#carrying them around for hours or days before anyone figures it out because she keeps it tucked away

[covenofagatha]

Practice makes perfect (Part 3)

A month later, will Agatha keep pretending like nothing happened?

Word count: 6.4k

Warnings: reader has a penis, cock cage, fingering, handjob, orgasm denial, degradation, semi-public sex

It’s a month later before you see Agatha again. Your internship ended, you’re back in school, and you haven’t had a good reason to stop by your dad’s work, despite really trying hard to think of one.

Until now. 

He had called you that morning and barked at you to swing by his apartment and bring you the files he left on the kitchen counter as his new wife was busy shopping or screwing her personal trainer—you know either is just as likely. 

So you walk the familiar path from the elevator to his office, very visibly scanning the room. People you worked closely with this summer raise their hand to greet you, but you completely ignore them because you only have one person on your mind. 

You see her through the blinds on the glass doors to the office adjacent to your father’s, the lines on her forehead etched deep as she types something out on her computer. 

There’s a twist in your stomach and a tightening in your pants as Agatha’s eyes flick up to meet yours and the memory of her cunt wrapped around your cock has your cheeks heating up furiously. 

She looks completely unaffected; you could be anyone else from the way she gets back to work without a care in the world. 

Except you can see a light flush in her face and it makes your cock twitch because you know she’s thinking about you too. 

The morning after the last night in the Hamptons had been uneventful, almost like nothing had happened. You had woken up in Agatha’s bed and rolled over, fingertips sliding across to seek out her warmth, but she had already gotten out of bed. She came out of the bathroom, completely dressed and carrying her travel pack of toiletries, as you finally sat up and rubbed at your tired eyes. 

Agatha whisked you out of bed, hissing, “Remember, this never happened.” 

And that had been all. 

Has she been reminiscing about fucking you every night since then? Has she touched herself while thinking about you? Has she been counting down the days until she sees you again? 

You’d be embarrassed to admit that you’d done all three—many times. Agatha is your craving now, your addiction, and you need her more than the air you breathe at this point. 

Your dad yells your name and you think you see the sliver of a smile on Agatha’s face. You quickly dart to his office and he doesn’t even so much as look up when you place the files on his desk. 

“Took you long enough,” he says grumpily and you know that’s as much gratitude as you’ll get from him. Never mind the fact that you drove all the way back to the city and you have class in two hours just to bring him a few papers he forgot. 

“I guess I’ll see you later?” you prompt, trying to stall for just a second so you can think of a reason to talk to Agatha on your way out. 

He takes off his reading glasses and settles back in his chair, studying you. Finally, he waves a hand. “The fundraiser thing is this weekend. Why don’t you come to it? It’ll be good to have family there, you know, for morale. Maybe we can put you in charge of something—how about the bread?” 

You fight the urge to roll your eyes. Of course if he is going to give you any responsibility at all, it would be the thing that even a seven year old could figure out. “Yeah, that’ll be great, dad,” you say through tight lips. 

He grimaces like he’s going to add something else but instead, picks up a magazine and holds it up to his face. You take the hint and scurry out of his office. 

Even though you don’t have an excuse, you open the door to Agatha’s room anyway and poke your head in. She raises an eyebrow through her large, black glasses, unimpressed, and you ignore how it affects you. 

“Can I help you?” she asks caustically, looking at you like you’re a piece of gum that got stuck on her shoe. Hot. 

You step in and draw the blinds on the door before closing the others on the floor-to-ceiling glass windows that make her office seem like a fishbowl so no one in the cubicles outside can see in. 

“Are you going to the thing this weekend?” you respond casually before strolling over to perch on the edge of her desk. She’s wearing a brown tweed coat over a blue shirt and black pants and her dark hair tumbles down her back. 

The memory of grinding your cock between her tits flashes in your mind and you shift your weight to hide the budding erection between your legs. 

Agatha doesn’t miss it, of course, and her gaze drops down before she scoffs. “Really? I’m surprised your cock hasn’t fallen off with how much jerking off you must be doing.” 

She smirks at your muffled whimper and your pants grow tighter. 

But Agatha’s caught off guard when you sink to your knees in front of her. You’re feeling dizzy and not thinking clearly at all and you just know that you need her so you start to crawl the last few inches to her chair when she sticks out a leg and stops you. 

A choked gasp leaves your mouth—her short black pump is right against the bugle in your pants. “Agatha,” you breathe, looking up at her with heat in your eyes and mouth wide-open. 

She simpers and presses harder, making you keel forward. Your mind goes blank. 

“God, you’re insatiable, aren’t you?” she hisses and you nod brainlessly and hump up at her shoe like a bitch in heat. If anyone were to walk in right now, you would be caught in quite the compromising position. 

Agatha grabs your hair and forces you to look at her, digging her heel into your cock and making you moan pathetically. There’s drool dripping down your chin out of the corner of your lips. The smell of her perfume and your sweat makes you drunk and you babble something nonsensically. 

She pulls on your hair harder when you rut shallowly against her, small noises falling from your mouth, and if she keeps it up, you’re not going to last much longer. 

“All it takes is one look from me and you’re tripping over yourself,” she snarls and you whine quietly, pawing at her shin. The look she gives you is lethal. “You need to learn to be patient and not be so fucking embarrassing.” 

Your cock pulses and a stain spreads on your pants from the precum that spits out while you swear under your breath. 

Agatha swiftly grabs your chin, pinching it so your jaw hurts slightly. “You know what I think would help a spoiled brat like you learn?” 

“What?” you choke out, both excited and scared. 

There’s a devilish glint in her eye when she leans forward until your noses almost touch. “A cock cage.” 

The wind gets kicked out of your lungs and your ribs rattle with your sharp inhale. 

“You—you’re going to buy me a cock cage?” you rasp and fuck, it’s going to be torture if you know anything about Agatha. 

Her face contorts into something wicked. “And have that on my bill for this month? No. You’re going to buy yourself one so you can always remember just how pathetic you are.” 

She dips forward, the knee on her outstretched leg bending, and reaches into your front pocket to pull out your wallet. You gasp when she moves her fingers and touches your cock lightly and you rock into her shoe again. 

Agatha places it on the desk and opens the personal laptop before typing something in. You wait with bated breath, trying to control your pulsing cock, when she tilts the computer toward you and you groan. 

It’s a sex toy website open to a page with about twenty different cages. You have to manually suck in air and push it back out because you’ve forgotten how to breathe automatically. 

“Fuck,” you say, and is the room spinning or is that just the endorphins giving you a high unlike anything you’ve ever felt?

Agatha hums nonchalantly as she scrolls though, pausing every now and then and hovering the mouse over an option, but then shakes her head and moves on. You’re panting now and you wonder if she can feel your hot breath through the fabric on her legs. 

She clicks to the next page and you see it the exact second she does—a purple, steel tube that gleams in the picture. 

“This one,” she decides without even looking at you for your opinion, even though you would have nothing to say except yes, please. 

She adds it to the cart and with each number of your credit card that she types in, you swear she presses her heel harder into your cock so by the time she’s done, you’re furiously grinding against her and so fucking close to coming. Your pants are a light blue color and there will definitely be a visible mark but you couldn’t care less. 

You rattle off your address in a shaky voice and you hope, wish, pray that Agatha will take pity on you and let you come, either like this or maybe with more—her hand, her cunt, fuck, her mouth. You think you would die if she wrapped her perfect lips around your cock. 

Your cock throbs again and she smirks before moving her shoe from side to side and making you keen at the friction. 

“You’re incorrigible,” she sighs and your whimper is pitiful. “The cage will be at your place tomorrow. You will bring me the key and then you will wear it to the fundraiser and show me that you can be a good girl and keep your cock to yourself, got it?” 

“Yes,” you gasp. You make a mental note to buy her a nice necklace to put the key on, just in case she wants to show it off. A physical demonstration that she owns you. 

Agatha smiles sweetly and pats your cheek before placing the order and pressing hard against your cock one last time. 

With a long moan, you come in your pants and Agatha just rolls her eyes. 

—

The cage gets shipped to your apartment the next day and you chuckle at the thought of Agatha ordering it express to get it there that fast. 

You take it out of the package, turning the cool metal over in your palm, and your cock already twitches. The key is small and gold and you salivate at the thought of it around Agatha’s neck, resting between her cleavage. 

The second you had gotten home yesterday, you had ordered her a diamond tennis necklace. It had cost about half the median salary but you hadn’t thought twice before ordering it because it would be worth it to see the light catch the jewelry. She’s claiming you with this cage and you want to show that off. 

Only the best for the woman who owns you figuratively, and now, literally. 

You call her and put it on speakerphone, listening to the dial ring. You picture her in her office, smirking down at your contact card, and keeping you waiting until the last possible minute. You have to shift to hide the tent in your pants even though you’re the only one at your home. 

“What?” she asks irritatedly when she finally picks up. Why does that make you harder? 

Clearing your throat, you examine your reflection in the steel. “Um, it came in,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. “Fuck, Agatha—” 

“Put it on,” she orders swiftly and you gasp. 

You get off the bed onto shaky knees and unzip your pants. Agatha stays quiet on the line and it feels like you should say something to break the silence, but you can’t think of a word to utter. Your cock throbs when you pull it out of your pants, already half-hard, and you slide the cage over yourself and lock it. 

“Oh, fuck,” you whimper at the cold constriction and Agatha chuckles. More blood flows south and then you wince because it hurts if your cock gets too hard. 

“Good girl,” she hums and you bite down on your hand, hoping the pain distracts you from her. 

It doesn’t. 

“Agatha, can I please—can I please take it off?” you pant, submissive to a flaw because surely she can’t stop you from doing what you want. 

But you want her permission, you need it. If you’re her good girl, maybe she’ll let you touch her again. 

She muses and then laughs cruelly and you whine high-pitched. “No,” she says simply and you’re torn between obeying or ripping the cage off because of the agony you’re in. 

“Agatha, please,” you try again, sounding even more pathetic and desperate because maybe she likes that. 

It would seem that she does not. “No,” she spits out, sharper this time. “You are going to learn how to wait for something for once in your life. Keep it on from now until this weekend and I expect the key in my hand before the fundraiser. And maybe, maybe, if you listen, I’ll let you take your cock out.” 

“How do you know I won’t just unlock it myself before then?”

She hangs up without answering because you both know that’s not going to happen. 

—

Saturday, one hour before the annual fundraiser, you knock on Agatha’s apartment door. 

“Just a second,” she calls, clearly not expecting you or she wouldn’t be so cordial, and you shift your weight to your other leg while you wait. In one hand, you have a bottle of wine and in the other, the box with the necklace and the key. 

There’s a nervous feeling in your stomach—this feels like something real. In the Hamptons, it was a vacation that felt a world away. It felt removed from daily life and you had believed that what had happened with you and Agatha was merely a consequence of being away for a week and a much-needed stress reliever. 

But this? Going to the event together with a chastity cage around your cock and the key to it around her neck? 

What does this mean? 

Agatha opens the door and you’re instantly in pain from the restricted hardening of your cock. She’s wearing a long red dress that dips low and shows off her cleavage and her hair is still in rollers, light make-up on her face. 

She peers down at your black pants and you squirm. It had taken you forever to find the right suit to wear that would hide the bulge of the cage but you wonder if she can see it. Does she get the same thrill from it as you do?

She steps to the side and begrudgingly lets you in as you hand her the wine and the box. You saunter into the spacious living room, dragging a finger against the spines of all the books she keeps, as her footsteps traipse after you. 

“Oh,” she breathes and you turn around to find her looking into the now-open box. The diamonds refract the light from the large windows onto her face and make her gray-blue eyes pop. Your breath catches in your throat. 

“It’ll go with your dress,” you say hoarsely as she lifts out the necklace. 

She regards you with something akin to fondness and she holds it out for you to take before spinning so her back is to you. You swallow roughly and reach it gently around her neck before clasping it and then lean down to breathe in her spicy perfume. 

Agatha shivers at your hot air on her back and there’s a line of goosebumps that appears. You’re about to run your tongue over them when she faces you again and your eyes immediately drop down. 

The necklace comes down under her collarbone and the key rests vertically on her sternum. You’d be dizzyingly hard if not for the cage but you wonder if she can see the desire obviously written on your face. 

“Take it out,” she whispers and you move faster than you ever have to unzip yourself. 

A hush falls over the already quiet room as you pull the purple metallic tube out of your pants. Agatha audibly exhales before squatting down to get a better look. You can see your reflection and hers in it and you don’t miss the dilation of her pupils. 

She reaches out with a perfectly manicured finger and taps the metal three times. The vibrations travel through your cock and up your spine and your eyes water. 

The last few days have been absolute torture—every single thing that reminds you of Agatha has gotten you hard. You’ve been getting erections now just at the sight of a dark-haired woman walking down the street because you think it might be her. 

And now, she’s standing here, a hair away from your cock with the key to your salvation around her neck, and she’s not doing anything. 

“Agatha, can I—can you please—”

She stands up and puts a finger against your lips and you groan dejectedly. You move to put your cock back in your pants but she tuts before pulling a small tube of lipstick from her purse that’s sitting on the couch. She bends back over to look at her reflection in the cage and carefully applies a rosy-red tint that matches the shade of her dress exactly. 

“All good,” she says cheerfully and pats the metal, sending shockwaves through your body, before placing the tube of lipstick on the coffee table. 

Agatha strolls into her bedroom where you’re not sure if you’re welcome, so you just pace out in the living room and try not to look too nosy as you snoop through the photo albums on the bookshelves. 

“Ready to go?” she says, reemerging from her room, now with her wavy, dark hair flowing freely. You stare, stunned at how ethereal she looks, as she breezes by you. “Close your mouth, you’ll catch flies.” 

You chase after her to catch her in the elevator and then without permission, you hop in her company car. The driver looks at you in the rearview mirror but doesn’t say a word. As the boss’s daughter, you can get away with pretty much anything. 

Agatha taps her nails against her purse and looks out the window the entire way to the event center. Her silence—like she can’t even be bothered to talk to you—only has you shifting restlessly next to her, hoping to get her attention. You can’t stop staring at the key hanging around her neck and you need her to unlock you tonight. 

You’d act up in an attempt to rile her up, but you can’t be sure that Agatha wouldn’t just throw the key in the Hudson River so that your cock will never get freedom or relief. 

The thought of her condescending smirk as she draws out a I warned you makes your cock twitch painfully in its cage and you whimper. Agatha gives you the smallest of glances and you can see her eyes twinkling. 

She’s fucking enjoying this. 

You’re half-tempted to slide a hand up her dress to find out just how much, but once again, the fear of never being able to put your cock inside her ever again stops you. Damn her and the hold she has on you, but you also never want it to stop. 

The driver pulls up in front of the venue, where the red carpet has been rolled out and you see your dad, step-mom, Rio, and a few other executive employees already being photographed. The fundraiser, a ball for the creative endowment fund your father started, is kind of a big deal in the city, just like him. Hence, he pulls out all the spots. 

No one will ever be able to say your father isn’t a charitable man. No one except those who actually know him, that is. 

“Go out that way,” Agatha murmurs and nods toward your car door. It’s on the other side so you won’t be as visible to the paparazzi. 

You pout mockingly. “You don’t want everyone to see us walking in together? Come on, I’ll even hold your hand.” 

Agatha snorts before running a finger along the length of the key—a reminder to behave. You gulp audibly and nod before sneaking out on the other side of the car. 

Jogging around it, you make it just in time to watch the camera people turn around to find Agatha and you almost get blinded by the flashes. She gracefully glides through the crowds to pose against the company logo backdrop with Rio, who grins wolfishly. 

You’re content to just ogle her—will any of the photos show that? You’d like to get it framed—when your dad calls your name. He beckons you forward and you try to shake him off, but he keeps insisting so you reluctantly give in and duck beneath the red stanchion to join him. You take a few pictures with him, with him and your step-mom, and then by yourself. There’s absolutely no reason you should have to take any by yourself, but your father requested it, much to your chagrin. 

This is the one part of your life that you’re still not used to. The money, the cars, the penthouse—easy. But having thirty people take your picture that may or may not be on the front page of tomorrow’s paper? It’s a lot. Your dad used to always critique your smile or the way you stood or the way your shirt wasn’t tucked in just right and that left an indelible mark on you. 

Even now, you can’t shake the feeling that you’re doing something wrong all the time when it comes to the press. What if your blazer is crooked? What if your hair is parted wrong? What if the bulge in your pants from the cage is visible? You feel nauseous at the thought of your dad reading a paper with that as the headline. 

It feels like your skin is crawling and you think you’ve been posing for about three hours when there’s a warm presence against your shoulder. You tilt your head and smile a real, genuine smile. 

Agatha tucks an arm around you and you gratefully curl into her, but not too much that it’ll get people talking. She’s been around your family enough to know what your dad can be like, but she’s never been this outward about being on your side. 

“Chin up, eyes open, straight face,” she mumbles and you watch as she sets her face stoic. Her cheekbones are sharp enough to cut glass, the crook in her nose stands out on her side profile, and her eyebrows are neatly combed. You’re so distracted that you don’t even hear the clicks of the cameras until Agatha glances at you in her periphery and pinches your side. 

You straighten up and hold your expression steady. There’s a few catcalls, but mostly encouraging whistles and you stand together for a few minutes like that until she pushes you along the rest of the way. 

“Thank you,” you whisper, finally feeling like you can breathe again. She squeezes your side as an answer before letting go once you get inside. 

The venue is spacious, with about thirty round tables neatly set up in front of the large stage where your father will make a speech. A luxurious sparkling chandelier hangs in the middle of the room. Waiters walk around with trays of hors d'oeuvres and champagne. 

You turn to make a quip to Agatha about champagne and her tits but she’s not there. Scanning the room, you finally spot her talking to Rio while absentmindedly eating bruschetta. There’s something about watching her while she’s so focused and lost in the conversation that makes your cock twitch. 

Not that that’s new. 

She picks up a glass from a waitress that pauses next to her and raises it to her red lips for a sip. You wonder what it would be like to press your mouth to the lipstick stain she’ll leave behind—a fleeting, ghost of a kiss, but the only thing you might get from her. 

You watch her move her hands animatedly around and her veins flex and your mouth waters. She’s doing something so simple and yet, your cock behaves the same as it would if she was touching you. 

Agatha must feel your eyes on her because she suddenly looks over and meets your gaze. You keep staring unabashedly, waiting for her to scold you silently, but she just raises her champagne in a wordless toast. Your cheeks heat up and the cold metal hurts your cock. 

She begins to fiddle with the key, sliding it up and down the glittering necklace and turning it over her fingers and it has you practically drooling. 

A reminder that she owns you, cock and all. You don’t even care if she doesn’t see it like that because you do and that’s enough. 

Your cock is pressing very uncomfortably against its confines, trying and failing to grow, and it’s making you want to scream. You can hardly take it anymore and you’re sure that if you don’t get relief soon, you might actually explode. 

So you walk over casually and pause next to her, waiting for her to acknowledge you, but she’s talking to Rio. She doesn’t even look at you and you hate how hot her indifference is. 

Agatha wasn’t so indifferent when you were eating her out a month ago, when you were grinding on her tits, when you were fucking her. And fuck—fuck, now you’re thinking about it and your blood rushes downwards so fast that you get dizzy and you grab onto Agatha’s arm before you can think about it. 

She stops talking immediately and glares at you. Rio raises an eyebrow and you step away while clearing your throat. 

“I just wanted to ask where you got your necklace from, Agatha,” you say, inwardly cursing when your voice squeaks. 

Agatha gingerly touches two fingers to it. “Oh, this old thing? It was someone’s pathetic attempt at wooing me.” 

A thrill runs through you. “Did it work?” You search Agatha’s eyes for something that tells you if you’re off-base. Rio is right there and the tension between you and Agatha is thick enough to cut with a knife. 

Agatha softens. “Jury’s still out.” 

Oh, fuck. If she keeps this up, you might start to think that she actually likes you. 

Agatha straightens up and looks at Rio before gently laying a hand on her arm. “Would you excuse me? I need to go to the bathroom.” 

Rio nods affirmatively and turns to you like she’s planning on starting a conversation, but your eyes are glued to Agatha as she sashays away. The way her hips sway in that dress that accentuates her ass perfectly…if you weren’t caged you would’ve needed to bring several back up pairs of pants. 

She stops when she gets to the corner that the bathroom is on the other side of and looks back at you just briefly. 

You freeze—is that an invitation? 

There’s a pounding sound in your ears and it drowns out everything Rio is saying. You’re in a trance and you don’t even think you give an excuse before you trail after Agatha. Someone might be calling your name, your dad perhaps, but you brush it off and keep walking. 

Agatha’s touching up her makeup in the mirror when you quietly shut the door behind you. There’s no one else in there and you quickly turn the lock. She meets your eyes in her reflection and scoffs before turning around. 

“I bet you’re here with more of that pathetic pleading for me to let you come?” she tsks and that’s originally why you thought you followed. 

But now, seeing her all dolled up and heavenly, you just want her. You step closer to her like you’re not in control of your own body before slowly reaching out and hiking up her dress, giving her plenty of time to stop you. 

She doesn’t say a word, just keeps her eyes trained on the door like she’s still worried someone will come in. 

When the fabric is bunched up at her hips, she leans back against the counter to make it easier for you to slide a hand between her legs. She’s wearing a pair of black, lacy panties and when you touch the gusset of them, you almost fall to your knees. 

She’s wet. Almost completely soaked through. You whimper and she tries to keep composure as you begin sliding two fingers across her covered slit. 

“Did you wear these for me?” you ask smugly. 

“You’re pathetic,” she hisses without her usual malice. 

“And you like this,” you say quietly, attempting to meet her eyes but she keeps looking away. Instead, you stare at her red lips as they curl. “You like having me in the palm of your hand? I bet you like that key around your neck as much as I do. You’re so fucking wet.” 

She yanks on your hair and finally looks at you. “Then fucking do something about it.” 

A flash of pleasure goes straight to your cock and you whimper as you push her underwear to the side. After a bit of fumbling, you find her clit and rub small circles and there’s a rosy red stain on her top teeth from sinking them into her lip. You watch in awe as her face contorts with pleasure. 

You slide a finger down through her folds and slowly push it into her opening—her mouth drops open before she quickly snaps it shut, determined not to give you any satisfaction. 

Too late, because your cock is straining against the cage and you wonder if anyone’s ever broken out of it before just from an erection. 

A broken moan escapes her when you curl your finger up into her, pressing against the soft, spongy spot and you start a steady pace of thrusting inside her. Your other hand rests on the sink counter behind her, where both her hands are gripping like she’s resisting the urge to touch you. 

You wish she wouldn’t. 

“Fuck,” Agatha breathes when you fit another finger into her and your thumb slips against her clit with how wet she is. Her walls clench around you and draw you in and you pick up the pace, carefully watching her. 

She feels you staring again and this time, her eyes flicker down to your lips before darting away. Your breath catches, your heart stops, and you start to lean in like she’s magnetic. 

“Don’t you dare,” she whispers but she’s begun to move in too and your eyelids flutter closed. 

Your brain goes white the second her lips touch yours and you reach your other hand up to cup her cheek gently. It’s just light brushes against each other at first and your fingers pause inside her to focus on her light olive oil and garlic taste from the bruschetta she was eating earlier. 

But then she wraps both her arms around your neck, whispers “Don’t stop,” and slides her tongue into your mouth. Your hand moves to grip her hip and press her against the counter and she moans into your mouth. 

It’s a mess of teeth and tongue and lips and you can feel her walls gripping you with a broken rhythm while you try to keep your pace from faltering. Your cock is positively aching right now but it’s the furthest thing from your mind when Agatha bites your lower lip. You whine and she swallows it and her nails rake down your back over your blazer. 

She hikes a leg up over your hip so you can get further inside her and you’re rewarded with a high-pitched noise that you’ll still be reminiscing about on your wedding night. Her kisses get sloppier and she’s getting closer—you can feel it. 

So you double-down your efforts, fitting a third finger into her and earning  another moan, and rub at her clit hard. 

Agatha spasms and comes all over your fingers, panting into your open mouth while you let her jerk against you. You keep fucking her through the aftershocks until she winces and breaks away to push at your shoulders and you slowly pull out of her. 

Holding eye contact with her, you envelope your fingers in your mouth and clean them off. She groans and you take in her ragged state: mussed-up hair, lipstick smeared over her mouth, chest pink and heaving. You’re sure you look like as much of a mess as she does, if not more. 

The adrenaline from getting her off is still pumping through your veins and you hardly even feel your own arousal until Agatha reaches down and unzips your pants with one smooth motion. You gasp and she chuckles as she reaches into your boxers to take out your cock encased in purple. 

You almost see stars when she squats down again, parallel to earlier this evening, only this time, she grabs the key on her necklace. It’s hard to breathe when she inserts it into the lock and twists it. Even with the tiniest bit more room, you can feel your cock already growing and pressing against the boundaries of the lessened restraint. 

She stands back up and motions so you tug it off your already-hardened cock and set the cage on the counter. You look at her with pleading eyes and her lip curls with disgust, immediately falling back into her role. 

Agatha roughly grabs you and spins you so you’re facing the mirror. Your cock throbs freely when you see her red lipstick streaked across your own face—a reminder of her lips on yours that you don’t want to ever forget. Your cock bobs and spits a dollop of precum onto the counter and you imagine Agatha licking it off. 

But instead, she drags her tongue up the palm of her hand, stands behind you, and reaches around to grip the base of your cock. You gasp loudly and she begins to stroke. Your stomach immediately tightens. 

“You’re so pathetic, aren’t you?” she croons and your hips jerk forward. She lathers the mixture of her saliva and your precum up and down your length and you squirm. “You’d do anything I wanted, wouldn’t you? Put a cage around your cock because I suggested it? You’re fucking hopeless without me, aren’t you?” 

You moan and rut into her hand. You’re already so close and the embarrassment at coming this soon only turns you on more because you know Agatha will humiliate you for it. 

Except her degradation isn’t cutting as hard as it usually does. There’s heat in her eyes and it’s not just from you fucking her—it’s because she likes watching you like this. 

“Look at what a filthy fucking slut you are for me,” she spits and grips your hair with her other hand to hold you still while speeding up her thrusts. Whimpers fall from your mouth, pleasure tingling from your cock to your lower back and up your spine. “Look at how I ruined you.” 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, yes, this is all for you,” you chant, hands gripping the sink and her eyes capture yours in the reflection. The corners of her mouth quirk up. “Please, Agatha, I’m going to—” 

She sinks her teeth into the juncture of your neck and shoulder, just another demonstration of how she owns you, and your cock explodes, pumping out strand after strand of cum into the sink. Agatha keeps stroking you while you grunt like a rabid animal and keep fucking her hand until your cock begins to soften. 

It’s the first orgasm you’ve had in about four days and you slouch forward against the sink, careful not to get any cum on your suit, while you breathe heavily. 

There’s the sound of heels clacking on the marble tile and then Agatha reaches between your arm and your body with a wet paper towel to wipe your mess off the counter and then turns on the faucet to clean the sink. 

There’s a comfortable silence while you both tidy everything up. There’s a lipstick stain on the collar of your shirt that you don’t even try to get off. You wipe the perspiration off your forehead and with a different paper towel, she dabs at her lipstick that’s still on your mouth. It’s maternal and gentle and your cock gives another weak twitch before you stuff it back in your pants. She thoroughly washes the chastity cage before shoving it in her purse. 

“That’s a one-and-done sort of thing, then?” you ask, almost worried that she’ll say no. Orgasm denial, when it comes from her as you’ve found out, is hot. 

So you’re delighted when she shakes her head. “Absolutely not. I’m still not completely sure you’ve learned how to be patient.” 

Your smirk is sly. “Can’t teach an old dog new tricks, can you?” 

“Oh, I will,” she says determinedly and you think you should get extra credit for not reaching back into your pants and jerking off right now, like you suddenly feel the urge to do. 

The only problem left is Agatha’s lipstick—it’s completely unsalvageable and she realizes that she left the tube at her apartment after she put it on for the first time earlier. 

So she pulls her dress back down, sweeps her hair over her shoulders before tousling it a few times, and strides out into the hall. You hear her ask if she can borrow someone’s lipstick, surely the first person she finds. 

She comes back into the bathroom a moment later and you watch transfixed as she applies it to the same lips that were on yours just a moment earlier.

“Let’s hope no one notices we’ve been gone for a while,” she murmurs. 

But when you leave the bathroom, exactly three minutes after her so as to not raise suspicions, it doesn’t seem like anyone is the wiser. 

And if someone realizes Agatha’s lips are painted nude instead of the rosy red they were at the beginning of the gala, the same rosy red that has stained your collar, they don’t say anything.

Taglist: @lostbutlovely33 @diorrxckstar @whoreforolderfictionalwomen  @katekathry @onemansdreamisanothermansdeath @tayasmellsapples @natashashill @mybraininblood @mysticalmoonlight7  @cactuslover2600 @loveem0mo @readysteddiero-nance @lonelyhalfwitch @lesbiantortilla @crescendoofstars @sol-in-wonderland @ahsfan05 @gbab09 @sasheemo @agathaharness @live-laugh-love-lupone @chiar4anna @fuckedupforkhahn @lowlyjelly @sweetmidnights @n3bula-cats @m1vfs @agathascoven1

[steveseddie]

apply directly to the forehead

written for @steddieholidaydrabbles | prompt: alone | rating: t | wc: 997 | tags: hurt comfort, steve has migraines, eddie takes care of him, hand holding, forehead kisses read on ao3

No one notices when Steve slips out the front door. No one but Eddie, who tells Jonathan he’s going out for a smoke and follows him.

There are only woods around the Hopper-Byers cabin, and the only light comes from the Christmas lights hanging from the roof so it takes a moment for Eddie’s eyes to adjust to the near darkness. He sees Steve sitting on the steps with his head between his knees and taking slow, deep breaths. 

“Steve?” Eddie speaks softly, trying not to startle him but Steve still flinches. “You okay?” 

“I’m fine,” Steve mumbles, keeping his head down. 

Eddie sits next to him. “Wanna try again? That wasn’t very convincing.”

Steve groans but it’s not his ‘Eddie is being annoying’ groan, it’s a pained groan. 

“‘S just a headache, ‘m fine,” Steve insists but his voice sounds weak. 

