#face blood is my jam

[hyunpic]

HYUNJIN | JJAM 🩸

[kittyplushy]

THE MOUNTAIN GOATS JAM EASTER BLUES EP "STORE" AHHHH!!!!!!!!

[mxhirus]

gurens sweet angel mahiru

trust me guys its just some oil on her cheek she would never murder someone

[social-mockingbird]

I still haven’t seen The Last of Us but DARN IT IF THESE STUPID HEART WRENCHING GIFS DON’T STOP I JUST MIGHT

[reilemon]

🍷Ambrosia🍷

♡︎ synopsis: You give Sylus a private pole dance show.

♡︎ pairing: Sylus x fem!reader

⭒˗ˏˋ𓆩 ⚠ 𓆪ˎˊ˗⭒MINORS DNI (18+ ONLY)⭒˗ˏˋ𓆩 ⚠ 𓆪ˎˊ˗⭒

♡︎ cw: pre-relationship, pole dancing, lap dance, cowgirl, missionary, creampie

♡︎ word count: 4.2k

♡︎ a/n: If you don't like how I wrote Sylus pls don't say anything. 😭

♡︎ a little gift for my dearest friend and my beta reader ♡︎@its-de♡︎

divider by @cafekitsune

"Why are you walking by yourself in the city at 1 am?" Sylus asks you over the phone.

You look around, searching for Mephisto. You sigh when you fail. "I just wanted to sober up on my way home."

"You can sober up in my car." And as if on cue, a familiar black car pulls up next to you.

The other line cuts off and Sylus exits, walking around and opening the passenger's door. "Get in, sweetie."

You cross your arms. "I don't wanna get car sick."

"You won't. I'll drive slowly."

"But I'm like five minutes away from my apartment." You look around at the empty street. No people and no surveillance cameras. You did pick out a weird route, but it was in a peaceful neighborhood. "Why don't you walk with me?"

Sylus' shoulders slump at your request. Not because it's unreasonable, but because he hoped the car ride would be more than five minutes long.

After parking the car, he returns to you carrying a water bottle and a paper bag with a logo of a donut shop. He hands them over, and you accept, feeling guilty.

"Did you get these for me?"

He shrugs. "I always drive by that place, so I got curious and bought some."

"Oh... Oh?" Your eyes land on a stain on his shirt. Blood? No - "Is that jam?"

He glances down "Right, I tried one and it spilled on my shirt. I can just get a new one."

You roll your eyes. "Of course you can. I have something that can remove the stain."

When you turn to start walking, he grabs your hand and loops your arm around his. "Slow down, I don't want you to trip."

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ ♪ ฅ₍ᓀ‸ᓂマ ੭ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

Just when you locked the doors of your apartment, it hit you that Sylus, the infamous leader of Onichynus, your friend (?), is in your apartment. At 1 am, for the first time. The apartment isn't messy, but you still would've prepared it more. For instance, you would've put away the pole standing in the middle of your living room.

Of course, that's the first thing Sylus notices. "You like to pole dance, kitten?"

The question sobers you up immediately. Your face and ears burn in embarrassment, and you can feel sweat forming on your back. "Um, sometimes. When I have time." You scurry away to the kitchen to put away the food, Sylus chuckling behind you. You wouldn't be so flustered if you knew those cool, energetic moves. No, instead, all you know is the sensual, seductive ones. They're like a breath of fresh air, given the nature of your job.

You go back to Sylus who made himself comfortable on your sofa, taking in the new environment. "I have a men's t-shirt that could fit you, and I'll return your shirt the next time I see you."

With a slight glare he responds "I'm not wearing another man's clothes."

You sigh "It's mine. I like to wear baggy clothes around the house." Although, you can't help but smile a little at that display of jealousy. Was it, though? Or are you just being delusional?

You wish it was.

His face returns to the neutral relaxed state, with his usual amused smirk. The face, you noticed, he only has when he's around you. It wasn't like that in the beginning (let's not talk about the beginning), but the more time you spent with him, the more you got to see his gentle side.

Lost in your daydream, you didn't notice that he was almost done unbuttoning the stained shirt, revealing he doesn't have anything underneath.

When he completely takes it off, your eyes are glued to his torso. This is your first time seeing him completely shirtless, leaving you unable to peel off your gaze from his chiseled muscles, broad shoulders-

"It's rude to stare, sweetie."

You blink, snapping out of the shameless ogling, taking the shirt that was lingering in his hand for a moment as he was trying to hand it to you.

"I wasn't staring." You, again, make a run for it, this time to your bedroom to fish out a clean oversized t-shirt for him. When you return to the living room, your eyes are fixated on his face, fighting the urge to look down and stare at his physique.

He thanks you and puts it on. It fits almost perfectly, and although he's covered, the sight is making your heart flutter.

He takes a whiff of the fabric. "Smells nice."

After a brief chat about laundry (of course Sylus doesn't do it, but knows how to, apparently), you turn towards the bathroom, claiming "Trust me, I'll make that stain disappear."

"I bet you can't."

The accusation makes you stop in your tracks. "I bet I can! And if I win, you'll get me something pretty."

Sylus chuckles, eyeing you from head to toe. "If you lose, you'll dance for me."

Fell right into his trap.

With a shaky voice you refuse, "I don't think so. Pick something else."

Sylus raises an eyebrow, genuinely surprised at your declining of the bet for the first time. "Oh?" He notices how you're shifting where you stand, averting your gaze. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

You shake your head "You didn't, it's just that - " You trail off, an idea popping up in your head. By now, Sylus can read your face with ease, so he smirks when your eyes light up and he listens intently. "How about, if you actually want me to put on a little show for you, you buy me a bottle of my favorite perfume?"

You've been running low, and it's currently out of stock literally everywhere you looked. If he actually wants to see you dance, he'll have to put in a little bit of work. Not only is the perfume out of stock, he doesn’t even know which one is your favorite. At least you never told him. And even if he, by some miracle, finds it, you'll just do a few spins and take your perfume. It's not like he asked you to give him a lap dance. You probably wouldn't be opposed to it, though.

He raises his eyebrows before nodding. "Deal."

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ ♪ ฅ₍ᓀ‸ᓂマ ੭ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

As you shut the door of the bathroom, Sylus slowly sneaks his way into your bedroom. Actually, it’s not sneaking in if you left the door open, right?

However, he's not a creep who uses this opportunity to go through your underwear drawer. No, he goes straight to your vanity and takes a sniff of every fancy looking perfume, remembering almost every single scent and occasion you wore them on.

The water stopped running in the bathroom. He needs to wrap this up. There's one more bottle, the printed logo and letters worn out, almost empty. He chuckles, as he wonders if this is the one since you're running low and want him to replace it. You could've just asked him to and he'd get you ten more.

His eyes roll back as the ambrosial scent hits his nose. That's it, that's the one. Oh, how he adores it. It smells intoxicating when it's on you. And you're wearing it tonight, him catching a hint of it when you met up and he had to fight every fiber in his body not to bury his face in your neck, taking in your perfume and the feel of your soft skin.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ ♪ ฅ₍ᓀ‸ᓂマ ੭ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

At the doorway of Sylus' bedroom, you stare at the pole installed in the middle of the room. When he said to take the now stain-free shirt to his bedroom, you thought it was odd since, well - why would you go into his bedroom? The last time you were here, was to search for that brooch and he kicked you out every time. Except for the last time, when you succeeded in finding it, the moments on his bed that you fantasize more often than you'd like to admit, where you wish it led to something more.

"You know you're allowed to enter?" Sylus' teasing voice appears behind you.

You peer at him over your shoulder "You already have the pole installed? Without even getting the perfume first?" After all, it's only been a few days since you last saw him, and when you gave him the challenge.

"Take a better look, sweetie." He nods in the direction of the desk.

You take a step inside to get a closer look, with Sylus trailing behind you to stand next to you. Of course, there it is - the bottle of your favorite perfume waiting for you. Sylus smirks in self-satisfaction as your face is too easy to read now, you can't lie your way out of this.

Nor do you want to.

"Well," Sylus gestures towards the bed, "I took the liberty of ordering some outfits for you."

You then eye the clothes that you didn't notice earlier, gawking at the stunning pieces that ranged from coverage to more provocative, and all in your favorite colors.

You turn to him, eyes wide "I - " You don't even know what to say - you want to thank him, but at the same time you didn't expect him to do all this. You know that he is as generous as he is wealthy, but his thoughtfulness always catches you off guard. One of the main reasons why you like him so much.

He chuckles at your cute reaction and pats your head. Then he takes the shirt that was still in your hands and walks towards the door. "I'll give you half an hour to pick out an outfit and warm up."

"Wha - ?"

He shuts the door behind him.

Fuck.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ ♪ ฅ₍ᓀ‸ᓂマ ੭ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

You took more time trying on your new pole outfits than warming up, leaving you with only five minutes to frantically pack them in an empty box you assumed was for the clothes, and to actually warm up. There was nothing underneath the skimpy outfit you picked out, since you had to get rid of your underwear that was ruining the look. There were even some heels waiting for you, and even though you didn't have to wear them, you couldn't resist. You put some of your favorite perfume on, of course, and in the middle of the brief warm-up you thought of one more detail.

There's a soft knock on the door and you frantically exit Sylus' closet, almost tripping in your high heels as you go back to the pole.

Sylus enters the room and you can see that he's stunned for a brief second, as he sees you wearing heels and one of his silk robes.

He closes the door behind him and comments with an amused smile "I don't remember displaying my robe on the bed."

You fidget the soft fabric of the belt, trying to ignore the thumping of your heart as the reality of the situation is starting to settle in. The pole next to you, Sylus asking you which playlist he should play, your nose picking up the familiar scent of his fabric softener.

You must've looked like a deer in headlights, because Sylus' concerned frown as he calls your name snaps you back to reality.

"Are you okay? You don't really have to do this -."

"No, I'm fine!" You clear your throat, steeling your resolve. You want to do this. "I was just trying to remember the song..." You grab your phone and hand it over to him to connect it with the stereo and go back to wait by the pole.

You may have fantasized about dancing for him more than you'd like to admit - and not just in these few days since you last saw him. You also may have more than one song that reminds you of him and that you created choreographies for.

While setting up, Sylus sits down on the sofa in front of you.

He can feel your eyes on him.

"What?" He asks, still setting up.

“Nothing.” You look away and do some of the last warm up moves. You wanted to jokingly ask if he expected a lap dance, but you chickened out. The deal was for you to just show off some of your pole dance moves, that’s it. No striptease, no lap dancing…

You collect the courage to make the joke anyway, but just as you open your mouth the first notes of the song you picked out hit your ears.

He puts your phone away and makes himself comfortable in his seat - legs spread, hands resting on his thighs, lips pulled in that smirk, his eyes fully focused on you.

So you give him your most confident-looking smile, grab the pole with one hand and start walking around it. You drag the platforms of your shoes across the floor, just gliding around before getting into the show-off moves. Your movements are fluid, making it looks so easy - from spinning around to air walking. The music and the dancing soothe your anxiety and lift your mood. You know you look good. After a few spins, the silk robe starts getting in the way. With your back turned to him, your hands untie the belt and slide the robe off your shoulders. You look back at him with a playful grin, and you can't help but feel smug at how immersed he is in your performance, one arm now resting on the backrest, eyes raking over your whole body and face, anticipating your next move.

The robe slips off completely and you toss it away somewhere. You feel your cheeks heat up as the air hits your newly exposed skin. This is the first time you've showed so much of yourself to Sylus, and you couldn't help but feel a little shy. But then you see him shifting in his seat, face a little more serious, the attention giving you butterflies. With so much of your skin exposed, you show off some of the advanced moves, and you feel a new boost of confidence. You know it’s stunning - the way you look in your revealing outfit and how you perform these moves with ease.

The other half of the song starts playing, and you decide to shift from the pole to the floor. Fixing your gaze to the side, on Sylus, you go down on all floors, slowly gliding your upper body, your butt propped up, giving him a perfect view of your silhouette. Red eyes follow every step and take in your expressions that go from focused to playful and a little flirty.

Maybe more flirty than you realize.

You lie on your back, lifting your legs and move your hips side to side, making slow waves with your legs. With every next move, you're bolder, more provocative, locking eyes with him as you move.

In the brief silence between the songs, Sylus chuckles "Is that all, kitten?"

You know he's teasing. After all the time you spent together, some of them literally tied to each other, you know how to recognize the slight differences in his tone.

You know how to tease too. Smiling mischievously, you get on all fours, back arched, and slowly crawl towards him, cat style.

Sylus' lips stretch into a half grin as he watches you close the distance, with you now on your knees by his feet. He loved every second of your performance, his admiration for you only growing, always unconsciously proving to him that you are worth every second of his time and every bit of effort to be more patient. But every moment of that performance made his patience run thin. The craving, the need for you – it’s starting to overtake him. The sensual moves, the most provocative outfit he picked out but thought he was pushing his luck with, they made your body, made you, irresistible. He needed to deflect. He loves teasing you because your reactions are always so cute and amusing. He expected a pout or a snarky comment but instead you started crawling towards him and-

You graze your hands over his thighs, feeling the muscles under the fabric of his pants twitch with your touch and stopping just around his hips. Then, you gracefully stood up and turned around, arching your back and moving your hips to the rhythm, giving him a nice view of your butt. As you look over your shoulder, you have to bite back a self-satisfied grin when you catch his gaze raking over your body, not being subtle about it at all. You turn to face him, hands grabbing onto his shoulders as you position yourself to kneel over him, and with every fiber in your body, you fight the urge to just sit on his crotch, to feel if he's hard at all. So you lean back, arms behind your back and holding onto his thighs as you stretch your torso and you roll your hips, your eyes locked with his.

With the second song almost over, you lean towards him, your lips tickling his earlobe, your eyes catching the goosebumps on the skin of his neck and the redness on his ear. "I guess this is all I got."

And just when you're about to push yourself off the sofa, Sylus' strong hands grab you by the hips, pressing them down on his clothed erection, a yelp escaping your lips upon contact.

"Are you sure?" His red eyes, illuminated by the low lights of his bedroom, are on you, lidded with lust.

Just a bit more.

You sigh innocently and avert your gaze, resting your arms on his shoulders, your hips moving lazily over the rock hard erection, earning a choked grunt from the man under you, his hands gripping the soft flesh of your hips and butt.

"Well..." You trail off, steadying your breathing as arousal started rapidly coursing through your body, making your mouth dry and pussy wet. "I think - !?"

Sylus' hand wraps around your jaw, making you look back at him. His lips are parted, cheeks flushed, and you don't think you've ever seen his eyes looking at you with such intensity.

Out of breath, he asks you, "Can I kiss you?"

"Y-yes."

His lips take yours in a searing kiss, the hand on your hip trailing over your back and pressing between your shoulder blades, while the hand on your jaw finds its way to the back of your head. It feels like an out of body experience to finally kiss Sylus, to feel his soft lips you've been eyeing for so long, to bury your fingers in his silver hair, to taste mint and red wine on his tongue, to feel the pulse on his neck under your hand. Your clothed pussy was fluttering, desperate for some attention, so you started moving your hips again, grinding against him, drawing out a low groan from the man.

"If you keep doing that I can't hold back any longer." He warns in a low voice against your lips.

You take his 'warning' seriously and suddenly sit up, kneeling above his lap once again. A flash of confusion (or disappointment) on Sylus' face gets quickly overwritten with surprise, followed by a cocky grin as your hands go to his belt.

He puts his hands over yours, making you look back at his eyes that softened a little. "Are you sure?"

You nod and try to shift your attention back to his belt, but he grabs your chin, his face a breath away from yours. "I need you to use your words, kitten."

You swallow thickly, the blood rushing under your cheeks and ears "Yes, I can't wait anymore."

Sylus gives you one more breathtaking kiss before he opens his belt and unzips his pants, hissing in relief as his hard cock is freed from his underwear. Your eyes widen as they stare at the sheer size of it, your pussy fluttering in anticipation.

You move the bottoms of your outfit to the side, making him groan as he catches the sight of your naked pussy lips, "Fuck, you had nothing underneath this whole time? You'll be the death of me."

Your chuckle is replaced by a soft whimper as he grabs his cock by the base and guides you by grabbing your hip, the tip sliding along your wet folds, grazing your clit. It slides right against your entrance, dipping in and out of your hole, each time a little deeper, before the tip is fully inside and you're already seeing stars. Now both his hands are on your hips, slowly guiding you down as he watches your face intently, a single drop of sweat sliding down his temple.

"You can take it, pretty girl." He chokes back a groan as your walls squeeze around him as he enters you deeper. It takes him every last bit of restraint not to thrust up into you and fuck you senseless.

He rubs soothing circles on your bud, making your legs twitch, the stretch of his dick already stimulating enough to send you over the edge. With a few shallow pumps, he fully enters you.

"That's it, you're doing so good." Pulling you into a tight embrace, his lips find yours, teeth nipping and tongue licking your bottom lip before he trails over your jaw to the sensitive skin of your neck. Holding onto his broad shoulders and nails digging into the fabric of his shirt, you slowly start moving your hips, sweat starting to drip from your back and your chest. He takes off your top, leaving you with only your bottom and the heels on your feet, while he's still fully clothed as you ride him. His tongue drags over between your breasts, drinking up your sweat, his lips then latching onto your pebbled nipple while his fingers play with the other one.

Your sensitive swollen clit keeps rubbing against his pelvis, as you roll your hips on his length.

Sylus hisses against your breast, "You're squeezing me so tight." He grabs you by the back of your neck, his face now close to yours. With his other hand squeezing your butt cheek, his hips thrust up, meeting your pace. "You gonna cum, darling?"

You can only mewl and nod in response. He notices your leg muscles shaking and hips staggering in their movement.

"Let me take over." He knows you're getting tired, but too lost in pleasure and probably too proud to admit it. He slides further down in his seat, letting your body rest completely on top of him. He holds onto your ass in a bruising grip, holding your hips in place as he starts vigorously thrusting up, the blunt tip hitting all the right places and the base and pelvis hitting your clit over and over until you're a panting moaning mess on top of him. His teeth latch onto the flesh between your neck and shoulder as your intoxicating smell, your voice, and pulsing cunt bring him closer to cumming too.

Just when you're about to come down from your high, Sylus suddenly sits up and throws a pillow from the sofa onto the floor.

"Hold onto me." He instructs and you do as you're told, wrapping your arms and legs around him, allowing him to, as gently as possible, lay you onto the floor with the pillow under your head.

He adjusts himself between your legs and continues the relentless pounding. The view on top of you makes your pussy flutter again - strands of his silver hair sticking to his sweaty forehead, lust dazed eyes fixed on you, pupils dilated you can barely see the ruby red irises, wide shoulders and his whole fucking hot face and body you could stare at forever. But you need to feel his weight on your body.

As if reading your mind, he lies down completely on top of you, using one elbow for support while the other arm sneaks behind you and grabs your butt. "I'm so fucking close." He grunts against your lips, but you're too lost in pleasure to say anything back, only moaning and burying your face in his shoulder as your walls clench around his throbbing dick, the pressure of another orgasm building up.

The hand moves to grab your face, thumb tracing over your cheekbone, the gentle touch contrasting with his ruthless hips, "Let me see you, darling." His voice is both soft and strained.

You're the first one to break the eye contact as another orgasm crashes through you. Sylus' orgasm comes only seconds later, enhancing the intensity as his twitching cock spurts hot liquid inside your pussy.

With the last lazy rolling of his hips, you come down from your own highs, foreheads pressed together as both of you catch your breath. He gives you a soft kiss on the lips, and then just gazes at you with a tenderness you haven't seen before. His fingertips trace over the features of your face. "I hope you can spend the night here."

Of course, you accept the offer. And of course, you didn't sleep at all that night.

[yannawayne]

not a weapon but a person—capable of loving and being loved.

SYNOPSIS: You get kidnapped and Damian snaps. TAGS: Graphic Depictions Of Violence! Genderneutral! Blood, Hurt/Comfort, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Kidnapping, Childhood Trauma, My Mother is the Worst Woman Alive and I'm her Favorite Son, Damian is Eighteen.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽ ♱

A heavy thud. Ragged breaths. Then the sound of footsteps.

The same hands that had ruthlessly beat your kidnappers to a pulp—the ones that had pulverized flesh with blood splattered across his knuckles, the ones that had heard the crack of bones beneath his grip, the ones that bore the scars of countless cuts and stabs—now traced your cheek with a featherlight touch.

"Beloved."

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽ ♱

YOUR PALMS WERE PRESSED tightly against your eyes, wrists raw and burning from the rope that had bound them just minutes ago. Sobs slipped from your lips, eyes bloodshot, and mouth parched dry.

The rotting smell of the warehouse was an assault on your senses—an acrid mix of trash, harsh chemicals, and the faint tang of gunfire that lingered in the air.

There was a hushing in your ear as you leaned against a cloaked figure—Batman. Bruce. 

