#it just flutters when I drink certain brands of coffee ?????

[alien-origins]

sometimes drinking coffee makes my coochie go brrrrrrr

[ally-127]

my request... joshua angst where there's an argument on ur anniversary n you can decide whether to make it a happy or sad ending!! thx ally :-)

lisianthus

pairing: husband!joshua x reader word count: 1.6k warnings: reference to sex, slightly suggestive material music: ‘lose’ by niki a/n: okay like this is more fluff than angst,, im sorry- my mind literally blanked out when i was trying to think of what they could argue about. but enjoy this romantic af, poetic(?) piece that i also enjoyed writing ngl. thanks for requesting @chocosvt , i hope u liked it...luv u the most <3

“come on kiddos, it’s time for bed!”

you ushered your seven and three-year-old into their shared bedroom, your lips stretched wide into a grin at their playful giggles.

“goodnight, mum,” your daughter, seven, hummed as you tucked her into bed while your younger son climbed clumsily into his beside.

you dropped a kiss on her forehead and turned to your cheeky son, who still had that smile of his. you give him a huge smooch on the cheek. “goodnight, you.”

with both children wrapped up in their sheets comfortably, you flicked off the light switch and closed the door quietly behind you.

a sigh couldn’t help but escape your lips as you shuffled your way back into your room to finish up some work, but before you did, a certain glow caught your attention.

the kitchen was dark all around when you entered, lit scented candles dotted around the table and the only light source in the room.

the flames danced in the breezy air of your apartment, lighting up not only the bouquet of lisianthus on the table but your husband, joshua, who sat on one of the chairs, staring wistfully at the flowers. a glass of wine sat solitarily in front of him, the stain on the rim a sign that he had already started to drink without you.

the beat of your heart was now apparent as ounces of dread slowly settled into the pit of your stomach.

you forgot.

“are we not important anymore?” he began, taking the glass in between his fingers.

“what do you mean?” you remained standing, feeling as if the soles of your feet had been embedded into the hardwood of the floor.

“did it completely slip your mind, or am i now the least of your concerns?” continuous rhetorical questions, or rather, questions of accusations, escaped his beautiful mouth.

you could kiss it a thousand times and still, your need for them to be on your skin would never be satiated.

“jihyun and—“

“do not bring our kids into this,” joshua was painfully serene, like the calm before the storm; the storm in which you could see in the depths of his eyes. “you forgot we’ve been married for ten years.”

you cursed under your breath.

how did you forget?

bringing the subject of work into the argument was pointless now, it only seemed like an excuse.

“josh—“

“i was waiting all day,” he finally shifted his almond-shaped eyes to you. “for you to run into my arms, to kiss me, hell, even to just smile at me. but no, you didn’t even look at me once.”

joshua, on a break from being a performer, occupied himself with taking care of the children and the apartment. he had plenty of time on his hands, his heart full with a sincere wish to spend it with the people he loved most in the whole universe.

you, a full-time working mother, had recently just been promoted in your company. with new responsibility came heavy workload and a brand new project dumped into your control. it was overwhelming, and it blinded a tremendous amount of aspects in your life, including your husband himself.

you realised you didn’t even meet joshua’s eyes as he got them ready for school this morning, while he adjusted their jackets and shouldered their little backpacks to carry it for them, knowing fully what date it was.

you simply kissed your daughter and son goodbye before you took half a litre of coffee with you out the door without uttering a single word of goodbye to your lover.

now, as you stared at him from where you stood, you could feel the effects of neglecting him for the longest time hurling back to you like a tidal wave.

there was no trace of a smile, of the crinkle of his eyes, of the lines that would form at the ends of his eyes that deepened over time and with age.

the expression that stared back at you was foreign, stoic.

there‘s a saying: you don’t know what you have until it’s gone.

you knew it wasn’t gone, but the absence of his smile made your heart sink into the bottomless pit of your regret. it was a horrifying feeling.

suddenly, you wanted to do all the things he said you didn’t, smile at him, run into his arms, kiss him.

“i’m sorry,” you almost lost the capability of speaking, your voice small as you gathered enough courage to take more steps towards him. “i really am. i’m such a fool.”

he stood up, his height casting a dim shadow over you. the plastic of the wrapper crunched in his hands when he extended his arm, offering the bouquet of your favourite flowers in your favourite colour to you. joshua could never forget that.

you took them with shaky hands, eyes looking everywhere but into the abyss of his caramel eyes.

“you are not a fool, my love,” he engulfed you in his strong arms, a familiar place, a place you missed often and could call home. a place you almost forgot was your home. “you are my wife,” he kissed away the single tear of remorse that escaped the duct in the corner of your eyes. “my beautiful, strong wife.”

your head on his chest, your fingers fisted in the material of his shirt, you held on to each other for what seemed like the first time in a long time. his woody scent had the effect of waves crashing against the beach and echoes of seagulls in the distance—it calmed you immensely.

everything about joshua calmed you.

it felt like you could remain in his arms forevermore, until the morning sun rose and the lisianthus wilted in the grip of your hands.

“i love you,” you told him, quietly, setting the bouquet aside to sink into his touch.

these were the words he wanted and needed to hear the most, to reassure himself that you did still love him the way he loved you, to make sure that work had not completely overtaken your senses.

“i love you too.”

fingers rubbing your back in soothing strokes, joshua kissed your temple, then the tip of your nose. to reach your lips he had to angle his head in the slightest, long eyelashes fluttering as he reached his destination.

a hum of satisfaction escaped your lips, conjoined with his, knowing fully that you didn’t deserve it yet you savoured every minute. your arms were secure around his neck, not a millimetre of space to be seen between your torso and his.

as joshua pulled away to gasp for air, he reached into his pocket for his phone, tapping away at the screen. half a second later, music began to play from the speakers he had installed on the corners of the ceiling.

your husband enjoyed music, thrived in it. it was his natural element, his escape from everything and life itself.

“dance with me, darling,” he whispered as louis armstrong blew the first few notes of his trumpet, a light melody that entranced your step into aligning with your lover’s, barefoot in the kitchen, head on his shoulder.

“remember in college,” you pondered, reminiscing the iridescent days of your youth. “when we would dance around the communal kitchen in the refrigerator light?”

“when i snuck out of the dorms to visit you half-past two in the morning?” the smile on his face reminded you of how much you truly longed for it, like a breath of fresh air after being suffocated for so long.

he grinned at you like you were back in the heart of a bustling city, of seoul, the thrill of the unexpected running through your veins like a drug. you found an impossible love, forcing the rebellion, suppressed deep enough in yourself until you forgot about it, to resurface again as you met him.

you had never felt as daring as you did when you first saw him.

“we lost so much sleep,” the airy sound of your chuckle urged joshua to tug you closer, dancer feet still in time with the rhythm of jazz buzzing in the background.

“first college, then jihyun,” the way in which your daughter’s name left his lips made the knot in your heart twist, your entire being captivated by his voice.

he twirled you around, stars—no, the entire galaxy—sparkling in those brown eyes as you spun to meet him once more.

“and jiyoung,” the sound of your youngest son’s name elicited a permanent smile from your husband, perfect teeth peeking through.

“i don’t regret a single second of it,” he said, mellifluous in tone, filled with content.

“i don’t either,” sometimes, the possibility of being in love for so long was a question to you that you could not answer.

magic doesn’t exist, but it did then, in that night, surrounded by wicks, aglow in passion, organic scent of lemongrass wafting in the air.

jazz-driven steps, hungry gazes and the brush of his fingers under your sweater made you wonder if you were back in the era of your faded youth. it was as if you were reliving each night of delirium once again, of heated sex in the darkness of your compact bedroom, of muted grunts and the slapping of skin that reverberated off the chipped walls.

joshua lifted the sweater up your head, up your arms. the music, transitioning ever so timely from armstrong to the weeknd, your eyes widening and your hips swaying ever so slightly to the bass. his grin twisted into a smirk, eyes narrowing in desire and the previous storm behind them calming into a wave of dirty intentions.

“take the week off for me, love,” kisses were peppered down your neck to your collarbone as he whispered each word into your skin.

you promised him you would, and you did.

[ncssian]

A Favor: Part Eight

Nessian Modern AU

Masterlist

a/n: happy year of nessian everybody!!

***

Nesta’s glasses are on her nightstand when she wakes. Blinking blearily, she slips them on and props herself up in bed, dazed and confused. A glance at the alarm clock tells her it’s five in the morning.

How did she get here? How long has she been asleep? Reaching over to click her lamp on, her eyes tear up at the sudden stream of light. Looking around wildly, her gaze catches on something on the wall across from her bed.

It’s a painting of a shimmering autumnal forest, hung up neatly as if it’s always been there. Slowly, memories of the night before begin to seep back in.

There was a festival. A warm day that became freezing and ugly when she lost sight of Cassian, and her glasses—

Her hands reach up to touch her intact glasses. They were broken, and then there was a blur of consciousness that only became clear once again when she found Cassian—

Oh, god. Cassian. She remembers now.

But it must have been a dream. Her glasses are fine and her painting is right here, as if the anxiety of last night was all in Nesta’s head.

She pulls her glasses off, only to find brand new wiring staring back at her. Someone has carefully wired the bridge of her spectacles back together and given the whole thing a much needed polish, leaving them looking the same but different.

Slowly, she puts them back on.

It’s way too early to think about this. Kicking the covers off, Nesta realizes she’s in the same clothes she fell asleep in. When it registers that Cassian was the one who carried her up to bed, pulled her coat and boots off, and tucked her in neatly, she almost falls back into the pillows and stays there. Instead, she hurriedly changes out of her jeans and into flannel pants, hoping an early breakfast will allow her to forget the night before.

Not that she wants to forget it. She’d just— rather save those thoughts for later, when the reality of it isn't pressed up so close to her. Because really, what happened last night came straight out of her extensively detailed daydreams. She doesn’t know what to do with the fact that it wasn’t a daydream.

Padding downstairs, Nesta freezes at the entryway to the kitchen when she realizes the light over the island is on. Under the warm glow, Cassian is asleep at the marble counter, his head pillowed by his arms. An open laptop and a cold mug of half-finished coffee sits in front of him.

This isn’t good, Nesta thinks. This is the reality she's supposed to be avoiding right now.

And yet— he looks so soft, so tired. Maybe if she’s really quiet…

She slams her toe into a barstool halfway into the kitchen. Grabbing her foot and hissing, she looks up at the ceiling and curses everything that ever was. Across from her, Cassian’s body jerks, and then he’s wide awake.

“Nesta?” he blinks sleepily when he notices her. One side of his face is red from where he fell asleep on his arms. “What are you doing here?”

Nesta quickly straightens. “I could ask the same of you.”

Cassian finally looks around, taking notice of where he is. “Right,” he mutters to himself. “I was supposed to be working.”

Nesta frowns at him. “You shouldn’t pull all-nighters. Go sleep in your room.”

“Actually…” Cassian is looking at Nesta as if he’s seeing her for the first time. “I was wondering if we could talk—”

The excuse blurts out at his words: “I need to pee.” Before he can say anything else, Nesta is legging it to the hall bathroom and slamming the door behind her.

Breathing out a sigh, she slides down the wall to the floor and pulls her legs to her chest. So much for getting breakfast.

Cassian doesn’t try coming after her or knocking on the door, thank god. She stays in the bathroom until she’s positive that he’s gone back upstairs, and only then does she take the time to consider what a fucking weirdo she’s being— weirder than usual, that is. And it’s all because of him.

