#i have one type and its murder wife

[plethomacademia]

Update: this is now chapter 2 of my fic that lets me roll around in the concept of the bard urge, sorry and/or you're welcome

Original post: I had this idea and it came out. I guess I'll have to finally make an ao3 if I keep this up huh. Tweaked a touch from my original posting to make it about planning the House of Wonders heist instead of the crown heist. Content: fem Dark urge (based on my high elf bard) and Gortash have their first one on one chat to plan the heist on the Hall of Wonders. 1700 words of Gortash being thrown off when the vicious Chosen he's seen leading a murder cult takes advantage of a rare excuse to listen to an orchestra. This is the song I listened to while writing this:

When the Chosen of Bane had asked the Chosen of Bhaal for an in-person meeting, he had expected her to decline. Up until that point, they had communicated solely through coded letters. He could count on one hand the number of times he had seen her in person, each from a distance while she was leading her followers through some kind of slaughter. So when she had not only agreed to the meeting, but suggested they pick a neutral ground not owned by either party, he had been stumped. Where did one take a woman who was usually covered at least partially in blood?

In the end, he had picked his box at the opera house. It was more secure than a random tavern room by far and he often brought guests to it, so a mysterious woman would not bring any kind of notice. Not to mention the entertaining room behind the actual box had plenty of space to lay out a few maps, maybe even enjoy some wine at the same time. All he could hope was that she remembered the clean the blood out from under her fingernails.

He arrived ten minutes to curtain while the orchestra was warming up in the pit. He had expected some kind of guard for her to already be present, but the door was unattended. Perhaps she wouldn't show after all, he thought before gesturing one of his guards to their post. His other guard stood behind him as he knocked on the door, which was promptly opened by an older woman he kept in his employ.

"My lord, the lady arrived some time ago. She is in the box seats." The servant swung the door wide to allow his entrance.

Sure enough, there was a figure seated out in the last row of the box seats. She did not turn despite having to have heard the noise of his arrival. He took that moment to look at the dark brown hair piled on her head, the long column of her neck, the point of her ears. He had seen her before, of course, knew that despite being a Bhaalspawn she was a surprisingly fragile looking high elf. An attempt at Bhaal for once to maybe have a bit of subtlety in his progeny, he thought. But from this angle, she truly could have been any other tryst, whisked up to be ruined in the opera box of a lord.

He dismissed both the servant and his guard with another gesture, walking the short distance to the box. He sat down beside her, expecting her to look up then, to acknowledge that he, the host of this evening, had arrived. But she continued looking down at the paper in her hand. That's when he realized it was the playbill for the opera that would be starting shortly.

He waited a moment. When she didn't look up from her playbill, he cleared his throat. "I wasn't expecting --"

"Have you seen this one before?" She turned toward him finally.

He could see that it was her, of course, the Chosen of Bhaal that he had seen disemboweling a person while leading a congregation in ritualistic chant. The hands that he had seen several times up to the wrist in dripping blood, now holding a playbill. Her head that he had seen held back as she shouted about the ecstasy of murder to a rapt audience, now looking up at him expectantly. But at this distance, in this place, all he could think was how had he never noticed before that her eyes were silver. He realized after staring for a moment that not only had she asked him a question, but that the question had been of all things about the damned opera.

"I don't tend to pay much attention to them."

She smiled. "No, I imagine not. I've heard what you tend to get up to in this box." Before he could ask what she meant, she continued. "I haven't seen this production, but it's supposed to be good. The Gazette had a write up about the conductor, apparently he has quite a way about him."

She had already turned her attention back to her playbill and he found he missed it. "And how is it you know what I do in my opera box, Miss … ?" He actually didn't know her name. No one did. She was simply the Chosen or the Slayer to anyone who even knew of her. It was any wonder his first missives even made it to her in that temple at all.

Her nose wrinkled. "Maeve will do. Not a lot of use for formality where I come from." She put the playbill in her lap, folding her hands over it before looking at him again. "You have to know I have people watching you, of course. Just as I know you've been watching me."

"Is that why you brought no guard?"

She shook her head. "Lord Gortash, of course I have a guard. You just didn't see them. That and I know you wouldn't jeopardize our future alliance, of course."

The lights began to dim in the theater as the ushers began to douse the candles. That's when he realized the orchestra has stopped warming up quite some time ago. In all honestly, he hadn't had many expectations when he left for his evening with a Bhaalspawn but this, well. Who could have ever expected this? He found himself on the back foot and yet somehow enjoying the sensation.

"I know this is a business meeting, but I hope you'll indulge me the first song. I promise it's worth it."

He found himself whispering as the crowd settled down. "And you aren't worried about --" He gestured to the crowd.

She shrugged a shoulder. "They'll think I'm like the other women you bring here, I'm sure. Nothing worth noting at all."

Before he could reply, the first note rang out. It was a slow song, starting with just a few instruments, but building until it was thick and full and rich with dissonance. He was hardly a musician, but he had been to enough of these to know that she was right, it was quite good. The song seemed to ebb and flow, swell and retreat, building up the tension only to sigh in relief as the chords resolved. He made an effort to look at the conductor for a while, but in the end his gaze drifted to her.

She never took her eyes off the orchestra, her hands remaining together in her lap. As the song continued, he noticed that she had started to move just slightly in time with it, her shoe slightly moving with the beat without a sound. He saw her hands clasp together in her lap, her fingers tightening together, her throat working as she swallowed, her eyes eventually closing so she could focus solely on the sound. She was absolutely transfixed on the music and he was absolutely transfixed on watching her.

After the last note, the audience broke out into applause. Lord Gortash snapped his face away as Maeve came back to herself, seemed to even remember where she was. There was a flush on her cheeks that felt almost indecent to look at. He made a show of turning towards her, hoping she had been distracted enough to think he had been looking at the show the entire time.

She sighed. "Almost like it had magic in it," she said to no one in particular, before finally turning toward him again.  "Thank you. It's been years since I've heard that."

He nodded. "Happy to oblige. An unexpected surprise, really, that some like you actually enjoys the opera."

If he hadn't been a practiced politician, a person that had scraped and fought his way up the political ranks, he would have likely missed the way her expression changed. He could see the mask sliding in place, her eyes turning distant,  her smile turning sharp. "I've always thought it would be a beautiful thing, to lull so many people into the warm embrace of a song like that, then end all their lives at once. But we're here for business, of course. To discuss our heist."

The moment had been dismissed. And it was for the best, the crowd was settling again and the opera was about to begin in earnest. When they stood, the long slit of her moving skirt caught his eye, along with the flash of a dagger strapped to her thigh. He had seen that dagger before, plucking out a man's eyes as he screamed. A reminder that this woman, despite her pleasure in song, was dangerous.

They retired to the entertaining room, sending all the other people outside for complete privacy. After all, there was no need for security since neither of them would benefit from starting a scene in the middle of an opera house. Not yet, anyway.

The opera was a long one, he had picked it for that reason, and they spent that time pouring over maps, discussing the guard schedule at the House of Wonders, going over the broad details of where the Bhaalists and Baneites would position themselves. She sipped his wine and ate the finger foods left by the servant. But for the subject matter, she truly could have been any kind of tryst.

"That's the last song starting."

He looked up from where he had been gesturing at a diagram. He hadn't been paying any attention to the music at all. "My guard --" he started before being interrupted by a knock at the door. As he had been about to say, he had instructed his guard to let him know when the opera was coming to a close. "Good ear," he conceded.

She stood, smoothing her skirt, making sure her blade was not visible. "Well, Lord Gortash, the plan is sound. You have our thanks for helping us take back what was stolen from us."

He couldn't help but smile. "Splendid. I'm happy to have convinced you to take our aid and, of course, to have finally spoken to you in the flesh."

She nodded. "I expect another letter with details, soon, of course." She was already at the door, opening it, leaving this bizarre evening behind her.

"Maeve?"

She turned, looking at him through the half closed door, her eyebrow raised in question.

"Feel free to use this box any time. I'll send those instructions along as well."

Her eyes rounded a bit in surprise and he caught her looking just to her right, to somewhere he couldn't see. To someone he couldn't see, more likely. But the mask was back on after a moment.

"How generous, Lord Gortash. I may take you up on that." And with that, she turned and left his sight.

[ksascriptt]

Suck It And See - Aaron Hotchner x Reader

Aaron Hotchner x Wife!BauProfiler!Reader

Read part 2 !

Warnings: Angst, mentions of death, mentions of mutilation (just the fact that it had happened at some point), lots of crying, not so great writing :( Haley isn’t murdered in this but she has fully left Hotch and Jacks life for reasons I haven’t decided yet — I don’t want Aaron to quite have that ptsd from losing a second lover.

Summary: You and Aaron have been married for five years, and you both hold jobs at the Behavioural Analysis Unit as Criminal Profilers — how is he supposed to react when you are the target that is doomed to die ?

Notes: The original plan was a LOT different than how this is gonna turn out, so consider this as like some background info for the later chapters. Enjoy ! 🫶

Word Count: like 1100 or something close to that

✦ ⎯⎯ㅤִㅤ୭ ୨♡୧ ৎㅤִ ⎯⎯ ✦

Three Weeks Ago, 29 January.

Yesterday and the day before, with an abundance of phone calls, meetings, messages, and tears, you were delivered the unfortunate news that you had fourteen days left to live — two weeks. It didn’t seem real, but you were quick to realize just how real it was.

The deal you hadn’t quite agreed to was that you were to free two highly dangerous and hostile prisoners (which, you couldn’t even do, it was beyond your jurisdiction) or you would be killed in two weeks time. Several agents had tried to find the group that planned this, attempted to stop them even, and they were all murdered. Brutally, really, their bodies mutilated in ways you hoped yours wouldn’t be.

So, you had no choice but to accept the fact that death would hold you in its clutches when life could not. Your friends and family didn’t take this well, they all rioted and tried to make it better but somehow, the group was untraceable — the BAU team, the best of the best, couldn’t save you. Aaron was your husband, you’d been married for five years and together for seven, and he couldn’t save you either. This information destroyed him, tore his chest open and gripped his heart like a vice. How does one accept the inevitable death of their lover?

He felt helpless when he realized he couldn’t help you, felt unsure and afraid for the first time in a long time — but he was determined to change your fate. Aaron was always a focused man, his attention rarely strayed from his priorities and he was so put together. It was odd to see him now, on the floor in front of the couch, ankles crossed and elbows resting on them. His hands were running through his dark hair, messy and unruly with stress and his fingers trembling as he occasionally clenched them. Your husband wasn’t the type to sit on the ground and damn-near panic, like he was doing now, face red and the remnants of tears stuck to his beautiful face.

The lights were off and it was dark outside, the only visible glow being emitted from a lamp in the other room, casting an orange-grey shadow on the room and the man it contained. The day had already been long, many tears had been shared and shed throughout the past two days, and you were not exempt from that. In fact, you were nearly drowning in the sheer amount of sadness and fear that coursed through your blood, as though it had entered your lungs in the time it took you to realize this was happening. But you couldn’t help but set your eyes upon Aaron, his casual clothing of a crewneck and jeans, and just how different he appeared now. Everything he stood for felt like it had been crushed in just a few days. You were such a prominent part of his life now, he adored and loved you more than anyone could ever understand, how could he cope with knowing he would lose you when he spent so much time trying to never let you go?

Leaning against the wide, open-formatted archway in the living room, you couldn’t bring yourself to rip your teary eyes away from the nearly crumpled form of your husband. This wasn’t right, you knew that — but you couldn’t let this tear everyone apart from the inside.

“ Aaron, honey? “

You asked softly, sniffling a little as you tried to keep your head level.

“Come here, I think maybe we should go to bed; it’s… been a long day,” you decided, keeping your volume low even as you moved to walk over to him. His head raised, eyes red and a little bloodshot as he took in the sight of you. A short time passed until he was able to stand to his full form, exhausted from work – or, rather, exhausted from trying to find anything that could save you. The taller man merely hummed in response, frowning for a second before wrapping his trembling arms around you, as though he’d never let you go. He didn’t think he should have had to let you go. It was unfair, cruel, irrational.

✦ ⎯⎯ㅤִㅤ୭ ୨♡୧ ৎㅤִ ⎯⎯ ✦

You had managed to coax Aaron to bed, and he barely let you go, not even just to change. He hated the sudden attention to detail he had, how he was forced to commit everything about you to memory for you were running on a clock until you were torn away from him. From the world. How would Jack take this? And even worse, how could you tell him that it was inevitable? Nobody understood. It hurt, you almost felt like you had been given up on so fast, as if the FBI had decided they couldn’t even try to save you, as though you weren’t worth the trouble. Maybe you were bitter out of fear, maybe you thought it was unjust.

Your mind wandered everywhere as you lay in his arms, the cold air drifting in from the open window a harsh reality in the safety of Aaron’s hold. “I don’t understand,” he finally spoke, the first words since a mild outburst he’d had this afternoon, emotions at a high at the office. “You don’t understand?” You repeated back to him, confirming. “No,” he began, “I don’t. It’s.. untraceable, I don’t know why I can’t stop this. It’s my job to stop this, sweetheart.” Aaron was shirtless, wearing only flannel pajama pants, legs entangled with your own. You wore a shirt of his, something older; from college, probably. “I.. there’s been four agents dead because of me. There’s more risking their lives. I’ll get everything arranged,” you explained with a slowly breaking voice. Tears welled in your eyes at every blooming thought. You were thirty, barely a real adult but you weren’t lucky enough to live until your next birthday. The lottery of life was not yours to be rewarded. “I love you, Aaron.”

“I love you more, honey.”

Nobody could count just how many times those words had been uttered already, for fear every time would be the last. The feeling that eventually, you would say it once and never say it again. But the clock was ticking everyday, and you couldn’t change that, no matter how much you yearned for just a little more time. With a mind racing a mile a minute, tried to zero in on his heartbeat, not on the tears slowly slipping from your eyes and onto Aaron’s chest.

[baocean]

the manchester’s

spy!rafe cameron x spy!reader

your partner rafe cameron and you were on a mission for one reason, and one reason only. to take out the target. on this mission, your aliases were husband and wife, playing house for the whole night. who knew that could bring out so many truths?

warnings - violence, smoking, drinking, smut, swearing, murder ermmm

the apartment you’d been staked out in was muggy, dark, and gross.

you’d been sitting there for almost the entire day, just waiting.

you’d set up a long range camera, taking over a poor college student’s apartment, posted across the street at the hotel your target was supposed to be staying in that night.

your target was markus phelps, some middle aged man apart of a terrorist group that assassinated a foreign leader almost a year ago. he had been untraceable until agent williams found him five months ago. it was only supposed to be a capture mission. then, phelps killed her too. now, you were here for blood. you, and your partner rafe cameron. two of the best agents the CIA has to offer.

it was only speculation that phelps was attending this gala, ball type event at this hotel tonight. but, the CIA got wind of it, and you didn’t have anything going on tonight, anyway.

“anything?” rafe asked, twiddling a pen in his hand, sitting in a chair in the corner of the small apartment.

“not yet, there’s security posted out front, though. i think he’s close,” you responded, slouching back, “take over for me, please? my back is killing me.”

rafe rolled his eyes, he smiled and nodded anyway. when he stood up, you had to crane your neck to stare at him. he was almost a foot taller than you, but you used being only five or so inches over five foot to your advantage. no one expects a girl who fits right into the crowd to shoot them in the back of the head.

rafe switched places with you, getting comfy in a sniper position. he’d been an army ranger sniper for almost six years, it was probably a second nature to get his body as low as possible.

you slumped back in his old seat, letting your body relax into its cheap material.

“oh, you’re just gonna love this.” rafe started chuckling, and your content smile dropped.

“are you fucking serious?” you asked, huddling over to the window as you watched markus phelps cockily strut into the hotel lobby.

“let boss man know, and tell him i saw him.” rafe looked up at you, giving an infamous smirk, then started to pack up the gear.

you rolled your eyes, not even three years of working side by side dulled how smug rafe was. pulling out your phone, you dialed your boss’ number, the dial only ringing once.

“blake, he’s here.” you spoke into the phone, catching sight of rafe’s head tipping to the side. you made a face at him. “cameron spotted him.”

“good, you know what to do. get it done, agent.” griffin blake’s voice was gruff, powerful, steady. “you two have got a reservation under manchester.” that was all, then, he hung up on you.

“alright, let’s do this.” you shoved your phone back into your pocket, shrugging your shoulders with a smile. rafe grabbed the hard cases full of fancy cameras and guns, then his personal duffle carrying everything else, and headed to the door.

he’d always been sweet like that, only letting you carry your black duffle bag filled with whatever precautious outfits you needed for that mission, never the heavy stuff.

you two walked across the street and into the fancy hotel, glass chandeliers and butlers waiting to open the doors for you. walking up to reception, rafe threw an arm around you.

“hi there, we have a reservation for manchester.” rafe offered the employee behind the desk, offering her a warm, fake smile.

you gave her one as well, reaching your hand up to fumble with rafe’s, the one hanging off your shoulder.

“welcome to the plaza, mr. and mrs. manchester. we’re excited to have you.”

she handed you key cards, offered valet, then sent you on your way with an award winning smile.

“she was cute.” rafe mumbled in your ear, earning a elbow to the gut.

“that’s not very husband like.” you chuckled, swinging with him as you headed to the elevators.

“speaking of, we need rings.” rafe held his hand up, waving his fingers.

“make sure mine is pretty.” you said, watched as the elevator doors closed, then detached from him.

“pretty ring for a pretty lady, got it.” rafe pulled out his phone, typing a few times.

“laney says it’s all in the room. dress, suit, everything.” he said as the doors of the elevator opened.

it was true, when you walked into the hotel room, you saw the beautiful red dress and black suit hanging on the door frame of the closet. necklaces, earrings, and wedding bands were sitting on the dresser.

“two hours ‘till the party. you wanna shower first?” rafe dropped his cases on the bed, turning to you. you were already closing the bathroom door, making rafe chuckle.

twenty minutes later, you were out of the shower and in the complimentary hotel robe, staring at yourself in the mirror as you blow dried your hair.

rafe’s head peaked out from behind the shower curtain and you saw the shampoo you used earlier in his hair, made you laugh.