His hand rubbed at your back, firm and steady, a grounding presence amid the chaos. His cape, dark and imposing, wrapped around you like a shield, blocking out the violence unfolding just in front of you.

Shadows danced erratically on the walls as Robin moved with lethal precision. Bodies fell unconscious, thudding heavily against the concrete floor. Blood splattered. Screams echoed. Each punch landed with a sickening crunch, bones breaking. Crates and debris were scattered haphazardly, wood and concrete slamming onto the floor. 

Damian couldn't see anything but red.

His vision was tunneled, focused solely on the next target, the next blow, the next scream. 

A swift roundhouse kick sent one assailant crashing into a stack of crates, the wood splintering under the impact. One punch connected with a jaw, the sickening crunch of bone breaking echoing through the air. Blood sprayed on his fist. Another one rushed toward him, brandishing a knife, but he disarmed the man with a swift twist of the wrist, jamming the blade into the attacker's palm. The man screamed, clutching his arm as red streaked his skin.

Damian's eyes flickered with a dark satisfaction as he watched the thug stumble backward, clutching at the wound.

One last man remained. One who had lunged at him from behind, grappling onto his back. Damian scowled and surged backward, driving both himself and his attacker into the wall with bone-crushing force. The man's grip loosened, a pained gasp escaping his lips as the air was knocked out of him.

"Fool," Damian spat, his voice dripping with venom. "Do you have any idea who you're dealing with?"

The thug whimpered, trying to scramble away, but Damian was relentless. He twisted sharply, dislodging the assailant and slamming an elbow into his ribs. The man crumpled against the wall, clutching his side, his eyes wide with fear and pain.

"You think you can touch those I care for and get away with it?" Damian growled. He didn't give the thug a moment to recover. He swung a powerful fist into the guy's face, the impact sending a spray of blood and teeth into the air. 

"F-Fuck you, man!" The man yanked a gun from his waistband, but before he could even line up a shot, Damian’s foot kicked out, sending the weapon flying through the air. The gun clattered against the concrete with a deafening clang. With a snarl, Damian lunged forward, grabbing the thug by the collar and slamming him into the ground.

"H-Hey! Mercy! Mercy! I'm a-already down!" the assailant wailed, his hands clawing at Robin's uniform in a desperate plea. "The Bat don’t kill! You—you ain't gonna kill me!"

Damian's expression hardened, his eyes narrowing as his voice dropped to a low, menacing growl.

"I'm not Batman," he spat, the tone amplified and darkened by the modulator. "Every breath you take is a mercy I choose to grant. By the time I'm finished, you'll be begging for death."

He raised his fist, the tension in his muscles coiling like a spring ready to snap. The thug’s eyes widened in terror, his pleas growing frantic as he braced for the blow. However, just as Damian’s fist was about to land, a hand clamped down on his shoulder, grabbing onto his hand with a vice-like grip. Before he could react, Batman—Bruce—had tackled him, pinning him firmly against his chest. 

“Robin,” Batman’s voice was firm, concern barely concealed. “That’s enough.”

Damian's struggle was fierce, his body thrashing under his father’s strength as he roared in fury.

“Let me go!” he screamed, his voice raw with anger. “I’m going to kill him for what he did to them!”

The anger engulfed Damian like a stormy ocean, dragging him beneath its violent waves. Visions of his mother’s face, his grandfather’s form, and accusing shadows surged from the depths, all condemning him. Damian’s cries erupted into a raw, guttural scream, gradually dissolving into ragged gasps as he battled the relentless tide.

Though Bruce had shaped him into a hero, a beacon of justice, and his family had offered him a fragile semblance of belonging, Damian was still his mother’s son.

The violence and anger roiling within him were like roots twisted deep within his soul. There was not a thing that could purge the primal rage and pain that had taken root before his first breath.

When he finally broke through the surface, baptized in blood and weighed down by sins that clung to him like chains, he sought you out with an urgent, almost desperate need.

A heavy thud. Ragged breaths. Then the sound of footsteps.

The same hands that had ruthlessly beat your kidnappers to a pulp—the ones that had pulverized flesh with blood splattered across his knuckles, the ones that had heard the crack of bones beneath his grip, the ones that bore the scars of countless cuts and stabs—now traced your cheek with a featherlight touch.

"Beloved."

Your hands were carefully peeled away from your eyes, and you met soft emerald eyes through a veil of tears. His hands moved to unlatch his cape, the soft fabric pooling around your form. His lips, speaking in his mother tongue, murmured a soothing litany of comfort, Arabic endearments flowing like silk. He pressed your head against his chest and you found refuge in the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. 

Bruce watched the scene with a pensive look. His son's body had dwarfed you, broad shoulders and strong muscles enveloping your form like a shield. His head was tucked into your hair, his hands raking all over your tense and sweaty skin.

Damian had momentarily shed the hardened exterior he so often wore—a soldier with a heart that, despite its armor, occasionally revealed cracks. This was a side of him that often surprised people.

Because Damian Wayne was the farthest thing from soft.

He was all sharp edges. Poisonous, scalding words that could sear through the thickest armor of patience. Rough, nearly violent in his touch, like a blade pressed against skin. There was no gentleness in his movements, no softness in his gestures, only the relentless precision of a trained killer.

From the earliest moments he could walk, his life was an unending series of tests, each more grueling than the last. Each cut and bruise was a lesson. Failure was met with harsh punishment, success with silent approval. Affection and praise were as rare as mercy. 

The League’s doctrine was ingrained in him: emotions were vulnerabilities, attachments were liabilities, and loyalty was owed only to the mission and the League. His purpose in the League of Assassins was clear—to be the perfect instrument of their will, a living embodiment of their principles. 

Emotion was his enemy, a weakness to be purged.  He was taught to suppress his feelings, to turn them off like a switch. Pain was an illusion, fear a phantom to be banished. He learned to compartmentalize his thoughts, locking away his humanity in the deepest recesses of his mind. 

By the time he reached ten, he was a finely honed instrument of death.

A living weapon in a world that knew no peace.

It had taken Bruce eight grueling years to begin undoing the damage. And even then, he had barely scratched the surface.

Then there was you.

The trembling, warm-faced student Damian had introduced during his senior year—his partner for a science project, he said. 

At first, the interactions were subtle—a fleeting glance here, a hesitant smile there. But as time went on, it became impossible to ignore the way your presence began to soften the sharp edges of Damian's demeanor.

Bruce had seen you both fall for each other over the months. And he saw hope. 

You were the opposite of every lesson Damian has ever been taught.

To him, you were soft, in every sense. Soft movements, soft features, soft voice. Everything about you exuded comfort.

You made something he had always pushed down and shut away come to the surface.

You made him feel things—things he should not.

When you touched him with your soft hands, everything in him burned. The gentle brush of your fingers against his skin ignited a searing heat, a raw and unfamiliar longing that clawed violently at the walls he had worked so hard to maintain. Each touch chipped away at the concrete barriers of his training, breaking them down and leaving him exposed, aching for something he couldn’t quite name.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽ ♱

Mania. Drake had called it, a wild obsession of his that could consume and devour.

Damian's arms encircled you like a lifeline, holding you close as though he feared you might slip away. His lips brushed against your temple, warm and tender, while his biceps pressed firmly under your chest, anchoring you in his embrace. The air was thick with the mingled scents of sweat, blood, and the lingering residue of fear. 

And yet, amidst these odors, there was an underlying, almost imperceptible hint of Damian’s cologne—Arabian oudh. It was rich and smoky, with notes of aged wood, a faint earthy sweetness, and subtle undertones of leather and spice.

You buried your face into the crook of his neck, the fabric of his suit brushing against your cheek.

A Crush. Todd had chalked it up to puppy love, something that would eventually fade with time.

He lifted you effortlessly from the floor, his strength evident in his smooth, controlled movements. The way he adjusted his hold with such care to ensure your comfort spoke louder than any words could.

Warmth enveloped you—Damian had always run hotter, like a human furnace. On sweltering days, his clinginess (no matter how much he denied it) had been a nuisance, his heat making you feel as if your skin might melt off. But now, that same warmth was a comforting embrace, a welcome shield.

Infatuation. Grayson had suggested, thinking it was just a fleeting, intense passion. But there was something deeper in the way he looked at you, something that felt permanent and unshakeable.

“I am here. I am here, beloved," he spoke to you lowly. "It's alright now."

Love. His father called it.

In an instant, everything seemed to collapse around you. Tears welled up and streamed down your cheeks as you sobbed into his chest, each shudder of your body sending waves of anguish through him. Damian’s heart twisted painfully at the sight of you. 

He has seen suffering—he has inflicted suffering. But this was different. Your pain was a torment he was helpless to alleviate. 

Face twisted in guilt, he pulled you tighter against him, as though he could hold the world’s pain at bay if he just held you close enough.

A hand tapped at his shoulder, and he flinched, turning to see his father.

“The Batmobile is just by the docks. We can—”

“They're in shock,” Damian scowled. the fire back in his eyes. “Do you honestly believe they're in any state to be moved at this moment?”

Bruce’s gaze was firm. “Damian, we don’t have time to—”

“They need to be stabilized first,” Damian cut in sharply, his tone brooking no argument. He turned abruptly, striding towards the exit. “If you want them to survive this, we need to take care of them properly, not rush them into a car. I shall be outside.”

Without waiting for a response, Damian moved swiftly, the clatter of his boots echoing as he stepped into the cool night air with you. Once the warehouse door closed behind him, he turned his full attention back to you, his hand gently brushing your tear-streaked face. 

He moved to press his forehead gently against yours, the warmth of his skin meeting yours in a tender connection. He could offer no verbal comfort anymore; words seemed woefully inadequate. Your cries gradually subsided as you drew comfort from his presence.

Love.

He lifted his hand to the side of his face, pressing a button. As his mask retracted, his eyes met yours. Damian knew that more than anything else, you loved his eyes.

Time and again, you found yourself drawn to them, unable to tear your gaze away. They were hypnotic—an exquisite blend of emerald green, green as vibrant as the leather cover of his sketchbook, flecked with gold and streaked with brown paint.

His eyes were windows to his soul, offering the only genuine glimpse into the depths of his emotions. In them, you could see his anger burning like a stormy sea, joy dancing like sunlight on rippling water, embarrassment flitting like a shadow, and pain etched as deep as his scars.

At times, his eyes grew gentle, revealing something much softer—something that made your heart swell and your knees feel weak. A love so pure and unexpected that it could melt the coldest of hearts.

Damian Wayne was the farthest thing from soft.

But in these soft, fragile moments he shared with you, where his heart beat in sync with yours, Damian found an unexpected calm. It was in these rare interludes, away from the brutality and darkness that defined his world, that he could truly be himself.

Here, he was not a weapon but a person—capable of loving and being loved.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽ ♱

ao3: yenwayne

NOTE: I want to delve into the line I wrote: 'Damian is still his mother’s son.'

It's just to show his trauma, I despise Talia with all my guts.

Talia's control over Damian is a textbook example of manipulative conditioning at its most extreme. In psychological development, early experiences and parental influence are crucial in shaping one's self-concept. From his earliest days, Damian was deprived of a normal childhood. His personality, thoughts, and desires have all been sculpted by the League of Assassins from day one.

His anger, protectiveness, and sense of duty are manifestations of this—a child raised to be a killer, now struggling with the fragments of a humanity that was never fully allowed to blossom.

I'm not saying he hasn't changed!!! He has turned into so much more than the weapon they intended him to be. He is genuinely good. But the impact of such deep-seated trauma cannot be easily overlooked or resolved. It’s not something that can simply be swept under the rug or fixed overnight.

So, this was my attempt at capturing his character! I’m very open to constructive criticism since I’m new to the fandom. Please be kind and gentle with your feedback :)

[florencemtrash]

Bedsides and Breakfasts

Summary: After Azriel comes home battered and bruised, he refuses to eat the meal you've made him... Why?

Warnings: Angst, character injury, fluff

Author's note: For context, Y/n is Helion's bastard daughter. In an earlier draft of my other (very long) fic, The Shadowsinger and The Inkbird, this was going to be a scene that takes place after Azriel gets hurt during the Battle on the Lake where Y/n figures out Azriel is her mate. I wanted to finish it up and get it out there because I don't want to say goodbye to that story just yet and I wanted to get back into writing so.... here ya go!

The Townhouse sang quietly as it worked. Its melodies lay in the shifting curtains that shook off dust into the wind. Its lyrics in the whistling teakettle. You liked these sounds as you moved about the kitchen, preparing your tea and a crust of bread slathered with butter and jam. 

When the Townhouse was empty, you didn’t need to fear your power — there was no one around for you to touch and steal memories from. Mor had tried to drag you out to Rita’s that evening — “Rhys says you’ve learned to keep your Clairvoyance at bay! Come dancing with us!” — but you couldn’t muster the courage or the energy.

Besides, you were awaiting a certain Shadowsinger’s arrival. 

“Won’t you come back and make me your home? You who’ve stolen my heart as simple as a whisper, calm as a storm,” You hummed to yourself. You swore the Townhouse sighed in contentment. “Do you like my silly little songs then?” You mused. 

The lights shone a little brighter, crackling the air with a flicker of energy. 

You were singing about Azriel — of course you were — and blushing all the while. He��d been the first to truly speak to you — the first to notice you — and the embrace you’d shared in Rhysand’s office had left you breathless for days. You could still feel the ghost of his breath against your neck as you’d buried your face in the hollow of his throat. The cracked leather beneath your fingers and the short hairs at the base of his skull you’d caressed as lovingly as any flower. It was the first time you’d ever been touched like that. Like you were something worth holding onto. 

When he was gone, the Townhouse felt too empty. You felt too empty. Even now, the edges of your patience frayed like a worn shirt without him. 

You spent the evening’s hours combing through every book you’d managed to lug over from the Library. It was quick, but taxing work as every touch against the weathered binding allowed you to absorb its knowledge without you ever having to lay an eye on the page. 

When the candle flickered dangerously close to your books and the dull throbbing behind your eyes had gone on for too long, you blew out the light and could do no more than curl up on the sofa before falling fast asleep. 

The whispers of shadows woke you. You couldn’t understand the words hidden within their overlapping voices, but their panic and relief were heavy in the air. You could almost taste their meaning on your tongue.

“Y/n,” Azriel moaned. He leaned heavily against the open door, forcing it open against the drag of the carpet. His sword clattered to the ground before his knees. “Y/n,” he called out again, more urgently this time. He prayed to the gods you were home. He’d flown through the night, tattered wings struggling to keep him aloft, to make sure he’d see you again… just in case.

Blood and iron burned your nose and your sleep-swollen eyelids split open. “Az—” Your knee slammed against the coffee table in your struggle to escape the blankets. “AZ!” 

Azriel was always greedy for the sight of you, and that familiar tug in his chest tightened as you rounded the corner and sprinted towards him. You tripped where the hardwood ended and the carpet began, throwing his arm around your shoulder. 

He smiled softly at you. Three months ago, you’d been too afraid to touch anyone. Now here you were half-supporting his weight as he staggered to his feet. He stole a few precious seconds to lean his head into the crook of your neck and breathe in your scent. For a moment, he believed it would be enough to heal him.

“How bad is it?” 

“Three arrows in the right wing, two in the left. Fae bane.” 

“Anywhere else?” You both stumbled down the hallway back from where you’d come. 

“I may have been stabbed a few times.” He offered the piece of information casually, like he was complaining about the price of eggs.

“What’s a few?” Your eyes were wide as the moon. Searching, searching, searching for wounds.

“Ten?” 

Your growl tore through the quiet of the night. 

Your hands were slippery with blood, and Azriel almost slid out of your fingertips as you deposited him against the table. You flung your arms out over the hardwood tabletop sending bottles of ink, pens, and sheafs of papers clattering to the floor before rolling Azriel onto the top and forcing him to lay down.

Under the chandelier, Azriel looked ghastly. The warmth was drained from his skin and the hollows of his eyes and the fullness of his lips were tinged purple from cold. His eyes drifted apart from one another.

“I need you to stay awake.” 

“I will.” His words were slippery as soap on porcelain, syllables sliding into one another as he promised you he would be alright and that he had suffered worse before.  

“Stay awake!” You commanded him and his eyes sharpened ever so slightly on your figure as you tore through the cabinets in the corner. 

Where is it? Where is it? Glass bottles clinked and tottered on rounded bottoms. There! 

You snatched one of the pale green bottles lining the back wall and bit off the cork top with a grimace, spitting it out onto the floor. You could taste the medicine inside coat your teeth with an acrid film. 

“Hey, hey, hey.” You slapped Azriel’s cheeks to keep him awake. “Drink this.” 

Azriel’s lips parted immediately and he accepted every bitter drop you forced down his throat. It wasn’t a cure, but it would help stabilize him long enough for help to arrive. In the time it took for you to call out to Rhys and light the candle that would wake Madja and call her to the Townhouse, Azriel’s cheeks had flushed with some more color. 

The sight did little to ease your worries as you worked on unbuckling the straps of his armor. Piece by piece they fell away with a wet thud on the ground. 

He grabbed your wrist before you could run in search of something to cut off the clothes clinging to him like a second skin. Elain had left gardening shears on the back porch. Perhaps the kitchen had scissors?

“Stay.” He begged. “Please stay.”

“Rhys and Madja will be here soon. I just need to get something to help you.” 

“Then stay.” His grip turned desperate, short nails digging into your forearm. “Stay and help me. Don’t leave me.” 

Azriel might have smiled if he wasn’t in so much pain. His hand slid up the curve of your arm to hold your neck, thumb tracing the line of your jaw. 

“I wanted to see you just in case.” His chest rattled with the effort, “Gods, I missed you.” 

He’d been gone weeks on the Continent, scrounging after every whisper of Koschei’s name as far as the eastern mountains. He’d scavenged and raged. Killed and tortured. And he’d missed you all the while. It was what had possessed him to fly all the way to Velaris, when he would have been better off breaking into the Day Court and throwing himself at the mercy of Helion — your father. 

You felt the tears prick at your eyes, angry and hot. “If you say another fucking word like you’re about to die, I will kill you myself.” You were not prone to violence, and Azriel felt some pride that he could elicit such an emotion from you. 

Luckily for you both, Azriel didn’t get a chance to say anything else, and you didn’t get a chance to murder him before Rhysand, Feyre, Cassian, and Madja were bursting through the front door and following the blood-red trail to the dining room. 

Azriel squeezed your hand once more. “Stay with me.”

“Where else would I go, Az?” You whispered, pressing a quick kiss to the palm of his hand before the others crowded close. 

You stayed at the head of the table, one hand always holding onto Azriel’s. He swallowed his pain, the faintest groans slipping from his lips as arrows were pulled out inch by bloody inch. It was no easy thing to endure, not even for Azriel. Wicked barbs lined the arrow shaft and caught onto the delicate membrane of his wings no matter how Madja twisted, pushed, and pulled. 

One particularly harsh wrench had Azriel crying out, his nails digging into your arm and drawing blood. 

“I’m sorry,” he gasped, feeling your skin break beneath his nails. His skin was tinged green now. A sickly sheen covered his face and fell over his eyes. 

“It’s ok. It’s ok. Just look at me.” You grasped the sides of his face. “Look at me.” 

Once again, Azriel was ready to listen to your commands. His eyes never left yours, not once, until the last of the faebane-tipped arrows dropped onto the table with a menacing ring of metal on wood.

Feyre closed his wounds as best she could, but the flesh inside would take longer to heal. For now all they could do was carefully wipe the blood from his body and carry him up to his bedroom. 

You lingered by Azriel’s side long after he fell asleep, fingers twitching with nerves as you counted every slow and steady breath of his. 

“Y/n.” Feyre gently touched your arm. “He’ll be alright.”

You nodded, still watching Azriel sleep. Then, to your mortification, you burst into tears. Your clothes were drying stiff with sweat and blood — none of it yours — and the red handprints Azriel had left along your arms were turning to copper rust. 

She shushed you, softly tugging at your arms. 

“He-He asked me to stay,” you said between gulps of air. 

“He’d want you to be clean and well-rested, Y/n. Don’t let him wake up feeling guilty.” 

If it weren’t for Feyre, you would have remained glued to the floor of Azriel’s room until you became one of the faces trapped in the wooden floors. You let her lead you across the hall to your own room where she filled the tub with warm water and soap. 

“Shit,” you mumbled. Your fingers shook so much you couldn’t undo the buttons of your dress. Shadows, loose and long as stalks of grass, wound around your back, plucking the buttons undone without a word. 

“He’ll be alright.” Feyre repeated this phrase many times as you scrubbed off the night’s events and turned the water copper brown. The magic of the Townhouse whisked away the grime almost as quickly as it appeared until you sat in a sudsy bath, milky and clean.

“What happened to him, Fey?”

“From what Rhys and I can tell, Koschei had over a dozen archers lying in wait for when he returned to Prythian. We’ve already warned Helion.” 

