#Suture Companies

[lotus-surgical]

Why surgical kits are the backbone of global healthcare solutions

Know how surgical instruments serve as the most significant invention to improve healthcare solutions worldwide

Surgical procedures have improved modern medicine, addressing everything from routine processes to critical emergencies. Surgical kits have made operations more successful and hassle-free with the power of advanced technologies.

[dravidious]

You're more amazing than calcium

I beat Trauma Center: Under the Knife! Savato's a little SHIT but I killed it! And now the GUILTs are eradicated forever and will never hurt anyone again. Until the writers immediately bring it back in the sequel because they didn't have any other ideas

Also here's a treat:

SURPRISE! TRICK! 21 KITKAT BARRAGE ATTACK!!

[health5690]

Discover Pinion, the knotless suture designed for faster, more secure wound closures by Meril Life. Explore improved tissue engagement, reduced trauma, and efficient closure solutions that deliver superior results. Refer - https://www.merillife.com/medical-devices/endosurgery/surgical-sutures/synthetic-absorbable-suturesd/polydioxanone-sutures/pinion

[asxgard]

Abbot(t) x reader idea where instead of Dana, it’s the reader that Javadi confides in after her awkward Matteo ask-out and after the reader gives her props for going for it and explains that she’s had a secret crush on Abbott for forever, Myrna (who sees and hears all) either 1) pipes up and tells her she’s seen Abbott checking her out or 2) stays quiet and tells Jack about it later. Or both haha. I just feel like Myrna is like 4th in terms of who knows the most about the ED gossip (after Perla, Princess, and Dana) lol.

These Walls Have Eyes | one shot

Dr. Jack Abbot x f!nurse!reader

Requested

Summary: Rumors always start somewhere — and the one about you and a certain attending started somewhere between a whispered confession and Myrna overhearing you.

[ My Masterlist ]

Note: Myrna sees and hears all, I agree with you lol I hope you like it!

Word Count: 1.1k

Most of my works are 18+ due to adult language and content.

Warnings: foul language, age gap (if you squint), Myrna being Myrna, references to Pittfest, pining, hospital setting, medical inaccuracies, alcohol

not beta read

“He’s like a human Utah.” Javadi told you, eyes wide and breathless.

You ushered her down the hall, smirking, “I know a thing or two about a Utah.”

She looked over at you and your cheeks warmed at the thought of Dr. Abbot. You typically worked nights with him, and it took forever to stop flustering whenever you were in his company. You thought you had finally gotten it all under control, but like Javadi, your Utah had a habit of making you feel like you weren’t getting enough air when your eyes met.

“I wish I had some advice, but frankly, mine still makes me feel like that. Even after all this time.” You smiled at her and patted her arm.

“Does he work here?” She asked, before quickly adding, “Or she?”

“He’s the chief attending the night shift,” you told her. “I don’t think you’ve met him yet. Dr. Abbot.”

She stared at you, blinking, “You’ve never said anything?”

You waved it off awkwardly, “Never felt like the right time.”

“Oh.”

“But your Utah?” You glanced over your shoulder to peek at Mateo through the window. “You shouldn’t wait too long like I did.”

“Oh, no, no. I don’t think—”

Your laugh was light, “No rush, kid. I’m just saying you shouldn’t let it pass you by. Life’s too short.”

Javadi looked at you like she wanted to say something, but decided against it, before being pulled away by McKay. You let out a long sigh that made Dana steal a glance at you, raising a brow. You smiled at her to assure her you were fine, but your stomach felt tight.

“You know, that handsome doctor eyes you up any time you ain’t lookin’.”

You jumped, startled. You turned to see Myrna behind you, smiling devilishly.

“What even are you talking about?” You asked, trying to ignore the heat in your cheeks.

She raised her eyebrows and wheeled closer to you, “I’m saying, sweetcheeks, that it’s not one sided.”

You had the urge to roll your eyes, mostly at the nickname, but also at any of it being truthful. Jack never gave any indication that he was emotionally available, let alone interested.

“Alright, Myrna, let’s get you—”

“I’m tellin’ you! Dr. Abbot totally—”

You were grateful that Perlah swooped in to help you, wheeling her away, sending a knowing smirk in your direction. You gave her a playful scowl — if anyone knew anything around the Pitt, it was Princess and Perlah. Though, you supposed you could add Myrna to the list now since she had clearly been able to be a fly on the wall enough to gain all that information.

Mind spinning with possibilities, you tried to busy your hands, throwing yourself back in the work.

—

Jack arrived to the Pitt right after he had heard it over the scanner, never one to wait. After a quick debrief, he set to work.

“Hello, Dr. Abbot.”

He didn’t need to look to know who it was, though he sent her a side glance while he prepped some suture trays. He looked around to find a nurse, hoping they would take Myrna upstairs quickly — though in all the chaos of moving patients upstairs, she clearly had slipped through.

“I overheard something today…” she trailed off, a smirk hinting at her lips. “About a certain nurse having a crush on a certain attending.”

That caught his attention, though he only spared her a look with an eyebrow raised.

“I’m quaking in anticipation.” He said dryly.

Her shoulders shrugged, “Thought you might be interested, you know, you do check her out every chance you get.”

He ignored the way heat invaded his chest, suddenly aware of the nurse in question. You. You who had been plaguing his mind since you started. You who always offered him a smile. You who matched his dry quips and cutting sarcasm with ease. You who offered easy banter over bad break room coffee. You who stood in his silences like it was something interesting.

Myrna grinned at him, “She was talking about you.”

His heart seized, but his training pushed it aside. No time to get soft when a mass casualty was about to burst through the doors.

—

The end of shift came slowly, but blurred together by the carnage and chaos. After working 15 hours, you felt heavy. Your bones ached and you felt painfully dehydrated. In the aftermath, however, your mind caught up with you and you remembered Myrna’s words. They echoed in the back of your head, playing on repeat.

Mateo offered for you to come to share a beer outside before heading home. Your eyes flickered between him and Javadi, and you grinned, accepting.

Javadi gave you a bashful look that quickly grew excited when she spotted someone behind you.

“Remember Utah? Might not be too late.” Javadi said, subtly gesturing behind you with her chin.

You turned and spotted Dr. Abbot. Your heart started racing and you swallowed thickly. When you looked back at Mateo and Javadi, they both were grinning at you like fools. Leave it to the rumor mill to spread your crush like wildfire.

Outside, Donnie passed you a beer and while it did not seem like your best decision, you opened it and took a sip. Laughing with your co-workers made your shoulders feel lighter, but everyone slowly began to depart until it was only you and Jack left.

You took Robby’s seat on the bench with him once he got up to leave. Your heart thrummed in the silence, beginning to overthink Myrna’s words. You could not get yourself to move, however, stuck to the bench, enjoying the company of the man beside you.

“I learned something interesting today.” Jack said into the quiet, fiddling with his beer like he was anxious.

You turned to look at him, appreciating the way the shadows highlighted your favorite features. His cheekbones and the stubble, half his face hidden in darkness, his hazel eyes appearing almost black.

Might not be too late, echoed in your mind.

“Not to come in on your day off?” You offered lightly.

He leaned forward just enough for the light from the streetlamp to illuminate him, and the smile you caught made the air get trapped somewhere in your lungs.

Exhaling a breath, he shook his head and looked over at you. “Something about a work crush.”

“Oh, yeah, she said something to me earlier.” Trying to hide the smile while anxiety invaded, you failed. “Something something an attending has been checking me out.”

“She must have eyes everywhere.”

“Yeah.” You agreed, unsure where to take the conversation. He didn’t deny it.

It was edging close to something dangerous, something where there was no turning back.

But maybe you didn’t want to risk it falling back to the status quo.

“Would you like to get dinner sometime?” You asked after a beat.

He answered immediately, “Yeah, I would.”

Dr. Abbot taglist: @flyinglama @valhallavalkyrie9 @melancholyy-hill @travelingmypassion @yournerdmodziata @dark-twisted-and-mechanical-mind @sarah-the-bird-nerd @artsymaddie @partofthelouniverse @woodxtock @rachel2494

The Pitt taglist: @cannonindeez @spoiledflor @kittenhawkk @nessamc @thatchickwiththecamera @sharkluver @loud-mouph @ksyn-faith @sunfairyy @dragonsondragons @mischiefsemimanaged @pastelbunnelby @jetjuliette @that-one-fangirl69

All content taglist: @nixandtonic

[quakeandquiver]

I usually draw SecUnit's arm weapon ports as a fucked up organic suture-looking situation and wanted to actually work out how that would look. I was going to say "don't ask me how it works inside of the armor" but I think the obvious answer is that it doesn't, at least not in the Company's shitty armor, and the port flaps get pinched in the arm casings all the time.

[writersdrug]

The Good Friend

Chapter 1. A New Hobby

Summary: Johnny regularly checks up on Ghost after he sustained a bullet to the hip on their most recent deployment. It's already too late for him to escape, once he sees what's kept his beloved lieutenant so occupied over the past few days.

Warnings: DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT, kidnapping, implied violence, restraining, psychotic behavior, blood, forced to help in kidnapping, obsessive behavior. DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE SENSITIVE TO THESE TOPICS. By clicking "Keep Reading" you are consenting to be responsible for the media you consume.

A/N: The people have spoken

Simon on medical leave: a disaster and a headache for the rest of the 141.

There's a daily text along the lines of "Let me know when we get shipped out next." It never mattered how many times Price responded with "You're not joining us for a while. Find a hobby, Simon." He was persistent in coming back to work as soon as possible - shattered hip be damned.

Price had given Soap the job of checking up on the poor brute. "Maybe he misses the usual company." He'd say. "Go see 'im, check in with the muppet."

Soap was a good friend, but there was only so much grumbling he could stomach from Simon. Those "check-ins" would turn into a pity party, with Simon saying "I should be out there, helpin' you lot. Only wastin' away in 'ere. Losin' my head." And it was true - every time Johnny visited, there was an open can of beer on the coffee table, or a glass of whiskey in his hand. The bottle of prescription, opioid pain killers on the kitchen table. Some ill-advised coping mechanism within arm's reach.

It hurt Johnny to see it, it really did. He cared about Simon, missed him, would do anything to get his beloved L.T. back on the team. But he knew the man needed rest and recovery, despite how much it was sending Simon into a spiral. Johnny offered to help clean up his place, but Simon angrily denied the offer. "Don't need a bloody caretaker." He spat.

Just tryin' to be a good friend, Soap wanted to say, but instead he answered with a slam of Simon's front door and a hushed "feckin' bastard."

Johnny was tired of it. When the fuck was this medical leave supposed to end? Apparently, in two weeks ("thank the feckin' lord") -

But, Soap soon discovered, Simon had requested more time off.

Price stated he'd said something about "still not feeling right", which immediately had Soap confused. That old bawbag would've been back in the game the second the bullet was out of his hip, if it wasn't for regulations. It festered in the back of his mind all day: why would Simon do that? What could possibly hold his attention more than the task force? More than Johnny?

There was only one way to find out.

Soap stands in front of Simon's door, knocking loudly against the dark wood. An unexpected visit, which Simon might be frustrated by - but Soap is dying to see what's got his lieutenant so preoccupied. Hopefully, he hasn't fallen into a pit of depression, choosing to drink himself to death, rather than come back to the team.

However, after just a few moments of standing on his porch, Simon answers it rather quickly. And he looks happy. Delighted, even.

"'Bout time, Johnny." Simon says, stepping aside to let him in. "Was wondering if you got lost."

"Was wonderin' if you'd gone crazy." Soap banters back, kicking the door shut behind him. "Cap said ye want more time?"

Simon chuckled quietly, locking the deadbolt behind Soap. He shoves his hands - gloved hands - into his sweatshirt pocket. "Took his advice. Found a hobby."

"Lemme guess: knittin' me a Christmas sweater?"

"You fuckin' wish."

It's good. It makes Soap sigh with relief (internally), seeing Simon in such good spirits. He tosses the pack of blems onto the coffee table and follows Simon into the kitchen. The smell of rubbing alcohol hits him before he sees the counter; bandages, gauze, bloody gauze, hydrogen peroxide, and an open suture kit.

He stops in the doorway to the kitchen, his teeth bared in a wince. "Shite, Ghost- ye reopen tha' bullet wound?" he says, lifting up one of the bloodied pieces of gauze.

"Hm?" Simon turns to face him, then looks at what he's holding. "Oh- nah, I'm fine. Luvie here bumped her head."

Johnny looks up, confused, following Simon's back with his eyes as he makes his way into the dining room - his mind goes blank when he sees the poor, bloodied thing, tied to one of the chairs.

You're staring back at him, hair messed and blood dried against a nasty gash on your forehead. Fabric is stuffed into your mouth, with a strip of duct tape securing it around your head. Your eyes light up with hope as they take Johnny in; you're heaving, poor thing, breaths more like whines as you fight through the delirium of your concussion. Your right ankle is swollen and a nasty shade of purple. Blood all over the chair, your thighs, and now, Johnny finally notices, Simon's hands.

"Dinged 'erself pretty good on my bookcase." Simon says, too calmly, his broad frame standing behind the chair you're strapped into. "Slippery lil' thing, she is."

Simon rips the duct tape off - your voice immediately fills the room, echoing inside Soap's head with your begging and pleading, please please please get me out of here, please help me, he kidnapped me, he's a monster, please-

Johnny has to look away - there's too much noise, too much going on - his eyes trail down the dark hall and into Simon's bedroom. The bookshelf is toppled over, volumes strewn about the floor, a lamp shattered on the ground and casting an eerie angle of light through the room. He hears the sound of his own blood pumping, his chest and throat feel tight, mind racing a million miles a second. Did his LT do this? His Simon?

"Johnny."

He turns back to you. The duct tape is back in place, and now you're weakly thrashing about as much as you can - which really isn't much. Ghost is staring at Soap, one of his hands wrapped around your shoulder, knuckles white with how hard he's gripping you; which is most likely what's making you cry so much.

"Need ya to help stitch 'er up." Simon says, his eyes cold. It's an order. "'Fore she bleeds out on us."

Johnny feels like he's going to vomit. He needs to stop thinking, to stop shaking, and do something. His lieutenant's kidnapped a bloody civilian, for Christ's sake. Why? And what the fuck did he do to her?

