They will be here in a minute."

"But - but I don't have money to afford a lawyer. I - I spent a huge amount of my savings on my mom's treatment."

You didn't know that. That's another thing Spencer hasn't shared with you in the past months. He notices your expression after what he just said. He can see the betrayal in your eyes, even if you want to mask it for his sake.

"We'll manage." It's the only thing you can say, keeping your voice steady. Spencer sighs and grabs one of your hands.

"I know it's not fair for you. Please, tell me what you are thinking; tell me what you are feeling. Tell me everything that I deserve to hear."

What are you really thinking and feeling right now? It's a mix you can't decipher yet, but this is not the time or place to try to figure it out.

So you act as if he didn't say anything and try to divert the subject.

"Emily and Fiona will be here in any minute. Fiona is your lawyer's name. Emily told me she's good-"

"Baby-" Spencer calls you, but you continue with your rant, letting go of his hand.

"Her credentials are pretty impressive, to be honest. Emily handed her your file already, so-"

Spencer knows you are deflecting, so he cut you off.

"Can you stop for a second, please?"

And you do. Spencer's frustration is very clear in his voice, although as the words leave his lips, he retracts immediately. "I'm sorry. I didn't want to snap."

You keep looking at him. It's not you're annoyed or angry. It's not difficult to understand Spencer's anxiety about all of this and the compel to explain himself before you. But you don't know how to deal with it either, so you think being proactive might help. Help to focus on the important, leaving behind the storm blowing inside you.

Spencer can see you're holding back. He wants you to talk to him, but since you arrived, the conversation has only focused on him, and you don't seem keen to change that.

You are considering switching subjects again, but what can you talk about that isn't the obvious topic? Before you dwell much on it, Spencer spares you the decision.

"So, you say she'll be here soon?"

"Yes."

"Will you stay?"

"No. By protocol, Fiona must talk to you alone. Also, you must tell her everything in detail. Even the things you haven't told me."

Spencer might be in a vulnerable position right now, but he's still a profiler and, beyond that, your husband. He can read your subtexts better than anyone.

"You are still mad."

It's simple and accurate, but you don't want to acknowledge it, much less address it.

"Can we focus on the important here?" You don't deny it, but you prefer not to talk about it.

"And you think how you feel is not important?" Spencer asks, eyes scanning yours.

"It's not important when the one locked here is you, and we have to use all our energy to get you out."

Spencer knows you are right, but he also knows you're hurting because of him.

"Not a million 'I'm sorry's' will change where we are now, and it is very cynical of me to ask you for this, but please, don't leave me in the dark. I want to know what you are thinking and feeling. Although you believe the priority is focusing on my case, that's not the only thing that matters to me."

You take in his words for a moment. You know he's genuine, but the clench in the pit of your stomach makes it difficult to push away your anger. All this situation is unfair, and you don't know how to deal with your emotions.

"You're right. Nothing will change where we are now. That's why I'm trying to focus on the practical things. I can't even process what I'm feeling right now, so don't ask me something you didn't do, and I can't do either."

What you said is not much in words, but it's heavy enough to make Spencer's head hang low.

Spencer knows he's a hypocrite asking you for something he didn't do: talk to you when it was needed.

"I'm so sorry," he mumbles, stepping closer to you. He wants to hold you, but you are shaken enough, plus you are starting to feel nauseous, so you step back.

"Baby," he repeats, and before you can reply, Emily and Fiona enter the room.

Emily quickly notices things are tense between you two.

"We can give you some more minutes," she offers. But you brisky refuse.

"It's okay. You guys need it more than me," you say, now looking at Fiona. "Nice to meet you, by the way. I'll leave you at it."

Spencer calls your name, and you turn to him with apologetic eyes. "I'll be back as soon as I can. I promise. We can talk about that later, okay?"

And before anyone in the room could say anything else, you leave.

You feel suffocated, and your feet don't move fast enough to get out of there. Your breathing quickens, and you start to feel like the walls are closing in around you. Luckily for you, the exit is only a few more meters away. Once you're out of the building, you crouch down and start to inhale and exhale hard. Over and over again. Your breathing is getting controlled, but you get a horrible nausea that makes you empty your stomach in a corner of the sidewalk.

