#but anyways I’m getting jittery and I would really like to just fast forward the next like. 17 hours

[lesbiansanemi]

Fighting for my fucking life trying to figure out airport parking rn the website is so confusing about where I can park and what the rates are and whether I can reserve it/pay or not ahead of time

[katierosefun]

Hello :))) So, i was today years old when i learned you had a girlfriend (if i’m not mistaken) and somehow it means a lot to me as you’re one of my comfort blog and that i’ve been struggling with my own sexuality for a while. (I hope it does not come off as weird this is really not my intention 😭) So i was wondering if you would mind sharing how you two met as i love hearing about queer love stories coming from real people and not only in fiction (somehow i need to be reminded that yes, it can happen in real life too for me??) If and only if you’re comfortable doing so of course!!!

aww hi anon! first of all, thank you so much for the kind words--i'm so glad to hear that my blog is a source of comfort for you. and also, re: your sexuality--i'm sending you so much love! i know how scary and how overwhelming it can be to still be figuring out your sexuality and navigating your own queerness, so please remember to have some compassion for yourself, and please know that you're not alone.

as for my girlfriend: yes! i do in fact have one, and we've been together for a little over a year and a half now. we'll be going on two years pretty soon, which is all very exciting!

as for how we met: it's all a pretty funny story, because we actually met while we were both in college. and also right during that first covid summer too. we started off as long-distance friends, bonding our love for star wars and writing.

anyways, i totally had a crush on her, although i was trying to play it off most of the time. the fact that we lived in separate cities was another factor too, of course.

fast forward to a few years later, when we've both graduated college. i've just started my first year of law school; she's working at this point. we're still texting and calling each other a bit, and then i tell her, oh yeah, i'm going out on a date with this guy.

and just like something from a kdrama or a movie or something, this ridiculous, lovely woman texts me as i'm boarding the bus for my date. her text? hey, i dreamed about you last night! we were sitting on a park bench together and we were holding hands :)

and of course, at this point, i still have a disastrous crush on her (hence why i spent a lot of time dating all these random guys in my junior and senior year of college, because i was like i gotta just get over this), but anon, that text message was the other shoe dropping on my brain. i decided right then and there that enough is enough, i'm gonna call her tomorrow and tell her i like her, so she can't just say stuff like that anymore because i don't think i can take it anymore.

so we arrange to have a phone call the next day, and we chat, and of course, true to form, i have to have some liquid courage on me (peach soju, btw . . . but turns out, if you're jittery enough, you don't even feel the alcohol, because i still remember every detail). anyways, at some point, we're chatting, and then i blurt out, "i like you."

and she goes, "i like you too."

and i went, "no, i mean i like you more than a friend. as in i like you."

and she goes, "uh, yeah. i like you to do. the feeling's mutual."

and of course, i didn't know what to say to that. like, i swear i was just like "??? what?" because the thing is, i had this whole speech planned out in my head--something like i like you, and you don't like me like that, so i'm sorry that this is awkward, and i can just take care of my own feelings, but i just really needed to say that so that we're both on the same page--

so to say i was pretty stunned would be an understatement! so cue a lot of laughter and flustering, and fast forward to today, with her living with me for the summer (because of course, she'll need to go back to work and i'll have to go back to school once august hits), and we talk about how many pets we're going to have one day (she has this hobby of sending me videos of increasingly exotic animals and going "??? so can we have this as a pet? :)"), and we've talked about what our wedding is going to be like (as well as what our wedding will not be like) . . .

this is just a whole lot of details, but as you might be the first one to ask me about this lovely person on this webbed site, of course i'm going to ramble and gush--but anon, to give you some hope here, queer love is a beautiful thing and it certainly happens.

personally, i would love to go back in time and find my sad high school self and go "hey, hang in there, because you're gonna be lucky enough to finally fall in love with someone who's kind and warm and patient and loving, and she's going to encourage you to be a better person, and she's going to make friends with literally every single stranger on the street (much to your partial exasperation and partial wonder), and she's going to be really bad at staying hydrated, and she's going to take so many photographs of everything, and she's going to make friendship bracelets on your bed, and she's going to almost fight the secretary at a dentist's office for you (while you tug at her sleeve and go come on, i'm fine, let's just go), and she's going to recite and write poetry that you keep both on your walls and also in your head, and her grandma is going to show you the dorkiest photos she has of this silly, lovely, beautiful person who you love."

so: all that to say, anon, i hope that gave you some hope! it's such a long journey for some of us, but i promise that queer love is out there and healthily alive, and yeah, sometimes they're just as good (or even better) than those that you find in fiction :)

[writinglizards]

Can I be Close to You?

Summary: Geralt's been dealing with Hanahaki for a while. Jaskier comes down with it, too. 

OR, what happens when you're in love with your best friend and your best friend (apparently) falls for another?

This one is for @witcher-and-his-bard both because she’s had a blah day and because this whole fic is her fault anyway. Hope you enjoy it, darling!

Read on Ao3

Witchers don't love. They may feel more emotions than they let on, may be fond of people and places and animals, but they don't love. Not like humans do. Hanahaki isn't something witchers get.

Except Geralt is, once again, proving to be a very stunning exception to every witcher rule.

It doesn't happen all at once. A cough here, a shortness of breath there. It starts after the fiasco with the djinn, when Geralt realized he really would do anything for his bard. As he parts with Jaskier in the fall and treks up the mountain pass to Kaer Morhen, he knows something is off, but what, he doesn't know.

He spends a long winter mostly normally. There's training and chores and long nights playing gwent. He still feels a little breathless, sometimes, but it's not getting worse, so he doesn't really think about it.

He coughs up the first petal on his way down the mountain that spring. It's delicate and butter yellow and just like that, everything slots into place. Hanahaki. Buttercups. Fuck.

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

Hanahaki is a slow death, everyone knows. How beautiful, to love so deeply, so completely that it consumes you. How tragic, for that love to be unspoken, unreturned. The poets, the romantics, love Hanahaki. It's the physical embodiment of that which they wish to put into words.

Geralt thinks it's fucking annoying.

For the few years following that first petal, it's...almost okay. He coughs, sometimes. His chest hurts, sometimes. He can't quite catch his breath, sometimes. But it's all rather rare. Jaskier hardly even notices, even when he's discreetly coughing petals into his fist. It hurts. It's fine.

Gradually, the coughing becomes normal. The petals get more common. It's no longer a single petal, but multiple ones. Partial blooms. Whole buds. He may be able to conceal the little buttercups still, but he won't be able to hide the illness from Jaskier much longer.

His chest hurts near constantly, the spring he comes down the mountain and knows Jaskier will find out. He'd been unable to keep it from Eskel this year and the look he'd given Geralt had been...painful. Upsetting.

Tell him, he'd said, don't make me lose another brother, Geralt. We can't do this without you.

They'll have to, eventually. There's no way Jaskier could ever love him, not like this, not like Geralt loves him--this fragile, delicate thing in his chest, slowly being consumed by flowers. Geralt wouldn't ask that of him, anyway, to love a monster.

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

They meet up on the path at a no-name village at the base of the Blue Mountains, like always. He's nervous this year--he doesn't want to see the look on Jaskier's face when he finds out, doesn't want the pity he's sure will be there in his gaze. Just thinking about it makes his chest hurt, fills him with a flutter of panic.

Jaskier's already got a room at the inn, as he usually does when he beats Geralt to the little village. Geralt knows because as he'd come in, the innkeep had tipped his head towards the stairs with a smile and Geralt had thanked him, ordered their dinner, and ascended the stairs with a curling warmth in his chest. The minute he smells Jaskier's blood on the air, that warmth turns to ice.

"Jaskier?" He's already pushing the door open and marching in, muscles tight with tension. He's not sure what he's expecting, but finding Jaskier bent over a bowl, vomiting tiny white flowers, hands shaking, isn't it.

Conscious thought clatters to a stop even as he steps forward, slips a gauntleted hand into Jaskier's hair to hold the fringe out of his eyes as he heaves, tears running down his cheeks. He hears his own voice as if from under water shushing and soothing, free hand rubbing gently at Jaskier's back.

When the fit seems to have passed, Jaskier shoves the bowl of bloody flowers away, leans heavily against Geralt's chest, breathing ragged. Geralt wants to ask so many questions. Instead, he waits, holds him upright, lets his breathing calm, lets him wipe the tears from his eyes.

"Ask," Jaskier rasps, not moving.

"Hm?"

"You want to ask, ask." He sounds so, so tired. Geralt wants to bundle him up in his cloak, take him back up the pass to Kaer Morhen, tuck him into his bed. There are so many reasons why he can't do that, but gods does he want to.

"How long?" Hanahaki's a slow disease. For Jaskier to be hacking up whole little buds, tiny unfurled flowers? This is advanced.

The smile Jaskier gives is sharp and painful. His teeth are bloody. "Six months," he says. And that's...that's too fast. It would have started just before the harvest festival and...fuck. Jaskier had been a little too pale, a little too quiet, hadn't he? Had Geralt really missed this?

"Jaskier--"

"I know," he cuts off, finally pushing out of Geralt's hold, crossing the room to the water pitcher. "I know. It's--I've always been one to fall hard, you know?" He does. "And by the time I realized, well--" he shrugs.

He watches as Jaskier rinses his mouth out, spits the now pink water into the ruined bowl, overly casual, and realizes...he can't do this.

"Who is it?" he asks, because he is not about to watch the man he loves die. Everyone loves Jaskier. Whoever this is the bard is pining for? They'll love him back. He's sure of it. They'd be a fool not to.

Jaskier stiffens. "I'm not--Geralt," he sighs hard, doesn't turn around. "Geralt, I'm not going to tell them. It's--it would upset them. It's fine."

"No," he grinds out, "it's not fine." He presses up into Jaskier's space, spins him with a hand on his shoulder. "I refuse to watch you die, Jaskier."

The look he gives him is painful in its hopelessness. It doesn't belong on his face, makes Geralt's chest tight. He can feel the tickle of a cough in response, thinks about how poorly timed a coughing fit would be right now and suppresses it, only just. "Geralt," Jaskier says, voice patient and still a little raw, "They won't love me back. Telling them would only hurt both of us. It's...I'd be okay. Dying for them."

"You shouldn't have to," he says, voice gravel rough.

"It is what it is, Geralt," he sighs, "I just--I just want us to have a normal year, okay? Just a normal year." Geralt hears what he isn't saying. I won't make it to the next one.

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

Despite his reservations, Geralt lets Jaskier talk him into setting out on the path. A normal year, despite the fact nothing about this is normal.

Those differences make themselves known long before the end of the first day. Geralt quickly realizes that Jaskier's lung capacity has been greatly diminished--he struggles to keep up with Roach at even the most relaxed pace, needs frequent and long breaks. Geralt's tempted to offer Jaskier his spot on Roach's back but he has a feeling the offer will be ill-received. A normal year would not involve Geralt catering to Jaskier's wants or needs.

Instead, Geralt deliberately slows their pace, takes frequent breaks, and doesn't point out Jaskier's wheezing or the exhausted way he collapses at the end of the day, even though watching him push himself like this is painful. As if to add insult to injury, he isn't singing, either. He still carries his lute, but it's clear his lungs are too burdened to accomplish even the most gentle of singing. It's...upsetting. And Geralt can see how it weighs on him.

The only silver lining is that Jaskier's so fatigued he doesn't catch on that Geralt's not quite well, either. He's frequently passed out cold when Geralt has his worst fits first thing in the morning, buttercups coming up in clusters, stems and leaves attached. And if his voice is a rougher, a little lower, a little more torn up? Jaskier doesn't seem to notice.

It takes them almost three times as long to reach the next town as it should and it's making Geralt jittery. There's no contract posted, but Jaskier looks bad and Geralt's worried. His own chest is overly tight, his own breathing much shallower than normal, but it doesn't matter when Jaskier looks ready to faint on the spot, too pale, too quiet. He spends the last of his coin from the previous fall on a room and a meal and hopes a day's worth of rest will be enough.

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

"Geralt? Do you have a contract?" Jaskier asks the next morning from where he's curled up in the single bed, groggy and hardly awake.

"No."

"Uh, okay...?" Jaskier yawns, which devolves into a coughing fit. Geralt's head snaps up from where he's sitting with his steel sword balanced on his knees, partially meditating. He's about to cross the room and do...something when Jaskier holds up a hand in placation. Geralt stills, watches with a sick feeling in his chest as Jaskier coughs and coughs and coughs. It subsides only when he spits out another fistful of tiny jasmine flowers into his hand, collapsing back on the bed.

"Okay?" Geralt asks, can hear the tightness in his own voice.

"Mm-hm," Jaskier groans, sounding anything but.

Geralt takes a deep, steadying breath in preparation to start the argument again--who is it, Jaskier? Let me help you--but Jaskier starts talking again before he can.

"Why'd you let me sleep in if there's no contract?" He sounds like he's been gargling with rocks. Geralt watches as he thrusts the balled-up fist of flowers over the edge of the bed, lets the bloody, torn things drift to the floor. They look the way Geralt feels--ruined, discarded. His own chest aches.

"You need the rest," he says. Jaskier tenses. Geralt knows it's the wrong thing to say but it's the truth.

"I don't need you to baby me, Geralt. You've never cared before."

That's not true, he thinks but doesn't say. He cares so, so much.

"Jaskier--"

"No," he cuts Geralt off, pushing up onto an elbow to level him with a look that cuts like a knife, "you don't get to do this to me. I choose this, Geralt."

"I--"

"This is where I want to be. On the Path." The with you goes unsaid, but Geralt can feel it hang in the air, the shape of it. He sucks in a breath that catches in his throat, throws him into a coughing fit.

"Geralt?" The worry in Jaskier's voice, the sudden tone shift, is painful. He wants to reassure him, but he's choking on buttercups and blood, stems and leaves. He hears him rise from the bed, stumble over beside him. Gently, Jaskier shifts his sword out of the way, sets it aside. He runs his hand down Geralt's back in a soothing gesture. "Geralt, what's--?" He spits the first of the flowers, still hacking. Jaskier goes very, very still. The hand on his back slows before balling into the fabric, grip tight.

"Ask," Geralt rasps between coughs, an echo of Jaskier's own words a few weeks prior.

"How long." His voice is hauntingly devoid of emotion. Geralt coughs again, chest aching as he brings up another bloody bouquet. He pants through it, gasping for air.

"Since the djinn," he breathes out weakly. Jaskier makes an awful noise.

"Oh, that's--" he cuts himself off, makes that same strangled little sound in the back of his throat again. "That's a long time," he says finally. He thinks Jaskier sounds strange, but his head is spinning from the lack of oxygen and it's hard to tell.

He doesn't respond, just focuses on calming his breathing. He doesn't want another coughing fit if he can help it. The back of his neck feels hot and he knows he's flushed with both exertion and embarrassment.

"I didn't know witchers could get Hanahaki," he says, voice still a little off.

"We don't," Geralt answers. His throat feels on fire, his chest hurts like he's been thrown around by a leshen.

"You do," Jaskier says slowly, "apparently."

"Hm."

It's silent for too long. Geralt finds himself staring blindly at the bloody little buttercups. This is it. Jaskier has to know.

The bunched fist in the back of his shirt eases, carefully. Too carefully. Geralt feels the strain in it. "We need to go see Yennefer," Jaskier says. His voice is also too careful. Carefully controlled, like it usually is when he's performing. Or putting on an act.

"Okay," Geralt agrees. He knows what Jaskier must be thinking--mages can cure Hanahaki, sometimes. It's...painful. Awful. Not something most people want. It's ripping a part of yourself away, the part that loves. Geralt's terrified of it, but he'll do it, if that's what Jaskier wants from him. He knows Jaskier must hate the idea of Geralt being in love with him, especially now that he's in love with another, no way to return it. Geralt's often been ashamed of feeling too much, but this is...worse.

"She'll fix this," Jaskier says, and Geralt can smell the salty tang of unshed tears in the air, "she'll fix this."

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

They spend the rest of the day at the inn. Geralt knows Jaskier's upset, but at what exactly, it's hard to say. He’ll hardly look at Geralt for more than the briefest glances and keeps himself well outside of casual touching distance, which is strange for the normally tactile bard. He's either upset Geralt kept this secret from him, or he's upset Geralt's in love with him. Probably both.

Despite the distance he seems to be forcing between them, he bullies Geralt into bed beside him for the second night, doesn't let him meditate or sleep on the floor as he'd planned.

"Geralt, I know mornings with this are worse when you sleep on the floor. Sleep on the fucking bed."

"What happened to 'don't baby me'?"

"Fuck you, witcher. Get your ass on the bed. And don't hog all the sheets."

They settle, finally. Geralt lays on his back, staring up at the ceiling, trying not to be hyperaware of Jaskier, curled on his side, back to him.

He dozes off, eventually, to the quiet wheeze of Jaskier's breath, a bubble of anxiety in his chest.

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

He wakes an indeterminate amount of time later to find the bed beside him empty and cold, the tremble of suppressed sobs and the salty tang of tears on the air. He lays very, very still.

"--'s not fucking fair," Jaskier gasps, sucking in a harsh breath that turns into a hiccupping little sob. "Fuck."

Geralt listens to the hitched breathing that turns into a round of coughs, the wet, hacking sound of little snow-white flowers leaving Jaskier's lips. The way he tries to muffle the sobs, the coughs, with a hand over his mouth. Geralt feels cold. He hates that he's done this to Jaskier, made him this upset. He wishes he could take it back, keep this awful, painful love to himself. Jaskier shouldn't suffer because he can't return what Geralt feels.

After the third coughing fit in the last fifteen minutes, Geralt gives up the pretense of sleep and rouses, rises from the bed.

"'m sorry," Jaskier croaks when Geralt rubs his back, pours him a glass of water from the pitcher. It hurts that Jaskier thinks he needs to apologize. This isn't his fault, after all.

"Back to bed. We've still got a few hours." Jaskier follows, quiet and subdued. He's exhausted, eyes red-rimmed and cheeks still wet.

They settle, that sliver of space between them as always. Geralt's just starting to drift when--

"Geralt?"

"Hm?"

"Um--" he trails off. Geralt cracks his eyes open, tips his head to look at Jaskier. He looks miserable. Tired. "--nevermind."

"What do you need, Jask?" he asks, quiet.

"Hold me?" he whispers, eyes fixed firmly on the edge of the sheet. Geralt's heart clenches. "I know it's not fair to ask that of you, but--"

"Come here," Geralt says, voice rough. Jaskier shuffles over, awkward. Geralt curls his arm around Jaskier's back, tugs him over so his head rests on Geralt's chest, ear pressed just above his too-slow heartbeat. He settles his hand on the curve of Jaskier’s hip, tries not to enjoy holding him too much--it’s about comfort, not Geralt.

They're still and quiet for a beat. "Thank you," Jaskier mumbles, voice thick with something Geralt can't name. "I know it's not--just. Thank you."

"Shh. Sleep."

They do.

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

They leave the inn bright and early, after only a single round of awful coughing on Geralt's part. Jaskier's stiff and rigid, watching him hack up the flowers, and Geralt hates that Jaskier knows. This was so much easier to bear when there was still a ghost of a chance he returned Geralt's affections. Now--

"So how are we going to find her?" Jaskier asks, during one of the numerous breaks early in the morning.

"We're not," he says. Jaskier opens his mouth to protest, brow pinched in unhappiness. Geralt speaks again before he can get the words out, "We're going to see Triss. She'll know how to find Yen."

"Oh," he deflates. "Don't you, I don't know," he gestures vaguely, "have some magic way of getting ahold of her?"

"A xenovox?" He asks. Jaskier makes a 'whatever' kind of noise that makes Geralt's lips twitch in the ghost of a smile. "No. Triss does, though."

"Ah." He doesn't looks happy, per se, but-- "Okay."

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

"Yes, I can get ahold of her for you," Triss says when they track her down. She's still in Temeria, still serving the king. "Or at least, I can leave her a message. She doesn't much care for answering, usually," she laughs.

"Hm." That sounds like Yen.

"Tell her it's urgent," Jaskier pipes up, expression pinched.

"Is there anything I can do? If it's urgent, I mean."

Triss might actually be the better option, Geralt thinks, if he wants this love torn out of him. She's a healer; he knows first hand she has quite the skill. He could--

"No," Jaskier's already shaking his head, "we appreciate your offer, Triss, darling, but it's got to be Yennefer." His voice is strained. He coughs, a tiny thing he suppresses with difficulty. Geralt can hear him holding his breath to stave off the fit.

"Yes," he agrees slowly. He's...not sure why Jaskier's so insistent on it being Yennefer. They don't even like each other, and he's always liked Triss well enough. "Sorry, Triss."

She corners him before they leave. "He's not well." She'd obviously taken notice of the coughing.

"I know."

"I can--" she winces, gestures vaguely. She's offering to tear it out, the love. He knew she'd be the better bet.

"You can ask him, Triss, but I don't think he wants that. He told me he was...okay. Dying for them."

She makes a strangled noise. "Geralt--"

"We're not talking about it."

She's quiet for a long time. "At least take this." She shoves a bottle of something dried at him, "it won't fix anything long term, but it will help. Mix it with some tea." He takes the little bottle, tucks it into his things.

"Thank you, Triss."

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

Geralt's still trying to figure out where to go from here when Yen tracks them down at an inn they've been staying at a few weeks later. He's just finished an easy drowner hunt and they're planning to pack in the morning. The dried herbs from Triss have helped, but they're not a miracle cure. And Jaskier refuses to take them unless Geralt does too.

"Now what about this is urgent?" she asks, stepping out of the crowd to settle at their table beside Jaskier without invitation. The bard splutters, choking on his ale. It sends him into a coughing fit. His hand flashes out across the table and Geralt reaches back automatically, lets him grip him hard as he shakes his way through the hacking. Yen watches silently, eyes wide.

"Shh," Geralt soothes, slips up from his seat to crouch beside Jaskier when he doesn't recover quickly enough, hands still linked. They're starting to draw attention, so Geralt uses his bulk to shield Jaskier from the scrutiny of the room, "it's okay, Jask." Geralt doesn't breathe easy until Jaskier spits up the little fistful of bloody jasmines, panting.

"Oh," Yen says, voice strange.

"'M not--" Jaskier breaks off, clears his throat, grimacing. He flexes his grip around Geralt's hand once before letting go, "It's not about me."

"It should be," she says. Her gaze cuts over to Geralt, the look in her eyes hostile and reprimanding.

"No, Yennefer--" he starts, gaze jumping fast between her and Geralt, "can I talk to you? Alone?" Geralt startles, tries not to show it. Yen glances up at him where he's still standing.

"Go, Geralt. Your bard and I need to have a talk."

"Hm," Jaskier won't look at him, "I'll go check on Roach."

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

He takes his time brushing her down for the second time that day and forces his mind quiet, focuses on getting her hair all laying the same direction. He's...not trying to listen for the swirl of their conversation in the mix from the tavern. It just...kind of happens.

"Jaskier--"

"He knows and he doesn't feel the same, Yennefer. It's...fine."

"He's an idiot, bard. Did you--"

"No, doesn't matter."

"Then why--"

"He's in love with you."

Geralt's focus breaks when his breath catches and dissolves into another coughing fit. The buttercups are painful little reminders, bright and beautiful, even splattered in blood. He gathers them up, tucks them into his pouch for a lack of anything else to do with them. Jaskier thinks he's in love with Yen? Why--

"Geralt," Yen hums, appearing as if summoned by his thought (she very well might be).

"Yen." He turns to face her, leans his weight against the door of Roach's stall. He's still a little short of breath, knows he looks a sight.

She sighs, long-suffering. "I'm only going to ask you this once--why do you think your bard wanted me here?"

He's...not sure what game they're playing here. "He's...unhappy. With me." Her expression pinches and he can tell she's hanging on to her patience with him by a thread.

"Why?"

"Because--" he sucks in a deep breath, hates that he has to say this out loud, "--because I'm in love with him, and he's in love with another," he finishes quietly.

She makes an awful noise, patience snapping, "And how do I factor into that, Geralt?" She's pissed, but Geralt's not sure who at, honestly.

"He wants the Hanahaki gone...doesn't he?" He can't help make the statement a question. Yen looks like she's going to strangle someone (maybe him).

"You're both fucking idiots," she seethes, "and I would normally refuse to have anything to do with this but I promised your fucking bard, so--" she gestures viciously behind her, "lead the way to your room, witcher."

