#anyway heed the warnings in the tags/author's note !!

[zukkaoru]

what if the way you hold me is actually what's holy?

Fyodor reaches for the cup next. As they bring it to their lips, Nathaniel knows he should look away. Heat pools in his gut and before he can chastise himself, he imagines Fyodor is drinking his blood instead of the Lord’s. He imagines them taking his very essence into their body, swallowing it down, until part of Nathaniel’s soul has irrevocably woven itself into Fyodor.

or: nathaniel hawthorne's last supper

🍷 2.8k words || fyothaniel 🥖 written for @fyodorshipweek2024 day 2: angels & demons

[aurumalatus]

𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐞 [𝟑]

pairing. kinich x fem!reader

word count. 3.6k

genre/warnings. childhood friends to lovers, slow burn, fluff and angst, drabble collection, cursing, mentions of abuse/alcoholism, character death and graphic descriptions of death, mentions of vomit

summary.

in which kinich learns the value of all things: lives, friendship, and, of course, you. or, in which kinich realizes that you are the only priceless thing in this world.

author's note. this one is... a lot. take heed of the warnings/let me know if there's something i forgot to tag! i might've missed some errors because it's late so i will fix in the morning, otherwise please enjoy! reblogs/interaction highly appreciated!

↢ 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 | 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 ↣

𝗛𝗢𝗟𝗗𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗢𝗡 𝗔𝗡𝗗 𝗟𝗘𝗧𝗧𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗚𝗢

When the meadows grow full and lush, Kinich awaits your reappearance.

The winter had been long—with his crops iced over, he’d had to rely on hunting to survive. His mother’s absence had taken a heavy toll on his family (though he uses the word loosely), and his father somehow finds more time to drink his life away. Now the sole homemaker, Kinich finds himself as his father’s newfound punching bag as well.

He discovers that he has a talent for patching wounds and bruises.

Some days, the man awakens in the dead of night, freshly sober—Kinich can hear him crying his mother’s name in the dark. He doesn’t know whether to take that as regret, or simply loneliness.

They don’t talk. They never really did, but the silence grows quickly, curling and weaving and winding like vines through the house, until Kinich can feel it wrapping his throat shut. Days and weeks go by without him talking to anyone at all.

Still, he moves on.

The ice finally melts, and he welcomes the sight of animals returning from hibernation, despite how they nip at his garden. New life sprouts from the ground, and it’s only a matter of time before you appear in the forest again as well.

This time, you’re touting a burlap bag of Quenepa Berries, and you offer him one as he approaches.

“They’re sweeter at this time of year,” you comment, before popping one of the fruits into your mouth. He accepts and does the same—this batch is fattened and sweet, he thinks as the juice dribbles down his chin. You must have an eye for a good harvest.

“You came back,” is all he replies, as a greeting.

An incredulous expression crosses your face, almost judgmental—you hold the bag of berries away from him as teasing punishment. “You thought I wouldn’t?”

He reaches over you, quick as a fox, catching one of the fruits in his fingers. 

“Don’t know.”

There’s no way to tell you about his mother’s disappearance, at least not one that he’s confident about. After all, he feels there’s no logic in informing you anyway—there’s no solution that you could potentially offer, and it’s not as though it affects you. But it’s the thought of that, and the lasting image of her footsteps, that had instilled this fear within him.

The fear that you would never return.

But you’re here, he soothes himself, another berry in your outstretched palm. He takes it, just as your voice rings out again.

“So, do your parents not like girls?”

The skin of the fruit catches in his throat at your question, and he lets out a series of wet coughs—you pat his back, eyes wide with concern. It takes a few moments for him to return to his senses.

“What are you talking about?” he splutters, uncharacteristically flustered.

You don’t seem to notice, too absorbed in picking through your bag—you prefer the lightest blue berries, the ones that are still slightly unripe. Perhaps you enjoy the tartness they offer.

“I don’t know,” you reply. “It just seems like you don’t want your parents to see me.”

And there’s no easy way to explain his situation, so he doesn’t. Instead, he hums, watching the birds soar by overhead. His heart vaguely tugs with jealousy at the sight of them.

“It’s not that. My parents just…don’t like people hanging around our house. That’s why we moved out of the village.”

Not a total lie, he reasons—the financial issues were the root cause, but his father had also grown tired of neighbors attempting to intervene in his parents’ endless disputes. It had given him hope, for a time, that someone might be able to remedy the situation. 

But that hope was quickly snuffed out.

“Makes sense,” you say, tracing shapes in the dirt with your foot. You draw a heart, a smiley face, and then something that looks like a defective Yumkasaurus. “Your dad is the mean one, right?”

You’re still not quite educated on social faux-pas at your age, and Kinich almost chokes again.

“What?”

Something rustles in the bushes nearby—an animal scared away by the sudden loudness of his voice.

“He always used to yell at me when I’d come around to leave you things,” you explain, overwhelmingly casual. “Smelled like that stuff that us kids aren’t allowed to go near in the market.”

Kinich vaguely remembers hearing his parents argue about something like that, but all the fighting tends to blur together after a time. He’s not sure how to reply to that, or what you might think if he did.

So he doesn’t.

He asks you about your winter instead, a topic change that you welcome eagerly. You tell him about the village, the white-topped roofs and the way the Yumkasauri would redden and sneeze, whelps hiding in their mother’s wings. You tell him about how you tried ice skating on the frozen river, recounting how many times you fell flat on your face. The thought makes him smile faintly.

He’s almost surprised by how enthusiastic you are about it—you’d told him before about your parents’ death in the cold season. He wonders how you seem to move past it all.

You turn your attention back to him, curious. “What about you? What happened during your winter?”

There’s a lot he could say, but none of it feels right, every word sticking to his tongue, stubborn. 

“The winter felt really long,” he finally says, mostly to himself, chewing thoughtfully.

You glance at him out of the corner of your eye. “It did. But it’s not so bad, I think.”

He hums. “Really?”

You shrug. “Spring always comes again anyway.”

/

On Kinich’s seventh birthday, you knock at his door in the evening.

The November air is crisp, but not yet chilling. After all, the nation of Pyro tends to run warm until the very depths of winter. It’s for that reason that the fireplace still lies darkened and empty, and that the kitchen window is still open a crack.

The sound shocks him at first—it’s been a long time since anyone has visited at all, so much so that the dull thump is unfamiliar. Wilder animals tend to come out when the sun sets, so he tries to finish up his farming and hunting beforehand—at this time, he’s usually preparing some sort of meal for the next day.

He glances at the source of the noise, then at his father, slumped over the kitchen table, drool dripping from the corner of his mouth. The man will likely be asleep until the early morning anyway.

So Kinich pads to the door, pulling it open just a crack, and it’s your eye that peers back at him, curious.

Another inch, and then the rest of you is revealed to him—you’re holding a neatly wrapped box in your hands, an innocent smile spread across your lips.

His first words come out in a hiss.

“What are you doing here?”

He thinks he’s been quite clear about your need to return to the village by this time, for many reasons. It’s growing dark, a time where animals and humans alike grow more dangerous, and his father tends to be home. The man has a talent of putting Kinich in the worst moods, and he’d rather not spread that to you.

“It’s your birthday,” you greet, as an explanation, shrugging like it’s all so obvious. Kinich tilts his head.

“So?”

“So, we’re celebrating! I spent the whole day baking this cake with Chief Wayna’s help.”

Kinich steps outside, quietly letting the door shut behind him. The sunset sky is burning away at this time, pinks and reds fading into black and blue. The stars will be out soon. 

“It’s nighttime,” he says, crossing his arms.

You nod vigorously, undeterred. “Yup! All so you can see the candles better. It looks so much cooler when it’s dark.”

It’s a ridiculous statement to someone like him, and Kinich is once again reminded how different the two of you are. His sense of logic doesn’t seem to align with your enduring enthusiasm. Still, he likes the fire that you have about you, and has no interest in snuffing it out, so he merely sighs and leads you away from the front door.

Once you’re a bit away, the house still in view, he looks to you again.

“So, what is it about candles?”

Without a reply, you turn away from him, fiddling with various things—he hears a match being lit, sees the faint light reflect from behind you—and then you’re facing him again, proudly holding out the cake.

There’s seven brightly colored candles sticking out from the top. The candlelight illuminates your face with a soft glow, a cheeky smile spreading across your lips.

“It looks good, right?”

Kinich peers down at the treat—it does look good, with the expensive kind of frosting that he used to look at longingly in the market. He hasn’t had something this sweet, this luxurious, in a long time, or maybe ever. When he glances back up, you’re staring up at him expectantly—he shrinks back from the pressure.

“What is it?” he asks, feeling self-conscious. You point to the candles.

“You have to blow it out.”

Vaguely, he thinks back on when he used to live in the village. He’s seen people hold birthday parties before (though he can’t say he’d ever been invited), but he’s not sure he’s heard of this tradition. Birthday celebrations weren’t something his family could ever afford anyway, or maybe they just didn’t care to.

Kinich realizes he doesn’t even know when his parents’ birthdays are.

But you’re still watching him, so he pushes that thought aside. Instead, he leans over and gently blows out the candles in three small puffs of breath.

“It’s fun, isn’t it?” You cheer, tilting the cake toward him. “I hope you made a wish!”

You’d forgotten to mention that before he blew out the candles, he thinks to himself, but he’s in no position to argue with your good will anyway. So he nods, silently making a wish after the fact.

“Alright, the best part is eating it,” you whisper conspiratorially, like you’re sharing a life-shattering secret. “And Elder Leik says it’s bad to have sugar before bed, but I think it’s okay just this once—”

“Kinich!”

That voice—

His heart freezes in his chest. Your face morphs in confusion, and then he’s grasping at your arm and yanking, hiding you behind him—you’re not much smaller than him, though, so it’s a futile effort. At the force, the cake slips out of your grip, smashing uselessly into the grass.

Kinich has half a mind to apologize, but he can’t—instead, he holds you tighter.

“Kinich?” A hoarse voice echoes in the dark. “Where the hell are you?” 

“I’m here. I was just taking a walk,” he replies. His voice shakes at the edges of each syllable—he hopes his father doesn’t notice. 

Something crunches in the distance; it’s the sound of grass underfoot. His father is coming this way, Kinich realizes in a panic. He glances back to your fearful eyes, clutching at the back of his thin t-shirt, and his chest burns with the desire to protect.

It’s too dim to see the man until he’s a few feet in front of you—he’s dressed in a tattered shirt and loose pants, feet dragging through the grass. His eyes narrow when he gets close enough, brows knitting together.

His gaze zeroes in on you, venomous. “It’s you again.”

The collar of Kinich’s shirt grows taut against his throat as you pull against him, afraid. He squeezes at your arm once, a comfort.

“You damn orphans, got nothing better to do? Just fucking around on my property, I should throw you off this goddamn cliff! Not like you got anyone to miss you.”

Kinich grits his teeth. “Leave her alone.”

His father laughs, a grating sound like nails on a chalkboard, then belches. The smell of cheap alcohol filters through the air, even from a distance.

“Go do something useful then. Too many useless people in this world, ha! Just like your damn mother.”

The mention makes the blood ice over in Kinich’s veins, a sharp frost crawling up his spine. Your grip loosens just a hair, likely in confusion, but the detail barely reaches his mind.

“You know where she is?”

The image of his mother’s footsteps in the newly fallen snow had never left his mind—he sees it in his nightmares, trapped and crawling in an endless frozen landscape, alone. He thinks of her when he farms, when he weaves, when he’s forced to eat another Grainfruit.

He thinks of her always, maybe, in the back of his mind.

And his father does too, maybe, based on the way his whole body seems to tighten with anger at the question. He doesn’t reply, at least not verbally.

You watch, horrified. Even as his father’s eyes glow with rage, even as he drunkenly hobbles toward you both, hands outstretched.

(Kinich blankly notes that they form the shape of his own neck.)

The man isn’t too coordinated, especially with the alcohol coursing through his veins—he stumbles a few times on the way, the grass seeming to curl around his ankles, slowing him down. Perhaps it’s the land’s way of protecting him, Kinich thinks. 

He grabs your hand, pulling you behind him. “Come on!”

Kinich runs, wind whipping at his face, the way he always does when his father gets this way. He takes you through the backyard, toward the forest, where his father might lose sight of you both and give up the chase. He knows the paths there and knows them well—the shadows of the trees will protect you both.

But the man is picking up speed behind you, roaring about what he’ll do once he catches you.

“Kinich,” you wheeze. You’d already been semi-exhausted by your trek here, and certainly not expecting a sprint like this.

“I know,” he pants back. “Just a little more.”

You’re trying your hardest, he knows.

But he’s faster than you, and you stumble, lagging behind.

“Kinich!”

His father lunges, fingers barely grasping at the leg of your pants. A shriek erupts from your throat as you tumble to the ground in a twisted pile, and Kinich cries out with you, just as the cliff seems to rumble beneath his feet. 

It happens in slow motion. 

Kinich’s father meets his son’s gaze, enraged, then afraid. Terrified, just as he feels his legs dangle over the edge of the cliff, just as the weight of your smaller body pushes his torso over. Shocked, just as the rest of you starts to come down with him. 

Your screams echo off the darkened mountain. 

Kinich weighs his options—it doesn’t take long—and then leaps forward. His chest smacks painfully into the dirt, but he manages to grab your wrist just as you slip down the cliff.

“Kinich!” 

His father is screaming his name, and so are you, pleading, begging for his help. And you’re still in his grasp, but you’re slipping, and his father is reaching for him, and if he could just grab him with his other hand, he could maybe pull you both up, but—

Kinich’s gaze meets your tear-filled eyes.

So he grits his teeth, clawing at the dirt, and with his other hand, he grabs—

You.

He doesn’t have time to catch his father’s expression—he doesn’t think he’d want to see it anyway—before he’s hauling you up, yanking you into his arms until you’re both collapsing into the grass. The crown of your skull clashes with his chin harshly.

His father is still bellowing curses, not that you seem to hear it over the sound of your screams and cries. But Kinich hears it, somehow, floating above the chaos and agony in your voice.

“It’s your fucking fault! This is all your fault!”

His eyes flutter shut as the voice fades away, and then grows silent.

It’s too quiet.

Even the crickets seem to censor themselves, hiding from the entire ordeal. Kinich releases his hold on you, rolling onto his stomach, then onto his knees. The grass seems to waver under his stare, rippling and oscillating until it feels like the entire world is quivering beneath him.

He barely registers that you’re struggling to pull yourself upright behind him.

You turn away from Kinich’s hunched form to vomit in the grass, overwhelmed by it all. A corpse lies at the foot of the cliff now, one that could’ve just as easily been you. One that might have actually been your fault. The thought makes you vomit again. 

After a few more dry heaves, Kinich’s hand rubs at your back, the other gently easing your hair away from your mouth. You look over your shoulder at him, eyes filled with tears and nose dripping with snot. 

“Kinich,” you sob, trying to catch your breath. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I was too slow, and he—he fell. I didn’t mean it. I’m so sorry. I know he wasn’t—I don’t—but that was your—your father—”

He takes you by the shoulders, forcing you to look at him—really look at him. His expression seems the same as always, but you know the difference. You note the quivering at the edge of his lips, the light sheen at the corners of his eyes. It disappears as quickly as you notice it, flattening under a disposition of stone.

“I weighed the value between you,” he says, gaze meeting your glassy stare. Your heart flutters. “And I chose you.”

And for a bit, you pretend that you can’t hear the thick lump in his throat, or the way his nose scrunches to keep the tears from slipping. Instead, you take his hand, struggling to your feet.

Kinich gives you a once-over—your pant leg is tattered now, a long strip of fabric ripped from the bottom. A flash of crimson peeks from under the remaining cloth.

Thin lines of blood bloom over the joint there, slowly running down the length of your leg.

“You’re bleeding,” he rasps, assessing the extent of your wound. It’s not deep—a skinned knee at most, which he’s grateful for. He’s treated much worse on his own body.

There’s so much to do, he thinks, pushing through the foggy haze permeating his mind. He has to retrieve his father’s body. He has to treat your wound. With his father gone, he needs to make a plan for his own survival.

It’s not as if his father ever really helped out anyway, but the thought of being truly, totally alone is harrowing. It takes another minute for him to remember that you’re still standing at his side.

“Go back to the house,” he mumbles, almost to himself. “Wait for me in the kitchen—”

“No!” You blurt, looking surprised despite yourself. Kinich jolts, meeting your eyes. “You’re going to get his body, right?”

After a moment of hesitation, he nods solemnly.

Kinich has looked down these cliffs many times; he knows the sheer height of them. There’s absolutely no chance that his father’s body is in any sort of good shape at the bottom. The thought makes bile rise in his throat.

You swallow. “So let’s go.”

The fear is reflected in the way your hands shake, but your shoulders straighten and you reach for him, slotting your fingers together. It’s the most bravery that you can manage, at least right now. Kinich accepts it gratefully.

Making your way down the cliff is treacherous with the little light you have. You don’t speak, barely even breathe. The stars lay watchful above, winking and illuminating your way. 

Even with your hand in his, Kinich glances back occasionally, ensuring you’re still with him—you always are, still sniffling and scrubbing at your eyes. 

It’s hard for you, and it’s obvious; he has to catch you several times when your foot slips off the stone, but you’re still with him. You’re still with him, he thinks. Kinich repeats it to himself a few times, letting it anchor him as he struggles down the rocks.

His father’s body is stiff by the time you reach it.

You’re too afraid to look at first, meekly standing behind him. It takes a few minutes before you work up the courage to peek over his shoulder, one hand over your mouth. Kinich isn’t sure whether to pray, or cry, or leave it all behind—for a few minutes, he doesn’t do anything at all.

The body is mangled, as he’d expected. You don’t dare to look at it again; you pace about the area, trying to keep your wits about you. 

Everything about it is too familiar. He sees himself in the corpse, the blond hair fanned around the head like a halo, the golden eyes forever stuck in a faraway stare. The grappling hook that he always kept on his person.

His father. A half of him. His flesh and blood.

And he’d let him go.

Kinich feels for his own heartbeat over his shirt, fisting at the cloth there.

You are still alive, it whispers.

So he calls your name, soft. You peek at him through the darkness.

“We have to bring it back,” he murmurs.

And you, despite it all, despite the terror that licks hot up your neck, simply nod.

“Okay.”

As the two of you drag the corpse back toward the house, fingertips sticky with blood that freezes in the passing wind, Kinich realizes it—

This is the coldest November he’s ever experienced.

[one-way-dream]

The King's Shadow - Ch. 3

Rating: General

Words: 4900+ (9600+ Total)

Media: Sonic the Hedgehog, Sonic and the Black Knight

Pairing: Sonic/Lancelot (Sonic/Shadow)

Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Developing Feelings, Pining, Alternate Universe - Medieval (Check AO3 for any tag changes!)

Warnings: Canon-typical violence

Chapter: 3/3

Link to the original work

AO3 Summary/Excerpt:

The other’s embarrassment slowly melted away into a resigned sigh, before turning into a smile; mischievous in appearance, but nothing short of putting the sun’s radiance to shame. And then Lancelot truly felt the carefree and trusting weight, the sheer warmth of the newly crowned king’s hand in his own.

And he knew more than ever that his life now belonged to him.

Author's Notes:

cheesus christ i think this is the first time i've ever finished a multichapter fic…….. a short one but multichapter nontheless….. dang

ANYWAY i hope you enjoy :] hope you heeded the warning at the end of ch1

THANK YOU FOR READING I HOPE YOU ENJOY (also thank you for 150+ kudos on ao3 that is WILD) ❤❤❤

Previous/Next

Sonic put his quill pen down with a sigh, before quickly catching his inky mistake of leaving the near-dripping calamus exposed on the expensive desk as he scrambled to place it back in the inkwell. 

He leaned back into his extravagantly lush and velvety chair and stared up at the expanse of the accented wall, flourishing with delicate patterns and complemented by rich silk fabric in reds, blues, and golds. While he hadn’t tested it out for himself, the bedroom looked large enough for him to do laps in probably— no, definitely. Just by eyeballing the area, it was more than likely twice as large as Tails’ workshop.

At that name, the pang in his chest came back, harsher than ever before.

Sonic sighed again heavily, lacing his fingers behind his head and running his eyes up the wall until they hit the ceiling, right at the giant gunmetal-steel chandelier that seemed larger than his whole body. A sense of unease crawled through him every time he entered his bedroom; it was the only place where the other knights or Merlina weren’t allowed to visit, and thus, the loneliest place in the entire kingdom.

It was like the room was trying to swallow him whole; like it knew that he didn’t belong there, that he was an intruder bestowed with riches that didn’t belong to him – tearing out pages from the book of legends and rewriting himself into it.

He always believed in deciding his own fate, but… he couldn’t decide for the others unless they wanted it too. He couldn't change the course of their world like that just on a whim. Sonic smiles a little melancholy to himself, thinking about how that line of thinking was probably the most king-like thing he’s done thus far. After all, it wasn’t always about fighting bad guys around these parts, was it?

Even if the others did consent to his continued ruling, now he had a choice – to go back to his own time, to Shadow and the others, and let the people of this world decide their destiny, or he could stay with the kingdom, with Lancelot.

As he looked down at the two letters on his desk, one stamped with red and the other with gold wax, he knew his answer. A pressed violet rested soundly in one letter, while commands almost befitting of his soon-to-be-lost title as a king lay in the other.

Sonic took in a deep breath and squeezed his eyes shut.

His gut feeling wouldn't let him down.

-x-

King Sonic had not made his nest in Avalon for very long, and yet Lancelot felt his presence permeate every inch of their lives with relative ease, making a friend out of everyone he possibly could, regardless of whether they were a peasant or noble.

Each and every townsman had felt it too, Lancelot could tell by their charmed expressions as he accompanied the king on his rounds. He’d insisted on travelling alone, putting his faith in Caliburn should anything take a turn for the worst, but his advisors were persistent. However, when Lancelot’s company was suggested to him, he was surprisingly quick to give in; one could even say that his eyes lit up, though the knight knew not to be so hopeful as to expect the king to enjoy his company above the rest. He could only hope that he didn’t greatly mind Lancelot cherishing their time together. 

Even the nobles that had once upturned their noses at the new king, relented to the fact that he was indeed unique – however, that came with a hesitancy, deciding whether or not this new king would be good for their kingdom would be judged in due time, but for now, Lancelot could breathe easy knowing they trusted him for the time being.

But still… what if the rumours were true?

Lancelot’s stomach churned at the mere thought.

The two of them passed a quaint little shop at the far end of the town’s main street, something of a food and trinket vendor that rotated their inventory every other week. They’d been struggling a lot with thieves in the past month or so, but when word got around to the king, he’d rounded up the knights to tighten up the security within the town. And then just like that, those petty thieves were a mere tale of the past.

Much like King Sonic may one day be, Lancelot thought to himself, heart sinking in his chest.

He caught a glimpse of the shop owner standing behind a stand full to the brim with apples; some spotted and bruised, but otherwise perfectly edible and polished with care. Lancelot watches with a newfound fascination as the owner exchanges a bag of seasonal berries for a small bag of what he assumed was coin.

Lancelot curiously fished around the small brown bag secured around his waist, hoping for at least a few shillings to leave behind as they walked past.

The king however, had no intention of simply passing by. He silently gave the knight the sign to wait for the exchange to finish entirely before beelining for the shop with an eager wave. Lancelot glanced to his side, quietly smiling at his king and his ever-so charitable heart of gold.

“Your highness!” The shop owner beams at the approaching hedgehog, “How do you do?”

“Not bad, not bad! I’m happy to see you doing well. Have those thieves come back?” Sonic grinned cheekily, happier and more relieved than ever to hear the shop owner be so easy going about his presence, “I wouldn’t mind giving ‘em a personal message, if ya know what I mean.”

The owner pauses for a moment at the king’s words, a perplexed expression just barely lining the features of their face as they helplessly glanced at the knight and then back at Sonic – it’s a look Lancelot knows far too well. After all, he too was guilty of bearing such an expression at Sonic’s unusual speech mannerisms at the beginning. But they seemed to adjust quickly enough, perking up again with a light laugh as they shook their head, “I think I understand, sire, but there’s no need; there hasn’t been a single robbery ever since you assigned guards to patrol the town.”

Sonic smiles, giving a thumbs up that Lancelot wasn’t sure the other understood, but took politely anyway, “Good to hear it, buddy! Keep up the good work! Oh, and here—”

He fishes through his own mostly-empty bag, frowning when he feels only one coin. He pulls out a single silver penny and lays it on the counter, “Really sorry this is all I had on me. I don’t want anything; it’s just my way of saying good luck. I think silver means good luck, anyway!”

They look back at the king, at a slight loss for words at the sudden donation before Lancelot strolls up to the king’s side and neatly places a stack of coins on the table as well. Sonic’s expression changes from surprised to pleased as he shoots him a wide smile from the side, and Lancelot makes the mistake of looking right at him. He curses himself for being drawn into his gaze, distracted, while they were in the presence of another. The knight swallows thickly and pulls away, face heating up despite not being under the harsh sunlight anymore.

It was… strange how it was sunny much more often. Or maybe it was Lancelot’s imagination.

“T-thank you… it’s truly a miracle that a king like you has come to rule our kingdom, but…” They look away, a forlorn expression on their face. Lancelot can’t fight off the icy dread nipping at his heart, his mind begging away the premonition to no avail, “Forgive me if this isn’t my place, but… I have heard rumours that you will be heading back to your world some time?”

The anxiety hits him full force once the question lands, gauntlet covered hands curling into fists at his side. He knows he can’t bear to look at the king now. Not now. But… like always, he still can’t find himself looking away from the other.

Except the flash of regret, – of sorrow and melancholy, –  in Sonic’s eyes devastates him like nothing else.

And it’s only for a moment, and not a moment longer, but it’s enough for Lancelot to understand.

“Yes, I—” He clears his throat, smiles as he scratches his head nervously, “The royal wizard, Merlina, has found a way for me to get back home.”

“I see… how much time do you have left, sire?” Lancelot almost couldn’t hear the owner’s voice over the sound of his own heartbeat.

“…I will be leaving in three days.”

For a moment, Lancelot feels nothing. Almost as if he’d been expecting it since the very moment he laid eyes on the king; but that couldn’t be true – deep down he knew that he wanted to serve King Sonic until the end of his days, and no one else. Until his final breath. Until crimson spilled and met with the soil beneath his feet in the name of honour, or until his old age finally put his battle-worn bones to rest.

But no thoughts of a peaceful or honourable death could put his mind to ease when the anguish suddenly poured in, as if the floodgates had shattered all at once.

He didn’t know what to think. What could he think when he couldn’t even figure out the source of his pain, let alone put a name to it? All he knew was that his chest hurt unbearably, and that he couldn’t bear to let go of someone like Sonic the Hedgehog.

“—H-hey, are you okay?!”

When the world came back into focus, he found both the shop owner and the king looking back at him with worried looks on their faces. Those wondrous, lively eyes so full of worry for him. For him.

Suddenly, he was overcome with the urge to laugh. Had he become so delusional to think that his feelings ever really mattered to begin with?

As a knight, he had a responsibility. And surely, as a mortal hedgehog, he had a heart. He knew well enough that he could not carry both in his hands, and so he chose to be a knight until the very end, just as he’d promised on that fateful day that he took the king’s hand and swore his life to him.   

“I’m… quite alright, my liege.”

Lancelot looked back at Sonic with all of his courage, and smiled at him with every bit of strength he could muster.

The king then sighs, face pulling into something almost irritated. Amidst the new surge of fear, Lancelot suddenly finds his wrist captured by the other as he’s pulled into a dark and damp alleyway near the back of the town, ignoring the questioning looks from the other townspeople.

He could barely make out the king’s face in the dim light from the side, but really, it was probably better this way. Although, who was he kidding? He’d already memorised his face down to the small, healed nick by the bridge of his nose that Sonic himself probably hadn’t noticed.

The king relented his grip on Lancelot’s quivering wrist, as they both stood to face each other, their backs to the walls. He huffs, crossing his arms and tapping his foot impatiently, “Okay, what’s up?”

“P-pardon?”

“I mean—” Sonic pinches the bridge of his nose, “What’s the matter? What happened? Are you not feeling well or somethin’?”

“I’m… fine, sire—”

He clicked his tongue and sighed, “Take off your helmet; it’s easier to talk to you face-to-face.”

Lancelot stiffened. He… didn’t usually take it off while outside – it made it easier to obscure his face and somehow, he just felt more comfortable having it down during patrols. But it was rare to hear the other truly ask something of him, and so he was in no position to decline as a knight serving under him. Still, before he could stop himself, he spoke, “Is that a command, sire?”

A look of hesitation flashes over Sonic’s features, opening and closing his mouth before finally sighing, letting his arms fall to the side, “I… no, it’s not. I just wanted to—” He shakes his head, looking away a little embarrassed, “Never mind, forget it.”

There’s a careful beat of silence between them.

“…Is this because I didn’t tell you first?”

The shock that ran through Lancelot’s body was vicious, heart stopping at his words. Yet he shakes his head, even though he was far from incorrect in his judgement of Lancelot. Pathetic, pathetic Lancelot.

“It isn’t like it was my right to know.” He tries to steady his voice, despite the pin-pricking sensation in his chest, “It… doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter. You’re my right-hand man. You’re— you’re the person closest to me in this whole kingdom and I…” Sonic stops himself, unaware of the way Lancelot’s heart was caught in his throat, “I wanted to tell you first. That’s why I brought you out today. I didn’t mean for you to find out like this…”

Lancelot finally breathes, the tightness in his chest alleviating a little at the king’s reassuring words. Even if he weren’t his king, Lancelot would trust and respect him all the same; he’d earned that much all on his own. And with that, he loosens the sides of his visor, sliding it all off slowly as his red and black quills trickled out. Sonic looked on with surprise, shoving down yet another pang of nostalgia and longing as he saw the other as he was, stunning ruby eyes, quiet honesty, and awe-inspiring boldness in action. Lancelot set his visor on top of an old crate pushed against the grey stone wall, before setting his sights back on the king, similarly ignoring the way his heart rate spiked at the way Sonic had his eyes set on him.