With the last couple of months she’s had, Nesta would think that she’s gotten better at adjusting to changes in her thorough plans. But the possibility of allowing romance back into her life is so far out of the scope of her imagination, she doesn’t know what to do with it. After all, Tomas was a fluke gone colossally wrong. Where could Cassian possibly fit into her loveless story?

Nesta chews on a nail. She needs help.

***

Cassian doesn’t try to bring up their kiss again after the incident in the kitchen. Things return to normal between them, to the point where Nesta questions if that night at the festival even happened. There’s no foreign tension or elephant in the room; there’s only Cassian and Nesta, like it has been since the beginning.

Nesta doesn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved. Either way, she’s gotten away with it.

At least that’s what she thinks, until one early morning she wakes at the feeling of a warm hand stroking lines up and down her arm.

She’s certain she’s dreaming, and is content to remain ensconced in this softness when she hears the soft murmur of her name. Her eyelids flutter open, and then comes the realization that she is very much not dreaming.

“Cassian?” Her voice is thick. “What are you doing here?”

“You need to get up,” he whispers.

She clears the sleep out of her eyes, glancing around for her alarm clock. “What time is it—?”

“Five-thirty in the morning,” he says lowly. Her room is still dark, but she can make out his soft smile above her. “I want to show you something, but you’ve gotta get up, Nesta.”

Irritation floods Nesta at the realization that she only got four hours of sleep. Right now, she’s willing to strangle Cassian with her bare hands for another four.

“In what world,” she burrows deeper into her blankets, “would I ever get up before nine a.m. for you?”

“You’re not even a little bit curious about what I want to show you?” He clicks the lamp on, and Nesta hisses at the flood of light hitting her eyes. Squinting without her glasses, she can see that he’s fully dressed.

“What the hell, Cassian,” she mumbles into her pillow.

“You don’t have to get dressed,” he promises as he starts dragging the comforter away from her. “Just put your shoes and glasses on and you can sleep in the truck.”

Nesta is more awake at that, because she doesn’t hate the idea of taking a ride in Cassian’s truck. The promise of heated seats doesn’t hurt, either.

“I’m taking the blanket,” she says as she clambers out of bed.

“There’s already some in the truck,” Cassian says. “Just come on, will you?”

Grumbling, she grabs her glasses and lets him lead her downstairs and out to the truck. Shivering in her boots, Nesta wonders if she’ll have to kill Cassian if this doesn’t pay off.

“You know, we wouldn’t be doing this if you hadn’t called stargazing overrated last week,” Cassian says as he gets into the driver’s seat. The door slams shut behind him, blocking out the freezing wind. The engine is already warmed up and the heater is on full blast.

Nesta sighs at the heat, her clamped muscles loosening. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“You said mornings were prettier than nights.” Cassian pulls onto the lone road that leads away from the cabin. “I brought hot chocolate, by the way.” He gestures to a thermos in the cupholder between them.

Nesta ignores him. “Just because mornings are nice doesn’t mean I want to be awake to experience them. If this is going to be one of your ungodly early workout activities…” she trails off threateningly.

“Shut up and drink your hot chocolate,” he chuckles. He shoves the thermos into her cold hands.

Nesta mutters something that Cassian chooses not to hear, but relents and takes a sip from the thermos. It’s warm and perfect, and doesn’t do her any help in keeping alert. The drive turns steep and winding, and Nesta soon realizes that they’re moving away from town and deeper into the mountains. Her curiosity is stifled by her sleepiness, however, and soon she has to lean her head against the fogged window and close her eyes, succumbing to the gentle rhythm of the journey.

Sometime later, she feels the truck reverse into a complete stop. “Wait here,” Cassian says. She hears him unbuckle his seatbelt and get out of the truck, but is unwilling to open her eyes and give up the last few minutes of rest she has. Time blurs, and then there’s a knock on her window. Groggily, Nesta sits up as Cassian opens the passenger side door.

“C’mon,” he urges, reaching out to pick Nesta up by the waist and setting her down on the ground. Shivering in the freezing dawn air, she looks around at where Cassian has brought them.

They’ve parked on a familiar high lookout that overlooks the entire city. In the blue light of pre-dawn, the town reminds Nesta of a sleeping giant nestled deep in the valley. She’s never been here this early before.

Taking her hand, Cassian urges her around to the back of the truck, facing the lookout.

“Oh,” Nesta says when she finally sees. “Wow.”

The truck bed is decked out more than a Christmas tree. Pillows and heavy blankets decorate the space, and strings of lights are woven throughout the whole thing. Still holding her hand, Cassian helps her climb into the bed before following after her.

“It’s only a few minutes to dawn,” Cassian says once he’s settled beside her. “I almost thought we wouldn’t make it in time.”

“You did all of this…” she says slowly, “so we could watch the sunrise?”

“Pretty much,” he nods.

Nesta might be inexperienced in a lot of things, but even she can’t deny what this is. Platonic friends don’t make a date out of watching the sunrise together, especially not if said friends have recently shared a passionate kiss. This is a romantic move.

She freezes in her spot. She wasn’t prepared for this, and now Cassian’s shoulder is painfully close to her shoulder and she doesn’t know if she should lean in or move away.

Before she can decide, Cassian says, “Watch.”

She faces forward at Cassian’s command, relieved to have something to do. Because there over the rim of the valley, the gray-blue sky is coming awake with streaks of pink and gold.

At the sight of first light, a calming sensation floods Nesta. For a few minutes, she forgets Cassian, forgets the cold. There is only dawn and— peace. A peace she’s never felt in all the times she’s driven up here before.

Golden light halos the mountains and streams over to their small little truckbed. The sky is on fire just to greet them. Nesta releases a breath, in awe or relief she doesn’t know.

“Can’t run away now.”

Nesta whirls from the sunrise to face Cassian. “What do you mean?”

He’s watching her closely. “You know, the last time I felt like this was during a certain fall festival.”

She glances away at the admission. “Right,” she mutters.

“What about you?” he nudges patiently. “Did you feel anything at the festival?”

Yes. A lot of things.

“Look,” Nesta starts. She’s about to turn him away when the sudden urge to be honest overtakes her. Something about the morning sun demands truth and vulnerability from her, and she wants to give it.

“I haven’t kissed anybody in forever,” she admits. “It was… a lot. In a very good way, at least in the moment.” She’s not sure of what she’s saying.

“Is it not good anymore?” For once, Cassian looks incapable of teasing her. Like he’s terrified of saying the wrong thing and scaring her away.

Nesta shakes her head quickly. “No, no, it’s still good. It’s just— confusing. The implications of kissing your roommate is confusing.”

Are friends who kiss each other just supposed to jump into relationships right afterward? Nesta can’t even comprehend such a thing. After all, wanting Cassian isn’t the same thing as wanting a relationship.

He chews on his lip for a long moment. “Nothing has to happen,” he finally says. “We don’t have to do anything now, or even ever. But can we at least admit that there’s something there? Because I definitely feel something for you. I have for a long time.”

That last sentence is quieter, and Nesta stiffens at the honesty of it. “Then why are you telling me just now?”

“It’s real now.”

He doesn’t have to explain what he means. She knows the feeling all too well— how the vague crush she was nursing for weeks got blown into something intense and tangible in the span of a night. How she can’t go anywhere now without tasting Cassian in her mouth.

“It’s real for me, too,” Nesta breathes.

His face breaks into a slow smile. “Good to know.”

Before Nesta can think about whether they’ll kiss again or not, Cassian tugs at her elbow, pulling her downward until they’re both laying on their backs among the pillows and blankets. He shuffles around for a bit, and then a fur throw is tossed over both of their bodies.

He turns to face her under the new warmth with a smirk. “So, was this worth getting up early for?”

Nesta looks up at the sky so she doesn't have to meet his bright eyes. “It’s better than any other time I’ve come here, that’s for sure.”

Cassian perks at that. “You’ve been here before?”

Nesta frowns. She doesn’t want those memories intermingling with this moment.

“I used to come here a lot,” she says bluntly. “In my undergrad days, to think and stuff.”

“Think about what?” he asks.

She closes her eyes, remembering. “Whether I should leave my boyfriend or not. Whether I was on the right career path or not. Whether I should drive off the lookout or not.”

Cassian huffs a laugh and then pauses at her tone. “Wait— are you serious?”

“About which part?”

“The last one.”

Nesta realizes how that came off. “It wasn’t like that,” she defends. “I was just… very tired all the time. I wanted a way out of it. I didn’t need to drive off a cliff, though.” Her mouth purses. “I just needed to cut some people out of my life. I got a lot better after that.”

Cassian is quiet for a long moment, thinking. “Did your ex make you feel like that?”

It’s Nesta’s turn to be quiet. “Yeah,” she says eventually.

“He sounds like a piece of shit.”

She raises her brows. “How do you know that?”

Cassian shrugs. “You said he didn’t like you while you were dating. That’s all I need to know.”

She’s surprised he even remembers her telling him that.

“I’m glad you’re feeling better though,” he says.

“Me too.”

The whole sky is brightened by now, and far below, people start waking up to go about their day. “What about you?” Nesta speaks up. She realizes they never talk about him, not really. “What were your exes like?”

Cassian hums. “I don’t really have any exes.”

Nesta makes a face. “What does that mean?”

He shrugs. “It means I’ve never had a real girlfriend.”

She looks at him like he’s insane. “You’ve never had a girlfriend?” With that face and body and personality? He’s playing another joke on her.

“It’s not that big of a deal. I’ve had lots of hookups, some longer than others, but none of them involved serious feelings.” He seems to realize what this means. “Actually,” he says quickly, “let’s talk about something else.”

“No.” Nesta sits up. “I want to know more.”

Cassian follows her up. “You didn’t even want to acknowledge our kiss less than ten minutes ago!”

She holds up a hand, her mind full of too many revelations at once. “So you’ve never been in love? Or come close to being in love?”

“Have you?”

“For a short time, yes,” Nesta nods. How else would she have stayed with Tomas for so long?

Cassian must realize what she means, because he clenches his jaw and looks away. “Well, I haven’t. I might have had a crush or two on my friends in high school, but I outgrew them quick enough.”

Nesta lets this new information sink in, feeling her perspective of Cassian shifting permanently. “And where do I fit in? In all of this?”

He props his elbows on his knees, lips turned downward. “I never thought about it until you made it sound so important. I thought neither of us knows what we’re doing.”

Nesta scoffs. “I never said I know what I’m doing.”

He nods thoughtfully. “Can we leave it at that, then? Take things slow while we figure out—” He waves an arm between them. “You know.”

There aren’t words for Nesta’s relief. Here she was worried she’d be pushed into something she wasn’t ready for, when Cassian is really just as lost as she is. For once, she doesn’t feel like he has the upper hand. For once, she’s not the extraneous variable.

She clears her throat. “Hey, Cassian?”

“Hm?”

“Thank you for fixing my glasses.” The words have been sitting in her stomach since the morning after the festival. “And for the painting.”

“Anytime, sweetheart.”

***

Nesta’s first paycheck arrives the week before Thanksgiving.

“Wow,” she says for the third time in three minutes, gaping at the account balance on her phone. “That’s a lot of numbers.”

She didn’t keep track of how many hours she worked for Night Court Inc. this month, but she knows it wasn’t enough to justify this amount of money. It’s enough to pay for her car and endo treatments and then some.