“so how do we wanna do this?” he asked. you shrugged. “we could pull the ‘my husband doesn’t have to know’ card. and i’m sitting here waiting for him when you get back here.”

you turned to him, groaning. “why does it always have to be me?”

“i know i’m gorgeous, honey, but i don’t think phelps swings that way.” rafe grinned at you, you tilted your head in annoyance.

“fine.” was all you said, turning around and putting down the hair dryer, then plugging in the curling iron.

“hey, throw me a towel, wife?” rafe called from behind the shower curtain as the water turned off, and you pushed your hand behind the curtain, him grabbing the white towel from you.

he stepped out of the bath, towel hung low around his waist. “should i shave?” he leaned over the counter, hands running over his jaw.

he truly was gorgeous, in every way. it wasn’t something you were denying. there’d been several times where you’d think ‘one time won’t hurt anyone’, but you couldn’t possibly risk it, right?

“no, like you better that way.” you clipped your hair up, started curling your hair. rafe looked at you through the mirror, shamelessly admiring you.

he left you in the bathroom, taking time through his routine, then pulling on his suit

you’d taken almost an hour to get ready, perfectly crafting your makeup, then forcing rafe to zip your dress.

“okay, so i’m noah. you’re scarlett.” rafe looked over the packet as you strapped the beretta nato micro to your upper thigh.

“scarlett? seriously?” you laughed, pulling your dress back down into position. it was a dark red color, perfectly suiting your skin tone.

“feels like they’re running out of ideas. remember when i was james ford? that was the best one, yet.” rafe grinned, grabbing his glock and pushing it into his holster.

you nodded, laughing, fixing last minute touches before grabbing the ring on the dresser and slipping it on. rafe’s eyes watched the motion, leaning to grab his ring as well.

“we’re so domestic. the manchester’s, ladies and gentlemen.” rafe laughed, throwing an arm around you as you walked out of your hotel room.

the lobby was filled with people in fancy get ups and holding champagne flutes. the two of you followed them to the ball room, the sound of jazz music slowly rising.

it was easy to spot phelps, the guy was dressed in a bright orange blazer. you rolled your eyes.

“look at that idiot. can’t wait to kill him.” rafe leaned in, mumbling in your ear before placing a quick kiss on your cheek.

you giggled, the two of you separating to mingle with the other guests, rafe leaving you with a, “see you later, mrs. manchester.”

it was too easy, because you caught phelps attention almost immediately. you kept finding him staring at you, looking at you up and down.

it’d been an hour of talking to the wives of powerful men, sharing secret glances with rafe, checking in on each other, and watching phelps practically eye fuck you.

you were mid conversation with two women, listening along to their inappropriate jokes about the hot man with no woman on his arm.

“who are you talking about?” you inquired, searching around the room for who they could possibly be reviewing.

“him.” one girl pointed a perfectly manicured finger over your right shoulder, and you turned to see rafe. you groaned, of course.

he was walking right for you, smiling at you like you were the light of his life.

“hi ladies, noah manchester. don’t mind if i steal my beautiful wife away from you for a moment, do ya?” rafe tucked an arm on your waist, leaving the women you were standing with absolutely speechless.

“bye, girls.” you smiled politely, turning away with rafe.

you walked out of the ballroom, sharing one single glance with phelps. tucking into an empty coat closet, rafe slotted you between the wall and him.

“we are so in. have you seen the way he’s looking at you?” rafe shaking his head, laughing.

“i know, unbelievable.” you laughed, tucking your hair behind your ear. rafe’s eyes shot up to watch.

“try to bring him up to the room within the hour,” he looked down at his watch, “i’ll go up right now, give me like ten minutes, then go talk to him. i’ll be waiting there.”

you nodded, going to say something when the coat closet’s door knob started to jiggle.

“shit, uh,” rafe trailed off, pulling you in by your neck and kissing you. you didn’t have time to process it before the door opened and you were being yelled at.

rafe pulled away from you, some of your lipstick stuck onto his lips. he looked at the guy yelling at you two, smirking. “what, i can’t kiss my wife?”

“get out of here, you two.” the guy barked, rafe turning back to you and giving you another chaste kiss before stepping past the guy, pulling you out with him.

he nodded at you once, then headed towards the elevators.

you stood there shocked for a few beats, before shaking it off. you went back into the ballroom, smiling at some people.

you sat down at the bar, ordering a drink and patiently waiting.

it was only five or so minutes when phelps slotted in next to you, reaking of smelly cologne and cigarettes.

“hi, gorgeous.” he spoke, all grainy and brittle. you turned to him, giving him a smile.

“hi.”

“i’m markus phelps.” he stuck a hand out to shake yours.

“scarlett, nice to meet you.” you fluttered your eyelids, worked your charm. phelps looked down, clocking your ring when you met his hand.

“ah, you’re married.” phelps nodded his head, testing you.

“we’re getting a divorce.” you shrugged. phelps seemed to like that answer, because he leaned in closer.

fifteen minutes later, you were letting phelps feel you up in the elevator, waist up of course, given you had a gun strapped to your thigh.

you led him to your room, hand in hand, heart beating out of your chest in excitement. the CIA has been waiting for this moment for five months, and tonight was the night.

you unlocked the door, pushing phelps into the dark room with an excessive amount of force.

kissing him, you pulled him to the bed, letting him from you and fall back onto it.

“hey markus,” rafe turned on the lamp, sitting on the chair in the corner of the room, a glock 43 shifting around in his right hand, “how’re you doing?”

“oh, what the fuck is this?” phelps shot up as you backed away from him, leaning on the dresser.

“what do you think it is, dumbass?” you scrunched your face.

“let me tell you, phelps. you made it pretty fucking easy for us.” rafe chuckled, standing up to come and stand next to you. “trust me man, i know she’s stunning, but didn’t your mother teach you anything about strangers?”

phelps looked scared shitless, giving you a satisfactory tingle in your chest.

you turned to rafe, “pretty smart move kissing me earlier, by the way.”

“thanks, been wanting to do that forever.” he smirked, never looking away from phelps.

“who are you? who are you with?” phelps shook, not daring to stand up from the bed.

you contemplated, shrugging your shoulders. “i guess we could tell him, he’s not leaving this hotel room unless it’s in a body bag.”

“CIA. you remember that agent you killed five months ago?” rafe asked, staring down at his gun as he raised it.

phelps couldn’t speak, a guilty, evil look painting his greasy features.

“this is for her.” rafe pulled the trigger, the silencer making a ‘pop’ sound ring through the hotel room.

rafe sighed, watching phelp’s body go limp on the hotel bed.

“call the boss man.” he shrugged, looking at you before releasing the magazine from the gun and into his hand, turning away from you.

only two or three hours later, rafe and you were in the private jet sending you back to headquarters in virginia.

he was staring out the window, hand holding his chin up. after the first odd year or so, you realized rafe always needed some time to think after he killed someone.

he’d been silent for almost half an hour before you spoke.

“did you really mean what you said back there? that you’ve wanted to kiss me forever?” you asked him, he turned to you, sighing.

“yeah.” he shrugged, his lips tipping up into something almost a smile.

you hummed, not exactly sure what to say. if it had been a target, you would know. but these were real feelings, and your partner you were dealing with.

“i can’t tell what you’re thinking. incredible poker face, by the way.” rafe chucked awkwardly.

“well, seven years of socom will do that to you.” you tipped your head in a smile.

straight out of high school, just like rafe, you joined the military. only difference was, you went to special operations command and rafe went to sniper school.

after seven years, you were done, but socom had trained you well.

“right. always forget you’re an operator.” rafe nodded, looking at the floor between you two.

“i’m thinking that this would be a little too complicated to kiss for real.” you sighed, leaning your head back and closing your eyes.

“one time wouldn’t hurt anyone.” rafe shrugged, looking out the window, then peaking a glance at you to size your reaction.

your eyes popped open, shocked in what he had just said. then, you started laughing. “i always say that.”

“about us?” rafe smirked, leaning back. you nodded, rolling your eyes and smiling.

the two of you stared at each other, both of you daring the other that would lead to a conversation about you two.

“i’ll be right back.” you mumbled, standing up and heading to the back of the plane. you locked yourself in the bathroom, playing with your hair.

making yourself busy, all so you could catch your breath, you washed your hands, checked your clothes.

when you opened the door, rafe was standing there, leaning on the wall.

you just looked at each other for a second, watching as his eyes flickered down to your lips, then back up to your eyes, then back down to your lips.

“one time won’t hurt?” rafe muttered. your breath hitched, rafe noticing the action.

“one time won’t hurt.” you said barely above a whisper, pulling him by his t-shirt into the small bathroom.

your lips connected, and you were finally able to enjoy the kiss, memorize it. the way his lips moved against yours, his hands lying gently on your hips. you wanted to remember everything.

he pushed you up against the wall of the bathroom, grabbing your jaw to pepper kisses down your neck.

wasting no time at all, he’d removed clothing and tossed it to the side.

rafe wasn’t hiding the fact that he was mesmerized. sure, he’d seen you in swimsuits, your body turned away while you hastily changed into a different cover outfit, he’d seen pieces of your naked skin plenty of times.

but this was different, this was completely, truly all for him.

you smiled up at him, grabbing his face to pull him in for another kiss.

he dropped to his knees, grabbing your leg and pushing it up to spread you apart.

his breath fanned against you, giving you goosebumps in return.

“god, i hope we get to play mr. and mrs. manchester again soon.” rafe chuckled, kissing the inner parts of your thigh.

you laughed, your heading falling back. “why?”

“mmm, just brings something inside me out.” rafe mumbled, placing a kiss on your clit that had you gasping.

he pushed a finger into you, watching your reaction. he smiled when your eyes fell closed and your mouth opened.

he pumped his finger, adding a second one only moments later.

you’d thought this was the best it could get, with a man literally on his knees in front of you, giving you the best feeling ever.

then, rafe’s mouth connected with your clit, and a sound fell from your lips so suddenly you were unsure of who it actually came from.

rafe couldn’t get enough, he’d been waiting for this for three years, not sure if he had just fallen asleep in his chair back in the cabin. either way, he was going to make this the best he possibly could.

he popped up from his knees, earning a comment and a whine from you, before he lined himself up with your entrance.

he pushed into you, both of you groaning at the feeling of it.

rafe didn’t let you adjust before he was pulling out and slamming back into you, panting with each thrust.

“shit, baby, you feel so good.” rafe mumbled, barely above a whisper.

he was grabbing at you everywhere, running his hands over your cheek and hair, pinching at your tits, gripping your hips to keep you in place.

his hand fell down to your thigh, pushing it up farther towards your chest, making you cry out.

his hand flew to your mouth, the size of his hand taking up nearly half of his face.

“i’m flattered, honey, but can’t have the pilot hearing us now, right?” rafe smirked, taking away his hand replace it with a kiss.

“but the thrill of getting caught is so fun.” you drawled out, dipping your head to bite and kiss at his neck.

“jesus, woman.” rafe sighed happily, twitched inside of you.

his pace quickened, making you go silent with bliss, his bottom lip tucking between his teeth.

his hand fell back down to your clit, making you fall over the edge.

your orgasm hit you, hard. you were pretty sure you were seeing stars, head falling back as your mouth opened.

rafe took the opportunity to stick two fingers in your mouth, your lips wrapping around them to muffle your moans.

he continued his ruthless pace, his head going fuzzy with the feeling of you clenching around him and your warm mouth around his fingers.

you reached up to grab rafe’s wrist, his eyes catching on the shiny diamond on your ring finger.

his breath hitched, plenty of impossible and unrealistic thoughts blazing in his mind.

the simple thought of you being his, your name followed by ‘cameron’, coming home from missions to a shared home and maybe a cute dog, too.

his eyes screwed shut, thrusts getting sloppy as his head fell into your shoulder, finishing inside you.

once he slowed to a stop, his hands left you and landed on the sink your back was leaning on.

“holy shit.” you mumbled, laughing.

“yeah, i know.” rafe laughed along with you, his head still hung low.

you put your hands on his shoulder, catching your breath in the process.

rafe looked up at you, a genuine look in his eye as he pushed some of your hair stuck to your face out of the way.

“same time, next mission?” a cocky smile painting his features, his hand settling on your cheek.

“i thought we agreed on one time?” you tilted your head, tongue poking out to lick your lips.

“i don’t think i could live with only one time after that.” rafe chuckled, leaning in for another kiss.

a/n - i’ll keep it so for real with you men in black inspired me to make this fic, then i realized this is so mr. and mrs. smith, so thank you for the inspo simon kinberg! ☺️

[pedge-page]

can you write something where pregnant reader has trouble holding her bladder and joel messes with her a bit? 🫶🏻

Joel Dealing with Preggo Wife drabble - Hold It

Notes: This is NOT Piss kink, just a little Joel and Preggo reader torture amusement. I have separate PK x preggo wife request coming up soon

-

The one thing that women aren’t best at as they get older is holding their bladder. When you gotta go, you go.

And the number one thing that having a fat ass baby shoved up your uterus and pushing aside every organ and pressing the full weight of their tiny bodies on—is your fucking already-terrible-to-hold bladder.

Bumping up and down in Joel’s ugly ass truck with suspension that feels like shit because you can feel every single crevice from every single crack in the road does NOT do well for anything except stir up the amount of liquids inside you.

“Joel,” you whisper warningly, legs scrunched together.

Joel knows the difference between your “Joel” with legs scrunched together and the other “Joel” with legs scrunched together.

“You better not have to p—“

“I have to pee!”

He shakes his head with hearty laugh. “I told you to go 30 minutes ago when we were at the stop.”

“I did go,” you retort venomously. “But now I have to go again.”

“We’re 30 miles from the nearest exit. What do you want me to do?”

“Drive faster?!” Are you fucking dumb?

“We’re an hour late as is. I told you—“

“Don’t you dare fucking scold me like a child Joel Miller, this bitch needs to piss and she needs to go right fucking now.”

“You going on the side of the road?” He suggests with half hearted venom.

You whimper and shake your head. You do NOT want to squat down for a piss next to the highway on the road. You wouldn’t do it not pregnant, but definitely definitely not WHILE pregnant.

“Just—just drive faster. And shut up,” you rasp. You hold your hands between your legs and close your eyes, focusing on willing your baby to help you squeeze that lemon for once. “And don’t breathe. Or cough or just —just don’t exist.”

Joel has to wipe his face to hide the smirk on his lips. Your sheer concentration right now, all burled up and shaking side to side has him holding in a laugh.

 He checks his rear view for any signs of cops, then begins to lean into the gas more. You would pay for the turmoil you’re putting his poor truck through—not in any type of obvious payment of course, but in a more satisfying transaction.

Joel balances the wheel with one knee as he opens a bottle of water set on the dash.

He keeps his eyes on the road and makes the loudest, most grating, obnoxious slurping sounds known to man.

Your head slowly rotates towards him as if a killer hawk were seeing prey landed right next to her. He only peeks over and see the absolutely thinnest lined lips on you, and your exceedingly horrifying wide eyes ready to murder him. 

“MMmMM,” he moans, gulping down the bottle with big swallows so you can hear it sloshing down his jugular with each bob.

“You—you shithead,” you snarl.

He raises his eyebrow. “Do you want some?”

You shake your head, neck bowed low because you can’t concentrate on a scolding your asshole husband and holding your urine at the same time.

“M’ gonna ruin your seats.”

He shrugs. “Wouldn’t be so bad. Got all kinds of your juices on here already, what’s another variety to the blend—“

“SHUT THE FUCK UP.”

“Okay okay, I’m pulling off.”

You tumble out of the car before he’s even fully parked, crouching low to the ground begging to God as your last resort to keep. it. In.

Joel just puts his hands on his hips. “You gonna do It through your pants?”

shutupshutupshutupshutup Ohfuckfuckfuck.

He can hear your tiny whimpers, looks down upon his poor little wife and her even tinier bladder about to make a fool of both of them and piss yourself all over your stretchy pants—

He decides you've had enough torture.

“Gas station is 7 feet away, honey.”

You look up and lo and behold, you’re crouched in a parking lot right outside the quaint convenience station, its glowy neon signs and cigarette flyers and “2 for 3” signs illuminating like you had just won the lottery.

“OOHHHH” you gasp, sitting up and holding your vagina in your palm as you wobble into the quaint store like Road Running and down the alley to the bathroom.

Joel comes in afterwards and does the courtesy of buying a few snack for the trip. 

“Pregnant wife,” he muses to the clerk as he slams a few jerky sticks on the counter.

The two of them are startled by a very loud, satisfied moan coming from the women’s toilet room.

The clerk just chuckles and rings up the items.

-

He checks his watch again, tapping his fingers on the wheel impatiently. What the fuck is taking you 20 minutes?

Its not until the gas station door chime goes off outside as the door swings open, and you’re coming out with a 32 oz Big Gulp cup of Frozen Pepsi ICEE while happily waving goodbye to the clerk as you waddle back to the car.

You settle your bumbum into the seat with a little wiggle and slam the truck door closed, sipping away happily with two hands fisting the styrofoam cup.

Joel has one arm over the steering wheel, facing you with a frown and deadpan eyes glancing between you and your cup the size of Africa, your annoying slurps filling the silent car.

You don’t pick up on his silent aggravation at all, offering him a chipmunk smile. “M-ready now,“ you chirp.

He grits his teeth while looking at the cup you can’t even wrap your fingers around. Holds his tongue and doesn’t say anything, faces forward and turns the key into ignition.

-

25 minutes later, with your empty Big Gulp cup rolling around on the floor mat:

“Um, J-Joel,” you warn again, this time voice wavering timidly. “Joel, I have to—“

“NO!” 

- - - -

Permanent Taglist

@harriedandharassed @lola8888673 @its-nebuleuse @zliteraturehoe @merz-8 @joeldjarin @pascalscoffin @pedroshotwifey @ghostslillady @innerpersonunknown @missladym1981 @mrs-oharaxx @survivingandenduring @milla-frenchy @cockykookiee @fairytale07 @daddy-din @pedropascalsbbg @spookyxsam @somehopeatlast @millercontracting @pedrostories @mishala005 @theoraekenslover @animez96 @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog @puduvallee

[on-a-lucky-tide]

I ken she isn't a character you typically focus on, but my curiosity is biting ma baws so I may as well ask just in case.