“Look at me.” Eddie squeezes his knee. “Stevie, please, look at me.” 

Steve sighs but lifts his head. Eddie can’t help but wince at how he looks. His face is twisted into a grimace, his skin is paper-white and there are tears in his eyes. 

“Oh, Steve. It’s a migraine, isn’t it? A bad one?” He gently brushes some hair off Steve’s face. Steve gives a tiny nod. “When did it start?” 

“A few hours ago,” Steve says with a shuddery breath. “While shopping with Robin, all the lights, the music and the crowds–”

“Why didn’t you say something?” 

Steve shrugs, then winces. “Didn’t want to worry anyone.” 

“Of course not.” That’s why Steve still showed up to the Hopper-Byers Christmas party, knowing there would be loud music and even louder kids, and then forced himself to smile through his pain. Eddie sighs. “C’mon, I’m taking you home.” 

“No, Eds–” Steve protests weakly. “I can drive myself-”

Eddie huffs. “Steve, you can’t even keep your eyes open right now.”

“But the party–”

“–will carry on without us,” Eddie finishes, rolling his eyes. “Wait here, okay?” 

Steve sighs and nods, and Eddie squeezes his knee again before heading back inside. 

He finds Robin and tells her that Steve isn’t feeling well and he’s taking him home. 

“Do you want me to come?” She asks, worried.

“Nah, I got him,” Eddie says. Steve wouldn’t want someone else to leave the party early because of him. “Just tell Hopper I’ll pick up the van tomorrow, okay?” 

“Okay, thanks, Eddie,” she says with a quick hug. 

Outside, Eddie finds Steve leaning against the railing, looking like he’s about to keel over. 

“Alright, big boy. Let’s get you home,” he says, leading them to the Beemer.

“No van?” 

“Nope. You complain about how fucking loud my van is on a good day. Figured you wouldn’t appreciate it today of all days.”

Steve chuckles weakly. “Admit it, you just want an excuse to drive a cool car for once.” 

Eddie scoffs indignantly. “My van is plenty cool, Harrington.” 

“Uh huh.” 

He sticks his tongue out at Steve and starts the car. The drive to his house is quiet. Eddie turns the radio all the way off, Steve keeps his head against the window and his eyes closed, and Eddie tries his best not to jostle the car too much. 

He has to gently shake Steve’s shoulder once they arrive and then he follows him inside. 

He goes straight to his bedroom and collapses on the bed, taking his shoes off but leaving his jeans and his ugly Christmas sweater on. 

Eddie finds some sleeping clothes and tosses them his way. “Take those jeans off, Harrington.”

Steve huffs. “At least buy me dinner first, Munson,” he says, his hands working on his belt buckle. 

Eddie’s cheeks turn pink but with just the moonlight illuminating the room through the curtains, he doubts Steve can see it. “So that’s what it takes to get into Steve Harrington’s pants?”

“Usually,” Steve says, shoving his jeans off before sliding on sweatpants, keeping his movements slow to not make his headache worse. “But for a guy as hot as you, I can make an exception.”

Eddie chokes on his spit. Leave it to Steve to flirt while his head is waging a war against the rest of him.  

After changing out of his Christmas sweater, Steve falls back into bed, burrowing his face into his pillow with a groan. The mattress dips when Eddie sits next to him, his back against the headboard. Steve blinks one eye open. “You don’t have to stay, I’m–”

“-in no condition to be alone right now,” Eddie finishes, rolling his eyes.

“You should go back to the party. I didn’t mean to ruin your night–”

“Steve Harrington called me hot. Nothing could ruin my night after that,” he jokes even if there’s some truth to it. 

Steve groans– this time it is his ‘Eddie is being annoying’ groan. “I’m gonna regret saying that.” 

“Because you didn’t mean it or–”

“Oh, I meant it,” Steve says, rolling to his side and looking up at Eddie through half-lidded eyes that might not have anything to do with his migraine. “But now you can hold it against me.”

“It would be kind of hypocritical of me since I also find you hot,” Eddie says, playing with a rip in his jeans. 

Steve’s fingers find his, intertwining them. “If my head wasn’t about to explode I would suggest we do something about that.”

Eddie’s widen. “Something like–”

“Like kissing. Though I could be persuaded to do other things.”

“Jesus,” Eddie says laughing shakily. “Now my head feels like it might explode.”

“We can talk in the morning,” Steve says, shifting until he finds a comfortable position. 

“Thought you didn’t want me to stay,” Eddie teases.

“Said you didn’t have to stay, Eds. I always want you here.” 

Eddie’s stomach flutters. “Okay,” he says, sliding down until he’s lying next to Steve, their fingers still intertwined. 

“Thanks for taking care of me,” Steve whispers, half asleep already. 

“Anytime, sweetheart,” Eddie says softly, kissing Steve’s forehead. “Anytime.”

[harknessxo]

Professor Harkness

Paring: Darkish!Agatha Harkness x reader

Summary: Agatha is a very attractive but strict Professor in your College. You somehow manage to keep up with her without seducing her like many students tried but failed to, which makes her take an interest in you.

Warnings; spanking, fingering, cunnilingus, professor kink?

Word Count: 3.5k

A/n: Haven’t posted in quite a bit, my bad!!! This is lowkey ass but I hope you like it!

This was your first year of college. You lived in Eastview most of your life but chose to go to Westview college when you got a full ride scholarship. It was scary at first, moving away from home, away from your parents but you got a new start.

As you got comfortable in your new environment, you had asked around about your teachers to know what to expect from them and everyone told you they were chill except for one, Professor Harkness. Many of the people you asked said she was a bitch, was way too strict, acted like she had a stick up her ass but “at least she was hot.” ‘Lucky me,’ you thought. You later figured out you had her once a week on Wednesdays. At least you only had to deal with her one day a week.

Your first day soon approached, your teachers all seemed very easygoing and understanding which only made you more nervous to meet the infamous Professor Harkness. Wednesday rolled around and you woke up nice and early to get ready. You wanted to make a good first impression, well, at least attempt to.

You were the first student to show up to the lecture hall. You took a seat at the very front, you liked to be able to hear everything your teachers said. After about five minutes, more students strolled in, filling up all the seats and finally, in all her glory, she walked in last. They weren’t lying when they said she was hot.

She walked to the front of the room, carrying a stack of papers and a bag. She placed the stack on the podium and began to set up for class. She didn’t bother addressing the class until the bell rang.

“Good morning everyone. I’m Professor Harkness and you will address me as such, no ‘Miss’ or ‘Mrs,’” she picked up the stack she had previously placed on her desk and started passing the papers out, “This is my syllabus. My email and office hours and at the top, if you have any questions, competent questions I mean, feel free to reach out. The first section talks about my deadlines-“ she was suddenly interrupted by a tardy student knocking on the door.

Her expression turned from somewhat welcoming to anger in seconds. She sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose, clearly frustrated by the tardy student, then opened the door.

“Don’t bother coming back to this class.” She stated in a cold tone before shutting the door on the student’s face. She continued on going over her rules and expectations, which were extremely high but nothing you couldn’t handle, like nothing happened.

This was going to be fun.

As the weeks went on, less and less people remained in her class either because they couldn’t handle it or they got kicked out. Many tried to seduce their way to an A but Professor Harkness was not having any of it. You found it embarrassing how the boys tried to flirt with her, sometimes even girls.

She dealt with the various attempts made to seduce her in the most professional ways, or unprofessional too, she didn’t seem to care. She would ignore their comments or straight up insult them, she had no time to deal with idiots.

You found it hot. You might have thought about her treating you just like that once or twice while getting yourself off, but of course you would never admit it or tell anyone. You were too scared to approach her anyway. She would most likely report you if she ever heard that you found her strict and harsh ways “hot”.

She didn’t seem to notice your presence much until she started noticing the efforts you put into her class. She couldn’t remember the last time any of her students were competent enough to reach the bare minimum of her expectations. She was not one to have a soft spot for students yet she found herself paying more attention to you in particular, she found it amusing how serious you were about her class.

You didn’t seem to notice her attraction at all. You didn’t notice the hungry looks or the way she would speak just a bit softer towards you if you raised your hand in class. Well, you did but you thought you were imagining things or that she was just in a good mood. You never actually approached her one on one. You thought she was very intimidating plus you always understood her material and never had to approach her. That was until now.

She had assigned a project and you couldn’t seem to understand a specific part of it so when the class was over and everyone strolled out, you stayed behind.

“Professor Harkness?” You called out nervously. She looked up from her papers and saw you still sitting in the classroom, the rest of the students were gone.

“Ah, Y/n.” She spoke your name, which honestly kinda surprised you. She set down her pen and stood up from her desk, walking over to you and leaned against the edge of the desk.

“You need something?”

“Y-yeah. I don’t mean to be annoying, I know you said if we had any questions, to reach you through email or visit you during office hours but I promise this is quick.” You rambled on, hoping she wouldn’t curse you out like she did other students. To your surprise, she simply nodded for you to go on.

“I can’t seem to understand this part of the project,” you pointed to a specific part of the rubric she gave out, “Could you explain further please?” She leaned over your desk to look at the rubric, her body hovering over yours. She studied the part you were pointing at, taking note of your struggle.

“Ah, I see. That part can be a bit tricky for some,” she proceeded to explain the section in more depth, her eyes scanning your features as you took in her every word. She made sure you were understanding every word she said, her gaze never leaving your face as she watched your expressions. It was almost addicting how attentive you were.

“Oh okay. That makes so much more sense now, thank you Professor Harkness. I hope it wasn’t a bother.” She smirked at your response, amused by how polite you were.

“It’s no bother at all, Y/n.” She said, straightening up and leaning against the desk again.

“But, since you’re still here…” she turned to a stack of archives on her desk, “Would you be a sweetheart and help me take these to my office?”

“Of course!” you agreed immediately. You took half of the stack while she took the other half and led you to her office. The office was spacious and organized. She had shelves full of books, papers and other things. A large desk was displayed in the middle of the room, along with a comfortable looking couch against the wall and a chair across from it. She gestured to the chair as she set her half of the archives down on her desk.

“Set those down here, please.” You carefully placed the stack on her desk. She walked over to her chair and sat down, watching you set the archives down with a satisfied smile.

“Is there anything else you need, professor?” You asked, sweetly.

“No, that’s all for now. But I have a question for you, Y/n.”

“What is it?” She leaned back in her chair, her eyes never leaving yours as she studied your expression.

“You’re one of my best students, if not the best. You’re not like the other idiots who just show up to class and fail every test. You actually care about the material, don’t you?”

“Mhm…” you hummed in response, trying to figure out what she was getting at. She chuckled softly, crossing her legs.

“You wouldn’t want to disappoint me then, would you?”

“O-of course not.” She smirked at your stutter, finding it adorable how nervous you seemed.

“Good. You may go now. Have a good day, hon.” Your cheeks flushed at the pet name.

“H-have a good day, professor.” She watched as you left her office, a smirk still on her face. She couldn’t help but think about how cute you were when you blushed like that.

—

As the semester went on, Agatha tested you. She would give you material that was harder than the rest to see how you would do and you always came out on top. Rarely did you ever ask for help, nine times out of ten you could handle yourself. She was proud of you but she felt the need to punish you for something. To make you submit to her in a way, so when midterms began and you took her exam, she failed you on purpose.

When you got your grade back, you were stunned. You had studied your ass off night after night to prepare for it and you still somehow failed. This could potentially jeopardize your scholarship and not only that but you let down Agatha. You desperately needed her approval for some reason and you knew she would most likely not give you a chance to retake it but you chose to test your luck.

“Professor Harkness?” You said meekly as you strode into her office. It was six in the afternoon so mostly everyone had already gone home except for her apparently even though it was way past her office hours. She looked up from her desk, a small smirk on her face when she saw you. It was like she was expecting you.

“Yes, Y/n? Come in, close the door behind you.” You did as she asked.

“I um…I wanted to talk about my test score. I know you’re not one to give second chances but I really need to retake it. I studied so hard for it and this could put my scholarship at risk.” You pleaded with her. She leaned back in her chair, folding her arms and looking at you with a cold expression.

“I was so disappointed when I graded your test, Y/n,” she stood up from her chair and walked around to the other side of the desk where you were, “But the fact is that you failed. I can’t just give you a second chance. It’s unfair to the other students who work just as hard as you.” Her words hurt you to your core. You let your favorite teacher down and now she was disappointed in you.

“Please, professor! I’ll do anything! I want to make you proud again.” You pleaded, desperately needing her approval. She stepped closer to you, standing in front of you now. She tilted your chin up with her fingers, making you look at her.

“Anything, huh?”

“Y-yes…” She smirked again, looking into your eyes and noticing the desperation in them. She could see how much you needed her approval, it was like you were addicted to it.

“I think there’s a way you can make it up to me…”

“Tell me…please?” You leaned further into her touch. She chuckled at your eagerness, running her thumb across your lower lip as she looked down at you.

“It’s going to be quite the task, darling. Are you sure you can handle it?”

“Anything just- please? I’ll be a good girl.” You almost sobbed. She shushed you, pulling you closer by your chin.

“Oh, sweetheart. You’re already such a good girl. So eager to please…I can’t wait to see how well you can do this for me.” She pressed her lips against yours and you let her. You let her take control and so as she pleased.

She explored every inch of your mouth and moved her hand to grip at the nape of your neck. She roughly pulled your head back with a grin plastered on her face. In one quick motion, she manhandled you to bend over her desk. A pathetic moan left your lips when she did so.

She chuckled darkly at the sound, enjoying the way you bent over for her. She pushed everything off her desk with one arm, making a loud thud as it all fell to the floor.

“You want to be a good girl for me don’t you?” you nodded your head, “Then you will take this punishment for me and if you do good, I will change your grade on your test, is that a deal?”

“D-deal.” She smirked and moved her hand from your neck to your back, gently running her hand down your spine. She then pulled your hips back, pressing them against her.

“Good girl…” She lifted the hem of the skirt you were wearing and admired the lacy purple panties you had chosen to wear. Her eyes darkened as she ran her fingers over the lace.

Sometimes, when you would start daydreaming in class while staring at her beauty, you noticed she would always wear something purple. You guessed it was her favorite color and therefore wore purple panties. Of course, you didn’t expect for things to turn out this way but good thing you did.

She was quite pleased with your choice. It was almost like you were a perfect little doll for her, a toy to play with and do as she pleased. She knew you would submit to her easily and it was going to be so much fun breaking you in.

“Look at you, already being a tease for me even before I’ve begun. You look so pretty in my color, honey.” You blushed at her compliment and gasped when she started sliding the fabric off until it reached your ankles, leaving you completely bare before her.

She ran her hands up your bare thighs and ass, her touch leaving a trail of goosebumps on your skin. She admired the way your body reacted to her every touch, she loved how easily she could rile you up.

“I’m going to give you ten spankings and you’re going to take them like a good girl, right?”

“Yes, professor…” you whimpered. She hummed in approval, her hands still roaming your thighs. She leaned down and whispered in your ear, her breath hot against your skin.

“Stay nice and still for me. If you move too much, I’ll have to punish you even more. Understood?”

“Understood.” She smiled at your obedience and straightened up. She raised her hand and brought it down on your right cheek, leaving a red handprint behind.

“Count them for me, darling.”

“One…” She hummed again, satisfied with your response. She continued her onslaught of smacks, each one harder than the last. By the time she reached ten, your skin was red and sensitive, stinging from her touch. Tears had managed to escape your eyes and your breathing was ragged.

She rubbed her hands over your stinging cheeks, admiring her handiwork. She leaned down and placed a soft kiss on your lower back, her lips gently brushing against your skin.

“You did so well, darling. You took your punishment so well for me…such a good girl.”

“T-thank you, professor…” you sniffled. She smiled against your skin, her hands still rubbing soothing circles into your flesh.

“You’re welcome, sweetheart. I’m so proud of you. Maybe I should reward you…” You felt your own arousal pool down your thighs at the thought of what kind of reward she meant.

“A r-reward?” She chuckled as she noticed the way you were reacting, noticing the way you got wet at the mere thought of a reward.

“Mhm…you look like you really want one, honey.”

“P-please? I’ve been so good!”

“I know you have, sweetheart. You’ve been such a good little toy for me…” She hummed in agreement, her hands slowly moving from your ass to your folds, dipping her fingers in your wetness. You shuddered at her touch, moaning as she spread your juices all over your lips. She smirked at the sound of your moans, enjoying the way your body reacted to her every touch. She circled your clit with her thumb, teasing you as she spoke.

“Look at you, so desperate and needy. You really do want a reward, don’t you?”

“Yes! Yes, I need it!” She chuckled darkly, continuing to toy with your sensitive bundle of nerves as she spoke. She leaned closer to your ear, her voice a low whisper.

“Yeah? You need it? You need your professor to fuck you senseless?”

“Yes, ma’am!” Her smirk widened at your desperate pleas.

“Such a good girl…” She removed her hand from your cunt, bringing it up to your lips.

“Open your mouth.” You opened your mouth almost immediately, allowing her to slide her arousal coated fingers inside. She pushed her fingers into your mouth, her eyes darkening as she watched you suck on them.

“That’s it, pet. Taste yourself for me…” She pulled them out slowly, a string of saliva connecting them to your lips. She then roughly pulled your head back by your hair and crashed her lips against yours. You moaned shamelessly against her lips. She kissed you passionately, her tongue exploring every inch of your mouth again as she held you in place all while tasting you as well.

“You taste sweeter than I imagined.” That made you even wetter. The fact that she’d been thinking about you as much as you made you feel warm inside.

She could tell that you were getting even more turned on by her words, and she loved it. She knew just how to push your buttons and make you squirm for her. She pulled away from the kiss, a grin on her face as she looked at you with hungry eyes.

“You’re so responsive, darling. It’s adorable.” You gasped loudly when she slipped her fingers inside you without warning, thrusting them in and out without letting you adjust. She chuckled at your reaction, enjoying the way you gasped and moaned for her. She started to pump her fingers in and out of you at a fast pace, curling them against your g-spot with every thrust.

“Look at you, taking my fingers so well. You’re so tight, sweetheart…”

“Thank- thank you!” you stuttered out, overwhelmed with pleasure. She hummed in amusement, enjoying the way you were struggling to form coherent sentences.

“Such a polite little toy…I love how easily you unravel under me…”

“Only- fuck- only for you, professor!” She smiled, her fingers continuing to move inside you at a relentless pace. She leaned down and began kissing and biting your neck, leaving marks all over your skin.

“That’s right, only for me. You belong to me, don’t you, darling?”

“Yes! I belong to you!” You panted out. She let out a low growl against your neck, her possessive nature coming out.

“Good girl…now cum for me. Cum for your professor…” her mouth soon joined her finger, sucking mercilessly at your clit, sending you over the edge. You had to bite down on your hand to withhold the loud moan that almost left your lips as you came. Mostly everyone was gone but there were still janitors and such. You didn’t want to get caught.

She kept her mouth on you, helping you ride out your orgasm. She smirked against your skin, amused by your attempts to be quiet.

“Oh, pet…you’re trying so hard to be quiet, but I can see how much you’re struggling.”

“It felt so- so good…” you muttered, tiredly. She pulled her fingers out of you and licked them clean, looking at you with a satisfied expression.

“I know, hon. You did so well for me…” she reached down and pulled your panties back up. She gently patted your thigh once your panties were back in place, her eyes raking over your body with a possessive gleam.

“Now, let’s get you cleaned up. We can’t have you walking around with cum on your thighs, can we?”

“Mhmm…” you hummed, too fucked out to form real words. She chuckled and picked you up, carrying you bridal style towards the bathroom in her office.

“You’re adorable when you’re like this, all dazed and fucked out.” She placed you on the sink countertop and used a wet cloth to wipe down your inner thighs. She was gentle as she cleaned you up, making sure to remove any evidence of your encounter. She smirked as she looked at your face, noticing how you were still coming down from your high.

“There we go, all clean and presentable again.”

“Are you changing my test grade?” You asked shyly. She chuckled and shook her head, placing a finger under your chin and tilting your head up to look at her.

“Well, of course. We made a deal and you even got a reward out of it. Now, run along. I don’t want people to get the wrong impression.”

“Yes, ma’am.” you hopped off the counter and almost ran out of her office. Did that really just happen? Did you let your professor fuck you senseless? God, you were a mess.

She watched you leave, a satisfied smirk on her face. She chuckled to herself as she sat down at her desk, picking up a pen and grading papers as if nothing had happened.

“See you in class, pet.”

Taglist; @polaris-likethestar @wandasreallover @oh-no-bummer @phixiesworld @eliscannotdance @venomhimbo @aka-patsy @scoliobean @chlondykebar @marvelwomenarehot0 @mgruiz @daenerys713

[27spoons]

You Are a Memory. | Natalie Scatorccio

pairing: natalie scatorccio/gn!reader

summary: Natalie says goodbye to an old friend. (mid-late s2)

wc: 2350

warnings: mentions and depictions of suicide, cannibalism as a metaphor for love, y/n usage, natalie scatorccio cannot catch a break

a/n: i wont lie to yall and say this is an easy read. i was writing smut then started listening to the linked song, and, well.... here we are. here we are.

"Nat, you don't have to do this," Van says, breaking the quiet. "Maybe…" They glance around the room before gesturing to Travis, “Trav can take them down to the plane, keep them there 'til spring. You don’t have to be the one to do this—"

"I'm fine on my own." Nat snaps—too quickly. She regrets the bite the second it leaves her mouth. "I did it with Jackie, I'll do it with y/n." They wouldn't have wanted anyone else to do this, anyway, she leaves unsaid, tightening the seatbelt around her waist as she prepares to face the howling wind outside.

Unlike when she was carrying Jackie's bones to the plane, Nat doesn't stop to look back this time. God forbid she let the entire cabin see the way tears had started to spring to her eyes.

The wind batters against her exposed skin as the door to the cabin opens, but it does little to deter her as she steps out into the air, kicking the door shut behind her.

Your bones are already packed—neat, contained. A far cry from Jackie’s, scattered and scorched, cradled in a sheet like the aftermath of a storm. No, she takes you with far more care. She’d watched as Shauna carved your body open, face stone-still. She hadn’t looked away—not once. 

Because in the end, wasn’t it her fault?

I was calling For the last time

"Have you seen y/n?" Nat asks, voice casual, maybe too casual, as she kicks snow from her boots. Another empty-handed hunt. "Found a piece of scrap wood. Figured they’d want it—been carving a lot, lately." She glances at the fireplace, the mantle lined with various woodland creatures and other shapes. 

Mari makes a face and shakes her head, stirring the pot of… belt soup. Yum. "Nah, not since we crashed last night, I think." She pauses, considering. "Wait. Actually—yeah. I don’t think I’ve seen them since we fell asleep." She glances up at Nat, "Aren't you two like… besties? Shouldn't you know where they are?"

That makes Nat's jaw tense. Last night? 

So the last time anyone saw you—was before they all fell asleep?

"Lot?" Nat whips her head around, looking for the former center back. "You seen them? You're always awake before anyone else?" She tries to steady her voice, but it’s already starting to shake—just like her hands.

Lottie considers Nat's question for a moment before shaking her head. "Not that I can remember."

Nat makes a slight sound and immediately throws on her boots again, preparing to go back out into the snow. "I gotta… this isn't like them. They wouldn't just vanish like this without a trace. It isn't like them."

"Wait, you're going back out?" Travis glances up from where he had sat near the fire, "Nat, we just spent hours out there. Maybe they're just taking a walk, or something." He dismisses her like she dismissed his concerns about Javi, but Nat doesn't hear any of it.

"If I'm not back by sunset, come looking for me." It's all the response she gives before she's out the door for the second time that day, trying not to give in to the panic that threatens to overwhelm her.

The walk to the plane feels longer than usual, her steps burdened by the heavy weight she carries—metaphorical and physical. The wind shrieks through the trees, dragging icy fingers across her cheeks, and she doesn't bother to wipe the tears that freeze as soon as they fall.

It feels wrong to bring you here. You don't belong here.

Sure, she did it with Jackie. But that had been about closure. Ritual. This? This is different.

This is a goodbye she hasn't earned, a goodbye she doubts that she'll ever earn.

The crunch of snow under her boots becomes almost unbearable. Rhythmic. Final. She wonders if you would've said something poetic about it—some half-assed line you'd mutter just to make her roll her eyes and secretly smile.

She tightens her grip on the bundle in her arms.

No, not a bundle. Not firewood. Not a pack of furs, or a dead buck.

You.

She hates how light you are now, all the weight of the meat and flesh that you had once worn cut from the bone, resting inside the stomachs of anemic and tachycardic teenagers who didn't value your sacrifice nearly as much as they should have.

The hull of the plane creaks as Nat steps into it, kicking her snow-covered boots on the floor as she walks towards the seat you had sat in when the plane went down, placing your bones carefully onto the cushions. A deep sigh leaves her as she kneels, her hands reverently splaying over the bag that carries you. "Fuck. I should’ve found you sooner." Her voice cracks, "I should've—you wouldn't have… if I'd just—" She presses a hand to her mouth as her eyes squeeze shut, "God, I'm so sorry."

We'd been here before  They found pictures in the snow

"Y/N!" Nat calls out, boots crunching through the snow that had settled over the past few days. "C'MON! THIS ISN'T FUNNY!" She tries to coat it in anger, but you’d know better. You’d hear the crack—the fear under it.

It's been over an hour since she left the cabin. 

An hour of calling your name. 

An hour of holding her breath like that could keep the worst from happening.

The sun is starting to set over the horizon, and she knows that she doesn't have much time left before it becomes too dark even to find her way back to the cabin, so she heads to the last place she thinks you would be. Maybe it's the first place she should have gone, but this has always been a spot you two visited together. Why would you go there alone?

So, she makes her way to this small alcove that the pair of you had found over the summer, before you were worried about starving, before you were concerned about freezing to death in a cabin surrounded by malnourished and fatigued teenagers.

When she approaches the clearing, she almost sighs in relief when she sees your form, lying supine on the ground and staring at the treeline. But you're still. Too still.

"Oh, Jesus-Fucking-Christ, dude. You scared the shit outta—"

The snow underneath your arms is stained a dark crimson colour, the exact colour that Nat had seen game bleed after she had successfully landed a fatal shot between their eyes. 

"No—" Her voice breaks, all semblance of sanity gone out the window. "No. No. No—" 

She drops to her knees adjacent to your lifeless form, hands on your shoulders as she shakes you vigorously. "No, you aren't fucking doing this to me! You know I can't fucking do this with—without—" The first sob falls from her lips when it finally sets in just how pale and waxen you are. 

Nothing else matters now. Her ears begin to ring, drowning out the already muted sounds of the forest, and she presses her forehead into your shoulder as the tears begin to streak down her cheeks. Her words collapse into broken sobs, muffled by your jacket as she clings to you like she could anchor you in place. Like if she just held on tight enough, you wouldn’t leave her again.

The silence in the plane feels just like the clearing.

Still. Too still.

Her hands, still red-raw from the cold, twitch as she brushes a bit of frost off the bag holding your bones. The skin is tight and shiny, fluid-filled sacs blooming at her knuckles—painful reminders of how long she's been in the cold, of what she'd do just to carry you back here herself.

"You looked so peaceful," she murmurs. "I fucking hated that." A scoff leaves her throat, watery and laced with pain. "You never looked like that when you were…" alive. 

Nat's jaw tenses as she looks down at the ripped-up carpet that lines the plane floor, blood-stained and perfectly resembling the emotional turmoil that bubbles beneath the surface. 

"Even when you were sleeping, you… your eyebrows were always pressed together, y'know? Like you couldn't get peace even when you slept." A beat, "I… God, y/n. I hope you've found some fucking peace."

She wants to hate you. She really does. She wants to lash out and tell your bones how selfish you were—but she can't. No matter how hard she tries, how hard she tries to push anger to the surface, you were never someone she could hate, not even when you stole her laces before Regionals last year and made her faceplant in front of the entire goddamn school.

No, you were always the best of them.

I could tell your eyes  Looked beneath the blue

It's well past nightfall when Travis and Gen find her.

Nat sits next to your body, face devoid of all and any emotion, fingers plagued blue and curled in on themselves with superficial frostbite. Her body's stopped shivering—given up on the core instinct to keep warm.

Her thousand-yard stare cuts through Travis as he kneels before her, his voice falling on deaf ears. 

All she can see is you. 

All she can hear is you. 

All she can feel is you.

The world feels as though it's been submerged in water as she's helped to her feet and back to the cabin. 

It isn't until Gen mentions something about coming back to retrieve your body in the daylight that Nat flinches.

"No—" Nat immediately rasps out, her senses returning to her as she struggles out of Travis's grasp. "N-no. We won't… we aren't gonna… not like we did Jackie. We won't. I won't let us. I won't. I won't. I won't. I w—" She chokes on her own words, falling back down to her knees adjacent your corpse. "I'm so sorry. I'm so fucking sorry—"

Travis says something. A reassurance. An empty string of syllables that don’t matter. 

She doesn't hear it. His words bleed into a static sound that floods her senses and threatens to consume her whole, almost like the darkness that had consumed you.

The walk back to the cabin is a blur. Someone boils snow for a bath. Nat doesn't speak. Doesn't look up. She lets them peel off her coat, strip her down, and lower her in like a doll.

The water stings. She doesn't flinch.

She doesn't even feel it.

Her knees ache against the floor, but she doesn't budge from her position.

The plane is cold. Not wilderness cold—ghost cold. The kind of chill that sinks deeper than skin and doesn't go away, no matter how many layers you wear or how many nights pass.

Nat stares at the bag holding your bones—at you. Her fingers twitch again. She wants to open it. Wants to unzip it, lay you out, see you—but she's afraid of what won't be there. The parts of you that were taken, that they took, that she took.

Her throat tightens. She exhales sharply through her nose.

"'member what you said that one night?" she murmurs. "The night the plane crashed? That if you died out here, you wanted to go out with a bang?"

A weak laugh huffs out of her. Her hand moves slowly, trembling against her will, as it comes to rest over the bag.

"Well. I'm sorry it wasn't as exciting as you had hoped." A pause. "Y'did get eaten though, which you'd argue is pretty cool, but…" The laugh she attempts doesn't make it past an attempt—the sound coming out far more broken and frail than intended. "It wasn't supposed to end like this. Not you."