You considered staying and waiting for Emily, but you decided to go home instead. You messaged her to let her know when she had news.

That same afternoon, Emily calls you and gives you details about the legal strategy Fiona will pursue while the team is instructed to look for evidence to exonerate Spencer. The arraignment will be the next day, and Fiona will try to get Spencer out on bail. That gives you some hope, although, in terms of the investigation, you're all still in the dark.

It doesn't help that the judge denies Spencer’s bail the next day. Neither the evidence of his impeccable previous conduct nor the arguments about his contributions to the FBI convince her to give Spencer bail, so she orders his incarceration in the Milburn correctional facility until his trial, which will take place in three more months. You can’t believe it. No one does. It breaks your heart to see Spencer’s face when he looks at you before being cuffed and whisked away from the courtroom. He’s scared, and you can’t do anything about it. Spencer tries to mask it, mouthing an ‘I love you’ to you. You do the same, trying to keep your tears at bay.

Never in a million years would you have imagined something like this. Still in shock, you can barely hear the encouraging words of Fiona and Emily, who begin to formulate a new plan for Spencer. Helplessness overwhelms you, and not wanting to listen anymore, you excuse yourself and walk toward the exit of the courtroom. You are not sure why, but there is no reason to remain stunned in the same place, either.

This time, it’s  Rossi who finds you sulking as you sit on the stairs of the building entrance.

“The kid is strong, you know that, right?”

You look at him when he sits by your side.

“He is. I know,” you sniffle. “But he needs more than strength right now. He needs us to prove his innocence, and here I am. Crying and doing nothing to help him.”

“And we’ll prove his innocence. But one step at a time. Today, we lose, and it’s okay to dwell and cry, to get up tomorrow and keep fighting.”

Rossi is probably right. After all, he is the one with the most experience in life. But it is hard for you to see how to continue fighting when you feel like you have been losing battles for days.

You take David’s advice—one day at a time. Exhausted, when you get home, you plop on your couch and try to digest everything. You cry and curse, but at the end of the day, you just hope the next day could be better.

When you arrive at the BAU in the morning, Emily calls the entire team into the conference room. On the round table, you see a pile of papers while Penelope is already sitting, working on a laptop.

“Okay, we need to assume Scratch is behind Nadie Ramos's murder. We need to figure out how he knew her,” Prentiss starts.

“She wasn’t his target. It's circumstantial due to her connection to Spence,” JJ states. Tara nods.

“True. But it can’t be a coincidence we’re talking about someone connected to alternative medicine and plants. The same Scratch uses them to make his drugs.”

All give some ideas on how Scratch could be related to Spencer’s case, but even when they have good hypotheses, there is something that doesn't fit you.

“What are your thoughts?” Stephen asks you when he notices you’re the only one who hasn’t said anything yet.

“Why Spencer?” Your colleagues' attention is on you now. “I mean, it could have been any of us. If Scratch already targeted us, why Spencer, and why now?”

“He had messed with Hotch and Tara by now. I guess he will try to get us one by one,” Luke answers.

“Yeah, but isn’t it inconvenient for him to expose himself like this? I mean, he didn't do this alone,” you argue.

“I don’t think that bothers him. He likes the attention and will do anything to get it. This time, it is the kid who is in the middle,” Rossi concludes.

You’re not so sure, but you don’t have any evidence to refute your teammates. You also feel that maybe you’re being a bit paranoid saying this is especially against Spencer, so you don’t keep pushing and leave the team to bounce their theories.

Two full days pass, and you don’t have anything to prove Spencer’s innocence. The team keeps the same approach settled the days prior, and you’re getting impatient. That, and the lack of sleep, gets you irritated. It's something all can see, but they don’t have the heart to call you out.

Emily has to do something after you yelled at Penelope in front of everyone after she came with nothing about Scratch's supposed partner, and two seconds later, you started to cry disconsolately, asking her for forgiveness.