What do you think of the dynamic between Kate and John? And possibly the dynamic between her and Nikolai. Apologies, I ken there's about a bawhair of dialogue to work with on Kate and Nik but you're smart and I'd trust that if you do have an answer, then it'd intrigue me.

If you don't, fair enough, I completely get why. I'm just, to my core, a nosey bugger. And I fear an obvious one because Christ, the way I type isn't subtle and it really fucks the anonymity bit of this, I just cannae be fucked asking on my main blog.

I think their dynamic is pretty great but obviously complicated by the fact they're working for, and loyal to, different nations. Until very recently, UK and US geopolitics has been pretty aligned. I think John and Kate, if they existed today, would be struggling like fuck with how the rest of the world is turning its back on the US. All of Kate's avenues of information are being cut, MI5 and MI6 view the US as a liability, etc.

But, anyways, in fiction! First meeting and I think Kate probably thought "aw an upstart baby", because Baby Price with his shaven chin and serious eyes probably looked comical to someone who had a twelve year headstart on him. And then he proved himself to be a truly formidable operator, she realised she needed to build a strong link; he was clearly brilliantly intelligent and also gay as fuck ("aw repressed gay murder kitten").

It started off as a relationship of necessity. Then they shared a whiskey and a smoke after a particularly grizzly op, and it snowballed into actual friendship. John did wacky shit like use a gorilla costume as a decoy, and wasn't afraid to bend, and sometimes completely break, the rules. She liked that. He's smart, witty, funny, and so is she. If he was a woman, he'd be her wife. Luckily, she found someone just as good, but without John's temper and fixation on duty (read: someone healthier), so he gets "best friend" instead.

It's still characterised by their roles though. Sometimes Kate has to keep things from John and she hates it. But it's just the way it is. She hates it when their mission objectives don't align, she hates it when she can't provide him all the intel because she just doesn't know, and the fact that he'll go in anyway... Sometimes she wants to choke him with her bare hands. She'll take his growls and his snarls when he's frustrated because she knows it's coming from a place of deeply seated duty, an honour code that pushes him constantly forwards.

John is loyal to Laswell as much as you can be to a foreign agent; again, there are just some things he needs to keep to himself. He'll go in and risk his neck to save her arse. He respects her highly, would follow her into the maw of hell if needed. Over the years, he's started to see her and her wife as part of his extended family. I think he's probably slept on their couch while injured a few times. I wrote "Kicked Into Touch" initially because I wanted to write that domestic time between them. John values Laswell's opinion of him and he enjoys sharing hobbies/time with her outside of work. He's been to BBQs, the occasional family function; she'll likely officiate his wedding to Nikolai.

Speaking of Nik, I think Laswell adores him and him her, even though he finds her exasperating. "Why do you want to go there you crazy woman, what is--fine." He doesn't understand the American mind, probably finds it more than occasionally frustrating, but he knows Laswell is good and just, working within a straight jacket as best she can. She's not your standard, cookie cutter capitalist. She finds him eccentric but brilliant. She knows she can count on him to achieve the impossible in most situations; acquiring specific weapons, flying into hostile territory, accessing the inaccessible meetings and gangs. Nik is one of her greatest assets.

It was Laswell that gave MI6 the idea to use John to get Nik to turn. She had known Nik for a while by that point as a potential informant but her guys had failed to entice him over. Their offers just weren't hitting the mark; he didn't trust them. She had enough intel to know he was gay, and in an exceptionally vulnerable situation, so she had to play it carefully. Honeypotting him outright was cruel and it would only damage the working relationship later on. She needed someone that sat in the niche of hot and interesting, but not a blatant appeal to his prick.

She told MI6 to put Baby Blue himself right in Nik's path; intense, honest, brave and handsome in a unique, roguish kind of way. Laswell knew the way John spoke, the way he carried himself, his expressive face, would hook their Russian in. So when Price turned to Nik in the bar and said, "Come work with me, Nikolai. We'll change the world", Nik damn well believed him.

[story-box]

ANYTHING CAN HAPPEN ON THE INTERNET | Matthew Gray Gubler | Spencer Reid

Part 1 | Part 2

Pairings: Matthew Gray Gubler x Reader | Matthew Gray Gubler x You | Spencer Reid x Reader | Spencer Reid x You

Summary: Matthew Gray Gubler discovers a fanfiction about Spencer Reid that hits too close to home, igniting an anonymous, irresistible connection with its talented author.

-

It started innocently enough.

He was on Reddit. Just scrolling.

...which he shouldn’t have been doing, frankly, because the comments there either told him he looked like a Victorian wet cat or a “fine wine, if the wine also solved murders.”

The latter, oddly, felt a bit too specific.

Was he wearing a cape in that particular edit? Because that one definitely could have been a thirst trap — if thirst traps came with footnotes about obscure 17th-century literature.

Matthew shook his head. One fan edit titled “Matthew Gray Gubler as a vampire, but make it cute” was more confusing than anything else.

How does one even make a cute vampire? Was he going to be sipping a smoothie in a Victorian parlor while discussing existentialism? It was just a lot to process.

But then a username caught his eye. A link.

Curiosity, his lifelong and possibly most problematic trait, pushed him forward, so...he clicked.

And then he read.

And then he kept reading.

For three hours.

Without blinking.

He wasn’t even sure how he got there. One second, he was Googling whether giraffes sleep standing up (they do sometimes, it turns out), and the next he was elbows-deep in a 20k-word Criminal Minds fic titled “Late Night at Quantico (And Other Terrible Ideas)” by someone named softestsidearm.

It was an x Reader.

About Spencer Reid.

And somehow, impossibly, it felt like it got him. Not just “him” the character — but him. Like whoever wrote this had cracked open his ribcage, peeked at the neurotic little sparrow-heart inside, and whispered, “Yeah. That tracks.”

He set down his phone.

Picked it up.

Set it down again.

Laid down on the floor for a while, like a Victorian woman recovering from scandal.

Then, at 2:41 a.m., Matthew Gray Gubler created a burner account.

Username: drfactsandfeelings

Bio: “probably overthinking it”

Profile pic: A blurry owl in glasses.

He didn’t comment right away. He couldn’t. He spent a full hour typing and deleting:

“This was really great. Your Reid is so in character.”

“Hi, I’m... a fan. Of this. Not in a weird way. Unless you think it’s weird. In which case I’m not.”

“Are you a time traveler?? How do you know what he’d say in literally every situation?? I—” (he deleted that one fast.)

Finally, he settled on something safe. Casual. Normal.

“This was lovely. Beautifully written. You really captured the heart of him. Thank you for sharing.”

He hit post.

Threw his phone across the room.

Regretted everything.

-

Within twenty minutes, he saw a reply:

“OMG thank you 🥺 comments like this keep me going. I’m literally pacing my room like a regency wife who just got a letter from war rn. Thank you thank you thank you.

He reread it four times. His ears turned red.

But then… curiosity gnawed at him again.

He clicked on her profile.

And that's when he saw it.

Age: 25

25.

Matthew blinked, feeling like a deer caught in headlights. Not because she was 25, of course — that was perfectly fine — but because he was 44.

He scrolled down, slightly distracted now. So she was close(ish)…well, not really…. to his age... but still, he shouldn’t be on Reddit at 2:41 a.m., really shouldn't.

Yet here he was, spiraling down a rabbit hole of fanfic, somehow emotionally invested. He tried not to overthink it, but his brain immediately started overanalyzing everything.

What was it like being 25 in this wild world of fanfiction and anonymous fandoms? Was she a professional writer?

Or just someone with an extraordinary ability to read between the lines of a fictional character?

Was this weird?

It didn’t help that the more he read your replies, the more he realized just how you understood Spencer. It was almost eerie. He couldn’t help but feel a little… flustered?

Like he was being admired in a way that was a little too... honest.

so, naturally, instead of sleeping like a person with functioning social instincts, he went back and read all your other fics. All of them.

By sunrise, he had developed:

A deeply parasocial crush on your brain.

An aggressive respect for your metaphor usage.

And a secret favorite line that he screenshotted and saved in Notes. (It was from the fic where Spencer couldn’t sleep, and Reader said, “Then I’ll keep watch. Someone should guard the genius.”)

He paced.

He spiraled.

He made tea and forgot to drink it.

And then he did something wild.

He DM’d you.

drfactsandfeelings: Hi. This is random, but I’ve been reading your work and I think it’s… really, really special. You understand Spencer better than most writers I’ve read — like you’re not just writing him, you’re listening to him. Sorry, that’s weird. I just wanted to say thank you. For putting something like that out there. (Also, you made me cry a little with the “guard the genius” line. Rude.)

He turned his phone screen-down on his nightstand. Turned it off. Put a hoodie over it. Just in case it glowed at him in the morning light like some digital Eye of Sauron.

(Which, in Gubler Language, translated directly to: "I'm catch up on sleep and pretend it never happened.")

...

He did not sleep.

But he tried.

And somewhere around 8:02 a.m., brain still fizzing and heart still chewing on the words “i literally based it on how i think you would play it??, Matthew Gray Gubler — actor, artist, author, former Vegas magician’s assistant — fell asleep mid-spiral, dreaming of owls in glasses and fictional FBI agents who knew how to say the right thing.

[theemissuniverse]

NOOB SAIBOT AND VILLAIN!FEM!READER HATING ON MORTAL KOMBAT 11 CHARACTERS

SUMMARY : just what the title says. You are a powerful sorcerer from Earthrealm. You’re Bi-Han’s consort

WARNINGS : some is suggestive

MASTERLIST 1 , MASTERLIST 2

(Y/N) VS NOOB SAIBOT

Noob Saibot : You have a strange taste in allies

(Y/N) : Cassie is cool, Bi-Han. I’m not completely stone

Noob Saibot : I will never like a Cage

(Y/N) : People say you changed me

Noob Saibot : I made you stronger

(Y/N) : And for that I am bound to you

Noob Saibot : I’ve always known you were a great warrior

(Y/N) : Was it when I beat you at the tournament?

Noob Saibot : That is when I fell in love with you

Noob Saibot : A shadow feels nothing

(Y/N) : So you say

Noob Saibot : But for you - it is different

(Y/N) : You might have some competition, Bi-Han

Noob Saibot : I am not worried of a failed Empress

(Y/N) : I love a man so assured with himself

(Y/N) : You are the only one to see my potential

Noob Saibot : You were worthy of my teachings

(Y/N) : And I will forever be in debt to you

Noob Saibot : Raiden was a fool for not seeing you excel

(Y/N) : His foolishness led me to you

Noob Saibot : I should thank him

(Y/N) : That demon is getting on my nerves

Noob Saibot : There is no reason for jealousy - I care not for her

(Y/N) : Sareena’s soul will be mine

(Y/N) : Kuai Liang mourns you

Noob Saibot : He is wasting his time

(Y/N) : I agree. I like this you better

Noob Saibot : Shao Kahn refers to me as your concubine

(Y/N) : *laughs* You love it

Noob Saibot : Yes. Very much so

(Y/N) VS MK CHARACTERS

Cassie Cage : You and Bi-Han remind me of Morticia and Gomez Addams

(Y/N) : Who?

Cassie Cage : How do you not know them?!

(Y/N) : I’ll have my lover deal with you

Jax : Didn’t Scorpion toast him?

(Y/N) : Didn’t Ermac rip off your arms?

Raiden : I told you that following in line with Bi-Han was trouble

(Y/N) : You are just mad that I am not a lap dog like Liu Kang

Raiden : It saddens me to see you like this

Johnny Cage : (Y/N) and Bi-Han sitting in a tree-

(Y/N) : I will burn your tree to the ground.

Johnny Cage : Sheesh. Tough crowd.

Liu Kang : You were the best female warrior in Earthrealm

(Y/N) : Such a pity that all the women you know are next to nothing

Liu Kang : It is a shame to see what you’ve become

Kabal : You and Bi-Han freak me out

(Y/N) : I’ll do more than freak you out

Kabal : You two are a match made in hell

(Y/N) : I hate bugs

D’vorah : This one does not care for your hate

(Y/N) : The realms will cheer in pride when I exterminate you

Sub-Zero : You and my brother are not suppose to be together

(Y/N) : You share blood. You are not brothers

Sub-Zero : He made you as cold as ice

(Y/N) : Your ancestors mock you

Kung Lao : I don’t need you of all people telling me that

(Y/N) : They beg me to release them from their pain

Shao Kahn : I am quite surprised to see you turn out like this

(Y/N) : I was not surprised to see Kitana become Kahn

Shao Kahn : All you and Bi-Han do is talk

Sindel : I’ve never been attracted to such power before

(Y/N) : You are not my type, Empress

Sindel : That shadow has you wrapped around its finger

(Y/N) : You murdered my lover

Scorpion : I was deceived by Quan Chi

(Y/N) : You’ll be pleading for your life as your wife did

NOOB SAIBOT VS MK CHARACTERS

Cassie Cage : You and (Y/N) make the cutest freak show

Noob Saibot : I will never understand why (Y/N) likes you

Cassie Cage : Because I am the greatest!

Kano : Where’s your girlfriend?

Noob Saibot : My consort pays no mind to you

Kano : Damn. How’d you know I was thinking bout her?

Johnny Cage : There’s no way (Y/N) chose that

Noob Saibot : I cannot believe you procreate

Johnny Cage : Says you and everyone else, former frosty

Noob Saibot : You crave for (Y/N)’s touch

Sindel : I crave her power

Noob Saibot : Only I hold all her power

Noob Saibot : You never appreciated (Y/N)’s gift

Raiden : I did not want her to become the villain she was destined to be in previous timelines

Noob Saibot : You only pushed her closer to me

Liu Kang : You corrupted (Y/N)s soul!

Noob Saibot : You were not a man and did not confront the feelings you had for her

Liu Kang : Who told you this?!

Noob Saibot : Your mother greets you from beyond the grave

Jacqui Briggs : I’ll finish you. Then your little girlfriend

Noob Saibot : You are no match for (Y/N). Do not embarrass yourself

Scorpion : Your lover wants to avenge you and kill me

Noob Saibot : Such a shame your wife can’t do the same for you

Scorpion : Now, I will kill you

Kabal : So do you and your shadow thing tag team (Y/N) or-

Noob Saibot : I’d worry about your lungs giving out

Kabal : Jeez. It was just a question

Noob Saibot : Challenging (Y/N) is a mistake

Sub-Zero : To get to you, I must get to her

Noob Saibot : She will greet you with death

MK CHARACTERS MENTIONING YOU AND NOOB SAIBOT

Kung Lao : So you really did have feelings for (Y/N)?

Liu Kang : It is a thing of the past

Kung Lao : I don’t know if she downgraded or upgraded

Sonya Blade : (Y/N) is not your friend, Cassie!

Cassie Cage : I know she’s one of the bad guys but she makes great smoothies!

Sonya Blade : Why do I even bother?

Liu Kang : History would be different if you didn’t doubt (Y/N)

Raiden : It is a mistake I think about often

Liu Kang : Not often enough

Scorpion : (Y/N) will stop at nothing to get her revenge

Sub-Zero : Rage is an emotion you two share

Scorpion : Her rage has grown too powerful

[katharine1994-blog1]

Aaron Hotchner xBAUreader!

I Will Find You Part1

First time posting this kind of fanfic, super excited, would love feedback but please be kind haha! not totally sure of correct terminology so forgive for any mistakes.

Back story: You and Hotch have been very close/pining but nothing has ever happened despite all the team knowing and wanting you both together, when something goes wrong with a seemingly unconnected murder case and your stalker, Hotch is forced to confront his feelings about you and fight to keep you alive.

CW: age gap, pining, stalking, murder, kidnapping, physical abuse/assault, adult themes, sexual content. POV reader and POV Aaron Hotchner

The bullpen is eerily quiet, its a Friday 2am, the other agents have gone home or are out on field for other cases, your team is the only one in the office.

The team have been working tirelessly on a local murder case for a few days now and are no closer to catching this killer, 5 young women, all killed by asphyxiation, he's raped them before and again post mortem but leaving no physical evidence, then they are posed in the middle of the bed with a bouquet of dead flowers and dressed in a white dress, the rest of the scene is tidy and spotlessly clean, the local PD requested the BAU's support on Monday when they had the name of another missing girl, hoping she would be found alive, the press have started dubbing him the 'Black Groom' and started causing panic and chaos on the streets of DC, JJ has desperately tried to steer them away from using this name but to no avail, on Tuesday when the latest victim was discovered, Hotch, yourself and Morgan were first on the scene where you discovered a new detail, a new part of the signature.

The first periluminal profile built was he's a white male in his 20s to 40s, he's a sexual sadist and has a deep routed hatred of women in his life, possibly started with his mother but most likely a girlfriend or wife are the current stressor, perhaps a recent rejection or stressful situation where he feels a woman has emasculated him, despite his sadism he is methodical, calm even, keeps the girls for a few days before returning them home 'safely' tucked in bed or left in a motel room close by if there's too much police presence, none of the girls are linked, all single workaholic types with friends being the ones noticing them missing after a few days, usually these women keep to themselves so not hearing from them wasn't uncommon in most scenarios, no men in their lives not even online.

Garcia has combed through these girls lives and there's no link, all are on dating sites but with no common linked matches meaning he's likely stalking them for a few days, learning their habits and routes to and from work before taking them in a spree attack, he's using chloroform to subdue them, then he continues using this drug during the following 3 days likely to keep them subdued and too weak to fight back. But where is he holding them?

The only factor about the girls which was painfully obvious is that they all look just like you, no one had said it out loud which made it worse, you had been with Hotch when you saw the most recent victim and you'd become visibly distressed, Hotch tried to approach you but you had played it off as a bout of sickness, how could you tell him? The single perfect red rose left at the foot of the bed, the new signature, you see it in your minds eye, with the black satin ribbon tied round it, is it him?

