#I’ve tried to clean and it has been even more fruitless than it has been exhausting

[samwisefamgee]

hi I also live in a trailer filled with mold and haven’t seen your previous posts about it but uh. are you okay? am I also going to be okay? I keep trying to kill and dry out the mold but it doesn’t want to go away. sorry it’s ok if you don’t wanna talk about it but I don’t know anyone else who is living in a Rot Box

Hi! Pretty sure we’re boned until fate smiles on us and we get outta the boxes

[the-scarlet-witch-22]

the girl is mine (Agatha Harkness x Reader)

Summary: When your fascination with Mayor Agatha Harkness becomes all consuming, what lengths will you go to in order to get her attention?

Word Count: 3.2K

A/N: Helloooo, this is a fun little one shot I’ve had sitting in my drive for a while and I finally got around to finishing it. Title & fic idea are both heavily inspired by Ariana Grande’s music video ‘the boy is mine’. Agatha has been consuming my every waking thought lately, so I hope you enjoy this fun au! Let me know what you think, my asks/dm’s are always open!

Growing up you never showed much interest in politics, and you certainly could never name more than a few politicians off the top of your head. It was dull, and you failed to find a group of white men who were knocking on death’s door to be riveting. But all of that changed with the election for the new mayor. In the past, you were vaguely aware of upcoming elections, and tried to remember to vote. But you never actively followed a campaign; at least, not until her. 

The her in question being Agatha Harkness, newly elected mayor of New York City. Being the only daughter of the former long-time U.S. Senator Evanora Harkness, politics was in her blood. Running a cutthroat campaign full of promises to clean up the city and help its residents, all whilst viciously annihilating her opponents one by one in debate, she quickly became the candidate to back. Posters of her face were plastered over every crevice of the city; with her perfectly messy dark brown curls, plump red lips, pristinely bright white smile, and lustrous blue eyes it was no surprise you became hooked. 

You followed the campaign at a slightly obsessive level, tuning into every debate and press briefing, even having notifications for Agatha Harkness enabled on every platform hoping for a glimpse of the woman who had slowly taken over your every waking thought. She was brilliant, and she had absolutely no idea you existed. 

At least, not yet. 

A few months after the election, Mayor Harkness appeared to be following through on her campaign promises. Unemployment was at a record low, there were different initiatives to help funding for the public school system, even crime and gang activity became nearly nonexistent. 

However there were rumblings from various journalists that perhaps the mayor wasn’t as perfect as she appeared to be. A few reports were suggesting that instead of eradicating the crime syndicates that had been plaguing the city for decades, she had merely moved operations underground. Others hinted that perhaps she had something to do with her mother’s rather mysterious and sudden death. But that was absurd, you thought to yourself as you watched the mayor on your television screen, her bright blue eyes twinkling back at you as she answered a few questions. 

Potion making had never been your speciality, as you were still fairly inexperienced in most realms of magic, but you froze as Agatha gave a sly wink when being asked how she kept crime rates lowered. Stirring the cauldron with renewed vigor, the pink fumes filled the room as you inhaled.

Your eyes drifted over to the outfit you had hung on the outside of your closet, briefly wondering if the plan you had concocted was too unhinged. But the mayor’s authoritative voice caught your attention once more as you turned back to the screen.

“Yes, you,” Agatha motioned to one of the eager reporters holding their hands up. 

“Madam Mayor, how do you respond to allegations that you accepted illegal campaign donations from some of the top crime families in the city?” 

The mayor didn’t appear to be phased by the question, pursing her lips as she frowned. “Well, I’d say that sounds like yet another baseless claim from the media’s fruitless attempts to discredit my accomplishments. The witch hunts didn’t stop in Salem, did they?” 

The clamor of dozens of reporters resulted in the mayor waving her hand to decline any other questions, leaving the press briefing room with her team in tow. Shutting off your tv, you glanced back at the outfit, a feeling of determination washing over you. 

Popping the cork off the vial, you carefully poured the liquid in the bottle. Pretty soon the only thought on the mayor’s mind would be your name. 

After all, what could possibly go wrong?

The next morning, you were out the door before the sun was over the horizon, running through the plan again in your head with your destination clear in mind. You had come up with the idea late one night while researching the effects of various love potions. It was risky, sure, but you had taken the time to perfect this particular potion, leaving no room for error.

The rest of the plan was rather reliant on your ability to trick the mayor’s staff into thinking you were a reporter, but hey, using a few charming spells wasn’t unethical if it was in the name of love, right?

By the time you made it to the mayor’s office you were already having second thoughts. Could you go to jail for impersonating a reporter? 

Unfortunately, you had run out of time to turn around as the friendly looking older woman sitting at the front desk waved you over. Approaching her, you ran through what you had practiced saying in the shower. Quickly looking at the personalized name plate on the edge of her desk, you gave her a wide smile.

“Good morning, Sharon. I have an appointment scheduled this morning with Mayor Harkness,” you greeted the receptionist, keeping any trace of nervousness from your tone.

“Oh, an appointment?” Sharon asked, appearing to be confused as she looked at her computer, clicking around with her mouse. “I hate these things, I can never find what I’m looking for. Do you know what never has silly malfunctions? A nice, simple day planner.”

Raising your eyebrows, you nodded along. “Of course. Very reliable.”

Sharon nodded in agreement, still struggling with her computer. “Exactly. I’ve tried explaining that to the mayor but she just waves me away to get her more tea.” She paused, frowning at whatever was on the screen. “I’m not seeing any appointments for this morning. What did you say your name was again?”

Internally sighing, and hoping you had learned this particular spell correctly, you discreetly waved your left hand, mumbling the incantation under your breath. You had never tried an enchantment before, but the spellbook made it appear to be simple enough. As long as you said the right words and had your intention clear in your mind it would work. It had to.

Clearing your throat, you gave her another bright smile. “I’m sure if you check your calendar again, it will have me marked down for an appointment with the mayor. I’m here for a last minute interview.” 

Sharon blinked, and her eyes appeared hazier than they were a moment prior, signaling your spell had worked. Looking back at her computer, she gave you a mindless smile. “Oh of course! This silly computer. Right this way, I’ll take you to the mayor.”

Following the receptionist down the hallway, you made note of how the enchantment did not appear to make any obvious changes, at least not outwardly. You did feel a slight twinge of guilt at manipulating someone without magic, but those thoughts were expelled from your brain as you saw the woman who had bewitched you from the first moment you saw her.

Agatha Harkness was leaning against her open office door, a sly grin on her face as she chatted with a nervous looking employee. Her long dark brown hair was messily splayed across her shoulders, and you could picture running your fingers through it.

With one hand cocked on her hip, and the other tucked in the pocket of her expensive looking purple slacks, you felt your breath hitch. This was really happening.

After a few moments, Agatha looked over at you and her receptionist, and she waved the employee away as she frowned. 

“Shannon, who do we have here?” Agatha curiously asked, looking you up and down.

You frowned, wasn’t her name Sharon?

Sharon didn’t appear to notice, as she mindlessly smiled. “The reporter for your interview is here, Madam Mayor.”

The mayor’s frown deepened, looking between you and her receptionist. “I thought I told you to clear my schedule this morning. I don’t remember agreeing to any more interviews.”

“It’s the only appointment scheduled for this morning,” Sharon insisted, and you prayed to whatever deity that was listening that your spell didn’t wear off too soon. “I must have forgotten to mention it to you.”

Agatha hummed, a thoughtful expression on her face as her gaze remained fixated on her receptionist. “I see.” She finally looked back over in your direction, curiously eyeing you. “I suppose I can spare a few minutes. Thank you, Shannon, that will be all.”

Sharon, or maybe Shannon, walked back to her desk and Agatha held her hand out, gesturing for you to enter her office. You tentatively walked through the doors, as the mayor followed closely behind, shutting the doors shut.

The mayor’s office wasn’t quite what you had expected. It was a lot bigger than you pictured, and the longer you looked around the more you wondered how it was this size. Large violet tinted drapes hung from the windows, and you were momentarily stunned from the view this high up. 

You knew from various interviews that the mayor was an avid reader, so you were unsurprised to find floor to ceiling rows of bookshelves lining three of the four walls. However, you were surprised to find some of them appeared rather old, and you weren’t close enough to read the titles but you managed to make note that a good chunk of them appeared to be in Latin.

“You can take a seat,” Agatha said cordially, walking past you to her desk. “Let’s try and make this snappy.”

Taking a step forward, you pulled one of the chairs out, but in the process of sitting down, the vial of potion you had in your pocket came tumbling out, crashing on the ground as the glass broke, spilling the contents all over the floor. 

Shit.

“I’m so sorry, I forgot I had that in my pocket,” you quickly apologized, trying to think of a somewhat convincing story. “You know how delicate perfume bottles can be.”

“Perfume?” Agatha repeated, tilting her head as she examined you, a calculated expression on her face as the frown lines on her forehead deepened.

“Yes. It’s…French,” you offered, avoiding eye contact as you cleared your throat. This was a horrible idea.

Agatha frowned, intrigue coloring her features as she eyed the now broken vial of potion. “I see…what publication did you say you were from again?”

“The Times,” you lied, straightening your posture as she turned her attention back to you. “It’s actually my first day.”

Raising her eyebrows, the mayor sat back in her seat. “You don’t say, and they sent you to interview me? How ambitious.”

“I’ve been following your career for a while,” you prompted, brainstorming ways to possibly salvage this opportunity. “The work you’ve done for the city is quite admirable.”

“Admirable?” Agatha scoffed, folding her arms across her chest. “I can’t say I’ve been hearing a lot of that from your esteemed peers.”

“Well, some people hate to watch a woman be successful in a position of power,” you offered, and your answer appeared to appease the mayor, as she gave you a curt nod. “Besides, it’s not like you actually did any of those things, people love making up stories.”

You weren’t sure if it was the lighting in the office or your imagination, but there was a brief flash of something on the mayor’s face. If you didn’t know any better, you would say she seemed amused at what you said. But that was ridiculous, right? 

“Of course,” Agatha answered, slowly licking her lips. “Why don’t we get started?”

It was then that reality set in. You hadn’t anticipated actually having to ask the mayor any questions, the potion would have already kicked in at this point. Unfortunately, Agatha observed your hesitation as she let out a deep sigh, and you could tell she was growing more annoyed.

“You know, most journalists send over their questions beforehand,” Agatha informed you, giving you an inscrutable glance as you nervously fumbled around. “I’m a very busy woman, despite what certain media outlets are spewing out.”

“I apologize, Madam Mayor. I don’t want to waste any of your time,” you insisted, wondering yet again why you thought this plan would work to begin with.

Agatha opened her mouth to say something else, but hesitated for a moment, giving you another inquisitive stare. “Very well, I suppose not everyone can be Christiane Amanpour, hm?”

Christiane Amanpour? The name sounded relatively familiar, but you couldn’t place where you had heard it from. 

“You know, the world renowned journalist?” Agatha added on, deep blue eyes boring into your own, and you quickly nodded.

“Of course, I’m such a big fan of her work,” you gushed, but in the back of your mind you had a sinking feeling this wasn’t going the way you hoped it would.

“I’m sure you are,” Agatha mused, and there was something in her words that led you to believe perhaps this was going worse than you were imagining. “How about I ask my assistant to make us some tea? That always helps calm my nerves.”

She was so kindhearted, you noted, feeling yourself relax again as you nodded in agreement. The responding grin Agatha gave you sent a shiver down your spine.. Maybe you could make this work. Sure, you weren’t actually a journalist at The Times and Agatha would eventually realize that when no story came out, but that was a problem for the future. You barely paid attention as Agatha made a quick call to her assistant, but after she hung up you refocused.

“I have to tell you, Sharon was very helpful this morning,” you said honestly, still feeling some lingering guilt over using an enchantment on her. 

“Who’s Sharon?” Agatha deadpanned, giving you a puzzled look. 

For a moment you thought she was joking as you let out a nervous, quiet laugh, until you realized she was being serious.

“Um, your assistant?” 

“Oh, Shannon?” Agatha corrected you, waving her hand dismissively. “She does what she’s told. A bit too chatty for my personal taste.”

You tried to hide the surprise from your face as you processed what the mayor said. That was a bit strange, but maybe the receptionist’s nameplate was wrong? After all, Agatha was so good. All the work she had been doing for the city, you knew she genuinely cared about helping people. Right?

“Of course, my mistake,” you said quietly, awkwardly crossing your legs.

Sharon, or Shannon, came in a few moments later with two cups of tea. Her eyes were still slightly glazed over, but the enchantment would surely wear off soon…probably. Actually, you weren’t sure how long the spell would last. But she would be fine…probably.

When you were alone again, Agatha let out a low chuckle, and you frowned. You didn’t say any of that out loud, right?

“Oh don’t mind me, dear,” Agatha said, giving you another charming smile and you felt your worries instantly slip away as she held out one of the cups. “Tea?” 

The mayor’s lithe fingers brushed against yours as you accepted the cup, and you let out an involuntary shiver at the lingering contact. Slowly withdrawing her hand, Agatha smirked at the flush you could feel spreading across your cheeks. Raising her own cup to her lips, you were entranced watching her ruby red lips part as she took a small sip. 

Following her lead, you lifted your cup, but hesitated. The tea’s sweet aroma invaded your senses as you inhaled, and for a moment the scent smelled oddly familiar. You weren’t usually a tea drinker, you preferred coffee, but it was odd, the longer you allowed the scent to settle the more you wondered what was in it. 

Looking up, you found Agatha watching you again, her cup lowered back on her desk as she surveyed you. 

“Is the tea not to your liking?” The mayor asked, appearing genuinely concerned.

“No, it smells great,” you insisted, raising the cup closer to your lips.

Her blue eyes were so warm and inviting, and she gave you a small encouraging nod, enticing you to take a sip. The warm liquid was as sweet as it had smelled, almost too sweet, you noted, allowing it to swirl around your mouth as you swallowed. 

“Good girl,” Agatha murmured, so quietly you barely heard her.

Blinking, you felt the room begin to spin as you struggled to make sense of what was happening. The sickeningly sweet taste lingered in your mouth as you felt your body grow heavier with every breath you let out. You barely heard the crash of your teacup hit the floor as your hands fell to your sides. 

Your eyes struggled to remain open as you attempted to fight whatever was happening to you, but felt firm hands hold you in place.

“Don’t fight it, pet, I’d hate to have Shannon clean up even more of a mess,” Agatha whispered in your ear as everything went dark.

The throbbing of your headache was the first thing you were aware of as you finally came to, eyes fluttering open. There was a dull ache that seemed to run through your entire body, and you struggled to recognize your surroundings. It was then you realized why you felt a dull ache, as you came to the startling realization your body was suspended midair, hands and feet bound. 

Were you still dreaming? 

“Not quite, dear.”

What?

You tried to move your head, but failed as you heard a responding chuckle at your fight to free yourself.

“I must say, you’re clever. Inexperienced, but clever,” Agatha mused as she came into focus, walking towards you with a smirk painted across her face. 

“I…” you struggled to speak, your throat far too dry, and Agatha fake pouted, raising her hand to brush against your face.

“Is someone feeling shy? Where’s that confident little witch who used an enchantment spell on my assistant?” Agatha mocked, lightly slapping your cheek before tracing a finger across your lips. “Tell me, what was your plan after slipping me that love potion?”

“I don’t…I don’t understand,” you said deliriously, still feeling an odd sensation in your head.

“Normally I’d have drained you of your magic by now,” Agatha said aloud, her long fingers moving lower, and you gasped as they wrapped around your neck. “It’s been a long time since someone’s managed to surprise me.”

“You’re a witch?” You managed to get out, torn between the paralyzing fear of what was occurring and a more carnal desire as you felt a heat pool between your legs from the way the mayor was looking at you. 

“And here I thought you were clever,” Agatha said, a wicked gleam in her eyes as she squeezed, the pressure causing you to moan.

She moved closer to you, not releasing her hand from your throat as her lips grazed yours. “Now, I think it’s time I break in my new toy, hm? Why don’t you show me how much you worship me.”

The mayor released you from your magical bindings as you hit the floor, and swirls of purple magic surrounded you, forcing you on your knees as she roughly grabbed your chin, forcing you to look up at her. 

“I’ve always wanted my own pet.”

[bump1nthen1ght]

Animal Instinct (Werewolf x Reader)

Pairing: Male!Reader/Male!Werewolf

Warning: NSFT Content up ahead (18+ only), Non-Con, Predator-Prey Dynamics, Degradation

Word Count: 2454 words

Summary: You're caught by the beast hunting you, but he makes it clear killing you isn't his goal.

Request: Could ya do a Male werewolf x Male reader. And make it like a predator and prey scenario which turns spicy (SMUT) Plssssssssss😙

A/N: I’m gonna be honest y’all, this one is SPICY 🌶. I’ve added a short optional aftercare scene at the end, which establishes it as a consensual roleplay between two lovers, mostly because of the intensity of this piece. But if straight non-con is your thing, then enjoy!

The bite of the branches sting as you push through them, tearing at your clothes and leaving small scrapes along your skin. But anything is better than what runs behind you, taunting and screeching it’s horrible laugh.

“You can run all you want! But Imma still get you!” The voice cackles, the sound of large branches cracking as he easily tails you. The thump of his paws grow louder and louder, but you keep running anyway. A part of you says its fruitless, but a larger part of you is focusing all your energy on just fucking moving.

Don’t look back, Don’t look back, Don’t look back- That sickening hyena laugh rings through your ears as you are tackled to the ground. Tiny pebbles scratch your back as you and your assailant fall into a clearing in the forest, his large body pinning your shoulders to the ground. You clench your eyes shut, praying for this all to be a dream. That all you’re feeling is an extra heavy quilt your mother threw over you, not this….this thing.

“Gotcha.” He whispers, his wet breath blowing right past your ear. You scrunch up your face and jerk your head to the side, trying to avoid the muggy scent. He chuckles. “I told you.”  He leers, a drop of saliva dripping onto your cheek. “Now,” He grabs your jaw, the tips of his claws pressing into your skin, and forces your head towards him, “Look at me.”

You hesitantly open your eyes, blinded by the shocking white canines which hang above you, dripping with drool and exhaling hot breathes of exertion. Your eyes dart up, trying to avoid  his gaze, but his claws dig even deeper into your cheeks. “I said look at me, bitch.”

You suck in a deep breath, eyes finally meeting your attacker’s.

One is bright golden, glowing in the darkness, while the other is a faded white. The dull pink scar that runs up the left side of his face goes right across it, only adding to his menacing veneer. His smile is sickly, conniving, and he has the gall to pat your cheek; A reward for listening.

“Good, good. Now, ain’t that a handsome face?”

You don’t answer, the beast’s claws still pressed dangerously close to your neck. You gulp and the creature smiles, relishing in your fear. You can’t help but yelp when his wet nose presses against your throat, taking a large whiff. The creature shivers, his tongue lolling out in pleasure.

“You smell so delicious.” He takes another sniff, right up against your Adam’s Apple. “I love it when they run. Makes it all the more….” His long tongue licks a stripe up your neck, running from the clavicle all the way to your jaw, “Tantalizing.”

He keeps his right hand tight around your jugular while his other slides down your chest. His claws begin to catch on the fabric, tugging until it begins to leave small holes. You force your eyes upward, afraid to ask what he was doing. He eventually reaches the bottom of your shirt, where he grows impatient with his own teasing. In one quick movement, your entire shirt is ripped clean off of you. Goosebumps rise across your skin as your torso is exposed to the outside air. Your chest heaves with anxiety.

“Please.” Your voice begs, tears at the corner of your eyes. “Please just do it quickly.”

The creature clicks his teeth, tossing aside the tatters of your shirt and pulling his face away from your neck. You meet his gaze. His hungry, lusting gaze. He licks his lips, admiring  your flushed and sweaty skin. He traces dangerous circles around your nipples with his claws, enjoying how you jump at the contact.

“Sorry, little one.” He grabs the back of your head,  limbs moving so fast you barely have time to react, pulling you in for a passionate, sloppy kiss. His canines nip your bottom lip and he easily forces his tongue down your throat. You gag and thrash your upper body around, but his body weight has you pinned and his mouth is ravenous. When he finally detaches, a string of saliva still connecting your lips, he only smiles and whispers, “I intend to take my time tonight.”

He digs his claws into your hair and yanks your upper body upward and off the ground, your elbows pushing back to support the awkward angle. He lifts his lower body off yours, revealing his tattered shorts and massive bulge. It sends shivers down your spine, feeling your  stomach drop as he hastily undoes his trouser strings with one hand. Your scalp stings as he keeps it in place, right before he pulls out his cock. Your eyes widen and the creature cackles in delight. He spits into his paw and slathers his cock as he strokes it quickly, the hot-red tip being only inches away from your face.

His cock is thick, girthy and still almost eight inches long. Prominent veins run up the underside and converge at his head, which curves slightly upward. The skin of the shaft shines as his saliva lubes it up.

The creature yanks on your scalp and presses the tip of his cock up against your lips. You clench them shut, but can still taste the slight saltiness of his pre-cum. The creature tightens his grip on your hair and lets out a low growl.

“Open up.” He sneers, pulling on your hair when you falter for a second. You slowly open your mouth, praying he’ll take it easy on your poor throat. Before he slips his head in, the creature lets out another snarl. “Don’t even think about using your teeth. You won’t like me when I’m pissed.” You nod, the tip of his cock slowly resting on the tip of your tongue.

The creature doesn’t shove his cock down your throat, to your relief. Instead, he slowly forces your lips wider and wider as he slots it into your mouth, lavisciously moaning as he feels you clench and gag on his size.

“Oh yeah, that’s the stuff.” His cock hits the back of your throat, pressing uncomfortably up against your gag reflex. The creature licks his lips and his eyes roll into the back of his head. His claws dig into your scalp once more, but he avoids cutting your skin. When he looks back down at you, tears dropping from the corner of your eyes, he smiles. “Not that it would help you right now,” The creature says with a small thrust, forcing you to nearly choke. “But the name’s Riven.”

Another thrust and you try to ignore the overwhelming urge to vomit. Riven picks up his pace, his sweaty fur pressing up against your cheeks as he begins to fuck your face. His heavy balls slap your chin as he pulls out until only an inch as left, right before shoving you right back into his crotch. His moans turn into contented purrs and howls, his humps becoming sloppier and sloppier with each minute. Each thrust pounds the back of your throat, tears now freely flowing down your cheeks. You close your eyes and just focus on not scratching him with your teeth, lest it be the last mistake you make.

“Unng, gods. You were made for this, huh?” Riven strokes up your jaw with his free hand, before slowly moving down to your neck. “My little fucktoy. Throat just perfect for cock-sucking. Fuck!” He moans, stuck in his own ramblings as you try to not taste the salt of his dick. “Such a handsome boy, just asking for someone to shove their dick in your mouth, aren’t you?”

If you had the ability to form coherent thoughts any more, you might have shaken your head. But all your energy is spent on sending your consciousness away from here, trying to breathe through your nose and not choke on this beast's giant cock. Riven licks his lips.

“Oh, I bet you want it. Yeah, I think you do, little slut.” Riven pulls his dick out of your mouth and you gasp for a breath of fresh air. The taste of his dick still lingers on your tongue, and slobber runs down your chin and off his dick and rivulets. Your eyes begin to blur, but are brought back into focus when Riven slaps your cheek. A playful one, but still very jarring. “You’ve been so good to me so far. I’ll give you what you need, as a favor.” Your eyebrows quirk, befuddled, not letting the hope that he’ll let you go simmer in your chest. Riven wipes away the tear tracks that mark your face. It’s a shockingly romantic gesture.

But then he shoves your face into the grass, turning you so you lie on your stomach, and hastily ripping off your shorts. You didn’t think it was possible, but your stomach drops even lower, your heart seizing as you feel his claws fondle your ass.

“No, N-no, please-” Your mouth is shoved back into the grass, your body shaking as the wet head of Riven’s dick begins to circle around your asshole.

“Shut up and let me treat you.” Riven spits onto your butt, rubbing his saliva into your tight hole. The tip of his forefinger begins to press into the ring of muscle and your body instinctively tries to move away. Riven grabs your shoulder with one hand and pins you down. “I’m not always this nice. Fucking enjoy it, ungrateful slut.”

Two of Riven’s fingers force their way into you and the guttural whine that comes from you makes Riven laugh. You clench your eyes shut, burying your face into the rough ground below.

Please, just make it quick.

You pray, knowing the creature would never listen if you asked.  

Riven spreads you open with his fingers, pushing and pulling at your insides, only just grazing at the sensuous spot; The spot that sends jolts of electricity down your body, the one that makes your knees shake. They only tease and hint at what’s to come, bringing you only a hint of pleasure.

He pulls them out, quickly lining up his head with your asshole. You murmur more prayers into the ground, trying not to give him the satisfaction of your pleas.

His cock feels even bigger than when it was in your mouth, but Riven still takes his sweet time inserting himself all the way. His claws dig up the dirt, his breath washing over your neck as he leans his chest over your back. You can feel his thick fur rubbing against your t-shirt, moist and thick with sweat. He grunts as he slowly enters you, and growls into your ear when he’s reached the base. He whispers to you, voice stuttering,

“T-told you you 're made for this.”

Riven begins to hump, his hands moving up to your hips to pull you back against his crotch. The noises that leave you, tiny whines and whimpers, are unconscious and impossible for you to keep in. Riven moans and lets out long breaths as he fucks your asshole, his claws pinching against the thin skin of your pelvis as his thrusts in frequency. His dirty-talk is cut short as he simply enjoys the way you suck him in; He can see the way your body tenses and jolts every time he hits your prostate.

Riven loves the fucked-out look you have. You don’t realize it, but your tongue is sticking out of your mouth. Your muffled cries are all he needs, especially with how delicious your ass feels around his cock. Tight and barely-prepared, your beautiful back arching against him only brings him deeper inside you.

Black spots dot your vision as Riven rails you into the ground. Your hips have started to go numb from the brutality, the white scratches on your hips barely leaving an impact on your nerves. But that overwhelming heat remains; that tightness in your belly that reminds you where you are and what you’re feeling. You hate it, hate it so much, but the way his cock presses against that spot feels so good.

Your muscles slowly lose control and go limp from the pleasure, and you feel Riven’s thrust get more and more impassioned. You squeal as he fucks you harder and harder, that crashing wave slowly reaching its peak.

“Cum on my cock. Then I’ll fill you up, like the good little bitch you are.” Your fingers curl into the grass as Riven’s dick twitches inside you, his moans uncontrollable as he reaches his own climax as well. That knot in your belly slowly begins to snap; Closer, closer, closer-

“Fuck, fuck!” Streams of hot cum fill your asshole and you feel your cock jerk as you orgasm as well, cum staining the grass below. Riven lets out a powerful howl as he rides out his orgasm, his thrusts weakening as shoots more and more of his cum down your ass. His claws push you back one last time before he slumps over you. The smell of wet-dog and semen attacks your senses, but it’s like your entire body has lost its will to move. You fall into the grass, soaked in sweat and totally exhausted. Riven’s body weight lies on top of you. Like a humid, disgusting blanket.

“Absolutely perfect for me. My perfect little mate.”

-------------

(Optional Aftercare)

It takes you a second to catch your bearings, your long breaths taking up most of your energy before you can even think about speaking.

“That was….really good.” You sigh, still struggling to catch your breath and slow down your heart rate. Your boyfriend sighs, nuzzling into your back and nodding.

“Yeah. I wasn’t too much, was I?”

You shake your head, cheek still plastered to the grass. “Nope, just enough.” You give him a thumbs up. Riven laughs, the vibrations rumbling against your sore back.

“That’s good. Sorry about the slap, I was really in the moment.”

“Please, you couldn’t hurt me with a love-tap like that.”

Riven moves to push himself up, maybe to protest how strong he actually is, but his shaky arms give out on him and he collapses onto your back. You let out a small ‘ooph’

“..I guess that checks out.”

The two of you giggle, body’s still interlocked and exhausted. Riven runs his fingers, without his claws, up your sides and nuzzles into the back of your neck. You reach back and begin petting his shoulder. Riven’s tail lazily wags behind him.

“Love you.” He whispers, pressing a kiss onto your skin.

“Love you too.” You yawn, stretching your sore neck. “Now get off of me, you smell horrible.”

“Hey!”

[whet-ones-write]

Alpha Bokuto, Ushijima and Sugawara Headcannons for the Omega Verse

Heyoooo Anon!! Of course I can!! I LOVE the omega verse One of my favourites actually!! I’ve been looking forward to writing this all day! I hope you enjoy the upcoming headcanons! Also i’m sorry Suga’s so short I really struggled with him being a alpha but I tried my bed! <3 <3 So without further ado. . .

LETS BEGIN! ( ✪ω✪)*✲⋆ Warnings; NSFW, knotting, creampies, and much much more~

Bokuto Kotaru;

★ This boy smells like a dense woodland, I would imagine something deep and out in the wilds where bears and other large woodland creatures dwell which would only get deeper when he’s in his rut. 

★ Although this boy is born an Alpha it never truely is displayed until he meets you. He has this bright and playful aura that just attracts betas and Omegas to him which would be happy to follow him without a issue but when he meets you there is this pull that he just couldn’t describe. He wanted you in his arms the moment he saw you and never wanted any harm to come to you and keep you there forever. 

★ Not only that he would be fiercely over protective of you. Whenever you were near he would always make sure you were protected which he didn’t even realise he was doing until Akashi pointed it out to him how he always put his body in front of yours if someone threatened or bullied you or even if there was a stray volleyball somewhere.

★ He wouldn’t care if you were a beta that couldn’t have kids. He would love you for you and protect you with everything that he hand because that’s what his body tells him to do and he was never one to not act on impulse anyway. 

★ This man would absolutely knot you for the first time by accident. He would normally pull out to save any trouble or hassle but this one night which it happened you both had been dating for a while and you just riled him up that little bit too much. You weren’t in heat and he wasn’t in a rut so he knew exactly what he was doing and freaked out about it all, only to have you soothe him and cuddle him telling him you know it was an accident and that it was ok. 

★ This boy has a dirty mouth. You need to wash this mouth out with soap with all the filthy things he would say. Praising you for how well you were taking his knot. How he was going to breed you over and over again making sure his children would be the cause of your loss in your figure and protect you the entire time, never leaving your side if he could help it. Yes this also gets worse when he’s in a rut. He practically humps your leg any chance he could without looking like a fool. 

★ But once it was all said and done he would make sure you were ok, both physically and mentally, gently moving the pair of you to cuddle until his knot died down and even then he would make sure to stuff you full with something else to keep his semen inside you and help clean the rest of you up so you didn’t feel so sweaty and sticky in bed after a long night together.

★ This man wouldn’t notice the change in smells when you are finally pregnant with his children because he’s just so happy to have him beside you plus he’s a honry little owl, he always wants to be able to smell himself on you. It wasn’t until someone like Akashi or even Kuroo pointed it out to the pair of you that you smelled different did you actually invigate the root cause of the change. 