“You need to go home. I won’t tell you the reasons because you already know them. We need you with fresh eyes. Spencer needs you with fresh eyes,” your boss reminds you. Of course, you want to argue with her, but she is right. With no words, you nod and grab your stuff from your desk.

Emily is right; you need to find a way to keep your shit together. It's hard, you tell yourself, but you have to try. The next morning, you’ll visit Spencer at Milburn. It’s the first time they will allow him to see someone that is not his lawyer.

Sleep doesn't come so quickly that night, but at some point, exhaustion wins the battle, and you fall asleep.

You don’t remember if you were dreaming or not, but still, in a haze, you feel your stomach churn and then some horrible nausea. That’s what fully wakes you up. Jumping from the bed, you run to the bathroom to empty your guts.

Jeez, not again. You have been cautious not to eat something that could make you sick. But to be honest, you haven’t been eating much the past few days due to stress. Maybe your nausea is also due to that.

When the uncomfortable feeling dissipates, you peak at your clock and realize it's time to get up. After brushing your teeth, you jump into the shower.

You've been to different prisons around the country many times. Sometimes, with Spencer himself, interviewing inmates. Some of them being the worst scum the world has to offer. And now, in front of Milburn correctional, the irony isn’t lost on you.

The visiting room is full of people waiting for the time when the prisoners can enter and sit in front of their visitors. After the sound of an old buzzer, a gate opens at the back of the room, and one by one, the prisoners begin to enter. They are all dressed in that orange jumper that already bothered you before but that you will now learn to hate even more.

You spot Spencer, and your stomach tightens. His gaze meets yours, and he gives you a shadow of a smile.

“Hey,” you mumble as he sits in the chair in front. Separated by an acrylic glass, you can’t touch each other. That’s the rule, and you already hate it.

“Hi,” Spencer greets back, biting his lower lip. For him, it's so good to see you, but not like this. Your last encounter didn't end well either, so Spencer is worried about how to talk to you.

“How are you holding on?” You are direct; it is not useful to ask how he is doing in a place like this. Spencer shrugs.

“They let me read. It's not that bad.”

“Have you been sleeping?” You have a list of checkup questions to assess Spencer's current state.

“Not that much. But it's okay, you know I usually don’t sleep that much.”

Before your next question leaves your lips, Spencer speaks.

“I love you,” he whispers, and you are left speechless. It’s the cue Spencer needs to keep talking. “And I hate every minute I can’t be with you. I fucked up, and I know you want to focus on my defense instead of talking about how you feel about this.”

“Spencer-”

“It’s okay,” he rushes to say. “I’m going to respect that. But I want you to know I do care, and you don’t have to spare me anything for my sake.”

Your eyes fill with tears, and some start to run down your cheeks. You can’t help it. The knot in your throat begging to be untied.

“I - it’s like-” you try to collect your thoughts as you wipe your tears. Spencer only wants to jump the glass to wipe them himself.

“It hurts, Spencer. It hurts that I can’t do more to help you. Yeah. I’m mad at you for not trusting me. I’m mad at myself for not being enough for you to trust me. I love so fucking much, and it scares me because I’m not thinking clearly, and I should be working to catch the son of the bitch who puts you here.”

Your rant finishes with you out of breath and hiccuping. “I’m sorry, I just spilled-” You want to apologize, but Spencer calls your name to catch your attention.

“Baby, it's okay. It's okay to let that out. You need to. And I’m here to listen to you. I would never judge you for telling me what you are feeling. I love you so so much. I know you are doing your best, and I wish I could be more helpful, too. After all, I‘m the one who left his guard down.”

“What can I do, Spencer? How can I help you? I feel so lost right now,” you admit, and Spencer understands perfectly your frustration.

“The only thing I dare to ask you is to keep loving me. Please. To know you are here and that you love me gives me a reason to go on. To fight.”

“There isn’t a universe where I don’t love you. I’m your wife through thick and thin,” you tell him, voice full of emotion.

It is raw and utterly true. Spencer’s glassy eyes are evidence of how your words hit him in the best way possible.

“I love you,” he mutters, resting his palm on the glass. You mimic his gesture to match your palm with his.