"Won't let me touch 'er. Hard to stitch the wound when she's throwin' a fit - damn near stabbed 'er in the eye. I'll hold 'er while you do th' job."

Johnny finally inhales after holding his breath for so long. He stumbles backwards into the kitchen, remembering where the front door is, thinking he should have been in his car and on the phone with the police by now. If he does, though, Simon will be gone forever. Locked up in prison, far away from Soap. How can he save this? How can he save you, and him? "Simon, ye- ye can't be serious, mate-"

"If you walk out tha' fuckin' door I'll kill 'er before you reach it."

That ruffles your feathers. You're whimpering again, screaming against the gag - at him? At Ghost? He freezes where he stands, trying to remember his training. Act first, think later. Do what keeps the most people alive in the moment. That's what Simon had taught him. The same man who was threatening to kill you, ironically, based on what Soap decided to do.

"Get the sutures off the counter." Simon ordered, apparently sensing Soap's inner turmoil. He knows Johnny wouldn't leave you there, not after the threat.

He couldn't.

Soap exhaled heavily through his teeth, forcing his muscles to move. He snatched the suture kit off the counter and stormed back into the living room. He heard Ghost hum in approval as he slapped it down on the table.

"You do it." he said, his voice low and full with grit. "Ye stitch 'er up, I'll help ye take her to the hospital. We come back n' clean up-"

"Shut the fuck up-" Simon growled out to Soap, gripping your chin in his large hand and yanking your head back against his abdomen. "Get to work. Don't let 'er die on me, now."

Die. Die. You had a concussion and a headwound, but you weren't dying - still, he knew that wasn't what Ghost meant. If Soap didn't help, you would die, one way or another. He had to think of this differently, for the time being. He was helping you. He'd take this little by little - first, patch you up. Figure out what the fuck to do with you later; also, how to keep this from ruining Simon's career, because he couldn't leave the task force. Soap wouldn't let that happen.

So, he took the needle and sutures in his hand, and knelt on the floor, between your restrained legs. Ignored the way you screamed and thrashed, only held still by Ghost's meaty paws. Didn't focus on Ghost's satisfied grin. He was doing this to save your life, you'd understand that later. He was doing this to save Simon's career.

Like a good friend.

Next ->

Taglist: @a-sadmilky

Ghost photo credit to @chatskaja

[frvnkcastles]

Masterlist

Updated on May 27th, 2025.

Frank Castle

I Pray You Love Me Still

Breathe Me in Sweet Suffering

Progress Report: Missing You to Death

You See Me For What I Am

Keep Me Company 'Til the End

Honey, Don't You Leave

Burn a Little Brighter Tonight

The Antidote to Everything

The Way I Held Your Hand

The World of You And I

You're the Only Place That Feels Like Home

You Put My Head In Such a Flurry

The Warmth of Your Arms

The Best Worst Thing

Our Vintage Misery

Your Sweet Haven

Trust I Seek And I Find in You

I Can See a Love Restrained

My Truest Feeling Yet

Burn All the Mercy Out of Me

The Scars From Tomorrow

I'll Keep You Like an Oath

Find My Peace of Mind

Breathe Me Back to Life

I'll Turn My Love Down

Stuck in the Sunshine Riptide

My Old Aches

Empty Your Sadness

Half-Doomed & Semi-Sweet

'Til the Earth Starts to Crumble

Like Heaven Above

A Man With a Black Heart of Gold

Take My Hand, You'll Be Fine

Trade the Pain

A Handshake With Death

Heaven Is Wherever You Are

Follow Me Down

Fill the Void

Feel the Rush

The Beast Inside of Me

Say You'll Stay

I Would Do It Again

Set My World On Fire

Will You Love Me Forever

Want You So Bad

Will You Still Love Who I Am

With My Tunnel Vision

Scar-Crossed Lovers

Only Hope For Me

The Isle of Distant Dreams

Always Be This Way

Enough For Me

Your Head's Only Medicine

Sirens In My Head

Disappearing Years

Take Me With You

You're Good to Me

Poison From the Same Vine

All of Our Sins

Keep Our Love Alive

There's No Remedy

Watch the Days Pass

Never Be Alone Again

One More Taste

Hold Tight For Tomorrow

For the Night

Waiting for the Light

Sick and Tired

In a Lonely Loop

Hard Pill to Swallow

My Mind Rings

Bring Me Home

Tenderest of Care

Melody of Tears

Unimaginable Things

Trapped in Yesterday

Wretched & Joyful

Hold Me Tight

You Can Let it Go

Your Wound But My Sutures

Together As One

I Will Try to Hold You

Something to Dream About

Other Jon Characters

Sam Rossi - Every Night I Burn

[puakaba]

Kingdon Regency AU

Find it on AO3!

Although Melissa King’s father was of notable fortune, the King sisters lived by humble means. This contradiction shone through in every aspect of their life. Their home, for example, was a grand country manor of several rooms, however the two sisters shared one room between them. The rest of the estate was largely taken up by the eldest sister’s clinic, which occupied her life in every physical and spiritual sense of the word.

Winter 1810

In December of that year, following the death of their mother, Mel’s father sent notice of the sisters’ financial station within two weeks. The only sympathies expressed at their loss came from the courier who handed over the note. The letter itself made no mention of their mother. This was no surprise to either King daughter. According to the letter, the monthly allowance that had been previously allotted to their mother would now be placed into Mel’s name. This put the King girls in a precariously unique situation of independence. Where most men of their father’s status would be reluctant to let their daughters live freely and without a male presence to govern over them, the King girls were largely left to their own devices.

This suited them, Mel felt. The few times their mother had ventured to introduce them to society, Mel seemed to melt beneath the limelight of courtly affairs. So much of proper society consisted of acting at the judgment of others, and Mel had always struggled with sensing the truth in their perfumed words. Rebecca was largely unbothered by their opinions, but that was wrong too.

So the spacious confines of their country manor suited them fine. If Mel ever sought the genuine company of society outside of her sister, she was rarely unoccupied enough to feel it.

The boarding house that their mother ran closed only briefly in the period following her death. Several boarders attended her funeral. One of them, a professor of histories at Cambridge, actually drove in for the funeral, and helped lower her casket into the ground. It was a small, private ceremony, but by the time Mel and Becca had returned home, their kitchen overflowed with bushels of prepared food and goods from last season’s harvest.

Two weeks later, the boarding house reopened its doors to new guests. By February of the next year, the King country manor had been fully transformed into a bustling medical clinic.

Spring 1811

On the occasion that a boarder or nearby tenant farmer fell ill or injured, the Kings’ boarding house had been well known to treat the needing. After the house fell into the sole ownership of the eldest Miss King, its reputation as the impromptu source of medical attention became an official position.

The chaise lounges and sofas of the foyer and drawing room became sickbeds for the townspeople of Mercy. The younger Miss King was a lively nurse, tending to their basic needs, cleaning wounds, delivering cold compresses, and doling out medicines. The older Miss King served as doctor. She was well known in the town for her patient demeanor— suturing up the rugged bites of threshing machine wounds in neat stitches and extracting careful diagnoses from the most reticent, choleric infants.

When the King women first moved to the country, their father had established a library in their new home— obviously optimistic that he might someday take permanent residence with them. That hope was long abandoned now, but his collection of medical journals and textbooks remained in the house. At the age of four, Rebecca suffered her first fit of convulsions. Mel had watched her younger sister fall to the floor of the kitchen and sat helplessly by her side, desperately pinning down her flailing tiny hands. Their mother wrote to their father, who sent a fellow physician down. The doctor hadn’t been able to identify anything particularly concerning with Rebecca to have caused it, but he carried an unspoken air of indifference, as if he had already diagnosed her with something benign and incurable. As a young woman, Mel resolved that the young doctor had been informed of Becca’s history by her father before ever coming to observe her. Following that encounter, Mel had taken to the study, engrossing herself in the other things her father had abandoned.

Her efforts over the next nearly two decades placed Mel in a particular position as a young woman. She had never been to any of the women’s colleges or finishing school, but the combined focus of her studies and the clinical practice amongst her sister and neighbors gave Miss King as near to a doctor’s station with none of the degrees or qualification. Had she been educated in a manner traditional of young, noble born women, her degree of learning would have fallen far short of what she had achieved of her own ambition. In a way, Mel felt grateful that her father had neglected her education.

The clinic had seemed like a natural step, following their mother’s death. Her mother had been soft and charming in a way fitting of a boardinghouse keeper. Although Mel and Becca tried their best to maintain it, a sweeping fit of hay fever that befell the town brought a litany of patients to her house that early spring. Within the next few weeks, their country manor slid naturally into a clinic for the sick. Even after the fits of fever had passed, Mel found it too easy to keep their practice running. By March, the clinic had blossomed.

The work came naturally to her, and Becca took to the demands of serving as a nurse. Her early fascination with botany came in handy regularly, as the King sisters often relied on foraging when an apothecarist was not easily accessible. Their reputation grew quickly, and it was soon well established in the town that, should anyone fall sick or injured, the Kings were at their disposal.

It was rewarding work. Mel had never felt more confident in her own abilities as she did now. She’d also never been so well connected with the people of Mercy. In addition to a boarding house and clinic, the King home was a nursery for town gossip.

It was in this way that Mel first heard of the young doctor who had taken up the Parkhurst estate just outside of town. According to her sources— a milkmaid whose old case of cowpox occasionally caused swelling in the larynx— the doctor was a well-bred young man who had fallen deeply ill and was bed bound for weeks now. The milkmaid whispered to her that the doctor was gravely ill, and expected to die within the week. This dark piece of irony captivated the town deeply. Mel was admittedly more confused than entertained. If the man was indeed a successful doctor from London, why would he come out here, away from the resources of the city? Surely he would’ve had a much greater chance of treatment. Mel expressed these concerns, and the milkmaid grinned wryly. “Perhaps you ought to see him, Miss King,” she said.

Mel nodded. “At the very least I should like to take a look, I might be able to make a diagnosis. Perhaps bring him something for the pain.”

Her patient nodded sagely, and added, “Not to mention, I’ve heard he’s handsome.”

The doctor’s only servant opened the door cautiously.

“Are you Miss King?” the young man asked. “Lonnie at the pub told me I could expect to see you in the next few days.”

Mel nodded. Word traveled quickly, even if she failed to see how it was word at all.

Mr. Whittaker, Mel learned, had been hired as Mr. Langdon’s valet upon his move to Parkhurst. He spoke of his master’s symptoms with a deftness that Mel suspected meant he had been educated in medicine. He had introduced himself as valet, though, and not a nurse. Mel made note of this, but followed him silently to the master chambers. The rooms were dark, with velvet curtains drawn tight to block out any daylight from the large sash windows. A four poster bed stood in the center of the room, its beddings tossed messily about. Tucked into it, a sullen figure turned restlessly.

She approached the bed. The man was pale, his dark hair wet with sweat and plastered across his pallid forehead. She turned to Mr. Whittaker to ask about the symptoms presented.

“He’s been in a state for a fortnight. Nervous fits for the first week, then nausea, headaches, fever. I’ve had him on a regiment of regular hydration and purging, but the pain…”

“Do you have any notion on what it might be?”

Whittaker paused, and conflict was clear in his anxious eyes.

“No ma’am. I only work as Mr. Langdon’s valet, you see.” Mel was confused as to why Mr. Whittaker was intent on hiding his clear medical experience, but for the sake of politeness. Furthermore, she made note of the fact that he had referred to his employer as “Mister”, rather than “Doctor”. In either case, it was none of Mel’s concern. She turned her attention back to the troubled Mr. Langdon. He shuddered slightly, his dark eyebrows were pinched tight at the center, and he let out a low moan as he shifted.

“Has he been in pain?”

Mr. Whittaker nodded. “He complains of it often.”

“And have you already treated him with Lanadum?” she asked, reaching for the small pouch she had brought along.

“No!” Mr. Whittaker barked, suddenly. He caught himself, and he readjusted his tone. “No, Miss King. No Lanadum for the sir.”

Mel took this into account, a new point of information along with his jolting shivers and pallid skin. “I see,” she said, leadingly. Mr. Whittaker gazed at her solemnly, neither confirming nor denying.

“Willow bark, then. It should ease his pain without aggravating his recovery.” Mr. Whittaker nodded, smiling slightly in relief. “I have some in my apothecary back at the clinic. If you’ll wait, I can bring it during lunch.”

“I couldn’t trouble you to travel all this way twice, Miss King. I can fetch it myself, if you’ll have my company.” For the first time since she had met Mr. Whittaker, the nervousness seemed to lift from his eyes. “I was told just to look over him during his illness and keep him from…coming into any harm on his own. But the pain he was in, I wanted to help him.”

Mel nodded. “I’m pleased you thought to call for me.” She looked to Mr. Langdon once more. His pained expression twisted, and his undershirt was translucent with sweat. He was a handsome man, Mel finally thought. She reached out and pressed her palm against his forehead. Her hand felt cool against the heat of his skin. Withdrawing, she paused to brush her fingers against his hair, pushing the wet locks away from his face. He groaned lightly and seemed to lean into her touch, his eyelashes fluttering. Mel pulled her hand away quickly, tucking it into her shirt pocket. She glanced nervously at Mr. Whittaker, who looked away with a valet’s expert discretion. Mel chastised herself for chasing whatever stray urge had pushed her to touch him. Very unprofessional, even as a non-professional doctor. She bid Mr. Whittaker goodbye and told him she’d expect him anytime that afternoon. She was on the road back to town before he could offer to pay her for her time.

——

Before taking residence at Parkhurst, Francis Langdon was a surefire candidate to be Oxford’s most prominent graduate of the medical degree. First of his class, Dr. Langdon graduated into a healthy practice and was the most highly requested physician within London’s noble houses. Months after accepting his doctoral robes, Langdon was wed to the eldest daughter of the Clifford house— a noble line whose name peppered the seats of various ministries and aristocratic houses. Dr. Langdon was the successful head of a flourishing practice, the happy husband to a wealthy young woman, and the proud father to two healthy children. He had married into wealth, in every sense of the word.

So solid was Frank Langdon’s grasp on his good luck, when he suffered a minor injury during a riding incident, it felt unlikely that this brief lapse would have any real impact on his fortune.