She can’t remember the last time she had this much extra money to spend. She doesn’t think she ever did.

Cassian comes up behind her in the kitchen and peeks over her shoulder. He whistles lowly at the deposit amount, but ruffles her hair and beams proudly. “First paycheck. What are you gonna use it for?”

Nesta stares at the number on her phone screen and knows what she wants. She’s wanted— needed— it for a while, but her talks with Cassian have helped her realize… “I’m getting a therapist.”

***

a/n: hey everybody, i'm popping in to kindly ask y'all to be patient with the slower updates from now on, because i know exactly where i want this story to go but i don't want to rush the journey. i also want time to work on other fics and my original wips in the new year, and i can’t do that unless i lower some of the expectations for these fic updates. that being said, i’m so unbelievably grateful for all your support up until now!!! i don’t want you to feel forgotten. i’m very much still involved with and working on this story, and the good stuff is just about to begin! up next: the holidays bring about some revelations for everybody.

taglist: @ladywitchling @sjm-things @thewayshedreamed @drielecarla @sensitiveillyrian @superspiritfestival @aliveahaahahafuck @cupcakey00 @sayosdreams @rainbowcheetah512 @claralady @thebluemartini @nessiantho @missing-merlin @duskandstarlight @lucy617 @sleeping-and-books @everything-that-i-love @cassianscool @awesomelena555 @julemmaes @wickedqueenoffantasy @poisonous-bloom @observationanxioustheorist @gisellefigue08 @courtofjurdan @theoverlyenthusiasticwriter @wolfiixxx @cass-nes @seashade @royaltykxx @illyrianundercover @queenestarcheron @monstrousloves-explodinggalaxies @humanexile @that-golden-lyre @agentsofsheilds @mercy-is-alive @cassiansbigwingspan @laylaameer01

[lady-wallace]

Whumptober Day 14: “Is Something Burning?” (Good Omens)