“I love you, too.”

The visit ends not much later, but you can discuss the lack of progress in the investigation and how important it is that Spencer remember more details of his days in Mexico. This will give you a clue about who Scratch’s partner can be.

You go home with a bittersweet taste. Seeing Spencer and talking to him is the sweet one, but the lack of good news is the bitter one.

In the afternoon, you call Emily to tell her about your visit to Milburn and ask for updates. While you do so, your stomach reminds you how little you have been eating in the past few days. Between the bug you think you had and the stress, your last meals haven’t quite achieved the minimum nutrient requirements. So, after an inner struggle, you go to the kitchen and cook something better than tea and crackers.

You boost some energy into your system and use that to do some of the house chores. The place is kind of a mess.

That's why at night when you let your head hit the pillow, you’re fast asleep in a matter of minutes. And unlike the days prior, you dream.

-

You and Spencer are sitting side by side on the jet, discussing the last case you closed—coincidentally, your first case as a BAU official member. ‘How is it that she didn't notice any signs of being pregnant? I mean, your body changes; you should notice it at some point,’ you argue, talking about the unsub wife, who didn't know she was expecting until the day she gave birth. ‘It’s not that uncommon. The known symptoms of pregnancy can include missed periods, tender and swollen breasts, nausea or vomiting, increased urination, fatigue, and food aversions or cravings. However, each woman's experience with pregnancy can vary significantly, and not everyone will experience all of these signs. Plus, some of those symptoms can be related to other health affections, such as stress, digestive issues, or even blood imbalance like anemia.’ ‘Why do you know a lot of things about those things? The last time I checked, none of your PhDs were related to an MD.’ ‘I like to know about a lot of things. And I read a lot.” ‘I can tell.’

-

You wake up startled from your dream. Why did your brain trigger that specific memory right now in your dream? Sitting on your bed, still panting from the sudden wake-up, you go to recheck.

It does not take you much time to connect the dots. Fatigue, morning sickness, mood swings, food aversion. When was the last time you got your period?

Fuck. Fuck. And fuck.

You jump from the bed, pacing in your room. No. It can’t be.

But after a quick trip to the pharmacy at five in the morning and three pregnancy tests later, you get your answer: the three came positive. You are pregnant.

What will this mean in the vast aspects of your life? In this timing and these circumstances?

You don't have answers. You don’t have anything at hand to help you think clearly, so you decide to go to the person who maybe can see this from a better perspective: Emily.

When Emily opens the door, she looks already concerned that you’re knocking on her door at 6 AM, and her worry worsens when she sees you crying.

“Hey, what is it? Why are you crying? What happened?” As every question leaves Emily’s mouth, she rushes you inside her apartment and makes you sit on the couch.

You feel like you're having a hard time breathing, but you close your eyes and do your best not to collapse on your friend’s floor. Emily moves quickly and goes to the kitchen to grab a glass of water with some sugar to calm the nerves. After you take some sips, Emily holds the glass and leaves it on the coffee table. Now, with her full attention on you, you know she needs answers.

“Emily, I’m pregnant.”

Without any prompting, the words leave your lips. And it still feels so foreign to you. Even if the three pregnancy tests on your bathroom counter can confirm it’s something real. It’s your reality right now.

Emily is silent, not because she doesn't know what to say, but most of all because she wants to gauge your reaction and know your thoughts about it. Your face is unreadable, though.

“Are you sure? Did you check with a doctor?”

She thinks it’s a cautious question, considering everything that has been going on, and it could be a false positive.

“Not with a doctor. But three different tests say I’m pregnant. Em, what I’m going to do?”

“Okay. Let’s see,” your friend prompts. “First of all, we need to get you checked. The past months have been rough, and we need to know how your health is. Then you can think about what to do.”

You still can’t wrap your head around the idea of being pregnant. But when the doctor confirms you are, it becomes real. Fortunately, Emily is by your side when this happens because you’re sure you have fainted without anyone to ground you there.

“How are you feeling?”