Geralt does, feeling like he's missing something.

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

When they make it up to the room they're renting for the night, Jaskier is there, looking drawn and highly uncomfortable.

"Yen, I told you I didn't need to be here," he mutters. He won't meet either of their gazes.

"No," she says, voice firm, "you do. Now, Geralt," she turns on her heel to face him, "the only way to get rid of Hanahaki--no, don't interrupt me, we're not doing that--the only way to get rid of Hanahaki is to confess your love to the person the flowers are for." He shifts his weight, gaze jumping to Jaskier whose eyes are still downturned, before settling back on Yen. "Who are your flowers for, Geralt?"

He feels breathless, like he might be about to have a coughing fit again. "I'm--"

"I told you they're for you, Yennefer. Don't make him say it. Please."

"Jaskier, I told you to be quiet," she snaps, "who are they for Geralt?" Her gaze never leaves his, a sharp, angry challenge.

"They're not for you," he tells her. It's obviously not quite what she wants to hear, from the way her scowl deepens.

"You're fucking impossible," she tells him, the same time Jaskier makes a harsh little yelping sound. Geralt's gaze snaps to him.

"Geralt, you can't--" he's scrambling up, crossing the room, "you have to tell her, Geralt, or you'll die. Don't make me watch that." The scent of his worry, his panic, is heavy on the air, sour milk and fruit gone rotten. "She'll love you back, Geralt. It's okay."

His chest hurts. It's only partly from the coughing. "Jaskier--"

"Geralt, where are they? Your little flowers?" Reluctantly, he pulls the little handful of buttercups from his pouch, not sure where she's taking this. "Jaskier, they're buttercups," she says, tone harsh. He just makes a painful little noise.

"I know," he says, voice strained, “It’s hardly fair, is it?” His tone is light but obviously forced. Yennefer sighs, changes tactics.

"Jaskier, who are your flowers for?" She asks, gentle. He makes another little noise.

"Yennefer--"

"Did he tell you what he thought you wanted? Why you wanted him to see me?" She doesn't wait for an answer, "he thought you wanted his Hanahaki gone, Jaskier. Ripped out. He was going to let me do that."

"What? Geralt, I wouldn't--why would I--?" There are tears brimming in his eyes, "I'd never ask that of you, Geralt. Why would you think I would?"

"Why do you think I love Yen?" he asks in return. Yen makes a disgusted sound.

"This is enough. Figure yourselves out; I'm leaving. Don't have Triss call me again unless it's a real emergency." In the next breath, she's stepped through a portal. Gone.

"Geralt?" Jaskier's quiet question draws his attention back. He looks-- "Geralt, who is it?"

"Who else would it be?" he finds himself saying, "They're buttercups, Jaskier."

"I thought--" there are tears rolling down his cheeks, "I thought it was so cruel. For destiny to give you buttercups."

"I'm sorry," Geralt murmurs, reaches up to brush the tears away, "I know you don't--"

"You idiot," Jaskier laughs, a wet sound, "mine are for you, too."

Geralt feels the tightness in his chest fade, like heat leeching away in the cold. He hadn't realized how oppressive the blooms had become until they were gone.

He doesn't know what to do with Jaskier looking at him so full of love and relief. It's overwhelming and he can't help himself--he pulls him in for a kiss, slow and gentle, arms around his waist. Jaskier's fingers slip up into his hair, tilt his head to a more satisfactory angle. They only break when their lungs begin to burn, and then it isn't to go very far. Jaskier presses lingering kisses to his cheeks, his jaw, his throat. Geralt shivers.

"I'd always known you'd kill me, darling," he breathes. Geralt slips his arms a little more securely around his waist, presses a palm flat to the small of his back, kisses down his throat to the open vee of his doublet and the ties of his chemise, temptingly on display.

"'M sorry it took me so long," he says, voice low. Jaskier presses closer in his embrace, winds his arms around his neck. "I was so afraid--"

"I know," Jaskier cuts him off gently, tugs him up for another kiss, slow and unhurried. "I know." When they pull away, Jaskier cups his face in his hands, rubs his thumbs across the arch of his cheekbones, "I was terrified too, love. What a pair we make, hm?"

Geralt hums in response. Jaskier laughs.

"Love you too, darling." He says it light and teasing, but the flowers, the look in his eyes, belie how much he means it.

Geralt swallows hard. "You too," he says, voice rough. He clears his throat, tries again, "I love you too, Jaskier." It comes out a little stilted, but the look on Jaskier's face--

He tugs Geralt down into another kiss. "You're entirely too sweet," he murmurs against his lips. And well. Maybe it's not so bad, loving Jaskier when that love's returned. He presses him backward towards the bed, listens to the delighted burst of laughter Jaskier makes as the back of his knees hit the mattress and he collapses backward, dragging Geralt down with him.

No, it's not so bad at all.

[princecharmingmendes]

Heart by Heart | Chapter I | Raul Mendes

                                           *secret agent AU*

Y/N and Raul have been friends ever since they could remember. And falling in love with your best friend can be pretty tricky and messy 99% of the times, add that to the fact they're constantly risking their lives side by side on the field since they're both secret agents, and the best team that's ever existed. Perfect recipe for disaster.

Helloo, this is the first chapter of this series and I'm super excited about it. Please read the warnings on this one, if you don't feel comfortable with the contents listed on the "warnings" section, please read something else, there are a lot of other works on my masterlist and on the "fic rec" hashtag on my blog. I plan on posting a chapter weekly, which means new chapter every Thursday (and maybe a sneak peak every monday). Please give me some feedback and I hope you guys like it as much as I did. I'll stop rambling now, byee. Happy Reading!

                                                     masterpost | next chapter

*Word Count: 3.4K+;

*Warnings:  cursing, descriptions of violence, blood, injuries, hostage situation and a whole lot of teasing. Please don’t read it if any of this subjects make you uncomfortable, feel free to check my masterlist for other writings. 

*Posted: July 1st, 2021.

                                                     -*-

Raul Mendes was a pain in the ass. Y/N loves him way too much for her own good, but he was a pain in the nonetheless. 

He was the only person she knew who could be in a possible life-or-death situation and still make fun of her through their communicators. And sure, that made the whole thing lighter and less scary, and sure, he was the best agent she’s ever met, but damn did he get on her nerves. And Raul always knew how to get her frustrated or squirming, he enjoyed it more than he was willing to admit. Sure, they’ve been friends for a long time and she should be used to him, but it never got easier. The fact he had a killer smile, the looks of a legit greek god and had this whole tough guy exterior, but secretly had a soft spot for her did not make her case any less complicated.

Y/N and Raul knew each other ever since they’re basically born. Their parents met when they worked together at a company of secret agents, it was only a small corporation back then, and they were known as the best agents at the time. After they retired from field missions and eventually desk jobs, they became only advisers and emergency contacts. But despite that, they kept their friendship going though all the years and that’s how Y/N was introduced to the triplets. They’re always together, doing everything with each other and protecting themselves. And of course she loved Peter and Shawn with her whole heart, they’re like family to her, but Raul was different. Y/N wished it wasn’t, but there are certain things in life you can’t exactly control. Like falling in love with your best friend.

And it’s not like she stood a chance, to be honest. Regardless of his looks, he treated her like she hung the moon and stars on the sky. Sure, he was a tough guy, who rode motorcycles and wore leather jackets, and wouldn’t admit alive that he cried while watching Lion King. But he took care of her when she was upset or having a bad period, he would take her driving around town at midnight on random occasions just because he knew it would make her feel better, and would always be so mindful of everything involving her. And yeah, he teased her endlessly, but it was part of it and in reality, Y/N didn’t mind it that much. 

So when they started growing older and decided to follow their parents career, it only made sense they trained their asses off and got the job together. The company their parents worked for grew a lot, a team that was originally formed by 15 agents turned into a massive business, with over 100 employees, doing various functions. Shawn was picked for a more diplomatic field, always in meetings with important people and traveling around the world. Peter became a tech engineer, developing the coolest gadgets and weapons imaginable, something out of Totally Spies! Raul was clearly a field agent, an expert on body combat and weapons, best out of the four when it came to their physical test. And Y/N was the one who guided the operations, the hacker and responsible for strategies, also for the tech part and best sniper out of the three of them. 

That made her and Raul an unbeatable team and the best duo ever. Their chemistry on the field was recognized by their bosses on the first week, basically glueing them together for every future mission and it worked. For the company. But it only dug her little crush deeper on Y/N’s heart. And obviously no one knew it. She was a spy for fucks sake, she knew how to lie and she wasn’t going to be the one to tell him. Raul didn’t date, working on this field made  everyone’s love life a bit harder than it was already, and he never seemed interested enough in anyone with the same career to have a long lasting relationship with. That didn’t mean there where a lot of people interested, which made Y/N’s heart twist in her chest. 

“Sweetheart, you still with me?” Raul’s voice came through her earpiece bringing her back to reality.

“Of course I am, you idiot, I take this job really seriously” Y/N replied rolling her eyes as if she didn’t just daydreamed a bit. 

“Oh sorry, doll, didn’t mean to insult you hard working” he chuckled “but could you please check in the corridor number 6, half the team is heading down there right now”

“Sure” she quickly typed on her computer changing cameras really quickly, perks of being Peter’s best friend is that she could usually take extra stuff and the newest gadgets on the market “It’s clear and, by the way, you look pathetic with this glasses”

Raul laughed clearly amused, throwing his middle finger up in the air in the direction of the security camera he found “Oh really? Tell that to Peter, he’s the one who created them” 

“Technically their still a prototype, so make sure to let him know”

Raul scoffed playfully as he climbed another set of stairs, the man and woman with him following without questioning, used to his ways of leading “Of course, I’m sure he’ll like to hear your fashion critiques to his million dollar glasses”

“I’ll write it down, now careful, you’re approaching the level where they’re at”

“Sure, mom, I’m always careful” he said in a hushed tone signaling to his teammates to keep quiet and try to find the possible security team they left to watch the hostage.

“Shut up” Y/N said trying to hold back the smile from stretching her lips, already letting the airway team know to be ready to pick them up as they approached their target. 

They’re currently in the middle of a mission where they needed to recover another agent who got caught up in an ambush two weeks ago, and now they’re being kept as a hostage. Raul’s leading a team to retrieve the agent as quickly and as silently as they could, two with him and three other on the opposite side to meet halfway. All that while Y/N’s on the under construction building across the street seated among her gear, gun in hand following their every step and guiding them through the camera system and the big windows that other building had. It’s not the worst mission they’ve ever been, no apparent violence or blood bath, just a simple rescue mission, but they still felt a little jittery and always worried about each other’s lives. And through the years, they noticed that their copying mechanism to make this less stressful (at least a tiny bit) was through light banter and jokes. That somehow brought a bit of normality to their very non ordinary job. 

Y/N did her best to keep them hidden while they crashed into the building as quietly as possible, trying go unnoticeable since they didn’t have enough munition or people on the tactic team. It would also prevent them from moving the target around or opening fire. And despite the fact Raul kept on trying to joke around and that she’s been doing this for at least four years, the fact that they’re working with a less experienced and fresh out of the academy crew made her a little jittery. Not that she didn’t trust Raul to command everything and boss everyone around if things got messy, she just didn’t want him to get in the middle of a crossfire again. 

He had the terrible habit of playing the hero in the most inconvenient times, like when they were little and a guy twice his size, with three friends mocked her pigtails. He didn’t stand a chance, but he went after them anyway. They ended up having to run as fast as they could so they wouldn’t end up with a black eye or something. And that was nothing compared to the stupid shit he could do on field. And Y/N couldn’t be more pissed whenever he came home with more bruises then he should just to play Superman or something. Sure, that was admirable and the fact that he put everyone on his team on his top priority was definitely something fantastic for a captain, but not for Y/N’s heart. 

And for that reason, she was always extra careful, but when he had a newbie joining him on the field, Y/N tripled the attention to avoid putting the kid in danger, and, consequently her best friend. 

Raul was quick to take down two man on their level without raising much alarm, grabbing their munition, dragging the unconscious bodies away from where they’d be easily seen and moving forward to another set of stairs. He was a very skillful agent, with great physical development and worked great under pressure, with quick thinking and a natural leader. So it didn’t shock her when he was able to do that as if it was the most natural thing in the planet. While Raul was more of a passionate person, Y/N was more rational, was analyzing every possibility and coming up with creative solution, she was also really cold on work (she just had one exception) and was a quick thinker, great person to rely on. It’s almost as if the complimented each other and that’s why it worked. That’s why when she tells him to shoot, he does without thinking, or to jump, he wouldn’t blink before doing it head first. 

And that’s why they’re able to reach the hostage without much trouble. 

“Told you to chill out, I knew we could make it” he murmured through their coms and she giggled, shaking her head incredulously.

“You should watch the entrances while your teammates take care of the hostage”

“That’s why I have you, sweetheart” he said with his infamous smirk stretching his annoyingly pink lips.

Y/N shook her head when she felt her face warming up a bit, stupid boy “Well, actually I’m pretty busy calling for our ride, so watch your own back this time, you’re a big boy, I’m sure you can do it”

Raul scoffed but did as she say either way “fine, are we clear?”

“On your floor yes, climb three more levels and meet me on this side of the street, don’t stall champ, they’re going to notice there’s something wrong with the cameras and their man who aren’t responding, so be quick”

Raul chuckled as he helped balance the hostage on Roman’s arms and signaling them to climb the stairs again “Yes, ma’am, anything to keep you from frowning and scolding my ass”

Y/N rolled her eyes smiling, sighing in relief that half of their mission was done and it went as smoothly as it could have been “Great, now get your ass out of there now, Raul” 

The tactic team started moving to the floor they’d have access to jump, and everything was going too smoothly to be true, not even a minor inconvenience. And that was not normal, at all. That’s when Y/N started getting worried. 

Everything was great until Seth, from loosing a lot of blood and being severely dehydrated, started loosing his conscious, making Roman’s job a lot more complicated and making everyone move slower. And while that was happening, Y/N saw when one of the guys saw his partners laying limply on the corner of a hallway and finally the pieces clicked. Luckily she was able to caught it quickly enough to be able to mess up their coms, so instead of a dozen men, they’d have to deal with two. She was also quick to let Raul know, so he jumped into action, telling everyone to rush and grabbing Seth’s right side, basically carrying him alongside Roman up the stairwell. 

But as they’re almost reaching the door, Raul heard footsteps rather close, rushing Roman up the rest of the way, warning he’d be right behind him, that he was only to be a bit far back so he could hold whoever was coming. 

He ran downstairs, quickly blocking the door to the staircase with a fire extinguisher, running all the way upstairs to reach his teammates and jump to go home. But as he had just reached the door, his colleagues waiting for him with their gear (and also his) ready to cross to the other building, he felt the barrel of a gun touching the back of his head. Raul raised his hands in surrender, his teammates staring at him with horror in their eyes as they aimed their guns to whoever was behind him, but he knew they couldn’t do much before he got shot. He also knew they’re too young, apart from Roman and Cara, who were both holding Seth up, they weren’t experienced enough to do something like that. But before the person could pull the trigger, they grunted in pain and Raul felt the barrel slipping away. 

He turned around to watch the guy on his back in the floor, clutching to his left ribs, a little pool of blood already forming underneath him and gun long forgotten. Raul looked around to see if it was anyone from this guy’s side or anyone on the stairs, only to be met with silence and a single security camera with the green dot on, meaning Y/N was still in their system. He shook his head in disbelief, dragging the whining man outside of the room, quacking his gun down the stairs and managing to lock the door so they could escape safely. 

“Still with me, baby?” Y/N’s voice teased mimicking the way he said it earlier. 

Raul shook his head with a smirk on his lips, before moving to where his teammates stood still a bit shocked with all that happened in front of them “Wouldn’t dream of leaving you, sweetheart”

“Alright boys, the helicopters are coming for us, meet you all on the roof in three” Y/N said through the coms for the whole team, quickly shifting to a line only the captain, Raul, could hear “and if you dare be late just to make a big entrance or another dramatic scheme you can think about, I swear to God I’ll leave you behind”

“You wouldn’t dare”

“Try me” Y/N sing sang picking up her stuff and quickly shoving them down in her backpack, gathering the rest in her hands before turning around to climb to the rooftop. 

As she climbed the last set of stairs, Y/N saw their helicopters approaching as the seven agents she was waiting for used a special gun to shoot a line to her building, before locking them in place before zip-lining their way to meet her. She helped Seth, the agent that was kept hostage climb up the little wall since he was in a pretty bad shape, throwing his arm across her shoulders and basically dragging him to where they thrown the stair to climb up to the helicopter with the medical team waiting for him. Cara and Roman climbed first since they’re going to report what they saw and assist Seth as best as they could. Roman grabbed him and the rope stair, shouting to pull them up so he could be taken care of. 

Raul was the last one to arrive, as always staying behind to insure everyone got there safely and no one would try to kill them or anything. He graciously climbed the all as if it was nothing, pulling the gun from the string and cutting it so no one could follow them up there that quickly. Raul told everyone to climb onto the helicopter and they’re quick to follow his order, only one person stubbornly waiting for him, as always. He held back the relieved smile from stretching across his features, noticing how warm and relaxed he felt only by seeing Y/N standing besides the hope ladder. She looked worried, a frown on her beautiful face and Raul wanted to smooth his fingers over it as if it would ease all of her troubles away.

She nodded as soon as he was close enough, Raul being quick to pick up the heavy backpack she was carrying and leaving the rest to her “Are you okay?”

“What? Of course, Why do you ask?” he knew why she was asking, hell, his heartbeat was still a bit too fast to be normal, and yeah, partially was because he was standing in front of Y/N, but on the other hand he almost got killed. She only arched her brow at him and he sighed in defeat “Of course I am, doll, you know me, I’m always okay” 

“That’s what’s scares me the most” she said with a sad chuckle and started climbing the rope ladder to the helicopter and Raul was quick to follow behind.

“Dude, that was insane, I can’t believe you didn’t miss or accidentally shot Raul from across the street!” the youngest guy from the mission shouted as soon as they reached them on the vehicle, Raul closing the door behind them. 

Y/N only giggled in response “yeah, a bit crazy, isn’t it?”

“That’s because she’s the best, Tommy, but she won’t believe it” Raul said as he sat on one of the vacant seats, waiting for her to join him. 

“Oh shut it” she said unable to stop the smile from forming.

They kept on talking about the mission for a while, Tommy and the other two kids who recently joined still high from the adrenaline, but Y/N couldn’t be more worn out and Raul was quick to catch it. He leaned closer to her and she automatically laid her head on his shoulder, a movement that was almost mechanic to both of them. He gently grabbed her hand that was placed on her knee and interlaced their fingers together, letting her play with his hand to pass the time. 

Y/N sighed and mumbled after a while, when most of the kids were too distracted to pay attention “Are you really okay? Don’t say that you’re always fine, I mean it”

Raul had mastered the art of the poker face. He could easily be having the worst time of his life, but he would never let it showcase always with a quick sarcastic remark and an easy smirk on his lips, ready to flirt with anyone to distract them from the real problem. Raul was not the best when dealing with feelings and emotions, always thought it was easier to push them away, but Y/N saw right through him. She always did, ever since they were little. After that, he never tried to hide it again from her, always being as honest as he could with her about how he was, and obviously it didn’t always work, but she understood and respected it. It’s not like he needed to say anything for her to know. 

But at the same time, she didn’t know that he would always be fine, as long as she was safe and right next to him, the rest didn’t matter. 

“I promise you I’m fine, you saved my beautiful ass and we’re going home, I’d say we’re fantastic” he said after a while, pressing a long kiss to the back of their laced hands. 

That seemed to be enough to convince Y/N, since she huffed through her nose and let out a tiny giggle, before leaning closer to him and Raul took it as a sign to drape his arm over her shoulder pulling her closer to his chest “your beautiful ass is really annoying, you know that, right?”

“Oh, I do, but you love it anyway” he said with a giggle, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head, as she just showed him her middle finger, making him laugh even more. 

Yeah, he was definitely fine. For now. 

                                                     -*-

*Please reblog or like this post if you liked it so I’ll know.

*I’m sorry if there are any spelling mistakes.

*Please do not repost this without giving me the credit, this is a completely original piece and I do not give permission to copy this!

*Hope you guys enjoyed it!

*xoxo

-🌙

[darling-in-wonderland]

Okay so I wanted to just write a short story/one shot for once, but it ended up being an oc horror/angst novella. Anyways, here it is!

CW: standard horror movie ones (tension, violence, being hunted, etc), swearing, death mention, anxiety/panic attack mention, lots of blood, virus that makes people violent. Viewer discretion is advised.

Now, without further adieu…

Kill Your Darlings (Part 1)

It was a day like any other, really. Foggy, but hey, I like overcast weather so I’m not complaining.

“I guess I never realized that the fog here is different than the fog back home,” I muse to Grim while we walk to class.

“Myah? Whaddya mean by that, Darling?”

“The fog back home didn’t smell like iron, I don’t think.”

“The fog here doesn’t smell like iron either. I think you’re just mis-smelling things.”

“Whatever you say, Grim,” I give him some pets on his head, not entirely convinced the iron scent isn’t just in my head. “Also, before I forget, I have Board Game Club after classes today. Remember the plan?”

“How could I forget?” he grins. “You offered me five whole cans of tuna to help you with this scheme!”

After the events of that bitch of a phantom bride- oh how I hate her still!- I can’t afford myself the luxury of pretending that Idia doesn’t know that I like him anymore. With the lengths (and songs) I went to without hesitation, there’s no way he doesn’t know; but it’s polite to tell him point blank in no uncertain terms. I mean, that’s what you do when you like someone, right?

The plan is that Grim is going to distract Azul somehow to make him late to the club meeting. Hopefully this will mean that Idia and I will be alone, allowing me to tell him how I feel in person without anyone else there to watch.

Before I left the dorm, I made sure to spritz a bit of perfume on me, just something that makes me smell a bit like candy. I’m only thinking of this because I left the bottle in the lounge since I was running late to class (but I’m always running late to these early morning classes so what’s new?) and I need to remember to put it back in the bathroom when I go home. Anyways I’m glad I took the time to with campus suddenly reeking of iron today.

After classes with Grim, we diverge on our separate paths; Grim to distract Azul with some underwater fetch quest off campus and I to the Board Game Club to confess my love to Idia, not in song while holding a flaming sword this time.

I show up early to the club, jittery and anxious. When I was out there white knighting and wedding crashing, I was so hopped up on anger, adrenaline, and Crowley's waaaaay overpriced bottle of vodka I swiped from his desk I didn't even notice that I kept singing the lyrics to "A Grave Mistake" wrong. When you meet the girl whose love you stole...

I feel a few steps away from a panic attack right now. Why does this of all things make me anxious???

The iron scented fog permeates the air. Time refuses to march on to my best nightmare, so I sit frozen in place as I pace the floor.

When I was younger, I used to spend my free time outside catching butterflies. There was a slight degree of skill that went into it. If you ran up to quickly, the butterfly would get scared and fly away, but if you went too slow, you would lose your surprise and it would fly away then too.

Idia is a butterfly. If I'm too forward and fast, he'll freak and never talk to me again; but if I say nothing, we'll drift apart and I'll lose any chance I had.

It's five minutes past. Where is he? My heart is beating out of my chest. What if something happened to him? I should go find him. My anxiety is fueling my paranoia, springboarding me to the worst possible conclusions. Maybe he died, or worst, I already scared him away for good.

That iron scented fog is smelling more like blood by the second. I feel terrified to leave this room even. What if he thinks I abandoned him? What if I get murdered in the halls?

Oh what am I thinking??? I'm Darling fucking Adventures! Am I really going to sit here and think about all the harm that could befall me? Because of a boy?

I grab a pair of scissors and start making my way down to Ignihyde. The halls of the main building are eerily empty. I clutch my scissors tighter, my knuckles turning whiter against the plastic handle.

My pep talk did little to dispel my paranoia. Especially with that fog still swirling around in the air, staining the atmosphere with a smell like blood.

I make to the Ignihyde mirror in one piece. The fog is starting to let up, unlike my anxiety, despite the anxiety being around longer.

I hear screams when I step through the mirror; angry, violent screams. Is it BattleBots day and I forgot? For my safety, I hope so.

Despite all my logic, I still can’t seem to shake this paranoia. Usually I find the atmosphere of Ignihyde to be cosy and warm, but I guess today I get to experience the dorm like a normal person. I hate it.