★ He very rarely gets into a protective mode, but when he does it’s almost like a switch and it would need a trigger to do so. If another male tried to get close to you, he would wrap his arms around you, bringing you to his chest, leaning over you and without even realising it he would be growling and warning the other guy to back off, showing off his muscles on his arms and making sure you knew your place under him and the other male to run off in fear for a serious beat down. 

★ Oh and the gif I used? Yeah be ready to be dicked down because he has you in his sights and he’s not about to let you get away off the hook for just being there. He always wants you but will only back off if you say so, you are his priority after all.

Ushijima Wakatoushi;

★ You didn’t know this big bad Alpha had a thing for you until another alpha tried to make their move on you. You had been invited to the gym for one reason or another by him almost constantly and before you knew it Ushijima was standing behind you, a hand on your head with a seriously deadly look ((Like in the gif)) and warned the other. 

“Do not touch them, they are mine, if you try to continue this fruitless endeavor you will have me to answer to” 

★ And that’s how you got together. You were in shock at his claim to you but only questioned him about you, and he only replied that he was sure you knew. That’s why he always invited you. He was interested in you and wanted to get to know you but practice took up so much of his time, he wanted to make sure he could at least be in the same room as you and when he had moments to talk to you whenever he could.

★ His scent would smell of something like cider I would imagine. There’s this one brand that is cider made of Strawberries and lime. Like that. It’s strong but sweet and once you had a taste of it you couldn’t help but crave more. 

★  He made sure that you always had at least one of his jumpers on hand to wear and cover you in his scent as a sign of claiming rather that some kind of physical mark on your skin like a hickey or something. 

★ When it came to knotting you for the first time, it would be something he would have discussed with you. He wasn’t shy about it because he knew it was a normal body reaction but made sure that it was something that you wanted too. 

★ When the news about you getting together with him got around everyone knew not to mess with you because not only in fear for Ushijima doing something but you weren’t push over to begin with. You were a couple not to be messed with and his strength only increased in the drive to protect you. 

★ If you were ever to have kids with this tall ass man, he would know right away. You would want to surprise him but there’s no surprising this stoic know-it-all. He would be the one to instantly start buying what you needed and would be the one to surprise you. 

★ If he was in rut he would just come out and say it. He would either tell you in text or in a call warning where he was and what he was doing. What he was thinking about and what he would do to you. Though wouldn’t force you to be with him if you didn’t feel up to it but would for sure be grateful if you helped him out. 

★ Although he wasn’t one to be really talkative, in his rut he would be the type of guy to grunt, and pant heavily quickly whispering praise of you and how well you were taking him. He knew he wasn’t small and compared to him, he knew he could be over the top or too much and it just amazed him how well your body adapted to him, and was made to be under him. 

★ You thought he was protective when he claimed you? If you were carrying his children he would be 10000x worse. He would be that silent hovering shadow that you could never get rid of, but would leave you wanting for nothing. Feet hurts? Massage whenever he could. Feeling down? Cuddles cuddles cuddles and talks of how beautiful you are, how you smell like him and how crazy you drive him but this would only happen in private, publicly he would only try and keep things cool.

Sugawara Koushi;

★ This man wouldn’t truly feel comfortable as an Alpha till he meets you. Unlike Ushijima he was naturally born to be more like a beta but his reproductive organs proved he was an Alpha and always felt like he wasn’t a good fit for the role. 

★ You brought out a side of him he never knew he had. His face rarely got serious or angry but it was common to see him like that when other Alphas tried to take you away from him. He often had to compete with others for your attention though his school years but he didn’t care truely. He would do anything to have you and if that meant losing a few teeth he happily would to keep you no matter what. 

★ Although he was the alpha, the first time he would knot you would be when you would go into a heat and although you had consented before hand, he never actually did as he was the one waiting for the first time you went into heat with him. 

★ His scent would be something like a fresh air breeze on the ocean. Something light and airy which would be another reason why he wouldn’t feel comfortable as an alpha. His scent just wasn’t suited at all but you comforted him saying that everyone was different and most alphas’s scents were too harsh which is why you loved him. It didn’t attack your nose unlike some others would. 

★ He was more of a cunning Alpha using his words rather than his fists to try and settle arguments. He’s the type of alpha to have a worse bark than a bite. His words would be sharp and hit exactly where it hurt without even needing to raise a fist. 

★ If you were to fall pregnant neither of you both would notice. It would take either some very clear signs like your stomach growing or a third party member noticing something about you before it would be confirmed that you both would be parents but you both couldn’t be more happy to become a bigger family. 

★ He would for sure be the kind of Alpha male that would make sure you have everything needed for your nest, when you did decide to mate with him. He would get you anything you wanted and wouldn’t complain about having so much stuff in the bedroom.  He would even help you set it up making sure it was perfect for the pair of you not wanting you to be even a little bit uncomfortable for when the time came. 

★ As a sign of possession he would make sure that there was a few visible marks on your skin as well as something of his on your body, most likely something small like a necklace or even a promise ring as he would be one for wanting to make memories with things than something that could fade away. 

[yourwildsimp]

Journal

This did not at all go where I thought it would, but it’s here. This is my first X Reader I’ve done so if you have some input, it would be greatly appreciated-

includes: Levi, Y/N

warnings: Mentions of dark thoughts

length: 2,535 words

"Cadet!" 

You were quick to glance over your shoulder, wondering how you've messed up this time. You were just about to leave the mess hall, so you were probably going to be scolded for being the last one out, or for not eating again. Levi always snapped about how he needs you at your best.

"You forgot this," the captain said, his stoney blue eyes narrowing as yours widened, "Or did you leave it on purpose?"

It was your journal, the one you were always buried in whenever you could be. You did leave it on purpose, hoping someone would find it and save you from yourself. Hoping that someone would notice all of the changes in your behavior, hoping someone would hear your silent screams. Yet, seeing that it was Levi fucking Ackerman who returned the journal? You wished you had kept suffering alone.

"And it has so many…" Levi hesitated, almost like he was trying to find the right words to string together. "So many horrific thoughts written inside of it."

You could practically feel how serious he was while he gripped your prized possession just a bit tighter. You couldn't handle the growing silence, so you broke it.

"I should know. It's mine, after all." He didn't find your joke very funny. 

Levi opened his mouth, picking his next words carefully, "What's going on with you? You haven't been yourself recently."

You mentally swore, fingers twitching at your side. Levi didn't fail to notice, making his abnormal concern grow.

"What do you mean, Captain? I'm perfectly fine." As much as you wished the forced chuckle in your voice would change his way of thinking, it didn't.

"I'm more than certain something is happening with you," his voice grew more pointed as he stared at you, "There's no point in trying to hide it. Just spit it out."

"Why would you even bother asking?" Your muttered question left your lips before you could stop it.

"I want to know because I care about you. That's something a lot of people can't say, so don't go off wasting my support," Levi's tone didn't change and you sucked in a much needed breath. 

You wearily watched him place the journal on one of the long tables in the room, the soft thud reminding you of how many hours have gone into fruitless attempts of venting out your pain.

"Stop being stubborn and tell me what's going on, cadet." He inched closer, and you stepped back in response, eyes darting to the table.

"Once again, Jean and Eren left their spots disgusting. Do you want me to clean up, or would you rather chew them out yourself?" You gave a tight smile, forcing yourself to look back at him.

"Don't change the subject," he growled, a strange blaze flaring up in his eyes. Levi noticed how you tensed and he sighed to calm himself. "The things that you wrote in that book," he started, never once looking away from you, "Those were some seriously dark thoughts, and if you honestly do feel that way, you need to talk about it. So, stop trying to be the coldhearted badass and let me know what's running through your mind."

He sounded like a parent trying to convince a child to admit they broke something. It was a bit frightening in all honesty. 

You didn't say anything, teeth digging painfully into your tongue so you would keep quiet. You had just now noticed you'd been staring at the wooden floorboards this whole time, and yet you didn't stop.

Levi noticed that you weren't going to contribute, so he did it himself.

"What are you afraid of? Do you think I'm going to be mad at you?" 

You could've kicked yourself when your panicked chuckle wormed its way into the one-sided conversation. 

"Look at me," he demanded. You didn't listen, a thick gulp being your only reaction. "Cadet, look at me." This time it came out as a snarl, and you obeyed out of pure fear. 

Levi shut his eyes for just a moment, a heavy sigh leaving him as he tried to compose himself again. You both knew that he wasn't great with feelings, but he was trying. 

"I'm not mad at you. You can tell me whatever you're going through and I'll listen. Don't ever be afraid to let someone know how you feel, that is the only way someone can understand you." You had to clench your jaw to keep a snarky remark from making the situation worse. "Stop hiding from people, stop holding on to these emotions, and thinking that by some miracle things are going to work out by keeping silent. Things don't ever work out that way, and it only prolongs the pain. It only gives time for shit to get worse. So, stop being an idiot and just tell me what's going on already." 

"You sound like you're speaking from experience," you muttered after letting his words sink in. 

You didn't get a response, so you let your gaze lower, but not drop completely. Levi waited for you. The Levi Ackerman patiently waited for you to let go of some agony. So you did.

"Sometimes," it was difficult for you to refill your lungs with fresh air, "I get these recurring dreams that make me think about the things I'd kill to forget." A fly could be heard over your quiet voice, but you had spoken, and Levi found it a big step forward.

"I see," he spoke more to himself than anything. "So that's why…" 

His words trailed off as he remembered walking past the cadet sleeping quarters in the ungodly hours of the morning and often hearing whimpers of fear and sleepy pleads for directions on what to do. His eyebrows furrowed slightly.

"You've been having those, too, haven't you?" He paused, knowing damn well that the night terrors weren't anything but a small piece to the puzzle. But it was progress. "It's not uncommon. Everyone gets those nightmares."

You resisted the urge to insist that's the reason why your problems weren't such a big deal.

"Having thoughts about the people that you've lost, the people that you'd cared about," Levi tightened his jaw, taking a deep breath through his nose and not saying anything for a heartbeat. He changed his wording, "You're allowed to feel. You're allowed to grieve and to be angry, to be hurt." It was like he was reading from the list of your emotional insecurities.

It was starting to get painfully tense, so you attempted to redirect the topic of choice.

"That's funny, considering who's speaking. You only seem slightly agitated whenever you hear about the trouble Eren is constantly causing. I'm surprised you don't have grey's, old man," you laughed in spite of yourself, the noise tense and borderline frantic.

"Writing these thoughts in this book," of course he wouldn't budge. The man's like a stone wall, despite his height. "It's probably your way of coping with what’s happened to you." 

You swallowed, glancing away before sucking on your tongue to distract yourself.

"But, you have to be able to talk to someone as well, to be able to hear your problems leave you." Levi didn't say anything after that, quietly observing how you tilted your head up to stop your brimming tears from falling.

He surprised you by taking a seat on the table's bench, a good four or five feet from your journal. "Come here," he said gently, patting his legs, "You look like you need to be held. If you feel comfortable, that is." 

"On your lap?" You asked, chest tightening. You knew all it was going to take was one hug- just one god damned hug- and you'd crumble.

"Yes, on my lap. Come on," Levi couldn't care less about your height or weight, none of it bothering him in the slightest. 

You hesitated, the exit door seeming all too tempting. You didn't leave, though, and it wasn't because Levi would catch you if you were to run, nor that he would only confront you more forcefully in the future. You knew you needed this- that's the whole reason you had left your secrets behind. But, fuck, it was so hard to make yourself sit on his lap.

"There we go." His encouragement nearly ripped you to shreds.

"What are you? Santa Claus?" You mused, eyes burning holes into your lap with how determined you were to look anywhere but. 

"Go on, let it out," Levi pushed you to speak again, this time far more effective.

"Let what out exactly? My Christmas list?" Your voice cracked, heart painfully throbbing.

"Come on, cadet," Levi breathed again, sickeningly gentle eyes looking at you.

"I wish for a cup of hot chocolate with cookies on the side," you forced a twisted smile on your face as burning hot tears started to slip down your cheek. "Maybe at least one good night's rest. O-Or a chance to go back in time." 

You were breaking down, caving in on yourself as you choked on a sob.

"I've got you."

But you weren't alone. The captain was rubbing comforting shapes into your back.

You shook violently, tremors growing worse before you gave in completely. Harsh sobs thrashed your body as you buried your face into Levi's chest, letting every bit of your pain out.

"It's alright," Levi's voice warded off the ringing in your ears. "It's going to be okay. Do you hear me? You're going to be okay."

Promises of betterment and words of comfort soothed you as you soaked his uniform with tears. Tears that you've held in for far too long, tears that represented your suffering.

"You did all you could. Stop blaming yourself for whatever happened or you'll never be able to move forward. If all you keep doing is holding onto the past, you'll stay stuck in this shitty, painful cycle," Levi told you exactly what you needed to hear as he alternated between pats and rubs on your back. 

He took a deep breath, and you heard his heart rate kick up as your crying quieted, though you didn't- couldn't- stop.

"I had two friends who died on the same damn day. People I considered my family- gone, just like that. People I'd just met, people I had just been acquainted with that morning, died later that day, too," he shared his pain, opening castrated wounds all for you. "Sons, daughters, sisters, brothers, fathers, mothers," he listed, voice wavering before he righted himself, holding you closer. "Dead. Gone. And who was in charge? I was." You felt his chest steeply rise and fall as you sniffled. 

"There are things that you'll have to live with, situations you'll be placed in that you'll have to get through." His thumb and index finger captured your chin, forcing you to look at him. "I just want you to remember that you don't have to find a way on your own. You don't have to feel like you need to take all the burden, all the pain, by yourself." 

The hand that was on your back navigated to the Scouts emblem on your jacket, gently thumbing at it. 

"That's why you have us," there was a smile dancing in his voice, though it never quite reached his face. "We can support each other." 

Your tears had calmed down to a few rogue leftovers, and you found yourself ready to slip off of his lap. Levi didn't seem to mind the massive wet stain that bled through his white button-up and onto his peck. Didn't seem to on the outside, but you knew he was a cleaning fanatic.

"My office, my doors, are always open," his tone turned sarcastically bitter, "Unless I have paperwork to fill in, or I'm cleaning up Jaeger's damn mess." He relished the small giggle that left your lips. "If neither of the two are happening, you can always come to me."

He narrowed his eyes at you, lightly flicking your forehead.

"You hear me? Always, cadet." He gently smiled at you. "Not only are my doors open, but my arms are open, too." 

You glanced away to hide the sparkle in your eyes. Your attention returned to the captain, however, when a warm hand found itself on your shoulder.

"I know that feeling of thinking everything is your fault," he swallowed, casting his gaze down before looking back at you. "That feeling of being disappointed in yourself, down in the gutter, beating yourself up and wishing that it was you instead." There was a solemn look in his eyes before he spoke again, "I know that feeling, and I know how it eats you alive." 

Levi pulled you in for another hug, resting his chin on your shoulder as he shuddered in another breath. 

"I also know the feeling of being comforted. Of being reminded that there is a tomorrow, and that things can get better." He gave you a small squeeze before pulling away, both hands on your shoulders now. "That if you make it past today, you can make it past tomorrow, too." 

He allowed you to sit back, and the words he spoke were more than welcomed.

"After everything that you've been through, there is no storm that comes your way that you're not strong enough to face," the proud gleam in his eyes spoke volumes. "And, if you feel like you can't handle it alone, you can face it with me by your side. I'll always be here to brace the storm with you."

Nothing could prepare you for what he said next.

"That is a promise, cadet."

Levi never made promises- not like this. The only thing he's ever promised was to dropkick Eren if he ever went so long without showering again.

"Now breathe," his voice reverted back to that gentle, but commanding tone. He took a deep breath with you, in and out before staring you dead in the eyes. "Everything is going to be okay. It might not be perfect, but we will make it through this. Every battle has an end. Don't go giving up until you find your ending." You felt the grip on your shoulder tighten, his Adam's apple bobbing as he continued, "Please... Hold on for me." 

That left you picking your jaw off the floor before Levi mentioned it, not able to do anything but nod. You, a cadet, had gotten him to say please.

"There is so much to live for in this life," he noticed your doubt before you even said a word. "Let's start living for the people who don't get to, who don't have a choice."

A comforting silence settled into the atmosphere. Levi smiled before standing, mentally double-checking if you were okay. "Oh, and one more thing?" You perked up when he spoke.

"I'll break your fucking legs if you talk about me being soft, cadet."

Ah. There was the Levi you knew.

"Wouldn't dream of it, captain," you said gently, proudly saluting him as he walked towards the back exit.

You would never know, but an extremely proud smile graced his features as he watched you hesitate before throwing the journal away.

[maybedefinitely404]

For You Became My Lighthouse (Part 2)

Genre: hurt/comfort

Pairing: romantic Prinxiety

Content: argument, crying, a decent dose of awkward but it gets resolved!

Word count: 4.1k

Comment: This is the fourth time I’ve tried to post this--- Part 1 HERE!

Roman, is everything alright?

-Logan

Roman ran a hand through his hair at the message, checking the time at the top of the screen. It was late, far too late, so it was safe to assume that Logan had heard about the spat from Virgil. He should have been home by now. It was just… impossible to convince himself to actually leave the rehearsal studio. He had a younger acting class tomorrow and was perfecting his lesson plan- even though he already knew it was perfect, and his director had already approved it. Just, anything to keep him from going home.

He’d been a dick. Such was obvious; from the second his finger had hit send, he regretted approximately everything in his life that had led to this moment. That day had been particularly bad, overrun with rehearsals he was either taking part in or directing, and gearing up for tech week of a large production. Who knew trying to block a scene with a flurry of pre-teens could take so much out of you? Rinse and repeat the cycle with two more classes to teach back to back and an achingly long dance rehearsal, add in a desperate and fruitless search for a replacement lead in his upcoming directorial debut, and you’d have what Roman would categorize as a “shit show of a day”. 

All he wanted to do at the end of it was spend some time with his boyfriend, without having to talk about his day, so he’d suggested the most basic date his fried brain could conjur. Then his work desk was unceremoniously reacquainted with his forehead as he smacked it into the wood, letting out a groan that bordered on a yell. Luckily, minutes ago everyone had abandoned the theatre, and he’d been trusted with the keys to lock up from a stagehand. He just had a couple more things to do, and then he could drive home. 

Getting a reply of denial from Virgil was nothing new. In fact, he’d been warned in the transition from reluctant acquaintanceship to inevitable friendship, that he tended to veto ideas if they were sudden, or too daunting, or if he was just feeling shitty. It was something that Roman never considered a deal breaker, and he’d slowly come to much rather enjoy a night of cuddling and watching television than going out anyways. Call it ‘getting old’, call it ‘Virgil’s homebody ways creeping into his psyche’. So usually, getting his plans rejected was no big deal. 

Except for today, when he was well and past his limit of frustration, and things not going to plan. He’d typed out and sent the snarky reply far before he’d thought it out whatsoever, and ranted out complaints that hadn’t ever crossed his mind before, which he immediately regretted. In a moment of shame so great it caused physical nausea, he tossed his phone into one of his desk drawers and slammed it shut. 

It buzzed once, twice, and then went silent. 

Until, of course, it began to go berserk an indecipherable amount of time later, and Roman couldn’t ignore it. Seeing Logan’s text, along with about a million missed calls from him and Patton, broke the fragile sense of calm he’d tried to achieve while working. 

He didn’t want to go home and face his consequences. Childish, yes. Well deserved, also yes, but he was afraid of Virgil’s inevitable anger. If this led to a breakup, a fight that wasn’t recoverable, he’d never forgive himself. 

And now…

Roman, is everything alright?

-Logan

I can see you’ve read my text message.

-Logan

I’m at work. 

You’re inconceivably moronic. Get home. Now.

-Logan

Roman sighed heavily through his nose, clenching his jaw. He began typing out another snarky response- because apparently he never learned- when another text came through.

Virgil was in significant distress last I spoke to him and he has stopped answering me and Patton. Go. Home.

-Logan

Please. If not for my sake, then for Virgil’s.

-Logan

Fuck.

Roman barely had the sense to lock the doors of the building in his rush, throwing the spare key back in through the mail slot and booking it to his car. He sent some sort of confirmation that he was going and tossed the phone to his back seat. Virgil hated when he used it while driving.

It was only on the drive back, on unusually empty roads, did he realize it was well past nine. He hadn’t even noticed the time passing by.

Most of the lights in the apartment complex were still on when he pulled into the car park, but their window visible on this side showed only darkness. He wasn’t used to entering a dark apartment.

Their flat was silent, the living room only illuminated by the oven clock and the dim city lights from the balcony. He toed off his shoes as silently as he could, wincing when he kicked their shoe rack, and decided he’d risk turning on the light. When he finally found the switch and flicked it on, he couldn’t help his gasp. 

The room had once been a pristine display, he could tell. A white table cloth adorned their usually bare dining room table and a half burned candle stood as its centrepiece. He approached it in a daze, cautiously resting a hand on the plate of ravioli nearest to him. Cold. Long cold; the pasta was starting to get crusty. 

He picked up the two plates, intent on throwing out the food. It definitely wasn’t safe to eat anymore, and he didn’t feel like warding off an attack of ants in the morning. One of the towels hanging off the oven handle was drenched in what looked like marinara sauce, and it looked like there was some more spilled in the crack between the stove and the counter. That would be fun to clean. 

Both hands full, he opened the cupboard containing the garbage bin with a socked foot, and promptly froze. 

Part of him cringed at the clang the dropped plates made on the counter, but the louder part of him was just repeating a mantra of ‘holy shit, holy shit, holy shit’ and it was considerably out-screaming the other. Hands now shaking, Roman picked up the small box from the sink edge, ignoring the dried, crunchy texture of more tomato sauce on the outside, and opened it. 

It took every ounce of strength for Roman not to collapse to his knees, guilt instantly crushing the air from his lungs, a thousand times heavier than it had been before. An elaborate dinner, a ring… there had been a plan. That’s why Virgil had rejected his offer to go out. 

And he’d been such a dick to him. 

Speaking of which, where was he?

Roman closed the box and set it back where it had been. Their bedroom door was slightly ajar, and the most obvious place Virgil would be, so he padded over and creaked it open just a bit more. The light from the hallway cast a beam onto the bed, illuminating first a mess of hastily thrown clothes; his button up shirt he only used for fancy occasions on top of the pile. 

Virgil’s huddled form was easy to make out, curled away from the door, his only movement being the steady rise and fall of the blanket as he breathed. Figaro lifted his head from where he was settled in the crook of Virgil’s knees and gave Roman an indifferent mrow. 

He couldn’t get into bed with him. There was no scenario where that was the right move. It wasn’t the right time to talk about what had happened, not so late and when they were both riding high on emotions and tiredness, so accidentally waking Virgil was not the way to go. And even if he was sneaky enough to not wake him… a part of him just felt it was wrong. Not when he didn’t know Virgil’s stance on him at the moment.

Or his stance on the relationship.

Well, couch it was. He acknowledged the crumpled weighted blanket and sound blocking headphones- clear aftermath of a bad panic attack- with a quiet curse. Somehow that pit in his stomach got even bigger, making him nauseous as his shame took a physical form. 

He could only pray that they would come back from this. 

Roman’s sleep was fitful, to say the least. At best, he drifted into a state of half-consciousness, where his thoughts could be somewhat quieted down, but the discomfort of the couch and the heavy weight in his heart were still palpable. Inevitably, one of their neighbors would make a noise or the building would make a settling creak or a distant dog would bark, and the state would be broken, leaving Roman wide awake and wracked with guilt once more. He’d never noticed how loud the world was until he wanted nothing more than for the noise to stop. 

The sun was just peaking into the window when their bedroom door widened and Roman flew up, using the back of the couch to steady his sudden sitting position. When their eyes met from across the room, Virgil in his pajamas and face hidden in shadow, a tenseness settled over the room that neither had experienced in their relationship thus far. Virgil froze in the doorway, wavering slightly. It didn’t appear he wanted to be the one to break the silence. 

Roman stood slowly, as though not to spook him.

“Hi.”

“Hey,” Virgil whispered with a sniff, and even in that one word Roman could hear the scratchiness of his voice. “I just...uhm,” He cleared his throat, “I just wanted to get some water. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“I was already awake. No… no worries.” 

Virgil looked down to his feet. “When did you come back?”

“I think just before ten.”

“‘Kay.”

For an all too long moment, both of them seemed to find interest in every part of the room that wasn’t the other’s eyes. It wasn’t until Roman looked towards the kitchen in his awkwardness did he process what Virgil had come out for. 

“I’ll, um…” He pointed weakly to the kitchen and finally convinced his feet to move, filling up a glass from the sink while making a conscious effort to not look at the dishes or wasted food from the evening before. Unfortunately, he couldn’t stop the way his gaze drifted towards the box sitting next to the tap, and judging by Virgil’s sharp inhale, the look hadn’t been subtle. 

He took the glass back to the other, watching him take it with an uncomfortable, “Thanks.”

Virgil downed the glass in one go, his shaking hands almost causing him to spill. He barely had time to take a breath before Roman had zipped the empty glass back onto the counter.

“Do you want more?” He asked, already refilling the glass.

“No, I’m… it’s okay.” 

Roman placed the full glass on the counter quietly and the two were swallowed by heavy silence once again. The clock ticked impossibly loud as they stood, fidgeting, wanting this moment to be over but not wanting to be the one to start it. 

Virgil took a shuddering breath and wrung his hands together.

Roman stared resolutely at a single water drop making its way down the glass.

This was his fault. He’d started it. It seemed only right that he break the tension that almost suffocated him, so even as his mind screamed for him to shut up and every muscle in his body turned to liquid, he opened his mouth to speak.

“Virgil, I-”

“I’m sorry.”

That effectively stopped Roman in his tracks. All night, he’d crafted a collection of apologies, from eloquent monologues to stumbling pleas for forgiveness, but in not one of his countless scenarios had Virgil apologized. 

“I know… I know I can be a lot to handle, I know, I swear. And I was more outgoing when we first met, because I thought I had something to prove and it always exhausted me and I hated it but then we became… I don’t know, official? And closer and… and more comfortable and I didn’t think I had to do that anymore, I didn’t have to keep pushing myself so far!”

“V, stop-”

“The panic attacks and the anxiety and all that shit are a lot for other people and I know that but I didn’t know it was too much for you, I didn’t know you were tired of that and I can be better, I swear, I swear I can go back to how I was in the beginning, just please don’t leave.”

Virgil let out a choked sob and Roman couldn’t stop himself from rushing forward, intent on holding his stupid, stupid boyfriend until he realized this was in no way his fault, only for Virgil to back up before he could do so.

“I’m- I’m not trying to guilt you, I’m sorry, I just, I love you, and I can be better, I can, just give me a chance, please-”

“Virgil, baby, come here.”

This time when he reached forward, Virgil allowed himself to be pulled into his boyfriend’s chest, basically collapsing against him as soon as Roman’s arms tightened around him. The dam broke moments later and Virgil finally let go of his own hands to grab the back of Roman’s shirt with a sense of urgency.

“Please don’t leave, I’m so sorry,” he begged raspily into Roman’s shoulder.

“I’m not going anywhere. I promise.” 

Roman hung onto him almost as tightly in return, rocking them back and forth, finally allowing himself to cry. He shoved his face into Virgil’s hair, peppering small kisses and apologies to the crown of his head in between sobs. 

Virgil whined when Roman finally pulled away, but he didn’t go far, cradling his boyfriend’s face in his hands and wiping his tacky cheeks with his thumbs.

“Virgil, I cannot apologize enough for yesterday.”

“What are-” he hiccuped, “What are you talking about? It was my fault.”

“No, no, no no no no no,” Roman whispered, fighting that damn lump in his throat once more. “I had a spectacularly shitty day, and I took it out on you. I was leagues out of line. It wasn’t fair to you and I’m so, so unbelievably sorry.” 

As if the strings were cut on a marionette, all the tenseness dissolved from Virgil’s shoulders and he slumped forward, bumping his head weakly into Roman’s chest. “Can we sit down?”

“Yeah, of course.” Roman clumsily led him to the couch and sat on the adjacent cushion, assuming that if Virgil wanted to talk, he’d want his own space. His assumption was incorrect, however, judging by how Virgil crossed the space almost instantly and buried himself in Roman’s side like a koala. He shifted them both until he was laying on his back, Virgil splayed across him .

“I thought you’d be more upset with me,” He muttered, freeing his hand to run it through Virgil’s hair. His fingers raked through his own tears trapped in the locks and he grimaced.

“I don’t know what I’m feeling right now,” responded Virgil, accompanied by a shuddering breath, “I just need to know that you’re really here. And I need you.”

They were quiet for a moment, watching the sun begin to peek through their window, until Virgil spoke again sardonically.

“If this is a dream, I’m gonna be so pissed.”

Roman snorted despite himself and felt Virgil’s responding half-laugh from where he was tucked against him.  

“I agree. I thought I’d fucked up for good this time.”

A disgruntled meow made Roman crane his neck over the couch, watching Figaro stretch languidly in their bedroom doorway. The cat sidled over to his food bowl and sat pointedly next to it. Feed me. 

“Later, Figaro,” Roman groaned, all too comfortable with Virgil as his blanket. A small part of him was worried that if he moved them at all, the spell would be broken, and they’d lose whatever peace they’d settled into. 

Well, that wouldn’t do at all, not by Figaro’s standards. The cat gave an upset mewl and trotted over to the couch, leaping up with grace and batting Virgil’s legs. It was that pettish action that made Roman realize that Virgil had turned stone still on his lap. Figaro changed his approach to headbutting at his arm in a clear attempt to get pets, but Virgil’s hand stayed still by their sides. 

“What’s going through your head?” Roman murmured. 

“That stuff you said, about me… not contributing to the relationship…” Virgil croaked, and Roman stilled,  “What can I do to-… to fix that? Because I wanna fix it.”

“Baby, no,” Roman whispered, that shame-nausea returning, “I-” He groaned, dropping his head onto the arm of the couch behind him, “I was being an asshole. I didn’t mean that.”

Virgil didn’t budge, still deliberately ignoring Figaro’s futile begging for attention. “Then where did it come from?”

He took a breath deep enough that Virgil rose and fell with his chest, and Roman was struck with the profound urge to pull him closer and never let him go. But that would likely make him feel trapped, and that wasn’t productive. “You remember when I dragged you to that improv show my students put on last year?”

“You introduced me as your boyfriend and we found out the class had placed bets on whether you were gay or not. I don’t know how it wasn’t obvious.”

Roman gasped in mock offense. “Maybe they just were trying not to stereotype!”

“Your phone case is a rainbow-”

“Anyways!” He interrupted, resuming his gentle threading through Virgil’s hair, who snorted but otherwise gave in to the affection. “Remember what happened after?”

“Mmhm.”