You'd been working with the team for over a year now and grown close with them all, at first understandably they were weary of you but making some great calls on your first case and saving Morgan's life with an unsub along with a police officer in New York had really propelled you forward in their estimations, you noticed the most change in Hotch, at first he seemed to not like you very much, he seemed to pay particular attention to you, at first you thought he was being over bearing because you were younger, but as it continued you realised he was protecting you, he would stand with you when out in the field and would often put you in his team, he would help you with your bullet vest and would always check on you after a rough case, he even sometimes drove you home, you thought it was him being a great boss until Morgan pointed out it might be more, deep down you tried to stifle your feelings for him but you felt yourself leaning towards him while he spoke, reaching for his arm and being equally as protective of him, maybe he did feel the same, but nothing could happen, how could they? He is your boss for a start, your stern, tall, strong boss! he's had a kid, Jack was such a great kid and since Hayley's death 3 years ago Hotch had really taken time for them both, stopped taking on everyone else's work and allowed the team to help, all of you helping him finish reports on time, even Will and JJ making play dates even though Henry was far too small to really appreciate a bigger kid to play with yet you all spent time together outside and at work, its not surprising you feel this way. Everything screamed for you to stop liking this man, but you cant help how you feel, and even if he didn't feel the same way, what harm is it doing? apart from that one night, the memory is burned on your memory.

"Alright lets go over this again, the ME said the ligature marks were made on top of each other with fibres found deep under the skin like friction burns, these fibres are commonly found in satin scarfs or something similar, there's no way to pin point exactly from what or where, the unsub is likely choking them until they fall unconscious, the ME also suggested by the wound pattern he's raping them while they are unconscious" Hotch states stiffly rubbing the bridge of his nose "can we deduce anything with a geography profile Reid?"

"Not really, all these women live in different areas and are from different class backgrounds, so there's no safe zone he's choosing its very sporadic I cant work out whether he's working in or out of his comfort zone, I think he's choosing the girls rather than whether its easier or further from home. Their bodies at first seemed to never leave their own home with no evidence of a break in or struggle but the last people to see them said they were heading home they likely never made it, he's likely picked them on the way in a spree attack meaning ne knows their routes to and from home and picking the ideal spot, he will have a car or likely a van to go un-noticed. The latest victim we knew was missing which gave us an advantage slightly thinking he would bring her back home, but he's watching us too it seems, the motel was a few blocks away, he was in and out before anyone noticed she was there"

Reid says staring away from the map on the white board and turning to face the room, fiddling with the marker pen lid popping it on and off the pen, chewing his lip.

"Garcia, anything from the motel CCTV" Hotch didn't look up from his file as he spoke

"No sir nothing, the rooms were vacant with no security cameras on the grounds, seems like a cash on the door no questions asked kinda place, only ones I could find were located around the buildings and apart from supplier vans, cleaners, laundry services picking up, which I've checked there's nothing suspicious and all accounted for and have alibi's, its like he's a ghost" Garcia clicks the keys on the laptop in front of her joining the team in the main conference room as according to the current time frame, he has another girl and she's got less than 12 hours.

"Don't his actions scream remorseful to you guys? like he has to do this rather than wants to? he's not a rapist seeking dominance and to overpower his victims, not like your usual sadist, its the equivalent of turning their faces away during the act by having them being unconscious or asking how it was, his first kill could've been accidental, the scene seems more practice then perfect but caused him greater sexual release, leading him to want to do it again, to rein act the fantasy"

Emily interjects chewing the top of her pen leaning on her elbows on the table glancing down at the scene photos on the table.

Empty coffee cups and take-away containers scattered around the table, yours is untouched, you, Morgan and Hotch went to see the last victim on Tuesday and you've not been the same since, seemingly unfocused and jumpy, you've attempted to shake it off, he keeps them for 3-4 days, he's likely got a victim now but no ones been reported missing, he's 2 steps ahead and with this change in leaving the rose, his time line might of also changed, you sit staring into space chewing your nails anxiously

"Yet the Unsub is now killing them on purpose, you could argue it was an accident on the first victim but now he's got a taste for it, he's coming into his own sadism, he's likely a slim build, can't overpower women normally so the choking and drugging is a crutch, how he's leaving them yes you could say its an act of remorse, but what if its actually a taunt?"

Morgan points out to Emily, leaning back with his feet on the desk balancing on two chair legs

You shiver at the thought of it crossing your arms rubbing them as goosebumps appear all over, these girls suffered for hours before dying and he's only getting more confident, it makes the hair on your neck stand on end, but you've seen worse so why does this case matter you wonder? because its in your city, your home? or something else, the rose.

"He's spending hours with them, days even, I don't think the unsub is leaving them alone at all, the multiple rapes and choking is only a small part of it, see her hair has been washed and combed, she's got makeup on, it its well applied so maybe she's done it herself? but see her arms and legs, she's been beaten, and look this victim is the same, her abdomen is also bruised, victim one seems to of got the worst with him even leaving bruises on her face, he's beating them, either to keep them submitted or something is triggering him into a angry rage, this show pure rage in-between all the calculated steps he takes" he pauses and takes a breath in before continuing "they are workaholic, single, strong women, same build, hair type and race, who would likely not give him a second glance, we need to figure out who his real target is, profile the victim then we might find him, and figure out if she was one of these women or if she's still out there" Rossi states, removing his glasses and stares at everyone before letting his eyes fall onto you, he lingers then returns to his file in front of him.

You and Morgan look at each other knowingly from across the table, you try to avoid his piercing stare as your stomach starts turning when suddenly your eyes catch Hotch, he's been watching you for a while, even though you kept your eyes forward you knew he was watching you, you could feel it, his stern brow knitted together burning a hole into you, but when your eyes finally meet his eyes are all softness and concern, somethings off with you and he knows you are keeping something from him, you've been close in the past but for a few weeks you've been distant and it hurts not to tell him, since that night, keeping him at arms length and maybe been a little short with him, he keeps asking if you're ok, you cant worry him, not now, its better this way, its what he wanted right? there's a girls life on the line.

Morgan signals you to leave the room, you stand Hotch's eyes don't leave you as you try desperately to lose his gaze, if you could melt in to the wall you would

"excuse me" you say quietly and exit the room

"are you alright Y/N?" Hotch's stern voice low and calm freezes you into place.

"Yes, I just need some coffee" you lie with a full stone cold cup on the table, Hotch clocks the cup and his eyes burn into your head as you keep your back to him so he doesn't see the rising panic as you slink out the room, as you leave you hear Rossi whisper "come on Hotch she's clearly not OK, this unsub is hunting girls just like her, just give her a minute"

Morgan excuses himself and follows you, nodding at Hotch letting him know that he's on the case.

You stand in the small kitchen area your hands are shaking, you take some deep shaky breaths trying to steady them, you grab a glass and start filling it with water and take some slow small sips, barely being able to hold the glass, you it grasp with two hands, this cant be happening, it cant be him?

You had told Morgan a few months ago you'd been getting strange notes under your door at home, love notes along with a bouquet of red roses with a black ribbon nearly ever other day at work, at first you were flattered if not a little creeped out, Pen and Emily immediately started the 100 questions of who this guy was and how many dates we went on, but you played it off, after a while of sneaking them into the garbage you had told reception to stop bringing them through, as the attention was getting a bit much particularly from the team teasing about dating someone, and why they knew nothing about him, and he clearly likes you, this seems to really bother Hotch who you noticed would avoid the pit when you didn't get in early enough to remove them, but then they started appearing at home instead, you had tried to play it off and believed they would eventually lose interest, Reid had mentioned how he got gifts from victims we saved when they projected feelings on to us so you supposed this was a likely explanation. But as time went on you thought best to ask for some advise, once Morgan knew he got Penelope to see if she could find who it was, nothing, this guy was a ghost, Morgan even came home with you a few times to check everything over and had a rather heated discussion with the building manager about letting people through the building who didn't live here, the letters became increasingly graphic about your 'relationship' but a few weeks ago everything stopped, that was until Monday morning on your way out the front door of your apartment a red rose with a black ribbon lay on the ground next to a note saying 'we will be together soon', you hadn't yet told Morgan about this new development and weren't sure when it would need to come up again, surely it was nothing.

when you saw the rose at the crime scene everything had gone dark in your mind, this was no coincidence, this was your stalker! Were these girls dying because of you?

Morgan rushes through and grabs your arm forcing you to look at him almost making you drop the glass

"you need to tell him sweetness, this unsub is after you" taking the glass from your hands and resting it on the counter top

"we don't know that for sure, and you know the moment I do I will be off this case, I am much more useful to you helping the team"

"come on Y/N, the rose, you saw it, he's not been active for a while, has he been in touch again?"

you look at the floor contemplating how you should tell him, Morgan sighs and takes your face in his hands forcing you to look at him

"when?"

"Monday morning"

He drops his hands and panic filling his eyes and takes a deep breath

"Y/N you should've told me!! don't you get it? you are in danger"

"why is Y/N in danger?" A deep rumble seems to come from Hotch's chest, you both freeze and hold your breath as you turn and both see Hotch standing looking straight at Morgan, shock and pain all over his face

"its nothing I-" you begin but Hotch raises his hand to quiet you

"I was asking Derek, so will you finally tell me what is going on?"

It felt like hours past but it must've been a few seconds, you pleaded with Morgan in your mind to not make this a big deal, once he knows, everything will change, you will be a victim to your team.

"She's being stalked, and I believe the stalker might be our unsub, I think she's who he's actually after"

The air seems to leave the room, it was true, you thought the same you just didn't want to believe it, you were the intended victim, you were the reason these girls, these beautiful young women with their whole lives ahead of them, were murdered, because you caught this sick bastards eye. Your eyes begin to brim with traitorous tears as you fight them back.

Hotch looks at you for a while his face moving from broken, to full of rage, to completely calm in a split second, was he mad at you? did he blame you too? At that moment his phone begins to ring in his pocket, he takes a breath and reached in his pocket and turns away from you and Morgan to answer, Morgan turns to you and wraps his arm around you mouthing 'am sorry baby girl' as he kisses your forehead, you feel the tears fall down your face and wipe them away quickly. Hotch turns back to you both still holding the phone to his ear

"they've found another victim, up town"

Part 2 to follow

[dangermousie]

I've been thinking more about Minglan and one of the things I love so much about it is that it treats its characters as real people - not virtue and vice cut outs.

There are so many terrible people in it - GTY and Minglan's fathers, Concubine Lin, Manniang etc but the drama treats them as actual people* - by that I mean it shows what makes them tick, how they are heroes in their own minds (very few people believe they are villains) and yet it does not excuse them - it follows explanation is not excuse mode.

But also, and even better - it allows Minglan and GTY their anger. There is no grand reveal of "this monster parent cared, they just didn't show it well," no sweeping of mistreatment under the rug, no redemption no revelation.

Both Minglan and GTY get full well why their fathers are the way they are and yet this does not mean they forgive. By the end, Minglan has a cordial and distant relationship (one that actually just what her father likes) and has ceased to care or wish for anything else utterly. He is a selfish, solipsistic man who only cares for appearances - maybe it's his childhood maybe it's innate maybe it's societal structure. She doesn't really care why. She accepts that this is how he is and her heart is locked and it's fine.

And the same with GTY - he finds out the full backstory and it explains so much for him but there is no forgiveness or give. In fact, his reaction to when his older half-brother tries to get him to sympathize is literally "RIP to him but I am different."

And I love that so so so much. They are allowed their anger, their hurt, their lack of repair to familial bonds that ruptured under the other side's abuse or neglect. Too many otherwise excellent dramas sweep that stuff under the rug (Ning, Blossom with the Dad etc) and in real life, it would not be so easily forgotten. I love that Minglan gets that.

*even truly minor characters feel real that way. Qi Heng's first wife does not appear to have much complexity - she's a spoiled woman wanting a toy in her bed. But unlike so many "crazy sfl chasing after ml despite his lack of interest" she actually makes sense. If you look at someone like sfl in Si Jin, she makes no sense - who tries to force into marriage someone higher in status and who's indicated decided ability and inclination to murder you? (Same goes for that girl in LLTG.) But this woman actually makes sense - she doesn't care about love, she just wants obedience and sex basically AND she actually picks someone of lower to her status so she CAN order him around without fear of his status/his family's status causing issues and he's a scholar who is not the type to commit murder anything else be damned.

[marcyvamp1re-blog]

I would like to request romantic yandere scott summers x reader where his darling has amnesia. Now I don’t know how they got amnesia but scott brings reader home from the hospital one day and takes reader home claiming the reader is his wife or husband( gender does not matter), even though they were not married before. Scott takes advantage of the fact reader has amnesia, I would also have to assume they are not at the mansion so scott can do his yandere doings

BAG OF BONES

Synopsis. You remembered nothing, not even your name, yet he wove stories with threads of gold and promises. His voice, a refuge; his gaze, a cage. He claimed to love you like never before, like always. How could you doubt someone who swore to be your everything, even if his love felt like a prison disguised as home?

pairing ── Yandere! Scott Summers x Amnesiac! Reader.

Content. MDNI ── Dark themes, violence/death, blood, retrograde amnesia, forced marriage, inappropriate touching, insolation, invasion of privacy, kidnapping?, Slight mention of pregnancy, delusion, Angst, murdering, Disturbing Content, Death of a canonical character, lgbt?, Unhealthy Obsession, Gaslight, Mental Illness, Corruption, Isolation, Paranoia, Manipulation.

A/N ── English is not my first language—Spanish— Honestly, I've always been interested in the Yandere x Amnesiac theme. It's really fascinating how the psychology of the characters can be so complex in these types of stories. Also, thank you for being clear and concise in your request, and I hope you enjoy it.

They say one should never try to go back to the past, that the present is where we must live and the future what we must build. But how could you do that when you felt a piercing emptiness in your chest, a pain you didn’t understand? Your heart screamed that something was wrong, that what you were experiencing wasn’t real, that danger lurked closer than you could imagine.

The white glare of the hospital lights blinded you as you opened your eyes. You felt your body heavy, your mind clouded, and an absolute bewilderment that made you tremble. Everything felt strange, as if you were a piece out of place in an unknown puzzle. Then you saw him.

A tall man, with a firm build, wearing burgundy glasses that hid his eyes but not his excited expression. His smile lit up upon seeing you awake, and before you could say anything, his lips pressed against your forehead, your cheeks, your hair, leaving desperate and anxious kisses.

“Thank God you’re okay,” he whispered with a warm, relieved voice.

But you weren’t. You remembered nothing. Not even your name. Confusion filled you, and words wouldn’t come to your lips. He, however, seemed to have all the answers.

“I’m Scott Summers, do you remember me?” he said, taking your hand gently. His fingers were warm, but the way he squeezed them made you feel trapped—“We just got married.”

Married? The impact left you breathless. You looked at your hands, and there it was: a beautiful diamond ring along with a wedding band. Its shine seemed to confirm his words. When you looked up, you saw he wore a similar set on his left hand.

“I... don’t remember...” you started to say, but he shook his head gently.

“It doesn’t matter. You’re alive, and that’s all that matters. I’ll take care of you.”

His voice was sweet, reassuring, and you decided to believe him. Why wouldn’t you? Everything seemed to fit: the ring, the familiarity in his gestures, the way he looked at you. But deep inside, there was something you couldn’t silence.

There was something in his smile, something in the way his fingers never stopped touching you, that made you feel exposed. Vulnerable. Like you were a butterfly trapped in a display case, admired but with no escape.

How naïve you were to think that warmth meant safety.

When he took you to what he said was your home, the confusion inside you grew heavier, more oppressive. It was a small cabin in the midst of a lush forest, completely isolated from the rest of the world. Scott explained that the distance was necessary, that you had always preferred the tranquility of nature, away from societal judgment, especially for what you were: a mutant.

“You used to say that here you could be yourself,” he murmured with a smile as he parked the car. His words were warm, but they sounded strange.

As he guided you through the house, you noticed how his explanations seemed overly rehearsed, almost mechanical. The master bedroom was cozy, with dark wooden furniture and a large bed, but there was something unsettling in how orderly everything was, as if you had never truly lived there.

“This is the guest room,” he said as he opened a door. The space was filled with tools and paint, as if it were in the process of being transformed—“I’m preparing it for something special.”

You didn’t ask for what. There was something in his tone that dissuaded you from doing so.

The kitchen, however, came with a warning. “Don’t enter here without me, okay? I want to make sure you don’t hurt yourself.”

“Hurt myself?” The phrase hung in your mind as he showed you the rest of the house. Finally, you arrived at the living room, the space that unsettled you the most.

It was a mix of museum and altar. There were photos of you everywhere: smiling, reading, walking in a park you didn’t recognize. Some included Scott, his arm always firmly around your shoulders, and others showed a group of people who seemed unfamiliar yet strangely familiar.

In one of the photos, a group dressed in flamboyant, almost theatrical clothes stood out. It was a mosaic of colors and textures that evoked something lost on the edge of your memory. In the image, you were in a corner, embraced by a young woman with pink glasses who seemed a few years younger than you. On your other side, a brown-haired woman with white streaks smiled subtly, though she didn’t touch you. She seemed close, important.

However, what caught your attention the most wasn’t any of them, but a figure in the background, almost hidden behind Scott. A woman with bright red hair who seemed to look at the man with particular intensity. The photo was slightly blurry, as if someone had manipulated it or neglected it on purpose.

“Who is she?” you asked, pointing at the blurred figure before you could stop yourself.

Scott tensed immediately. His smile vanished for an instant before returning, though more forced. “Oh, just someone from the past. It doesn’t matter now. The only thing that matters is you and how happy we are together.”

You didn’t press. His response wasn’t enough, but something in his gaze told you that pushing was dangerous.

That night, as you tried to sleep, doubts burned inside you. Who was that woman? Why couldn’t you remember anything about your life, not even the people in those photos? And above all, why did every time you looked at Scott, the weight in your chest grew heavier, as if you were trapped in a gilded cage?

You didn’t love Scott. You couldn’t. Maybe you had at some point, but if that was the case, that love didn’t survive the accident that erased your memories. Now, he was a stranger, and his constant need for contact suffocated you. Scott wasn’t just clingy; he was voracious. Every caress felt like an indelible mark on your skin, every kiss a reminder that you weren’t free.