Slowly his expression falls into something a little more downcast, ears drooping as he breathes out deeply.

“I’m sorry, Lancelot. You deserve better than this.”

This time, Sonic could see how Lancelot’s eyes widened at the words, and his heart ached in wonder of how much he’d wordlessly endured until now. It must not have been easy for him, serving under such a clueless and carefree king right after dealing with the abuses of a corrupt one.

But in Lancelot’s eyes, all he could think about was the fact that someone cared enough to that extent; to reach out a hand to him in battle even when he was covered in mud and grime, to laugh with him at small things, share a meal with him, to race with him against the sweeping winds that spoke to him tales of freedom and adventure, to walk him to his quarters at the end of each wonderful and star-speckled eve. He couldn’t possibly, reasonably, ask for more.

Yet, Lancelot couldn’t help but still be mysteriously drawn into him, almost like it was magnetic.

Could he really be blamed?  

“Is, uh… is there something on my face?”

Lancelot doesn’t catch the words at first, far too lost in thought. Too lost in Sonic. Anxiety doesn’t line his breaths anymore, just for a moment, because all he can think about is deep blue and emerald. All he can think about is how he wants to reach out and touch him, make him real – as if he, too, would disintegrate before his eyes like an illusion, like the fallen King Arthur.

But Sonic wasn’t like that.

Even if he would no longer be a part of this world in a few short days, he’d never give in or fade out, stubborn as he is. He’d never disappear like that, would he?

He was all courage and stupidly charming wit and a true follower of his own heart. And perhaps that was why he had such a hold over Lancelot’s own. He was forever burned into their lives, into their memories, regardless of whether he was there to lead them as king or not.

And so he reached out, heart pounding in his chest.

“W-woah,” Sonic laughed nervously as he watched Lancelot’s hand grow closer, “Lance, what are you…?”

“What am I…?”

He paused, mind fully going blank for the first time in his life.

“Oh. There’s… ah, dirt, on your left cheek.” Lancelot fibbed as he scrabbled to pull out a handkerchief, ice running through his veins despite the way his face burned all the way up to his ears. He willed his hands to stop shaking with all his might, and brought his hand up to the other’s cheek, ignoring the wide-eyed and flustered expression the other wore, “M-may I?”

Sonic slowly nodded, unblinking as the soft cotton of Maria’s handmade handkerchief brushed his cheek. Lancelot had hoped that he bought the lie, because he didn’t know what to do if he didn’t.

He doesn’t even know what to make of his own actions, after all.

His strokes are a feather light touch on short-hair peach fur that bloomed a delightful rosy tint that Lancelot would have savoured any other time. But right now, all he could do was hold his breath and hope that the other wouldn’t catch the way he couldn’t take his eyes off of him.

With his heart in his throat, Lancelot shakily breathed out a little carelessly, making the king’s shoulders flinch at the warmth as his eyelids fluttered shut. Despite that, he hadn’t said a word about all this. The knight finally pulled away and tucked his handkerchief back in his bag, leaning until his spines met the wall. It’s only then that he realises that they met in the middle, far closer than they needed to be, and yet King Sonic still hadn’t pulled back.

He looked at the ground, eyes stinging from embarrassment. The king truly is… a wonderful person.

And Lancelot couldn’t begin to think of how despicable he himself truly was.

On the way back, they walked in silence, tension too thick to cut through with their usual easy conversation, which only pained Lancelot more knowing how little time he had left to cherish their moments together. But right now, he couldn’t fathom thinking about anything but their time in the alleyway.

Shame burned like acid inside of him.

Why… had Lancelot done that? Why couldn’t he pull away like always? He knew better than to suspect the king of using witchcraft like he did before – he just wasn’t that kind of dishonest person, and he simply wanted something then he knew that Lancelot would lay down his life for him at his word. If anything, Lancelot was at fault for doing something as disgraceful as touching the king like that, but…

More importantly…

…Why was Sonic looking at him like that?

-x-

Lancelot slides a sealed letter under Gawain’s door, stepping away just in case the door swings open. Despite him feeling apologetic, he wasn’t keen on having a face-to-face conversation, especially not after what happened the last time he tried having one.

He made his way through the winding hallways, footsteps muffled by the crimson carpet laid out before him that seemed to run endlessly. The walls were a decadent light cream, framed portraits of gold lining the walls every fifty or so metres. Lancelot had spent enough time in the castle to count just how many there were; he knew this castle like the back of his hand.

At the end of the hallway, he finds one of the guards with a letter in his hand, carefully wrapped and tied with a dark blue string that would’ve looked black to anyone else. He nods to the guard as he hands over the letter to Lancelot, although the knight has a feeling he knows where it’s from and what it’s about.

Lancelot unties the letter, the string undoing itself rather gracefully with one swift but careful tug. He reads its contents once, and then again, just to really burn it into his memory. It was King Sonic’s handwriting after all, and at this point, what did he have to lose?

A heavy feeling settles into his gut, contrasting the steady beat of his heart pounding. He couldn’t let up now – he couldn’t be afraid.    

He swallows dryly, although it does nothing to clear the lump in his throat. Both reading the letter and saying it in his mind made it real, as much as he didn’t want it to be real; today really was the final day.

Lancelot had humbly requested the king’s presence; a request that defied everything he had been taught up until his knighting. But��� King Sonic was a strange one; full of life and humour and charisma, full enough that he had no such room for attachment to formalities. Each time he’d been addressed as king, there was a hint of shyness that was easily overtaken by his usual demeanour not a moment later, followed by words along the lines of, “Just call me Sonic!”.

If this had to be his last day, then Lancelot would adhere to a balance for his sake, even if it wasn’t commanded of him. He was such an unusual king, uprooting all that they’d known and creating a pact uniquely his own; to follow your heart, so that you may do good for yourself and those around you.

Any other king, Lancelot might’ve questioned those words. But King Sonic had just as much strength as he did grace and imperfections, and that made him all the more beloved to his kingdom.

He held a fondness for his king that he’d never felt for the fallen King Arthur. A fondness that feels familiar but different in many ways from his sister. A fondness that he still didn’t understand to this day.

Try as he might do his best to defend Arthur’s honour as a king, he could die for his sake, but he could never say that he would weep for him, even if he was ever good.

But… King Sonic…

He was different. He was always different.

Lancelot steps out the castle gates, Arondight tucked into its sheath by his hip and a showy confidence in each step that he wished he truly possessed. It was all just a performance; no one could begin to gauge the ache from the gaping hole in his chest as he pushed through the crowds of townsmen, gaze focused on the violet fields at far reaches of the grassy plains, right where the horizon kissed the outskirts of Camelot.

As soon as Lancelot’s shoes touched the grass at the end of the stone path, he took off at full speed. He couldn’t bear it anymore – he couldn’t bear to waste a second longer away from the king. Their king, his king, even if he could no longer remain as such. But only Lancelot would know how much he meant to him, and maybe it should simply stay that way.

The deep woods aren’t as thick or treacherous as they usually are, and it’s only after a moment that Lancelot notices the dirt path leading out. He smiled to himself as he followed it, knowing full well that the only person who could do something like running back and forth enough times to make a permanent path in the forest would be the fastest thing alive, Sonic the Hedgehog.

At the end of the clearing, he sees him, armour-free and vivid blue against the violet-spotted grass, and it takes every ounce of self control in Lancelot to not trip up over himself at the sight of the king. Even besides being undignified, he couldn’t bear to think of how he’d feel if Sonic saw and tried to help him up. He still couldn’t forget the lingering feeling of Sonic’s hand brushing against his arm from days past.

And oh, how he would miss it dearly.

When the king turns around, his expression brightens tenfold. Lancelot can’t even fight off his own smile as he approaches the other, heart thrumming against his ribcage like butterfly wings batting wildly. 

“You came.” Sonic breathes out, closing the formal distance between them. 

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world. After all, it is I who requested your presence.”

“Took you long enough to finally start making demands of me.” He laughed lightly, toothy smile as charming and heart warming as always, “Too bad that… it's the last day.”

A silence treads between them; questions, hundreds of them probably, lingered in the space between whiffs of fragrant flowers and sun-kissed fur. Yet only one honest query made it past Lancelot’s lips.

“Sire…” He starts hesitantly, clearing his throat before Sonic catches onto the tremble of it, “Forgive me but, is this really what you wish?”

“I…” Sonic stops himself, shakes his head as if he can’t make himself say what he truly wants to. Lancelot wishes he would. “It's like I said, everything has its end. Every adventure has its end. I’ll… be leaving to see Merlina after this – I just wanted to see you first.”

Lancelot stops breathing for a moment as Sonic pulls out two letters from his quills, a flash of vulnerability across his expression that he just barely caught.

“This is for the next person who pulls out Caliburn,” He smiles at Lancelot though it doesn’t reach his eyes, handing him one of the letters before pulling out the letter with the gold stamp and placing it firmly in his hand, overlapping his own, “And this is for you. Please… don’t read it until later, okay?”

And before another word could be uttered from the knight, he was held in a sudden embrace, Lancelot’s body stiffening from the contact but melting into the touch within moments all the same. There was just something different about him, something he couldn’t place his finger on quite yet – something he should have been able to figure out as he felt the king’s heart race against his own bare chest.

Sonic pulled back hastily, “I couldn’t do that to you. I couldn’t do that to my… Shadow.”

“Your… shadow?” Lancelot wondered why he was referring to him with that old name again. He hadn’t heard it since they first met, so why now?

There was a fond, but melancholy look on his face, as though his eyes were searching for something beyond Lancelot.

Something, or someone, just was great as the king was.

“Yeah.” And there was that smile. “My shadow.”

This time, he looked straight at Lancelot; emerald eyes boring into his, with a voice that was drenched in a longing sadness he’d never imagined the king would bear within him. A burden Lancelot so desperately wanted to bear, so that he may alleviate his troubles. Anything to cease his suffering.

But something within him cried out, as if warning him that learning the truth behind those words would undoubtedly crush him.

“It is alright, your majesty…” Lancelot pulled farther away from his touch, already feeling the cool air creep in absence of the other’s warmth. But that was quite alright, because the cold was still familiar enough. “I think I understand.”

And then he heard the king’s breath hitch.

Till the end, he was certain; his life belonged to him.

Even as he kneeled, as he’d done so many a time before, no one’s presence filled his soul so overwhelmingly. Nor his heart so deeply.

Lancelot reached out his hand to hold the king’s in his own, just as he’d done during his inauguration. Feeling the wind begin to settle, he felt King Sonic’s hand gently slip into his with care.

He hung his head, hearing his very own heart pounding in a way he didn’t know what to make of. And over the sound of the howling wind, he heard the words…

“Thank you…” A beat of silence between them as the world stood still for just a heartbeat, “Remember that your destiny is in your hands, but… someone will come for you. I promise, Lance.”

A sharp chill ran down Lancelot’s spine as Sonic squeezed and then carefully pulled his hand away; something about his tone, the uncharacteristic vulnerability behind it, made him look up to face the king against his better judgement.

Just like before, he was gone without a trace. Without another word. 

And so Lancelot thought hard to himself, emotions running high while he remained rooted on the spot, as to what everything could mean.

Whether these feelings were ones meant between the strongest of kings and the most loyal of his knights.

Whether such ideals even applied to a king such as Sonic, who had no desire to adhere to a set-in-stone knight’s code, and would rather follow his heart.

Or whether this is what it meant to truly follow his heart. To know affection so deep, a pull stronger than what Gawain knew as honour, and what Percival knew as duty. Far stronger than what Lancelot knew as loyalty.

The blow of reality coursed through him with such a crushing force that it would only be described as heartache. Because even if that rang true, it would not be until he was gone like the wind, that Lancelot realised he had been in love with the wind itself. 

It was always destined to be a fruitless endeavour, he thought as he felt his heart fall to endless depths in his despair, and as his vision began to blur.

After all, he was a shadow of the flame that burned the brightest.

And one that went out just as quickly.

[tillytherandomfanficwriter]

I have totally not been meaning to post this for like, two months now, shhhhhh.

Anyways, I got a bingo on @feedthefandomfest's original bingo card! Been fun forcing myself to step out of my comfort zone, even if it's also been absolutely nerve-wracking. And it's even gotten me to be more confident in commenting on fics outside of the bingo! Once I get this one completed, definitely eyeing up the Old Fic bingo card (purely because I do not have the ability to keep track of two bingo cards at the same time, lmao).

Taking a page out of some other's books and making a little rec list of the fics I've commented on below the cut! Note that it won't be all of them cause 1) my memory is horrible, lol and 2) I wasn't keeping this list when I first started XD. Oh well, at least some fics will get some love!

"Towards the Rising Sun" by Potassium_Hypobromite A Shen/Zed fic set in post-WW2 Japan! Lots of angst, some lovely moments of Zed being Dad!Zed to Kayn, some interesting historical details and very little sugar coating of very real atrocities that happened during and after WW2, all set to the tune of two emotionally constipated men(/affectionate) trying to figure out their feelings for each other. Binge-read it in like, an hour and a half, 2 hours one afternoon and loved every moment of it.

Heads up, when I say 'very little sugar coating', I mean it. Japan did some seriously fucked up shit during WW2, and seriously fucked up shit was done to innocents, and this fic does address that (in a way that makes sense for the characters), so be warned if you decide to read it.

"algernon" by parsnipit A wonderful W.D Gaster fic in which said Daster Gaster accidentally creates a skeleton werewolf child (Sans), panics, starts figuring it out and getting a hang of the whole parenthood thing, then another very special boy (Papyrus) gets yeeted into the family kinda against Gaster's will but he isn't complaining. Also features some Grillster (these two take so damn long to get together and I blame Gaster for it, lmao). And really quick- omfg the motherfucking goddamn foreshadowing and setting up in this fic?? Just, like, AH! I won't spoil anything but like, hnnnagghaaa it's too goooooood.

Heed the tags! And the additional warnings in the author's notes! As good as this fic is, it does get quite heavy! Take care of yourselves people!

(A double here, since both were done by the same author. Have I talked about this series before on this blog? Yes. Do I care that I'm talking about it again? No. No, not at all.) "Spirit of a Guardian" and "Heart of a Dragon" by SilverlySilence (Both part of the "Heart of a Dragon's Soul" series by the same author) This. Series. This. Goddamn. Series When I say it 100%, completely and utterly, totally and without mercy RUINED ME, I am making a massive understatement. I was fucking DESTORYED when I finished reading this series (specifically Heart of a Dragon). When I say this is better than most published novels I have read, I AM NOT KIDDING. And it was done for free?? And it was all free?? *Screams* Basic summary, Jack gets yeeted into the past and ends up falling head over heels in love with Hiccup (same for Hiccup with Jack), but that's only like, 10% of it all cause so much of it is yummy, delicious, absolutely amazing foreshadowing, world-building, character friendship developing and so much more. My brain ceases to function when I read this series - you will laugh, you will cry, you will gasp, you will screech (I did this last one multiple times while reading it), just- read it. It's also more a action/adventure story with a romance side plot, especially in the first fic, so if that's more your style, give it a try! The last fic hasn't been updated in like 3 years? Maybe 4? But that's a-okay, life happens and it's all done for free so we shouldn't demand anything, and what we do have is good, delicious, nourishing food. (Side note, but Jack and Hiccup are just the epitome of a healthy couple in this?? Like, they're so understanding and respectful and caring of one another and also the trust they have in one another is so damn high and just- I am so normal about this series you have no idea)

"The Book of Rhaast" by KaynInfectedBrayn (CGotAnAccount) A very good fic about old god Rhaast meeting Kayn in a very not good situation. Very, very good.

There's a pretty intense amount of graphic violence, so be warned.

"Maces and Talons" by HijackSecrets and Kae_Viche Jumanji HiJack. That's- that's the best way to describe this fic, lol. Because that's what it was based on. It definitely deviates from the movie in a few ways but I'm happy with that. Loooove the subtle world-building in this, and it features some very good art!

"Claws and Calls" by HermesSerpent A very good Feral Hiccup AU, featuring overprotective brothers Viggo and Ryker! Honestly made me want more brotherly Hiccup, Viggo and Ryker fics, lol. Very good!

And that's all (That I can remember and find at least, lol)! When I get another bingo, I'll post again with an actually accurate list, lol. If I remember any more of the original fics I commented on, I'll also post them with the update!

[stupidlytiredstudent]

I'm having a little trouble with the next chapter of You'll Be in My Heart. I promise I'm working on it! It'll just take me a bit longer to finish it and it'll be out soon. Consider it a temporary hiatus - no longer than maybe a few weeks.

So, to sort of tide those of ya'll waiting over, I wrote a new one-shot about Spider's time with the Recoms in a similar style to Haunting His Narrative! Comments truly give me mega inspiration, and a comment actually inspired me to write this!

There are a few trigger warnings listed at the top of the fic, both in the author's notes and the tags, so please heed those.

Anyway, feel free to check it out!

[nowoyas]

Actually just for like nuance purposes bc I'm sure OP of that post is probably annoyed as hell by the notes already but I HAVE to nuance this shit since there's a lot I want to add to that post, re: ao3 etiquette

kudos when you feel like it. different people use kudos for different reasons. I use them because I actually liked the fic. it's like giving a thumbs-up. apparently some people just use it to say they finished it. that's not standard, there is no standard. consider it like a facebook "like" in that it kind of ticks a number up but doesn't really tell you anything further than that.

comment when you feel like it. it's nice to do. a lot of authors enjoy comments that aren't worded super rudely and will enjoy anything from "<3" to "asdkljfhdksljfhdjksh" to an essay about why you loved it.

"pls update" comments are a toss-up. some people love em, some people hate em, some are ambivalent. comment how you like but understand that some people see requests to update as pushing them along while others think of them as really nice reminders that that fic they've been avoiding eye contact with IS liked by people, and it's difficult to tell which a particular fic author will be.

general rule of thumb: if they didn't ask for concrit, they probably will consider it rude if you give it. before you start whining in the notes, yes it's the internet and you can do what I want, you're very entitled I get it. it's still rude to walk up to someone painting on the street or something and tell them how they can do x y and z better when they didn't fucking ask. no matter how combative you get over the right you do have to be an asshole on the internet, you are still being an asshole. some people on the internet are kids. sometimes a fic is intensely personal to someone. sometimes they're just starting out. sometimes they're just having fun and not particularly interested in learning the nitty gritty of grammar and story structure. sometimes they just didn't fucking ask because they don't want it. you're never going to make it not rude by insisting on leaving concrit anyway. if you really really want to, there's a really simple solution: leave a comment POLITELY asking them whether they'd be open to constructive criticism, and then respect the answer they give you. in this case, silence is an answer, too.

metas and theories are allowed under TOS. ao3 is for "noncommercial, non-ephemeral fanwork... that is fannish in nature". ao3's faq explicitly calls out meta as allowed under TOS.

what is not allowed under ao3 tos: "help me find this fic!" requests posted as "fanworks", links to or mentions of donations or patreons/monetizing fic, posting a request for someone else to write a fic/rp with you as a fic, posting straight fic prompts

ao3 has a goal of "maximum inclusiveness". it was created with the express intention of allowing "as many fanworks as possible". it was created in response to fanworks on other sites being removed for "decency", "moral reasons" (anything from "this is harmful because the characters are x age" to "this suggests the existence of queer people"), or simply not being appealing to advertisers.

you are in fact responsible for your own reading experience. if you find something you don't like, the back button is always there. tags exist for a reason. if you think it's morally reprehensible or whatever, okay, cool, hit the back button. it's not for you.

from the ao3 tos faq: "One basic consequence is that users are responsible for reading and heeding the warnings provided by the creator. Risk-averse users should keep in mind that not all content will carry full warnings. If you want to know more, you may also wish to consult the bookmarks that people other than the creator have used to categorize the fanwork." (emphasis native to faq)

that being said, if it's very obviously incorrectly tagged ie "gen rating on a fic with explicit sex and gore in it" you would be within your rights to ask them to update the tags accordingly and/or report the fic.

subscribe whenever you want even if the fic is complete I promise you unless the author is super obsessive they likely won't even notice let alone think it's weird

delete your fics if you want. you're not required to keep them up. it'd be nice if you orphaned it or added it to the anonymous collection instead for others to read, and I personally would encourage you to do so as I've personally regretted a lot of fic deletions I've made, but it is your content and you don't have to let it be archived forever if you decide that you hate it/it's no longer representative of you/etc.

character/character is indeed intended for romantic/sexual pairings. character & character is intended for platonic pairings. most people searching the '&' tag for a ship tend to be annoyed if you tag a fic with both unless it's explicitly intended to be read either way, because they are in the & ship tag because they DON'T want romantic and/or sexual content for the involved characters.

the only tagging you are required to do is ratings and specific basic warnings, however you are also allowed to use "not rated" and "creator chose not to use archive warnings". tagging helps people find your fic and also helps people who aren't right for your fic avoid your fic, so it would be nice to do more than just rating + archive warnings for your sake and others, but at the end of the day, it's your choice.

if tagging confuses you, my rule of thumb is "would someone in x tag who found this fic be annoyed that it had this tag?" and "what would someone looking for this fic generally be searching for, tag-wise, to find this?"

ao3 is not social media. there is not an algorithm. there will never be an algorithm. it is a place for storing fan content from basically any fandom. the closest thing to an algorithm is the front page of recently updated fics for a fandom, and it's extremely poor taste to use tricks to stay on the front page. depending on the fandom, it's also an extremely losing battle. (eg. there have been days where I've posted a bnha fic and it was IMMEDIATELY pushed down to page three of the fandom simply bc the fandom's so big.) I recommend posting your fic and then going to like take a shower or take a nap or something to step away.

[abstractdiagram]

Hellooooo down there! Ye be warned TMI and bizzarity (is that a word?) is ahead.

I have been stuck in a loop of WHERE THE FUCK ARE MY DRAFTS

FOR THIRTY MINUTES!

Finally found them by signing in on not-mobile and dicking about there for far too long. Guess what. No fuckin drafts. So I had a lovely preface basically for this same post but now I’ve lost two trains of thought and I can vaguely remember… uh. Yeah I remember. How the new game I had been playing for an hour before starting that post was making me think I was running out of holes for the letters so the letters could fall down. And how I fucken went to the Transformers One movie even though I had zero interest and he won’t do fuck all anything for me. I told him he had a month to stop ignoring me except when he needs emotional/moral support and make an effort because if I wanted to be ignored I’d have … well. I’ve never stayed with someone who ignored me so I have no examples to give. An ouroboros of … shit. I took too long trying to spell that word.

I don’t know what I hate more. The fact that we can’t get his depression under control even with actually qualified professionals’ help or that now he has no libido and no fucks to give AND depression.

I’ve surprisingly been doing ok. A bit better than ok because I’ve been able to write. Like visualize in brain AND get it into print/screen/cloud. This current fic didn’t flow right by hand. One I started it in the default iPhone notes (can hackers get me easier now?!?!! Do they want Harry Potter m/m Tomarry fan fic? My lists of books by author? Triple crossed hockey sticks drafts?aaaaaasssssssssssssss) anyway. Fuck. I guess now I won’t link it…. Fuck it. I have an iPhone. They have everything about me from shoe size to triple crossed hockey sticks I prefer.

Except I can’t figure out how to do it. It’s been 9tened minutes and the damn snake is back again eating its own tail like a ouroboros of dumbass.

Archive of our own: Harry Potter and the Lion, the Witch, and the Audacity of This Bitch by AbstractDiagram

(me!) heed warnings and tags my darlins because I’m too loony toons raised up to list or even remember em here.

Speaking of warnings. Reactivate!

I want to talk about important stuff. Nope. Brain supplies “breasts need attention” to which I replied? “Mine or hers?” Brain: “malfunction. Error. ‘Just whomst the fuck is “hers”’ referring too-est?”

(Did I just get a quote in a quote in a quote? Yes I did Other Barry Other Abstract, yes I did.)

Me: JE Suis de FUCKING CHRIST ON STILETTO HELLS THAT WAS HARD THINK. First I thought the self-convo. Then I thought about thinking it so I could write it down where I had to think of the words were in the correct order. ANOTHER SHART-TROUSERED-TOGLODITE of an ouroboros!!!

Fuck. I wanted to link what I think is the second song on Vanilla Ice’s cassette. “Stop this Train I Wanna Get Off”. But the music search doesn’t know it. Or I’m misremembering some part of it and/or experiencing a personal Mandala Effect.

There’s just been a sound outside. Metallic clang. Like someone hitting a trash can lid. And my brain hole has convinced me there’s someone dressed as a clown outside the window that is less that a standard size man can reach away from me. I scared myself so bad I stopped breathing and only started again when I realized that standard size man is bad languages. Speaking of bad language can I say “sexist” and not get ban-hammered?

Bahahhahahahahah! Brain just sent a flood of what can only be referred to as grasshoppers in helium making my boobs jumpy and floaty. “Yo Bee-atch. Boobies. Need. Attention. But I’m talking with everyone in my blogosphere. But. If not boobies? Munchies? (🎵“Mon-chi-chi, Mon-chi-chi”🎵) I have got to get away from doing these thoughts in thoughts in thoughts like (🤯😡🤬😡🤬😠🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯 say it with me now:) “an ouroboros.” Which. I can almost spell now. I’m close enough and/or attempted enough that the spell check gods have pity on me and throw it up there something about I can spell “ouroboros.” Almost.

Little lovelies if you made it this far, thank you.

There’s a man I need to see about a canoe. Or something like that. IT MEANS IMMA WATCH triple crossed hockey sticks videos (“Did I just do a recall <double - recall IN A MUTHAFUCKEN RECALL> inside an Ouroboros INSIDE ANOTHER RECALL Other Barry Other Abstract? Yes I did.”)

I may have to revisit it later because that had BETTER MAKE FUCKEN SENSE tomorrow or I’m gonna be very upset.

Brain promised me tits but I kept getting more snakes. I’m ever so pissed.

Fuck your two videos a post. For thou hast provided me with a Make A Gif button and I now have a gif of that video so there. That’s not the clip I wanted. Wait. Please hold.

Ok. So I wanted the “Tappa…” lady saying “I’m ever-so pissed.” But I decided I’d settle on the lady as posted above to use as this example by using it as in an example. (Ouroboros!) but then I could only find this Windy-oh’s 95 Paint flip book version and I realized. Oh fuck. House of rodent representative would shut that shit down. If you can’t see aforementioned lady’s image flickering above then I decided in (fuckING SNakEseses!) I decided to it not risk jt.

I just hallucinated two things in rapid succession and now I’m half petrified and half fidgeting nervous - and not too/bottom half or left/right halves. Fucking right arm (for typing) and left knee jostling. Other limbs left arm/right knee I can’t get to move. But as I looked at my phone the left half of my left eye’s visual field showed me a view out a window that I haven’t even seen the house the window is for thirty years. Oddly nostalgic dusty barely orange tone that made me smell summer weekend at Betty’s house. I could smell the cigarettes and beer and dogs and hot outside humidity. For a good ten seconds I was able to type (many errors! But I’m vain even highfalutin so I edit as I go) and see that wall, window, leaves, sky. But then (now too… if I cut off suddenly it was clowns in the window <re-call!>) there was another {ouroboros} metallic sound and

Shit there was one when I searched that that now I’m 3/4 petrified (but not the (Re-call) quarters you’d think. I have my right hand, my right toes up to my cramping-at-the-moment!!!-calf and the bottom of my left foot and left toes.

Ok well. Fucked that up by breaking paralysis to take picture of my cramped up 1/4th.

I have to stop here. I have to. I could do this “not Captain America quote.”

[soopsiedaisies]

I’m writing a fic with a major character death and it’s obvious who it would be if i put the tag but i don’t want to spoil it and ruin it straight away. Will people get upset or angry if i don’t put that tag? I’m really struggling to figure this out

Hi anon!

So, opinions very are divided on this topic, and understandably so. Many readers wish to avoid fics with Major Character Death (as they can obviously be upsetting) but some would rather not be spoiled. Additionally you (usually) don’t get warning for such a thing in published literature, nor is it against AO3’s TOS to refrain from using the warning in a fic with Major Character Death.

If you don’t use the MCD Archive Warning, however, you need to use the ‘Author Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings’-warning. It covers your bases and means that, in the event of a disappointed reader reporting your fic for not using MCD, you cannot be penalised. The ‘Chose Not To Use’-warning is similar to the ‘Dead Dove: Do Not Eat’-tag in that it’s more of an umbrella warning, you know? But whereas CNTU can be used to prevent spoilers, DD:DNE is more of an announcement that the tags are being serious and the author isn’t playing around. In short, you don’t have to use the MCD-warning for a fic with MCD, but if you don’t, you use the CNTU-warning.

Now that the more official side is out of the way, let’s move on to fandom etiquette—because that’s what your ask probably actually revolves around.

I believe it is unspoken fandom etiquette to use the MCD-warning if there’s an MCD in a fic. There are readers who will mind it a lot if they go into a fic (especially a WIP) expecting a major character to have their happily ever after, but the character dies unwarned & unexpectedly instead. Sure, many of them will not have noticed the CNTU-warning (or have never actually read TOS), but some will have done that, and they’ll feel betrayed regardless. Unless you’ve flooded your work with little, semi-obvious hints of the imminent death (people generally don’t read fan fiction to practice their literary analysis skills so don’t be too subtle) or your work is a large single-chapter fic and you’ve put your warnings in the End Notes, many readers will not appreciate such a surprise.