Against all good judgement, I push on, scissors in hand. I wish literally anyone was here, some big guy who could do the fighting for me if things got tough, like Jade or Floyd.

Someone grabs my hand and yanks me around a corner.

I shriek and cover my mouth before I realize that it’s just Ortho.

I almost let my body relax, but then I see the fear in his mechanical eyes.

“Ortho?” Panic rises in my voice like bile. “What wrong?”

“It’s Idia. He’s sick.”

“Oh, is that all it is?” The tension in my shoulders releases, but only a little. “From the sounds of the screams, I thought that they reinvented gladiatorial games. Where is he? I can help take care of him.”

“This isn’t a normal sickness,” his voice is hard and serious. What has this kid seen?

I hear Idia cackle off in the distance, this time sending chills up my spine rather than planting butterflies in my stomach.

“Ortho?” I ask, that old fear bubbling up once more.

“Yes, Darling?”

“Does the fog here usually smell like blood?”

“No,” he looks me dead in the eyes, “that’s why he’s sick.”

I feel like I’m gonna throw up. Everything feels prickly and bad. The blood vacates my face as I hear another one of Idia's cackles in the distance. Of all my worst case scenarios, none where like anything of what Ortho said next.

"I've never seen a sickness like this before. It's shutting down any rational thinking at a neural level in order to pump more power into the amygdala. The result of this..." His voice trails off, as if he's having trouble finding the right word to label his brother. At least, that's what I was hoping.

His eyes go wide, his mechanical whirring hushing. The hand around my wrist clamps harder. The tips of my fingers are starting to turn a bruisy purple.

"Ortho?" I whisper. "My wrist-"

I hear the soft tap tap tap of some boots prowling down the adjacent hallway. I can feel the temperature rise with each tap.

"Ortho..." I hear Idia's voice rasp, "I know you're hiding here..."

My eyes are watering. I can't turn around. I can't even blink. My breath catches in my throat. Has he turned the corner? I can't tell.

By the shadow on Ortho's face, he must be looming right above me.

Ortho's tugging on my ever-numbing wrist, a silent plea for me to run, but my body refuses to move from it's position. This is my worst nightmare, and I can't even wake up.

"Seems I've found you," I feel hot breathing on my neck. "And with Darling, no less."

Claws sink deep into my shoulder, piercing skin, drawing blood. I can't even scream. All I can do is clench my jaw as my eyes sting.

Ortho yells and finally yanks me from my spot, flinging me onto his metal back. I cry out in pain as I'm ripped from Idia's talons.

I hear him howl as we make our getaway. As we race back to the main building, Ortho yells above the wind, "Don't worry! Idia can't run very fast! Coach Vargas actually had to hold him back most days when he was in his class!"

We end up hiding out in the library's restricted area. I take off my blazer to examine the gashes in my shoulder.

My shirt and vest are slick with blood. I’ll have to sew in a new solid half of the vest. My hand is covered in the viscous red liquid.

“That’s a lot of blood, Darling,” Ortho remarks.

The room starts to spin. “Oh. So it is.”

I laugh nervously. The blood isn’t pulsing out, he didn’t hit an artery, but the panic building isn’t helping.

“You’re programmed with medical stuffs, right?” I start using my jacket to apply pressure. My hands are shaking. My breathing is shallow.

"Yes, but my lab body is back in Ignihyde, so I don't have any of my medical supplies."

"Okay. That's okay," my panic has almost consumed my whole brain. My chest hurts. "I have sewing supplies back in my dorm, but I don't know if I can make it. I feel like I'm dying."

I’m gasping for air, like I'm drowning. My vision is starting to go.

"Ortho? Am I dying?" My voice is shaking. Tears are rolling down my face.

"You're having a panic attack, Darling," his voice is soft and comforting. "Lay down. I'll do what I can."

Through the ringing in my ears, I hear a faint drip, drip, drip of water on the marble floors.

"That's quite a bit of trouble you've got yourself into," a familiar voice cuts through the static as its owner gently takes my hand. "I can help, for a price."

To Be Continued...

[havenoffandoms]

“Of all things, you would have thought that the rain was innocuous enough. Turns out, nothing is innocuous in this Gods forsaken place!” geralt and reader, if your still taking requests!

Hey anon! I’m sorry this is a bit later than I would’ve hoped, but this prompt took some figuring out. In the end, I went for a witcher!reader (I kept it genderneutral, since you didn’t specify. I hope that’s okay). Not sure how it came out, but I hope you like it anyway! 

Prompt: 47. “Of all things, you would have thought that the rain was innocuous enough. Turns out, nothing is innocuous in this Gods forsaken place!”

Warnings (start after the cut): canon-typical violence, brief description of animal killing, graphic description of blood and injury, swearing, (feral) witcher!reader. Phew, this is on the angsty side. I needed to get that out of my system, clearly. 

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You don’t really know how you ended up in this place, much less how you and your companion will find a way out of here. You hear Geralt curse next to you, which only has you rolling your eyes at him. Like cursing and sulking will be any help at all. You bite back the sardonic comment sitting at the tip of your tongue, because as much as you like to think otherwise, your sarcasm won’t improve your situation either. 

You re-adjust the two swords strapped to your back and thumb your medallion the way you always do when you’re feeling jittery before a hunt. You feel the Cat-shaped pendant vibrate as you take several steps into the unknown territory you and Geralt portalled into. Your mutated green-yellowish eyes and your keen ears are alert as you take in your surroundings. The place seems deserted, but you know better than to lower your guard. In your line of work, danger is always just around the corner. 

“I told you not to step through that stupid portal,” Geralt grouses next to you. You heave a long-suffering sigh and level him with an unimpressed glare.

“For the last time, I thought it was our only way out of there,” you tell him before returning your attention to the strange environment. Everything is quiet… too quiet. “Besides, the toxic fumes were filling the room and we would’ve died of asphyxiation. You’re welcome.”

“Fuck, Y/N. Can’t you see this is a trap?” 

“Of course it’s a trap,” you snap, whirling around so you can face Geralt and glower at him, “but we’re alive, aren’t we, which we wouldn’t be if we stayed in that godsforsaken cave!”

“You don’t know that!”

“You didn’t have to follow me,” you challenge him as you step up to him until your faces are mere inches apart, “you could’ve stayed in that cave and died, for all I care! So don’t blame me for your predicament. You had a choice to make, and you made it! End of discussion.” 

You feel your anger coursing hotly through your veins, but you will yourself to calm down by taking a few controlled breaths. Now is not the time to lose yourself - you need to be alert, and ready to fight whatever monster decides to attack you first. It turns out neither of you have to wait all that long for the first ambush. You hear the growling of wolves before you see them. You and Geralt both unsheathe your silver swords at the same time, eyes riveted on the pack currently surrounding you. 

“Ready?” you ask, a feral grin spreading on your lips as you feel the anticipation rise in you with each passing second. 

“Always,” Geralt replies before stepping forward and piercing the first wolf with his sword. Instinctively, you bounce onto the ball of your feet and run in the opposite direction towards your half of the pack. Your movements are light and graceful as you bring your sword far above your head, then down with enough brute force to decapitate the first beast. Before a second wolf can jump at you, you pirouette out of the way, then slash at the wolf’s belly. A third and fourth one flank you, but you manage to roll out of the way in the nick of time. You make quick work of the remaining wolves, and when you turn around to check on Geralt, you see the other witcher panting heavily among a heap of dead wolves. Your eyes meet, but he doesn’t match your giddy grin. 

Geralt, always the soft-hearted son of a bitch. 

“Let’s go,” you urge him as you wipe the blood off your sword with the hem of your shirt, “like our instructors at Stygga said, where there’s a way in, there has to be a way out.” 

You hear Geralt grumble something unintelligible under his breath, but you decide to ignore him in favour of searching for said way out. As far as you’re concerned, he can either be part of the problem, or part of the solution. You know which side you picked. Eventually, Geralt falls into step with you, and the two of you scan your surroundings in a companionable silence. While Geralt seems unsettled and nervous, you find yourself smiling as you saunter through these strange lands. You always affectioned chaos more than order, anyway. Chaos is your element. 

You know Geralt doesn’t feel that way, but that’s why you two are the perfect match. Opposites attract, or so they say. 

After a while of walking around the place and not encountering other enemies, you’re beginning to think that whoever is in charge of this place wants to toy with you and Geralt. A mage is behind this, there’s no doubt about that, and a clever one at that. They, whoever they might be, must be observing you from afar. It’s like an elaborate game of cat and mouse. The thought makes you smile, and you thumb your medallion again. 

You always enjoyed a good mouse chase. 

Eventually, something begins to change. The world around you darkens as black clouds roll in over your heads, heavy with the promise of rain and thunder. When the first drop of water hits your skin, you feel an unfamiliar itch right where it hit you. Not thinking much about it, you poke your tongue out and catch the raindrop that hit your lips. The tangy, metallic taste of blood fills your mouth… and that’s when you see it. This is no regular rain. This is a shower of blood. 

How very dramatic!

“Of all things, you would have thought that the rain was innocuous enough,” Geralt shouts over the low rumbling of thunder, “turns out, nothing is innocuous in this Gods forsaken place!” 

“Geralt, look!” You point north, where your keen eyes caught the sight of something shimmering in the distance. “The portal! Run, we don’t have much time.” 

You sprint in that direction, confident that Geralt will be close behind you - or at least, you hope he is. You don’t look back and make a beeline for the portal in the distance. The rain falls harder, lightning hitting the ground right next to your feet. It is only thanks to your feline-like reflexes that you manage to dodge the treacherous strikes. Out of the corner of your eyes, you can see that Geralt has caught up with you and is expertly sidestepping various monsters the mage conjured out of nowhere. The portal is just within reach. You’re almost there… almost… Then you hear it. The distinct sound of something tackling Geralt to the ground. You stop dead in your tracks, your eyes darting between your freedom and the witcher you have come to care very deeply about. Your heart is racing in your chest… the choice really shouldn’t be so difficult. 

“Y/N!” you hear Geralt call out to you, “Y/N, save yourself!”

He’s giving you permission to leave him. You briefly consider doing just that, your eyes lingering on the portal. You think that if you’re fast enough, you’ll be able to make it. But a small voice inside your voice tells you that this is more than that. This is the mage toying with you both now. Why else would the portal remain open for so long? Whoever they are expect you to leave Geralt behind… and you won’t give them that satisfaction. You unsheathe your sword and fight off the beasts - nekkers, as it turns out - tackling Geralt to the ground. 

“What are you doing?” he roars, and there’s a desperate edge to his tone that you’re unfamiliar with, “Y/N, save yourself! The portal…”

You ignore Geralt’s protests as you feel your blood rage consume you. Geralt’s voice dies in his throat at the sight of you butchering the group of nekkers which a few seconds ago had been pinning Geralt to the ground. You aren’t aware of your own movements anymore, your emotions having well and truly taken over your instincts and lowered your inhibitions. Only when you’ve killed every last nekker do you hoist Geralt to his feet and pull him towards the portal once more. 

You don’t know how you made it in time - perhaps the mage took pity on you - but the next thing you know, you feel yourself fall through the portal. You feel like being dragged through space and time by a hook attached to your navel. It’s uncomfortable and painful, but over within several seconds. The air in your lungs is knocked out of you when you hit the ground with brute force. You hear the distinct snapping of bones as both you and Geralt collapse on the forest floor, followed by pained groans falling from both your mouths. 

“Fuck!” he curses breathily, “That was close.”

“Too fucking close.” You hiss as you try to push yourself up onto your knees. “Shit! There go my ribs.”

“Tell me about it. I think I broke my arm.”

“We’ll live,” you state conversationally, as if you were discussing the weather. A near hysterical laugh pushes past your lips. “Shit, Geralt. I was right. I told you if there’s a way in, there’s always a way out.”

You watch Geralt roll onto his side and sit up, face pulled in a pained frown as he cradles his broken arm to his chest. Your eyes widen at the sight of him, caked in dry blood from the torrential rain, giving Geralt a near feral look. You guess you don’t look in much better shape if the look in his amber eyes is anything to go by. You manage to crawl up to him and catch his lips in a sloppy kiss. 

“Thank you,” he whispers in a gravelly voice in between heated kisses, “for coming back for me.”

“Don’t let it get to your head,” you tell him, “you’d have done the same for me. You wolf witchers are all self-sacrificing bastards.” 

“Only for the people who deserve it,” Geralt adds as he cups your face with the hand attached to his good arm, “make of that what you will.”

You offer a kinder smile, your eyes softening as you take in the sight of your lover. You’re both alive. You both made it. Not that you ever doubted that for a second. Well… maybe for a tiny second. 

“I’ve told you before. I can be very likeable, when I’m amenable to it.” 

[sickficsies-and-whumpsies]

Request for @animewhump: she requested a sick!Inumaki, and I’m here to deliver. I hope that this is somewhat good!! Inumaki’s such a complex character to write, and since I haven’t read the manga (yet) everything’s even more complicated, but I did what I could…! Let me know what you think :)

TW in the tags.

////////

Inumaki wakes up feeling not too hot. 

Quite literally. 

Before he has the chance to ask Ieiri for some pills or whatever she is going to deem necessary, Gojou decides to drag Inumaki and the other second years outside, for training. 

Not that he stays with them for long, anyway.

Something comes up, something that needs his attention, so he leaves his students alone, trusting their judgement when it comes to training individually and in groups without adult supervision.

In hindsight, Inumaki thinks, he is glad that Gojou isn’t there now. The teacher would probably sense his student’s discomfort immediately, and he would force him to train even harder. 

Had it been someone else, someone with a little more tact, they would probably ask Inumaki to get some rest, but Gojou is… different, when it comes to handling problems like the one at hand.

Maki dries her forehead, panting slightly. She's sporting shorts and a T-shirt, wearing a cap to protect herself from the boiling sunheat, and Panda definitely looks too hot for comfort.

But Inumaki can't quite understand how.

He keeps pulling at his shirt, trying to wrap it tighter around his quaking shoulders, teeth chattering as if he were bathing in the Pacific Ocean in the middle of December. The sun does nothing to warm his freezing skinー it isn’t, he knows it isn’t, but it sure feels like itー and he is actually convinced that his toes are eventually going to fall off, at this rate.

“-ge, you okay there?” Panda calls, waving a paw from a few meters from where Inumaki is sitting on the grass. Even Maki turns around, cocking a concerned eyebrow at the boy’s unusual stiffness. 

Normally, he’d be participating way more actively, but today something about Inumaki feels indubitably off.

“Inumaki? Hey, are you alrー”

“Salmon.”

Maki is there too, looming behind Panda. She crouches in front of Inumaki, bringing a careful hand forward. “Here, let me…” 

Panda cuts in, approaching him, “You’re shaking pretty bad. Are you sick?”

Inumaki shakes his head, stubborn, averting his gaze, “Bonito flakes.”

Before she makes contact, however, Inumaki bolts upright, knees buckling under his weight. He takes a couple of tentative steps back, staggering, fists clenched at his sides as he snarls, “Bonito flakes!”

“Okay, okay.” Panda calls, eyes wide, taking a step back and extending one arm to force Maki to do the same, “But, huh, are you positive you're fine?”

“Salmon.” he nods, trying to keep the shaking at bay, to no avail. The young sorcerer sluggishly gets up from his spot, stumbling a bit but managing to stay upright. Lilac, half-lidded eyes blink at the offending sunlight that blinds them, and after taking a few steadying breathsー not that it works, reallyー Inumaki heads back to training, ignoring the concerned looks that are being casted in his direction.

Sparring continues without further interruptions, though Inumaki can feel himself getting weaker and weaker as seconds go by, bones freezing despite the melting heat of July. He feels jittery, clammy and wrong. 

Well-aware of the piercing gazes of his friends, evidently keeping an eye on him, he tries to look fine. He doesn't like this, he's never liked being a problem, not when he can't even explicitly explain, not when he's forced to listen to the people around him play guess. 

It's frustrating.

Sweaty palms reach to brush damp ash-grey hair off his forehead, as beads of sweat drip from the messy mane, down his forehead, onto his nose and cheeks.

He feels cold, and yet, he's uncomfortably aware of the heat radiating from his body. Maki’s blows ground him painfully, but he's aware of how dodging continuously will only result in his friends fussing over him, unnecessarily. 

“Put some spirit into it, would you?” Maki grins, cocky, landing another blow that sends the boy stumbling backwards. 

Panda watches from not too far away, humming. 

Maki’s staff jabs at Inumaki’s shoulder, pushing him backwardsー she is definitely holding back, it's painfully obvious at this point. He manages to catch himself from falling, ending up a few steps away from his opponent. His weak knees are bent, and his hands attempt futilely to pry themselves away from the kneecaps they seem glued to. Inumaki struggles with each rasped, shallow inhale, trying to will the thick fog away.

He can't, he can't! 

He needs to straighten up, to protect himself from the upcoming attacks. He's not allowed to slack like that, he needs to be physically strong too, because his technique has its limits, and he knows it far too well.

He knows he needs to focus, he's aware of the others’ gazes on him, and yet, before he can bring his eyes up to meet theirs, his vision flickers. 

The suffocating darkness gets ahold of his being, overwhelms his senses, drags him under, deeper below the surface.

The sorcerer lets out a pitiful yelp, choked.

He's out before he even hits the ground.

Until, he doesn't. 

Maki has seen it coming, she's been able to tell that her friend had been a push away from collapsing for a bit, and the confirmation comes when, after taking a few steps toward him, he doesn't acknowledge her at all, and drops like a sack of wet cement.

She leaps to cross the distance between them when Inumaki starts to bleach alarmingly fast during the fall, revealing the painfully obvious flush on his cheeks and eartips. 

“Inumaki!!”

“Toge!!” Panda cries simultaneously from his position, running toward his friends. Maki hooks her arms under Inumaki’s armpits, and starts to lower him to the ground, wincing at the heat. 

“Damn it, he’s burning up.” she hisses. Maki kneels next to her friend, patting his cheeks as she attempts to rouse him, to no avail.

Panda watches horrified as Inumaki’s face twists in discomfort, mouth gaping as he sputters shapeless sounds, eyelids twitching. He kneels to his other side, silent as Maki grabs Inumaki’s shoulders and shakes him slightly, hoping to make him come to, at last.

And, surprisingly, he does after a moment. 

Inumaki shoots into an upright position with a cry, shaking uncontrollably in Maki’s hold. She can see just how disoriented and delirious her friend is, pinpoint pupils darting around like a deer in the headlights', struggling to breathe.

He’s sweating and shaking, trying to pry himself from the hands on his shouldersー stay back, stay back stay back stay back stay back…!

Maki sees Inumaki's lips start to move, and immediately lets go of him, urging Panda to step back, for their own safety, and Inumaki's, too. If he uses his technique now, he's going to get worse, and right now they can't afford that.

“Inumaki, it's okay, you're okay. It's us, it's Maki and Panda.” she speaks, trying to sound as non-threatening as possible, “You're sick, okay? Do you understand what I'm saying? Inumaki.”

He squeezes his eyes shut, nodding after an instant. The two other sorcerers relax visibly, shoulders sagging in relief.

“Can we come close, please?” Panda asks tentatively. Another nod, frantic.

And so they approach him again, careful with their movements, slow and calculated not to startle him further. Panda nods to Maki, and she nods back, trying to catch Inumaki's shifty gaze.

“I'm going to feel your forehead for a second. Can you tell me what's up?” Maki's tone is soft yet firm, determined to get to the bottom of this. Her slightly calloused hand sets itself onto Inumaki's forehead, and her olive-green eyes widen behind the square spectacles. She hisses without even realising it, and lets her hand shift and move down to touch the side of her friend's neck.

“Yeah, definitely a fever. High, too.”

“Geez, alright.” Panda swallows the lump in his throat. He's always been a bit of a worrywart, especially when it came to his two best friends, “How long have you been feeling sick, Toge? “Why didn't you tell us!?”

“N-nori seawe-ed, soy sau-sauce, rice? Bonito flakes, rice.” Inumaki wheezes, shaky, and collapses, colliding with Panda's fur. The latter frowns, and so does Maki.

“We're notー we didn't get that, sorry.” he apologises, mortified, “Toge, do you think you can text us what's wrong?” Panda adds, handing him his own phone.

Inumaki grabs it with unsteady hands, sweaty brow furrowed as he types, painfully slow. After a minute, he hands the device back to Panda, taking a breather.

I feel bad. My head hurts. It's too cold.

“We should probably get you out of the sun, then.” Panda cues, and Maki nods immediately, grabbing their stuff. 

“Can you carry him?” she asks.

“Yeah, I got him. Call Gojou-sensei in the meantime, please.”

“Already on it.” Maki hums and heads toward Inumaki's room to get it ready, phone held between her ear and shoulder, praying for the teacher to pick up soon. 

“I'm going to lift you, now. Hang in there, alright, bud?” Panda asks, no, pleads, and he feels Inumaki nod, just barely, but it's there and right now, it's all he needs.

As soon as she leaves, Panda lets his gaze fall onto Inumaki's again. Everything about the boy screams discomfort: his already-pale skin has lost even more color, and splotches of red cover his cheeks and ears. His hair is damp, plastered to his face uncomfortably, and Panda delicately brushes it off his eyes.

They're clouded, dull, and it's obvious that he's in pain.

Gently, oh-so carefully, he lifts Inumaki, arms hooked under his knees and behind his back, neck crooked uncomfortably when the boy's head lolls to his side and his face is buried into the fur that tickles his nose.

Panda walks slowly, trying not to jostle the sick sorcerer. He whimpers, half-choked wordsー he wasn't limiting himself to onigiri ingredients anymore, eitherー escaping his trembling lips, eyes fluttering. 

“Shhh, it's alright, Toge. It's okay. We're almost there, your room isn't far. Maki already warned Gojou-sensei, and she's getting the room ready.” he hushes, tender.

Inumaki's dry sob is painfully grounding, and Panda's heart clenches in his chest.

“H'rs…” Inumaki slurs, and Panda almost freezes. It's not a command, per se, so it's not harmful, but he shouldn't be speaking now.

“I'm sorry.” Panda hums, sympathetic and worried, “Try not to talk. Rest. We're close, almost there.”

“Boni-ito fl-flakes.”

“Mh, ‘no’? What do you mean?”

Inumaki groans, fingers fisting the fur. It doesn't hurt, so Panda doesn't really mind. If it helps his friend to distract himself, then he won't tell him to stop.

Panda can feel Inumaki getting more limp, but the boy doesn't look like he's falling asleep, no. Instead, the young sorcerer seems exhausted, spent as if he'd just used his technique ten times in a row, on the brink of fainting.

The Cursed Corpse speeds up, and soon they're in front of Inumaki's room, door slightly ajar.

“I think he's getting worse, he looks so tired…” Panda says, and gingerly lays Inumaki down onto his bed. Maki's fast to take the boy's boots off, and she sets them on the windowsill. 

“Panda, is that you?” Maki calls from the inside, and opens the door for her friends, stepping aside to allow Panda to walk in without making Inumaki bump into the doorframe.

“How is he?”

“I got a thermometer from Ieiri-sensei, and fever reducers if it gets too high.” she says, and Panda hums out in gratitude. 

“And his mission?”

“Inumaki, hey.” Maki calls, running her fingers through his hair, and he only blinks sheepishly in response.

“I'm going to take your temperature. The thermometer's tip is cold, but bear with me for a moment.”

She slides the object under his sweaty armpit, and Inumaki shivers violently. Panda pats his head, and while Maki waits and makes sure that Inumaki doesn't move around too much, she looks at the other.

“Gojou-sensei will be here soon. I asked him to pick up some sports drinks, plus onigiri with pickled plum for Inumaki. Hopefully, he won't take too long.”

“Nothing he couldn't handle.” she reassures, “When I called sensei, he was already done. Ah, he says he got the first-years snacks, but nothing for us.” 

“Cruel of him.” Panda chuckles.

Maki does the same, nodding, “Right!?”

The thermometer beeps, and Inumaki jumps, eyes wide. He coughs and sputters, and soon he's lifted to sit on the mattress, rather than to lie down on it, and a handー a paw－ runs up and down the whole lenght of his spine.

“40°C, fuck.” Maki bits at the same time, glancing at the offending numbers, “We need to cool him down.”

“There, there, breathe through it, Toge.” he says, handing the boy a glass of water that Maki had prepared beforehand.