He adored being glued to you, almost as if he feared you would disappear if he let go. He insisted on bathing you, choosing your clothes and dressing you, his fingers grazing your skin more than necessary. He prepared every meal with devotion and served it to you as if you were a deity to be worshipped. But even those gestures, so carefully disguised as love, carried a shadow you couldn’t ignore.

“I want you to feel cared for, protected,” he would tell you with a smile as he brushed your hair. His words were sweet, but the way he said them was unsettling, as if he were convincing himself more than you.

Days passed in suffocating routines and deafening silence. Scott took you outdoors, around the cabin, making sure not to stray too far. He said it was for your safety, but you knew that wasn’t true. Every time you looked at the forest, so vast and full of possibilities, you felt a growing urge to run, to escape, even though you didn’t know where to go.

And then the flashes began.

At first, they were fleeting images, fragments that emerged when you least expected them. A smile that wasn’t from Scott. A soft laugh. Bright green eyes framed by fiery red hair. The woman from the photo.

Every time those memories surfaced, a sharp pain pierced your head, as if your mind struggled to protect you from something you didn’t want to know. But the most disturbing thing wasn’t the woman, but how you saw her: standing next to Scott, his hand in hers, their lips forming words you couldn’t hear. Happy. United. Almost as if…

No.

The first day you had that memory, you screamed in the middle of breakfast. The spoon fell from your hands as you instinctively recoiled in your chair. Scott was beside you in an instant, his hands firm on your shoulders, his eyes hidden behind glasses but his face filled with concern.

“What’s wrong, love? Are you okay?”

“I... I...” You tried to explain, but the words wouldn’t come. All you could do was look at his hands, those same hands that in your visions touched another woman with the same devotion as they now touched you.

Scott frowned, his expression darkening for a moment before a nervous smile returned to his face. “It’s just your mind playing tricks on you. It’s normal, sweetheart. Take a moment.”

But it wasn’t. And you knew it.

That night, as you brushed your teeth, the mirror in front of you trembled. Not from any external movement, but because your mind was slowly breaking, releasing pieces of a puzzle you were just beginning to recognize. A flash hit you, as if a storm were dragging you to another time.

She was there, the red-haired woman you had seen before, but this time she wasn’t a blurry image. Her laughter was warm, almost contagious, and you were next to her, shy, with a small smile that barely dared to emerge. Her hand rested gently on your arm while the other figures around you joined in the conversation.

The dark-haired woman with white streaks watched you with a mischievous look, an eyebrow raised as she crossed her arms. Beside her, a young woman with pink glasses laughed loudly, patting your shoulder as if she had known you forever. Nearby, another tall woman, with deep eyes and a majestic demeanor, looked at you with a mix of understanding and affection. They all seemed to encourage something, their animated voices like a chaotic melody you could barely comprehend.

“He’s a good man,” one of them said, her tone firm but kind. “He adores you!” exclaimed the youngest, with a beaming smile. “Just go and have a little fun.”

But not all were so enthusiastic. The red-haired woman didn’t share their laughter or their words of encouragement. Her expression was softer, almost melancholic, and her eyes met yours for a long moment. When the others dispersed, she stepped closer to you.

Her hands took yours, warm and steady, and for a moment you felt more protected than you had in a long time. She didn’t say anything at first, just hugged you tightly, her embrace speaking more than any words. Leaning toward your ear, her voice was a whisper, but her words were etched into your memory.

“You have my blessings…” Her breath was shaky, and you felt her fingers tighten slightly on your back—“And I love you.”

You stepped back slightly to look at her, but her smile seemed like a mask. There was something in her eyes you couldn’t understand at that moment, something that hurt you in a strange way.

The memory faded as quickly as it came, leaving you standing in front of the mirror, gasping. You gripped the edge of the sink, your fingers white from the pressure. Your reflection seemed distant, as if it weren’t yours.

Who was she? What did it all mean? And above all, why did her face, her voice, her embrace fill you with a warmth that made Scott’s love feel cold and forced?

The mirror in front of you trembled as you hit it with your hands, gasping, your pupils dilated with terror. Your reflection didn’t look like you. It was a broken version, trapped in a life you didn’t understand.

Scott appeared behind you like a ghost, his hands wrapping around your waist firmly. His warm breath on your neck made you shiver.

“You look tired, love. Let me take care of you.”

The first time you saw him in full clarity was in a dream, or so you thought when you woke up, gasping and with your body soaked in cold sweat.

You were in a dark and damp room, the air heavy with the metallic smell of blood. Your hands trembled as you held a fragile, cold, lifeless body: a woman with red hair, now dulled and stuck to her pale face. Blood stained her lips and flowed from multiple wounds on her chest, as if something had pierced her repeatedly. They weren’t normal wounds; they were small, irregular caves, burned by a heat that couldn’t be human.

Jean. Her name hit you like lightning. Jean. Now you knew, and the weight of that name on your chest made you sob as you held her against you, trying, futilely, to cover the wounds with your hands.

“No... no, please, wake up...” Your voice was a desperate whisper, broken, a lament in the void.

The sound of footsteps behind you made your body tense. You recognized them before turning around. Their walk was unmistakable: confident, calculated, almost victorious.

Scott was there. His figure was silhouetted against the dim light, his burgundy glasses shining with an unsettling glow. His face showed no sadness, no guilt. Only satisfaction.

“It had to be this way,” he said with a calm voice, too tranquil for the scene before you. His tone was gentle, almost kind, as if he were explaining something simple.

You stood frozen, your hands still holding the body of the woman, while your mind struggled to process his words.

“What... what did you do?” you managed to murmur, though your voice was barely a thread.

Scott took another step forward, his boots echoing on the stone floor. He knelt before you, ignoring the blood staining the ground and spreading like a river between you two. His hand rose to caress your cheek, and you flinched, unable to move.

“Now that she’s gone…” he continued, his tone filled with a sweetness that was terrifying—“nothing can separate us. We can be together, just as we were always meant to be.”

Your body reacted before your mind did. You let Jean’s body fall, stumbling backward, your hands still trembling, covered in her blood. “You’re crazy!” you shouted, though your voice broke into a sob at the end.

But Scott didn’t seem affected. He stood up with the calmness of someone who knows he has already won. He took a step toward you, and then another, until you had no space left to escape.

“No, love,” he said, leaning toward you, his breath brushing your ear—“I’m in love.”

The intensity in his voice paralyzed you. It was a declaration, not an explanation. He truly believed that everything he had done was out of love.

The dream, or the memory, ended there, with his face so close to yours that you could feel the warmth of his skin. You woke up with a start, a muffled scream in your throat and your heart pounding in your chest.

Your hands continued to tremble as you looked around the room. You were in the cabin, in your bed, but the smell of blood still seemed to linger in the air.

“Are you okay?” Scott’s voice broke the silence. He was next to you, watching you with his typical feigned concern, his hand already reaching for yours.

You instinctively recoiled, pulling away from his touch, but you tried to hide it. Your breathing was ragged, and you forced yourself to nod. “Just... a bad dream.”

He smiled, but his eyes behind the glasses didn’t stop watching you with that intensity that always seemed to hide something more. “I’m here for you. Always.”

That night, you decided you had to uncover the truth, even if it cost you your sanity... or your life.

A/N ── Yes, it’s not a happy ending, but at least it’s an ending that leaves a lot of room for reflection. I wanted to try out a conclusion like this at some point, and I hope it didn’t make anyone uncomfortable. Thank you for reading, and if you want to request something, feel free to do so as long as requests are open. More information in the pinned comment!

Take a bath!

[melancholicstation]

summer wine ( and an angel’s kiss in spring ) — bobby f. kennedy

taglist: @remotewatch @bloxholden35 @kennediva @h-l-vlovesvintage @h-l-v-kennedy-blog @absurdlyvintage @chemicalw0rld @fortheloveofjos @kimcrystal123 @astro-vibes-bro @tsloverr-13

summary: during a party hosted in light of senator john f. kennedy’s presidential candidacy announcement, bobby and you sneak away into the background and have about as much fun as a person can have at a political campaign celebration🍷🛌 …

tags: 18+, making love against a secretary desk, religious imagery, hair pulling, oral ( female receiving ), unprotected s*x, desk breaking

words: 1783

Sure, you’ll bite: a campaign celebration soirée for your husband’s older brother’s presidential ticket wasn’t exactly your idea of a rousing saturday evening but when jack tells you to be somewhere, well that’s just where you’re gonna be: at least that’s where bobby would always be.

It’s bordering on 2:00 am and you’ve just about tried as many old fashions and sidecars as you can stomach for the time being so you switch to a vintage choosing of dubonnet cherry wine.

You haven’t talked to bobby much all day which isn’t so out of the ordinary: evidently he was a man very much in demand. You’d just become to miss him as his frame comes into your periphery. A sight just calibrated for your oh so terribly sore eyes!

You smile and beckon him over, not unlike calling over an excitable puppy, he’s quick to start into quick jog. The squeaks of his leather derbies colliding with the teak flooring, but being quickly drowned out to all ears by the booming, assaulting volume of irish ballads playing from the far side of the gathering hall.

“Hey Sugar how’re you doin’? Has Mrs Bridges been hassling you about going that murder-mystery bookclub again I—by god I can see in your face, of course she has. How many times?”

“Three times” you say through breathy laughs as you fuss over the positioning of the shark-type collar he dons, eventually laying it flat against his collarbone littered with blonde baby-hairs like a garden of baby breaths.

“Three times this night or this hour my dear?” He says while responding to my incessant fixing and prodding’s by grabbing the hair from the nape, splitting it into two with hands much larger than yours, arranging them across your shoulders.

“Three times this hour” You move to lay your head across his collarbone but close was never close enough for you as of late, you would nest yourself in his ribs if you could tucked around his sternum. “Oh god, my poor, poor girl. I extend my deepest apologies that I wasn’t there to run interference: though I don’t believe it would’ve stopped her pursuits much” he says in a condescendingly charming fashion.

“Oh you’re really sorry” “Terribly so” “How sorry are you?”

“Well if you join me in the back I can show you just how deep my sympathies truly lie.” He exclaims in a tone that balances the intimacy of such an offer with a boyish-like spin.

The brazenness of his offer makes you giggle profusely, calling the attention to older couples who interact with their partners like they sleep in separate beds: so you don’t pay them much mind, a tell-tale sign that bobby’s one too many of the amortised wines served was his rare streak of promiscuity that would rear its head. Much to your amusement as his wife.

You scurry off little teenagers running to make out under the bleachers, you allow bobby to lead you as he’s more familiar with the event space than you were. He leads you into an abandoned looking secretarial office, with a hand curled around the crevice of your elbow like a devout would hold a beaded rosary, a loving kind of possession.

strawberries cherries and an angel’s kiss in spring…

You both look around the room quite impolitely in sheer curiosity: opening rusty drawers, flicking through empty filing cabinets until you both land on a particular item resting on the wall parallel to the door. A slanted front writing desk in a deep caramel tinted mahogany wood. A brass handle dangles in the breeze from the slightly draft coming in through the door.

Bobby and you both grinning and make eye contact: immediately moving to pull down the handle to woefully find it particularly barren: no secret notes or diary entry’s. Your face mirrors each other’s pout, as you try to test the sturdiness of the writing desk. To your surprise it holds its own under the full weight of your hand. Noticing this Bobby catches on, asking “Do ya’ think it’s sturdy enough?”

“Looks sturdy enough to me” you grin as you slowly back your behind up and onto the desk. Your legs finding balance resting on the lower portion of Bobby’s thigh. Slowly your Mary Jane black pumps start to find perch higher and higher on his thigh, eventually reaching the mound beneath his dress pants. You decide to tease him a bit and start to circle your foot around the mound, to which Bobby moans under his breath, shyly and throws his head back clearly overwhelmed. He lets you toy with him for a few short moments until you’re sure he had had enough, and moves to wrap your legs and thighs around the width of his hips. “Ya sure you want to do this here, y’know I could tell Jack we’ve had an issue with the babysitter and need to get home. I—I just quite feel disrespectful taking you in a place that has about 5 distinguishable moulds living in it. “Not that I don’t want to, cause trust me my girl I do it’s just—“

my summer wine is really made from all these things…

“Hush, I don’t care if there’s mould spors I need you on me this instance Kennedy. Depriving your wife! My I can’t think of a more disrespectful act can you Bobby?” You say in a bullish-yet feminine tone that immediately snaps Bobby out of his overthinking spiral: a good trait in a campaign manager not in a husband. Great for Jack, not so much for you.

“Okay—Okay I’m sorry baby you know how I get” “Oh I do now clear your mind of it this instance”

take off your silver spurs and help me pass the time…

“Totally clear” he says in a self assured tone as he moves to delicately remove his dress pants throwing them over the side of the large ottoman that most definitely has some form of bed bug inhabitants. Leaving him in his torn boxers: that he refuses to throw in the garbage disposal, holes that allow you to see the mountain of hair littered going from his belly button down to his significant mound.

In stark contrast he handles the undressing of yourself with the care and devotion of a man who knows his woman only has eyes for him, and vis versa. He neatly dissembles your outfit: a billowing ruffled crepe blouse paired with a pleated black skirt and flesh coloured tights. In his excavation of your outfit he uncovers the surprise you’d dressed on yourself for him to find.

Once he got you down to just your stockings he could see what you longed for him to find since you slipped them on: a bikini brief with embroidered lettering spelling out “bobby’s girl” on the front in lapis blue.

and i will give to you my summer wine…

Bobby’s face morphs into the face of a man starved: finally finding a dam in a four day trek through an unforgiving desert. The underwear is quickly pulled off and placed hastily into the pocket of his suit jacket, causing his pocket square to be slightly roughened up. To your surprise, but not shock as Bobby was always the kind to give before he ever received himself, got down on his knees and started to lap at your cunt ferociously: talk about a man starved. You’d heard the rumours of Bobby far before you had met him in the flesh, far before you’d married and had children with him: Bobby was thought to have been a ruthless character with the temperament of a caged pit bull.

But that wasn’t the Bobby you saw that day you met him for the first time, and it wasn’t the Bobby you were looking at now. Now he was worshipping, and at his happiest while doing it.

Soon enough you felt the inevitable wave of pleasure wash over you, and in that bliss reached for Bobby always wanting to bask in that with the man who made it all possible. “Did that feel good baby?” “So-so-so-so good Bobby you should have shed that humbleness with me a long time ago” You say as you soothingly ( for the both of you ) try to smooth down tufts of his hair, now severely roughened up, and clear away the luminescent substance absolutely coating the entirety of his chin and a portion of his plush, bottom lip.

But just as you get your wits about you, he starts to line up and invades you in the most decedent way a person could be invaded.

“Harder”

To which Bobby lays flat a hand on your chin, keeping your attention fully locked onto him as he bullies his large mound into your cunt at a solid pace but steadily increasing in fervour. As a cause of this the desk starts to rock. Continually ricocheting rhythmic sounds of the desk hitting the skirting of the wall over, and over, and over again.

“Dear God, you’re as tight as ever. You’re killing me” Bobby continues to praise how soft you are, how good you are to him, and how he can only aspire and yearn to make you feel as good as he does at this moment.

when i woke up the sun was shining in my eyes…

A mounting shudder creeps upon you like a ghost in the night, following behind you Bobby shudders and then finally stills, still sheathed inside you.

You both take a couple minutes to recoup which consists: of lots of handholding, reassuring, and kisses upon naps of necks.

my silver spurs were gone, my head felt twice its size…

It is only when you get up, as Bobby gathers both of your garments, that you identify a large split in the wood spanning from the hinges. You laugh at it half mortified and half impressed with the two of you’s strength and call over Bobby.

my summer wine is really made from all these things.

To which he comes over, observes the large spilt that definitely wasn’t there prior and searches his pockets. In there he finds a letter opener and to your surprise carved into the rich wood:

“Y/n and Bobby forever 1960-01-02”

the end.

[mr-walkingrainbow]

Okay maybe it’s just me but, this episode kinda? Sucked ass???

Yellowjackets season 3 episode 7, a rant

Okay so first we get some long ass frog thing. Then literally TEN WHOLE ASS MINUTES OF ABSOLUTELY FUCKING USELESS BACKSTORY ON THE BIRDERS. I skipped that shit instantly cause I knew it wasn’t gonna matter and I was right.

They literally take two steps in and Lottie goes FUCKING BATSHIT CRAZY. And absolutely MURDERFIES the guy. Like stabs him so severe she rips off his whole ass scalp and everything. Love her. But also she’s fucking insane and finally everyone realizes that.

This isn’t Lottie hate btw. People just needed to stop believing her delusions. And MH GOD NO AKIHLAH. FUCK THAT. Her trying to reason with it to Travis? No baby girl. My Shayla. Baby. She’s excusing murder now girlie was converted

Lol I’m sorry but Melissa getting shot and being like ‘Shauna don’t leave me!’ 🥺

And then Shauna LEAVES HER ASS.

(Okay yes she threatened Maris life and said if Melissa dies she dies. But like. It was still hella funny to me that Shauna just dropped Melissa like a fuckinb potato for the hunt.)

Okay I fucking hated the hunt. What were the writers thinking. They dragged that shit out for literally like 65% of the whole episode??? They didn’t need to. Not to mention it was really poorly lit so it was almost impossible to see shit.

I will say,

Natalie being immeadiately given the lead to help hunt them. Love that. She’s still my antler queen.

Vans desperation for the phone to work and her immeadiately trying to call her mom had me nearly in tears. Like. Van wants to go home so badly. She still just wanted her Mama even though her mom’s a peice of shit.

LOTTIE PLAYING WITH THE GUYS BRAINS AND BLOOD SHES CRACKED OUT NOW

Mari fucking I love you Ibarra just trying to revive him and scoop the brains back into his head 🥺. She’s so dumb but I love her so much

Liked the gore of pushing the arrow through

Okay now onto the stuff they rushed

Loved the car scene. Yellowjackets road trip is lit at. THE TEXTING SCENE HAD ME DEAD.