Day Fourteen: Is Something Burning

Prompts used: Branding, fire

Fandom: Good Omens

Read on Ao3

Read on FF.net

~~~~~~~~

It was a common misconception that fire didn't hurt demons.

Crowley wished that it was not, in fact, a misconception, especially now that he was facing down Hastur with a burning brand, held between two thick chains somewhere deep down in Hell.

It was even worse, this punishment, because Crowley still contested the fact that it had at all been his fault, what they were blaming him for. After all, how was he supposed to know the target he was supposed to be leading down the path to destruction would choose to do the right thing? Humans were just like that sometimes. You never could tell what they were going to do.

Demons, for the most part, didn't really seem to understand this.

Obviously.

"Come on, Hastur," Crowley pleaded, trying to keep his voice from showing just how nervous he really was. "You know I've learned my lesson. Is this really necessary?"

The demon smirked and it was not a pleasant sight. Crowley's heart sank.

"That's what you say, but I know that if I don't do something you'll be back at your little tricks again within a fortnight."

"No tricks!" Crowley protested, feeling the heat of the brand that was hovering ever closer to his face. "It was a one-time thing! I'll work harder at the tempting next time. I promise!"

"You've already had too many strikes for us to show leniency," Hastur told him firmly, but not without a certain amount of glee in his voice. "And really, I need to get my enjoyment somewhere."

"Of course you do," Crowley sighed wearily, resigning himself.

Sometimes, he really hated his job.

Another demon came over and grabbed Crowley by the hair, wrenching his head to one side to expose his neck.

Hastur grinned wickedly as he brought the brand of holy fire up to Crowley's face first, making sure he could see the red iron and feel the heat, then he slowly pressed it against the skin of his neck.

Crowley howled despite himself, and barely realized when Hastur had pulled it away. He slumped in his chains before he was released. Hastur patted his neck over the spot, causing Crowley to yelp again.

"Good boy. That will be a reminder for the next week, to do a better job next time."

Crowley pulled himself to his feet, biting his tongue against the pain and shuffled out.

He really, really hated Hell sometimes.

XXX

Aziraphale glanced over at Crowley while they stood in St. James, feeding the ducks. The demon looked a lot more miserable than usual. And the angel found it odd that he was wearing a turtleneck sweater and a scarf despite it being a rather mild day. Of course, Crowley was wont to get cold, but it was still unusual.

He was also rather dour, slinking along and not adding much to the conversation.

"Perhaps we should go back to my shop for something to drink," Aziraphale finally said, after realizing Crowley wasn't even listening to what he was saying for the last several minutes.

"Huh? Oh, yeah, sure."

"My dear, is something wrong?" Aziraphale asked as they started back to the Bentley.

"No," Crowley said a little too quickly.

Aziraphale pursed his lips together, but decided to drop it for now. He would find out eventually though, because this was not like Crowley at all and he was beginning to become worried.

By the time they got back to the shop, Aziraphale went to make tea, and when he came back to the back room with it, he found Crowley still in his coat and scarf.

"Crowley, you can relax, dear boy. If it's that cold in here, I'll turn the heater on."

Crowley looked a little sheepish, but at least unwound his scarf, though he left it draped around his shoulders.

Aziraphale set his cup down on the coffee table and sighed. He reached out to whisk Crowley's scarf off, as the demon made a noise of protest.

"Oi!"

But he cringed, flinching away, a hand fluttering to his neck, looking to be more in pain than annoyed.

"Crowley?" Aziraphale inquired, frowning now. "Whatever is the matter?"

"S'nothing," Crowley mumbled, reaching for the tea, but Aziraphale saw something peeking from under his collar as he leaned forward.

"Then what is this?" the angel demanded, reaching out to tug the collar down.

Crowley tried to shy away, but Aziraphale had already seen it.

It was obviously a burn, bright red against Crowley's pale skin, but what was more horrifying was that it seemed to be a brand, bearing the resemblance of a pitchfork—rather cliché, but that didn't make it hurt any less.

"Oh, Crowley!" Aziraphale gasped. "Whatever happened?"

"It's not your problem, angel," Crowley said wearily, leaning away and wincing as his collar scraped against the burn again.

"But it's obviously bothering you, and it looks like it hurts quite a bit. At least let me put something on it."

Crowley opened his mouth to protest but Aziraphale was already up, running to fetch a first-aid kit.

Ignoring Crowley's protests, he rolled his collar down and started to carefully clean the burn.

Crowley was silent through the whole thing, seeming almost embarrassed, or even mortified. Aziraphale took a deep breath before he spoke. "I know that this is some form of punishment," he said. "You don't have to tell me, but I am sorry."

"Ngk," Crowley muttered noncommittally.

"Truth be told, I didn't really know that fire could hurt demons," Aziraphale commented.

Crowley sighed. "It doesn't unless we want it to," he said. "We're immune to Hellfire unless it's part of a punishment. Then there's a special kind that can be used particularly to…teach a lesson."

Aziraphale pressed his lips together, angry despite himself. He knew a good bit about punishments himself. After all, Gabriel wasn't entirely the most forgiving angel to work under, but this seemed cruel.

"It will heal, right?" he asked, worried Crowley would bear the mark forever.

"Yes, it will be gone within a week," Crowley said. "But it won't heal at all before then."

"How horrid," Aziraphale said, even more angry.

"It is a punishment angel," he said, glancing at him out of the corner of his eye. "It's not supposed to be nice."

"I know, but…still," Aziraphale said and huffed, pulling out a tube of burn cream and applying some to a swatch of gauze. "It's cruel."

"It's Hell."

And that was fair, he supposed.

Finally, Crowley bit his lip. "It wasn't even my fault. The guy, my target, he just decided to do the right thing. I had no control over it but my mission failed anyway."

"Oh, Crowley, I'm sorry."

"Honestly? I'm not. Not really. The guy wasn't cut out for it. And he did a good thing. I can't really hate him for it."

Aziraphale finished with the gauze and rolled Crowley's collar back over the spot carefully. "Well, perhaps some good came out of this then, despite everything."

"Yes, perhaps you're right." Crowley sighed and shifted. "Thanks, angel."

"Of course, dear," Aziraphale said. "Any time."

Though he really wished neither of them had to worry about punishment, he supposed that as long as they both continued to look after each other, they would be okay.

[the-con-she-called-conscience]

your mutuals as aesthetics ?

Hello, Anon. Thank you for this absolutely wonderful ask. If I missed you or you'd like me to do you, just let me now! Let's see:

@biganimeaesthetictree: retro futurism. Game boys of every age, controllers with wires spread around on a fluffy bed. It's not messy but highly precise. Chocolate flavoured milk in coffee cups, spreadsheets of an ever growing YT channel, monitor set against New York Skyline. Unused guitar in a corner of the room, entirety of MHA mangas shelved in order. Edits and edits of his own mangas and comics, working till the sun goes up. Mail chock full with stuff from friends and fans.

@somethingpretentiouss: bitter orange cake with buttercream frosting and topped with crumbs. Clear transparent everyday stuff with cursive quotes. Black bomber jacket set against lavender tulle skirt, multicolored mosaic notebook with a well worn ukelele. Foggy mornings and lazy afternoons. Faint smell of traditional marigold-patchouli-rose mixed with moss and wildberries. Unending blue sky. A person in her own right, lives like that one light blue butterfly you once saw but can never forget.

@chaoticneutralcinnamonroll: Cinnamon and ginger, mixed into bronzed teas. Gold tipped cups, multitude of magazines and newspapers. Air charged with zangy energy, almost blaring punk and rock. Well worn snickers and side sling bags. Goes onto adventures due to intelligence, laughs hard, loves long and fierce. Toes the lines never even touched. Silver jewellery. Loves the sun. Simple yet almost paradoxical. Lives on her own terms. Coconut scented perfume and handful of Doritos.

@weirdkindoflove: reads multiple books at the same time, will mix up words from different languages. Loves Dante and tells everyone how it is the oldest fanfiction, has the nicest gloss and notebooks chock full of equations. A maths whizz, warmest hugs, is the embodiment of sense of security. A determined ally, least person you'd expect to meet in a protest, strongest and most resilient person you ever knew. Multiple neon vintage posters, Spiderman comics, and corded bracelets. Revolution in carbon-based life form.

@screechingnightchild Monster drinks, wears a lot of black. Unflinchingly human and inexplicable. Can beat you in a theology debate, anytime, anywhere. Sometimes feels like a forest god. Long bus rides, some handmade luck charms made by their friends on their backpack. Drinks Coca-cola in the glass bottle itself for aesthetic. Knack for finding sinners in places of worship. Should always be loved and appreciated, as is the most likely to fist fight god and win.

@tuliharja Kind, appreciative soul with the nervous system and skeleton made of steel. Feeds birds from her cookies. Pastel coloured shirts and hair in shades not yet discovered. Has a knitted Halloween pumpkin, loves reading lore. Is the person who gets called to the hospital when her friends get hurt. Changes the world and lives with a flick of her hand and doesn't realize it. Home-made mead and fleshy fruits. Cats, specifically lynx figurines. Freshly baked fruit pies and herbal infusions. Soft classical tunes that you have to strain to hear, canvases filled with color, opened bottles of turpentine. Her existence is what magic is made of.

@narut-oh-shit : fluffiest jackets imaginable. Knows politics down to its woven fibres. Unknown and rare comics, metallic earpods, unbreakable metal bottles. Probably 1.47 GB of memes in their RAM. Wry wit, and a soul made of fire crackles. Has a plethora of diverse acquaintances. Perpetually broke college student with mad editing skills, sends in the most well written essays and analyses. Has sticky, fruit flavoured balms, and an almost definite goal in life. Rice crackers spilled on their lap, and ink spills on their desk. Shades of mahogany, cheap mechanical pencils kept with metal-bodied proper pens. Most likely to dimension hop.

@psycho-mocha : Boba with jaggery, star themed wall papers. Loves the texture of velvet, and owns posters or merchandise of their favourite brand. Has dedicated shelf space for fantasy genre, and is fascinated by sleight of hand. Wraps the string of ballons on their wrist, and feels oddly connected to certain historic monuments. Dreams of cool, refreshing river which tastes like mint, sometimes of midnight with a shovel and dirt under their nails. Feels a sense of longing when they think about their likes. Hits back xenophobes at every chance.

@microwavedsaladisevil : looks for their favorite childhood book in shops, stores and fairs. Lives in a treehouse with iced tea and peaches. Share oranges with friends during bus rides, wants to take a train across countries. Has chains of daisy and lilies, hates capitalism. Knows ocean like it's her hometown, records it's lores long forgotten. Will intern at marine facility on an island, and hates people polluting the water. Feels as if their heart crumbles like paper, and keeps stones as paper weights. Will dive head first into the water and come out surfing at the other end. Something about them screams victorious.

@oscarwildeismyidol jangly bracelets, sits under the tree. Embodiment of hope and positivity. Steadfast, and looks into the void to find secrets. Knows obscure trivia about Wilde, writes the most humorous book reviews. Flavoured drinks hit the back of their throats, idly they wonder the meaning of life. Achieves and achieves but at the cost of no one, presses flowers and leaves into books. Walks barefoot on wooden floors, and loves watching the sun in early mornings. Wears plaid in Autumnal evenings, sips tea and watches the world turn. Fears disenchantment. Has the most compelling smile, and as long as they be, they know it's going to be alright.

@notyouraveragejulie : makes the best potato salads, wears her adventures and achievements as a jacket. Walks into vintage stores chock full of opera memorabilia and assorted knickknacks, always befriends the monsters living upstairs. Sketches down frescoes on the roof of theatre, works part-time and is never disappointed by the night. Pages and pages of music scores and books fluttering with plays, computer idling with a paused opera. Writes down neatly the plans to conquer the world, and she will. Just after finishing this cast's version of her favorite opera. Listens to the magical flute while washing dishes, and feels the nervous flutter and maddening hum of life. Never makes a wrong choice.

[erin-bo-berin]

Darkest Storms & Brightest Rainbows (Part 1)

MASTERLIST

Part 2

Part 3

Hard Love (unoffical part 4)

Finally, the first part of my “Cat fic” is here! I kept some lines and plot lines from the show, but I also added some different elements. For example, there’s a lot of scenes/references from Entropy and Date Night later on, but I didn’t include much from Red Light. You’ll soon see why.

I began this at the end of last year and didn’t think it would see the light of day as it wasn’t going anywhere. But after some inspiration, I finally finished it. I decided to break it into three parts in honor of the three Cat episodes. Besides, if I had wrote one long fic it would’ve probably been around 15k words. Anyway, this way I can leave you guys hanging in suspense for a little bit (mwhaha 😏). Lastly, I just wanted to say I chose this title for this 3-parter because the characters go through some dark storms but also experience some bright rainbows along the way throughout this story. Enough of my rambling, I hope you all enjoy. 🥰

Spencer Reid/Reader

Rating: G (part 1 only has some angst)

Word Count: 4,143

It’s truly fascinating how one small drop can create a ripple in the water.

That was what meeting Spencer Reid was like.

It was a typical day at work at the coffee shop you’d been employed at for almost a year. Life had slowly been getting somewhat back to normal for you. It had been a hard previous year when you lost both parents to a car crash. Living alone was difficult, but you were making it work.

It was like a breath of fresh air to find work in a DC neighborhood cafe. You loved being able to form relationships with some frequent customers and hear about their days; it was surprisingly very cathartic to connect with so many people after feeling so much loss. 

There had been a small breather between waves of numerous customers when he had first appeared at your counter for a coffee.

His order was just as unique as he was; coffee with whole milk and a little bit of honey. 

He was cute. He was really cute. 