You nodded. Your head felt heavy on your neck, like a doll with a snapped neck. 

“He nearly died.” Once the words were out in the open, fragile and pure, you broke down again, knees drawn up to your chest in the tub. 

“But he didn’t.” Feyre smoothed back your dripping hair. “It will take more than arrows and faebane for Death to steal him from us, Y/n.” 

Gods you hoped that was true, or else your heart might give out every time Azriel walked out the door. 

You returned to his side the moment you were clothed, hair still dripping onto his gray bed sheets as you leaned forward from your chair and held his hand. He slept on his stomach, wings flared out and peppered with white gauze like a patchwork quilt. Beneath the drape of his blankets you knew more gauze covered his chest and stomach, dotted with blood like blooming roses. 

You didn’t know when you fell asleep, but you awoke to a deep ache in your back and a faint choir of voices in the air. 

Shadows. 

They kissed your cheeks, cool and soft, urging your eyelids open. Azriel was already awake and sitting up in bed with a grimace. One hand clutched his side and a leg hung over the edge of the bed, like he intended to stand. When he saw you, his hazel eyes widened. First in alarm. Then in guilt. 

“Az?” Your voice felt crusted with smoke and sleep and you did what you could to straighten the crook in your neck and your spine from the odd position you’d fallen asleep in. ““You’re not supposed to be sitting up.” Your bones cracked obnoxiously as you moved for the first time in hours, and the guilt in his gaze deepened. 

You pressed lightly against his chest, feeling the gauze scratch your skin, but he did not budge. 

“Az, you need to lay down. What were you even doing up?” 

Azriel’s eyes flickered off to the side. “I was… I was trying to move you to the bed.” 

You swallowed your yawn and blinked in disbelief. “Azriel, you’ve just been shot and stabbed. You need to lay back down.” 

He grabbed your wrists, tugging you forward until you almost collapsed against his chest. “There’s space on the bed. I want you to be comfortable.” 

“The chair is fine, and you are hurt. Now, please—” He did not move. No matter how you reasoned with him. No matter how you tried to shove him back beneath the covers.

“I will lay back down under one condition.” 

You frowned. He was much more stubborn when he was injured. “What condition?” 

“Sleep on the bed. There’s plenty of room.” 

“Az—” 

“Please.” His hands slipped into yours, fingers pressing against the pulse of your wrists. “Y/n, I will be comforted with you beside me.” He held up his finger before you could sleep. “And not in that gods-awful chair. You’ll wake up crooked.”

“I’m not a stalk in a storm,” you grumbled, because it only seemed appropriate that you should fight him on this. Otherwise, you’d have to admit that the thought of melting into his bed set off fireworks in your stomach, exciting and terrifying at the same time. You’d also have to admit the scent of mountain air embedded in every inch of his room brought you comfort. You could lay your head on his pillows and sleep for an eternity. 

I shouldn’t be here. But you let him tug you closer to him. You slid your legs over his waist, calves catching on the waistband of his pants and dragging in a way that had your heart leaping into your stomach until you were safely on the other side of him. 

Azriel’s bed was massive — over 12 feet across to better accommodate the span of his wings. You moved as far away from him as you could without eliciting offense and stared at the window. 

Your muscles clenched as he shifted closer to you, wings rustling against the silk sheets and whispering as he got comfortable. Every time he so much as shifted, your back prickled, as though you had eyes there that shifted to soak up every inch of him. 

He’s hurt and I’m taking up space and—

He reached out his arm and his fingertips brushed against the curve of your back. You stiffened like you’d been struck by lightning. If Azriel were awake, he would have apologized and wrenched back his hand as if burned. But he was fast asleep and the touch was a natural movement he made in his dreams where he was imagining that you were closer to him. So close that he could breathe down your neck and feel you melt beneath his touch. 

You didn’t sleep, as much as the lull of his breathing threatened to sink you into sweet and comforting dreams. The sky was but a lighter shade of black when you were slipping out of bed with barely a whisper. Miraculously, Azriel did not awaken, and his shadows ghosted over the floors drowsily.

You were no stranger to dawn as you padded down to the kitchens. You hummed to yourself, cracking eggs over a well-greased skillet with onions, tomatoes, and peppers tossed in. They bobbed up and down in a sea of yellow like ducks on water. Potatoes browned to your right, their skins crackling and spitting grease as bacon popped and sizzled beside them. 

You ate as you went, plating the final meal for Azriel, who—if you knew anything about him—would be waking shortly after the first rays of sunlight split his shadows in two. 

You slipped back into his room as quietly as you’d left, and then nearly leapt out of your skin to find a dark mass of shadow covering the bed. 

“You’re awake,” you said blankly. 

Azriel propped himself up onto his elbows, back rippling as he forced his stiff and swollen wounds to stretch until he could sit up in bed. 

“Where did you go?” There was but a faint slur to his words. “You weren’t here when I woke up.” 

“I was making breakfast.” You dragged over the ottoman from the foot of his bed as a makeshift table. “Did you brush your teeth already?” Not that it mattered. A sour mouth wouldn’t keep him from a meal if he was hungry. 

The flash of fear in his eyes was so subtle, so brief, that you missed it. 

“I’m not hungry.” 

“Well that doesn’t really matter. Madja said you should eat first thing. Oh!” You plucked a purple glass bottle from his bedside table. “And she said to drink this with a meal.” You pushed it into his hands, reluctant as they were to take the stoppered bottle from you. 

“I can’t imagine eating right now.” He said, shaking his head. His cheeks puffed out and he swallowed hard. “The smell… it’s… I can’t stomach it.” 

You frowned at that. He liked your cooking. It was only due to circumstance that you hadn’t been able to cook for him in months. 

“Can you please try?” you begged. “Just a bite.”

His skin turned pallid and the dark marks beneath his eyes stood out. He picked up a fork with a trembling hand, stuck it into a potato, then dropped it as if it burned. Suddenly, he regretted asking you to stay the night. Guilt ate away at his stomach, twisting it like spaghetti on a fork. 

You sighed in dejection. “I’ll bring it back downstairs.” You said. You began collecting the silverware from where you’d left them by his side. 

“I’m sorry.” He murmured, catching your wrist in his hand. 

You smiled softly. “Try and get some rest.” 

“Will you be back?” His words caught you by the door. 

“You won’t even realize I was gone.” 

He doubted that very much. Still, he settled back in bed, rolling onto his stomach to keep its rumbling at bay. He was quite hungry. 

You closed the door behind you, carrying the untouched plate of eggs and potatoes. Cassian stopped his whistling as he made his way down the hall, a teasing smile playing at his lips until he caught sight of your dejected expression. 

“What’s got our resident Librarian frowning? Did someone misplace a book in the House?” 

You didn’t rise to Cassian’s jests. You cast a sullen glance back at Azriel’s door like it was personally responsible for everything, and shrugged. “He hasn’t eaten since he’s been back and I’m starting to get worried. I read up on Illyrian anatomy weeks ago and he should be fine enough to eat by now.” 

Cassian leaned down, taking a careful sniff of the plate before grabbing hold of a butter and rosemary roasted potato and plucking it in his mouth. It was cold and the butter had hardened into a greasy slick, but it was still good. He told you as much as he walked with you back to the kitchens, stealing slivers of potato as he went.

“It’s nice to know my cooking’s not at fault.” 

Cassian jerked back in surprise and sudden understanding. “You made him that?”

“Yes. I know the House has its own will, but I like to cook. And it still feels strange having food just appear out of nowhere.”  

Cassian fought with all his might to keep the cheeky grin from his face. 

Poor Azriel, forced to go hungry because he was still too much of a sheepish fool to tell you about the mating bond let alone accept it. 

He clicked his tongue. He loved his brother to the grave and back, but Azriel had a horrible habit of getting trapped in his own mind. Cassian had hoped you would help with that, given you suffered similarly. 

“I wouldn’t take it too personally. Azriel’s a picky eater. Always has been.”

That was a complete and utter lie. Growing up in the Illyrian war camps meant you either starved or ate whatever gray-brown mush you could get your hands on. Rhysand and Azriel had been quicker to move on from the rugged Illyrian lifestyle, and Rhysand especially had used his High Lord privileges to cultivate a refined and expensive taste, but if they were hungry and limited they didn’t give two shits what went in their mouths. 

“I didn’t realize you could afford to be picky in a war camp,” You grumbled. You dropped the plate’s contents onto a skillet, patiently waiting for the House to light a toasty fire. There was no need to let good food go to waste.   

You thought over it, some minor irritation settling in that the Shadowinger had rejected the food you’d worked to make. It really didn’t make sense that Azriel would be so particular about food. Or anything for that matter. He’d always struck you as the practical, bare-bones sort, and you knew him well enough now to know that was true. His very job required it of him. But then again you couldn’t remember the last time he’d accepted any food that you’d offer-

You froze. Oh. Oh.

The first night he’d visited your apartment in the Day Court, he’d refused your tea and cakes before leaving abruptly. You’d agonized over that night for months, trying to figure out what you might have done to scare him off. But he’d been so kind and shy afterwards and then the whole matter of Koschei had arose and you’d never given it much thought because he just seemed so familiar and... Oh. OH-

“BASTARD!” You spat out in shock. The skillet dropped to the stove with a sharp cry that had Cassian blinking. He’d never seen you like this. So…agitated.

Had you always been this dull? A year ago you might have been able to blame it on your naïveté, but you weren’t so socially misinformed now and yet this was a bit much. And… oh you couldn’t wrap your head around your own stupidity to even begin to think about a mating bond with…

A mating bond with Azriel. You… you were his mate. He was yours. And you were his. And suddenly the pieces of it were falling into place so quickly you thought you might be crushed beneath the weight. 

Mate.

Even the thought of the word crashed around your mind incessantly, like an anxious dog trying to settle down to sleep. Yet it all made such perfect sense. The way Azriel always found you when you were in danger or grieving. The awful days when Azriel had been away and you’d felt like a piece of your body had been severed. The way that the world felt right when he was beside you. Maybe it was the bond, maybe it was just something born out of love, or maybe they were one and the same. It was impossible to tell but it didn’t change anything.

Mate.

Cassian glanced sideways at you and said cautiously, “We’re both bastards, Y/n. I don’t think that’s much of an insult coming from your mouth.”

Your eyes snapped to his, suddenly remembering that he was in the kitchen with you. You brandished a fork in your hand like a weapon, pointing the pronged end up at him like he was a piece of meat to be skewered. You were shorter than him, but the sharpness in your eyes made him pause.

“You.” Such a simple word, yet it sounded so threatening. “You knew didn’t you?”

Was he sweating? The room felt warm.

“I don’t know what-“ You snatched his wrist and with your magic, you stole the information from him that you needed. It was as easy as plucking a flower from a field. 

Fuck. Cassian groaned at the same time you did. You knew now. Not that you really needed confirmation from Cassian. Still. It was rather embarrassing to learn you were the last of… well everyone to know, even if it was your fault for not noticing the signs. In your defense you had been preoccupied with other matters…

“Stupid, stupid, stupid.” You muttered, heating up the remaining food with a great deal of force before setting down a fresh tray, plate, utensils, and mug of tea on the countertop.

You keep muttering to yourself, your joy disguised by your embarrassment and no small amount of shock. Cassian watched nervously as you prepped the plate. 

You’d no sooner growled, “Move,” before Cassian leapt to the side and you set off out the door and down the hallway back to Azriel’s room.

She knows. One shadow whispered in his ear. Azriel felt his heart skyrocket and his stomach plunge to the cradle of his hip bones. 

She seems… upset.

Upset was a mild word. You were alight with every emotion possible — fury, fear, anxiety, excitement, love — and Azriel struggled to tease them apart. It was like he’d been hit in the chest by a tangle of snakes, each a writhing, living, ever-changing thing. One moment you seemed nervous, the next angry. 

“You.” Your knuckles were pale as they gripped the tray. Sunlight molded to your form like a crown, and it became all the more apparent that you were Helion’s daughter — his bastard daughter, but daughter nevertheless. 

He scrambled into a seated position just in time for you to drop the tray in his lap with a clatter that sent fork and knife skittering over the dish.

You looked down at the tray, then up at his eyes, wide and molten as amber. “You didn’t tell me.” You didn’t need to elaborate any further. 

“I didn’t think—”

“You’re right. You didn’t.” You blinked, suddenly shy. “Did I not make it clear enough that I liked you? That I loved—love you? Or perhaps you don’t… perhaps you don’t want me.” That was a possibility you hadn’t thought of in your excitement to see him again. 

Oh gods, you hadn’t thought of that possibility had you? You’d just aggressively thrown food at him, expecting that he would—

Azriel gripped your chin, forcing you to look at him again. Your cheeks were warm and painted with color. 

“I always worried I was reading into actions that meant nothing to you. But, never think for a moment that I don’t want you.” He smiled then, a shy, secret smile reserved for you. “I’ve wanted you since the moment I laid eyes on you.” 

Now your cheeks were burning, but Azriel did not mind feeling this kind of heat on his hands. He let go of your chin, twirling a fork with his fingers like it was a knife. It was one of his few nervous ticks whose knowledge was reserved for the people he trusted. For the people he loved. 

“Being with me will put you in more danger than you know.” 

“But I expect it will bring me more happiness than I could have ever imagined.” You raised a hand up to his face, twisting away a stubborn curl of hair that fell over his forehead. “And you forget who my father is,” you reminded him. “Maybe it is I who will put you in danger.” 

“Maybe,” Azriel whispered. His breath fanned over your cheeks, soft and sweet. 

You picked up the fork, lifting it up in between you. 

“Eat.” You commanded him. 

Azriel smiled, plucking it from your fingers and stabbing a potato. He sighed. “I never could deny you anything, and I would never want to,” he said, before chewing carefully. Cautiously. 

You blinked in surprise, instinctively taking a step away when you felt something new and warm begin to burn in your chest, like someone had taken a drop of the molten hazel in Azriel’s eyes and dropped it into your heart. 

“Oh.” You breathed. 

“Yes,” Azriel murmured, “An unusual feeling, I know.” He placed the tray beside him and he’d no sooner opened his arms before you’d buried your face in the crook of his neck. You wanted more of that warmth in your chest. You wanted to slip into Azriel's skin as close as possible to his beating heart. To feel the mating bond wrap around you both like a curtain to block out the rest of the world. 

Azriel groaned in pain, but would not let you leave his embrace. No pain had ever been worth so much. 

You forced him to finish eating, even though all he wanted was the taste of you on his lips. “Later,” you promised him. When he was healed and whole there would be more breathless kisses and urgent touches, but for now he had to content himself with eating his meal and drinking his draught. But he would not be denied the press of your skin against his as you slipped beneath the covers and curled up beside him. This time, you fell asleep quickly and your dreams came over you like water. 

[skeltnwrites]

Bad Cop - Eddie Munson x Reader

Summary: You wake to a call from your boyfriend Eddie who asks you to bail him out of jail. 

Word Count: 2.2k

TW: interactions with police, mild injury, talk of fighting and bullying, sexual innuendos 

A/N: I might be a little late to the Eddie Munson party but I’m here now! :D

“This is a collect call from Edward Munson at Hawkins Police Station. Will you accept the charges?” 

You clear your throat but your voice still feels raw when you speak, “Yes.” 

“Please hold,” the operator says. 

A trilling sound as you wait, twirling the phone cord anxiously. You’d been tucked in bed a minute ago, dead to the world. The phone rang loud enough from the kitchen to startle you awake. You caught the time on the alarm clock on the nightstand as you kicked the blankets off, just after one in the morning. 

“Y/N?” His voice is soft under the crackle. 

“Edward.” It’s not angry per se but you never use his real name which is telling.

“Please don’t be mad.”

“Are you okay?” you sigh, tipping your head till your forehead meets the wallpaper. 

“I’m sorry— I’m fine. I just, can you bail me out please.” 

“What happened, Eds?” 

“Just a stupid fight. Nothing serious, I promise.” He pleads like you won’t believe him and doesn’t give you a chance to press for details, “There’s cash in a shoebox on the top shelf of the closet. On my side, all the way in the back.” 

You want to scold him but you're still kneading sleep from your face, irritated now that you know he’s okay. You bite your cheek, considering the possibility of an argument. Knowing that it shouldn’t take place through a phone. 

“You’re sure? It’s enough?” 

“Swear.” 

“Okay, on my way.”

He apologizes again before the line clicks. 

You shuffle through the band tees he’s grown out of and have since been neglected to the back of your shared closet. You make a mental note to remind him to drop some off at Goodwill. Under a stack of vinyls, you locate the box with a rolled wad of twenties held together by a rubber band. You snap the band, biting your lip. It’s enough to buy something expensive, really expensive. You jam your heel into a laced sneaker and do not bother to change out of your pajamas. The money is pushed deep into your pocket along with the house keys. You shake away arising questions as you start the van. 

Cold air smacks your bare arms as you push open the station door. You blink rapidly at the fluorescents. An officer hands you a clipboard, you sign two dotted lines, and fork over most of the cash. He retreats to a separate room without a word, presumably to retrieve your boyfriend, leaving you alone in the lobby. 

Your arms pillow your head on the counter until a familiar set of steps rounds the corner. His eyes, big and sorry, find yours instantly. But your attention quickly shifts to the marbled purple and blue highlighting the arch of his cheek. The stern speech about bar fights and bail payments you���d rehearsed on the way flees your throat. He brushes past the counter to hug you and you spot a split lip too. Your shoulders deflate as you meet him halfway. 

“Thank you,” Eddie mumbles into your crown. 

You give his waist a quick squeeze before pulling back. His hands chase the goosebumps from your skin as you scan his face. His curls are frizzy which is typical but more disheveled like he’s been running his hands through them. Your nail traces his lower lip where it was clearly cracked open but is now glazed over with a layer of dry blood. “Lose any teeth?” 

He smiles, pearls still intact, and you can’t bring yourself to be mad. His breath smells faintly of alcohol as he says, “You look tired.”

“I am so tired,” you admit. 

He grits his teeth guiltily, “I’ll make it up to you.” 

An officer clears his throat and passes Eddie a brown paper bag with ‘Munson’ scribbled on the front. He snatches the bag with a wink. The man offers nothing but a blank stare, maybe mild disapproval as Eddie pivots and jogs toward you, already at the door. He fishes for his lighter from the bag, kissing and pocketing it as you step outside. 

“Can I drive?” Eddie reaches for the keys in your hand. You always let him drive. 

You snatch the carabiner to your chest, elbowing his side, “Are you trying to get a DUI too?” 

“I had one beer,” he scoffs as you unlock the door. 

You believe him but pretend not to as you hop in the driver's seat. “You’re a criminal now. Can’t be trusted!” You yell playfully before slamming the door as he jogs around the hood. 

“Very funny,” he mutters as he climbs in. 

You sling your arm over his seat to back out. The streetlight accentuates the bruise when you glance past him. 

“Does it hurt?” 

“Hmm?” 

You point at your own cheek. 

“Oh, no. It’s fine. Should’ve seen the other guy,” he chuckles. 

“We’ll ice it when we get home,” you pull out onto the main road before settling your gaze back on him. “So who was the other guy?” 

His eyes roll in your peripherals, “So Shelly Watkins was there—“ 

“You hit Shelly Watkins?” 

“Jesus! No! Her stupid boyfriend Rob Perry.” He groans in disgust. “You remember him? He was such a dick in high school!” 

You shake your head, trying to recall. 

“He’s a couple of years older I think. Well anyway, Shelly was blabbing her big mouth, as usual, about Robin and her new girlfriend.” 

“What was she saying?” You interrupt, curious but inferring already. 

“Nasty shit. And she’s talking so loud the whole bar can probably hear. I mean, I couldn’t not say anything, babe. And hey,” he throws his hands up in surrender, “All I said was ‘Seems like what other people do in their spare time isn’t your business.’” 

You smirk, knowing it was not as polite as he made it out to be. 

“And Rob is all ‘What did you say?’” Eddie teasingly lowers his voice, foot hiked up in his seat to face you with a finger curled under his nose like a mustache. 

You steal glances from the road to watch the theatrics as he retells the story, making sure to emphasize when he punched Rob square in the nose so hard it broke. 

“Did you win?” You ask, attempting to hide your proud grin by checking your blind spot. 

“Oh yeah.” Eddie crosses his arms, accidentally nicking the wound on his lip with his nail as he retracts the faux finger stache. He winces, tapping the cut to assess the damage. Fresh blood coats his finger; he’s quick to press his whole hand over his mouth as he fumbles through the glovebox with the other. A deck of fast food napkins you’d organized spills out. You catch one before it falls, crumpling it into his free hand and swerving back into your lane. He replaces his hand with the thin sheet, wiping his fingers on another napkin off the floor as you pull up to a stoplight. 