Emily returns with you to your apartment after the doctor’s appointment. She’s handing you a mug of tea while you’re tuck-sitting on the couch, hugging your knees.

“I don’t know. I mean- I don’t know,” you confess as Emily joins you on the couch.

“It's okay if you don’t know yet. You need time to process it.”

“Do I have time to do that? Knowing Spencer is in jail and - and this,” you look at your still non-existent baby bump. “And this is happening? What am I going to do?”

“It’s not ideal, but you need to think this through. I can’t tell you what to do because it’s your choice.”

Your choice. And the less you want to do is to decide big things these days.

“At least tell me what you think. An insight can help here.”

Emily contemplates her answer for a moment.

“Okay. Have you had this conversation with Spencer before? The kids thing?”

“Yeah. We agreed that, at some point, we want to. I guess that's why we haven’t done much to prevent it.”

That's the thing. It's not that you both were actively trying, but the fact that it is happening now? It's not the best timing.

“Well, if that's the case, just know I’m here to support you. Whatever you decide to do. I’m not going to judge you. No one will do. Not even Spencer, okay?”

You know Emily is telling the truth, and you appreciate her support, although you still don’t know what your choice will be on this. The only thing you‘re certain right now is how complicated everything has turned out.

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Previous | Next

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Series Taglist: @strawb3heart @lunaryoongie @bwlol7

[chrisstvrns]

𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐥𝐞𝐟𝐭 𝐦𝐞: 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐟𝐢𝐯𝐞 | 𝐜.𝐬.

warnings: fluff of chris telling reader hes moving back to boston, and hes gonna be there for her and madi!!

word count: 1,111

part one | part two | part three | part four | part five

you were sat in the living room of chris’ parents house, the same place where he broke up with you nearly 7 months ago. he had texted you the night prior, telling you to come by his place with madison, saying he apparently had something important to tell you. 

you were sitting on the couch, feeding madi as she softly cooed in your arms, clinging to your necklace. 

“wheres my baby?” you hear chris gently shout from the kitchen, making his way to the living room 

you bite back a soft smile, glancing down at madi as her father enters the room, crouching down infront of you. “come ‘ere, baby girl” he softly whispers, his eyes full of love as he reaches for the baby. you gently hand her to him, your heart full of love and adoration. 

“i, uh, i need to tell you something..” he mutters, looking up at you as he sits on the floor with madi

you hum, looking into his eyes. 

“im moving back to boston.. me and nick and matt. we all are..” he quickly says, like hes been waiting to say it for ages. 

“what.. what do you mean?” your voice is soft, nearly hesitant as you look at him

“i know were not technically together again.. yet.. but, madi needs me. i missed so much, the whole pregnancy, the birth, the first two weeks of her life, im her dad. and she needs me. and nick and matt, theyre her uncles. i already talked to them, were moving back home. LA doesnt need us. you do. madi does. we’ll keep the house in LA as like, a vacation house, or something, but were coming home.” 

your face softens at his words, staring into his eyes. of course you still loved him, how couldnt you? but this just proved it even more. he was willing to do whatever it took to get you back, no matter how hard you resisted. 

“chris, you cant.. you guys moved to LA for a reason, i.. your lives are there now. you have all your friends, and nicks only spacecamp office is there, the fresh love office is there, you.. i cant make you do that.” you whisper, your voice cracking. 

“you are not making me do anything. i want to. i need to. madi’s my daughter. and you.. god, youre the love of my life. your the mother of my child, and i will always love you. im not asking you to get back together. not yet, at least. im telling you that im stepping up, and im gonna be a father to madi.” 

tears threatened to spill down your cheeks, and you quickly blinked them away, trying to maintain your composure. madi let out a soft babble, completely unaware of the emotional weight filling the room. chris gently bounced her in his arms, his expression unwavering as he waited for you to process what he’d just said.  

“you really mean this,” you whispered, more a statement than a question.  

“with everything in me,” he assured, his voice steady and sure. “i’m done being halfway there for the people who matter most. madi deserves better, and so do you.”  

the sincerity in his eyes made it impossible to doubt him. you’d spent so many months trying to rebuild yourself, trying to learn how to live without him. but hearing this—seeing him fight to be present, not just for madi but for you too—tugged at every guarded part of your heart.  