The sharp twinge in his back proved difficult to shake in his recovery; but upon seeing a senior doctor from his program, Frank was prescribed a schedule of heavy dose Lanadum that easily washed away the pain. Until it didn’t. When he scraped the last spoonful of powder from the bottle, it was too easy to find another helping in his medicinal cabinet. And he needed it.

Eventually, his apothecarist bill became too steep a financial burden, and like everything else, a replacement came easily. Opium was by no means unheard of or scandalous in his circles, but it flowed quietly in smoky parlor rooms and the velvety dens of London. Visits with school mates to the odd opium den in the evenings gave Frank a welcome supplement to balance out his own supplies. Life was the same— better, even. Work in the daytime, society in the evenings. But when Frank’s father-in-law and his hunting party found him collapsed in the morning room, Lanadum powder still thick on his fingers and in his throat, the unspoken opium habit became too public-- too scandalous. Within the week, word had spread around the town that Francis Langdon-- the ambitious young doctor from Oxford-- had been dipping into his own medicines. A luxurious pastime for most, a scathing habit for him.

An unassuming estate was purchased for him in the country, in a town fittingly named Mercy. A young man was hired as Langdon’s nurse, given the costume of a valet, and sworn to secrecy. He was a mousey boy who rode out to the countryside with Langdon, mopping at his forehead as he labored through withdrawals the entire carriage ride out. A small tin of opium powder burned a whole in Frank’s waistcoat pocket. They had failed to check his person before shipping him away.

He had been given the barest few hours in the small hours, just before dawn, to bid goodbye to his children. They had been distressingly calm, Langdon reflected. Even within their short lives, it was hardly a rare occasion that Langdon would be pulled away for weeks at a time for some various work or research calling. He wished he could have imparted some amount of urgency onto them— some understanding that this was a strange and wrong thing, that their father was leaving in a more consequential way. Instead, he had kissed them goodbye, and into their soft, messy hair, he whispered an apology that would only settle in once they noticed he was really gone.

His wife stood a few paces back, blinking hard at the marble floor. Langdon stepped to her, taking her hand softly. She allowed him to hold it, but the without weight or purpose. When he leaned down to kiss her, she placed a hand against his chest, stopping him. She gazed up into his eyes. She seemed to be searching for something, an indication that he was unaffected. With a sinking heart, Langdon recognized that he could not be sure. He left his family with the heavy feeling that they were only losing a great burden.

It rained the night Langdon drove into Mercy, though he hadn’t noticed until the carriage wheel bumped heavily into a pit in the country road. The carriage had careened through the mud, just far enough to strike a passing wagon. The young boy driving the wagon had been bucked from the coach box, landing in the road. The collision had jostled Langdon inside the carriage, slamming his head into the wall hard enough to startle him from his stupor, but not enough to incapacitate him. Langdon felt this was a great misfortune. His head pounded from the impact. He shoved his hand into his pocket, fingering at the metal tin. He was not necessarily opposed to recovering his sobriety, but why should he suffer?

The young man from the wagon was wailing outside, sitting brokenly in the mud. The valet— Mr. Whittaker, Frank later learned— had already leapt out. He was straightening the boy out, sloughing mud off the lad’s body to identify what injury had taken him. Langdon pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to resist what he already knew would happen. He had lost his medical license. He had broken his oath. He was under no obligation to step foot out of this carriage.

The mud came up past his shins as he leapt down to the road.

“Valet, in my case— fetch me a roll of dressing and antiseptic fluid.” Whittaker snapped to, his nursing training clear in the urgency and efficiency with which he moved.

He knelt over the collapsed driver. The boy seemed young, perhaps four or five years older than his own. “Son, my name is Doctor- Mister Langdon. I can be of some assistance. Can you tell me your name?”

The boy continued to wail, clutching at his left leg. Langdon sighed. Sweeping more mud out of the way, he pressed gently against the leg that the boy was guarding. His wailing grew with the pressure. Running his fingers along the line of his leg, Langdon felt a discrepancy in the skeleton of the boy’s shin— just below the knee.

The valet arrived at his side. “I have the dressings, sir.”

Langdon nodded. “Set them on the wagon, then come help me lift him into our carriage. We cannot treat him in the mud.”

Whittaker did as he was told, then awaited further direction. At Langdon’s instructions, the two men lifted the boy up, mindful to keep his leg extended. He was set up in the floor of the carriage, and Whittaker set about making him comfortable. Langdon turned back to the wagon that the boy had been tossed from and felt along the edges of the wagon itself. The undercarriage of the wagon consisted of long, thin planks of wood. As Langdon had hoped, a few were loose and easy to pull away. Langdon tugged at these slats, coming away with two straight splints of wood.

He set about working on the boy’s leg, Whittaker handing him supplies as he worked. Taking the vial of antiseptic material, Langdon washed away mud from the leg, squinting in the darkness to identify any open wounds. To the best of his ability, the majority of the outer damage were merely scrapes. After cleaning the area, Langdon wrapped the leg with the bandages and loose cotton.

“Alright man,” Langdon indicated to his valet, “hold these pieces straight.” Whittaker placed his hands on either side of the leg. The rain was picking up, the horses nickering with anxiety, and the boy continued to bawl. Langdon’s head screamed with pain. “Hold it steady, now. It needs to be straight.”

Langdon took hold of his shirt hem and ripped the bottom inch off, tearing it into several thin strips.

With Whittaker holding the wooden slats tight, Langdon set about binding the splint with his makeshift cloth ties.

The boy’s leg was set and splinted within the next few minutes. Whittaker let out his breath, turning to Langdon in shaky relief. The two men stood like wet dogs in the pouring rain. Langdon ordered Whittaker to ride in the carriage with the boy and mind that he kept the leg straight. He would ride with the driver in the coach box. Although they had set the leg to heal properly, the boy continued to sob. Langdon took in a heavy breath. He reached into his pocket, pulling out the tiny tin. Whittaker eyed him as he did.

“Lanadum,” Langdon said, “Allow him half the tin now. We’ll leave it with him when we go.” He pressed it into Whittaker’s hand, feeling glass shards in his spine.

“Excellently done, sir,” Whittaker said.

“Obviously.” Langdon settled into the coach box and promptly passed out.

Upon arriving at the country house in Mercy, Langdon was tucked into a waiting bed, where he ailed for weeks on end under the nervous, watchful eye of Mr. Whittaker. Despite his being bedridden for the greater part of the Spring season, the entirety of Mercy knew that a handsome young doctor had arrived from the city and chosen to make his home in their humble country town.

[urundeaduncle]

♱⃓ Disciples of Wren | Chapter One ♱⃓

Descriptions: est. 1660 words, sapphic vampire fantasy

cw: mentions of death, blood

The creature came upon me with a strange sort of curiosity. A sharp eyed, cervine gaze and a body to match the face. In my state, I thought them to be frail. I imagined those thin legs snapping beneath their movement, but they didn’t. Each footstep echoed as it fell onto the chapel floor. Steady and refined, unfazed by the blood soaked pews; unfazed by my body being there at all. When they finally approached my position, I gathered what strength I had left and swung a pitiful blow at the creature. A small laugh fell from their mouth as they took a step back to avoid the punch. The sound was slick with pity.

My vision had siphoned down to pinholes and for a moment I felt a bit of relief at the stranger circling me. If they were real and not a figment of my dying mind; that is, if they were going to kill me, at least this would finally be over. The eyeing continued for a while. The sound of their heeled shoes annotating my shallow breaths, clunking like hooves on cobblestones. A pale horse; a reaper.

Then the distance closed. Like a flash of lightning, suddenly I could feel their breath on my neck. My whole body burned with adrenaline, but there was no where to run now. What solace I had found in the prospect of a timely death was rapidly being replaced with a primal fear. I would have thrown the thing off of me if I had any fight left but my limbs were numb. So I just lay at it’s mercy. Thinking an endless array of horrific scenarios, and if I should start praying again, but then deciding against it. What a pitiful existence; my last aching moments, wasted on questioning god and tallying every sin I’d committed. I remember wondering if a hell was waiting for me on the other side. I could have smiled, and perhaps I did. I hoped the depths of eternal damnation would be more gentle with me.

The ceiling of the little church looked so far away in that last moment. Stretching from me, as if I were falling or the building itself climbing up towards the sky. Rings of crimson clouded my vision. More and more, filling up the space until there was nothing else. Until I felt no more pain and the yellow light from inside the chapel was completely gone. It was as if I’d struggled into a deep sleep. The kind of slumber you only experience when you’re ill; heavy, and uncomfortable but sleep nonetheless.

When I woke up I was in no hell I could recall, but perhaps a new rendition of its horror. I breathed, and I lived, but my body was so still. There is a gentle hum of life we tend to ignore in our day to day but now that it was gone from me, I missed it. I searched my body over as if to ground myself, trailing my hands over my bare stomach and chest. More concerning than my lack of clothes was the rough stitches I found all over my wounds. Dozens of rudimentary sutures with the skin puckered at each knot; dark purple in contrast to my skin which appeared grey in the low light.

My eyes widened like black marbles in my face, darting about my surroundings. There was nothing but a small room that reeked of wet rot and various stacks of old scripture. Neither of which brought me peace. Neither of which gave clue to my previous or current plight. I grappled at the sheets on the small bed to cover myself as I sat up. They smelled like dust, just like everything else in the place. The skin around the stitches stretched insufferably with my movement. The searing that coursed through my body was unimaginable. I held my breath in fear I would let out a sound and partly in fear of snuffing the only light source I had to keep me company; a puny candelabra. I eyed the thing curiously as I inched my way towards it.

I lifted the candelabra and ghosted my hand over the surface of the bed side table, before reaching for one of the two drawers. I thought if nothing else, perhaps the piece of furniture hid a clue of what had happened to me, and if not that maybe a weapon. I hunched over the thing, gripping the little handle like it was a lifeline, before slowing pulling it open.

“I assume you’re looking for these.” The voice ripped through my prolonged silence like thunder. I clenched the sheets that covered me in one hand and the candelabra in the other, as I whipped around to face the interloper. The open door was peeled back revealing a darkened hallway, like an abyss. One that kept the owner of the voice safe from my view. All hidden, apart from their hands which jutted out of the pitch with my old clothes balanced in them.

“Don’t come any closer. Who are you?” My voice trembled as I spoke. In that moment my confusion frightened me more than the stranger in the doorway.

“How do you feel?” The voice spoke again, ignoring my question. “I imagine you must be quite confused by all this.” Confused was a gentle way of putting it. I was beside myself with questions, and the casual nature of the persons inquiry frustrated me.

“Where am I? Answer me plainly.” There was a lull after my demands that made the open door very unsettling. I felt exposed. Wether I’d liked to admit it or not, I was at the mercy of this stranger. “You’re in my home.”

“I said plainly.” My frustration was growing, as was my fear.

“Plainly stated, you’re in a chapel.”

Memories of the previous evening flooded my mind. I had run for miles to find the abandoned chapel, only for it to not be as abandoned as I’d hoped. They were waiting for me.

“The Disciples.” The words were hushed on my lips. I feared if I spoke too loudly, somehow they would hear me, discover me.

“I’m not one of them if that is what concerns you.” The strangers tone sounded vexed by even notion. Then there was a gentle crunch of dirt on the stone floors as they stepped through the doorway; finally revealing themselves.

A long, slender form appeared first. She was tall and well dressed. A high collar, button up tunic tucked neatly into slacks and hanging from her neck, a long beaded necklace with a large pendant at the end that dangled just above her belt. I admired her with a strange sort of awe and confusion.

Her prominent nose arched confidently towards me. Above that; a smooth brow sat, hanging over a set of garnet eyes that sliced through the rest of her features, capturing me. Her hair was pin straight and long; cascading black lengths that seem to reach down until they disappeared into the darkness surrounding her. I stared for a long while, unspeaking. It was as if my mind had chosen to forgive the current situation in favor of her. She was captivating. A type of beauty that transcended gender.

If it weren’t for the sound of her heels hitting the floor I might have stayed like that, unmoving. Though as she approached further, those calm, refined steps began to echo in my skull and more images started to resurface in my memory.

“Stop.” I whispered. I hadn’t intended to but I seemed to have lost my breath as I began to recognize the creature. I shoved the candelabra forward in an attempt to ward her off.

“I’d like to check your wounds if you’ll allow me.” She spoke calmly, but each word was tinged with annoyance.

“No! I remember you. You-“

She cut me off. “If you are remembering correctly, you will recall me sewing your body back up after those friends of yours made quite the carnage of you.” I was startled by her air of dominance. She did not raise her voice, nor her hand towards me and yet I found myself poised; ready to listen and obey.

“Let me explain myself. Lie down.”

And I did. The stranger took the candelabra from my hand and placed it on the table. “May I?” She asked, gesturing towards the sheet that covered my chest. “I’ll keep you modest. I just need to check those sutures.” I nodded hesitantly as she lifted the sheet and began inspecting my injuries.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“My name is Victoria.” She replied softly. She was focused, meticulously poking and prodding at each stitch; pulling small cries from my throat with every inspection.

“I’m Irene.” I choked out between the pain. “Well, Irene you are healing as well as I could’ve hoped for, but I need to go get something to cover these. Stay put.”

“Wait, you haven’t explained a thing to me. How do I know you will return?”

“We’re not strangers any longer, Irene. Have a little faith in me.” She murmured while covering me, then turned around and left the room. The door remained open but somehow my discomfort was not eased.

When Victoria returned she carried a large bundle in her arms. “These are new clothes for you to change into. While I don’t recommend you leave, I am not keeping you prisoner either. If you wish to stay this room is yours for the night.” She placed the bundle in my lap and headed for the door again.

“You’re leaving again? Aren’t you going to tell me what happened?” The woman did not turn around to reply but only stoped briefly in her motion.

“Come to me tomorrow. Rest now.”

And I did.

[jamespottersdaisy]

Dulcet

Peter Parker x fem!reader

in which peter parker messes with your head

part1| part2| part 3| part4| part5| 5.5k

a/n: added oscorp for the sake of the plot

You got a hundred from the calculus midterm, but Peter Parker was not present to brag. 

The nerve that boy has.

x

Spiderman is limping, and he’s injured, too. Again. And to think that you were a civilian with a sprained ankle. 