GUYS GUYS GUYS GUYS. CONFIRMATION. CONFIRMATION MELISSA AND GEN ARE DEAD. THEY ARENT THE BONUS SURVIVOR. GUYS MARI OR AKIHLAH COULD BE THE ONE.

this genuinely shocked me cause I thought they were headed to having Melissa be the bonus jacket.

The pain in taissas voice when she called out for Van as soon as she started coughing up blood was 10/10. Very angsty.

Taissa absolutely folding and copping to be Vans wife.

VANS HALLUCINATION WAS HER YOUNGER SELF AND BEING MARKED FOR DEATH

VAN REALIZING ITS BEEN DARK TAI ALL ALONG FUCK.

10/10 creep factor. Taissa covered in blood and dirt and saying she won’t let them take Vans eyes? Absolutely obsessed.

And then it just cuts her her giving Vans blood type and genuinely being so fucking scared for her.

But 🥺 Van begging dark tai to let her tai come back. Cause in the end she just wants her Taissa.

Okay but Misty confronting Shauna and Shauna denying it only to literally OEEL THE FUCK AWAY ONCE AGAIN. I’m sorry but that is SO damning.

My rating for this episode? Honestly at 4.5/10. It had some great moments but overall it very much felt like the loser filler episode that all tv shows have. They over did the hunt way to fucking long. And we literally didn’t need to know shit about the hunters. I understand the rest of the episode without that useless ass ten minutes. I’m actually really fucking dissapointed in this episode. There was so much anticipation riding on it from last week and they just absolutely NUKED it. Completely ruined the vibe and the build up. It’s a shame too. That build up was coming since the very first episode of this season and for them to actually butcher it like that was extremely upsetting and disappointing. The next episode better be twice as good as ep 6 to make up for this shitty ep

[omgfangirlland]

Okay BUT BRUCE AND DICK CRYING? OVER THE BATSIS STUFF!?

Like Bruce curled up into the bed that is supposed to be for her (BATSIS) Wich is clearly to small for Bruce, and he's burying his head into the plushie (make it a Sheep? Or worse make it a Superman or wonder woman plushie) and Bruce is just crying his hear and eyes out,

My god the feeling that Dick is just in the same place as Bruce but Dick is on the floor grieving, holding those paintings as if they were a life line because.... He failed them, he failed another kid, he wasn't there in time and now there is probably no more time, he probably lost another kid again...... He failed, he's a failure of an older brother, imagine that feeling sinking in and he starts feeling just as that time when Jason dies and he wasn't there and he lost his baby brother but this time is that he was ignorant and neglectful and even fully forgot that he had a baby sister and now he will never have time with her..... He'll never get back those 6 six years..... She has another older sibling to look up to, one that actually notices her and they are attached to the hip, a sibling that she really cares and loves, a brother that will do anything to keep her safe,.... How can he compete with that? but he needs to right? Just to have a small chance.

Ok bUt hear me out

Bruce Wayne vs Nolan Grayson.

I'll leave that there, do with that what you want, let's use our imagination.

Sorry I got inspired I just LOVED CHAPTER 16 ITS LOVELY

( I need a 2 chapters titled "Bruce Wayne vs Debbie Grayson or Nolan" (graysons wins) and another titled "whose the better Grayson?" And it's a Dick vs Mark type of thing (It's Mark, Mark's better) Lmao)

I may be on a very good mood, so I'm so sorry if I send more asks 😔😭🖐️

-Nameless 💜

(sorry for so many asks I just LOVE your series)

NEVER BE SORRY FOR SENDING ASKS I LOVE THEM!! 💚💚💚💚

I put my money on the Wonder Woman because 1. What if batsis had a plushie of every hero but not the bats? Damage. 2. She initially got the Wonder Woman plushie as a gift for Jason, and when he died, she took it back. Double damage.

See? I wouldn't be able to come up with this stuff completely on my own, the asks are important:)))

I fully wrote the Dick crying on the floor, clutching drawings with the idea that batsis drew two versions of the same idea, him and his parents, and him, his parents, and the bat fam btw. I wanted to add that, but he'd be holding them with the drawn site to his chest so it wouldn't show, so I had to erase that.

By the time the Dick saga fully begins I fear he'll be delusional enough to see you sticking around a family named Grayson as a sign that everything is fine and you'll forgive everything since you clearly missed him them so much. He'll be deep in the hells of denial. 5 stages of grief? Nah. It's just denial.

This isn't exactly Nolan vs Bruce- but I have had a scene since like- chapter 13, for a little jab Nolan will throw at Damian, and I think you'll enjoy it when and how it happens. But to go back to the dad vs ...dna donor. That'll be another breakdown for Bruce, full crashout. Are people watching? The league? He doesn't care. He just needs to punch something so he can calm down, maybe cry a bit more- his baby had been with a murderer for years- and then the planning starts.

Now- If it's Brucie who meets the man. Nolan "I don't know who you are, son. But I know you're a whore. Stay away from my kids and wife." Grayson just lies and moves past, because he's a changed man- and he may have been bribed to play nice.

Brucie is flabbergasted- how dare- he's right- but still. He could ignore it, but he also could be petty, finding every way possible to be as close to his daughter and the other two kids(they're not his and he's pissy about them being closer to batsis than his own kids) pushing and pushing until, probably Oliver since the lil manipulative blueberry doesn't like this fool being so friendly with his big sis and completely ignoring him and Mark, just starts screaming and crying that the bad man(Bruce) did something bad. (The Bruce Wayne pr team wants to quit.) Be it either calling him or her sister something mean, or going the extra evil mile and saying to stop touching me like that pervert- the papers will have a field trip. Bruce shan't know peace, his kids were raised for higher society, to network with even the worst of the worst, Mark and Oliver? They'll point and scream stranger danger just to fuck with someone.

Now does this give Nolan the great excuse to punch him? Yes. Debbie is faster to play along, though, and she ends up beating Bruce with her purse, Nolan is resigned to a bodyguard post, simply dragging Bruce away under his arm like he's holding a cardboard cut out.

If it's batman, it's very much against either man's will and will probably end up in a brawl. Now the kids are split into the "Stop that" and "fuck his shit up" camps, until Nolan punches something and everyone is reminded that Bruce will break his fist if he does land a punch. Batsis and Jason intervene, sadly, but Bruce is being stupid, and Nolan is on thin ice with the government. He can't be seen fighting with another hero... again.

A lot of restrictions are about to be put on Nolan, so sadly, his hands are tied. Good thing his wife and kids are just as feral as he is.

SEND AS MANY AS YOU WANT BBY DON'T WORRY I LOVE IT( I may respond a few hours later tho, it's almost 3 am and sleep finally hit me 😅)

I hope this is comprehensive and not just incoherent rambling 😭

[anika-ann]

Ochranuj me (Protect Me) - S.R.

Part 1/2

Type: medieval/fantasy/fairy tale AU; a part of this pseudomedieval-fantasy AU

Pairing: knight Steve Rogers x reader   Word Count: 8,6k

Summary:  Your practice of magic is punishable by death. Your love is forbidden by law; and yet it has been blessed, more than he knows.

When the crown prince is poisoned, Knight Steven Rogers is faced with a choice: will he risk a war or the love of his life?

And what of you? If asked… shall you risk it all? For the lands where you live… for your knight?

Warnings: attempted murder, poisoning, blood, mentions of death, polytheism, mentions of pregnancy (reader/OFC), Slovak language ‘cause I can

A/N: Actual title is Ochraňuj mě (Protect Me) ...tumblr cannot handle a ň in their title 🙃 DIVIDER by @firefly-graphics; fits after the events of the previous instalments

A/N 2: This is one less smut and more plot, forgive me 🤭 I hope you'll enjoy anyway. Yes, the Merlin inspo is real here. Inspo also from Bílá laň by Vesna. For music, check it out here, for visuals here.

Chodila, chodila za tebou bílá laň lásky se napila navzdory všem přísahám. Prosila pány lesa ať ji pustí za tebou zažít si, jaké to je jít za srdce ozvěnou.

Tady je tvůj háj, tady je tvůj ráj, jinam nepatříš. Jako bílá laň svoji duši chraň, ať záři neztratíš.

Tady je tvůj háj, tady je tvůj ráj, jinam nepatříš. Tak ať nepotká tě kříž. (kříž, kříž, kříž) - Bílá laň by Vesna

Boisterous laugh. Wine poured in gallons painting cheeks nearly just as ruddy as the warmth of the torches illuminating the high halls of the Starkerbürg castle painted the walls. Rich aroma of butter, oils, meats and spices flowing in the air, clinking of the most precious silverware and a distant sound of flutes as the musicians tasked to raise the already high spirits could be barely heard over the noise of the feast.

Under the watchful eye of the gods or the only God it was now believed there was, a celebration of peace was raving, everything but peaceful and serene; loud and overwhelming instead, a whirlwind of emerald green threaded with gold welcomed by the steady colours of rich crimson and gold. An anniversary of the peace made between the kingdom of Asgard and Starkerbürg, a party led by Thor Odinson, the king of the lands, honouring the deal his late father King Odin had made right before his passing.

The high table with King Howard sitting at the centre, his son Anthony, the crown prince, by his right, along with the woman he was courting, Pepper of the Potts; on her right, King Howard’s daughter, Princess Morgana. On the king’s left, the guests of honour; King Thor, his wife Queen Jane, and his brother Prince Loki. Knights and warriors of the highest ranks, lords and ladies of nobility joining the celebrations, servants all but running around the hall to tend to everyone’s needs.

Then, a sound of a chalice hitting the stone floor, one that would have been met with more laughter, had it not fallen from Prince Anthony’s hand, suddenly scarily pale and trembling. Cold to touch too, a terrifying contrast to his burning forehead glistening with sweat. Body sliding down the chair, barely even faint frantic motions to his chest.

Brief, deafening silence.

The traitorous calm before a storm would hit and leave nothing but death and destruction in its wake.

Chaos.

Swords drawn.

A wave of threats of violence.

A thundering voice of the King of Starkerbürg himself.

Calls for the royal physician Banner.

Images of peace and joy shattered; a single inconspicuous calm face among the sea of others in the face of a tragedy in making.

“Poison. I cannot determine what kind as of yet. Carry His Royal Majesty to his chambers!” the physician called out, not bothered by the fact he was ordering around knights and other nobility. “At once! There is no time to spare!”

Knights practically tripping over each other to tend to their prince, to their future ruler, to their brother in arms even as by rank he stood high above them. Rustle and grunts; a whisper of skirts as the culprit slipped away in the midst of disarray and cries of fear for the prince and the future of both kingdoms alike.

To think that an attack at the crown happening during the presence of a party of another kingdom – one similarly strong – was but a coincidence, would have been foolishly naïve.

Oh there were no such coincidences; this was but the first step towards a war.

And the perpetrator would be treated with that in mind.

“Aconite, most likely,” sounded the verdict, the words solemn on the physician’s lips as he fearfully raised his gaze to the King hovering over his shoulder as he inspected the second most important patient of the kingdom at the royal chambers.

The dark note in Banner’s voice snapped Steven from the haze as he, Sir Barnes, Sir Barton and Sir Wilson stood along the walls of Anthony’s chambers, tall and menacing, but just as helpless as Prince Anthony’s betrothed seated in the corner.

Whatever poison the physician was talking about, it was not known to Steven; but the message written in Banner’s expression was clear as day and terrifying like a night to be spent in the woods with rumoured presence of ghouls.

Inevitable death.

It was true that King Howard Stark might have yet to comprehend, despite his long years of ruling his lands, that one might catch more flies with sugar than vinegar, gain more by threading his actions with kindness than by spitting threats of violence; but he was no fool. He perceived the solemnity of the announcement and received it with a shadow over his already distorted features.

“This… aconite, Banner. What kind of a poison is that?” he demanded, crossing his arms over his chest, but not bending. Not under the weight on the crown on his head, nor under the weight of the tidings he might be scared to receive. His face was but a mask of stern indifference; a silent warning to Banner to choose his next words carefully.

As if stating the patient’s condition was a choice, Steven thought darkly, his heart pounding painfully against his ribcage as he exchanged glances with his best friend standing by his side. When he looked back at the physician, he could see him swallow dryly even from the several feet distance. Yet, the brave man faced the King with his head held high and his expression filled with sorrow.

“A deadly kind, Your Royal Majesty,” Banner said slowly. Rage flashed on the King’s face, Steven’s stomach dropping at both the sight and the worst tidings brought. Death. “It is made from the nectar-filled blossoms or the tubers of the Aconitum lycoctonum flower. There is… no cure known to man.”

A sniffle sounded in the corner of the room, completely ignored except for Sir Barton’s compassionate glance towards the woman who was on the brink of despair at the mere thought of the man she had clearly already learned to love leaving this world forever.

The King beckoned to the guards standing by the door, making them instantly step forward with their spears ready, heading for Banner menacingly.

Steven’s feet twitched as he wanted to step forward to protect the physician, outrage rising at the injustice even as fear twisted his stomach.

Sir Barnes brushed his hand discreetly to stop him.

Steven gritted his teeth, but stayed put for now, watching the scene unfold with disdain.

Sir Barnes was correct in one thing: Anthony being poisoned and having his life hanging on a thread was horrible enough, and rash decisions and actions such as standing up to the King would only make it worse.

A raging man was an unwise man; and the King was only a man too, even as he compared himself to various deities and had nearly as much power as them – which only rendered him more dangerous. There was no point in scaring the physician to death or even hurting him, but such was the King’s power. Such was his God-given right to punish whoever as he pleased. It mattered little that Banner could barely be blamed for-

-for the crown prince’s impending death, apparently.

“Then I advise you, Banner, to find one fast,” King Howard sneered as the guards stood behind the physician now. “Otherwise, you shall meet the same fate as whoever of Asgard dared to try and rob me of my son.”

The guards grabbed the man’s shoulders and Steven’s hand instinctively went for his sword again; and he was not the only one. Still, the knights stood, hesitant to disobey their King even in the face of the glaring injustice, fighting an inner battle between honour and goodness of heart and the oath they had taken. Their loyalty was to the kingdom and the King represented it most of all, after all; even if he seemed to threaten it the most of all, too, at the moment.

Well, not on Steven’s watch.

“Wait!” he called out as he stepped forward, earning a hard glare from the King himself that should have told him to keep quiet and fall in line, but he could not. Not even for Bucky’s audible sigh behind him. Not when-

“Is there anything we can do for him as of now, is what we are trying to ask,” Sir Wilson spoke up before Steven could, moving to stand next to him.

Steven took a deep breath as his gaze flickered to his comrade, finding his face arranged in a carefully crafted humbleness – as it should be in the face of the ruler even when he was addressing the physician.

Banner’s words were kind, his voice firm and regretful.

“I am afraid there isn’t, good Sir.”

“The Royal Guard and all the knights have a clear mission given by the crown, Sir Wilson,” the King barked as he gestured for the physician to be dragged away, the poor man allowing it without a protest. King Howard’s gaze fell on his son’s pale face as he lied on the bed with nothing but soundless whimpers on his lips, before he snapped back to the four knights present. “Arrest all servants and nobility of Asgard. I shall have the King and his brother for myself. And should my son meet his forefathers, I shall have their heads on a spike by tomorrow.”

With those words, he turned on his heel and stepped out, his leave abruptly followed by Anthony’s wife-to-be rushing to her betrothed’s side, cheeks damp with tears.

Steven regarded the scene unfolding, frozen with horror and unease greater than anyone.

He feared the death of his friend, naturally, as they had just dragged the one single person with any chance of curing Anthony in the whole kingdom away from his bedside.

But Steven feared a lot more deaths too. Should Prince Anthony die, King Howard would unleash pure hell on Asgard and as a consequence, on all Starkerbürg as well.

All the knights knew that; everyone knew that. They all had a heavy feeling in their stomach at the mere thought, their feet slow and unwilling as they left the chambers one by one. Yet, Steven’s heart was heavier.

The thought had occurred to him when he had wondered what exactly the King was expecting from Banner.

To turn back time so the prince had never got poisoned?

To pray to the gods for a miracle?

To perform a miracle himself and cure what was considered uncurable?

The last idea had squeezed his heart in an icy fist, nausea clawing up his throat.

He knew someone who could achieve things as close to a miracle as possible in this realm. He had felt such miracle in his own blood, tissue and cells; he had felt the wonders strong magic was capable of when in the hands of the kind-hearted. He was still breathing solely because of it; and he knew the person who could achieve this closely, intimately even, mind, body and soul, the depth of the goodness of her heart.

Perhaps you would be able to replicate the feat of saving Steven from certain death.

Perhaps your magic was powerful enough to save thousands lives by saving one. Powerful enough to prevent a war.

But hope and miracles were not to be trifled with. Magic was not to be trifled with. Being seen practising magic meant a definite death sentence.

But would it? If it saved the future king’s life?

Surely, he couldn’t risk it; he couldn’t risk your life. Of all the things he had seen in his life, of all the things he had ever had the fortune to hold, you were the most precious one to him. If he brought you here, he could lose you. He could lose you, by his own hand no less, and that would be the highest price to pay for peace he did not even know would settle or not in the end.

No.

That was the one price he couldn’t pay. He’d much rather pay with his own life – but not yours. Gods, never yours.

But if you only could… knew a potion, could do anything at all…

As he marched with his comrades to arrest the innocent – for it could not be the work of all Asgardians at once – his jaw was tense, the dilemma occupying all his thoughts, feeling like it might tear him in half.

Until it hadn’t.

If he did nothing, the war was be inevitable. If he did nothing, he would lose you anyway.

A raging man was a dangerous man and King Stark would burn the world in the wake of his anger and grief, heedless of whoever would burn with it.

Steven stopped dead in his tracks, Sir Barnes nearly colliding with him as a result.

“Steve, what the-“

“I must go,” Steven said in a hushed voice, swiftly changing direction; or attempting to. Sir Barnes’ hand was quick to grab onto his elbow, stopping him, heedless of other knights continuing their path.

“Steve, what in heavens do you mean by that?”

“I must fetch someone. I believe she could help.”

Sir Barnes bewilderment would perhaps be almost comical had it not been for the dread pooling cold in Steven’s gut.