“what if things don’t work out?” you asked quietly, voicing the fear you’d carried since he first walked away.  

he exhaled softly, shifting madi so he could better meet your gaze. “then i’ll still be here. no matter what. not as your boyfriend, maybe not even as someone you love again. but always as her dad.”  

his conviction broke something inside you, cracking the walls you'd built so carefully.  

“and nick and matt are really okay with this?” you asked skeptically, needing to hear it one more time.  

chris chuckled softly, a genuine sound that eased some of the tension in your chest. “more than okay. nick said madi already has his heart, she had it as soon as he found out you were pregnant. and matt? you know he pretends to be the tough guy, but you should’ve seen him when i asked him if we could all move back. practically packed his bags that night.”  

you laughed despite yourself, a soft, breathless sound that mingled with the warmth building in your chest.  

“you’re crazy, you know that?”  

“crazy about you,” he said without hesitation, his lips quirking into a small, familiar smile.  

the weight of everything lingered between you — the past mistakes, the heartbreak, and now, the tentative hope blooming in its place. maybe things weren’t fixed yet. maybe they never would be entirely. but this moment? it felt like a step toward something better.  

“you better not screw this up again,” you whispered, half teasing, half serious.  

“i won’t,” he promised, his voice low and resolute. “i swear, i won’t.”  

and for the first time in what felt like forever, you believed him.  

“you said youre keeping the LA house?” 

he nods, looking up at him witha genuine look in his eyes. 

“maybe.. if were all okay, and if me and you, if we ever get back together.. maybe we can move back out there? you know i loved that house, and you, nick, and matt, if youre keeping it, just as a vacation house for now, maybe when madis a bit older, we can move back out there?” 

his eyes nearly fill with tears at that, youre small confession of maybe wanting to get back together with him nearly killing him. he instantly nods, shifting madi into one arm, reaching to hold your hand with his free hand. 

“yes. please, yes. in two, three, four, hell, even five years, come back out to LA. all of my friends there miss you. and when they find out, and finally get to meet madi, theyll go crazy. please.” you peppers the back of your hand in kisses, looking into your eyes

your eyes well with tears, looking down at him with a genuine look as you whisper “i love you.” 

“i love you too.” 

“always have.”

“and i always will.”

and you knew that was it. that promise, the small saying, that to anyone else it would probably confuse, but that saying you and chris made up when you were fifteen. that promise to stick together forever, no matter what happens. 

you loved him. and he loved you. you always had. and you always will.

────────────୨ৎ────────────

a/n: IM WORKING ON PART SIX I PROMISE.

- aurora ᯓ✮⋆˙

find other parts of this series here

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Chapter 8: The Shadow to my Flame

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It was well past midnight when the party died down and Ashe could leave. She decided to go to her cabin. She needed to get out of the Forest House and then she could make sure Samli was okay.

Getting through the ID-sone took ages. With many people from the ball going inn and out, the guards kept extra attention to details. She was eventually let through.

It was now over 36 hours since she drank the faebane, but her powers were still not back for full. She tried to winnow, but she only got about half the way before she plummeted face first into the ground.

Ashe groaned as she got up and started walking. It was fairly good weather, so she wouldn’t usually mind walking, but right now she was too exhausted and in too much pain.

After a while she winnowed again and got almost all the way to the cabin. She only had to walk about a 100 meters.

She opened the door to the cabin, walked in and closed the door. She took off her shoes, laid down her small bag beside the door and walked into the living room.

She just wanted to lay down and sleep until she had to go back to work.

She walked towards the couch, sent a small flicker of her powers to start fire in the fireplace and was just about to faceplant onto the couch, when she saw that she wasn’t alone.

She let out a scream and grabbed the closest sharp object. A gardening tool.

“What in the cauldron are you doing here?” she screamed at the intruder.

“I’m making sure you can be trusted,” Azriel answered. He held his hands up in the air. “And I left you your newest payment.”