He helps him drink, holding the glass for Inumaki. The cold liquid drips down his twitching chin, but he swallows a couple of sips and, surprisingly for him, he doesn't choke on it.

“Lukewarm bath. Or shower. Whatever he can handle.” 

Panda hums, “What do you suggest?” 

As they talk, Inumaki throws his head back, evidently against his friends' suggestions, and whimpers a plea, or what his friends have learntー through the yearsー to identify as such.

Before he can tell them to stop, Maki's not there anymore, and he hears her drawing a bath, testing the water to keep the temperature around 32°C, not too cold but cold enough to cool him down. 

Hopefully.

“B-bonito flakes, bonito flー” he coughs again, bringing a fit up to stifle the cough. The glass is once again pressed against his lips, but he pulls away and shakes his head, teeth chattering, stomach twisting. “N-no, no pl-please.”

And, this time, Panda is forcedー quite literallyー to set the glass down. The fog that takes over the Cursed Corpse as Inumaki activates his technique soon fades, and he sighs.

“Toge, you need to stay hydrated. Your fever is very high, your body needs the water. Please, man.”

“Bon-bonito fla-kes.” he coughs, and Panda cringes. Maki pokes her head inside the room.

“Bath's ready. Can you strip him down, please?”

“Sure, but I'm going to leave his underwear on.” Panda nods.

“Duh, I wasn't planning on ever seeing Inumaki butt-naked, thanks. I already have enough trauma to deal with as it is, no need to add more.” Maki laughs, trying to ease the tension. It helps a bit.

Panda lifts Inumaki again and takes him to the bathroom, sitting him down on the lid of the toilet and taking his clothes, minus the boxers, off. Maki grabs the sweaty items and tosses them inside the laundry basket whilst Inumaki is gently lowered inside the water.

As soon as he's under the surface, up to his shoulders, he jerks and thrashes, crying out and sobbing as he struggles. Panda holds Inumaki's head to prevent him from accidentally drowning, whispering half-choked apologies, and Maki gently wipes a damp towel over his forehead and the part of his neck and chest that isn't underwater.

“Bonito flakes, b-bonito flakes!!” he yelps, face twisting up in pain, “Rice, mustard leaf, mu-mustard leaf, soy sauce…”

He's wailing, trying to get rid of the hands that are forcing him to stay inside the bathtub. It hurts, it hurts, it's too cold, he thinks he's dying, he knows he is.

He wants to get out, he's freezing, he's really  freezing. Inumaki doesn't understand why they're doing this to him, he doesn't know what he did wrong, he doesn't know why his friends are punishing him like this.

He vaguely remembers using his technique on Panda, and it only sends him further down the spiral of panic that's clawing at his chest. 

Inumaki's scared, and he's hurting. He just wants to get out of there, he needs to. 

“Has he boiled over yet?” asks someone from the bathroom's doorstep, and he can't turn around, but he wants to, and maybe this person will help him.

Maki's tempted to snap at Gojou, but she doesn't. “Did you get the things I asked you, sensei?”

“Sure I did!” he chirps, waving the plastic bag, “I got cold patches too. Didn't know what brand to get, so I got a bunch of them.” 

Maki and Panda thank their teacher, bowing their heads too. It's been ten minutes since Inumaki's been in the water, so Maki opts to take the boy out of it and into some dry, light clothes. 

Panda helps him out of the tub, and Maki wraps a fluffy towel around his shoulders. Inumaki’s shaking like a leaf, whimpering miserably, and Maki wrapped the towel a little tighter, sighing worriedly. She places the back of her hand onto his forehead, and it feels a bit cooler than before, but they need to dry him off before they can take his temperature accurately again, so Maki asks Panda to hurry while she goes rummage through Inumaki’s drawers, retrieving a pair of clean boxers and a T-shirt.

“Here.” she says, passing the clothes to her friend, “Do you need help to change him?”

“No, I got this, don’t worry.” Panda smiles, though worry seeps clearly through his features.

Maki nods, “Okay, then I’ll pour him a glass of whatever Gojou-sensei bought, and I’ll ready a bowl with water and a towel, for later.” she says. Then, she closes the door behind herself to give the others some privacy.

Gojou is still there, and Maki’s surprised that her teacher’s caring enough to wait and see if his student is actually okay. As if on cue, he chuckles, shrugging, “What, shocked that I’m not as heartless as you kids make me out to be?” 

“We have our reasons, sensei.” she says honest.

“I suppose you do, I’m not going to blame you guys for that.” Gojou laughs. A moment later, Panda comes out, carrying Inumaki. He sits him onto the mattress, back against the bedframe. Gojou tosses Panda the cold patches as he watches from a distance, leaning against the wall on the opposite side of the room.

Panda gently applies it to his friend’s forehead. Maki slides the thermometer under Inumaki’s armpit for the second time that day. It takes longer than the first time, but it’s a good thing, they know it is. As a matter of fact, the results are good, and Maki and Panda exhale in relief.

“39.4°C, more than half a degree lower than before.” Maki says, and Gojou nods satisfied and relieved, even if he wasn’t too worried to begin with, to be fair. 

Inumaki does seem a bit more cognizant, but he’s silent, blinking slowly at his hands that rest on his lap. He swallows, and it’s the signal that friends’ have been waiting for. 

“Here, slowly.” Panda says, helping him to drink from the glass. It’s not water, it’s sweeter and mildly bubbly, Inumaki notices, tempted to drink more. But his stomach’s upset from the heat, so he reluctantly pulls away after three medium sips. 

“Hungry?” Maki says, grinning gently, “Gojou-sensei got you pickled plum onigiri.” 

Inumaki nods, still shivering, and takes the food that Maki hands him with unsteady hands. 

Gojou flashes two thumbs up and leaves without another word. Maki and Panda still bow their heads to express their gratitude as he exits the room.

“Should I ask Shouko to give him some meds?” Gojou asks, yawning as if he were annoyed, “I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.”

“Maybe some mild fever reducers? If it doesn’t spike, he’ll be fine, but... better safe than sorry.” Maki says, rubbing soothing circles between Inumaki’s trembling shoulders, not too hard.

Inumaki’s three quarters through his onigiri when he chokes, coughing abruptly and hitting his chest with a weak fist. Maki and Panda both rub at his back, trying to coax whatever got stuck into going down the right tube.

Inumaki’s slightly less pale than beforeー but still paler than averageー and his cheeks aren’t as scorching, and his eyes aren’t as empty and dazed. Still, the fact that he’s been silent for a while is definitely a source of worry.

Maki and Panda exchange a confused look at the expanse of his shoulders, before the latter clears his throat and speaks. “Toge, man, are you alright?”

“Yeah, you haven’t said a word.” adds Maki after a moment.

Inumaki nods, “Salmon.”

But something’s not right, he doesn’t sound convincing at all and even he knows it. He grabs the phone that had been placed on the nightstand, and opens the memo app. 

I’m sorry.

“For what?” Maki and Panda ask in unison. 

I ruined training. And you were forced to take care of me and give me a bath as if I were a child. I’m sorry.

Maki sighs, exasperated, and Panda shakes his head, “Toge, you didn’t ruin anything! And we weren’t forced to take care of you, we wanted to!! You would’ve done the same. You’re good, don’t worry.”

It was embarrassing.

“For you? Maybe. For us? Not one bit.” Maki explains, “Get over your embarrassment already, because you’re the only one who thinks that the need for help is embarrassing. I swear.”

She’s maybe a bit harsh, but she knows she is right, and so does Panda. Inumaki’s face heats up, and it’s not the fever’s fault, but he doesn’t question it. He grabs the hem of his T-shirt and brings it up to cover his mouth and part of his nose, gaze shying away. 

Gojou’s there too now, and he hands Inumaki a little blister with pills, “Here, take one now, and one if the fever isn’t down in six hours.”

Inumaki nods and bows slightly, before he lets Panda lift the glass for him. He drinks a sip, puts the pill on his tongue, and tilts his head to will it down after taking another sip. He coughs a bit, but the pill’s probably long dissolved by now, so it’s not a problem.

Maki smiles tenderly, and pats his back, “Come on now, get some rest. I’ll be back later.”

“Yes, we’re taking turns!” Panda explains to Inumaki, who only blushes further. Maki and Gojou live after waving their hands briefly, and Inumaki goes horizontal.

He’s still cold, but not as much, and his head hurts a bit less. Still, he’s dizzy, and tired. Struggling earlier has left him drained, and Panda’s constant chatter helps him doze off before he can apologise again, or wonder why his underwear is backwards. 

He’ll take care of that after a nice nap.

(3/29/2021)

[nemesis-is-my-middle-name]

Heal

finished up an old wip for mystery march day 1! i had most of this written already so don’t expect this much for the other days, if i even do them at all, lol.

Lewis floats backwards, motion jittery, seemingly caught between freezing and fleeing - and then his already faint form vanishes entirely, and the sinking heart drops. Arthur lunges, and manages to snatch it from the air before it hits the ground.

He holds the heart tight in his hands. The familiar warmth, the feeling of comfort and safety, is almost gone, leaving the metal cold and lifeless. He swallows back a sob and looks around. No sign of Vivi or Mystery yet. But that beat is barely more than a faint tremor, and he can feel it starting to fall apart in his hands...

No, no, he can't let this keep going. He folds the heart to his chest, doubling over it, hoping to share his body heat or his heartbeat or something, anything he can give to not let it shatter.

For a long moment, the world is silent save for the sound of his ragged breathing, broken by quiet sobs and whimpers. His hands are starting to feel numb from clutching the anchor so tight, but a low heat begins to pulse against his chest, a slowed-down match to his own racing heart.

Good, that's good, Lewis will be okay - everything will be okay as long as he doesn't let go. His arms are starting to shake, and the whole world is fuzzy, but it's okay, because there's that familiar warmth, nestled next to his heart even as the rest of his body grows cold.

...is he falling forward... or is it just vertigo?

He holds on to that little anchor-point of warmth, a light he can see behind his eyes, as everything else drifts away.

---

Vivi and Mystery walk into the room where Arthur had gone, and freeze for a moment.

Arthur's lying on the floor, unconscious and visibly shivering even from here, a spot of faint gold loosely cupped in his hands.

Both of them rush forward together. He's holding Lewis's anchor, which is glowing weakly and covered in spiderweb cracks. Full of his life, and it isn't hard for Mystery to guess what's made Arthur so weak - he's used his power as a medium, and willingly shared his soul's energy with Lewis, to keep the heart from shattering. He'd given so much and it's still so broken. Lewis may still not be able to regenerate on his own, but at the same time, Arthur doesn’t have much strength left to lose, and if he does...

Conflicted and desperate, Mystery lunges forward and takes the heart in his teeth, moving as quickly as he can so as not to stay close to Arthur for any longer than he has to. It isn't hard, and then he starts to back up-

-but then, as Vivi's reaching for Arthur, he rouses, just a little bit - and with a weak, frightened gasp, reaches forward and, in a motion that makes Mystery flinch, snatches the anchor right out of his mouth. 

He promptly curls up around it again, even tighter now, fresh tear-tracks running down his face. Mystery just whines, scrambling back. That even barely awake, Arthur could have brought himself to do that, he could scarcely believe. Reached into the mouth of a monster, to get Lewis's heart. To... protect his friend, from...

"Mystery!" Vivi's voice sharp as ice, jolts him out of his thoughts. She's hunched over Arthur's shaking form, hand hovering uncertainly over his folded-up arms, where the heart would be if they could see it. "Is that thing- is it going to-"

Right. He starts thinking again, giving the two - one living, the other dead, both barely hanging on to each other - a careful sniff. They've shared so much energy they're barely distinguishable anymore, but... "...it doesn't matter now. It isn't actively draining him, but anchor or no, we need to get somewhere safe." "I'm taking it."

He jumps, torn between lunging forward and flinching back. "No, don't- ...taking it from him will only cause him more stress, and that's the last thing he needs now. You saw what he did for- just let him hold it."

He gives her a look, and she lowers her hand.

"If we get him home..."

"The wards around the house should give him some strength back. He'll recover on his own, in time, but they'll help." He sighs and bows his head. "He's fine, Vivi. Please trust me."

She swallows hard. "Okay. G- let's- take him home."

Take them both home, Mystery corrects in his mind, but doesn't say out loud. 

---

Vivi carries Arthur into the house, draped awkwardly around her and still holding tight to the heart. She sets him down on the bed - Lewis's, because it's easiest to get to, and definitely not because she was on autopilot and subconsciously steered herself there. For a moment she debates whether to tuck him in, too, but ultimately decides against it - she doesn't want to jostle him any more, and he'll probably want to leave as soon as he wakes up anyway.

She leaves the room and finds Mystery waiting on the couch, staring out the window with as much solemn dignity as a tiny dog can muster.

"Does he... seem alright?" he asks her hesitantly, as she sits down next to him.

"I don't know," she snaps back, with more force than she meant to use. She shouldn't be annoyed, he's just worried - but she and Mystery both know that no amount of ancestral power has given her the ability to sense spirits. The only possible clue she can glean about his condition is that he isn't awake yet.

If he's bothered by that, he doesn't show it. He sighs and lays his head on her leg.

"They'll be alright," he tells her. "Both of them."

"Right. My best friend and that ghost I'm supposed to care about." Her voice is acidic, but this time, she doesn't really care. "Even after he almost gets Arthur killed, again-"

"Vivi-"

"I know-"

"-he was almost lost, too. If-"

"I don't care!" 

Mystery's ears flick back, and he stops talking, turning away from her and back towards the window. It's quiet for a moment.

"I just..." tears are welling in her eyes. "I don't understand why this... this ghost means so much to him. That he'd do this for him..." she sniffs. "After he- hunted him, tried to kill him, hated him? Blamed him for things he never did and wanted him dead over it? Why should he get to be forgiven?"

"Vivi," Mystery cautions. The fire in her voice is starting to sound too much like the old Lewis she's railing against.

"I know, I know. But I- it's hard for me not to look at... at him, at them, and not just see... another person Arthur's letting push him around, because he feels like he has to."

Mystery's heart aches at hearing that. If only she could understand just how far from the truth she was. "You know Arthur's feelings are genuine. He cares for Lewis, enough to fight you over it."

"I know, I know. I just..." she sighs, and her gaze wanders away. "I know Lewis is important to him. And I know- all the stuff everyone's said, about who he was."

Who he is, Mystery adds.

"But I don't remember it. And the worst part is - I can feel myself not remembering. I know there's a block there, that there's a gap, but... knowing isn't making it go away any faster." She kicks at the floor, brow furrowed. "And it's his fault, and I'm mad at him for that - but I also feel bad, because I know he doesn't want it there. He never meant to do this to me, and now... I have no idea who he is."

"Give it time. And trust. If not in Lewis and I-" and I couldn't blame you if you didn't, he thinks somberly, "-then in Arthur."

She nods weakly. "I... I'm trying."

---

Lewis wakes up first, and he feels… strange.

Mostly he feels tired. Everything’s heavy, and his body aches like he’s just run a marathon, and there’s a funny feeling of static in his head. It’s been a long time since he really felt tired.

He forces his eyes open. The first thing he registers is that he’s in bed – his bed – and there’s Arthur next to him, looking fast asleep. His anchor is folded tight against his chest. It looks pretty sad, pale grey and covered in cracks. Huh. He remembers it being damaged, but not… that badly. No wonder he feels so awful.

He reaches out and touches it. There’s little more than a flicker in response – its usual beat is faint enough to be almost invisible, and it’s barely warm at all. He can see a faint golden glow at the center, almost entirely covered by Arthur’s hands, but other than that, it’s entirely colorless. Or, no, not entirely – around the edges of the cracks, something he’d mistaken for reflections of his own glow at first, are thin lines of pink.

He lets himself fall back onto the bed, and finds himself staring at Arthur’s face. He looks pretty bad too – tired and drained, even asleep, with dark shadows under his eyes. -Was he attacked, too? A jolt of fear goes through him at the thought – but when he reaches out, he finds he’s not hurt, just… faint. Drained, he repeats in his head.

What happened after…? He tries to remember, but all that comes back is the jeering and sharp claws of the monster, as it did its best to cut his body to ribbons and kept repeating things it shouldn’t have been able to know. You monster. Look at yourself, full of anger and hate and violence. Why are you pretending? You should have disappeared long ago, and you’re putting all your so-called friends in danger with your selfishness. Just give it up already.

Despite himself – despite the fact that he knows it was lying – he still feels tears welling up again, as he replays its words. He folds himself up against Arthur, letting his face rest in his hair, and does his best to cry quietly.

After a while he feels him stir, and pulls back a bit to meet his eyes. Arthur just stares at him for a moment in silence – and then his expression shifts and suddenly he throws one arm around his shoulders, the other one still holding the anchor tight.

“Lewis,” he half-whispers into his chest, sounding scared and relieved and thankful all at once. “‘was- was s-s-so worried…”

“Worried?” he echoes. His voice sounds funny to him, buzzing oddly.

“You- your a- your heart, it… it…” he sniffs, and the hand holding the locket shifts a little. “I… I th-thought it was gonna… that- th-that you were… broken…”

“Oh,” he breathes. “No- no. I’m here. I’m okay.” He pulls him closer, his thin frame almost disappearing in his arms.

He feels a little selfish admitting it, even to himself, but having Arthur here, so upset by the very thought of him disappearing, is… it’s reassuring. It directly contradicts the anxiety hanging over him.

Both of them start a little when the door clicks open, and they look up to see Vivi standing there. Her face tightens when she sees Lewis, expression unreadable.

They sit up a little. Still holding the locket, Arthur pulls himself higher and folds his other arm around Lewis, almost… protectively.

Vivi turns her attention to Arthur first. “How are you feeling?”

“Tired… but fine.”

It takes Lewis a moment to realize she’s staring at him now, and a moment longer to accept that the question was directed at both of them. “I… I’m okay. I don’t think I’ll be… a hundred percent for a while, but… I’m fine.”

She nods, exhaling heavily.

“Vivi…” Lewis speaks up, prompting her to turn her eyes towards him. “What happened? I don’t…”

“Your anchor got broken. Arthur used his own life to heal it.”

“…oh."

He waits for a jab from her, an accusation or judgement, as he’s come to expect any time Arthur helps him… but none comes. Her voice is a little pointed, and her expression certainly isn’t friendly, but… it’s the first time in a long while since she didn’t look disgusted by him.

She swallows thickly and looks between the two of them. After another moment, her gaze lands on Arthur. “You… have to be more careful.”

He just leans on Lewis a little harder with a hum of acknowledgement.

Lewis waits for the parting warning, but once again, she just… doesn’t say anything. She turns and leaves, shutting the door behind her, without another word to him.

“Did she…” even Lewis isn’t sure where he’s going with the question, lingering in the air as he stares at the door.

Arthur huffs a sigh and lays back down, pulling Lewis to the bed with him. There’s a moment of silence, and then Lewis speaks. “Should I… do you want me to take my anchor back?” 

Arthur blinks, squinting like he’s having a hard time keeping his eyes open. “Oh- I mean, if- if you want, but… I… I like to- to hold it. I want to… keep it s-s-safe.”

“Oh.”

For a while the only sound is Arthur’s breathing.

“Did you really… do that? Share your… your life…?”

“I guess?” He shrugs, looking away. “Not on p-purpose. I was just… scar- sc-scared that you’d disappear, and I- I guess…”

It takes him a moment to form a response to that. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You didn’t.” The answer is quick and easy.

Lewis just stares at him for a moment, brow furrowing, and then he shifts a little, curling up and pressing his head against Arthur’s chest. He feels a little… silly, embarrassed maybe, needing comfort like this, but… he pushes it aside.

He thinks about saying something else. Thank you, or I’m sorry, or I love you. But instead he just closes his eyes, feeling the rhythm of Arthur’s heartbeat and the quiet, living warmth of his chest, and lets himself drift into a comfortable, thoughtless sleep.

[inkandpen22]

Shared Minds and Shared Souls (9/?)

Pairing: Spike x Female!Reader 

Warnings: swearing, mentions of smut, fluff, 

Word Count: 2k (exactly!)

Part Summary: Y/N and Spike are faced a very interesting dilemma that makes everyone wish they could have their memories wiped clean. Then, something unexpected happens... 

Masterlist

Spike leaps up from my bed and towers over the side frantically. “Y/N? Y/N, what’s wrong?!”

I pant, feeling like I’m floating on a cloud as I stare up at the pretty blue and white smoke clouds above me. “Nothing! I feel great!”

“You’re bloody glowing!” Spike rushes out.

I glance down at my naked body on the bed. Oh look at that, I am! I’m basically a glowing smurf!

I giggle, glancing over at Spike. “Like a night light!”

“Okay, we’re going to get you dressed! Then, we’re going to ask Red and Pixie why in the fucking hell you look like the sun baby from Teletubbies!” He instructs, losing his shit for some reason.

I grab Spike’s wrist to stop him. “Let’s do it again!”

”You’re! Bloody! Glowing!” He emphasizes each word.

I sit up up my knees and drape my arms over his shoulders. “Aw come on, Baby,” I pout. “You know you want to do it again. I know you felt it too, that glorious release like every cell of your being ascended into another world.” I plant a series of kisses down his neck and across his collarbone. “If you were a warlock you’d look like a damn glow stick, am I wrong?”

He appears crossed, contemplating his option thoroughly. “Fine! Ten minutes! Then, we’re getting this sorted!”

Hungrily- as if doing it again was his idea- Spike smashes his lips to mine. God, it was only fifteen minutes tops we weren’t physically connected and it was far too long. I can’t get enough of it.

_______________________________________________

As promised, I complied and followed Spike downstairs. Gathered in the living room, I feel as though I’m on display. The last half hour... well... they’ve been interesting. I’m no longer glow so that’s good! The glowing faded once my heart rate subsided, but the need for Spike hasn’t gone anyway. When he moves, I move, and vice-versa. We can’t be more than an arm’s reach away from one another. It’s as though I can read his mind, I can tell just by looking at him what he’s thinking.

As Spike speaks up in the conversation, I listen back in.

“Let me check that I’m hearing you right Watcher, so when Y/N and I shagged, I made her finish so hard that she physically left her body,” he pieces together.

Everyone groans in disgust. I swat him on the arm, causing him to whine.

“Spike!” Buffy snaps warningly.

“Jesus,” Xander curses under his breath.

“I’m not answering that,” Giles refuses, pinching the bridge of his nose. “But sadly, in a way, yes,” he mumbles reluctantly.

Spike gives my thigh a squeeze, peering over at me with a cheeky grin. “Well, that fascinating ain’t it.”

“I’m not complaining,” I giggle quietly to him.

“If I remember correctly you were begging for it,” Spike whispers in my ear.

“Y/N!” A voice calls, but I’m too enthralled by the vampy next to me.

“Want to stay at the crypt tonight?” Spike offers in a purr.

I nod, my eyes falling to his lips needfully. He notices and leans in to satisfy me.

“Y/N!” Giles so rudely interrupts.

“What?!” My head snaps in the direction of the Watcher and he flinches, rightfully afraid.

Spike drapes his arm over my shoulders, bringing me into his side protectively. “Calm down, Love. Wouldn’t want to explode on accident,” he eases me gently.

I rub my hand up and down his leg comfortingly as I narrow my gaze at the older man across the room.

“You sought too much!” Giles explains harshly. “You consumed too much power, especially for your recovery state! When you let go at that depth inside someone else’s mind, you basically become sired to them!” The man removes his glasses to clean them anxiously.

“Oh my God,” I pout, pretending to care in the slightest.

“Is that such a bad thing?” Spike grins at the Scoobies unapologetically.

I address my pretty man, placing my hand against his chest. “Not at all, Baby.” I plant a sweet kiss to his lips.

“But Y/N is human,” Buffy points out correctly. “How could she be sired?”

“It’s not really a siring,” Giles struggles to articulate. “It’s honestly a piece of Y/N’s is existing in Spike and vice-versa. They basically blended their entities, becoming one in two bodies.”

“Is that why they’re so clingy?” Xander inquires, cowering in disgust.

“Yes,” Giles puts simply.

“Oh thank God,” Xander and Buffy say in unison.

Spike places a peck to my neck and mutters against my skin. “Would you like to stay at my place tonight? We can go all night long, Love,” he smiles against my neck.

I hum, “you know I do.”

“Okay, that’s it! We have to keep them apart,” Buffy snaps.