I woke underneath the trees For the first time

"Here," Shauna says quietly, holding out a pale heart with areas of purplish mottling to Nat, "you should be the one to do it."Nat's lip trembles as she delicately takes the heart—your heart—from Shauna's hand, cradling it like it might still beat. It's still cold from being in the elements for so long, a sharp contrast to the heat radiating from the fireplace. 

She debates speaking for a long moment, but decides that words wouldn't mean much right now, not in front of a crowd of people you had grown a strong distaste for in the previous months. 

Before she can talk herself out of it, she takes a bite out of your right ventricle, the taste of congealed blood and half-frozen viscera coats her tongue, metallic and wrong. 

She nearly gags. 

So, she swallows hard. Forces it down. As quickly as it entered her mouth, it leaves, sliding past the lump in her throat like it might claw its way back up.

Nat stares at the half-eaten heart in her hands, slick and heavy with blood that no longer belongs to anyone.

She can't do it.

Not all of it.

With a sudden, shaky breath, she stands and crosses to the fire.

"You don't deserve this," she mutters—not to you, but to them.

And before anyone can stop her, she tosses the heart into the flames.

It hisses as it hits the heat, blood bubbling on contact. The smell is awful, but Nat doesn't flinch. She watches it burn until it's blackened and cracked, until nothing that once loved or was loved remains.

Only then does she turn her back to the fire and let the rest of them have their feast.

"I'm sorry, y/n," are the last words she speaks to you as she takes off the necklace that dangles around her neck—a rifle bullet on a long silver chain—and places it into the bag where your bones rest, and will remain until the ground thaws.

Nat doesn't look back as she leaves the plane, but she never forgets how your inanimate body looked when she found you there—your once bright eyes dimmed and devoid of life, your once beautiful laugh snuffed beneath the oppressive weight of the winter snow.

No, Natalie never forgets you, just like she never forgives herself.

a/n: we take a break from our regularly scheduled angsty-smut for just angst. anyways, back to you, angsty-smut! (translation: 'light up floor' next)

[writingsoftarnishedsilver]

hi hi i hope you’ve been well! i’m part of the itty-bitty titty committee and i’d love a fanfic abt seb comforting mc about it? i apologize if it’s a bit similar to your other request you recently fulfilled, but it’s been on my mind and your writing never fails to make me feel something. feel free to ignore this, but if you would be down then thank you so much in advance!

As You Are | Sebastian Sallow x Reader

Hi anon! thank you so much for your message. I am so sorry it took so long for me to finish this for you, but I really hope you enjoy! This is my first fic in what feels like forever ;.; excited to be back to writing. Thank you everyone once again for your patience while I took time away.

<3<3<3

Words: ~6,800

Tags: Mentions of Smut, Reader Insert, Female MC, No Y/N, Hurt/Comfort, Insecurity, Fluff, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Romance, Love Confessions

The locker room reeks of sweat, grass, and wet wool. It's a thick, clinging fog of damp socks, muddy cleats, and overworked gear. The air is humid with steam from the showers hissing at the far end, and the stone bench beneath you is cold against the backs of your thighs. You peel your jersey over your head, grimacing as it sticks to your skin.

You’d taken a bludger to the ribs somewhere around the half hour mark on your left side, just under the padding. It’s already blooming into a dull ache, a reminder of how seriously your Beater takes practice. Still, it had been a good session.

Around you, laughter echoes off the tiled walls, bouncing down from the other end of the changing room. You don’t pay it much mind until you hear your name.

“Well, I’m just saying,” comes a teasing voice. A voice you'd recognize anywhere: Araminta Lawson, Seventh year, Slytherin, and a total bitch. “Being Hogwarts’ little golden girl doesn't exactly get you a golden rack, does it?”

Peals of laughter erupt from the Slytherin girls, sharp, bright, a little too loud to be casual.

“I mean, really,” Araminta continues, louder now. “You save the school, you beat Ranrok, you’re everyone’s favorite little do-gooder, but Merlin help her, she's flat as a board."

You keep your head down, jaw tight as you continue undressing. Socks off. Shin guards unclipped. Jersey folded.

You’ve been on Araminta’s bad side since day one. Maybe it was your spellwork. Maybe it was the way you handled the goblin rebellion. Or maybe it was because people liked you more than her, and you didn’t have to try so hard to get them to. Whatever the reason, her and her friends always find a reason to mock, whether it's your upbringing, your House, the way you braid your hair, or the even the way you grip your wand.

Normally, it’s annoying. Occasionally, it’s cruel. But it’s always manageable. You've gotten good at brushing it off. At rolling your eyes. At winning.

But this time... this time it hurts.

Because it’s true.

You know you're not the most... well endowed girl in your year. You’ve had the thought a hundred times in front of your dorm mirror. You know the shape of your own body better than anyone.

You cast a glance to the side before you can stop yourself.

Araminta is lounging across the bench like she’s in a catalogue for Witch Weekly: flawless skin, hair cascading in bouncy curls, her cleavage practically engineered for envy. She’s not even bothering to get dressed, as if she's daring you to look at her in her matching lace underwear.

Your stomach twists. You curse her perfect figure. Her perfect everything.

You turn sharply, towel clenched tight around you, and start toward the showers. The tile is cold beneath your feet, the hiss of water a welcome white noise. You think maybe it'll drown them out, muffle them, and you can just get through the next ten minutes without looking like a complete fool in front of people who would love to see it.

But the Slytherin girls aren't done with you yet.

“Oh, come off it,” Araminta says, loud enough to carry over the steam. “She thinks if she acts mysterious and noble for long enough, Sebastian’ll just fall into her lap.”

A few of the girls snicker. One of them sighs, dreamy and theatrical. “Oh Sebastian,” she coos. “Please overlook my tragically underwhelming bosom."

Laughter explodes.

“She’s been following him around like a lovesick Crup since fifth year,” says qnother. “It’s embarrassing.”

“Everyone knows she’s in love with him,” Araminta drawls. “But have you ever seen him flirt with her?”

Another girl laughs. “He probably wants someone he can actually get a handful of, not someone who disappears when she turns sideways.”

You step into the shower stall and yank the curtain shut, the thick plastic rings clattering against the metal bar. You twist the knob until scalding water crashes over your shoulders.

It’s too hot. It stings.

Good.

You tip your head back and let it soak through your hair, over your face, down your neck. You’re not crying. The sting in your eyes could be the heat.

Beyond the hiss of water, their voices continue, though now they’re not the only ones speaking.

“Oi, lay off it, Lawson,” snaps Dahlia Moon, your team's top Chaser. She’s never liked Araminta, and subtlety has never been her strong suit. “She’s a better flier than all of you combined. Maybe worry less about her bra size and more about how she scored twice today while you were still tying your boots.”

“Oh, someone’s got her knickers in a twist,” Araminta drawls, but there’s an edge to her voice now. "Relax, Moon. We’re only having a bit of fun.”

“Right, because tearing someone down behind their back is such a laugh,” Dahlia fires back.

“We all know why Araminta's such a bitch,” June, your backup Beater, snorts. “She’s still sore Sebastian doesn’t give her the time of day.”

Araminta scoffs. “Please. As if I care. I just think it’s weird how everyone pretends it’s normal, her following him around all the time. He’s obviously not interested.”

“That’s rich,” June cuts in, tone now fully scathing. “You tried to slip your number into his Defense textbook last year and you’ve been hovering around him since he hit his growth spurt year before last.”

Another round of halfsuppressed laughter rises, this time from your side of the room. You can almost hear Araminta bristle from behind the curtain.

“Oh, fuck off,” one of Araminta’s friends snaps. “You lot are just pissed because your little golden girl can’t handle a bit of honesty.”

“Honesty?” June echoes, incredulous. “You mean jealousy. That’s the word you’re looking for.”

There’s a sharp sound, maybe a locker slamming shut, maybe someone’s foot hitting the bench, and then silence. A thick, crackling silence. One you could slice open with a knife if you wanted to.

By now, your skin is burning. Bright red from the heat. You haven’t moved since stepping into the shower, haven’t adjusted the tap, haven’t washed your hair. You’ve just stood there, letting it pour over you.

Araminta finally snorts. “Whatever. Keep defending her if it makes you feel better,” she says, loud and flippant. “Doesn’t change the fact that she’s got no tits and he hasn’t made a move. Merlin, it’s been three years. If he wanted her, don’t you think he’d have done something by now?”

Silence.

Total.

No retort. No comeback. Not from Dahlia. Not from June. Not from anyone.

Because there isn’t one. Because it’s what you’ve thought, too.

A hundred times. A thousand. Every time Sebastian laughed with someone else. Every time his hand brushed yours and he didn’t hold on. Every time he looked at you and then looked away.

He's never treated you the way he does other girls. Like that Ravenclaw prefect. Or that Beauxbatons girl who’d practically climbed into his lap during the Triwizard exhibition last winter.

Araminta might be cruel, but what if she's right?

You think of Sebastian—his crooked grin, the way his brow furrows when he’s pretending not to worry about you, the rare softness in his voice when it’s just the two of you. The way he always insists on standing on the outside edge of the corridor, between you and the cold drafty stone. The way his shoulder brushes yours when you sit beside him, and he never moves away. Of the way your heart stumbles every time he says your name.

But if there was something there, anything real, wouldn’t he have acted on it by now?

You stand there under the water until the last voices fade and the water runs cold and the ache in your ribs has dulled into something distant.

You shut off the tap and wring out your hair with numb fingers. You dry off and dress in silence, pulling your clothes on in automatic motions. Undergarments. Uniform. Boots. Wand clipped at your hip.

You avoid the mirror.

When you step out into the corridor, you see him right away.

Sebastian Sallow. Leaning against the stone just a few feet away from the door, arms crossed, one knee bent and boot resting against the wall behind. His shirt is still a little wrinkled. Hair still damp. His eyes lift the moment he hears the door, and they light up when they land on you.

“There she is,” he says, voice warm. Familiar. “I was starting to think you'd drowned in there,” he adds with a crooked grin.

You manage a small smile, more habit than emotion. “Just taking my time.”

He uncrosses his arms, stepping toward you. His eyes roam your face like he’s trying to read something in it.

“You alright?”

“Fine,” you say too quickly. “Long practice.”

He doesn’t look convinced. Not even a little.

“You sure? You’re being weird. Quiet weird. Not, you know, charming weird.”

You huff a laugh through your nose and shake your head, already turning away, already putting distance between his familiar gaze and the ache in your chest.

“I'm fine, Sebastian.”

He falls into step beside you like always, hands tucked into his pockets, shoulder brushing yours lightly like usual. But this time, you shift half a step away, just enough that the contact doesn’t linger.

He notices, because of course he does.

"Was it that Bludger?" He asks, voice gentler now. "You took a pretty nasty hit out there."

You glance over at him briefly. His brow is knit with that familiar line of worry.

Your ribs do still ache, a slow pulse beneath your uniform, but that isn’t what’s hurting most.

“It’s fine,” you murmur. “Just a bruise.”

The corridor winds ahead of you, long and dim, and the muffled sounds of the Great Hall are growing louder with every step—plates clinking, laughter rising, the low thrum of hundreds of conversations blending into a warm, golden haze.

You’re grateful for the noise. It’s a welcome kind of chaos, one you can disappear into.

You move quickly, weaving through the crowd with purpose, ducking toward your table before Sebastian can say anything else. Before he can interrogate you any further.

Your usual seat is open and you slide into it like it’s second nature, already reaching for the bread basket and pretending you didn’t just leave half your soul behind in the showers.

Ominis glances up from his plate, tilting his head toward the sound of your arrival. “You’re late,” he says, wry as always. “I was beginning to suspect Sebastian had finally convinced you to elope.”

Ominis is always like this. Dry, unbothered, maddeningly perceptive. Normally, you’d roll your eyes and volley something back, but tonight, the words hit differently. They land like a stone in your gut.

You manage a half hearted snort.

“Sorry. Took longer than I thought to clean up.”

Sebastian settles beside you, close enough that his knee nudges yours under the table. He spoons mashed potatoes onto your plate without asking.

"I think the castle is probably all out of hot water after the shower she took," he says, and that crooked grin is back in his voice, the same one that usually makes your chest flutter.

You hum in response—neither agreeing nor disagreeing—as you pull apart a roll with too much focus.

Ominis, not missing a beat, arches a brow. “If she’s been hiding a secret lover in the girls' locker room, I’ll be terribly disappointed not to have known.”

Garreth lets out a loud laugh. “What if she is the secret lover?"

The conversation spins on without you, quick and easy and full of friendly jabs. Natty makes some joke about Quidditch scandals and changing room hookups. Garreth chimes in with something ridiculous about charming the snitch to read love letters. Ominis murmurs that if anyone’s writing poetry in your honor, he hopes for the good of the school that it stays unpublished.

But all you can focus on is Sebastian’s thigh, warm and solid against yours, his knee brushing your leg each time he shifts. The way his arm bumps yours now and then as he leans forward to pass something. The smell of him—fresh soap, warm spices, woodfire and cedar—wraps around you like a second cloak. Familiar. Comfortable. Crushing.

It’s all too much. And yet not enough.

You pick at your food. Push peas across your plate. Nod along with half the jokes and forget them the second they pass. You don’t look up once, even though you can feel Sebastian glancing at you again and again.

He’s trying to be subtle. He’s never been good at subtle.

Eventually, the meal winds down. Someone complains about homework. Natty starts organizing the group for a study session later. Ominis mentions needing to speak with Professor Sharp. People shift, stand, collect their things.

You stand too.

“Gonna head out for a bit,” you say, trying for casual.

“To the common room?” Natty asks.

You shake your head. “Nah. Just… need a walk.”

Sebastian straightens beside you, instinctively ready to follow. “Want company?”

You pause jst long enough to be noticeable. “I’m alright.”

His brow furrows, but he doesn’t stop you.

You leave the hall quickly, the chatter fading behind you as your footsteps echo down the corridor. You don’t know where you’re going until your feet take you there.

The Room of Requirement opens for you without hesitation.

Inside, it’s quiet. Dimly lit. Calming. Filled with warm ambient light and shelves lined with books you haven’t touched in weeks.

You cross to the center of the room and sit down heavily on the edge of the rug, tugging your knees up to your chest. The silence wraps around you like a blanket too thin to keep out the cold.

Your breath shakes. Not quite a sob, not quite steady. You close your eyes and press your palms into them, like maybe you can push Araminta’s voice out of your head if you try hard enough.

After a while, maybe ten minutes, maybe more, you hear soft footsteps behind you. You lift your head just enough to see Deek approaching, small and quiet as ever. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t ask questions. He simply places a steaming cup of tea on the floor beside you.

You manage a soft “thank you” and Deek offers a smile before turning away and disappearing into one of the vivariums. The door clicks shut behind him, and the Room is yours again.

You take the mug in both hands and pull it close to your chest, letting the heat seep into your fingers, though it does little to warm the hollow space inside you.

“She’s got no tits and he hasn’t made a move. Merlin, it’s been three years. If he wanted her, don’t you think he’d have done something by now?”

You blink hard, willing, in vain, the sting in your eyes to go away.

You’ve always been aware of your chest. Or lack thereof.

Since you were thirteen and the other girls started filling out but you didn’t. When you stood in front of the mirror and tugged at your shirt, trying to convince yourself it would happen eventually. That you were just a late bloomer. That maybe tomorrow, you’d wake up different.

But you never did.

You’ve laughed it off before. Made the jokes first to dull the sting. “President of the Itty-Bitty Titty Committee,” you once said to Natty, trying to sound proud of the title, like it didn’t bother you. Like you were above it.

You’re not.

You’ve tried to believe it didn’t matter. That you were more than a body. That anyone who cared about your figure didn’t deserve you anyway. That if someone really liked you—if Sebastian really liked you—it wouldn’t matter.

But maybe it does. Maybe it always has.

It’s stupid. It’s shallow. You know that.

But you still think about it. Every time you see Sebastian laugh with someone else. Every time he leans just a little too close to a girl with long lashes and a low cut top. Every time he’s charming and flirtatious and never quite like that with you.

He’s always been warm. Protective. Devoted, even. But not hungry. Not drawn.

You’ve wondered endlessly if he just doesn’t see you that way because you don’t look the way girls are supposed to. You’ve wondered if maybe something in his brain just registers you as... not woman enough. Not desirable enough.

Not enough to be looked at the way Sebastian looks at other girls.

You lift the tea to your lips, finally, and sip. It’s perfect. Warm, sweet, soothing, and yet your throat still aches.

Then the door creaks open.

You don't turn to look. You don't need to. You’d know the sound of his gait anywhere.

Sebastian closes the door behind him. Then nothing.

For a long moment, he just stands there. You can feel his presence settle into the room like a weight.

Your hands tighten around your mug.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. He’s waiting.

So you save him the trouble.

“I don’t want to talk.”

There’s a pause.

“Too bad.”

You glance sideways, finally.

Sebastian’s standing just a few feet away now, arms crossed, brows drawn tight with worry.

“I know something's wrong,” he say. Like it’s a fact. Like it’s gravity. "You're too quiet. You barely ate. You didn’t look at me once at dinner. Whatever's going on, you can tell me, surely you know that, don't you?"

You do know. You’ve always known. Sebastian’s loyalty is a force of nature. When he cares, he does so completely. Fiercely. Sometimes recklessly.

But this isn't the kind of problem you can solve with loyalty.

This isn’t a wound to be mended with spellwork or a curse to unravel or a duel to win. It’s not something he can fight for you, or bleed for, or throw himself in front of like he always does.

This is you.

Your body. Your feelings. Your insecurities. A thousand tiny hurts stitched into the shape of a girl who’s been pretending they don’t matter for years.

You draw a shaky breath. Your fingers curl tighter around your tea.

"Sebastian, seriously, I'm fine," You swallow. "And... honestly, you won't understand anyway."

Sebastian’s jaw tenses. He looks like a boy who’s just been handed a locked door and decided he will find a way in.

“Try me."

You exhale, long and slow. There’s no point in fighting him. You knew the second the door opened and you heard his footsteps that this would happen. That he wouldn’t let it go.

He never does.

You shift, drawing your knees up tighter and setting your tea on the floor beside you. He watches, waiting, and when you say nothing, he lowers himself to sit on the rug across from you, legs folded, hands loosely clasped in front of him like he’s settling in for something important.

You run a hand down your face. “It’s not that big a deal,” you mutter, already bracing yourself. “It was just the Slytherin girls. Again.”

Sebastian snorts immediately. “Merlin, again?”

You don’t respond.

He narrows his eyes a little. “You usually handle them fine. You’ve shut Araminta down with a single look more times than I can count. So what’d she do this time?”

You shrug, trying to wave it off. “Nothing. They were just being rude. Like always.”

He doesn’t budge.

“Rude how?”

It’s a simple question, but it cracks something. You press your lips together, tighten your grip around your knee.

“They just ran their mouths,” you say, feigning indifference. “Same old stuff. Gossip, snide comments. It’s fine.”

“...What did they say?”

You look anywhere but at him. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It clearly matters."

You bristle, even though he’s right.

“I said I didn’t want to talk about it.”

“And yet here we are.”

Your eyes snap back to his, and there’s no teasing in them. Just patience. Frustrating, infuriating, endearing patience.

You bite the inside of your cheek. Hard. The words press at the back of your throat, hot and heavy, but you force them out through clenched teeth: measured, sarcastic, like if you keep the delivery casual enough, it won’t sound like it hurt.

“They were just talking shit,” you say finally. “Apparently my bra size is now a matter of great public concern.”

Sebastian’s eyebrows shoot up, and for a second he looks so baffled it might almost be funny.

“What?”

You shrug like it doesn’t matter. Like your heart isn’t thudding against your ribs like a trapped bird. “I don’t know. Araminta was bored, I guess. It’s not a big deal."

Sebastian blinks like he’s been hit with a stupefy. “...What exactly did they say?”

"Oh, you know... how I'm flat as a board, how there's nothing to grab, how I 'disappear when I turn sideways’—you know, classic material.”

Sebastian doesn’t respond. He’s gone very still, gaze fixed on you now with an intensity that makes your skin prickle.

You try to wave him off. “Don’t make a thing out of it. Honestly, they're clearly running out of material if that’s the most scandalous thing they can come up with.”

“I’m going to kill them.”

“Sebastian-”

“No, really.” His voice is deceptively calm, but there’s fire behind it. You know this look. It's the one he gets right before he does something stupid and noble in equal measure. The one he carries into every duel, every injustice, every time someone crosses a line.

“Don’t,” you warn, lifting a finger. “Do not go marching into the Slytherin common room.”

He drags a hand through his hair, agitated, like he’s weighing whether the impending detention would be worth it, and you both know he thinks it would be.

“I’m serious,” you say, sharper now. “Do not make this worse.”

Sebastian exhales through his nose. “They made you feel like shit. That is worse.”

You shake your head, laughing wryly. “They didn’t say anything I didn't already know. I already felt this way as it was.”

The words slip out before you can stop them, and you immediately wish you could swallow them back.

Sebastian stills.

“What?"

You sigh, "Forget it, it’s nothing—

“No—"

"Sebastian, seriously—"

"No." His voice hardens. "What do you mean you already felt that way?"

You press your forehead to your knees, wishing the stone floor would just crack open and swallow you whole.

“I mean,” you mumble, “that they weren’t wrong.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, the words tumbling out in pieces now, brittle and half-formed. “It’s not like I haven’t thought it before. That I’m... not like them. That I don’t look like them. There’s nothing about me that stands out. Nothing that makes anyone stop and stare.”

You take a breath. Your voice wavers, but you push through.

“I’ve seen the way people look at girls like Araminta. The way they light up a room. The way they get picked, noticed. And me? I just...” You try to laugh, but it catches. “Apparently, I vanish if I turn sideways. So.”

It’s meant to be funny. It lands like a bruise.

“They didn’t say anything I haven’t already thought." You finish quietly. "They just said it out loud. And now it’s stuck in my head.”

Sebastian is quiet for too long.

When you finally lift your head, just enough to glance at him, he looks stunned. His brows are knit in disbelief, mouth slightly open, as though he can’t decide if he’s more angry or heartbroken. And beneath it all… he’s blushing.

His ears are a little pink, and there’s a faint flush creeping up his neck like he’s just realized the topic of conversation has wandered somewhere deeply personal, uncharted territory neither of you has dared step into before.

His lips part like he’s about to say something, but nothing comes out. He falters, blinks, then tries again.

“That’s…” he starts, then shakes his head, clearly flustered. “That’s bloody ridiculous.”

He throws his hands slightly in the air, eyes still wide, voice too loud in the quiet room. “You honestly think no one notices you?”

You just stare.

Sebastian scoffs, incredulous. “People notice. I notice. I—everyone—”

He stops himself suddenly, the momentum catching up to him, and scrubs a hand over his mouth. “I mean… not that it matters what I notice, just—” He clears his throat, stiffly. “Araminta has no bloody clue what she’s talking about. Guys aren’t as shallow as she makes us out to be. I mean, yeah—sure, some of them are idiots., but most of us aren't just basing our feelings on whether or not a girl has...” He gestures vaguely, helplessly, as if trying not to say big boobs out loud.

You raise an eyebrow, weary and unconvinced, the silence stretching between you like a challenge you’re too tired to issue.

Sebastian shifts where he sits, fidgeting like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. “Look, I just mean—bloody hell, they’re so wrong. About all of it. It’s not some universal law. You can’t just measure worth like that."

You give a quiet, tired laugh. “Yeah, well... I don't know about that.'

Sebastian frowns. “Why not?”

You hesitate.

“They... brought up the guy I like.”

His face shifts, just a flicker, but you see it. He schools it quickly.

“A guy... you like?”

You nod, staring at your hands now. “Said he’d never go for someone like me. That if he was going to, he’d have done it by now.” You laugh, tired and bitter. “They’re not wrong. It’s been years. And he’s never once—” You shake your head. “Not even a hint. It’s just… not happening.”

You glance up, and Sebastian is staring at you like you just told him the sky’s not blue anymore.

You watch as the color drains slightly from his face, the flush fading from his cheeks and settling somewhere behind his eyes instead.

“Wait,” he says, voice low and a little hoarse. “Years?”

You suddenly realize how much you’ve said. How fast it came out. And how dangerously close you’ve drifted toward the truth.

Shit.

Your face burns as the heat rushes to your cheeks.

“You’ve liked someone,” he says again slowly, “for years. And you never told me?”

Your mouth opens, but no words come out. His expression flickers. You don’t know what part of him takes the hit first: his stomach, his heart, his ego, but you see the impact. You see it in the way he goes still again, hands clenched together, throat bobbing as he swallows hard.

“And...” he starts, voice quiet now. “Is he... is he a complete idiot?”

You blink. “What?”

He lets out a breath that almost could’ve been a laugh if it weren’t so shaky. “Because if it’s been years, and you’re sitting here thinking you’re not enough, then he’s either blind, cursed, or the biggest idiot of all time.”

You laugh, short and incredulous, before you can stop it. It’s not funny. Not really. But the irony is so thick you could bottle it.

Sebastian frowns. "...What?"

You press your lips together, shaking your head as the laughter fizzles out into a sigh. “Nothing,” you say. "It's just not as simple as you're making it sound."

He narrows his eyes. “Doesn’t sound complicated. You like someone. You’ve liked him for years. You’re brilliant and kind and brave and you make people better just by being around them. That should be simple.”

You shake your head. “Yeah well... none of that matters when the person you're in love with doesn’t feel the same.”

He holds your gaze. You can practically see him digesting the fact that you love someone.

“...Do I know him?”

You hesitate. That's kind of the problem.

“I— Sebastian, don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t ask.”

He searches your face. “Why not?”

“Because you’re not supposed to know,” you hiss. “Because I wasn’t supposed to say anything. And now I have, and if I say any more—”

You stop. Clench your jaw. Shake your head.

But Sebastian is already sitting straighter. Already leaning closer, just slightly, like he can’t help it. Like your answer is a thread he's already started pulling, and now he can't stop.

“Alright,” he says, slowly, measured. “Alright. I won’t ask.”

You almost exhale with relief.

“I’ll just guess.”

Your heart lurches. “Sebastian—”

“No, no,” he insists. “Let me try."

You can see the way he’s watching you now, like he’s sifting through every name, every interaction you’ve ever had in front of him, lining guys up like suspects.

"It’s someone from school, obviously," he says. "Someone in our year? Or older? You're the type that'd like a bloke that's mature..." He squints a little. "Is it Professor Sharp's apprentice?"

You give him a flat look. “That’s illegal, Sebastian.”

He holds up his hands. “Just eliminating possibilities.”

You can tell he's still trying to keep it light, still clinging to the edges of humor like it's armor, but the tightness in his jaw remains.

“Okay,” he tries again. "So... someone in our year. And you've liked them for years so it's someone we see often. Someone who’s... what? Clever? You like clever.”

You give him a look, but you don’t argue.

“And funny,” he continues, nodding to himself.

You raise an eyebrow. “Are you profiling my type?”

He hums under his breath then starts muttering names.

“Not Leander. You threatened to shove his wand up his nose last year... maybe Amit?” Sebastian frowns. “No. You’d crush him. And..." Sebastian tilts his head slightly, looking at you like he’s seeing you through a new lens, puzzling out some terrible equation he doesn’t want to solve.

“Garreth.” he says suddenly.

You blink. “What about him?”

“I mean, he is clever,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Annoying, yeah, but clever—"

“Sebastian—”

"—you sit next to him in Potions. You share notes. He makes you laugh, doesn’t he? Merlin, he gave you chocolate on your birthday, didn’t he?”

You stare. “He gives everyone chocolate on their birthday. It’s what he does.”

He doesn’t look convinced. “Seriously, have you... have you liked Garreth this whole time?”

Your face scrunches in disgust. “Sebastian, no, Garreth is like a brother to me.”

The effect is immediate. Sebastian’s entire posture uncoils. His shoulders drop. His expression loosens with visible relief.

“Oh. Okay, okay... Good.”

You tilt your head. “Good?”

He blinks. “I mean, not that it would’ve been bad, I just—” He gestures vaguely. “I just… couldn’t see it. That’s all. You and Garreth. Doesn’t track.”

You raise a brow, but he’s already shifting again, visibly determined to move the conversation forward.

“So it's not Garreth, Amit, or Leander. And it’s someone you didn’t want to say anything to. Which means it’s probably someone who matters to you. Someone you were scared to lose.”

Your throat tightens.

“Someone... stable,” he continues. "Someone who listens. Loyal. Kind. And a little intense. I mean let’s face it, you’ve never been into boring.” He flashes you a quick, sidelong glance. “Which eliminates like, half the blokes in our year.”

You don't respond, just hug your knees tighter.

“So," he mutters, gaze distant now. "maybe he’s so used to having you around that he just... doesn’t see what’s right in front of him.”

You press your forehead into your knees again. Shit. He's getting close, too close, and you can feel it, like the floor under this entire conversation is starting to give.

“Sebastian—”

He holds up a hand. “No, no, wait, I’m on a roll.”

You groan into your arms, “Sebastian, please—”

“He must be someone you trust. Someone you spend a lot of time with," he pauses, brow furrowing in consideration. "...Is it someone I’d hex if I knew? Would I be mad if I found out who it was?”

You freeze. How do you answer that when the person you’re in love with is him?

But Sebastian watches your reaction. Sees the stillness, the tension in your shoulders, and you feel it, the way the air changes like the thread he’s been pulling has suddenly snapped taut.

“Oh,” he says, softly. Too softly. You can see the way his posture shifts, the way his mouth parts like he’s putting it all together and arriving at the wrong conclusion.

Fuck.

"Wait, Sebastian you don't understand—"

“Merlin’s beard…” he mutters. “You like Ominis, don’t you?”

You jerk upright, staring at him. “What?! No!”

But Sebastian is already spiraling.

“I mean, I guess it makes sense,” he says, hands gesturing wildly as he starts pacing in a circle. “He’s calm. Thoughtful. Tragic. Girls love that. He’s got that whole brooding pure-blood heir thing going for him—”

“Wait!”

“—and he listens, and h's polite, and he never says anything idiotic, and—bloody hell, you would go for Ominis, wouldn’t you? You two always sneak off to talk in the library to talk about ancient magic theory stuff. And you’re always looking at him like he’s saying something brilliant—”

“Sebastian!”

He doesn't listen.