It had been a fantastic show, and Roman had been exceedingly proud of his little students, especially since it was his first time ever teaching a class. After the night, when the betting chaos had settled and everyone quickly adopted Virgil as theirs now, they’d pleaded to play a few more improv games before the theatre closed. Seeing as it was their last class, hence the performance in the first place, Roman had acquiesced. But neither of the men had expected for the gang of pre-teens to latch onto Virgil and beg him to play too, despite him having zero theatre experience. 

“Remember what they said?”

“They tried to pack all your lectures into five minutes of information.”

“I don’t lecture, I dazzle.” 

“They thought you were straight.” 

“Only some, and that’s not the point!”

Virgil finally lifted his head, pulling his hands up so he could lay his chin on top of them. He smiled weakly. “Then what is the point?”

“The most important rule of improv is to keep the scene going. No matter what nonsense you have to pull out, just never leave a scene flat.”

There was a quiet moment while the other processed that before, once again, that layer of hurt reappeared on his face. He pushed himself off Roman’s chest in preparation to get up. “So… you’re saying you saw that argument as another scene you had to keep up.”

“No, shit, that came out wrong,” Roman insisted, and Virgil paused suspiciously, “I’m saying, that in a moment of panic, I fell back on bullshitting my way through it! That’s literally what I do for a living!” 

The distrust gave way to resignment and Virgil chewed on his cheek, turning his attention to the window. He sat all the way up on Roman’s legs, leaning back on his shins. “How do I know you’re not bullshitting me right now?” He said. 

“Because,” Roman followed him up, careful not to move his legs and dislodge his boyfriend, “You know I like when the bed is made, and even though you hate making it, you always do when I’m out of the house before you.”

Virgil looked down at his thumb.

“Because you let me choose the music in the car.”

“... you don’t like loud music,” He muttered, picking at the skin around his cuticle.

“You adjust your work schedule to come to every single one of my shows.”

He shrugged. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Yeah, but you hate working mornings. You let me rant about all my theatre stuff, even if you don’t get any of it.”

“I’m learning.” A faint smile was breaking through.

“You tell me when there’s spinach in my teeth, or my hair is messy, or if I’m acting like an asshole.”

“Well, that’s easy enough.”

Roman reciprocated the smile at that, taking Virgil’s hands in his own to stop the attack at his nail. “I’ve been watching you better yourself for years, even if it’s been really, really hard.”

“What does that have to do with us?” Virgil asked with a small blush, switching his fidgeting tactic to fiddling with Roman’s fingers. 

“Every time you do something that betters yourself, you help us, Virgil.” He leaned forward slowly, giving Virgil the time to move away if he wanted to, and rested their foreheads together. “Yesterday, I fucked up. Badly. You said you were anxious and I still acted like a dick. I kinda thought you’d hate me.”

“I could never hate you,” Virgil whispered, seemingly before he had a chance to process it, because his blush multiplied tenfold. Roman grinned. 

“Aw, is someone feeling sappy?”

“Shut up, jackass,” He retorted, bonking their heads together ever so gently. 

“I’m so sorry, Virgil,” Roman said after their giggles and blushes had faded, “It won’t happen again, I swear.” 

In lieu of answering, Virgil closed the already scant distance between their lips, and despite Roman using all of his self control to not sigh into it, he found himself doing so anyways. All the tension bled out of his shoulders at once as Virgil pulled away, pressing one more peck to the tip of his nose, and then leaning back with a small smile. 

“So… that means we’re good?”

“We’re good.”

“Thank god,” Roman groaned, flopping back and dropping his arm over his eyes dramatically. He heard Virgil’s quiet snicker before he resumed his job as a blanket. Except this time, instead of nuzzling his head into Roman’s neck, he could feel the distinct edge of a chin digging into his sternum.

The hand lifted from his eyes to see Virgil staring at him, that goofy little smirk on his face. 

“What?”

“I love you, idiot.”

Well, now they were wearing matching goofy little smirks. 

“I love you too.” 

That seemed to satiate him, because he gave a little nod and laid his head more comfortably on the other’s chest. He could have left the conversation there, content to just let them lay there in peace until the world fell away- or Figaro grew more insistent on being fed- but Roman just couldn’t banish the one persistent thought in the back of his mind. 

“Were you actually going to propose?” He blurted.

Virgil tensed for a moment, and then gave a resigned sigh. “...Yeah.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Well,” Roman furrowed his eyebrows, desperately hoping he sounded casual, though his heart was pounding far too loudly to not be heard, “I would have said yes. If you did.”

“Oh?” Virgil lifted his head. “You’re blushing, Princey.” He could hear the smug grin.

“Nooo…” Roman whined. His arm draped once more over his eyes in a weak attempt to hide the redness, but he drew it away only moments later when Virgil didn’t retort. 

The man was staring at him with an odd mix of disappointment and amusement, huffing out a breath as he watched Roman’s eyes.

“This wasn’t how I was planning to propose,” He sighed, “It was supposed to be all perfect, and romantic, and stuff. And the surprise is ruined now.”

“I’m sorry,” whispered Roman, continuing before Virgil could cut him off, “If it’s any consolation, I think a proposal in our pajamas, on the couch, would be very us.”

“You’re not in pajamas.”

“I slept in these clothes, they count as pajamas.”

Virgil snickered. Roman counted five breaths as the other’s face melted from a smile to anxiously knit brows, worrying his lip between his teeth as he looked down at him. It took another three for him to speak.

 “So…uh... will you…?”

Roman’s face split into a grin, “Yes, Virgil. Obviously.” 

Virgil’s expression morphed to match his and he swooped down to kiss him again, though they barely could with how much they were smiling. They both devolved into giggles, happy to just stay wrapped in each other’s arms, until Virgil broke away with a gasp.

“Let me grab the ring!”

“Ring can wait,” Roman argued, tightening his grip around his waist to keep him in place, “I want cuddles.”

And so they did.

Taglist:

@max-is-tired

@private-snippers

@joylessnightsky

@marshymoop

@larkiaquail

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@vpow

@ray-does-stuff

@sirprplsnail

[headoverhiddles]

The Romance Of A Yellow Rose - Dr. King Schultz x Reader [Smut]

Words: 5.6k

Synopsis: You and King get married, and celebrate your first night together by consummating the marriage. 

Commissioned by a friend! Enjoy.

Your eyes open on the rugged planes of the Southern state the three of you had found yourselves in. As you roll over to stretch the sleep out of your body, you find a single yellow rose, native to this area. A smile grows on your face. It’s King’s way of saying good morning to you, as it had been for many months.

For years now, you had been tagging along with Schultz and Django. Having attached yourself to their travels three hot summers ago, the two men had become quite fond of your travelling company; King in particular. Over time, your relationship had evolved from a companionship, through friendship, to having romantic feelings for one another. You were the first to admit to them; King hadn’t wanted to say anything, as he still held a fruitless hope that one day he could return you to the pleasantries of the normal life you once knew, before it had been uprooted. But as the months passed, you getting more and more comfortable and (dare he say) suited to the lifestyle of a bounty hunter, it was becoming apparent that you were going nowhere. Not without him, anyway.

Hildy had decided to stay with some friends in the North while the three of you travelled the country on business. Texas Jack, Turkey Creek and Jack’s wife Camarilla were more than happy to keep her with them. It had put Django at ease at least, knowing they had one less person they had to worry about with them catching a bullet. Hildy was even teaching Camarilla different things she had learned over the years at their home, and the four were getting on fine from what Django took from her letters to him. King wished you had enough sense to stay with them, but where the older bounty hunter went, you went. You had made that quite clear.

Today, a warm day in mid October, you, King and Django were headed to visit a plantation in Conroe, Texas. There an outlaw by the name of Amos “Sly Eye” Little had been posing as an overseer for 3 months, flying under the radar on the small eastern Texan plantation. He wasn’t a particularly dangerous outlaw, only wanted for his habit of skipping out on poker games before paying up. Three months ago, he ended up double crossing the wrong man which led to legal involvement, and now to deter trouble in peaceful towns he was wanted dead or alive by the state. King and Django had discovered upon visiting this plantation that the family who owned it had been dodging the law for a while as well.

After the slaves had been freed by King and Django, this outlaw family just so happened to get in the way of a few bullets. The last man left alive on the property is now Amos.

“Back here!” you call. King dashes toward you, swiping you out of the way as a bullet whizzes by your ear. You sit in shock for a moment, King’s arm still around you. For a man who isn’t very dangerous, this Amos sure is trigger happy.

“Django!” King shouts, but his partner is already far ahead in pursuit. “Never listens,” the doctor mutters, loading his shotgun and aiming. You watch as Django dodges a couple more of the outlaw’s bullets before grabbing Amos by his collar, lifting him up a few feet. The man tries to scramble for his gun, but Django of course is faster. Just as he’s about to fire at close range, King clucks his tongue, looking through his target. “Bullseye.” Your eyes shut briefly as the snap of the bullet leaving the gun jolts you closer to the older man. He pulls you out of sight once more as the bullet hits Amos through the side of his head, out the other side in a bloody deluge. Django jerks his head up your direction, dropping the corpse into the carnage at his feet.

“I was handling it!” he mutters.

King comes out from behind the tree, helping you up with one hand. You brush off your pants as you both approach the other man. “You were being hasty again,” King says.

“I was handling it,” Django insists with a look. You two nudge arms amiably, and King gives you a disapproving look.

“You are encouraging him.” He turns to Django. “And you’re encouraging her.”

“What’s wrong with a little congratulations?” you giggle. “You got your dead cowboy.”

“I would trade a thousand dead cowboys to keep both of you alive. You’re the best things that have ever happened to me, do you know that?” King gives you a meaningful look, before brushing off Django’s jacket and squeezing your hand. “Forget this place. We’d better get the horses and get out of here.”

Taking the initiative, you go off in search of Tony, Fritz and Ida, your mare. Django approaches King, taking off his bloodstained gloves. “You talked to her yet?”

“She doesn’t know, no.” King looks down, nervously stroking one side of his moustache. “I was waiting for the right time.”

“You wait any longer, she’s gonna be burying her husband to be.” King doesn’t bother taking offense—he knows Django is right. He’s much older than you—not one foot in the grave as Django likes to tease, but older. That had been another source of insecurity for him during the burgeoning relationship, but you had made it clear that you didn’t mind; in fact, you liked the difference in age. King’s fellow bounty hunter interrupts his thoughts. “Y’all should get married here. Nice place, no one left in it now.” Schultz looks around the grounds. It is pretty, and it would be nice to marry you in such agreeable weather... but King shakes his head.

“No Django. This place was built on treachery and suffering. It would be not only tasteless, but bad luck to get married here.”

When you three make it to the next town in the state over of Arkansas, something is waiting for King at the inn.

“You Doctor Schultz?” the innkeeper asks, spitting tobacco into a spittoon. King nods, taking out his billfold. The innkeeper sizes him up. “Yep, man who sent this said fella looking like you’d be coming through here. This’s for you.” He takes a letter out from behind the desk in one of the cubbies, and slides it across. King expects it would be from Texas Jack, but it instead it’s from a different friend in the North; a sheriff acquaintance he had written to before about his situation with you. Thanking the man, you all head upstairs, and when King gets to a desk, he slips on his reading glasses.  

 Thought you’d make your way through this here town, Schultz-

Sounds like a hell of a woman, the one you’ve told me about. You softie. Knew you wanted to settle down, and it’s about damn time, too. What the hell are you doing with her down in the South then? She oughtta be up here. Maybe I’m biased, but there’s a lot more law n order up here. Better people too. I am biased, spose.

You asked me what I thought about asking for her hand. Why wait to marry her? Hell, bring her up, we’ll have a ceremony here! I’m not only a sheriff, but an ordained minister too. Bet you didn’t know that. Wouldn’t kill you to ask. Anyway, no reason why I can’t make things look good, clean up the place nice and host your happy union. Got some more birthday cake here too, for someone to eat. Pretty good.

Come on up when you finally convince yourself she won’t say no.

- G. A.

“You got a letter back from Sheriff Snowy Snow?” Django smirks. King stares at the letter in his hands for a long while, before looking up at him with a smile.

He could do it. He could finally ask for your hand.

“Django, my boy. We’re going to Nebraska.” You overhear, and turn back with the bags.

“Up North? What for?”

“To see an old friend of mine, fraulein,” King says, taking the bags from you to carry inside. “Sheriff Gus Arnett.” You smile. It’ll be nice to get out of all this heat and around some likeminded people—people who King can relax and be himself around.

You had all stopped off to pick up Hildy in Boston after travelling by train through the Southern states and switching back to horsepower as you made your way up through the wintery landscape of barren northern land. It was worth it, of course; King and Django had insisted Hildy come too, and you had been happy for female company.

“Has my troublemaker been behaving himself?” is the first thing Hildy asks you, kissing your cheek in greeting.

“About as much as mine has,” you laugh.

“Coming from the most stubborn woman I’ve ever met. It is you who has been the naughty one,” King chastises you right back.

“Maybe one day, you can teach me a lesson for it.” King blushes as Hildy lets out a loud laugh at the connotations of such a taunt. He knows you’re still virginal, waiting for marriage as you’ve told him before. Once united by matrimony, that’s another wall that could be knocked down between you, if you decided you still wished to give yourself to him.

It was no secret you wanted King, and he had made it plain he would wait for you—he’s a gentleman in every sense of the word. Still, men have needs, and some late nights it had been hard. Many evenings by the fire had ended with you in his lap, grinding down as you kissed him with feverish intensity. It had always ended the same way however, with you heading off to sleep alone and leaving him with nothing but his mind to picture what the next hour may have felt like. This time, King feared he wouldn’t last once he finally got to feel you as he’d wanted to for so long. Either way, he had a silver tongue, and experience in the art of pleasuring a woman. He wouldn’t leave you wanting; whatever you needed he would give you.

 Arriving at the snowy lodge some days later, Sheriff Gus Arnett comes out the front door. A couple of minks and rabbits are hanging from the roof over the porch, and two pairs of boots caked with snow are drying outside by a wooden rocking chair that had been collecting frost no doubt since September.  

“King Schultz and Django Freeman, in the flesh! Come on in with your little ladies!” he says, opening his arms. You approach first, and he shakes your hand with the assurance of a man who’s not used to gentle handshakes. “I don’t believe we’ve met, ma’am,” he says softly, “But any friend of King’s is a friend of mine. Especially a friend like you.” He winks at you and smirks over at King, who ushers you in out of the cold quickly. Gus tips his hat at Django and Hildy, closing the door after they come in.

“Like I said,” he sighs, “We got some cake. Y’all want some?”

“Perhaps we wait until after dinner?” Schultz proposes.

“I wouldn’t mind some,” Django speaks up, giving King a look. King just chuckles.

“Go ahead, my boy. I was a dentist, remember. Old habits remain, I suppose. Would you like some, (y/n)?”

“I’ll have the piece you didn’t want,” you tease. You lean closer to him to brush your lips against his ear. “When it comes to you, I want everything.” The former dentist swallows. This proposal couldn’t come at a better time, as things between you two are heating up.

That night after dinner of rabbit stew and some leftover cake for dessert for everyone but your beloved, everyone had retired to bed a few hours after the sun had gone down. In your own room, you set your satchel on the bed of clothing you had been travelling with in the South, and just as you’re about to unpack, a knock at the door distracts you from your task. King slowly pushes the door open—he’s dressed in his white shirt and grey vest, his hair freshly combed back. It seems counterproductive to groom that well before bed, but to be fair, you had never personally witnessed King’s nocturnal habits in a place that allows such a luxury. He offers his arm, and when you take it in curiosity, he leads you out the back porch of the lodge home. The wind isn’t too cold tonight, but he still wraps his arm around you. The mountains are beautiful out here, and the snow has stopped for the night to allow for a crystal clear view of the surrounding landscape, snow white on the bottom and starry black on top.  

“It’s been a while since we’ve been able to sit together like this,” King says. “Just sit and enjoy one another’s company alone. It’s very rare we get time just the two of us without our faithful hero.” You lean into him, resting your head on his shoulder.

“Mm. We’re usually around a campfire, with Django snoring behind us.”

“At least we don’t have any of that to score our evening. I think Django’s gone to bed with Hildy in there.”

“You should be in bed too,” you fret. “I’ve noticed you haven’t been sleeping well.”

“I never have been very good at that. I’m a light sleeper, fraulein. Especially when I have lots on the mind.”

“You know what helps me when I can’t sleep?” You smile. “Something I learned from you.” King turns to look at you, a soft chilly breeze blowing the silver blonde hair from his eyes.

“What’s that?”

“A story.”

King ducks his head, and pulls you closer to him. “I think that would do the trick. Go on then, my love. Will you regale me?”

“I know a story of a deep running love, where a woman slowly developed feelings for one who she learned to depend on.”

“A common story, no?” King teases.

“Shhh. She loved very freely, but this was different. She not only loved this man, but worried about him when he wasn’t around, yearned for him, desired him in ways that drove her crazy sometimes.” King’s breath audibly quickens.

“And what did our heroine do about this tumultuous situation?”

“Oh, she took care of things. But not like she knew he could.” His breath hitches. You bite your lip as you go on. “The two had been together so long... learning one another’s quirks, laughing at little things and sharing moments others wouldn’t understand. They knew what scared them, what made them smile. At the end of the day, she told the man a million times how she adored him. But she was afraid he still didn’t know how much.”

King rubs down your finger, eyes trained on it before looking up at you. “I think I do.” You forget whatever you were going to say next as King rubs his rough fingers over your knuckles, bringing them up to his lips to kiss them. His beard grazes your skin pleasantly as he opens his mouth. “Will you be my wife?” Your heart skips a beat.

“Truly?”

“True as my love for you.”  

“Tomorrow?”

“If you wish.” You lean in to kiss him.

The door bangs open, Gus tosses a pail of water out all over you two. He realizes where you two were sitting, and his eyes widen.

"Gott verdammt."

“Oh, hell. I’m— what are the two of you doing out—?” He can’t even finish his sentence—you’re laughing too hard. King tries to keep up a grumpy facade at the fact that you had both just been drenched in ice water in this weather, but he can’t help it. Your laughter is infectious.

“Please tell me there is enough boiled water for a bath,” he sighs, and you shiver. “For the fraulein, at least.”

Django and Hildy had been up to witness the commotion from the noise of it all, no doubt committing the sight to memory for future teasing. They returned comfortably to bed with one another, which was a comfort you and King couldn’t currently afford in your state.  

You get to work drawing the bath as Gus passes you each pails of hot water. King comes in, shedding his dripping fur coat and tugging at his tie. Your eyes drift down to his chest, then back up to his face. King subsequently tries to distract himself so as not to focus too hard on you. You had stripped down to your slip, which was stuck to every curve of your body from the water. The temperature hadn’t done much to help any other evidence of the cold, around your breasts. He tries not to look too long.

“Would you take me out of this?” you ask. It’s a harmless question, but King’s thoughts run wild. He could simply refuse you, but what reason would he give then? That he couldn’t control himself around you, so close to your wedding night?

“Of course,” he sighs softly, and approaches. He takes the back of the slip and undoes the buttons, helping you pull it over your head. He inches it up, the wet material dragging along your skin. He turns to go as you’re revealed, and to his dismay, you don’t stop him. Only one more night, and he could have all of you.

As you step out of the lodge, it’s as if you’ve stepped out into a painting. A light dusting of snow is falling over you, snowflakes catching in your eyelashes and melting tracks down your cheeks like tears of happiness. King is standing there at the end of the pathway shovelled out, just by the small lake. It’s frozen over, reflecting the light of the moon through every little icicle hanging from the branches of trees hanging over top of it. Mountains soar around the group of you, boasting the most beautiful landscape you’d ever seen.

King takes your hand as you approach. Beside him, you see Django dressed in a handsome green winter’s jacket, black leather gloves pristine. On your side, Broomhilda is wearing a beautiful green dress under layers of a form fitting brown jacket. You’re in a beautiful snow white dress with furs covering your shoulders and a fur hat. King is also wearing his grey fur coat. The two of you join hands, and recite vows.

“I know I’m a considerable number of years older than you,” King tells you softly, “But I promise to make up for this. I promise to protect you with my life, cherish you, and support you in every endeavor you wish to pursue.”

“I will stay by your side no matter what,” you tell him, “I’ll be brave when you can’t be. I’ll be strong when you need me to be. I’ll love you as long as my heart beats, and oppose anyone who tries to take you away.” Kindness in his eyes, King smiles down at you, crow’s feet crinkling. He lifts your hand up to kiss.

“Do you take this man?” the sheriff asks.

“I do.”

“Do you take this little lady?” King sighs out through his nose, thumbs rubbing over your knuckles.

“I certainly do,” he breathes.

“Well hell, you may kiss the bride then!”

When King leans forward, you surprise him by taking a step forward and wrapping your arms around him, deepening the kiss. It lasts for an eternity between you, and when you part, King brushes the snow off your rosy cheeks and presses his lips to your forehead.  

“Ich liebe dich,” he whispers into your hair, and you slide your arms around his middle in embrace.

Inside the bedroom upstairs, a fire crackles in the hearth. The curtains are open to the snowy view outside, and the frost on the glass only makes you savour the warmth inside. King pours you some bourbon, and comes to sit down beside you in front of the fire. As you cuddle into him, he puts a hand on your back and draws you in for a kiss, his beard pleasantly tickling your face. Bourbon forgotten, the kiss deepens, and you feel his tongue slip into your mouth as you part your lips for more. You pull away, smiling.

“Can I ask you something?”

He looks at you. “Of course. What are you thinking about?”

“How does it feel?”

King looks at you. “You will have to be a little more specific.”

“How does it feel to finally consummate a marriage?”

 He stares into the flickering fire. “We don’t have to do it if you’re nervous.”

“I didn’t say that,” you say, crawling over to straddle him. King welcomes you into his lap. “I just wanted to know. You’ll show me?”

“I would love to.”

“You know I’m inexperienced.”

“I do,” King nods.

“Isn’t that undesirable?” King seems offended that you would even suggest such a thing, at the very least ruffled by the idea of it.

“My dear, of course not. Being inexperienced merely means I can show you how to do things.” He hums against your neck, grazing his lips down.

“I’m not completely clueless,” you breathe as you tilt your head back to give him better access. You stand in one smooth movement in front of the fire, leaving King sitting and gazing up at you. “I know what fucking is.” You hear his exhaled breath.

“Yes. I would assume you wouldn’t be entirely in the dark about that.”

“But I’ve never felt it,” you whisper. “I wanna feel it, King.” He doesn’t get a chance to respond. You undo your dress, lace by lace, letting your fingers twine slowly between the hooks. You sigh his name as the corset comes free, recalling how you’d longed for him to do this last night, and you hook the straps of your dress under your thumbs, sliding it down to reveal the slip beneath. You hear his breath hitch, but he doesn’t make a move.

You run your hands down over your ass, letting out a soft noise. You hear him readjust where he’s sitting, and you work now on the cream coloured pants beneath the white gown, sliding them down ever so carefully.

“(y/n),” King whispers.

You let out a moan. “I’ve been wanting to get out of this the entire ceremony just to see how you would look at me, seeing me like this for the first time.” You swing your hips a little, arching your back, and finally wiggle some more as you drop your pants to the floor. King’s breathing is heavier now, and you stretch your arms above your head, sighing again as you let your hair free. “Like I said. I may not have done this before, but I know a lot more than you think I do.”

“I’m not certain I believe that, my feisty little one,” King huffs, averting eye contact. Oh, no. Not tonight he doesn’t. You’re only in your chemise now, and you turn to reveal smooth skin he’s never seen before, bunching the fabric up just enough to give him a peek of the v of your hips.

You can see the visible outline of his hardened cock in his pants, straining against the tight confines and desperate for some kind of relief. You put one leg over his lap to straddle him.

“Touch me?” you whisper, and reach down. He doesn’t stop you, just watches closely as you bring your hands to his pants, untie them, and reach in to take his cock in your hand. He does as you say, returning the touch with his hands up your back, taking the straps of your chemise down. He takes a shallow breath as your fingers come in contact with his warm cock. You grin wickedly, swiping your thumb up to spread his precum around a little. He meets your eyes as you pull him fully out of his pants.

“Oh,” he huffs gently, head falling back a little as you stroke him once.

“Is that good?” you ask softly, pressing a kiss to his ear. “Am I doing it right?” King stutters a little, gasping for air when you swipe over his swollen cockhead again.

“You are doing just fine,” King whispers, lips parting.

“Mmm,” you mumble, pressing a trail of wet kisses down his face and lazily taking his lips between your teeth, leading into a dizzying kiss full of tongue and one another’s slow breath.

“Stop. Wait my love,” King mumbles, stalling your wrist with his hand. You pout.

“What’s wrong?”

He opens his eyes to look at you, pupils blown with lust.  “After a show like that, I am at your complete and ready service, not the other way around. Tell me exactly what you want me to do,” he whispers gently, and you get off of him, lying back on the floor like a princess awaiting a treat.

“Could you pleasure me with your mouth?”

Your cheeks heat, but King nods with a smile, dispelling any nerves you might have for such an intimate display of sensuality. He lays you on the floor, pressing kisses down your neck, over your collarbone and across the top of the soft skin of your breasts. His hands come up to gently hold your hips down as they circle upward—he moves your legs so he can brace himself between them, pressing more kisses down over your stomach to the impressions on your hips he’s left with his fingers.

“I want you to have me,” you whisper. King strokes one hand along your thigh.

“It takes time to discover each and every spot that will make you weak for me, lieb,” he mumbles, mouthing at your panties with a practiced finesse. “Be a good girl now for me. Be patient. There is more to come.” The bounty hunter takes the panties down with deft fingers, sliding the fabric down your legs until you’re bare to him. Your cheeks heat, but he reassures you with a starstruck gaze, looking over your body like a lovesick man. He dips his head back down with a soft kiss to your thigh, reaching up to hold your hips as if he’s predicted your body’s reaction already. He presses a reverent kiss to your clit, and his tongue takes a sweep of your folds, making you quiver as his beard scratches the soft skin of your thighs. His prediction proves correct when your hips jerk up as he gives his first lick between your lips. You reach back to grab the carpet, before deciding instead to grip onto his blonde and silver locks where his mouth works between your legs. It’s a surreal pleasure—unlike anything you’ve felt before, and you want more.

 “Does that feel good?” King asks. All you can do is nod, but he encourages you to tell him exactly how you feel. “Use your words, fraulein.”

“Yes. Don’t stop,” you sigh.

“My good girl.” King dips back down, swirling his tongue around your bud until you’re shaking. Taking care to hold you close to him, he moves himself up until he’s grinding himself against you. “I want nothing more than to be inside of you,” he whispers.

“Take me as you wish then,” you groan.

“Tonight is about you,” he murmurs against your skin.

“I want it.”

Unbuckling himself, he takes his time slowly working a finger inside of you. He adds another and gently curves them up, before gauging your reaction. Going by the desperation in your face, he slowly replaces his fingers with his cock, pausing every inch to check and see if you’re still alright. You can tell how he’s exercising his restraint—you’re so tight, and all he wants to do is take you until both of you are sweaty and screaming, but he must make this last. You can feel him sliding into you, and his hand comes up to hold yours. Your eyes screw shut as he finally bottoms out, and he presses a kiss to your chest. “Tell me when it is okay to move.” You nod.

“Please.” He starts up a slow pace, covering your body with his as he takes his time with you. Too desperate to take the time King might have in mind to teach you patience, you push your lips harder against him, and roll over on top of him. You kiss the bounty hunter, again and again until your lips are swollen and King is painfully hard inside of you.

“Lift up your shirt for me,” he whispers, his voice gentle. “That’s it.”

“Have me,” you mumble.

“What was that?” King asks, “You must use your words if you would like something, hm?”

You blink up at your older lover. “Please take me King,” you raise your voice, and he smiles.

“Hm.” He gives you an affectionate smile. “I have no choice but to oblige my lady love when she asks as nicely as that. Very well. As you wish.”

He pumps in harder, ripping a groan from you. You’d dreamed of what this would feel like, and it turned out better than you had imagined, King’s soft sighs and the rocking of his body against yours heightening every touch he grazes your sensitive skin with.

A moment later, he pulls out and flips you over gently. He then positions himself between your legs and brings his mouth back down between your legs, suckling around your clit again. “King,” you whisper, breath hitching.

“Louder,” he encourages, and goes back to masterfully taking you apart with his tongue. He soon encourages you to sit on his face, and you do, feeling him lick you perfectly as the pleasant feeling of his beard returns to tantalize your skin. He circles your clit with the tip of his tongue as you reach down to touch his cock. It’s a foreign feeling in your hand, but you soon get the hang of the motions, twisting your fist and using his precum to slick your strokes.

“King... don’t stop,” you groan, his tongue delving just barely inside of you. He moves off of your pussy as you moan, and licks his lips.

 “I must admit, I wanted nothing more than to do this all day,” he groans as he moves back up your body, “But I am a gentleman.”

“Too much of one sometimes.”

As if in challenge, he picks up his pace and starts to grunt your name, leaning down every now and then between thrusts to press a kiss to your breastbone as his face scrunches up. You love how uncharacteristically possessive King is getting– it turns you on beyond belief. Your moans grow loud as the bounty hunter’s cock fills you over and over again, satisfying your need for him as your noises blend together into the creak, groan, gasp of making love for the first time.

“K… King…” you groan, breasts bouncing with every thrust. His breath is hot on your neck, and he presses an open mouthed kiss there.

“You are astonishing,” he whispers, “You’re perfect… oh, bitte, bitte Fraulein, you feel so nice… you are my everything.”

“King, just like that, oh god–” you groan, and he makes a noise at your slutty display, reaching up to massage your breasts. You feel your orgasm approach as he continues to touch you, and his hand quickly comes down to rub your clit.

“Ah,” you moan, and clutch his shoulders. King sighs, feeling your pussy squeeze him, and with a stuttered thrust he cums as well, spilling inside you. Soon, you’re crying out his name, and he squeezes your hand tighter as you both finish at the same time, the love you share burning at the height of its passion as your bodies become one. You both rock together to ride out your orgasms until you’re satisfied. Panting breaths mingle as you snuggle close to him.

 “Is that what all the fuss was about?” you tease. King frowns at you, and you laugh into his chest.

“Into bed before I take full offense to your jokes, beloved,” he murmurs. You nod, smiling as he helps you up with one hand and carries you bridal style over to the bed covered in furs for a warm night’s sleep together—finally together. 

"I am lucky I have such a pretty creature warming my bed tonight," he jokes, "A plucked chicken like me should be very grateful." You huff another laugh, rolling over beside him to finally tuck in with your love. 

"I've only ever wanted you. That'll never change, no matter what." You grin. "Tonight only helped solidify that fact." 

"So you are with me for my talents in the bedroom, ah!"

"NO--"

"I understand it now." 

"King!" 

"Shh. Let's sleep now. We will argue like an old married couple in the morning." 

The next day, Hildy and Django are already in the living room of the lodge. Gus is in the kitchen making up some breakfast.