“You weren’t hobbling yesterday,” You open the window to him, stepping back to make room.

He gives you a much-forced thumbs-up before tossing himself to the carpet. His suit is ruined, fortunately for you with only one big gash on his bicep. You can be a tailor if he keeps this up. 

As he catches his breath, you– already knowing what you have to do– amble towards the suture kit. You hear him curse and groan by the corner of your room. You weren’t expecting him, but you are not surprised, either. “Don’t stain the carpet!” 

“Come on, trouble, you’re better than that,” he calls with a hoarse tone. 

No, you are not. 

Bringing the kit along, you pad back to your room.

“What happened?” you pout at him, at which he waves his uninjured hand off. His wound is similar to the one that you attended yesterday. “It’s just a gash, stop acting like you’re about to die.”

“Cut me some slack,” he says, this time less dramatically.

You sit beside him on the floor to work on his bicep. “It was the same thing as yesterday wasn’t it?”

You are not sure what to call it.  Monster sounds too childish, but the body of an animal doesn’t leave much for choosing.

After his silence, you avert your eyes up to him. “I thought you said it was handled?”

You hear a sigh from him under the spandex. His words echo around the room as your fingers work on the wound. 

“It’s complicated. I can’t just kill him.”

“Yeah, but…”

You notice that you have actually never thought about how Spiderman handles the bad guys. Surely he catches the criminals, but creatures like yesterday? You have absolutely no idea on that matter.

“How do you handle it then?”

He shrugs. “Try to find a cure? I don’t know, if there’s a problem there’s also a solution. Usually, I just need to look for it deep enough.”

“What if there is no cure?”

He doesn’t reply, and you feel cold shivers down your spine. Indeed, from afar, in the warm comfort of one’s bed, the thought of murder doesn’t cross the mind. Why would it? You are neither the murderer nor the dead. Just a regular person who wants the monsters gone, and Peter Parker to not get a hundred from a midterm.

You don’t like the chill silence. “Were you looking for a cure today?”

His dry chuckle surprises you when you complete the stitches. “Kind of. From the former experiences, I figured Oscorp would be a nice start.”

He’s not wrong. You applied for an internship at Oscorp merely because of the company’s reputation and got a positive reply. Thus, starting in two days, you will be getting acquainted with the building's interior.

“What did you find?”

“Nothing. I couldn’t even make it there.”

You’ve never thought that you can help him. Surely, if you manage to get lost and perchance find yourself in a room surrounded by confidential information and materials that can help to create a cure, it would be great help. You can’t do it yourself, but that doesn’t mean Spiderman can’t.

“I will be there the day after tomorrow, I’m sure I can–” You start only to get cut off by the guy before you.

“Absolutely not,” he shakes his head. “You are not getting involved in this.” 

You narrow your eyes at him, and he stares at you, which looks funnier than usual because of his big white eyes.

“It would be easier for me not to get noticed–”

“As it would be more dangerous,” he gets up by holding onto the walls around him. “You just do you. Don’t try to play hero, trouble.” 

“I have you for that,” you mumble as he walks around your room. 

Little does he know you are utterly resolute to sneak around. Not a very vulnerable civilian of you.

“Exactly. Let me handle this,” he nods at you before limping towards your bed. “You should direct your exertions towards nagging that Peter guy.”

“I would very much like to, if only his ridiculous face showed up–hey, hey, don’t–” ‘Lay on the bed,’ you wanted to yell but it was too late. He was already spread on the clean sheets of your comfort space. “SPIDER!”

“Ridiculous?”

“I washed them this morning, jackass!”

“You didn’t tell me his face was ridiculous.”

Groaning loudly, you throw your head back.

“It’s not! Can you please get the fuck out of my bed–”

“Then what’s wrong with his face?”

“Nothing is wrong with his face, it’s disgustingly perfect!” You jump to your feet and dash towards the red-bodied male and drag him by his leg. “Get up!”

“You don’t like his face because it’s perfect?” he cackles, watching you struggle to toss him away. 

“Yes, exactly,” when you do haul him to the floor, he’s laughing more heartily than you’ve ever heard anyone laugh before.

“You should tell that to him. He’d be flattered.”

“The only thing I’m gonna tell him when I see him is my three-digit grade.”

You abandon him on the cold floor while making sure to occupy the whole space in bed so he won’t jump in again. His laugh slowly ebbs, albeit you can still hear the timbre of amusement.

“Three digits?”

“I got a hundred from the exam,” you nod proudly, eyes on the ceiling. “Parker wasn’t around, though.”

“I’m sure he’ll pop up,” he stands up and dusts himself off. You notice he is not limping anymore. At least not that badly. Superpowers.

“Wasn’t worried.”

Spiderman ambles towards your window, hands behind the garment making sure of the safety. You prop yourself up by the elbows.

“You’re leaving?”

“I am,” he nods, tilting his head to you. “Thanks for the help, trouble. Take care.”

x

You don’t notice that your eyes look for Parker when you’re on campus. You even mistake every tall brunette for Peter as well. It must be the excitement to gloat that’s hammering in your chest.

You flinch when the said boy pops out of thin air beside you. White shirt, blue jeans, so basic and yet still manages to look nice. God really does have favourites.

“Looking for someone?” When his velvety tone reaches your ears, you realize the few days without it was a bit…boring.

Ignoring the smug smirk on his face after pulling out a reaction from you, you wave off your hand. “Tell me the score. Come on.”

“Ninety-five.”

A deep smile graces your lips, immense pride festering under it. Your eyes gleam in smugness and Peter groans. “There we go–”

“I got a hundred.”

He nods as you laugh, lips forming a line. “Of course you did.”

“Meaning I am better than you.”

“I beg to differ–”

“And that should teach you not to mock me.”

“You’re making it really hard not to.”

You glare at him between your words, watching him shrug. He scrunches up his face, “Congratulations? I’d buy you a coffee after the lecture, but I’m a bit busy today.”

“Saving the city?”

You don’t see him stare at you for a moment. “Work at Oscorp.”

Of course, he got an internship too. What annoys you is not the fact that you will see him again after the lessons, it is the fact that whatever happens, it is always a tie with him. 

You are not aware that the former even excites you a bit.

“You weren’t around the other day.”

It’s his turn to smirk. You roll your eyes and get in the class with the door he held open. “You missed me, huh?”

“Yes, it was too peaceful.”

That’s not exactly a lie, but you are glad it sounds like one.

“I’ll make sure you don’t feel that peaceful ever again, don’t worry,” Peter shakes his head before strolling to his seat.

You know he will walk the talk.

x

“Does paranoia come with the job?”

“Trouble,” he warns, which doesn’t work because the nickname is entertaining to you.

“No, Spider, I haven’t been snooping around in the hopes of finding a cure for your monster.”

You definitely have. You almost got caught by Parker yesterday, but played it off as losing your way. 

Spiderman doesn't believe you, rightfully so. He's swung in to 'kill the time' for a while. Right now, he's leaning on a wall that has posters of your favourite artist on it, glaring at you through the white eyes. You sometimes wonder what colour of orbs are behind them.

“My spidey senses are tingling.”

Shutting the book before you, you slide on the chair so your body can face him. “I unplugged the iron, they shouldn’t.”

“They’re sensing a lie," he tilts his head.

“I’m sure that’s not how it works.”

“You wouldn’t know, you’re not the one possessing it.”

“You told me how they work."

"Which was a mistake on my part," he murmurs. "Listen, I don't need your help, alright? I already figured out what I need to do, I just need to find the right formula."

Nonsense, but you nod anyway. "Got it. Now get off my back, will ya?"

He shakes his head, seeing clearly that he won't get anywhere with this. Thus, he decides to change the subject.

"How's the internship going?"

"They made us go through the old files, categorize and digitalise, but it's the first few days and there are a lot of interns," you shrug. "So, good, I guess."

"Us?" he asks and you remember that you've failed to mention Peter's presence there.

"Me and Parker."

"You see him at Oscorp too?"

Unfortunately.

"I see him more than I see anyone else."

Spiderman nods and sits on the floor. You contemplate joining him.

"Shouldn't be that bad if he has a perfect face."

You know what to say to that. His perfect face is the annoying bit, you want to say but decide against it as it will sound…weird.

"Whose side are you on?"

"One hundred per cent yours, trouble," he raises both of his hands.

x

Spiderman said he just needed the formula. You know it shouldn't be hard to find it, you just need to search thoroughly. Somewhere in those fancy quarters, they must have something useful except old files for you to digitize.

"You're distracted," Peter says and you avert your gaze back to the screen before you. 

"Am not," you don't look at him. "Stop staring at me."

"You've been crying for a new task and now when they're about to give us one, you take your sweet time to finish the files.",

This time you glare at him. He's been asking too many questions for your taste today.

What are you doing?

Where are you going?

What are you thinking about?

The last time you've been put to this kind of interrogation was when Spiderman made sure you weren't putting yourself in any danger the other day.

"What's with you today, Parker?" you ask and he raises a brow. 

"What's with you?"

"Since when do you worry about me?"

"I'm a good person at heart," he smiles at you, and you grimace in disagreement. 

"Sure you are," you rise from your seat, Peter's eyes following you. "I'm going to the bathroom."

You are not. You just have one last room to check for. One that is filled with machines and screens that are hard for you to control. On one of those screens, you know you can find what Spiderman needs.

If only you can slip in and out without getting caught.

You have managed so far, albeit Peter has seen you close to those rooms multiple times. He hasn't ratted you out despite that, but you know it still is not a good image for you.

"Diarrhea, huh?"

You almost laugh, but turn away from him so he doesn't see. 

Walking towards the bathroom, you make a turn when you leave Peter's eyesight. Passing multiple similar white gates, you count in your head to find the right one.

After the seventh, you check around to make sure no one is there. Using the card given to you, you disappear behind the doors.

The light around the place is faint, but enough to see the blue ambience. Five giant screens sitting next to a wall-size machine whose usage is unknown to you.

You can see the camera in the upper corner of the room. Avoiding a glance at it, you attempt an image of unfazed, acting like you are sure of yourself and not after vital– probably secret, too– information.

Ambling towards the keyboard that is certainly connected to the screens, you start roaming through the programs. A bunch of old files that you and Peter digitized for a few weeks, crucial recordings of experiments that can easily seem immoral, data of used chemicals, organs, blood and the name of the donor, as well as the formulas for each process are displayed with each click.

Your fingers slightly tremble in excitement when your eyes pick the formulas. 

Remember to act natural.

You tug on the button once, twice, thrice, and beg for more time so you can pick the right one. You are too close, it would all go to waste if you get caught before finding what you're looking for.

Your heart drops to your feet when you hear footsteps behind the door. They are fast and hard and don't leave enough time for you to hide with the speed it's approaching.

You flinch when the door is opened and gasp when it's closed at the same second.

Peter is frowning, dashing towards you

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" His tone is harsh, his face in a scowl.

Your eyes go between him and the door, heart taking a pace. You should be able to distract him enough to find the right formula.

"I'm working," you turn back to the screens, running your eyes in speed.

"Working, my ass," he comes forward, not exactly dragging you but firmly grabbing your bicep. "You're coming with me, let's go."

"Stop this, the camera is working, act natural."

Your name leaves his lips in a hiss, enough for you to know how irritated he is.

"They will barge in any minute, you have to get out of here," he tightens his grip.

Your hands are shaking at this point, mind too dishevelled that you are afraid of failure. 

Whatever happens please let it happen after I find the formula, you beg.

"Peter–"

"Look at me–"

"No, I don't have time–"

"Of course, you don't! Please, trou- try to be quick or I'm dragging you away."

"Just a minute."

Footsteps are echoing behind the door, and this time you are sure they won't help you like Peter was trying to do.

He calls your name and you make a sound from deep in your core in desperation but followed by a victorious one immediately.

A shout sinks into the air outside of the room, and you hold your breath in dreading anticipation. Reading the screen one more time you lock eyes with Peter as the hold of the door makes a screeching sound.

Next thing you know Peter is cursing under his nose before crashing his lips onto yours.

He has pulled your body close, and cupped your cheek, deeming it impossible for you to escape his touch. 

The five seconds that his soft lips caress yours, your mind goes blank, your heart stops beating and your body forgets how to react as his skin on yours sets your body aflame. 

While your soul welcomes the sweet shock deep in your core, the door to the room flings open, and three white-cloaked professors barge in. 

Peter lets you go instantly, and not even lending a glance at you, he awkwardly stares back at the uninvited hosts. 

"You two can't do that somewhere else?" the woman in between asks as you slowly gain your composure back.

"This is a workplace," the short, blonde man next to her chimes in. "You can get stripped of your internships for this."

The other man, tall and ginger, stays silent with an amused look on his face. "Bloom of youth."

"We are sorry, sir," Peter starts, not sure whom to address. "It won't happen again. Never again."

A few moments of silence drag into forever as Peter takes your hand into his. 

It seems as if the stern-faced individuals soften at the gesture, their stone heart deciding to take pity on you.

The woman steps away from the door. "Back to work."

Before Peter drags you away by the hand, you peek at the big screen and see that it's back to normal.

You did it.

The only thing left to do is to give the formula to Spiderman and let him do the rest, which you are sure he will. If only evening came by faster. You can't wait for his reaction when he sees–

"What," Peter spats out through his teeth, "Were you thinking?!"

You notice how he has led you to an uncrowded space, and how he is unusually close to you.

"Thanks for the save?" you ask sheepishly, the reality of the kiss slowly sinking in.

"No, I'm serious. What the hell is wrong with you?"

Peter's visage is…more irritated with you than it usually is. Still, you don't like how he looks attractive with furrowed brows and darkened eyes.

"Look," you chose your words carefully as there is no other escape from this situation without giving him some answers. "I just needed to check something, and that's all I can tell you, Parker."

So much for 'some answers'.

"I'm sorry that you had to get caught in my mess," you tilt your head, pushing your lips together. "And do something undesirable like that to get out of it."

Peter leans back, his eyes narrowing. He doesn't seem furious anymore, just a bit agitated. "You owe me one."

"How about a coffee?"

He shakes his head.

"Oh, come on, you love coffee!"

He does, and both of you are surprised that you remember it. 

"Brownie?"

"No."

"Donut?"

"No."

"Pizza?"

"No."