On the other hand, like I mentioned above, you usually don’t get an MCD-warning for professionally published literature either. There are also many people who aren’t truly bothered by MCD in a fic without an MCD-warning, as long as there are some tags that hint towards it. I for one sometimes do enjoy getting emotionally destroyed after experiencing building dread throughout the chapters, periodically remembering the ‘Unhappy Ending’-esque tags and circling through the options… but maybe that’s just me.

Thinking about how you would feel in such a situation might help you with making your decision. Would a simple ‘Character Death’-tag be enough for you not to get angry and upset, or do you need the MCD-warning? Many readers would go for the latter, but I daresay many would also go for the former. Those of us who peruse AO3 are a mixed bag of people with different needs.

So, you technically can pepper in some hints in the tags as well as in the fic itself and be more than fine. It’s also a possibility to remind people to Heed The Tags in the summary and/or the notes at the top, because some people jump in blind and then are incredibly offended when they come across an element they don’t like. Audacity has gone on the rise again, so adding that may help mitigate any comments of pure outrage.

(It’s kind of like the complaints about untagged mpreg on tiktok from while back—something that’s incredibly rare, but you’d think it’s a fucking plague on AO3 with how much complaining was going on. Anyway, fun fact: not tagging mpreg is also not against TOS)

You ultimately don’t owe anyone anything, anon. This will be your decision alone, and whatever you choose, as long as it doesn’t go against TOS, you’ll be right in that choice. ‘To Spoil and Be Safe, or Not To Spoil and Risk Outrage’ is a shitty predicament to be in (but that’s part of the fun in sharing your writing, isn’t it? The agonising) and a very difficult decision to make. I hope I managed to help a bit and wish you the best of luck!

[honeycombstrawberry]

hi!! i looove protective adrian, can i request one where reader goes to adrian for help after killing someone for the first time accidentally?

on my shoulders

pairing: adrian chase x reader (gn pronouns)

rating: e+ (graphic violence)

word count: 4,460

one-sentence synopsis: someone's broken into your home that's looking for vigilante, and they're not planning to leave any witnesses behind.

author's note: okay i don't often give warnings but please please please heed this warning: please read the tags/warnings on this one!! there is a description of an intruder entering your home, as well as an attack on you, and a murder in self-defense. if this makes you uncomfortable, please do not read this. basically: dead dove, do not eat (but in like. a canon-typical-ish sort of way). there is violence!! please read at your own risk!! take care of yourselves when dealing with heavy topics!! this is just a fic!!

You woke up out of a dead sleep, but you’re not sure what woke you up, at first. Your mind is a confused blur, attempting to process, but you don’t understand, not right away.

Then, you hear what must be the second noise— if there haven’t been even more than that before it. There’s a scratching, shuffling sound, like something being moved or dragged across the floor outside your bedroom door.

You’re instantly on high alert. You don’t have any pets outside your bedroom that could be making a noise like that. It sounds too heavy, too deliberate. It sounds like the noises a human would make if they were trying to be quiet.

Your first thought is that Adrian is trying to sneak in. You reach out for your phone, picking it up to check the time. You frown; it’s not even midnight yet. You’ve only just fallen asleep. If Adrian were coming, he wouldn’t be here yet; his shift doesn’t end until the restaurant closes at 1:00, and he was planning to do a couple patrols around Evergreen before coming to your place to crash.

His shift shouldn’t even be over yet. You send him a message: you here already?

There’s only a few moments before he checks the text and you see it’s been read. Even though he’s not supposed to take his phone at work, he does it constantly anyways, which— As long as he doesn’t get fired for it, you love it, because it means you get to text each other all the time.

Now, Adrian replies quickly: no i’m still stopping myself from poisoning half the spaghetti in the kitchen 🍝 ☠️ 👩‍🍳 ☣️

Only a split moment passes before he sends a second text: wait why????? 🧜‍♂️

i thought i heard you, you send back. The fact that it isn’t him has your hands sweating, because you know it’s somebody.

what do u hear??????, Adrian texts again. A split second passes before he sends: im on my way hide get ur knife right now

it’s probably nothing, you send back, but you do as he says anyways, pulling the knife he gave you when you first got together out from beneath your mattress. Holding it makes you feel a little bit more secure, if nothing else. You jump up and lock the bedroom door, then, and back yourself up to the corner, ducking down to hide behind the dresser.

doesn’t matter already coming, Adrian replies. You feel like you should argue more, because it’s probably going to be nothing, but then your doorknob suddenly rattles.

You suck in a sharp breath. The person, whoever they are, finds the door locked, and starts twisting the doorknob, pushing in, testing the strength of the lock.

You text hurriedly to Adrian, someone is trying to get into my room, just as the rattling stops.

You hold your breath, listening. In your hands, you see that you get another message from Adrian. This one reads, can u tell who it is????

You start to tell him that you’re not sure when the screen lights up with a picture of the two of you. He’s calling you. You look up at the door nervously, then swipe to answer the call, tucking the phone close to your ear.

“Adrian?” you whisper, your voice as soft as you can get it.

“Hey, what’s going on?” he asks. The rattling starts up again, rougher this time, and you make a small, terrified noise.

“Someone’s at the door,” you whisper to him. “They’re shaking it, they’re trying to get in. What do I do?”

“I’m coming,” Adrian tells you. “Oh, fuck, oh, shit— I’m coming, okay, I’m on my way, I’m in my car, I’m driving, I swear— Fuck— Are you h—”

His voice disappears when there’s suddenly a huge crash, your bedroom door exploding inward as the intruder kicks it in. You almost drop your phone, but you clutch it close. It’s held tight in one hand while the knife is in the other, and you hold the blade out, pressing yourself flat to the wall.

“What the fuck was that?” Adrian’s voice demands through the phone, and you turn the volume down in a panic, terrified that they’ll hear him. You shove the phone in your pajama pants pocket, trembling as you grip the knife in both of your hands. You realize belatedly that Adrian must still be on the line, but you don’t want to pull the phone back out to hang it up and risk the light being seen, giving away your location in the dark room.

There’s the creak of a single heavy footstep. You hold your breath, tears burning in your eyes. Your chest is heaving, terror clawing up your throat. You just keep reminding yourself that Adrian is on his way. He’ll know what to do, he’ll get here in time.

“Hello?” a voice asks from inside the room. You don’t recognize it, and you force your eyes to stay open, even though they’re burning in the darkness. There’s a small crackle of sound that almost sounds like a speaker or a walkie-talkie getting feedback. You can’t make out whatever it is, but then there’s a click and the voice in the room says, “I’m looking. It doesn’t look like Vigilante’s here, but there’s a car out front, so somebody’s—”

The voice cuts off. Your heart jumps up into the back of your mouth, and you try not to breathe or move at all, remaining as still as you can.

There’s a small creak, and then another. You know they’re getting closer, and you have to hold your breath against the terrified noises that are fighting to leave your throat, holding the knife tight in your hands. You tilt your head up, trying to look in the darkness, waiting.

There’s another creak. You feel like it’s so close, too close, and you’re shaking, trying to keep steady, gripping your knife and your phone in your clammy hands.

“Hello there,” a voice above you says, and you scream. There’s a hand in your hair, yanking you upwards, and you thrash against it, slashing out with your knife. “Oh, you fucking—”

Your knife meets the flesh of his arm, and the man drops you. Panicked, you quickly scramble to your feet, running for your bedroom door. The man twists to trip you, and you slam into the floor, crying out when your head hits the hardwood. He grabs you by the ankle, yanks you in, but you kick at him until you manage to catch your heel in his nose and he releases you with a shout.

You stumble to your feet again, nearly tripping into your bedroom door before you’re running into your living room, heading for the door. You can hear footsteps behind you as the man follows, and you don’t make it to the door before he’s grabbing you again, hauling you backwards with a sharp jerk on your arm.

You scream again, unable to hold it back as you slash at him with your knife again. He dodges it this time, his arm bleeding as he tugs you in closer. He has a knife of his own in his other hand, and you get a flash of brown eyes before he’s lost in the darkness again, pressing his blade to your throat.

“Are you Vigilante?” he asks you. You don’t move, don’t answer, terrified, swallowing just so you can breathe. “Okay, then— Where is Vigilante?”

“Fuck you,” you spit, voice shaking. He presses the knife closer into your throat, and you feel your skin starting to split. You reach up with a jerk, shoving your knife between the two of you, and you manage to dig the blade into his arm.

He roars, stumbling back. You forget to let go of the knife’s handle, and you hold onto it as he pulls himself off of it. When he looks up at you again, you see another flash of his face in the street lights outside, and you’re terrified by the rage you see in that brief instant. You know he’s coming for you again, and you just turn in time before he swipes his knife at you, catching your cheek instead of your throat.

You cry out in pain as his knife cuts a slash down your cheek, hooking down the side of your neck, glancing down your shoulder. You kick him away, but he just turns back again. Trembling, you shove the knife up just as he runs back at you.

The man stops. Everything seems like it stops, and he just stares at you.

Your hands are shaking as you look downwards. You’ve dug the knife directly into his abdomen, in the soft space between his ribs. He doesn’t move, for a moment, and you, shaking, jerk the knife out. He starts to step forward, so you reach out in a panic and just— shove, planting your hands flat against his shoulders and pushing.

He trips backwards and falls, his head slamming down into the floor.

He doesn’t move.

You stand there, chest heaving, the knife clenched tightly in one hand. You can feel blood spilling down your face and your chest, the knife wound deep and stretching from just below your eye to drag down your throat in a jagged line before curving across your shoulder and hooking down onto your back. Your other hand goes up to cover the burning injury, though you don’t have enough hand to cover the length of it.

For a long time, you don’t know what to do. Then, though, you remember—

Your phone.

Your brain doesn’t feel like it’s working. You loosen your stiff fingers enough to drop the knife to the ground with a clatter. Your hands have blood on them. You take the phone out of the pocket of your pajamas, and you accidentally swipe that blood across the screen trying to turn the volume back up.

You manage it, and Adrian’s voice bursts back into the room. You wonder if anyone else is in the apartment to hear it, some other intruder, but you can’t make yourself move, even after you have the thought.

“—ease, please be okay, please answer, please answer the fucking phone, fuck, pick up the fucking phone—” he’s saying, and you bring the phone up to your ear. “Please, please be okay, I’m so close, I’m so close, I’m going to be there in two seconds and I’m going to find you and you’re going to be fine, just answer— Answer your fucking phone, pick the fucking phone back up, please, please, please—”

“Adrian,” you say into the phone, your eyes burning.

On the other end, Adrian makes an indescribable noise, something that bursts out of him. You can hear the snarling engine of his car in the back as he pushes it too hard, too fast.

“What happened?” Adrian demands to know. “Are you okay? You have to—”

“Adrian,” you say again. “I—”

You swallow, and Adrian says, “It’s okay, you’re okay. What hurts? What happened? Are they still there?”

You look down at the man at your feet. His eyes are still open, you realize. You don’t think he’s alive, and your stomach turns, and you scramble away from him to fall to your knees on the floor, vomiting onto the ground, dropping your phone down beside you.

“Baby?” Adrian asks. “Hey, you’re okay, it’s okay. I’m coming onto your street, you’re going to be okay, I’m almost there, just hold on—”

“I think I killed him,” you whisper tearfully. Your voice breaks, and you suck in a shuddering breath as panic suddenly starts to seize you. “Adrian, I— Oh, fuck, I think I killed him, I—”

Your hysteria overtakes you then, and you push yourself back against the wall, drawing your knees up so you can bury your face in them. You wrap your arms around your legs, shaking, unable to process anything beyond the rush of blood in your ears and the surreal knowledge that you’ve killed somebody.

Adrian wasn’t wrong, he’s not that far away. It’s not long at all before you hear a car screech into your lot outside, then a door being thrown open. You don’t hear the door get closed or the car engine stop; he must have abandoned it still running.

There’s a clattering sound outside, and then your window is being forced open. You can’t lift your head, unable to take your eyes off the prone body laying in the center of your living room.

Adrian slips in through the window. For a moment, he doesn’t move, apparently taking in the scene, trying to figure out what’s going on.

Then, though, he says, “Oh, fuck, there you are,” and his footsteps are hurrying towards you. Your face is being tilted up, then, his large hands warm on your face. You meet his eyes, and you see an emotion there that you’re not sure has a name, a fear so bone-deep you don’t know how to shake it out of him.

“Adrian,” you whisper, and he lets you fall into him. He rubs your back, and you don’t care how bad your face or your shoulder or your head or anything hurts, you don’t care. You just need him to make it better.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Adrian tells you. “It’s going to be okay. As long as you’re okay, we’ve got this.” He separates you again so he can evaluate you. The room is still completely dark, and he asks, “Can I turn on a light?”

You just want him to take over completely. You nod, letting your head slump against the wall. Adrian leaves your side for only a split second to turn a lamp on, and then he’s beside you again, tilting your head so he can examine you.

He’s silent, for a moment, which is rare with him. His eyes quickly take stock of your injuries, tracing the long line that splits open your face down to your back, and his eyes burn red.

“Thank fucking God,” he breathes unexpectedly. He pushes his forehead into yours, laughing without humor. “Oh, thank fucking God it wasn’t you.”

You can’t stop shaking. You lean into him, letting him hold you up.

“What do I do?” you ask. “I killed— I killed a person. I killed a person, he— I have to— I have to go—”

“No, hey, whoa, wait,” he stops you. “There’s nothing you have to do. I’ll fix this, okay?”

“What?” you ask, your eyes snapping up to him. “Adrian, I can’t— I killed him.”

“Because he was going to kill you,” Adrian says, and you can’t look away from him. “Okay? He was going to kill you, and if you didn’t kill him, he would have. And that— That cannot fucking happen.” He kisses you hard on the forehead, then says again, “I’ll fix this.”

“How?” you ask softly.

Adrian turns to look back at the body on the floor. He’s quiet for a moment, then says, “I’m sorry you had to do this.”

You shake your head, and Adrian kisses your hair before he scoops you up, helping you to the sofa. He sits you there, says, “Don’t move,” and you obey, sitting neatly. You watch him as he makes a call, pressing the phone between his shoulder and his ear as he heads for your bedroom. He does a quick sweep of the place, talking rapidly on the phone the entire time while you watch, holding your hand over the agony in your cheek, trying to breathe evenly.

Adrian comes back with his arms full of random things. You realize everything he has in his arms has blood on it, and he gathers it beside the body on the floor. His eyes skim the room, then land on you.

“They’re hurt,” Adrian says into the phone. “Do you— Yeah. Okay, yeah, we’ll bring all of it. And will— Yes.” Adrian motions for you to stand, and you do so. He pulls up the cushion you’d been sitting on, making sure there’s no blood on it before replacing it. “Okay, what— I’ll stop on my way. Yes, obviously. No, we—” Adrian stops, then looks at you. “We’ll be there soon. Thanks, man. I love you.”

You watch him hang up without waiting for a response. You ask, “Who was that?”

“Chris,” he says. He presses a towel to your cheek, wrapping it around your neck and shoulder to twist down your back and around your arm. He ties it in place neatly, slowing the flow of blood. “We’re going to take everything out in the woods and burn it and bury it.”

“What?” you demand. “But, I—”

“Hey,” Adrian says, and he turns to you, cupping your good cheek in his hand. “He was looking for me, and he tried to kill you. He is not a good guy. You should never have even been involved, but I’m going to fix it. Okay?”

You hesitate, then nod. Adrian kisses the space just beneath your eye on the good side, then gathers you up to take you outside.

You were right, his car is still running. He bundles you into the passenger seat and instructs you, “Wait here,” before he runs back inside. He comes back out with the body over his shoulder, running to get it to the car before he loses the stamina to do it. It’s almost bewildering to watch, like it’s happening on a movie screen.

Adrian loads the rest of the bloody things from inside into his car, then climbs in with you. He looks at you, then pushes the center console up so you can sit closer to him. You practically wedge yourself under his arm; he drives one-handed, keeping up a running stream of nonsense and reassurances and praise and gratitude to you that you try to process, clinging to like a life raft in the middle of the open ocean.

The fact that Chris’ home is in the middle of the woods has never seemed like a greater boon than it does right now. It’s as if you’re going to another planet, to get rid of this. Adrian is so matter-of-fact, moving so precisely. You just watch him, overwhelmed by it all.

When Adrian parks, he turns to you and says, “Emilia’s already here. She’s going to stitch you up while Chris and I take care of this, alright? And then I’ll take you home and it’ll be like nothing ever happened.”

You start to nod, but you can’t. Your eyes burn, a lump in your throat that you can’t fight back. The back of your nose prickles when you whisper, your voice breaking, “But I killed someone.”

Adrian’s expression crumples, and he tilts in closer to you, pushing your foreheads together.

“I know,” Adrian says. “And I know that I’m— I’m kind of fucked up and I don’t really remember what it’s like to be upset about killing somebody that did something bad. All I feel right now is so fucking lucky that it’s him that’s dead and not you. I do not feel bad that he— Okay, I’m sorry, but— But I know this is really fucked up for you and probably really scary and like, so fucking much, and we’ll— We’ll deal with it, okay? We’ll figure it out, we’ll— We can talk about it, okay? Anything you want. But you did the right thing,” he says. When you shake your head, he says, “Yes, you did. It was you or him, and the only right choice was you.”

You’re still shaking, but you nod. He kisses you, then separates you when he realizes Emilia and Chris are coming out of Chris’ place.

He pushes his way out of the car, says, “Thanks so much, you guys.”

“What the fuck happened?” Chris asks. Adrian motions him back to the trunk while he starts explaining, and Emilia comes around the car to the passenger side door, opening it for you.

“C’mon,” she says, and helps you up and out of the car. You follow her inside quietly as she leads you to Chris’ couch and sits you down. Adrian comes to take your bloody clothes; Chris lends you a shirt of his that drapes down to your knees for you to wear instead, since you won’t be getting your pajamas back. He leaves with Chris, and Emilia takes out a wildly well-stocked first aid kit.

Emilia’s silent, too, as she cleans your wounds for you and neatly stitches you up. You’re careful to be quiet, fighting not to make any noise, even when it hurts. You clench your jaw, and you stare downwards. You don’t know what you’re supposed to do, or say, or feel, so you don’t do anything, hoping somebody else will eventually give you a cue.

When she’s finally done, smoothing the last bandage over your split skin, Emilia softly says, “I know it’s hard the first time.”

You look over at her, your hands shaking. She’s still looking down, for a moment, before she lifts her eyes to meet yours.

“It’s hard,” Emilia says. “Even when it’s necessary.” She squeezes your hand. “But this was necessary. And if you didn’t kill him, Vigilante would have, for what he did to you. That’s the way things go in our world.”

You nod, tears filling up in your eyes again. You blink, a couple trails spilling down your cheeks. “I don’t know what to feel.”

“That’s okay,” she says. “This is the worst you’ll feel. Every second after will be a little bit easier.”

You nod again jerkily. She’s bound your arm to your chest so you won’t move your injured shoulder, and she makes sure the wrap is tucked properly, just to give herself something to focus on.

Adrian and Chris come back then, and Adrian comes to you in an instant, tilting your head so he can examine your stitches and bandaging.

“Thank you,” he says in passing to Emilia before asking you, “How are you feeling?”

You don’t know how to answer that, so you just nod and say, “I’m so sorry,” even though it’s not what you’re expecting to come out of your mouth.

“Oh, no, hey, no,” Adrian says, and pulls you into a tight hug. “There’s nothing to be sorry about. Nobody’s mad at you—”

“Your body count is way lower than any of ours,” Chris says. You look up to him, eyes red-rimmed. He looks caught out, for a moment, before he adds, “Uhh— Adrian said that was your first one. Congrats.”

You furrow your brow. You think you’re too raw and bewildered and exhausted and— just— emotional to deal with this right now.

Looking to Adrian, you don’t even have to say anything. He takes one look at you and says, “We should go home.”

“Is it over?” you ask, and Adrian nods.

“Everything’s gone,” he tells you. “There’s nothing to worry about, at all.”

“We can start digging tomorrow to figure out what this was about,” Emilia tells him, her tone more professional now. “I’ll message everyone once you head out.”

“Thank you,” you say, and she looks to you again.

“Remember,” she says. “It’s only getting easier.”

You nod, and let Adrian pull you to your feet. You give Emilia a grateful hug, then Chris one, too. He returns it with a confused edge, but he does return it all the same, before Adrian pulls you back out to the car.

It’s empty, now. Just you and him as you start driving back into town.

When you realize Adrian is driving towards your place again, you reach out to grab his arm. “I don’t— I don’t want to go back there.”

Adrian’s eyes shift to you, and he nods, turning his attention back to the road in the darkness. He’s driving with his headlights off, moving like a ghost, engine rumbling.

“I’ll take you to my place,” he says, and you slump in relief.

Adrian does as he says he would, brings you back to his little apartment and practically carries you up to his bed. He tugs Chris’ shirt off of you once you’re there, dressing you himself in his clothes, instead. Once he has you tucked into bed, he climbs in beside you, pulling your head to rest on his chest. You can feel his heartbeat thudding evenly inside, calm and steady while yours continues to rattle.

Adrian strokes his fingers through your hair. “It’s going to be okay,” he promises you. You shut your eyes. “I swear. I know this is— This feels like the worst thing ever right now. But you—” Adrian’s voice breaks a little, and he says, “I thought—” but he can’t get it out. He gives up, settling instead for, “I’m so fucking glad you’re okay.”

You reach out to take his hand in yours. He presses a hard kiss to the back of your hand, then to the crown of your head. You don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow, but— If Adrian has his way, nothing will happen. Everything really will be okay.

You don’t know how he does. You don’t know if you can understand— at least, not right now. Maybe, after you’ve had more time and energy to process this, you’ll figure out what you think and feel. Right now, though, you’re just— raw, and you need him. You just need him.

“I love you,” you whisper to him.

“Oh, God, I love you, too,” Adrian replies without hesitation. “So fucking much, I love you, too.”

You hear him, and you see him, and, in this moment, you think you finally might understand him. All the different parts of him, coming together into this one person you love. The Adrian you know, who isn’t just Adrian but is also Vigilante— this hero, this crusader, this man who burns a body for you without hesitation. You see something wild in him, something that’s reflected in you, and you’re desperate to keep them together.

“I—” you start to say, but don’t know how else to tell him you love him in a way that he’ll truly understand.

You lift your head, sealing him in a deep kiss. He returns it in kind, and that wicked edge to him is present here, too, along with his sweetness and his goofiness and his blunt streak and his horrible jokes. There’s so much that makes him him and without him—

You can’t think about it. You bite into the kiss, and Adrian opens up under you in a way that says, I know, I know, I know, so you don’t need to say anything at all.

-

adrian chase taglist:

@violetrainbow412-blog @bigassbisaster @amysuemc @sunflowerfive @papitas-con-sal @saturnngal @neptuneswritingwork @jewishdelis @myguiltypleasures21 @pinkygunslingy @violinchick @r3tr0sp3ct @chaseadrian @breathing-in-waves @rishlurh @x-milf-hunter-x @goblynnrockz @theowritesstuff @jaysfav

[butterbabyflapjack]

༄ Gold Gilded Leash

Derek Goffard (The Price of Flesh) x fem!reader

DISCONTINUED.

You really should have killed him when you had the chance.

Once upon a time, there lived an unfortunate woman minding her own business, struggling just to get by. Until one lovely, fateful day, when she just so happened to be at the very wrong place at the very wrong time.

Knocked unconscious. Kidnapped. Auctioned off as property. An item for one lucky bidder to do with whatever they pleased. And her life which was stolen, was traded - for some undisclosed yet assuredly exorbitant price - to one flaxen-haired, gold-blooded monster who paid the top of daddy’s dollars to hunt her down.

It’s funny, looking back.

Right?

It’s funny?

What you’ve been reduced to?

And you thought you had it bad back then.

Tumblr chapter directory: one • two • coming soon...

ao3

Derek belongs to @gatobob

Warning tags: explicit sexual content, forced oral sex, Derek owns you, graphic depictions of violence, obsession, wrath, punishment, yandere, rape/noncon, highly dubious consent, variations of noncon to con, forced orgasm, orgasm denial, kidnapping, escape attempts, bondage, exhibitionism, voyeurism, knifeplay, bloodplay, rough sex, possessive sex, death threats, dead dove: do not eat, sadism, masochism, breathplay, choking, warning: Derek (the price of flesh), Derek might lend you to others, others might steal you for some fun, additional tags to be added as this debauchery continues

CHAPTER ONE: Gold Blooded...

Author's Note: I fully intend to slander this man whilst also paying homage to my inexplicable love for him.

I’m planning on bringing Derek’s brother into this, “Matt” - whom I’m assuming is actually named Matthew, and since I've yet to see his personality fully established I’ll be taking some liberties to make his and Derek’s relationship super toxic and competitive. As for exactly how he’ll behave in this story, what makes him tick, etc. etc… I guess you’ll have to wait and find out~

Please heed the evolving warning tags.

This is to kick things off for a TPOF discord prompt, which is to honor my favorite ending in the game. This is actually my second fav, because my actual fav is perfect just the way it is, I have nothing to add.

Well, actually…

Well shit okay maybe now I’ll have to write about that too.

- ANYWAY -

____________________________________

You don’t remember what happened prior. How you were knocked unconscious, how you were bound and stolen and dragged.

All you remember after the throbbing darkness was that room.

It all started in that dim, octagonal room.

Three windows, each tinted black.

You could barely see the hint of an eldritch glow behind each pane of darkened glass, flicking into life whenever each of its occupants’ voices scratched out from an accompanying speaker overhead; each unseen room beyond pulsing on and off with a different color each time its tenant chose to speak.

Blue. Green.

Red.

“Oh ho~ This is an interesting one!” the cheerful voice of the unseen announcer observed, readying to spout off another question. A list of strange and degrading inquiries you’d already stumbled through a number of, designed - by all appearances - to ‘whet the appetites’ of whomever ended up paying to take a bite. “Are you a virgin?”

You’d been recoiling in on yourself ever since you woke up in this sterile, suffocating place, more and more with every new question asked. But this one really took the cake on the whole ‘what the fuck is happening!?’ scale, taking your thudding heart-rate up a notch with it.

You didn’t want to answer. You don’t know why you did. Maybe because you saw no point in lying? Confused alarum has a way of making it hard to think.

“I…” swallowing against the dryness of your throat, your nervous eyes tore about the room, flicking from one silent, dark window to the next, “...yes.”

A pause, as your answer was digested by those who sought to purchase.

Crimson light glowed into life behind the red window, and with it the sharp, masculine voice of its bidder.

“220.”

Soft blue light flicked behind the darkened room adjacent, with a woman’s voice scoffing through the speaker above the glass.

“Ugh,” she loured, sounding to suppress an eyeroll. “You’re disgusting.”

The red bidder’s wrath was immediate, barked from his speaker, lashing at the walls. “Shove a sock in it bitch!”

“230,” the woman smoothly returned. “You wouldn’t even know what to do with her.”

“If you don’t shut the fuck up I’ll show you first hand! 240!”

You heard the announcer chuckling softly, his amusement somewhat smoothing the tension that was swiftly rising in the room.

“Let’s save our passion for the main event, shall we?" he asked. "And speaking of which… we’ve only one question left for our lovely, special item!” His pause extended only for the length of his unseen smile, as his attention was undeniably redirected from his potential customers to you. “Final question. Who would you like to go home with, sweetheart?”

You stared, nonplussed, from darkened room to darkened room. Staring, as they all stared back. Your fingers curling and uncurling nervously at your sides, scraping at the outsides of your thighs. Your terrified expression barely mirrored back to you upon each hushed plane of glass.

You were alone in standing there, at the center of the octagon, and yet you could feel every pair of eyes watching you. Every person in that room. Waiting. Watching.

You didn't know what to do, hadn't known ever since awakening there. Did it even matter what you said? What you’d been saying? Was there even close to a right answer to anything that would result in your being bought and sold like cattle?

You hadn’t yet determined the answer, if there even was one, when your finger was already tremulously pointing at the room of the current highest bidder; the cocky man in red.

You could still barely comprehend what had happened to you, for you to be standing where you were now; could barely wrap your mind around what was going to happen as a result. But if that man was going to buy you anyway, you might as well try and get on his good side first. You didn’t know what he wanted, but your mind was spinning with horrible, dark ideas.

In truth, he was the last person you wanted to go home with. He seemed impatient, volatile, easily tempted to violence. But you could feel his interest already in your bones. Could feel his eyes scraping over you. The obscured intensity of his presence wrapping fingers round your heart.

Some part of you already knew he wasn’t going to leave this place without you in his pocket. And the smirk in his red-velvet musing seemed to seal the suspicion as truth.

“Ohhhh~?”

The subdued delight which curled his voice bent all your fear in wrong directions.

You were too terrified to hear the bids and bickering which followed. It didn’t matter. In your mind, he’d already won.

“Sold!”

You were knocked unconscious again shortly after that – a sharp jab felt in your ankle that had you seeing double, and once again your world was whisked to darkness.

The next thing you saw was a handsome, chiseled face smirking lightly down at you. Something gritty, like sand, blazing at your back, sticking to your skin. The jewel of a blinding desert sun a halo behind the devilish grin towering over you, his teeth impossibly white against his tanned skin.

Messy blonde hair. Jacket undone. Kohl smeared haphazardly beneath his lower lashes.

He looked excited to see you.

“Wakey wakey…!”

His turquoise eyes edged with harsh amusement at whatever foggy, coming-to expression you barely managed to scrounge together for him – only for your face to twist with pain as he sunk into a crouch, grabbing a rough fistful of your hair, jerking your head up and off the ground enough for you to get a shaky look at your surroundings.