“You look radiant this morning,” Broomhilda says, smile wide.

“Yeah. You do look pretty good. Different,” Django nods, narrowing his eyes as if to try and decipher what could have changed about you. Hildy just rolls her eyes, turning back to you from her own husband.

“So. Where’s your significant other?” You grab yourself a cup for the coffee that’s brewing, settling in across from them at the table.   

“He’s still sleeping. He worked hard last night.” Tucked in the pocket of your nightgown is a single perfect, yellow rose he had saved you from the South, one King had left his new wife to find upon waking.

[hypnomicimagines]

Fateful Meeting [Ninja!Harai Kuko/Reader]

The young ninja’s eyes were sharp, intense, so much so it felt like you were looking into the sun.

You looked down and away from his glare as you continued to tend to his wounds, ignoring the way he shifted uncomfortably, like he didn’t want you touching him at all. But he was the one who had stumbled upon your home a complete bloody mess, barely conscious as he looked up at you with pleading eyes, a moment of weakness when he thought he was on death’s door. Now that you had given him water and stopped his wound from bleeding his normal temperament had come back, and something told you he wasn’t the most pleasant dinner guest to have.

You had just finished bandaging him up when he abruptly stood, grabbing your wrist to stop you from reaching out to touch him again. You shared a look, wondering if he was the type of ninja to have taken a vow of silence before he opened his mouth for the first time.

“What do you want?” His tone is harsh but you think it’s likely just the way he sounds, if his looks are anything to go by. “You wasted your healing supplies on me, so what is it you want in return?”

“I don’t expect you to repay my kindness. Kindness isn’t kindness if it’s done expecting gratitude. Although I do suggest you spend some more time here recovering before you go anywhere…” Kuko’s eyes widened ever so slightly at your words but he doesn’t allow you to fully see his surprise, his neutral expression returning just as quickly as it had left. He adjusted the mask on his face as he stepped towards the door, ignoring your pleas for him to sit and rest a while longer.

“I always repay my debts.”

“Wait! Can’t you tell me your name at least? Or is that part of the whole secretive ninja clan thing you clearly have going on?” He hesitated for a second at your request, so simple to you yet to him… it was a show of trust. To willingly give your name to a stranger could mean terrible things for someone whose job was to blend in with the night; it would be better if you could forget he was ever even there which is why he becomes even more surprised when he spoke.

“Harai Kuko. Don’t forget it!” There’s a little more emotion in his introduction, a little less cold and far more personality shining through (which reaffirmed your assumption he was not the type of guest to bring home to your parents). But you found yourself charmed by him all the same, gentle smile on your face as you waved goodbye, his name just a whisper on the wind with how quickly he was gone.

You’re in awe at how such a bright shock of red hair managed to fade perfectly into the darkness but he’s gone from your view within seconds, leaving you reeling at the experience, wondering if it had only been a dream. The bloodied bed where he laid as you tended to him told otherwise but you tried not to think too deeply on it, grabbing the sheets to toss into your laundry pile to clean later. You cleaned up the scraps of your bandages and tidied your home like no one had been there, knowing that you had to sleep soon as you couldn’t burn the candle at both ends. You had to be up early for your patients the next morning as well since the work never seemed to end in the midst of the war.

As you’re finishing up there’s several aggressive knocks at your door, your body suddenly tensed as something feels off. Ever since your late-night visitor had left you felt an odd sensation in your chest, this anxiety unwavering in the heavy night air as you wondered how things could possibly get more interesting. When you’re greeted with the sight of two heavy-set men your anxiety finds itself skyrocketing, finding yourself backed into the corner of your own home as they make themselves comfortable.

“Excuse us for intruding. We just happened to see a trail of blood leading here… Are you alright?” His tone indicated he was not at all concerned about your well-being so you didn’t reply, instead trying to fix him with a steady stare that said ‘I’ve done nothing wrong’. “Ah, I see, the quiet type. I don’t mind that however… we’re tracking down a certain menace. A man with bright red hair who we heavily injured earlier today.”

“Why are you asking me?”

“Are you not the resident healer?”

“I am… but that blood trail could have just as easily been from an injured boar who was fighting for territory in the woods. Assuming it was human is a leap.”

“Might I ask why you’re still awake?”

“Some nights my mind keeps me awake with all sorts of thoughts, like whether or not I have to go into town to get more herbs and the like. You’re awfully inquisitive, are you perhaps looking to become a healer rather than being a person who supplies me patients?”

Your temper started to flare up despite you trying to carefully navigate the conversation, wanting these people who clearly came here to threaten you out of your home. You’d dealt with their type before, absolute savages, and you don’t appreciate their intrusion. You’re fonder of the random man who was bleeding out on your doorstep than these people who hurt just because they could, who bullied because they knew people were too afraid to stand up to them. Your irritation doesn’t go unnoticed but is returned with a heavy silence and glares, the two men who had forced their way in their home looming over you menacingly.

Perhaps you should’ve just gone straight to bed.

Kuko hadn’t made it far.

As headstrong as he was even he couldn’t deny the pain his body was in, his wounds aching as they hadn’t closed properly. He was normally far more respectful of the healers back at the temple but he was in a hurry, needing to report back to his father his findings immediately. He didn’t want to bring those hunting him to you either, it would be bad news as they seemed to have no issue slaughtering innocents left and right. He felt like there was a boulder in his gut that was slowing his movements, his body not able to move as nimbly until he’s finally forced to stop. He doesn’t know how far he’s gotten nor how much time has passed but he’s bleeding again.

It’s either turn back towards your hut or continue forward in hopes of finding another healer.

Something else is pulling him back towards you, like you’d attached strings to his body and were pulling at him to come back behind the curtain. Kuko bit his tongue hard to keep himself conscious, leaning against a tree, taking a deep breath, and then starting the journey back to your home. He’d have to prepare a proper apology for impeding on you so late at night but the sudden sense of urgency that rushed through his body stopped his needless worrying, walking forward with a huff.

He didn’t know why but he had to get back to you.

Now.

Your head is pounding as you lay in a crumpled heap on the floor, hands raising to cover your head to prevent further damage to your skull. You’d be in more pain if you were fully conscious but you’re only partially aware of what’s happening to you, your house in shambles around you. The place had been torn apart, the bloody bandages from earlier thrown across the room as they had been found during a ‘mandatory search’. The table you had been sitting at was flipped over and jars of needed herbs were tossed on the floor, even worse, now your own blood was staining the floor.

You’re fighting to stay awake, eyes scanning the floor for anything to defend yourself with but it was a fruitless endeavor. Your hands were meant to heal not harm, you weren’t suited for anything like this, and your assailants were clearly far more skilled than the average soldier. You wished you could say you put up a better fight than the pathetic mess that actually happened but there wasn’t time for self-pity.

“Hey you bastards! Didn’t hurt your pride enough after round one?”

Ninja’s are supposed to be quiet, stealthy, but Kuko had burst onto the scene like some sort of hero in a play. You’re wide-eyed as you spot the shock of red hair but your vision is so blurry and your brain so scrambled you’re worried you’re just hallucinating him. Your eyes met his for a second, your pleading reaching Kuko’s heart immediately; if he hadn’t been so carefully trained his entire life, he thinks his anger might’ve exploded in that moment, causing him to do something he’d regret. To see someone who had treated him with kindness, without asking any extra questions about who he was, someone who was likely innocent and had no means of defending themselves…

It pissed him off.

You hear the sound of skin on skin, some cackling that you’re sure is your ninja savior despite how high-pitched and wicked it sounded, and what you hope isn’t your house getting torn into even more pieces. Your face was buried in your arms as you were growing more exhausted, knowing the moon must be high in the sky at this point. You should’ve been in bed hours ago. Who would help your patients tomorrow when you could hardly help yourself? You weakly managed to bring your head up to survey the room around you but it’s suddenly silent, not a soul in sight until Kuko re-enters your home from the front door.

“Should I ask where you took them or just rely on blind faith?”

“You don’t have to blindly trust me but those assholes got what they deserved,” Kuko scoffed as he walked over to you, lifting you effortlessly so he could bring you over to your little bed (which had stayed clear of any debris). “Shit, I’m tired.”

Your eyes widened as Kuko lowered the mask so he could breathe a little easier, his face so smooth except for a scar on the underside of his chin. You can see a few more scars peeking out from the tears in his clothes but you don’t allow your mind to wander. Kuko is currently questioning why he just revealed his face in front of a civilian without thinking twice about the consequences, knowing this was yet another rule he had broken. There was a strict code all ninja were expected to follow and he’d already broken at least two rules, even more because he actually found himself liking you. He would be lucky if he got out of this unscathed by his father, not that he gave a damn what that shitty old man had to say to him, but he’d rather make his life easier.

“You’re bleeding… your wound from before reopened, didn’t it? I need to help you…”

Kuko shied away from your touch but you can see he’s actively fighting his body’s natural response to protect himself, freezing in place to allow you to place a hand on his shoulder. You kept your movements deliberately slow to prove you meant no harm, not like you could even consider raising a hand to him after he had saved you from who knows what kind of fate. He had half a mind to argue with you about trying to help him when you were injured yourself but he was too tired to even argue, his dad would’ve laughed if he heard that one.

“We should sleep…” After you had replaced his bandages with clean one you sent an exasperated look to your home, disliking the fact it was so messy despite none of it being your fault.

“We can just clean tomorrow.” Kuko flopped himself unceremoniously onto the floor beside your bed, hands behind his head like a pillow with his legs crossed; he winced a bit at the impact but otherwise gave no indication he was uncomfortable. You’re about to question his decision to sleep directly beside you but there really didn’t seem to be enough room in your home with a table flipped over in the middle of it, so it was easier to just settle yourself in beside him and hope he wasn’t secretly some pervert.  

Wait, did he say we?

“So, you’re going to stay this time?” You turned on your side to look at him, “I could use some extra help in the woods tomorrow… It shouldn’t be too rough a walk with your injuries… but I guess it’s selfish of me to ask a stranger to just help me out with my own chores…”

“Hmph. I guess I can help.” Kuko’s eyes are closed yet he’s unable to sleep, peaking one open when he hears you shuffling around next to him in an attempt to get comfortable. Even with a bruise forming on your temple you’re as stunning as ever, the young ninja biting his lip as he wondered how much of this was a sense of duty and how much was just him indulging his personal desires.

“Thank you…” You finally whispered out as sleep overcame you.

Kuko is left speechless, cheeks warm as he tries to settle his rapidly beating heart.

[mca-attack21]

Surprise

This is part one of a three part of a King Arthur x Reader imagine mini-series based on the BBC’s Merlin. You can check out my Masterlist here. Enjoy!

You were brought out of your slumber by Arthur who kissed you and whispered sweet nothings in your ear until you finally rolled over to face him smiling. He was kneeling beside your shared bed and looked like a child on Christmas morning, like he didn’t have a care in the world, genuinely happy. 

“What’s gotten into you?” you asked with a laugh.

“I have a surprise for you, come on,” he said all but pulling you out of the bed and towards the door. 

“Arthur, aren’t you forgetting something?”

“What?” he asked looking around.

“I need to get dressed.”

“Oh right, of course. You do that, and I will make sure everything is prepared. Meet me in the throne room when you are ready,” he replied heading out the door.

“Arthur,” you called after him.

“Yes?” 

“I love you,” you said striding over to kiss him. 

“I love you too,” he muttered as your lips fell apart.

He then proceeded to exit the room and one of the servants came in to help you dress for the day. You were quick to make it down to the throne room where Arthur greeted you. He offered you his arm and led you out to the courtyard where Merlin was waiting with two horses.

“Good morning Y/n,” Merlin greeted you.

“Good morning Merlin,” you returned.

“That will be all Merlin, enjoy your day off,” Arthur spoke.

“I will Sire,” Merlin curtseyed causing both you and Arthur to laugh.

Arthur helped you onto your horse before mounting his own. 

“So, where exactly is it that we are going?” you asked.

“You will just have to wait and see,” he gleamed, “that is at least if you can catch me,” he said before racing off.

 “Oh, it’s like that is it,” you followed after him. This reminded you of the rides the two of you used to go on while you were courting. It didn’t take you long to figure out exactly where he was leading you, and you took a short-cut. 

When he did slow down to make sure you were still behind him, he was caught off-guard to see that there was no sign of you. He was on top of a hill that allowed him to see the majority of the path. Had something happened? Where were you? Maybe he shouldn’t have left you. Just as he was about to head back he heard a horse neigh in front of him.

“Are you coming or what?” you ask the King who looks at you in disbelief.

“How did you possibly get ahead of me?”

“You know a woman can never reveal her secrets,” you joke. 

“Is that so,” he rolled his eyes in amusement.

The two of you rode a bit further before you arrived at your destination. “I’ve missed this Arthur,” you spoke as he helped you off of your horse.

“Me too, we ought to make it more of a habit,” he replied smiling.

“That we should, though I do have to ask, what brought this about?”

“The kingdom is at peace, the villages prosper, it seemed like as good of a day as any for a day off.”

“Sounds smart, so it was Merlin’s idea?” you joked. 

“Oh, you will pay for that one.”

You tried your best to dart away from him, but your efforts were fruitless as he caught you and began to tickle you from behind. 

“Okay, okay, I surrender. Please,” you laughed.

“That’s better,” Arthur replied turning you to face him and taking the opportunity to kiss you in a way that he reserved for privacy. “Now then, Merlin has packed us a proper picnic.” 

As you laid the blanket out, Arthur was rummaging through the food and realized that Merlin had forgotten to fill the water canisters. You offered to do it as Arthur set out the food. You made your way down to the water basking in the perfectness of this day. The immense joy you felt was cut short as you heard voices the closer you got to Arthur. He was caught by two men, backed against a tree. 

You had managed to sneak around to the horses and retrieve Arthur’s sword. And slipped behind the guy furthest from Arthur. Arthur briefly made eye contact with you and you could tell he was preparing himself for the fight.

“If you are going to kill me I would at least like to know why,” Arthur spoke. 

“The Lady Morgana had sent us to Camelot with instructions to kill the King. Imagine our luck when we find him alone and unarmed in the middle of the woods,” the man smeared.

“That is where you are wrong, he is not alone,” you spoke catching both men off guard and taking the opportunity to knock the one closest to you out and toss Arthur his sword. He immediately began to duke it out with the remaining man. You watched as Arthur easily gained the upper hand and incapacitated his new-found enemy. He turned back to make sure that you were alright, a look of relief shared between the two of you.

As soon as it had come, the relief left your face as you saw a third man who had launched his dagger towards Arthur. 

“Arthur look out!,” you yelled as you tackled him to the ground. He was quick to make his way to his feet and take the intruder out. 

“Come on Y/n, we need to get out of here before more of Morgana’s men come looking for us,” he said as he sheathed his sword. 

“Arthur,” you called, voice low.

He turned around immediately and felt his stomach drop. You were still on the ground. The dagger that was meant for him stuck in your side, blood already seeping through your shirt. He fought back his emotion as his went to your side. He was debating whether or not he should remove it. “This is why I never take you out,” he tried to joke. 

“I’m sorry,” you smiled painfully.

“Not to worry, I will allow you to make it up to me later. But first, we have to get back to the castle,” he replied, “Do you think you can ride?” he asked. But even as the words left his mouth he knew the answer. The rate at which the energy and color was leaving you was alarming.

“Nevermind that, we will ride together. I am going to remove the dagger and wrap your wound. Then before you know it, we will be back in the castle,” he said more to himself than to you.

The amount of pain that you felt as he withdrew the dagger was unlike anything you had felt before. Your cries of pain brought tears to the young king’s eyes as he quickly tore his shirt to wrap tightly around you. 

“I liked that shirt.”

“I’ll get Merlin to mend it then,” Arthur returned. He then lifted you up and carried you over to the horse. He was debating the best route to take knowing that there would most likely be more of Morgana’s men. With the way he was positioned, it would be impossible to go beyond a trot without jostling you too much and causing you additional pain.

As you were riding, it was beginning to become more and more of a struggle for you to stay awake. Arthur noticing this decided it was best to keep you talking. 

“You know, this is still not the worst date that I’ve been on,”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah, though at least in the other ones I actually got to eat the food,” he tried to joke. Your soft laughs turned into coughs. Which brought concern to Arthur. “Just take it easy Y/n, we will be there soon.”

“Arthur I-”

“Shh, just save your strength.”

“No, I need to say this just in case,” 

“Y/n please, you are going to be fine. There is no need for dramatics,” he tried to hide his concern. 

“Well then I won’t tell you that I love you,” you struggled.

“And I won’t tell you that I love you too,” he replied. 

It was minutes later that your body went completely slack against his. “Y/n? Y/n, hold on,” he said as he had to shift in order not to lose balance or hold of you. He brought the horse to a stop long enough to check that you were still breathing. He then began to direct the horse faster until he made it into the courtyard. 

He was immediately greeted by the knight’s who were not expecting him back for some time. Upon seeing him they questioned what had happened and if he were okay. But he ignored them and lifted you up, carrying you straight to Gaius’ chambers. 

The old man was startled when the door was kicked open. His eyes went wide as he saw the king carrying you in. “Merlin!” he yelled before quickly clearing off his table. Arthur laid you down, taking in the sight of you for the first time since he had helped you on the horse.

“What happened?” Merlin asked 

“We were attacked by some of Morgana’s men. She pushed me out of the way of a dagger. I tried to stop the bleeding,” Arthur answered. 

“How long has she been unconscious, Sire?” Gaius asked. 

“Not long, since the edge of the woods at most,” Arthur answered, “Is she going to be okay Gaius?”

“I will do everything that I can, I promise, but please give me some space,” Gaius said. 

Arthur agreed reluctantly before leaving the room. Once he closed the door he was met with Leon and Gwaine, who asked him what had happened. He explained and sent out patrols to scour the area and return with your horse. He then sunk down in the hallway, refusing to leave until he had a better sense of your condition. 

Meanwhile Gaius had managed to stop your bleeding. He had been able to determine that beyond the fact that the wound was deep and you had lost a considerable amount of blood, that you should be fine. He gave you a potion to help speed up your recovery and sent Merlin to fetch Arthur, so that you could be taken up to your chambers.

As soon as he opened the door he couldn’t say he was entirely surprised to see that Arthur had never really left.

“How is she?” 

“Gaius stopped the bleeding and gave her something to help her recover from the blood loss, she should be awake by morning,” Merlin explained. 

As Arthur entered he was taken aback by how still you were. You looked small, helpless, something that he’d never really seen before. 

“You can take her back to your chambers, Sire, I will come check on her before dinner,” Gaius informed.

Arthur carried you up and laid you carefully in your bed covering you up and taking a seat by your side. He hadn’t even noticed that Merlin had followed him.

“Arthur, we should get you cleaned up,” he said, pulling out some fresh clothes.

“Hmm?” 

“I said that we should get you cleaned up. You know, so when Y/n wakes she won’t be frightened,” Merlin joked, trying to lighten the mood.

“I suppose you’re right,” Arthur agreed, hesitant to take his eyes off of you. 

“It wasn’t your fault,” Merlin spoke.

“She saved my life.”

“And she is going to be fine,” Merlin reminded. 

“I just don’t know what I would do if something were to happen to her.”

“Hopefully the day that you would find out will never come.” 

Merlin helped Arthur into his fresh clothes. “Is there anything I can get you? Perhaps some food?” 

“No, that will be all Merlin, thank you.” 

“Wow, a day off and a ‘thank you’ in the same day, Gwaine is right, Y/n is making you soft.” 

This caused Arthur to chuckle as he returned to his seat at your side. He watched the steady rise and fall of your chest and paused for a moment to brush some of your hair out of your face. He wished to remain there, but Merlin came in telling him that the knights had returned. Arthur left as Merlin promised to take his place and inform him if there was any change. 

[wefoundloveunderthelight]

Void of Extinction by GleefullyCaptainSwan Chapter 1/9

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Chapter 1: There is Nothing to Fear

Storybrooke Maine, 2052. The world is slowly dying from a plague, only known as J2, that is spreading across the realms, a disease that has no cure. A faction known as “The Rebellion” have moved underground to search for a cure while avoiding detection from “The Hive”, a dangerous group run by an unidentified man of darkness searching for power. The only thing standing in the way of either group taking power is Mayor Regina Mills, who spends her time protecting the residents of Storybrooke from criminals who might bring the plague to her small town. The most dangerous occupants, those deemed most likely to bring the plague to town, are given a new opportunity, a chance for a new life, without being a danger to society, courtesy of the Gold Collective.

The pain was tortuously blinding as he tried to open his eyes. It was a feeling of waking from an all-night bender he couldn’t even remember attending. Peering through slits, his room came into view, blue neon lit behind the monitor on his wall. “Status Report.” He spoke, a gritty tone leaving his throat.

“Good morning James, it’s 7:53 am, pollution level 63%, you have no appointments today.” The pleasant robotic voice carried throughout the room. Something felt wrong, like a small itch at the back of his brain, a light tick that was calling out to him, telling him to pay attention.

He stood from his bed, the silk sheets falling to the ground behind him as he wandered through the apartment. “Open blinds.” He spoke and the metal slats hummed as they opened fully, revealing the land in front of him, dark smoke clouds on the horizon behind the mountains. Storybrooke, the only home he had ever known. He sighed; he was going to be late. He was halfway to the bathroom before he stopped in his tracks.

What the bloody hell was he about to be late for?

“What time do I have to be at work?” he said loudly.

“You are expected at 8:30am. Shall I prepare transport?”

He groaned, “Sure, but where is my destination?”

“Granny’s Diner, Main Street, Storybrooke.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose, a headache taking form at the back of his neck. “Granny’s.” He mumbled. Short memories, like a picture show, formed in his head, an older woman barking orders at him as he cooked burgers in the back of the small diner. He was a cook. He wasn’t sure why that felt odd to him, like something was out of place. He didn’t have time to contemplate the decisions he made in his life. He was going to be late for work.

The quick shower didn’t erase the feelings, images he didn’t recognize were imprinted in his subconscious every time he closed his eyes. A woman with hair, a light pale yellow, eyes green as grass staring at him. He couldn’t place the image, some celebrity perhaps he had seen in a movie. He shut off the water, running the towel through his hair as he tried to rub the sleep from his brain.

He dressed and left his apartment, sliding the locks shut with a slam, cranking the large metal door handle to the right to ensure it was locked. He glanced down the darkened hallway at the few people meandering about, the lot of which always appeared to be lurking, watching for unsuspecting individuals who left their belongings unprotected.

“You’re late.” The woman growled as soon as he entered the back of the diner.

“I’m sorry, Granny. In my defense, I forgot I had…” He thought about his sentence. What did he forget exactly? That he had a job, that he was a cook, why he had even woken up at the time he did, dreaming about a woman he had never met, “to work this early.” He finished.

“I’ve had to tell you the same thing since you started working here, it would do you some good to have your AIM set a damn alarm before you go to bed.”

Killian had alerted his AIM or Artificial Intelligence Monitorto set a 7am alarm, yet it failed to alert him to his shift for the last few weeks. He would need to have it repaired if this continued.

“Yes Ma’am, apologizes.”

“Just get to work, we got people waiting.”

James pushed through his shift, flipping burgers, cracking eggs, and sending out plates of food he had no memory of knowing how to cook. He wondered to himself how he ended up with this life, when had he decided that this was the best job he could find? Each time he tried to imagine another career, something that he might actually enjoy doing, the migraine would hit him out of nowhere, crippling him until the inhibitor was injected into his arm and his breathing returned to normal.

Whatever plagued him, this medical condition that brought him to his knees had always been with him from what he could remember. He assumed that it had begun when he was a child, it was second nature for him to know to inject himself once the pain hit. Yet he couldn’t remember when it began.

He climbed the stairs to his apartment at the end of the day, entering his room and locking it down behind him. “Set alarm for 7am.” He said once he sat his keys on the counter.

“Alarm set. 7am.”

He went about the mundane task of preparing his dinner, watching the Holo TV, news that the plague had spread to the outer banks was on every station. Mayor Mills calmed the crowd during her press conference and on each holo announcement that played every 15 mins.

“People of Storybrooke, I give you my assurance that the plague will not breach our walls. We have taken every measure possible to protect our citizens. We continue to fight back the resistance uprising, and our law enforcement continues to arrest any faction that supports it. There is nothing to fear.”

Mayor Regina Mills stood in the center of the screen, flanked by her officers on either side. She was fierce, strong, and protected the town of Storybrooke with honor.

“Turn off Holo TV.” He announced, setting his dishes in the machine for cleaning.

He crawled into bed, pulling the covers over his hips. “What time is the alarm set for?” He asked, ensuring that everything was still working.

“Alarm is set for 7am, James. Sleep well.”

~*~

Emma woke to the sound of crying. She jumped up from her spot and reached for her son, pulling him against her chest. “Hush now Henry, mommy’s got you.” Pressing her child to her breast she felt the tug against her nipple as her son quieted. She smiled down at the infant in her arms, her heart aching as she watched him so still against her, as if nothing in the world mattered but his own nourishment.

Emma wished her view of the world were as innocent. But she knew better.

She looked around the dark shack she had been hiding in for the last few weeks. She could hear the water on the other end of the door, just on the outskirts of the town line. It would be dangerous if anyone were to find her. She had given up everything to get away from Neal Cassidy. Her safety, comfort, even her future was all gone the instant she escaped the tower that had been her home for the last five years.

Emma knew it was dangerous being outside the protective walls of Storybrooke, those who had been exiled lived on the outskirts, many would not escape the plague once they lost the protections provided behind the walls. Emma knew it all too well, five years ago when the plague first appeared, she had taken ill, she was expected to die quickly, painfully. But after a month, the symptoms subsided, and Emma survived.

Doctors could not explain why she survived, only that she had been very lucky.

And then she met Neal. She thought she had finally found someone to share her life with. She was taken in by his father, Gold, a man obsessed with finding the cure to the plague.

His company, The Gold Collective had invested in experimenting on anyone who had come down with the plague, valiantly searching for a cure, the perfect gene sample that would save humanity, but his efforts had been fruitless as most of his subjects died before he had completed his experiments.

Emma found him to be odd, even a bit intimidating at times. His obsession with the plague caused her to keep her own situation quiet. She had a feeling if he had known that she had somehow lived through the plague that his interest in her might become more than just the father of the man she lived with.

Gold took care of her, as Neal’s girlfriend, he ensured that she had everything she could ever want. And Neal provided her money, food, and a roof over her head. Something she didn’t have before she had met him, back when she was homeless, trying to find her place in Storybrooke. Neal took her in and loved her.

But all of that changed a little over a year ago. Emma wasn’t snooping, she hadn’t meant to be in the office after hours, but Neal had not returned home that evening, and Emma had been worried. So, she left the penthouse suite of Gold Laboratories and headed to Neal’s office. Before she even reached his wing, she heard arguing.

The conversation between Gold and his son was chilling. She knew she needed help. She didn’t want to cause alarm or alert either of the men to the knowledge she had overheard them, had realized who the Gold Collective really was, so instead she waited out her time. A week passed before she found her mark, a police detective whom she had followed for days. He lived a quiet life, devoted to his job, going between his apartment downtown and his job at the station, never deviating from his day. He always arrived at work at 10:02am for a 10:30 shift. He had lunch with his partner at 12:45, he picked up Chinese food at 9:00pm before returning to his apartment. She had watched him assisting his elderly neighbor up the stairs and she knew this was the man she needed to trust.

Officer Killian Jones didn’t know what to make of her when she showed up at his door at midnight one night. Begging to talk to him, asking for discretion as she tried to determine if he trusted her. When he learned of the knowledge she had, he panicked. He sent her home that evening, telling her to wait a week before she reached out to him again.

It took a month, Emma would arrive at his apartment, they would talk about their plans, share intel on what they had each learned, and suddenly, knowing he was the one person she could trust, feeling like for the first time in her life, someone understood and truly cared about her, she fell for the man.

He tried to deny her, not wanting to take advantage of her trust. But they were in love. There was no denying it. The affair was something that neither one of them had the power to stop. Emma would spend her evenings with Killian, staring at the stars talking about what the future held for them once they were able to figure out a way to stop everything that was happening around them.

But she always returned to Neal, she had no choice but to keep up the ruse in order to protect the secret she had. Too many powerful people were involved for her to alert anyone else. Killian didn’t even trust his partner David enough to share the information.

Suddenly Neal became protective of her, asking her where she was going anytime she left the apartment, so Emma had to distance herself from Killian. It had been a month since they had been in contact when Emma received devastating news. She and Neal were having a baby. It broke her heart. When she finally told Killian, he urged her to escape before the child was born. Once Neal had a child, he would never let her leave.

Emma knew he was right, unfortunately by the time she planned her escape, the child was born a prematurely. She was trapped. Killian became concerned for her safety now that a child was involved, and Emma was forced to share her secret with her childhood friend, Will Scarlett. He sprang into action, becoming the go between for Emma and Killian to set their plan in motion for Emma and Henry to escape.

That night, she met Will on the roof, and they made their daring escape, 65 flights of stairs down the back of the building. They waited for hours at the drop off point, but Killian never showed. Emma was devastated, she felt trapped. Will went in search of him, he wasn’t at his apartment, the station, or any of his usual locations. Killian was gone without a trace.

She knew that something bad had happened to him. He would never abandon her. She trusted him. The only solution she could come up with was that Gold or Neal had found out about their plan.

Killian was in danger, unless something bad had already happened to him. She was desperate to find him. Without Killian Jones, the entire town was in danger.

“Are you decent?” Will’s voice rang out from the other side of the door. She pulled her shirt over her breast, setting her sleeping son beside her.

She stood up and looked through the crack in the door. Will was standing nervously on the edge of the water. She clicked the locks, lifting the wooden latch until the door slid open. Will stepped quickly into the shack.

“You ok?”

“Did you find anything?” She asked anxiously.

“Maybe.”

Emma stared at him with pleading eyes. “What do you mean maybe?”

“Look, don’t freak out, ok?”

“You’re scaring me.” She responded nervously.

“I drove by the station again, nothing. David is there but Killian wasn’t around. I didn’t want to go in, because I figure they might start asking questions, but there was this girl sitting outside and I asked who I could talk to about a case of Killian’s, and I used me ole charm and she told me that he never came back to work a few days ago, and that they opened a missing persons case on him.”

“Oh God, Will.”

“I said don’t freak out.”

“This is terrible. They killed him, didn’t they?”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, I haven’t told you everything yet.” He pleaded as she paced the room. “Anyway, I went by his apartment, and it was empty. The neighbor says they haven’t seen him for days.” She started to speak, and he pressed his hand to her mouth. “Emmie, I need you to be quiet, I know that’s hard for you.”

She groaned against his finger and mumbled. “Fine.”

“I got hungry as I usually do about this time and got a craving for a big greasy burger.”

“Seriously, you wanted me to be quiet so you could talk about food? I’m losing my patience, Scarlet.”