He tips his head like a puppy when he catches you staring. You lick your thumb, smearing a stray drop crawling down his chin. Your palm lingers on his skin, rubbing circles behind his ear as the light flicks green. 

It’s not long before you pull into the driveway and unlock the front door. Eddie holds a third napkin to his face. You consider going to the ER for stitches as you toss the keys on the counter and snatch a Ziploc bag from the cabinet. 

Two lines of light form a skewed L in the hall from the cracked bathroom door; A silent message that you are allowed to come in. It squeaks familiarly loud on its hinges but Eddie doesn't acknowledge you. 

He focuses on his reflection as he peels the napkin away hesitantly. The blood has stopped but his lip looks swollen and angry. You hook a finger through his belt loop, tugging him until he turns. You nudge the bag of ice to his cheek and he flinches grasping your hand to pull it away. 

“‘s cold.” 

You tug the hand towel off the sink and wrap the plastic, pushing it back to his cheek. You hold it there caressing his lash line with your pointer. He leans into the touch, rubbing his eyes with ringed fingers. Eddie pulls the thick silver off one by one, setting them on the counter. 

“Sit,” you tell him. 

He perches on the edge of the toilet lid obediently. You pick a washcloth from the drawer and run it under the sink. He parts his knees as you approach him, hands snapping into place at your hips. You cup his chin, pushing up until he tilts it toward you. Cool water cleans his lips where you brush. He doesn’t flinch, even when you accidentally dig too hard. You progress down to his jaw, where blood is smeared dry, and flaky. 

 “Think I’ll have a cool scar?” His breath fans your chin as you work cautiously. 

“No,” you say. He toys with the strings on your pants, happy to be taken care of. “But you don’t need it. You’re cool already.” 

The corners of his mouth lift fondly. He fights the urge to smile, hoping you’ll work longer if he sits still. You swipe in slow strokes, also secretly loving the time and touch. 

You give his face a once over before tossing the rag to the counter. He searches your expression for a diagnosis. But words are slow to find your mouth, too enraptured with the long lashes that bat his cheeks sweetly. “I love how eager you are to stick up for the people you love,” you start. 

“But?”

“But, we can’t afford you getting arrested over something like this.”

“I know,” he groans and headbutts you gently in the stomach. His hands cup the backs of your thighs and his hair drapes around his face like a curtain. You comb a handful of it over his neck and he tilts his head so you can see his eyes. “I don’t regret what I did, though. He’s always been such a bully. He deserved it, you know?” He sighs, gaze drifting away, “I felt like I could finally stand up to him after all these years.” 

Your fingers trail down his shoulder to smooth out the tee riding up his back. “I don’t doubt that he deserved it. I know you just want to do the right thing. But still, he can probably afford it, we can’t.” You hesitate to ask, “Where did you get that money anyway?” 

He hugs your middle, muttering into your belly, “Been saving.” 

“For what?” 

He shrugs and says what you believe to be, “Something special.” You are curious but lean on your trust rather than insecurity. He most likely intended to surprise you with something if you didn’t know.

“Sorry, you had to spend it.”

“Not your fault.” He peers up at you as if to ensure you know that and you brush his bangs back. 

“Still, sorry.” 

He blinks slowly up at you like a cat waiting for more pets. Then, he shoots up, back stiff, eyes wide. “You have work tomorrow,” he realizes out loud. 

“Oh, you didn’t hear?” you pull his arm until he stands. “I actually have come down with a real nasty cold,” you force a cough into your fist. 

“Oh yeah?” He raises an eyebrow. 

“Yeah, not only that but there's this criminal that won’t leave me alone. Think I might have to file a report at the station tomorrow.” 

He laughs, flicking the light off as he follows you to the bedroom. The ice pack is left to melt in the sink and the stained washcloth to dry on the counter, a mess for tomorrow you’ve decided. You’re quick to crawl under the covers and he’s even quicker to shed his clothes and join you. 

Eddie pecks the sliver of collarbone poking out of your shirt, making his way up in a dotted line. He presses gently to your lips, and you break away mindfully, aiming for the corner instead. 

“You know?” Your eyes are closed but you feel his stare. 

You hum.

“I think it’s kinda sexy when you call me a criminal.” 

“Oh my God!” You throw an arm over your burning cheeks, “You are so horny.”

He laughs into your wrist but moves it aside to cradle your cheeks firmly. He pulls one eyelid open gently with his thumb when you refuse to engage. You release the smile you’ve been keeping. He mirrors it, teeth bright in the moonlight spilling in. “Think about it, I already have handcuffs so you can play bad cop and—“ 

You grope for a pillow to push into his face and then another when he chucks it off the bed, giggles overlapping. 

“I’m going to call the police on you, have them arrest you again. Take you to horny jail.” 

“Now you get it,” he releases his grip on your wrists to sit back on his heels and in a voice that is not his own he fawns, “Oh, officer! I promise to be a good boy from now on!” 

You roll over, groaning wildly into your pillow. “Go to bed!” 

He settles behind you, his heart races where it's thumping against your back. Yours isn’t far off. A final kiss is planted on your nape where he tickles you with his hair as he wishes you a good night.

[avis-writeshq]

pairing: early seasons!spencer reid x sunshine!fem!reader genre: fluff, roommate au, childhood friends warnings: general criminal minds violence, not beta-read oops a/n: I renounce the MoReid shippers; they’re SIBLINGS !!!! also, apologies for lack of posts !! have been very busy with uni :( wc: 1.06k part 1 | part 2

Spencer was shot. It all happened so quickly– the sound of the gun firing, the grunt that he let out and the apprehension of the UnSub. Too quickly, but such is the fickleness of life. This was one of the rare occasions where the ballistic vest did not do its job, the bullet jamming into his side. Hotch was on the UnSub in seconds, the cuffs on his wrists before anyone could blink. 

“Shit, Reid,” Derek gasps out, watching the way blood seeps through his once pristine white shirt, and he presses his hand against the wound. “Shit, Hotch! Hotch! We need a medic!”

*** 

“It’s going to be okay,” Aaron assures as best he can. His face is grim and Derek is shaking his head in frustration, hands trembling and cold from washing his hands over and over again. “It’s not your fault.”

“We missed him,” Gideon mutters, “he was right there and we missed him.”

“And Spencer got hurt because of it.” Elle’s gaze is set on the hospital’s sign in counter. 

Aaron understands their guilt. They caught the UnSub in the end, so nothing was ever in vain, but it doesn’t change the fact that they didn’t anticipate that he was at the end of the hallway waiting for the perfect moment to strike– and Spencer paid the price of their mistakes. The bullet hit him in the side where the vest didn’t cover, the damage reaching his liver and kidneys. Aaron doesn’t think he’s ever seen that much blood before. 

“Excuse me–” a voice loud enough to cut through their brooding chimes from the reception desk. “Hi. Hello, I’m here for, um, Doctor Spencer Reid?”

The clerk glances at her for a brief moment before turning back to his computers. “We don’t have a Doctor by that name on staff.”

“Um, no–” a nervous laugh splits the air. “No, he’s– he’s not a doctor here. He’s a patient? I got a call.”

He looks at her up and down before raising an eyebrow, mumbling something. “Is that you?”

“Yes. Yes, that’s me, is he okay? I came as soon as I could.”

“He’s in surgery. He’ll be out in a few. Take a seat over there–” He gestures over to where Aaron and the others are sitting– “and the doctor will call you over.”

“Right. Right, okay, thank you.” 

Elle doesn’t try hiding her confusion, looking up at you from her seat with raised brows. “You’re here for Reid?”

You jolt in surprise, the heavy grip you have on your bag loosening in an attempt to calm down. “Hi? Um, yeah. He’s– well, we’re on each other’s emergency contact list.”

“It’s good to see you again,” Aaron says with a tight grimace. “I wish it were under better circumstances.”

Derek’s jaw unhinges. “You knew?”

“Emergency contact list.” Aaron offers you a glance. “Are you okay?”

“I just–” your voice wobbles, a choked whimper leaving your lips. “I just want him to be okay.”

The team shares your sentiments. It’s not often when there’s an injury as serious as this on the field, but the risk is there. The room is tense with worry, the sound of doctors and nurses rushing around through the halls does nothing to ease their anxieties. You’re already fearing the worst. 

What feels like hours is only minutes as a nurse arrives in front of your little group. 

“Doctor Spencer Reid?” She confirms, looking sympathetic as ever. “The surgery was a success. The bullet grazed against his liver so he does need to stay for a couple of days for monitoring, but he should make a full recovery.”

“Is he allowed guests?” You blurt out hurriedly, the receipt in your hands crumbled in torn from incessant worrying. 

“He’s should be waking up now, but you’re welcome to see him. I’ll take you there.” The nurse offers a gentle smile. “Girlfriend?”

Heat roars against your cheeks and you shake your head adamantly. “No, no, he’s– we’re not– he’s my roommate.”

The nurse hums, a knowing smile on her face. “I see.”

After a few quick goodbyes towards Aaron and the rest of the team, you hurry after the nurse whilst clutching your bag of goods. She opens the door wide, letting you inside before closing it behind you while you pull up a chair. 

“I am– I am so mad at you, Spencer Walter Reid,” you whisper, gaze fixed on his resting face and the hair that mats his forehead. You brush a few strands away from his eyes, your lips trembling briefly. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”

“So you’re not that mad?” Spencer croaks out, his voice dry and his head pounding as he manages to lift his eyes towards you.

“Spencer.” Your arms are around his neck in an instant, careful as not to disrupt the wires and tubes that surround him. “I’m going to kill you.”

 “That’s counter intuitive.” He laughs quietly, wincing a little at the suddenness before allowing his free arm to wrap loosely around your waist. He finds it uneasy, the way your lips fall into a wobbly frown and how your eyes look red and puffy from crying. He’s only ever seen you look like this once before but that’s nothing compared to this. This time you look like that because of him– a silly little accident has lead to your pretty smile vanishing off your pretty face.

“You suck. I’m telling your mother.” He knows you won’t and he’s grateful that you’ve found it in yourself to make a joke. When you pull away, he immediately misses your warmth, watching as you rummage through your bag before handing him a sealed cup of red jell-o. “It was the last one they had.”

“You’re an angel, really, but I don’t think I’m allowed to eat for a couple hours,” he murmurs, his fingers grasping gingerly at the cup.

With a wordless nod in acknowledgement, you press a thick leather bound book into his hands, your eyes meeting his gaze. “Your favourite.”

He breathes out his thanks, glancing up at you through the dim lights of the hospital room. “Are you going to stay?”

“As long as you want, Walter.” 

*** 

From the other side of the door, Derek glances through the window at you and Spencer before looking back at Hotch. “They’re roommates?”

“Apparently.”

“No, but– they’re just roommates?”

“Unfortunately.”

reblogs are always appreciated !!

part 1 | part 2 | you are on part 3!

[moonstruckme]

heyy, so this is my first time sending an ask, i dont know if u do repeated themes, but im so obsessed with bodyguard!james, maybe we could have some angst where he puts himself ia a dangerous situation to save reader and she gets mad/upset at him? love your work very much, they brighten my day🙌

Thank you for your request <3

cw: shooting, blood mention

bodyguard!James x fem!reader ♡ 1.2k words

James says your name, soft and worn with exhaustion. “Can you look at me, please?” 

No sooner do you oblige than your vision blurs again. There’s a cruel line across his perfect cheek, leaking blood where the glass sliced across it. Your fault. 

James sighs. “Sweetheart,” he says, knuckles finding your cheek. They brush away your tears without intent, less a purposeful act than a byproduct of a caress. “It’s okay.” 

“It’s not,” you insist. Your voice burns like fire, and yet you don’t remove his hand. Even furious with him, you crave James’ comfort. 

His expression tightens when you blink more tears down your cheeks. You wonder if it hurts. You wonder why he’s sitting here with you in your room instead of going to get his cut cleaned or patched or whatever he needs to do, but really you know. You’re always the priority. Even when the threat has passed and protocol no longer requires it, James will always take care of you before taking care of himself.

Your voice comes out softer without you meaning for it to, soft but not thin. “You shouldn’t have moved.” 

“It’s my job to protect you,” says James. 

“I was safe!” 

“You weren’t safe.” Now it’s him who’s being firm. James sets both hands to your shoulders, looking you in the eyes. Not angry, but ardent. “Someone was trying to hurt you. You were in trouble, and I needed to get to you.” His lips tilt slightly, not without sympathy. “That’s my job.” 

You chew your lip, tasting salt in the seam. He makes it sound so simple. So innocuous, too, someone was trying to hurt you instead of someone was shooting at you. James always plays things down this way, softening them into something less horrific, less violent. Another way he protects you, you suppose. 

You’d been going down the hallway with James, chatting about something useless, when the large window you were walking beside sprouted a hole. Your next step stalled, perplexed, and in that time two more holes appeared, with cracking sounds and the tinkling of broken glass on the floor. You and James moved at the same time, his hand reaching for your arm a heartbeat too late as he retreated toward one side of the window and you—stupidly, considering it was a greater distance—threw yourself to the other. 

By now, James’ team knows the shooter was likely some sort of sniper; no one with a gun could have made it onto the property and the bullets were fired singularly instead of in a spray. A spray, you probably wouldn’t have survived. 

The shooting stopped when you were both away from the window. You looked at James across it as you pulled your knees in tight, making yourself small between that window and the one behind you. The air in your lungs felt dry and stale. James was looking back at you, eyes wide but face controlled as he scanned you over. 

“I’m okay,” you said. Whispered, though you don’t know why. 

James nodded, standing. “Stay right there,” he told you. 

You only had a second to be concerned about why he’d say that before he was running back across the window. Your body tensed on instinct, but you were too slow to stand as glass sprayed, punctured by another bullet. James landed with his body covering yours. 

You thought he’d been shot. For a handful of panicky, heartbreaking moments, you’d searched for the wound, feeling for wetness at his neck, his side, his heart, until he managed to catch your hands, whispering, It’s okay, sweetheart. We’re okay. 

There’d been no more shooting after that. James had spoken to people in his earpiece, and you’d both stayed hidden, and eventually someone had said back that you were clear to go. Now James is sitting in front of you on your bed, alive but bleeding and looking like he might like to hug you if you let him. You haven’t let him. 

He watches you gnaw on your lip. “Don’t hurt yourself,” he says softly. 

You scoff. “As if you get to talk.” 

James smiles, but you don’t smile back. You’re not ready for that yet. It fades as a new wave of tears crests your cheeks.

“I don’t want you to protect me anymore,” you say weakly. “I don’t like when you get hurt for me.” 

His brows bend, big thumbs moving soothingly, almost absently, over your shoulders. “You can’t get mad at me for that,” he says. “It’s how it needs to be. You know why.” 

You sniffle. “Because it’s your job.” 

“Because it would kill me if anything happened to you.” His eyes bore into yours, deeply earnest. 

“James…”

“It would destroy me,” he says. 

You look back at him. Your heart feels like it’s beating in the hollow of your throat. You’re no less upset with him, but now there’s another feeling in the mix, not new but inconsistent. James’ eyes dip to where you’re still chewing your lip. He reaches for it, thumbing it free from between your teeth. 

“Stop that,” he pleads. 

You swallow. “You can’t just say that.” Can’t pretend he’s here for any reason other than it’s where he’s paid to be. Can’t act like he cares about you half as much as you do about him. 

James looks wounded. “Why not?”

“It’s not fair.” 

“I don’t think you’re being very fair. You were in danger, and I did what I needed to get to you. You can be angry at me if you want, but I don’t see how I earned it.” 

Your face is hot again, emotion prickling just beneath your skin. “Because I’m not the one who gets hurt, James!” 

“I know.” His voice goes soft to counter your loudness, his hand moving back to your cheek. A warm touch over warmer skin. “I can’t be sorry.” James’ lips touch underneath your eye. You tilt up into them, and he turns his face down. “I can’t.” 

You taste your own tears on his lips. James kisses you gently, coaxing, not wanting to take any more than you can give. Your throat closes as you push your hands up his shoulders, wanting to prove it to him; that you can give, and give, and give. He tempers you when you get too frantic, pulling you back with doting touches. 

You open your eyes to run a thumb gently beneath the line on his cheek. Emotion steals your breath. “I’m sorry for this,” you manage. 

James covers his hand with yours to kiss it. “It was my decision.” 

“A stupid one.” 

He makes an amused humming sound, noncommittal. “We’re okay, though, aren’t we?” 

“What, you think you can just kiss me and I’ll instantly feel better?” It’s a bold thing to mock, when your head is still buzzing and your lips feel warm and tingly. 

“No,” says James, sincerely, “of course not. What can I do?” 

You look at him, fighting the urge to take your bottom lip between your teeth again, if only to see if it feels different. “It wasn’t not helping,” you admit. 

The smile that takes James is so overwhelmingly sweet it almost does make you forgive him for everything. Almost. As his lips close over yours again, you think you can find it in yourself to make it all the way eventually.

[a-simple-imagine]

Don’t They Know a Rabbit Can’t Cry pt.2

Synopsis: the road is long and winding. You've been through so much. but the hardest thing to deal with is the newest revelation from Lilia.

Pairing: rio vidal x fem!reader, agatha harkness x fem!reader x rio vidal

words: 3.3k+

A/N - gave up on trying to make this something i couldn’t. It ended up focusing on the readers relationship with Rio sort of separate from Agatha. Sorry if that's not what you' expected

WARNINGS- swearing, descriptions of blood and injuries/pain

PREV //

The vibrant orangey-red sky and comforting embrace do little to distract from the stinging bubbling across your palm. It hurts something fierce. Red hot and wet. You keep your hand in a tight fist; blood bubbling beneath. It tickles a little as droplets spill down your wrist and onto the fabric of your clothes. Agatha sits behind you with her legs on either side, cradling you like one would an injured child. Soft voice in your ear an attempt to encourage you to show your injury. You stay curled into yourself. Shunning her pleas. It was just a scratch. It would heal in time. The other woman didn't need to fret about you any more than she already did. You hear another voice before you notice them. Rio must have returned from her trip. A few words were shared with Agatha before her attention was diverted to you.

"show me,"a temperate request.

"no," you urge. Twisting more into Agatha's embrace. Her grasp tightens slightly. Rio merely sighs before snatching your wrist and tugging your arm out. Your brow furrows.A tiny grunt of discomfort. She pries your fingers apart with ease, revealing the gash across your palm.

"How?" she catches your gaze but you don't answer so her eyes flicker to Agatha an instant later.

"accident in the woods."

"Can you not speak?" rio questions, fingers a smidge tighter around your arm.

"Can you let go?" you shoot back, attempting to pull away but she holds on tight.

"you must be more careful," Rio leans down, lips brushing against the sensitive skin of your palm "My love."

"you needn't worry," you express as she eventually releases your hand. A faint red scar that would go away in time. "I am fine."

"for now," Rio shows a smile. Tiny and gentle. Easy to miss. She cups your face and you instinctively lean into her touch; thumb brushing over your cheek. "does it feel better?" said warmly. You nod. "I am glad."

"This is why you should listen," Agatha scolds

"you know, should you need you can just call for me?"

"I do not wish to bother you." you express, a touch warmer. Softened by the soothed hand.

"it matters not when it is you," Rio murmurs. A brighter smile.

"and it is me who is too soft?" Agatha scoffs. "hardly,"

"This is different," a hand held out as she stood. "it's getting late. We should go inside before you catch your death."

"a little cold never hurt me." you accept her hand allowing the help up. "Agatha and I finished making jam earlier, you should try some."

"you made jam just for me?"

"it was not made for you," Agatha comments following behind the two of you. "you just happened to return."

The end was so close you could almost taste it. The bitter taste of death. It's not that your wish was to die right at the end but to rid yourself of the burden of immortality; and live a life that would one day end for that was what made it worth living in the first place. Hundreds of years of a life that should have ceased years ago. You would also be rid of Agatha and Rio. No longer a spare moment interrupted by their presence. Agatha Harkness who grew more unbearable to be around the further you travelled the road. And Rio Vidal… a green witch you used to know. Maybe Lilia had been lying. There was no way to fact-check now. There are but three others left. Agatha, Jen and Billy. You have no idea where they are. Agatha had basically charged out of the last trial. Jen and Billy were a mystery. You had wandered in search of respite. Searing pain encases your arm; a trail of blood droplets leading towards a tree. You tumble against it. Breathing through the overwhelming sensation.

"whatcha doin'?" such a playful tone could only belong to one witch. Rio. Too focused on yourself you hadn't even noticed her presence but now the slight chill in the air was beginning to shiver up your spine. Her magic always felt a little overwhelming. She possessed a great deal.

"where have you been?" words harsh as your eyes search for her. A shadowy figure across the way leaning against a tree. A pit begins to form in your stomach "Rio?"

"working," eventually answered. Working. Even back then it was always her reason for taking days away. You never really challenged it. You had no reason to. And Rio never seemed interested in explaining what she got up to. "where are the others?"