You groan and throw your head back. You don't see Peter's eyes lingering on your lips for a quick second.

"What do you want, Parker?"

His lips curl into a sly smile, one that he gives you when he's about to best you at something.

"Nothing. Yet," he smirks and brings his index finger under your chin, leaning in close enough that you can feel the hot breath on your lips. "You just owe me one."

With a short brush of his thumb on your lower lip, he turns around and walks away.

At least you got the formula.

x

19:58

20:34

21:27

Where is he?!

21:43

Your blood boils in annoyance that on a day like this, he decides to stay absent. 

22:10

A tap on your window makes you jump in your place, a whisper of 'finally' leaving your lips. Letting him in, your eyes look to find any injury and fail. "Where were you?!"

"At home?" 

It’s hard to envision him in such an environment.

"I got the formula," you drop the bomb.

Midway to your room, he stops in his tracks, raising his masked head to you. You can feel the confusion but also simmering anger under the white eyes.

"You did what?"

You sprint to your desk, grab the piece of paper and dash back to Spiderman.

He's silent for a minute, reading the ink. "I thought I told you not to snoop around."

"I didn't listen. Will it help?"

"It will but you had no business–"

"You can cure the creature now, right?."

Spiderman sighs. "You could've gotten caught, trouble,” he shakes his head. “If you keep this up, I'll–"

You don't listen to his words, instead cringe at the flashing memory. "I almost did."

You expected a highly ominous reaction, yet got greeted with a calm one. "What do you mean almost?"

You groan and return to your bed. The vigilante sits on the carpet, watching you toss yourself on the mattress. "Parker saved my ass."

You don't like how Spiderman is meek today. You are sure he would've asked you hundreds of questions already.

"How?"

You change your mind; maybe it's more convenient when he doesn't ask questions.

"Trouble?"

Your cheeks heat, embarrassment flooding hot deep in your core. "hekissedme."

"Come again?" he tilts his head.

"He kissed me so they'd think we were sneaking around to find a place to make out."

There you said it. 

"Oh," Spiderman nods, scratching his chin with the clothed fingers. "That must've helped."

A small chuckle echoes in your room when you whine and slap your hands to your face.

"Don't laugh. It's your fault."

"No, it's not."

You know it is not. It's just that…when he kissed you, you felt weird.

"Was he that bad of a kisser that you hated it so much?"

"I didn't hate it, Spider, that's the problem!" you admit with a loud tone, slamming your hands beside your body.

He stood there, silent as a rock for a minute. "Explain."

You are not sure how to say it, you're not sure you can voice it. It's too discordant, too far from the reality you built. You long to hear the words, to try the way they roll off your tongue, echo in your ears, to know if it feels innate.

"For a moment, I wanted to kiss him back."

Spiderman doesn't move an inch, neither do you. A prickling chill embraces your heart, shivers messing with your nerves. You don't want the words that left your lips to be true, but you are not regretful that they are.

"I thought you disliked the boy."

You straightened yourself. "I do! He's aggravating and witty and annoying–"

Your shoulders sulkled and Spiderman hummed, letting you continue. "But he is also funny and kind and sometimes attractive."

"Sometimes?"

"I try not to notice his attractiveness all the time," you shrug.

"So, was he a good kisser?"

You glare at him, but when he shifts forward, you have to reply. “How am I supposed to know?”

“His lips were on yours, weren’t they?”

They were. And they were soft, warm, silky, inviting and welcoming.

“For a few seconds.”

Spiderman scoffs. “Enough to mess with your head.”

You don’t like where this conversation is headed. “You should thank me for the formula instead of dismantling my life.”

He glances at the paper again. “Yeah, thanks, trouble, sorry that you had to get kissed by a handsome guy for me.”

x

He is sitting a few steps away from you, brown locks tousled from the times he has run his hand through them. You dislike the way your eyes steal too many glances at him, but what can you do? He hasn't acknowledged you once yet, let alone brought up what had happened.

"Is there something on my face?"

You don't know how he can sense your gaze every time.

"Pimple. A big and ugly one."

"Wanna pop it?" he raises his eyebrows, locking eyes with you at last.

There's no pimple to pop. In fact, the only blemish on his face is the lack of a smile.

"Do you always go around and ask the girls to pop your pimple?"

"Just the ones I kiss."

Your stomach drops now that he mentioned it, albeit you manage to play it off with an eye roll. “You flatter yourself, that wasn’t a kiss.”

“What was it, then?” Peter gets up from his place and walks up to yours. You look up at him from your seat as he crosses his arms.

“Not a kiss,” you say and he smiles. “You just put your lips onto mine.”

“That wasn’t up to your standards?”

“No wonder you don’t have a girlfriend.”

This time he actually laughs, even though it sounds like a scoff. “Right.”

When he turns away to return to his initial assigned place, a woman– no, the woman that you almost caught you– strides towards you with stern steps, her heels echoing around the place. Your heart drops and your mouth runs dry, contrasting with the sweat under your armpits.

“You two,” she points between you and Peter. “Follow me.”

You look at Peter with slightly widened eyes and see him frowning. Shame fills you, as well as with sheer panic glistening above it. You put both of you in big trouble.  

The woman strides back, and Peter dashes after her, but not before holding and dragging you by the wrist. “Don’t panic.”

Funny, Parker. 

Suddenly the distance of five minutes feels like forty minutes, and you are sure Peter can feel the dampness in your palm. The woman’s hair whooshes with her each wide step that you struggle to keep up. 

At last, she halts in front of an ivy door and reads her card. 

Peter squeezes your hand before you both enter the room. Inside, there are the same two men as yesterday, this time even the ginger professor appearing stern. 

“What were you doing in the room yesterday?” the blonde man asks, and you wonder his name.

“Attempting to make out,” Peter talks, his tone calm and determined. 

“We have seen the surveillance footage, boy,” this time the ginger guy says angrily. Apparently, he is furious that he let you go so easily. 

Your heart is in your mouth, your stomach in your feet. You don’t know what to say to get yourself and Peter out of this mess. There’s an ominous silence, one that stretches your nerves and makes you sick to your stomach. 

Even if you confess about Spiderman– which you would never– they wouldn’t believe that story. 

“Well?” says the woman behind you, her hands in the pockets of white overcoat.

You take a deep breath. “I–”

“I asked her to look for a formula.”

You push your lips together, staring at Peter, who is glaring at the colleges before you. 

“What formula?”

“I didn’t have a specific type, I just wanted a formula that would help me work on the animal DNA, changing and evolving it into something more.”

“Why would you want that?”

They are getting suspicious, not because they don’t believe him, but because they do.

Peter shrugs, and you frown slightly. 

“Curiosity.”

They seem to be convinced. For now. 

“Listen, kid,” Ginger one sighs. “It’s not a good idea to mess with DNA. It has deadly consequences.”

“If this happens again, we’ll make sure you can never set foot in this building.”

“It won’t happen again,” he assures. They look at you expectantly. You nod quickly. 

“Get out of here.”

You happily let Peter lead you out of that environment. After making sure you are out of earshot, he lets your hand go and you notice how your muscles are weak from all the panic. 

“Do you always sweat that much?” He wipes his hand on his shirt. 

“Thank you.”

Peter’s eyebrows raise at your reverent tone. “You good?”

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“I’m sorry that I put you in such a situation.”

“Woah, hey,” he frowns, waving his hands around. “Stop acting so…sorry. It’s weird. Seeing you like this.”

When you don’t say anything, he gets a slight idea of how much you are ashamed and regretful of the events of the last two days. 

“You can buy me coffee as compensation tomorrow.”

You smile, and Peter’s shoulders drop in relief. “Deal.”

x

“See, I told you to stop trying to stick your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

You toss him your pillow, and Spiderman catches it before it becomes one with his masked face. “See the bigger picture, Spider.”

“Which is?”

“Parker stuck out for me. Again!”

“He has the heart of gold,” he sniffs and puts his hand on his chest. “Bless that boy.”

“Are you capable of being serious for a minute?”

“Not a preference,” he tosses the pillow back to you, but you can’t stop it from hitting you right in the nose. “Work on your reflexes.”

“But why would he do that? Why would he accept trouble for me?” You straighten your hair and put the pillow on your lap. Your eyes ask for ideas from the guy sitting on the carpet.

“You are trouble.”

“Spider!”

“What? Do you need me to ask the guy?”

“I just don’t understand. And he hasn’t even asked one single question about what I was doing there.”

You get up and walk around your room.

“Because you told him to?” he says with nonchalance, and you squint your eyes.

“How do you know that?”

“Sounds like something you would do,” he shrugs after ten seconds of silence.

“I don’t know. He’s acting weird.”

“By weird you mean–”

“Kind.”

“Maybe he was kind all this time, you’re just noticing it now.”

You don’t reply for a while, sitting next to the hero. “Don’t–”

“Stain the carpet,” he nods and puts his clothed hand on yours. “Or I’m paying for the cleaning.”

His hand on yours feels weird and funny, but comforting all the same. “How are the wounds?”

“Better. Thanks to you.”

You nod in pride. “I’ll make a fine doctor.”

“That’s a bit far-fetched, trouble.”

“He asked for coffee for compensation,” your eyes rest on your hands.

“Hah, a cheap apology. Lucky.”

“That’s why your romantic life is nonexistent,” you repeat the words he said to you once and realise you said the same thing to Peter as well today. 

“Because I’m on a budget?”

“Why is your romantic life nonexistent, Spider?” you ask, meaning the question with your heart.

He shrugs. You avert your gaze to his frame. You wonder what he looks like under the red and blue. Is he bald, or blonde, or brunette? Does he have freckles? Or a mole? Or a nice smile and brown eyes? Or dimples and blue eyes? Maybe he has dark skin or green eyes.

“It becomes dangerous with me at one point, trouble,” he slowly rises to his feet. “It’s either the people or the girl.”

“And you choose the people?”

“Someone has to,” he approaches the window and slowly opens it. “Don’t get in trouble.”

“You’re leaving?”

“Can’t sit on my ass all day and gossip, can I?”

x

“I don’t like latte.”

“You literally drink nothing but latte.”

“Buy something more expensive.”

You roll your eyes and explore the desserts displayed on the showcase. “How about something sweet with a latte?”

“Brownie. The big one.”

You raise your brows at the barista. “You heard him.”

He nods, readying the orders after you pay. Putting your card back, you hear Peter saying, “Apology accepted.”

“Now,” after the barista hands you the orders, and you find a nice place to sit, you say, “Why did you help me?”

“So you can buy me a latte.”

You glare and he smirks in turn.

“Felt like it at the moment,” he sipped from his drink. “Don’t look that deep, you just stumbled upon my charitable side.”

You don't question him on this matter anymore. 

He drinks his coffee as you tease him, and mocks you back when you pronounce a word wrong. 

He laughs when you burn your tongue because your drink was too hot, and tells you to put a sugar cube on it. It helps.

He listens to you blabber about the posters on your wall and asks questions about them to understand your fixations deeper. 

He talks about Aunt May and how she is the best cook in the whole world with a wide smile on his lips. You notice your glance too many times at his lips. When you say maybe you'll have the chance to taste her cooking, he nods and says you won't ever wish for another meal.

After finishing his brownie, he walks you home, claiming that he is a gentleman. And you may believe him from the way he opens the door for you and sneaks into the road-facing part of the sidewalk.

On the way home he jokes and chuckles, his smile lines never leaving his cheeks. When you arrive he steps back and says "Take care," before saluting you.

You watch him walk away, his hands in his pockets, his curls dancing with the wind and melting into light brown under the dusk sun.

And then it hits you hard and deep in your core. 

You’re falling for Peter Parker.

x

thank you for reading and let me know if you like it <33

tags♡ @taylorann2013 @gorillaglue23 @inkthgoat @pepsicolacoochie @delwrites @dinovickydzillarex

if you like dulcet series, buy me a coffee <3 i'd appreciate it so much

[roseyturtles]

To most people in his company for prolonged periods of time, Arcade is a nag, and a sassy one at that. His idealism betrays him, making him look judgemental to anyone who doesn't follow a perfectly healthy lifestyle.

"I...wouldn't recommend eating 200 year old potato chips you found in the back of a gas station cupboard, but food is food, I suppose."

"This level of inerberation's likely to lead to some very poor battle tactics, just so you know."

"You left base without sunscreen? Do the words "skin cancer" mean anything to you?"

But for all his sassiness, Arcade always tries to carry water bottles, cooling towels, dried jerky, naloxone, bandages, gauze, suturing thread, and the works. For as insufferable as he may be to the bold, a quiet heart with all predispositions dropped will interpret the truth behind his words:

"I care about you. Please don't hurt yourself. You give me hope."

[stormsthatrage]

Short snippet from the Bleach I Knew You AU.

But before I begin. *Insert deep sigh here.*

Secretlypansexualmango, if you see this, it was supposed to be a response to your ask. Unfortunately, it took a hard left-turn and ended up in. Uraichi shipping territory? Look, IDK, I'm asexual, I don't get it either. Anyway, since I don't know your shipping preferences and don't want to accidentally respond to your ask with something that squiks you, I will be officially responding to your ask in another post that is less likely to be unexpectedly unpalatable. Thank you for your patience, and, uh, I hope this doesn't turn you off the au! (*laughs nervously*)

Without further ado, the snippet:

Breaking into the Shiba family grounds is easy. By sheer comparison, breaking into Shiba Ichigo’s room specifically is almost a challenge, but it’s not anything that Kisuke hasn’t planned for.

The strange, modified kido, and the odd wards Ichigo has placed, are simple to bypass with a bit of fancy footwork and precisely-timed counter-kido. It’s practically child’s play to get past them, now that he's roughly figured out how they work and where they all are.

His job is made even easier by the fact that, for some reason, Kisuke’s spiritual pressure doesn’t wake Ichigo up. Quite the opposite, in fact. He seems to sleep deeper when Kisuke is nearby and has let Benihime out a little.

He has theories about that.

He’s tired of them being theories.

He’s here to get evidence.

Kisuke bypasses the final seal and slides Ichigo’s window open, slipping into his room. He lets his spiritual pressure permeate the air a little thicker than he would in normal company, and as expected, Ichigo’s spiritual pressure slows down as he falls further into slumber.