“The burger was excellent by the way, but that’s not the point.” He paused. “I went back to my car, and there was a man out back tossing out some trash.”

“Would you get to the damn point!” She yelled.

“It was Killian.”

“What?”

“The guy out back. Spitting image of him.”

“Did you talk to him, ask him what the hell is going on?”

“I talked to him, but he acted like he’d never seen me in his life. Swears his name is James Rogers. Emmie, it was the damnedest thing I’ve ever seen. But I tried, I even called him Killian Jones and he stared straight through me…” He dropped his head. “And then he thought about it, I could see the wheels turning in his head, and then he started wincing, and that’s when I saw it.”

“Saw what?” Emma asked impatiently, dreading the fact that she could already feel it in her gut, she knew what he was going to tell her, every sensor in her brain was going off that she already knew the truth.

“An inhibitor. The man injected himself with one of Gold’s inhibitors.”

Emma felt the tears forming, she knew it was the truth. It made sense, he would never have abandoned her or Henry. The only explanation was that Gold or Neal had found out what she was planning to do and got to Killian first. “They erased him.” She said sadly, feeling every last bit of hope she had draining from her being.

“Emmie, he’s one of the void. There’s no way back from that.”

“Don’t say that, we don’t know that. It’s all experimental, it’s not even legal. Gold’s been doing it for years on test subjects. Killian can fight it; I know he can. He’s too strong.”

“Emmie, he had no idea, absolutely no idea of who I was.”

“It doesn’t matter, Will. We must keep trying. Maybe the inhibitor just suppresses his memories. We have to get him not to use it.”

“For all we know, not using it could cause his brain to explode. It’s dangerous.”

“I won’t give up on him Will. I can’t lose him.”

He pulled her into his arms, rubbing her back in slow circles as she cried. “It’s gonna be ok, we’ll figure it out.”

“What are we going to do, Will? Without Killian, I’ll never get into the station to upload the information.”

“We’ll find a way. That’s what we do right?”

She smiled weakly. She wouldn’t give up on him, he risked so much to try and protect her and another man’s child. He had given her hope when she had none. She would never stop trying to get him back. Even if it killed her, she would save Killian Jones and take down the Gold empire.

[lovelylogans]

honey, you’re familiar (like my mirror)

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chapter three: psycellic consentia

psycellic consentia: psycellium (or psycelium) is a psychic nervous system that allows sensates to connect with one another. sensates have a solitary "above" existence, and are connected "below" via the psycelium. consentia, latin: knowledge shared with others, being in the know or privy to, joint knowledge; complicity; knowledge within oneself, consciousness, feeling.

ROMAN

It hasn’t even been five minutes since Sasha left to grab dinner, but Roman’s already feeling strangely jittery.

A nap would be a fruitless venture, he’s realized, so he’s gotten up to pace around the room, reciting the lines of the scene he’s meant to be filming tomorrow. He knows them all by heart, naturally, but it’ll be an odd scene to shoot anyways. His character, Pablo, would be escaping from the grasp of his friend-turned-betrayer (who would turn out to have been bluffing and truly Pablo’s friend all along by the end of the movie) by sprinting through the forest, making his getaway by leaping into a river and swimming away.

This stunt he doesn’t get to do; he’s already technically filmed the scenes when he’s in the water, and a stunt double will be “jumping off the cliff.” So tomorrow is going to be entirely on-location, acting then sprinting through the forest.

So Roman chants his lines to himself, pacing in his room with his eyes closed, trying his hardest to sink into Pablo’s mindset. And, after a few minutes of running his lines over in his head, it’s like he’s actually walking in the forest; the snap of a twig under his feet, the smell of leaves and dirt, the cooing of various birds.

Roman’s jaw drops, because—because no way. No way.

No fucking way is his brother standing there, with a bundle of twigs tucked up under his arms, staring at Roman the way a kid would stare at a particularly adventurous snail journeying along the ground.

Well, the way Remus would look at an adventurous snail, as a kid. Roman would have probably just fled the snail in favor of playing with wooden swords and rescuing imaginary damsels.

"Aw, c’mon, man, what the fuck," Remus grumbles, looking skyward as if asking for some kind of divine intervention, though Roman knows that's never been the case, much to their chronically Catholic abuela’s dismay.

She probably would have been pleased if Roman tacked on a God rest her soul there, but considering her abysmal reaction when her grandson decided to be an actor and an even worse reaction when her other grandson informed them all that he was, in fact, a grandson, he's never really wanted to please her anyway.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Remus says tightly, dropping his bundle of twigs. 

Remus. Remus is here. Or Roman is there? Whatever, it doesn’t matter, there he is. That’s Roman’s brother.

“What, are you trying to lure me in for the police to catch me? Because it’s not going to fucking work, Roman.” 

God, he’s alive, he doesn’t look hurt, he’s—well, actually, Roman has no idea if he’s safe or not. He just kind of looks like he’s dirty, with scraggly hair and smudges on his face. This alone isn’t entirely unusual for Remus, but the amount of it is. But—he’s here. He’s alive. He has some form of shelter, he’s probably been eating, he’s okay—

“Or are you just here to—”

Roman staggers forward and flings his arms around Remus’ neck, hugging him as tight as he can, almost as if he can feel what Remus feels, the arms wrapping around his neck and the arms wrapping around his torso in kind, feeling echoes of what he does, and what Remus does, bouncing between like a seismic shock.

Across the world, Janus smiles in his sleep; Emile wiggles happily in his chair while waiting for his next therapy session; Patton grins at a wall about nothing in particular; Logan touches his own shoulders, blinking rapidly in surprise at the weight of phantom arms holding him close.

REMY

Remy is used to experiencing emotions that aren’t his.

When he feels a near-violent joy sprouting up in his chest, he pauses briefly in pouring a customer a cup of coffee to put a hand on his chest and smile to himself.

He’ll ask Emile what’s got him so happy later. He’s just happy that Emile is happy.

REMUS

Remus blinks at Roman after Roman pulls back from the hug, hands on his shoulders, still beaming at him.

“—For a while I thought that you were coming to stay at my apartment with me, but then you never showed, and I was worried sick wondering where you were all this time. I’ve been reading all about the case—oh, that doesn’t matter now, we’re together! Now you can come here to the city, and I can post your bail so you can stay with me, and I can get you a really good lawyer, and—!”

“You’ve been reading about the case?” Remus says, his voice sounding strange even to his own ears.

Roman blinks at him. “Yeah?” There’s an unspoken duh in his tone.

“So you know that I’m the main suspect,” Remus prompts.

“Yeah…”

“So, you,” Remus says, “acting sweetheart of the nation with your dear fake girlfriend—you want to bring in a dirty gremlin accused of murder? The sibling the whole country doesn’t even know you have?” 

Roman looks suddenly anxious, as if expecting Remus to blow up and yell at him.

“Do you even think I’m innocent?” Remus continues, only faking his bluster a little.

“I mean,” Roman says. “It doesn’t really matter to me.”

“Does what matter?” Remus says. The bluster is much more faked this time.

“I mean, you’re my brother,” Roman says. “I don’t really care if you killed him or not.” 

Remus bursts out laughing.

Roman gawks at him, caught off guard, and Remus doesn’t know if it’s just from seeing Roman again, or the fact that he’s been on the run for over a week now and has only been eating the plants a hallucination taught him about, or what, but the expression on his face is just too good.

Roman! Who regularly gets caught in the tabloids! Getting a snapshot of him escorting a man wanted for murder into his warm, loving home! The mental image of the shocked expression on any pap’s face is just—oh, it would be so perfect.

“And your ‘girlfriend?’” Remus says, using air quotes. “Does she know about me?”

“No, but,” Roman says, still with that stupidly heroic, determined look on his face. “I’ll tell her. I’ll tell her tonight, even. She’ll understand.”

Right. If anyone else was as much of a media darling, it was Roman’s fake girlfriend, with her big, brown, innocent eyes and absolute inability to seem like she’s used to being famous.

“Oh, that’s too good,” Remus chortles. “Yeah, Roman. Okay. Sure. You go ahead and tell her.”

“I’m gonna!”

“Sure, fine,” Remus says, waving him off. “Make arrangements to bring your murderous brother home. I’ll catch a bus or something, I’m sure no cop is gonna see me and arrest me on the way to your apartment.” 

“I will,” Roman says, firm and resolute, and Remus just shakes his head, grinning still.

Of the pair of them, people seemed to think Remus was the crazy one when it was clear that Roman was absolutely bonkers. But at least he’d grown a pretty good sense of humor since Remus had been accused of killing someone.

JANUS

“Fucking finally, Jazza.”

Janus considers getting up and walking right back out, but unfortunately, his stomach is already set on fish and chips with the made-in-house sauce here. He wearily begins to weigh the costs of putting up with Key and the nickname “Jazza” against the benefits of sriracha aioli. 

And money. The money ends up winning out every time.

Three more jobs, Janus tells himself. Just three more jobs, and then you don’t have to put up with the risk anymore. Two, if one of them has a bigger compensation than average, and for the quality of my work...

It’s a lie, of course. Janus has been telling himself three more jobs ever since he clawed his way onto the bar standards board, years ago.

“What’s been going on with you, anyway?” Key says around a mouthful of chips, which garbles his speech beyond recognition. Unfortunately, Janus has known Key long enough that he can translate it with ease.

“Chew with your mouth closed and clean up your face,” Janus says, unable to stop himself. Habits are difficult to kill, Janus supposes.

Key rolls his eyes but obligingly blots at his face with a napkin. “D’you got it?”

Janus offers a small box wrapped like a present in answer. Inside is a hard drive containing the information their client had requested.

Key takes it, grinning, and stuffs it into his hoodie pocket.

“Be careful with that,” Janus scolds.

“You say that every time,” Key says. “Have I ever lost one of your—”

Janus glares at him.

“—one of the fruits of your labor?” Key says, quickly back-pedaling, realizing they’re in a public setting and a waitress is fast approaching with Janus's order.

“This smells amazing.”

Janus tries his best not to startle, but even with two days to process what the man in his mirror had told him, it’s still bizarre.

The actor beside him looks briefly embarrassed as if he hadn’t meant to say that aloud. Janus glances over at him—a member of his cluster, what an unappealing word—and sees a glimpse of a cramped little trailer. On a movie set, probably? He’s wearing leather pants and a leopard-print shirt that Janus has the feeling he’d never wear in real life.

Janus also feels the grumbling in Roman’s stomach. Janus sighs to himself.

“And another basket of chips with extras of that same sauce, please.”

“You got it, lovey,” she says, turning to go.

“Extra hungry, then?” Key says.

“Something like that,” Janus says neutrally. Without asking for Janus's permission—maybe knowing Janus was about to offer anyway—Roman reaches out and gulps deeply from Janus's Ribena.

“How’s,” Janus says, briefly casts about in his mind for the name of the latest love of Key’s life, and lands on, “Francesca?”

Key snorts. “Ancient history, mate.”

Not exactly surprising. Key’s always fancied himself a romantic, but he’s never been able to follow through on his commitment to anything ever.

“M’goin’ on a date with a bird tonight, though,” he says around a mouthful of chips.

“For God’s sake, Key, could you at least pretend you weren’t raised in a barn?” Janus snips at him, even as he’s dunking his own chips into the aioli.

Key grins at him, and Janus wrinkles his nose. He can tell Roman is doing the same beside him. They share the same sentiment at the moment, but it’s Roman’s “that’s disgusting” that falls out of his mouth.

He realizes why Key’s brow furrows a moment too late.

“Uh, bless you?” Key says; the closest he’s ever been to the Mexican vernacular of Spanish is ordering a fajita at a local Tex-Mex restaurant.

“Oops,” Roman says, not particularly apologetically. He grabs another handful of chips.

“I’m studying in my spare time,” he says and fixes Key with a look. “A hobby you could choose to emulate.”

“What’d I need more school for?” He scoffs. “Ten years was well enough.”

“To aspire for more for yourself—”

“Oh, here we go,” Key snaps, tossing down the piece of battered cod he was about to eat, splattering sauce on the wood table. “I am so sick of your “high and mighty” act.”

He mimics Janus's accent at high and mighty; Janus grits his teeth, and very purposefully enunciates his next few sentences.

“This cannot last forever, you understand.”

“No, just so long as you get rich off it, eh?”

“Um,” Roman says. “I’d offer to go and leave you two to duke this one out in private, but I’m not really sure how to stop this weird astral projection thing—”

Janus ignores him.

“Oh, as if being a lawyer doesn’t pay enough. Put your brain to some use and think, why is it that I keep helping you?!” Janus snaps, leaning across the table and softening his voice. “Why on earth do you think I continue with this?!”

“Spare me,” Key scoffs. 

“The only reason I keep doing this is because you keep doing this,” Janus hisses. “The only reason I became a lawyer was because of you getting us into trouble.”

“Don’t—” Key says, his face twisting up.

“It is because of me we are not rotting in jail, Quirinus. I’m sure it’s such a burden I want more for you.”

“It’s Key,” he grumbles before he rolls his eyes at Janus and tilts his baseball cap at him in farewell. “And since you have aspired to more for yourself, and since being a big fancy lawyer does pay so much, and since you saved me,” this is said with heavy sarcasm, “you fucking prat, you can get the bill. Much obliged, big brother.”

As he walks off, he tosses a “wanker” over his shoulder for good measure, jamming his orange cap onto his head.

Janus pinches the bridge of his nose, exhaling sharply.

There’s a pause. 

Then: the slurping of someone draining his Ribena.

Janus opens his eyes and turns his head to Roman, who’s chasing the last drops of Ribena about the glass with a straw.

“So, he’s probably not finishing that, right?” Roman says. Without waiting for an answer, he grabs a handful of chips and shoves them into his mouth. “‘Cause I’ve been waiting for Sasha to come back with dinner for like an hour now and I’m starving,” he says loudly while chewing.

Janus's jaw is slightly unhinged.

“You are a pestilence upon my life,” he says at last.

Roman smirks at him, mercifully close-mouthed, and swallows down the food that Janus supposes he’ll be paying for. Janus is certain that Roman is doing this to annoy him.

“Wait ‘till you have to deal with my brother.” He dunks the cod into the sauce. “Also, how much do you know about what’s going on here, anyway? Why do random people keep popping into my life?” 

Janus lowers his voice so they aren’t heard by any random passerby.

“Allegedly, we are known as sensates. I assume you’ve been seeing other people—we’re stuck seeing them psychically for the rest of our lives, as well as sharing specific skills, languages, emotions…”

Roman reaches for Key’s Ribena and drains that too.

“Tastes,” Janus adds pointedly. “That the other is paying for.”

“Yeah, exactly, you’re paying for it,” Roman says, and grabs another piece of cod. “It won’t go to waste now.”

“You won’t even get the nutritional benefits of eating food,” Janus says. “You’ll just get the taste of it.”

“Still, you’re getting your money’s worth. I’m helping.”

“Aren’t you rich?” Janus says. “Being an actor and all.”

“Aren’t you?” Roman counters. “Being a lawyer and all.”

Roman jams the cod into the ramekin of sauce.

“Either way, this place sure won’t take pesos, and it’s not like I can psychically transfer you money. Hey, how much do you know about Mexican law, anyways?” He takes a massive bite.

Janus puts his face into his hands for a few moments, before he reaches into his messenger pad and pulls out a legal pad and pen.

“Enough,” he says grudgingly—truthfully, not quite as much as English law. However, with this whole connection thing, they do share knowledge, so he certainly knows more now than he did before. He gestures at the waitress for another couple of Ribenas. “Why don’t you refresh me on the details of your brother’s case?”

PATTON

Patton frowns, tapping his pen against his chin as his kindergartners are all sprawled out on their mats for their post-lunch nap. He usually takes advantage of this time to catch up on marking (normally, just putting “good job!” stickers on their papers, they’re five) but right now he’s staring at something he’d written down out of the blue and trying to understand it.

He knows that he’s technically a sensate now, but does that mean his kindergartners are going to have to put up with scrawlings about Mexican flora when Patton had meant to be writing down the activities of the day?

“Aw, jeez,” someone grumbles, and Patton turns to look over his shoulder.

He grins sheepishly at the sight of an academic article plastered over with shiny star stickers. “Oops.”

The man is familiar and yet not; Patton doesn’t think he’s seen this one outside of briefly popping in and out. 

The man sighs, turning the paper over and then looking back at Patton.

“At least they’re purple,” he grumbles, and within a heartbeat, he’s gone. Patton returns his attention to his marking.

Oh, yay, he did end up putting stickers on the kiddos’ papers!

LOGAN

Not many people were particularly aware of this, especially considering the average population was generally unaware of the space research in Antarctica, but the cafeterias here are actually excellent.

In the history of Antarctic explorers and researchers, it had gone quite differently—Ernest Shackleton and Tom Crean ate seal, dog meat, and biscuits mixed with melted snow during the Trans-Antarctic Expedition of 1914—but chefs now seem to view it as an intriguing challenge, a way to sharpen their skills. 

Logan is an adequate enough cook, to the point where he can feed himself at home, but the food here is on another level. He’s finishing off his dessert, a lovely chocolate tart when a chef sits across from him at the dinner table, the same one that had served him his tray tonight.

He doesn’t know her well, so he hopes he’s disguised her squint at her nametag under the guise of adjusting his glasses.

“Very well done, Dot,” he says, lifting his fork to his mouth.

“Oh, good, you are one of us,” she says, with a level of relief that seems odd for hearing a compliment about her cooking. “I was wondering, Casimire gave me the oddest look when I told him to head off early so I could make eye contact with you.”

“What are you—?” Logan says, eyes narrowed, before his eyes flash to the kitchen, automatically looking for Casimire, the chef he’s most used to seeing.

True enough, Casimire isn’t there.

But Dot is here.

Dot is here twice.

Dot is sitting at the table with him. But Dot is smiling and chatting with one of the marine biology research team members, ten feet away. But—

“Oh, I can hear that brain working,” Dot says. She reaches out to pat his hand; it feels as warm and real as a hand can feel.

“What is this,” Logan forces through numb lips, appetite gone, chocolate tart entirely forgotten. “What are you—what is happening—?”

“Shh, shh, not too loud,” Dot says in a hushed voice. “To everyone else, it looks like you’re sitting alone. Here—you’ve got your bag with you, did you pack your earpiece?”

Logan nods.

“Put that in.”

He does as she says. What else is there to do?

The Dot in the kitchen turns to wink and smile at him reassuringly. He isn’t sure how to tell the Dot before him that there is absolutely nothing in this situation that could comfort him, and pointing out that there are two of her and that he is seeing things is not a particularly good way to go about it regardless.

He fumbles with the earpiece a few times, but he puts it in and clicks it on.

“There,” she says in satisfaction. “Now it’ll look like you’re talking over Bluetooth. Neat little trick, isn’t it? Keeps us from looking,” and she circles her ear with her finger and gives a two-note whistle, the universal sign for off your rocker. “I’m surprised your parent hasn’t taught you yet, but I suppose you are very new. Has your migraine stopped yet?”

Logan gawks at her. “How did you know I have a—?”

“Because I had one too when it all started,” she says. “All of us do. Let me tell you, I really wasn’t expecting to see a sensate down here, but I guess when you come to a place like this nothing should surprise you, right? That’s what my Larry said. But this’ll be handy, he was hoping I could meet a nice scientist to connect to the Archipelago! You’re an astronomer, right? That’s a very brainy subject.”

“Wait, go back,” Logan says. “How did you know I have a migraine? Why are you talking about my mother? Why should she have taught me about using Bluetooth? What does a group of islands have to do with anything, and what’s a sensate?”

The smile on Dot’s face slips.

“Oh dear,” she says. “Oh dear, you don’t know anything at all, do you?”

Logan gives her an offended look before he can really stop himself.

“Well,” Dot says thoughtfully. “A scientist. I bet you’d be really interested in the opportunity to send a question around the world within seconds, wouldn’t you?”

“Google exists,” Logan points out.

Dot smiles at him. “Where do you think they got the idea? Sapiens invented it in the 1990s; we’ve had it since the Neolithic.”

Against his better judgment to stop listening to what is most likely to be a hallucination, Logan finds himself very intrigued.

VIRGIL

Virgil is elbow-deep in papers about abrus precatorius, sorting them into piles for useful information or irrelevant when there’s the sound of someone hitting their knees beside him.

Virgil jumps, startled, and looks into the stunning blue eyes of Logan, the handsome Pole in Antarctica. His eyes are bright, eager, excited, and there’s a wide smile on his face.

“We’re not hallucinating,” he declares and spreads out an armful of his own notes; hastily taken, from the look of it, and he presses his fingers against an earpiece that’s blinking blue light. “Oh, and get one of these, by the way, technology has apparently made things much better for us, Dot said we’d get burned during the witch trials because we’d be talking to people who weren’t there and knowing things we shouldn’t know, but I think that’s an exaggeration. I wish there was a more central written history, but I suppose we’ve evolved in a way that word-of-mouth knowledge is the most efficient, haven’t we?”

There’s a lot of thoughts whirling around Virgil’s head—what do you mean, how do you know, why are we talking about witch burnings and evolution—but what comes out, a bit stupidly, is “You look good.”

Logan’s rambling stops in his tracks as he stares at Virgil, bemused, mouth slightly ajar.

“Um, I mean,” Virgil says. He coughs. “You look… less worried than last time. Which is. Good!” 

Logan keeps staring. With his lips parted like that, it’s all too easy to see that Logan must have licked them, recently; the sheen of it catches Virgil’s eye. He stares at Logan’s mouth. He stares at Logan.

Stop it stop it stop it he’ll think you’re weird, something in his brain shrieks, and that breaks the spell.

“So, uh, you’ve figured out what’s happening to us?” Virgil prompts.

Logan shakes himself, before he spreads out his papers, picking up one in particular. Virgil takes it, examining it; it’s two sketches of a brain. He’s familiar enough with biology by virtue of having doctors for parents to know that the sketch on the right side of the paper is not right. 

There’s something wrong with this brain.

“This,” Logan says, tapping the leftmost brain with his finger, “is the typical human brain.”

“Right, yeah,” Virgil says, frowning, and points to the rightmost brain. Their hands almost touch. “There’s something wrong with this one—something about the hemispheres, I think? It’s like there’s a growth.”

Logan moves to point to the rightmost brain, and this time, their hands do brush. But, before Virgil can think anything about it other than his hands are soft and he feels a little cold—

“This is what our brains are becoming.”

Virgil immediately panics.

“But it’s okay!” Logan says quickly as if he’s able to tell. Maybe he can—Virgil isn’t sure how clear it reads on his face. Or maybe, the way he’s been laughing at nothing or frowning at thin air, Logan can feel it. “It’s okay, it’s totally natural for us. For homo sapiens, no, but for homo sensorium—”

“Homo sensorium?” Virgil repeats, brow furrowed.

“It’s what we are,” Logan says. “Scientific name homo sensorium, colloquial name sensate.”

Sensate. Virgil hears the word, and something slips in place in his mind—it’s as if he’s heard that term before. It feels like breathing in a whiff of air and catching the scent of a sweet that sends your memory careening back to a time when you were seven and elbow-deep in dough with your grandmother. But it’s like he can’t quite fully grasp the memory. Something niggles just at the edge of it. It’s like his brain is trapped on the grandparent metaphor because he cannot stop thinking about his mother’s mother.

He sets the memory aside, for now; he’ll have time to think of it later.

Because, as Logan explains everything he’s learned so far, Virgil has absolutely zero chance of thinking about anything else. 

They spend most of the night talking about it. Even with all the bizarre aspects of what this new information brings, it’s easy to talk to Logan in a way that isn’t typical of Virgil speaking with other people. Virgil isn’t sure if that’s because they share this psychic connection, or if they’re both doctors, or if it’s some other connection.

“The way it was phrased is that we’re different types of human, but I don’t think we’re so different that it sets us apart from other people. From what I understand, the growth of our population is primarily due to epigenetic factors…”

Okay, so, primarily due to how behaviors and environments affect his genes. But what epigenetic factor triggered this in Virgil? Was this a dormant thing that could be triggered by ingesting some sort of chemical, or was it due to the way Virgil behaved? Had he done something in his life to cause all of this?

“A lot of the science is conjecture,” Logan warns, “and there was apparently some big corporation intent on doing medical experimentation on us ten or so years ago, but that’s mostly handled, you just have to be more careful about making eye contact with strangers in public…”

Oh, great, scientists hunted them down for medical experimentation so now he had to closely guard himself in any hospital! What a thrilling thing to hear for the son of two doctors!

“I’ve gathered that we can “share” certain skills or memories and that these things will become easier with practice. That’s why I could speak Xhosa and you Polish when we first met, it was the skill-sharing attribute, which could certainly come in handy for several reasons, but I also understand that we can visit each other at various times. There’s apparently a medicine you can take to block it, but it’s rather rare to come by, so unless you know a pharmacist willing to do some work under the table…”

That would almost definitely come to bite one of them in the ass at some point. What about privacy? Was he just doomed to have people from all over the world pop in on him while he’s in the shower or something?

“Dot said that she met her husband Larry through the connection, which drove off into a whole side-tangent. Apparently, romantic partners in clusters—that’s the widely accepted term, ‘cluster.’” 

Virgil pulls a face.

“I know, they could have picked literally any other more appealing word for it, couldn’t they? Bunch, group, flock, clique, assemblance—Anyways, romantic partnerships within clusters are somewhat common, and most of the sensate community finds it quite normal. I think our parent is in one, or at least that’s what Dot said.”

Logan clears his throat and adjusts his glasses. “Apparently some of the old-fashioned sensates think it’s like—what was it Dot’s parent said?—”the worst sort of narcissism.” Apparently, her parent was very displeased to be a parent and wanted nothing to do with creating bonds. I personally think that’s a rather backwards—humanity survives and thrives due to its ability to create bonds and care for each other—but I suppose I tend to think that way about a lot of old-fashioned things.”

“I guess I do, too,” Virgil muses aloud.

They sit quietly, for a while, so quietly that Virgil doesn’t notice when Logan slips away; the only thing that does bring him back from his swirling thoughts is when a voice breaks Virgil’s silence. It sends the emotions of knowing what’s happening to him shattering to the ground.

“Who on earth are you talking to?”

[jae-writes-fanfiction]

omgggg im stoked ur on the slasher train now!!! for ur spooky event could you do drabbles for them comforting a really kinda sad s/o??? ik this wasnt on the prompts list but 2020 has been v rough and i just wanna be held 😔

Pick Me Off The Ground

Notes: I ended up writing this for Pelle, The Candyman, Hannibal, Tiffany Valentine, Jennifer Check, and Susie Bannion. It’s been a long ass time since I got a drabbles request, I hope the formatting is okay.

Warnings: Refernces to being sad, I struggle with depression/anxiety so some of the terminology and descriptions I use can be trigger or relate to depression, also they’re all murderers. Enjoy Responisbly ❤️

- - -

Pelle

Your shoulders slumped and you hid your face on the cot trying to muffle the chocked sobs racking through your body. This entire trip was a disaster. You’d woken up that morning with a positive outlook, sure the Hårga wasn’t what you expected. But their beliefs and rituals, although grim, were fascinating as far as anthropology and psychology go. Pelle had shown you around all day, even letting you see pages from their sacred text. But when you got back to the center of town you were confronted by the other angry tourists complaining your friends had taken the only transport and left.

You were embarrassed by their rude behavior, and absolutely heartbroken that they hadn’t cared to wait for you. Members of the Hårga had calmed the other tourists and promised to take them to the airport as soon as possible. You felt utterly alone, and displaced. You froze when you felt a hand on your shoulder, your mind scrambling for an apology to send whoever was there away.

“I’m sorry about our friends,” Pelle said quietly, his voice soothing and remorseful.

You sniffled and sat up, wiping your eyes. “I’ve felt for a while I wasn’t fitting it but I didn’t know...” you bit your lip but couldn’t keep your eyes from welling with tears again.

Pelle sat closer to you, and pulled you into his arms. He didn’t say anything, just let you cry and for the first time in a very long time, it felt like someone truly cared about you. You felt warm, and safe.

- - -

The Candyman (Daniel Robitaille)

Every bone in your body ached, you were exhausted body and soul. Life had gotten to be so draining, so stagnent and empty. Your career felt stale and the late hours impossibly fruitless. You had just enough energy to kick your shoes off and drop your things at the door before collapsing into bed.

At first you were restless, tossing and turning your body unable to relax. Desperately you turned to gaze and whisper at the mirror over your dresser. You knew he didn’t like be summoned without a more malevolent purpose, but you were always the exception. You couldn’t feel his weight on the bed, but you could feel his presence in the room instantly.

You smiled softly as you felt his arms around you. You turned in his arms wishing he could appear in something other than the cloak, although you appreciated the added warmth.

“Daniel,” you whispered pressing a soft kiss to his cheek, you could feel him faintly but the smile on his face was plain enough to lift your spirits slightly.

“Hush, my love. Rest.” His voice, like always, filled the room around you yet at the same time sounded miles away. For a moment you felt as if the burdens weighing you down were just phantoms. In another minute you were asleep, pleasant dreams and your lover beside you keeping you at peace.

- - -

Hannibal Lecter

The rain outside soaked into your jacket as you got home from work. Classical music was already playing as you shucked your jacket and boots off in the mud room. Keeping your head down you walked directly to your room and closed the door. Sometimes when you had a bad day, Hannibal overstepped the line between psycho-killer boyrfriend and professional psychologist. You knew him, and he knew you all your darkest secrets. Yet sometimes when your own mind turned on you for no reason, you didn’t want to come home to another therapist.

You peeled the wet clothes off your body and dug around for your favorite pair of flannel bottom, and that one shirt of his that always ended up in your laundry. The softness of the fabric, the warmth of the flannel, the hint of his aftershave- they were all impossibly small comforts in the wake of what you knew to be a wave large enough to drown in.

Felling a little better you emerged from the non-confrontational sanctuary of your bedroom. You wandered into the living room and curled yourself into the corner of the couch. You picked up a book and turned the pages but the words weren’t sticking. You looked up from the pages, as Hannibal walked into the room carrying a tray.

“It’s your favorite,” he said smiling softly setting the tray down on the end table next to you. The food smelled perfect, the dish was one from your childhood and the drink along with it was your absolute favorite year and type of wine. The pairing was one you had never thought to put together, another glaring example of Hannibal’s particular genius. He sat next to you on the sofa reading quietly. Although it couldn’t fix or change how you felt, it was helpful to know even now, someone cared about you.

- - -

Tiffany Valentine

You were curled up in a ball, the tears still fresh on your face when Tiff got home.

“I swear to god I’ll kill him!” She said looking over your saddened state. Mascara ran down your face, your hair was disheveled and your eyes looked so sad it broke Tiffany’s little black heart clean in two.

Your boss had become a problem. He acted too familiar in private, around other employees he made jokes about your appearance, about your performance, hell he even made fun of your picture of Tiffany once. Nothing was off limits because he was the boss.