You dare a shrug. The fire spreads in response. You swallow a groan as best you can but it is much harder to hide your face. You had never been exceptionally good at that. "somewhere up ahead. Listen closely and you'll probably hear Agatha yelling," An attempt at a joke but your heart is hardly in it. You takea resounding breath and let your head tumble back against the bark. Seems like you spend a lot of time amongst the trees. Rio used to say it was important to foster a good relationship with nature. It's what sustains all living things. She was a green witch though so her connection in particular probably made her biased. You always enjoyed exploring with Rio. Many hours spent in grassy fields or harvesting fruit for sweet treats and whatnot. "I just…"

"you're hurt," a knife between fingers twinkles in the moonlight. "and Agatha just left you?"

You never wish to defend Agatha Harkness of all people but in her defence, she wasn't aware of your injury. None of them were. A rogue sword managed to catch you before you could jump out of the way. You would be fine. It wasn't a devastating blow. Just grazed the skin all the way down your arm. Probably looked worse than it was. "nothing new then."

A bark of laughter that quickly settles from the green witch. "she was practically sobbing when that boy got hurt," pushing herself up, she starts stalking towards you. "guess we know where her priorities lie," you swallow hard. Guess we do. While you had made it rather clear you wanted nothing to do with her. Rio bringing up her reaction to Billy did pull at your stomach a little. Once cared so much. Now cared so little. It wasn't like you were hiding your injury well if Rio's quick evaluation was anything to go by. One momentary glance away from the other witch and she was suddenly towering over you. "shame," she crouches down to your level, hooking her index finger under your chin and lifting ever so slightly. "to leave such a pretty thing behind," heat floods your cheeks, making you feel a different kind of warmth. She was playing to your softer side. The vulnerability of being injured. A cunning fox playing with her food. You wait for the enviable moment she switches. Often her treats were paired with tricks. A hand around your throat. A knife in your back. Disappearing one night without a trace. But she doesn't. "let me kiss it better."

Rio was an extraordinarily healer. No need for spells or chants she preferred physical contact. In the past, it was often a kiss; much like the famous saying. You'd witnessed her lick Agatha a few times to dispel her injuries.

"no, it's fine," your free arm shoves her away. "get off me."

Entirely unfazed.A slight chuckle. "still mad?"

"fuck you."

"guess so," the corner of her lips quirk up into an almost missable smirk. "it'll only take a second," a furrowed brow is met with a viper fast root vine that slithers around your wrist and yanks your arm out on display. An audible groan dragged from your lips. Eyes scrunch up as tears begin to swell.

"what the hell?" typical Rio. "don't lick me."

A threat rather than a statement. You know her games. The attempts to rile you up. A roll of her eyes. She crosses her legs as she sits down opposite you. The tip of her thumb swipes over her tongue before cold fingers wrap around your arm. You watch her gradual movements, applying pressure around the edge. "does that hurt?"

"you know it does." you grit your teeth. Willing yourself not to cry. She didn't deserve it. She presses even harder. Pain pricking around her fingertips. You squirm but it only makes your arm burn and her grip tighten. "Rio," voice low. A little whiny. Begging for something; her to let go or heal it, you're not sure. "please," her thumb drifts slowly. Collecting blood and leaving a faint scar in its path as the stinging sensation begins to fade. A few stray tears manage to fall your cheeks. The green witch pops her blood-soaked thumb into her mouth. Holding your gaze a satisfied smirk grew. A low hum. the delicious taste of your suffering.

"just like old times," muttered quietly. She sounds almost timid. Perhaps a response to reminiscing on the past or she knew the reaction she would get bringing it up. If you didn't know her well enough, you'd think she was fond of your time together.

"Can you… let me go now?" the vine tightens before slipping away. You run your fingers over the scar, stretching your wrist out. It was feeling a lot better. Rio watches you carefully. No attempt to get up. You make no attempt to push her away. Softened by a soothed arm. She reaches out once more. Hesitating as if giving you a chance to stop her before she wipes away the remnants of your tears.

"better?"

You nod a little and her hand lowers. "thanks."

"this game you're playing ends soon. Do you think you'll get what you want?"

"why wouldn't I?" you query.

Rio's hands maneuver across the dirt around her in smooth steady motions. "nothing feels…" a handful of dirt brought up between the two of you before pouring to the ground. "off to you?"

Your eyes narrow in contemplation. Does anything feel off? Nothing felt normal. You were on a magical road. The Witches Road. The stuff of legends. "should it?" a soft sigh falls past Rio's lips.

"you may think you've changed- almost convinced me with that whole tough girl act" She shakes her head. Almost like she's disappointed. "but you're still that same girl." she expresses. No venom in her words. Hardly an emotion at all. "naïve. Trusting. I could say the world was ending and you'd probably believe me."

"I'm not," you try to sound as firm as possible. Fingertips going back to your arm. "I wouldn't believe a word that comes out of your mouth."

A chuckle. "and yet you believe this road is the answer to all your problems."

"Agatha is the one who asked me to come,"

"and you just believed her?"

"She is the only known survivor," many witches attempt the road. That much you knew. Nobody ever comes back. It wasn't that you believed Agatha. She was on some misguided trip for power. It was more an act of desperation.

"notorious liar and serial killer Agatha Harkness."

"you need a coven for the road and I-" you continue but she's not listening.

"hid behind dark magic."

"Rio,"

"the woman who abandoned you-"

"Rio. stop it," you state loudly.

"I'm not doing anything," she shrugs. "just speaking the truth."

"I know what she did- what you did," you huff. Your eyes flicker down to the small pile of dirt Rio made. You reach for it. Rolling pieces of the road between your fingers. It felt rough. Sharp. Real. that sword that sliced your arm. The blood that spilled. It was real. "I need this- I need the road to be something." you drop it back down. smoothing it around the ground with your hand. It had been a long road. It was hard being here. Seeing them again. Sharon. Alice. Lilia. You hardly knew them but they didn't deserve to die. This couldn't have been for nothing. You needed to get to the end. To prove you weren't that stupid girl they thought you were. You needed the suffering to end. It had to be real. It just had to be. "I can't keep searching forever." your words hang heavy in the air.A despairing confession to the road.

"Why do you see immortality as a curse?" the other witch asks. Your eyes flicker up to find her staring at you. You feel hot under her gaze and quickly look away. "and not a blessing?"

A blessing? That was ludicrous. It brought you nothing but suffering. Endless life was no gift. How could it be? How could Rio of all people believe that after what Lilia said? Unless it wasn't true. "Rio."

"yeah?"

"why didn't you tell me?" or more so how could she not tell you? You had known her for centuries. And yet it was Lilia who revealed her true identity.

"tell you what?"

"Lilia said you're…"

"I'm…?"

"death," a whisper on the breeze. Death. Rio was death. Is death. Some living embodiment of a concept. It wasn't easy to comprehend. Your brain still didn't quite understand how it worked or if it was even true.

"What happened back there?"

"you'd know if you'd been there," a bitter tone. You don't know why. It just felt like one minute she was there and the next she vanished. Back then and even now on the road.

"do you think you would have handled it well if I had?"

You shrug. Who knows. Back then you navigated the world with an unchecked sense of naivety. You would never deny the girl you once were. You would have followed Agatha and Rio to the end of the world had they asked. They were everything. You truly used to believe they had your best interest at heart. It was stupid thinking back. To trust two predators so easily. there were plenty of red flags that you chose to ignore. You don't know how you would have reacted to the news. There was no way of knowing. You're not that girl anymore. "maybe."

"not even a little."

"you don't know that,"

"I do," her voice is forceful. No room for misinterpretation. "I really do."

"I don't get it," she reaches for your hand. Slow and cautious. You don't pull away. You let her have the moment. The original Green Witch was something you were familiar with. You had originally thought that just meant she was a really powerful witch which is still true but different. a cosmic entity. It's hard to understand a concept such as death having a physical form. Never mind one that looked so ordinary. Well, not ordinary but humanoid.

"you do get it, trust me" as she squeezes your hand. Presumably an attempt at reassurance. You pull away. Perhaps she was right. Maybe you just refused to accept that Rio was death. Maybe it was just too hard to understand. As you stare into captivating eyes you see a world that once was. Silk black hair spilling out from a spring green hood. Kissing wounds so minuscule just to save you some discomfort. The prettiest of flowers just so happened to appear on your strolls. Delicate locks embellished with perfect petals. Sure, she had never been the gentlest of souls. Not like Agatha who was always there to catch you when you fall. But Rio Vidal had her way of showing affection. How could someone like that possibly be death? "you're trying to apply human morality to death. But death is neither right nor wrong. Good nor bad. It simply is." it simply is. Death didn't discriminate. It wasn't fair or just. It simply is. Hated by so many. Sought after by others. Death wasn't good nor bad but Rio? Could her actions really be excused? If all the bad she did wasn't her doing then neither were those little moments of goodness. Was something like death even capable of feeling? "I am the natural order of all things."

"not me though," you say quietly. "does immortality not go against your natural order?" Rio's eyes flicker away but you reach for her face. Firm hands cupping cold skin. She always ran a little cold. Guess that made more sense now. You can tell she's surprised as you push her to face you. Force her attention to remain on the unnatural. "did Agatha know even back then?" rio nods against your hands. Of course, she did. Maybe that's why they ran off together. A serial killer and the embodiment of death. Quite the pair. "oh,"

"it's how we met actually- before you," that small pocket of anxiety sinks deeper at the mention of a time before you. To a relationship only they shared. You had your moments with each of them. But they had many more without you and that would always mean something. "death doesn't wait for you at the end of this stupid road. I've always been right behind you."

Anger settles but never gone. Your jaw tense. Nails digging into the back of her neck. She doesn't even flinch. There is some truth behind her words. You've been chasing death for as long as you care to remember. Searching for her in textbooks and scrolls. Bitter potions and fruitless spells. But in actual reality, you have known her all along. It was funny in its own way. Ridiculous. Even now as you hold them in your hand, it's still hard to understand. Your mind races with questions. So you merely sink into death. Wrapping your arms around her as you bury your face in the crook of her neck. Inhaling the familiar earthy scent and dewy undertones. It's a second or two before her arms wrap around you and her body relaxes. Her grip is fierce; bruising even like she's been waiting for this instant. Fearful you'll slip away again if she lets go. It's a comfort in a way. Terrifying in another.

"you're not mad anymore?" you very much still were. There had been no apology. Barely an explanation. That flame still burned inside. This wasn't forgiveness by any means. You were just overcome. Tears threatening to spill as you cling to her. Allowing your emotions to wash over yourself. It's strange. It's confusing. It's Rio. She's never held you with so much urgency. So much sentiment.

"te he extrañado," a painfully tight squeeze that gives you a point of hesitation. An admission you never predicted. Not now. There's a twist in your stomach. A tug at your heart. A deep inhale of death. It makes no sense and yet so much. Possibly a joke. Some sick game she was playing. How was the embodiment of death was somehow capable of missing you and yet…

"I miss you too," confessed against the skin of her neck. Her grip falters and you take the opportunity to pull back. You come face to face with her once more. Offering a small almost sad smile. Rio looks to the ground and you follow. a single white daisy. She plucks it. Rolling the stem between her fingers as she looks to you once more. flower so lovingly placed behind your ear before rising to her feet.

"you should head back to the others," she insists, brushing herself off. "wouldn't want you to get lost out here," a sharp turn on her heel. You scramble to your feet as she begins walking away. Brow furrowing.

"Rio," you call out. She halts but doesn't turn your way. You know there's no point in chasing after her. "did you… do this to me?"

"do what?"

"curse me," she lets your query linger in the air for an uncomfortably long time.

"Maybe," she answers back. "run along now rabbit."

[girlokwhatever]

late nights,,

paige bueckers x fem!reader

“paige move. my arm fell asleep.”

you can see her dimly from the streetlights shining through the window, not missing the way she rolls her eyes. you know she heard you, yet chooses to pretend like she didn’t. at her response, or lack thereof, you roll your eyes as well.

“paige i literally saw you roll your eyes..” when she doesn’t answer again, you start pushing on her shoulder in attempt to break your arm free. you catch a glimpse of the time on her bedside table,

1:33 am.

your girlfriend starts to groan, not happy with the new method. instead of sitting up like you want her to, she just rolls on top of you. you let out a huff at her weight fully resting on the entirety of your body. paige is a solid few inches taller than you and very, very muscular, which only adds to her weight. though you’re always happy to be close to her, her antics weren’t amusing.

“aw thanks paigey, now i just can’t breathe.”

“you’re welcome honey.”

she lifts her head, probably just so you can see the smug grin on her face. she pecks your lips and puts her head right back down into the crevice between your neck and shoulder.

you begin to feel the pins and needles in your arms from the new blood flow. it only makes you wince, and as if all the stars aligned for you tonight, paige decides to roll back to her previous spot. right on top of your arm.

“paige! get off or i swear-“ she huffs and sits up, side-eyeing you from her position.

though she’s getting on your absolute last nerve, she does look beautiful. her black sports bra and pajama pants, hair in a bun, and her skin glowing so nice in the orange from the streetlight outside.

“why do you hate me?” her tone is laced with attitude, fronting a persona you and kk like to call “snarky and sassy.” and boy, does she live up to the name.

“i don’t hate you paige.”

“oh really? but you don’t want to cuddle me”

“i do, c’mere. you were just-“ when she lays back down, intertwining your bodies together, you feel the pressure of her knee against your crotch. you don’t know if she did it on purpose or not, but it makes your face grow hot and you thank the lord above you’re facing away from the light. if she saw, she’d definitely tease you about it.

“um.. baby..”

“hm?” you feel her breath hot against your neck, which only adds to your new found body heat.

“your leg is in my vagina right now.”

“s’okay.”

“alright. just jam your knee into my crotch. it’s fine.” she lets out a loud huff, sitting up again. even through her huff, you don’t miss the way her stomach growls.

“hey babe?”

“yes paige?” you already know what she’s gonna say, and you also know how you’re going to respond. she’s interrupted your sleep for too long.

“i’m really hungry-“

“i’m not getting up.”

she stops for a minute, contemplating her options. she stands up, and for a second you believe she might just let you sleep,

but no.

she circles to the end of the bed, grabbing your feet and yanking you towards her. without hesitation, she wraps her arms around your back and lifts you up. you know your fate now, so you opt for wrapping your legs around her and accepting it.

“’m takin you with me.”

she carries you with ease through the darkness and into the kitchen. setting you down on the counter, she moves to the freezer and grabs the box of frozen sausage biscuits. she plops two on a plate and into the microwave and then quickly returns to the space between your parted legs.

“y’know.. i could’ve eaten you instead and we wouldn’t’ve had to get up” she says it with a smug little smirk, the one she has when she knows what she’s doing. she knows the affect she has on you.

her hands are on your thighs now, inching up under her shirt that you’re wearing and her fingers trail the line of your underwear. you’re so entrapped by her tactics that you realize you’ve been holding your breath. her whole hand is almost buried in your panties when the microwave beeps. she slowly pulls away and leaves you sitting there, burning alive. surely now she can see you blushing.

she sets the plate down beside you on the counter once she returns. still smirking, she runs her hands up your sides and they settle on your hips, pulling you closer to her and towards the edge of the counter. her fingers trace shapes on you, you think she’s drawing hearts but you’re honestly too tired to know.

she thinks to herself how beautiful you are and how lucky she is to have you. your skin is soft under her fingertips and she admires the scent of your body wash. she loves everything about you, can’t ever get enough. her skin tingles when you wrap your hands around her neck, playing with the loose hairs on the back of her neck.

she’s so entranced by you she almost forgets the biscuits growing cold. she motions the plate to you, a silent question ‘do you want one?’ but you shake your head no. deep down she’s sorry for making you lose sleep, but she remembers if she didn’t then she wouldn’t get to see you like this, so the thought leaves as quickly as it came.

when shes washing her plate, she almost misses your little “love you.”

her heart pounds, her stomach flutters, and she swears no one has ever made her feel this way before. she wants to crawl under your skin so she never has to be without you.

“i love you too”

now she’s carrying you back to bed, tucking you in and fighting the urge to keep you awake so she can hear your voice all night. but you’re both tired now, so there’s no point.

your back is facing her and she pulls you into her chest, wrapping her arms around you so she knows you’re safe. and you are. with paige you’ll always be safe. the last thing you remember before drifting off is her lips kissing behind your ear and her nose nuzzling into your hair.

“goodnight pretty girl.”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:**ੈ✩‧₊˚☽｡⋆🀥⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

FIRST FIC WHATTTT

you know i had to hop on the paige train

i hope it’s bearable

[skyrigel]

“The Great War : Part 2”

Pairing: Benjicot “Davos” blackwood x Bracken!fem!reader

Part 1 of “The great war”

Part 3 of “The great war”

Benji masterlist

“ Benji makes a move, Aeron demands his sister back, you learn the truth—prehaps you would survive the great war after all ”

~ fluff, food feeding, flirty Benji, ‘Darling’ is basically his love language, mention of abduction, bashing Aeron Bracken ( loml)

Wc: 2k

There will be one more part consisting: wedding, smut and jealousy, a happily ever after. Join the taglist<3 xoxo

Request for Aemond, Jace and Aegon are open <3

Two days, you sighed, two days living on false hopes and whispered prayers, the smell of smoke still fresh on your skin.

Bright light shimmering inside and took refuge in your darkness as the flap opened, you looked up from your blood soaked gown and feral watery eyes, sore from tears and hopes.

“ Won't you eat anything darling? ” Benji smiled, despite his words carrying a tone of disappointment, his gaze lingering off the untouched food as he reached you.

Sitting down next to you, his back pressed against your cot, floor cold under your bodies.

“ C'mon, you will die if you won't eat.” His fingers brushed your jaw and you pulled back, turning your face to the outside chatter.

“ Wouldn't that be better ? ” you turned to him, He only beamed more, always flattered to have your attention.

“ No.” He said, bringing the plate towards you, “ Because your brother wouldn't like that and me ? I would be wrecked without you sweetheart.”

“ My brother ? ” you perked up, Benji shredded the loaf, dipping it in the cherry crushed jam.

“ Yes, your brother.” Benji cocked his head, bringing the loaf to your mouth, “open” he mouthed, you hesitated but eventually obliged.

“ When will he come ? ” you asked instantly, feeling your throat dry from days refusing food and water.

“ Bracken's were seen on the east fronts, if everything —” He brought another bite to you, “ — plays out good then he would be here by tommorow.”

“ Oh.” Your lips brushed his finger, Benjy's mouth twitched, “ I can eat by myself.” you said hurriedly, avoiding his eyes that could easily devour you.

“ I know darling.” He said calmly, Ben looked different in this light, his face clear from blood and gore, eyes not blinded by war and chaos but just himself, he was feral, you knew it, knew damn well all his bloodiness but this Benji who visited you everytime in these past two days, his skin clear, his youth shining, his words sweet, his tactics new to feed you, it felt like the very first time. You felt more dirty in the clothes he abducted you, refusing to bathe or change or eat, fingers dirty under your nails. It was a relief he was feeding you.

“ Then let me.” You didn't open your mouth when he brought the sweet loaf to you, his eyes softening as he shaked his head.

“ You are in my care, so you don't get to fret.” He pushed his thumb on your mouth, parting your lips in a gasp, too stunned to form any sentences, let alone for a comeback, you ate.

“ No.” you said, when he started spreading cheese on another peice of bread, his fingers red with cherry jam, like blood.

“ Huh ? ” he looked up, placing tomatoes on the loaf along with cooked meat.

“ Not hungry.” you looked away, not that you weren't, but you hated how your heart raced everytime he was near, hated how you would do anything if he said it the right way, hated how stupid he made you feel.

He dismissed as your stomach churned, embarassing you but he made no note of it, busy in making a flower with his toppings.

“ I thought about asking for your hand in marriage, the first time we met.”

“ We never met. You saw me and I saw you.” you snapped at him, Benji chuckled as he bit his lower lip, you looked away.

“ I thought you didn't remember making eyes at me.”

“ I was just looking ! ” your face grew warm, your heart lept inside your ribs, you wondered if he could hear it.

And sometimes you thought he did, Benji could breathe your hunger, sense your desires and it left you spiralling — did he know ?

“ ofcourse you were just looking, darling.” He was finished decorating the loaf like it wasn't going to be eaten but preserved through the centuries.

“ Stop calling me darling.”

“ Why ? Don't tell me you don't like it.”

“ I don't like it.” you glared at him, he waved you off, pouring wine in two goblets.

“ Then don't blush like that.” He sucked at his cherry smeared fingers, his mouth was warm and pink, soft like a breeze, how soft and sweet...so soft on your lips—fuckity fuck.

You flushed, feeling heat shoot up your spine, slowly crawling it's way to your face.

You grabbed the goblet, downed it one swig, ‘it's the wine’ you would jab at him if he pointed the crimson glow of your skin.