“I don’t blame you, you know. Really. He’s the better choice. I get that. I do. He’s a Gaunt with Ministry connections and a bloody fortune, not to mention he actually knows how to shut up when he's supposed to."

You stand too, cutting him off before he works himself into another full sentence. “Sebastian, for fuck's sake it’s not Ominis!”

That finally stops him.

He turns to you, and you stare at each other, him with his eyes wide, mouth still half open from the rant he hadn’t finished, and you with your chest heaving, heart racing, the blood pounding in your ears.

“It’s not Ominis," you say again. "I love him, but not like that. Not even remotely. Not ever.”

He blinks. Once. Twice. But the storm clouds behind his eyes don’t fully clear. “Then… why did you look like that? Why... why did you think I'd be mad if I knew who it was?! Nobody else fits the profile!"

Your heart leaps into your throat. There is someone else that fits the profile. There is exactly one, and he’s standing right in front of you, eyes wide, every line in his body pulled taut with tension as the gears in his head begin to turn.

You can see it. And you start to panic.

Your hands begin to shake. You don’t know if it’s adrenaline or dread, but you can feel it in your fingertips, a restless tremor that has nowhere to go.

You take a step back. Not far, just enough to feel the air between you again, to breathe. Because this wasn’t how you imagined it.

If you ever told him, it was supposed to be quiet. Thoughtful. Gentle. Not like this. Not cornered in the Room of Requirement with your heart practically bleeding out between sentences, your chest heaving and your voice splintering every time he looks at you.

And he is looking at you. Staring at you like you’re not the same person he walked in after. Like he’s watching something fall apart and come together at the same time.

And then, quietly, so quietly it barely makes it past the space between you, he says, “Holy fuck…”

You flinch.

“You mean me?”

You can’t look at him. You can't. And when he takes a step forward, you instintively take a step back.

But you nod.

Just once.

He breathes in like the room has punched him. His voice is smaller now. “How long?”

Your throat is dry. “Fifth year.”

The silence that follows is a vacuum.

A black hole in your chest.

This is it. This is where the floor gives out. This is where everything breaks—your friendship, your years together, the late nights in the Undercroft and the whispered laughter in empty hallways. All of it shattered because you said too much. Because you couldn’t keep it inside.

And you always knew would happen—that the moment the truth left your mouth, the dynamic you’d built together would crack down the middle. That you’d ruin everything.

Your best friend. The person you loved more than anything. And now—

He laughs.

You blink. Disoriented. Did you just hallucinate that?

He laughs again, louder this time, and there’s no cruelty in it. No it's... It’s stunned. Relieved. Almost breathless. And when he speaks, he sounds like he’s trying not to let the joy in his chest burst out all at once.

“Merlin’s bloody balls, I must be the biggest idiot of all time.”

Your head snaps up.

Sebastian is grinning. Absolutely beaming. His hand runs through his hair like he’s trying to smooth out the disbelief crackling across his entire body.

“I love you too." He laughs. "Fuck, that's feels so good to say out loud."

You stare at him.

“But...” your voice is small, scared still. “You never made a move. You never even looked at me like, like I was—”

He cuts you off, incredulous. “—Because I thought I couldn’t have you!"

You blink, stunned.

“I didn’t think someone like you could feel that way about me,” he goes on, a little breathless. “And now I find out you’ve been walking around thinking you’re not enough? That you’re not, what? Womanly enough? Desirable enough?"

He shakes his head, jaw tight now.

“You say you disappear,” he says. “But I’ve never once walked into a room and not seen you. You’re the only one I ever see. I’ve loved you exactly as you are since the day you stepped into Hogwarts.”

A stunned breath escapes you.

“You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met,” he says. “Gorgeous. Clever. Brilliant. And you’re hot as hell, if we’re being honest.”

You laugh. It bubbles up without your permission, cracked at the edges and filled with something new.

Hope.

Sebastian steps closer again, and this time, you don’t retreat.

"I mean for fuck's sake, have you seen yourself?” he says, like he’s the one overwhelmed now. “Do you know what it's like?"

You stare up at him, breath caught in your throat, and suddenly his hands reaching for you, one hovering near your jaw, the other ghosting over your waist.

“I’ve been trying not to stare at you since fifth year,” he says, voice rough now. “Trying not to imagine things I shouldn’t. Wondering how soft your skin is. If you’d ever let me touch you. Wondering what you’d look like with your shirt off—”

You let out a broken sound, something between a breath and a laugh,

His voice lowers. “I’m serious. I’ve dreamed about it. About you. Your body. The way you move. The way your jumper clings to your chest when you come in from the cold. The way you stretch after long practices. Merlin, the shape of you makes me crazy.”

He looks at you then, eyes burning with something unguarded. Something real.

“I love your body. I love you. Exactly how you are. I wouldn’t change a single fucking thing. And if you don’t believe me,” he murmurs, voice low and steady, “just say the word. And when you’re ready… I’ll show you.”

Your breath catches.

“How much I love every part of you,” he continues. “How perfect you are. Especially—” he huffs, a little laugh of disbelief, like he still can’t fathom you ever doubting it “—especially your boobs. I’ve imagined them more times than I should probably admit.”

Your cheeks flush, but the look in his eyes is steady. Heated, yes, but also tender.

“I bet they’d fit in my hands like they were made for me,” he adds, eyes flicking to your lips, then back to your eyes. “Bet they’d feel even better in my mouth.”

You make a small, shocked sound at that, and he smiles. A little wicked. A little breathless.

“And I’ll tell you again,” he says, voice a whisper now. “As many times as it takes. You’re beautiful. And I’m yours. Merlin, I love you."

He reaches up, brushing his fingers along your jaw, tilting your face toward his.

You lean in.

And then his mouth is on yours.

The kiss is everything. Urgent and aching, slow and desperate. His hands cradle your face, and when your hands twist in the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer, he groans low and rough, and deepens the kiss like he’s just realized he can.

He pulls back only when you’re both breathless, and even then, he doesn’t go far. His forehead presses to yours.

"I love you."

You laugh softly, and it feels like the sound has been buried in your chest for years just waiting to be set free. You touch his face, thumb brushing gently over his cheekbone, and say it. Quietly, surely.

“I love you too.”

Through his smile, he kisses your cheek, then your temple, then your mouth again, softer this time, like he’s sealing a promise between you.

Banner Credit

[spoilers-ahead]

okay!! now that it’s not 2am for me, i’m going to post my selkie!jason todd hc’s straight up au apparently! 

(uh. this was supposed to just be a list of hc’s but i got slightly,,,, carried away)

his selkie skin looks like an oversized red hoodie in his human form, and is just warm enough to help him survive new england winters.

when the summer heat becomes unbearable, he slings the hoodie around his waist

alternatively, he just coasts it out underwater. perks of living in a coastal city!

willis todd was a selkie. he used to tell jason stories of what it was like to swim through the big, wide ocean. of how freeing it felt. how different it is, from the smoggy, heavy air of gotham --- different, but both theirs, in their own right.

but to be honest, jason doesn’t remember much about the stories he was told, or really, anything about willis --- he had been in and out of blackgate for most of jason’s life, working for two-face to try and make ends meet, before dying. 

what jason mostly remembers, are the warnings. don’t let anybody know you’re a selkie. don’t let anybody find your skin. they will find it, and they will use it to control you. even decades later, jason would still remember those warnings. 

catherine is the one who teaches him how to swim, who helps him trial-and-error his way into putting his skin on, and learn how to make the transition seamless. 

after she dies, jason spends three months as a seal, to just... exist. forget.   

although jason technically lives on the streets, whenever he can;t find food, whenever he can’t find somewhere warm to sleep, whenever just being human becomes too unbearable, he spends the night as a seal. he ends up spending more time in the ocean, than on land.

that’s not to say he’s very good at being a seal --- he barely knows how to swim, has to learn how to fish the hard way. 

when bruce finds jason stealing his car tires, he marvels over how nice jason’s hoodie is, soft and fluffy even after all of jason’s time on the streets, especially given the condition jason is in, ribs showing from malnutrition, and the worn and raggedy shape of the rest of his stuff.

jason is skittish when he goes to live in the manor, even after a few weeks. he always adopts an expression particularly similar to a cornered wild animal around alfred in particular, alfred, who keeps on trying to take his hoodie away, purportedly to wash it.

alfred eventually gives up on trying to force jason to wash it --- he figures that as jason becomes more comfortable living at the manor, he’ll wind up telling them why he’s so protective over that hoodie, and they can work something out then. 

whenever wayne manor overwhelms jason with how big and how decadently expensive all the decor is, jason runs away, run to the ocean. 

jason doesn’t actually end up telling alfred and bruce that he’s a selkie --- bruce just has a ridiculous amount of motion alarms, which are triggered every time jason ran off. he had followed jason the third night, and saw him transform. 

bruce doesn’t tell jason that he knows, assuming that jason kept this a secret because he didn’t fully trust either of them. he would later learn that he was right in this assumption (a rare win for bruce in terms of emotional awareness)

except jason doesn’t fully trust either of them, even after a few months. bruce impulsively decides to do a few things --- a) tell jason about batman and robin and his crime-fighting secret identity, and b) tell jason he already knows about him being a selkie. 

jason is absolutely bamboozled by the fact that bruce knows, and yet hasn’t tried to take his hoodie to control him, or to stop him from playing in the ocean for a few hours. 

in fact, (under alfred’s encouragement) bruce offers to take him to the ocean during the day, so he can get “a proper night’s rest that a growing young boy such as himself would need”

jason remembers what his father told him, to never trust anyone, never let his guard down. but bruce has known about jason being a selkie for so long, and he didn’t take his hoodie or try anything. of course he can trust bruce. 

and when he tries on the robin costume for the first time, it fits perfectly. just like his hoodie, his second skin. it fits just like magic. 

oh, it’s a little loose in some places, the legacy of dick fucking grayson a little heavy sometimes, but he’ll grow into it. he’ll make himself, if he has to. 

also, jason finds the fact that even though he’s a friggin’ selkie, his callsign is a bird (a robin, no less) incredibly ironic and funny 

being a selkie is actually so useful for vigilantehood. the amount of people who talk freely, openly, and loudly about their drug smuggling plans near the ports is quite frankly, ridiculous.

honestly, towards the end of his robin years, jason remains genuinely surprised nobody catches on to him or his tactics yet. bruce is very proud.  

even though jason is safe, has been safe for three years, and trusts bruce with his life, his skin, and everything, old habits are hard to break. so he has his hoodie on when he goes to find sheila. 

and anyways, he wants to see if sheila is a selkie too. he’s taking biology right now, and they’re learning about punnett squares. jason’s never met another selkie before, other than willis who he barely remembers. there’s a possibility that sheila knows something, anything, so he has to try. 

sheila gets a glint in her eyes when jason mentions that he’s a selkie, tells him that while she’s not one herself, she’s familiar with the myth. she has long suspected that willis was a selkie, she tells him, and she’s glad to have confirmation. 

jason positively vibrates with excitement, can’t wait to ask, to pester his mother (mother!) with questions upon questions until. 

until. 

sheila doesn’t do anything after she gives him to the joker. she just smokes and smokes. and she doesn’t tell the joker about his hoodie, despite how it would have been much easier for the joker to destroy him that way. much more painful too.  

small mercies, he supposes, in between hacking coughs that brings blood bubbling up his lips. 

after he dies, his hoodie is ripped and in tatters from the crowbar, with burns along the edges from the bomb. bruce has to carefully peel it off his body. 

when jason was alive, his magic kept the hoodie in perfect condition, always. even when the rest of him was covered head-to-toe in mud, or dripping sludge from the nasty gotham sewers. 

bruce stares at the same hoodie, blood-soaked and mangled, so incredibly dissonant from how he remembered it on jason, when he was bright, whole, and alive. 

he can’t stand it. the hoodie that was so precious to jason, that was jason, at the core of him, in this state. dirty and ripped and devoid of the magic jason had exuded. 

in a moment of desperation, late at night, bruce asks alfred to teach him how to sew. he doesn’t dare to practice on jason’s beloved hoodie --- instead, he starts with the suits in his closet, grabbing the first one he sees, regardless of price. rips a hole and sews it back together over and over until he perfects his technique. 

and then he washes the fabric gently, using baby fabric cleanser and scrubbing for hours upon hours until the last traces of the deep-set brown stain from jason’s blood washes down the drain.

he painstakingly sews the scraps of fabric back together with a red thread, carefully sourced to match the hoodie to try and make it flow seamlessly like it used to. 

it doesn’t work, not exactly. despite his best efforts, the creases bruce had carefully sewn together are prominent and thick like scars, littering the  soft fabric.

so he gives up. he hangs it over the grandfather clock entrance to the cave in his study. brings it with him every time he visits jason’s grave, because he doesn’t ever want to keep jason’s hoodie away from him, but he also can’t bear for it to get ruined. 

dick visits him. a rare occurrence, these days. 

dick yells at him, as he is wont to do. 

these days, it feels like they spend more time angry at each other than not. dick says that this isn’t right. isn’t fair to anybody, not to alfred, not to himself, definitely not to jason. he rants, jason deserves to be remembered as he was in life, not frozen in death. 

perhaps he is right. bruce is not unaware of the state of violent, cutting stasis he is in, this putrefaction of his life. and he is certainly not unaware of how it is affecting the people around him. dick. alfred. the neighbor’s kid, the one who wants to be robin.   

bruce tries. not for himself, but for tim. for alfred, for dick. even for stephanie brown, who sometimes, when she smirks just right, or says something with just the right twang, he swears he can see jason in her. 

he still can’t bear to put the hoodie away, because jason deserved better than to be forgotten, so he folds it gently and places it in his closet instead. 

he also can’t bear to look at it for very long, so he forces himself to every single day. 

it’s different from the glass case that houses robin’s tattered suit in the cave --- that, is a reminder of how he failed robin. this, this is salt in a constant, stabbing, festering would, reminding him of how he failed his son. 

it was stephanie, that eventually helped him figure out what to do with the hoodie. when she was young, young enough to cry at ripped pants and skinned knees, young enough that her mother hadn’t touched the drugs yet, her mother would dry up her tears, give her a hug and a kiss on the forehead, before patching her pants up. 

what not many people know, is that before crystal brown set her mind on becoming a nurse, she wanted to be an artist, first. and so she grabs her old set of embroidery needles, and stitched little designs. dogs and cats. stars and planets. tools and gadgets. 

bruce doesn’t react, doesn’t even move, even as stephanie finishes her story. she hangs there awkwardly for a second, stares up at jason’s suit, waiting for him to respond, before shuffling towards the exit of the cave. 

thank you, spoiler, bruce manages to croak out. 

ah, yeah, she says, shrugging lightly while slouching in on herself, any time, boss. she walks out, and bruce watches her go from the reflection on the darkened computer. 

that night, he takes out jason’s hoodie, smooths it out, grabs his threads, and stitches. 

he stitches on constellations, argo navis, for jason’s namesake in the greek myths he had loved so much. a tiny seal, playing with beach balls. little books, with quotes on the sides. a robin, big and bold. 

he tries to make it as true to jason as possible, not just in death and in bruce’s memories, but as he was in life.

jason wakes up abruptly.  

he wakes up in a coffin, cold, alone, and with a gaping hole in his chest. getting dipped in the lazarus pit only made it worse, only made him all the more aware of what he was missing, all the more conscious of it. 

he doesn’t bother trying to learn how to swim with two arms and two legs, instead of two fins and a tail. it doesn’t feel the same. it only reminds him of what he’s lost. 

sometimes, on sleepless nights that happen more often than not, he wonders what would have happened if he still had a hoodie, still could swim. 

if he still was robin. 

and he doesn’t have access to the cave anymore, or to the titan’s tower, or the watchtower, and his memory of the past is still patchy and shitty in some places. 

so in a burst of impulsivity fueled by the person he no longer is, he prints out photos of robin’s costume from the internet and recreates it on his own. 

if his skin is gone, then fine. fine! he’s perfectly perfunctorily aware that nothing about this resurrection of his is natural. if he doesn’t think too much about it, he’ll be alright. his hoodie, his skin, that was something he was born with, a birthright that died with him. 

but robin, robin was something that he helped shape. robin was something that he worked for, changed himself for. 

and the makeshift robin suit --- it doesn’t fit him, not anymore. no, it feels wrong, like a child playing with their parent’s suit. or --- he realizes, perhaps more accurately, like an adult realizing they no longer fit in their favorite clothes. 

and --- and --- what was the point of it all? what was the point, of trying to make bruce proud of him, of getting dick’s approval, of trying to futilely save people over and over again from the same gallery of supervillains who keep on escaping from prison?!

and what was the point of carving out a space for himself if the joker was just going to beat him out of it, and if tim drake was going to insert himself in the hole he left behind?

and then the next thing he knows he’s in titan’s tower hitting tim drake over and over again because who let him? who let him take jason’s role as a son, as a brother, as a hero? how dare he?

but when he’s slit tim’s throat and torn the ‘R’ off his chest, jason doesn’t feel any better. the robin suit still doesn’t fit. his hoodie’s still gone. 

he’s starting to think it never will, not again. 

sometimes, when he gets tired enough to let his mind wander, he wonders what happened to his suit. 

he’s pretty sure he died with it, so either the hoodie is with the joker, batman, or... gone entirely. (it’s not like they found willis’ skin after he died. maybe selkie skins just disappear in a cloud of sea foam once they die, or some little mermaid shit like that)

it’s a cold comfort, that nobody can manipulate him now. nobody can control him --- not even batman. 

(bruce had thought about it. when he first had his suspicious regarding who the red hood was, before he knew there was any trace of the son he once had left. he thought about using the hoodie, using jason’s selkie skin to coerce him, at least to stop murdering people, to stop hurting their family.) 

(he would never go that far, in retrospect, or at least, he doesn’t think he could ever. to do that to jason, betray his trust so thoroughly and completely... but it would be a lie to say that he didn’t consider it.)

bruce reflects on this as jason reveals himself, the joker tied up at his feet with a gun pressed to his head, and venom spitting from his son’s mouth.  

but when he lifts the batarang to hit jason’s gun, or wrist, or anything that’ll force him to drop the gun, he realizes that his hands are shaking. 

and when he throws the batarang, he knows a millisecond after he’s let go, that he’s miscalculated the ricochet. 

so when jason escapes that night, bruce knows he’s fucked up. 

jason goes off the maps, completely. bruce doesn’t know where he is, if he’s safe, if he even made it out of the explosion that night. 

it takes weeks. weeks for bruce to track jason down, from meticulously documenting the dropped threads of where the red hood was pulling strings in the gotham underworld behind the scenes, to tracking security cameras with facial recognition. 

once bruce manages find where he’s staying, make sure he’s safe, he knows what he wants to do. and, he knows what he needs to do. 

jason gets a package in the mail, five weeks after his disasterous meeting with batman and the joker. unmarked, unsigned, no return address. 

when jason opens the box gingerly and carefully, he holds on to his skin for the first time in years. and then, and then, and then --- something right slots into place. his fingers brushed gently over the tiny spotted seal he knows he used to look like, the books he remembered ranting to bruce about for hours on end. 

the robin, on the top left, over his heart, big enough to have changed him, yet small enough to not define him. 

it’s not perfect. it doesn’t even fix anything, not entirely. he still fights with bruce most times he sees him, tries to punch dick in the face, steadfastly ignores tim and steph the entire time. 

but it’s something. it’s something, and the next time nightwing, batman, spoiler, and robin fight a gang on the docks, the red hood gives them a helping hand before jumping back into the ocean and swimming away.

fin!

wow this got long

[hungermakesmonsters]

(Once Bitten) Twice Shy

Chapter Eighteen

Plot summary : Desperate to get away from your controlling family, you take a job in New York as a wealthy vampire's blood source. A million dollars awaits if you can make it through a year, but life with Billy Russo is not going to be as simple as you think.

Pairing : Billy Russo x Reader

Story Rating : R  Chapter Rating : R

Warnings : [This is a fic for 18+ only, minors DNI] Violence. A lot more violence than usual. All chapters will contain mentions of blood. Please check the warnings on each chapter if you choose to follow this story. 

Word Count : 4.3k

A/N : if you haven't already voted for what you want to see me write next, you've got a day and a half left

CHAPTER ONE | CHAPTER TWO | CHAPTER THREE | CHAPTER FOUR | CHAPTER FIVE | CHAPTER SIX | CHAPTER SEVEN | CHAPTER EIGHT | CHAPTER NINE | CHAPTER TEN | CHAPTER ELEVEN | CHAPTER TWELVE | CHAPTER THIRTEEN | CHAPTER FOURTEEN | CHAPTER FIFTEEN | CHAPTER SIXTEEN | CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

MASTER LIST

Chapter Eighteen

It felt like the world was unravelling around him, like he was coming apart at the seams. While he’d said the words hours ago, it wasn’t until that moment that he started to feel the weight of them. He loved you. He loved you in a way that he’d never allowed himself to love anyone else. He loved you in a way that was so deep, so visceral that if he lost you, he knew he’d never recovered. 

You were inexorably linked, two halves of one soul. You were everything to him and Billy knew he couldn’t go back to the empty, bleak life he’d been living, no matter how many times he’d tried to convince himself overwise over the last couple of months.

His knuckles were white as he gripped the steering wheel, running a red light to get to Krista’s building. Frank and Madani were talking but, to Billy, it all just sounded like static in his ears.

He couldn’t lose you.

He wouldn’t.

Pulling up, he killed the engine and before anyone could think to speak or question, he was out of the car, clearing the steps to the building two at a time. Frank and Madani had to rush to keep up with him, each still talking, calling after him. But Billy didn’t care about waiting, about figuring out ‘what to do’. No, Billy knew what he was going to do; he was going to make Krista talk, he was going to make her understand why fucking with you had been the worst decision of her life

It was a blur and, for a few minutes he lost himself; he kicked the door open and the next thing he knew, he had his hands around her throat, with Frank yelling at him to calm down.

“Where is she?” The voice that left his lips wasn’t quite his own.

“Gone. I don’t know where,” Krista answered, grinning despite the grip he had on her. “You’ll never find her. Just like you never found Mary.”

Somehow Frank managed to wrench Billy away but Krista didn’t even try to escape. She was enjoying the scene playing out before her, she was taking pleasure in his pain, glad that she’d had some small part in causing it.

“Mary?” It was Madani who spoke, gun drawn, stepping forwards. “Mary Poots?”

“Poor little Mary,” Krista said in a sing-song tone, barely holding back a laugh. “You thought you could replace me with someone so... fragile...”

“You killed Mary Poots?” Madani tried to continue her line of questioning despite the fact that Krista’s attention was fully on Billy.

“Now you’re going to lose the new one,” Krista carried on, all eyes on her. “I’ll take the next one, too. And the one after that. All of them. Every last one, until I’m all you have left.”

“You’re fucking insane,” Billy spat and that drew a laugh from Krista.

“If I am, it’s because of you, because you infected me...” she laughed again. “Or, no, I suppose it was Layla... not that it matters. You fuck up everything you touch, don’t you, Billy?”

“Just tell me where she is!” Billy demanded.

He lunged towards her, but Frank was too quick, too strong, wrapping an arm around him and holding Billy back.

“I don’t know,” she answered, still smiling, seemingly unbothered. “I never asked and he never told. You shouldn’t worry, I’m sure she’ll make a beautiful bride. Her fiance was so happy to finally have her back.”

Billy snapped and snarled, struggling against Frank and against himself, his last shred of control quickly starting to split and fray. He wanted to kill her, wanted to do what he knew he should have done months ago.

“She’s not worth it, Bill,” Frank told him, trying to pull him away.

“You’ve just confessed to murder in front of a Federal Agent,” Madani finally piped up, earning a laugh from Krista, before her attention shifted to Frank and Billy. “If Justin Drake has her and they’re still in the city, we’ll be able to track her down.”

“And what if she’s not still in the city?” Billy snapped. “There’s only a few hours until dawn...”

“We’re going to find her,” Madani answered, her tone sharpening to match his.

“And what about her?” Frank dared to ask, drawing all eyes back to Krista.

“I can send someone to pick her up.”

Krista finally moved, attempting to bolt for the door but, somehow, Billy managed to wrench free of Frank’s grip and lunged for her, knocking into her so hard that they both fell to the ground.

She ripped and tore at him with her nails, sinking her fangs into his shoulder and not letting go until his elbow connected with her face. They rolled, Billy ending up on top before she caught him across the face, clawing at him. She rolled him, straddling him as she landed another hit across his face while Billy’s hands gripped her throat.

By the time Frank pulled her away, they were both bloody and bruised, each bearing the marks of each other’s hatred. She kicked and screamed against Frank’s grip as he pushed her face first into the wall, pinning her there while Madani cuffed her to a radiator.

“You think that’s gonna hold her?” Frank asked, eying Krista as she dropped to the ground.

“It’s all we can do for now,” Madani answered. “We need to move.”

“She needs to die,” Billy snarled.

It felt like his body was vibrating with rage, like the thing inside of him had finally won. But, before he could move, Frank was on him, forcing him backwards, hands shoving him so hard that he knocked the breath from Billy’s lungs.

“You wanna waste time on her while your girl’s out there? You wanna throw her life away and yours just so you can settle a score with this crazy bitch?” He barked in Billy’s face, shoving him again. Billy didn’t have an answer. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Now fucking move, this guy isn’t gonna find himself.”

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

It felt like the world had tilted on its axis and gripping the edge of the table was all you could do to keep yourself from falling. It had never made sense why he wanted you, why he’d been so adamant; you weren’t anything special, you weren’t worth anything (certainly not when compared to the amount of money your parents owed him). But, now you finally had answers, it made even less sense.

He was doing this because you looked like a distant relative who you shared only a fraction of your DNA with. 

He was doing this because she had denied him, just like you were trying to deny him.

He wanted you to be a vampire, to spend an eternity at his side.

“No.” The word fell from your mouth with a certainty that you didn’t feel.

“You don’t have a choice,” he retorted, already sounding like he was done with your denials and insolence.

“Yes, I do,” you answered back, remembering all the times Billy had told you as much.

You hadn’t believed it at the time, you’d thought that it was just a line, something he was telling you to make you feel better but, now, faced with someone who wanted to remove your choice, your agency, you realised that Billy had been right all along. Lifting your head and sitting a little straighter, you silently promised yourself that you weren’t going to cower before him, you weren’t going to let this sorry excuse for a man decide your future.

“You can do what you want to me. I’ll never be yours,” you told him. “Even if it takes my whole life, I’ll do everything I can to escape you.”

“I don’t know what you think you can -”

“I’m not afraid of you anymore,” you interrupted, not letting him get the upper hand, not letting him treat you like the naive child you had been when you last sat across from him. “You will never get what you want from me.”

Anger flickered across his face and it took him more than a few seconds to tamp it down again. Obviously he hadn’t been expecting such resistance from you.

But then came the laugh, a sound that caused dread to coil in your stomach.

“Like I told you; I’m a patient man and I have an eternity to bend you to my will,” he sai, his voice softer than his expression. “There might be nothing I can do to you anymore, but I already told you that your sister, her children...”

“You won’t hurt them.”

“How are you so sure?”

“Because you’ll lose your leverage over me if you do,” you answered, trying to hide the discomfort in your voice, hating that you were gambling with your sister’s safety. “And if you think I’m being difficult now, you’ve got no idea how much worse I can be.”  

Drake let out another callous huff of laughter, a twisted smile pulling at his lips.

“You’re right, but there are other ways to hurt you, aren’t there? Other people close to your heart...” he trailed off for a moment, letting his words sink in. “What about William Russo or his little human friend? Karen is it?”

As much as you wanted to remain defiant, the thought of anything happening to Billy made you feel sick to your stomach. You couldn’t let anything happen to him. You wouldn’t. 

Before you realised you were doing it, your hand was gripping the knife in front of you. 

It took him by surprise when you lunged across the table, aiming the blunt knife towards his chest despite knowing that it wouldn’t be enough to kill him. You didn’t care. The outcome of this didn’t matter; either he would die or you would. Either way, Billy would be safe.

Plates and glasses smashed as you half-fell over the table, tipping his chair back and knocking him to the floor, you on top of him.

His fingers gripped your wrist, stopping you as you tried to bring the knife down, holding the tip only a few inches from his chest.

There was noise all around you and it wasn’t until some time later that you realised it was you, that you were screaming, telling him you were going to kill him, that you wouldn’t stop until he was dead.

The struggle felt like it lasted a lifetime when, in reality, a few seconds after you’d cleared the table, one of his goons had arrived and pulled you off him. Kicking and screaming, you were carried back to your room and thrown inside.

You landed with an awkward thud, pain radiating up your bad arm despite the cast. But, seconds later, you were back on your feet, banging against the door, trying to get out, only to find that you were locked in. But that didn’t stop you from continuing to kick and scream at the door, telling him that you were going to kill him, that the only way he’d stop you was by killing you.

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

After they’d left Josie’s, Frank had text Karen to let her know what was going on and where they were headed. She decided to stick around and keep asking questions around the bar, making sure that nothing had been missed but, after half an hour or so, she decided to call it a night and head home.

She left with your suitcase, having stuffed Bill the Beagle back inside, rolling it along the sidewalk behind her. Her apartment was only a couple of blocks away and, despite the late hour, she’d never felt particularly unsafe walking home from Josie’s.

“Hey, uh, excuse me Miss?” A voice rang out.

Not thinking, Karen stopped and turned, seeing a large man dressed in a dark suit heading towards her.

“Can I help you with something?” She asked, finally noticing the limo parked in front of Josie’s.

It couldn’t be a coincidence; Josie’s wasn’t the sort of place anyone would want to leave a limousine, especially not twice in one night. Karen took a step back, realisation causing her blood to turn ice cold in her veins.

“Yeah, I think that suitcase belongs to a friend of mine,” he answered, slowly stepping towards her. 

The moment he started to move, Karen reached into her purse, trying to find her gun but not taking her eyes off of him for even a second.

“Funny,” she answered, “because this case happens to belong to a friend of mine.” 

Gun in hand, she lifted it, pointing it straight at him, causing him to stop dead in his tracks. She couldn’t be sure if he was a vampire or not, but she wasn’t going to take any chances, and aimed the gun at his chest. It might not kill him, but it would definitely slow him down.

“Where is she?” Karen demanded.