His shaggy brown hair was probably just a touch too long and in need of a cut, but his loose curls made it work and it looked good on him. He had light eyes that would shift from green to brown, depending on how the sun shone through the window next to the counter and a smile so bright it rivaled the sun’s rays.

Something else you’d noticed, he was tall. Possibly 6 feet, if you were to guess. With a lean frame and a slight shyness about him, you were instantly intrigued. 

You saw him more often, never managing to get his name, but managing to pick up the tiniest details about him.

There was a slight cleft to his chin, a shadow of a feature that was dominant in some others, but only was fully shown on him at certain angles.

The same went for the chameleon like dimples he sported, only showing up now and then. Every time, they made your stomach flutter, just about as much as he did.

He had a smattering of freckles that you could mainly see only up close. Not the usual freckles that would be across the bridge of the nose and cheeks on an average person, but random ones. A few under the outer corner of one eye, a lone one on the far side of his forehead, one on the side of his cheek, just along his cheekbone, another larger one on the opposite side just underneath his earlobe, plus many more tiny ones scattered everywhere.

Everything about him was unique.

His hands were large and gentle, always carefully handing you money for his drink and taking his order from you.

He was sweet and always polite, asking you how your day was going, wishing you a good day when he left. 

He also had these small habits of licking his lips or squinting his eyes just the tiniest bit, without even being aware of the actions.

It was actually a bit pathetic how much you’d learned about this stranger yet couldn’t even muster up the courage to ask for his name.

It was one day, maybe six months after you’d first met the handsome stranger when you decided to take a chance.

He’d come in bright and early before 8 am dressed in gray dress pants, a purple dress shirt rolled up to his elbows and a two toned purple tie. Slung across his body and resting on his hip was his usual tan satchel that you’d seen him with every day. You didn’t even have a clue what his job was.

“Morning,” he greeted with a bright smile.

You greeted him back, automatically reaching for his coffee that’d you’d been in the midst of preparing. 

“Large coffee, whole milk and honey?”

“As always,” he chuckled.

Unlike other larger chains, it wasn’t a normal thing to label a person’s drink with their name, so it wasn’t easy to find out his name; hence why you still hadn’t learned it.

You were fastening the lid, about to hand it to him when you asked.

“Um, just out of curiosity, who would this coffee be labeled for?”

The minute the words were out of your mouth you wanted to take them back. It sounded so awkward and weird. Labeled for? You wanted to hit yourself.

A small smile tugged on his lips.

“Spencer. Nice to meet you—” he paused, waiting for you to fill in with your name.

“Y/N.”

He took his drink, turning to leave before pausing.

“Have a great day, Y/N.”

Less than a month later, you’d gone on your first date with Spencer.

•

Three years later, life looked a lot different. 

You no longer worked at the coffee shop, but now worked from home. It took a little time, but you eventually found out you had a passion for being a social media manager for different brands. You loved social media and posting content for brands was rather fun.

You and Spencer had hit it off during that first date, considering you’d been dating for almost three years now.

As much as you missed your previous work family, you had a big new family that you’d come to be an (unofficial) part of, within these last few years.

You had finally found out after a few dates that Spencer worked for the FBI in a unit called the Behavioral Analysis Unit as a profiler; a position that uses an art of studying behavior and a lot of psychology to catch killers. It was interesting, but dangerous work. It did come with some good things though, like a work family that was like a real family. You, too, had grown close to his team members through the last few years. They were like the family you had desperately needed since your parents’ passing.

It wasn’t always sunshine and rainbows in the BAU between the long hours and dangerous cases, but you were always there for Spencer. You were so proud of him and impressed by how good he was at his job; you were also proud to call him your boyfriend.

Recently, the BAU was dealing with a group of assassins, some that were hired through the deepest parts of the dark web. It had begun with one hit man that specialized in making his hits look like accidents. He had been seeking revenge on his customers and that led to the BAU discovering that there were a whole network of hitmen, each known for their own method of killing.

There was a chemist.

A sniper.

A bomber.

And the deadliest of them all, Ms. .45.

A black widow, Spencer called her.

She’d been the only one to evade capture and Spencer was going to be the one to lure her out. 

You were freaked, to put it mildly. Just from what Spencer had told you about this woman, you knew dangerous didn’t even begin to describe her. 

Unlike her former “co-workers”, she liked to be up close and personal with her targets. She played her games and when she was done, she’d shoot them without a morsel of guilt to drag her conscious down.

“Spencer, I really don’t think you should do this.”

You were sitting on the bed, watching him loosen his tie as he simultaneously told you about this case and changed out of his work clothes.

“Y/N, it’s better if I do it,” he said, turning to face you, his tie now hanging undone around his neck.

“Why you though?”

It wasn’t often that you argued and you couldn’t exactly count this as a fight, but you both definitely stood on opposite sides of this matter.

“I’m the closest to her age on the team. If anything goes wrong, she’ll be most likely to negotiate with a peer.”

“But Spencer,” you frowned, “I don’t like the sound of how dangerous she is. If she believes that you’re a client, she could kill you.”

“We aren’t going to let it get that far,” he assured, sitting down on the side of the bed, next to you.

“I just worry about you, always being in dangerous situations. I know it’s just a part of dating someone who works in your profession, but what if something happens to you?”

You can’t help the tiny crack of emotion in your voice and he pulls you into his arms.

“Nothing will happen to me, okay?” 

You nodded into his chest and he pulled back, frowning at you.

“I don’t like to see you sad. I want to see that pretty smile of yours.”

His fingers tickled your side and you tried to hold back the laugh bubbling in your throat. You were extremely ticklish and he only ever used that against you at a time like this.

“Stop,” you squealed, trying to wriggle away from his touch, but he kept tickling you.

“Nope, not a chance,” he grinned.

You fell back on the bed, laughing and squirming as he continued his tickle torture.

“There we go,” he smiled, satisfied, “There’s that smile.”

You grinned more shyly as he cupped your face with his hand and kissed you gently.

“Just be safe, okay?”

“Always.”

He kissed you again, his lips parting from yours to trail down your jaw to your neck.

“Is this your way of distracting me?” you chuckled.

“Hmm, maybe,” he smirked.

“No complaints from this corner.”

His lips returned to yours, kissing you with such intensity, it left you breathless for a moment. Your lips moved with his, your hands tangled in his hair.

The rest of the evening was spent doing nothing other than a little fooling around.

•

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Garcia asked.

On the screen of her computer you saw Spencer entering the restaurant and speaking to the hostess before being seated.

“I’m sure,” came a moment later.

“We’ll protect him Y/N.”

This statement came from Aaron Hotchner—Hotch for short—, Spencer’s boss. You were grateful that Hotch had even let you be here, yet still the dread twisted in your stomach.

Garcia had hacked into the cameras to allow you three to see what was going on during this take down. Spencer sat facing the camera.

Only moments after he’d been seated at the table did a petite woman walk up.

She was slim with a short, angled cut. Her dark hair seemed to be in perfect place, just like the fake smile she was showing. She was dressed in a form fitting teal, sleeveless dress. The bottom was embellished in some sort of sparkling beads or perhaps rhinestones. She looked harmless enough, but you knew better. Looks could be very deceiving.

“Reid, we have you over her left shoulder. Do you copy?”

You watch as your boyfriend briefly glances straight towards the camera and taps a quick, stealthy answer on the table, with two fingers.

“I already hate her,” you glowered at the screen, watching as her hand lingered on his arm, seduction written all over her face.

“Put the claws away tiger,” Penelope muttered.

“So, how far along is your wife?” the hit woman you now know was named Cat, asked.

You watch Spencer swallow nervously, playing the part of an apprehensive first time customer.

“A few months. Do you, uh mind if we don’t talk about her?”

Cat was quiet for a moment. You can’t see her face, but somehow you just know she’s studying him.

“Let me see your ring.”

He furrowed his brows, but took it off handing it to her.

“You say you’ve been married for four years, right Spencer?” She studies the band, turning it over in her hand.

“Yeah.”

“For a 24 karat ring, it sure looks rather cheap. Apparently she loves you as much as you love her,” she tossed the ring on the table with a clank.

“Also, if it were four years old, it’d look more worn, don’t you think?”

You hear a click over the audio. It sounded suspiciously like a gun cocking and your eyes widened in horror.

Penelope gasped.

“Is that what I think it was?” 

“Yes,” Hotch answered her, “She knows.”

“You’re not married Spencer.” Her gun was pointing at him under the table, unbeknownst to the other diners in the restaurant.

“And guess what? I didn’t walk into your trap. You walked into mine.”

“Oh no,” Penelope breathed.

“I’ve got a gun pointed at your crotch right now, Spencer. What’s to stop me from taking you and the little ones out right now? It’d be such a shame; doesn’t Y/N want kids?”

“Hotch,” you growled, “He didn’t sign up for this.”

“He knows what he’s doing. Let him handle this. If it truly becomes a dire situation, we have backup in there with him.”

You pick at your nails, tuning back into Spencer and Cat’s conversation.

He ignored her remark, continuing to stare her down.

“You honestly think I’m dumb enough to waltz in here thinking you’re just another deadbeat asshole that’s tired of his wife? I know way more than you think I do. The BAU is the only one that got this close to us. But I’m still the only one left,” she smirked.

“Doesn’t mean anything. I’m good at what I do,” Spencer retorted.

“Tell me. Are you this cocky with Y/N?”

Your eyes narrowed, glaring at the screen.

“I’d love to shove my foot right up her-”

“Y/N,” Hotch chided.

“Sorry.”

She’d scooted around the booth closer to him, her hand sliding into his suit jacket and down his button down shirt. You couldn’t clearly see what she was doing, but you got the general idea. He jumped when her hand brushed his crotch before reaching into the waist of his pants, pulling out his gun with a smirk.

“So tell me, did you actually knock her up or was that just part of your cover? I mean unless you’re here to put a hit on her which is totally fine by me. I’m not one for commitment either.”

“You leave her out of this,” he growled, glaring at her.

“I bet you’re wondering how I know about her, right? Probably the same way I know that Blondie over there is part of your team, just waiting to take me down. Am I right?”

Spencer stayed quiet, his gaze hard on her.

“Do me a favor and tell her to take a hike will you?”

“Stand down,” Hotch says from next to you. You know enough about the plan to know that the entire team can hear messages from him here at the BAU.

You watched as JJ set the drink she’d been sipping on, down on the bar. She’d dressed in leather pants, a low cut black top with a quarter length sleeved, maroon fur jacket over it to appear as just another fancy dinner guest. She passed their table before disappearing into the kitchen.

“Thanks for playing, sweetie,” Cat smiled at her disappearing form.

“Now, tell me more about yourself Spencer. Why don’t you?” 

Cat rested her chin in her hand and watched him, her gun laying by her side where she could have easy access to it.

“Don’t you already know all about me?”

“True,” she made a face, “Then tell me all about me.”

“Well, for one, you’re quite loquacious.” 

“I’m gonna pretend that means sexy,” she grinned flirtatiously.

“Gag me with a spoon,” you mumbled.

“Now, like I said,” Cat continued, “Tell me about me.”

“You’re a psychopath that runs a different course than the rest of your fellow hit men. You like to be up close and personal, watch men lie and try to seduce them all before turning on them and killing them. Which in itself speaks to many deep rooted issues.”

“Is that your way of saying I’m just another woman with daddy issues?”

“You said it, not me.”

“So, how exactly did you find me?” She rested her chin on her laced fingers and cocked her head at him.

“Does it matter?”

“Of course.”

“Fine. It all started unraveling when we first took down what we thought was a lone hit man. One who specified in making hits look like accidents.”

You can hear Spencer still talking through the monitor as you paced back and forth behind Hotch and Garcia, your nerves getting the best of you.

You jump when you hear loud feedback from the mic.

“What was that?”

“She muffled the mic. We lost audio,” Penelope grimaced.

On the screen, you can see Cat’s hand on his tie, thumb over the microphone, her mouth moving as she says something to Spencer. He turns in the direction where Rossi was slyly approaching their table. 

With a few words that were unheard to the three of you, Rossi backed off, heading towards the kitchen.

“She caught on to Dave being there too,” Hotch mumbled.

“Hotch, this is not going as you planned, is it?”

Your question remained unanswered and by the way his posture remained rigid you knew you were right. That did little to reassure you.

“Entropy reigns supreme in this whole situation,” you grumbled.

You looked over and saw Hotch and Garcia staring at you quizzically.

“What? Isn’t another definition for that, lack of order or predictability or gradual decline into disorder?”

Hotch arched an eyebrow.

“Okay, maybe I used it wrong. I’ve heard Spencer use it before. This is why he’s the genius and not me.”

Nothing else was said on the matter as you three’s attention was turned back to the screen where Cat was talking to Spencer again.

“I’ll let that slide considering I learned something important about you.”

“What’s that?” Spencer questioned.

“Your backup. I’ve flushed them out. It’s just you and me now.”

“Guess again, bitch,” you mumbled.

You knew, as well as the rest of the team, that Tara and Morgan were still in there.

“I know you’re stalling, but why?”

“Cause I know there has to be a pretty impressive crowd of agents out front, just waiting to take me down.”

“You’d be correct,” Spencer deadpanned.

“Which is why you’re going to walk me out of here. I get away with no issues and no one gets hurt. If not,” she paused.