Men in masks, standing in a lazy half-circle in front of you, some holding weapons. You, in nothing but your underwear. And a few more like you – stripped, bound, strewn in the sand, staring about themselves in absolute terror.

Your swift rise in trepidation joined the savage tide of theirs.

“You’re up just in time for the fun~”

Everything that happened next tore past you in a grisly, red-hewn blur. The unfortunate woman bound right beside you, half-crumpled in the sand, singled out by those who brought you there. "First blood," a behemoth man in a lizard mask called it. "It really sets the mood for the rest of them." She was dragged forth by one of her wrenched-back arms as she sobbed and cried and pleaded with them to stop, begging with them not to hurt her.

You saw them crowding around her, the man who bought you angling his knife at her throat.

"Keep begging..."

A man masquerading as a silver jackal stabbed a switchblade in one of her thighs, and her begging seized, clawing out shrilly. Blood in the sand, soaking through with sun-warmed crimson.

You couldn't watch any longer, your stomach twisting so tight it was a wonder you didn't actually throw up. But even with your shaking, with your teary eyes cinched closed, you could still hear them. You could hear everything. How her sobs devolved to senseless, wordless begging. Her screams. The congress of increasingly frenzied breaths and hyenic laughter. The moment mercy at last made her silent.

You were taken to a ledge of cruelty, tossed into its toothy void before you could even process what was happening.

And then those ropes which bound you were sliced through.

You were released, along with those still alive beside you. With nowhere to go but further into the endless, blistering desert sea.

You didn't ask questions. You couldn't even if you'd wanted to.

You struggled off the sand, legs shaking beneath your awkward weight as you made to run - but not before the man who brought you there caught your gaze with a cerulean, soul-piercing smirk.

“Don’t let me find you, rabbit,” he said, seemingly amused, though there was nothing beyond terror about that moment. He seemed to be envisioning something as he eyed you. Something hidden in the shroud of his thoughts. “I’m still hungry.”

His laughter bit at your heels as you stumbled, as you turned, as you ran as far as you could away from him.

Days passed. Sun-drunk days filled with colorful arrays of atrocities you'd rather not recall.

You no longer had the strength to run. You were stumbling blindly, then; skin ragged from the continual beating of the desert heat, with never a cloud to spare you. Your eyes dry, not a tear left to them. Your lips sand-bitten and scorched from lack of water. The constant threat of what might happen to you, of what had happened to everyone else... the constant barrage of adrenaline forcing you, always, toward fight or flight, filling up and shredding through your veins…

It was more than enough to strip your sanity. To leave it hanging by tatters that continually splintered and tore away.

There wasn’t much left. Sanity. Time.

If one of those psychos didn’t kill you first, the heat or lack of water would.

You were going to die out there.

And that’s when he found you.

Again.

'Derek', if that was even his real name. Only, this time…

This time, despite it all, despite everything…

You were a little more prepared.

You’d sunk the dagger in his gut before he really had a chance to stop you. It’s not like he suspected that you’d somehow, miraculously, obtain any kind of weapon out here in the middle of fucking hell.

You’d stumbled back from his complete and utter shock upon sighting the hilt sticking out from beneath his ribs, but not before yanking the knife back out again, unwilling to leave yourself without it. Nearly tripping over yourself with how you couldn’t drag your eyes away from him, his pained gasp and angry breathing filling your ears. From how he uselessly clawed at his freely bleeding wound. The wound you'd just gifted him.

You’d stabbed him. You really did it. And yet, beyond his outrage, his profound disbelief, he was soon to find his usual smirk. Was smirking even then. Gaze half-lidded with the pain, his eyes such a dangerous cut of gemstone that you couldn’t escape them. Held, hunted, snared.

His wrath, his every gritted tremor as he grimaced through the agony, made his eyes glint that much more harshly as they bore like spearheads into yours.

“Oh, rabbit… ” he’d rasply mused, one corner of his lips curling as he watched your faltered steps. “You’d better fucking kill me.”

You couldn’t move. Couldn’t blink. The cogs in your mind unturning.

Something in you balked. Panicked. A spark of fright that made you act without thinking.

You'd turned.

You ran.

You'd left him there, hearing him collapse to his knees behind you. Hoping his wound would end him with every beat of you sprinting across the sand, with every painful heave of your lungs. Praying he'd continue to bleed, that the desert would take what you couldn’t.

You really should have killed him.

____________________________________

Author's Note: If I didn’t pick a theme song for every chapter I’d die

derek goffard , bastard playlist (full disclosure some of these are pure Derek slander because it makes me laugh to think about him singing Money by Cardi b) (also there are not one but ~two~ songs named ‘tantrum’. For reasons.)

[adarlingmess]

Ugnayan

Summary:

Filipino word, noun: connection between persons, groups, countries, etc.

A collection of works detailing a manananggal clan’s relations with the Treses, and their allies.

II: Bad Habits

Summary: After disrupting one of House of Arko’s operations, one of the Kambal meets up with their informant.

Words: 4540

Characters: Basilio, Crispin, Sabina (OC), Alexandra Trese (mentioned only), Ammie (mentioned only), Reyna Manananggal (mentioned only), Dominic Villaceran (mentioned only), Mama Grande (mentioned only)

Relationships: Basilio/Original Female Character

Language: English, with a few Filipino words and phrases sprinkled in.

Rating: 16+

Warnings: Strong language, violence, mentions of abortion, references to human trafficking + sexual trafficking, sexual themes

Author’s Notes:

I am: back on my bullshit again

People were looking for a part 2 so have more Basilio x OC stuff. Spoiler warning for Verdugo: Takutan because this story heavily references its lore and events! The comics are known to be darker in tone, and so is this fic, so heed the warnings above. No Taglish version this time, Darling niyo pagod na 😩

This was supposed to be a simple job.

Get in, rough up House of Arko’s operation while Bossing is paying them a visit in their mansion, get out, and watch as Bossing confronts them about it at the next social gathering they’ll host.

But nothing was ever simple about the aswang, right?

Now there’s a huge one trying to eat Basilio alive.

“Damn it, Basilio. Your recklessness is a bad habit that’ll bite us in the ass later!” his older brother berates him.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever! Now might be the right time to call for backup kuya,” he strains, attempting to pull the  magubat’s jaw apart with his superhuman strength. His fingers slip from the drool and it almost bites his hands off.

Crispin’s busy with a horde of mailap, taking turns in taking pot shots from him in the shadows. “We should’ve taken a page from Carlos’ book and brought palm fronds. Who should we call?”

“What about Maliksi?” Basilio suggests.

“What’s one tikbalang to all these aswangs? We need something bigger, maybe a higante to take on that magubat!”

“Gago, a higante can’t get here as fast as a tikbalang!” Basilio snaps.

“Mas gago ka! What about that playmate of ours from when we were kids, y’know, the one that tipped Bossing off about this whole trafficking operation anyway? Think she can fly her way here?” Crispin growls, shooting down a mailap who was foolish enough to ambush the more cautious twin from above.

Ah, yes. Sabina.

Boyish, intimidating, hard to figure out- but still hot enough to flirt with, despite being aswang; that’s how Basilio would describe her. This Sab was a far cry from the Sabina Marie he once knew years ago, the one who used to wear an all-girl Catholic school uniform, shyly shared her snacks and books with him, and kissed him farewell when her mama told her she’ll not be coming with her to meetings with the lakan anymore.

A few days after they caught up with each other, she turned up at the Diabolical not too long ago with a flash drive for Alex’s eyes only. She didn’t even breathe a word to him, much less look at his direction, but Basilio could only surmise that it’s his fault.

“Sabina? Well, manananggals who follow the queen can shoot. It’s- ungh- worth the shot!” Basilio answers back, straining as he gets swatted to the side with one gigantic claw. “You make the call, my hands are full!”

“Give me your phone, I don’t have her Facespace.”

Basilio looks down from several feet, and gives his brother a sheepish smile. “Uhhh, okay, but she’s been seenzoning me.”

From behind his mask, Crispin frowns. “What did you do?”

“She might’ve seen me tagged in Ammie’s story when I was supposed to watch her gig. I got there when her set was ending, and she was pissed.”

Grumbling, Crispin takes his frustrations off on a mabangis charging towards him, a flurry of bullets raining upon its body. “What did Bossing say about getting personal with informants?”

“What? It’s Sab. She’s-”

“An aswang who might have an ulterior motive in helping us. Tangina Basilio, think with your head sometimes! The one between your shoulders!”

Distracted, Basilio failed to stop the jaws of the magubat from closing in on him. As quickly as his reflexes allow, he tosses his brother his phone.

“Just call already! Tell her it’s an emergency.”

The older Kambal flies up and extends his free hand to catch it. Crispin launches Basilio’s Facespace app and begins to search for their informant. He found her under the name Sab Evasco. Crispin pretended not to see the string of messages Basilio left for her, all left on read.

Her phone rings. One time. Two times. Three times. Crispin dials again. Twice. Thrice.

Someone picks up. He puts the call on the loudspeaker.

There’s someone strumming a guitar in the background, accompanied by a drumset’s cymbals. They come to a halt and Crispin hears a frustrated woman’s voice from the other end of the line.

“Ulol gago, fuck you Basilio, you can tell me if you’d rather go on Starbreaks coffee dates with a wind girl than watch me play.  I’m a grown woman, I can handle a simple ‘no’. I’m not in the mood for your games! Now fuck off, I don’t want to hear from you. I have a gig to practice for.”

Basilio cringes as he listens to Sabina’s tirade. Crispin guns a charging mabangis down, and his mask dematerializes for a brief moment, just enough for him to mouth to his brother “Gago ka talaga.”

“Sabina, it’s Crispin. We could use some backup here. We’re being swarmed by aswang.”

The sound of a guitar being unceremoniously dropped and the mad shuffle to catch it can be heard from Sabina’s line, followed by quick footsteps. Sabina talks again, calmer this time. “What? Couldn’t Basilio get his own ass on the phone and tell me himself?”

With an exasperated expression, Crispin turns on the camera, and points the phone at Basilio, who’s caught between the magubat’s jaws. “He said you were ignoring him, and he can’t get on the phone right now, as you can see.”

The Kambal heard her fumbling with more equipment, which sounded like a guitar case being zipped up and carried. A brief argument with her bandmates follows, then Sabina talks again.

“I’ll be there. Stay on the line.”

Now they wait.

As much as Crispin wanted to help his little brother, his hands were full with the wave after wave of aswang coming after them. They’re relentless. This is their food supply the Kambal are cutting off, after all.

“Any luck with Sab?” Basilio asks, attempting to shoot the roof of the mabangis’ mouth.

The bullets barely penetrate the thick membrane. He’ll need to transform the Armas Infinitum into a more powerful weapon to lobotomize the gigantic aswang, but seeing how he’s separated from his twin, it’s impossible at the moment.

“She said she’s on the way. She’s still on the phone. Here!”

Crispin throws the phone back to Basilio, who catches it with one hand, while his other arm continues to struggle with the magubat trying to swallow him whole. He tucks it in his breast pocket, and he jumps near the row of the magubat’s front teeth, prying it open with both arms.

Through the aswangs’ growls, Basilio could faintly hear a woman cursing and the jingling of keys from the other side of the line.

“Hey Sab! It’s Basilio. Sorry again about missing your gig.”

“Shut up and hang tight. If I didn’t care for you at all...” Sabina snaps. Basilio could barely make out the words Sabina was saying due to the wind and sound of traffic. “I’m on my way.”

“Ngh, can’t you come any sooner? I heard that aswang intestines are nasty.” Basilio pauses, realizing his mistake. “No offense.”

“I said zip it. Isn’t it enough that I went out of hiding and agreed to be Trese’s informant? Now I have to be your backup too?”

“Working with Bossing has its risks. We made that clear, princess.”

“Don’t call me that.”

There’s more turbulence and wind from Sabina’s line. If Basilio guessed, she’s now flying to the scene. The Kambal’s struggle with the aswang continued until they heard their informant’s voice through the speakers again.

“Big bad war demigods can’t handle a single fucking magubat?” Sabina deadpans, the turbulence and noise no longer accompanying her voice. “Open the fucker’s mouth wide. Make sure he’s facing east.”

“Kuya! She’s in the area, help me pry the jaws open!” the younger Kambal shouts to his older brother, who dodges a leaping mailap and quickly flies up to his aid.

“What’s the plan?” Crispin asks, and Basilio shrugs.

“I don’t know, she just asked me to do it!”

Before Crispin could question Basilio, a shot rings throughout the building, and the magubat collapses. The Kambal let go of the heavy jaws and flew away, watching the near-twenty foot aswang crush a few of its regular-sized kind. Upon closer inspection, a bullet has torn its way through the roof of its mouth. It’s a clean shot. The magubat isn’t regenerating, much to the Kambal’s surprise.

It’s a pleasant surprise, nonetheless.

“That’s for trying to eat my brother,” Crispin spits, kicking the dead aswang’s head.

Soon, more of the aswang started dropping like flies, too. Razed by bullets from an unknown assailant, the House of Arko aswangs started to panic.

“Wait a minute, I know manananggals who follow the queen can shoot, but Sabina is a sniper? Do you know about this, Bas?” Crispin exclaims, tearing his eyes away from the dead magubat to face yet another wave of mabangis.

“No! Damn, she’s using special bullets too. Where’d she get those?” Basilio mutters. A mailap attempts an ambush attack, and before he could react, Basilio watches it get shot mid-air as it attempts to jump him.

“You’re mine,” Sabina hisses, her voice crackling through Basilio’s phone speaker, smooth through the static.

Her emphasis on the word “mine” made goosebumps ripple through Basilio’s arm.

“Hot. Could you say that again?”

What he got instead was a groan. “Fuck, don’t distract me Basilio. I’m not here for fun.”

“You seem to be having fun shooting House of Arko’s minions though.”

“Fair. You two better look for the hostages. I have a bone to pick with this lot.”

The Kambal looks at each other, and nods. Glass shatters as they fly out the building’s windows, to the upper floors. After taking care of the guards, they saw them. Men and women in cages, all naked, and herded like livestock. 

“Please, help us,” one of them whimpers, crawling to the front of the cage and grabbing Crispin by the arm. She’s dirty, and her belly is swollen. Basilio turned on the lights and they saw it clear as day: most of these women are pregnant. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what was going on.

House of Arko farms their food, breeding humans like livestock, and harvesting fetuses from them.

Sirens are blaring outside, both from police cars and ambulances, waiting for the hostages to be rescued.

All is well, or so they thought.

“Fuck!”

The cry came from their informant’s line.

“Everything alright?” Basilio asks her after fishing his phone out of his breast pocket.

“There are a few of them who found my vantage point. They’re heading towards my position.”

“Get out of there already, the hostages are secure.”

“They saw me. I can’t let them report back to Mama Grande and her sons that a manananggal is helping you. Suspicion would fall on my clan.”

Crispin nudges his younger brother. “I’ll handle the hostages and wait for Bossing. You make sure our informant’s alright.”

“Way ahead of you kuya,” Basilio replies, taking his guns out and flying out the window.

Under the pale moonlight and the city’s lights, Basilio spots a group of aswang scaling a dilapidated building east of him. On the rooftop, he sees it. Wings black as night, flattened against the concrete. Sabina lies prone and is aiming her scoped hunting rifle downwards, picking off the advancing horde one by one.

“Time to play.” The demigod rushes in and makes bullets rain on the hostiles.

He takes out a mabangis approaching their sniper from her blind spot. Those who didn’t die from being shot fell to their death, regeneration halted either by his or Sabina’s doing.

Basilio descends on the rooftop, and he walks his way towards the manananggal. His mask dematerialized, and the wind tousled his long hair. Just to be safe, he kept a pistol in one hand.

Across him, Sabina takes out her wireless earbuds and puts them away. Then, she slings her rifle on her shoulder, safety on. With her wings, she crawled towards his direction, like how a bat would move. Then, uses her wings’ sharp claws to plant herself on the concrete, a feat regular bats couldn’t do.

“Thanks for the help, Sab. About that gig…”

Before any more words could come out of his mouth, Sabina holds up her forefinger and presses it against his lips. “Shh. No more apologizing about the missed gig. Just make up for it. You owe me.”

Basilio nods, smiling at her. He watches as Sabina fishes out a box of cigarettes and a lighter from her vest. She’s wearing a black, long-sleeved polo shirt underneath it, and its sleeves are rolled up. Her shirt was unbuttoned just enough for him to catch a glimpse of lace peeking through. For all her boyish, edgy posturing, her choice of underclothes is girlier than what Basilio expected.

It almost makes him want to unwrap her like a Christmas present, but he’ll keep that thought to himself.

“Nice outfit. You were rehearsing in that?”

“We had a presentation for a class. No time to get changed. Now there’s a hole in the back, so I might as well wear this more often on future operations,” Sabina replies, placing a stick of Marlborough Reds between her lips.

“I’m in the mood for a smoke and maybe a chat,” she continues. “Join me?”

Basilio nods.

“How did you know about House of Arko’s human trafficking thing, anway?”

“Believe it or not, it was a hunch,” Sabina explains, black fingernails scratching the sparkwheel several times. “Ugh, fucking lighter dying on me again. I just had it refilled… must be the wind,” she growls.

Basilio couldn’t help but chuckle at her frustration. “A hunch?”

“Hmm… maybe hunch isn’t the right word. It’s an educated guess. Mama Grande loved serving boiled fetuses to her house guests, correct?”

Basilio nods, waiting for Sabina to continue her explanation.

“I suppose that it’s my place to judge if their mothers didn’t want to raise them… I’m a manananggal, for fuck’s sake. But there’s one red flag House of Arko failed to hide. From what I can tell, those fetuses are around five to eight months old.”

Sabina’s lighter finally lit up, and with a triumphant laugh, she lit her cigarette. Then, she carries on with her explanation.

“Most abortions happen during the first three months of pregnancy. It’s rare to see expecting parents get rid of them that late.”

“So? What does that have to do with the whole thing?”

“House of Arko serving older fetuses could mean one of two things: either all, and I mean all of the abortions they performed are from those who are truly in need of one that late, or they’re getting them from another source, possibly an illicit one. They don’t have the most benevolent reputation, so my intuition tells me it was the latter. So, I paid the place a visit and recorded what I could. I guess I should be thankful that your bossing found that blurry video trustworthy enough,” Sabina concluded, watching as the victims were clothed and herded into ambulances.

Dumbfounded, Basilio scratches his head. “Wow. Glad you’re on our side. How did you know that three month thing anyway?”

“Research and personal accounts.” Sabina’s response is clipped. Cold. Abrupt. It only raised more questions than answers.

“Personal accounts? You’ve met people who got them?”

There’s a flash of regret in Sabina’s eyes; regret that she opened her mouth and let him know more than needed. She cuts him off. “I can’t put my informants’ identities in jeopardy either now, can I?”

Per his older twin’s advice, Basilio’s finally using the head between his shoulders. “No offense, but you’re a manananggal. Y’know, known for eating babies? Hearing that from you is suspicious.”

“Yes, I am,” Sabina says through gritted teeth, glaring at him. “I can assure you, I’m following the accords and I’m not exploiting loopholes like what House of Arko is doing. I’ll reveal everything in due time.”

“Alright, keep your secrets. For now.”

A tense silence has befallen them.

“So- '' the manananggal blows a cloud of smoke away from Basilio, “-is this going to be a regular thing? Because if it is, I might finally quit smoking. Nicotine makes my hands shaky. Can’t risk accidentally shooting your ass.” She pauses, looking at him in jest. “ I’d rather do that intentionally.”

“You’re breaking my heart, Sabina Marie,” Basilio retorts, clutching his chest in mock pain.

They share a laugh over it, the mood lightening up.

Basilio looks in the distance, taking in the view of the cityscape. “Maybe you should quit. Singers shouldn’t be smoking in the first place.”

“The tar helps me belt out raspy screams, but yeah, you’re right,” Sabina chuckles.

“So, when is this next gig?”

“Next week. In Ilocos Norte. All the way up in House of Arko’s ancestral home.”

“Should I take that info to Bossing?”

“Yep. It’s open to the supernatural public anyway, so it's not like I’m giving you top secret info. Even the wind tribe is invited, despite their bad blood with my clan. Hopefully things won’t get physical. Most of my sisters are still bitter over how they blew us away when my mom- I mean, Inang Reyna decided to side against the Treses.”

So that explains some things.

“I dunno, maybe I should bring Ammie so I can watch the two of you in a catfight.”

Sabina elbows him in the chest, hard.

“Not funny at all, Basilio. I don’t even know her personally! It’s you I was pissed at.”

Now he grabs his chest in genuine pain as he croaks out an apology. “Sorry.”

“Whatever. Bring whoever the hell you want, just keep your distance from me when you decide to go. Even my father’s going to be there. I need to be on my best behavior.”

The demigod turns to their aswang informant, interest piqued. She’s divulging a lot of information. Perhaps he can sway her to spill more secrets.

“Didn’t know that the Reyna Manananggal had a king.”

“Oh, no. She’s not the type to share her power with a man.” Sabina pauses to take another hit of her cigarette. “I meant my biological father. Villaceran.”

Now that was unexpected.

“You drop bombshell after bombshell whenever we meet. Tomas Dominic Villaceran’s your old man?”

“Look at me. I’m almost the splitting image of the guy. If there’s one thing I’m grateful for, it’s inheriting his good looks.”

Basilio grins. “Can’t deny that. Most of the manananggal kuya Crispin and I encountered look...”

“Hideous, I know,” Sabina says outright. “You still haven’t seen that side of me, so don’t be too quick to judge my sisters.”

Basilio treads carefully, knowing that he might be prying on a sensitive subject. “So, about Villaceran…”

“I’d rather not talk about him. Our relationship is… strained.”

Giving her a sympathetic, understanding look, Basilio nods. “Right. Never mind.”

Another interval of silence passes between them. This time, it’s a little somber.

“So, does this party have a dress code?”

“Yeah. Filipiniana. Wear a barong. It’s one of those pretentious events that attempts to make House of Arko more appealing to the masses or whatever. Manipulative assholes.”

“You can just refuse to go, Sab.”

“I could, but being Trese’s mole among the aswang means I have to attend clan activities to supply more information. That also means attending every single party those Arko fucks throw.”

“You really hate House of Arko, huh?”

Looking towards his direction to meet his gaze, Sabina’s eyes are filled with a sea of emotions. Hatred, indignation, and something Basilio couldn’t quite place.

“Why wouldn’t I? Mama Grande raised boys who can’t take no for an answer. The Arko brothers have no respect for us manananggal. As if we weren’t fetishized enough in Manong Karma’s stupid aswang dating book...”

Sabina clears her throat and calms herself down. Bad blood between aswang clans could mean war. Basilio knows he should take that to the boss. His gears are turning tonight. He asks Sabina questions that could risk her support.

“Is that why you agreed to be an informant? You wanna bring House of Arko down? Then what, your clan will fill the space they’ll leave?”

“What? No, I have no desire for power, not like how Mama Grande or my own mother does anyway. My personal gripes with them aside, the House of Arko wants to ‘unite the aswang under one banner’ with no respect to the other clans’ autonomy and customs.”

“So you wanna protect your clan?”

“That’s one of the reasons, yes. Mama Grande’s been trying to play kumare with mom- I mean Inang Reyna-” This is the second time Sabina slipped and called her mom. She clears her throat and composes herself. “And I need to stop that. Inang Reyna already made the mistake of going against the Accords once. Allying with the House of Arko will ruin us further.”

Basilio leans in closer. “And what are your other reasons?”

Sabina looks at him for a few, quiet seconds, and looks away. “I’ll reveal them-”

“In due time. Yeah, yeah, I can take that as an answer. So, making you sing in that event is a result of them being magkumare?”

A defeated laugh bubbles from Sabina’s chest. “You got it.”

“I’m surprised they didn’t invite sirena to sing.”

Sabina rolls her eyes and tosses the butt of her expended cigarette on the concrete. Basilio took it upon himself to crush the embers under his heel, seeing how her lower half is hidden someplace else.

“Oh please, this is House of Arko we’re talking about, Bas. They believe aswang are superior. Letting them shine would take away the spotlight from the aswang. Mama Grande asked for me from Inang Reyna so they can gloat that even aswang can make better singers than the famed sirena. Ugh, I doubt my singing style even matches the performance they want from me.”

“Oh yeah? What kind of performance are they going for?” he asks her.

“Now that’s another secret. You have to show up to find out,” she hums in response.

Turning away from him, Sabina checks how many sticks are left in the box. Two. She takes one and lights it up.

“Screw it, I’m going cold turkey. I guess this will be my final box. Maybe for tonight. Maybe forever.”

“Then maybe you should stop with the stick you’re smoking and throw the last one away,” Basilio suggests.

“Are you mad? That’s a waste of money!”

“Still counting your blessings even with your mama’s wealth huh?”

“Old habits die hard.”

Sabina blows smoke away from Basilio’s direction. The wind made it waft to his face anyway, and she mumbles a quick apology. He shrugs it off. Not like the adverse effects of secondhand smoke affected him anyway. Hank smoked and was polite enough to turn away too, but Basilio can still smell it. He didn’t mind it. Still, Hank had told him and Crispin that it was a tough habit to break, so he never touched a cigarette.

Not until now.

Basilio takes the box from Sabina and picks up the last stick with his lips. Then, he inches closer to her.

Ironically, in an attempt to help an old friend quit her smoking habit, Basilio engages in it himself.

Little did he know, a new bad habit was forming between him and the little lady before him.

“I’ll make sure it won’t go to waste then. Light me.”

Sabina raises an eyebrow. “Just don’t start at all. Give it back.”

“One smoke isn’t going to get me hooked, princess.”

Brows knitted together, Sabina chastises him. “Take it from me, bad habits start with just one little taste, Bas.”

“One little taste never hurts anyone...”

“One little taste could leave you wanting for more.”

Basilio can feel himself getting hot under the collar. He’d never thought an aswang of all creatures could make him feel all bothered, yet there he was, getting turned on by her choice of words.

“Princess, are we still talking about cigarettes, or something else?”

Hearing his question, Sabina exhales sharply through her nose, cheeks dusted pink. “Maybe both. Whatever. Come here.”

Black fingernails scratched at the sparkwheel. Sparks were flying, but there was no flame. The cigarette remained unlit.

“Well, it looks like fate isn’t letting you smoke, so better just give me the damn cigarette back, Basilio.”

With a sly look, Basilio closes in on her, and presses the end of his cigarette to the embers at the end of hers, linking them together.

To his surprise, Sabina is neither backing away nor babbling defensively like she usually does whenever he gets close. Instead, she presses her chest to his, a challenging look in her half-lidded eyes. She wasn’t wearing her glasses like usual, giving Basilio an unobstructed view of her heated gaze. Was it bloodlust or desire? Either way, it got his blood pumping.

“You’re chattier than usual tonight,” Basilio comments. “Bolder too. I like that.”

In the form she’s in now, Sabina’s eyes glowed an eerie white, and aside from the wings sprouting from her back, little horns sprouted from her scalp, the root concealed by her crown of short, wavy hair. Basilio didn’t pay mind to her dangling guts, instead, his eyes were transfixed on that cute little lace bra again.

Through the layers of cloth between them, he can feel her heart beating. Basilio faintly remembers the taste of human and sigbin hearts.

Now, what does aswang heart taste like?

A dark part of his psyche- perhaps from being Datu Talagbusao’s son- wanted to tear it out of her chest and eat it to find out.

Basilio felt the urge to taste all the battles she fought through her blood, and possess her heart in a way no other person can.

The memory of seeing his father tasting his mother’s blood inserts itself in the present, and the fear of turning into the monster he was is enough for him to shake that thought away.

Basilio tries to focus on something else.

His eyes wander to Sabina’s mouth. He might’ve imagined something else between her dark lips, in place of the cigarette. Something bigger.

Something of his.

Sabina’s been pliable tonight. Perhaps he’ll push his luck with her one last time.

“So, any plans tonight, dear princess?”

“Unless you intend to treat me like one, don’t call me that.”

“I’m done with work, so if you want me to make good on that and make up for my mistake…”

Giggling, Sabina flies a few feet away from him. The black wings on her back are translucent against the pale moonlight. They almost looked like a dark shade of red.

“Go tell your brother about the information I gave you for now, then meet up with me afterwards. I hid my lower half in an alleyway behind that motel,” she tells him, pointing to the building’s direction.

“If you’re lucky, you’ll get to rearrange my guts. Literally and figuratively.” Sabina continues, a naughty smirk blooming on her lips.

Taken aback by the pun, Basilio laughs. “I didn’t think you were capable of dirty jokes.”

“You should know by now that I’m full of secrets and surprises.”

Grinning darkly, Basilio finishes the rest of his cigarette as he watches her fly away.

“And I’ll uncover them all, dear princess.”

Translations:

ulol - crazy; Filipino profanity

gago/gaga - foolish or stupid; Filipino profanity

tangina - contraction of putang ina, lit. whore mother. Used as an expression to express irritation, anger, or astonishment

Inang Reyna - lit. Queen Mother.

mare/kumare - derived from the Spanish word madre/comadre; kumare a reciprocal appellation for the godmother or for the child's mother. In a more modern and colloquial context, it’s used to refer to a female friend. Magkumare means women who are friends with each other.

Filipiniana - Philippine related book and non-book material

barong - also known as Barong Tagalog. An embroidered long-sleeved formal shirt for men and a national dress of the Philippines.

[something-tofightfor]

Buried: Part 6

Pairing: Agent Jack ‘Whiskey’ Daniels x Reader (female reader insert; no ‘Y/N’)

Word Count: 12,834

Rating: M: Language, canon-typical violence, repressed memories, character death, talk of sex, angst, past memories - see below or check tags for list of trigger warnings.