“What?!” Spike and I both break free of our hormonal daze.

“Spike can stay at Xander’s,” Buffy declares.

“Over my dead body,” Xander declares.

“That can be arranged,” I remark, not taking the scaredy-cat’s threat seriously.

Spike snickers, biting down on his lip to suppress the reaction.

“I’m not going anywhere without Spike!” I argue.

Spike tucks his fingers beneath my chin and directs my face to look at him. “Don’t worry, My Love, I won’t let them do that to us.”

Buffy appears in front of us, sitting on the coffee table directly across from me. “Y/N, what you feel for Spike isn’t real! I’ve been under a love spell with Spike before too, I get it! You have to believe me when I say that you don’t really feel this way!”

“But it is real Buffy!” I tell my cousin wholeheartedly.

“No Y/N!” She barks protectively. “You were vulnerable, Spike took advantage of you, and now you’re both stuck in some shared-soul-lovely-dovey mind trap! You would never kiss Spike intentionally and you certainly wouldn’t sleep with him!”

“Oh but she did,” Spike informs her calmly.

Buffy directs her attention at the man beside me. He simply narrows his eyes at her with a proud smirk.

“What do you mean?” She switches her sight between us nervously.

Spike leans forward, resting his arms on his knees. “Y/N and I felt it the day we met. She accidentally got in my head when we were fighting, we kissed, and ever since then we’ve tried to deny it but we’re drawn to each other. So there!” He adds as a final dig.

“This connection may be deeper than I originally predicted then,” Giles interjects. “If Y/N has truly been in Spike’s head repeatedly and has grown affections for him as a result, then this may be harder to reverse. Buffy was right, we need to separate them until we figure out a solution.”

“No!” Spike and I shout in unison.

“Willow, Tara, what we talked about!” Buffy shouts, returning to her safe place beside Giles.

The duo steps forward, reaching into their pockets. Spike grips my knee protectively. Defensively, I sit up, ready to take on any sort of spell they send our way. An immense sense of protection towards Spike overwhelms me. A charge and burst of energy ignite deep inside. My hands start to shake as my body begins to feel jittery.

I start to panic, I’ve never felt this way before! I don’t recognize this kind of energy. I snap my eyes up from my hands to Buffy, full of fear. Her face falls once she sees my reaction, comprehending that I have no control.

My pulse quickens and an all too familiar jolt knocks me back onto the couch. My eyes fall shut as I wince at the sudden surge, a raging headache consumes my mind.

“Y/N!” Spike grips my wrists, unafraid to touch me now.

My eyes snap open, all I see is the bright white light with blue edges. I hear everyone’s voices and see them, but it’s like they’re behind a blue vail.

“Uh, what’s happening?” Xander steps in front of Anya and backs away. “Willow!”

“I’m not sure! She must have the transferred energy still inside her and we triggered it somehow!” Willow yells, creeping back with Tara close beside her.

“She doesn’t know what she’s doing!” Tara adds.

I rise to my feet and peer down at my hands. Waves of electricity travel between my fingers, how pretty. I giggle, this could be fun. I might ride this pretty blue wave for a while.

Spike appears in front of me and grips my shoulders, lowering himself to my height. “Y/N! Y/N, look at me! This isn’t you!”

“You’re right,” I chuckle wickedly. “I’m ten times better now!”

“Spike, we have to restrain her somehow!” Buffy yells.

“No!” He barks at her over his shoulder. “Stay out of this Buffy!”

I snicker, amused by Spike finally telling off Buffy. Aw no, did the Slayer get put down?

Spike turns his attention back to me, but my focus remains on the group behind him.

“Y/N! Y/N, Baby, listen to me! You don’t use dark magic remember?!”

I scan the faces of each of the Scoobies. I dare one of them to tear me away from Spike. They don’t understand what we have! So what if I am practically sired to him? I don’t care if a part of my soul is trapped in him and the other way around!

Spike cups my face aggressively and makes me meet his gaze. His cornflower-blue eyes plead with me. I can’t deny my focus once I see them. They hypnotize me.

“You don’t believe magic should be used to cause harm!” Spike urgently tries to remind me.

I nod, processing his words. “You’re right.”

I wave my hand across the room with a flick of my wrist. Everyone falls to the floor with a thud except for me and Spike.

I peek over Spike’s shoulder with a grin. Well, that was easy! Watching all of them laying there in a pile is so sweet.

Spike frowns at my reaction and turns over his shoulder to see what I’ve done. I step beside him as he takes in the scene before us.

“What... what did you do?” He mutters, sounding nearly speechless.

“Don’t worry, they’re just fast asleep,” I shrug nonchalantly.

They’ll wake up... eventually. I’m still kind of getting used to all of this energy inside me so I’m not sure of the longevity of my spells.

“This isn’t you,” Spike repeats as he stares at the clump of Scoobies. “I’m not talking to Y/N. I’m talking to the magic that’s lingering inside her.”

Honestly, he’s starting to sound like a nag. Blah, blah, blah, words, words, word, goodness! Why is everyone cramping my new style?!

“Same difference,” I inform him a matter-of-factly. Holding up my two palms, I demonstrate. “Y/N is magic, magic is Y/N.”

Spike shakes his head, “Y/N, the real Y/N, would never do this. She believes in healing, protective, and elemental magic. This... this is manipulation and destruction.”

Ignoring his preaching, I hold out my hand. “Take my hand.”

He peers over at me, an unfamiliar expression etched on his features. It’s almost worrying, maybe even fearful.

“Why?” He asks simply.

My brows scrunch together in confusion. His reaction isn’t what I was expecting. He’s supposed to be the big-bad, right? Why is he acting apologetic and hero-like all of sudden?

I reach up and caress his cheek gently, no longer hesitant to touch him. After all, we’re already dividing our souls. There’s nothing more to give.

“I’m taking us somewhere safe,” I assure him. “Just you and me.”

His eyes remain almost guilt-ridden as he glances over at Buffy and her friends. This isn’t the Spike I know. The Spike I’m falling in love with. Nevertheless, he slips his hand into mine and gives it a comforting squeeze. His eyes pour into mine.

“I’ll go with you, but only to get the real Y/N back,” he states warningly. “I’m never letting you out of my sight until I do.”

I snicker wickedly, “looking forward to it.”

_______________________________ 

Masterlist

Tags:  @mx-pibbles​  @hexmancia​  @it-was-all-a-beautiful-dream​

[lovelylogans]

honey, you’re familiar (like my mirror)

see other chapters, warnings, and notes here!

chapter three: psycellic consentia

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

ROMAN

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Or are you just here to—”

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

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

REMY

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

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

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

REMUS

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Remus bursts out laughing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m gonna!”

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

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

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

JANUS

“Fucking finally, Jazza.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Be careful with that,” Janus scolds.

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

Janus glares at him.

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

“This smells amazing.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Extra hungry, then?” Key says.

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

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

Key snorts. “Ancient history, mate.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“To aspire for more for yourself—”

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

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

“This cannot last forever, you understand.”

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

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

Janus ignores him.

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

“Spare me,” Key scoffs. 

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

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

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

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

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

Janus pinches the bridge of his nose, exhaling sharply.

There’s a pause. 

Then: the slurping of someone draining his Ribena.

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

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

Janus's jaw is slightly unhinged.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Roman jams the cod into the ramekin of sauce.

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

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

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

PATTON

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

LOGAN

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

True enough, Casimire isn’t there.

But Dot is here.

Dot is here twice.

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

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

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

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

Logan nods.

“Put that in.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The smile on Dot’s face slips.

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

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

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

“Google exists,” Logan points out.

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

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

VIRGIL

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There’s something wrong with this brain.

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

“Right, yeah,” Virgil says, frowning, and points to the rightmost brain. Their hands almost touch. “There’s something wrong with this one—something about the hemispheres, I think? It’s like there’s a growth.”

Logan moves to point to the rightmost brain, and this time, their hands do brush. But, before Virgil can think anything about it other than his hands are soft and he feels a little cold—

“This is what our brains are becoming.”

Virgil immediately panics.

“But it’s okay!” Logan says quickly as if he’s able to tell. Maybe he can—Virgil isn’t sure how clear it reads on his face. Or maybe, the way he’s been laughing at nothing or frowning at thin air, Logan can feel it. “It’s okay, it’s totally natural for us. For homo sapiens, no, but for homo sensorium—”

“Homo sensorium?” Virgil repeats, brow furrowed.

“It’s what we are,” Logan says. “Scientific name homo sensorium, colloquial name sensate.”

Sensate. Virgil hears the word, and something slips in place in his mind—it’s as if he’s heard that term before. It feels like breathing in a whiff of air and catching the scent of a sweet that sends your memory careening back to a time when you were seven and elbow-deep in dough with your grandmother. But it’s like he can’t quite fully grasp the memory. Something niggles just at the edge of it. It’s like his brain is trapped on the grandparent metaphor because he cannot stop thinking about his mother’s mother.

He sets the memory aside, for now; he’ll have time to think of it later.

Because, as Logan explains everything he’s learned so far, Virgil has absolutely zero chance of thinking about anything else. 

They spend most of the night talking about it. Even with all the bizarre aspects of what this new information brings, it’s easy to talk to Logan in a way that isn’t typical of Virgil speaking with other people. Virgil isn’t sure if that’s because they share this psychic connection, or if they’re both doctors, or if it’s some other connection.

“The way it was phrased is that we’re different types of human, but I don’t think we’re so different that it sets us apart from other people. From what I understand, the growth of our population is primarily due to epigenetic factors…”

Okay, so, primarily due to how behaviors and environments affect his genes. But what epigenetic factor triggered this in Virgil? Was this a dormant thing that could be triggered by ingesting some sort of chemical, or was it due to the way Virgil behaved? Had he done something in his life to cause all of this?

“A lot of the science is conjecture,” Logan warns, “and there was apparently some big corporation intent on doing medical experimentation on us ten or so years ago, but that’s mostly handled, you just have to be more careful about making eye contact with strangers in public…”

Oh, great, scientists hunted them down for medical experimentation so now he had to closely guard himself in any hospital! What a thrilling thing to hear for the son of two doctors!

“I’ve gathered that we can “share” certain skills or memories and that these things will become easier with practice. That’s why I could speak Xhosa and you Polish when we first met, it was the skill-sharing attribute, which could certainly come in handy for several reasons, but I also understand that we can visit each other at various times. There’s apparently a medicine you can take to block it, but it’s rather rare to come by, so unless you know a pharmacist willing to do some work under the table…”

That would almost definitely come to bite one of them in the ass at some point. What about privacy? Was he just doomed to have people from all over the world pop in on him while he’s in the shower or something?

“Dot said that she met her husband Larry through the connection, which drove off into a whole side-tangent. Apparently, romantic partners in clusters—that’s the widely accepted term, ‘cluster.’” 

Virgil pulls a face.

“I know, they could have picked literally any other more appealing word for it, couldn’t they? Bunch, group, flock, clique, assemblance—Anyways, romantic partnerships within clusters are somewhat common, and most of the sensate community finds it quite normal. I think our parent is in one, or at least that’s what Dot said.”

Logan clears his throat and adjusts his glasses. “Apparently some of the old-fashioned sensates think it’s like—what was it Dot’s parent said?—”the worst sort of narcissism.” Apparently, her parent was very displeased to be a parent and wanted nothing to do with creating bonds. I personally think that’s a rather backwards—humanity survives and thrives due to its ability to create bonds and care for each other—but I suppose I tend to think that way about a lot of old-fashioned things.”

“I guess I do, too,” Virgil muses aloud.

They sit quietly, for a while, so quietly that Virgil doesn’t notice when Logan slips away; the only thing that does bring him back from his swirling thoughts is when a voice breaks Virgil’s silence. It sends the emotions of knowing what’s happening to him shattering to the ground.

“Who on earth are you talking to?”

[oneofyatosfollowers]

Yatori Week 2021- Day 2

@yatoriweek2021

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/32090953/chapters/79500055

Fanfiction: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13905660/1/Yatori-Week-2021

Most other creatures that walk the Earth didn’t know this but pigeons were a very proud species. 

Being adopted from a long line of pure-blooded carriers and messengers, he had been given the very honorable names of Coo Phone, Smart Phone, and Smart Ho. After a spirit with glass over his eyes tied on his uniform- a white piece of cloth- he was handed off to another creature of the other side. One of the native existences of the other side who was brimmed with natural and unnatural power. When Coo Phone was first handed off to this existence, there had been another tiny spirit at his side with a similar power and a regular human female.

When Coo Phone had first settled in the large wooden bird house, it was clear he would have to serve two powerful spirits and two human souls. With ruffled feathers, Coo Phone carried out his job with pride. The tiny female spirit with the curly hair, the one called Kofuku, would often send letters to spirits on other pure lands. Hers often came in envelopes with many stickers that would fall off if the wind was too fast. Her human kin, called Daikoku, did not send letters very far, in fact he only sent them to her. At first Coo Phone was wary around this one’s massive size and booming roar, but he quickly proved to be a gentle soul. The spirit of the young human child was Coo Phone’s favorite. His name was Yukine and he was a sweet thing that actually appreciated Coo Phone’s services properly. Like the rest, he often sent messages to other pure lands and spirits in the metal and glass forest. The boy was also the only one who gave food on a regular basis and a snack after every hard mission.

It was his actual master that Coo Phone could not figure out. For starters, this powerful spirit was similar to Kofuku in that his existence was more sinister. Only instead of simply bringing misfortune, this being was made up of bloodlust and death. He was the one the others in the nest called Yato and he was typically loud and often moved with frantic, grand gestures. There were times Coo Phone sensed the underlying predatory instincts of his existence, but it was rare and he never acted on it. As such, it was Coo Phone’s duty to deliver the messages of this peaceful creature.

Despite receiving the majority of the messages, Yato only wrote one person: the human girl that frequented the nest. The others called her Hiyori. She would come, sit with Yukine, pet Coo Phone’s head and shoulders, then be on her way. As she walked away at the end of every day, the evil spirit was already leaning out the hole at the top of the nest, watching her closely. Being the brilliant messenger than he was, Coo Phone would start ruffling his feathers and prepare for the trip to Hiyori’s nest. Personally, Coo Phone found it rather normal, birds were often chittering in the tree until they fell asleep. It was odd the female just didn’t move it but it was possible she didn’t like Yato’s voice. Coo Phone should teach him to properly sing and dance so that they wouldn’t have to keep sending presents back and forth.

Especially since, at first, Hiyori didn’t seem to enjoy the messages Yato sent her. Once Coo Phone delivered the paper, she would glance over it as she gave Coo Phone some of her seeds. It didn’t take long for her to drop it. Even Coo Phone knew that if the present was not taken into the nest, that meant it wasn’t desirable. She would avoid Yato when she came to their nest during the day but she didn’t attack him when he approached so that was a good sign. At least, that was how it was at first. Eventually, the human didn’t look as irritated by his presence as she used to. Communicating with less of a growl than before, letting out a noise of joy and contentment more often at his chatter.

“I’m serious, Hiyori!” Yato was crowing, “I’ll show you if you don’t believe me!”

“I do believe you can do it! I just can’t believe you can!” She chirped back. They continued to twitter with each other, sometimes touching as they swayed back and forth. It was like they didn’t even notice Yukine had left ages ago. Meanwhile, Coo Phone watched from a comfortable spot in the opening, cocking his head at their strange swaying, trying to find the rhythm in their mating ritual.

That was around the time she started accepting the gifts he sent. Looking over the thin white leaves and their markings with careful attention to detail. Coo Phone remembered how delighted he was when she sent one back. Not only did it make the trip worthwhile but it showed the two were having somewhat of a proper correspondence. Hiyori didn’t answer often- Yato was always the last to send something anyway- but it did become more frequent. It eventually got to the point where Coo Phone would be tired from flying back and forth and have to spend the night in her nest, much to Yato’s annoyance.

“Hey Smart Ho,” the dark being suddenly approached. Coo Phone startled, wings fluttering as he hopped away. Being surrounded by so much evil made Coo Phone’s natural senses weak to it but he refused to fly away. Even though Yato seemed more jittery than usual.

“Can you send this letter for me?” He offered it kindly instead of just signalling Coo Phone like he normally did. Yato didn’t need to say where he was supposed to go, it was already implied. Either way, Coo Phone hopped forward and prepared for the trip to the human female’s nest. But Yato didn’t put it on right away, instead the letter was lowered and it stayed there. Coo Phone stared at it with one eye.

“I messed up.” Yato continued, “she must really hate me now. I promised her I wouldn’t leave but,” with a sigh, he stared out the window with a longing expression. Coo Phone glanced out the window to ensure there wasn’t a threat before he looked back at Yato. Perhaps the being was thinking of going on a journey again, as he often did. He was a migratory creature, Coo Phone’s come to realize, leaving for one natural reason or another and coming back after some moon cycles. When that happened, the nest seemed to dim and grow quiet. The others were not migratory and did not travel with him. Therefore they were rather lonely when he was gone, Yukine and Hiyori even more so. Coo Phone had tried his best to sing- to fill the house and cheer them up- but his song was hardly as loud, nor did it seem to help.

Recently, Yato had come back from his migration brutally injured and it had greatly upset Yukine and Hiyori. It was the most aggressive Coo Phone had ever seen them. However, this flock was strong, and they eventually lulled back into their routine. This was the first message Yato had sent since then and Coo Phone was ready to continue on supporting their courtship. With another ruffle of his feathers, and the gift secure, Coo Phone took off into the winter air on the usual route. But alas! Hiyori had locked all her windows and closed the curtains. Coo Phone had taped his beak on the clear barrier, but she did not answer, despite the fact he could hear her moving around. This wasn’t the first time Coo Phone was not allowed in the nest. At least she didn’t put up those wretched metal thorns again. Untying the letter, Coo Phone left it on the upper entrance to her part of the nest, then returned to a disappointed Yato. He didn’t send another gift after that.

Days later, Coo Phone was on his way back from delivering a message from Kofuku to one of the older spirits when he spotted his master and Hiyori along the stone path of the metal forest. Their tweeting was raised in pitch so Coo Phone had no choice but to stop and listen, alert for any danger to flee from. Hiyori attacked Yato- a common occurrence- and was prepared to walk away when Yato reached out and grabbed her. Coo Phone flapped his way towards a closer tree, hopping along the branch as the members of his flock squabled.

“Hiyori, please, I just wanted to protect you!” Yato squawked.

“No, you just wanted to take the easy way, where only you would get hurt!” Hiyori answered harshly.

“Exactly! That way no one else would need to get hurt! Ever!”

“You would!”

“That’s okay! I would reincarnate. Neither you or Yukine can do that. It’s for the best!”

“I didn’t make you that shrine so that you could reincarnate!” Hiyori’s shriek echoed throughout the area. Coo Phone flinched and ruffled his feathers at the sound. Water was leaking from the girl’s eyes and she appeared to stop fighting, realizing Yato wouldn’t let go of her skinny wing. When he noticed she stopped pulling, Yato took another step.

“I’m sorry. I just wanted- I was just trying to-!” another step “I didn’t want anyone else to die because of me.” He sounded so miserably sad, the type of sorrow only someone who lived forever would know. Hiyori turned to look at him, but only slightly, her wet face quickly turned to the ground.

“It was not for the best. You reincarnating is not for the best. You- this you- dying, will never be for the best. Yukine and I keep telling you it’s not okay when you get hurt, we don’t care if it’s for our sake or someone else's. We don't like it. We are not okay when you get hurt and we will not be okay if you were to die.” She cried, “I would not be okay.” Turning her body fully towards him, Yato’s hold on her loosened as the space between them closed even more. More water fell to the stone beneath them and she sniffed loudly a few times.

“I’m not okay.” Hiyori said. There was a long pause as Yato looked at the water splotches by his feet.

“I’m not okay either.” He admitted quietly after a long pause. When Hiyori finally looked up at him, his hair was covering his eyes. Instead, Coo Phone watched their wings drop slightly.

“Hiyori, I’m sorry, I messed up. It's my fault. Just-”

“It’s not your fault,” she clucked sharply, “well, it is and it isn’t but I know you learned your lesson.” She watched his head bob. It was unclear who stepped closer this time, but Hiyori’s head was just barely brushing his chest.

“And remember what you promised us?”

“Don’t kill anyone.”

“And?”

“Never to wander off again without asking.”

“We’re stronger together,” she nodded, “we’re safer together.” By now her head was fully resting on his chest and Yato watched the sky. Keeping watch for danger like a proper mate, Coo Phone was proud.

“You know, I wouldn’t be okay if you went away either.” Yato let his wings wrap around her gently, waiting for her to take the final step forward instead of pulling. She let her wings do the same.

“I know,” Hiyori sniffed, “please just stay with me.” She had her face buried as he took in a deep, deep breath and let it out slowly towards the sky. Coo Phone wondered if he wanted to fly away again, but he most likely wouldn’t anymore. Finally, after enough time had passed where Coo Phone was able to get comfortable, Yato looked down at her. The tips of his wings brushed under her hair and tried to wipe away the water. He nudged her eyes up and she blinked.

“I want nothing more.” He cooed. Yato continued to do his best to preen her face, eventually helping it to dry while she worked to stop sniffling. The air seemed lighter around them.

“But you know, I get mixed signals when you say things like that, then cry when I’m around,” Yato eventually clucked. She huffed and whacked him. As he warbled- considerably weaker than his usual noise- Hiyori looked back at the ground under them.

“How about I make it clearer then?” Before Yato could reply, she rose and let her beak rub against his, their mouths connecting. Coo Phone’s feathers fluffed up in embarrassment as he sunk his head into his shoulders. His eyes shut just as Yato’s did, Hiyori already in the moment. Coo Phone wondered why Hiyori accepted Yato’s advances without any sort of dance or song, the creature of darkness was hardly colorful, but some things were just meant to be.

“Does this mean you’ll let me in your room whenever?” Yato chirped when they separated.

“No it does not.”

“What about accepting gifts? Or going on dates every night instead of studying?”

“No, no, Yato, if you push it, not only will I jungle savate you but I’ll ignore all your messages.” At Hiyori’s call, Coo Phone got up and started to stretch. It seemed pointless for them to continue to share gifts when they were already together, but a proper carrier never questions the mission.

“What? All of them?” Yato whined, “even from our adorable precious baby Smart Ho?” He summoned Coo Phone again and the bird spread his wings and took off towards his master.

“Yes. Even them, if you take it too far,” Hiyori glared at him. They stared for a second before Yato let out a snort and twittered something at her, which she happily replied. As Coo Phone approached, Yato had her head in his wings again, his stubby beak preening her lovingly. She let out that same noise of happiness, louder and stronger than before as she covered his wings with hers. Their mouths pressed a couple more times, but it became difficult with their loud warbling. Yato managed to grab her, lifting her up in the air and spinning her around as she continued singing. Happy for them- and unable to properly land on his master- Coo Phone circled above them and cooed in celebration. He was so happy, in fact, that his insides clenched with joy and rippled with excitement.

“Oi bird brain!” Yato cawed from below. Frightened at the tone, Coo Phone looked down to see his master glaring up at him and waving his wing, a new spot of white dripping off his black head. With the threat in the spirit’s blue eyes, Coo Phone frantically flapped his wings away, deciding it was best to leave the two lovebirds alone.

[papergirllife]

In The Afterglow

Mark Lee

Smut

warnings: explicit sex, unprotected sex, slight angst (if you squint)

*gif credits to owner 

full masterlist

to request

You’re one of the lead bakers and barista at SM Town Cafe, which means you see idols on a daily basis, at first the job was a bit overwhelming, seeing some of the celebrities you’ve looked up to at such a close distance, you even made friends with some of them because of your friendly demeanor. Working as a apprentice and part timer here since high school has gave you some recognition among idols. But years have since passed and you were no longer that fresh-eyed little girl, you got a degree at one of France’s best patisserie academies, saved up from all the wages you’ve earned at this very cafe.

You thought nothing much would change other than the higher salary and status, and the responsibility of coming up with new sweet delights, but you were wrong. While you were gone, a birdie named Mark Lee came to Korea to chase his dreams of being an artist. Your arrival back in Korea has changed both his and your lives.

The first time you took his order was when a staff had to leave on EL, so you had to stand in for her coffee making duties. The Mark Lee then was not much different from now, a new debut rookie group’s member, but little did you know his best friend, Donghyuck slipped you Mark’s number after realising how flustered his friend was whenever you took his order.