“He kept jokin’ during the meeting about firing me,” you said between sniffles, “I’ve worked there for five years I don’t understand what I’m doing wrong.”

She crossed the room quickly to pull you into a hug. “You didn’t do anything wrong hes just a dick,” she said firmly. You laughed, and couldn’t help smiling through the tears as she held you. The soft curves of her body were inviting and promised you nothing would ever hurt you again.

“Now let’s get you all cleaned up we’re going out!” Your protestes were silenced with a quick kiss. “There’s nothing better than a hot date, and a little retail therapy,” she said with a wink pulling you to your feet.

You nodded and let her lead you by the hand back out to the car. Anytime you had a bad day she pulled out all the stops until you were absolutely spoiled and tonight would be no different- except tomorrow morning at work you’d get another present. And Tiffany would add another man to her list of recently deceased assholes.

- - -

Jennifer Check

It was past midnight when your girlfriend came home, covered in blood. It wasn’t an unusual sight but the dress she had been wearig was in tatters and you were certain some of the fluid was hers.

Panic quickly set in, and you ran to her side your hands flashing over her body trying to stop the bleeding. You pulled your shaking hands away, they were covered in dark blood. As She gasped and fainted you ran to catch her and smeared the dark substance over her skin.

As her surprisingly human looking body hit the ground, you woke up. The nightmare made your skin crawl, and you could feel tears streaming down your face. Jennifer, who wasn’t dead yet wasn’t exactly alive, laid next to you.

She lazily threw an arm around you and pulled you closer. “I’m right here,” she mumbled sleepily. You shuddered as she kissed the lines of tears on your face. The gesture made fresh tears threaten to spill over, but you bit your lip and instead snuggled closer into her chest. For now she was there, for now things would be okay. You felt her stroke and play with your hair as you drifted off to sleep.

- - -

Susie Bannion

You stormed through the dormitories, stopping only at your bed. You haphazardly grabbed shirts and linens stuffing them into the suitcase on top of your mattress. If the other girls didn’t think you were up to snuff, that was their problem. You didn’t have to stay.

Your bag was mostly packed when you started biting back tears. You’d worked your whole life for this chance, would you really give up now just because they wanted you too? You didn’t know that answer but you did know something inside you felt broken. Shakily, you sat down on th edge of your bed and held your head in your hands.

“Are you okay?” You quickly looked up and saw Susie standing there her head slightly cocked to the side as she observed your hastily packed case and distraught appearance.

You shrugged helplessly and tried to wipe the tears from your face.

“I don’t belong here,” you said. Your tone sounded like a challenge and Susie wasn’t one to back down. She dropped herself to sit next to you, and started stroking your hair as you began to cry openly.

“You’re the only one that belongs here,” she whispered wrapping an arm around you. You felt her kiss the top of your head, and it was like magic. As if she had chosen you to be her person, and in that moment the world changed and you were no longer an outsider.

[rosy-cheekx]

Dragged from the Deep

I will update with an AO3 link, two chapters, but I really wanted to get this out!

This is from @voiceless-terror‘s prompt:  “ Been a tough few days. How are you holding up?” with jmart in the safehouse...Not what they expected but I am VERY VERY proud of this!

--

Martin awoke to the sound of Jon mumbling in his sleep. “I took my hand, and I reached down into the darkness.” Jon’s voice is quiet, reverent. Its barely his own; his voice of the Archive.

Really should have heard from Basira by now, Martin thought, trying to tamp down the frustration rising in his chest.

“Down and down,” Jon continued. “Until my whole arm was inside, up to the shoulder. It was damp and cold, with the rough stone sides scraping my skin, but my hand was stretched as far as I could, and it still gripped nothing but empty air. Then the hole began to close, and all at once the spell was broken.”

“Jon, m’dear?” he half-whispered, stroking Jon’s cheek softly. Jon was a light sleeper, but these times were...tricky. “Hey, Jonathan,” he added, voice at a speaking-volume now. “Wake up, it’s not real.”

“I tried to pull my arm out, to get free, but it held me tight. Not quite crushing me but holding me in place. I screamed and cried for help, looking around for anyone who might be able to hear me, but the only people walking by seemed utterly oblivious to what was happening. Then I felt it, something brushing against my hand from below it in the hole. Teeth. Wet, blunt teeth, which quickly gave way to a rough, slender tongue-”[97]

Martin couldn’t bear to hear any more. He hated witnessing Jon like this, possessed by the statements, by his need to feed. Jon’s voice was like marble, smooth and cold and mesmerizing, but it was heavy and would consume Jon if he allowed it.

Martin would not allow it.

“Jon!” He gave him a shake, firm on his shoulders. “Wake up!”

A drowning man suddenly reunited with his lungs; Jonathan Sims gasped for air. His eyes flashed open (there it was, the cursed glint of green that seemed to glow from within) and he clutched a hand to his chest as he began to cough. Martin pulled him into a sitting position, kneeling next to him and resting a hand on Jon’s lower back as he felt the convulsions double his frame. When his hacking had settled, Martin felt safe enough to breathe again himself, lest he had stolen air from the man beside him.

“H-hi,” Jon murmured, voice shaky, drawing his knees to his chest beneath the comforter. “How-how bad was it this time?”

Martin knew about Jon’s hunger, knew that statements were his fuel more than anything organic. The arrangement with Basira had been working relatively well up until now. Every three to four weeks, Basira would call the mobile they kept stashed in the safehouse for that purpose, only her number programmed in and let them know when she was coming, typically within a day or two. She should have called almost ten days ago. Had she let them go, at last, to fend for themselves? Had something happened to her, to the Institute? Things were getting dire.

At first, a little less than a week ago, Martin thought it was the nightmares; that the mumbling had been Jon apologizing to those so unfortunate enough to have him as a feature player in their nightmares. His words were unintelligible, so Martin had hugged him tightly in the night, in the way they had held each other those first days weeks, whispering affirmations of safety and love.

When he asked the poorly-rested Jon about it the next morning, he had frowned. “Ah, no. I mean, I haven’t slept with anyone—ah, more to say, no one has been in the room while I’ve been asleep to confirm for sure besides you, but I don’t think I usually talk in my sleep.” Martin chalked it up as “Weird, But No Too Weird,” and they agreed to keep an eye on it. Every night since, Martin had repeated that ritual, the words too unintelligible to understand, Martin clutching Jon like a life vest, carrying him safe through the morning.

Jon’s flu-like symptoms had cropped up three days ago. He woke weak, hardly able to move, and couldn’t keep any food down. The tea and water Martin literally spooned him were staying down, at least, which helped combat the dehydration Jon was surely suffering from the 40-degree fever he was running. The fever reducers weren’t helping, and Martin had nearly dragged Jon to A&E before he’d been able to explain to him what was happening. He was breaking down, needed the statements or things would get worse. “And, no, Martin-” cut off by a coughing fit. “I don’t know how much worse. Bad.” Whatever role Martin usually played in Jon’s life: roommate, friend, boyfriend maybe?, it didn’t matter. Or, at least, it came to second to Martin’s new role as nurse. Nurse was a role Martin was good at it. Practically a professional home-care assistant. But caring for a starving eldritch demigod was marginally different than caring for his human mum. At least the vomit cleaned the same way.

The statements had become more distinct the first night of the fevers. Words that had typically barely passed his lips were now being told to the night air with an intensity Martin had sorely wished he would never hear again. If Martin strained his ears, he could typically hear the tired hiss of a tape recorder. He tried to smash it that first night, out of anger and exhausted desperation, but Jon had screamed when he had bashed it with a vase, weeping as if it had been his head smashed and not the spinning dials of that cursed thing. Jon’s migraine had lasted through the night and into the afternoon, with Martin unable to do anything but apologize and stroke his hair, reading to him a novel that just wouldn’t be enough.

“Not too bad,” Martin answered, plastering a soft smile over his tired face. “Just scared me was all, I don’t know if it’s better to wake you or not, but it felt weird not to.” Jon was scratching at old worm scars, skin shiny and taut, and Martin took his hands gently, pressing a kiss to his pulse points in turn. God, he felt so hot against his lips.

“M-I’m sorry,” Jon sighs, eyes already fluttering closed again. His face was pale and his muscles slack; Martin hated how hollow his eyes and cheeks seemed, skeletal in the light of the moon.

“Shh, nothing to apologize for,” Martin assured him, reaching across Jon’s side of the bed to click on the lamp, wincing at the sudden light and the clock. 4:15. Too early, even for a morning person like Martin. “Do-do you want me to read to you some more? I can make some tea, chamomile? Milk and honey? Or we can listen to some music, or a podcast?” He knew it was fruitless. It would all be for naught until he got the damn statements from Basira.

Jon had the comforter drawn to his neck, shivering slightly, eyes closed. He nodded vaguely. “The book,” he managed, voice a broken whisper, so unlike the strong and powerful intonation Martin had just heard. Martin nodded, kissing his forehead, clammy and plastered with baby hairs, and stood, passing the book into Jon’s lap, page marked with a flat-barreled pen, something that had been tucked into a journal in the bedside table. (Jon and Martin had agreed that some things are better left unread.) Martin could see Jon���s hands shaking slightly under the blanket.

The walk to the kitchen was cold and dark, and Martin took a moment to himself, while the electric kettle hummed to life, to press his forehead against the cool plastic of the refrigerator, fingers interlaced behind his neck. God, he was so tired. He loved Jon more than anything, that was true, but he was at such a loss. It hurt to know there was nothing he could do to help, short of kidnapping a random neighbor from the town and begging them to tell Jon their story. He would call Basira this afternoon. He had tried the day the fever started and hasn’t received an answer. She was probably chasing down a lead about Daisy; she was known to go off the grid when hunting after her.

The click of the kettle, and Martin is on task again, portioning out tea and honey, chamomile for Jon, English breakfast for himself; he needs the caffeine. Two travel mugs later, Martin was heading back into the dark hallway, up the stairs, and to the dimly let bedroom.

The task had taken no more than five minutes, eight max. This was apparently, long enough for Jon to rifle in the nightstand drawer, retrieve that little notebook they had found, and to begin scribbling in it furiously. Martin could already see a good quarter of the notebook had been filled already, though what measure of that had been used prior to their arrival was unclear.

“Jon? Writing anything interesting?” Jon’s eyes jerked open and he let his gaze fall on the notebook.

“Oh-ah, no. Just doodling,” the words still weak, but the half-smile on his face lifts Martin’s spirits. See? He told himself. He’s still Jon. Jon closed the notebook and tucked it into his lap, reaching for the spill-proof mug with the hand not holding the pen that had been marking the page number. Martin noticed Jon twiddling the pen between his fingers and elected not to say anything. Whatever helped. And it had seemed to help; Jon seemed a little less gaunt than he had, but maybe that was the consequence of sitting up, letting himself focus on other things than his gnawing hunger. “Page 74,” Jon sighed as Martin resumed his position next to him in bed, tucking his head on Martin’s shoulder. “Second paragraph.”

“Creep,” Martin muttered good-naturedly, before settling into the pages and resuming the book, some sort of cop thriller-mystery (because of course that had been Daisy’s preferred reading material).

Martin had been reading for nearly an hour when, while pausing to sip his tea, the scratching of pen on paper had distracted him from the story. They had been at a rather thrilling part of the chase; the detective had just discovered that his wife, who he thought to be dead, was not actually dead and maybe even a part of the mystery. Martin had felt rather invested in giving Jon a good show, throwing himself into the narration maybe a little more than was necessary for the audience of one (1) ill partner (Boyfriend? Love? Patient? Whatever). Jon had remained quiet, save for a periodic coughing fit, but didn’t seem to be asleep from the way Martin could feel The Eye in the room with him, an inescapable feeling now, consequences of his proximity to The Archivist. With the sound of the pen, however, Martin closed the book, flipping it upside down and open. (Usually, Jon would chastise him for such a horrendous act to a book. Martin wished he would.)

Jon’s eyes were cast on the book, but his mind was clearly elsewhere. He was scribbling furiously, writing continuously in the notebook that had once belonged to Daisy. Jon’s handwriting, difficult in the best of circumstances, was positively chicken scratch as Martin tried to parse out the strings of words on the paper, some he could swear weren’t even English.

“Jon?” Martin asked, placing a hand on the journal gently. “Is everything alright?”

“I-ah, yeah,” Jon capitulated, sighing softly, even as it resulted in a series of weak hacks. “I was trying to remember the dream, the statement I was reading in my sleep. I thought maybe writing it down would help.”

“And? Did it help?”

“I…I don’t know.” Jon frowned and scrubbed his hands over his eyes, blinking wearily. “I need to keep trying.”

Martin frowned internally but tried to keep his face neutral. “D’you think it’s…good? To try?”

“I don’t know, Martin.” Martin is suddenly reminded of a paranoid, frantic Jonathan Sims, angry and scared and not knowing who to trust. “But I have to try something! I can’t just sit here, waiting to wither away and die.”

“O-okay then,” Martin took a deep breath. “It was just a question.”

“A stupid one.” He’s sick, Martin reminds himself. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.

“Well,” Martin closed the book properly this time, surreptitiously dog-earing a page. What Jon doesn’t know won’t hurt him. “I’m out of tea. Need any more?”

Jon shook his head, quiet now as he continued to write, eyes glued to his page. “A-alright then,” Martin slid off the bed and frowned, catching a whiff of himself. Yikes. He had lost track of the last time he bathed, so worried had he been about missing a call from Basira. “Would you be okay if I have a shower?”

More silence, the scratching of the cheap pen the only sound in the room. At least there wasn’t a tape running. “Shout if you need me.”

-

It felt good to breathe in the steam and smell of lather, to luxuriate in the hot water rolling over him. Martin has always been a bit generous with his showers, especially as a teen. They had been his designated times to be off the hook from his mother, chores, his jobs, anything that was causing him stress. Martin felt a bit guilty remembering these things. His shower wasn’t long because he wants to avoid Jon, not at all. It’s just. Jon is clearly in a bit of a mood, so it would be good to give him some space without making it seem like he’s upset. Which, he’s not upset! Just. a break is good. Yeah. A break is healthy.

Martin turned off the water when he started to feel a bit dizzy from the heat, wrapped himself in a towel and splashed cold water on his face. There. He was feeling better already.

“Jon!” He called, cracking the door and letting steam roll out around him. “I know it’s a bit early, but I thought maybe I could start on breakfast. Maybe you can stomach down some crackers today?”

After a few beats of silence, Martin called out again. The loo, while not an en suite, was pretty close to the master. “Jon?”

Must be asleep. Martin smiled softly to himself and shook his head, ruffling his curls, more white than auburn anymore, and pulled on a fresh pair of sweatpants. Not like they were going anywhere today.

Tinged pink from the hot shower, Martin rounded the corner into the master bedroom and stopped, momentarily confused. “Oh, did you not hear me?”

Jon was awake. He was still writing, bent over the notebook and scribbling furiously, murmuring to himself, too quiet to hear. He didn’t look up. Martin frowned, shivering as a wave of static rolled over his body like a cool wind. “Jon. Jon, a-are you in there? Are you okay?”

The muttering continued, unceasing. Martin edged forward carefully, hands in front of him like he was buffeting back a storm or trying not to scare a wounded animal. Honestly, Martin wasn’t sure which sentiment was more accurate. He crept his way to Jon’s side of the bed, still apparently unnoticed by the Archivist. There was a bloody tape recorder on the bedside table. Martin knew better than to touch it.  

He bent down, kneeling on the floor and craning his neck to look up into Jon’s face. His shoulders slumped as he gazed up into an emerald glow as Jon’s own eyes, usually a deep brown, lit the page in front of him like a torch, bathing it in harsh light. Jon’s own form was crackling slightly, seemingly more solid than a usual body should, silhouette a little too crisp against the wall behind him.

Martin could hear him now, too, and his voice was the same low, consistent monologue that Martin had first loved, but had grown to hate in his years working in the Archives.

“As I said, it was one of the last boxes I opened on the second day. It was late, and I had already made my way through most of a bottle of wine. The more I think about it, the more I think that opening that box felt no different to any of the others. No hard feelings, no smells, nothing. It was just a box empty of everything except a single typewritten note and an old hand mirror.

It lay inside, utterly innocuous. If it was a trap, there was no way to tell.” [60]

That one sounded familiar. An old statement, it must be. Something about a mirror and seeing things in a reflection? Punching a camera? he wondered. Martin felt another shiver roll through his body; he turned his attention towards the notebook, towards what he knew would be there. Now that he knew what to look for, he could read the handwriting with little trouble. As the Archivist spoke, he wrote the words in Jon’s handwriting, transcribing the statement.

“Jon,” Martin’s voice was soft. “If you can hear me, I’m going to take away your pen now. I think…I think that will let you rest. I’m going to count to three, okay? One. Two. Three.”

As soon as Martin reached for the pen, he felt himself being thrown backwards, as if by a tidal wave. He felt his body hit the wall, heard his skull hit the wall with a sickening thud.

                                        ------Chapter 2------

When Martin woke, he was confused. Last he knew, he had gone to sleep in bed, right? Not on the couch watching telly or drunk in a bathtub. So why was he so stiff—ow. He rolled his neck. And sore. He was on the floor, for one thing, head against the wall and legs splayed in front of him. God his head hurt. Was he hungover? No, he hadn’t drunk anything. Just eaten dinner in bed with Jon, done dishes, read, and fallen asleep.

Oh shit. Jon. It rushed back to Martin in a dizzying spiral; Helen would be proud. The mumbling, the writing, the pen, the eyes. Had Jon pushed him? Not physically, maybe. But hadn’t he heard through the grapevine something about Jon and the delivery man—Breekon? Or maybe Hope? Whichever one hadn’t died in the Unknowing. Something about him shoving him backwards with sheer force of a word? Jon had thought they were exaggerating. But maybe…maybe not.

Martin’s eyes were still closed, he realized. He was afraid to, he realized. He wasn’t sure what he expected to see: maybe a big, unblinking Eye where the body of Jon had been? A torrent of books and pages spinning around Jonathan Sims in a dramatic flourish as he commands them? Hundreds, if not thousands, of tape recorders piling around their bed, drowning them both in magnetic tape and words? Slowly, painfully, Martin opened his eyes.

None of those were there of course. There was just Jon. Sitting in bed, gaunt and frail. Writing and reciting as if nothing happened. That was almost worse, in a way, that he had flung Martin against a wall and continued as if it hadn’t hurt him to do so. The Archivist’s movements were stiff and mechanical as he turned the page and continued to write, voice now in a language Martin couldn’t understand but was probably Chinese.

Stopping the writing was no longer an option, he supposed. But what else could he do? Maybe it could recharge Jon a little, like sucking the marrow from a bone. Only Martin wasn’t sure if the statements or Jon was the bone in that scenario. God, he wished he could Eldritch Google “Eye statement starvation: stages of bad?” Unfortunately, his Eldritch Google was out of service and there was no one else he could ask who wasn’t also trying to actively kill him.

What were his options then? Wait and hope Jon doesn’t die. Call Basira again. Kidnap a stranger and have them read a statement. Well, he wasn’t that desperate. Not yet.

Martin sighed, running a hand through his hair and feeling a lump throbbing gently on the back of his head. He checked the rest of his body for injuries and was grateful to find nothing too bad. Probably just a concussion.

Hauling himself to his feet (using the floor and doorknob to a closet as his supports), Martin teetered his way to the kitchen. He threw open the cupboard beneath the sink and grabbed the small black phone with Basira’s number saved.

Dialing, he slid himself into a chair at the kitchen table, resting his forehead against his free palm and closed his eyes again.

“Hello?” The faint voice Basira Hussain rang out into the air.

“Basira? It’s Martin. Any word on the statements? It’s getting a little dire here.” He could hear the exhaustion in his own voice.

“Dire? How do you mean?” Basira was always a little too direct for Martin’s taste; couldn’t she hear how drained he was?

“He won’t stop repeating and writing old statements. I tried to stop him and he—well. It wasn’t on purpose…But he threw me into a wall.”

“Shit.” Basira was quiet for a moment. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he bit back. “I would be better if we had the statements.” There wasn’t time for him to feel guilty about his delivery.

“I know, and I’m sorry. I caught wind of Daisy being in Italy, so I’m there now. If I take the first flight out of Rome, I can be at my flat tomorrow and yours the next. Two days, max. Less if I can. Can he make it that long?”

“Better bloody hope so.” The fight drained from him. “Please, Basira,” he added, sighing. “I don’t know what to do. He was sick and feverish and I could handle that but now he’s just…empty.”

“Maybe it’s like a diet.” He could practically hear her mind spinning through the phone. “You know, how when you starve yourself for too long? You start losing weight and all’s dandy. But the longer you wait, your body starts taking nutrients from your own organs?” Martin hummed an affirmation. “Maybe he’s sucking out every bit he can from himself to survive.”

“So…how do I fix that?”

“I mean, when I get you the statements, we can force-feed him. But until then? I dunno. I’m at a loss too. Keep him safe, I think? But don’t let yourself get hurt either.”

Martin nodded, momentarily forgetting he was on the phone. “Oh, yeah. Um, thank you Basira. I’ll do my best. Call me when you’re at the flat?”

“Of course. Call me if you get lo-bored.”

“Please hurry.”

Martin hung up and dropped his head to the table unceremoniously, wincing as the impact rattled the back of his skull. Now what? He didn’t want to sit in the room while the Archivist worked, but he was afraid to leave him alone. He hated how it felt to be in the room, the low wave static and the feeling of being known permeating every pore. He was afraid what staying in there would do, if Jon would Know him too well after he came back. Looking around, Martin grabbed the egg timer Jon used when he cooked and spun it to an hour. If he checked in every hour, that would be fine, right? He could let the Archivist have the bedroom; he’d stay downstairs, and check in every hour.

The first few hours crept by, but each ding of the egg timer was much too soon for Martin’s liking. He iced his head, wincing again when he realized it was the late morning and he had been unconscious for quite a while. He made himself an unassuming brunch, cheese toasty and curry left over from dinner a few days ago. Made some more tea, obviously, and took some acetaminophen to reduce the swollen goose-egg on his head. Read, watched an old DVD of some American TV show Daisy must have liked. Tried to keep his mind off whatever had taken over his boyfriend in the upstairs bedroom.

Each time the timer went off, Martin would repeat the same process. He would ascend the stairs, knock on the doorframe of the bedroom, tell Jon he was coming over to check on him, and would watch and listen to him for almost a minute. Some of the statements he recognized, some he didn’t. His eyes were always that throbbing, blinding green, staring into nothing, his face hollow and gaunt. Around two in the afternoon, Martin went in to see that Jon had moved from the bed. The notebook lay abandoned, filled to the last page. The Archivist was standing, in baggy sleep boxers, facing the wall, still intoning the fears and terrors of those who had contributed their stories to the Institute. Their stories were stark when written against the robin blue pant. Martin left the room before he could Know he was crying.

Afternoon turned to evening, and Martin continued his ministrations. The egg timer ran his day and he got little done, managing maybe half of a book from the meager shelf downstairs. He wasn’t even sure what it was about; he had to keep rereading the same pages over and over. The writing had grown to cover half the wall in Jon’s slanted script. Martin wasn’t sure he wanted to find out what would happen if he tried to smudge it. Between checking up on The Archivist, he half-heartedly ate scrambled eggs and chugged some wine; he figured he’d earned it. It was weird to feel strangely like an Archival Assistant again; knowing things were bad for the man he desperately wanted to be there but not knowing how to help.

KRRRRRRRRRRG!

Time to check on him again. Martin trudged up the stairs for what felt like the hundredth time that day. The Archivist was in a different position this time. He was kneeling, head bowed. Martin could have sworn he was praying; the monotony of words slipping from his lips as easily as the nuns Martin had seen growing up. Martin paused. It was…almost beautiful, in a way. The slight form of a man paying his service to a god to whom he was so completely indebted. The green light reflecting off the wall, covered in his scripture, casting a glow on his skin and through his curls, mussed from fever.

Would’ve been, anyways, if Martin hadn’t seen the drop of blood snaking its way down Jon’s thigh, creasing where his leg was folded along the calf. All at once, the beauty he had been caught up in was gone and all he saw was a helpless, broken man, compelled to write the words of the desperate, the lost, the broken. Martin shook a pillowcase from the bed, letting the pillow fall unceremoniously, and cautiously moved to the Archivist. As worried as he was, he needed to know what was going on before he could help.

The sight made him slightly sick. Jon was bent over his thigh, holding the pen as if it were a dagger, and was using the ballpoint tip to carve words into the meat of his leg. He hadn’t gotten far, apparently the effort took more out than the body of a weakened Jon could take.

“a fac-” [54]

Confused, Martin looked up to the wall where he had been writing and figured out the problem. The pen had run out of ink. The words got paler and less distinct until they were barely readable. Judging from the smears, the Archivist had tried to use Jon’s blood to write, using the pen as a quill. It clearly hadn’t worked, judging by the thin, weak curves of red and brown. Jon was still mumbling the statement, eyes blank and voice even, but the lines of his face seemed frustrated and dark.

The letters on his skin were weeping dark red now and Martin could see his hands weren’t the only ones shaking. He was afraid to touch him, afraid that trying to press a cloth to his wounds could quite literally be both of their deaths.

The more he stared, trapped in indecision, he watched as the decision was made for him. Jon had been ill, dehydrated and fever-laden, and the assault to his body was more than he could handle. His face, an ashen brown-grey-green from the glow of his eyes, went slack and as the emerald lights went out, Jon slumped, falling into Martin’s lap and shoulder as his body gave up. As soon as their skin touched, Martin’s mind snapped into focus. Fix this. You have to fix this.

Martin was immediately comforted by the fact that Jon was breathing. He hadn’t run out of fuel, not yet. Martin pressed a kiss to his hair (still hot) as he gently laid Jon flat, tearing open the sealed end of the pillowcase clutched in his fist so he could slip it up Jon’s leg and press it down, trying to stem the blood flow. You need something better, he thought, mind racing. It was oozing, not squirting, so Jon hadn’t hit an artery. That was good. Thank god Mum’s hospital soaps were worth something in the end. He needed a thicker fabric; the sheet wasn’t doing any good. Martin scoured the room, looking for any sort of thick fabric.

His towel from his shower. Thank fuck for his laziness. In less than ten steps, he had retrieved the towel from where it was haphazardly abandoned by the dresser and brought it back, folding and pressing it to his thigh, exchanging it for the thin white pillowcase. Sorry, Daisy.

Kneeled beside Jon, Martin lent most of his upper body weight to pressing down on the towel, keeping a cautious eye on Jon’s face and his chest, each shallow breath another blessing. He’s not sure how long he sits there in, that position, whispering platitudes to the pallid-faced man laid in front of him. Maybe an hour? Maybe three? Maybe twenty minutes? Time is blurry, intangible to him.

It’s dark when Martin felt okay to cautiously lift the towel and examine the letters carved in his leg. They’re starting to clot, he nodded to himself, feeling safe enough to leave Jon there on the floor to get the first aid kit from the lav. Carefully, lovingly, Martin pulled the ace bandage tight around the cotton pads on his leg, freshly doused and swabbed with cleansing alcohol. Daisy was nothing if not prepared for injuries.

Satisfied with his care, he gently pulls Jon into his arms and takes him downstairs. He didn’t want Jon to wake up and see the room like this—bloody and covered in the writings of the Archivist. Between the carpet and walls, it would take a while to clean anyways. The couch was certainly big enough to hold the man he held in his arms (and god he was way too light).

One Jon was laid on the couch, Martin made a fresh cup of tea, black tea with as much caffeine as he could stomach and pulled a cold compress from the freezer. Lifting his shoulders carefully, Martin situated himself to act as a headrest for the unconscious Jon, a cold compress acting as a barrier between them to hopefully aid the fever. One hand in Jon’s curls, the other holding a book open (still, no idea what it was about), Martin settled into the evening, saying a prayer to anything that was out there that Basira would hurry the hell up.

Martin read aloud to Jon all night, trying in vain to keep himself awake. Apparently, the book was a romance novel, some trashy erotica about a woman and a werewolf. Martin was just graceful it wasn’t sci-fi and horror. He annotated it as he read, giving Jon his stream of consciousness thoughts. “You know, I haven’t done that,” he chuckled to himself, brushing Jon’s hair from his face. “Especially not with a woman, but I don’t really think it’s anatomically possible.”

His eyes were starting to droop around three or four in the morning, the adrenaline draining out of him. Resting a hand on Jon’s neck, he felt for his pulse point and, after finding it, light and shallow as it was after the coma, let his eyes close, comforted in feeling the life fluttering beneath his fingers.

-

Martin woke up to a pounding on the door and he snapped awake like the knock had been a gunshot. The care he took to lay Jon’s head back down was deeply contrasted by the way he bolted to the door, unlocking it with haste and resisting the urge to throw his arms around Basira, wincing at the bright daylight that streamed inside.

“Woah—Martin,” Basira took a step back involuntarily. “Is there a reason your hands are covered in blood?”

“What? Oh-yeah, I’ll tell you about it. Things were bad. It’s fine now. It’s-It’s not my blood.” Martin swung the door open, letting Basira in. “What time is it? How did you get here so fast?”

“It’s quarter-three; I may or may not have found a plane that wasn’t on the official flight plans. And there’s more than one way to get in the Institute besides a key.” Martin shook his head and decided it wasn’t worth asking about. He beckoned her to the couch, where Jon lay, limbs limp.

Basira handed him the first statement on the pile and opened one for herself. “Ready?”

“Statements begin.”

-

Jon’s first thought was how wet his neck felt. His second was why he heard so many words. His brain floated between living dolls and a message in a bottle, washed up on the beaches of Greece. His teeth were chattering and he felt so cold. He grasped his hands out, reaching desperately for the comforter. Martin must have stolen it, he smiled to himself. Oh, that’s Martin. Martin’s voice.

“Hmm…Mm’tin,” he murmured, shifting towards the sound of his voice. Martin’s voice continued, telling him a story about a doll with painted lips and angry eyes. A hand reached out and cupped his face. Jon leant into the touch hungrily, grateful for the heat on his skin. He let Martin’s words carry him away again.

-

When Jon woke again, he felt more alive than he had in days. If his illness recently had been him submerged, he finally felt like he was breaking through the surface. The Choke released him, and he felt oxygen return to his lungs. But he was not in the Buried, he was on the couch. He was not drowning, he was breathing sweet air and felt it wafting over him in the drafty house that felt like a home when he was with Martin. Martin. God, he could hear his voice and he didn’t think he had heard anything so sweet than Martin speaking and reading to him. He was reading, yes, and Jon knew immediately what it was: the statement of Herbert Conklin, an Irishman who watched his son turn to plastic before his eyes, piece by piece. Jon’s eyes flew open and he craned his neck to find Martin’s face. His eyes were cast down on the statement in his lap, but his hand was folded in Jon’s, running his fingertips over the smaller man’s knuckles gently.