Trigger Warnings: death, blood, violence, weapons, enclosed spaces, panic attack, injury, heights, drowning

Summary: With the time fast approaching for your float session, both you and Jack have serious reservations about the activity ... but is it what you need to remember what happened to you? 

Author’s note:

Oh, boy. This one is long. This one is HEAVY. This one is 80% of the things you’ve been waiting for explained. This one is not for everyone, so PLEASE heed the TW above and in the tags, and if I missed anything, PLEASE feel free to let me know and I’ll add them.

I want to thank all of you for reading this so far. I know that the point is to give Jack some happiness, and I PROMISE we’re getting there ... but this had to happen first. I could have cut it in half, but didn’t want to, because there was no good place to do so.

I would love to know what you’re thinking after this chapter, so PLEASE feel free to hop into my inbox or send and ask or jump in on the comments. 

The playlist for Buried can be found here, so if you have anything to add, I’m all ears. 

In an attempt to keep you and Jack as relaxed as possible between sessions, you were told by the masseuse team to dress only in the provided robes before leaving the first room. You knew that you had a ten minute window before the time in the float tank began, and so once you’d said goodbye to the man and woman, you told Jack to stay on his stomach while you sat up, holding the sheet to your bare chest. He did little more than grunt out a reply, which made you smile. Someone’s relaxed. 

You were happy - he deserved it more than anyone else you could think of. “You like that, Jack?” Letting the sheet fall as soon as you knew for sure that you were out of his line of sight, you stretched, both arms raised above your head. “He was thorough, so I’m sure she was, too.” Eyes landing on the robes that  were laid out for you, you reached for one of them, slipping the soft material up and over your arms. “You can sit up.” Tying the sash around your waist securely, you picked up his robe and stepped back over to the tables as he pushed himself into a sitting position, keeping the sheet bunched at his waist and his eyes cast downward. “You’re quiet. Why?” 

When he finally looked up, you saw the look in his eyes and watched the way he fisted the sheet in his hands, realizing the problem right away. Oh, shit. “I think I liked it a little too much.” You heard the embarrassment in his voice, and instead of calling attention to it with a joke, you just shrugged your shoulders, gesturing at him with the hand that held the robe. 

“It happens.” He reached up with one hand, letting the material rest atop the sheet. “And since you’ve never had a massage before, it’s not like your body knew what to expect.” He didn’t reply and so you stepped away from him, taking a seat on the opposite side of your table, back to him. “To be honest, Jack, I should have warned you. I’m sorry I -” “It’s not your job to keep track of shit that might make me hard.” You heard him moving around behind you, the man swearing quietly under his breath between sentences. “I shoulda known.” You laughed at that, head shaking back and forth as you swung your legs back and forth. “I was only half hard anyway, so -” “Are you trying to ruin this relaxing few minutes, or are you just trying to convince yourself -” You stopped speaking when you felt his hand against your shoulder, his grip firm even through the material covering you. “Jack?” You looked up, finding his eyes, and saw that he was staring at you, the line between his brows deep. “What’s wrong?” Instead of answering, he just stared at you, the robe open enough so that you got a glimpse of his bare chest between the sides of it, rising and falling as he took deep and measured breaths. This is weird. 

“I liked doin ‘this. With you.” He blinked, the frown dissipating slightly. “I just …” He shook his head, eyes closing. “Not too thrilled about these tanks. There’s a lotta shit in my life that I don’t want to think about. Who knows what … what kinda memories I’ll pull up in there. Or what ...” That’s what he’s worried about. You stood, winding both arms around his body before you could second guess yourself, and pressed your cheek against that exposed slice of skin, squeezing your own eyes shut. Oh, Jack. 

“Just focus on relaxing, Jack. Think about the stuff that makes you happy.” You didn’t know exactly what that would entail for him, but you hoped that you’d figure into at least some of his thoughts. “Your muscles are already there - let your mind follow ‘em.” Finally pulling away enough to look up at him, you smiled, hoping that it didn’t look forced. “Maybe … maybe it’ll make me remember something. Anything. Maybe it -” You trailed off as his hand came up to cradle the base of your skull, his eyes going wide. 

“That’s what I’m most afraid of, Agent.” You heard the tremble in his voice and felt the way his body went rigid. “Not me thinkin’ of… of you remembering.” You sucked in a breath at that, blood seeming to freeze in your veins. But I thought you wanted me to remember. I thought it would be a good thing. He said your name, eyes flicking down to your lips and then back up, and without speaking, you pushed up onto your toes, his hold on you tightening as you gripped the material of the robe stretched across his back with both hands. That time, it was you that kissed him, eyes closing as your lips made contact with his - already parted. That left the perfect opening for you, the fullness of his lower lip between yours exactly what you wanted to feel. I shouldn’t be doing this. I shouldn’t be taking advantage of this. 

But it became apparent very quickly that you weren’t taking advantage of anything, Jack winding his other arm around your waist, lips puckered against yours for a few seconds before he pulled back to take a small breath. Then he was kissing you for real - the tip of his tongue tracing over your lip before plunging into your mouth with no restraint to meet yours, a quiet gasp the only reaction you had. It was the first time you’d ever tasted him, the first time either of you had moved to deepen a kiss, but the longer it went on, the more certain you were that that wasn’t actually the case. We’ve done this before, you thought as he licked into your mouth without hesitation, the hand on your neck changing positions so that he could grip your hair and tilt your head. We’ve done this before and I want to do it again. 

Kissing Jack was unlike anything you’d ever imagined it to be - because in your mind, you’d always figured that if you ever got to do it, it would be like kissing a good friend. Not because that’s what you wanted it to be like, but because you’d never expected he’d look at it any other way. Instead, it seemed as though the man couldn’t get enough of you, crowding you against the edge of the table, the hand around your waist moving down just enough so that he could palm your ass through the robe, pulling you closer and letting you feel that he was far more than half hard. 

You cried out at that, pulling on the material that covered him to draw him in even more, but before you could do anything else, Jack jerked away, completely removing his hands from you and letting both of them drop to his sides, fingers curled into loose fists. He looked angry with himself, and you figured that it was because he’d allowed himself to lose control with you, but instead of a snarl or one of the abrupt heel turns you’d seen him make often, Jack reached out, swiping a thumb beneath your eye and letting his palm rest against your cheek. “Remember. I’m in the room right next to you. I’m right there.” Confused at the intensity of his stare, you just nodded, nuzzling into his hold for a few more seconds. “I shouldn’t have let you kiss me like that, but I don’t regret it.” The man leaned forward, pressing his lips to the center of your forehead. “Maybe now you understand a ‘lil bit of what I’ve been holdin’ back.” I do. You swallowed, both hands moving to his stomach and flattening there. 

It was quiet in the room, and even though you wanted to reply, wanted to tell him that you’d been holding back just as much, you didn’t get the chance to before there was a quiet knock on the door, the attendant’s voice letting you know that you could move from the massage room and into the float tank rooms whenever you were ready. “Let’s go, Jack.” You cleared your throat, unwilling to look away from him. “They need to clean the room up and …” It was your turn to frown, one hand rising so that you could rub at your face. Shit. “Jack?” You closed your eyes and took a deep breath. “I don’t regret it, either. Not at all.” 

That seemed to get to him, his body relaxing slightly as he stepped away from you, a hand running nervously through his hair. He really thought I’d be upset about that? That I’d regret it? 

But neither of you spoke again as you gathered your things, padding down the hallway in your socked feet to where the attendant was waiting, the doors of two of the float tank rooms open on either side of her. “You’ll be here, Mr. Mason.” She gestured to the door on her left. “And you in here, Mrs. Mason. There’s an intercom if you need help with the tanks, but there’s also some simple instructions, so…” She smiled brightly at Jack and then turned to face you, the light dimming slightly in her eyes. Really? “Once you get changed and rinsed off, make sure you put in your ear plugs before you get into the tank. The doors on the rooms lock, but the tanks don’t. If you feel more comfortable locking the main door, please do, but you don’t have to.” 

You met Jack’s eyes, the look he gave you one of reassurance, and before you could stop yourself, you’d closed the distance between the two of you, once again rising to kiss him on the mouth - though this one was much less indecent than the one in the massage room had been. If he was surprised, he didn’t show it, the man smiling against your lips before you pulled away, one side of his mouth lifted into a barely concealed smile. “Gotta relax darlin’.” He grinned, the expression reaching his eyes and turning them soft. “Gonna be too fired up to -” “Oh, I’m  the one fired up?” You glanced down at his waist and then back up, Jack’s laugh ringing through the hallway. Got you. “I’ll see you in an hour, cowboy.” The attendant was still standing awkwardly in place as you stepped through the doorway and into your room, shutting it behind you. At least that ended well. 

You hadn’t wanted to leave the man on a bad note, but you also hadn’t wanted to let him know that you were slightly worried, too, not knowing how the fact that you knew that something was missing from your memories would sit with you when you had nothing else to contemplate. But I’ve been alone all year and nothing’s… I haven’t remembered anything. Undressing quickly, you changed from your underwear into the bathing suit, stretching your body out once more before you stepped beneath the showerhead, turning on the water. You gave yourself a few minutes under the warm spray, letting it hit your back and run down the expanse of skin before you turned it off, wrapping yourself in a towel. After drying your face off like the instructions said, you inserted the earplugs and let the towel drop to the floor before you climbed into the tank, the temperature of the water surprisingly pleasant. It feels like a bath.  

Easing yourself onto your back, you pulled the lid down with you, choosing to close it entirely, and then reached over to press the start button and close your fingers around the knob, twisting it until the ceiling of the tank was filled with stars. Perfect. Eyes above you, you attempted to relax, stretching your arms out by your sides and enjoying the feeling of weightlessness. Quiet music began to play a few seconds later, a low voice announcing that the music would end after a few minutes, and then begin again at the end of the session, gently alerting you that your time within the chamber was coming to an end. I like this. You took a deep breath, trailing your fingers through the water. I like this a lot. 

As the music continued to play, you kept your eyes on the glowing points above you, trying to keep your breathing deep and even and your mind clear. The sky did remind you of Mexico, of the night you’d spent on the boat with Jack, and so you focused on that, remembering the way you’d stayed up talking, side by side on the deck while the waves lapped at the hull and the sky stretched endlessly above you. It was a perfect night. The first perfect night we had, and we didn’t even touch each other. 

With a large, content smile on your face at the memory of his face turned toward you in the moonlight, you didn’t even realize that you’d drifted off. 

--- 

“We need to go, Jack.” Even as you spoke, you were kissing him, your hands raking through his hair as both of his pawed at your hips. “We have an assignment to worry about, and -” He groaned, sliding them down lower - between the backs of your thighs and the TV stand you were sitting on, and you stopped trying, giving in to what felt like something you’d been waiting for forever. Because I have been … and apparently so has he. Jack kissed you with bruising intensity - none of the timid movements either of you had made in the park, and it should have surprised you … but it didn’t. 

You were still fully clothed - and so was he, both of you pausing only long enough to remove your coats and boots when you’d stumbled back into his hotel room. But if he’s touching me like this? You sighed into his mouth, the man’s hair soft beneath your palms, one thumb pressed to the scar tissue just behind his ear and hidden beneath the dark strands. I can only imagine … “Gonna have to let go of me, heartbreaker.” 

You laughed at that, pulling away from him and taking a long, deep breath, though he didn’t move his hands out from beneath you, just tightened his grip. Oh, Jack. “Could say the same about you, Daniels.” You murmured the words, leaning back in and grazing your teeth over his lower lip, which was fuller than usual, swollen from the kisses you’d exchanged. “Hands are -” 

He slid them out smoothly, running them down your legs and squeezing right above your knees, urging you to unwrap your legs from around his waist. “That better?” One eyebrow raised, Jack watched you, his head moving back and forth slowly 

“No.” You answered him truthfully, crossing one leg over the other and trying to collect your thoughts - and catch your breath. “It’s not.” The room stayed quiet, and your eyes flicked over to the clock on the nightstand before they met Jack’s again. “I need to go get ready, Jack. My gear’s in the other room.” He gave you a nod, but the look in his eyes didn’t change - the man was looking at you in a way that he never had before, almost as though he was truly seeing you for the first time. I wish he’d look at me like that all the time. “Can… can we talk about this later, Jack? When we -” “We’re gonna talk about this all the way back to Kentucky, if I’ve got anything to say about it.” He hadn’t bothered to fix his hair, one long lock curled over his forehead. We are? “In fact,” he continued, moving closer again and taking your chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing you to stare into his eyes. “I think us talkin’ about this is a long time coming.” 

---

It went smoothly for you, using the service entry into the convention center and making your way up to the executive level. You and Jack would likely have to split up eventually, but that wouldn’t happen until you’d bypassed the security system, climbing the stairwell instead of taking the elevator and using one of Ginger’s newest devices to override the lock on the door to the hallway you needed.

You worked together in tandem, Jack leading and you following - not because he thought he needed to, but because if anything happened to someone, it had to be him. Because I’m the one that knows how to get into the safe. He was putting himself in danger to ensure that the mission didn’t fail, and even though it bothered you, you knew that that was how it had to be. And nothing’s going to happen, anyway. 

You also knew that after what had happened between the two of you earlier, there was more at stake for Jack, more of a reason to make sure that you were safe, and so you let him lead, a hand constantly on the weapon at your hip, just in case. If he’d let me, I’d do the same because now I know we … feel this way.

But you never needed it, the two of you reaching the office in question under the cover of darkness, Jack keeping his eye on the doorway while you got to work. “We’re good on time, Agent.” He was talking quietly, his back to you. “Almost done. Just gotta get into that safe, get everything in there, and then we’re outta here and back on the plane home.” The mention of the plane brought his words from earlier to mind, and you smiled as your fingers twisted the dial, ear resting against the device which was pressed against the door of the wall-mounted safe. 

“I’d already have it open if you’d shut up, Jack.” He chuckled at that, but didn’t speak again, and after only thirty seconds, you heard a final click as the tumbler fell into place. “Got it.” Standing up straight, you pulled the door open and stared into the hollow space, hoping. “It’s all here, just like we thought.” You knew that the camera in your vest was capturing everything, but you were still very careful when you pulled items out, handing them to the man, who was carrying the lockbox you needed for transport. “Exactly like we thought it was.” It was almost too easy; collecting the paperwork and hard drives - the prototypes for the devices that Statesman and their affiliates had deemed dangerous enough to warrant intervention and seizure of. “Ginger is going to have a field day. Instead of using this against people, she can -” “Less talking. We gotta go.” He was tense and facing completely away from you, but he didn’t sound worried yet. “Close it and let’s get out of here.” Alright, Jack. You took the box from his hands, spinning the lock shut and then sealing it with a retinal scan before you put it into his pack for safekeeping, securing the zipper. 

“Alright. We-” “We’ve got company.” He took a deep breath, holding it as you froze in place. What? “Didn’t wanna tell you til you were done, but we do. Two guys on our level. It’s dark up here, so I think we can get past ‘em, but -” “Bullshit, Jack. We can’t let anyone know we were here. If they -” He spun to face you, jaw set. 

“I know that you are just as talented with your weapon as I am with my lasso.” He paused. “But that doesn’t mean I want you to have to use it here.” He pointed, lowering his voice. “We’re gonna go out the same way we came. Fifteen steps down the hall to the stairs. Down three floors, and we can use the elevator to go the rest of the way to the basement.” He settled a hand on your shoulder. “These people here aren’t the ones that matter. I don’t want to hurt any of ‘em if we don’t have to. Champ’s orders.” You understood that. They’re just doing a job. They didn’t make this shit. They can’t be used as leverage. “Fifteen steps, Agent. Three floors. An elevator ride. Then you an’ me are on that plane and -” You cut him off with a kiss, knowing that Ginger and Champ and whoever watched the tape would see it, but you didn’t care. “For luck,” you whispered as you pulled away, your hand resting at the nape of his neck. “We’re gonna be fine, Jack Daniels.” 

--- 

Ten minutes later, you were unsure of when and where you’d gone wrong. You and Jack were separated, and no longer on the same floor of offices that you’d started on thanks to some quick thinking on Jack’s part. He’d stepped away from you in order to draw the guards in his direction, but it had only partially worked, taking three of the five men with him, and leaving the final two searching for you. It’s just two. I’ve handled more. You had the tranq gun ready, eyes scanning the open space in front of you. If you could subdue the people searching for you without taking lethal action, you would. Just like he will. 

Jack had no qualms with killing - and neither did you; being a Statesman agent required it at times, but it didn’t mean that you looked forward to the days when you had to take lives. And this isn’t worth it, he’s right. These people are just hired help. With a silent gasp, you stuck your gun out slightly, finger hovering over the trigger. There was a shadow moving toward you, growing larger by the second, and the sound - and pattern - of the footfalls told you that it wasn’t Jack. Here goes. As the guard passed you, you angled the weapon up and fired, the dart piercing the material of their pants and taking effect almost immediately, your arms the only thing softening the fall. One down. There were no other sounds, and so you left the office you’d been crouched in, slowly making your way through the hallway and toward the center walkway. It would put you out in the open, but it would also give you the best vantage point, making it certain that you’d see the others as they moved between rooms. It’s to protect us. ‘

It wasn’t just about protecting yourself. You knew that if it came down to it, you’d break protocol and protect your partner, too. Not just my partner. My friend. My … whatever he is to me. The answer to that question was something that you’d need a great deal more time to figure out, and time wasn’t something that you had the luxury of in the moment. 

Moving into position in the doorway of an empty office, you scanned the area visible to you, catching sight of movement across the open area at the center of the floor. Jack. It was him - you would have recognized his crouch anywhere, and let out a sigh of relief as he held up his hand - three fingers raised - after catching your eye. Ok, three guards. Nodding, you chewed on your lip as he lowered one finger, and then a second. Means there’s only two left between us. This is manageable. 

You knew it and he knew it, and if you’d had another few seconds to think about it and steady yourself, you wouldn’t have shifted and knocked into the doorframe, a quiet thud echoing throughout the otherwise silent floor. Shit. Shit. Shit. There was nothing you could do but own up to the mistake you’d made, the tranq gun clutched in your fingers as you twisted, putting your back against the wall to give yourself the best protection. If anything happens, we’ve got Alpha gel. We’ve got the Beta tech. Only one of us needs to be able to use it on the other. But your thoughts were interrupted by the quick pop-pop-pop of a silenced gun firing, ears picking the noise out easily, even before the bullets tore through the wall above you. Fuck. 

Jack was fine; he was leaning against a wall, too, but standing taller than you, and as you eyed him, you watched him mouth the word go at you, jerking his chin at the emergency exit. Is he crazy? I’m not leaving him. Another sound came from your right, and you saw a man stalking toward you, gun balanced on his bent forearm as he made his way down the hall. Got you. You fired, even though the angle of his body falling gave away your position, and then you and Jack were both standing, the man calling out before you could. “Only one of you left. Come out now and you -” He jerked back at the sound of more gunfire, and though you couldn’t see where it came from, you moved quickly to try, being sure to keep yourself out of the line of sight from above and below when you could. He’s under us. One or two floors down. That comforted you slightly, giving you an opportunity to move closer to Jack, the man still looking around - revolvers in hand. 

“No lasso? No whip?” You were close enough that he could hear you, heart pounding wildly in your chest, and you used your right hand to point downward, Jack finally looking at you. “C’mon cowboy, you -” But you were cut off by the sound of more gunfire, and those shots came from above you, causing your eyes to go wide. There’s more than one left. At least two. At - He got it at the same time you did, the two of you moving so that you were back to back, the man holding his guns in both hands. 

“We gotta make a break for the stairs. Get down another level or two, close to the ground floor, an’ maybe we can get past them.” He still hadn’t fired; you didn’t smell gunpowder on him. He’s saving the bullets. Things had changed, and you probably should have also traded your weapon out for a lethal one, but you hadn’t. Not yet. Not … unless I have to. “Stairs, Cider. Two floors. Then back out.” 

“Alright, Whiskey.” You’d reverted back to code names - not because he meant anything less to you when you were in danger, or you were trying to downplay how much you wanted to protect him, but because it was easier to compartmentalize the feelings you had when you were focused on work - and your assignment. Gotta be the same for him. “Stairs. Two floors.” You moved together again, both of you breaking for the doorway and Jack giving you time to push it open and slip inside before he followed, both of you starting down the stairs. Shit. “We can just go all the way down, now, we -” “Gotta neutralize them. They’ll send someone after us if we don’t. And I’m not trying to get chased all the way back to the plane.” He faced you, standing up straight. “We’re almost out. We’ve got what we came for. Take it. Just get yourself outta this building. Get -” “Not without you.” Swallowing hard, you stared him down. “Not a chance.” It went against everything you’d been taught to do while in training, but you meant the words. “No way, Jack. I’m not leaving you.” His jaw twitched, but all he did was nod before looking away, chest rising and falling as he steadied himself. “We can do this. There’s at least two more. Both with big guns.” He stayed quiet, waiting until you were standing just inside the door to reply while looking back over his shoulder at you. 

“Ain’t about the size of the gun. It’s all about how you use it.” He got a quiet snort in return before he reached for the door handle, your name leaving his lips with some apprehension - the first sign of it in long minutes. “Don’t get yourself killed, alright?” “I’ll try not to.” You touched the center of his back; the only form of contact you trusted yourself to make with him. But I can’t promise anything. “And you better not either. I need someone to fly me home.” He laughed at that, and you knew that the sound was accompanied with a roll of his eyes, but Jack only pulled the door open just enough for the two of you to slip out and into the darkened hallway. 

No one shot at or attacked you right away and you took a breath as you separated from Jack, keeping your backs to each other and gradually increasing the space between you. You passed another emergency exit, mindful of the fact that there was no way of knowing whether or not someone was behind it, but nothing happened. This is too quiet. It’s too … they’re planning something. Leaning out and toward the railing, you looked up at the floors above you, searching for any sign of movement. Where did they go?

It wasn’t like any other attack you’d been a part of - the guards you were looking for were stealthy, keeping quiet and out of sight. And they could be calling reinforcements. That thought scared you, but you knew that at the very least, you and Jack had disabled the cameras, meaning that the only people that knew what you looked like were in the building. So if we can get rid of them before anyone else gets here, we can get away. Resisting the urge to swipe at your face, you and Jack met again, the man’s eyes narrowed. “Donno where they are,” he murmured, pressing his shoulder to yours. “Didn’t see or hear anything.” 

“They’re here, just hiding.” You were still looking over the open space, the water fixture on the ground floor turned off, though the lights below the surface were still on, casting light beneath you. “Plenty of stairs. Maybe they’re all on the bottom floor, covering those doors.” It made sense, and you felt the man freeze at the suggestion. “We just need t-” 

But your words were cut off by the sound of gunfire from your left, and Jack spun away from you, using the expanse of his body as a shield. Jesus, Jack. You don’t have to… But it gave you an opportunity to focus, lifting your own gun to aim it over his shoulder and at the shooter. Got you. With one squeeze of the trigger, you took a breath and watched as the guard fell, a quiet yelp leaving his lips. One less. You were breathing hard, adrenaline spiking through your body, and so it was easy for you to miss the movement behind you, the other guard going unnoticed until he had an arm wound around your neck, the entirety of his body concealed with yours. Oh, fuck. “Whiskey.” You whispered the word, willing yourself not to sound as scared as you felt, and in the time it took Jack to turn, the weapons in his hands still held up to point outward, your captor had nudged the gun from your hand, letting it clatter uselessly to the floor. Oh, shit. “Found the last one.” 

He lowered his guns - but only slightly,  and you knew that it was to keep from pointing them both directly at you. Even though that’s what he’s trained to do. “Let her go.” He took a breath. “I’ve got what you want, not her.” You figured he was stalling but didn’t know why, and as the man holding you stepped slowly backward, Jack inched closer, partially crouched down, muscles coiled. He looked more dangerous than you’d ever seen him, and even though it should have terrified you, it only made you sad. It would only take a little more pressure against your throat to render you completely useless, and you knew Jack was weighing options, trying to figure out how to get you free and kill the man in the same motion. “You alright, Cider?” 

He took a breath and you nodded, wanting to placate him. It’s not lying if I don’t say anything. But I need to do something. Fast. There were others in the building; you could hear a faint voice coming from the man’s earpiece behind you. Tell him. “Just shoot him. Shoot him and get to the others, get out of here, get -” The pressure at your throat increased and you choked on your words, one hand automatically moving up to claw at the arm holding you in place. “M… more of ‘em. Somewhere.” You struggled, wanting to create enough of a distraction that Jack had a shot, but it was no use - as soon as you moved, the man holding onto you let you go, shoving you toward the railing. 

As you teetered on the edge, you briefly wondered why it was so low, but when you heard a crunch beneath your boots, you realized that the barrier had likely been shattered in the earlier gunfire, leaving a wide open space. Perfect. Through your fear, you heard a single gunshot - not silenced - and saw your attacker slump to the ground, and then the sound of your name being screamed as Jack hurried to you. But almost as if you were in slow motion, you were able to watch as the man got to you, one hand reaching out, the other moving to his waist. He’s too late. I’m going to fall. 

“Jack, it -” You didn’t get anything else out, your descent through the air and toward the ground beginning in earnest. It’s only two stories. I might not die. You gasped, though, as you felt something close around your outstretched arm, head snapping back up. Jack. He’d pulled the lasso out, somehow aiming it and ensnaring your arm to keep you from plunging the remaining distance. It hurt, but you breathed a sigh of relief nonetheless, even as your arm screamed in pain. Dislocated arm is better than… 

“Gonna pull you up.” He shouted the words down, and you looked up, even as you dangled in the air, watching as he strained with the weight of your body hanging at the end of his rope. “Got you. Not gonna let you fall.” You can’t. There’s no way. You knew that he had no real grip on the length of rope; he’d likely wrapped the end around his hand to even stop your fall, but it wasn’t enough. He’s going to hurt himself. He’s going to fall. He’s… “I’ve got you.” He was scared, you heard it and saw it, even as you hung from the end of his lasso, the loop tight around your bicep, fingers curled around the braid, but he was also fighting to stay upright. “Gonna get you -” 

More gunshots rang out, and Jack flinched, though he didn’t let go of his end. He has to. He has to protect himself. They’re shooting at him because he… “Jack.” You made the decision in an instant, waiting until the man was focused on you to continue. “You’ve gotta let go.” He whipped his head back and forth, but you only nodded, not looking away. “Don’t get shot. You promised.” You felt the rope sliding up your arm and toward your wrist, Jack still focused on you, even as the shots rang out, and you gave him one final smile as it passed over your hand. “Don’t watch.”  You didn’t know if he followed your request because you looked away, wanting to see what you were going to land on. The fountain. The water. Maybe - But it didn’t cushion your fall any, and the brief respite from plunging downward only ensured that you didn’t land flat on your back. 

Instead, you heard the sound of one foot making contact with the bottom of the fountain, followed by a searing pain shooting up your leg, and then your hip hit, too, bones crunching as they shattered against the concrete. 

But you felt that happen, screaming wordlessly as your arms flailed through the water, the sodden material of your jacket weighing both of them down, and the one that Jack’s lasso had caught on getting trapped beneath your torso and wrenched further. Ow. The final points of impact were your cheek and the side of your head, the bone cracking as it hit, your mouth immediately filling with blood. 

Shit. You heard more gunshots along with a man’s voice, but the loudest thing was the sound of your coughing, each movement doing nothing to dispel the blood or water from your mouth, instead sending waves of pain throughout your entire body. I need to sit up. But you couldn’t - one entire side of your body immobile, and the pain too much to overcome for the other side. I’m sorry, Jack. Continuing to cough, it turned into choking, even though you turned your head as much as possible to get your mouth and nose out of the water. I’m so sorry. 

--- 

You sat up, gasping for air and using both hands to swipe at your body in the darkness. Oh, fuck. Oh fuck, I… Chest rising and falling as your heart slammed into your ribs, you let out a low whimper as you realized what happened. It’s memories. It… that… There was no pain when you touched your face; both arms moving freely, and there was no blood in the water that you sat in. But it… In a panic, you pushed up on the lid of the tank, letting the light in and shooting to your feet, hands moving over your thigh and knee even as your eyes told you that there was no visible injury in either place. That’s what … I fell? I … You were gulping in air as you stepped out of the tank and blindly grabbed for your bathrobe, head shaking back and forth, both earplugs falling to the ground. Did I drown? Did he watch me … Instead of pulling the robe on, though, you continued moving toward the door, the material slipping from your hands as you twisted the knob, trying to grip it enough to open the door. 

Stumbling into the hallway, you blinked at the brighter light, unsure of which way to go - or where Jack’s room was. Where is he? Wh - “Jack?” You called out, voice quiet and trembling. “J-jack?” One hand on the wall, you looked around, trying to calm your breathing. I have to -

“Mrs. Mason?” Spinning around at the sound of the new voice, your eyes widened as you saw the attendant, the woman blinking nervously as she inched toward you. “Is everything alright?” She held up a hand. “Where’s your robe, you’re in your -” “I need him. I…” You shook your head back and forth, realizing for the first time that you were crying, the tears running down your face. “I need my … I need Jack. I need him. I -” You were lightheaded, breaths coming out in short spurts as your fingers curled against the wall. “Where is he? I need him now, I -” There was another interruption to your speech as a door flew open, Jack stepping out into the hallway - fully clothed and completely dry. “Jack.” You reached for him with one hand and he stepped forward without speaking, both arms going around you to catch you as you crumpled to the floor, both knees giving out. 

“I got you.” You could feel the rapid beating of his heart, too, the way his arms tightened around you protectively. “Always got you.” As the two of you settled onto the floor, he didn’t loosen his hold on you, instead gently rocking you back and forth, your body still pressed to his chest. “My wife’s having a panic attack.” Is that what this is? You blinked, focused only on the way he smelled, the way you could feel his words rumbling through his chest; an accompaniment to the beating heart. “We just need a few minutes.”