He pointed to the kitchen table and Ashe saw a small envelop with her nickname on it. Except it didn’t say “Flame” it instead stood “Wildflame”.

“”Wildflame”? Really?”

Azriel shrugged at her. “I found it fitting.”

Ashe relaxed a little but didn’t let go of the gardening tool just yet.

“What do you meant checking if I can be trusted?”

“I do it with all my new spies. I just went through your home to see if I can find anything about you having other allies. You passed the test.”

Ashe felt herself stare into his soul. What the cauldron did he think he was doing breaking into her home?

“If I passed the test, then you can leave? Right?”

Azriel relaxed his wings just a little. He moved his head down as his lips turned into a smug smile. He could definitely sense Ashe’s annoyance. That’s why he acted that way. Ashe was sure of it.

“Not quite. I’d like to know more about you. If you get into any trouble, it’s easier for me to get you out if I know more about you.”

Ashe hated that it made sense. For some reason, she didn’t feel the need to protest. Through all the letters they had exchanged, Ashe had gotten the impression that this male was kind to the ones that deserved it. Even though she was stupid to let her guard down so easily, she was too exhausted to care.

“Can we sit as we speak?”

She didn’t wait for him to answer before she walked over to the kitchen table and slumped down into a chair. She leaned forwards on her elbows to make sure her back didn’t touch anything. The kitchen table was round and had four chairs. Azriel took the chair that was opposite of Ashe’s. She felt a lot calmer than what she would have if he was right next to her.

“Ask away,” she told him.

“How old are you?”

“160, you?”

“304. Do you have any family?”

“Not that I know of. You?”

Azriel spent some time wondering if he was actually going to answer you questions or not.

“I have my chosen family. I speak to my mother once a while,” he explained. “I’m a bastard. My father and stepbrothers were abusive. I killed them. You?”

Ashe felt some shivers. His voice was very grave, but at the same time, his eyes were extremely kind and soft. She didn’t know what to think about him.

“I got dumped at the servant quarters as a babe. No one knows who my parents are. I have lived and worked as a servant since.”

Azriel nodded.

“How do you have this cabin then?”

“Thord and his mate lend it to me. They are getting old and are running a farm, so they didn’t have the energy to wander out here as often. I’ve been taking care of it since I was fifteen.”

“You started working as a servant as a fifteen-year-old?”

“No, I was ten when I first started, but we must work for five years before we start getting days off. At fifteen I started getting two days off per week.”

Azriel’s eyes widened a little.

“You know that’s not normal, right?”

Ashe nodded. Of course she knew the servants were treated as shit. She had been physically punished two times that week. She tried to hide the fact that she was in pain, but sitting at the table made it harder and harder.

“Why do you stay working there?”

Ashe had to think a long time before she answered. It was many reasons why she stayed. It’s the only place she had ever had as a home. Getting jobs in Autumn was extremely difficult and she had no talents that would make it easier for her. She knew that Samli and Thord would take her in, no questions asked, it she needed it. But they were already struggling having enough money, if Ashe would join them, they would have way too little. Those reasons felt too personal to share.

“I have multiple reasons, but being a servant at least helps me understand what’s going on in the Court.”

“Would you say you know the High Lord and his family?”

“I know some better than others.”

“Who?”

Giving out that information felt more dangerous than anything she had told him before, but at the same time, she needed this work or alliance to save people.

Ashe tried to sit up straight to make it easier for her to control the information she was sharing, but her hurt back made it too hard.

“I’m often in charge of the Lady in the evening. I do her hair and makeup and escort her to and from dinner. She sometimes takes interest in me by asking me questions, but it’s usually a silent affair. Eris is my friend. He saved me from a soldier about ten years ago and he has since kept the soldiers away from my room.” Ashe spent some time thinking. She didn’t know how many details she needed to share. “I also used to have school with Lucian. He is only two years younger than me, so we had class together until I had to start work. I haven’t spoken to him since he escaped to the Spring Court though.”

Azriel nodded again. You knew about Eris’ complicated history with the Night Court. And even though you knew far from the entire story, you hoped Azriel wouldn’t judge you for what your friend had done.