“It’s none of your concern,” he answered back, daring to take the slightest step but hesitating  again when Karen lifted the gun a little higher, aiming for his heart.

“I said, where is she?” She repeated, taking a step of her own.

“She’s with her fiance and if I were you, I’d just hand over the case.”

Karen opened her mouth about to refuse again when he moved, clearing the distance between them with a supernatural speed, knocking the gun from her grasp and into the road. As she moved to grab the suitcase, he struck her with the back of his hand, knocking her off balance and sending her to the pavement.

Karen scrambled for the gun but, by the time she had it, he was almost back at the limo, throwing the case into the passenger side before moving around to the driver's door.

As he started up the engine, Karen noticed a taxi and quickly tried to flag it down. When it didn’t stop, she stepped out into the street in front of it, making it stop for her.

“Follow that limo,” she told the driver as she climbed into the back.

“Listen, lady, I -” the driver started to refuse.

“No, you listen, the piece of shit that owns that limo has kidnapped a friend of mine and I have a gun, so you can either follow that limo and get paid at the end of this, or I’m going to have to take your taxi.”

The threat hung in the air for a few seconds. She could see the driver wearily eyeing her in the rearview, no doubt taking note of the gun in her lap and her split lip.

“Alright, fine, just don’t go doin’ anything crazy,” he muttered before starting after the limo.

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

They were barely outside of Krista’s building when Frank got the call. Billy watched as his friend's expression dropped from one of calm control to absolute rage in less than five seconds. He’d been busy listening to Madani, to all the measures she was putting in place to try and track you down; tracking the limo, credit cards, checking hotel guest lists. It only vaguely occurred to him that it wasn’t until then that he heard your so-called fiance’s name for the first time tonight.

Justin Drake.

Not that it mattered what his name was; he’d be a dead man the moment Billy got his hands on him.

But, for a few seconds, all of that stopped mattering and his attention was fixed on Frank.

“Are you okay?” he demanded of the person on the other end of the call. “Did he hurt you?” There was a pause for an answer that Billy couldn’t quite make out over the sound of traffic. “Where are you? No - no, stay outside and wait for us. We’ll be there in five minutes.”

“What’s going on?” Billy asked the moment Frank ended the call.

“He sent one of his goons after the suitcase. Karen followed him back to the Park View hotel, she thinks that’s where he’s got her.” Frank explained.

A second later Madani was relaying that information on her call, but Billy was already moving for the car, and Frank was quick to follow.

“Wait, I can get back up and -” Madani started, falling into step behind the men.

“We ain’t waiting,” Frank answered.This time it was his turn to be angry. They’d gone near Karen and, now, it was personal for him. 

The conversation continued as they got in the car and carried on until they arrived at the hotel; Madani wanted to wait for back-up. Billy and Frank didn’t. It was that simple. They weren’t going to wait.

“You can help us, or you can stay here,” Frank told her, though his attention was immediately focused on Karen the moment he saw her, his blood starting to boil at the sight of her split lip. “We’re killin’ this fucker.”

“Yeah we are,” Billy responded.

Frank gave Karen some quick instructions, telling her to go wait in the car and to stay out of the way. He tried to tell Madani to wait with her but the Homeland Agent refused, trying one last time to convince them to just wait a few more minutes for back-up to arrive. Before she could even finish, Billy was moving past her and heading for the hotel’s entrance.

He moved through the lobby, drawing stares from everyone that looked his way; blood from the wounds that Krista had inflicted was still fresh on his clothes and he looked as if he’d just torn someone apart with his bare hands.

By the time he reached the front desk, there were already two members of the hotel security team standing there.

“I’m Agent Madani with Homeland Security,” she spoke before anyone else had the chance, and before Billy had the opportunity to do anything stupid. “You have a Justin Drake staying here, I need access to his rooms, now.” 

“I can’t just -” the receptionist started to answer.

“He has a woman with him up there, doesn’t he?” Madani asked, stepping up to the desk. “A woman that turned up earlier tonight?”

Billy took a step forward, getting ready to take matters into his own hands.

“I can’t reveal -” the receptionist tried again.

“He kidnapped her,” Billy snapped, “and he’s planning on hurting her. So you can either let us in peacefully, or we can make you.”

The security guards moved closer but then, at the sight of Frank stepping forwards, they seemed to shy away.

“We can wait for a warrant, or you can let us in now. Either way, if anything happens, it’ll be on you,” Madani explained. “Call Homeland - hell, call the cops, the FBI, whoever you want. Have us arrested when we’re done. But if anything happens, her blood will be on your hands.”

“And we’ve got Karen Page from The Bulletin sittin’ outside waitin’ for her friend to come out, so I suggest if you don’t wanna be named as complicit in this...” Frank let the threat go unfinished.

The receptionist had turned snow white, her hands trembling as she handed over a keycard and directed them to the elevator. The two hotel security members followed after.

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

You heard the commotion before everything went to hell.

There was a phone call; from what you could gather they had a friend in the FBI who’d gotten wind of a Homeland investigation, and there was about to be a raid on the hotel. They needed to get out of there, as quickly as they could.

“Come on,” he demanded, holding out his hand to you.

“No.”

“I’ve had enough of your games,” he muttered, his voice changing, turning softer. “Now, come with me.”

When he held out his hand again, you took a step towards him, wanting to do exactly as he said.

“N-no,” you said, shaking your head, trying to block him out, trying not to let him sway you.

“Come on, come with me. Right now,” he tried again.

Again you took a step, then another. Something inside of you told you to stop, to fight him, but you couldn’t. All you wanted to do was go with him.

“That’s it, come along and -”

“Boss, they’re in the elevator!”

The sudden disruption was enough to snap you out of it. You stepped back, reestablishing the space between you. You weren’t going to make this easy for him. 

“Told you I’d never be yours,” you muttered defiantly, triumphantly.

You both knew that there was no way that Drake was going to get out of this, at least not with you at his side. He’d have to let you go if he wanted to escape.

But you realised all too late what letting go looked like to Justin Drake.

“You think you’re so clever, don’t you?” He asked, starting towards you. “I would have given you everything if only you’d chosen not to act like a tempermental whore. But it’s really no bother. I’m sure when your niece is old enough she’ll be far more amenable, far more grateful for what I have to offer.” 

You stepped back as he closed the distance, until you found yourself against the window.

“At least I get to have one last taste,” he muttered darkly.

“No!” 

Your arms shot out, trying to push him away, trying to keep him from biting you. But he was bigger than you and infinitely stronger. He pushed you back, held you in place despite your thrashing and screaming. You tried everything you could to stop him from pressing closer and closer, trying to turn away as he bowed his head towards your neck.

“Not so defiant now, are you?”

“Please, no - no!” You screamed and begged, tears streaming down your face.

He bit down. Hard. 

Fangs tore through flesh, but rather than lingering to feed, he pulled back, his lips and chin dripping dark with your blood.

It took a moment for you to realise that blood was slowly filling your throat, that he’d left you with more than just a puncture wound.

Your hand lifted as he pulled back and started to walk away, feeling the wound he’d left and the way blood was spurting from it. Lightheadedness quickly over took and you found yourself sliding down the glass and onto the floor. Desperately you reached for the hoodie you’d discarded on the floor when you’d changed for dinner, pressing it against the wound, hoping you’d survive long enough to see Billy one last time.

You weren’t sure what was happening, but you heard gunshots and shouting. Then someone was at your side, her hand holding the hoodie tighter against your wounds and shouting for Billy. 

Madani.

(What was Madani doing there?)

“Hold on, help’s on the way,” she told you, but the words barely registered.

You had so many questions but it seemed too late to try and ask them.

But finally - finally  - Billy was at your side. Dropping to his knees, his eyes filling with tears at the sight of you.

“B-Billy,” you managed to choke out despite the blood filling your mouth and lungs, “you’re h-here...”

You felt him squeezing your hand, holding you so tight, like he never wanted to let you go. There were tears in his eyes as he looked down at you and you knew exactly what they meant; you were dying. In your efforts to save him the pain of watching you die, you’d brought it about decades early.

“I told you,” he muttered softly, “I’ll never let you go.”

Madani continued to press the cloth against your wound but you could tell from Billy’s face that it wasn’t helping.

“S-sorry,” you tried to mutter, wishing that you had more time, wishing that you could apologise properly.

“Don’t,” he told you, “don’t try to talk. Just - just stay still, stay with me, it’s going to be alright.”

“I l-love -” you couldn’t finish, there was too much blood and you were starting to feel so cold, so tired.

“Hey - hey, hummingbird, keep your eyes on me. It’s going to be okay,” Billy told you, but his voice sounded so far away. 

You struggled to hold his gaze, some part of you glad that you’d gotten to see him one last time, but the rest of you hated the agony on his face and the tears streaking down his cheeks. 

“I’m sorry,” he told you, squeezing your hand tighter, like he was trying to hold you in this life and not let you slip away. “I love you and - and I’m sorry, I know you’ll hate me but...”

The rest faded into the sound of your own panic, some part of you knowing what he was trying to tell you, knowing what he wanted to do. You tried to shake your head, tried to pull at his hand but you were so weak you could barely move. 

You were so far gone that you didn’t hear him screaming and pleading with Frank, nor did you hear Frank’s initial refusal and Billy’s threat to do it himself. 

Your eyes went wide when Frank loomed over you, looking at you for a moment, an unspoken apology colouring his features. You tried to speak, trying to say something - though, confronted with your own death, even you weren’t sure what you wanted anymore. But you felt Billy’s hand squeezing yours and some piece of you wanted to hold on, wanted to have his hand in yours for longer than this moment, longer than the six months that you’d had together. 

You wanted him.

You wanted the man you loved.

(It wasn’t fair. You didn’t want to die. You didn’t want to leave him.)

But it was too late. Your eyes fell shut and you let out a gurgled breath, and the last thing you heard was Billy’s shouts.

End Note : So, yeah... I have a lot of feelings about this chapter. I know it jumps around and I'm not the greatest at action sequences (I'm working on it). And I know people won't like the ending and so on, but I'm having fun. I'm not sure if next week will be the last part now or if I'll have an epilogue the week after to tie up loose ends. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this and it wasn't a let down! Also I'm sorry if any typos slipped through, I lost a night of writing to go see Deadpool last night..

As ever, thank you so much for your support/reading/liking/reblogging/screaming at me in the comments! Have a great weekend!!

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[giftedburnoutkid-blog]

Houdini Act (Eleventh Doctor/Reader)

Note: Hi guys :) This is my first ever fic I'm posting on here. I'm planning on making this a whole series, so expect more chapters to follow!! I really hope you enjoy <3

Wordcount: 4.9k

“I didn’t know you brought someone else on,” Amy caught the movement in one of the many doorways from the control room. She saw a figure, just barely, walking briskly through the halls. It was a girl, that much she could tell, who wore a book bag stuffed to the brim. “When were you going to introduce us?” 

When she turned back to him, the Doctor, he looked perplexed. He had not seen anyone new and certainly had not invited someone in, “Introduce you to who?”

“The girl, she just walked past the doorway over there,” she motioned to the hall behind her. She watched as the Doctor investigated and sent a confused glance to Rory. 

“Maybe you should get some sleep,” the Doctor came back out and started pushing the two towards their bedroom. “You humans are so fragile with your sleeping schedules, you’ll go mad if you don’t nap every so often. Go on, promise I won’t do anything fun without you.”

After they left with no protest, the Doctor quickly took to the console, asking the TARDIS to scan for any life other than him and his two human companions. If something had managed to sneak into the TARDIS without her blocking them out, they could have a very serious problem. He found nothing for what felt like hours, scanning and searching until, for just a few seconds, there was another form of life detected. 

He went to the footage to find what looked like a human girl. Mid twenties with a school bag. From the look of her phone that she carried, she was from the late 2010s, 2019 to be exact. But just as quickly as she appeared, she vanished. He replayed the footage yet every time, she just… disappeared. 

For months, this went on. The girl would appear for a moment, not acknowledging anyone in the room before disappearing in the blink of an eye. They were never fast enough to catch her, could never get close enough to touch her. At first, Amy and Rory kept the encounters to themselves, not wanting to find out that hallucinations were some crazy side effect of time travel, the Doctor kept it to himself because he didn’t want to scare the Ponds by telling them there was an unknown entity in their occasional home. 

It all changed when they were lounging in the console room, discussing where to go. They heard a woman’s voice, clear as day, that said, “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.” 

If that wasn’t menacing on its own, the small laugh that followed after certainly was. The Doctor and Rory both looked at Amy, but they all knew she hadn’t been the one to say it. He motioned for them to remain quiet and to stay put while he carefully took his sonic out and crept out in the hall. It took him fifteen minutes to circle back to the couple, empty handed.

“I’ve been seeing someone,” Amy stated, breaking the tense silence. Rory whipped his head over to her. “Oh, not like that!” He gave her another look. “Okay, yes like that, but that’s you! I’ve been seeing a girl around. But not constantly just-“

“For a moment,” The Doctor finished. “Yes, I’ve been seeing her too. The question is, who is she? And how did she get here? And also how does she disappear so quickly? There’s quite a load of questions that follow her.”

“Is she dangerous?” Rory asked.

The Doctor was silent, contemplating before he said, “Very. Keep on your toes, I’ll find a way to keep her here so we can have a word.”

—

“No Mark, that doesn’t make any sense,” you sat back, lounging in the wheeled chair of the study room you and your roommate booked. Your feet rested comfortably on the table while your legs held the Physics 101 textbook. “Look, just read page… hold on, um… 352. It explains the concept in simple terms.” 

“I’ve read it a million times, it won’t make me understand it better,” he spun around and stared up at the ceiling. “That’s why I asked you because you’re really good at dumbing things down.” 

“I’m taking that personally,” you took your feet off of the table and went to start putting your stuff away. Mark made no complaints and did the same, “Let’s just head back home. Maybe Chelsea is done blowing her boyfriend so we can get takeout.”

“Dude, if you ever mention Chelsea’s greasy rat of a boyfriend ever again, I’m gonna throw up,” he fake gagged as you opened the door with him behind you. 

“Okay, this one is better than the last,” you meekly defended. “At least he doesn’t have a mullet, so that’s an immediate upgrade.”

“No,” Mark argued while you both left the building and fell into step with the other MIT students. “Bring back Mullet Man. Grease Rat has nothing on him and I don’t want our apartment to start smelling like garbage and feces had a baby.”

“Mark,” you warned, though your tone was soft. 

“I bet he uses fifteen in one shampoo,” he continued. You laughed out loud, earning annoyed glances from the group of girls that were sitting in the grass a few feet away. “He doesn’t have a job, lives with his parents, doesn’t wash himself, and is leeching off of all of our groceries. And he wears the same stupid camo jacket and black cap every day! And if it were a money problem I would understand, but his parents are filthy rich! Like rolling in dog shit rich, okay?! Not to mention—“

“Mark!” You cut him off, laughing when he just rolled his eyes and grumbled. “For someone who hates that grease ball so much, you sure do talk about him a lot.”

“Oh! Do not even start!” He dramatically poked your chest with his finger. “You are one to talk. When Chelsea was dating your cousin, you wouldn’t shut up about it for weeks.”

“He’s a pervert! He has one of those little pedo staches on his top lip and his head is always bent at a weird angle!” You scoffed, mimicking the awkward head position with your own as you both entered the apartment building. “He has no respect for himself or women and I will not let our poor little Chels be defiled by that… that garbage heap of a man!”

“Oh, so you can rant about a man being a worthless shithole but when I do it suddenly I’m being over dramatic,” he trudged up the stairs behind you. He stayed quiet when you didn’t answer until he broke the silence with a quiet, “It’s because I’m black isn’t it?”

You both laughed loudly, the joyous sound echoing throughout the stairwell. It took only another minute to get to your apartment, the sock that was previously on the knob had been taken off, much to your relief.

“Honey, we’re home!” Mark yelled down the short hall, knowing full well that Chelsea and her boyfriend were asleep. He turned back to you, setting his bag down on the counter. “Horny little shits. She always used to warn us beforehand but now we come back to socks on the doorknob? His crusty socks? The absolute audacity of that man, I swear to god.” 

“She needs better taste in men,” you hummed, looking through the fridge. 

“Wasn’t your first boyfriend’s name Chad?”

“Okay, that was a test run, he doesn’t count,” you grabbed a coke can and tossed another one to him, bumping the fridge door with your hip to shut it. “It was three months. What’s three months in the eyes of the universe?”

“I’m not sure, but you lost your virginity to someone named Chad and I think that’s something to be ashamed of.” 

“You’re an asshole, you know that?” You sipped the cold drink. Mark just winked and slid the various takeout menus toward you. “Thai, Indian, or Chinese?”

“Thai, I’ve been craving it since the Calc exam,” he hopped into one of the bar stools. You dialed the number and placed your usual order before you and Mark both sat in silence, occasionally showing the other a funny TikTok. When the knock came, he went to get it and paid for the food. “I don’t care if this is unhealthy, it makes me happy.” 

You each got your own servings when Chelsea’s boyfriend, Brady, strolled out of her room in just his boxers and a sweat stained white tank, reeking of BO. He said nothing and looked in the bag of Thai food, humming when he saw the remaining half that you hadn’t gotten to unpack yet. He grabbed the bag, but you took the other side to stop him.

“What the fuck is your problem?” He immediately started yelling, making you send an annoyed glance to Mark. 

“This is our food, Brady, order your own,” you tugged it out of his grasp and handed it to Mark who held it tightly to himself. “Everyone knows you have the money to, so just get it yourself.”

“You’re such a bitch!” He shouted walking around the counter towards you. “I’m fucking exhausted and all I want is something to eat! You don’t even need the food! You’re already so fucking fat! God, I don’t know what Mark sees in you, you’re a pig!”

“I’m gay,” Mark said. He looked like he was going to continue, but Brady cut him off. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?!” He looked offended. He stomped over to Chelsea’s room and almost kicked the door down when he opened it. He went in and there was a bunch of rustling. “You didn’t tell me you lived with a fucking bitch and a gay boy! I should’ve known you were a mistake. I never should have dated you. We’re fucking over!”

“Brady!” Chelsea exclaimed, running after him out of her room. Brady now had his phone, some shorts, and shoes. He stormed up to you and ripped your bag out of the stool next to you. Before you could do anything, you watched in horror as he hit the bag against the edge of the marble counter and then threw the bag on the ground, stomping on it repeatedly, “Brady, please!”

He shoved her away, sending her tumbling to the tile before he stormed out of the apartment. You immediately rushed over to Chelsea and helped her up, making sure she wasn’t seriously hurt. She was crying and kept apologizing, but both you and Mark assured her that none of it was her fault. 

You left her with Mark and kneeled next to your bag. The Physics textbook was fine, not that you were worried about it, the only concern you had was about your laptop. You had a thesis due that night and Chelsea said she would look over it before you turned it in. If it got deleted, you had no way of getting it back or rewriting it in less than four hours. 

At first, you thought it made it out okay, but when you pulled it out all the way, you could see that it was bent in the middle and there were little glass pieces from the screen. You held your breath as you opened it. No surprise, the screen was shattered and it wouldn’t turn on.

“Shit,” you groaned, dropping it back onto your bag as you rubbed a hand over your face. Chelsea heard your sigh and started crying even harder, saying that it was his fault her crazy boyfriend broke it. You shook your head and slid over to her. “No, Chels, it’s not your fault. He was the one who broke it, not you. I’m not mad at you, okay?”

“But your thesis—“

“I can just run down to the Tech store across the street,” you gave her a reassuring smile, and rubbed her arm soothingly. “It’ll be fine. I can just write half the pages for half credit and maybe offer to give Professor Davidson my firstborn or something.”

You left her with Mark, grabbed your wallet, keys, and bag, and headed down to the lobby. You knew that you were lying through your teeth about being able to somewhat salvage your thesis. The tech store closed an hour ago, but you needed to get some air. Maybe have a good cry or something. 

The sun had almost finished setting and the sky was dark. It wasn’t exactly a smart idea to be out on your own, though you didn’t care as you made your way to University Park. Maybe those True Crime podcasts hadn’t gotten to you considering you had no worries other than your incoming F. 

The park was quiet, nearly empty save for a few couples wandering. You went to the spot that you, Mark, and Chelsea liked to hang out or study, right under a large oak. Sitting with your back against the trunk, you looked over the clearing over the park. There was a soft breeze, just cold enough to make you shiver. You let out a shaky sigh, feeling your face heat up and tears stinging your eyes. You looked up, blinking back the tears as your throat began to close up. 

You were already struggling enough, you couldn’t afford another failing grade. When you had gotten into MIT, your parents were overjoyed. You were the first in the family to go to college and since you were an only child, you couldn’t disappoint your parents by flunking out. 

Before you knew it, your warm cheeks were cooled by the tears that you tried to quickly wipe away. Your breaths were ragged and you buried your head in your hands. For a second you felt like you were about to throw up, like something had zapped your stomach with nausea. You bit your tongue and moved a hand to cover your mouth. 

“Who are you and what have you been doing to my TARDIS?” A man’s voice pulled you out of it. You looked up, eyes red rimmed and puffy, nose dripping with snot. He had fluffy brown hair, a bow tie, and a glowing green stick. “Well? Out with it, we haven’t got all day.”

You looked up at him from your seated position and he towered over you as he stood. With a sniffle, you asked, “What?”

“People are only allowed into the TARDIS with my approval, but somehow you’ve managed to sneak on undetected. Usually I would be impressed but you put the lives of my companions in danger,” he threatened, keeping his voice low. He opened his mouth to continue, but you held up your hand to stop him.

“Sorry, I know that some people are into the whole role play in the park thing, but I’m not, so if you could just take it somewhere else, that would be great,” you dried your face off and wiped your nose on your sleeve, even though that was disgusting. “I really need to just wallow right now and I’d really appreciate it if you'd let me do it in peace.”

“Role play?” He repeated. 

You rolled your eyes, getting more frustrated as he wouldn’t let it go, “There’s a time and a place for these kind of things! I’m clearly not in the mood so just fucking drop it!” 

You pushed yourself up, but your hand didn’t touch any of the cool grass. In fact, you hadn’t noticed how light and warm it had gotten. You looked down at your hand and found a metal floor. Quickly, you scrambled up and looked around, trying to figure how you had gotten there.

“Keep your hands where I can see them!” A new voice yelled, a woman’s voice. You turned to find a woman with red hair, who somehow had the same glowing green stick that the other man did. You glared and stomped toward her. “Stay back! Doctor?”

“Hold on, I’m scanning!” The first man yelled. He was now in the center of the huge room. “Keep her there!”

She nodded and stepped toward you, shoving the stick in your face. You took a step back but smacked the stick out of her hand, making her shriek and step back in fear. Another man stepped in front of her and took a karate position of some sort, “Don’t touch her! Doctor?!”

“How many fucking people are there?!” You groaned and turned to look at the man in the center. “Where the hell am I? I don’t know who you all think you are, but kidnapping is still illegal!”

When you tried to walk toward the center, the woman showed back up in front of you, with the stick. They backed you up until your back hit a wall. No, a door. You could work with a door. You swiftly turned and pulled the two doors open. Just as you were about to step out, you screamed and scrambled to get back in, slamming the door shut behind you. Behind those doors was nothing. Literally just a black void that continued on forever. 

“What the f—“

“Stop with the swearing!” The second man commanded. Your eyes began to tear up and your lip quivered, making the man and woman send each other a wary glance. “Doctor?”

“Working!” The other man, you guessed was a Doctor of some sort, replied with a frustrated tone.

“Look, you can take my wallet and my keys, it’s not a lot,” your voice shook as you tried desperately not to cry in front of your captors. “But, please… let me go home. I promise I won’t tell anyone, just let me go.”

“Doctor, she’s… crying,” the man in front of you said. “What do we do?”

“Nothing, it’s a trick, just let me finish scanning her.”

“I’m sorry, I know I was being difficult and I smacked your little green stick, but I just want to go home. Please, let me go,” you begged, tears quickly pouring as you realized that no one knew where you were before they took you. You wouldn’t see your friends or family again and your parents would never know what happened to their little girl. “If this is about Brady, I’ll get him whatever he wants. I’ll do anything, just let me go.” 

“Ponds, step back, give her room,” Doctor whatever-his-name-is instructed, slowly and carefully walking toward you. This freaked you out even more as you thought he was coming to hurt you on his own, clearly being the one in charge. You cried harder but kept yourself from making any noise, just shaking against the cold wood doors. “How could you be human?”

The question seemed strange but you could tell he was throwing the question out there instead of directing it at you. Once he got a few feet away from you, he stopped. He took the stick from the girl and pocketed it in his jacket before taking another step toward you.

“Please, please no,” you closed your eyes and whispered to whatever god there could be, begging them to save you. A cold, calloused hand grabbed yours, making you whimper and  squeeze your eyes shut even tighter. He placed something soft in your hand and you looked down to find a handkerchief. 

“What’s your name?” He asked softly, as to not scare you more. Your gaze lingered on the handkerchief and he added, “I thought you might like to wipe your face.”

You cautiously did so, wiping the tear tracks that trailed down your neck. Thankfully your nose wasn’t too runny and gross, so just sniffles every now and then. After a beat, you figured that you might as well tell him if he was going to kill you, “(Y/N). My name is (Y/N).”

“Hello there, (Y/N),” he smiled. “I’m the Doctor. This is Amy and Rory. The Ponds.”

You glanced at the two others who only stared at the Doctor with a confused expression. You looked back to him and he just sighed and said, “We must have frightened you.”

You said nothing, instead scanning the room for a way out as you dig your fingernails into the skin of your palm. The Doctor shooed the other two away, asking them to go to their room while he talked to you. Once they were out of earshot, he walked to the center and started pressing buttons. 

“Come here,” he beckoned, still messing with things on whatever mechanism was in the middle of the room. You hesitantly walked forward and joined him, careful to keep a decent amount of room between you. He pushed a screen in front of you and as you watched, you saw yourself constantly appearing. You always had your bag on you, but what threw you off is that these clips showed you in different parts of this futuristic place that you were currently in.

“What is this?” You asked quietly, looking over to the Doctor. 

“You’ve been appearing on my ship for months,” he explained, his face serious. “But only for a few moments before you disappear. We’ve been trying to find you, trying to figure out who you are. Once the TARDIS pinpointed your temporal energy, I used a remote vortex manipulator to locate and transfer you to us.”

He was using words and lingo that was foreign and strange. You could hardly understand it and even questioned if he was speaking English. Looking around, you were hoping to find Brady and his friends trying to hide so they could make fun of you. That would be an ideal situation rather than what this man was trying to explain. 

“What is this place?”

“This is my ship,” he seemed to cheer up at that question, smiling joyfully as he continued to explain.The Doctor looked adoringly at the centerpiece. “Time and relative dimension in space, or TARDIS for short. She can travel through all of time and space, but she doesn’t always land where I want her to.” He paused to look back at you. “I can take you home, if you’d like. I want to know why you’ve been appearing and I believe I’ll need your help, but if you want to leave, I won’t stop you.”

“Take me home.”

The Doctor pressed his lips together but complied, walking around the console and making the ship jump to a start. You grabbed on to the railing as the room shook and nearly launched you over the edge. He looked over to you, like he was about to ask something, but put his attention back on the TARDIS. Once it came to a stop, you ran to the doors, opening them to find the park, just the same as when you left it. 

You took a few steps out, relishing in the fact that you hadn’t been brutally murdered when the Doctor stood next to you and asked, “Why were you wallowing?” 

“Sorry?”

“You said earlier that you’d prefer to wallow,” he mentioned, frowning as your shoulders slumped and you shook your head. “What happened?”

“Just…” your voice shook and you felt your face heat up again. You took a breath and said, “My roommate’s boyfriend destroyed my laptop. My 20 page thesis is due in four hours and I have no way to get it back. If I fail this class, I- Uh, I have to either drop out or retake the class. But I don’t have the money so.. And my parents were so excited when I got accepted. If I—“

“What class?” 

“Biochemistry and biophysics,” You answered, still sulking. “I’ve tried so hard, but something isn’t clicking. I just- I can’t understand it. Which is stupid because if I can understand physics, I should be able to study biophysics, right? But I can’t.” 

“I can,” he was smiling. You gave him a dirty look and scoffed. “I can write your thesis too. I actually already have a few on that topic anyway, but I’ll have to cut it down. Do you get extra credit for having more than two hundred pages?”

“That’s not funny,” you snapped, turning to face him. Your brows were furrowed and you poked his chest with your finger, making him stumble back. “This is my life we’re talking about. Everything is going wrong and the last thing I need is you making me feel even worse with your stupid teasing!”

“I'm not teasing or trying to make you feel bad,” the Doctor tried to assure you. “I really do have more than enough papers written about every aspect of human science. If you just wait here a moment, I’ll get them to you. I can get rid of some parts on the way out. It is quite chilly, so feel free to wait in the TARDIS.”

You watched him walk away, your eyes following him as he walked back into his ship. As you saw him get further and further away, you noticed how small the door was. In fact, all of it was small, except the inside. You walked closer and carefully circled the police box that could have been more than three feet wide. Poking your head back inside, your brows furrowed. You measured the width of one side of the box with your arm, but obviously when you went inside, the room exceeded your arm for quite a bit. 

“What…” you whispered, once again walking around the box. As someone who was taking physics, you were pretty sure this was impossible. A small smile came to your face and you went inside, counting your steps as you walked the perimeter of the room. You cautiously walked up the steps toward what seemed to be the center of the room. The middle console was adorned with all different types of buttons and levers, you were tempted to press something just to see what would happen, but you held yourself back. You felt your stress melt away as you spun around, taking in the entire room once more. “It’s… It’s bigger-”

“On the inside?” the Doctor’s voice startled you out of the tranquility you had just settled into, making you turn to see him holding a stack of papers. “Yes, yes it is.”

He walked closer to you, you thought that maybe you should step back in case he tried something, but for some reason, a small voice in the back of your head told you that it was okay. That he was okay. As promised, he handed you the papers. You flipped through the pages, your eyes scanning over the hundreds of pages of research about biophysics. The pages were entrancing, going over theories and ideas that you hadn’t even thought of. You were in awe at the work he had done. 