But he never did, Benji watched with his smug face, as your throat bobbled down the whole drink in one go, smiling to himself.

“ It would've been nice if your brother wasn't an idiot.”

“ Say that again.” You frowned at him, ready to bang his head with the decorated loaf if you had to, how dare he ?

“ No offence darling.” He shifted closer to you, running a hand through his hair, you winced at his sticky fingers but it was Benji, he would look good doing anything, stupid or immoral, anything and you shuddered at the feeling he tingled inside you. Stop !

“ but your brother ruined everything, first he declared for the cun—unworthy Aegon and then when I tried to make peace—”

“ oh, the bloodshed ? ” You glanced at him and he looked hurt for a moment before he recovered with a widened shit eating grin of his, streching from ear to ear.

“ It was your Brother and his plan.”

“ No.”

“ Well you have got no reason to believe me and you shouldn't until I prove myself to you, House Bracken and house Blackwood never got along and on that table when I saw you, I saw hope, I didn't mind if Aeron asked for lands or rivers or people or glory as long as he would bless us but...” You couldn't believe your eyes when you saw his face crinkling,he wasn't crying but it was there, a proof that he could, “...He and his gitty lords betrayed my trust, no honour, no word keeping—”

“ Stop, please stop.” You brought your knees to your chest, feeling your insides hollow as he spoke and spoke, making you wonder whose sword it was that swinged first that day, his or Aeron's, which man died first, his or your own, because every word he said felt true to his soul and Benji did many things to you, kidnapped you, threatened you, played his silly little games with you but all and all, he never lied, not even to feed you, not even to gain your trust.

You were so doomed.

“ You should rest, darling.”

“ Go away.” You buried your face in the dip of your knees.

“ Right.” He closed his mouth, getting up from the floor, “ Aeron will come for you and this time we could actually talk about peace.”

He added sincerely, before smoothening your hair as you refused to look at him, feeling everything you believed crumble, going upside down.