After an awkward and slightly unintentional first date, there were many more to come. Fast forwarding to the present, you and Mark are still as strong as ever, with a few slight bumps on the way.

You always thought nothing would come between the two of you, until today.

You had baked a cherry pie at home and was hoping to do a taste test with the boys. You walked in their practice room with a smile on your face, excited to know how they would think about your baking.

Your smile and confidence soon disappeared when you saw a female trainee, talking closely to your boyfriend. When he saw you in the mirror, he beckoned you over to introduce you to his ‘friend’.

You could see the dislike etched on the girl’s face as you gave your greetings. Mark’s eyes lit up at the sight of the pie in the container.

“You made pie? Sweet. What pie is it.”

“Cherry, watermelons don’t work well with pie.”

“I still like other fruits, you know. Thanks, Y/N. You’re the best. Hey, Mina, do you want a slice?”

You couldn’t believe it, she was out right flirting at him, the sultry gazes and lingering touches, yet Mark can’t tell, or does he?

You walked away from the two of them, plopping down on the couch with Donghyuck instead while the others start a queue for pie.

“You know she wants your spot right?This has been happening for the past weeks.”

Donghyuck said without looking up from his phone.

“Weeks? Are you for real?”

“Of course I’m serious. I did set the two of you up. I don’t play when it comes to the two of you, I gave birth to this love.”

“Okay, now you’re just being disgusting.”

“On a rather serious note, Y/N. You can tell she’s not going to back down right? That bitchy look on her face when she saw you, pretty on the outside but ugly on the inside still means trash if you ask me.”

You stood up abruptly, remembering your shift starts in 5.

“Just watch over him or her, I don’t care. I have to go now, work’s calling.”

Before Donghyuck could answer you, you left the room in haste and tension-filled silence, leaving your boyfriend confused as ever.

For the whole day, you haven’t really been giving your job a 100% focus, and when the staffs made a mistake you were easily annoyed, everyone could sense something off with their usual bubbly Y/N, but dare not to question. On the other hand you weren’t answering any of Mark’s texts or calls, shutting your phone off, and opting to cook lunch to eat alone hiding behind your office.

You only checked your phone when you clocked off work, seeing around fifty texts and 7 missed calls from Mark alone. For the whole day, Donghyuck’s words repeated in your head like a rebuking mantra, stemming your anger and jealousy. Yes you were jealous, but the anger was at Mark, who was oblivious to her ulterior motives.

You scrolled further down to see a text from Doyoung.

“Dinner at 8, our dorms. You need to work things out with Mark, he wasn’t focusing on practice the whole day.”

You typed back an ‘okay’ and made your way home, preparing yourself for a long night to come.

Dinner with the boys were really tense, you purposely arrived late and you weren’t wearing one of Mark’s hoodies even though that’s what you always do during the chilly seasons. You sat next to Donghyuck and Taeyong, asking about their day and Taeyong’s unreleased singles.

Everyone could tell something was off between the two of you, but when Mark cornered Donghyuck to ask him what happened, Donghyuck only shrugged and said he should’ve known better, further confusing Mark.

After dinner, Ten came over to the 127 dorms, so the attention on you and Mark was shifted else where for now. When you went up to the rooftop alone to escape from reality, that was always a safe place for you in their dorms. Little did you know, Mark saw your retreating figure and excused himself from his hyungs.

“What’s up with you today?”

Mark’s voice was harsh, you would’ve flinched if you hadn’t been through all  those intense years at uni. 

“Nothing’s up. Leave me alone.”

“You were happy when you were talking to Donghyuck and Taeyong hyung. Do you love them instead of me now? Are you cheating on me?!”

“I should be the one asking you that!”

You backed away to leave the rooftop, but Mark’s hand held onto yours, not letting you go.

“What do you mean?”

“Ask your dear Mina! Or whatever name she has. You’re right, maybe Donghyuck would treat me better.”

That was when Mark’s temper snapped, he tossed you over his shoulder, carrying you down the stairs like a mad man into his own room, dumping you on the bed and locking the door.

“Say that again, I dare you.”

“Why do you care? You’re going to leave me for her anyways, she’s younger, she’s prettier, she’s in your line of work. You don’t need me. Do you know how hard it is to accept the fact that you’ll be seeing so many pretty girls on the daily? That there might be one day someone actually manages to steal your heart away from me?”

Mark felt like someone slapped him in the face, you weren’t throwing tantrums, you were genuinely insecure, he could see it now, the way your fingers were moving jittery in your lap, the crease in between your brows. Why is he so dumb?

“Y/N, I’m sorry. I didn’t know you felt that way. But you’re wrong, no one can steal me away, you have my heart, only you. and always will be. I’m so hooked on you, it’s like nicotine, so addictive.”

Mark said as he placed your hand on his beating heart, his eyes full of sincerity and love.

“Let me show you how much I love you and how I’m a fiend for you.”

Mark pulled you close and started leaving kisses on your neck, his teeth sinking deep to blossom flowers on your neck, his hands going beneath your shirt, caressing your stomach, you could feel butterflies erupting at every touch of his, your head in a drunk haze.

Your hands are wrapped around his nape, fingers playing gently at the hair that grew after his last trim, just the way you like it. Your back arches into his touch, wanting to feel the warmth radiating off his torso and chest. Mark loves the feeling of your breasts pressed up against his chest, but the clothing separating the two of you was starting to annoy him.

“Strip, princess.”

You knew things were about to get heated whenever he called you by that name. You quickly unbuttoned your blouse, letting it fall off your shoulders. Goosebumps rising from the cold. You could see Mark’s eyes taking in your newly exposed skin, his length growing at the sight.

Mark reached behind you to unclasp your bra, his hands hurriedly skimmed back to the front of your body, like a hot trail igniting on your cold skin, he cupped both your breasts in his hands, groping them in both gentle and harsh touches, just the way you enjoy it.

You felt left out, seeing Mark still being fully dressed in front of you, so you batted your eyes at him while tugging at his shirt, he was always a sucker for your puppy eyes and pouty lips. When Mark realised what were your intentions, he obliged to your request, taking off his shirt. He took your hands in his and guided them onto his abs, skimming down till the waistband of his sweats.

“You know what to do, princess.”

You pressed your hand against his boner, before skimming back up to feel his rock hard abs, your fingers tracing the ripped lines, then coming back down to take off his pants, tossing it on the floor along with his boxers. You lower down onto Mark’s lap, his holding onto his thighs for balance as your mouth sinks down on his cock, starting from the tip, slowly taking more into your mouth, one of your hands wrap around his length where your mouth couldn’t reach. Your head bopping up and down Mark’s length was a view to Mark, and the way your tongue laps up his pre cum rather harshly and desperate has his toes curling in pleasure, your name leaving his mouth in a breathless mantra, encouraging you to take more of him.

As Mark is nearing his high, he bunches up your hair and thrusts up your mouth sloppily, his tip hitting the back of your throat and closing up your airway, making you choke. Mark never said it aloud in fear of being deemed as weird, but he really enjoys the sight of you choking on his cock for air.

“You take my cock so well, princess. I’m going to cum inside your pretty mouth, swallow for me like the good princess you are okay?”

You tried your best to nod while sucking at Mark’s cock, you pushed yourself higher to release most of his length, leaving the head in your mouth, you sucked at his tip and licked the slit on his cock while your hands groped at Mark’s balls. Mark swore a string of profanities before cumming in your mouth, his load warm and heavy on your tongue, just as he asked, you swallowed every last drop of his essence, a little drip left on your chin.Mark wiped it away with his finger only to put the finger back into your mouth.

“Every drop, princess.”

You could see Mark’s usual round carefree eyes darken with lust when you swiped your tongue against his finger, jaw clenched and eyes fixated at your every action. Mark took off your pants and panties in one go, his hands quick to get rid of every article of clothing on your body.

“All fours, princess. Ass up.”

You quickly reposition yourself on his bed, your ass swaying slightly to get his attention. Mark let out a light chuckle at your actions, his hands spanking one of your ass cheeks lightly.

Mark coated his length in your wetness, sliding in between your inner thighs. You could feel Mark’s cock jerking when you close your thighs.

“Now you’re just asking for it, princess.”

Mark thrusts his length in one go, filling you up to the brim. He didn’t give you any time to adjust before pulling out and thrusting back into you. Mark’s hands were attached to your cheeks, his fingers digging into your flesh.

“Fuck, Mark.”

“Can Donghuck fuck you this good, princess? Or Taeyong hyung? Answer me!”

Mark demanded as he pulls your head back with his hand wrapped around your throat. You could barely think properly from the way he’s fucking you, but you wish to please him, it’s what you strive for whenever the both of you have it rough like this, his dominant self reeling out your submissive behaviour.

“No! Just you.”

Your vision blurred as tears started to form from the excessive pleasure you were receiving, toes curled and hands grasping onto Mark’s sheets. The only thing that your brain registered was the way Mark hits your sweet spot over and over again as your mouth spills out Mark’s name in moans and whines, like a mantra, melody to Mark’s ears.

When you were nearing your high, Mark lifts up one of your legs onto his shoulder to bend your body lower into the bed as he fucks into you from a higher angle, this enabling him to reach deeper into your core.

By this point, you weren’t even speaking anymore, you were screaming like a mad woman, the pleasure over writing any other thing you felt, as you scream into Mark’s bed, the bed muffling most of the noises you’re making.

When one of Mark’s hand reached in between your bodies to rub circular motions on your clit, the coil in your belly snapped, the pleasure from Mark’s hand was the last drop that made the dam break. Your back arched up, as you let out a scream of Mark’s name, not a care in the world if anyone heard you.

Mark gives a few last sloppy thrusts before he spills his load into you, warm white streaks painting your insides, the hand holding onto your ass will probably leave crescent marks of his nails, but you didn’t care, you love admiring them whenever you undress.

The two of you are covered in sweat as Mark crashed on the bed, taking him into your arms, cuddling together, his cock still softening inside you, but you enjoy it, the feeling being so intimate, and the both of you rarely had time for these things.

“Thank you, princess.”

“Mhm, welcome.”

Mark was about to move but you stopped him, holding him tighter in your embrace, craving for his warmth and touch after shutting him out for so long.

“Stay. Don’t move. I want to stay like this for the night.”

“Anything you want, princess.”

Mark said as he kissed your forehead, before closing his eyes, basking in the afterglow.

[writersindigestion]

taken | edward nygma x reader

“beware of the snakes.”

reader gender: female

word count: 2464

warnings: drugs, violence, suicidal ideation, abuse

notes: i mean, y’all wanted him back, didn’t ya?

PART ONE | PART TWO | PART THREE | PART FOUR | PART FIVE

Vaguely, she remembered someone handing her a doggy bag, and being driven to the precinct, where she was promptly handcuffed to a cot. She was vastly unimpressed with this treatment, and made it a point to everyone who so much as walked into the med bay. “What the fuck is this? Shouldn’t I be at, I don’t know… A real hospital?” [Y/N] inquired unhappily, rattling her cuffs around - just to annoy her caretakers, of course.

Unfortunately, Dr. Thompkins was the one watching over her, for the most part, and she was very close to smacking her patient for being so insufferable.“You’re under 48-hour suicide watch. They brought you here, because they thought this was the best place to keep you safe, as well as the people around you,” Lee explained, peeling off a pair of thick, plastic gloves with practiced monotony.

[Y/N] tried to cross her arms, but was restricted by the metal cuffs. A discontented scowl made its across her face, she settled again for making as much noise as physically possible with her restraints. “Yeah, yeah - I get it,” She deadpanned, staring blankly ahead of her, “Aren’t they better prepared to deal with suicidal patients at, I don’t know… A real hospital?”

Lee wasn’t pleased, “The order came from a higher authority - I had nothing to do with it. Evidently, my medical opinion doesn’t matter.” She scrutinized her patient for a moment. “How are you feeling?”

The detained woman stopped rattling just long enough to think past her own indignance. A higher authority? It was obvious who that was, regardless of how vague the title. What did he gain from her being at the precinct? What did she lose by being at the precinct? “What higher authority? Why do they want me here?” She was starting to sound like a paranoid addict - which, she was, but that didn’t mean she had to admit it. “I’m terrible. Thank you for asking. How are you? Why am I here?”

Dr. Thompkins’ face grew more serious, and she pulled a stool up next to the bed. “I’m just fine, [Y/N],” She replied, her brow knotted tightly together, “It’s not really my place to question orders - I do it anyways, but that doesn’t mean I get answers.” The doctor gazed over the other woman, observing her anxious, unfocused expression and jittery movements. She was suicidal - that much seemed obvious, but what was going on beneath, if anything? “You are here, because you seemed very intent on killing yourself not even a few hours ago, to the point where you were fighting the cops and were tased. You are here, because we need to watch over you, and make sure you are safe. Do you understand, or are you worried about something else?”

[Y/N] gritted her teeth at the inquisition, goosebumps rising along her limbs. What did he want? What was his plan? What did he gain from this? She shouldn’t say anything. It wasn’t secure here - or anywhere, really. She shouldn’t say anything. She should say nothing. Not anything, not anything, nothing. Words flew from her lips before she could stop them, “Something else.”

Lee leaned closer to her patient, resting a careful, tender hand on top of the other woman’s. Clearly, there was something wrong, and her charge did not feel safe enough to say what that was. She gripped lightly, trying to draw her attention. “The door is closed - are you afraid of someone seeing you? Or is it something else?”

A short silence. “Something else.”

“The handcuffs are in place to keep you here, so we can watch you, and to help make sure you won’t hurt yourself,” She explained, “Are they too tight? Or is it something else?”

“Something else.”

The doctor searched for more things that could be wrong, running over the situation in her head. She blinked, her eyes catching sight of a small pendant around [Y/N]’s neck - a tiny, no-nonsense heart that rested easily near her sternum. Extending from another cord was a shiny cross. Briefly, she checked the area for burns from the earlier tasing.  “... Is it your girlfriend? She tried to see you, but we couldn’t get clearance. We sent Chrysanthemum home, and will be calling periodically to check on her. Is that worrying you? Or is it something else?”

The patient’s fingers curled into a fist, her nails digging into her palms. “... Yes.”

“I can try to get her clearance again, if you want to see her. It will probably go through if I make a case for you. Is that what you want?”

Her answer was immediate, “No. Keep her away.”

Dr. Thompkins was obviously troubled with her vehement demand, and tried once again to wrap her mind around it. What higher authority? Why do they want me here? “Is someone trying to hurt you? Is someone trying to hurt Chryss?”

[YN]’s tongue wrestled with itself, but she couldn’t bring herself to say the thing that was screaming at her temporal lobe. She wanted to tell her. It would be so easy. Who would it put in danger? Her lover? Her doctor? Her old coworkers? Herself, least importantly?

Lee didn’t need a response. She pulled her phone from her pocket, swiftly selecting a number and waiting to hear the series of rings - or better yet, an actual reply. No one would pick up.

She called three times to find no answer.

A door opened to their right, an alert-looking officer striding in. “Dr. Thompkins,” He called, an urgent look on his face, “They need you out there. I was sent in to watch the patient.”

The medical professional glanced between her coworker and her charge, concern creating valleys across her smooth face. She leaned in towards the other woman, giving her hand a squeeze. “I’ll be right back. Yell if you need anything.”

[Y/N]’s heart dropped, a renewed sense of dread washing over her like a tidal wave. As Lee rose from her seat to leave the room, she made a grab for her arm, but the cuffs ceased her movements. She nearly whimpered to see the door swing closed behind the doctor. Her attention redirected to the nameless man she was placed in the care of, a snarl painting itself onto her visage. “Don’t you fucking try anything, cocksucker.”

The man’s mind was adrift with conflict, with confusion, but he had been given orders, and it was his duty as a cop to fulfill them. His face steeled, and he crossed the room to her side, smothering a scream with his palm as he fumbled with a syringe. He tried to keep quiet, tried to keep his trap shut, but it wasn’t in his nature to cause distress in an otherwise harmless person. “I’m really sorry about this,” The officer stuttered, his hand making its way towards the meaty part of her thigh, where he inserted the needle

She did not immediately quiet, like he’d seen in movies and tv, but his ‘superiors’ had warned him about this. He simply kept his hand pressed to her mouth, his free arm stopping her from struggling too much. After only about a minute and a half, he felt the woman in his grasp slowly decompress, and fall lax. The man removed his hands from her personage, taking a step back to observe. It was incredibly unnerving - her eyes were open, though half lidded, and it was easy to pretend she was awake.

Except she still was, barely.

A gurgle rose up from [Y/N]’s throat, and her head lolled to the side, lips parted just slightly. The cop panicked, reaching forward to cover her mouth again. Briefly, he felt her fingers start to curl around his wrist, and he relented.

[Y/N] was fading fast, and had she the mental capacity to feel afraid, she would, but the strongest part of her knew that something had to be done. She had things she needed to say, topics she needed to address - there was a very, very tiny allotment of seconds in which to speak. Operating her tongue had been getting increasingly hard over the past few months, but never before had she been so thoroughly tranquilized that she literally couldn’t talk. Finally, with her mouth stuffed full of rubik's cubes, and her muscles full of cotton balls, she managed to slur out, “He’s gonna hurt me.”

The officer almost screamed himself, hearing the words that she had to say. He panicked four times over, trying to shake the woman awake. A door opened behind them, and his voice lowered to a frantic whisper, “Who? Who?” But she was too far gone this time, her eyes glazed over to meet the figure that entered into the room.

[Y/N] woke up probably twelve hours later, her body wrapped in slimey, icy tendrils and her hair wrenched back. She screamed, squirming away from the tentacles that swarmed her figure, but they only pulled her tighter.

The foreign limbs were scaly and had the strength of 1,000 men, tugging her deeper into their coils with every passing second - no matter how hard she struggled. And they grasped around her throat, coveting every fragile, raspy breath that she tried to draw.

Minutes passed by, though they seemed like hours, and she couldn’t help but feel that her life should have ended several moments before. She was choking, she was unable to breathe, but she still lived, she still struggled. It was just another nightmare that she couldn’t wake from.

Except she was awake - sort of.

Eventually, it occurred to her that someone was speaking - a nearby voice, a cruel, smooth tone. She knew who it was, but who was it? Her consciousness would not allow her to access that part of her memory. The voice continued, rattling on about things she could not comprehend, and all she could do was listen as the tendrils fell away from her body.

“Are you coherent now? Nod if you understand.”

[Y/N] wasn’t sure what coherent meant, still seeing the tails of snakes in the corners of the room. She nodded anyways, breathing heavily against the soft fabric below her. It didn’t feel like her bed.

The other person hummed, a vague sound of disbelief. “If you could see yourself right now, you’d understand why I doubt your coherency very much. It’ll just be a few minutes now.”

None of their words quite held in her perforated headspace, just as they failed to before. She watched the bodies of reptiles creep about the floorboards, her eyes trailing behind each creature. One of them moved close to the bed, winding up the leg of a rustic-looking chair and across the lap of a long, thin man who sat with his ankle atop the opposite knee. The woman almost cried to see the snake disappear behind his figure, and desperately waited for it to return. They almost felt like friends now. She wondered what its name was.

How strange that something so sinister had become an emblem of consistency in her otherwise tumultuous life?

She ran her tongue around the cottony caverns of her mouth, staring just past Edward onto the ornate wallpaper behind him. Her voice was croaky as she spoke, “Am I allowed to ask why I’m here?”

He’d been reading a newspaper, which he folded carefully and placed on the bedside table. His hands clasped together, a quirky little grin etched onto his cheeks. “You may ask whatever you wish - you’re a guest in the mayor’s house, after all.”

[Y/N] narrowed her eyes, the wallpaper still holding her rapt attention. “Why am I here, then?”

“You’re on suicide watch, and the precinct no longer felt that they could care for you,” Ed started, idly checking his watch, “You should be thankful. This was the best alternative.”

She was quickly becoming annoyed, and made a move to sit up before realizing that she’d been strapped - on her stomach, spread-eagle - to the bed she lay on. This distracted her from his vague explanation, if only briefly. “Does the mayor normally let his guests be held captive by his employees?”

“You misunderstand - you’re technically being hospitalized.”

“Yes, because you are the best ‘medical professional’ to watch over a suicidal woman,” [Y/N] deadpanned, “What do you mean by alternative? Where else would I have gone? A real behavioral center? A real hospital?”

“Well, they did mean to send you to Arkham-”

“Arkham?” The female shrieked, lifting her upper body off the mattress to the best of her ability, “I’m not a fucking criminal, Nygma. They would never send me there. I’m not insane, either, unlike your sorry ass.”

Edward’s face cinched dangerously, and he uncrossed his legs, leaning closer to impose on [Y/N]’s space. “You’d do good to watch where you throw words like that - you just might hurt someone’s feelings,” He warned, “And if I remember correctly - you disrupted public peace, assaulted a police officer, and resisted arrest. This town cares little for the mentally unstable, and they’d think little of you as well.”

“You and I both know that’s not true. I want to see a lawyer. There’s no legal way for you to keep me here,” She rattled, grasping at straws that she knew would only be ripped away from her.

“No self-respecting lawyer in Gotham would represent you against the mayor,” Ed countered, “They think of him as a saint for sheltering a poor, suicidal woman rather than letting her rot in the asylum. They think of him as an advocate.”

Frantically, she looked for an argument - as if her fate wasn’t already sealed. Just as she was about to open her mouth, the head of a snake crawled out of his sleeve, its body extending gracefully to the bed. She was immediately entranced by the movement, watching intently as it moved towards her.

The reptile slithered up to her face, greeting [Y/N] with a familiar smile, and she smiled in return, her lips parting over her teeth. It responded by pushing past her gums, pressing down her throat until she swallowed it whole.

Edward watched in amazement as the woman before him choked and gagged on nothing, a deep chuckle rising up from his chest. “Ketamine is a hell of a drug, isn’t it? A perfectly safe tranquilizer - given that you don’t mind the hallucinations upon waking.” He reached forward to wipe the drool from the side of her cheek, and she visibly cringed away from him.

The female breathed heavily, tears welling up in her sinuses as she tried to recover. “You’re the fucking devil, Edward,” She droned, unable to find the energy needed to curse him out like she really wanted to.

[combat-wombatus]

afterglow // part ii: the fighting

Pairing: Sawamura Daichi x gn!reader

Warnings: fighting (just any generic fight scene really), blood, minor snark??

WC: 2.1k (this is a lot longer than the previous chapter hehe)

(A/N): hehehe part 2 is finally up :p (also check out the series masterlist with the updated synopsis!! quite proud of it >.<) also please ignore the bad titles,, i had an "f" alliteration theme going on and i literally killed all my brain cells trying to come up with SIX verbs that were at least somewhat relevant to the plot for the chapter titles, i'm so sorry asldkjhlfadksh

series masterlist || haikyuu masterlist || bnha masterlist || navi

read part i here!

Finally…

You stared ahead at the encampment of soldiers, bustling about merrily as if they found joy in living a life of slaughter. As if they had no blood on their hands—or worse, as if they did not care if they did.

“Houyi.” You stroked his neck. “Ready?”

He gave a snort of agreement, tossing his black mane in the air.

I was born for this, he seemed to say.

“Alright.” Digging your heels in, you leaned forward, bow in hand, arrow notched and at the ready.

“Hiya!”

You charged furiously down the hill, kicking up a storm of clay-red dust behind you. As the first soldier looked up in surprise, you aimed your arrow at the wooden post in the middle of the camp and let it fly. You were nothing if not fair, and though you despised these people with your entire being, it would never be said that you fought dirty. Surprise attacks were for the weak, and you were anything but.

Besides, you kind of wanted to see how fast you could take the camp, even with the soldiers alert and ready to fight.

Holding your bow sideways, you let loose three arrows at once, all of them hitting their marks. Three men went down with barely a whimper—an arrow to one’s kneecap will do that.

The soldiers were a mess. You weren’t even sure if they were real soldiers or simply a very large band of mercenaries—surely a real military camp would be much more organized than this. They should’ve sounded the alarm as soon as they saw you charging down the hill, not when three of their men were already down.

You took out three more men with another round of clean shots to the kneecap.

This is too easy.

They were green; young, inexperienced, and jittery—no match for a seasoned hunter.

And you were one of the very best.

You set loose arrow after arrow, hitting your target every single time. Within moments, the area in front of you was empty, save for the men curled up on the ground, groaning.