“I can’t take this,” you breathed, still looking through the papers. “It wouldn’t be right, it’s not-”

“Well, considering I slightly kidnapped you, I feel it’s a fair trade,” The Doctor mused, making you chuckle a bit. You finally looked up at him, finding him studying you while you held the research. He perked up as if he had suddenly remembered something. You watched as he quickly ran around the console and grabbed something out of site. He rushed back with a giddy grin and presented his findings to you. “And as for the laptop, yours was probably rubbish anyway. I prefer handwritten, so I think you’ll find more use in this than I ever will.”

“You…” your eyes settled on the pristine laptop he was holding in front of you. You weren’t sure what or when it was from, but considering your previous laptop was bent in half, this one would automatically serve you much better. “Are you serious?”

“Of course I am,” he shrugged, as if it should’ve been obvious. You set the paper down by your feet and gently took the laptop, opening it to watch the screen come to life. He circled around to be standing next to you, “The battery should last a hundred years at least, so you’ll never even need to charge it.”

Your eyes pricked with tears, you were silently praying for this to be real. You were almost convinced the last ten minutes of your life were a dream or a hallucination. Your breath caught in your throat and you gently placed the laptop onto the papers at your feet before turning and hugging the Doctor. The embrace caught him off guard but he was quick to gain his balance, returning the gesture. You sighed, “Thank you.”

“What are kidnappers for?” He smiled as you pulled away. You let out a breathy laugh and looked toward the open door of the TARDIS. “Right, I suppose you want to get going.”

“Actually,” you hesitated, shuffling a little on your feet. “Well, I need to type up my thesis again, but I can’t do it in just four hours. You said this, uh, TARDIS, can travel through time?” He nodded, a small smile growing on his face. “Maybe I could stay for a little? Just until I finish my thesis and then I’ll leave. And, I mean, since I’m here, if you need to run any tests to figure out why you’ve been seeing me… I guess that would be okay.”

“Brilliant!” He clapped his hands together excitedly. His energy was contagious and you found yourself smiling at the mad man as he ran around the console. “But first, I’d like to apologize. Let me take you on a trip somewhere, anywhere you want to go in all of time and space. It’ll help clear your head some.”

He was looking at you expectantly, waiting for the go ahead. You were nervous, and though part of you said to turn back and forget you ever met this man, every other bone in your body longed to stay. You broke out into a big grin and nodded, “Take me away.”

[jrow]

May Prompts (8)

Day 7 here. Day 9 here.

Hobby

Reading the faces in a crowd has long been a hobby that centres him.

Strangers who will never know he was there.

There is no risk of derision and pity as long as he doesn’t say any of his deductions out loud. But it’s too tempting when he’s reading family, colleagues, acquaintances. In those cases, he never can seem to keep his mouth shut. His naive excitement at figuring something out overpowers his good sense. Every time.

So, from the time he was a young child, he’s learned he is safest when reading the masses at a distance. No risk of ruining everything. Sure, he never finds out if his deductions are right, but that’s not the point.

For a time, this hobby was the only way to centre himself that didn’t involve illicit substances. He remembers spending hours sitting in town squares during the time after The Fall just reading the faces of everyone that walked by. It was essential for his survival.

Now, things are different. John centres him. Rosie too. Even when the former is angry and the latter a menace. They have become as essential as the air that he breathes.

He supposes this is what love feels like.

But, he still heads to Trafalgar Square sometimes, just to watch the crowd. Identify the tourists, the locals, the petty criminals, and the honest people. He still rides the tube a few extra stops because he’s immersed in reading the masses around him. It is still soothing.

It is not soothing today.

Thirty minute ago be received a call—not text—from Mycroft while walking towards Putney Bridge station, having just dropped off Rosie. His brother wasted no time (thank god) in explaining that John was unharmed, but a man had been caught sneaking into his room. A man wanted by police on a whole range of charges. A man who was carrying enough morphine to kill several people.

A man who somehow slipped away (the incompetence).

It was lucky that they caught him at all. John’s nurse (perhaps the only competent person involved) clocked him as suspicious and kept a close eye, eventually spotting the vials. But if she hadn’t been working at the desk when the man came in ….

Sherlock should have been there. Should have been faster with Rosie. Dropped her off early.

But he didn’t, so now he is walking quickly through the tube station outside the hospital deducing everything he can about the people around him. But it’s not soothing because he needs answers and these people aren’t providing them.

He can’t fathom why anyone would attack John. He should know, though. It’s his job. What is he missing?

He needs to understand, needs to fix this. Needs to prove he’s worth keeping around.

Needs to know John is safe.

Apologies for any errors today, friends. This entry was written and posted entirely on transit on mobile.

Thank you all for the kind words! I assure you I have no idea what's going to happen before reading the prompt each day. I am having fun making it up as I go :).

[ravenromanova]

My Shining star

Pairings: Insecure Bucky x Healer Female reader

Summary: You’re the official healer for the Avengers. When Steve comes in begging you to heal Bucky you immediately say yes… But Bucky is hesitant (giving you guys a lil something before my next post)

word count: 1.7k

Warnings: Ptsd, talk of torture, Mentions of abuse and blood, (not really a warning but soft bucky 🥹 ik we all love him)

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Ever since you joined the team 5 years ago you’ve been the north star to light the way. You were originally brought on as Bruce Banners second hand, But quickly became the teams personal healer. They figured out you had healing powers when one day Tony came in carrying Morgan who was in tears. He told you she had cut her finger on a piece of metal and wanted you to see how bad it was.

When you walked over to her you saw her puffy eyes and her snot filled nose. You held her hands and told her to take some deep breath with you. Once you two fell into a rhythm you saw a orange-ish glow emit from your hands. Before you could comprehend what had happened her cut was healed.

You dropped Morgan’s hands and freaked out looking at Tony and Bruce. They both looked at Morgan’s finger and saw that the cut was completely gone. Bruce asked you if that had ever happened before, and you said no. They proceeded to ask you about your family and if you knew of anyone who had powers, again you said no.

Eventually after they calmed you down they asked if they could run some tests to see what it could be. After a shit ton of tests and long nights you three finally found and answer. Biotherapeutic Manipulation was what your power was. Unfortunately you have no idea where it came from but, it’s assumed it’s a gene in your family that lies dormant.

That was two years ago and ever since then you’ve been the official team healer. Everyone comes to you for your healing powers along with them just loving being around you. The team loved having you around because you were just a ray of light.

No matter how hard you’ve been working. No matter what’s been going on in your personal life you were always happy. So it was a no brainer when Tony asked you to move into the compound. You accepted the offer with the brightest smile. And within a week you were moved onto the same floor with Steve, Sam and Bucky.

A few months went by and you got a lot closer with everyone on the team. Well everyone except Bucky. He was never a man of many words to begin with, But since you joined he was even more silent. He also never let you heal him. Bucky claimed that the serum would do it and that he didn’t need it.

So for months now when everyone else comes into the lab to get healed…Bucky without fail will tell you he’s fine.

You didn’t really think anything of it until he came back from a mission really beat up. He had three stab wounds, and at least two gunshot wounds as well. Steve brought him into the lab begging you to heal him. And again without fail he told you he was fine and that the serum would fix it for him.

“you’re not fine Bucky! you are profusely bleeding and you’re lucky you have passed out yet” You say a little annoyed at the super soldier.

“i will heal in a few hours y/n really i don’t need it” He continues to protest and Steve just sighs.

“Punk let her heal you ok? you can’t keep refusing when you’re seriously hurt” Steve tried to coax him into letting you heal his friend.

Bucky just shakes his head in response and You and Steve just sigh. It takes you a second to come up with an idea. Once the lightbulb goes off you give Steve a look that tells him to leave.

“i’ll give you guys a minute” He says as he leaves the lab with a nod and you walk back over to Bucky.

“why won’t you let me heal you?” The question is laced with concern as it leaves your lips.

“i don’t des- need it.” He switches he word choice thinking you won’t notice but of course you do.

Suddenly everything makes sense. Why he doesn’t talk. Why he trains alone. Why he doesn’t let you heal him. It’s all because he think he doesn’t deserve good things.

“Bucky- do you think you don’t deserve to be healed?” You ask as you slowly reach for his metal hand. He’s hesitant but he lets you hold it as he looks up at you.

His blue eyes meet yours and you can feel the sadness in them. Bucky slowly nods his head at your question. Your heartbreaks and this realization.

“Well that’s just not true. You deserve it just think the rest of the team does” You simply state trying to ease him into it.

“No i don’t. Not after everything i’ve done. I don’t deserve your kindness or your healing” He protests shaking his head and you grab his face and make him look at you.

“Listen to me very carefully James. You deserve good things. okay? You are a good person. And before you try to use your past to say you don’t. Let me ask you something. Did you ask to be taken by hydra?” You ask already knowing the answer but needing him to respond.

He shakes his head no at your question.

“Okay now did you ask to be turned into the winter soldier?” You question again as you drop your hands from his face.

He shakes his head again.

“Now lastly.. Did you ever ask to do what they made you?” The words are softer coming out this time.

Bucky shakes his head no and looks at you.

“Then it’s not your fault James. They did awful things to you. Yes it was your body doing it… But it wasn’t your mind. It wasn’t you. Because YOU are a good person. I know we don’t talk that much around here but i know you’re a good person James. Everyone around here knows that. Now let me heal you and show you something good” You kinda ramble on but you hope your words made an impact.

Bucky stares at you in response not quite sure how to respond. It makes him a few minutes before he mutters out an ‘okay’. You smile softly as you approach him taking off your white gloves to reveal your perfectly manicured hands.

“this might be a little awkward but i need you to take off your shirt” Bucky’s eyes widen at your words “I can’t heal the wounds if i don’t touch them” You continue to explain hoping it would ease his mind.

“o-okay” He stumbles out as he lifts up his shirt and takes it off. It takes everything in you to not stare at his broad chest. You rip your eyes off his toned abs and approach him.

“you’re gonna feel a tingling sensation but it won’t hurt okay? you can even watch what i do if that makes you feel better” You say as you place your hand over a small cut on his chest. Once you close your eyes and focus your breathing a orange glow emits from your hand.

Bucky watches as you place your hand on the cut and it slowly fades away. His eyes widen in amazement. Sure he’s heard of the power you hold but he’s never seen it in person. He watches as you go from wound to wound healing him. Suddenly you stop at his left shoulder and run your finger over the scar tissue.

He worriedly watches you as you place your hand on his shoulder blade. You hum to yourself as you attempt to heal any nerve damage in his shoulder due to the metal arm.

“H-how did you do that?” Bucky asks as he feels the pain disappear in his shoulder.

“Well i figured that HYDRA didn’t properly give you that arm so i had i feeling you had some nerve damage- plus Steve has also mentioned it before” You respond and you finish up the last cut on his face.

You’re suddenly really aware of how close your faces are. You notice how his deep blue eyes are focused on you. He grabs the hand that’s on his cheek and brings it to his lips. Bucky softly kisses your palm before holding your hand softly.

“Uh thank you for helping me- you really didn’t have to” He shyly says as he hops off the table and stands in front of you.

“Don’t do that- I helped you because yes it’s my job. But i also wanted to. I will gladly be the one to show you that you deserve any shred of good humanity has to offer” You respond as you start to clean up the lab a little.

“But still it means a lot that you healed me. You know you’re like the only person besides Steve to not look at me like a monster? or like i’m broken..” He says trailing off as he looks down at his feet.

“well you aren’t a monster nor were you ever one. And like i said you deserve nice things” You say finally looking up and meeting his gaze with a smile.

He nervously rubs his hands together before he speaks again. “would you like to maybe go out sometime? like to dinner or a movie?” Bucky asks still not meeting your gaze.

You laugh a little at how nervous he is. Even though you aren’t quite sure why he’s so nervous when he looks like that you still find it cute. You walk up to him and gently lift his head to look at you.

“I’d love to James.” You smile and he reaches for your hand and intertwines your finger together.

“how about tomorrow around 7?” He says with a goofy smile on his face. You admire his smile before you respond.

“sounds perfect” The excitement in your voice makes him smile wider. He runs this thumb over your knuckles for a moment as he looks at you.

“It’s a date then” He says before kissing your cheek and walking out of the lab. You stand there for a moment smiling like a idiot.

As bucky leaves he can’t contain the smile on his face. He finally got a date with the woman he’s been pining for since she’s arrived. You’re finally gonna be his shining star

~the end~

i do not give permission for my work to be translated or posted on other sites

[toodleoorblx]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐔𝐧𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐟 𝐀𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐚 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬

Agatha Harkness x Rio Vidal Word count: 4,841

Summary: Agatha finds her brooch, and sees someone who is incapable of death. (Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - /?) Warnings: cursing, angst, scars, burn scars, toxic relationship, agony, needles. A/N: Chapter twooooo

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟐 ꧁𝐀𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐬 𝐓𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐬꧂

Agatha’s thoughts churn like a storm. She’s barely keeping her fury in check, her chest rising and falling with ragged breaths, her nails digging into her palms. It's been a few hours since she first came. It’s been nothing but silence from everyone. And Agatha reckons that she's the reason why. They seem close to each other. More or less. Agatha has not yet told them her name, (though she learned there's against her will), her name normally evokes fear into those who hear it. Agatha wants to use that to her advantage. She’ll use her name as a ticket, if anyone decides to fuck with her, she’ll announce who she is. Because Agatha is the only one in this room who doesn't have any magic. She doesn't know what they are capable of.

Agatha glances around the room, noticing how small it actually is. Agatha has always despised being in cramped spaces with too many people. It’s like the walls are closing in, making it impossible to breathe. Her mind drifts to Evanora, who once exploited that very weakness.

She tries to focus, but her thoughts keep circling back to the conversation she had with Alice. Anonymous Adversaries. She’d already known they were bad news, but hearing Alice explain their true nature had confirmed one thing: Agatha is in deep shit.

They aren’t just some rogue group of witches—they’re a cult. A twisted, fanatical coven that thrives on experimentation, constantly testing the boundaries of magic, pushing witches to their limits to discover new powers. But that’s not the worst part. No, what makes Agatha’s skin crawl is the way they worship their work. It’s not just experimentation—it’s ritual, obsession. Jennifer had said they have altars. Many altars. The word alone sent a shiver down Agatha’s spine.

She’s dealt with cultish witches before—drained them dry, in fact—but these people are something else entirely. They take blood magic to a new level, a grotesque devotion to the craft. And to make things worse, the Witches' Council condones it, lets them carry on their horrific work without consequence. Agatha always loathed the Council. She’s kept her distance from them, preferring to live by her own rules, far from the grip of so-called "authority." She always figured they’d leave her alone as long as she left them alone. That’s probably why she never heard of the AA—as the boy calls them.

Agatha sits on the cold white tiles, her knees pulled up to her chest, the coolness of the wall pressing against her back. She’s trying to think, but the oppressive heat and the weight of the situation gnaw at her. Her piercing blue eyes flicker to the others in the room.

The boy named… she cant remember, she’ll call him Tenn she suppouses. Teen sits cross-legged on the floor, his shoulders slumped with exhaustion. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days. He has dark circles under his eyes, his deep brown eyes are like voids. Scars snake up his hands and forearms—burn scars, twisted and discolored, as though he’s been through something unspeakable. He absently picks at them, his expression dark, eyes filled with a hatred Agatha knows all too well. It’s the kind of hatred that festers, the kind that rots you from the inside out.

Alice is standing, her eyes are closed, her head is tilted back against the cold wall, she looks awake. Her arms are crossed. There aren't any visible scars on her. Agatha wonders how all the witches got here. Not that she cares enough to ask, but it crosses her mind. For now? She has bigger questions.

Lilia perches on the edge of the bunk bed, her posture alert but weary. Agatha notices scars lining her palms, and a thin, deep slit on her neck—healed, but unmistakable. More signs of what these people have endured. Each scar tells a story, but Agatha doesn’t care to hear them. She’s not here to make friends, and trust is a currency she’s unwilling to spend.

Jennifer is sprawled on the top bunk, her long limbs hanging lazily over the edge, like she owns the place. Agitation simmers in the room, but she seems almost… relaxed. Bored, if anything. Agatha's eyes flicker toward her, narrowing with disdain. Jennifer has a small scar on her jaw—barely noticeable, unlike the jagged marks that mar the other witches. But there’s something about her that grates on Agatha's nerves. Maybe it's her overconfidence, the way she exudes this casual arrogance, like nothing and no one here can touch her. It pisses Agatha off.

Jennifer is fidgeting with something—her fingers twisting a small object over and over. A glint catches Agatha’s eye.

Wait.

Agatha’s heart stumbles. Her hand flies to her chest in a panic. Her brooch. It's gone.

Her breath quickens as her hands frantically pat down her body, searching every pocket, every fold in the thin hospital gown she’s wearing. Cold dread sinks into her stomach as her fingers meet nothing but fabric. She feels exposed, vulnerable.

She stands up and spins in place, eyes darting around the room like a caged animal searching for a way out.

Alice pushes off the wall, her expression a mix of confusion and concern. She glances at Jennifer, who’s finally sat up, her brows raising as she watches Agatha lose control.

“Uhm… Is she… okay?” Jennifer asks. She swings her legs over the bunk and hops down. “She can’t already be going crazy, can she?” Her tone is mocking, but Agatha doesn’t care. Her chest tightens with fury as she searches the floor.

“Ughhh, where is the damn thing!” Agatha snarls through gritted teeth, her frustration boiling over. She drops to her knees, clawing at the cold tile beneath the bed, throwing the thin mattress aside. Her fingers scrape the floor, searching for something—anything.

Finally, she snaps her gaze toward the others, her blue eyes wild with rage. “Do any of you have it?” Her voice is low and dangerous, a growl of pure venom.

Jennifer scoffs, crossing her arms. “We don’t even know what you’re looking for, smartass. Maybe give us a clue instead of throwing accusations around.” She gestures to the witches.

Agatha’s eyes flash with something murderous. Before she can launch herself at Jennifer, Alice steps between them, holding up her hands in a gesture of peace. “Alright, alright, let’s just—calm down, everyone,” Alice says quickly, trying to defuse the tension before it explodes.

Agatha ignores her. Her eyes lock onto the boy—Teen, she thinks, but she doesn’t care enough to remember his name. He hasn’t moved from his spot on the cold floor, his thin body hunched in a miserable huddle. His eyes are wide, filled with alarm.

“You,” Agatha spits, her voice cutting through the room like a whip.

The boy glances up, startled, his pale face growing paler. “M-me?” His voice is a shaky whisper.

“Who the fuck else?” Agatha’s words are laced with venom, her hands clenching into fists as she stalks toward him. She crosses the room in quick, furious strides, her face twisted in a snarl. Without warning, she grabs him by the shoulders and slams him against the wall, her nails digging into his flesh. He yelps in pain, his breath hitching as she lifts him up, pinning him there with a strength that seems impossible for her slender frame.

The boy’s breathing becomes ragged, his eyes wide with fear, but there’s a flicker of something else there—determination, maybe defiance, but weak and trembling under the weight of her fury.

“You were looking awfully suspicious over here, kiddo,” Agatha hisses, her face inches from his. “Got anything that doesn’t belong to you?” She gives him another shove against the wall, her fingers tightening. His skin is cold and clammy under her touch.

“Where is it?!” Agatha roars, shaking him roughly.

"Get off him, you bitch, he's just a child!" Lilia shouts, her voice shaking with anger. “He didn’t steal whatever—"

Before she can finish, the boy—his jaw clenched tight, his body trembling with a mix of fear and defiance—interrupts. "Fine. Do you want it? Have it." His voice is sharp, laced with bitter resentment. Reaching into the pocket of his hospital gown, he pulls out Agatha’s brooch and, with a flick of his wrist, throws it across the room. The small, silver artifact arcs through the air, clattering against the white wall with a dull thud before dropping to the floor.

Agatha immediately releases him, her grip loosening as she bolts for the brooch. Her heart pounds as she reaches it, hands trembling slightly as she picks it up, inspecting it with sharp eyes. It’s intact, untouched, thanks to the centuries-old protection spell she wove into its metal long ago. A flood of relief washes over her as she cradles it close to her chest, her eyes falling shut for a moment. Her magic, her essence, lies within this object. Losing it would’ve been catastrophic.

Breathing in deeply, Agatha opens her eyes and slowly turns to face the others. She catches the looks they give her. Alice’s face is twisted in fury, her fists clenched at her sides. Jennifer wears an expression of mock offense, though her narrowed eyes show a sliver of disdain. Lilia’s gaze is one of disappointment, her lips pressed into a thin line as she crosses her arms. And the boy—Teen—is rubbing his arm where she had gripped him, the bruising already visible on his pale skin.

For a moment, the weight of her actions lingers in the air like static. Agatha sees the mark she left on him, the way he winces when his fingers brush the bruise. She knows she was rougher than she intended, but the sight doesn’t move her. If anything, it reinforces her superiority—he should’ve known better than to take what was hers.

Clearing her throat, Agatha stands tall, flipping her dark hair back over her proud shoulders. Her posture straightens, regal and unyielding, her chin lifting as if to remind them all who she is. The momentary vulnerability she felt is gone, replaced by her usual arrogance.

“It’s bad form to take something that’s not yours… Teen,” she says, her voice dripping with condescension. Her cold, blue eyes lock on his, daring him to challenge her again.

He scoffs, a hint of anger flashing in his gaze. "My name is—"

Agatha cuts him off with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Like I give a shit, dear.” Her eyes roll, the conversation already beneath her.

__

Agatha sits on the cold, hard floor of their shared cage, the only sound in the room the faint, rhythmic breathing of the others as they sleep. Whoever runs this hellhole has turned off the lights for the night, casting the room in thick, oppressive darkness. According to Lilia, this is routine. But Agatha can’t sleep—won’t sleep—not here, not surrounded by strangers.

The bunk beds, big enough to cram two or three people per level, are all occupied. Alice, always on edge, sleeps lightly beside Jennifer, whose chest rises and falls steadily. The woman sleeps as if nothing could possibly disturb her—a dreamless, peaceful slumber. Lilia, on the bottom bunk, shares her space with the boy—Teen, Agatha still hasn’t learned his name. He’s curled up tightly, shivering even beneath the blankets. His face is scrunched up in distress, his body trembling faintly with each breath.

Agatha tilts her head, watching him for a moment, curiosity flickering through her mind. What’s he dreaming about? Is it something that happened to him here? Or somewhere else? She had almost forgotten—these witches had lives before being captured. They weren’t born in this cage like prisoners of fate. The thought strikes her as odd; she hasn’t considered them as anything other than pawns in the same twisted game she’s been thrown into.

Her contemplation is interrupted by a soft voice from the darkness.

“Shouldn’t you be sleeping, dearie?” Lilia asks, her voice groggy but alert. Agatha flinches, not having noticed Lilia’s eyes were open, faintly glowing as they peer through the shadows. Lilia lies just below Teen, her head tilted slightly, her gaze fixated on Agatha. Even in the dark, she feels those eyes boring into her, weighing her.

Agatha quickly recovers, scoffing lightly as she presses a hand to her chest in mock offense. “Are you implying… I can’t have my own sleep schedule?” she quips, her tone dripping with sarcasm, her words meant to deflect.

Lilia lets out a small sigh. “You have insomnia too?”

Agatha pauses. She hadn’t thought about it like that. “No,” she says, her voice thoughtful, almost distant. “I’m not an insomniac. I’m... nocturnal.” There’s a smirk in her voice, the faintest trace of humor as she remembers the spell she cast on herself decades ago. The enchantment allowed her to survive on less sleep, so she could study and practice magic uninterrupted, without the constraints of time. Ah, the efficiency... But now, in this cage, without her magic—without her freedom—it’s a cruel irony.

Gods, how she misses the escape of sleep.

Lilia chuckles softly, a sound so foreign in this place that it takes Agatha by surprise. For a moment, Agatha’s brow furrows, her mind reeling at how strange it feels to hear someone laugh at her joke—at her—after all these years. She pushes the thought aside, unwilling to dwell on it.

“So,” Agatha says, her voice lowering as she shifts slightly on the floor. “How long have you been in this place? You all seem to, uh, have a story.” Her tone is casual, but there’s a clear implication in her words. She’s referring to the scars, the bruises, the broken parts of these witches that she can see even in the dim light.

Lilia falls silent for a moment, the weight of Agatha’s question hanging in the air between them. She seems to understand what Agatha is really asking.

“...Everyone in this place has their ‘stories’,” Lilia finally replies, her voice soft but tinged with a quiet bitterness. It’s a truth that doesn’t need elaboration; the scars, both seen and unseen, speak for themselves.

Agatha clenches her jaw, her fingers absently tracing the edges of her mother’s brooch, the familiar weight grounding her, even here. Her mind races, but she tries to appear calm. She’s always been curious, but the question that escapes her lips surprises even her.

"...What happened to the kid?" Her voice is rough, raspier than usual. She isn’t used to caring about other people’s stories, but something about the boy… it nags at her. Maybe it’s the scars, or the way he seems haunted, as if he's already been through hell despite his youth.

Lilia doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, the silence stretches on, heavy and uncomfortable. Finally, she sighs softly. “...I don't know. It's not something that's easily brought up, for any of us. He doesn’t want to talk about it. We don’t.”

Agatha hums, though the sound is more out of habit than genuine interest. That was a buzzkill, she thinks. The mystery will remain, at least for now. Maybe one day, she’ll find out what broke the boy so badly. But today isn't that day. She doesn’t care enough to dig deeper—not yet.

She shifts on the cold tile, her body tense from sitting on the floor for so long. That’s when it happens.

A tingle.

A strange, electric sensation starts crawling over her skin, creeping through her limbs like pins and needles. It feels like a slow burn at first, but then—then it gets sharper. Hotter. Lighter.

No...

Agatha's breath catches in her throat, her pulse quickening. Her eyes snap wide, panic settling in her gut like lead.

Magic.

It’s unmistakable. Magic. But not hers. She’d know her own magic anywhere, would recognize its feel, its signature. This? This is foreign. Yet… Familiar. 

The air around her pulses with it, vibrating as if the magic is alive. She scans the room frantically, her gaze darting from one sleeping figure to the next. None of them are awake, none of them are casting.

Then whose is it?

Her body starts to tremble, the tingling sensation growing, overtaking her muscles. Her legs feel weightless, her arms too light to be real. Fucking hell, her mind swears, but her voice is lost. She gasps for breath, her mouth slightly ajar, sucking in air that feels too thick, too hot.

Lilia watches from the bunk, her eyes barely visible in the dim light but unmistakably wide. “Well, shit,” she mutters, her voice rough with surprise.

Agatha whips her head toward Lilia, desperation clear in her eyes. “Whose magic is this?!” she hisses, her voice trembling along with her limbs.

Lilia’s eyes narrow, scanning the room like a predator sensing danger, her expression unreadable. “Someone is—”

But before she can finish, everything around Agatha explodes into a bright, searing green light.

Blinding.

The room vanishes. The witches vanish. Reality warps and bends, and Agatha is swallowed by the overwhelming rush of magic. It surges through her body, pulling her under like a tidal wave she can’t escape. Every muscle locks, her vision distorts, and her mind plunges into darkness.

She blacks out.

__

Agatha’s eyes flutter open, her vision swimming through a haze of confusion and dull pain. Her head feels like it’s been filled with lead, every blink heavier than the last. The lights around her are mercifully dim—nothing like the blinding fluorescence from before. But something about the darkened room gnaws at her nerves. As her vision sharpens, a sinking realization hits.

She’s bound. Tightly.

Her wrists and ankles are strapped to a cold metal chair, and as soon as she tries to pull against them, the restraints bite into her skin. Panic flares for a moment as she jerks, trying to break free, but the leather straps hold firm. She groans in frustration, her pulse quickening as she frantically assesses her surroundings.

How the fuck does she keep getting caught in these situations? Two hundred years ago, things weren’t this complicated. But now—now it feels like she's constantly being caged. The room around her is shrouded in shadows, but she can make out just enough in the dim light. And what she sees sends a chill crawling up her spine.

The place reeks of dark magic.

Every surface is cluttered with strange plants, vials filled with glowing liquids, lanterns, herbs she recognizes, and bones—scattered, hanging, arranged in ritualistic patterns. It’s almost a mirror of her lair. The air is thick with the familiar scent of earth and decay. It makes her stomach turn. She shudders. This is the kind of place she would have crafted for herself. Hell, it smells like Rio’s lair.

She lets out a bitter laugh, her dry lips curling into a sneer. "Fuck..."

A sharp ache blooms in her leg, radiating from the bandaged wound. Agatha grits her teeth, stifling the groan that tries to escape her throat. The pain is real, tangible, and it's getting worse. But she’s dealt with worse. She always has.

“Riiiiiiooooooo,” Agatha drawls, her voice dripping with mockery as her head swivels around, eyes narrowing, searching the shadows. She knows exactly whose magic has her trapped here. She feels it in her bones. “I know you’re in here, sweetcheeks.” Agatha licks her lips, her voice low and taunting. “Come out, come out, wherever you are…”

The taunt hangs in the air, but her confidence falters when a sharp pulse of pain rips through her leg. "Fuck..." She mutters under her breath, biting down on her lip hard enough to draw blood. The copper taste grounds her, keeps her steady. She won’t give Rio the satisfaction of seeing her in pain.

She glances up, her eyes sweeping over the room—and then she freezes.

There she is.

Rio stands just beyond the shadows, her silhouette sharp and striking, her presence almost suffocating in its intensity. The soft light catches on her tan skin, glowing with a warmth that Agatha both loathes and craves. Her dark hair cascades down her shoulders, disheveled but somehow perfect in its imperfection. Agatha’s eyes narrow, hatred and desire swirling in a volatile mix as they meet Rio’s.

And that smirk.

That condescending, amused smirk curls Rio’s lips, like she’s toying with Agatha, like she’s already won. Agatha’s pulse quickens for entirely different reasons now. She wants to rip that smug look off Rio’s face with her teeth, wants to splatter her skin with blood and magic. But just as much (maybe more), she wants to grab Rio by the hair and kiss her until neither of them can breathe.

Rio stands before Agatha like a haunting specter of the past, exuding effortless confidence. Her black leggings cling to her legs, streaked with earthy brown lines that start from her torso and stop just shy of her thighs—one of those small, stylish touches that could only be Rio. She’s wearing one of her custom tops, the intricate pattern running down her sides almost distracting in its beauty. And over it all, the jacket—tailored, fitted, and distinctively hers. But it’s the dagger in her hand that steals Agatha’s attention.