The woman agreed, and even though you didn’t see it happen, you knew that she’d turned and walked away, leaving you two alone. He’s got me. I’m safe. I’m alive. I’m here. We’re here. He didn’t speak, but you felt his lips as they pressed against the top of your head and then your temple, one large hand stroking over your bare arm. It took a few minutes for you to find your voice, and at the words you spoke, you felt the panic rising again, though you pushed it down so that you could get them out, tilting your head to look up at the man and seeing nothing but concern and understanding in his eyes. “Jack?” He said your name, but then waited. “W… what happened after I fell into the fountain?” 

--- 

The woman was good with her hands - he’d give her that. Neither of the masseuses spoke much, aside  from reminding you that if you were uncomfortable, or wanted a different level of pressure, to speak up. She knows what she’s doin’. I’m gonna let her go. It was true that he’d never had a professional massage before, but Jack was no stranger to women having their hands on various parts of his body. 

Some of the women he’d been with had tried their luck with giving him a massage - moving the purely sexual encounters to something more personal, more intimate; one had even offered to rub his feet for him. There’d been times when Jack let them have at it - the careful movements usually leading to sex after Jack realized that he was too antsy to sit still and relax, even though he knew that it defeated the entire purpose. But not this. He groaned as the woman reached a particularly tense area of his lower back, and she paused at the sound, asking if he wanted her to decrease the pressure. “No. Keep goin’, please. It feels good.” Murmuring an agreement, the woman began working his skin again, and a few seconds later, you sighed, Jack’s eyes opening at the sound. 

He was facing you. Rather than facing the floor through the opening in the table, he’d opted to simply turn his head, and at the sight of you - eyes closed, the corners of your mouth turned up in a gentle smile, he couldn’t help smiling too, enjoying the sight of you at complete and total peace. Wonder if I could make her feel that good. He blinked slowly, finally closing his eyes again, but Jack didn’t stop thinking about your body - about how his hands would look moving over and gripping your skin, how your muscles would feel beneath his fingers. He wondered, too, if he’d be able to sit still for you, feeling your breath against his shoulders, maybe the press of your lips against the warm, reddened skin of his back and shoulders. Bet I could. I want to. 

As his thoughts ran together, Jack imagined the two of you in various situations - in his suite in Kentucky, his apartment in New York, at the lake where he camped - hands on each other, those massages leading to sex, too, but in a very different way and for a completely different reason. He hadn’t let himself think that way - or that seriously - about anything happening with you since St. Paul, and even though he knew it was dangerous to do so without you knowing everything, he couldn’t stop himself. Not after the ridge. Not after the conversation we just had. 

But an unfortunate side effect of thinking about you was Jack’s realization that those thoughts had resulted in his arousal - still manageable, but very quickly teetering on the edge of becoming a problem. Goddammit. He winced, rolling his eyes behind closed lids. It didn’t surprise him, but he knew that he’d have to calm himself down before moving from the massage room to the tanks. C’mon Daniels. Focusing on his breathing, Jack was interrupted a few moments later when your masseuse spoke, standing up and informing you that the session was over. Not enough time. 

Jack stayed motionless on his stomach though he thanked the woman as she stood up, too, explaining the steps necessary to move from that room to the tanks. Easy, Jack. Easy. But as soon as the door closed, you were telling him not to move, that you’d get up first - and he had no choice to agree. He sat up when you told him it was alright to do so, but didn’t speak, doing his damndest to keep the sheet bunched at his waist in an attempt to hide the bulge there. You noticed, though, and even though he was prepared to snap at you if it became necessary, you didn’t make it a big deal, instead turning it into another light moment, another example of why he cared about you so much. But that doesn’t mean it’s easy to be around her. 

He did like experiencing things like the massage and the zip lining with you. He didn’t even mind the forced conversation with others on the first night, or introducing you as his wife. Skipped lots of steps with that one. That was enough to remove the frown from his face, and as you hugged him, Jack’s mind drifted again. But this time, it wasn’t to pleasant thoughts about you or your hands and fingers, it was in response to your words. If she remembers in that tank, it’s gonna be bad. 

When he told you as much, he expected you to back away from him - putting space between the two of you at the assumption that he wanted you to stay in the dark. But you didn’t, instead rising onto your toes to kiss him, and with that movement, Jack let himself go. He wanted to kiss you - wanted to keep you in his arms for hours, wanted the feeling of his mouth against yours to be what jogged your memory. And even if it doesn’t, we both want this. So he kissed you hard, parting his lips and yours the way he’d wanted to for months, and when you didn’t push him away, instead deepening the kiss further and pressing your body to his as he held you, Jack stopped thinking and let himself enjoy the moment - the same way he had in the hotel room in St. Paul. 

By the time he’d urged you backwards so that you were against the table, Jack’s hands started wandering lower, the feeling of you through the robe doing nothing to help with his below the belt issues, but he didn’t care. 

You cried out, the man swallowing the sound as you made it, but that was what brought him back to the present - and to the reality of the situation. This isn’t a good idea. Not yet. Pulling away from you was one of the most difficult things he’d ever done, but Jack did it, calming himself by curling and uncurling his fingers at his sides as he watched you, the look of hurt in your eyes nearly crippling him. You’ve gotta do this. 

He was there for you - physically and emotionally, and even though he didn’t know what would happen when or if you remembered, he intended to keep that promise. She needs someone in her corner. Someone that actually cares. He didn’t regret what happened, didn’t regret the kiss you’d shared, and definitely didn’t regret giving you proof that he was physically attracted to you. The fact that you didn’t either was a relief, and as you collected your things and headed down the hallway to your second stop, Jack focused entirely on you.

It was the attendant’s job to tell both of you what to expect and how to behave when it came to using the float tanks, but Jack wasn’t listening - until she started talking about the tank security and the room doors. Because I might need to get to her. You were listening, though, and Jack gave you a reassuring smile when the woman was done. It’s gonna be fine. The kiss you gave him then was gentle and quick, but it made him smile nonetheless, and he realized that you’d managed to put him at ease again, even though it was you that needed to be worried. Of course she did. 

The two of you separated with a last look at each other, and once you’d shut your door behind you, Jack turned, nodded at the attendant and did the same with his door. He set his extra clothes down and paced the room for a few seconds, scratching the back of his head. You’re right next door. Nothing’s gonna happen. It wasn’t having you out of his sight that was the problem; it was that you were apart and doing something that would likely trigger at least partial memory recollection. “Shit.” He winced at the sound of his voice, but then Jack stopped moving, stood up straight, and took a deep breath. “I ain’t doin’ this shit.” 

He gave the float tank one long look, lip curled. It was true - the idea of being completely alone and isolated with his thoughts was unappealing on a good day. But the thought of being enclosed in the tank with nothing to look at or listen to made it even worse. He knew that he’d think of you, of what had happened to you, and that it would likely lead to thoughts of his wife, too. Somethin’ else I can’t change. He sighed, sinking to the ground with his back against the closed door and then lowered his face into his hands. At least I won’t be soakin’ wet while I’m thinking about all this bullshit.

--- 

He’d just gotten home from work and was placing his boots next to the door when he heard her voice, the lilting tone growing louder as she got closer. “Hey, honey. I’m heading to the grocery store. Forgot to get -” He looked up, a grin splitting his lips as he stood straight, holding his arms out. 

“Whatever you forgot can wait, pretty lady.” Leaning down, Jack kissed the woman on her cheek and then her mouth before crouching down to speak directly to her slightly rounded belly. “And you, little man, how’re you doing today?” She laughed, one hand rising to curve around the bump. 

“Same as always, Jack.” She sighed as he stood, eyes locking with hers. “Moving around a lot. Takes after his daddy.” She shrugged, reaching up to push hair away from his temple. “I’m gonna go. I can’t finish dinner without milk, and I need to fill up my car’s gas tank before work tomorrow and -” “Lemme go.” He reached up, tucking hair behind her ear. “Tell me what you need, and I’ll go get it. You can sit down and -” “Absolutely not.” She laughed, placing both hands on his cheeks. “I haven’t left this house in two days, I want to go.” He knew it wouldn’t do any good to argue with her, so he agreed, the woman urging his face down to meet hers, mouths pressed together for brief seconds. “Take a shower, baby. I’ll be back in twenty, and you can help us make dinner.” 

“Yeah.” She kissed him again, and Jack could taste the mouthwash she’d used before coming down the stairs. “Yeah, I can.” 

“Love you, Jack.” She breathed out the words, stepping away from him as his hands slid down hers, falling away when they reached her hands. 

“Love you, too.” He turned as she passed him and moved toward the door, following the woman and leaning against the doorframe, one arm raised above his head. “Both of you.” “We know.” She blew him a kiss as she unlocked her car door, pulling it open. “Be back soon.” 

When he got the call an hour later, Jack was nearly sick with worry, hair disheveled and jaw locked tight as he paced the living room. He didn’t remember driving to the hospital, didn’t remember speaking with the woman at the front desk, and didn’t remember riding the elevator up to the emergency operation waiting room. But what he did remember was the way that a middle aged woman in a white coat had pulled him off to the side, holding up a hand and glaring at two police officers as they stepped toward him. “Your wife was killed instantly, Mr. Daniels. She didn’t suffer. That’s not any consolation, but it’s the truth. And your … son? She paused, waiting for him to acknowledge the words. “We tried everything we could, Mr. Daniels. But by the time the ambulance had arrived, it was too late.”

He was dimly aware of the room filling with an anguished howl, but it wasn’t until he’d collapsed to the floor that Jack realized he was the one making the sound. 

--- 

His life had turned around - and even though there were still plenty of tough days, Jack was thankful that they were much less frequent than they had been. It hadn’t taken long for him to become adept at his new job; Statesman gave him a way to get out his frustration and all of the pent up rage in a constructive way. Better than the bar fights. 

He’d made senior agent after only a handful of years with the agency, and as part of that duty, Jack was responsible for starting the training with new recruit classes. It was early in the first week of the process, and Jack had already picked out a few of the newbies that wouldn’t make it, but he knew that you weren’t one of them. 

You’d aced your written tests, had great aim, and were skilled with your hands. Your smile was disarming, and when you spoke to people, they listened, which was necessary for success as an agent. Champ liked you, and so did Ginger, and Jack thought that you’d be made a member of the team with no issues. I hope so. She’d be good to work with. He liked working with new agents, liked watching them grow into their skills - and as he watched your group take their turn at the shooting range, he couldn’t keep the smile off of his face. 

You hit the center of the target 3 of 5 times, the other two shots not far from their goal, but he watched as you removed your headphones in frustration, turning away from the counter as you rubbed your eyes. Can’t hit every one of them. He moved quickly, intercepting you at the doorway that led to the hallway back to the main building, Jack calling your name out. “You’ve got good aim, recruit.” You bit your lip, looking at him head on. “I bet if I went in there right now, I’d miss at least one, too.” “Bullshit.” Your eyes were bright. ”That’s not what I’ve heard about you, Agent Whiskey.” You gestured to the area where the other recruits were still standing and firing. “You’re a legend around here. A deadshot.” He was surprised that you were speaking so freely to him, but he liked it, too. She’ll fit in here just fine. “You’d make all five shots dead center and then pull out your second gun with your weak hand and do the same.” 

“I was just tryin’ to give you a confidence boost.” He grinned, tilting his head to one side. “Most recruits would -” “I don’t need a confidence boost, Agent Whiskey. I need to get better.” You shrugged. “I know it’s just the first week here, but my uncle’s legacy is in my hands, and it doesn’t matter if you think telling me that my mistakes shouldn’t bother me will help. I’ve gotta make sure they don’t happen in the future.” You gestured to the space around you with one hand. “Might just be target practice right now, but if I make it? It’s not only my life on the line.” 

He heard the resolve in your tone, watched as you looked directly at him when you spoke, and knew that you meant the words you were saying. “You will get better. And I knew your uncle before he retired. If he’s trusting you enough to recommend you come here?” Jack winked at you, but there was no flirtation in the gesture, it was one of solidarity. “You’re gonna be fine.” 

“I hope so.” It was the first time he heard a waver in your voice, the confidence slipping for a moment. “And I know I’m being hard on myself, but … I want this.” You took a deep breath. “I want to be a Statesman Agent.” You will be. He stared at you for a few seconds, one hand rising so that he could touch his mustache, fingers running over it. But she doesn’t wanna hear that. 

“Then you better get back to shootin’ practice, recruit.” You grinned at him, giving him a single nod, but before you’d taken more than a few steps away, Jack called out again, using your real name. “What’d they come up with for code names for you?” During the recruitment process, it was common for multiple names to be proposed, and Jack hadn’t heard anyone use any of yours. 

“There are three.” You crossed your arms over your chest. “The first is one I will campaign against until I die.” Raising an eyebrow, he waited. “Everclear. My uncle told Champ about a family vacation incident and…” You trailed off as Jack laughed, filing the information away and vowing to get the full story out of you someday. “The other two aren’t bad. Malbec and Cider.” He agreed - both of those were preferable, and he hoped that when you became an agent, those were the two considered. “Nice to finally meet you, Agent Whiskey. Thank you for this.” 

“‘Course, recruit.” He raised two fingers to his brow and gave you a quick two-finger salute. “See you soon.” 

--- 

Your time with Jack in the hotel room had not only solidified his attraction to you, but also that when he was on an assignment with you, his behaviors would need to change as well. Gotta protect her. He knew you could handle yourself, but was still more mindful, attuned to the sounds of everything on the executive level as you worked the safe. He heard the quiet footsteps of multiple guards, but they weren’t coming any closer, and so he left you to what you were doing, one hand at his waist, finger itching to pull the trigger. 

He didn’t want a firefight but would engage in one if necessary - not only to get the intel and package out of the building, but to keep you safe. Gotta get back to that plane. You moved through the hallway silently and low to the ground, but it wasn’t enough, and Jack swore under his breath when you decided to split up, making the number of guards easier to deal with by separating them. It was a good plan, and he quickly took care of two of the three men that followed him with sneak attacks, coming up behind them and cutting their air supplies off for long enough to knock them out. With each, he made sure to rid them of their weapons and radios, ensuring that when they woke, they’d be defenseless and unable to contact their backup. Buyin’ us more time. 

That wasn’t enough, he realized by the time the two of you had met and were hastily making your way down the staircase to a lower - and hopefully safer - level. You’d kissed him again for luck, giving Ginger and Champ something to endlessly chide him over, but he didn’t care, the press of your lips against his reigniting his resolve to get the two of you safely out of the place. He would have killed them all if necessary - taking them out with precision and without a second thought,  but you’d held your own as one man advanced on you, and the two of you had evaded the others - until that point. 

He didn’t care what his training taught him - what the Statesman required of him in tense situations - he wouldn’t leave you behind, He wouldn’t put you at risk to save his own ass, and the fact that you’d told him you wouldn’t leave him either had warmed him from head to toe. She means it. Could mean her getting hurt, and she means it. Even in the midst of the danger, he found himself making a joke with you, the words tumbling from his lips before he could stop them even though he knew that it wasn’t the right time or place. Anything to make this less of a shit show. 

It didn’t help, though, as you circled the open hallway, searching for the remaining guards. The building was mostly silent, and so were the other men, Jack’s entire body on alert - yours too, if your posture was any indication. But your steps didn’t falter, even as you tried to rationalize where the enemies were, or when the gunfire started again, Jack twisting his body in front of yours to block you from fire. She’s the perfect one to be here with. Calm. Cool. Collected. She’s groundin’ me, too. But his heart nearly stopped in his chest when he saw that you’d been grabbed, one arm around your waist and the other tightly against your neck. 

--- 

Jack snapped out of his thoughts as he heard a door bang against a wall, sitting up straight and listening for further noises. Someone was just a little too rough. But only a few seconds later, he heard the sound of the attendant speaking, along with your voice. He thought he heard his name, but it wasn’t until you began to speak louder, talking about how you needed him that he flung the door open, heart racing - and then shattering as he saw the look in your eyes and your tear-stained cheeks. Fuck. 

He caught you as you collapsed, his strong arms encircling your entire body as he lowered the two of you to the floor, you clinging to him. “I got you. Always got you.” Where the fuck do we go from here? He spoke to the attendant, telling her what was happening, and Jack could feel your tears and the moisture from the tank dampening his shirt and pants, a warm space at the center of his chest that spread by the moment. Need to calm her down and get her back to the room. Kissing the top of your head and then the side of your face, he rocked back and forth slowly with you, but didn’t say anything, wanting to wait and see what you needed from him. You might be shit at this usually, Daniels. But that cannot be the case here. 

When you met his eyes again, he saw that some of the panic was missing from them, but he heard the shuddering breath you let out as you stared at him, saw your lower lip quivering. “Jack?” You sounded unsure, but continued after a few moments. “W… what happened after I fell into the fountain?” You remembered - and if you remembered that, you likely remembered what had led up to it, which meant that you understood how close you’d come to death. 

He whispered your name again, slowly lowering his face toward yours so that he could kiss you on the forehead, letting his lips linger. “We shouldn’t talk about that right here.” You flinched, but he continued, opening his eyes again and waiting until you were looking at him. “I wanna tell you everything, but I’m not doin’ it while we’re sitting on this floor.” After a few seconds, you gasped and then looked down, almost like you were just realizing that you’d left the room in only your bathing suit. “Can you make it back to the room? Are you -” “I can.” He heard the resolve creeping back in - the same way he had on that first day of talking to you at the gun range, and Jack slowly eased you off of his lap and stood, though he never let go of you, pulling you to your feet. “I’ll get dressed and -” “Just get your robe. I’ll tell that lady to send all of our stuff up to the room in a little while.” Cautiously, he reached up, hand curving to cover your cheek. “I’m right here, Agent.” You nodded, closing your eyes briefly before disappearing back into the room. He waited in the hall for you, running a hand through his hair, but then you stepped out a few seconds later, shoes on your feet and the robe tied tightly around your waist. He took your hand, squeezing it tightly, and then the two you walked back toward the front desk, Jack giving the woman his instructions before you stepped out of the spa and back into the more crowded part of the resort. 

Neither of you said a word as you made it through the building and back to your room, but the grip you kept on his hand was vice-like, though you weren’t hurting him. She just wants to know I’m here. “Can I change out of this?” You gestured to your outfit with one hand, eyes downcast. “I don’t want to sit on anything and get it wet.” “Of course. Whatever you need.” He squeezed your fingers and then pulled his free, taking a few steps back. “I’ll be right here when you come out.” You took in another deep breath but then bent over your suitcase, pulling out different clothes and heading for the bathroom, only shutting the door partially behind you. He wished that he knew what you were thinking, knew what you wanted to ask him - what you were going to say, but your question in the hallway had told him enough. While Jack waited, he contemplated texting Ginger or Champ, but knew that if either of them had wanted to interrupt or instruct him on what to say next - or what he was allowed to say, they already would have. This is all me. All us. 

He scrubbed a hand over his face and kept waiting, but when he heard your quiet footsteps a few minutes later, he immediately looked up, squaring his shoulders. You looked slightly calmer, but he knew it was just a cover - he’d spent enough time around you to know when you were pretending, and he hoped that as the two of you talked things over, you’d relax for real. She’s either gonna relax, or she’s gonna hate me. “So… Jack.” He watched your throat work as you swallowed, arms crossed tightly over your body. “I was hurt pretty bad, wasn’t I.” 

“You were.” He waited for your nod, and when you gave it, he continued. “I was terrified.” That was the truth, and he needed you to know it. “Shoulda been an easy out, but we … got crossed up, and then that guy grabbed you, and…” “And I fell twenty five feet.” You closed your eyes. “Less, actually, because you caught me for a few seconds.” She remembers. “What happened, Jack? You obviously saved me, but …” 

“I gave you Beta tech. Shot it into your knee.” He glanced down and then back up. “So that’s probably why that’s been sore.” He cleared his throat. “Knocked your head pretty good, but the Alpha wouldn’t have done any good for the rest of your body, so I… went with the Beta.” Nodding slowly, you crossed the room and sat next to him, reaching over to lace your fingers with his. Alright. Alright, this is … good. 

“But what happened next, Jack? How’d … how’d you get us out of there? There were still -” “I killed em. Every single one of ‘em.” Your head whipped toward him, mouth dropping open, and Jack felt his mustache twitch as he locked his jaw. “I did what I had to do to get you home safe.” 

--- 

He lowered his guns; an action he’d never taken before when faced with an enemy so closely. And then Jack did something that he hadn’t done in nearly twenty years: he attempted to bargain. Tried to bargain for my wife. Tried to do it for the kid. Now I’m doin’ it for you. He did everything he could to make himself appear non-threatening, like he was only focused on getting you back, but Jack was mentally running through every option he had, even as you began to speak, telling him that he needed to just shoot, to end it, to get himself out of there, to get past the others that you couldn’t see. Even when she’s captive, she’s still trying to help me. 

But that all changed when you really began to talk, the man holding you tightening his grip, you struggling in his arms uselessly. I gotta shoot him. He’s gonna hurt her. Jack raised one gun just enough to get off a shot, but before he could pull the trigger, the man shoved you, and he watched from ten feet away as you stumbled toward the edge of the walkway. The glass will stop her, she’s fine. But he saw - too late - that the glass panel next to you was shattered, leaving a wide open space. Oh, fuck no. 

He aimed and pulled the trigger as his eyes left the man and returned to you. In the span of only seconds, you were teetering on the edge, arms held out and flailing as you tried to grab the remaining glass, even though the edges were jagged. Please. Please. He reached for you with one hand as the other moved for his lasso on instinct, and before he knew what he was doing, he was swinging the rope at you, aiming for your arm. It caught and he breathed a sigh of relief, but at the sharp tug, he heard you yelp, the rope slipping between his fingers for a few inches. 

He peered over the edge at you as you dangled in the air, trying to get a better hold on the lasso as you did the same with the end wrapped around your injured arm. Gonna pull you up. Gonna get you outta here. “I’ve got you. Gonna get you -” He swore at the sound of more gunfire, the rope slipping again, and then heard you say his name, the same resigned sound in it that he’d heard when you told him that you needed to get ready earlier. She made up her mind. You had roughly twenty feet to fall, and even as you repeated the promise he’d made to you earlier, he felt his heart breaking in his chest - certain that no matter what happened, you’d end up very hurt. Hurt’s better than dead. 

“Don’t watch.” You were scared - he knew it, but you still loosened your hold on the end of the lasso, letting it slip from your hand and off of your arm, giving him one last look and then turning your head to look below you. He saw you hit - foot first, watched the way your leg crumbled beneath you, body listing to one side and then slamming into the bottom of the fountain as you screamed, followed by the bounce of your head as it connected, too. Gotta get to her. 

He ignored the gunfire as he broke for the escalators, not caring whether or not anyone could track his movements, and when he reached the bottom level, he only paused long enough to raise his gun again to shoot the man that stepped in front of him, a small weapon aimed at Jack’s midsection. “Get the fuck out of my way.” The man fell to the ground, red blooming from the wound, and Jack continued the journey across  the main floor and toward the fountain where you were laying, coughing weakly. He hopped over the low wall without breaking stride, planting his feet in the pink-tinted water on either side of your body before crouching down, slowly and carefully rolling you onto your back and using his free hand to hold your head upright, keeping you from continuing to breathe in water. “I got you. I’m here. I’m here.” He was murmuring words even as his eyes moved over the lower level, and while he knew that he was exposed in the moment, he didn’t care. Not about me. Not now. 

“J..Jack.” You nearly moaned his name, the word gurgling out, and Jack couldn’t imagine how much pain you had to be in, wincing at the thought. Soon. It’ll be ok. Soon. “Can’t… breathe.” He didn’t know how injured you truly were, but before he could do anything to help you, he needed to take out the other guards, giving him time. “Can’t…” You trailed off, and with a quick glance down, he saw that your mouth had gone slack, the blood slowly trickling from one side of it. He angled your face to the side just enough to keep it elevated, but ensuring that you weren’t going to choke on your own blood while he took care of business. 

There was movement to his right, and Jack fired on instinct, a quiet yelp followed by a thud reaching his ears. That it? He was breathing hard, and he finally looked down at you, assessing the situation. Alpha gel won’t work. Need the Beta tech. Adjusting his feet to give himself better balance, Jack stuck the gun in one pocket and then twisted that arm around to unzip the side pouch on his pack, fingers closing around the cylindrical equipment. Just gotta get this in. Just have to - 

“Don’t move.” He froze at the sound, finally looking back up and seeing that there was a man standing just beyond the fountain, a gun trained on the two of you. “You won’t get a shot off.” The man sounded bored, and Jack swallowed hard, tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. “Let her head go.” She’ll drown. “Now.” The gun lowered, pointed at you. “Right now.” Shit. He did as the man asked, your head immediately lolling to the side, part of your mouth and nose again submerged. “Stand up. Slow.” 

Gritting his teeth, Jack did as the man asked, not moving his feet as he straightened up, still protectively standing over your body. “Your tech is in my bag. You can have it, just let me make sure she doesn’t -” “Oh, she’s going to drown.” The gun wavered, barrel glinting in the light from the fountain. “And you’re going to stand there and watch.” Like hell I am. Jack’s lip curled as the man advanced, stepping up onto the edge of the fountain. “And then you’re going to -” There was a noise from above and Jack realized that it was likely one of the men that you’d subdued, waking up. Fucking perfect. The man in front of him briefly looked up, attention pulled by the sound, and Jack moved, hand reaching for the back up gun and firing directly into the man’s chest. One down. He stepped backwards just enough to get a view of the above floors, and Jack saw the source of the distraction, once again lifting the gun and firing, the man toppling over the railing and hitting the ground with a loud, sickening crack. There were others to take care of, but Jack figured they could wait, dropping the gun into the water of the fountain and grasping the Beta device with one hand, falling back to his knees above you with a quiet splash as he placed the cylinder near your knee, using his other hand to tilt your face upward. “I don’t know if you can hear me, Agent.” He took a deep breath, thumb hovering over the button on the top of the device. “But as soon as I do this, you won’t feel a goddamn thing. You’re gonna be ok.” 

He pushed the activator, feeling your shattered leg jolt beneath him, and then you gasped for air, the man dropping the spent container and finally standing up, repositioning himself so that he could bend over to gently scoop you up. You were boneless but not deadweight, and it only took a few steps until he was able to place you onto the floor, checking to make sure that you were breathing properly before he stood up once more, a snarl on his face. Gonna find all of ‘em. He reached into his pocket, calmly pulling out the remaining gun and using his other hand to release the cylinder and clear the spent cartridges. Gonna kill every single one of ‘em. He loaded the weapon slowly and methodically, eyes never leaving you. “And then I’m gonna get you home, Agent.” 

---

Buried/ Jack Daniels Taglist (ask to be added or add yourself here)

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[hawkland]

(Mostly) Destiel Fic Recs #5

This is a LONG recs post because it’s been a while since I did an update and I fell hard into reading one author’s work (DeanRH). In fact I could easily do a rec post just of their fics alone, but for this round I’m just going to pick out a handful of my absolute favorites so far, the ones I’d recommend to start out with, along with more other authors’ works I’ve especially enjoyed lately.

Absolution at the Five-and-Dime by DeanRH (125k)  - this is perhaps THEE DeanRH fic to start with if you want a good, long read with a little bit of everything (Roadtrips! Intriguing casefic! Americana! Tasty Dean/Cas pining! Wing!kink and unique angel lore! Kinky soul fisting and tentacles!) It’s kind of two of parallel stories in one: the first, a flashback to Dean and Sam's first year hunting on their own (as well as trying to avoid hunting, and John in general); the second on how Dean and Cas finally get together during an unusual case and when Dean is able to really let go of his past trauma and accept himself/accept love from Cas. 

What I love about DeanRH’s work is that they write from the unique point of view of a drifter, so they understand living on the road, traveling place to place, and the highs and lows of that life like no others I’ve encountered in SPN before. (The author’s notes are often as much fun to read as the stories themselves). They also write a kickass angel!Cas and never lose sight of his non-human traits and background. Their writing style is unique - almost poetic in nature, and I know some readers have found it difficult to get into. But it works really well for me in their SPN fic...gives it the flavor of oral story telling as might actually happen at a drifter’s camp (with one story written exactly as such). Be warned this particular fic does play up the idea of John Winchester being mentally abusive and Dean having to turn tricks when he was younger in order to support him and Sam, so there is some dark stuff. But as someone who grew up with mentally abusive parent, reading this was extremely cathartic to me and believably written (unlike some stories that go too over the top with abusive John, or just don't understand how that kind of abuse leaves lifetime psychological scars.)

The rest of this round’s recs below the cut.

Carnevale by DeanRH (18k) - Actually the first fic by this author I read, because I just couldn’t resist a story set in my favorite place in the world, Venice, Italy. Castiel is the Angel of Venice, banished there for so long he does not even know or remember the reasons why. But Carnevale season is the one time a year he can let his wings out - figuratively and literally. And during this particular Carnevale season, he meets an intriguing masked young American tourist there with his brother and their one night stand turns into something far more powerful than either expected. This one’s hot, romantic, and achingly sad at the end as it all ties together unexpectedly with canon-verse...though with a hint for the future so it’s definitely not totally sad. I loved how DeanRH clearly understands Venice as a fellow lover of the city, the side of it most tourists never see unless they spend a long time there. This story made me cry just from wanting to be back in Venice again.

Ice cream was sweeter, food more satisfying, everything was an epicurean delight. There was just something magical about Venice, and he had lived here in the city for hundreds of years, so the shine should have worn off by now.

But it didn't, and there was always something more, something wonderful to discover around the next corner. The painted eaves of a church. The beauty of two women dancing with flowers in their teeth across the Piazza San Marco one day, overcome by the sheer joy of just being there. The way the university students still created Venetian masks, like Castiel's extravagant volto mask and Dean's humble servetta muta, with crafts that had been handed down across the generations. The morning silence that lay against the stones.