She ran her fingertips over the gun that she’d moved to the table, just in his line of sight.

“I have a fully loaded gun that can do quite some damage.”

“You won’t do it though,” he challenged.

“Oh wouldn’t I?”

“No because shooting up a restaurant isn’t your style. You’re more calculated than that. You like less mess, more mind games.” 

“So you do understand me, Spencer,” she smirked, “Then you’d understand that I need you to call off all the FBI agents so I can leave quietly.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” Spencer shrugged, not breaking his eye contact from her, “I’m not letting you walk out of here if I have to hold you down myself.”

“Would you hold me down and leave bruises that wouldn’t go away?” she purred.

“Is that what you want?”

“I bet that’s what Y/N wants,” Garcia mumbled.

You opened your mouth to respond, not sure if she meant you doing bodily harm to Cat or your wanting Spencer to do that to you.

“Focus,” Hotch reprimanded.

“No, I want the agents cleared.” Her hand tightened on her piece.

“Everyone stand down,” Hotch ordered, “We let her walk. Reid let her go.”

“Well?” Cat pressed.

You saw him bite his lip, clearly trying to make up his mind what to do.

“Reid. Let her go.”

“Spencer?” 

Cat was getting annoyed, that much you could tell and you knew she was definitely a person you didn’t piss off.

“Fine, you can go.”

She gathered her things, standing up to leave.

“But you won’t,” Spencer said.

She turned, gazing at him.

“Excuse me?”

“I found your father,” Spencer challenged.

“Reid, what are you doing?” Hotch asked, glancing at Garcia who just shrugged in response.

“Spencer, no,” you whispered, anxiety flooding your senses.

He was playing with fire and if he wasn’t careful, he was going to get burned.

“Tell me where he is,” Cat demanded.

“Sit down and I will.”

You glance at the two next to you.

“This wasn’t part of the plan, was it?”

“No,” came the terse answer from Hotch.

You see her sit once again across from Spencer.

“To prepare for tonight, I had to do my research on you,” he started.

“Is that so?”

“Lewis, Morgan, try to clear out the restaurant as subtly as possible. If this goes wrong, she could start shooting. I don’t want any injuries on my conscience tonight,” Hotch commanded. 

You didn’t see their movement on the screen, but within a few minutes there were more than the normal amount of waiters moving along the tables.

“I found your father Cat,” Spencer continued, in effort to distract her.

“You’re lying.”

“Does it look like I’m lying?”

“No, but I know you are because I never mentioned that I found him myself. He’s been dead for years, Spencer.”

You saw her reach for her gun at the exact moment a commotion towards the front of the restaurant broke out. You couldn’t see on screen what was happening, but it was all the distraction she needed.

Hotch was barking orders and you heard Spencer shouting something to Morgan.

It was later you found out that against Lewis and Morgan’s wishes, someone—most likely a waiter—had started freaking out. Whether that caused the following events to happen or not you would never know, but it sure didn’t help them either.

“Oh my god,” Penelope gasped.

Your eyes were glued to the screen and the horrible events that were beginning to unfold.

Cat had Spencer by the arm and her gun was pointed directly at him. She had him in her claws and she wasn’t about to let him go without a fight.

“Get everyone out of here!” Spencer hollered.

You heard the rest of the people fleeing the dining room, Tara aiding them, but you didn’t take your eyes off of Cat and Spencer.

“Well lookie here,” she grinned up at Spencer, “Back where we started. You and me and a gun.”

“We can talk this out,” Morgan said, slowly approaching, his gun still aimed Cat's way.

“I don’t know Agent Morgan,” she smirked, “I don’t like liars. How do I know that Spencer is true to his word? He’s already lied once.”

“Let him go and we’ll talk,” Morgan said.

“It’s too late for that.”

A loud crash came from the front of the restaurant. Distraction number two. You couldn’t tell if it had been planned by Cat or not, either way, it was her perfect moment to strike.

Multiple gunshots sounded. 

Time slowed down.

Penelope cried out.

Hotch cursed.

You fell to your knees.

In a split second Cat had shot Spencer and he went down, bright red blood beginning to stain his dress shirt. 

Shots were fired from Morgan’s gun. Tara went running after Cat, Morgan went running to Spencer’s side.

There was commotion on the screen. Tara came back in from the direction of the kitchen where Cat had run. Luck must have been on her side because she had disappeared into the night.

Everything changed in one quick moment.

Spencer had been shot and Cat had gotten away.

•

You had no memory of how you’d managed to get from the BAU to the hospital, but here you were, fidgeting in a chair, tears streaming down your face. You hadn’t even had a chance to see him before you got to the hospital and you were wracked with worry with how he was.

The last thing you remembered was falling to the floor, your head feeling woozy as you tried to process what was unfolding before your eyes. 

Spencer had been rushed into emergency surgery and you waited anxiously with the rest of the team in the waiting room. You were positive you hadn’t stopped shaking since you heard the gun go off.

The awful sound rang in your ears and every time you closed your eyes, all you could see was Spencer falling to the ground, blood soaking his shirt.

You looked up when you heard the click of heels and saw JJ coming back with an update on Spencer. The look on her face sent a feeling of cold, icy, fear through your body.

“He didn’t make it,” she whispered.

A buzzing sound rang in your ears and you were sure you’d heard wrong. 

“What?” you croaked.

“Spencer’s gone,” she choked out.

The guttural sobs that came from deep within you didn’t even sound human. Your anger and your pain melted into one.

Cat Adams would pay for this.

Tag List: @dreatine​ @reid-187​ @groovyreid​ @reidslibra​ @suvikamahes98blr​ @fuckthealarm​ @whatspunispun​ @iamburdened​ @cindywayne​ @thomasfoockinshelby​ @tinyminy88​ @theitcaramelchick​ @missprettyboy​ @hushlilbabydoll​ @sammy-jo1977​ @theonlyone-meeeee​ @haileymorelikestupid​ @lemonypink​ @multifandommandy​

[xaphrin]

Reading Together

Dick didn’t want to admit that his frequent and multiple trips to the public library were because of the cute girl he saw there. If he did admit it, he'd never hear the end of it from his brothers. Sure, the library back at Wayne Manor had more than enough books to fulfill everything he could possibly want, and if there was anything he was missing, Alfred would order it for him. Alfred, after all, was the one who told Dick he should be reading more. 

But, regardless of what was back at the manor, Dick liked coming to the public library. He liked seeing this strange girl here. Her dark hair was always pulled back into some kind of tiny ponytail, and she almost always wore thick leggings with an oversized top. There was a kind of dark, ethereal magic around her, and it wrapped around her like a cloak. She wasn’t like Zatanna or Constantine or any of the other sorcerers he’d been introduced with his time interacting with the League, but her magic felt like something that would burn him if he looked too closely. 

She fascinated him, and he was almost ashamed with how she made him feel - like he was falling into an endless abyss with no bottom, and he kept waiting to hit something that wasn’t there. She was always curled up in the same place, in one of the comfy reading chairs by the electric fireplace, her nose buried in a book. Dick had made notes of her books as she read, Pride and Prejudice, Parable of the Sower, Collected Works of O. Henry, Catch-22, 1000 Leagues Under the Sea, and he'd caught her checking out a few paperback romance novels. Needless to say her reading seemed just as dynamic and confusing as she was. 

Today she was reading sonnets by Shakespeare.

The library was eerily quiet, and he noticed a tendril of shadow inch its way to her before snapping back to a corner. Dick glanced around, seeing only one other person in the area, before he settled into the chair across from her. On his way in, he had grabbed some new mystery novel that he wasn’t all that interested in, but it at least gave him something to do with his hands. He halfheartedly read through the first two chapters before he heard her hum, her voice sounding like the turn of a page.

“That book is boring and predictable.” 

Dick glanced up to see her dark stare poking out over the edge of her book, her expression curious and a little bit playful. Her eyes looked far too large, like he was going to fall into them, and his heart skipped a few beats as he stumbled over what he should say. He swallowed and set the book down in his lap, hoping he didn’t look as panicked as he felt. It was one thing to admire her from across the room, but it felt like something else entirely to have her actually talk to him.

“It’s the American agent the whole time. He defected to Russia and joined the KGB.” She pantomimed a yawn and closed her book, leaning forward to look at him. “Boring.” 

Dick set the book to the side and let his eyes shamelessly roam her face. She was even prettier up close, and his stomach tightened into knots as she leaned back into the chair, going for her book again. He couldn’t let that happen! He needed to talk to her, or at least keep this conversation going as long as he could. 

“What would you recommend to me then?” 

Her fingers paused on the book of sonnets, and she glanced back at him, her eyes fluttering as she thought. “For mysteries?”

“For anything, really.” Whatever he could do to get her to keep talking. “I have a hard time finding the right book.”

Her teeth sunk into her lower lip and Dick found himself charmed by the way she turned the question over in her head. For a moment, she seemed to be lost in her own thoughts, like the rest of the world faded away as she tried to think of a book just for him. His heart flipped in his chest again, and he realized he could watch her for hours. She glanced up at him and he watched as a pale shade of pink stained her cheeks. He really needed to stop staring at her like this.

Dick rubbed the back of his neck and forced himself to look away. “I guess that seems weird, seeing as you don’t know anything about me.”

She gave a soft chuckle, and the sound made him look back. She leaned forward and propped her chin up on her fist, staring at him. There was magic in her. There had to be. Dick couldn’t imagine himself feeling like this if there wasn’t. Something wrapped around his heart and squeezed, and he found himself leaning forward, waiting to hear her words.

“On the contrary.” Her lips tugged to one side and she hummed again. “I know a lot more than you think I do. I know you’re the adoptive son of Bruce Wayne. I know you could have gotten any of these books from your own, personal library. I know that you’re here every Friday with me, when you could be out partying with your friends. I know that you like drinking your coffee with way too much flavored cream, and that you always sneak a pastry in your pocket. I also know the librarians think you’re far too cute and well-mannered, so they let you get away with it. I know that you occasionally read fantasies and science fiction, but you think mysteries are more manly. And when you think no one is looking, I’ve seen your gentle smile when you read the works of e. e. cummings.”

Dick swallowed feeling like she had split open his heart and laid every part of him on display between them. He shifted, pushing at his hair, but unable to tear his eyes away from her. She looked somewhere nervous and victorious, and he didn’t know what to say. She’d been watching him too, and yet somehow he didn’t notice. How had he not noticed? He was supposed to be observant and sharp, but he’d been so enthralled with her that he had no idea that she was just as curious about him. 

“So…” She flicked a lock of hair out of her eyes, the color on her cheeks deepening. He saw a spark of magic snap at her fingertips, and she twisted her hand in the fabric of her shirt, hiding it from him. “What would you like me to recommend, Mr. Grayson?”

“A place for dinner?” The question came out of his mouth before he could stop it, but once it was said he knew he didn’t want to retract it. He wanted to ask her out, wanted to try and get to know her, to learn about that magic that drew him even deeper into her. He ran his tongue along his lower lip, and shifted again. “I mean… if we’re going to talk about books, we should find somewhere to go where we can talk a little more freely.”

There was a long pause and he could see her fingers fidget with the hem of her top. “Are you asking me out?”

“Just to grab a bite.” He shrugged and tried to look casual, but he was certain she could hear the slight waver in his voice. “My treat?”

Raven took a deep breath and let it out slowly, reaching behind her to a small wallet. She fished through it and handed him an ID. “I’m obligated by law to tell you I’m a Meta.”

“I know.” Dick pushed the ID back to her, his stomach turning at the thought of that stupid law. It felt like they were branding part of the population, us-versus-them. It broke his heart, to see the anticipation in her eyes, as if she was waiting for his rejection. Instead he barely glanced at the ID, and pushed it back to her. “But you’re only obligated to tell me you’re a Meta if you plan on going somewhere with me.”

“I know a good ramen shop that caters to my kind.” She tucked the ID back in her wallet. “But they fill up quick on a Friday night, so if it’s something you’re still interested in doing… we should leave soon.”

He couldn’t stop the grin that split his lips. “Well… okay. Then let’s go get dinner, Raven.”

Her cheeks darkened and Dick watched as she pushed at her hair again, unable to look him in the eyes. Raven picked up her things, and Dick heard her mutter more to herself than to him. “You say my name like it’s something precious. It’s just a bird.”

“I happen to like ravens.” He stood up and followed her towards the door, feeling like the world was turning to mush under his feet. His head was too light and his heart beating too fast, and god help him, he couldn’t stop grinning like an idiot. He had never expected this night to go like this, but he wasn’t going to argue. He’d let Raven take him to the end of the world if she wanted. 

She glanced behind her, and her magic snapped at her fingertips before she buried her hands in her shirt again. “No one likes ravens, they’re symbols of death.”

“Mm. We should really discuss this over dinner. I have some varying thoughts on that.” Dick held open the door for her and smiled, his whole soul vibrating with excitement. “So… ramen?”

The blush on her face looked painful, but there, on her lips, was the gentlest tug of a genuine smile. 

for life’s not a paragraph

And death i think is no parenthesis 

[artistic-writer]

The Paradox of Light :: CS AU : Rated E :: part 4

Title: The Paradox of Light by @artistic-writer​ Summary: Imagine having one person, one constant, one love in your life that holds your head when you go under the surface. They will be there forever, holding your hand through everything life can throw at the pair of you, but what happens when a crack forms? What happens when it grows into something neither of you can control? What happens when the one person who was there to guide you becomes an obstacle and rather than hold you up, they pull you down? How do you find your way out of the darkness without your light? Rating: E Warnings: Angst, hurt/comfort, alcoholism/alcohol abuse, sexual addiction, domestic violence, fighting, choking, erotic asphyxiation (use in a non-informed manner), depression, death of Liam Jones, panic attacks, PTSD, attempted rape/non-con/dub-con, stab wounds, bar fights, rehab/AA meetings