Rio tosses it into the air, and the blade catches the dim light from the nearby lanterns, a deadly glint flashing for just a moment before it drops back into her grasp. The ease with which she moves, the fluidity—it’s mesmerizing.

Ethereal.

Agatha clenches her jaw at the absurd thought, suppressing the heat rising in her cheeks. She would never admit such a thing, not even under torture. But there’s no denying it—Rio looks as sharp and lethal as ever.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" Agatha seethes internally. Rio isn’t someone who gets tangled up in cults. Agatha knows her ex-wife too well for that. There’s always a larger game being played, especially when Rio is involved.

Suddenly, Rio’s voice cuts through the air, low and teasing, dripping with that familiar taunt. "Oye, mami, mierda, parece que tuviste un mal día."

Agatha scoffs, hating the way her body reacts to the sound of that voice, the heat crawling up her neck. She growls in response, masking the fluster with defiance. “What are you doing here, Rio? Didn’t take you for the cult type.”

Rio shrugs with a careless, almost feline grace, her movements slow and deliberate as she crosses the room. “I’m not.” Her voice is thick with amusement as she leans against a cluttered table, casually twirling the dagger. “But what better way to get fresh bodies than to infiltrate a witching cult obsessed with witches? You’d be surprised at the number of souls I’ve led out of here.”

Agatha sneers, her lip curling. “So what, you just lie around all day, waiting for your precious bodies to roll in?”

Rio’s chuckle is soft but dangerous as she flips her hair over her shoulder with a practiced ease that only Agatha would recognize. She used to do that. She still does that. Rio had picked it up from her. The small detail makes Agatha’s stomach twist.

“Nope. I’ll have you know I’m their doctor.” Rio says with a smirk, her dark eyes gleaming. “I heal their… patients, injuries. Sometimes.” There’s an unmistakable pride in her voice, a kind of twisted joy in her role here, as though her hands play both healer and executioner.

Agatha’s eyes narrow as she watches Rio slip on some surgical gloves, her focus shifting to the collection of vials and potions scattered across it. Each one is strange, glowing, and undoubtedly dangerous. Agatha’s heart races as she takes in the scene, her mind spinning with every possibility.

“What… what are you looking for?” Agatha asks, her voice betraying a touch of wariness. She won’t show fear. She refuses. But Rio knows her too well—knows every crack in her armor.

Rio hums absentmindedly, sorting through the vials with casual indifference. “Oh, nothing much.” Her fingers glide over the glass, pausing before plucking a glowing green vial from the assortment. “Aha!” She holds it up triumphantly, her eyes flickering with mischief.

Agatha’s throat tightens as she watches Rio pick up a syringe from the table, extracting the glowing liquid with expert precision. The green substance swirls inside the syringe like poison, and Agatha feels a spike of panic claw at her chest.

“Rio…” Her voice cracks, her earlier bravado starting to slip. Agatha yanks at her restraints again, her muscles burning with effort as adrenaline surges through her. She pulls harder, her body thrumming with fight-or-flight urgency, but the bonds don’t give. Fear starts to creep in, a feeling she thought long buried.

Rio glances at her, amused. "Nuh uh, mami," she says with a soft tsk. "Te lastimarás si sigues tirando. No tardará mucho, te lo prometo."

Agatha’s snarl echoes through the dim room. “¡Aléjame esa mierda misteriosa!” she shouts, her voice raw as she yanks against the restraints, pain shooting through her wrists as the leather bites into her skin.

Rio's expression shifts, softening in a way that’s almost disarming when Agatha speaks Spanish. It’s a language they used to share—intimate, once. “I’ll be gentle, mami,” Rio purrs, kneeling between Agatha’s legs, her presence suffocating in its intensity. Each of Agatha’s ankles is bound to a chair leg, leaving her vulnerable, utterly at Rio’s mercy. Agatha thrashes, but the restraints hold tight, offering no escape.

Rio’s free hand reaches up, fingers brushing the side of Agatha’s face with an unexpected tenderness. She tilts Agatha’s head back, exposing her neck with an air of quiet reverence. “Perfection,” Rio murmurs, her voice low, a hushed, almost sacred tone that sends a shiver down Agatha’s spine.

Agatha's breath catches at the sound of Rio's praise, a knot of emotion twisting deep inside her, but she quickly shakes it off, refusing to let Rio get inside her head.

The needle hovers over her skin, poised and ready. Agatha feels its presence even before it touches her—cold and menacing. The moment it pierces her flesh, sharp and deliberate, she tenses. A strangled groan escapes her lips, the pain brief but sharp.

And then the real agony begins.

A scream tears from Agatha’s throat as the burning starts, searing its way through her veins like liquid fire. She jerks against the restraints, her body convulsing as the burning intensifies, spreading with every agonizing pulse. It’s like her blood is turning to molten lava, boiling her from the inside out. Agatha gasps, choking on her own breath, every inhale shallow and desperate as if her lungs can’t find enough air. Her entire body trembles, muscles locking in violent spasms.

Her fingers dig into the wooden armrests, nails splintering under the pressure, and her eyes squeeze shut, trying to block out the overwhelming sensation, but it’s everywhere. It’s too much. The pain is all-consuming, drowning her in its depths.

“Make it stop,” she gasps, voice cracking, tears of pain and desperation pricking at the corners of her eyes. “Please… make it stop…”

Rio watches, her expression calm, almost serene, as if this is nothing more than a natural process. She slips off her gloves with practiced ease and reaches for Agatha, her fingers threading through Agatha's sweat-drenched hair. She strokes it gently, tucking stray strands behind Agatha’s ear with a tenderness that feels perverse in the face of such agony.

“Shhh, mi vida,” Rio whispers, leaning in close, her breath hot against Agatha’s skin. Her lips press soft kisses to Agatha’s neck, tracing a path along the sensitive flesh, her voice a soothing murmur between the sharp bursts of pain. “I know it hurts. I know… but it’ll be over soon.”

Agatha shudders, her breaths coming in shallow gasps as the fire in her veins rages on, the heat consuming her from the inside out.

“Three,” Rio’s voice is steady, unwavering, like she’s counting down to something inevitable.

“Two…”

The pain flares once more, a final burst of unbearable heat surging through Agatha’s body, and she cries out, her voice breaking.

“One.”

And then, like the flick of a switch, it stops.

The pain vanishes—completely, utterly gone. One moment, she’s drowning in agony, and the next, there’s nothing. Agatha slumps in the chair, her body spent, breath heaving in ragged gulps as she fights to catch her breath. Her skin tingles, still buzzing from the aftershocks of whatever Rio injected into her, but there’s no pain. It’s as if it never happened.

Agatha’s head hangs low, her limbs trembling as she struggles to regain some semblance of control. Her chest rises and falls with labored breaths, her throat dry and raw. It takes her a moment to find her voice again, and when she does, it’s hoarse, barely more than a whisper.

“W-what… what did you f-fucking do to me?” she rasps, her voice broken, head still bowed.

Rio tilts her head, standing over her, dark eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “The Anonymous Adversaries’ newest creation,” she says, her tone almost casual, like she’s discussing the weather. She twirls the empty syringe between her fingers, amusement dancing in her expression. “Artificial magic.”

__

Aspectus Tristis = Grim Glances

"Hey, mommy, shit, looks like you had a bad day." = "Oye, mami, mierda, parece que tuviste un mal día".

"Nuh uh, mommy. You'll hurt yourself if you keep yanking. This won't take long I promise." = "No, mami, te lastimarás si sigues tirando. No tardará mucho, te lo prometo."

"Get that mystery shit away from me!" = "¡Aléjame esa mierda misteriosa!"

Mi vida = My life

[littlesentences]

Oc kiss week day 6 - Forbidden

It was a bad idea.

Not only was the house full, but not everyone had gone to bed yet. And Darren had never wanted to do this under the same roof as his wife, or for so long. But there he was, creeping up the stairs, praying no one saw him—especially not fucking Richard. His brother would know why he was creeping up the stairs and walking close to the walls down the hall to the one empty bedroom this late at night.

At the very least, if it was anyone else, he’d be able to lie, and they might even believe him. But Richard … god if Richard saw him right now and gave him that horrendous smile, Darren didn’t know what he would do. Good thing his wife would be able to help him get away with it.

If she didn’t find out why he had killed Richard.

But this was all useless speculation, because he hadn’t even seen Richard since he had gone out the back door for a smoke half an hour ago, let alone fucking killed him.

Darren reached the door to the only empty bedroom in the house and triple checked that the hallway was clear before he opened it and slipped inside. He had never quite mastered not looking like he was sneaking around when he was sneaking around. You would think he would have given the amount of times he got caught as a kid.

That he hadn’t gotten caught at all yet—Richard didn’t count—was setting off his nerves. Made him want to call the whole thing off. Which he should do whether or not he had been caught. But it was a habit, and habits were the hardest thing to break.

Hearts were the easiest.

Which figures. The one that he wanted to break was the hardest to, but what the fuck had been his excuse that first year? It hadn’t been a habit yet, and he had felt worse every time he had come crawling back home to Jordan after pretending to work late (which hadn’t been too unbelievable a lie, there was a reason why it had worked for the last three years).

Darren had only been in the room for a minute before the door opened again, letting in the object of his frustration. Darren knew why he had decided to do this, but Brittany had never once indicated it was something other than the usual reason married people have affairs. He hoped she didn’t love him. He hoped she didn’t mistake any of this for love.

Darren himself didn’t know what it was, but he knew for damn sure that it wasn’t love.

The door had barely closed—he could have sworn he had seen the flicker of a shadow through the gap—when Brittany was pressing him against the wall and kissing him breathless. He was married, but he wasn’t a robot. It was why he was there in the first place, although why he had agreed on this under this roof, on this night, was beyond him.

So he kissed Brittany back, hands coming up to tangle in her hair, if only to not disappoint her (if only to let go of the tension that had been in his shoulders all night, waiting for the inevitable blow up between Richard and Jordan).

Her hands were hot on his skin, her mouth pliable under his, as she got his shirt off, stumbling away from the wall and tripping over a rug. His fingers tangled in her blonde hair as he tried to untie her shirt from the back of her neck, and god when she pressed up against him like that—

Their jeans came off next, and Brittany wrapped her legs around his waist and he carried her to the bed, sitting on the edge so that she could push him down whenever she felt like it. He pulled her hair, tilting her head back to glance over her throat and attack her chest, already stained with enough marks Maria wouldn’t notice a couple more.

Brittany’s hands stopped on his shoulders and pushed him down. His mouth left her breasts willingly, moving up to her jaw when she laid down on top of him. He felt her legs tense seconds before she rolled them over, and he was balancing on top of her.

One breathed word later and he was kissing his way down her sternum, hands trying to keep himself steady on her.

And it was as he was down there, starting to hear her little gasps, that Darren thought about Jordan, asleep in their bedroom downstairs, none-the-wiser to what was happening in this bedroom upstairs. And he wanted her to be the one wriggling underneath his touch—not his cousin’s wife, who had been desperate for … something.

Abruptly, Darren backed away, sitting on his haunches, staring at the beautiful body spread open for him for two seconds before gathering his clothes up.

“What are you doing?” She sounded confused, and like she already knew the answer.

“What I should have done a long time ago.” Buckling up his jeans, he shook his head and turned around. “I am going back downstairs to my wife, and actually try to work on our marriage.”

Brittany blinked. And blinked again. Then she trailed a hand up her body, torturously slow. “Aw, but I’m right here.” Up her thighs, between her spread legs, over her stomach, caressing her breasts, shaking her head in false pleasure when she ran out of body to touch.

Darren had his shirt on and back to her before she finished. “That’s the problem.”

Slamming the door on her as she had pouted at him like a child would remain the best part of the next couple of days.

[malice-havik-stain]

March Prompts #1

Prompt: Flowers (prompt list here)

Characters: Havik X Malice X Stain

Word Count: 484 (I had to stop myself at some point. Not everything needs to be 1,000+ words)

Synopsis: Havik and Malice had an argument, and he’s trying to figure out how to fix it.

Notes: So, in my selfship, all three of us live in the MHA world. No one really looks at Havik strange since the world is full of quirks (superpowers). That’s how he’s able to walk around without anyone saying anything. I started these prompts to try to stretch my writing muscles again, and use these as a warm up for my other pieces. I have a Work List of stuff on my pinned post so y’all can see what I’m up to. I was trying to add my sense of humor into this, but then it got kinda sad for Havik. And I need to reel myself in and try to do shorter pieces.

Warning: Nothing much, just a couples argument.

Havik couldn’t believe he was doing this. He let out a disgruntled sigh as he glared at the purple and white bouquet in his scarred hands. Him and Malice, his beloved, got into a nasty argument, and he was desperate to try and fix it. He’s never been in any type of meaningful relationship before, and he wasn’t from Earthrealm, and he had no idea where to even start. He consulted with Chizome, who has even less experience than the Chaosrealmer, on what to do.

Yet, the best advice he could get from a serial killer is, ‘Why not try giving her flowers?’

Sure.

Flowers.

Because something as mundane as flowers would get him out of the dumpster fire (a phrase he learned from Malice) he’s in, and back into her good graces. There is no way this is going to work, and yet, he didn’t have any other options.

An irritated groan escaped between his teeth as he thought back to their screaming match. He knew he could be rough around the edges, and she had the fiery temper of a Netherrealm demoness. When they argue, things can escalate quickly.

And escalate they did!

Voices were raised, tempers flared, and harsh words were passed around. The next thing he knew, a glass vase came flying through the air and shattered against the wall by his head.

“Get out!” Malice roared, stomping away to her bedroom and slamming the door shut.

That was two days ago.

Ever since then, she’s been giving him a cold shoulder and the silent treatment. The most deadly combination. She still cooks food for all three of them, cleans up the cozy little apartment, and does the laundry. But she won’t even acknowledge his presence.

Just silence and not even a glance in his direction.

That’s fine. He could endure it, he thought.

But after a few hours, the stinging in his chest and the heavy ball of dread in his stomach told him otherwise. He missed those pretty brown eyes looking his way, sparkling with adoration. The cute little humming she does when she washes the dishes. The whimsical way she says “My Lady” to her reflection every time she passes the mirror.

Night time was the worst. Instead of having her soft curves keeping him warm, he had to endure the depressing loneliness of the couch. All the while, Chizome got to sleep next to her and keep her all to himself.

Of all the things he’s lost in his life, he would be damned if he lost her, too. He needed to make things right. And fast.

Each step felt heavy like a boulder as butterflies fluttered violently in his stomach. He took one last look at the flowers he carried, the natural perfume wafting to his nose, as he approached the apartment door.

”Let’s hope you’re right, Killer.” Havik grunted, before opening the door.

[livebloggingmydescentintomadness]

This is a heavier ask so please ignore if you don't have the spoons or the desire to answer this. Also I hope you're doing well and having a good day and feeling happy and whole. I know I'm just a stranger on the Internet but you've been very helpful and sweet to my asks before, so I figured I'd try.

Momdad, can I have some gentleness? The best therapist I ever had just told me that she can't help me anymore and will refer me to someone else, but I feel so bad and broken and ashamed of my trauma and my mentally ill brain. I've been working a physical labor job so much, averaging 12-13 hour shifts, and I am so, so tired but I can't rest. I really want a hug but I have nobody around to help me.

oh, sweetie, i'm so sorry, that sounds really rough. i think you really deserve to just sit down for a minute and let yourself really know that this is an incredibly difficult situation and anyone would struggle underneath its weight.

i mean, if you grabbed anyone off the street and saddled them with this hard of a job and the fatigue it causes, the trauma you've been through, the mental illness you're dealing with, the loneliness and isolation, and then took away one of the few things that was helping keep them afloat, they'd have a really hard time with that, don't you think? i don't think it's feeling sorry for yourself to just let yourself acknowledge that life is really hard right now, and it's okay to struggle with something that's really hard. struggling in a really hard situation is not failure.

and you know what, if you need to cry about that, that is completely okay. if you need to rant to an imaginary person about every difficult thing you're facing, that's totally okay. it's taken me a long time to learn, but bottling it all up just doesn't help. you've gotta let the pressure out somehow.

the fact that you've made it this far tells me that you're really, really strong, but as someone who is also strong, i know how that can almost feel like a curse sometimes. because we shouldn't HAVE to be this strong, should we? we shouldn't have to carry loads so heavy that all we want to do is fall apart, but we know we can't, because we have to be strong. it fucking sucks.

it's so damn hard to internalize, but being weak isn't the end of the world. being tired, and sad, and damaged, and lonely, and sick, and wanting everything to be different... it doesn't make you less. it just makes you human. all of us are fucked up and flawed and broken, no matter how hard we pretend otherwise.

please give yourself as many little moments of weakness that you can, honey. give yourself crying, give yourself telling someone how you feel, give yourself something soft or funny or warm. give yourself not making things harder by telling yourself it shouldn't be this hard. it IS this hard, and no, somebody else wouldn't be handling it better. it really does suck this much, and you're doing the fucking best you can.

i really hope the new therapist will turn out to be really good for you, and i hope you get that hug from someone. i'm here, of course, but try to be gentle with yourself too, love. take care. <3

[magmahearts]

TIMING: current PARTIES: @ohwynne & @magmahearts LOCATION: the magmacave SUMMARY: wynne comes to question cass's recent behavior and finds something unexpected. CONTENT WARNINGS: implications of emotional manipulation.

Frustration was a building, bubbling thing these days. Ever since her run-in with Zane, it had been a tangible add-on, chasing out Cass’s usual optimism and brightness and replacing it with something darker. Everything her friends said to her felt like an attack, spurned on by Makaio’s commentary. They weren’t messaging her, he said, and if they were, it was only to tell her that she was different. He was sorry, he was hurting alongside her, he loved her as she was and he hated that they didn’t. He told her it didn’t matter, that it didn’t need to matter. Cass had Makaio, and Makaio had Cass. What more did either of them need?

And yet, the frustration bubbled. It built. It was a living thing in her gut, churning and yowling. She wanted them to understand, and they didn’t. No one did. Makaio informed her that most were likely judging her for how she’d handled the hunter, just as Leila had seemed to. It hurt, but it was fine. It had to be fine. Cass had Makaio. She repeated it like a mantra. 

“Perhaps we should go for a walk,” Makaio suggested. Cass had been sitting in the corner of the cave for hours now, running her hand across the stone. She knew he was worried even if he hadn’t said so, and knowing this made her chest feel a little less tight.

“I don’t want to run into anyone,” she replied glumly. “Everyone is so —”

She broke off, tensing. Footsteps were approaching the mouth of the cave. Cass turned to Makaio. “Maybe you should —” But before he could disappear, a figure was outlined in the light from the mouth of the cave. Makaio stood, and so Cass scrambled to her feet alongside him. She clenched her hands into fists, ready for someone looking for retribution for the hunter she’d mutilated, but instead…

“Wynne?”

—

Something was wrong with Cass. Ever since she had saved Ariadne from that hunter, there had been a shift. And Wynne understood that instances like that took a toll on someone’s psyche, that they could make communication hard and make every word seem like a run around the block. After the barn, after the ritual, after Ireland — they had felt themself being reduced. In their smaller form they’d struggled, hadn’t they, with their friends. But they’d kept reaching out, had kept letting them in, had known that there was no room for them to throw up walls and become inaccessible. It would go against their instincts and teachings, but Cass had not been taught the lessons they’d been taught. The ones about controlling their emotions, about keeping their upset to themself, about being a beacon of calm. And that was good.

But what would not be good was to just leave Cass in a time like this. Though they had taken a step back from trying to interact with her online, they would not simply accept this change without attempting to reach out. In part because of how much it hurt Ariadne, but most of all because they were worried about her.

So Wynne had gone up to her cave unannounced, figuring it best to leave their bled out online conversation for what it was. They felt a swirl of nerves in their system as they carried a tote bag up, the strain on their muscles as they walked up a welcome distraction from the pit in their stomach.

They weren’t sure what to expect upon arrival. They weren’t even sure if Cass was going to be home. But they hadn’t expected this, the sight of glowing red. Not embers, but magma, and not just on Cass’ unglamoured form but another one.

Wynne halted, eyes searching out Cass. The stranger made something twist in their stomach. Why hadn’t Cass said there was another fae like them in town? “Hi Cass. Sorry for coming by unannounced, I wanted to see if you were alright.” They gestured at their tote. “I brought some fresh lemonade.”

—

This wasn’t how things were supposed to go. Nothing was going as it was supposed to lately. The world kept throwing things at her, and Cass didn’t know how to catch them all. Ariadne hadn’t reached out since the incident with the hunter, her father told her; she must have been angry with her, must have been haunted by the image of Cass clinging to the man and trying to burn him to ash with her rage. 

She was afraid to ask her father for her phone back, both in anticipation of his reaction and for fear of what she might find in her messages. He told her about some of the ones coming through — Anita’s anger, Thea’s statement that her heroes would be disappointed in her, Burrow’s excitement to meet him. He told her of the silences, too. She asked after Ariadne, after Metzli, but her father told her that both had been silent throughout. He said Leila had only messaged to agree to give her space, and even though she’d asked the mare to leave, her absence still ached. She’d hoped, perhaps childishly, that Leila might put up a fight. But maybe she wasn’t worth that.

It was strange then, wasn’t it, that Wynne was here now? It didn’t quite fit, a piece that felt just as clunky and strange as Zane’s words to her in the grocery store. Like she had then, Cass closed her eyes to it, desperate for her story to remain a thing that made sense with her father in the position she needed him to be in. She needed him to be supportive and kind and here, so she invented a world with no inconsistencies. Wynne was here, she thought, to chastise her. To tell her she was wrong for not protecting Ariadne better, to condemn her for giving her friend another nightmare to cope with. It was the only thing that made sense in the way she needed it to.

And so, Cass was tense right away. Her father shifted beside her, and she could feel his discomfort. She wanted to scream, wanted to thrash and bang her fists against the wall without knowing why. Makaio wasn’t ready for this — couldn’t Wynne have told her they were coming? 

“I’m fine,” she replied flatly, uneasy as she observed her… friend? Was that what they were? Before, she would have said yes with little hesitation, but everything was different now. If Ariadne wasn’t speaking to her, wouldn’t Wynne take her side? Wouldn’t everyone, once they heard about how Cass nearly burned a man into nothing, about how she wished desperately that she hadn’t left it at almost? She’d wanted to kill him. She wanted to kill him still, wanted to find him and finish what she’d started. Would Wynne really still think of her as a friend, after that?

She looked down at the tote, stiff and still so uncertain. She glanced to Makaio, as if looking for an answer to a question that hadn’t been asked. His face was flat and unreadable, and fear prickled down her spine. “I don’t want any lemonade,” she said, still watching her father’s face. He seemed to nod at that, a hint of approval flashing in his eyes. This was how she was supposed to respond. “I think you should go. You can’t just — You shouldn’t come here unannounced.”

—

Ariadne had told them, what had happened with the hunter. How Cass had almost killed them with her heat. Wynne wasn’t sure how they felt about it — they understood the anger. They remembered speaking with Cass about wanting Rhett dead, too. They knew that sometimes it seemed like the right thing to kill someone. Hadn’t they mocked Padrig as he’d begged for his life and not felt wholly deplorable for it? 

They hadn’t judged, that was the primary thing. They had been there for Ariadne and held her tight and known that they’d want to speak to Cass about it because they were worried. To hold someone’s life in the palm of your hand was a terrifying feeling, wasn’t it? And wasn’t anger terrifying, too? But Cass had become hard to talk to and Wynne was still mostly used to talking to people in real life, somewhat old fashioned in that regard. So of course they were here now, having gathered their bravery and hoping to finally see their friend again. To check in.

But Cass didn’t seem happy to see her. Magma flowed where she stood, as it did on the other person. They were confused. Not scared, not really — they knew Cass wouldn’t hurt them. There were just pieces missing in their mind, the picture incomplete without all the correct puzzle pieces.

“That’s okay,” they said. “You don’t have to drink it.” Food and drink were one of the ways they managed to connect to people, so of course they’d brought some. It was how they’d gotten friendlier with Zack, when he’d just been their unfamiliar roommate. How they had expressed gratitude to Emilio. How Ariadne and them enjoyed plenty of their times. But they didn’t need lemonade to be there for Cass.

“I … I mean, I think if I had asked you beforehand you would have told me not to come. And we’re all very worried about you, Cass. It’s okay if you’re upset, you know?” Wynne shifted awkwardly. “And also if you aren’t. I just … well, we miss you. I miss you. I don’t want to go yet.” They looked at the other person. “Hi. I’m Wynne.”

—

They were worried about her. Months ago, it would have been enough to send a thrill of excitement through her — that she had friends, and that those friends thought of her often enough to feel concern when things seemed uncertain. But now? All Cass could think of was Leila outside her cave, of all the things she had said between the lines. Wasn’t Wynne doing the same now? They were worried about her because they thought that something was wrong, because they couldn’t fathom that Cass was angry and justified to be this way. They were worried about her because she’d stopped acting like someone she’d never really been to begin with. They were worried about someone who didn’t really exist, and they resented the person who’d taken her place. 

Because wasn’t this who Cass really was, after all? Not the girl who had been too afraid to fight back against the hunter with his hand around her throat, but the one who had burned a man nearly to death and regretted only the fact that she’d been asked to stop at nearly. Wynne was worried about her, but only because she was acting like the person she was supposed to be instead of the person they wanted her to be.

Something strange burned in her chest. It wasn’t anger, but she let herself pretend that it was. It was easier that way, wasn’t it? It was better to be angry, it was expected. But… Wynne said they missed her, and Cass felt her resolve shift. 

“I…” She wanted them to stay. It was a jolting feeling, a quiet realization. She loved her friend, and she wanted them to stay. She took a step forward, but a hand on her shoulder stopped her. Immediately, that uncertain feeling of doubt was replaced with shame. She knew better than this, of course. She knew who she was, who she was supposed to be. It was silly of her to forget that.

“You come here,” Makaio rumbled, “with no notice. Without asking. Do humans learn manners?”

He was right. Wasn’t he? Of course he was right. Cass put her walls back up, schooling her features into something flatter, something more stoic, something closer to her father. “I — I want you to go.” It was a lie; she could tell by the way it burned her tongue, the way it made her stomach clench painfully. She tried not to let it show.

—

Wynne watched how Cass struggled to speak, how she moved forward and how then, a hand landed on her shoulder and held her back. They tried to make eye contact with Cass, to ask her what was going on, if this was alright, who this man even was. Another oread, that was certain, but how did they know each other? Hadn’t Cass been cast out by her family?

Then the stranger spoke, not to introduce himself like they had done. They had thought themself polite when they’d offered their name, but in stead he was curt and clear. He thought them rude, for appearing without notice. And maybe they should have texted, but it had hurt to look at their recent messages with Cass, where she had said she didn’t really care. Looking at those too long would have discouraged them from coming here, and they had to. Not only for Cass, but for Metzli, who had asked them to, and for everyone else who’d been confused by her switch in behavior.

“Oh,” they said. “We do – we show up without notice all the time. Cass is always welcome at my place.” And they had thought they were always welcome at hers in return. They had been, hadn’t they.

Wynne looked at the two people in front of them, at the magma that moved and the heat that radiated off them. A bead of sweat formed on their forehead and it was solely because of that, or at least so they figured. Cass was hesitant as she spoke, Cass had a hand on her shoulder that had held her back from moving towards them. Wynne swallowed. “I haven’t seen you in so long Cass, wouldn’t it be nice to hang out for a bit? I really did miss you.” In Ireland and after. “Or maybe we can make some plans now, at least, so we can hang out soon? Watch a movie? Talk?” They looked at the man again. “What’s your name? I think it is manners … um, I mean polite to introduce yourself.” They smiled cautiously, but they felt a surge of indignation swirl at the pit of their stomach. 

—

Wynne tried to make eye contact, and Cass turned her head quickly and deliberately. Her throat felt tight, her chest hurt, and she wished they hadn’t come. It would have been simpler if they hadn’t, wouldn’t it? The problem with people like Wynne wasn’t just that they would leave intentionally, after all. Wynne was so painfully mortal, and Cass had never been more aware of it than she was in that moment, with her father’s hand heavy on her shoulder. Even if they weren’t upset with her now — even if Ariadne’s fear and anger hadn’t spread, even if Wynne got it… What good did it do her? They would still die. She would still be alone.

Well… She focused on the hand on her shoulder. Not alone. Never alone again. Her father was like her — a long-lived being built to last. He wouldn’t die. And he wouldn’t leave, either. He was the steady force she’d been looking for all her life. She couldn’t let go of him now. She didn’t want to.

She shifted her weight as Wynne insisted that they showed up at one another’s houses all the time. What if her father judged her for it? Didn’t Wynne realize how delicate this all was? They could ruin everything if they weren’t careful. A brief flash of anger flared in her chest, but it was squashed by the grip on her shoulder tightening. She told herself it was reassurance, even if it bruised. “Your home,” Makaio said, “is walls and a roof. Cassidy’s home is a part of her. Surely you wouldn’t open someone’s ribcage uninvited, sink your hands into their chest?”

Relief flooded her, though she didn’t let it show. An exception was made for her. It sent a quiet thrill through her. She’d never been anyone’s exception before. The feeling quickly faded as Wynne continued, that tightness back in her chest. A hint of anger flared, and she grabbed it with both hands and held on tight. “You left,” she pointed out sharply. “You and — and Nora, and… Everyone just ran off to Ireland!” She’d understood it when it happened, but the more her father spoke to her, the more she wondered. Hadn’t it been a little too easy for so many of the people she loved to hop a plane and fly to another country? Hadn’t it seemed as though they barely thought about it at all, barely even considered? She was allowed to want them to stay, wasn’t she? She was allowed.

Wynne was looking at Makaio, and he was looking back, and Cass had wanted this, once. She’d imagined Wynne at a big table, with Ariadne and Nora and Metzli and Leila and Van and Thea and so many others being introduced to her father over bread and wine and too many jokes. Had it been a stupid thing to imagine? Had she been kidding herself? Maybe it was harder to love her when she wasn’t pretending.

“Makaio,” he said, sounding disinterested. “Akamai.”

Cass held her breath.