“Does anyone know you’re working for us?”

“No.”

Azriel showed just a small sign of relief.

“Good. Then I only have one question left.” Ashe felt relived too as she heard that. Then she could finally sleep. “Why are you in so much pain?”

Fucking hell.

How had he noticed? She had been doing her best to hide the pain!

Ashe couldn’t help the sigh she let out.

“When they couldn’t find Thord, the soldiers and High Lord thought his mate got him out. That’s against the law, so she was waiting for a punishment. I wasn’t going to let her get hurt because of something I did. So, I volunteered to take the punishment and they let her go.”

“What was the punishment?” His voice was calm, but he looked angry. Ashe didn’t know if he was angry at her or at the High Lord, but it made her scared anyway.

She didn’t dare to look him in the eyes as she spoke.

“I had to drink faebane and got 31 lashes. The last six was given by the High Lord himself and he sat the whip on fire.”

Ashe looked up at him and saw the softness in his eyes. She saw how his hands folded into strong fists. She saw the scars and immediately knew that they came from fire. She had her own scars all over her arms, legs and back.

That’s when she realized he wasn’t mad at her and that made her relax even more in his present.

“Do you have money to visit a healer?” he asked and then did a big swallow.

“He told me not to see a healer. I don’t think he likes me very much,” Ashe answered truthfully. She felt the embarrassment and humiliation spread through her body. She felt so stupid and weak. Azriel opened his mouth and was about to speak again, but Ashe had enough. “You said that was your last question, so please leave.”

Azriel closed his mouth quickly and gave her a short nod. His hazel eyes looked directly into her amber eyes and then he disappeared into the shadows once more.

Ashe had slept for fourteen hours. The pain was still very much there, but she managed to stand without much trouble.

She went to Samli for dinner. She had tried to cover her pain, but nothing got past Samli.

Out of the two of them, Thord was the calm one. Samli was fuming at her. Even though she spoke with gratitude, she was so angry at Ashe for stepping in. Ashe tried to explain that she had promised Thord that she would protect her, but that only made Samli angrier.

After they had been fighting for about thirty minutes, the screaming died down and they sat down to eat. Samli spoke about how she tried to live her normal life, but that it didn’t work without Thord. Ashe could see the visible longing in her eyes.

Samli had never been good with feelings, or at least that is what Thord told Ashe. When Thord and Samli first met, Thord had refused to acknowledge the mating bond. He thought Samli was too pretty for him. Thord was after all a lesser faerie, and through his entire life people had called him ugly. When Samli eventually managed to get Thord to talk and he had explained his thoughts, Samli had yelled at him for almost 45 minutes and told him how stupid he was to think that he, the most beautiful fae she had ever seen, could be ugly.

Ashe saw how badly Samli was doing. The house was a mess, and it didn’t look like food had been made there for days. Ashe realized that the next thing she had to do was to get Samli to Thord.

Ashe had brought along the money Azriel had given her. Even though, she knew Samli was too proud to take it, Ashe gave it to her anyway. When Samli refused, Ashe laid the money in the entrance of the house before she left.

Ashe arrived back to her cabin, ready to pack her bag and go back to the Forest House and then sleep. She needed to sleep so badly. Her body felt so heavy.

She walked through the front door and into the kitchen. She was going to pack some extra towels and clothes, since her wounds were leaking through multiple clothes a day.

However, something on her kitchen table caught her eye.

Where the envelope with money had laid earlier, it was now a bottle and jar both with a letter attached to them.

Ashe picked up the letter that was on the jar.

Apply two or three times a day to the lashes. It with help the wounds grow and cool down the burn marks.

Ashe recognized the handwriting as Azriel’s. It made her feel looked after and safe, but also freaked out that he had been in her cabin again without her knowing.

Ashe then picked up the letter that was one the bottle.

Sorry for freaking you out by sneaking into your cabin again, hope this wine will calm your anxiety.

Ashe couldn’t help the laughter that left her as she read the note. She picked up the bottle and took a small sip. It was strong, but just what she needed.

Then, she suddenly felt more ready to go back to the Forest House.

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