- but there is a happy ending to this story, i promise.

Author’s Note: I missed this ficversary because of everything that is going on in the world right now, but its been in the plan to re-release it as a multichapter for some time.  It’s A LOT otherwise and whilst I initially always intended this to be a one shot, because I wrote it in one go, its not logical to expect people to stop and read so many words in one go.  The lovely fanart by @itsfabianadocarmo​ features in all chapters, so go show her some love!

PLEASE HEED THE WARNINGS!!  This fic has a lot of them for a reason.  If you want to ask about any, please don’t be afraid to message me.

Part Four [ below the cut ]

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

Two months ago

There were certain times when Killian never went out to drink and those were the happier times, when Emma felt like they might be like they once were. His beloved soccer team’s semi-final match against their biggest rival was one of those times, however, he was never far from the bitterness of an alcoholic beverage. The game hadn’t even reached half time yet and he had already plowed his way through a six pack, the bottles still wet on the outside from the condensation that had not had time to evaporate.

It was a rare occurrence for both of them to be home at the same time. Killian often worked late, heading straight to Will’s bar, and if he was home early, Emma nearly always had a late shift at the precinct that meant they would not cross paths again until the next day. Knowing he would be home because of the game meant Emma could arrange this evening, spend some time together, just the two of them, and hopefully begin to mend the pieces of their relationship.

It wasn’t exactly that their relationship was completely broken, but neither could deny that it was cracking and coming apart because of their ignorance to their own destruction. But tonight, Emma had a plan, to secure the edges of their love before it split and frayed beyond salvation.

And it began with interrupting the half time interlude dressed in only lingerie.

“Oh, Killian…” Emma sang, walking down the stairs as silently as her bare feet would allow on the wooden steps.

“Hmm?” He grunted, gulping another mouthful of beer from a new bottle and frowned at some slow motion replay on the screen with a disgruntled noise.

“Are you busy?” Emma cooed sweetly, padding across the floor and letting her fingers trail along the back of the couch where he was sitting. She stepped sideways, her freshly shaved legs smooth as they rubbed against each other. It wasn’t the only thing that Emma had rid of all hair and her lips quirked up at the corners at the thought of Killian seeing her.

“No, It’s half time,” He mumbled against the cold, glass lip of the bottle in his hand. He was slouched back into the cushions, his shirt having been discarded in excitement over a goal, and his lounge pants slung low on his hips. Hair covered his entire torso, the droplets of water from the outside of his beer sitting in tiny bubbles on the thatch that poked out of his waistband, and as she walked past Emma couldn’t help but rake her nails over his shoulders.

“Oh good,” she purred, reaching the end of the couch and stepping into his peripheral . She knew he could see her. His stomach caved in from his intake of air and he almost choked on the swig of beer in his mouth, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth and turning to look at her with a slack jawed expression.

“Fuck me, Swan,” he stammered, fingers gripping the bottle in his hand so tightly his fingernail beds turned pink under the hard surface.

“That’s the plan.” Emma sauntered around the couch until she was standing before him. He licked his lips and ran his tongue over the edge of his teeth, eyes roaming over her dressed in a brand new piece of lingerie he had never seen before. It was stunning, a blood red corset made of bone and lace that left nothing to the imagination, hidden underneath a sheer black long sleeve gown, but it’s most defining feature was a black lace halter neck choker that made Killian grin salaciously.

“Nice outfit,” he smirked, bouncing the balls of his feet on the carpet in front of him, fidgeting as blood rushed to his groin.

“Oh, this old thing?” Emma rolled her eyes, flicking her loosely curled hair over the back of her shoulder.

“That is not old,” Killian bit his bottom lip, his eyebrow bobbing up his forehead. He motioned towards her with the beer bottle, extending his arm.

“How can you be so sure?” Emma took a step forward, shrugging her shoulders and letting the gown silently flutter to the ground behind her.

Killian took another swig of his beer, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on Emma the whole time. “I would have noticed,” he said smugly.

Emma tilted her head to her chin, looking down her torso, barely able to see her feet over the balconette bustier that so comfortably housed her ample breasts. “You like it?” She blinked, opening her eyes to meet his once more without lifting her head. Her teeth worried her bottom lip, turning the plump skin white as she bit down, and she swivelled her hips sideways.

Killian’s gaze drifted to the profile of her ass, the skin bare and the string of her thong disappearing between her cheeks. It took everything he had to keep his hand on the bottle and not reach for her curves, his fingers itching with the memory of how she felt under his touch. He flexed his fingers, rubbing his hand along his thigh and hating the way the cotton of his pants felt nothing like her skin. With one last chug of his beer the bottle was empty, and he swallowed hard, a tiny droplet escaping his lips and rolling down the lengthening hair of his beard. All he could do was exhale, hard and forced, his chest heaving in another breath.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Emma smirked, giving him a wink and slipping out of his view towards the stairs. He sat still, composing himself she was sure, until she heard the thud of the empty bottle against the coffee table and then silence as he switched the game off. Emma lifted her leg onto the first step, turning back to offer him a coy smile. “Are you just going to sit there all night?” She teased as she ascended the stairs.

For a man who was already half cut, Killian moved like a rocket, springing to his feet and bolting across the space between them in less than three strides. Emma squeaked, feet pounding the stairs as she ran, pulling herself on the handrail to increase her speed. When Killian stumbled she giggled and took advantage of the distance she manage to put between them, flying through their bedroom door and turning to face him just as she reached their bed. Killian made it to the door and leaned on the frame, muscles bulging at his biceps and breathing heavily, his hair flopped over his forehead, the grin he had been wearing now replaced with a feral, cat like stare.

He was stalking her like prey and Emma had never felt so exhilarated.

“You are a siren,” he said accusingly, reaching up to scratch at his almost full length beard. It sported a few grey hairs, streaks of white mixed in with his usual gingery hues that accented the silver that had formed over his pointed ears.

“And you are too slow,” Emma rolled her bottom lip between her teeth, hands on her hips. “Must be the grey,” she winked.

Killian took a step into the room, straightening up and reaching for the door. He wrapped his fingers around the hard, wooden panel and slammed it closed behind him, smirking when Emma jumped a little with anticipation. “Silver fox, right?” He whispered darkly as he approached.

Emma nodded, letting her eyes roam over his naked torso once more. Her skin hummed as he approached and a soft whimper fell from her mouth as she noticed his arousal tenting his pants. He stopped inches from her and his manly scent invaded every one of her senses immediately, making the blood pound in her ears and her core ache.

“Don’t they mate for life?” Killian purred, his breath hot on her face. He pushed his hands into the side of his loungewear, pushing the material down over his thighs and letting them pool at his feet. She swallowed hard, not caring that her plan had been turned around on her, and rubbed her thighs together to alleviate the tension between her legs.

Completely naked, Killian was exposed. It had been so long since they had played this sort of game, made love, seen each other naked even, and her eyes flitted over his scars. They were everywhere, littering his body and a constant reminder of what had happened to him overseas, and Emma had forgotten how many he actually had. She didn’t care, he was exactly how she wanted him, each divot, rippled and raised bit of flesh a trophy of how hard he had fought to get back to her.

Emma lifted her gaze, fixing her stare into the oceanic depths of Killian’s eyes. “Forever,” she whispered.

He paused, his heart stopping for a second as he comprehended her words. He looked away sheepishly and gulped. “After everything?”

“Killian, please, don’t,” Emma said softly, closing the gap between them and pressing herself against the firmness of his chest. Her fingers tangled themselves in his beard, curling into the wiry hair and gently tugging his face up to look at her once more. “Don’t. Not tonight. Let’s just…”

“I know,” He said with a weak smile. “I don’t deserve you.”

“You’re right,” Emma laughed, pushing herself from his body and watching his expression change instantly. It became more playful, his eyebrow jumping up on his face and his cock twitched back to life. “I should just…” She turned from him, still feeling his eyes burning into her back. She reached at her side and pulled down the zip of the corset agonizingly slowly, the clicking sound almost lost over Killian’s groan of frustration. “...take this off,” Emma dropped the barely there lace corset to the floor and peeked over her shoulder.

“Bloody Hell,” Killian ground out through a clenched jaw.

“And maybe this?” Emma hooked her thumbs into the waistband strap of her thong, teasing the material down over the curve of her ass and watching Killian’s resolve slowly disappear. He was so worked up she could practically see his heart thundering in his chest, vibrating his chest hair and making his skin come to life.

“Maybe I could help?” Killian growled, his feet planted to the floor, his whole body paralyzed when Emma bent over as she pushed the material to her knees, letting it go and fall the rest of the way unaided. She stretched forward over the bed and a moan tumbled from her lips when her nipples brushed the comforter and sent them into rock hard peaks. Emma slithered across the top of the sheets, careful to keep her legs closed, and gave him another sultry look over her shoulder.

“I can think of a much better way you can help me,” Emma purred, rolling over onto her back and palming her breasts. “Do you want to know how?” She cooed, beckoning him with a finger.

Killian just growled again, the sound vibrating deep in his chest as he crawled up onto the bed and over her naked form. Emma sucked in a breath, carding her fingers into his beard again and leveling his gaze with hers. He hovered above her, his body not touching hers but both of them could feel the electricity radiating from their skin, shocking the others to attention. “I know exactly how,” he said teasing her bottom lip with his, offering her the softness of his lips only to tear it away at the last second.

Emma grinned, clawing the sides of his face and arching her back off of the bed, desperate to feel his thatched chest tickling her sensitive nipples. Killian moved back, denying her pleasure with a sly smirk. “Roll over,” he rasped, finally pressing his lips to hers, quickly giving her a taunting kiss that he knew would leave her wanting more. She chased his lips when he pulled away, pouting her bottom lip out with a sulk.

“You’re a bad boy,” Emma chuckled playfully as she turned, resting her body on its side. Killian moved into the space behind her, his erection rubbing the crease of her ass and his lips finding the skin of her shoulder, sucking the flesh into a purple bruise almost immediately.

“You have no idea,” Killian whispered, his nose nuzzled into the space behind her ear and making the hairs there stand to attention with his words. They were enough to send her body into a shiver that was only eased by the huge arms wrapped around her and his hands trailing down the curve of her breasts and over the jut of her hips. Resting completely in his embrace, head on his bicep and with no space between them, Emma felt more loved than she had in a long time.

“What are you going to do to me?” Emma begged, feigning innocence. She knew exactly what he was going to do, she had known from the second he pressed his body to hers and had ghosted his hand over her stomach, moving lower but never touching where she wanted him to the most. Killian inserted his hand between her clenched thighs and lifted her leg back and over his hip, the half excited half impeded moan that left Emma’s mouth instantly surging to his groin.

“I’m going to…” he began darkly against the side of her face, his breath almost louder than his words. Killian slid his fingers down her inner thigh, so close to her exposed bundle of nerves that Emma tried to clamp her thighs around his hand but Killian stopped her by pulling her leg back onto his hip.

“Killian, please,” Emma whined, moving his arm she was laying on so that he was cradling one of her breasts in his hand.

“I can smell you,” he said gruffly, kneading the flesh in his palm. “You are so wet I can practically taste you, Swan.”

“Please…” Emma writhed again, the tightness between her open thighs a cruel torture that only Killian could devise. He angled his hips and his length smoothed over her entrance, poking at her clit before he withdrew and the sensation disappeared. Emma gasped and Killian held her tighter, repeating his thrust but never entering her. The angle was perfect, the ultra responsive nerve endings just inside of her exposed to his assault every time he rolled his hips.

“What do you want, Emma?” He panted into her ear, his voice like fire, licking at her need and burning away her insides.

“You,” she almost cried, the feel on his length sliding over her entrance becoming too much too quickly. She was so close and he hadn’t even entered her yet. “I want you.”

Killian reached between her legs, enjoying the gasp from her lips as he purposely brushed the heel of his palm over her clit and helped himself in. Her warmth sucked him in, tight and slick, and it finally felt like they were on their way home. Only, as soon as he began to move, the darkness inside of Emma reared its head and her body cried out for more of the self deprecating behaviour she craved.

“Choke me,” she whimpered between his thrusts, turning her head to catch his eye. Killian slowed him movements, sweat beading his forehead under the flop of his fringe as he fought to compose himself. Even her slightest movements were sending him towards the brightness of climax and he was a little confused by her words, his brow knitting together and he shook.