Jon felt paralyzed, unable to move as he let the statement wash over him, hating how good it made him feel to hear the statement, lavishing in the words. He felt a sharp pain in his leg throb to dull ache as the healing words flowed through him. As Martin uttered those forsaken words: “Statement Ends,” he brought his eyes to meet Jon’s, a pale smile ghosting his face before it solidified into something more real, more Martin.

“Hi love. Been a tough few days. How are you holding up?”

Jon was lost for words for a moment, gaping like a fish before he brought Martin’s clasped hand to his lips. Kissing it, he pressed the words into his skin, begging them to impress themselves there forever.

“Better that you’re here.” His memory was a blank, sure, but he knew it must be true and didn’t need to ask the Eye to confirm. Martin was here. All would be well.

[echoes-of-the-clockwork]

Book Two: Sapphire (Ignis x Reader) Chapter VI

After speaking to Monica and learning of Cor's plan to dismantle the Norduscaean Blockade, the sun had set. Deciding to head to the rendezvous point the next morning, the royal retinue departed from Prairie Outpost. They were stripped of funds and couldn't even afford the caravan. Instead, they opted to camp out at Lepellieth Haven nearby.

Once the campsite was established, Ignis went to work on dinner. While he was deciding what to cook, (Y/n) grabbed a wood-knitted basket lined with a pale blue fabric. She examined the basket before nodding in approval.

Prompto, who's been scrolling through the pictures on his camera, lifted his head when he heard her hum faintly. "What's with the basket?"

"I'm going to take a short stroll around the area and search for ingredients. The basket makes it easier to carry whatever I find," (Y/n) explained.

The photographer hopped to his feet. "Lemme go with you!" He put his camera down in his chair. "I-I know you're badass and all in a fight, but you really shouldn't be walking around at night. Y'know, with all the daemons..."

She smiled reassuringly at him. "I'll be fine, Prompto. If I'm not back in an hour, that's when you should start worrying. I'll be back soon, okay?"

"Do tread lightly, (Y/n)," Ignis spoke up as she left the safety of the haven.

Gladio watched the guardian leave before glancing back at the advisor. "You're not worried?"

"Unlike you all, (Y/n) knows her limits. I have confidence she needs not a hand to hold whenever she pleases to explore," he replied as he began chopping vegetables.

"Damn, Speccy," Noctis spoke up. "Sounds like you trust her more than us."

"To be fair, they've been together pretty much their entire lives," the shield remarked. He leaned back in his seat. "So tell us about (Y/n), Iggy. The rest of us have no clue what it's like growing up with a guardian."

"What could I possibly convey that she could not?" The tactician retorted.

"And why're you so curious?" Noctis mumbled. "Pretty sure they taught you the basics in school."

"I think spiritual beings was the only class I passed," Prompto chimed in.

"Some of us didn't go to a school where they could learn about guardians," the shield stated.

"Now that I think about it, the books mentioned each guardian is unique and their timings vary. When did (Y/n) come into the picture?"

Ignis kept his attention focused on cooking while answering the question. "(Y/n) manifested when I was merely three months old, but our unification didn't come until my fifth birthday. As you may know, spirits are born unto this world via a soul which they are sworn to protect. Just as we, they are brought in with an innocence and pure form. Guardians, unlike us, are stunned at growth and only develop their human form after their masters have reached certain ages. Their spiritual form can also change once development has begun."

Noctis blinked in realization. "Now that you mention it, (Y/n)'s tail was really short when we first met."

"Our first meeting was a time when (Y/n) had yet to develop her human form."

The prince smiled at the memory. "She was really small, too. All I remember was seeing a white fluff ball curled up on your shoulder. She was fast asleep and didn't even budge when I poked her."

"When did she develop her human form?" Gladio asked.

"The day I turned eight," Ignis answered.

Prompto gasped, eyes wide as saucers. "Now I remember!"

"Why're you shouting?" Noctis groaned.

"The reason why guardians take so long to develop is because their human forms are determined by their masters deepest desire!"

Gladio smirked when understanding what Prompto was getting at. "So (Y/n) looks the way she does because Iggy's deepest desire was a beautiful woman. Nicely done. Better make sure no one else tries to take her from you."

"Isn't that a little extreme? Y'know, for an eight-year-old?" Prompto muttered. "I thought maybe it was because Iggy may have been lonely..."

Prompto was indeed correct. Ignis' deepest desire at a young age was someone who would be his friend and someone who would care for him. He had his uncle, but he wanted someone else important in his life to care for him. (Y/n)'s physical appearance was not the result of his desire but simply how well she took care of herself. And now his newest desire was her. He cares deeply for her not because of her beauty, but her heart. What he adored most about her was her kind, caring nature and how selfless she was. She always put everyone else first, just like he did with Noctis. Although he was duty-bound to the throne, he wanted to put her first. However, his job prevented him from doing just that. His duty was to Noctis, not to (Y/n). He couldn't neglect the prince simply for love. He had a job to do and there wasn't any time for any thing or anyone else. Being an advisor was the one thing that was keeping him from professing his true feelings to the one variable that was constant in his life.

Once completing dinner, Ignis handed everyone their dishes. Noctis immediately groaned when he saw the chunks of vegetables floating in the broth, but he ignored the prince and enjoyed what he prepared. As he was about to scold Noctis for not eating, (Y/n) returned with a basket brimming with ingredients. Curious as to what she brought back, Ignis stood up and returned to the cooking station.

With a smile, the guardian showed him what she found. "I found some sweet peppers, sweet potatoes, chocobeans, and tomatoes."

Noctis had overheard and sighed dramatically. "You didn't find any meat?"

The girl placed a hand on her hip while Ignis examined the many items she brought back. "Meat doesn't grow on trees or bushes, Noct."

Suddenly, all eyes were on Ignis as he shouted, "That's it!" with a sweet potato in his grasp.

(Y/n) turned back around and began putting the ingredients back into the basket. "Some new inspiration, Iggy?"

"Indeed. I've come up with a new recipe."

"It better not have vegetables in it," Noctis grumbled.

"I look forward to trying it," (Y/n) smiled at the tactician, ignoring the prince's complaining. "Maybe I could even help prepare it."

"Yeah, right," Gladio scoffed. "Iggy never lets anyone help him cook."

"On the contrary," the advisor spoke up. "(Y/n) is quite the delight to have as an assistant when I am in need of aid in the kitchen."

"Wha-?" Prompto gaped. "You're treating us like curbside garbage compared to (Y/n)! We could totally help you in the kitchen!"

"Your cooperation in the kitchen would be fruitless for you, Noct, and Gladio are ghastly cooks."

The sapphire-eyed girl bit her bottom lip to keep from laughing. She couldn't help but agree after tasting some of the dishes Ignis prepared with help from one of the boys. They always either tasted burnt or half-cooked. Even the cookies Noctis tried to help make weren't cooked all the way through. The center was still doughy because he made them too big and didn't set the oven temperature high enough for the cookies to bake properly. She wondered if the prince had done it improperly only because he wanted to eat the cookie dough raw and not bake it into cookies.

"Oh, c'mon, Iggy! Give us a second chance!" Prompto begged.

(Y/n) placed the basket down beside the grill and listened to Prompto continue to plead with Ignis. She took her portion of dinner and sat down around the fire. She enjoyed the simplistic soup, savoring each and every bite. As she was almost finished with the soup, she looked down at her bowl when she detected movement. Noctis was scooping the vegetables out of his bowl and placing them into hers. "Noct, why...?"

"You know I hate veggies," he said, continuing to remove what he hated from his bowl. "You take 'em."

She inhaled deeply before exhaling. "How old are you again?"

"I don't care if I'm 5 or 50, I'll always hate veggies." When all the vegetables were gone, Noctis ate what remained of the broth.

Deciding not to argue, (Y/n) finished what was left of her serving and Noctis' vegetables. With her bowl clean and her belly full, she offered to do the dishes in Ignis' stead. The advisor tried to protest, but she snatched up all the dishes before he could grab one. "You four should get some rest. I'll deal with the dishes. It won't take long."

Noctis and Prompto crawled into the tent to play a few rounds of King's Knight before going to bed. Gladio followed suit with his book in hand while Ignis lingered in his seat by the fire. He stared into the flames for a few minutes, delving into deep thought. When he looked away from the campfire, his eyes traveled over to (Y/n). She had finished with the dishes and neatly stacked them on the preparation table by the grill. Now she stood at the edge of the haven, eyes casted up to the night sky.

Pushing himself out of the chair, Ignis wandered over to stand beside her. He followed her gaze to see what had her attention. When he couldn't find what captivated her, he wondered if she too was lost in thought like he was a couple minutes ago. "(Y/n)?"

She blinked rapidly a few times before humming in acknowledgement. "Hm?"

"Are you feeling unwell?" He asked.

She smiled sweetly at him. "I'm fine, Iggy. Guess I was lost in thought again."

That's when he remembered what she told him at Galdin Quay. "Has the voice returned?"

She hung her head. "I...was hoping you'd forget about that." Looking back up at the sky, her eyes glistened as she focused on the cluster of stars only spirits could see. "I never told you before, but there's this mass of stars only guardians can see. It's called the Celestial Crescent. I would often gaze at it back in the city, but the lights and barrier prevented me from getting the perfect view. Out here, I can see it perfectly. And now whenever I look up at it, I hear the voice. With each passing day it becomes clearer, but I still can't make out what it wants."

"Is there nothing I can do to ease your concerns?" Ignis offered.

"Just talking to you about it is enough. I am grateful for you listening to me ramble on. It does put me at ease having someone to talk to this far from home."

"It puts my own harrowing thoughts to rest knowing you decided to accompany us. I fear our time together would've been cut short if you had desired to remain in the city."

She clasped her hands together behind her back. "I don't know what I would've done if I stayed behind. You and I are connected no matter how far apart we are. And if I had perished in the city when the empire struck..." She moved one of her hands from behind her back and placed it over the gemstone embedded in her chest. "I'd rather not think of the gruesome outcome that could've happened if I had decided to remain in Insomnia and wait for your return."

"Neither do I," Ignis confessed.

(Y/n) finally looked away from the night sky and focused her eyes on Ignis' tall stature. "It's getting late. We should call it a night. We've quite the day tomorrow and wouldn't want to be sleep-deprived. It'd be awful if one of us were to slip-up in battle and wind up injured." Without skipping a beat, she transformed into her spiritual form and flew into the tent. Ignis followed after her once extinguishing the campfire.

Inside the tent, the three boys were already asleep. Ignis laid down on the opposite side of Prompto. Once lying comfortably on his side and turned away from the others, he felt a familiar furry presence curl up near his stomach. Unconsciously, he reached down and stroked (Y/n)'s back as she slumbered. Even in the darkness of the tent, he could see her snowy fur clearly.

Eventually, Ignis felt sleep tugging at his being and he soon fell into a deep slumber.

<-------------<<<<<

The next morning, the group ate breakfast and packed up the haven. Ready to leave Lepellieth Haven, they set their destination to be the Norduscaean Blockade. They rendezvoused with Monica, who instructed Noctis to join Cor up ahead while she and the others remained behind to be a diversion.

Monica, (Y/n), Gladio, Ignis, and Prompto approach the blockade from the front. The imperial troopers on duty aimed their weapons at the group as more poured out of the blockade with their own guns drawn on the group. The guardian raised her hand and formed an ice wall made from large icicles around her and her companions to protect them from the gunfire. When there was a break in the firing squad, Ignis, Monica, and Gladio emerged from cover and attacked the soldiers. Prompto and (Y/n) remained behind the ice wall and used projectiles to attack any imperial forces that scurried their way.

After some time, soldiers stopped pouring out of the blockade and the grand metal gate slid open to reveal Noctis and Cor on the other side.

Prompto bounded over to his best friend with an excited squeal. "Noct!"

"Marshal. It's good to see you again," Ignis said.

Noctis glanced at his companions. "All right on your end?"

"Right as rain," Gladio replied. "The Niffs couldn't take their eyes off us."

"Thanks to you we were spared their attention," Cor stated.

(Y/n) went to speak up, but held her tongue when she heard the low humming of an engine. Looking around, she spotted an imperial drop ship approaching them. It hovered in the air as the imperial officer aboard addresses Noctis and the others. "Stay right where you are. Well, well, if it isn't Cor the Immortal. So you survived the Citadel. But you won't survive what I have in store for you. It's past time your legend came to an end." The officer, known a Loqi, spotted the guardian among the group and cackled. "And it seems a lowly spirit has ranked itself among this band of misfits. It'll be another one to mark off the list." Loqi enters the cockpit of his MA-X Cuirass magitek armor, then deploys to the ground.

"Say, Marshal, how 'bout you show us how it's done?" Prompto asked nervously.

Cor unsheathes his katana. "No wimping out. Let's move."

Alongside the MA-X Cuirass was a horde of soldiers and magiteks. Noctis focused on the large mech while everyone else dealt with the smaller enemies. After slicing through one of the MTs, the marshal glanced over at the spirit. "I'd like to see your specialty again, (Y/n)."

The girl glanced towards the magitek armor. "Who am I to deny a request from the marshal himself?" She broke away from the soldier she was attacking and ran towards the MA-X Cuirass. Ducking under its arm when it swatted at her, she trailed her fingers across the mech's arm. Ribbons of lightning course across its exterior before entering its metallic body and alter its coding. Loqi noticed his mech's strange behavior and how he was unable to control it any longer. "What is the meaning of this?!"

The MA-X Cuirass fires missile after missile at its own allies. Soldiers and MTs were blown to smithereens, leaving only Loqi and his out-of-control magitek armor. He screamed out when one of the mech's missiles hit the cockpit, causing it to crumble to a single knee. Noctis went to finish it and Loqi, but (Y/n) stopped him by grabbing the hem of his short-sleeved black jacket. She met his gaze just as the MA-X Cuirass self-destructed with Loqi still inside the cockpit.

Noctis looked back to the magitek armor and watched in awe as it exploded. He dispelled his blade at the same time (Y/n) released him. Turning to face her, he complimented her ability. "Nicely done."

"You can thank the empire for installing a self-destruct sequence. My magic only activated it when there wasn't another imperial enemy detected within a certain vicinity," she explained.

"Still, it's pretty damn cool."

She smiled. "Then maybe I should work on more surprises to keep you on your toes in battle."

Noctis blinked in excitement. "Wait, really?"

She nodded. "Yeah. There's been a few more things I've been wanting to try over the years, but never really got the chance. Now that we're all the way out here and we have to fight for our survival, it makes for the perfect opportunity to try the many other tricks I've stored up my sleeves."

Cor sheathed his katana and walked over to Noctis and (Y/n). "Impressive. Seeing you both in action puts my mind at ease. It's clear I don't need to worry any more. I'll return to watching the Niffs. 'Til next time, take care." The marshal leaves with Monica.

A moment later, Noctis and his companions move toward the open gate of the blockade. Ignis, who has retrieved the Regalia, slowly drives alongside the others. Gladio rested his greatsword on his shoulder. "Ain't so bad out here once you get used to it."

"Still a lot we haven't seen, though," Prompto stated matter-of-factly.

"And a lot for us to do," Ignis added.

"Yeah."

"Buck up. We're just getting started," Gladio said.

Noctis smiles, but it fell when he realized (Y/n) wasn't following them. Turning around, he found her staring up at the sky with a stoic expression. "Hey, (Y/n), you coming?"

Ignis stopped the Regalia and glanced at her. Gladio and Prompto turned around to also gaze at the girl. She blinked a couple of times before looking at them. Her heels clacked against the asphalt as she walked towards them. "Yeah. Let's see what other trouble we can get ourselves into."

"Do try to keep the trouble to a minimum," Ignis remarked.

She giggled. "No promises."

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[akvtsuki-ari]

Downers

Warnings: smut, fingering, penetration, oral (both recieving),(( reader swallows lol)), alchohol 

Length: 4.7k 

Authors Note: idk how to explain the context of this fic kjshjek but before you read i highly reccomend listening to the song this fic is based on!! normally it doesn’ matter either way but it’s directly apart of the fic!! the song is Downers by Greentea Peng 

Summary: Spencer comes back from a one-night stand with insomnia he can’t shake. The hotel bar is welcome company, and the singer there seems to catch all his attention

Spencer couldn't remember her name.

Here he was in her hotel room, mouth on her neck, hands on her skin - whispering to her how beautiful she was and he just couldn't remember her name. He doesn't even know if he asked - he can't remember that much of their interactions since there interaction in the bar. Her dress was pretty, so Spencer went up to her. She was alone - she needed the company, her and her boyfriend were taking a break he thinks. She told him that she liked his tie, and his hair and he smiled and dazzled her, made a stupid magic joke and manage to get her back here

Spencer was good at this now, he knew how to get here everytime. It wasn't difficult after you get the hang of it. It was profiling after all, something he realized when this all started so many months ago. It's funny to try and recall a time before this - Spencer was always the butt of the joke because he used to tell himself he couldn't do one night stands. He wasn't wrong, either - at first he would just get too attached but things stopped mattering. Slowly but surely all the pieces fell away and he just started needing easy company, shed his skin of his job and make sure he made someone else feel good.

He was never really hedonistic but he figures things change right? When he fucks another girl whose name he doesn't remember, he's not keeping score - just trying to focus on making her feel good and the way it feels when he orgasms. He's chasing that feeling of high - even if it's temporary it makes him feel something and that's enough. Life is about more than chasing pleasure in the long run but this was now, and the feeling of the girl whose name he can't remember wrapping her mouth along the tip of his dick was enough. For now this feeling was enough, bucking his hips into her throat and making sure she gets off. He was an asshole but he wasn't a selfish one.

"Shit, I'm gonna cum," She annouces. Spencer nods in approval, pressing his forehead against hers as she finishes. She moans Spencers name aloud and Spencer wants to ignore it but he can't. Spencer cums soon after that, pulling out of the unnamed women beneath him

"Jesus," she breathes out heavy. Spencer laughs before looking at her.

"I'm gonna go take a shower," she says to him softly, "feel free to join me," she winks. Spencer just gives her a smile as she slinks away into the bathroom.

Spencer knew the drill. He didn't leave a note, he didn't ask her name because he wasn't planning on seeing her again. He sits a few minutes, redressing quietly and leaving quieter. He used to flinch when he shut the door but the hotel hallway was familiar to him now. Making eye contact with cleaning women and janitors who gave him what felt like knowing stares. Spencer was used to it, all of it - even if it was difficult.

Spencer doesn't feel like a slut. He probably should, but he doesn't really feel anything. He's doing the walk of shame, leaving her hotel room in the middle of the night and he just sorta.. doesn't care.

He wishes he did, but there's no time for that now. He checks the watch on his wrist, the time reading 1am and as if on cue, he yawns. His eyes are sleepy and he's rather exhausted, and he finds himself heading back to his own hotel in a tired daze

__

When Spencer returns to his hotel - he really can't sleep. He tries, laid in bed, tossing and turning for hours but it wasn't coming to him. They were supposed to be leaving the day after tomorrow, closed in by the weather that wouldn't let the jet take off so he was stuck there. He wanted nothing more than to get some rest, but it was fruitless. Spencer looks over at the pamphlet he picked up from downstairs - looking at all the different things that the hotel had going on. It says there's a live, late-night singer at the bar in the hotel. Y/N Y/L/N. He sighs, rubbing his face with his hands before standing up and putting back on his normal clothes. A live show and a drink might not be so bad, and maybe there's something (or really someone,) for Spencer to do.

He walks down at 3am, it'd only been an hour since he got back and it was still dark out. Everything was still as he walked into the hallway and elevator. every sound felt louder and more distinct. There wasn't a soul out there other than staff who was forced to work earlier shifts and other people doing the same walk of shame he was doing earlier. He can't bring himself to look at them, but Spencer was certainly understanding of them.

He manages to make it to the hotel bar, which was surprisingly nice - he has to admit. Lowlights and candelabras all over the place add to the ambiance, the ceiling mirrored as he looks to all the patrons in the bar. Mostly older men, drinking whiskey alone as typical as it was. There were some women that caught his eyes, but he's not ready to tango with someone like that so he orders a drink at the bar. He likes scotch on the rocks, but he's not really one to drink it often. One can't hurt, he doesn't think. The odd sense of isolation while being in a public place and the alcohol in his system might make him more tired faster. He doesn't want another one-night stand but that loneliness hits quickly, and his original plans may fall through.

He waits it out, sitting down at a chair near the small platform that served as a stage. He watches as on older gentleman picks the mic up, announcing that name he read earlier. Y/N Y/L/N.

He sees a woman walk up onto the stage, so beautiful he coughs on his scotch. A man across the ways looks to Spencer and laughs, nodding in understanding.

"Wait till you hear her voice," He says quietly. Spencer just nods, eyes fixated on the way you move. You look classic, hair let loose wearing a sequin dress. You weren't too flashy, but you definitely managed to catch everyone's attention. You had a jaded expression, eyes flashing up to the crowd softly. You look directly towards Spencer and give him a knowing smile. He was new, you'd never seen him here before.

"How's everyone doing tonight, hm? Can't be too well if you're here seeing me at 4am, but still good I hope," you say chuckling. It lightens the somewhat somber energy that seems to swallow the place up as the bar regulars and other lonely folks of the night all watch you. You laugh softly into the microphone.

"Anyone have any requests for me, or am I free to sing what I'd like?," you ask the small audience. Everyone gives encouraging whoops at the second option and you give that same lighthearted giggle that Spencers heart aches for. You were unbelivably beautiful, the light catching the highlights of your face as you look at everyone smoothly. You tuck some hair behind your ears as you look to the small band.

"Let's do the song I was practicing upstairs earlier," you call to them. They all nod their heads at you, as you clear your throat and take a sip of water.

"This song is called Downers, by Greentea Peng," you say softly. You start humming along with the music before you start to sing the lyrics and christ -

"I can't smell the flowers / felt empty now for hours / lost my powers / I can't smell the flowers / I'm sick of all these towers / think I done too many Downers," You sing the first verse with ease. Spencer's ears are so attuned to the music he can barely drink his scotch. Your voice is melodic, it flows out with no problem and soothes Spencer so much he feels like he could pass out right there. His eyes look to your expression, eyes closed as you smile at the self-aware lyrics of the song. Your body language is so comfortable with the words, he imagines the song is personal to you in some way.

"hard to see the value in these half-hearted encounters / can't deal with the truth so we just change the world around us / to feel and smell just like we want it to / fuck what we're meant to do / can't hang round be no fool / wasting time just getting high / getting high / to get by / clear my mind clear blue skies / all this time I've been flying from up here," You sing the runs with easy, your voice syncing perfectly with the music being played. Spencer's eyes don't leave you for even a second as he watches you sink in and become part of the music. Your shoulders fall, as you tap along the rhythm of the song before singing the chorus again, then delving into the second verse.

The first verse weighs on Spencer's mind as you continue onto the second and third verse. The lyrics of the song are as fitting to him as possible. It feels too relevant for Spencer to forget about it but he tries as you continue your performance, mixing modern radio ballads with older classics. Your voice is like medicine to Spencer's exhaustion, he wants to relax in the sound forever and his head's so fixated on you - he knows he needs to talk to you. To get to know you, something if anything. He doesn't remember the last time he's felt this strong towards someone but he'd be damned if he didn't chase it.

When you finish your performance, you collect tips from all the bar patrons and wish everybody a kind morning. Spencer didn't realize that another full hour had passed and he sees walking towards the bar so, in the least creepy way he can, he stands to follow you. You order a club soda and sit on the bench, where Spencer takes a seat next to you. You roll your eyes, but you'd be lying if you said he wasn't attractive to you. You turn your body to face him and he shoots you smile in return.

"You're not one for subtlety are you?," you say softly as the bartender hands you your drink. You take a sip, feeling the cool relief on your worn throat. Spencer laughs, looking at the floor before looking back up at you.

"For a woman as beautiful as you? Can't say I am, no," Spencer says lightly. You roll your eyes but you're smiling into your drink as you do.

"What about flattery?," you ask again. Spencer chews the corner of his lips as his eyes grace your body, noticing the way your skin shows around the shoulders of your dress. He laughs.

"That one I can manage," Spencer's voice is a murmur. You put your drink down and readjust how you sit, looking at Spencer's face. You can see right through him, really. You can with most men, but especially someone who does what you used to do. You want to laugh at him and say theres no need for the formality but it isn't for the two of you. It's for the people in the bar who count the seconds before you two walk away together. You were going to fuck him, you knew that the second he sat so close during your performance but the rest of the bar didn't so the formal talk and idle chat is for them.

"I don't really do this very often -" Spencer starts. You roll your eyes, cutting him off mid-sentence.

"You're not a good liar, you know that?," you say softly. Spencer is startled but intrigued by your observation. He looks to you for an explanation and you just shrug at him. He looks into your eyes and it's like you see past him. He falters for a few seconds.

"Old habits die hard," you start first "picking up on when someones lying to sleep with me just happens to be one," you say, chuckling. You're not upset or sarcastic, simply laughing at the situation and reminiscing. Spencer shifts uncomfortably for a second, not really used to someone being able to see through him so quickly.

"I should be clear that I'd still like to sleep with you," you say, blinking through your lashes. Spencer nearly chokes when he hears, a blush forming on his face. It was becoming clear that you were gonna lead the way on this one.

"But don't be dishonest, it's boring - you yourself are probably more interesting than what you tell other people," you say thoughtfully. Spencers befuddled at how you just seem to know but you shake your head.

"I've made my rounds, men and women," you say casually. Spencer feels like he's dying at your confession but can't help himself - finding it beyond attractive that you managed both.

"What do you wanna know?" Spencer asks relaxed. You give him a small smile.

"What's your name? What do you do? Whats your star sign? The usual," you say jokingly. Spencer can't help but laugh, genuinely laugh.

"My names Dr. Spencer Reid, I work for the FBI for the Behavioral Analysis Unit, and I'm told I'm a Scorpio," Spencer says, smiling. Penelope told him that forever ago though he hasn't thought about since then. You give him a grin.

"An FBI agent ? You must be here for all the murders they had in downtown, huh?," you ask curiously. He looks suprised but how in touch you are.

"I keep up with the news," you say casually. Spencer keeps learning about you and his attraction to you only increased. He nods, telling you you're right and you mentally high-five yourself.

"What do you wanna ask me?," you say, perching your lips out. Spencer looks at them before his eyes flick up at your eyes

"What else do you? Other than sing, I mean,"

You tilt your head in though for a second, before shrugging.

"For work? I make most of my money singing, anyways. I studied other stuff in college, but music is what I love to do and I make decent money off of working different celebrations. This bar gave me my first gig so I'm always here. Other than that, I volunteer at local stuff - gotta keep in touch you know?," you softly. Spencer looks at your expression with an adoration he can't explain. He finds himself speaking before he can think too much about it.

"I haven't been looked into like that before," Spencer blurts out. You chuckle.

"You said you do behavioral analysis, right?," you asks. Spencer nods.

"Trying to get someone to fuck you is esentially the same. You watch them and try to appeal to their situations so you get your result. You're a hunter, all the same. Sometimes it's killers and sometimes it's an attractive woman whose married but doesn't have her ring on - it's a mindgame," you say carefully. Spencer knows you're right but the way you say it so bluntly makes him feel a way. It's the first time a woman has made him this uncomfortable and in a fucked up way he's happy about it. It sounds cocky, but the challenge is attractive to Spencer. You weren't trying to isolate yourself from other women, instead just making a general commentary on human beings. You were intelligent.

"How could you tell?,"

"You're too well practiced with expression and stuff. Too much attention to detail," you reply.

"You're entitled to whatever but be careful with yourself," you warn. Spencer just listens.

"Full disclosure, I studied criminology in college - so I'm familiar with your work," you say a little shy, Spencer raises his brows and assures it's fine before you continue.

"You do what you do at work because it catches them. You can hold onto a happy ending and that's important," you say softly "But, sleeping around is a personal cause with no heroes you know? The loneliness will always come back, and those mind games you play just to get rid of it will start to fracture you," you say thoughtfully. Spencer feels some tears prick at his eyes but he covers them before he looks at you.

"I don't sleep around much anymore, but when I do - I can't promise I'll leave my name and number. Old habits, you know? But I see myself in you, the way you move is something I definitely recall," you say laughing. Spencer feels so damn weird - confused as to how you're so perceptive.

"Sorry to read you like that, I just like you. You're interesting," you say, cute as ever. Spencer is unbelievably attracted to you.

"I'm a little speechless," Spencer says laughing.

"Sorry?,"

"Don't be, but you feel like a sign to me," Spencer says softly.

"The woman I.. you know - earlier, I don't even remember her name," Spencer admits a little sadly. You shake your head, reaching out to grab his hand to provide him some comfort. He finds himself holding on.

"You learn to face the loneliness, and sometimes it makes cool stuff like this happen," you say giggling.

"I wanna remember your name," Spencer admits. You give him a small smile.

"Even after I just came for you and this is only our first meeting?"

"Especially because of that,"

You laugh aloud and Spencer notes how lovely the sound is. You look at him, before taking another sip of your drink. You stand tall, patting down your skirt before walking away, Spencer stars dumbfounded for a few seconds before he hears your voice.

"You coming?" You ask. Spencer couldn't manage to bolt faster. _____

"Can I kiss you?," Is the first question Spencer asks you when you end up in your hotel room. You laugh, looking into his eyes as the two of you stand in front of the hotel door. You put your hands on Spencer's waist, making your way up to his chest.

"It's all I've been thinking about for the last few hours so," you say softly. Spencer grins at you, leaning his head down before placing his lips on yours, slowly parting them to catch a little bit more of you. Its slow at first but only then, slowly the speed of each kiss inbetween picks up. Spencer's tongue nips yours, hands running your sides as he touches you hesitant. The whole gesture is hesitant still, though the heat is coming close to just being too much. You use your teeth gently to hitch Spencer's bottom lip and the gestures welcomed.

You pull away from Spencer to look at him, looking into his eyes with an affectionate need.

"Hey, Spencer?,"

"Yes?,"

"If you don't fuck the shit out of me, I don't think I'll ever forgive you,"

Spencer grins, before you give him a shy smile. Spencer kisses you again, the two of you moving to the bed soon after. Spencer sits on the edge of the bed, while you straddle him. Spencer's hands grip your backside. You let out a noise of suprise but Spencer just smiles, leaning his face into your neck. His teeth graze your neck, placing small kisses on patches of it as you tilt it up to give him more room. He nips at the area, sucking small hickies into it. His fingers work their way to the zipper of your dress as you lean into him, your hands on the side of his face.

Your dress falls off your shoulders, as you move back to take it off. Spencer's eyes watch you as you move out of it - throat dry as he sees that you're not wearing a bra. Your nipples come to attention at the cool air in the room and Spencer's hands move to touch you before he can think about it. He brushes them carefully, back and forth sending pleasure shooting through you rather unexpected. You managed to sit on Spencer's lap again before he continues but you whine with displeasure.

His eyes flick to you with curiosity but you don't have to explain much, simply undoing his belt, urging him to unbutton his shirt by tugging at it. He can't help his laughter as he looks at you adoringly.