Hard Landing by DeanRH (26.9k) - A bit similar in theme to Carnevale. A pre-series Dean and Sam are sight-seeing in Spain when an angel, struck by a babel-spell, crash lands right in front of Dean. A strange yet seriously hot encounter with the angel turns into something much more complicated when the brothers return home and realize something more serious is afoot and they are both trapped in the middle of it. This is another story where things are very much not as they seem at first (as fun as that is!) It features master strategist Cas at his best, with a side helping of delightful trickery care of Gabriel and Balthazar as they deal with Lucifer, Michael...and a few others along the way.

The Sacred Band of Thebes by DeanRH (14.5k) - The last DeanRH fic I’m gonna allow myself to include in this round up, because it’s just very soft and sweet and beautiful - for a story about Dean & Cas being magically transported back in time to ancient Sparta! This is another story infused with a great knowledge of place and history, with some wonderfully delightful original characters added in that make it all the more enjoyable to read.

And now on to some other authors, I promise!

IPAMIS OL OLPRIT by emmbrancsxx0 (56k). A really wonderful fic that take a different look at what might have happened with a temporarily resurrected John Winchester during Season 14. Dean & Cas are in an established relationship here, and John here isn’t too happy about it — though mostly because he sees Cas (and Jack) as monsters, the kind of monsters he spent his lifetime hunting. This is a great fic for the emotional complexity of how John, Dean and Cas are all handled. John isn’t a cardboard evil dad, Dean is struggling between his loyalty to his father and to Cas, and Cas is increasingly bitchy/frustrated at Dean still being so desperate for his father’s approval (and all the more complex for not just being a quietly suffering perfect supporting boyfriend.) There’s some great action sequences in this too along with the emotional angst and a delicious dose of hurt!Cas if that’s your thing (as it is for me :D)

Abrenuntio by Neonbat (51k). A very dark but compelling AU take on the/a apocalypse universe. Dean, Sam and John are all alive in this post-angel war-apocalyptic world. They are part of a group of human survivors fighting against the angel army when they manage to capture “Blue” — a particularly feared angel of death. Dean is tasked with bringing Blue in for interrogation and he becomes a prisoner in their camp after John is killed. As mentioned, this is a pretty dark/sad fic (with some rather gruesome torture scenes) but I still found it quite compelling as a look at how things could have gone in some other parallel universe. And somehow the author manages to make the Dean/Cas relationship come together despite them starting out as complete enemies. This is one of those AUs that works for me because the core of the characters really shine through despite the differences in the setting.

if it all fell to pieces tomorrow by spocklee (37k) - a gorgeous post-Empty rescue fic that takes an approach I haven’t really seen explored in detail before (despite being something I’ve actually thought about as something that could’ve happened.) What if Cas has spent so long denying himself happiness, and then trapped in regrets and false-rescue scenarios created by the Empty, that he can’t trust that his rescue is real? And so he runs off to be on his own - literally stealing the Impala because he can’t handle being in Dean’s presence one moment longer - and only slowly comes to terms with the idea that it’s over now and he can be happy with/around his friends and family. This one’s both deliciously angsty and at times funny/sweet, looking at Cas’s relationships not just with Dean but with Sam, Jack, Claire, even Eileen. It does some fun stuff with other returned angels and demons who now find themselves back on Earth (and human), and...I just really enjoyed this one a lot.

Both Saved and Lost by angelfishofthelord (13.7k) Gen Cas character study, absolutely gorgeous and sad and one of those fic I couldn’t stop thinking about the day after reading it. AU where Apocaverse!Cas isn’t immediately killed by our Cas during 13x22 but instead hitches a ride back to the main ‘verse. Dean and Sam want to keep him alive for information on Michael; Cas is torn and trying to figure out just how similar—or different—they really are. Some great angel stuff here (I also highly recommend this author’s Jack & Cas “dadstiel” fics, they’re equally lovely and heartbreaking at the same time.)

flesh of the mighty by Mudprophet (2.7k) - THEE “What exactly did Dean eat in Purgatory, anyway?” fic you’ve probably already heard about. *cough* I’ve been trying to work up the courage to read this one for a while and finally gave in and OH MY CHUCK I’m so glad I did. It’s perversely disturbing and beautiful at the same time, Cas is wonderfully DERANGED and ALIEN in that way that I love it when fics managed to convey just how much angels are NOT human. Do heed the tags.

Full of Grace by ilovehowyouletmefall (11k) - Another one for the weird-as-fuck-angel!Cas lovers’ list. Heaven/canon-compliant fic where Dean knows he should feel happy and at peace but he just...isn’t, even with Cas and all of his friends and family there. He finally goes looking for Cas when he’s been absent for a time and, for the first time, gets to not just see but experience his true form. Another one that hits some kinks I knew I had and others I didn’t...until now. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

don't ask me where i've been by saltwound / @1x06 (8k) - I can never resist a good 09x06 fiction gap fic! What makes this one really stand out is how well it captures Cas’s internal voice - his struggles adapting to human senses, limitations and emotions versus what/how he experienced things as an angel. The longing and feelings between Dean & Cas here are so achingly beautiful and I just wanted to cry when Cas says he misses hearing Dean’s prayers, so Dean, he...oh, I’m not going to spoil it. *happy sigh* Just read it.

this room is wrong by DarkHeartInTheSky (12k) - Sometimes I like torturing myself with some good 15x03 divorce arc angst and this fic hit that button just so. It’s an alternative take on where Cas might have ended up after leaving the bunker and features some great Cas & Sam friendship feels, when Sam sets out to try to bring Cas home. It’s all the stuff you’d wish the writers would’ve let them talk out in canon.

Well that’s more than enough for this round! Go forth, read and give some great writers some kudos & comment love!

[sourstars]

to walk into sunlight

Shinsou, like everyone else, doesn’t know everything, but as he’s next to you in the darkness of your shared bedroom, he finds he does know a few things, and that they’re the most important things of all.

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AUTHOR’S NOTE: hadestown is a masterpiece, and and here’s why; hermes saying “see, someone’s got to tell the tale, whether or not it turns out well, maybe it will turn out this time” and “we’re gonna sing it anyway” and eurydice saying “i don’t wanna go back to that lonely life” and “i don’t know how or why, or who am i that i should get to hold you, but when i saw you all alone against the sky it’s like i’d known you all along” and orpheus’ “i knew you before we met and i don’t even even know you yet, all i know is you’re someone i have always known” and that is all i will say on love, destiny, and divine intervention

EDIT: thank you to @k-atsukidayo for beta reading this!!🤍

WORD COUNT: 0.8K

WARNINGS: fluff, self doubt, but maybe the tiniest bit of angst underneath?

PAIRING: Shinsou Hitoshi x gn!reader

↳ ESTABLISHED RELATIONSHIP, SLICE OF LIFE ↲

There is so much time in the world, that even if Shinsou was immortal, he wouldn’t know what to do with it.

He sighs as he lays with you, the lull of sleep still passing through him as the dawn peeks through his window curtains, the pads of his fingers gently massaging your scalp while your breathing echoes his.

Flashes of his dream pass him by, his hesitant hand reaching for another, fingers centimeters apart, and then he doesn’t take it, his own palm turning away from the other, and the ache is what awoke him.

It’s been five years down the line and he hopes it’s not a mistake you two have met. The heavy snow of that night felt like divine intervention and when he watched you stumble upon the strays, both the small animal and the boy, he wondered if it was truly meant to happen.

Shinsou knows he is a wanderer, the lands of feeling like he belongs are foreign to him, but when you bump into him like a traveling merchant selling kindness, brandishing gold bracelets saying you are not evil and you are worth more than what they have made you on each wrist, he finds that a life of uncertainty, a life mixed with change is not completely scary, not when it’s with you.

So he searches for your heartbeat, and when his rhythm melds with yours, he feels it; the flow to a song never forgotten, a harmony to his hum, and he swears your souls tangle into one another as if yearning, as if all of your atoms are saying what I was created from, whatever it is, leads me to you.

Do soulmates exist? he thinks, and he glances at the stars, They must, because if not, then what is the universe’s name for you?

He lets himself just exist with you, eyes flitting all over your face, from your lashes to the scrunch of your brows as you snuggle impossibly closer, and it’s then that your hand searches for his.

He caves in fast, his fingers finding yours, and every inhale of his turns into a wisp of I will love you until the stars die and every exhale is the continuation; and I will love you even after.

But even as he wants this moment will last forever, Shinsou still heeds the truth. There is so much time in the world, but so little of it in a human life, and he mindlessly kisses your cheek, tracing shapes onto your skin with his free hand as he wonders what he’ll be able to accomplish with what he was given.

He knows what the vast darkness the universe will one day succumb to; the thick, stark, but empty and quiet lack of something. He knows of the spots where the stars live now, hung in the sky like lace made of diamonds, and how one day it will change from where they live to where they once resided, but as daunting as it is, the ache in his bones is not from fear, but rather the courage pleading to reach his heart.

He is the Orpheus to your Eurydice, and while he is still walking through the tunnel, he vows bravery into each of his steps, and he believes that you are behind him, ready to walk into sunlight with him once more.

There’s love here, he thinks, There’s love here with you.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been laying there, but it’s long enough to have the sun begin to fully bask you in a warm glow and for a minute all he does is watch you rest, all comfortable and inexplicably beautiful, and he realizes he doesn’t really know many things, but he does know a couple, and that’s enough.

Whatever the future may bring, he can see the light at the end of the tunnel, and it’s so, so close. He can feel the warmth of life reaching for him, for both of you, and as he glances at his coat draped over the side of the bed frame, he thinks of the ring hidden inside, and he smiles, knowing he will push on.

Shinsou slowly begins to detach himself from you, one arm reaching into his coat pocket, and as the soft velvet box touches his fingers, he takes one more minute to think of the life you will lead together, and then, ten more seconds to act on it.

One day, the universe will fade away, the earth’s story will end, and so will his, but until then, he’s got all the time in the world, and when he looks at you, he knows exactly how he’ll spend it.

I will love you until the stars die,

and I will love you even after.

The biography of his stardust is written in his palms, and maybe the fear or doubt will never go away, but it doesn’t matter, because as he works up the nerve to wake you and ask the question, all he can think of is one thing.

I am yours, I am yours,

And how it has always been enough.

I have always been yours.

reblogs are appreciated!!

[tlbodine]

The Great Content Warning Debate

Horror Twitter has been aflame for a few days now with heated discourse about trigger/content warnings, and I keep seeing the same arguments and questions and points come up repeatedly so I wanted to collect all of it into one place because I feel like discourse can only get so far if people keep reinventing the wheel -- so perhaps having the full discussion laid out in one place could be helpful.

Of course, the folks arguing probably won’t see this post, but perhaps there can be some benefit from talking about it anyway. This is intended to be more of an overview of arguments and counter-arguments, collected and displayed as impartially as possible, but of course my own opinions are going to leak in and color some of this. 

NOTE: This is written specifically from the perspective of the horror book community, a genre that traditionally is associated with troubling, transgressive, risk-taking and shocking works. There are discussions to be had for content labels on other types of fiction, but as I’m unfamiliar with the norms and expectations of, say, romance, I’m not going to wade too deeply into that here. 

So without further ado, the arguments and counter-arguments and discussion points that I keep seeing hashed and rehashed and circled around when the issue of trigger warnings comes up! 

If you’re sensitive, you shouldn’t be reading horror 

“Horror is supposed to be horrifying! It’s not fluffy bunnies and kittens! You’re supposed to be made uncomfortable!” 

There are a few problems with this: 

“Uncomfortable” is not the same as “Sent into a panic attack/flashback/relapse” (ie, triggered) 

People with PTSD and other issues can and do engage with horror all the time and often love the genre for entertainment or therapeutic purposes

Many people are fine with some types of content but not others; blood and guts won’t affect them the same as rape, or they’re fine with adults dying but can’t handle child death, and so on and so forth 

Knowing what you’re getting into can help you prepare/brace yourself so you’re not taken unaware; people with the right warnings can mentally prepare themselves and enjoy a book that they would not have been able to read if they were confronted with it unexpectedly

Trigger warnings are censorship 

Some folks have an implicit/kneejerk reaction that “trigger = bad thing” and respond to the request to put warnings on a book as a moral value judgment on the book’s contents. I can see why they might fear that, especially because at a glance it’s easy to conflate the groups asking for warnings with the groups who say things like “if your characters have underage sex then you the writer are literally a pedophile.” But by and large the folks asking for warnings do not seem to be asking for folks to stop writing certain difficult themes, only to provide a heads up for readers about the type of experience those readers can expect from the book. 

There is an argument to be made that warnings could affect the sales of a book, in much the same way that an NC-17 film doesn’t get the same distribution opportunities as an R-rated or PG-13 film, and that authors/publishers will make marketing decisions to include or exclude certain types of content in order to avoid this. 

Trigger warnings will spoil the book 

While some readers will benefit from content warnings, others might have their reading experience ruined by knowing about major twists. This seems especially relevant with a warning like “child death.” It’s very important that people who have, for example, recently lost a child not be unexpectedly re-traumatized by reading about a child dying without warning. But it’s also important that people who want to enjoy the full, shocking impact of such a scene have the opportunity to do so without having it dulled by forewarning. 

Any kind of warning system needs to be opt-in for a reader. Some suggestions include: 

Placing warnings at the end of a book, where readers can flip to that page to look (not helpful if you’re ordering online) 

Placing warnings on the author’s website, where readers can search (not helpful if you’re buying in person)

Given the limitations, a combination of those strategies seems to make sense. It may also be unfortunately true that someone looking for one type of warning (ie, rape) will have their experience ruined if they spoiler themselves for another warning (child death). This may be unavoidable collateral damage. 

Authors/Publishers should be responsible for putting warnings in their books

There seems to be some debate over whether the onus of responsibility for providing warnings rests on the author or the publisher. It should be acknowledged that authors may not always have the power to make this choice -- and if the presence or absence of warnings becomes a factor for judging the quality/moral fiber of authors, those authors could be punished by the reader community for a choice that was largely out of their hands (although, there’s still nothing keeping the author from hosting those warnings externally - how successfully that is implemented is another matter). 

Additionally, the demand for warnings will be placed more consistently on small presses simply because those presses are more likely to heed the request. This could create a double standard where readers might be more forgiving of large pub works that forego warnings because there’s no expectation that they would have implemented them anyway. On the other hand, this could be a way for indie publishers to differentiate themselves on the market and appeal more to certain subsets of readers. 

External groups or communities should be responsible for warnings

There’s a line of reasoning that an author or publisher may not be sensitive to the potentially triggering/damaging things in their work, and some kind of external governing body should manage this work instead. This does sound a lot more like the censorship argument that people are worried about. 

Wiki-style sites and places where people can freely tag books (such as Storygraph) also fit this bill to an extent. They would presumably have less power over the market than a ratings board like the MPAA, but could still exert influence over how a book is received. 

Demanding warnings will negatively impact marginalized authors 

We’re already seeing some evidence that BIPOC and LGBTQ authors are affected more by user-generated trigger warnings on sites like Storygraph, and that these warnings can be weaponized against marginalized authors. Much like review-bombing a book before it comes out can affect its launch, labeling a book with inaccurate trigger warnings could damage its sales. 

Similarly, lists of “safe” and “unsafe” authors have already begun to circulate among some groups, and there seems to be a disproportionate number of marginalized creators on that “unsafe” list -- at least according to the anecdotal reports I’ve seen. 

Historically, it is true that any attempts at censorship or content moderation will be more harshly applied to marginalized groups (see: film ratings for gay sex vs straight sex). 

It’s impossible to warn for everything

One hesitancy that some authors have with tagging their work is they’re not sure what to tag for. Triggers are highly personal, and there’s no way you can possibly guess what might upset a reader. 

Here’s a list of commonly agreed-upon things that might make sense to tag for in a given work: 

Violence/gore 

Suicide/self-harm

Rape/sexual assault

Domestic violence

Child death/endangerment

Animal death/abuse

Drug use/substance abuse 

Racism/slurs 

That said, it’s still difficult to account for context. At what stage do you warn for something? If a character is drinking a beer, do you need to tag for that? Do you distinguish between the tone things are written in, such as being played for laughs vs seriously? If the rape scene is written artistically/metaphorically, does the same warning apply as if it were described act-by-act in a clinical sense? What if your blanket list of warnings gives readers a false sense of what the book will be like -- is it actually helpful at all, or is it just posturing/virtue signaling to include warnings that won’t actually be effective?  

Some would argue that this is dramatically overthinking it, but this does seem to cause a great deal of distress to authors who want to do the right thing but worry about getting it wrong. An argument could be made that trying and failing might be worse than doing nothing, especially if your attempts get you labeled as a “trustworthy” or “safe” author only for that trust to be “betrayed” by a warning you used incorrectly. 

On the other hand, many would argue that we all “pretty much know” what needs to be warned for, and that warnings are intuitive. These granular questions could be viewed as a distraction from more common sense issues. 

Readers are responsible for managing their own safety

Ultimately, because it’s impossible for every potential trigger to be identified and warned for, readers will need to remain vigilant. Of course, there are already ways to identify the content of a book without any kind of established warning system -- such as, for example, reading posted book reviews, asking a question on a book’s Goodreads page, reaching out to the author directly, asking about the book in a reading group online or having a friend/parent/spouse/trusted person read the book first and report back with their findings. 

This is the system we’ve pretty much used as readers for years, before “trigger warning” became part of the common vernacular, and it does have some distinct advantages just because you can get a lot more specific information this way. 

It is possible that if warnings become more commonplace for books that readers may become less vigilant about their own safety, which could paradoxically put them at greater risk of finding troubling content unexpectedly. 

There’s also the issue of “safe” and “unsafe” author lists. At the moment, while the discourse is hot, it’s perhaps more natural to pick sides and disregard some authors for reasons that may be unfair -- for example, marking an author as unsafe or boycotting her work because she doesn’t want to include warnings, but she wants to avoid warnings because she strongly believes they will be detrimental to a reader’s safety. A reader may or may not agree with that perspective, but it’s certainly not the same motive as an author who would do something actively malicious to a reader (like, idk, emailing a screamer to a reviewer or something. that’s a made up example.) 

In the end, trigger warnings are a good idea, but the issue is complex to implement and some people do still have reservations about their overall efficacy. 

We simply won’t know one way or another until we try to implement it. But in the meantime, I do think it’s valuable to continue talking about this, as long as everyone involved remains civil and engages in good faith. Once people’s perspectives start getting thrown out the window in the heat of the moment, or strawmen arguments are erected that don’t reflect what anyone involved actually believes, the discussion ceases to be helpful. 

[arigatouiris]

the fool’s curse // akutagawa ryunosuke x reader

Author’s Note: I absolutely adore Akutagawa and think he deserves the world; and I can definitely see him as being soft with someone he has feelings for and whoop why not give his coughing a reason anyway lmao. Hope you enjoy!

Word count: 8k+

Pairing: Akutagawa Ryunosuke x Reader

Summary: ［Ａｋｕｔａｇａｗａ ｘ Ｒｅａｄｅｒ］: Akutagawa wasn't someone who hoped, he chased after what he believed he deserved, like a dog chasing after cars. Futility was part of existence, after all, and it was a fact he believed he had accepted. Every part of your existence was a bane to his, and he was cursed to have even met you. Love was nothing but a fool's curse, and Akutagawa hated being one. Especially when it was physically killing him in the form of lilac petals infused with blood. [Hanahaki AU]

Warnings: angst to fluff, soft aku, mentions of blood, swearing (because Aku ofc), softness, tooth-rotting fluff, some angst if you squint (Also Chuuya makes an appeareance bc I love that shrimp mafioso)

If Akutagawa could place together pieces of why he was aggravated by your very presence, it wouldn’t have led him to where he currently was. Avoiding your gaze, coughs multiplied by numerous ramifications, hands shaking, forehead breaking out into a sweat—he had never felt more obscenely weak than sitting before you on his bed, having your keen gaze observe his frail body. Numbness coursed through his veins and never before had he wished to disappear more than right then; it was suffocating to sit in front of you while you wordlessly judged him, deemed him moronic in that pretty little head of yours. He stilled momentarily before slapping himself internally; you were no such person. You wouldn’t judge another. The entire reason for his predicament right then was simply because of how perfect you were.

    And no perfect human being would dare judge another. Especially not someone as broken as he.

    “Is it…” You sounded so defeated, he’d have done anything to hear your giggles and laughter once again, but life wasn’t as giving to him. It had never been. “Is that person… me?”

    Indeed, it had always been you. Ever since he had laid his eyes on you, ever since there had been that cursed deepening between the bond he shared with you, the moronic display of his own version of affection that on odd days caught him off guard—ever since he had coughed out blood infused with purple-magenta lilacs, he had known that it was you. He wasn’t familiar with the disease he carried, but he deemed it a fool’s curse to be caught with a feeling as hopeless as this. Yet, you were the one to once again aid him. You were the one who had told him what was happening and it had thus become inevitably clear to him as if it wasn’t clear already; Akutagawa “Rabid Dog” Ryuunosuke was hopelessly, carelessly, irrevocably, and painfully in love with you—a commoner, a medical student, a moron.

*

The first time Akutagawa saw you was when he was returning from a minor mission. It was something Higuchi herself could have easily handled, but there wasn’t a chance the dog was letting his subordinates handle an entire subgroup on their own. Intimidation was something Akutagawa did best, and it was the one thing he looked forward to when concerned with minor missions such as these. Not that anyone minded that he tagged along; however, once it was done, there was no more reason for him to waste any more time around the area. Returning to the car, he merely had to just stand near the vehicle for Higuchi to come running and start the engine, heading back to the headquarters.

    A sudden break harshly pulled him out of his reverie and that was when he saw you—on the other end, hands outstretched and a pleading look in your eye. It wasn’t that he was always quick to anger, he knew there was a reason why you were stopping traffic, and when he craned his neck to look at what you were shielding, the answer was clear. There was a man, frothing from his mouth, shaking uncontrollably on the ground and there you were, wearing a white coat, hair pulled behind you in a messy bun, eyes far too tired to be seen in such broad daylight, begging him to stop his car so that she can at least move the man.

    “What should I do, senpai?” Higuchi asked, her voice cold. “Should I ram into—“

    “No,” Akutagawa leaned back and watched, “This doesn't concern me.”

    “Looks like the man is having an epileptic attack.” The blonde woman said, blinking.

    It didn’t matter to him what was happening with the man, but when you pulled yourself over to the window by which Akutagawa sat, he was alerted. You knocked twice, albeit pleadingly at his window, before he turned to Higuchi who easily read the look he gave her incorrectly. Pulling out a gun, she threatened to shoot you before ordering you to back away, but you stood there, staring right into her eyes expressionlessly. Akutagawa blinked before wondering where else he had seen eyes as devoid of fear as yours before lowering his window.

    “What do you want?”

    “That man is dying,” You said, “You’re the Port Mafia, right?”

Higuchi hissed before shoving her gun forward, but you paid her no heed.

    “That’s right. Back away while you know what’s good for you, peasant.” Akutagawa said, looking away from you.

    “The Port Mafia loves the city, correct? I’m sure whoever your leader is would agree that saving one man is also in a way keeping the peace. Help me take him to a hospital, and you’ll never see this peasant again.”

    Just before Higuchi could try to intimidate you once more, Akutagawa stopped her. It was not the kindness of his heart that decided to go with your pleas. It was not anything to do with a positive emotion at all, it was simply the fact that the nearest hospital was 500 meters ahead, and a frail person like yourself couldn’t possibly move a dying man on your own. You immediately turned to the epileptic man and ignored the helpless, ignorant onlookers before putting one arm under his shaking one, and attempted to pull him forward; however, a long, dark cloth-like substance wrapped itself around the man before pulling him inside the car forcefully, earning a gasp out of you. You stared at Akutagawa before nodding and following him inside. You sat beside the dying man before offering him a piece of metal and placed it in between his mouth, to prevent him from biting his tongue off in shock. Akutagawa watched you from the rear-view mirror without a word, wondering if he was doing something idiotic or if he was actually carrying forward the legacy his organization aimed to keep.

    “Senpai,” Higuchi whispered, “Are you sure… this is fine?”

    He didn’t answer her but instead turned to you. He noticed that your white coat was no ordinary lab coat, you were a doctor. This explained why you looked so tired and why you wanted to help a random man on the road, but what it didn’t explain was how unfazed you were with Higuchi’s threats earlier; this was what alerted Akutagawa in the first place. The eyes you wore maliciously, the eyes devoid of emotion, especially for a young doctor—it wasn’t ordinary.

    “Is there a reason why you’re staring at me?” You asked, turning to him.

    “How dare you—“

  “Shut up, Higuchi,” He scolded before turning to you with a snarky smirk, “You’re a doctor. Surely, you should know you can’t help everyone you see. You saw the people around you, those are the people you’re trying to protect. Your efforts are futile if it’s thankless.”

    “So are yours,” You answered instantly, not meeting his gaze. “Just living is thankless, and yet we thrive. It’s both fascinating and utterly stupid.”

    The car stopped and you instantly ran out before calling in someone from the hospital to help you carry the man away. Akutagawa couldn’t forget what you had said; the words slipped out of you as if you memorized them, it was marvelous how effortlessly you had replied to his attempt at minor intimidation. It wasn’t enough for him to be allured by you but the moment Higuchi attempted to drive off, you rushed back and knocked on the window beside his face once more. This time the tired look in your eyes was more than evident, yet the chapped-lipped smile made him queasy. Akutagawa wasn’t always the receiver of such positive reactions from the general public, so this change was bizarre.

    “Even though it’s futile, or worthless, I like doing it. And you helped me. So, thank you… Uh…”

    “Akutagawa.”

    Your smile only widened before you tilted your head a bit, “Thank you, Akutagawa-san.”

    His eyes landed on your nameplate inches above your coat pocket and he memorized your name: (l/n) (y/n). He watched as you skirted around and walked into the hospital, not a word was said thereafter. He could feel Higuchi kickstart the car and drive them back to base, but as much as he’d have liked to stop thinking of you, it was, as you had said, futile.

*

The next time Akutagawa saw you was in a place he’d never expected to find you in. He stilled in his movements when he spotted you walk into the Port Mafia building, guided by two other armed men, before rushing forward to know what you were doing there. He noticed Koyo Ozaki, standing in front of the room you had just entered and he stopped before her, a questioning look in his eye. She blinked at him before wondering what he wanted, Akutagawa wasn’t the type to exchange pleasantries after all.

    “Are you looking for the other runt? He’s inside—“

    “Why was she here?”

    He should have understood that a pronoun with no prior mention to a name would barely hold any meaning to someone like Koyo. She continued to give him a blank stare before wondering if he was referring to you, the girl who had just walked in to talk to Mori. She could have wondered how the rabid dog knew someone like you, but it wasn’t her place to care. Shrugging, Koyo knew that whatever she said didn’t matter right then.

    “She’s the daughter of one of Mori-san’s old enemies. He’s trying to recruit her,” Koyo waved her hand callously in the air, “Either that or she’ll be terminated. It’s not really my problem so I don’t know. I’m here because there’s something I need to tell him after.”

    What he couldn’t understand was how you were linked to the Port Mafia. Your father was one of the enemies? Did that mean you were an enemy? Were you still linked to your father or had he been terminated beforehand? Not knowing these details, but merely remembering the way you had smiled at him angered him, and he felt a raging cough begin to itch at his throat. Koyo watched as Akutagawa coughed into his hand, feeling the familiar itch that only managed to grow till it burned his nostrils.

    “There’s a name for such a disease,” She said, eyes cloudy, “But, I can see you haven’t caught it yet.”

    The black-haired man narrowed his eyes at the cryptic words the woman said, before turning to find the door opening. You walked out, this time with no one but Nakahara Chuuya behind you. Your eyes widened when you spotted Akutagawa and a smile adorned your features. You approached him before nodding at him, as to acknowledge him. Chuuya blinked before scratching his chin.

    “You know each other?”

    “Yes—“

    “Barely,” Akutagawa said, in between coughs, “What’s she doing here?”

    “You should get that cough looked at, Akutagawa-san. I’d be happy to—“

  “Shut up,” He threatened before glaring at you, and then turning to Chuuya, “What’s going on?”

   Chuuya shrugged, “This girl’s some hot shot’s daughter, but since he’s dead, Boss decided not to worry about her. Besides, she’s harmless. No ability, just a med student.”

    “Nakahara-san, if you would please drop me back from where you rudely picked me up, I’d be grateful.”

    Chuuya groaned before shutting his eyes, “Uh, you know, Akutagawa, why don’t you drop her off? You two can catch up—“

    “I don’t know her.”

    “—and I don’t care. Thanks. See ya!”

    Koyo let out a sigh before wandering inside the room Mori-san is in. You turned to Akutagawa before letting out a sigh yourself, and bowing slightly. He watched you with annoyance plastered all over his face, wondering why in the world you were all of a sudden everywhere. Ever since meeting you, you’d been plaguing his mind like some sort of disease, it was angering. He clicked his tongue before leading you out of the building and finding Higuchi’s car. Higuchi had ensured that Akutagawa would have an additional pair of keys with him at all costs, which came in handy just then. Akutagawa hated the position he was in, completing menial tasks that were assigned to someone else first—Chuuya always pushed minor work on to him whenever he felt like it, and now, he was stuck with you—someone he felt agitated around, someone he believed, even breathing felt like carrying a boulder on his shoulders.

    “I’m very sorry about this,” You said, just a moment before stopping in front of the car, “If I had known Nakahara-san would simply push this on to you, I’d have refrained from asking him—“

    “You think I can’t do something so simple?” He snapped, glaring at you.