… And Kisuke is supposed to believe that the first time they met was two months ago? When this is Ichigo’s reaction to his presence? When Ichigo is one of the most paranoid people Kisuke, an ex-onmi agent, has ever encountered?

Kisuke is a genius. He doesn’t need to be in order to see the flaw in that logic.

Kisuke steps further into the room, gliding softly over the old wood floorboards. He pauses in the middle, taking a moment to debate where to start.

Well. Why not with the simplest?

He’s caught it a few times, the barest trace of his own power lingering around Ichigo. A fascinating phenomenon, when he can’t recall a single time he’s drawn shikai around him, let alone used enough power to leave a long-lasting trace.

He draws closer to Ichigo’s bed, until he could reach out and touch him if he wished.

Ichigo breathes deeply, evenly, no sign of waking up. At some point, his covers ended up half kicked-off. Possibly from the heat, probably from nightmares. Regardless of the reason, Kisuke can’t help but think that he looks strangely fragile this way, surrounded by the evidence of his restlessness.

He puts a hand on the the hilt of his soul-partner. “Awaken, Benihime,” he murmurs.

She stirs within him, gently, in a way that is oh so rare. Like the softest, most gradual of ocean tides, she rises, her fragrance of wet iron washing through the air around them.

And together, channeling her power through his eyes, they see.

Glowing crimson threads that they have no recollection of weaving wrap protectively, lovingly, around Ichigo. A thin but strong filament, sewn through the skin from just below Ichigo’s ear all the way to his opposite shoulder, sutures closed what must have once been a deadly throat wound. Another one, obviously originally meant to keep shut a gash down the length of Ichigo’s forearm, keeps it companion.

And beyond the battlefield sutures there are more threads. Hundreds of intangible and deceptively thin and absolutely unbreakable strands of Benihime’s power wrap around Ichigo, crisscrossing over themselves — around his throat and across his face and down his torso and up his arms, visible wherever his bare flesh is exposed — seemingly serving no purpose.

Benihime’s power surges at the sight, a hot delight running through her as she sees Ichigo so thoroughly caught in her webs. Kisuke’s fingers suddenly, urgently ache with the urge to touch, to tighten, to add more.

Soul King.

No purpose other than, it seems, to satiate their own possessiveness.

Kisuke exhales a shaking breath. Closes his eyes for a brief moment. Gets the heat in his blood under control.

No purpose other than to alert themselves, perhaps? Did they know that one day they wouldn't recognize Ichigo anymore, and left this as a clue?

(And oh, what a clue. What a clue it is.)

He lets Benihime’s power fade, taking his hand away from her hilt. He’s self-aware enough to know when he needs to stop tempting himself, and he’s gotten the evidence he came for — far better proof than he could have ever anticipated.

He takes a step back, and the motion is the most unnatural thing he’s done in a long, long time.

He has questions. He has a few theories, too. Amnesia, caused by a very specific type of parasitic hollow. Dimension travel. Time travel. He doesn’t have enough information yet to figure out which is most likely, but he has finally confirmed beyond doubt that Ichigo is his, has been his, and something tried to steal that from him.

Fury flares within him, burning through his veins, and he can’t do this right here.

He takes another step back, this one just as unnatural as the last.

He can’t ask, yet. He can’t get closer, can’t wake Ichigo up with a soft hand on his cheek, can’t tell him that he’s there now, can’t promise him to take care of it all if he would just let him in again.

No.

Shiba Ichigo is in the middle of a chess game — a dangerous one, a complicated one — and Kisuke can’t see the whole board yet. Tipping his own hand might trigger a whole plethora of traps, including another round of amnesia, and he refuses to risk the knowledge he’s regained.

He will have to be careful. He will have to move cautiously.

He casts one last look at Ichigo, lets his eyes trace over that delicate throat that he now knows almost bled out. That delicate throat that had to be held together with Benihime’s webs. That delicate throat that he doesn’t remember stitching back together, despite the fact that he used his bankai to do it.

He was made to unknow a person he loves. He was made to unknow a war. He was made to unknow the fact that danger lurks still in the shadows of Soul Society.

He will know the end of this game. And Ichigo will learn that there is no universe in which Kisuke does not protect what’s his.

Kisuke turns. Takes another unnatural step away from his favorite, infuriating puzzle. And then he wrenches himself out of the room, out into the night, closing the window behind him and leaving as unnoticed as he had come.

[dose02]

Home Sweet Home

(Javier Peña x Reader)

SFW... for now??

It wasn’t shocking to you that there were rumors spreading around Kingsville, the little town in rural Texas that you’d recently moved to. You were just thankful that the ones spreading about you were savory and cautionary—not anything too real. They mostly consisted of stories about why you were here, so young and pretty, yet still unmarried. You have outright claimed to come from Colombia, although you are admittedly not Colombian, which is shocking and something to dig into if they really wanted to. The people of Kingsville found all this to be quite worthy of gossip, though again thankfully they aren’t being malicious about it. It also wasn’t a surprise that you were on the receiving end of a lot of gossip about other residents—ones even more local than yourself. 

The part time job you’d acquired as a nurse at the local hospital turned out to be the center of it all; the constant in and out of the townsfolk with varying medical issues, that required varying drugs or sutures, was a hub for all the talk and topics. Interestingly, the talk of the town was—and seems to have been for a while—one man. There was a new sheriff in town, and he had quite the reputation. Despite being Kingsville born and raised, Javier Peña was certainly a controversial topic around town—not that that dissuaded anyone from bringing him up. Considering his new position, everyone discussed his affiliations with the government, more specifically the DEA, but what they loved to relive the most, it seemed, was his “failure” to marry Lorraine, his failure as a man by leaving her at the altar, shipping himself off to Colombia to hide. 

What was shocking was that the people of Kingsville haven’t put two and two together yet. 

You had met Javier in Colombia, just a few months after he arrived and started with the DEA on finding Pablo Escobar and shutting down the illegal trafficking of cocaine into the United States. Javi curses himself daily for involving you, but he was fresh-off heartbreak and feeling abandoned by his family, simply not thinking straight; he took you out on the two at night—regularly—abandoning any of the other women he’d been with in the privacy of his apartment. Javier felt something he hadn’t in a while—love, cliche as it may be—and he was made dumb, careless, borderline idiotic. It wasn’t long before his minor worries of Narcos morphed into foreboding enemies, much too big for him to handle alone. He just shouldn’t have relied on you so much, or that’s what he tells himself.

You’d had a simple day: waking up to the sun and a warm bed, the luxury of a lazy morning and a day off. Sharing your morning with your neighbor, you spent a decent amount of time with good company tending the garden, then preserving some for later. You ventured out on a midafternoon trail ride, and tried to engage in some training—playtime—with your new young mare. You now found yourself in the only bar in town. The day spent getting to know the older gentleman, who’s ranch is adjacent to her own property, left her a bit drained—that, and the sun which is oddly strong in Texas. Settling your weight on one arm resting on the bar counter, she had her usual dangling casually in the other hand. While you’re still new in town, and a hot topic for gossip, everyone was rather nice—but she wouldn’t expect less from a small southern town in the States; it was certainly friendlier than what you’d experienced living in Colombia. People here were understandably guarded, and occasionally unwelcoming, but never outright threatening—at least, everyone except one other hot topic. 

You were currently not very locked into a decent conversation with a seemingly nice young man, even if he was chewing your ear out a little; you didn’t want to be rude, and already on your second drink, you were alright with listening to him drone on in hopes that good word would spread that she may not be that much of an outsider—more tethered to their home than they thought. Suddenly the atmosphere changed, hairs on the back of your neck stood at attention, with the presence of a new person: said hot topic, the one that has been consuming everyone’s minds lately. Javier had actually been what you were just thinking about while losing patience listening to this boy. Now, seeing him standing there: broad stature, tall posture, but not menacing—at least not to you. His boots were hidden beneath a dark pair of straight legged jeans that looked like bell bottoms with how his thighs filled them out, topped with a wide belt of matching leather and a simple buckle; he had his sheriff's badge strapped at his hip, his hostler hugging his shoulders and back over the maroon button down, gun tucked beneath his arm and into his side. There was also something you hadn’t seen before, obscuring the curly brown mop and enhancing his scowling brows: a dark cowboy hat.

From where Javi is standing, the cooler air of the bar relaxes him a bit. Scanning the room he is instantly met again with the Texas heat, though, one that ran deeper than the weather. There you stood, settled into the bar top, in front of a rather enthusiastic looking boy. While you didn’t look particularly interested in what the kid had to say, given your eyes were now locked on him, something he said suddenly caught your attention. Your eyes grew slightly wider, and returned fleetingly to his own; before he could tense any further the kid had lifted his arm, removing his own hat, and placing it on your head—and not carefully. Before you could breathe out a word, the kid had the audacity to step into your personal space. Javi could see the way your body language changed, how your mind involuntarily took you somewhere else, even if it was just for a split second. Before his brain caught up, his feet were moving, stalking across the room, his vision faded around the edges, and filled with red while a vile, dark, thing burst in his chest. A possession ran up the muscles of his neck and laid itself in his jaw. 

Ignoring the boy completely, Javi only had eyes on you as he crowded into your front, hands immediately finding your hips, eyes searching your own. The kid audaciously gave a small sound of refusal at the proximity and the way he was cut off from you, drawing a gasp that brought her attention back to him over Javi’s shoulder. Disapproving of your lack of eye contact, Javi reached up and grabbed your chin, his larger hand encompassing the skin below your lips and along your jaw. The seemingly constant crease between his brows only deepened as he took in the sight of you, well, not you but you in some child’s hat; while your gaze was no longer distant—somewhere else—you still looked uncomfortable. His other hand reached up to swipe the hat off your head, it was a slightly aggressive movement that messed up her hair and definitely held some intense level of emotion, but you didn’t flinch the same way you did when this stranger did. Unceremoniously, he dropped it to the floor, and then dropped his boot on top, effectively flattening and destroying the hat all together; it wasn’t even worth fixing now—the boy would have to pay for an entirely new one.

The young man gasped again, louder this time, and reached out quickly to place a hand on Javier’s shoulder. In his attempt to spin the man around, he received the hard bone of an elbow to his chest that threw him back into the bar as Javi turned himself square towards the boy. You could tell, even from an angle that was largely behind him, what Javi was doing: his stance grew wider, shoulders broadening as he crossed his arms—one at a time, intentionally—to first, place one hand around his gun, and then, cross his other over top to hide the image—but not erase it from the other man’s mind. Speaking of said young man, he was sputtering slightly with his eyes wide, and face fear stricken as Javi was now shifting his badge to the front of his jeans. 

Javi’s head swam even as his body seemed to settle into the position. Your shocked expression and worried gaze were enough to send his mind wild. Further under the dim lighting in the bar, the once cool air, occasionally blowing in from the doors opening, now only smelled of alcohol, piss, and too many bodies—a familiar and quite threatening sensory reminder. The unexpected touch on his shoulder had just sent him reeling: he’s immediately back in Colombia, and you're too close to a threat—again. His body is reacting without any real thought or recollection of where he actually is: no longer in Colombia—safe; at least enough to be out in public with you. Before anything other than his stare and shadow—also his elbow—can hurt the man, your hand is pressed against the back of his bicep, feather-light so as to not startle him more. 

Javi's attention back on you quickly, sharp, and he’s reminded of why he ruined the other hat in the first place. Snatching his own hat off his head, curls left a mess, he unceremoniously plops it onto her head. Turning, almost triumphantly, back to the young man just to continue scowling at the kid; thankfully, he’s back in his own shoes, present again. Too suddenly his thoughts change as her presence steps closer: even with all of the shady things that Javier has done, there are a lot of lines that he would not cross, but it hits him that those lines are wholly blurred out when it comes to you—it scares him a little bit. More worrisome is he has been close to losing you before, so now, at even the slightest threat of the possibility, he would easily erase every single one of those lines. Before he can stop himself, Javi’s right back in Colombia: the yellowing staircase he climbed, and the curtain he faced before finding you—fetal position on the floor, not even clothed, shivering and crying. He’s trying to shake his head, reminding himself that that was over, but his body won’t listen to his mind's command. You are safe, yes, but he won’t ever be able to shake the damage that image has done to him, or what it could make him do now.  

Noticing the now very distant gaze of Javi’s, you flex your hand against his arm a few times. With no response, you take that as your cue to keep your hands attached to him. You’re very aware, painstakingly, that everyone in the bar had witnessed that scene, and that there would be a new rumor tomorrow: one about the sheriff and the new girl—a true one at least. It wasn’t until you two had escaped into the live heat of the evening that Javi uncrossed his arms releasing his grip on the gun to instead let his hands twitch—fingertips anxiously rubbing across one another at his sides. Knowing when you were needed, your own hands gathered his, swinging one of his arms around her shoulder, holding tightly to both hands the entire time. You led the two of you towards his truck, leaning into him the whole way over.

There weren’t many times where Javi was totally incapacitated by this paralyzing terror, that, somehow, only seemed to worsen as you helped him into the passenger side; he hadn’t experienced a panic attack like this since they’d landed on U.S. soil—weeks ago. When you went to pull away, the warmth of your hands leaving him, even just for that moment, the panic set further into his eyes, and his breath increased. You, opting not to push the boundaries of his comfort right now, chose to climb over him into the driver's seat which wasn’t that much of a challenge considering the lack of center console in the bench—lacking also gave him the opportunity to keep his hands on you, even as you drove. He scooted closer, towards the middle of the seat and foregoing his seatbelt entirely, to hold on firmly to the nape of your neck, just needing to know you was there; his fingers curled around the side to press lightly at your pulse point, again, grounding himself with the fact that you was alive and beside him. 

Concern furrowed your brows as you drove—slightly buzzed but not worried about it enough to make him drive back in his current state. Besides, the town was small and quiet at night, consisting largely of straight roads; plus, you had the sheriff sitting beside you, so you doubted you could even get in any trouble. The breathing that came from next to you turned more labored, and with a glance out of the corner of your eye you saw Javi bring his other large hand towards his chest. His hand clamping tightly into his shirt, your foot pressed onto the accelerator, set on getting them home before this got much worse. Javier just sat there, trapped in his head. He could feel the warmth and pulse of you beneath the fingertips of one hand, his other was grasping desperately at his chest. It felt as if his heart was stopping, all he could think to do was try and claw it out—his veins were rumbling and coursing with the residual adrenaline, needing to protect you.