"Impatient," he reminds you. You give him that same innocent look from before you as you nod at him.

"For you? Always," you reply back. Spencer leans in to kiss you again before he lets you sit in the bed, watching him undress as he did for you only moments ago. You drink in the sight of his skin, the way his hard-on sits in his boxers, standing to attention. You can't stop looking at it, the feeling of lust creeping at your throat.

"Spencer, lay down," you urge softly. He gives you a look of question but does as told, walking to the other side of the bed and laying down as he's told. He catches wind of your plan soon after, watching you take your panties off and revealing arousal that's managed to slide down your thighs. His throat catches but his silent request is soon fulfilled as you place for knees on either side of Spencer's head and settle yourself over his tongue. Spencer's hands grip your thighs as he places a few soft kisses on them, before arching his neck to meet your clit with his tongue. He's patient, flattening his tongue against your clit before motioning it back and forth. The feeling is so sudden, pleasure ripping through you as you use your hips to grind onto to Spencer's tongue.

You lean down over Spencer's cock, spitting onto the head before your mouth wraps around the tip. You use your hands to steady yourself before you bob your head, hollowing your cheeks out which makes Spencer choke. He had figured you'd both be good in bed but it's starting to be clear that it was a lot more than that.

Spencer feels good - so fucking good because he was just so attracted to you and the feeling of your mouth around his dick was working him. Your thighs moved so confidently to grind onto his tongue, using his face for your pleasure while returning the favor, you were more than good. Spencer feels you in his chest, twitching in your mouth when his mind feels with all the possibilities of what else he could do. It wasn't enough to taste you - he would keep seeking out your pleasure until the thought of him never left your mind.

This position was really just a competition to see who could make the other unravel fastest. The feeling of satisfaction he recieved when he feels you pulsate around his tongue is unmatched - the sound of tone throat gagging as you moan out some version his name, cumming all over his face but not stopping your hips. Spencer can taste you everywhere and you taste as good as you look. He's unsure of how you've managed that but he's pleased. You ride your high before you life yourself off of his face, switching yourself to be positioned over his dick. You're more than ready to do that but Spencer's stops you, looking into your eyes as he sits up. You sit between his legs but he moves you up - positioning you to expose yourself too him. Easy access.

Spencer pushes his two middle fingers between your lips, which part for Spencer easily. Your tongue wraps around them, sucking them obediently and Spencer smiles at you. He pulls them out for you, sliding his thumb along your clit before slipping his fingers inside of you, curling them up inside of you. You lean, gripping onto Spencer's shoulder letting out whimpers next to his ear. He brushes against your gspot with ease, padding against it with rhythm. The feeling makes your legs shake, Spencer already close to bringing you to orgasm and despite his somewhat aching wrist makes sure the speed is consistent.

"Spencer, please - oh my god please," this is the first time you've addressed Spencer directly and it makes Spencer's whole body ache to fuck you.

"You're beautiful," Spencer breathes out. You pull away from his shoulders and put your hands on the side of his face, kissing him intensely as you looked into his expression. You're quick to cum a second time , convulsing around his hands a second time as you hold onto his back, fingernails digging in his skin as your whole body lights up in fireworks. Moans pour from your throat as you finish, riding out your high as Spencer slows

"Spencer," your voice is unsteady as you call out to him. He hums in response and you look at him, making eye contact.

"Would you like to go on a date sometime?," you breathe out. Spencer can't help the little giggles he lets out before nodding, kissing you softly.

"Seems like you've beat me to asking," Spencer says. You kiss Spencer once more, softly and slowly before smiling in his shoulder.

"Mm, fuck me," you say giggling. Spencer laughs before he repositions himself to penetrate you, pulling out a condom from the drawer and rolling it down his erection. He lines himself with your entrance, slowly but surely watching you sink down on his cock. He chokes as he feels you around him - tight and warm and wet, taking him so well. Spencer stretches you out better than you were expecting - a burning ache as Spencer pushes towards your cervix. He's buried in you, fingers holding you up for a second.

Spencer holds you up before laying you down, hands pinning yours above your head before pulling his hips back and pounding into you. Spencer voice groans out in your ear, his orgasm drawing him closer and closer to the edge.

You use your fingers to run out one final orgasm, convulsing around Spencer which makes his whole body ache.

"I'm gonna cum," Spencer announces.

"Cum in my mouth?," you offer Spencer. He groans aloud, pulling out and sliding the condom off before positioning himself over your face. You adjust yourself by lifting yourself up on your elbows, allowing Spencer to ease into the back of your throat. Spencer lets go as soon as he does, finish in your mouth where you swallow immediately, eyes glassy as you look up at Spencer. You give him a smile, opening your mouth to show that it's all swallow, before laying back down again exhausted.

"Jesus Christ, Spencer" you say softly. He gives you a small smile.

"You should get some rest," Spencer says softly. You roll your eyes, sitting back up before leaning your head on Spencer's shoulder.

"Mm if I did that, would you be here when I woke up? Nice try, lover boy," you say. Spencer laughs, voice soft as the sun starts to rise outside.

"I'm gonna shower, and since neither of us are sleeping - you can take me to breakfast," you say, standing up and giving Spencer a kiss atop his head.

"Disappear on me and I'll book a ticket all the way to Quantico and embarrass you infront of your whole team," you say jokingly. Spencer hugs your waist as you stand and you can't help the way it melts you.

"Wouldn't dream of it," Spencer replies back. You use your hands to make him look st you and smile at him.

"Good. I'd invite you to come shower with me but I'm gonna guess you need clothes so - meet me downstairs in the lobby in like 30 mins," you instruct. Spencer just nods.

"I need your number," Spencer asks. You look into the drawer and lean down, writing your number on his chest. He looks down at it and smiles. He can see himself in the mirror, noticing you wrote it backwards so he could see it. God, Spencer is into you.

"I'm sure it'll wash off," you say smiling. Spencer rolls his eyes, the hickies you managed to bite into his skin making irony very clear. You give him a cheeky look and he can't help but laugh.

"Y/N," Spencer says to himself. You look at him confused and he just shakes his head.

"You're too fascinating to forget," Spencer says smiling. You can't help but grin, leaning down to kiss him.

"So are you, Dr. Spencer Reid,"

____

taglist: @cynbx​ @zephyr-studiesjp​ @skrrrrrrrrrrt​ @reid-187​ @louistwinslover​ @pastanest​ @nomajdetective​ @iamburdened​

[angelsfalling16]

My (un)Bloody Valentine

My fic for @m-xdd-y for the @snowbaz-sweethearts-exchange. Thank you for being so patient even though I’m several days late. It was really nice to meet you and be paired up for this event! <3

I’m not sure a Valentine’s Day-themed murder mystery is quite what you meant when you asked for angst, but I hope you like this!

Read it on ao3

Summary: Bodies of Normals keep showing up at Watford, and Simon is sure he knows who is killing them. That is, until he finds his prime suspect kneeling beside the body, all the proof he needs, but finds himself wondering if maybe he had it wrong all along.

Word Count: 5481

Warning: I don't think this fic is too graphic, but there are mentions of blood and missing hearts, so please proceed with caution.

***

Part 1: The Suspect

Simon

“There’s been another one,” I say to the Mage.

“Another what?”

I growl because he apparently hasn’t been listening to me at all for the past five minutes.

“Another dead Normal.”

He waves me off as he flips through some papers on his desk. “Normals die all the time. What’s so special about these?”

“Their bodies were found in the Wavering Woods.” The magickal side of the woods. It doesn’t mean that it couldn’t have been a Normal who killed them, but it does make it less likely. “Someone is either killing them and dumping their bodies in the woods, or they’re wandering into the woods and someone—or something—is killing them.”

“They’re just Normals. Why do you care?” He doesn’t sound the least bit concerned by any of this. He actually sounds more annoyed than anything.

“They’re still people even if they don’t have magic. And they’re being found on school grounds. Doesn’t that make it your responsibility to do something about it?”

“Look, Simon. I have a lot going on. I don’t have time to deal with a couple of Normals who wandered into the woods and didn’t come back out.”

“There have been six of them so far. And they were all drained of their blood and missing their hearts.”

The Mage’s eyes widen slightly at that, but it’s the only sign that he has any feelings about this.

“We could move their bodies to the other side of the woods and let the Normal authorities deal with this.” I can’t believe he’s actually serious. Doesn’t he care at all?

“That doesn’t seem like the right thing to do. Shouldn’t we—?”

He slams a book down on his desk, cutting me off before finally looking up at me. His expression is harsh, and I can tell before he speaks that my efforts here are fruitless. He isn’t going to do anything about this.

“Enough, Simon. I have enough on my plate dealing with the Old Families. I do not have time to deal with some idiotic Normals on top of that.”

I glare at him for a long moment, searching for something to say, but it’s pointless, so I turn and walk out of his office. There’s no use fighting with him. He’s obviously not going to do anything about this.

That’s fine. I’ll figure it out on my own. I’m pretty sure I know who’s committing these gruesome murders anyway.

It’s the same person I’ve been suspicious of for years. I should have known that one day his evilness would turn into murder.

I’ve been watching him closely ever since the first body was found, and I’ve compiled a list of facts that prove that Baz is the one committing these murders.

Proof Baz is killing Normals and dumping their bodies in the Woods:

No. 1: He’s a vampire. It easily explains why all of the victims have been drained of their blood.

No. 2: He’s been staying out until all hours of the night recently, sometimes not coming back until just before sunrise.

No. 3: He’s been taking a shower almost every night when he returns, and he tracks in dirt everywhere, which he cleans up when he thinks I’m sleeping. He usually takes his showers in the mornings, which must mean he’s wanting to clean off something that can’t wait. Like blood. And all of the dirt serves as proof that he’s spending his nights out in the woods.

No. 4: He’s evil. He tried to take Phillipa’s voice in fifth year, and she had never done anything wrong to him. He definitely wouldn’t care about hurting some Normals he knows nothing about.

No. 5: He hasn’t been acting like himself. He seems more withdrawn and tired than usual, and when he sneers at me, it’s missing most of its usual venom. It’s like there’s something bothering him so much that he doesn’t care about anything else anymore. (Being a serial killer will do that to a person.)

All of this has me convinced that it’s him, but it isn’t enough to convince anyone else because I don’t have any actual physical proof. No one believes me. Not even Penny.

She does at least seem concerned about all of the dead Normals, but she doesn’t believe it’s Baz who’s killing them. I tried to convince her, but she thinks I’m “too blinded by my obsession with him to see things clearly”.

I told her that I’m only obsessed with stopping him, but she rolled her eyes at me and still refused to help me prove it’s him, so I’m on my own.

 Part 2: The Proof

Simon

This most recent body that was found has pushed me to work harder to find the person who did this because I was the one who discovered it. I knew that there were dead Normals in the Wavering Woods, but the details of their condition were kept a secret. So, when I stumbled across that body, almost literally stumbling on it, I couldn’t move.

The scene was gruesome. The body had been left lying half-hidden in some bushes, and there was a gaping wound in its chest where the person’s heart had once been. I wanted to scream out, but I couldn’t make a sound. I was too afraid that whoever had done this was nearby and would come after me if I did.

After that, though, I was determined to stop whoever it was, even if it meant putting myself in harm’s way.

It’s been a week since then, and I’m still not any closer to proving that Baz is the killer. I haven’t just been focusing on him—I’ve had other suspects—but he is still my prime suspect.

A body has been found every day since the first one was discovered, and it’s only a matter of time before one is found today, so I refuse to take my eyes off of Baz. I can’t let him kill another Normal.

He went to classes as usual, but at teatime, he heads straight for the woods. I wait a moment before following after.

I followed him into the woods a couple of nights ago, but I’m pretty sure he knew I was following him. He wove through the trees in circles, with no apparent direction, until I couldn’t catch my bearings. I was sure we were lost but after nearly two hours of that, he led us back out of the woods.

I don’t feel too great about the possibility of experiencing that again, but I would feel even worse if he killed someone and I didn’t try to stop him.

His pace is quick and purposeful as he makes his way through the woods. He seems so sure of his path that I wonder if he has already tied up a victim out here somewhere and is just now going back to take care of them.

A few feet ahead of me, he makes a quick turn into a thick patch of trees and bushes, and I pick up my pace to try to keep up with him. I turn where he did, but I don’t see him anywhere. I hurry forward, looking around for any sign of him, but everything is still and quiet. It creates an eerie feeling of both being all alone and being watched by a million pairs of eyes.

I slow my pace but keep moving towards where I think Baz went. I wander slowly through the trees, hoping to see or hear something that will help me find him.

As a couple of minutes pass and I still haven’t found anything, a lump forms in my throat, and my heartbeat quickens as I imagine all the awful things Baz could be doing right now to some poor sod.

I summon my sword and start thrashing it wildly about, clear the path in front of me so that I can push through the woods faster. I probably look like a complete madman, but I don’t care. I have to stop Baz before he hurts anyone else.

After what seems like forever, I slice through some low-hanging branches and step out into a small clearing. It’s only a few meters across, but the trees block out most of the light, which makes it difficult to see much.

At first, I don’t see anything, but as I take a few steps forward, two figures come into view on the opposite side of the clearing. I slowly move closer until the scene is clear. There is a limp body lying on the ground, a gaping hole the size of a fist in its chest, and someone is kneeling beside them. That someone is dreadfully familiar.

I gasp loudly, unable to stop myself, and Baz whips his head up towards me, his fangs bared.

I can’t believe it. I can’t believe I was right all along. Baz is the killer.

“I promise you this is not what it looks like,” he says, his words slurred because of his fangs.

“I don’t believe it,” I say, feeling queasy.

I was certain it was Baz but thinking it and seeing it are two completely different things.

I think there was a part of me that didn’t want to believe it was really him, didn’t want to believe he was capable of such horrific things, didn’t want to believe he really is a monster.

Being a vampire didn’t inherently make him a monster but this—these killings—are so much worse than being a vampire who feeds on wild creatures. It’s brutal and cold and unthinkable. I don’t understand how he could do it.

But here he is crouching over a fresh dead body, blood still pouring from the gaping hole in its chest, and the proof is irrefutable.

Baz did this.

He killed those Normals, and I have to stop him before he kills anymore.

“You killed them,” is all I can think to say.

“No. I didn’t. I know what this looks like, but you have to believe me, Simon. Please.”

He stands up, and I have to fight the urge to take a step back. I’ve never heard Baz plead with anyone before, so it’s strange that he’s doing it now.

Maybe it’s because he’s trying to keep himself out of trouble. But I won’t fall for it. I won’t let him get away with this.

I shake my head. “No. You did this. I know you did.”

“Are you sure?” He asks, and when I nod, he asks, “How sure are you? They will kill me for this if you turn me in, whether they have proof or not, so you should be absolutely certain before you run off and tell someone.”

He’s trying to trick me. I know it. I just… For some reason, I want to believe him. I guess I just don’t want to feel like this is my fault.

If only I had kept up with him, I could have prevented this from happening.

I shake my head again, hoping to clear away the doubt he has planted in my head before it can grow.

“You won’t fool me that easily. I know you did this.”

“Simon,” he says, and his voice is so soft and desperate that it steals my breath away. He rarely uses my first name, and he has definitely never said my name like that. “Look at me. Look at this scene. Really look at it. Do you honestly believe that I could do something like this?”

I take a deep breath and look at him then at the dead body and back again. I can’t stand to look at the scene before us for too long because it’s too gruesome, but I take a few long moments to study Baz.

His expression is hard, but there’s something vulnerable in his eyes, like he’s silently pleading with me to believe him.

It’s too much, and I have to look away, so I let my gaze fall down.

He’s still wearing his school uniform, same as me, but his somehow looks nicer. It never seems to wrinkle, and it doesn’t seem to have a spot of dirt on it even though he was just kneeling on the ground.

That’s what stops me.

If he had just killed that Normal, carved their heart from their chest, wouldn’t there be blood all over him? He could have cast a spell to clean himself up, but then, where’s the heart?

It’s not enough to wipe away my suspicions, but it is enough to make me doubt. Which I suppose was his plan, but it only means that I’ll have to keep an even closer eye on him tomorrow. I won’t let him hurt anyone else, but I also won’t turn him in until I know for sure he’s killing these people.

“Fine,” I say through gritted teeth.

“You believe me?” He almost sounds surprised.

“Not completely. But like you said, I need to be sure before I tell anyone. I’ll just have to get more proof.”

He nods once then says, “Alright,” before quietly adding, “thank you.” If I’m not mistaken, he looks relieved.

I only hope I haven’t just signed a death sentence for another Normal.

 Part 3: The Truth

Simon

I don’t get much sleep that night. Baz and I walked in silence back to the castle, and after we reported the body we found, he disappeared down to the Catacombs and didn’t return to our room for hours. I kept having to stop myself from going down there to keep an eye on him.

I get up bright and early the next day to make sure Baz doesn’t sneak off. It’s Saturday, so there aren’t any classes today, which means I should be able to keep my eye on him all day.

It’s Valentine’s Day, but I’m not sure how everyone can be so cheerful when these murders are taking place so close to our school.

If the victims were mages, I’m sure everyone would be scrambling. Parents would be picking up their kids; classes would be canceled; it would be a whole ordeal. But no one except me seems to be at all bothered by the murders. They haven’t even cordoned off the woods. It’s like they don’t even care for anyone’s safety.

The only person besides me who doesn’t seem in a cheerful mood is Baz, who seems to be moodily stomping his way all over the school.

I manage to keep my eye on him all morning and through lunch, but eventually I have to use the loo.

“Will you watch Baz for me for a minute?” I ask Penny.

“Why?” She asks, already looking annoyed at the mere mention of him.

“I want to make sure he doesn’t hurt anyone while I’m gone.”

She rolls her eyes at me but says, “fine. But all I’ll do is watch. I’m not interfering in this.”

I smile gratefully at here and hurry to the loo. When I return, I don’t see Baz anywhere.

“Where’s Baz?” I ask Penny, an edge of panic worming its way into my voice.

“He left a minute ago,” she says matter-of-factly.

“What? Where did he go?”

“I think he was headed towards the woods.”

“And you didn’t try to stop him? Or go after him?”

She sighs. “Simon, this is ridiculous. Baz is not a murderer. You need to face the truth.”

“I have faced the truth. Baz has killed thirteen Normals, and it’s only a matter of time before he kills another.”

“That’s not what I meant. I meant the truth about why you’re really obsessed with him.”

I frown. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

She nods solemnly. “I know, and I’m only saying this because you’re my friend.” She pauses briefly before saying, “You’re oblivious. You are completely oblivious to your feelings for him.”

“I am completely aware of how much I hate him,” I tell her.

She rolls her eyes. She does that often. “It’s more than that. You like him, and I think that if you really took the time to think about it, you’d see what I mean.

I want to stay and argue with her about this, but I have to go after Baz.

“I don’t have time for this,” I say. “I have to go after him.”

She shakes her head but doesn’t try to stop me when I turn to leave.

I take off towards the Wavering Woods, running as fast as I can and hoping it’s fast enough. I don’t even stop to consider the possibility that he might have gone elsewhere. I know he didn’t.

I have my sword drawn before I pass through the tree line. I keep running, blindly making my way through the woods. My movements are too loud for me to hear anything, but I can’t risk slowing down.

I have to keep moving. I have to keep running.

I have to stop Baz before he hurts anyone else.

I run for a long time, pushing harder and harder, until I trip on something, probably a tree root. I reach out to catch myself, scratching my hands on branches as I manage to stumble forward a few more steps before falling on my knees, hard.

I give myself a few moments to catch my breath before pushing myself to my feet.

That’s when I realize that I’ve made it to yet another clearing, bigger than the one yesterday and not quite as dark.

I take a few steps forward and find a scene similar to the one from yesterday. There’s a figure lying on the ground and something crouching over it. But it isn’t Baz.

This thing has wings and appears to be floating above the body with what appears to be an arrow poised over the figure’s chest.

I take a few more quiet steps forward, and that’s when I see who the figure is on the ground.

“Baz,” I whisper, barely audible.

The creature moves its arrow lower, and I cry out.

“NO!” I scream, and startled, the creature backs off and turns to me, hissing and spitting.

I freeze when I see its eyes. They’re bright red and glowing, and all of his teeth are sharp and pointed. What the hell is that thing?

It looks back down at Baz, and I cry out again.

“Leave him alone!” I shout, and somehow, my words are imbued with magic.

The creature hisses at me again, but as if he’s being pushed by something, he glides backward before turning and flying off into the woods.

I release a breath and realize that I’m shaking. I stay frozen to the spot for a long moment until I hear Baz take a gasping breath.

I rush to his side and sink to the ground beside him.

His shirt has been ripped open to reveal his chest, and there’s a button hanging from it by a thread. He’s pale, paler than I’ve ever seen him, and he doesn’t look well.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

How could I be so foolish? How could I honestly believe that he was killing people? If only, I had believed him.

“It’s not your fault,” he coughs.

“You’re so pale…” He’s more like an ashen grey. All of the color seems to have faded from him.

“Perks of being a vampire,” he says with a forced laugh, finally admitting it to me. Hearing him finally say those word aloud doesn’t make feels as victorious as I used to think it would, though.

“What did he do to you?” I ask, looking for a wound but finding none.

“Drank my blood. What little I had in me anyway.” He says it flippantly, like it’s no big deal, but it is a big deal. If he weren’t a vampire, he’d be dead right now.

He’s still dying, though. He can only go so long without blood. I have to do something. I have to help him somehow.

I think for a moment before the answer comes to me.

“Drink my blood,” I tell him.

He shakes his head violently. “No. I won’t drink human blood.”

“I won’t let you die.”

“I’ll go to the Catacombs. Drain some rats.”

“You won’t make it there in time.” Tears well in my eyes at the truth of this statement. I don’t want Baz to die. I have to save him.

“I can’t drink your blood, Simon.”

“Yes. You can.”

I pull him up into a sitting position and press his face into my neck.

“It’s okay,” I whisper. “It will all be okay.”

I feel his hesitation even as he nuzzles his face into my neck—he doesn’t want to do this, but he doesn’t have a choice. Then, there’s a sharp pain as he sinks his fangs into the side of my neck, and I gasp.

The initial bite is incredibly painful, and my instinct is to push him off, but I just grip onto his arms instead. And after a moment, his bite starts to feel good. Really good. It’s like as he takes my blood, he’s giving me something else in return, something warm and pleasant.

My eyes fall shut, and my mind goes blank. All there is is me and Baz and this pleasant feeling.

But then suddenly the feeling is gone, and reality comes crashing back down around me.

Baz shoves me away, and I don’t even try to fight him as I land on my back in the dirt.

The world spins around me as I struggle to catch my breath.

I’m still breathing hard, but after a couple of minutes I manage to sit up and look at Baz. He looks a little better now. Color is returning to his cheeks at least.

“That was…” I begin, grasping for a way to describe that experience.

“Awful,” Baz finishes, rubbing his hands down his face.

I frown, wrinkling my brows at him. That’s not how I would have described that.

“Are you okay?” I ask tentatively.

“No. Yes. No.” He shakes his head then tries again. “I’m not thirsty anymore, but I can’t believe I did that. I can’t believe you let me do that.” He won’t look me in the eyes. He just keeps staring at the ground.

“I couldn’t watch you die.”

He shakes his head at me. “Why not?”

I don’t know how to answer that. I don’t know how to explain it him. I can’t even explain it to myself.

“I just couldn’t,” I say, then I push myself to my feet.

“Where are you going?” He asks, finally looking at me.

“After it.”

“You can’t,” he says, attempting to push himself off the ground, but he isn’t strong enough yet.

“I have to.”

“Snow,” Baz rasps, his lips stained red with my blood, but I shake my head.

“I’ll find it. I’ll find whatever did this to you.”

“Simon, no. You’ll get yourself killed.”

I just shrug in response. I always knew I would go out fighting.

I turn towards the trees that the creature disappeared into and make my way to them, feeling woozy and a little unsteady on my feet.

Baz calls my name, but I ignore him and take off running once again.

I try not to think about why I’m so determined to get revenge for Baz. I mean, yes, I want to stop this creature, but I also want to get back at it for hurting Baz.

You like him. Penny’s words ring loud in my mind, but I shake them away.

I can’t think about that right now. I have bigger things to worrying about. Like stopping that creature before it can hurt anyone else.

 Part 4: The Final Victim

Baz

I have to go after Simon. He’s going to get himself killed.

I can feel Simon's blood coursing through my body. It makes me feel sick to think about what I just did, but it also makes me feel better physically, better than drinking blood has ever made me feel.

I don't like the implications of that.

I don't care how good drinking his blood makes me feel, I can never drink human blood again. I almost couldn’t stop, and Simon was too dazed to stop me. I can’t risk taking too much from someone. I would never forgive myself.

This one time will be worth it, though, if it means I'm fast enough to save Simon.

I finally manage to push myself to my feet, and after a brief moment of dizziness, I take off running faster than I've ever run before.

I can just barely catch a trace of Simon's scent, that familiar smoky-sweet scent that could only come from him. I keep shoving through branches until his scent becomes stronger. I'm getting close. I push myself to run faster. I have to get to him. He has no idea what he's gotten himself into.

This creature can't be killed by Simon simply going off or swinging his sword at it. There's only one way to kill a creature like this, and it's even harder to do than I thought.

I've been researching this thing since the first body was found.

My aunt used to tell me the Legend of a winged creature that came out every 14 years, killing one person everyday starting on the first of February and killing its final victim on Valentine's Day.

I used to think it was just a story, but as soon as I heard how the Normals were being killed, I knew it was more than a story. And I knew I had to stop it.

I've been hunting it even as Simon was so obviously hunting me. Of course I knew he suspected me. He's not very stealthy. I mean, he handwrote a list of reasons I'm the killer and left it on his desk for anyone to see.

I thought for sure he was going to turn me in yesterday even after he said he wouldn't. But somehow, I just barely managed to convince him. And then it was just my luck to become the creature's final victim today.

The creature doesn't only go after Normals -- I think they're just easier prey. It targets people who are single, people who won't be missed by a significant other. I fit the profile perfectly, but I think the real reason it targeted me was because I saw it yesterday. I wasn’t able to stop it, but I got close.

I was to be its final victim until Simon stopped it, which is why Simon is in so much danger. He's going after it, running right into danger like he always does, not caring a bit whether he lives or dies. He’s so stupid, but I have to help him.

His scent becomes overwhelming, and I know I'm close. I push through some more branches and find Simon fighting the creature in the trees.

He swings his sword at it, striking it on the arm, but the creature barely flinches.

"Simon!” I shout. “That won’t work. You have to get its arrow."

"What?"

I realize my mistake too late when Simon turns to look at me, leaving himself open to an attack.

The creature rushes at him and knocks him off his feet. Then, it’s on him, ripping at his clothes, trying to get at his heart.

I race towards the creature, drawing my wand. Magic won't do much against it, but it might slow it down.

I cast a spell, sending flames towards the creature’s wings. It cries out in pain but doesn't move away from Simon, who is reaching for his sword which lies just out of reach. I run at the creature, knocking him off Simon, but it easily overpowers me, once again pointing its arrow at my chest. It bares its sharp teeth at me, and I decide not to fight it. At least if it kills me, Simon will be safe.

 Simon

Baz knocks the thing off of me, but then he stops fighting. It's like he's given up, and I don’t understand why. I start to reach for my sword, but then I remember what Baz said. Get its arrow.

I lunge at the creature, landing on its back, and reach for the arrow. It attempts to shake me off, but when I see a speck of blood on Baz's chest, it’s like something snaps inside of me. I grip onto it and reach harder for the arrow. I won’t let it hurt Baz.

I manage to grab hold of the arrow and viciously rip it from the creature's grasp.

"Kill it!" Baz shouts.

I don't hesitate before plunging the arrow into the creature's chest. It bucks again, and I let go, letting myself slide off of it as black liquid oozes out of its chest. It yanks at the arrow, trying to pull it free, but it's too late.

The creature crumples to the ground in a lifeless pile.

I'm breathing hard as I step around it and help pull Baz to his feet.

As soon as he’s standing, though, he shoves me.

"You idiot!"

 Baz

"You idiot." I repeat, shoving Simon in the chest again. "You could have gotten yourself killed!"

"I had it handled." He shrugs.

"You had no idea what you were going into. If I hadn't found you..." I trail off, not wanting to think about what might have happened if I hadn't gotten to him in time.

"Why do you care?"

"Because I—." I cut myself off.

"You...what?" Simon asks, and there's a strange expression on his face, one I’ve never seen on him before. It’s almost like he’s hoping I’ll say something.

"Because I care about you, okay?" I sigh, finally saying aloud what I’ve never been able to before.

I expect him to laugh and ridicule me for it, but he just stares silently.

I give him another moment before shaking my head and turning away. I can’t believe I just said that aloud. I can’t believe I said it, and I can’t believe Simon didn't react at all. At least if he'd laughed or hit me, I'd know where we stand.

I should head back to school. I'll report what happened here and then I'll try to forget how foolish it was to say that.

I take a few steps away from Simon, prepared to start running once I'm sure I’m going the right way, but stop when I feel his hand on my wrist.

"Wait." His voice is quiet.

"What do you want?" I ask.

"I care about you, too."

I turn to face him slowly, wondering if now is the point when he starts laughing, like this is all just some big joke. But he looks serious. And maybe even...nervous?

He stares at the ground, but his voice is louder and surer when he speaks again.

"I really care about you Baz."

I suck in my breath. This has to be a joke.

He tilts his head up and slowly meets my eyes like he’s afraid of what I’ll do.

I'm not sure what to say. I like him, and I want for him to be telling the truth, but how can I know for sure?

I search for something to say, and he steps closer to me.

His hand moves from my wrist up to my face, where he brushes a strand of hair out of my face and lets it linger there.

"I like you," he whispers, like it’s a secret only meant for me to hear.

"I like you, too," I whisper back without hesitating.

Then, Simon is moving closer to me, and I'm tilting my face down towards his, but he stops just short of our lips meeting.

"Can I kiss you?"

I marvel at the question because it's ridiculous that he even had to ask, but I also love him for it because he wanted to make sure it was okay.

"Yes," I reply, and the word is barely out of my mouth before he's kissing me.

I kiss him back gently, placing my hands on his hips to hold him there.

We kiss for long moments until we have to part to catch our breaths.

He takes a step back but he’s smiling up at me.

"Will you be my Valentine?" He asks after a moment.

I chuckle lightly. "Seriously?"

He shrugs. "Yeah."

I smile at him, my chest filling with warmth. "Sure, Simon." I nod. "Yes. I'll be your Valentine."

His face splits into a grin, and he reaches out to intertwine his fingers with mine.

I don’t think I've ever seen this expression on him, and it's hard to believe that it's because of me.

I feel my own smile widen, and I lean forward to kiss him softly.

This is the strangest - and maybe even nicest - Valentine's Day ever.