“…she? What—the woman you have been sneaking off to see?” Sir Barnes enquired, causing a startled and utterly confused expression to appear on Steven’s face, a small alarmed sound pushing past the man’s lips despite his effort to remain composed.

Hold on, hold on-- Bucky knew?!

The look Steven received back was unimpressed at best – of course Bucky knew. He knew Steven almost better than he knew himself.

“Save the surprise for another day. How could she possibly help? Is she a physician’s assistant? Or even an apprentice for some insane reason?”

Had Steve had the capacity, he’d glare at Bucky for the offensive tone with which he had asked the question; however, he did not have it and in the brief moment he spent pondering, he realized that Bucky was not opposed to the idea itself. It was simply the ways of Starkerbürg: to try and take a woman as a physician’s apprentice was insane indeed. King had the God-given right to appoint physicians – and King Howard would certainly never approve of a female one.

But that didn’t matter, because that was not who you were.

“She’s… she is a healer.”

“A healer?” Sir Barnes echoed pointedly, doubt colouring his words. “What does than even mean? We do not have time for this.”

Steven huffed, trying to tug his arm free from Sir Barnes’ grasp as his impatience grew along with the number of doubts whether it was ever a good idea to consider your aid; but there were no options. No time to search for them. No time to waste and no time for finesse. He needed to go and he needed Bucky to understand – and more than that.

“She saved my life, Bucky. Back when I fell from the crags into the river… when you thought I was dead-“

“You must have been lucky, fell into deep water. You had superficial injuries. This is a poison. One the best physician of the court claims to have no antidote for.”

Steven swallowed thickly, the heaviest of feelings in his stomach as he chose to reveal his greatest secret as to make a point and be released to act before it’d be too late. “Bucky, I had much more than superficial injuries. She… she helped then. She might be able to help now, but… I will need your help with protecting her should it come to it.”

Bucky looked at Steve as if he had just grown a second head, glancing around nervously as guards and knights alike kept passing them, casting strange looks at them for their stillness. Sir Barnes lowered his voice to a barely audible whisper.

“Are you saying you were wounded much worse and yet she was able to tend to you? In such short time that you were missing then? And that she might be able to help here, now, with a poison that has no known cure?” Sir Barnes demanded hastily, bewildered and clearly irritated. “Are you hearing yourself, Steven? What kind of a healer would she have to be to-“

The almost sardonic voice suddenly fell silent, all blood draining from Sir Barnes’ face when the horrifying realization finally dawned to him. His hand fell limp, finally releasing Steven’s arm.

“Steve, this is not a subject for joking.”

Steven swallowed heavily, heart thundering in his chest, blood pounding in his temples. He shouldn’t have told – but he had to. He had to, right? Bucky needed to understand-

He sighed quietly, whole body strung tight in expectation of his friend exploding in rage – rage he had no time for.

“I am not joking. And you are right, we are losing precious time, I should-”

The sudden grip on Steven’s his shoulder, appearing as to stop him from leaving, was much more brutal than the hold on his elbow had been, fingers digging into flesh even over the layers of clothing.

“You— have you been… lying with a--”

Steven’s voice was quiet, but as sharp and dangerous as the sword resting in the sheath on his hip. “Choose your words carefully, Bucky. That is the woman I love and owe my life to. I would die for her, and I would not have been standing here had she not healed me.”

“That could be exactly what she wants you to think!” Sir Barnes sputtered. Steven fought the urge to roll his eyes – the absurdity of such statement was glaring.

“Oh for heavens-- I might be a fool sometimes, but I am not an idiot-”

“Debatable!” Sir Barnes whispered as madly as if he was in fact yelling. “As you’re proving it this very moment!”

Steven shook his head, the feeling in his gut growing more gnawing by the second, every frantic beat of his heart feeling like a waste of precious time.

“Bucky, you said it yourself – we do not have time for this! I must go. I will get her, but… please. Help me protect her if the King is blind to the fact she uses--- it to do good.”

Sir Barnes simply stared back, the halls empty by now as much as his gaze, however inquiring.

The grip on Sir Rogers’ arm loosened.

Silence stretched. Precious second ticked by, grains of sand in hourglass no one could turn back falling; and with each and every one, Steve’s stomach tightened further with creeping horror.

Surely his most precious, most loyal friend, having been standing by his side since childhood, would not abandon him now? Surely he would not betray him in moments that might be deciding his fate, the fate of his beloved, of the whole kingdom?

“Bucky, please. I swear-- I’m begging you. I need to-- I need to protect her. At any cost.”

“What of your sword?” Sir Barnes asked dully, appearing indifferent to Steven’s desperate pleas.

What of your knighthood? Are you willing to give up that, if you are forced to leave in the darkness of the night and never return to bring your beloved to safety? Are you willing to leave the path of the honorary knight to become a lawless fugitive?

The smile which found its way to the corners of Steve’s lips was soft; sad and torn, for it was the greatest honour to serve, to protect, to help. He had been and always would be grateful for the rare chance he had got.

But there was no greater blessing of the gods themselves than you having entered his life and taking it by the most beautiful of storms. He loved you. He loved you more than anything and anyone in this world and that was what he would not even dream of giving up.

He didn’t respond with words; and yet, the exasperation on his closest friend’s face told him he did not have to. Sir Barnes understood from Steven’s expression alone. He always had.

“Gods, Steven Grant of Rogers, of all stunts you could have pulled to get yourself hanged, you truly had to go and chose the most foolish one. My God- Steven…”

Most foolish one? Echoed in Steven’s head, the words absurd. No. The most gorgeous one, the purest one, the most blessed, he allowed himself to muse. The most honourable one too, no? Love. Where was justice, if love, the purest emotions of all, was considered a crime? Did the new religious teachings not speak of love being kind, patient, knowing no dishonour and wrongs?

That was how he loved you. Wholly and entirely, kindly, patiently, even if passionately.

It was only then when Steven snapped from his haze and finally noticed a trace of hurt on Sir Barnes’ face when it occurred to him why Bucky had taken so long to respond. He was cross with Steven; but not as much for the alleged crime, but for having kept it a secret. Keeping you a secret; the one closest to his heart, his beloved, hidden from the one person he had always trusted with anything.

“I’m sorry, Bucky. No one could know. She’s-- she is too precious. I had to protect her,” he explained softly, urgently. “And I still do. I will, with your help or without it. But… please.”

Sir Barnes continued to regard him, stunned into silence still, expression unreadable.

Then, he shook his head; what might seem as disagreement however, Steve recognized as resignation. He had known Bucky for too long to not be able to decipher which shake of a head was a no and which was an expression of indignation and regret at his own choice of a best friend.

“Thank you, Bucky.”

And with those words, Steve took his hasty leave, his minute relief drowned in the sea of worry when he sneaked into the stables to rush through the gates of the castle, claiming to be running a King’s errand.

Seeking his closeness the pretty white doe having sipped at love all despite her oath, she begged the forest spirits to let her go to follow her heart and its eternal song.

Light breeze caressing your hair like the tender fingers of your lover, brushing away a lose strand from your face. Gentle September sunrays of a late afternoon warming your cheeks, long leaves of grass tickling your ankles and your hands as you gathered brownwort, thyme and lady’s mantle, the smell almost too much despite its pleasant notes. Your hand instinctively laying over your belly as the reminder of why you were gathering these particular herbs blossomed in your mind anew, a smile settling on your face. It was not just the time of year blessing people with abundance of these flowers, a nature’s reminder the time was coming to bath in the blessed lake on the Autumn equinox; it was the sweet secret humming under your heart too, growing stronger and more beautiful by day – and slightly bittersweet for for now, it was only yours to keep, your beloved knight none the wiser.

Steven.

The very reason, you suspected, for the heavy feeling in your heart; the reason why none of the kind offerings of mother nature seemed to sooth a jittery feeling you had woken with up from your restless sleep. Unease had been crawling over your skin; a solemnity’s shadows, despite the beautiful weather and the joyful morning realisation that a barely noticeable bump was now showing on your body, a testament to the blessings of love.

The sky was beginning to colour with sunset with no clouds in sight; and yet, you could feel a storm coming, one you did not feel would be of the refreshing purifying kind. The air did not smell of rain; if you breathed in deeply, it reeked of the very death the wind seemed to whisper about in the tallest of birch trees. A warning; a witch’s intuition tuned to the finest hints of the gods of nature and forest spirits. You had tried to sooth yourself, coaxing yourself into peace by wondering if it perhaps was but a new future mother’s anxiety.

Yet, an instinct as old as time whispered to you to know better.

Which was why the wild stomping of hooves nearing your cabin should have not taken you by surprise. But it did.

You rose from your crouch so fast your head span, gathered flowers falling from your hands at the brief faint sensation; you steadied yourself just as Steven’s horse came into view, slowing into a walk as not to startle you or crush all the blossoms on the meadow.

The silent thank you to the gods for seeing your love alive and well left your lips without prompting, followed by your spine tingling with a shudder of power at its base.

Almost as if the gods blessed you for your genuine gratitude and gifted you with strength. Strength you shall no doubt need, for Steven might be living and breathing, dismounting his mare in a thousand-times practised manner, breathtaking as ever, but the distress on his face and the tension of his wide shoulders told you those shoulders carried the weight of the world at the moment.

Feet waking with motion, you met him halfway as he rushed to you, his arms quick to embrace you lovingly but so tight all air left your ribcage for long moments. Steven’s heart thundered against your ear as you hid your face against his chest. Fresh air had washed his clothes of most smells, but sweat and wine and rich spices still enveloped your senses, a tell-tale signs of the feast which he had told you about being interrupted by something vicious.

Yet, you took precious moments of simply breathing your lover in, basking in the comfort his arms offered no matter the circumstance.

He nuzzled his face in your hair, his chest expanding with a generous inhale, a steadying breath which made his heart race faster, as if attempting to outrun the very storm you had felt arriving.

You ran your hands down his broad back, feeling your own heart leaping into your throat as the silence between you, often so sweet and comforting, stretched ominously.

“Steven… love,” you whispered, attempting to shift in his embrace, only achieving his hold growing firmer, his muscles almost shaking with effort not to let go.

Oh Steven… What a terrible feat had been laid upon him?

“What has happened?”

Finally releasing your body, his hands were quick to cradle your face instead, achingly gentle, even as his eyes roamed your face wordlessly, brimming with so much emotion it stirred your unease further.

“Rytier moj?”

Steven’s face softened minutely, thumbs stroking your cheekbones as tenderly as butterfly wings despite the power – or the lack of it – in his grip.

“My love…”

Lips curling in a tiny smile, you mirrored Steven’s affection, reaching to settle your palm against his cheek, fingers of your other hand carding through his hair; your heart fluttered when he leaned into your touch, a wavering breath escaping his lips before they pressed against your palm to sooth the scratch of his beard against your skin.

Despite the dulcet image he made, eyes fluttering close for a blissful moment of nothing but love shared, you felt his body pulse with anxious urgency seemingly seeping into yours through your fingertips.

“I did not sleep well…” you confessed, his already pursed lips turning down. “I had a heavy feeling in me. Now I know the gods had not warned me simply for their own whims. What’s happened?”

Steven opened his eyes again; with a single caress of the breeze, he straightened, his aura of a knight – a fierce protector, a loyal friend, a humble determined servant – returning with its full force as did his worry.

“I need your help.”

A simple plea.

A simple answer.

“Always, rytier moj. Anything,” you promised.

One would expect relief to fill your lover’s features; instead, dread twisted them into a frown of dismay. Almost as if he had been hoping for your rejection.

Why?

The whisper of death among the trees grew louder, haunting, sending such a shudder through your body not even your lover’s warmth could hope to protect you from it, another urgent question scratching at the back of your mind.

Death, the trees seemed to whisper.

Whose death?

“Oh bosorka moja…”

Not Steven’s. Never. Not on your watch. Not as long as you walked this realm.

And not your child’s. You’d claw a throat open with your bare hands had anyone tried to take them away. Take her away. You had dreamed two nights prior, dreamed of a girl with Steven’s beautiful eyes and your hair caressed by the wind, her laughter filling the air as he sat her on his shoulders and she placed the daisy crown on his head-

The image had been so full of hope, so bright, so full of promise; it battled the current scent of death fiercely, one blending into another, and it felt like you were stood in the middle.

Your choice. Your power.

Your victory; or your loss.

You gulped, your gentle hold on Steven’s face growing shaky; with fear or the weight of responsibility, you weren’t sure.

“What is it, love? You are worrying me… come in. Tell me what weights down your-“

“Prince Anthony has been poisoned,” he said at last.

The whisper of the wind seemed to turn into a screech of a gale, even as the tree leaves and grass barely rustled.

The Prince… was he the one whose death you felt impending? It must have been.

In a split second, it became so clear why Steven was so shaken.

An impending death of his brother in arms. Of someone whom he served and appreciated.

Of the future ruler; quite possibly caused by the attempts of the party of Asgard.

An act of war.

Should Prince Anthony die, there would be no stopping at one death. Devastating number of lives could be lost. Including Steven’s.

No. Not on your watch. Not as long as you walked this realm.

But could you stop it?

Stood in the middle. Your choice. Your power.

Could you prevent a war?

Your mind was set into a whirl, various herbs and remedies for different poisonings refreshed in your mind.

“Do you know which poison it was?” you asked urgently, dropping your hands; and confused as why Steven’s remained firmly on your face, his expression speaking of pain greater than before. “Steven, love. What are his troubles? I can send a potion, pass it as a remedy from a physician-”

“Burning feeling in his forehead, weakness of muscles, trembling, cold sweat… he fainted and could not be woken up, only for a brief moment. He had trouble speaking, began to shake, fainted again...” Steven listed slowly, his unease growing with every word.

And so did yours.

Determination bled out from your body drop by drop, replaced by dread, the very weakness your lover was talking about as if settling in your own muscles and bones.

“The physician believes it might have been... aconite?” he added.

You had figured as much, seemingly endless moments before Steven spoke the dreaded word.

Aconite.

The worst nightmare of all living things; the deadliest daydream of those who meant harm and would not stop until their enemy released their last breath.

Death, screeched the breeze in the crowns of the birch trees; the yew trees, the very symbol of passing, joining in.

Death. War. Death.

Your power. Your victory. Your loss.

Your voice shook more frantically than young aspen leaves in the wind.

“Steven… aconite is deadly. I have no potion or salve for this. There is no cure-”

“That is what physician Banner said.”

“But then what…”

Your voice trailed off, words stuck in your throat, air stolen from your chest. A lighting from clear skies could struck you at the very moment and you would barely take notice of such.

It all made sense now. You having lost sleep. The whispers of death. The assumed shiver of power you shall no doubt need. And at last, Steven’s almost palpable dismay when you had said you’d help. That you’d do anything.

He had hoped you’d help.

He was terrified of it all the same.

You could feel blood draining from your face, rushing past your ears; unspeakable horror and determination swept you like the non-existent gale in the tree crowns.

“Steven…”

His grip on your face grew firmer, unsteady but urgent, his forehead pressed against yours as his eyes slid shut, his whisper a frantic promise, a confession and a prayer at once.

“I know. Believe me, my love, I know, and I have never been more scared of anything in my whole life,” he said huskily, barely audible over the wild thundering of your heart, the shaky sound of your quick breaths, even as the rest of the world faded into background, all noise ceasing. Or perhaps even the sparrows forgot how to sing, struck by fear for their life.“I would have not asked this of you if I did not fear that Anthony’s death would unleash a war with Asgard and might destroy us all… and if I did not believe I could protect you.”

“Steven-“

A thumb over your lip, gently pressing to silence your protest, Steven guided you to look up to his eyes, every word falling from his lips an oath signed by his own blood.

“Bosorka moja… I shall protect you, no matter the cost. You must know I would lay my life for you. I will, should it come to it. As long as you are safe.”

Consumed by adoration and terror at once, you slipped from Steven’s hold, shaking your head.

He had not the slightest idea what he was speaking of, the reckless fool.

He had no idea.

And he had no idea whom he would be leaving should he deliver on his terrible promise.

“These words are not nearly as comforting as you believe them to be! How would we-- how would I live without you?” you lamented, feeling the fire of power and indignation burn inside of you, chasing the fear away for several beats of your heart. “And I-- I am not even sure I can heal him.”

“You healed me,” Steven offered kindly, encouraging, confusion and the softest trace of hurt at you having escaped his touch twisting his face. He had no idea. He had no idea at all. “You said I was at the brink of death myself-“

“You were,” you spat, not appreciating the reminder – not of his injuries, nor of your past recklessness, as grateful as you were for the latter, not a single regret in your mind for having risked it all to save the handsome stranger with goodness etched into his very soul, having shone so bright it had outshined your doubts and fear for your life. But this was different. So much circumstance had changed. “But I was… I had faith in your soul, saw your good heart. I believed to be safe from you should I be too weak to protect myself after I casted my spells, and for that, I was able to pour all my magic into the healing. And I-- I was much more careless with my power then… “

You made a pause, inhaling slowly, gathering courage in the face of Steven’s features twisting further with distress.

“But Steven… that was before. I-- before we-“

“What is it, bosorka moja? Before what?”

Your lower lip trembled, regret lacing the soft touch of your fingertips to his face.

This was not how you wished for him to find out. You had told him before, erased his memory to ease his conscience and to prepare for the right moment, a moment fit for such joyful tidings; but much like him, having rushed here asking for help despite the unspeakable risks, you had no other option.

You had no choice.

You had no time.

The deep-sea blue with a forest green shade of his irises brimmed with emotion, tenderness and silent question.

With a lump in your throat, you dropped your hands again, curling them around your middle as if to protect the secret and save it for a reverent moment your love and lover – and your child – would have deserved.

Steven regarded your stance with dread visibly climbing up his throat. You could see it in his eyes, the sudden uncertainty, the questions written in his eyes growing frantic and painful.

Why had you stepped back from him? Why had you evaded his touch? Why did you seem taken by sorrow? What secret had you been keeping from him? For you must have had some. You must have not told him something crucial – and in a dark time like this, it shall come to light.

You appeared so shaken; you appeared scared. Of something he had failed to protect you from?

Or of his reaction to the revelation?

You chose your words carefully, speaking them slowly, even though you could feel him hanging onto every syllable.