His mind elsewhere, caught still in the whirling memories of his flashback: the wallpaper was peeled off in parts, and already the place stank of cigarettes and piss. The stairs beneath his feet were too in rough shape, though thankfully, didn’t creak when holding his weight. The atmosphere was tense—his gun, unholstered from his side, was held tightly to his chest; he was led, and followed, by men in more gear than himself, who were holding firmly to guns larger than his own. Ahead, the walls were yellow as he climbed. They paused at the top to confirm their position with the other men with him, and the others—more men also heavily armed—that were stationed on the other side of the building. Before the man in front of him was a curtain, a faded blue that had been dark once. With a swipe of the nose of his gun, the lead in their party pushed past the cloth and surged forward. 

The guns were firing a moment later, and Javier should’ve been worried about being caught in the middle of it, but his body is reacting before he can even process what’s actually in front of him. You are in the fetal position on the floor shivering from what he initially guessed to be your lack of clothing. Laid with nothing but a tiny mattress, that actually looked more like a cushion, facing away from him. He reached you, unable to lose a breath as he knelt over you in an attempt to protect you from what was going on behind him. Suddenly, and much to his horror, you were crying, begging with him, pleading that you’d had enough. Having sat you up onto your knees, he gripped your shoulders, trying to turn you towards him; reassuring words leaking from his mouth to convince you he was there, uttering his own name along with yours repeatedly. Weakly you started to writhe and pound on his chest, throat raw as you shouted you’d never tell him anything, vision blurry from more than just your tears. He reached out, so torn with himself, wishing you were never in this situation to begin with, and knowing that he has to get you out of it. 

With total disregard for himself, he removed his bulletproof vest and threw his shirt off his shoulders. A brief glance behind him showed that the situation had been handled, calming him enough to realize he wouldn’t have to escape with you, or worse, not. The draping material over your shoulders caused your head to lift, eyes more clear now but broken, and he took the opportunity to cup your face between his hands. “It’s me, Cariño. I got you.” He could vaguely hear himself repeating a variety of that phrase to you, and when you hang your arms limply over his shoulders, he takes you in his arms, bridal style, to carry you from that yellow place—now, stained red.

Pulling up to the small two story house, he is too caught up in his own mind to register your absence, or your walk up the porch and through the front door. Only when you lower him, still rigid, onto the well worn couch does his focus shift again, back to you. Trying to take advantage of his supposed paralysis you go to move away from the couch once he’s fully settled. Although, that doesn’t last as his hand shoots out to take hold of your wrist, almost too strong, not that you would ever voice it out loud. 

“Cariño–” his voice seems to catch in his throat. The tone he used, more specifically, is enough to have you turning and falling into him; your arms hold tightly at his shoulders, knees falling to either side of his hips, your guys’ thighs pressed tightly together. At the first slight contact he had engulfed you, pulling you as close as possible, actively working to mold you to him; his face shoved into your neck, hiding himself away, shrouding himself in you. His nose pressed so tightly under your jaw he worried briefly about any bruising he might cause with his grip, but when you returned his strength with all of your own those thoughts quickly vanished. Your head was tucked similarly, but, while his hands were surrounding your ribs on opposite sides, yours were meticulously threaded through his hair. He was practically quacking around and beneath you, to the point where you shook with him.

“I’m safe, Javi. We’re safe.” You muttered, making sure to keep your voice low and soothing. As you spoke he could feel you move, racking your fingers through his hair, alternating that with smoothing your hands down his back, your nails dragging harshly following the path your hands took. Your nose wove upwards, following the loosening tendons of his neck before he felt your lip tag along, burning your words into his skin even if he didn’t fully register them. “I’m here. We’re safe.” You repeated it like a mantra, one you’d remind him of every day if necessary. Determined to force the words to sink in, for him to really hear what you were saying, and hopefully come back to you. 

It appeared to be working, his grip was loosening, though still firm, and hands moving to sooth the sides of you, from your ribs to your thighs and back again. His breathing was no longer so labored, rising more steadily in time with your own, and his eyes fluttered beneath his heavy lids, drooping, but no longer unaware. He’s taking deep breaths, inhaling as much of you as possible, intaking the sensory overload of you as he returns to the present. He’s now the one moving with assurance, nose blazing a trail up your throat, jaw, and lips, to land connected with the side of your own. His hand quickly followed, resting along either side of your jaw—still trying to burn himself with the feeling of your skin; his hooded eyes were now busy, flying around your features, but settling on holding your gaze. All the words that he could not force up and out of his vocal cords caught themselves a ride out on a groan that ripped through him as your lips collided with his own. There was a knowing look shared, one that read easily: you needed each other as close as possible—a reminder: that was all in the past. Right now, you were still wearing his hat.

______________________________________________________________

Would you guys want a Part II? Keep the story going?

Let me know what you think, or if I missed any typos/grammar! <3

I hope you enjoyed :)

[oreosmama]

idk what I’m doing but call me a duckling bc I be following all the ppl who use this format and it looked like fun

Soap who meets you, a medic for the Shadow Company, after he’s injured on the mission. Soap who’s dragged by Ghost up into the chopper, who you lean over and promise you’ll do your damn bestest to make sure he looks pretty by the end of this.

“Let me know if you see the light at any point, Sergeant MacTavish. That’s usually a bad sign.”

Soap who won’t stop looking you in the eyes as you work, mumbling to himself in such a thick accent you figure it’s best to ignore him, especially while finishing a suture on his chest that draws out an excessive groan.

Soap who flirts with you the entire time. Soap who’s ignorant to the gaping wound on his chest, and is much rather invested in the way your smell washes over him as you hover, ponytailed hair dangerously close to his hand. Soap who lets his head fall onto your shoulder on accident, Bonnie, so sorry, even as he sniffs for more of that shampoo and tang of sweat, because you’d been working so damn hard to keep little old him alive.

Soap who lets you wrap around him, pressing your hands against the wall and the cushion next to his thigh to get leverage to lean him up and off the cot.

Soap who clings a little too tightly to your shoulder as you lead him down and away, safely back to his base and into his CO’s protection.

“Thank you for not dying on me, John,” you say as you guide him back to Ghost.

Soap who watches you still, dazed little grin on his face even as Ghost grapples a hand at his shoulder——to hold him steady or hold him back, he’s not really sure.

Soap who wouldn’t mind staying with you, though. For a little longer.

“Anytime, Bonnie.” And he throws you a cheeky wink despite his sickly flush.

“Screwball,” you mutter fondly, waving a dismissive hand over your shoulder as you make your way back up the Shadow heli’s ramp.

Soap who grins as you go, eyeing your ass as he leans over to Ghost with a whispered, “What ‘oes screwball mean?”

“‘Fuck would I know, Johnny? Now let’s get a fuckin’ move on.”

[desmond69miles]

The Catch

This is sort of a prologue to 'An Artists Eye'. It uses the same way of meeting/Élise and Bellec are still alive, but reading the previous fic is not necessary! This is supposed to be after the game (but obviously a different ending), it more so came out as a completly different timeline- what the hell it's fiction anyway

Arno offers to show you around the hidden assassin base below Cafe Theatre. He also offers a risky sexual time in a small, curtain-drawn study in the archives.

Warnings/Tags: Google translated French, GN reader (no descriptions listed), oral sex/blowjob, risky sex, getting caught, probably ooc Axeman but IDK anything about him (he 'flirts' with you).

Word Count: 3.4k (rounded up)

AO3 LINK: Here

Enjoy.

---

Arno Dorian was a man of many suits. He drank like a monster, risked his life daily in more ways than one, and fought like a madman. But, he was an attentive lover. Caring and somewhat good-natured when it came to you.

You were wary of Arno's regular disappearances and injuries once you started dating him, perhaps a little more worried than a normal partner would be. You weren't sure if his gambling was getting him into fistfights or if he got into one too many scraps with local drunks, but you could never recall a time when he didn't come back to you unharmed. 

At first, you’d thought him a thief or maybe a smuggler. To your surprise, he was neither (or both) but an assassin. You laughed at him then, giving him a look of disbelief, but when he stayed stone-faced, your look of humor soon turned into panic. 

“Arno,” you had said, “you cannot be serious. An assassin?” He gave you a slight smirk that you can still picture perfectly today and took your hands in his. “Yes, an assassin. I’ve been one since I was twenty-two.” He said it so plainly that there was no other truth besides that- a killer. You weren’t scared, though, and perhaps you should have been. You trusted him not to get himself captured or, worse, killed. 

Despite your trust, he did come home wounded quite often. The unexplained injuries suddenly made a lot more sense, especially the stab and slash marks from a sword--and, god forbid, a bullet hole once in a blue moon. While you weren’t thrilled about becoming skilled at suturing your lover, you got exceptionally good at it. In return, Arno affectionately called you ‘mon infirmière.’

My nurse.

“Arno,” you sighed nervously while threading a needle. “You know that you’re supposed to stick them with your sword, not be stuck by their sword, right?” He laughed and winced after, fists clenching at the two-centimeter-deep slash wound on his right side. “Oui, mon amour, I’m well aware. Sometimes, it’s a bit difficult while fighting three people at the same time.” You side-eye him then, tutting. “I have you, though, mon infirmière. You are much more gentler than Elise and not as scrutinizing.” 

You also missed him a lot, even when he was right beside you. The constant fear that he might one day leave and never come back haunted you.  Every time he returned in the dead of the night, you couldn't help but feel a surge of relief. You would thank him, your voice barely audible as he quietly removed his boots, careful not to disturb your sleep. 

It’s been six months since you’ve started dating Arno. Your worry decreased dramatically during that time. Partially because the longest missions Arno’s been on are only a few days to a week at most, partially because he’d always spend a day or two before that mission with you doing things he’d know would quell your stress. This time, though, he’d be traveling to Toulouse for three weeks: six hundred and seventy-eight kilometers, a day and a half carriage ride away.

Arno was going to leave in two days, and he had been spending time with you in between the preparations. You sat in a chair by the fire, scribbling around your sketchbook. Arno was gone—probably below Cafe Theatre or in the study—the only thing keeping you company was the gentle crackling of the flames and the songbirds chirping outside in the terrace garden. Summer was coming to its final stretch and starting to transition into fall. Leaves were turning into gorgeous shades of red and orange, the temperature just warm enough to leave without a coat, and the apple trees were blooming to make the perfect apple cider. 

A beautiful time of growth and change, and you’d be experiencing it with mostly Elise and your best friend (not that you had anything against Elise or your best friend; you did love them, but something about fall was so romantic). 

“Mon amour,” a disembodied voice said, “what are you drawing?” His hands rested on your shoulders, squeezing lovingly before he leaned down to kiss the top of your head.  “Eurasian jays,” you replied, moving your gaze from the crisp paper to your lover. He stole a chaste kiss and looked at your page of elegantly drawn birds. Arno recognized them as the bird that stole a piece of your bread a few months back, a smile drawing to his face. 

Arno sighed through his nose. “How are you?” he asked, his voice ever more soothing at this peaceful moment. “Alright. How is your work going? Are you still leaving in two days?” His slight noise had confirmed, although he did not speak, and he moved one of his hands down, carefully taking your sketchpad away and setting it down on the table next to the chair. 

“I have something that might put your mind at ease during my mission,” Arno said softly. “The Council has permitted you to visit our headquarters. You can meet my mentor and our fellow assassins. While you can't go there alone, I thought it might comfort you to see where I spend my time.”

“Are you sure?” you asked, quickly taking his hand as he helped you stand.

“I wouldn’t suggest it if I weren’t certain,” he replied, reassuringly smiling. “There aren’t many people there right now, maybe my mentor or a few friends. We could go now if you’d like?” You chewed your lip briefly, pretending to ponder before nodding. “Alright, let’s go.”

Arno led you down the familiar hallways of Cafe Theatre, but this time, he stopped at a spot you had never taken much notice of before. With an odd-looking key that you’ve never seen before slotted into the lock, the dark wooden door swung open with a quiet groan. Inside was a dimly lit staircase that descended into a stone hallway with a red rug lining the middle.  “This way,” he said, taking your hand as he guided you into the dimly lit corridor.

The passage trailed downward, the air growing cooler and damper as you descended. The walls were lined with old, worn stone, and the faint scent of old books and earth made up the air. Arno walked with the confidence of a man who’d traversed these halls too many times to count, his gloved fingertips brushing against the bricks while his arm that didn’t wield the blade held your hand. 

Eventually, you arrived at the bottom of the staircase. The hallway was much grander than you had seen from the top of the stairs--curtains framing big paintings of what you assumed were important figures in the assassin world, numerous pedestals holding silver or iron statues, and a large red tapestry with a white emblem on it hanging from the tall ceilings, the Creed’s sigil. The room was illuminated by torches mounted on the walls, casting a warm, flickering glow that danced over Arno’s face and shadowed a beautiful gleam on him. 

Once the hallway ended, there was a room containing a long table surrounded by haphazardly pushed-in chairs. On all four sides of the room was another hallway, but the one in front of you led into a vast room resembling a courtroom. It was no less magnificent than the hallways—possibly a little more—such as the oak table covered in various maps and documents and the walls lined with weapons and other neatly organized tools of the trade. 

Arno turns to you with a gentle smile, speaking in a tone that feels a little too loud for the setting, “This is where I spend much of my time when I’m not with you. It’s not much, but it’s home.” 

You took in your surroundings with a deep breath. There was a strange comfort, as well as uncertainty and awe, seeing where Arno lived most of his life. You had talked about seeing the creed’s hideout when you first found out about his position, and honestly, what you saw now was not what you envisioned in your mind. When you think of Assassin, you think of torturing and other dark things. While you were sure it did happen, there was no hint of it here. 

True to his word, there weren’t many people in the hideout. In fact, there wasn’t a soul around. “Is it normal for there not to be people?” You ask, looking at Arno as he wraps an arm around your waist. “No. Usually, there are many people, but most of us are out on missions, and the council is out on a meeting with-” “Arno!” 

“Axeman, mon ami!” 