“ Eat that when you're hungry.” and with that he left.

~~~

Benji was true to his word, By afternoon two maids came in, holding a dress, it was just a simple cotton gown with red flowers embroided and despite almost three days of refusing to do anything that was told,

You finally gave in, feeling your body melt in the hot water as soft hands brushed your back, combing through your hair.

Blood, smoke and many other things rubbed off your skin, you were finally clean.

Your eyes widened, heart bloomed as two men in cloak escorted you in front of a tent, biggest in the whole camp after where you were kept.

“ Go inside.” One said and you reasiled she was a woman, you weren't going to be told twice before you entered, it was lit only with candles. You squinted your eyes and before them stood your brother.

Aeron looked up, his eyes moistened as he saw you, joy knew no bounds as it filled inside you.

“ Sister.” He was already on his feet, circling the room as he ran and took you in his arms, picking you off the floor and swinging you midair.

“ you're okay ? ” you asked him, once he let you down and he nodded, bumping your nose, “ I should ask you that.” He said grimly, shooting a glare towards Benjicot, who was watching the whole reunion with a scowl on his face.

His scowl disappeared as you followed your brother's gaze to him, smiling brightly as he waved at you.

“ Now that we are all here,” Benjicot announced, and you were suddenly aware of many other unrecognisable faces in the room, all with pride and loyalty in their eyes, “let us discuss some very important matters that have continued to become a pain in our ass.” Benji looked at Aeron, who bristled away, taking your hand as he went to sit opposite from Benji on the council table amongst his important men.

“ Not there.” Benji said sweetly to you, immediately the chair next to him was pulled, “ Little dove, here.”

You blinked, glancing at your brother whose face was clamped in a bitter line.

Remembering your place and territory, you walked to his side, sitting next to him.

“ Did you sleep well last night, darling ? ” He leaned back as wine was poured to each lord, some of them were eyeing Aeron and his men very suspiciously, some only smiled with smirks plastered to their hard faces.

You gave him one pointed look before turning back to your brother.

The council began with a very drunk man howling how House Bracken took everything from him, fluent in curses as he threw one after another before you groaned.

“ Take Lord Hawthorne away, he clearly needs rest.” Benjicot said, as two hands helped the said lord out, still telling Aeron how he could fuck himself.

“ Now that we are back again—”

“ I want my sister back.” Aeron made his point, slamming his fist, his hair falling down from his bun at the force.

“ very well.” Benji smiled, all the lords hummed or tutted, like they knew something only the Brackens didn't.

“ last time when we talked about any exchange, you stabbed me in the back.” you watched Aeron for any sign of denial, you were disappointed, shit, “ which is a metaphor, ofcourse, you talked about peace, killed my men, offered your sister and took her away from me.”

“ There was no betrothal.” Aeron said simply, avoiding your gaze. Benji's laugh was humourless, more threatening.

“ You promised and I am asking for that promise back.”

“ In no life I would let that happen.”

“ Then you will face consequences lad.” one man spoke, he was older, his skin slacked around his arms and nerves popped up blue.

“ Your brother is stupid.” Benji leaned and whispered to you, as the council crackled at the old man's words.

“ What are your terms ? ” You asked him instead, knowing Aeron's eyes on you.

Benji's mouth curved in a smirk, his nose almost brushing yours.

He looked towards your brother, to catch his eye and when he did, he became the man you met on that table years ago for the first time, chiseled jaw, mischievous eyes, beautiful and crazy.

“ Marry me.”

Something dropped and you wondered if it was your heart, but that was just Lord Fester who passed out with wine pouring out on his face, and ofcourse your heart too.

You might still survive the great war.

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[januaryembrs]

THERE'S NO SIGN OF LIFE | Spencer Reid x Prentiss!Reader [3]

Description: The one where you grieve Emily together (+ the one where you kiss him)

word count: 7.9k

trigger warnings: okay so this chapter is exactly how it sounds, heavy in themes of grief, depression, anger, slight ideation of the world being better without bugsy (as if), DRUG USE (once and not addictively and not by Spencer!), mention of Spencer being horny, mention on blood and drinking.

authors note: this was just supposed to be a little filler chapter for the next one where the real juicy shit happens and long story short it became nearly 8k words of pure angst until the last minute when I decided to stop hurting you all. please don't hate me, promise a big boy chapter is coming up.

previous chpt | next chpt

'Doctor, look into my eyes.

I've been breathing air, but there's no sign of life.'

The team had fallen into chaos since Emily died. Hotch thought that just five little stages of grief weren’t quite enough to summarise what they were going through.

Morgan was pissed off by the smallest things, had flipped shit just that morning because the printer had jammed. He'd gone through two mugs and a keyboard in just two weeks in his tempers that had certainly seen better days.

Penelope’s eyes gleamed with unshed tears she was trying her hardest to choke down, to wipe away so fast she could pretend to still see her computer screen, but Hotch didn’t need to be a profiler to see the way her sleeves were smudged with mascara, sodden through 24/7. 

Rossi seemed resigned, tired, his breath smelled faintly of the strong whiskey he saved for special occasions, his hair unkempt, as though he hadn’t slept until the early hours, or if he had it had been unrestful. He took more frequent breaks, came back smelling like the cigars he kept in his desk drawer for the bad days, and he sighed as if the world beat down on his back, like he’d been asked to choose between stopping world hunger or saving the environment. His chest was heavy. His face was tired of losing so many friends he loved.  

Spencer was working himself to the bone, his desk piled with books (even more so than usual), his fingers twitching by his side more often, as if his brain cells had been dialled up to a thousand percent, which was saying something when it came to Reid. In fact the only thing out of ordinary was the fact he was constantly checking his phone, the sight of which had Pen dropping her coffee on the rough carpet, which she had promptly then excused herself with watery eyes over. Yes, he actually knew how to use technology, which he had been so vehemently against for years, until the team realised it was because one very important member of the team had been using her sick days for three weeks now. 

They knew he was looking after her, that he would bring her dinner and make sure the cats were fed, but they had no idea she had all but moved in with him, Niko and Sergio included. 

Yet he found himself checking the screen every twenty minutes or so for signs of an update, even just a thumbs up or a little sign that said seen under his good morning texts. He was scared he’d wandered too far into boyfriend territory, it certainly felt that way when he would come home to see her bundled on the couch, nose deep in one of the books he would leave out for her, how her eyes would light up just the tiniest amount to see him home. She rarely cooked, he knew she didn’t even touch the food in his fridge no matter how much he reminded her she needed to eat when he wasn’t there, to which she usually just nodded at him and buried her head in his arm to escape the scoldings. 

Things were different with her here. He knew she was vulnerable, lost, he saw it every time she came crawling into his bed from where he’d set her up in the spare room, or when Sergio made himself home on her lap and she squeezed the cat to her chest in quiet tears. Usually he would have squirmed out of her grip, he had always preferred Emily, but these days he just let her sob with a docile blink at where Spencer watched her from the other end of the couch, and pretended not to notice when his fur was sodden and messed up. 

Spencer had felt something for her before, the weeks, months even leading up to Emily dying, but with her here, needing him all the time, holding him tightly when he needed to grieve himself, making herself at home in his personal space, he was sure she knew it too. There was no way she didn’t know how he felt. 

But the topic was too heavy, too complex to bring up with her mourning her sister, it would rip the carpet out from beneath her feet, and no matter how heavily, besottedly, how deeply Spencer felt he loved her, he would never do that to her. He couldn’t. 

He had always loved mind games, but loving someone so much you couldn’t not tell them, only to not tell them because you loved them so much felt like a whole paradox even he couldn’t wrap his big brain around. 

So they stayed where they were. She had good days, though they usually looked like said reading on the sofa with nothing but a strong cup of coffee in her stomach. And then she had bad ones. And the bad ones made him scared, so scared he had no choice but to get help. 

Penelope came over the Friday evening with Spencer after work, kitted out entirely with nail polishes and gems, the box set of Barbie movies, a hot chocolate mix she swore by, three tubs of ice cream, face masks, Teen vogue with a Never have I ever section ‘Begging to be answered’ and of course, her Pièce de résistance, her makeup kit and joke fluffy handcuffs for them to tie down Reid and give him a makeover. 

“Hello my handsome gentlemen,” She greeted Niko and Sergio who rushed to the door on instinct, knowing Spencer always gave them each a big handful of treats upon arriving home, “Auntie Penny is here for a super girly evening, no boys allowed,” 

“Am I not invited?” Spencer asked, faux hurt flashing on his face as he shut the door behind them, though his eyes were quick to scan around his living room for any sign of her. There wasn’t, not even a single pillow was out of place, and he knew it had been another day of skipped lunch and breakfast.

“You are, of course you are, I just didn’t want them to get jealous,” She whispered, her brown eyes taking in the too perfect apartment and the lack of the Prentiss girl, “Is she sleeping?”

“No,” He said without checking, because he knew she rarely slept nowadays unless she was in his bed with him, “I’ll go get her,” 

“Okay,” Some of the joy died out of her tone when she heard his voice soften sadly as she set her bags down on the kitchen counter, “I’ll get the hot chocolates ready!” Penelope tried to recover in that perky tone she used to cover up when something hurt her. 

He just hoped this had been the right decision, that he wasn’t pushing her too hard. 

Knocking softly on her door, he let himself in when he heard a small murmur on the other side, and as he suspected, she was curled into a small ball under one of his blankets, her hair wet, her pyjamas in the laundry basket. She had one of his shirts on and some boxers he had noticed had gone missing, but he would never hold it against her. 

She had showered while he was gone at least, and her breath was minty fresh as he crept over the woolly rug and kneeled one leg on the bedside. 

“Hey,” He started softly, sweeter than honey, his cadence somewhat hopeful as he leaned over her and stroked her hair that was still damp. “You got up! Did you eat anything?” 

She looked up at him with tired eyes, but she reached out with both her arms to embrace him gently, like she’d been waiting all day to have him near again. 

“I had a couple biscuits and some coffee,” Her voice was raspy, and it was the first he’d heard her speak in a few days. “I’ll try better tomorrow, I just was a bit tired today-”

“No, no, that’s great,” He rushed to comfort her, to stop the apology that was coming his way whenever she didn’t take care of herself the way he wanted her to, “Penny’s here to see you. She’s here for a girl’s night, if that’s okay?”

Bugsy attempted a smile, though she seemed hesitant, but he thought that was probably just the way her expression was these days, like everything hopeful had been sucked out of her. 

“I’ve missed Penny,” She said, and he knew she meant it. She nodded finally, and he leaned over her to give her a proper hug for putting on a brave face, feeling her nuzzle into his chest at the contact. She sniffed the air for a second, before whispering into his ear, “Is that chocolate?”

He chuckled, stroking down her back and pulling her up into a sit. He’d gotten used to her being pliant under his touch, and he only wished her being so receptive to his advances would be under other circumstances. 

The urge to grab her face and kiss every bit of hurt out of her was growing harder and harder to shove down with every day he saw her so soft and wounded. He wasn’t good at knowing what to say, but for her, he was trying to be. The only alternative was kissing her silly, until the pit she’d crawled into was warm, just warm all over, and she came back to him in one piece. 

“Yes, it’s chocolate. Now come on, before she starts the movie without us,” He breathed gently, helping her out of bed, pretending he didn’t hear the way her joints cracked with the first sign of movement in hours. “Wait a second, pants,” He reminded her, tossing her some sweatpants from the floor, which she shoved on blindly. He didn’t mind her walking around like that if it meant she were comfortable, but he didn’t want her to give Pen a scare. 

A ghost of a smile teased on her lips as he led her out the room with two hands on her shoulders, seeing the blonde woman light up like the fourth of July at the sound of the two of them approaching. 

“Bug!” Penelope called, mid way through distributing a hefty amount of whipped cream and marshmallows on top of three mugs. Spencer watched the second her eyes widened slightly as she took in the girl’s appearance, trying frantically to cover it with an even wider smile, rushing to hug her tightly. He saw the minute she realised she felt so different in her arms; lifeless, heavy, rooted to the spot, like any contact with someone other than the gentle Spencer-touches she was used to made her lock up. 

She looked sick, like she hadn’t known fresh air in weeks, or like she’d pulled three all nighters in a row, or like she would be able to watch a ten car pile up and not bat an eye. She looked dead. She felt dead in Penny’s arms. 

The thought of it made her squeeze her tighter, until she felt two arms cuddle her back firmly. 

“I see Spencer has been treating you well,” Pen said, because she was avoiding the subject of Emily, and the way Bugsy looked exhausted, and the way she saw how scared Spencer was when he’d come into ‘the bat cave’ that afternoon to ask for her help. 

Bugsy attempted another smile, nodding slightly as the blonde drew back from their hug, and she saw the worry she tried so desperately to hide as she took in her face. 

The girl’s skin was dull in a way they’d never seen her before, her expression tired, her bones creaky, like someone had reached down her gullet and plucked her soul right from out of her chest, snatched it there and then. Penelope saw why Spencer looked so worried. 

“He’s been great,” Bugsy replied simply, her eyes finding Spencer’s where he shadowed behind her, worried she would faint on the spot from all the movement. She’d not been eating anything other than what he encouraged down her throat, but he supposed a handful of biscuits were better than nothing. 

She felt the bottomless pit that used to be her heart rip open just that bit further, the way it had done slowly the past few days, eating away at her skin. She knew she could never ever repay Spencer for everything he was doing, knew the odd few times she’d managed to collect herself enough to be there for him when he cried could never amount to how he hovered over her every second he was home. 

But where she should have felt guilt, there was nothing, there was just nothing left of her. 

He seemed to notice the slip, the way he always did, and she never did tell him how perceptive he was as he stroked over the back of her hair, leading her with a warm hand on her upper back to the sofa where Pen had already laid out the movie selection, had already grabbed the hot chocolates that were quickly melting onto the coffee table, where Niko was waiting with an eager pink tongue to collect his share, where he settled her down and wrapped her in a blanket as if he was swaddling a baby, where he let her take the middle and him and Pen on either side as Fairytopia lit up his living room with hot pinks and rainbows and flowers and magic. 

And even though she had yet to crack a smile, a real one at least, she seemed content, not entirely uncomfortable with the evening as Penelope commandeered one of her hands to paint her nails a shiny blush colour  ‘to match the evening’. Spencer thought for a minute she might have just needed some girl time, something no matter how many cuddles and sweet words he whispered could never give her. Maybe that was all she’d needed. 

Maybe she would get through this without entirely crumbling.

It wasn’t until the next day when even showering was too big a feat for her, when she had only two mouthfuls of the blueberry pancakes he’d made her before she apologised with watery eyes that he realised how stupid he was for believing it. 

It wasn’t until she said she wanted to move back home by herself that he really started panicking. 

JJ took her out for a picnic in the park the following weekend. The guilt was eating her up alive about hiding Emily’s secret, and from what Pen had told her, she wasn’t doing good. She wasn’t even doing bad; she was barely hanging on by a thread. Hotch had said she would be a flight risk with her sister gone, had said they would need to keep an eye on her as much as they would the rest of the team, but for Emily’s safety she couldn’t tell her the truth. JJ could only stand back and watch as the girl they all knew crawled into something dark inside herself and barricaded the door closed. 

Spencer had taken the nice approach with her, never forcing her to do anything she didn’t want to or asking too directly, as had Penelope. They’d both tried letting her open up by herself, which had only resulted in the girl taking about five steps back and even starting to shut out Reid, something which they all saw tore him up even more than seeing her wasting away in his spare room. He spent more days at hers, crying harder than she had seen him even when he was struggling with opioids. Crying for Emily some of the time, but mostly crying for the fact he was entirely helpless now she had moved out, like the one thing that had held him upright until then had left in a guilty mess of ‘sorry’s and dead eyes.

So she instead took the approach of telling Bugsy she needed help. Because if there was one thing that had always been able to bend her will, it was someone else needing her. 

JJ thought about reminding Spencer that Bug would come back if he took the same route, if he just told her how badly he needed her instead of her feeling like she was simply a burden on his life. But she knew he wouldn’t hear it, he would only blame himself more. 

So she’d told Bug she was struggling with looking after Henry alone while Will was working away, that he’d been asking for her since she’d come to his second birthday party with the biggest stuffed whale toy he’d ever seen. It was a white lie, Will was home more days than she was, but Henry had been asking for ‘the bug lady’ every time he played with his teddy. And it worked like a charm. 

So they sat in the warm April breeze, Bugsy reading on her stomach as JJ carefully nudged a punnet of fat, red grapes her way, hoping she would take the hint and swallow a few. 

It wasn’t until Henry came diving over to them from where he was collecting snails by their shells that Bug even showed any sign of pulling herself out of the book. 

“Buggy!” The little boy called, his tongue struggling with the complexity of the ‘gsy’ sound, and she looked up at him with a tired smile on her face that JJ saw right through immediately. “Buggy, look,” 

She held out her hand, and he gently placed a common land snail in the palm of her hand, no bigger than a quarter, who happily slid over her fingertip with a squishy sensation. 

“Thankyou, Henry,” She replied, her eyes trailing over the shiny slime he left behind over her palm, his tiny antenna eyes googling up at her. “What should we call him?” 

“Sid’d’snail,” Henry replied like it was the most obvious thing in the world, crouching next to her to watch him crawling over her chipped pink fingernails.

“Hi Sid,” She chimed, and JJ watched her face drop into a completely emotionless expression the second Henry’s back was turned to find Sid a friend. 

She felt it clawing at her throat to come out, Emily’s alive, Emily’s alive, come back to us please, please come back to us because Emily’s still alive. JJ was watching her rot in front of her very eyes, and better yet she had the power to stop it with those very few words. 

She could put an end to all of this, she knew how badly it had hurt when Ros died, her older sister, her whole world ripped from her the way Emily’s ‘death’ was doing to Bugsy. She would have given anything for someone to have turned to her and said ‘Jennifer, your sister is still alive. Jennifer, it was all a trick, a hoax, a ploy to keep you safe. Jennifer, Ros is still here, alive and breathing and living her best life in Paris of all places.’

But she couldn’t. She couldn’t betray Emily like that, and knowing, no matter how much of a relief it would come, would put Bugsy in more danger with Ian Doyle and whatever other enemies her sister had made at interpol than she could have ever realised. 

So instead, JJ just ran a gentle hand over her hair that warmed in the sun, and started braiding parts of it absent-mindedly, like they were two girls in a playground waiting for hometime.

JJ stayed quiet, and watched Bugsy get worse. 

Aaron came over to her apartment at 8am sharp. He’d found JJ and Penny in floods of tears in the women’s bathroom when they were due to start the presentation of the latest case and they were nowhere to be seen. Spencer had become detached, quieter with every day that he checked his phone and saw no reply, but had mentioned he’d seen them go into the bathroom together as he got his morning coffee, only for their boss to see the two of them clinging to one another with wet cheeks and before he could even ask, Penelope splurged that Bugsy hadn’t messaged in four days and was refusing to open the door, and that even Spencer asking so sweetly, something that was usually her kryptonite, had failed to draw her out. 

Aaron was convinced if this didn’t work he was kicking down the door himself, even if it meant filing paperwork for a necessary home visit. 

Aaron Hotchner, surprising to no one, was soft on the youngest Prentiss girl. He’d watched her grow for four years straight, had come to her of all people in his hour of desperate need, and felt every second of her grief as if it was his own because he, like JJ, knew he had the power to stop it all but couldn’t. 

He called her name through the door first, her real name, loud yet anxious, along with a firm knock. When he heard nothing back, he rapped on the wood louder, “Bugsy, I know you’re in there. The team are worried about you, they’re worried you’re hurt,” 

Nothing. 

And it wasn’t just the team that was worried, it was him too, if his heavy fists banging even harder were anything to go off of. 

“Bugsy, if you don’t answer I’m sending for the SWAT team and asking them to ram this door down,” He said, with not a trace of a lie in his tone. Because he wasn’t lying, not by a long shot. 

He heard footsteps then, and she appeared through a small crack in the doorway, not open enough for him to see the mess in her living room, but enough to see the way her entire face looked like a cadaver. 

He fought back against the guilt choking him from the inside out.  

“Stop yelling,” She murmured, almost bitterly, “You’re scaring the cats,” 

“You’re scaring us,” He countered back, in a tone that was a little too mean, but from what he heard, soft and gentle wasn’t working, “Please, just let us help you, stop pushing everyone away,”

“That’s a little pot calling the kettle black there, Hotch,” She said in an equally harsh tone, her face scrunching into a frown, and she nearly slammed the door on him right there and then. 

“Get your work out clothes on, we’re going for a run,” He ordered, and it was only then she notices his sport shorts and trainers. She scoffed in his face. He was quick to shove a foot in the door before she actually could swing it shut on him, ignoring the way he nearly yelped as it trapped between the wood, “I’m not asking,” 

“Fuck off,” She spat, and he bristled at her choice language, but he saw the way her eyes told him everything he needed to know. She was a roadkill on a sidewalk waiting to be put out of her misery; she didn’t want to be prodded and poked at and ordered around, she wanted out. 

She wanted to go quietly, without a fight. And it was for that reason, he put up more of a struggle. 

“You are coming outside with me, even if I have to drag you down the street myself because this is not how it ends for you.” Aaron barked back, forcing the door open with one of his large hands as if it was nothing.

“Of all people, I would have thought you would understand, Aaron,” It was like she had slapped him in the face, though he thinks maybe that would have hurt less, and it was only then he saw her eyes had welled up, and her bottom lip was quivering. It was a horrible sight, it twisted his guts like he’d been stabbed by Foyet all over again, but it was better than the nothingness that was there before. 

“Ofcourse, I understand,” His voice softened, his hands coming up to gently rest on her shoulder like she was breakable china beneath his palm, “You think I don’t know what it’s like to want to hide away and never face a world without Haley ever again? I can’t, even now, imagine the rest of my life with her gone,” His throat clogged with emotion he fought off, because he refused to have both of them crying in her living room when he was meant to be the one pulling her out of it, “But I do it because Jack needs me-”

“No body needs me,” She said emptily, ignoring the way Sergio wrapped his tail around her leg and meowed loudly as if to tell her otherwise. 

“Yes we do,” Hotch insisted, seriously, damn near ready to shake her on the spot to knock some sense into her, “We need you, and better yet we love you. You may have lost your sister, but you still have a family waiting for you, Bugsy,” 

And that was it, the single crack that broke the dam. Before he knew it she had launched herself into his arms in a fit of tears, clinging to him tighter than he thought she could for someone who looked so weak and perished. 

He just held her close, feeling his own stray tears drip down his nose as his shirt got wet through. In another life, maybe he and Haley would have had a daughter, and maybe she would have reminded him of Bugsy, maybe his heart would soften to putty just the same way it did with her. The same way it did for Jack. 

And eventually, when she dried her face, and quietened Sergio down, she went to put on her gym gear and one of Spencer's hoodies she’d stolen and felt too guilty to give back, and they went for a run.

If there was one thing Rossi knew better than his whiskeys, it was how to cook a good carbonara. And if there was one thing Bugsy needed more than anything at the moment it was a buttload of carbs and cheese. 

Aaron had been taking her running every morning since that day, and even she had to admit the fresh air and exercise did her good, made her feel stronger and less like the women they find in body bags at the beginning of a case, made her feel like maybe, just maybe, she could get through the rest of this. 

It wasn’t going away overnight, not by any means, but she looked healthier, and her exhaustion meant she got more sleep too, but what remained was a hunger that she was filling with cereal and instant noodles that Rossi knew he had to put a stop to immediately. Instant noodles should have been outlawed with crack and underaged drinking, he would proudly tell her. 

So he invited her over for a cooking lesson, or as he would put it, she could watch him cook and eat as much as she wanted at the end, if she promised to never buy those awful microwave ramen ever again. And she’d agreed, because she felt her appetite coming back every day (and she knew where he kept the good white wine).

“Now as entertaining as this is watching you drain my stash of Sémillon, why don’t you chop up that pork and I’ll get started on the sauce.” He handed her a sharpened butcher’s knife, and the thin slices of seasoned ham, turning to use the stove for just a few moments, “You’re gonna add the cream in until it becomes thick, like cough mixture running off your spoon,” 

“Thick and creamy, you got it,” She chimed in, her fingers slicing the meat into strips, “Did you want this as diced or Julian?”

“Do you mean julienne?” 

“That’s what I just said,” He chuckled into the pot, his chest warming to hear some of that old bratty teenaged sass returning to her tone. He bet she would have run rings around him if she was his kid. 

“Diced, if you would,” David said, using a wooden spoon to stir in the thick cream little by little until the container ran empty. 

“Yes, Chef,” She hummed in response, flipping the chopping board around to begin slicing them the other side, “So, I’m guessing if I asked to try some of that Sauvignon I saw in the fridge, your response would be- oh motherfucker-”

David frowned, “Maybe not so harsh on the tongue but-” He turned around when he heard a hiss, and he quickly understood why she’d thrown the expletive out there. 

Her hand ran red with thick blood, dripping quickly down her arm, ruining her shirt. He didnt even care that his hand carved indian wood chopping board was permanently stained, or that the meat was contaminated, or that the blood trickled a little too quick over his floor, only that her eyes seemed suddenly far away as she did nothing to stop the cut gaping. It had caught her in a trance, one she was not even aware she had been sucked into until he grabbed a towel and headed for her. 

“Emily, no! Emily please, I need medical in here, we have an agent down! Emily, please, please don’t, please- Someone get medical, she’s bleeding-”

David’s hands grabbed a hold of her bloodied palm, wrapping it tightly in the cloth, so harshly it knocked her out of the daze she was in, dragged her out from the last time there was blood all over her hand, when it had been Emily’s blood, when she could do nothing but freeze like she had now. 

“I’m fine,” She said on a reflex, even though he hadn’t asked, he had just acted, pulling her towards the cupboard where he kept the first aid kit, “David, I’m totally fine, it’s just a little scratch,”

“You have to let me go,” Emily had gasped. "Let me go, Bug,"

“David, I’m fine, stop worrying,” She said again when she saw him fussing, hoping he couldn't see the way she’d started shaking, and if he had, she wondered if she could play it off as the adrenaline rushing to fix the wound. 

She knew she was on thin ice with the lot of them after her talk with Aaron. Like he said, they were her family, and family’s took care of one another. She couldn’t live with herself if she kept burdening them so much, kept them from grieving their partner just as much as she was; she loved them too. 

Bugsy was trying to get better, she really was. Sometimes it was just a little difficult, like now when she could still see Emily’s butchered body infront of her as if she were little more than that joint of pork she’d been julienning. 

“It’s okay to get hurt sometimes, kid. You don’t have to lie and pretend it doesn’t hurt if it does,” David said, sitting her back on the breakfast table, holding the bloodied cloth up where he was unravelling a spool of bandage and some rubbing alcohol. 

She shut up then, and she wondered if she was really that see through or if David was just that good at his job. They stayed silent, except for the moan of pain she let out when he doused her hand in the solution, pulling the skin closed tightly and wrapping it taut enough for her to feel her heartbeat in her fingertips. 

“It’s okay if you need a little help once in a while,” He continued, his movements gentle and careful, worried he’d spook her with the first real conversation they’d had in a long time. Rossi had always been closer to Emily than he had her, and maybe it was the fact he lost the few chances he had to be a father, or just the fact she reminded him so much of her older sister, but being with her felt like part of the wound in his chest was the one being treated. “Rather than being afraid to ask for help, remember this: When you ask someone to help you, you are actually doing them a tremendous favour by giving them an opportunity to feel needed.” 

“Is that a David Rossi original, or did you get that from one of your self help books?” She sniffed, hoping he didn’t see the way her expression had fallen, or her throat caught with an apology, or how she hid it with a small smile. 

“Richard Carlson.” He replied, pinning the end of the bandage in tight enough it wouldn’t snag. He sighed, looking at the girl who started guiltily at her fingers, reaching behind her for the corkscrew, “I’ll go get the Sauvignon, you order us a pizza. Just please god, no pineapple, that’s just as bad as instant noodles in my books. That’s like asking Da Vinci about bitcoin, it’s madness,” 

And that was the first time she properly laughed in weeks. 

While Derek was more than equipped to schmoozing the ladies when he wanted a date with them, he had not been ready for this when he’d asked Bugsy to go to the club with him.

She had been doing better, Rossi had said. She had seemed stronger, that was what Hotch had told him. Spencer said they’d even gone for coffee together. He left out the part where it felt awkward and almost like they were seeing an ex, though that of course would be impossible, because they were never dating. At least as far as he knew anyway. 

It had been going fine, they’d gotten two rounds of drinks, had been chatting and she’d even been giggling the more the alcohol hit her. She was looking more like she used to, and it almost all felt like a horrible dream hearing from the rest of the team the state she was in. 

He’d turned his back for a second, for two damn seconds, and she’d been whisked away by some frat boy, and come back to him with a crazy happy look in her eye that he didn’t notice until an hour later. 

“Where did you go, kid?” He’d asked, and she’d shrugged like it was nothing. 

“Needed the bathroom,” She said, and he hadn’t even noticed it was a lie until the light struck her eye for more than a couple seconds and he saw just how dilated her pupils were, like the blackness swallowed her iris whole, and the way she buzzed on the spot with more energy than she’d had in months. 

She was supposed to be getting better, and she was trying, really she was. 

But she couldn’t stop seeing the blood on her hand, couldn’t stop seeing Emily’s face now she could actually sleep again. 

Spencer was half way through his fourth re-read of War and Peace, in its original Russian translation, when he got the knock on the door. 

It was 10pm, he muttered to himself, who was bothering him at this time. 

But of course, as luck would have it, it was the one person who he hadn’t stopped thinking about, the one person who he hadn’t stopped thinking about for the past three years. 

“Spencerrrrrrr!” She chirped, and immediately alarm bells were ringing in his head, her fingers linked with Morgan’s as if he’d all but pulled her to his apartment from the cab. 

She wasn’t stumbling, and she smelled a little like alcohol, but not so much that her inhibitions would be completely destroyed, so he knew it wasn’t that. And Derek looked guilty, a serious kind of guilty like he’d suggested they take a drive on a motorbike with no helmet, or go chasing unsubs unarmed. 

It wasn’t until she flung her arms over his shoulders, and he’d pulled her inside, Morgan following behind with a nervous clear of his throat that he realised what it was. 

“Spencerrrr, I missed you! I missed you so much, Spencer!” And usually he’d love the way she said his name, but this time it was tainted, too false, too electrified. It barely even sounded like her, he hated the way his heart still pounded out of his chest at the fact she pressed herself so close in that little clubbing top of hers, those tight jeans. 