    “N-No, that’s… I know it’s a burden.”

    Akutagawa gave you a look, which was either a mix between confusion and fear—an unusual look for him to sport on his face, having never been used to feeling such intense positive emotions before. You were looking at him, afraid to be a burden? This was his job. There was no burden, there was no blessing. It was all worthless in the end.

    “You’re not important enough to be a burden,” He snarled, getting into the car, “Stop worrying over idiotic things.”

    “We all worry over idiotic things,” You said, smiling and getting into the car yourself, “I think it’s a part of who we are.”

    “Don’t group me along with the likes of you.”

    You stayed quiet for a second before nodding, “Yeah,” Akutagawa paused momentarily at your sudden acceptance, “You’re right.”

    What did you mean by that? What did you mean by your words? Why did they sound so heavily laced with an emotion that triggered the worst of responses from him? Suddenly, he felt the urge to either slam his hand against the steering wheel out of sheer anger or just stare at you, attempting to decipher any meaning from the words that had just slipped out of you. What a bane to his existence, when answers seemed more confusing than anything Dazai had put him through. Perhaps, you understood from his silence that he was curious about your origins, but now was not the time to unveil anything of the sort. You carried your own burdens, dark and menacing as they may be, but the only solace Akutagawa found in that second was when you turned to him with those very callous eyes and smiled instead.

    “Thank you, again.”

    This time, he did not fight back. This time, he glanced at you as if you were an enchanting representation of everything he had been missing in his life. With eyes like his, he had never imagined that a smile could even be possible—that anything positive could be linked to the way his mind worked. He had been broken beyond repair, or perhaps that was his assumption, but then again, with the way you were looking at him right then, Akutagawa felt an emotion he hadn’t felt in a desperately long time.

    He drove in silence but figured that it was the silence that made things weird for you; he could notice you trying to fill in the gaps with baseless talk, commenting on the weather, talking about patients from your med school, everything and anything that distracted him from your mysterious origins, yet, every time your words would reflect against the barrier of quiet he had put around himself, Akutagawa felt his mind land back on discovering about you. The drive to the hospital wasn’t long, but it felt like one the longest drives he had ever taken. He stopped there, before noticing you still in your seat. You were supposed to get up and leave yet there was this aching hunger in him that demanded you answer his unasked questions before going. You turned to him before blinking a few times, and before you can say anything at all, Akutagawa began to cough. It was something he carried wherever he went, and the confusion he felt around you only made it worse. This proved that you were merely a disease, an error in the making. There was nothing he would get from you apart from violent chest burns and a waste of time. You reached forward to touch him out of worry, but he grabbed your wrist so harshly you winced, pulling away out of instinct. As he coughed, he turned to you with a menacing glare—warning you to never attempt to do that again.

    “Akutagawa-san, I—“

    “Don’t,” He took a raspy breath, before coughing again, “Don’t touch me!”

    He gripped harder, knowing full well that the pressure was enough to hurt you. Yet, you sat there, worried eyes plastered toward his form. He hated it. He hated when you directed such a look toward him, he hated being scrutinized by your apparent kindness. Who were you to direct it toward him anyway? A nobody. A peasant. A moron.

    You pulled back quietly, but he wouldn’t let go. You stared at him before letting out a breath; it wasn’t sympathy that pushed you to do what you did next, it was the only human emotion you didn’t feel too ashamed displaying out in the open—care.

    “Akutagawa-san, normally when I study I go to this cafe in central Yokohama,” You pursed your lips, wondering if this information would even make a difference, “The silence there, the… the atmosphere of the place makes it too easy for me to relax and just read. And they have great tea, too!”

    “What useless information.”

    You smiled a bit before shaking your head and opening the door, “I hope I see you around, Akutagawa-san.”

    When you got out of the car, Akutagawa wasted no time in driving back. The fact remained: he stayed there any longer, he’d merely be wasting time. Yet, for some reason, your presence lingered in the seat that you were sitting in earlier, and when he thought of that he felt the sudden urge to cough yet again. However, this time, he felt a tad bit different than general. The cough that carried over began from his chest, phlegm that was never present before manifested out of nowhere and he thought for a second if he had been out in the cold for too long or if he had eaten something to have caused such a reaction, but the image of your bitter smile marred with those callous eyes of yours catered to create a tornado within his chest that left him a breathing, aching mess of disgruntled coughs that radiated a new weakness. It has to be a cold, he thought before continuing on driving back.

    Gin never asked her brother to accompany her when she took evening walks, but that evening since he was also quite free, the siblings decided to get some tea together. He always merely followed after her, since she knew the place better than he ever did; yet, Akutagawa did things differently that evening. He walked alongside his sister, mumbling something about a quiet cafe in central Yokohama, and Gin paused.

    “How do you know about that?” She asked, “It’s one of my favorite places to go to.”

    So, you weren’t lying. It must be a decent place if his sister approved of it, hence there was no reason to not go. It wasn’t as if he was going there to see you—the last thing he wanted was to see you and have you invoke that disgusting emotion in him again. The mere thought of you made him want to cough some more, but he was well hydrated that evening. He followed Gin toward the central streets, finding a lone cafe toward the end of the street; he walked inside, but when his chest ached, he realized you weren’t there.

    “The tea here is really good.” Gin said before going over to sit at a table.

    He took a few seconds before seating himself across from her, feeling the urge to cough once more. Pulling out his hand, which was nestled in his pocket, Akutagawa coughed violently into his fist, alerting his sister. As he coughed, he could feel phlegm build up in his fist but the second his eyes landed on what he had coughed out, Akutagawa froze. Mixed with his own blood sat a tiny petal, a purplish-red hue on it and he couldn’t tell if it was the blood that gave it that color or not. When he breathed in, he felt as if something were lodged in his chest and the more he coughed, the more he coughed out the petals as if there was a live plant growing inside him. Excusing himself, Akutagawa headed inside the cafe’s bathroom before finally allowing himself to cough freely. Four more petals shoved themselves out of his throat before his eyes leaked tears that burned his skin. What was this new sickness? Was this an ability?

    His eyes widened. He had understood. It was you. Ever since he had seen you, he had been infused with a different cough. This was your doing. You were trying to take out the strongest rabid dog in the mafia for your own intentions; perhaps, it was because your father was Mori-san’s enemy, perhaps you wanted revenge for something that happened in the past. Perhaps, your smile meant nothing, after all—it was all a farce so you could take him out, and Akutagawa had been the fool and fallen for your trick. He washed his hands thoroughly before knowing full well that the next time he’d see you would be him barging through your apartment door, demanding answers for what you had done to him. Whether he’d kill you or not wasn’t too clear yet, but he was sure of one thing.

    He felt like he would die if he didn’t see you. Thinking of the petals that he had coughed out, Akutagawa was more than sure that death was imminent.

*

Your hands were shaking and you could barely breathe; the anxiety rappelled from inside your mind and held a vine-like grip all over your body. You knew it was futile to try and breathe or get any studying done with the way you were being, but you had to try. Tears leaked out of your eyes and it felt as if waves were crashing inside your head and every inch of you was drowning and you did very little to try and hold on to the limited reality that was visible to you. You breathed in heavily before another sob cracked through your throat, sinking your entire body to the ground. Your books lay scattered everywhere and you tried to swallow some saliva to soothe your aching throat, but your body wasn’t listening to you and neither was your mind.

    So, at that moment, when the door barged open and black cloth-like arms wrapped around you, pulling you to the air, you let it take you. You shut your eyes before the sobs only multiplied, now you were both scared for your life and desperate, but no part of you would run. You were held in place until a familiar voice pulled you out of the reverie you were in, bringing you back to where you had been before the breakdown happened.

    “What’s wrong with you?” Akutagawa asked, narrowing his eyes.

    He hadn’t expected to find you in such a pitiful state. Surely, if you were a mastermind of deception, you’d be a little more prepared. You didn’t look like you were anywhere close to prepared, you didn’t even look like you were willing to fight. When you opened your eyes, he saw it again—the hollow, empty shells that they were despite the sobs that broke through your lips. Had he scared you? No, you had been in that pitiful state even before he got there. He felt his chest burn once again and that made him think of your ability—the one you had apparently used on him.

    “Akutagawa-san…” Your voice was raspy, and it was then he realized it might have been holding on to you far too tightly to deem comfortable. “…please…”

    He didn’t know what you were asking for but he let you down and waited. Were you going to give him the answers he needed? Was everyone going to be made clear? What was it that you did? What was your master plan?

    “I’m… I’m sorry you had to see me like that,” You said, letting out a bitter chuckle, “And… my door… You broke it.”

    He turned to look at the door and he had indeed broken it down, but that wasn’t the problem. He looked back at you before noticing that you were standing up now, walking toward your kitchen. He couldn’t understand why he let silence envelop both of you right then, but no part of him was complaining. Strangely, being around you had calmed his chest and there was no cough that radiated from within. He followed after you before watching you carefully, noticing you wipe the remaining tears that had stained your cheeks.

    “I… I get anxiety attacks around my exams. I feel like I’m never good enough. No matter how hard I work, how much effort I put it… It’s all…” You bit your lip to stop it from shaking, “…I’m not going to stop, though. I won’t stop. I want to be a doctor. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. I’m going to do this. I have to.”

    “Why does your father know the boss?”

    You stilled for just a moment before continuing with making tea. You pulled out two cups, one for him and one for you, and despite not knowing him enough, the silence that he so well carried with himself was strong and special. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, an eerie thing to feel so loudly, and during every third breath, Akutagawa felt breathless.

    “My father was an assassin,” You said, “Gave up that line of work and became a drug kingpin here. Ever since I was a child, I’ve been told I was useless if I didn’t do as he told me to. I did everything. I… everything.”

    Akutagawa’s eyes widened. He watched you as you effortlessly made tea and poured it into his cup. A small dash of honey, and chamomile tea bags, and a kitchen where the aroma was enough to intoxicate a blind person. He had never imagined drinking a tea like this and yet, no part of him complained.

    “You killed people.”

    You looked barely 20 years old. So that could only mean you were a child assassin. After all, it was an easier profession for children.

    “No one expects a child to kill, especially if she’s smiling.” You smiled sweetly, yet the callous expression in your eyes never faded.

    You turned to him a second later before Akutagawa coughed into his hands, multiple petals falling into his fist and then to the floor. You froze as you realized what this was, your hands flying to his now bloody wrist. He caught the bruise he had given you the other day and made no attempt to stop you. You opened his palm and found more lilac petals, covered in phlegm and blood and you stared. Akutagawa didn’t understand what your look meant but waited nonetheless. When you looked up to meet his gaze, he could swear that the callousness in your eyes was slowly fading.

    “Akutagawa-san…” Your voice was a whisper, “This is the hanahaki disease.”

    “What is it?” His voice was coarse, again from the intense coughing.

    “It’s… It’s a sign you’re in love with someone who doesn’t feel the same for you.”

    “Love?” His eyes widened as he repeated the preposterous word, “L-Love, you say?”

    He pulled his hand away from you, letting the bloody petals fall to the floor. You looked at him pleadingly before he coughed some more, slapping the tea from the counter and spilling it everywhere.

    “What a useless emotion!” He screamed, “Love!? That’s what’s gotten me weaker?!”

    “Does it anger you that you can love?”

    He clicked his tongue before pushing you away, wondering what in the world he was even doing there in the first place. He had gotten to know who you were, he had gotten to know what your deal was and yet—every part of him wanted more. It was quiet desperation that he couldn’t quite understand or grasp to his fullest capabilities, and this inadequacy left him aching on the inside. You stared at him before pursing your lips, what more could you tell someone who refused to believe that no one could be broken enough to not love?

    “Your anger and emotional outbursts usually result when someone penetrates to the core of what you don’t like about yourself or still cannot accept.”

    “Get rid of it,” Akutagawa threatened, “Get rid of this… this thing!”

    You wondered if he knew what he was talking about. Did he even know where these emotions came from? Did he even know why he was feeling this way? Had he ever acknowledge that he could feel love for another person? You slowly got up from where you were pushed to and let out a shaky breath.

    “Akutagawa-san…” You began, “There is a way to remove it.”

    “Good. What is it?”

    “The person has to love you back.”

    “How useless—“

    You threw yourself at the man before noticing him turn fiercely rigid. While it was miraculous that he didn’t outright push you away, it was also a tad bit disappointing that he stood as if was waiting for it to be done. The first time you saw Akutagawa’s face, you had seen that he was someone who was constantly running. Either from his past, from his pain, or toward a goal he would never reach, Akutagawa’s journey revolved around his own imperfection. It was a desire that dug so deeply into you that it gave you every right to see yourself in them. After all, you had broken off such ties after your father’s demise. Yet, no part of you, physical or otherwise, had forgotten what killing had done to you. It had robbed you from a chance to live a regular life, and here was another person, going through the very same thing.

    However, to see that he had developed a disease that proved limerence in such a deep context could only mean that there was still hope left for you as well. After all, it was the deeply broken that knew how to love best. For they knew what was constantly at stake, and they know the pain of devastating loss. Pulling back, you made a vow to yourself. If you eventually did become a doctor, if you eventually did end up saving more lives than you had ended in the past, it must and should begin with Akutagawa. Because only then could you truly save yourself.

    “I’ll help you,” You said, earnestly, “I’ll make it happen.”

    Kindness, as worthless as he believed it was, did not assist in making someone stronger. It never worked with him, it never persuaded him as much as hate and pain did, yet, there was something to intoxicating about kindness that made him crave for more. As he looked into your eyes, Akutagawa saw a radiance he had only dreamt of seeing before; a radiance he had grown to believe did not exist in the world, a radiance he had attempted to protect in the past. Inching closer, Akutagawa felt the constricting in his chest increase as he closed the distance between you and him, yet, he paused. He couldn’t move a step further. You smiled a second later before holding his hands, bloody and messy, it didn’t look like you cared.

    “So, who is this person?”

*

The next time Akutagawa saw you, he wasn’t expecting to see you. A careless slip in a battle deemed him worthy of a strong injury; he was distracted by the lilacs he had been coughing out and didn’t see an incoming blow, which scraped him at his left hip—missing the bone. While he knew he could allow Higuchi to help him, every part of him ached for you. Pushing aside Higuchi, he got into the streets walking toward your apartment. He remembered the way as if it were the back of his hand, and it led him to you, painstakingly. He wanted to move faster, he wanted to see your face despite knowing that the injury wouldn’t necessarily kill him. After all, you had said you’d help him.

   The person has to love you back, you had said; and how ironic that was. Akutagawa went chasing after people who would constantly deem him inadequate; he would never be enough, and that was what this disease was telling him. It was practically ending his life because he would never be enough—and what more proof would he need? Every inch of his body craved for another and yet, the other person knew nothing of his growing limerence. It was killing him and yet, there was nothing that could save him except his own demise. What an ironic way to die, he thought, as he reached your door. You had fixed it the day after he had broken it down, and ever since, he believed that reaching you would require him to use a softer approach. Soft like your skin—the very same skin he had bruised the first time he had touched it.

    You opened the door and your eyes instantly widened; Akutagawa took one step further, but your arms wrapped around him before pulling him to your chest, his chin landing on your shoulder, your hands wrapped around his back. You could feel his heavy heartbeat before dragging him to your bed. Just as you were about to remove his jacket, he stopped you—not allowing you to touch it.

    “I…” His raspy voice scared you, “I… don’t want to hurt you.”

    “How would you—“

    He didn’t let you finish and simply removed the jacket himself, before laying on the bed; you carefully placed the jacket around the chair and got to work on Akutagawa. You carefully removed the shirt that was stained with his blood before bringing in all the required materials needed to clean his wound first. You didn’t hear a wince from him the entire time, knowing full well that it would sting him beyond belief. It was as if he was used to the pain, and wasn’t moving because somehow this pain had been familiarised. You felt your heart go out for him, but your hands continued working on his wounds. You sat beside him to his left, where the wound was, and continued dressing the large gash, before momentarily feeling his right arm grasp your wrist. You looked up to find Akutagawa staring into your eyes, some sort of pleading look embedded in them.

    “Does it hurt?”

    He shook his head before freeing you, and it was then you realized how soft his touch actually was. Unlike the last time when he had bruised your wrist, Akutagawa’s touch was almost feather like; they say soft feathers cannot make a cruel bird kind, but Akutagawa had led his entire life believing he was nothing but cruel and it took him one touch, just one touch at your wrist to learn that he wasn’t. He wasn’t sure if it was the wound that was making him think this way or if he was finally seeing things clearly, but the view he had by sitting right beside you, gazing into your form as you cleaned his wound, was the only thing he believed he’d want to see for the rest of his life. Dazai’s approval meant squat if it meant being able to sit beside you in absolute silence; if life allowed him to meet you, learn of your existence and perfection, then there was some redeeming quality in him that gave him the right to be sitting by you.

    “Doesn’t hurt.” He said, truthfully, before feeling the urge to want to touch you more. He wanted to be touched by you, and hopefully, he wouldn’t push you away as he had before. He wanted nothing more than to be gentle, feel your hair between the pads of his fingers, watch you as you studied, wrap you in his arms gently if he ever saw you crying again—Akutagawa wanted to wholeheartedly detach his anger whenever you were around and it was your existence that gave him the confidence that it was possible.

    “I…” You said, “I don’t know your full name.”

    “Akutagawa Ryunosuke.”

    You gulped before pursing your lips.

    “Is it okay if I call you Ryuu?” He blinked at you, “L-Like when we’re alone! I mean… I’m not saying I don’t like your name, I… just… well, you can call me (y/n), if you’d like! I just… I think… I like—“

    “Do as you wish.”

    You smiled a bit before taking the bandages in your hands. With the sound of your heart pounding the way it was, Akutagawa didn’t realize that it had been roughly 2 hours since he had last coughed out flowers. Perhaps, the pace with which it slowed meant something. Perhaps, it didn’t. He wouldn’t be able to tell for a while at least.

*

On odd days, Akutagawa found that his cough was getting better; a sign that presented him with an emotion he once believed was dead in him—hope. He remembered your words loud and clear that this disease called for the person he was in love with return his emotions for him to stop dying. However, the cough didn’t entirely stop. During nights when he missed your presence greatly, Akutagawa’s coughs were enhanced—lilacs poured out of his chest like a clogged waterfall let free, and his eyes stung with the intensity with which he remained a trembling mess of a person he thought he was. Despite learning to accept his emotions for you, on nights like these, Akutagawa was reminded of how weak he truly was, of Dazai’s harsh words for him that were imprinted in his very soul, of how inadequate he felt to even earn a disease such as this. When his hands shook, he felt the fear of dying—not of losing his life, but of never being able to see you again. And thoughts like this left him skirmish, it left him aching for his past-self, where he had never met you, where he wouldn’t have had to face such a metamorphosis that ridiculed him in such a manner.

    Akutagawa was not used to hoping for love, he was only, in every right, a giver. He chased after everything he thought he deserved, yet never realized that chasing it was never the right way for him to attain it. On nights like these, where he begged for a power that would rid him of his emotions for you, he’d wake up regretting those very words for the prospect of being able to see you, protect you, stay by your side and earn your precious silence. Some part of him always yearned for something that enveloped him not in a sense of passion but a calm care. Akutagawa needed someone he could rely on to not always expect him to perform or achieve some standard. Someone who saw how quiet he was and respected it. Not that no one ever had, Gin had always admired his tenacity and intrinsically quiet nature. It was the expectation that his life now put on him that broke him, more than just a little.

    The next day poured onto him excruciating pain. His chest and throat burned, and he could barely open his eyes. His sister who was living with him knew that his coughing had reached a dangerous point, yet she knew that meddling with his affairs would infuriate him more. Yet, the worry seeped out of her and she forced herself to barge into his quarters and at least ask him what she could do. It wasn’t like him to take a day off from work, but in his current state, even standing up could be a challenge.

    “Nii-san,” She voiced, “Is there something I can do? Someone I can bring who can take a look at—“

    “No. Get out.”

    Gin pursed her lips before walking away quietly, recalling with everything she had if there was someone she had seen her brother speak to who could help. She contemplated calling Chuuya, or anyone else from the Black Lizard, but involving the Mafia would only anger her brother in more ways than one. Taking in a deep breath, she found herself walking toward her favorite cafe, wanting to bring back some tea for her brother—the tea she knew he enjoyed. Calming chamomile tea always soothed him, rid his anxieties, which might even assist in his coughs. While she had no idea the origin behind those coughs, she knew they were different from the regular tickle in his throat.

    On reaching the cafe, she felt a mild tap on her shoulder, which she knew must have alerted her beyond belief, but the person whose eyes she landed on caused Gin to blink with confusion. She had seen you before, but she couldn’t understand where. You looked at her with an awkward expression, a quiet sort of worry seeping out of your bones.

    “I… I know you’re acquainted with Akutagawa-san? I was… Well, I wanted to know how he’s doing?”

    Gin’s eyes widened. Were you a friend of her brother’s? Not that she wasn’t surprised with her brother having a friend in the first place, especially that friend being a regular girl like you. She contemplated letting you know that her brother’s condition was deteriorating at a quicker pace than she had ever thought, but wondered if it was the right thing to do. What would Ryuunosuke want her to do? What would she do? Pausing for just a moment, Gin realized she was thinking too hard. She’d now do what any sister would.

    “He’s not doing so well,” She spoke honestly, “If… If you can come take a look, I think he’d appreciate it.”

    When your eyes widened with horror, Gin knew she may have done the right thing. You bit your lip and nodded, before following her out of the cafe; she led you to their shared apartment before also slipping in that she was his sister and not anyone you’d have to think too hard over. You blushed when Gin made it clear but refused to speak about it. Once inside, Gin nodded before leaving to work, knowing full well that her presence was no longer required. You jumped when you heard violent coughing coming in from a room with a closed door, and you slowly approached it, your heart pounding rapidly; however, just when you could feel your heartbeat in your ears, blinding you and depriving you of focusing on any other senses, your hands stilled before they could reach the doorknob. Sudden silence enveloped the room, and it slowly made sense to you on what was going on. With the way he was avoiding you these few days, with the way how he suddenly turned soft toward you, with the way Akutagawa helped you—your mind spat at you for never seeing it before. Tears filled your eyes before you realized that his disease was your fault, in almost every possible way, and instead of blaming you, he was taking it on himself.

    “Ryuu?”

    Akutagawa froze on the bed where he lay before staring at the ceiling. With the rapidity of his growing coughs, he was almost sure that you would never return his affections; he didn’t even want affection, in the first place. What Akutagawa wanted and needed never intersected, they were parallels that would never meet, yet somehow you were now standing opposite his door, calling him by a name no one would dare call him by.

    And the strangest thing of all, he let you.

    “What are you doing here?” Violent coughs only made his voice sound weaker than he felt, and he hated every second of it.

    “Can I come inside?”

    “How did you get here?” He sounded angry now, almost raging.

    “Please,” His heart ached when you pleaded. He’d give you anything in a heartbeat, but he couldn’t understand why this was so hard, “I want to see you.”

    His eyes widened. You wanted to see him? While it didn’t make sense, no reply from him gave you the assurance you needed to enter the room he was in, and the second his eyes fell on your form, Akutagawa felt breathless. He couldn't take his gaze from you. Your wide, wondering eyes were like soft midnight, star-glittered with forgotten tears. The curves of your body looked firm and sweet, nothing but inviting, sensual softness. If you were his... he might finally have the sense of ease other men had. No more spending every minute of the day striving and hungering and never feeling sated. But, was that even possible?

    “The hanahaki disease,” You began, standing a few feet away from him, “It’s when you love a person who doesn’t feel the same,” He could hear your voice tremble, and he felt like scum for letting it get here, “I’m not sure entirely but…”

    If Akutagawa could place together pieces of why he was aggravated by your very presence, it wouldn’t have led him to where he currently was. Avoiding your gaze coughs multiplied by numerous ramifications, hands shaking, forehead breaking out into a sweat—he had never felt more obscenely weak than sitting before you on his bed, having your keen gaze observe his frail body. Numbness coursed through his veins and never before had he wished to disappear more than right then; it was suffocating to sit in front of you while you wordlessly judged him, deemed him moronic in that pretty little head of yours. He stilled momentarily before slapping himself internally; you were no such person. You wouldn’t judge another. The entire reason for his predicament right then was simply because of how perfect you were.

    And no perfect human being would dare judge another. Especially not someone as broken as he.

    “Is it…” You sounded so defeated, he’d have done anything to hear your giggles and laughter once again, but life wasn’t as giving to him. It had never been. “Is that person… me?”

    A fool’s curse, he had deemed it—love was nothing but just that. He was a dark, damaged individual with a past that deemed him unworthy of your gaze, of your silence, of your soft fingers grazing his hair in dreams that felt forbidden to even wake from; Akutagawa wondered why it was that he even fell for you, in such a short duration of time, with limited interaction, with wordless conversations. And yet, the answer hit him. He didn’t need much from you, only a smile. A smile from your callous eyes, eyes that were like how his once were; and when he was someone who couldn’t smile the way you did, you had won over life in a way he never had. This sight—this very sight of your victory over a life that had deemed you unworthy, captured his heart. In you, Akutagawa saw every single desire that he had locked away, that he had deemed irrational and asinine. And you wore the irrational and asinine parts with pride.

    When he didn’t answer, the answer came to you. Tears leaked down your eyes as you reached forward and combed his hair, feeling him tense under your touch. Akutagawa wasn’t touch-starved, he didn’t starve for something he had no idea about. Yet, when your fingers skimmed through his hair, the need to breathe followed quickly after. He shut his eyes and leaned into your touch almost instinctively, before feeling you wrap your other hand around his neck and pull his head to your chest. You stood beside him as he sat on his bed, his head resting on the valley of your breasts. Your hold tightened and Akutagawa felt like he could die right then and there would be no regrets.

    “Ryuu…” You cooed, rubbing your hands in his hair. You smelt divine, almost intoxicating and he wondered if opening his eyes would have you disappear. You pressed your chin to the top of his head and he felt so ridiculous, he wondered if he should push you away or pull you closer. You answered his question by bringing yourself closer anyway, pressing your nose to his hair.

    “I’m so sorry,” You said, tears leaking out of your eyes. “I love you! I do! I love you so much!”

    Akutagawa’s eyes widened, before he turned, only to be pressed into your chest more. He calmly lifted one of his hands, touched your arm and pushed you away slightly, and noticed your drenched face. He looked at you like you were a fool, before shaking his head.

    “You said I’ll stop coughing once the person I—“

    “Yeah—“

    “I haven’t stopped coughing.” He said, eyeing you like you were a liar.

    You shook your head before throwing your hands softly against either of his cheeks; you could see them turning red, but you didn’t mind.

    “That was because you truly believed I couldn’t return your feelings, Ryuu. How will your disease know I love you if you don’t believe it first?”

    Was it truly that simple? It marveled him at how much of a moron you were, feeling love for a murderer like himself, but you were crying for him—you were miraculously here in his apartment, holding him like your life was dependent on it. He was no fool, and he never really pushed aside what his eyes were seeing, so while he was slowly becoming aware that you returned his feelings, he wanted to scold you for the dumbest choice you had ever made. Yet, instead of doing any of that, Akutagawa Ryuunosuke did something else that took your breath away.

    Reaching forward, he grazed the pads of his fingers across your cheek, wiping a stray tear that threatened to fall lower, and he tried smiling. Callous eyes and a hopeful smile—the only thing that got him to fall for you, Akutagawa now tried his best to return it, knowing full well he owed you at least that much. Your eyes widened at the sight he presented you with before you placed a shaky hand on his that was on your cheek. Leaning into his touch, you wondered if two broken people could ever love, yet, with the way he was smiling right then, you would be damned if you came close to calling him broken.

    Leaning forward, boldly, you placed a kiss on his head, causing his eyes to turn to saucers with the unfamiliar action. You felt him tense up once again, and you held him close despite that, knowing full well that whatever was foreign to him wasn’t essentially bad, all you had to do was familiarise Akutagawa to love and he would learn to accept it better. Looking up, he pulled you down from the back of your neck and pressed his lips to yours—you could feel how dry they were, yet, that didn’t stop you from kissing him back. You could feel his hands tremble with the way he was holding you, not used to pressing softly, yet hard at the same time. When Akutagawa pulled apart from you a few moments later, it felt as if he was breathing for the first time. You allowed yourself to sit beside him now, enveloping the silence around you as if it were a comforting blanket. He looked at you so gently, slipping his arm around you and stroking your hair with a movement so soft you wondered if he realized he was doing it. He was capable of such softness that it presented as a strength instead of what he truly believed it was.

*

Nakahara Chuuya often finds himself in strange wine stores, looking for the wine he knew he could spend money on, wine more expensive than the one he had bought previously, keeping up with a mental game with himself. Walking out of the store, he spotted you—someone he believed he’d never see again, wearing a sundress and hair done up in a complicated plait that had you looking cute if he were being honest. He shook his head before focusing on getting home and drinking to some food, but just as he turned away, he turned back to you with wide eyes, almost dropping the wine he had bought, but he was glad he had his ability to prevent that from happening.

    What the f*ck? Chuuya thought when he saw Akutagawa slip his hand in yours, in a movement so casual that it seemed almost out of character for a rapid dog to act like a Labrador in love. You smiled at Akutagawa who returned half of it before Chuuya wounded if he was looking at Akutagawa at all in the first place. A moment later, he noticed the man slip his arm around your waist before leading you away from the area, in such a nonchalant yet casual manner that it left bewildered Chuuya to just stand there with his mouth ajar and heart raging. How the f*ck does that runt have a lover? Chuuya’s thoughts weren’t jealous, or even close, but it was a pure shock that left him jaw-dropped.

Well, whatever, he thought, before heading home, reminded thanks to Akutagawa and his new girlfriend that Chuuya was to drink alone that night. Again.