You turned your head to the right to see a man walking towards you, an axe strapped on his back. You rolled your eyes playfully at the ‘clever’ name of his friend. Axeman slapped his hand on Arno’s shoulder in a hello, his brown eyes meeting yours. “And half of us thought you made them up,” he jests, sticking his hand out for you to take and gently kissing the back of your hand. “How could I make someone so great up?” Arno smiles, and his arm briefly squeezes you closer. 

Axeman chuckles while running a hand through his pushed-back brown hair. “As much as I’d like to stay and chat with your lovely partner, I do have a mission to get to.” He gives you a small smile and Arno a playful smack again, turning to walk the way you came in. “Bellec’s around, so be on your best behavior.” 

Once his buddy left, your lover turned to you, giving you a frisky smirk. “Let me give you a tour,” Arno grabbed your hand again with a slight squeeze and led you deeper into the underground hideout, his hand warm even through the worn leather glove. “This way,” Arno said, pulling you to the left hallway. This passage was thinner than the others and dimly lit by candelabras placed every five feet, occasional carvings etched into the stone walls between large pillars. Large wooden doors started after the fourth pillar, and Arno took you to the second one on the right side, swinging open the heavy door and nodding you inside. 

“This is the main training room.” He gestured with a flourish, letting you step inside and look around. The space was huge, with mats covering the floor. Wooden dummies and targets lined two of the four walls, some riddled with throwing knives and arrows, some looking so broken it was just remembrance of rough training. Three assassins were sparring, one sitting down to the side drinking water and two practicing their knife skills. 

“Care for a quick lesson?” He teased, knowing full well that you weren’t one for battling people, instead gnats or annoying flies that buzzed around. “Maybe later,” you replied with a grin, “What’s next?” 

He followed you out and closed the door behind him, leading you across the hall into the next door. “Here is the armory.” The room opened to reveal wooden walls lined with weapons of every kind: swords, daggers, pistols, rifles, smoke bombs, bomb bombs, and, of course, things to maintain the hidden blade. Each was meticulously maintained and ready for action. “Most of us have our preferred weapons, so this is mainly for recruits or people who have lost a weapon. Pick any weapon, and it’ll have a story,” Arno said, following you inside.

His fingers brushed an ornate-looking sword, the beautiful engraving on the blade glinting in the candlelight. You reached out, touching a dagger with an intricate hilt next to the sword Arno was looking at. “What about this one?”

“Ah, that belonged to Thomas de Carneillon, an assassin in the 13th and 14th century,” Arno explained, “he tried to steal a sword of Eden, the same one that killed Germaine.” He gives you an inquisitive look and lets you wander around the round room, watching as you observe the weapons with a curiosity that makes his stomach twinge in an absurd kind of attractiveness. 

Once you circle the room and return to Arno, he offers his hand again and leads you out of the room and deeper into the hallway. “You’ll love this,” he assures, motioning towards the end of the hallway where a huge arch opened up to a library. “This is the south archive,” he said, smiling at your giddy smile. 

It smelled like old parchment, ink, and worn leather-bound books, a scent that engrained itself in your brain. Shelves upon shelves of ancient tomes, scrolls, and books lined the walls, going up to the ceiling where a giant metal chandelier hung. Maroon velvet curtains lined the arch, and when you slipped into the library, you didn’t notice Arno tugging the golden rope that held them back. The drapes made a soft noise as they closed, dimming the room just the slightest bit, and Arno watched as your fingers trailed over the spines of the books. 

“It’s beautiful,” you murmured. “You said that this is the South archive?” Arno hummed a ‘yes,’ coming up behind you as you pulled one of the smaller books off the shelf. He wrapped his arms around your hips and kissed your temple, scanning the book you opened. “This library isn’t the biggest one here, but this one is always empty, perfect for us.” 

Arno watched the trail of your fingertips against the worn paper, gentle like your fingers when you trail them over Arno’s back. His eyes followed your hand as you turned the page, forefinger and thumb pinching the page like when you pinch your nipple while he’s fingering you. He should not be turned on right now. 

“Arno,” you said, head turning to look at your lover behind you. His eyes caught yours, your pretty eyes that always glistened right before you orgasmed, and right then, he made up his mind. Before you could speak again, Arno had pressed his lips against your soft ones, maybe just a little too roughly, the leather of the book in your hands creaking with how hard you gripped it. 

His hand grabbed the book from your hands and placed it back on the shelf with a little bit of struggle. Nipping your bottom lip, Arno’s hands gripped your hips and slipped his tongue inside your mouth. He tasted like wine and something sweet--something him-- and god, you’d be lying if it wasn’t intoxicating for the both of you. When you did pull away, a slim bridge of saliva connected your lips and snapped when he licked his. You were suddenly very aware of the predicament you’ve gotten yourself into--his erection pressed into your behind and his needy hands wandering your body.

“We’re in the base,” you un-needily whispered, sucking in a small breath as his lips moved to your jaw and pressed a kiss just behind your jawbone. “Oui, but we are alone. No one is near us, and we’ll be quiet.” You shakily breathed as he continued to kiss along the side of your neck and fuck; if the thought of risk didn’t set a throbbing between your legs, you weren’t sure what did. 

With an enthusiastic nod, Arno grabbed your hand and pulled you to one of the curtain-drawn study rooms off to the side. As he did with the entrance to the archive, Arno pulled the rope holding the drapes back off and dropped it to the floor. The ambient candlelight under the curtains, the only light in the ‘private’ study room, set a surprisingly intimate aura as Arno’s hand cups the side of your face and kisses you again. This one was headier, making your mind swim as his other hand grabbed your butt, pushing your hips into his. 

Your hands that had been resting on his shoulders slipped down his chest and to his belt, one palming his obvious arousal and the other fiddling with the belt buckle. He groaned into your mouth, hips chasing your hand as you moved it up to help undo the buckle. His hands joined yours in a messy struggle, and once his belt was undone, you immediately sank to your knees. 

Arno swore--a short, breathy ‘merde’ that sent every single ounce of blood that was in your brain rushing south, and with that blood came a fleeting thought of how easy it was to get you to suck him off in a place with people. It wasn’t the first time that you had sexual interactions in a public place--far from it--but it was the first time that you’d be on the giving end. 

His hand came to rest on the back of your head as your fingers unbuttoned his trousers and pulled them down with his undergarments just to free his cock. Even in the darkness, you could tell that he was fully hard, your hand that didn’t rest on his hip coming to stroke him teasingly slow. Your thumb swiped over his tip that dribbled precum, and his hips twitched with a soft groan that was nothing short of heavenly. 

You softly pressed your lips against his head and trailed them down his shaft, letting your spit dribble against his heated skin and slicking him up with your hand. His quiet groans and the schlick of your hand made up the space--an erotic opera--and finally, your lips slipped around his tip and gently sucked. “Dieu, fuck, don’t stop,” Arno groaned, hips rocking in time with the drawls and push of your head. After enough saliva drips from your mouth and down his cock you took him deeper in just so the head of his cock was resting against the back of your tongue. 

Arno moved both of his hands to the side of your head and gently held you in place, his thumbs stroking over your cheekbones, and he began to thrust into your mouth. At first, his thrusts were shallow, but as your hands came to his thighs once again, Arno gave a chuckle and picked up his pace. You slid your tongue against the underside of him, and he let out a groan, one that was a little too loud. “Good job, mon amour, good job…” 

No matter how many times you took him in any way, there was never a time where he failed to make you so painfully aroused. 

“Suck,” Arno said, stopping his movements rather deep inside the constrictive heat of your throat and petting your head. And just like he said, you hollowed your cheeks and sucked. His head thudded against the wall he had his back rested on, and, oh, that groan. Primal and needy and wanting in every sinful way known to man. “S'il vous plaît, continuez, putain, juste comme ça. Tu me prends si bien- si bien, fuck!”

His fingers threaded through your hair and gripped the strands, holding them tight as he rocked against your mouth. Arno was so, so close, you just needed to suck a little harder and-

“JESUS FUCKING CHRIST, ARNO?!” 

You immediately pull off of Arno, who seems equally surprised but, strangely enough, not embarrassed. You wiped the back of your mouth with your hand and turned around, face mortified at the silhouette of a man standing in the doorway. He shook his head and turned around, letting the curtain fall behind him, and you could still tell he was outside due to the shadow from under the drapes. Arno haphazardly tucked himself back into his pants and offered you a hand up off the ground. When he pulled you up, you gave him a look, one that said Arno, are you fucking kidding me? but all he did was chuckle and step out of the study. 

“Désolé, Bellec.” Your lover said, utterly unphased by the fact you had just been caught in a very precarious and intimate moment, and you heard a sigh from not Arno. “You never fail to amaze me, pisspot,” The man- Bellec- laughed. 

You stood in the study for a good fifteen minutes with your face aflame, too embarrassed to even walk out of the hideout. 

Thankfully the second meeting with Bellec was not when you were sucking Arno off and instead over wine (that doesn’t mean you weren’t a hot-faced mess with an embarrassed smile on your face throughout the whole thing, though). 

[kurishiri]

n.4 . . . “ the dangerous promise between the hunter and the intelligent yakuza ”

— this translation may not be 100% accurate or may contain creative liberties for characterization or narrative flow purposes. if you enjoy, please consider reblogging, but don’t repost or claim these as your own!

— thanks again to @ndoandou and @drachonia for helping me look over the jude lines!

— cw: blood and injury, smoking.

Jude: Speed up n’ get stitchin’ ya quack of a doctor.

The man named Jude was stabbed pretty badly, and was nearly killed. That was how reckless he was on a normal basis.

Every time he stumbled in the clinic, I would take him in, treating him in secret.

Roger: It’s not every day I run into people who have made so many enemies in their life. Well, show me your stomach.

R: Ohh, you managed to dodge it pretty well this time too. It won’t be too hard to suture. You have my praises.

Jude: Ah? The hell are ya doin’, stickin’ a needle in me n’ takin’ my blood?

Roger: It’s needed for the treatment. I thought that was obvious?

Jude: Ya damn quack, don’t go takin’ my blood if yer gonna dilly dally like that!

J: Ya braindead or somethin’? My blood’s already spillin’ from my stomach, now yer drainin’ me dry.

(...Tch, he found me out. Well, at least I can have the blood I already drew out.)

Roger: I get that you’re Cursed, but I can’t help but wonder if you’re Cursed by a fairytale if you’re just cursed with a sharp tongue.

R: Ah, as I thought, Ellis is the only good kid around here, being such a kind person and all.

Jude: Yer eyes must’ve gotten worse, ‘cause I think ya mean man’s clearly got a screw loose.

Roger: Okay, I get it, I won’t take Ellis away from you. Though honestly, I could use an assistant.

Jude: Ow—!

J: Oy, ya wanna get drowned? Don’t go stabbin’ people with needles without a warnin’ ya quack!

Roger: Yeah, I make it a rule of mine to not listen to someone who can’t quit smoking a single cigarette.

Jude normally kept a pack of cigarettes in his pockets, and no matter how many times I told him to stop, he didn’t even try.

(I heard that he had problems in his bronchial tube, so that’s why he came to see my dad, but was all that a lie?)

But, my doubts would be flipped over on a certain night.

Jude: ...Gegh—*cough* ...Hah—

Roger: Was that an asthma attack...

Ellis: I went to collect some debts, but there in the basement, there was tobacco smoke everywhere…

Jude: …Ah, bloody hell…

(So my dad wasn’t wrong about Jude in his medical records?)

Roger: Jude, I’m gonna make you feel better as soon as possible tonight.

I had given Jude some medicine a bit on the stronger side, and so by the time he awoke, it was the next morning.

Roger: Awake now? …Ah, looks like your breathing has stabilized too.

Because of some side effect of the medicine, somewhere in his gaze seemed a bit hollow.

Jude: What of Ellis…

Roger: Said he was gonna finish up some stuff for work at your company.

R: He figured you’d be worried about that when you woke up. Ellis really is a good right-hand man.

Jude: …Hah… that stuff’s the bottom line.

Roger: Hey, Jude.  You really should quit smoking.

R: As far as I can see, you don’t seem to be smoking because you like to do it. In which case it’s better to just not smoke at all.

R: And if you’re doing this because of your work…

Jude: It ain’t just my work.

Roger: ………?

Jude: The smell when I smoke reminds me of that stuffy ass room.

J: All the smoke n’ the fumes, n’ the gloom in the air would make me cough up a lung.

From within those hollow eyes I could clearly sense loathing.

Jude: …Every time I remember that, it makes me bloody seethe to the stomach.

J: N’ that’s when I thought…

J: All the ones who looked down on me, n’ the ones who tried to look down on me…

J: …Ain’t no way I’ll kick the bucket ‘til I make every last one o’ those shits fall to the pits of Hell.

Then, one night, I chanced upon Jude by his lonesome on a street corner.

While holding a cigarette in his mouth, he was gazing up at the moon with a vacant look.

Such a look was reminiscent of having given up on something, just like that…

If anger and loathing was the fire that Jude needed to live, and smoking was that fuel—

Roger: …Jude. I will always be against smoking.

R: But in the end, you can do what you want, and how you want. That’s all up to you.

R: Ahh, and also—

R: If you’re about to die again, then I promise I will save you. If you’re willing to pay a steep price in turn, that is.

Jude: Don’t go throwin’ the words “I promise” around so willy nilly.

J: If I end up suddenly droppin’ dead ‘cause yer a quack, I’m gonna have Ellis kill ya.

Roger: You got yourself a deal. If that happens, we can enjoy a drink in Hell, the two of us.

Jude: …Hah, now that one’s for the birds.

J: Somethin’ like yer favorite beer probably ain’t gonna be down in a place like that.

—— Present time ——

(…I just keep thinking about the old times today.)

Scattered about before my eyes were the medical records of the Crown members.

Their ways of living and personalities were all over the place, but there was one thing they all had in common.

And that was the fact they all were Cursed with a “tragic fate” they could never escape from.

I sucked in a breath unconsciously.

(At this rate, they can’t die with a smile on their faces.)

(And maybe, if they weren’t Cursed, they could be living more freely than they do now.)

Roger: Jeez, since when did I feel such things? It’s not like me.

——is what I said, when footsteps sounded outside the door.

They resembled the steps of a puppy, and they seemed to be in a hurry.

(It’s Kate.)

Before I heard the knock, I called out to her.

Roger: You can come in.

Kate: Roger, there’s trouble…

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