—

As the stranger spoke about Cass’ cave, Wynne was hit with a wave of doubt. It was easy to question oneself after weeks of online conversation, but still. Hadn’t Cass always been glad to see them show up? Hadn’t Cass burst with excitement at the sight of them once? “I … if Cass has a problem with me showing up unannounced she never said so before, is all. I can stop doing it if she wants.” They put some extra weight to the she, eyes boring into the hand on Cass’ shoulder.

When Cass spoke again, though, and when she did so sharply, they severed their stare and looked at her. Wynne dug their teeth into their bottom lip. They had tried to remain calm and sweet, because they had figured that would be the best approach — even if Cass had hurt their feelings and even if now she was hurting them too. But maybe it was a useless method. They felt their back straightening.

“I did not run off to Ireland to have fun, Cass,” they said tersely, “I went because Nora was in trouble. Would you rather I hadn’t gone? She might have died.” They didn’t understand where all of this was coming from, but they were sharp enough to understand that grip on Cass’ shoulder might have something to do with it. “Are you mad at me for that? For going to help our friend? If you’re mad at me, you should talk to me about it. I’m always down to talk, you know that. I would prefer to talk rather than have you —” They inhaled. “Tell me you don’t care and shut us out.” 

The man introduced himself, the surname making things sort of land into place, but not really. Makaio — he was family. Cass’ family, who had abandoned her. “It is a pleasure to meet you,” they said, looking between them, “Are you her father? Or brother?” Cousin, possibly. Why hadn’t Cass said anything? That hand was still on her shoulder and even though it was all rock and magma, Wynne saw there was something tight about it. They remembered plenty of tight hands on their own body. “I didn’t know — well, it’s really nice that you’re reunited!” Was it? Would it be good if their own dad showed up? Would it be good?

—

The thing was, Cass didn’t have a problem with Wynne — or anyone, really — showing up at her cave unannounced. If anything, the opposite was true. People showed up at her cave without warning, and it made her feel warm and happy and loved. It made her feel good to know that they’d been thinking of her enough to prompt an unannounced drop-in, made her feel like she was a thing worth visiting even if you didn’t have time to send a word ahead. But she wasn’t supposed to feel that way. Makaio’s hand on her shoulder was steering her towards a corrective course, making her question everything that had ever lived within her chest. Did she feel this way genuinely? Or had she convinced herself that things that weren’t okay were good in order to make herself more digestible? So much of who she was was carefully constructed in the interest of curving the bitter taste that clung to her skin. Did she know who she was at all? Did Wynne? 

Makaio did. She reminded herself of this, let it settle the pounding in her chest. Makaio knew who she was, didn’t he? She was a part of him. All the things she tried to hide about herself lived in him first. The anger, the resentment, the quiet thought that things should be better… It was Makaio as much as it was Cass. And if she knew those things and loved her father still, didn’t that mean that he did the same for her? Maybe the problem had never been that she was unlovable. Maybe the problem had always been that she was trying to make the wrong people love her. Makaio understood her in a way Wynne couldn’t. It didn’t have to be a bad thing.

“Nora shouldn’t have left, either!” Her voice was shrill, was tight, was bouncing off the walls of the cave. “It was — Things were good here! Things were fine! And then Nora left, and you left, and Regan left, and Metzli left, and it’s — None of you had to go anywhere!” It felt like there was a fist closed around her heart, squeezing it so tightly that it was bound to burst. Which was worse, she wondered — for people to leave and come back in a way that meant they could have just as easily never left at all, but chose to anyway, or for people to leave and stay gone forever? At least with the latter, you could sometimes convince yourself that it was something they had to do, or that it was the city, or something. But couldn’t Nora and Wynne and Regan and Metzli and everyone else have just stayed? Couldn’t they have chosen to do that?

Wouldn’t they have, if they had thought Cass worth staying for?

She barely heard what Wynne was saying, barely managed to continue drawing breath at all. The hand gripping her heart was at her shoulder, too, but that one was a comfort. It squeezed and it ached, but it was a hand that loved her. It was a good thing. It must have been. 

“Her father,” Makaio confirmed, and some of the tightness in Cass’s chest lessened. He was her father, and he’d say it aloud to someone he didn’t know. That meant something, didn’t it? “And I am here to protect her.” It felt like a cool breeze on a sweltering day. She clung to the words. Her father was here to protect her. (From what? She didn’t need protection from Wynne, Wynne was her friend, Wynne was only here to talk.) She was protected. (Did she need to be?) 

Pushing aside the doubts, Cass nodded. He was her father. He was here to protect her. And — “It is good.”

—

Cass’ voice was gaining volume and Wynne felt an instinctive flinch run through them but most of all, they were relieved. It was real. It was something real and emotional and something true. They wanted that from Cass, to see something raw and to talk it through, to let her be angry if she wanted to be and then move around it. Even if what she was saying was frustrating, even if she had hurt their feelings — because Wynne loved Cass, and they knew that sometimes when big things happened it made everything seem impossible.

And though they were the type to implode, to simply wish to hide away and to build walls upon walls of okayishness around themself, they understood the urge to lash out. Sometimes they wish they could be comfortable enough to. That they could rage. That they could set that anger that slumbered within it loose.

“I agree!,” they replied, their own voice not as quiet, “They shouldn’t have — none of them should have gone there, it was a bad place, but I know bad places, and maybe you don’t –” This wasn’t about their pain. That was one thing Wynne was good at, at least, to not make things about them. Cass had told them that it was hard for her to pretend to care about their old home and all the aches that came with it, and it hurt, but they could push their own pain away. That was one of the lessons from home that stuck. “But they did go, and someone had to go after them, and we already – I’m sorry if it was upsetting, I really am, and I know it wasn’t good, that bad things happened while I was gone but —” Ariadne had almost died. Cass had almost killed a hunter. “I don’t know. I was just trying to make it better, Cass. To get Nora home.” And Nora looked like death because she’d seen it. “I was just trying. And I never meant to make you sad. But I had to try.” 

Why were they trying to explain this, now? Hadn’t Cass known why they were going? Hadn’t they already talked about their time in Ireland? It made no sense. Wynne swallowed, trying to keep themself composed. It was another lesson that had stuck. It was a lesson that would serve her well while across from the other fae.

They looked at him, looked at the similarities between Cass and him. He was her father, he was her protector, he said. They were reunited. Re-united, because he hadn’t been there for many years, and now here he stood judging Wynne for showing up, his words feeling pointed. As if he was protecting Cass from them — they, who couldn’t possibly hurt Cass except perhaps on accident and emotionally. (Where had he been, when Rhett had tried to kill Cass? When the agropelter fell from the sky and had nearly eaten Cass’ finger? When Ariadne had been attacked?) 

“How did you two find each other?” They looked between them, “And that’s … that is good, that sounds very good. It is dangerous, here. Or, well, everywhere.” But then why was he clenching her shoulder so tight? Why had he held her back? So why had he not been there when Cass had nearly killed that hunter? Why had he not been there, all those other years? Something was wrong. They looked at Cass. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

—

Wynne flinched a little at the tone of her voice, and Cass couldn’t help but dissect the small motion. Would they have done that before the hunter, before whatever version of the story Ariadne had told them? Did they look at Cass now, unglamoured in her cave, and imagine what she must have looked like with her rocky hands burning through a stranger’s skin? Were they afraid of her?

Another question lingered, just beneath: should they be?

Cass would never hurt Wynne. It was a ridiculous notion, wasn’t it? The idea that she’d ever be a threat to her friends, that she’d ever do anything to harm them. But… that didn’t seem to go both ways, did it? Wynne hadn’t done anything to her physically (they couldn’t, because humans who weren’t hunters weren’t capable of that, Makaio said), but hadn’t they hurt her all the same? Hadn’t Nora, and Metzli? Didn’t Ariadne’s silence sting? Didn’t she ache when Leila walked away, even when it was Cass who told her to go? Cass would never hurt her friends, but it often felt as if they made a habit of hurting her. And that wasn’t fair, was it? It didn’t feel fair.

“Nothing is better! Nothing is ever made better by — by leaving!” Frustration clung to every inch of her, and it didn’t used to. Wouldn’t she have accepted this only a few short months ago? She used to make herself so small. It was pathetic, she thought. She was pathetic. But not anymore, right? Not now, not here.

Cass opened her mouth, readying herself to explain, but Makaio squeezed her shoulder once more and she shut it. Her father spoke up instead. “That is not a concern for you,” he said, and Cass found herself nodding along. Yeah. Right. It didn’t matter how they came to find one another, only that they had. Makaio was right, of course. Of course he was. 

With Makaio’s words as guidance, Cass steeled herself against the question. “Why would I need to? It’s not your business, Wynne.”

—

Cass’ frustration was infectious and Wynne stared at her and the words she was saying, trying to make sense of it. Trying to find the root of the problem so she could tug at it and remove it from the soil and toss it away. They wanted to dig their fingers around it, dirty them with soil and mess around in the earth until every root was undone and they could fix this.

“Did you not hear what I just said? Nora would have died. Nora could have died in Ireland! And I think me going helped, so that is better. And we came back, like I said we would — why –” They breathed in and out, and they felt the lemonade slam against their body as their body moved with the anger that swirled through them. “Cass, we came back. I’m sorry it sucked that we left, I really am, but we came back. We can’t always — you can’t.” They threw up their hands, not sure what they were saying any more.

Wynne saw it, then. Cass wanted to answer their question but her father’s grip remained tight and she closed her mouth. They let their eyes dance between the two of them, their faces and that meeting place of their two magma bodies. Makaio said it wasn’t their concern and it only took a moment for Cass to echo the sentiment, to say the same thing in different words.

They had done this. They had said the right thing, the perfect thing, while being guided there by a hand with digging fingers. Padrig echoed in their head still, didn’t he? His voice infected their thoughts, just as Alys’ did, just as their own father’s did. 

They tried to look only at her as they spoke, “Because I am … your friend, because I am interested to know what is going on in your life, Cass. Why would you not tell me if a good thing has happened in your life?” Because maybe it wasn’t good. They could feel the ghosts of fingers digging in the skin of their chin. “Maybe we can go for a little walk, just the two of us? It’s really pretty out, you know. Spring.” They wanted that hand away from Cass’ shoulder. They wanted to talk to her without her echoing something said by another. They had wanted someone to pull them aside, back at home. “Please?”

—

“So she shouldn’t have gone! She shouldn’t have gone, either! No one should have!” She didn’t want Nora hurt, but hadn’t Nora made the choice to leave? Hadn’t Dr. Kavanagh, hadn’t Metzli? Maybe Wynne was the most understandable of them, maybe there was something a little better about knowing that they, at least, had gone with the interest of saving someone that both they and Cass loved, but couldn’t it have all been avoided from the beginning? None of it had been necessary. It was all just another excuse to leave, another thing they could all tell themselves to make them feel better about the people they left behind. It didn’t count for anything if it was temporary, right? It made the pain of the departure less important! That was how they all saw it, Cass thought. They all thought that her pain was — small and petty and unreasonable. None of them believed she was allowed to feel the way she felt. 

But Makaio did.

Makaio had listened as she’d cried about Nora’s public posts detailing how awesome Ireland was, had put an arm around her shoulder when Metzli poured salt into the wound by telling her that they, too, were departing for a place where everyone seemed to be going without her. It felt like all her friends had planned a vacation and raved about it publicly without asking her along, and it stung. Even knowing now that it had been dangerous, that they’d been hurt, it still stung. And they all thought she was being silly, but Makaio didn’t. Makaio told her that her feelings were good and valid and allowed. No one had ever really done that before. 

“I can’t what?” She snapped, and the anger felt steadier now, more tangible. Good, she thought, and she clung to it. Angry was what she was supposed to be. Angry was what she was meant for, what she deserved. She was allowed to be angry. She should have been angry. She wanted, so badly, to be angry. It was what was expected of her, and she knew it. “Why don’t you tell me, Wynne? Why don’t you stand there and tell me what I can’t feel?” 

Makaio made a sound, low in his throat. It sounded pleased, it sounded proud, and Cass straightened her back a little, reveling in it. It didn’t matter what Wynne said, did it? It didn’t matter if Ariadne wasn’t reaching out or if Metzli left or if all of her friends were angry with her for defending herself. Her father was proud of her, and that was all that mattered. That was all. 

Still, some part of her wanted to take Wynne up on that walk. Some part of her wanted to understand, wanted to salvage things. She hesitated, and Makaio must have sensed it. He shifted behind her, that grip on her shoulder loosening. “If you’d prefer,” he said, “I can leave.”

It felt like an avalanche. Like a cave-in, like the world closing in. I can leave. Did he mean temporarily? Or…

Panic gripped Cass’s throat, and she whirled around to face him. “No!” She exclaimed quickly, shaking her head. “No, I — I don’t want you to. I don’t…” She turned back towards Wynne, setting her jaw in a stubborn line. “I don’t want to take a walk with you. I didn’t tell you about this because you left, Wynne. You were in Ireland. All anyone was talking about was Ireland. I didn’t tell you about it because none of you cared. And that’s fine! If you don’t care, that’s fine.” The words tasted like acid, and her stomach clenched. It was a lie. It was a big lie. She powered through it, anyway. “I just wish you’d stop pretending.” 

—

Cass was snapping at them and it was all wrong. Maybe a year ago Wynne would have just averted their gaze and left already, but a year had passed and they’d found something of a spine in those months. An angry determination that never seemed enough, but that they weren’t ready to throw away just yet either. 

They shook their head. “I wasn’t going to tell you what you can and can’t feel or anything like that, just that you can’t expect everyone to always be in this town, because sometimes there are things out there we need to do, like how I had to go to my home to solve something, or now Ireland or … maybe a trip to New York sometime, to do something fun! I will stay in Wicked’s Rest because it is home, but sometimes I will leave and that — you get that don’t you?” They inhaled sharply. “You can feel how you want. It’s just not fair.” 

Nothing was fair. Makaio seemed to interject again, his voice a rumble and his lava glowing. Another bead of sweat rolled down their head, multiple sliding down their back. They were wearing cotton, but it wasn’t airy enough to keep them from getting hot. They had to keep looking at Cass, because if they looked into the glowing eyes of her father for too long, they would surely slink away and fold at his authority. 

Was that it, then? What he had over her? Authority? Cass hated authority. Cass broke the law and didn’t care about the cops. Wynne didn’t understand, but they did, because they had been held like that.

“I care. You don’t — you don’t get to tell me that I don’t care. I care. You are my friend.” They looked angry as they said it, because it was angering to be Cass’ friend right now. “And you — you said that to me, you said to me you were tired of pretending to care about my problems. I never said I didn’t care about yours.” Which was why they felt their stomach hurt, with the pain of those sentiments and words. “I’m here and I care and I wish you’d told me so I could be happy for you.” But – well, now they weren’t. And not because they didn’t care, but because this whole situation was wrong.

—

This wasn’t how she’d wanted things to go. It was all she could think, a mantra that kept repeating. This wasn’t how she’d wanted things to go. She’d wanted both. She’d wanted the friends she’d come to love here and the man she’d come from to all get along with one another, had wanted some hodge podge, patchwork family made up of both blood and bond. She’d wanted family dinners with everyone included — Makaio, Metzli, Leila, Nora, Ariadne, and Wynne, too. She’d wanted to keep what she’d had and gain something new.

But… maybe she’d never had what she thought she did. She remembered sitting in the cave with Makaio, remembered recounting her friends and realizing that each and every one of them had either broken her heart in the past or would do so in the future. Maybe Wynne meant well here and maybe they didn’t. But how much did it matter? Even if Wynne loved her the way they claimed to, they were human. They would grow old, would die. And, beyond that, wouldn’t they take Ariadne’s side, if she decided Cass was no longer a thing worth keeping? 

She’d wanted both, but she couldn’t stand the thought of having neither. And, if she didn’t do something, that was exactly what she’d end up with. She could accept what Wynne was saying, could go with them, but then what? Makaio would leave and, in a few decades when Wynne died, or sooner when they left, Cass would be alone again.

She was so tired of being alone.

She took a step back. Away from Wynne, towards Makaio. I don’t know what you’re talking about, she thought, but she was afraid to say it. She was afraid the same way she had been in that grocery store with Zane, when he spoke about messages she’d never sent him and conversations they hadn’t had. So she only shook her head, only swallowed the words. “It doesn’t seem like you’re happy for me. It doesn��t seem like anyone is. I’m — I don’t know how to be whatever it is you all want me to be anymore. This is me. If you don’t like it, just go.” 

Stay. I want you to stay. She couldn’t say it.

—

When Wynne had been young, they had thought adults had all the answers. That had been what they’d been taught, after all — that their elders were the ones to listen to, that it was them who spoke the truth about the past, present and future. And part of them still clung to that idea, though that part was growing smaller. It grew smaller as Emilio insisted on things that weren’t true. It grew smaller when Regan stood in her aos sí, just as lost and confused as they had once been. It grew smaller with Metzli in that self inflicted cage, with their boss at a Latte to Love being irrational, with being faced with Makaio Asami.

Adults were just people. Parents were just people. They were flawed and sometimes they were good and safe, but sometimes they were twisted and cruel. Sometimes they gripped Wynne’s jaw and made them look at them. Sometimes they told lies. Sometimes they failed to protect, sometimes they were glad to watch their own firstborn die, sometimes they gripped shoulders and kept words from leaving someone’s mouth.

It was hard to come to terms with these things. It was hard to accept that they had been misguided, and not only that, that they had been manipulated. That all that forming and shaping the elders had done at home had not been out of duty but perhaps out of something darker. That at the end of the day it didn’t matter what the intentions were. 

They were starting to accept this now. That it had been a cult. That there were things in their mind they had to unravel and unlearn, instincts that had been honed to keep them obedient and quiet. If this had happened a year ago, Wynne would have bowed their head and left. But they had been unraveling and rebuilding.

Cass took a step back and Makaio’s hand was still on her shoulder. If they were to leave now, he’d follow her into that cave. Would he grab her chin? Would he tell her poisonous lies that would make the world make sense again? Would he be mad? 

Wynne took a step forward. Another bead of sweat rolled down their face. “Cass …” They swallowed. “I care about you. I like you. All of you. Okay? Let’s make that … let’s establish that.” They took another step forward. “I think — Cass, he’s manipulating you. I th–” No, they didn’t think. They knew. Sometimes the elders would drive Wynne in what seemed to be a corner. When Beca had broken up with them and they’d cried to Padrig, he’d made it make sense to them. No one can understand what it is you carry, what it is you are to do for us. But I do. I can help. And it is better, without her. She’s a distraction and she’s not strong enough to hold this with you. You must carry your duty yourself, but I can help.

“You’re not speaking freely. I told you — at home, they would –” Wynne remembered how Cass was tired of pretending to care, but maybe that was just a sentiment the other had whispered into her ears. “I can see. Can’t you see? I want to be happy for you, but I think he’s changed you. I think you aren’t saying what you want to. Cass, let’s just walk … just you and I, okay? I want to be happy for you. I want nothing but the best but —” Their eyes were glued to the arm still on her shoulder. They shrugged, not saying what they were thinking.

—

Wynne said her name, and Cass could feel where things were going. She’d known the answer before she’d asked the question, just as she had with Leila. Wynne wasn’t happy for her. Was anyone? She had this thing she’d wanted all her life, had something she’d dreamed of since she was a little girl, and people were acting like it was bad. Wynne was acting like it was bad, like she should be — afraid, or uncertain, or wary. And — and maybe it wasn’t Wynne’s fault. Maybe they were tainted by their experience with their own family. But just because Wynne’s family was bad didn’t mean Cass’s was, too, did it? Makaio would never hurt her. She wanted to tell Wynne as much, wanted to reassure them, but the words got caught in her throat as her friend continued. 

He’s manipulating you. 

The walls went up higher, one stone stacking atop the next to make it impenetrable. Of course Makaio wasn’t manipulating her. He wouldn’t do that. He loved her. Hadn’t he proven that? Hadn’t he held her while she trembled after what happened with that hunter? Hadn’t he comforted her? Hadn’t he told her that she was good, that she had done good? Hadn’t he whispered reassurances into her ear, hadn’t he stroked her hair, hadn’t he said he wouldn’t leave and meant it? Wynne, she thought, was projecting. Wynne had a hard time knowing the difference between love and manipulation because they’d been shown more of the latter than the former. But it wasn’t like that with Cass and Makaio. Makaio loved her. She knew he did.

Cass shook her eyes, the expression on her stony face somewhere between hurt and offended. “Just because your family didn’t care about you,” she said lowly, “doesn’t mean mine doesn’t care about me. This is who I am, Wynne. I’m saying what I want to say. Here, in front of him and you. No one is forcing me to do anything. You’re — You’re not getting it. Maybe you never got it. Maybe nobody did. I want you to go.” This time, it didn’t taste like a lie. She wanted Wynne to go, because she didn’t want to hear what they had to say. She didn’t want to see that look in their eyes, didn’t want to deal with any of it. If Wynne wasn’t happy for her, that was fine. She was happy for herself. She was happy. She was. Anyone who didn’t like it must not have cared about her at all.

—

It was all wrong. The way Cass had spoken to them online, the way she had blocked Metzli and had started ignoring Ariadne, insulting her in public. The hand on her shoulder. That hand on her shoulder, fingers digging in. The way she didn’t even want to share a glass of lemonade, or how it had taken both of them so long to see each other after Wynne had come back from Ireland. It was all wrong. And perhaps it was short sighted to blame it all on the strange man that was Cass’ dad, but it was a clear connection, was it not? If Cass was just mad at them, they would have blamed themself — but it was the fact that she was being mean to everyone that made them sure it wasn’t just because of their trip to Ireland.

Fathers — well, Wynne wasn’t sure what they were typically supposed to do, but the idea that they were protectors was a sweet thought. But what was he protecting her for? What dangers did he see on the road? What dangers had he made her believe were there? They looked at the pair and they were afraid of what they had said and what it would make Cass feel or say, because if anyone had insulted their father growing up, they would not have responded kindly.

But they hadn’t expected this. Cass aimed her fists and aimed low, gut-punching them verbally with a conclusion that wasn’t entirely untrue but that still cut like a knife. (Like the knife that would have cut them with their parents watching, because they hadn’t cared, at least not enough.) Wynne staggered back two steps and the wet on their face wasn’t just from sweat any more — there were two thick tears filling their eyes too, blurring their vision. They refused to blink and make them slide down their cheeks, refused to make Cass see how much that stung. And so their eyes burned and they shook their head, exhaling deeply.

“That’s just cruel,” they said, their voice something soft and airy. Like it wasn’t theirs. Like their body wasn’t theirs, their voice box controlled by something else. If they were meaner, they might have pointed out that Cass’ family had abandoned her. But it felt like their throat was constricting, something forming there that could be released if they blinked. Their eyes were burning like acid on skin. “Just — fine. I’ll go. I’ve …” Wynne blinked, unable to keep themself from doing so, and twin tears rolled down their cheeks. Thicker and wetter than any of the drops of sweat. It felt like defeat. They clutched their bag and tried to start turning to leave. “Just — remember who was there before he was.” 

—

It was impossible not to see the look of hurt that overcame Wynne’s face, impossible not to recognize it. Immediately, Cass wanted to take it all back. She wanted to say I’m sorry, wanted to say I didn’t mean that, wanted to say it’s not your fault, but the hand on her shoulder squeezed again and she said nothing at all. Wasn’t it better this way? Wasn’t it easier to sever the tie now to spare her the pain of having it forcefully cut in the future? Wynne was mortal, and mortals aged and withered and died, and hadn’t Cass watched enough people disappear? It wouldn’t hurt any less to watch Wynne disappear into a grave than it would to watch them choose to walk away, would it? If anything, it would be more painful. This was better. This had to be better. 

So, as she had done so many times over the last few weeks, Cass swallowed the apology resting on her tongue. She assured herself that she had nothing to be sorry for, and so long as she didn’t say the words aloud, she wouldn’t have to feel the twisting of her gut and the burning in her mouth that reminded her of her own dishonesty. Wynne’s feelings were hurt, but Cass hadn’t asked them to come here, had she? She hadn’t invited them, hadn’t wanted them here to begin with. They could have avoided the sting if they’d just stayed away. It wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t. 

Still, she felt heavy. Her eyes stung, and she told herself it was pollen or dust or anything other than what it really was. This was her choice. Hers. How many times had she been allowed to decide something like this? How many times had she been granted the kindness of being the one to sever a tie instead of the one left flailing with a rope sliced clean through? This was what Cass wanted. It had to be. She leaned back a little more, let her shoulders brush against her father’s chest. She reminded herself that if Wynne couldn’t accept him, they couldn’t really accept Cass, either. Cass and Makaio were the same. She knew that. 

Wynne took a step back, and Cass watched them. Tears slipped down their cheeks, and Cass pretended to care less than she did. She felt the stone wall that was her father shift a little behind her, heard his quiet scoff. Later, he would call the tears a manipulation tactic and Cass would decide that it was easier to believe he was right. For now, she only watched her friend (could she still use that word? Did she want to?) step back, could only grit her teeth against the final words thrown her way. 

“First doesn’t mean best,” she replied. “Family is family. It’s okay if you don’t understand that.” She turned then, the hand on her shoulder loosening to allow it. Reaching up to grab his arm, she gently tugged Makaio towards the back of the cave. As the pair of twin flames moved further into the darkness, Cass resisted the urge to turn back towards the light. This was what she wanted. 

(The more she repeated it, the more it would feel like the truth.)

[talanashta]

Baby on the Way

For this prompt ("Lamaze class") for the Four or More Fic-a-thon (but unfortunately, only Stobin shows up in this, so I won't be submitting it to the event)

Rating: T | No CWs | Word Count: 1,018 | Pairings: Platonic Stobin, Background Spicy Six Plus Chrissy Polycule Additional Tags: Future Fic | Pregnancy

Continuation of the "my lonely days are gone" series. Part 1, Part 2, Part 3 (This one will read better with the context of the other ones)

“Oh my god, I’m so fat!” Robin complained, panting slightly and holding up her belly in both hands, as the two of them walked into the side door of the hospital building.

Steve made sure to hold both sets of doors for her as they entered and said, “You’ve got our baby in you, Robs. You’re not fat!”

“Well, I’m ready for her to come out already,” Robin countered. “The things I do for you,” she huffed, rubbing up and down her belly with one hand, the other still holding it up.

Steve was slightly behind her, so he knew she couldn’t see the face he was making. “You were the one who suggested it!”

“Only because you eventually want six kids! I figured we had to get started eventually!” she said, flailing her arms around. After quickly checking that there wasn’t anyone else in the hall with them, she added in a hiss, “And you know Chrissy couldn’t carry them, and Nancy doesn’t want it to interfere with her career.”

Steve stopped in his tracks. “Did I pressure you into this?” he asked, softly and sadly.

Robin spun around as quickly as she could at her size and started flailing again. “No, Stevie! I’m just feeling gross and big, and my body keeps doing weird things, and I just wanted to joke around.” Once she was in reach of him, she wrapped him in a hug, pressing as tightly as she could against him.

She added gently, “We’re having a baby, Steve. I’m so excited to get to do that with you. You’re going to be a great dad, and I love that. I want to give that to you, dingus.”

Steve wedged his hands between them to cup the sides of her belly and rub it softly. “Yeah,” he said with a smile. “I get to have a baby with you. I can’t wait to meet her.”

“Now come on!” Robin said. “Class is starting soon, and we still have to walk, like, half the building.” She turned and started an almost-march toward their destination, hands back to holding under her belly.

He just laughed at her and moved to catch up. “We literally only have to go around the corner and take the elevator up.”

Robin dropped her head back and let out a groan, “Giant baby inside me.”

Steve nodded. “Yep. Yep. I’ll stop arguing with you.” He wrapped an arm around her and guided her down the right turn (she always missed it), then pressed the ‘Up’ button to call the elevator.

The two chatted the rest of the way to the classroom, arriving just on time for it to start.

“Ah, Mr. and Mrs. Buckley!” the instructor greeted when they entered the room. “Lovely to see you again. We’re just about to get started!”

They both nodded to her and took up their regular position, Robin far enough along now that Steve had to help her down to the floor.

Once Steve was settled with her, their instructor started up the class. “So, as we go into the 8th month, we’re going to shift focus onto what happens after birth, but don’t worry, we’ll go over a review of our best labor practices too…”

About two hours later, after being informed about the importance of skin-to-skin contact between mother and baby after birth and re-practicing all the techniques that were supposed to help with laboring, Steve was peeling Robin back up off the floor and getting her upright.

As they started heading out the door, the instructor started waving and flagging them down. “Mr. and Mrs. Buckley!” she called.

Steve and Robin waited for her to reach them before Steve said, “Yes?”

“I wanted to thank you! It’s been such a joy to have the two of you in this class,” she told them. “A young couple as in love as you two are is something special.”

He could hear Robin trying to hold in her laughter.

“Oh, it reminds me of myself and my husband,” the woman continued, a smile on her face. 

“And Steve! Such thoughtful questions every time we met,” she told him. “Oh, you’re possibly the most involved father I’ve ever had come! I wish you two the absolute best.” She reached out and shook both their hands.

She finished, “If you two have any more questions before the birth, my number is on your registration forms from the class, but also,” she pulls a small case out of her purse and retrieves a small piece of paper, handing it to Steve, “it’s here on my business card.

“Oh, good luck!” She beamed at the two.

Steve thanked her and said all the appropriate things as quickly as he could to get Robin out of there before she burst.

Once they were in the elevator, Robin started cracking up. “Steve!” she crowed. “We’re so in love!”

He responded with a little chuckle. “Yeah, Robbie.”

She kept laughing and laughing until the elevator dinged and they reached the ground floor. “Oh!” Robin said, stopping her laughter abruptly and flushing.

Steve instantly started panicking. “What’s wrong?” His hands ran all over her to check her over.

Before he’d worked himself up too much, Robin let out a little giggle. “I just peed my pants a little!” she told him with an awkward smile on her face. “I know she said that might happen, but I wasn’t expecting it right now.” Then she laughed some more.

Sighing in relief, he wrapped her up in his arms and giggled a little too. “You had me worried, Rob,” he said. “Do you want to go get cleaned up before we head home?”

“I don’t exactly have anything to change into, Steve,” she told him.

Steve sheepishly smiled at her. “I might have started keeping a spare pair of underwear and pants in each of the cars for you after last class when she told us it could happen.”

Robin gaped at him before teasingly smacking him on the arm. “I wondered where some of my clothes went! I thought I was going crazy!”

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