“What did she take?” He ignored her little hums of a song he couldn’t hear, the way she pushed herself even further into his body in a way he knew too well felt like a warm hug throughout her entire being. “Morgan!” 

Spencer had never snapped at him, not since his own days on whatever it was he was doing, and Morgan ran a hand over his face as she nuzzled her nose into his neck. 

“I don’t know, I swear. I turned my back for two seconds to get us another drink, and next thing I know this senior is hitting on her and she’s shoving gum in her mouth and coming back towards the bar- I don’t know what it was, I swear I thought it was gum, man,” Derek rushed, hating the look of desperation in Spencer’s eyes as he yanked her away from him with a small mewl of protest from her mouth. 

“Hey, hey, sweetheart, look at me,” He murmured, and she did, and he saw almost immediately the way her pupils were the size of saucers when she stared at him, crazed and intoxicated, “Do you remember what you took? I need to know so I can keep you safe,”

“You always keep me safe, so safe with Spencer,” She giggled to herself, trying to pull him back to her, but he wouldn’t budge, not until he got a real answer, “Come on, I’m going to be fine, it was just a little Molly, nothing to worry about. Kid even gave me a half for like ten dollars because he said I was reeeeeal pretty. Do you think I’m pretty Spence? I think you’re pretty, I think you’re super pretty,”

They felt themselves sigh in relief, because while still a drug, half of one pill shouldn’t really do much, especially if it was the cheap stuff going around frat houses that the DEA was having a field day with. 

Morgan looked at Spencer, where he let her shove her face against him once more, wrapping his arms around her back and feeling her sigh in relief that she was back there under his warm touch, and they shared the same thought. 

This never happened. 

Because if it did, it meant opening a can of worms Spencer had tried for years to shut tight. It meant acknowledging that the reason Morgan came to him and no one else was because he knew Spencer would know how to handle her when she was coming down in an hour or so. It meant acknowledging why Spencer would know that, and why they hadn’t acknowledged it the first time around. It meant their jobs would be on the line, and so was hers, and as much as she was struggling at the moment, they knew she just slipped up, and that this wasn’t who she was. They knew she could be better, that Spencer would force her to get better, because if the only other option was having her turn into who he used to be, then he was handing in his notice first thing Monday morning. 

That wasn’t an option in Spencer’s books, nor was it in Morgan’s. 

So Morgan left with a little pat on the back of her head, claiming she was a little troublemaker, though he hadn’t quite sounded as teasing as he’d intended and more bitter, and leaving Spencer with her to minimise the damage. 

Bugsy let him lead her to the spare room that once was hers, but she didn’t quite care enough to say anything other than, “I missed you so much,” As she pushed her face into his neck more. 

He sighed, sitting her down on the bed, knowing where she’d left some of her makeup wipes in his bathroom. 

“Stay right here, I’ll be right back,” But she whined again, making a grab for his hand, which he quickly avoided, feeling mean for it the moment he saw her face scrunch in hurt. He stroked her hair behind her ear, watching her melt under his touch, and it almost felt like nothing had changed, like she had never moved out, and like she hadn’t just burst back into his life after popping a bit of molly and turning his evening upside down, “I missed you so much, too, Bug,”

And he wasn’t lying. Not even a little bit. 

She looked up at him with those dazed pupils, as big as dimes as they batted up at him dreamily, and some awful part of him always wanted her to be looking at him like that, like everything he ever did in his life was perfect and he was a god among men. Like she was seeing her favourite movie for the first time on the big screen, when in reality he was just wiping her makeup off her face and handing her spare clothes to change into so she could sleep off the come down. 

It wasn’t until he tried to leave again to go get her some water that she put up a real fight, one that couldn’t be fought off with a gentle touch (he tried), and she was quick to grab his wrist, tug him closer to her. 

“Bug, I’m getting you-”

“Come lay down with me, let’s talk. I love talking to you, why haven’t we talked in so long?” She said like every barrier she ever put up had come tumbling down and her mouth was a free for all for her every thought. 

Spencer smiled despite himself, his honeycomb eyes soft as he shuffled to lay beside her, and they stared at one another, heads against the same pillow, and she looked soft than an angel laying on his bed waiting for a response. She looked happy for the first time in a long time, and he hated how much it suited her. 

“You moved out, remember, bug? You said you wanted to go home and I didn’t want to stop you,” He said gently, like he didn’t want to upset her. But she just giggled and shook her head like he’d told her a joke. 

“Oh, yeah. But I didn’t really want to go home. I wanted to be with you. I want to be with you forever,” Bugsy giggled to herself, wiggling her toes inside her socks and running a finger up his arm gently as she lay on her side, “I missed you so much,”

His brow furrowed, “What do you mean you didn’t want to go home?” But she wasn’t listening, she was tracing over his face with her fingertip, running over his nose gently, past his full lips that quivered under her touch, “Bug,” 

“Hm?” 

“What do you mean you didn’t want to go home? Why did you leave?” He asked again, and she looked back up at him with a shrug, shuffling closer to him, so close he could feel her breath fan over his cheeks. 

“I thought here with you was my home. I wanted it to be.” She said, her fingers finding their way into his nightshirt, “But I felt too guilty being so sad all the time, like I was getting my sad all over you and you couldn’t do anything about it because I was the loser girl with the dead sister you had to look after,” 

His eyes burned with emotion, and he willed himself not to cry, because suddenly it made sense why she had pulled away so fast. She looked at him like he’d hung the damn cosmos in the sky; had he not even paid attention to the letter she’d written Emily. She felt like she was dragging him down, the way she felt about everyone in her life, and decided to cut herself free before she took him with her. And look where that had landed her. 

He felt like a fool. 

“No, no,” Spencer whispered, pulling her into his arms, because he was scared that come morning she would take a million steps back and up and leave him all over again, “That’s not true, that could never happen, you hear me? I liked taking care of you, I wanted to take care of you.” 

“Really?” She asked hopefully, her face soft and dream-like, “I liked taking care of you too, when you would let me,” 

It was true he had tried to push his own feelings on the back burner, besides the few times the dam had cracked and he wound up with his head in her lap receiving the brunt of the affection that evening. He didn’t know why he ever doubted she would have wanted to do that; when he had his migraines she had done nothing but love on him until he felt full to the brim of her warmth. 

He felt himself chuckle, and she shuffled entirely into his arms then squashing out any last molecule of space left between them, and his hand slid over the back of her head, fingers rubbing softly into the nape of her neck which only made her moan loudly, entirely unaware of how sensitive her skin was from the molly. 

“That feels nice, Spencer,” She hummed, her thighs straddling his own as she squished herself against him more, “You feel so nice, I love you so much.” 

He would be lying if he  said the sounds she was making didn’t shoot straight to his dick, and hoped more than anything that she couldn’t feel how it pressed against his stomach angrily. His heart beat rattled loudly, and he swore she had to be able to hear it.

“I love you too,” Spencer sighed, wishing he could have said this to her sober. Wishing she wouldn’t shut him out so easily, wishing he’d pushed her walls a little harder. 

Then she did something he wasn’t expecting. It took all of two seconds for him to close his eyes and hum in content, where her hands were playing with the soft of his waist, and his fingertips stroked her jaw gently, but in a quick movement she planted her lips on his in a soft, sweet peck that he barely had time to register was happening before he pulled away in shock. 

She kissed him. She had kissed him. 

And he wanted her so badly, wanted her in every way it was possible to have someone, wanted to kiss her so hard his face went blue and his lips went numb and his throat burned with lack of oxygen. But he would never dare do anything when she was like this; vulnerable, intoxicated, unaware that the pill she’d taken had acted like a truth serum.

“We’re so silly,” Bugsy giggled, and for a moment she looked twenty two again, like the girl that had answered the door to him in college in nothing but her boxers and a shirt, with her metal music playing so loud he could hear it ringing in his ears minutes after she’d switched it off. She looked like his Bugsy again. 

Spencer chuckled with her incredulously, feeling his face on fire from her action, feeling like a weight had been lifted off his chest that had been immovable for months, because as hard as her come down would hit her, things seemed different now, like they actually had a kicking chance of getting through the grief together. 

But before he could say anything else, her eyes had fluttered shut under the warmth of his palm, and she had drifted off to sleep. 

He guessed he’d have to tell her tomorrow. 

–

taglist:

@release-your-sweets @smileykiddie08 @caramelised-onions@the-tpd-bau @stephthepeach @sunflowersndpeaches @sammy-4103 @starmansirius @yeonalie @delusionallooney @hades-disappointment-child @sadbae-33 @mdanon027 @swag13r @frickin-bats @bilesxbilinskixlahey @mindfullycriminal @mrsbellastyles @nilopillo @imagines--galore @bluejaysaysstuff @imaginexred @flow33didontsmoke @sadbae-33

[ninyard]

I was thinking about Aaron; older, his twins almost 10 or 11, and everything is… normal? His daughters get to say my daddy is a doctor or my mommy is a scientist when their teachers in school ask about their jobs. He goes to dance recitals, or little league tournaments, Katelyn bakes little cakes for the school bake sale when she has the time to do so. Most evenings he comes home to a home cooked meal, or he’s happy to hand his wife a hot plate of food when she’s finished a long shift. They have a mortgage, and bills, and insurance and a college fund for the girls - they wave to the neighbours when they pass them in the mornings, or have a beer on each others porches in the evenings. They have to water their grass. They help their kids with their homework. He’s been to therapy. He sleeps at night. He wakes up in the morning. They’re a family, and they work, and everything is normal.

One day their youngest by four minutes is having a shower in their main bathroom. He should’ve fixed the lock when he said he would. Katelyn is at work, she should be home soon - he’s in the kitchen, the radio is on behind him, the extractor fan is loud. He doesn’t pay attention to the first round of banging, leaning over the check that there was nobody knocking on their front door, and then he hears it again. Three, four solid knocks of fist on wood from the upstairs bathroom. The older of the two meets him on the stairs just in time for him to hear his youngest calling out, “dad!”

“The lock is jammed!” she yells, and Aaron tries it from the outside. Nothing - no movement, no give.

“Stand back,” Aaron says through the door. “Don’t be scared, just stand back in the tub.”

When he’s certain she’s retreated, he tries it with his shoulder first - nothing. Again with his shoulder, a hard, forceful whack - there’s a little bit of movement, but still not enough. He’s taken a step back before he’s realised what he’s doing, and aims his foot for just below the door knob. The second his heel meets splintering plywood, he hears it. The thumping against a wall, or maybe it’s just the pounding heart in his chest. As the door swings open he feels the racquet in his hands, the blood on his face, the hands in his hair.

This has been in my drafts for so long that I’ve lost where I was going with it but something something Aaron accidentally being triggered by/around his kids and having to deal with that, knowing he’s scaring them, knowing they don’t know whats happening. Aaron feeling so far away from his past but being transported back in an instant.

[localplaguenurse]

Helmet Head

Pyramid Head Capitano x GN Reader Smut (Kinktober Week 2)

We're on week 2! This one might already be my favourite because I got to experiment with more horror writing. As a result, this one is a lot longer than Arlecchino's. I hope you enjoy!

WARNINGS: Violence, body horror, blood, mild gore (honestly not really but might as well get my bases covered), other horror elements, dubcon (reader is into it but they’re also very scared and in a really fucked up situation), tenta-tongue.

Minors DNI

Your footsteps pound against the filthy tiles as you run almost blindly down the dark hallway. Screaming won’t do you any good, so you instead loudly gasp for the air your burning lungs are begging you for. You just need to create enough distance between the thing pursuing you that you can reload and take aim. 

You stumble over and drop your flashlight in the midst of the fall. You hit the ground, and you hear a crack when your flashlight does as well. Quickly you roll over and sit up, and see the flickering of your dying flashlight. 

“Fuck, fuck!” You go to reach for the light but stop at the sound of something staggering towards you from the darkness, pained croaks and garbled yelps echoing in the hospital’s hallways. You don’t know how it managed to close the distance, but you quickly snap out of your flight response when you realize this thing will be on you before you know it. 

You find your revolver still affixed to your hip, and quickly jam your hand in your pants pocket to fish out the few bullets you scrounged up. The unstable stomping of the monster echoes through the decrepit hallway, barely audible over the pounding of your heart in your ears. You pop the chamber of the revolver open and in the dark and in your terror, you struggle to load the bullets in. 

“Come on, come on, come on,” you mutter to yourself as you manage to load one, two bullets, but fumble and drop the third. You reach down and hurriedly try to find it. In your haste, you end up knocking the bullet away. It rolls into the flickering light of your flashlight, and then a bloodied, torn boot stomps down in the light. 

You shriek, quickly closing the chamber and lifting the gun into the air. You squeeze the trigger, and you see a flash of the contorted man staggering as blood bursts from his shoulder, the deafening shot rings in your ears. You pull the trigger again, and in the flash you see blood burst from the misshapen head, and that’s when it lunges forward and pins you.

You scream and thrash, pulling the trigger over and over again, but feel none of the knockback of the gun going off. You shove the heavy body off of you and keep firing. You keep pulling the trigger until your hearing returns, and you realize the only sounds you can hear are your ragged breathing and the clicking of an empty gun. You don’t hear the monster gurgling or trying to move. 

You pull yourself to your feet and stumble towards your light. You pick it up, and sigh in relief when you see it was just the lens that broke. The bulb is fine. With your light, you find the bullet you dropped in your panic. You pick it up and stick your hand in your pocket, and realize with horror that it’s empty. This is your last bullet. You have to make it last, and you have to make it count. 

You point the light at the body on the ground and cringe in revulsion at the sight of it. The doctor’s uniform is stained red and brown and black, and you don’t know how much of it is blood, or if knowing that would be any real comfort. The face is the worst part, if you can even call it that. It’s misshapen, bubbled up and swollen like a blister or cyst ready to burst. There are filthy bandages wrapped around the head, but it looks like the almost blubbery skin has meshed with or even grown over the bandages in places. Matted teal curls sprout from the top of its head. In one of its gloved hands is a large knife, caked in all sorts of filth.

You don’t remember how you got here. By all accounts, you shouldn’t be here. The last thing you remember is sitting down at the bus stop after a night out with your friends. You don’t remember getting on the bus, you don’t remember the ride, and you definitely don’t remember getting off that bus in this place. You were watching cars pass you by in the bustling city and wondering if Ajax made it home safe, and then you were waking up on a completely different bench, in a completely unfamiliar town with crumbling buildings and a perpetual fog.

You’ve been here a few days now. You’ve given up on looking for help. You don’t know what happened here, but you learned very quickly that whatever “lives” in this foggy town isn’t going to be human (at least not anymore), nor is it going to be friendly.

You’ve already encountered a few of these… fleshy bubble headed doctors, but it doesn’t make looking at this one any less horrific. They’re all over the hospital, stumbling and limping down hallways until they see something human, something living, and then they give chase. The only thing that gives you any comfort is that they’re one of the few things you can actually kill. These and those weird puppet doll things you saw in an old apartment building you checked out when you first arrived. Ironically they looked the most human compared to these doctors. Most of them had already been taken care of by the time you found them, split in half, heads crushed, short black hair torn out, absolutely brutalized. You didn’t stick around long enough to meet who or what did all of that.

You take a deep breath, and steady yourself. You’ve spent long enough in this fucking hospital. You cautiously reach down and pick up the knife the doctor is still gripping even in death, and having to touch this foul thing makes your stomach twist. Still, if you want to make it out of wherever the hell you are, you’re going to need whatever protection you can get. You doubt this knife will help you much, but it’ll better your odds.

The halls are unsettlingly quiet now on the trek back. You cautiously poke your head into open doors, seeing if there’s anything worth taking or avoiding. There’s not much as far as useful medicine or bandages go. A lot of it is either expired, or contaminated, or you’re not even really sure what the hell it is to begin with. No bullets either.

Your light begins to flicker again, before going out. Swearing, you stop to try and fix it. Fixing it, of course, being smacking against your thigh. You end up knocking the rest of the glass out as you do, but after a couple hearty hits, the light flickers and comes back to life.

You sigh, and lift your light up to look right into the malformed face of another doctor.

You do not have the opportunity to scream before the rusty pipe slams hard into your side. You cry out, toppling over on the floor. You clutch your side, and through the tears welling up in your eyes you see the shadow lift its arm back up to swing at you again. You fight through the pain and manage to crawl back enough that the pipe slams down into the cracked tile between your legs. You orient yourself and raise your flashlight. The doctor struggles to stand up straight again, but it still has a vice’s grip on the pipe. It painfully winds its arm back and steps closer to your terrified form. 

You quickly feel for your revolver, having lost track of the knife when the doctor first attacked you. You whip it out and pull the trigger, assuming that at this proximity, there’s no fucking way you would miss. Dead fucking wrong you are when this thing lunges forward to swing the pipe at your head, missing your face by millimetres while your bullet misses what would have been a perfect headshot. The flash of the gun going off lights up the hallway, and for a brief second you see a spark of ricochet just behind the doctor. Panicked, you pull the trigger again and only get an empty click. As the doctor prepares for another swing, the only thing you can hear are your thoughts.

Should have saved it for myself.

You brace yourself and hope that it’s a nice, quick swing to the head, and lights out for you.

The hit never comes. You watch the doctor stop dead in its tracks and let out a horrid, garbled scream as blood bursts from its chest. Warm droplets hit your face, and you see a large protrusion jutting out from the blood soaked coat. A blade. A sword?

The blade is pulled back out, and the doctor crumples to the floor, twitching and gurgling before finally going still and silent. That’s not what your focus is on, though.

It’s humanoid, and unfathomably massive in height and build. The skin of its arms is discoloured like a days old corpse, littered with scars and almost stained with blood. They’re also huge, the veins bulging from the biceps as if to tell you this thing could very well crush your skull with one hand if it so chose to. Considering the large, almost claymore-like blade it’s dragging around, you’re not surprised. It appears to be wearing an all black butcher’s smock, and you can see the fresh blood on the leather reflecting the beam of your flashlight. Your eyes continue moving up to its face, and find nothing. It dons a helmet that obscures the entirety of its head, save for its long, inky black hair. It almost looks like a knight’s helmet, with a metal jaw piece and a small chain dangling on each side of its head. Where the visor would be, there is none. Where the face would be, there is none. It’s a void, a maw of never ending darkness, and you can feel the abyss staring down at you.

Frozen, you stare back. You don’t know what else to do. You don’t have any ammo, you don’t know where the knife is, and you doubt the pipe would do anything to this thing. Hell, it might even just kill you if it sees you move. 

You feel sick to your stomach with fear as it slowly raises its free hand up to the helmet. There’s a sort of star shaped cross on the very front of the mask, and it gingerly touches one of the points. You look right at it, and see that while three out of four points are sharp, this one is missing the tip. You wonder what it’s doing, then recall the scene that just transpired. When you shot at the doctor, you were going for a headshot, and it missed and the bullet ricocheted off something. It hit the helmet and broke the little star tip. 

“S-Sorry…” you mumble, and you don’t think your voice has ever sounded so small.

The monster… thing… man lets out a noise. A sort of grunt of what you think is affirmation, but you only think that because this thing isn’t trying to kill you. Its staring is not comforting at all, but the fact it’s only staring gives you enough assurance to slowly and methodically stand up. The thing lifts its (his?) head as you do so, still watching. 

On your feet, you find that he still towers over you. You put your gun away and just stare back. He stands statue still, this helmet headed figure, though you can see his fingers twitch around his blade. You’re scared and torn on what your next move should be. He’s blocking your only way out of the hospital, and you hate the idea of getting closer to him to try and shimmy past, but you fear the thought of taking your eyes off of him for even a moment to backtrack and look for another way out. 

… Well, he still hasn’t killed you yet. Maybe you could talk to him?

You clear your throat, and force yourself to meet where you think his gaze is. “Th… Thank you,” you tell him, voice still a little shaky with looming anxiety. “You saved me.”

His hand twitches at the sound of your voice, and you feel a shiver run up your spine. Still, he doesn’t try anything, just continues staring at you. You take a step forward to test the waters, to see if he’ll do anything. The only thing he does is turn his head slightly to keep you in his line of sight. You feel weird for thinking it, but the hulking, helmeted figure is kind of...

You take another step forward. “Can… Can I m-move past? I’m just trying to get out of here, I-I don’t wanna bother you.”

A groan echoes out of the helmet when you get closer, freezing you in place. After a moment of quiet, you take another step, and this time it sounds more like a growl.

“Okay, I-I’ll take that as a no…” You step back, mindful of the doctor’s body. “Are you unable to let me through?”

He tilts his head.

“Like… do you need something from me? Is there something I can do or get for you to let me through?”

The man straightens his posture and sort of grumbles, but you can’t make out any words. It’s hard not to shrink under his gaze as he seemingly sizes you up head to toe. It’s very nice how he’s not killing you or chasing you down the dark halls, but you’re already regretting your offer to help him. What could you do that this hulking behemoth can’t, but also, you know doing a favour for anything or anyone in this place is bound to be a traumatizing endeavor.

You jump when you hear the screech of metal scraping on the floor. You’re immediately reminded of the actual fucking danger you’re in when the beast begins to approach with heavy footsteps you can barely hear over the scraping of his blade dragging on the floor. Fear seizes you and you immediately turn to run, but you’re not given the chance to do so before a strong hand grabs your arm. You try to pull free, but his grip is unrelenting. You’re pulled towards him with more strength than you could imagine, which sends you stumbling into his chest. 

You hear the clatter of his blade dropping to the floor, and his other hand grabs your other arm. You try to move, but he squeezes your arms tight, quietly telling you to knock it off. Your heart pounding, you look up at his helmet, wondering what he’s thinking and how the hell you’re going to get out of this.

“W-What do you want?” you ask.

After a moment of holding you and staring, you see something writhe in the darkness of his helmet. Confusion and fear twist in your stomach as you watch it slip out from within the helmet. It’s some sort of tendril tongue, you think, blackened and slimy. You watch as it traces along the metal jaws of the helmet before slipping back into the darkness.

What?

You have no idea what compels you to do this, but you find your eyes drifting down his body. To your shock, you see something poking out from under the smock—

OH.

Your jaw drops, face going pale yet also burning up. What the fuck. What the fuck. Is this thing asking for you to take care of that?! 

You tear your eyes away from the prominent tent in his crotch and look up at him. You point at it. “Y-You want me to help with that?”

He groans deeply, his tongue flicking out for a brief moment. 

You swallow, and you weigh your options. Is refusing even an option, or would he just kill you? Hell, with his strength and the size of his bulge, that alone might kill you. It’s probably something weird, too, knowing what you’ve been dealing with since arriving. That said, your other option of trying to look for another exit while there are still monsters roaming isn’t much better. You’d walk (or crawl, more likely) away from this alive, at least. Probably. 

There’s also a little voice in the back of your head telling you you’re probably going to die in this town anyways. If you’re going to die, it’s not like this is going to make your fate that much worse. Might as well get laid before you kick the bucket. 

“...” You swallow. “Just go easy on me, please?”

You shriek when the ground beneath you disappears, and you’re swung over his shoulder effortlessly. Looking behind him, you see the full glow of the exit sign, and then he starts to walk away, back in the direction you came from. The scraping of his blade on the ground is grating on your ears. 

The man, Helmet Head as you’ve decided to call him, turns into what you think is an empty exam room. He lifts the blade, and with a loud clang, stabs it down into the ground. You hardly have the chance to process what’s going on before you’re more or less dropped on the floor. You try to sit up, but Helmet Head plants his hand against your chest and firmly pushes you back down. So much for going easy, you think, but can’t deny the bizarre thrill you feel. You vaguely recall making fun of Ajax for his weird and dangerous tastes, but he might have been onto something now that you’re in the weirdest and deadliest situation you think you’ve ever been in. 

Wasting no time, his large gloved hands grasp your waist and digs his fingers under the waistband of your pants. You yelp when he yanks them down, and you hear the unmistakable sound of ripping denim. He tosses them aside, and goes to grab onto your underwear, but you throw your hands up in defense. “Hold it, I-I got it.”

Helmet Head watches you awkwardly pull your underwear down. He doesn’t even wait for you to toss them aside before his hands are on you again. He grabs hold of your legs and shoves them against your chest, folding you in half. You can feel his gaze focused on your sex, your heart pounding in your chest.

You watch as his tongue slips out from the darkness of his helmet. With his hands still hooked under your knees, he lowers his massive body with a groan. You can feel and hear his hot, heavy breathing echo from his helmet and fan over your chilled skin. Goosebumps raise up on your skin as you realize what he’s about to do.

You think you open your mouth to protest, to tell him to slow down, but the thought is gone the moment you feel his thick tongue slip into your hole. You gasp and jolt, whining as you feel it twist and writhe deeper inside you. Shocks of pleasure shoot up your spine at the feeling, making you moan with every movement. You scrape your nails against the tile in an effort to steady yourself. 

He grunts and groans as he slowly pumps his tongue in and out of you, the debauched sounds sending heat through your whole body. The only reason you’re not writhing uncontrollably is the death grip Helmet Head has on your legs. You almost want to grab his head to pull him closer, but there’s still that somewhat logical side of your brain that tells you it’s not worth the risk of provoking him. That voice is mostly drowned out by your own cries of pleasure as his tongue sinks deeper inside you, pressing into your sweet spots with ease.

Abruptly, his tongue slithers out of you and disappears into the helmet again. You whine at the empty feeling, lamenting how good it was starting to get. The lamenting is cut short when you are unceremoniously flipped over onto your stomach. You go to sit up on your hands and knees, only to be shoved back against the floor, cheek pressed against the cold, dirty tiles.

You hear the click of buckles, the shifting of leather rubbing on leather. You hear the echoey rasping of Helmet Head, and then you feel something nudging against you. Your eyes widen. You’re actually doing this. You’re actually going to fuck this thing. You take a deep breath and attempt to relax your body as much as you can. You didn’t get a good look at his cock, only the outline of it from under his smock, but you know it’s gonna be huge.

He nudges the tip against your whole, pressing into it. You whine at the stretch, and gasp when it finally slips inside. You feel your stomach flutter and your face go pale. This is only the tip, and yet it feels so much thicker than his tongue. Still, you try to control your breathing and relax yourself.

The agonizing stretch as he slowly inches deeper and deeper inside you is absolutely maddening. You’re forever thankful that he at least listened to your request about going easy, but that only helps you so much. You’re not in pain, but the feeling is so overwhelming that it feels like with every inch that manages to sink further inside your hole, the less air you’re able to breathe.

You shudder in relief when you feel his hips finally press up against your ass. Warmth fills your body at how full you feel with him down to the hilt inside you. The little air you have in your lungs is immediately knocked out when Helmet Head begins to draw back. He slips out about halfway before he abruptly pushes back into you, making you shriek in shock and pleasure. 

His pace is by no means brutally fast or hard, but he sure as shit isn’t soft and gentle with you. Every breath is knocked out of you in some vulgar moan or profane sob whenever his fat cock is thrust into your sensitive spots. You feel shame, you should feel shame. You should feel shame and disgust for letting such a creature defile you, and yet you don’t. In fact, it somehow makes the pleasure more intense, knowing how wrong this all is, knowing the danger you’re in right now.

“More,” you choke out between moans, “f-fuck me, I need it, I want it!”

You shriek when he draws back all the way only to immediately slam back down to the hilt. You feel your eyes rolling back, drool running down your chin as he repeatedly slams back into you at full force and full speed. Your chest burns as you try to breathe, but the suffocating feeling of his fat cock stretching and filling you only makes your head lighter and your body hotter.

Your whole body shakes and your teary eyed vision goes white as you feel your orgasm hit you full force. You clamp down on Helmet Head’s cock, but neither that nor your climax slows him down. He doesn’t stop, even when you start clawing at the tiles, shrieking that it’s too much, he’s too much. He doesn’t stop when his unrelenting pounding forces you into a second orgasm, or when he brings you to overstimulated tears. 

It’s when you’re somewhere between your third or fourth climax, or while you’re still experiencing your third, that Helmet Head roars and slams into you so hard that he pins your hips down into the ground. His body goes rigid, his panting just as loud as yours, and you let out a pathetic little sob of relief that the pleasure has come to an end. That’s when you feel him swell inside you, and warm floods your insides and spills out at the edges. You whine and try to move away, but his weight is holding you in place against the floor, forcing you to take every drop he has to give you. 

It feels like an eternity before the heavy weight of his imposing figure finally lifts. You’re so exhausted and your throat is so raw that you hardly have the strength or voice to whine when he finally pulls out. You weakly reach down between your legs, feeling his seed pour out of your stretched hole.

Despite the ringing and pounding in your ears, and the dizzying pleasure clouding your mind, you’re just cognizant enough to hear the outside world. At first, you think the sound is just the ringing of your ears, until it starts to get louder. It’s an awful, wailing noise, and it takes you a moment to realize you know what that sound is. It’s a siren, it’s the siren, the siren that goes off when everything is either about to go to shit, or it’s about to be less shit.

You heard Helmet Head groaning again, and you just barely have the strength to roll over and look. You watch as he gets to his feet, adjusting the straps on his smock. He reaches over and wraps his gloved hand around the handle of his weapon. Effortlessly, he yanks it free, and for a second you wonder if he’s going to impale you right here.

Instead, you watch as he completely turns around and heads for the door, dragging his weapon behind him. He turns in the direction of the building’s exit, and soon disappears from view. You can still hear the screeches of metal on tile echo down the hall, slowly growing quieter before disappearing altogether.

You lay back on the floor, your head flopping to the side. You find yourself peering under one of the medicine cabinets, when you notice something odd. There’s something underneath it. With little strength and aching legs, you manage to crawl over to the cabinet, You slide your hand underneath and are just barely able to reach the strange item.

You pull it out, and your eyes widen. It’s a full, albeit small, box of revolver ammunition. You feel a smile curl onto your lips, and let out an exhausted laugh. Looks like you’re not dying that soon.

Maybe you’ll live long enough to see him again.