Houyi slowed down to a trot, and you casually dropped from the saddle, stepping over the fallen soldiers. A white command tent was front and center in the little military camp, no more than five hundred meters away. Slinging your bow over your shoulder crossways—it wasn’t ideal for close-range combat—you unsheathed two scimitars, preparing yourself for a scuffle.

It wasn’t your favorite type of battle—close-range battles were messy and bloody—but you hadn’t had a chance to spar with someone in a long time.

You were also craving revenge for what they had done to the broken village you passed.

Barely concealing a feral grin, you stalked towards the commander’s tent. Suddenly, the tent entrance ruffled, and a man stepped out in full armor, save for his helmet. His hair was a stiff charcoal black—it was shorn short, which was surprising for a man of his presumed station. Most men in this dynasty preferred to wear their hair long, but there was something curious about this one. Tanned olive skin revealed a life spent in the sun, and a grim, determined expression glared at you with unbridled fury.

You bared your teeth and tightened your grip on your scimitars. This was going to be fun.

“What do you think you’re doing?” He clasped his hand over a broadsword sheathed at his side, pulling it out with the signature clang of steel sliding against steel. “Who are you?”

“Vengeance,” you replied airily. The man frowned, looking confused.

One…

You smiled, the wicked grin gracing your lips matching the wicked curve of your scimitar.

Two…

Your hood flew back, revealing you in all of your glory. You didn’t mind. You were confident that none of these people—scum—would live to tell others what you looked like, anyways.

Three…

You charged.

No battle cry surged from your lips—silent hunting habits were hard to break—but as he met the first slash of your blades with the side of his broadsword, you grunted at his strength.

Not many people could withstand one of your attacks, much less both at the same time.

This was going to be fun.

Quickly sliding one of your scimitars from underneath the deadlock, you twirled it around in your hand and aimed a slice straight at his torso. He stepped to the side, twisting his own broadsword so that it knocked your other blade to the side. Instead of continuing to retreat, he slanted his body at a forward tilt, catching your right wrist with his hand while pushing your other hand aside with his sword.

You hissed in pain as he twisted your wrist, forcing you to drop your blade. Feinting with your left hand, you sliced a deep gash on his right thigh, right in between two metal plates of armor. His grip on your wrist loosened, and you were able to put some distance between the two of you.

You charged forwards again, aiming your remaining scimitar low, towards his knees. He dropped into a defensive crouch, broadsword held out low in front of him. You smiled.

Just as he was preparing to meet your blade in a clash of steel, you jumped. Leaping upwards, you stepped on his wrist—he dropped his sword with a clang—and hooked your left leg around his waist, using it to pivot on his back. Wrapping your right arm around his broad shoulder, you brought your blade up until the tip of it kissed his neck.

He gulped, the movement drawing forth a slight trickle of crimson blood.

“Why? Why did you do it?”

He eyed the blade warily. You loosened it slightly so he could talk.

“Do what?” he asked, though his attention was caught on the fine workmanship of the scimitar.

“Kill all those people.” Your little scuffle had attracted quite the crowd—understandable, since it seemed like this man was somewhat of an important figure in this camp. Still, none of his comrades—or underlings—dared interfere, seeing as you were the one with the upper hand here; you could slit his throat before one of them even took three steps forwards.

“We haven’t killed anyone…yet,” he answered, confusion laced in his tone. “I’m overseeing trainees. They aren’t ready to fight.”

Ah. That explained the incompetence of the soldiers.

“But the village…?” You frowned, brows scrunching up in confusion. There was no mistaking what you had seen.

His expression darkened. “We came too late.”

Oh.

Cautiously, you lowered your blade from his neck. Yes—it made sense. He was obviously dressed in imperial commanding gear. Why would imperial soldiers slaughter their own village?

Well, now you felt a little silly—and guilty—for attacking their encampment without having done your proper research.

The other men gingerly stepped forwards.

“General Sawamura! You’re losing a lot of blood!” A young soldier with hair the color of a bright carrot pointed out worriedly. “You should probably go to the tent…Dr. Azumane can treat you there.”

The general nodded in agreement, wincing slightly as you hopped off of his back. He walked towards the medical tent, obviously trying his best not to limp.

As he left, it became clear that the other soldiers were unsure of what they should do with you.

A man with hair the color of pewter and a cute mole under his left eye (you assumed that he was the second-in-command) led you to the general’s tent, where you awaited his arrival. Minutes later, he hobbled inside the tent, limping, but proud.

“I thought you had to get your leg treated,” you remarked, noticing the lack of bandages on his thigh, blood still dripping in rivulets down his leg and marking pools on the dusty ground. “So impatient to see me already?”

“Had to make sure you weren’t going to run away,” he answered, a defiant light sparking in his charcoal eyes. “After all, you did take down nearly twenty of my men.”

The corner of your mouth quirked up, a ghost of a smile teasing your lips. “Oh?”

Before he could respond, the entrance to the tent fluttered again, and a large man—even taller than the general—scurried in, his chestnut hair gathered at the nape of his neck. He seemed unduly nervous for someone with such a large physique.

“Ah, doctor,” the general greeted him. “Thank you for coming.”

So this was Dr. Azumane, you realized. From his bulk, you would’ve assumed that he was one of the finest soldiers here. Apparently not.

“You should’ve waited,” the doctor said, staring reproachfully at the general’s leg.

“It appears that we have a flight risk on our hands,” General Sawamura countered. “I couldn’t very well just let them go.”

You bristled. “I wouldn’t have run! And besides, your soldiers could have swarmed me in seconds if I tried!”

“Thank you for the assurance,” he quipped drily. “I will take that into consideration the next time someone barges into our camp”—he winced as the doctor tightened his bandages—“and shoots arrows into my sentries’ knees.”

Okay. Fair point.

“Well, I followed you guys from the town, so forgive me if I mistook you for the raiders that slaughtered an entire village,” you countered, though you did feel a slight twinge of guilt.

His expression darkened, a muscle in his jaw ticking at what was probably an unpleasant memory. The doctor looked up worriedly, tying off the last knot in the bandage and leaving the tent, presumably on his way to treat the other unfortunate soldiers who had stood in the face of your wrath.

“We had nothing to do with that village. Not anymore.”

“Not anymore?”

There was a storm brewing in his eyes, and you wondered if you had pried too far into events you did not yet understand.

“My father was guarding the mountain pass. They were taken unaware by the Huns,” he said, after a long silence.

Your breath constricted in your throat.

“Oh.” It came out like a whisper, the only air you could force past your lips.

“Don’t be,” he said curtly. “You weren’t there either. You couldn’t have helped.”

Settling back on the cushions, he sighed before changing the subject.

“So what are you, exactly? An outlaw? Fugitive?” He leaned closer, squinting. “A mercenary?”

Well, you supposed he could put it that way.

“Nomad,” you answered simply, not knowing exactly what you were yourself.

“Not a Hun, anyways,” the general regarded you critically. “I saw the scimitars. Huns don’t use those, and even if they did, they looked far too well-crafted. Not meant for brute force, anyways.”

You had spent many moons trading pelts and herbs to earn enough jade to purchase the twin weapons from the finest blacksmith you knew. They were custom-ordered, the grips fitted to the exact measurements of your palms—your most treasured possessions.

“Your horse is in the stable, by the way.” The general shifted his weight on the cushions in the tent. “He’s a fine horse, that one.”

You nodded in agreement. A man who didn’t appreciate horses was not worth talking to at all.

“Can I get my sword back?” you asked with as much politeness as you could muster.

He stared at you, then raised an eyebrow. “You want your sword back? In my camp? After you attacked my men? When we still don’t know where your loyalties lie?”

You gave a huff of irritation. “Well, I told you it was a mistake, wasn’t it? And my swords are rather important to me.”

“And my life is rather important to me,” he retorted.

“General, should I take their other one as well?” the gray-haired man interrupted, stepping forwards. You had almost forgotten that he was in the room—he had been silent ever since he’d brought you here. Narrowing your eyes, you laid a hand threateningly on the hilt of your scimitar. The general eyed you appraisingly, then held up a hand.

“I don’t think they’d take too kindly to that. Best leave it be for now. But you will not”—he directed a pointed glance at your hand, still clasped over the grip of your remaining scimitar—“under any circumstances, use that against my men. Or me,” he added, apparently not trusting you to not find loopholes.

“Can I still have my other one back?”

“No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

“But you let me keep this one!”

“Yes, because you would’ve slit both of our throats if any of us tried to take it from you, and you know it.”

“…fine.”

And so it was on a fine sunny afternoon that you found yourself being corralled into a soldier’s tent, held on a temporary tent arrest.

Oops?

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[unsettledink]

Kinktober Day 14

Flaunt

Prompt: Hair Pulling

Word Count: 4030

Summary: Tony’s been wanting to show Peter off for ages, and Peter knows Tony will make sure everyone treats him right. 

(d/s universe, biting, teasing, SSC kink, subspace, Peter being passed around

it’s a little tricky to tag pairings: Peter/Tony is the actual relationship, and Peter is passed around to Natasha, Steve, Bucky, Sam, and Rhodey. There’s a bit of Tony/Peter/Rhodey and background Sam/Steve/Bucky.)

*

"You've still got Friday night free, right?"

"Of course," Peter says, glancing up at Tony. "Why, are we doing something?"

Tony smiles at him, his hand settling on the back of Peter's neck, fingers just sliding into his hair. "I've got a little party planned," he says. "I think it's far past time for me to show you off."

And there it is, that sharp, squirmy feeling in Peter's stomach, nervous and turned on all mixed together. "Show me off?"

"Yeah," Tony says, curling his fingers in Peter's hair and tugging him back, just barely. "There hasn't really been a chance for anyone to see how good you are, how easily all this comes to you." He tightens his hand, Peter's breath catching. "You're not awkward like this, at my side. Not that I mind it the rest of the time," he adds hastily.

Peter laughs. "I know what you mean, Tony," he says. "Uh— who's going to be there?"

"No one you don't already know," Tony says. "Mostly Avengers, maybe a few others. I don't think Thor will be around, but I can rope Rhodey in for sure. Scott, maybe, though I guess you haven't been around him much."

"Tony," Peter hisses, "that's not better! Ugh, they all know me, yeah but— they've never seen me like that, it's embarrassing."

"Hey, it's okay; they all like you, Peter," Tony says. "They're not going to be weird or judge you, you know that. No one on the team, no one who's worked with you is going to treat you differently just because you're finally getting a sub presentation. They aren't like that, baby."

"But—" Peter says, weakly. He's not really ashamed of being a sub, it's just... they already treat him not quite the same because he's the youngest. And it's different, having anyone see him like that.

"Does anyone treat Steve any different?" Tony asks, and Peter shakes his head. "They're not going to think less of you. I know this. I know you get shy easily, but I promise, I'd make sure you had a good time. And you like being a little embarrassed, don't you." Peter scrunches up his face, but he has to nod.

Tony hesitates, his hand softer, brushing across Peter's scalp. "If you're really bothered," he says, "we don't have to."

Peter thinks about it, trying to shove away that immediate burst of wanting to hide. He does know them all, and he can't think of a safer group for this. And— and he knows Tony wants to have others see him, admire him. He can't help it, just like any other dom.

"No," Peter says, turning his face into Tony's leg. "We can do it." Shivers. "I— I wouldn't mind being shown off."

Tony's 'good boy' is soft, barely a breath, but Peter hears it. He always hears it.

* 

He still falters when the moment comes.

Tony catches it the instant he falls out of step, lags a little too far behind Tony. He just— seeing everyone, knowing everyone is about to see him— his stomach flips and he can feel his face going hot, tight. It's not good form, but he reaches over and clings to Tony's jacket anyway. Tony stops, turns back to him.

"Hey," he says, softly. "Just say the word and we can leave, but— you trust them, right?" Peter nods, because of course he does. He's fought beside all of them, and if he can trust them to watch his back, to catch him if he falls, to keep him safe, surely he can trust them to see him sub.

"Okay," he tells Tony.

Tony steers them over to the group by the big L shaped couch; Natasha, curled up in a chair, Rhodey on one leg of the couch, and Steve and Bucky down at Sam's feet at the other side of it. They seem to be arguing about something, not seriously, and they barely react at first. But they go quiet soon enough when Tony stops and Peter sinks to his knees beside him.

"Finally bringing him out?" Sam says.

"It's overdue," Tony says, "but worth the wait, I'll have you know." He rests his hand on the top of Peter's head, and ahhh, Peter can't look at any of them. He ducks his head, blushing horribly.

Someone laughs; maybe Steve, he thinks. "I didn't think you'd be shy," Steve says. "You sure spend enough time chatting in the middle of missions."

"You're one to talk," Bucky mutters.

"Aw, be nice," Rhodey says. "Look at him, how can you pick at that? You always did go for the sweet ones with a smart mouth," he tells Tony.

"Peter," Natasha says. "Look up. Let us see you."

Tony doesn't make a move to push Peter into it; he never would. Peter raises his head, still keeping his eyes down, and then sighs. This is silly. He's not embarrassed to kneel next to Tony. He's proud of it, that Tony chose him.

"There you go," Natasha says. "Much better."

"Beautiful, sweetheart," Tony says, under his breath like he does when it's just for Peter, and it's a weird feeling to know that most of the others can hear it anyway.

"Think you can keep him occupied for a bit?" Tony asks them. "I have to at least say hi before I get all caught up in him again."

Rhodey snorts. "Like you don't know the answer to that," he says. "Go on, hand him over."

"Honeybear, I know you'll take care of him. But I did tell him he'd have a good time."

"We can manage that too," Steve says, smiling at Peter, and god, Peter feels so— nervous and jittery, that he's about to be passed off like this, given a chance to show off what Tony has. "Guides?"

"Mmm, keep it mostly above the belt?" Tony says. "You can look, touch, lose the clothes, but don't get him off." He tugs Peter's head back, looking down and catching his eye, and they'd talked about this but Peter still feels exposed, even fully dressed. "He likes kissing, likes getting marked up; doesn't mind if it hurts a bit. Well, you know how to handle that sort of enhancement," he adds.

"It never lasts," Steve says, and sighs.

"Not for lack of trying," Sam mutters, and Steve grins at him.

"It's pretty while it lasts," Tony says. He drops his hand to Peter's neck, and Peter shivers. "He likes having his hair played with," Tony says, lower, watching him. "His neck too. He's... sensitive."

He ducks down, pulling Peter up on his knees to kiss him. "I'm sure you'll figure something fun out," he says.

Natasha crooks a finger at Peter as Tony wanders away. “First dibs,” she says. That’s fine with Peter; he shuffles forward on his knees a little awkwardly and ends up between her legs, looking up. She smiles, small but definitely there, and Peter relaxes.

She’s mean.

Ok, maybe not mean, but she teases. She’s delicate with him, carefully running her hands through Peter’s hair, scraping her nails down his neck, lightly enough it almost tickles. Slowly, slowly curls her fingers in his hair and tugs his head back, inch by inch, and leans forward over him and just… stays there, barely any space between their lips but not kissing him. Stays there, like she’s waiting for something, and even though Peter knows it’s too forward, he pushes up a little and goes for it. 

He gets a second of her lips on his, and then her hand tightens painfully, yanking him back. She moves with him though, staying as close as before but no closer, her free hand coming up and raking down his neck, the same path she’d traced so gently. Peter yelps. 

“Aren’t you going to kiss me?” she asks, her breath warm against his lips. He looks at her, uncertain. 

“Yes?” he says.

“I’m waiting,” she says, not giving him any leeway. Peter bites his lip and leans in, pulling against her grip in his hair. Pulling until it hurts, and she’s moving back a little more and more and that’s not fair. He pushes forward, fast, and gets one kiss, soft and warm and really, really nice, before she’s distancing herself again. 

“Come on, Peter,” she says, smirking. 

She tips him back and forth like that, teasing him and making him do the work of hurting himself, pulling against her hold and pushing into her nails and trying desperately for each kiss, and it’s kind of embarrassing that he’s hard. 

He gasps when her grip suddenly eases, letting him fall forward into her lap, tipping his head up and kissing him, long and slow and so hot, until he’s struggling to catch his breath, moaning softly. “Do I have to share?” she says as she pulls back, glancing up behind him. 

There’s a huff, and she must be getting glares from some of them. “Fine,” she says, giving him a little shove towards Steve and Bucky and he almost tips over on the way to them. Steve catches him at the last second, and Bucky huffs. "Not normally clumsy, Peter."

"You've got me all messed up," Peter mutters.

"We haven't even gotten started," Steve tells him, and then Steve's hand is in his hair, pulling him in. It's so much bigger than Natasha's hands, bigger than Tony's, and when he curls his fingers and tugs Peter's hair, Peter gasps softly into his mouth. Steve never pulls hard, but he's really good at turning his hand just so, catching little pieces of hair in a way that makes it sting, sharper than a good yank. He's pretty good at kissing too, but Peter isn't giving that quite as much attention.

Especially not when there's another pair of hands on him, across his shoulders and sliding down his back, catching the edge of his shirt and pulling it up. "Come on, Steve," Bucky says. "You've gotta let go for me to get this off." Steve gives Peter another kiss, softer, another tug, harder, and lets him go. Bucky's got Peter's shirt over his head and off before Peter has a chance to catch his breath, and then his hand is in Peter's hair instead, bending him back to kiss him.

They pass him back and forth between them like that, one of them with a hand in Peter's hair nearly every second, yanking him around and holding him in place when he jerks. Steve kisses him more than anything, his hands all over Peter's chest, teasing his nipples and Peter is so hard. Bucky ends up pulling Peter's hair the most, switching between his metal arm and his real one; Peter can feel the difference, even if he can't see it. The metal one is cooler against his scalp, the plates catching individual hairs and even pulling them out every now and then, making Peter whimper, making his eyes water.

"You really are pretty," Bucky says, right in Peter's ear, and kisses all along his neck. Peter moans, feeling even more sensitive than usual, which is saying a lot. Steve catches Peter's chin, trapping him between their hands, and kisses him.

"They're all watching us," Steve whispers. "All those doms, enjoying the show we're putting on," and Peter shivers. "Yeah, I thought you'd like that," Steve says. "You're a people pleaser, aren't you. You're just the sweetest thing, Peter. Bet you don't give Tony any trouble at all."

Peter starts to giggle at that, that ridiculous thought, right as Bucky yanks his hair hard. "Oh god," Peter gasps, "no, I mean, I am, uh." Bucky kisses his neck, kisses all along his shoulder and Peter tries to catch his breath. "I'm a lot of trouble," he says. "Really am, I don't mean to be but I am."

"I'm not surprised," Rhodey says, and Peter starts. "Tony likes trouble."

Steve snorts, right against Peter's neck. "Yeah, that's true." He glances up, bumping Sam's leg. "He's not the only one."

"You've got that right," Sam says. "Or I wouldn't have been crazy and taken on both of you. Here, let me have a go at him. You've had your fun."

Peter's starting to feel a little out of it; not super, not drifty, but not really all there either, and it takes a minute for him to figure out where they're trying to put him, laughing at his clumsiness. It's nice laughing though, Steve tossling his hair once he gets Peter situated on Sam's lap, Bucky kissing his shoulder before he drops back down against Steve.

Sam's got him kneeling over him, straddling his lap; even settled all the way on him, Peter's looking down at Sam. "Hi," Peter says, feeling a little shy again. He still doesn't know Sam quite as well, and he seems sharper sometimes.

"Hi," Sam says back, and he's barely holding back a laugh. "I'll give it to Tony, you are cute." Peter scrunches up his face; he haaaates being called cute. "No?" Sam says.

"Don't wanna be cute," Peter mutters. "I'm not like, little or delicate or soft."

"No, you're not, are you," Sam says. He scratches his nails against Peter's scalp, this amazing, awful sensation, and then he tugs Peter down, Peter's hands braced against the back of the couch.

Presses his mouth to Peter's neck and bites.

"Omigod," Peter gasps. "Oh, fuck!" It's not a soft, nice little bite; it hurts, Sam's teeth hard against his skin. He sucks at that spot, pressing his tongue to it, teasing it, and Peter starts squirming despite himself. Sam's hand tightens in Peter's hair, and when he finally pulls back Peter's whining.

He jerks when Sam presses his thumb to that spot, tender. "Not delicate," he says. "But you are sensitive; Tony was right about that. More than either of them, that's for sure."

Sam's hand tightens more, pulling Peter's head back further, further, arching his back. Peter yelps when Sam bites him again, just as hard even if it doesn't last long, and then again, and again, working across his shoulder. He's panting when Sam stops, letting Peter's head fall forward.

"How quick do they fade?" he asks, and Peter has to take a moment before he can answer.

"Uh," he says, "mostly— mostly gone in about a day? If they're really dark. The lighter ones don't even last half a day anymore."

"Mmm," Sam hums. "Well, I've got some practice in keeping special little things like you marked up. It's a good thing you don't mind hurting some."

He's as good as his word, biting and sucking all over Peter's neck, hard, deep bites that make Peter sob and jerk and hurt. He'd hide his face against Sam if he could, but Sam keeps Peter' head pulled back, his hand firm and tight in Peter's hair, holding him in place. Peter shudders, so turned on he can hardly stand it; he feels like his whole neck must be one giant mass of purple and red marks, layered over each other. He yanks harder against Sam's grip at the next bite, his hips snapping forward.

"Looks like he really likes the hurting," Natasha says, and Peter can feel himself blushing again.

Sam pulls back, looks at him. "Aw," he says, "look at how red you are," and he tugs Peter's face around, until everyone can see. Peter whines, closing his eyes. "Think you can rut a little without getting off?" Peter nods, as much as he can with Sam holding his head. Tony's worked hard on that with him, and Peter has gotten so good at holding back.

"Good," Sam says, and this time he tugs Peter forward instead, tucking his face into the curve of Sam's neck, grabbing his waist and pulling him in closer. "Go on then," Sam says, and ducks his head, sinking his teeth into Peter's shoulder, his hand twisting in Peter's hair. Peter groans and then he's rubbing up against Sam, not nearly enough pressure, just enough to keep him trying for more, his cock thrusting along Sam's stomach. He can feel Sam's cock too, hard right against his, but he can't do much more than grind down onto it as he rocks.

It all feels so good, Sam’s hand in his hair, his mouth on Peter’s neck, his thigh as Peter rubs against it— too good, too soon. “Wait,” Peter gasps, “wait, wait.”

Sam yanks him back by his hair, hard, and that’s so not helpful actually, even if it pulls Peter’s dick away from any contact. “Don’t,” Sam says, “you don’t want to let Tony down.”

Peter shudders, getting control of himself; he can do it, he knows he can, Tony’s trained him on this so much. “I won’t,” he whispers, “I don’t, I never let him down.” Sam laughs, but it’s not mean.

“He tell you that?” Sam asks.

All the time, Peter thinks, and he’s starting to believe it. He nods.

“Of course he does,” Rhodey says. “He means it too. Hand him over, Sam, you’ve had your turn.”

“Oh, fine,” Sam says, and helps Peter get his leg over him, Peter feeling clumsy, almost weak. Gives him a slap on the ass as he starts to move away and Peter squeaks. 

He crawls across the corner of the couch towards Rhodey, settling back on his heels next to him, and he’s more nervous about Rhodey than anyone. It’s not that he doesn’t know Rhodey, like with Sam, but— Rhodey’s special; Tony might not say it but he totally takes Rhodey’s opinions seriously. 

He wants to impress Rhodey.

Rhodey slides his hand up Peter’s neck into his hair, pulling his head back. “You know Tony adores you, kid,” he says, very softly, and Peter feels his face heat. “You’ve been making him happier than I’ve seen in a while.”

“I’m trying,” Peter whispers. 

“You’re doing good,” Rhodey says, and that feels so good to hear, like a burst of warmth spreading from his chest. If Rhodey thinks that—

Rhodey pulls him down then, turning Peter’s head as he goes, his hand not too tight in Peter’s hair. Keeps pulling him past the point where Peter overbalances and almost faceplants in Rhodey’s lap, but it seems like that’s what Rhodey actually wants, because he doesn’t stop until Peter’s cheek is resting on his thigh. 

He runs a hand down Peter’s back, pressing at him. “Stretch out,” he says. “Get comfy; I’m keeping you here awhile.” 