“It is not only me anymore who needs to be protected.”

Steven did not understand; that much was clear from his expression, from the step he took closer to you only for you to take a step back, etching his hurt deeper into his face.

“I… I do not understand, my love. Do you have—do you know of someone who could help you? Do they need protection too?”

The they tasted of poison much bitterer than aconite; disbelief and profound pain.

You could almost hear it, the absurd questions he seemed to be asking himself. Was there… was there someone else? Someone else who had earned your love more fiercely than he had? More deserving?

The way your love remained hidden, the distance he still had to keep, laid heavy in his mind, always, now feeding his doubt; his fear that someone else now occupied the space he had so selfishly taken up in your heart.

But had only been here mere days ago, yes? Surely you could have not--- you would have not… or had you? No. That wasn’t possible. You were the kindest most loving person he had ever met, loyal to a fault – and he was blessed to be yours, to be loved, unconditionally, more than he deserved for keeping you his little secret.

You could not read thoughts; but Steven’s always seemed to be laid bare in front of you to card through. Betrayal and resignation all at once, jaw tight to mask his hurt, to hide the very doubt you read so clearly. Doubt, but not of you; of him. He had always carried it with him, the guilt of not providing for you as he imagined he should for his beloved.

Doubt, crystal clear in his gaze. It was possible, was it not? The most wonderful woman he had ever met, finally fed up, the goblet of your patience finally having overflowed, deciding to find a man worthy of you, able to take care of you, truly, one you were willing to-

You could not bear his mind screaming anymore, even as you had not heard a single word, a single thought, all of it but achy questions expressed by his gaze alone.

“No, Steven, I do not--- I merely cannot only think of myself now,” you said softly, searching for words to reveal the secret at last, not, not wanting to and craving it all the same. “I… I need to protect us.”

His shoulders sagged, doubt and heartache erased at once, tenderness at your worry for him melting into his smile.

“Do not fret, bosorka moja. I can hold my own.”

The faint smile in the corner of your mouth hurt, tears burning in your eyes.

“I know, rytier moj… and yes, I meant us, but I--- I also meant us.”

The arm you had curled around your middle shifted. Your palm spread pointedly over your belly as you met his gaze with hesitance and silent hope; for as much as you dreaded revealing the source of your worst fear, the tidings were still joyful. And you hoped with the entirety of your heart that Steven would accept them as such, much like the first time.

But first, he had to comprehend them.

Several rushed beats of your heart it took him; but then he finally did.

Suddenly, it was his turn to stand still and rigid as if a lightning from the perfectly clear skies struck him. And it might have as well.

His voice was barely louder than a breath, hoarse, laced with careful hope despite the glaring truth.

“You—we- are we-?”

A crystal-clear memory of those being the very words he had spoken the first time entered your mind, a single tear spilling over; the awe and reverence on his face mirrored his expression all the same as you confirmed.

“Yes.”

“You are with a child? My child?”

It would have been amusing, the questions, if you hadn’t been on a brink of hysteria and hadn’t there been a metaphorical sword hanging above your heads while you indulged in revealing the sweetest secret there was between lovers.

“Yes.”

Countless grains of sand in hourglass fell, Steven simply observing you, his gaze feasting on the entirety of you with newfound emotion that touched your very soul and made it shiver with delight. He observed you with such adoration and devotion you could only imagine he would show to a deity descending to walk the Earth.

And then he was surging forward, falling on his knees in front you, one hand on your hip, the other wrapping around your lower back to keep you close as he laid his forehead on your belly, shaky, slow and careful; nothing short of reverent. Despite the circumstance, all the tears prickling in your eyes found their release – every inch of your body sang, feeling Steven’s love for both you and the life he had a generous hand in creating.

“Oh bosorka moja… láska moja,” he muttered into the fabric before he looked up, hesitant fingers slipping under, to feel the very bump you had only noticed today. His lips parted in mute awe, eyes turning glassy with sheer delight and wonder at the miracle.

You allowed yourself another moment of basking in his love; feeling the delight spreading through every vein, through every bone and nerve, all the way to your very core and source of power. Your hands found gentle purchase of Steven’s hair as his lips pressed to your belly.

But then, the inaudible crackle in the air brought you both from your reverie, the breeze screeching of death instead of new life returning.

There was no choice; dread filled your being along with a haunting whisper of opportunity from a voice speaking in tongues you barely understood and yet deciphered as guidance.

You must go. You must try. Despite the risks.

Stood in the middle. Your power. Your victory; your loss.

Your only hope and your possible doom.

“I shall try my best to help, even as I do not know if I will be able to. But Steven…” you addressed him softly, revealing one more piece, one more source of joy, “our little girl must remain safe at any cost.”

The hands sprawled around your middle twitched, a single tear escaping him as his eyes shone.

“Our--- a girl? How-“

“It is but a feeling,” you admitted, earning a brilliant smile which lasted too shortly.

You smiled tightly in return, a few more tears rolling down your cheeks as Steven’s hand softly caressed your barely-there bump again, butterflies seemingly to erupting in your stomach, your heart humming.

He rose to his feet with something in his eyes turning steely, his gentle voice once against taking on a heaviness of an oath.

“I will protect you both, even if it should be the last thing I will ever do.”

One wavering breath was all the luxury you granted yourself before springing into action, not allowing yourself to lament at the potential of death weaved into Steven’s promise. You could not afford any more distraction. The hourglass was unrelenting, rushing you.

“I know. We shall get going.”

You could feel his eyes on you, a mute confusion as you ruminated through the cabinets, the fire lit, a small pot placed on it, two handfuls of water, milk thistle, ginseng roots, and sprinkle of uncaria leaves added to the mix.

“You can sit down, love, I shall only complete the potion swiftly and we will be on our way,” you assured him, reaching for a pinch of turmeric to add.

Steven did not, in fact, sit down �� if anything, you could feel him grow taller behind you, as if his growing bewilderment added an inch or two to his already impressive height. His stare was firmly set on you, a little burning and slightly insulting since you could almost hear his silent questioning of your sanity.

A potion? But you had said-

You looked over your shoulder briefly, your lover’s body nearer than expected, causing you to need to crane you neck a bit.

“No, there is no potion to neutralise the poison – but this remedy strengthens a body, aids it to fight off an infection and weakness,” you explained, expecting Steven’s face clearing, but not waiting for it do so, busying yourself with reading the mental list of ingredients, recalling every indispensable element. Milk thistle, ginseng, uncaria leaves, turmeric… ah. Yes. Where herbs were concerned, rare or common, that would be all. Only one last ingredient.

A gentle hand on your elbow stopped you as you were turning to the stack of knives, halting your movements tenderly but firmly. Blinking, you lifted your gaze to Steven’s face again, disconcerted by his unreadable expression.

“Is it… safe?”

Had it not been for the large distress he was in, the feeling oozing of him and adding to your own shakiness, had it not been for the tenderness of his touch, you’d feign a slap to chase his hand away at the almost silly question – and at the sudden doubt in your knowledge and power and your reign over it.

“Steven, love, my apologies for the bluntness, but Prince Anthony is on his deathbed, so I cannot very well hurt him further and I shall have you known that this very potion you have drunk yourself-”

“For you,” he clarified, two soft syllables in contrast to your slightly exasperated words, your voice falling silent as sweet worry reflected in his sky-blue irises. Despite the circumstance, your heart seared at the fussing, no matter how groundless and ironic. “I am asking whether it is safe for you and our… our child to prepare that. I know it may seem irrational given why I am here, but-“

It was, you had to admit. And yet. You spent a precious moment, precious grains of sand falling in the ominous hourglass above your heads, placing your palm over his hand, reassuring.

“It is perfectly safe, rytier moj… certainly no more dangerous than rushing to the castle, the very heart of the Kingdom, and attempt to save the prince using the most outlawed practice in these lands,” you added with an unsteady cheekiness, earning an exasperated glare; and a full body shudder he couldn’t hope to contain.

The same tremble ran through your body; and yet, the whisper for caution was overshadowed by a tingle of energy unknown, a wordless encouragement. Almost a haunting promise from the Fate itself that bravery shall be rewarded.

But if that were true, where would the ever-present whispers of death and upcoming end fit in the mosaic then?

Shaking your head as well as the overwhelmingly bewildering sensations off, you charmed a soft smile for your lover and love – for the father of your child, already caring so deeply for the life to be born out of your love – and let your hand fall, turning back to your work as stream began to fill the cabin.

One last ingredient; a life essence to help maintain life.

You cradled the handle of the blade carefully in your hand, turning your other palm against the tip; the knife was out of your hand before you could comprehend how, pressed flat to Steven’s thigh, shielded from your touch.

“I’m sorry. I--- is that necessary?” Steven asked with a painful edge to his voice, his continued concern causing your heart to tremble.

“Yes… it is but a drop of blood, my love, I promise. A speckle of life essence to maintain life.”

His frown deepened as you reached for the knife again, fingers brushing his soothingly as you grasped at the handle. So many emotions played over his features; hesitance, concern, guilt. He must have realised you had used your blood before to cure him before you had even learned his name, another sacrifice having been made aside from having left yourself completely vulnerable to him when you had drained your magic and body alike to bring him from the death’s doorstep where you had found him at.

Then, an almost shy question, as if he felt too bold to even suggest such heretic thought.

“Life essence… would mine suffice, then?”

Where his implication was shy – that his mere mortal, human blood could match yours, the blood of a born witch – his determination was not.

He met your eye, a brilliant satisfied sparkle lighting up his irises when he read the truth in your hesitant gaze.

“Yes… it would. But-“

Your knight offered his left palm outstretched, no further questions. The bottomless trust in his gesture and in his eyes caused a lump to grow in your throat; the mere idea of cutting him, even if it was to only be but a scratch, had ache sting deep within your ribcage.

“Are you cert-“

“Would you rather I lead the cut myself, love?” he asked, his voice tender upon your hesitance, understanding the action would cause you pain – as if you were to hurt yourself instead.

And you might as well.

Your hands were made to heal his wounds, not cause them; your hands were made to erase his aches, not bring them; your hands were made to love, not hurt.

Your read in his gentle gaze as he nearly read in yours: I despise the thought of hurting you, rytier moj; It is but alright, bosorka moja.

You shook your head.

“I-- no. I may do it. I apologize, we do not have time for-“

A hand grasping your jaw, soft lips silencing your apologies; your eyes fluttered close despite seeing right through the trick. You felt the pressure of his hand against the blade, the silent sound of protest earning you a deeper kiss, a softer caress of his lips against yours, tasting sweeter than summer breeze, so achingly tender.

“There you go, bosorka moja…”

With his retreat, Steven ran his thumb over your cheek, smiling; then, he moved his injured hand into yours, leading you above the pot.

Slightly dazed and exasperated still, you sighed and carefully squeezed his wound to indeed only spare a drop of his precious blood.

As you pressed your lips to his fingertips in a thank you, you let your healing power flow through your touch, closing the cut your body should have worn.

“This had better be the only blood spilled today,” you whispered; and prayed too. You met your Steven’s stormy gaze as the contents of the pot sizzled, sweet coppery aroma rising in the air.

“It will, bosorka moja. It will.”

He sealed the deal with a kiss, sweet and desperate and bruising.

And falling on deaf ears, whisper in the crowns of the birch trees, his and your words echoed the very same song.

Blood had better be spilled…

Today, today, today…It will, it will, it will…

Next part

Other headcanon and playlist

S.R. masterlist - contains other knight!Steve fics, independent of this universe

Complete masterlist

Endearments used: Rytier moj (My knight) Bosorka moja (Witch mine) Láska moja (Love mine)

I hope you liked this - let me know your thoughts!

May your November be sweet and cosy ✨

[freakroth]

i saw your post saying that people who ship incest and headcanon dazai as liking that stuff are obviously going to be harrassed. I don't headcanon dazai as liking daddy kiddy stuff, but i want to ask how you think writing about that makes a person bad. because dazai has literally committed AT LEAST child abuse(akutagawa), 136 murders, 312 extortion cases, 625 cases of fraud and more. but if you think authors deserve to get harrassed for writing about sick crimes like incest because they support or like such things, then why aren't you harrassing asagiri for writing about all those things? and I've seen alot of people that act like sex crimes are somehow different from torture and murder. so I'd like to ask this. do you approve of cheating irl because you act like people who write about sexual related immorality are condoning it and then you say that you might write about cheating in your fic request rules. Also, If you're deep in the bsd community then you may have read no longer human, in which it is heavily heavily implied(to the point that there's literally no other explanation for what happened to her exept rape) that yozo's wife,yoshiko, was raped. do you believe that the irl dazai approved of rape?

I don't mean to come off as rude or argumentative, so sorry if i do, im genuinely curious.

I'm sorry but, are you stupid? you're asking why someone is a bad person for writing incest, pedophilia and rape content. OFC SOMEONE IS A BAD PERSON FOR WRITING THAT KIND OF STUFF. If someone writes it they normalize it, and normalzing disgusting shit like that is VERY harmful.

Its kinda dumb that you are compering Dazai, a fictional character to real people, Dazai is not a real person, so his actions don't effect real people, but people who make incest do effect real people. As someone who is a victim of sa, its very triggering to see incest, pedophilia, rape ect content being made of my favorite character. Making that type of content is normalizing it, and if we normalize kids being raped by someone they're close to, then its gonna end up making younger kids think that its okay if that happens to them.

"but if you think authors deserve to get harrassed for writing about sick crimes like incest because they support or like such things" i never said to harass the writers, i said that if they are gonna write that shit they need to be able to handle the hate, and yes they deserve hate for making it, and saying its for coping isn't a valid excuse, because they are hurting other victims at the same time.

"I've seen alot of people that act like sex crimes are somehow different from torture and murder" They are different, rape is done by the attacker so that they can feel sexual pleasure. And sadly in some cases, like junko furuta, people get raped, tortured and murdered for no reason. But still torture and rape are still different, and i don't know why you're bringing up torture and murder when this is about incest content.

"do you approve of cheating irl because you act like people who write about sexual related immorality are condoning it and then you say that you might write about cheating in your fic request rules." The answer is no, just because i said i MIGHT write for it doesn't mean i will, its meant as "in some cases i might write it" and even if you don't condone incest, rape and pedophilia irl, its stil very much wrong and disgusting and people who write it should really feel guilty about it, if you have thoughts about that stuff you need to seek help, not normalize and spread it around the interent. Also cheating and incest/rape content aren't comperable btw, one is a crime and the other one is breaking someones trust.

Now the book part, i have the book but i haven't read it, and bringing the real life dazai, into this is stupid, he lived over 70 years ago, people thought differently about rape back then so its hard to know. also the book is a fucking autobiography so ofc its gonna talk about stuff that happened in his life

Anyways please tell me if anything in here is wrong or if you wanna add anything to this

Btw saying "sorry if i come of as rude" after compering me to weirdos is something! 🥰

[knightsofsomethingorother]

hey guyzzz its ur boy, tomkobilbosnatch here with another TOP TEN LIST!!!

today we hav the

TOP TEN WORST GUYS

(in atrhuriana!))

all below the cut! be sure 2 lik comment AAAAND subscribe!!!

number 10-

morgan le fayt

she is the tenth wurst becoz she is evil and a watch and does bad things to the good guys but shes kind of hawt when she does it so she isnt further down on the list fuck shit why can;t i make only one word this font fuck fuck fuck

number 9-

SIR KAY

he is a BIG MEAN STINKLOSER who does RUDE THINGS to EVERYBODY but he kind of reminds me of my dad who is also a BIG MEAN STINKLOSER so hes 9

number 8-

GUINEVERE

she doesnt even DO ANYTHING I HATE HER she just sits around and is upset that she has TWO GUYS who like her and I wish I had two guys who like me!!! I hate her so much and her pretty face and her pretty hair and the way she makes me feel things that I dont understand >:(((((((((

number 7-

the Ford f-150 that hits merlin in tom-tom mallory's Le Morte d'Arthur

lets b real here, it did a service, that old man had to GOOOOo vbut these things use sooooo much gas and have a bad impact on lik the environment so its gotta go here even though merlin should have been hit by a ford 4-150

number 16-

MERLIN

he is old and he TOTALLY RIGGED the sword in the stone thing! arthur sudn't be king! merlin made the rock to begin with and NOBODY things its suspicious!!! I am glad he was hit by a truck.

Number 4-

Mordred

Number 3-

Arthur Pendragon, High King of the Britans

SHOULD NOT BE KING!!!!! He isnt even good at it! He just lets his fucked up boyfriends do it... AND DO HIS WIFE!!! ZING! I GOT YOUr ASS!!!!

Number 2-

LANCELT

wut iz with this guy seriouslloyyy!?!?! he just does murder and then gets upset about it??? like why wud u get upset about that? ur literally a knight and he gets upset because hez having sex with his best friends wife and its like just dont do it? I want to kiss my friends girlfreid all the time but I dont!!! :') (luv u lucy) and like his son is sooooo much better and cooler than he is because hs got GOD on his side! and lancelot made god mad, which is like rly rely bad.

Number 1-

BEDVIDER!

like who ev en IS this guy??? why is he here? he doesnt do ANYTHINg but HE gets to live at the end??? and then he doesnt throw the sword in the lake and tried to steal it like what??? wheres ur chivalry bro? if it were me id chuck that thang as far as i could or try to skip it like a stone because thatsd where it BELONGS. and hes only got one hand its like can u even be a knight when u cant hold a sord and shiedl? they cud've given him a cool magic arm or something but noooooo. and its like why is he alwasy with kay (stinkmeaner)?? that means hes a stinkmeanser by pro fuck i hit f11 shit

he's a stinkmeaner by proximity

and its like why does he care about arthur so much? he SUUUXXXX! oh shit I just realized I should be typing why as y. y doz ANYONE care about arthur so much hes old and smelly and BORING BORING BORING!!! AND SO IS BEDOVER!!!

Well Tomkofans! This was a wild video, wasn't it? What are your thoughts? Who did I miss? Do you have any guys that you think deserve to be higher or lower? Remember to like, comment, subscribe, and hit that little bell icon so you can be updated on my future videos! And remember to stay raaannndddooommm!!! XDXDXD