It isn’t like with the others, the way Rhodey plays with him. He doesn’t know how to describe it, really. Sort of— not sexual at all, but it still is, when Rhodey’s hand drops down, his thumb brushing across Peter’s lips, sometimes sliding his other hand down to squeeze Peter’s ass. It’s almost like Peter’s an afterthought, the way he keeps Peter’s head pinned to his thigh and pets him, threading his fingers through Peter’s hair gently, softly, little scratches sometimes. Lulls him into this drifty, dreamy state where Peter isn’t thinking about anything other than Rhodey’s touch.

Almost an afterthought as Rhodey talks with the others, words Peter can’t even make sense of right now, but he’s not, it doesn’t feel like that at all. Especially not when Rhodey tightens his grip, not pulling Peter anywhere, just twisting up his hair and hurting. Peter presses his face into Rhodey’s leg and gasps, whimpers every time, his fingers digging in as well; when it goes on, he starts thrashing a little, unable to help himself. 

He doesn’t really want to break free, but he can’t stay still.

It hurts, it hurts and Peter likes it, every single second. 

Rhodey soothes him again after each harsh yank, back to that soft, slow petting until Peter’s barely keeping his eyes open, nestled against Rhodey’s leg. Drags him back and forth between soft and harsh and there’s no rhythm to it that Peter can figure out, that he wants to figure out. He can feel himself starting to drift a bit, starting to get distant and quiet in the back of his head, losing hold of all his thoughts. 

He doesn’t even start when he feels another hand slide into his hair alongside Rhodey’s, when it pulls him upward. Peter blinks, things coming back into focus, and oh, it’s Tony, Tony’s back, crouched next to him and smiling. 

“Having fun, sweetheart?” he says. 

Peter’s not very good at words right now, but he can nod, relishing the tiny points of pain as it tugs his hair in their hands. Tony smiles a little bigger and glances up at Rhodey. “Has he been good?”

“More than,” Rhodey says. “It’s pretty obvious why you’ve gotten so attached to him.”

“Mmm,” Tony says. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, he’s a dream like this, but Peter’s more than something pretty to sit at my feet and you know it.”

“Did you really think I was just talking about that?”

The look Tony gives Rhodey is so close to the ones he gives Peter sometimes, soft and fond and like he’s had something go right. “Of course not, honeybear.” He glances around at the others; “Anyone mind if I give him a treat?”

Peter guesses the answer is no, because Tony’s standing up, flipping Peter over onto his back and settling down by his legs. “Wanna hold him?” Tony asks Rhodey. “It won’t keep him still, but it’s fun to watch him fight it.”

“Love to,” Rhodey says, and then his hands are back in Peter’s hair, pulling his head further into Rhodey’s lap until he can’t see Tony, can’t do anything but look up at Rhodey. 

Tony’s hands hook into the waist of Peter’s pants, and he jerks against Rhodey’s hands for a moment, trying to look down; Rhodey tightens his grip, leans down and kisses him. 

He’s still sighing into Rhodey’s mouth when Tony licks up the length of his dick, his lips closing over the tip. “Oh god,” Peter moans, “Tony, please.” 

Peter had already been pretty out of it when Tony came back, already wound up and just existing, no thoughts and no worries, nothing but want and feeling and response. He’d already been awfully close to flying, and this— this drops him over the edge, completely. 

Some part of his head is aware of the way he’s thrusting up into Tony’s mouth, Tony taking it happily, drooling around him; is aware that Peter’s tossing his head back and forth, fighting against Rhodey’s tight grip on his hair, only making it worse with every yank. Is even a little aware that the others must be watching him, watching them, watching just like Rhodey’s looking down at him, Tony looking up, their gaze so heavy on Peter he can feel it, just like he can feel everything, every touch and every texture and every single spot his body is in contact with anything. Can feel everything, too much, overwhelming, amazing, and he doesn’t know if it’s that, or the pain of Rhodey’s grasp, or the wave crashing down on him as he comes that have him crying. Maybe it’s all of them, or maybe it’s just that he’s wanted like this, kept and held and wanted. 

Rhodey kisses him, gently, and Tony crawls up over him; kisses Rhodey and kisses Peter and Peter could stay just like this forever. He can see Tony’s mouth moving, talking to him, then Rhodey, then him again, but his head is full of nothing but static, white noise.

Tony gathers him up then, Peter not helping even a little, closing his eyes. He just lets Tony shift him around until Peter’s kneeling over one of his thighs, tucked up against him and his head buried in Tony’s neck. Tony hooks his arm around Peter’s shoulder, his hand resting on Peter’s head, and keeps him there. Keeps slowly dragging his fingers through Peter’s hair, across his scalp, soft unending touches that keep Peter in that quiet space in his head. Tony’s talking with the others, gesturing big enough with his other hand that Peter can feel it, but it’s all just noise to Peter. 

He nuzzles into Tony’s skin and lets Tony keep him safe.

[russian-romanova]

sunday

title: sunday

pairing: joe goldberg

warnings: spoilers through season one of ‘you’. adult language. mentions of death, stalking and sexual content. mature themes explored by and mentioned in ‘you’. JOE IS NOT A GOOD GUY, HE’S JUST HOT. 

notes: i have no idea what this is. word vomit. joe’s point of view because i’m dumb and edgy like that. why do i like this character so much whyyyyyyyyyy

summary: you just have to make it through the week, because come sunday you have the whole day off to spend relaxing with your boyfriend. at least, that’s what you have planned. 

+��     +       +

MONDAY.

You are incredibly smart. That goes without saying. I watch you read books, devour them from front to cover before other people would even decide to begin them. You’re willing to try new things because the first two times you came into Mooney’s you wandered for close to an hour. You came in not knowing what you wanted but left with anything you could possibly be interested in. 

That was two months ago. 

You’re a regular visitor now because we’re an item. Dating. In a relationship. I never know what to say, but neither do you since I’ve heard them all in descriptions of your friends. It doesn’t even matter, anyway, because you smile to your friends no matter what you call us. I never know if I’m doing this right Y/N, but with you I’m positive. You’re happier than I’ve ever seen you. 

You’re here at Mooney’s now, talking to me as we eat lunch together. We’re both sitting behind the counter on stools, the flow of people slow for now. It’s always like this around this time of day, and we’re both plenty familiar with that by now. Every so often some asshole comes in looking for a Tolstoy they can stare at for years or some autobiography they’ll only skim through, but besides that, it’s just us. 

“Okay, okay,” You’re laughing and waving your hand about the answer you just gave. We’ve been doing this a lot, asking each other pointless questions like this to simply know the answers. For you, plenty of these questions lead to these marvelous stories. It’s as if you want me to know everything about you so easily.  “Okay, you see a pothole in the road ahead, do you swerve or straddle?” 

I’m not sure about my answer, but that doesn’t matter anymore. I can tell what you want me to say. “Straddle,” My voice comes out a little above a whisper.

“Oh really?” You respond back in a voice that’s even quieter, biting your lip without even realizing it. “Me too. Crazy.”

“Crazy,” I repeat, and my mouth is already pulling into a smile. You lean forward and kiss me once -- eagerly -- then pull back to look at me before we kiss again, slower this time. I want you here, and I know you want me too, but we also have some normal human decency and know when the bell rings to stop kissing quickly. The man who wandered in didn’t seem to notice the two of us at first, too absorbed in his fucking phone. 

“Hello!” He speaks up when he notices us. “Can you point me to where Marcus Zuzak would be?” 

You smile. “Over there, under fiction. Near the end, because it’s by last name.” You lean over the counter ever so slightly to point him in the correct direction. He’s lucky you volunteered to help him because I doubt I would have been so polite. 

“Oh, of course. Thank you, dear.” The elderly man nods and moves in the direction of your pointed finger. You smile at him for a moment longer before you turn back around, grinning. 

“Wow, I might just take your job.” You joke, moving back up to sit on your stool. I had secretly hoped you would return to kissing me, but I knew deep down that wasn’t a likely possibility. 

“Yeah, do you want the apron?” I pull at the apron. “You can have the apron.” 

“Yeah, apron and nametag. I’m changing my name to Joe now.” You continued, before softly laughing and transitioning the conversation into silence. You look at me again, but it’s a much different look than last time. It’s not the heavily passionate look that I got over questions and sandwiches, this is a much more caring look. A loving look. “Hey, it’s been a while since we had a date night.” 

I want to return the look you give me, and I hope I am. I hope you understand I love you as much as you love me, Y/N. “Yeah, you’re right. Hey, we should plan one.”

“Okay,” You nodded once, slowly as you plunged through your invisible mental calendar. “Are you free Sunday?”

For you, Y/N, I’m free any day. “Yeah, I think Sunday should work out. Seven?” 

You nod once more, kicking your legs. “Okay, seven on Sunday it is.” 

I want to reply, but the man returns with a book that is certainly not Zuzak, but I’m not one to say anything. 

“Ready to check out?” I ask him, but you hop up before I can move forward.

“Here, I can help you. My name is Joe,” You joke, and the poor old man nods his head. “Looks like a good book.” 

TUESDAY.

I’m not supposed to be at your apartment, which I suppose is part of the reason my heart rate spikes when the doorbell rings. I have been trying to get away from this, from the pointless apartment lurking, but I couldn’t resist today. I missed you, Y/N. 

For a second, I think the doorbell might be you come to pick up something you’ve forgotten, but then I realize you wouldn’t be ringing the doorbell. It buzzes again and is now followed by a series of pounding knocks. “Hey, Y/N, are you in there?” A man’s voice comes through into the apartment. “C’mon, it’s Arthur. Let me in.” 

Arthur.

He sounds vaguely desperate, his voice tinged with a whine. How could you ever have loved this man, Y/N? He’s like some distressed puppy dog who found his way home after being left on the side of the road. He says some word pleas, but I’m already turning over possible ways this could go down in my head. 

“Listen, I know that you probably hate me,” Arthur speaks again. You’re right; I’m sure you do. “But I just want to talk to you. I need to apologize. I’m sorry.” He sounds genuine. 

I open the door, and Arthur looks stunned. “Shit, is this the wrong apartment? Sorry, I’m looking for Y-”

“Y/N. I know.” I put on a fake smile. This is polite Joe, boyfriend Joe. This is the Joe that you know, Y/N. “She’s not home right now, actually.”

“Oh,” Arthur’s face turns red. 

“I’m Joe,” I stick out my hand. “Y/N’s boyfriend.” I almost smile at the words. 

He takes my hand and shakes it, although his mind is clearly elsewhere. “I’m Arthur. Bishop.” 

Jesus, Arthur Bishop? What kind of a name is Arthur Bishop? “I heard.” I’m still smiling, although it’s uncomfortable now. He’s ignoring me, and I know his thoughts are on you. “Did you need me to pass along a message?” I push, trying to get answers. I need to know if Arthur is a threat to you, Y/N, a threat to us. 

“Yeah, um, I haven’t seen Y/N in two years, actually. But we used to date-” I could see him remember who he was talking to. “It was a long time ago.” He added. 

“Yeah, I think she’s mentioned you.” I lied. Do you wanna come in?” 

When Arthur says yes, I really begin to doubt what you see in him. Is he stupid? Arthur has no idea who I really am, no proof that I’m your boyfriend or that I can be trusted. If he had been at least a little doubtful, I would have at least respected that. I almost feel bad for him, Y/N. 

An ex-boyfriend. Here we are, two of the people who you have loved in your apartment without your knowledge. He makes himself at home very quickly; without even taking off his shoes. He’s jittery, unfocused. His legs bounce up and down as he sits on your couch, and I’m suddenly self-conscious for you, Y/N, because of all the clothes you had strewn around. I walk towards the kitchen and kick a bra under the couch. 

“So, what did you say the deal was between you and Y/N?” I ask, moving towards the counter.

Arthur hesitates for a moment. Never a good sign. “Is there a bathroom I could use?”

No, dipshit, no bathrooms here. “Yeah, just down the hall. You okay?” 

He nods, clearly lying. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll be right back.” He moves quickly, but once I hear the bathroom door close I move twice as fast. The bathroom, Arthur? Do you think I’m dumb? On second thought, are you dumb? 

I know where your medicine cabinet is, and I know where the prescription sleeping pills you keep are. My fingers grasp the small bottle and I shake a few out onto my palm -- not so many that you’ll notice they’re gone, but enough to take care of Arthur in the other room. 

I move silently back to the kitchen, pulling one of your knives from the display. At least your counter is clean enough that I can put the pills down directly and crush them with the knife. One, two, three presses and I’ve deemed them powdered enough to brush into my hand and shake into a glass of water. 

I hope you’re thirsty, Arthur. 

WEDNESDAY.

The cage is no longer empty, which is always a strange feeling. And Arthur is so quiet I practically forget he’s down there. 

I wonder a little if I overreacted with Arthur. If I should have just stayed put and pretended no one was home or let him come in and leave on his own time. But deep down, Y/N, I knew that he was a risk. I didn’t even have to know what this guy wanted and I could tell, from the way he spoke about you that he wanted to get in the way of us. And God, we’ve been so perfect together that I couldn’t fathom letting someone take you away from me. 

He was out for a while, and I worried I maybe overcompensated with the sleeping pills and his insides were slowly shutting down. If I had known your shifty ex-boyfriend was going to show up I would have maybe done my research a little better, but things like this never seem to want to pencil in a date on the calendar.

The second time I check on him during the workday, he’s awake. Quiet and confused, but awake. He asks the usual -- where he was, why he was there, if you had something to do with it. And I’m at least polite, Y/N. I answer his questions to the best of my ability and all he does is swear and yell at me. After a while, I think he realized that I wouldn’t be telling him this stuff with the intent of letting him go, which quieted him down. Which is not to say I don’t want to let him out.

“Listen, I didn’t do anything wrong. Please. Man, if you want me gone I’ll leave. I’ll leave to where ever the fuck you want me to go. Just let me out.” 

Even his pleading is in a soft voice. I wonder if he was a good boyfriend or the annoying, man bun and kale type you seem to have been interested in before.  “You just need to wait a while, Arthur. Have patience, it’s a good quality.” But even my sound reasoning doesn’t persuade him.

He’s quiet the next few times I come down, but he takes the fast-food bag I pass him and he eats, which is good at least. I considered asking him about you, but I decided that if he was comfortable and quiet now, it was probably better to keep it that way. Besides, you sent me a text asking if I wanted to come over and watch ‘Friends’ with you. It wasn’t the show I was excited for at all, but the idea of you, and the idea that you thought of me when you were flipping through the channels. 

I give Arthur his supper and then I’m off to you, Y/N. You open your door for me in sweatpants and a baggy t-shirt, and I swear you’ve never looked so beautiful. You smile at me and I come inside the apartment I know you cleaned especially for me and you direct me to the couch, where we settle down and you turn up the volume. 

“I hope you weren’t busy or anything,” You mention offhandedly during the third episode. “I don’t know, I just know you don’t watch a lot of TV but Friends is classic and I thought you might want to-”

“No, no, no, you’re good. I love it. I love Friends.” I lie, gesturing to the screen.

You look at me and I know you’ve read right through my little lie. “Do you know?”

I pause. “No. But I love it now!” 

“Sure, Joe,” You laugh before turning back to the screen and moving closer to me. We’re pressed together like we’ve known each other for years. And we may as well have, Y/N. 

THURSDAY.

I wake up Thursday morning, and you’re already gone. A glance at the clock -- which reads 9:51 -- explains to me that you’re already at work. A note you left me on the table reflects this thought, and I know that neither of us expected me to stay the night. I’m happy to be welcome here in the morning, and I pocket the note before sitting back to breathe it in. 

I love the way your apartment is decorated because it reminds me so much of you. It reflects your personality, from the way things are carefully placed to the way you so desperately want things to appear thrown into a particular spot. Even alone in your apartment, Y/N, you’re trying too hard. 

Last night was perfect, and I think my mind is clearer now. I know what I have known in the back of my mind for days, that Arthur needs to be taken care of. Nothing gruesome or excruciatingly painful, he’s been good enough. I almost hate to do it, but if he sticks around things are bound to go wrong for us. Please realize that I’m doing this all for us, Y/N. 

FRIDAY.

I have learned from my mistakes. I allow Arthur -- or what’s left of him now -- to wait for me overnight but come Friday I know the body needs to be taken care of. 

Ethan is too gullible and I tell him I need to close early to do some inspections of Mooney’s. At first, he asks some questions, but I tell him only simple answers and he eventually leaves. The day as a whole is normal but seems to drag on as the same type of men and women come in to buy the same books, or walk around and leave. The only half-hour that breezes by is our lunch together, where we sit in the same area as always and laugh and each and hope that time will freeze. 

I manage to slip into the conversation a small asking about ex-boyfriends, and you spill the beans on Marcus and Dwayne and Roosevelt, all of whom I know have long since moved on, before you bring up Arthur. 

“We dated for a year, I guess. But then he told me that he had some other life offers to pursue in Nepal -- whatever that means -- and we broke up and he left.” It doesn’t seem to mean lots to you, as you shrug and eat forkfuls of salad. “Then I met this really nice guy at a little coffee shop in New York and his name was Joe, and he worked at a bookstore, and we ate lunch together and have a date on Sunday.”

“Wow, Joe sounds like a great guy. Looks like I’ve got competition.” 

You laughed, the beautiful laugh that I know you try to keep in your mouth but it just bubbles out, and you lean over and bring your hand up to hide it. I have never understood why Y/N. Your laugh is beautiful, but it’s impossible to bring that up without sounding creepy.

But you leave eventually, sooner than you should have to, and I’m left alone again. It returns to the same boring routine, and the closing time comes after a hundred years. Ethan leaves with a wave and a farewell, but I’m already right behind him as I moved to flip the open sign. 

The basement has begun to reek of death. It only gets stronger as I push open the doors to the cage, allowing the smell to come out as I enter in. Arthur has already texted a few of his friends -- douchebags, by the sounds of it -- to tell them that he’s returning to Nepal. He missed it, and he misses the feeling it brought him and his idiot friends seem to accept it. I plan to bag him up -- which is more than vile and I can’t count how many times I throw up or gag -- and bury him in the woods, where the trees are thick and the dead leaves from several years have built up and no one will look. 

The gloves are the smartest choice I’ve ever made. There are things getting on them that I can’t identify and don’t want to be identified. He’s already in the bag -- deep and black, hopefully sturdy -- and I’m on the clean-up phase when I’m startled.  

“Joe?” I hear your voice. Fuck, tell me I’m going crazy. How the fuck do I hear your voice through all of this, unless…

I spin around to face you. It hits me almost instantly-- I didn’t lock the door. How the fuck could I forget to lock the door? Shit, one mistake and now… now this, Y/N. 

Unsurprisingly, you’re stunned. Eyes soaking in everything that they can, your hands already shaking. “Y/N,” I begin, but you don’t give me a chance to talk. A chance to explain myself to you.

“What the fuck, Joe?” You ask, and I know you’re hoping for some logical explanation to pour out of my mouth. And, Y/N, believe me when I say that I wish I had one, at the very least in the form of a crafted lie. “What the actual fuck is this?”

You want to run, but you also want this to all be a misunderstanding, so you stand there, frozen. I look at you, hoping that you’ll look into my eyes and remember how much we love each other, how perfect we are for each other. I hope you’ll forgive me and you’ll throw your arms around me instead, and you’ll know it was all a misunderstanding. You’ll love me no matter what, and we’ll get the happily ever after that you read in your books and crave so much. 

I see you look once more from me to the bag containing Arthur. Your breathing quickens again, the only thing to split the silence at first. Then your footsteps follow, tennis shoes hitting the concrete. 

Life is far from a book, Y/N. I’m sorry this is the point you have to realize this. 

SATURDAY

You wake up in the cage, and I’m already sorry that it has to be this way. You look like a small child, lost in the supermarket with no parents in sight. Sleep is in your eyes, but you quickly blink it out and lookup. For a split second, I think you have forgotten about where you are, about what has happened. 

You tried to run upstairs, to tell the world, Y/N, and I care about you too much to let that happen. You won’t understand this right away, no one ever does, but maybe you’ll have a change of heart someday. You refused to talk to me at first, so I talked to you and tried to act as if everything was normal.

“What the fuck,” When you spoke, your voice was rough from dehydration. I made a mental note to get you a coffee that you might drink, unlike the water glass you had disregarded in the corner. “What, you’re just going to pretend like I’m not in an actual cage, Joe?”

“It’s just temporary,” I assure you hurridly, but I can tell that you don’t believe me. “I’ve never lied to you, Y/N. Please.” And this is mostly true. 

Your voice is getting a little louder,  a little more passionate. “How am I supposed to know that? Huh?”

“Trust me,” I say, and I see an echo of Beck in myself. The thought startles me enough that I shake a little, and you think that I’m shaking because you’ve made some mental breakthrough. You were smart and kept out of my past, you trusted what I told you and never questioned the things I left out. 

 “How?” You ask me, bitterly. “How can I trust you in here?”

I look at you for a moment, our eyes locked. You look sad, Y/N, and I need to remind myself that it isn’t my fault. You could look for the best in this, you could choose to be happy despite what you see to be a bad situation. “You have to,” I beg simply, and I need to go back to the bookstore. I will be back down here, Y/N, I promise. 

SUNDAY.

The door opened with a soft noise, and your eyes follow me as I walked forward, watching you as well. I have nothing to say, but I can tell you’re waiting for me to speak. “It’s Sunday,” So I speak for you, glancing around to try and find the key. “We were supposed to have our date tonight,” I find the key and twist it around my fingers. 

“We still can,” Your voice comes out cracked from crying. “Let me out, please, Joe. C’mon. Please.”

I pocket the key and give you a look. “You know I can’t do that.”

“Why, Joe? Because you think I’m going to tattle on you? I’m not fucking stupid.” You stand up and move a little closer to the edge of the cage. “You made a mistake. Everyone makes mistakes, it’s okay. I forgive you, Joe.”

You forgive me. My hands are trembling and I take a step forward. You forgive me, or so you say. 

“How can I trust you?” My voice is a whisper, and suddenly I’m the scared boy in the supermarket again. “You already tried to run, Y/N. You need to trust me, this is what’s best for you.”

“What’s best for me?” Your eyes water. “What’s best for me? Do you think being locked in a cage is what’s best for me? 

I don’t react. 

“Jesus, Joe, what do you want? What do you want me to do?” 

“I want you to be happy. I need you to be happy.” The words come out of my mouth before I even realize it. “But I need you to be happy in here, at least for a while. If you really still love me, you’ll wait.” 

“I don’t want to wait, Joe. Please. If you love me, you’ll let me out.” 

My hand reaches back for the key, and I’m fumbling with it as I say, “You know I can’t do that.” You seem to have given up with that, but you continue to stand against the edge of the cage and watch me. “Can you sit down? I have to empty out the bucket.” You glance back at the bucket you’ve been using as a bathroom and then back at me. 

You sit down, defeated, and I walk in towards the bucket. This is the most humiliating part of this whole ordeal, Y/N, and I’ll be happy when it’s all over and we can joke about the things I’d do for you. You’re watching me with big eyes that I can hardly look at up close because they’re swollen with tears by now. 

I’m near you, and you’ve gone silent. You watch as I reach down to grab the bucket’s handle, but you very swiftly stick your foot out, and I felt myself falling backward in slow motion. Fuck, Y/N, you weren’t supposed to do that. By the time I can turn myself over to look at you, you’re already up on your feet. Without pausing to look back, you’re making a run for the door 

Now, this is just fucking unfair. I push myself to my feet and stumble after you, and I feel like a toddler who doesn’t know how to walk. I push myself out of the cage for physical support and grab a knife from the shelves. I hope I don’t need this, Y/N, but your persistence worries me. 

It doesn’t take much to overpower you. I’m pumping my legs and feeling the adrenaline pumping through my body. I reach once and miss, almost stumbling but I doubt you notice. The second time I reach, my fingers grasp your arm and pull you back. I have to think fast here, and I push you against the wall to stop you. 

You’re quiet, panting and terrified. If you could, I’m sure you would spit in my face here. I turn over possibilities in my mind, and I must say that I’m not particular to any of them within my control. Shit, Y/N, I didn’t want this to turn out like Candace or like Beck. I thought you were different, I thought that maybe you would understand. 

I don’t want to kill you. Believe me, Y/N, it’s always the last thing I want to do. But I had to kill Beck before, and that turned out fine because I met you. I met you, and you made my life that much better. 

Your eyes flick between mine, your breathing steadies. The knife suddenly feels so much heavier in my hand, but we both know what I need to do. 

I’m sorry, Y/N, but I’ll make it quick.