“Are you sure?” He gasped, his balls tightening at the mere mention of her words.

“Do it,” Emma moved his arm from her bosom until his hand was on her throat, the relief washing over her instantly. She felt like she could finally let go, let herself bathe in the brilliance only he could bring her, and when his grip tightened, her eyes rolled back in her head and she felt her entire body go limp in his grasp. “Don’t stop until I’m there,” she told him firmly as he began to move once more.

“I won’t,” Killian promised through a grunt, hips pistoning into her. The hand around her neck grew tighter, fingertips creating a line of inevitable bruises, the pain receptors under each sparking to life. Emma’s mouth fell open even wider as she gasped, her lungs burning with every breath, the lack of oxygen sending her into a panic that translated into pleasure everywhere else in her body.

Killian doubled his efforts, muscles bulging around her shoulders as he pulled her head to his chest, eager to give her the enlightenment she desired. Emma felt faint, the edges of her vision blurring and the heaviness in her limbs disappearing. Her lips tingled and the feeling in her legs disappeared, travelling up her body until with a frown she could feel nothing else and was shrouded in black.

There was no light where she was.

No warmth or comfort, just bleakness and the cold.

The deafening sound of silence, the empty expanse of her mind engulfing her completely.

“Emma!” She heard Killian shout but his voice was distant and muffled like he was underwater. She was floating, specks of light pricking behind her eyes each time she heard her name. “Emma! Baby, wake up!” Killian’s voice grew louder and she felt herself get pulled into a different position, a huge flat palm gently tapping the side of her cheek. “Come on, Emma, come back to me.”

She gasped, like she had erupted from the surface of a lake where she was surely drowning, inhaling hard and coughing as her eyes flew open and she clawed out at nothing. She felt flesh and hair, her hand colliding with what she assumed was Killian’s face as she blinked her vision into clarity.

“Emma!” Killian screamed, his voice full of relief. He bundled her spluttering figure, somewhat tinier than before, into his arms, holding her across his lap and rocking her back and forth like he was soothing a child. “Oh my God,” he whispered, lips pressed to her hairline, the words muffled against her skin.

“What...what happened?” Emma rasped, her voice physically changed and deeper. She was confused and her head pounded with a migraine like nothing she had ever felt before. She winced, closing her eyes to block out the glow of the bedroom lamp overhead.

“I am so sorry,” Killian whimpered, almost crying.

“Killian…” Emma choked out again, ignoring the scratch in her throat as she swallowed awkwardly. “What happened?” She repeated, stilling his rocking motion when she tried to sit up out of his embrace.

“I...you…” Killian stammered, his breath hitching between words. “I…” he tried again, his face screwing up as his emotion got too much for him and his tears spilled out of his eyelids. He buried his face in his hands, the sounds he made similar to when he had found out Liam was dead, like an animal caught in a trap in the most excruciating pain.

“Hey, hey,” Emma grabbed his hands instantly, pulling them from his face and cradling his head in her hands. “It’s okay,” she said softly, her own voice catching in her throat.

Killian launched himself into her arms, pulling her to him tightly as best he could in their sitting position on the bed, and Emma felt the tension leave him on a breath. “I didn’t mean to…” he sobbed into her shoulder, licking the tears from his lips quickly and holding the back of her head like it was a precious stone. “You passed out, Emma,” he pulled back from her and wiped away his tears with the knuckle of his thumb, pushing the skin of his cheek across his face until it was dry. “What if you…What if I had...” He paused, pinching his eyes closed and chasing away the thought of losing her at his own hand. “We went too far.”

Emma sat in silence, looking at the panicked look of his confession, the searing pain of his still visible handprint branding her neck. He was right, they had taken things too far this time. They had been dancing at the edge of darkness unaffected for too long, their reward worth much more than the risks, only now they had fallen into the depths and there was no beacon to guide them home.

“I’m okay,” Emma assured him again but she knew it was a lie. Things had changed between them and she knew that they had to change.

 One month ago

For the last four weeks, there had been a tension between them. Emma knew it was her fault to a degree. She had pushed Killian too far, helped him cross a line he had promised he never would, all because she selfishly wanted her escapism in the form of her high. She craved it, still, but had forced herself to quit cold turkey from that day, the thick, purple hand mark around her throat a constant reminder of why. Killian had felt the most guilt, ramping up his drinking habits almost immediately, his rage increasing overnight with his feelings of inadequacy.

Emma had gone from seducing him to turning away, shying from his affections because she was petrified of needing more. She didn’t understand her addiction and couldn’t fathom how or when she had become so dependant on the release Killian could give her. All she knew was that it was something they needed to fix together but Emma was struggling to reach Killian and make him see that they needed help. Like any dependant, he thought he could fix things himself and they did not need the intervention of an outside party.

If Emma had only known how the rest of the day was going to pan out.

That morning they had talked a little about dinner and Emma had agreed to cook some sort of slow cooked casserole as it was one of Killian's favourites. A good, hearty, warming meal was just what they needed as the bitterness in the air had begun to creep in earlier in the evenings, Killian’s late night bar antics leaving him vulnerable to the cold. Alcohol had a way of tricking the brain into thinking the body was warm, so when he promised he would make a start on their fix by arriving home before dinner, Emma threw herself into prep.

When she heard the key turn in the door before nine that night, she smiled to herself, a real joy washing over her as she idly chopping vegetables in the kitchen. Maybe they could be saved after all.

“Swan?” Killian called, like so many other nights her had returned home. It was like he needed to hear her voice, make sure he had made it home and she was still there.

“In the kitchen,” Emma called back, fixing her gaze on the vegetable she was chopping, careful not to slip and cut herself. She heard him stumble in the foyer, grumbling to himself when he struggled to toe off his boots, and she lost her smile immediately. “How was work?” She called softly.

“Same old, same old,” Killian grunted, leaning against the dining table after he had appeared in the kitchen. His shirt was dishevelled yet again, his hair and beard unruly and as he shrugged off his jacket, Emma saw the pink tinge to his knuckles.

“How are your colleagues?” Emma prompted, averting her eyes back to her chopping.

“Chatty,” Killian bit out, evidently angry about something. It took everything Emma had not to turn around and comfort him the way she had been, the way they had been comforting each other, and as if reading her mind, Killian scoffed, a sound of disgust leaving the back of his throat in a guttural tone. “You want to make them stop?”

Emma stopped her chopping, resting the knife on the countertop and turning to face him, her arms folded over her chest and her feet crossed at the ankles. She was wearing just a pair of leggings, warm but practical with a pair of thick, slipper style socks and a small plain tee. She sighed a little, looking down at her wiggling toes. “You know I can’t do that.”

“That’s right,” Killian sneered. “You got better.”

“I didn’t get better,” Emma snapped, tightening her arms across her chest defensively. “I got wise.”

“Wise?” Killian laughed maniacally. “To me?”

“To us,” Emma said firmly, staring him down.

“Oh, I see,” Killian raised his voice, stepping towards her and wobbling a little on unsteady feet. “You don’t need your fix anymore so you don’t need me anymore,” he spat, jabbing an accusing finger at her.

“That’s not it,” Emma said calmly.

“Isn’t it?” Killian arched his neck, looking down at her suspiciously. “We don’t have sex anymore,” she shrugged, waving his hands around as if an audience was listening to him. “You haven’t kissed me in days, Emma. Fuck, we don’t even talk anymore!”

“We talk,” Emma nodded but he cut her off with another disapproving scoffing noise.

“Barely!” He squeaked, his volume rising a bit more.

“Look, it’s not my fault you are drunk all of the time! How am I supposed to talk to you, Killian? Tell me that. How am I supposed to talk to you when you are so full of rum you reek of the stuff!” It was Emma’s turn to shout now, her anger rising like bile in her throat.

“Oh, right, but it was okay for you to take what you wanted, huh?” Killian took a last step in her direction, his breath sour and bitter against her face as he shouted. “You didn’t seem to mind what I smelled like as long as you got what you needed!”

Emma barely lifted her head, looking at him with just the movement of her eyes. “Don’t,” she warned him, her voice low and her jaw clenched.

“Don’t what, Emma?” Killian boomed. “Don’t tell you the truth?” He laughed, shaking his head and little. “You get angry at me because you know I am right, and you can’t get angry at yourself. You are a fucking hypocrite, and you know it.”

“So what if I am?” Emma screamed at him, her cheeks flushing with prickles of red and her ear tips burning. He was standing so close to her she could practically feel him on her skin. “At least I realised it was wrong.”

Killian laughed, throwing his head back and planting his hands on his hips. It was a fake laughter, forced and evil, and it made Emma feel so small the sting of tears pricked at her eyelids. “Emma, you were willing to almost die to get your high. Don’t lecture me about what is wrong.”

“Drinking is not the same as sex,” Killian huffed. “You used me for your own emotional gain, and for what? Did it fix any of your damn problems, huh? Did it bring Liam back? No. We are still fucked up.”

A silence fell between them, the sound of their rapid heartbeats pounding in their ears on each breath. Emma stared at her feet, gripping the counter behind her for some sort of stability, Killian’s words cutting into her deeper than he probably realised. Killian moved first, stepping to the side with a disgusted shake of his head, and pulled open the cabinet behind her.

“What are you doing?” Emma snapped spitefully.

“Getting a drink,” Killian’s hand reappeared with a half consumed bottle of dark rum clutched tightly in his fingers. He slammed the door and Emma jumped, her eyes pinching closed and a feeling of dread seeping into her chest. She swallowed hard, watching the man she no longer recognised pull the cork from the bottle with his teeth and spit it across the room. He tossed his head back as he drank hungrily, finishing the rest of the bottle before he even needed to breathe.

“Is that necessary?” Emma raised an eyebrow at him.

“With all this judgement?” Killian quipped, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Absolutely!” He sang, slamming the empty bottle on the counter.

“You’re a bastard,” Emma snivelled, the lump in her throat making her voice squeak and her lip tremble.

“Finally!” He roared, again addressing his invisible audience. “I was wondering how long it would take you to cry!”

“Fuck you, Killian!” Emma shouted at him, leaning forward and smacking him hard in the chest. She knew the wounds from the bar fight were healed in the upper layers but they had taken longer in the sub layers of his skin and they were sore. He winced, rolling his shoulder backwards to absorb some of the blow, but giving her a cock sure grin that sent her into a further rage.

“You don’t like to hear the truth, do you Swan?” He jabbed. “You know I am right and it tears you up that a fucking drunk can see what you can’t!”

“You don’t know shit about the truth!” Emma screeched, fists balled at her sides.

“I know you hurt, we both did, and I know that the only way you could make it disappear was to fuck. How many times did we fuck for that reason, Emma? How many times did you use me?” Killian stepped back into her space again, eyes roaming over her tight fitting clothes that accented all of the curves of her body. He reached out his hand and let his fingers rest on her hip but Emma stepped back.

“Get off of me,” she sobbed, her voice low and full of rage, her back hitting the counter as she pulled away.

“Come on,” Killian jeered, trapping her against the counter with the weight of his body. “Don’t fight me, Swan. I know you are hurting now,” he said sickly sweet, his eyes watching his hand as he ran his knuckles down the curve of her cheek to wipe away her tears. Emma turned her face away, her nose turning up when the smell of stale smoke and ales filled her nostrils. “I can make it go away.”

“Killian, no,” Emma said firmly, planting her hands on his chest but unable to move him backward.

“Just think about how it will feel,” Killian purred against the side of her face, fingers gripping her lower jaw and turning her face back to his. The fear in her eyes set him alight and Emma felt him harden in his jeans, his erection pressing into her groin and evident through her leggings. “I know you want to feel.”

“No,” Emma said again, her resolve firm. “Not like this.”

“This is exactly how you made me feel,” Killian growled, releasing her jaw and reaching between them to fumble with the button of his jeans. Emma’s breath hitched in her throat, heat and sweat tingling at the base of her spine with panic. He grabbed her hand and shoved it into his boxers, closing her fingers around his length and giving himself a few strokes, his blunt fingers digging into her wrist so hard she cried in pain as she tried to pull away. “Used. Worthless. Like nothing,” Killian grunted, stroking himself harder with Emma’s hand.

“You are worthless!” Emma shouted at him and he paused his movements, mouth agape and glassy eyes darkened with fury. She pulled her hand free and pushed against his chest again, his body giving a little under her assault which made him take a shaky step back. “You are nothing!” Emma spat.

“You ungrateful cunt!” Killian seethed, surging forward and grabbing her by the throat with both hands. Emma screamed in fear, cowering away from his touch and raising her arms to defend herself. “I gave you everything and you won’t even give me this one little thing!” He sneered, sliding his hands to her shoulders and spinning her away from him.

“Help!” Emma called out, her cries falling on deaf ears. It was Friday night and their neighbours would be out for dinner or some other such activity. They were alone. She was alone.

Killian leaned his entire weight onto her back, pressing his elbow into the space between her shoulder blades until Emma had no choice but to lay face down on the cold countertop. Her tears pooled under her cheek, Killian’s hand holding the back of her head so tightly and making sure she was trapped. “If you won't give it to me,” he slurred darkly, grabbing the back of Emma’s leggings and pulling them and her panties down over her behind in one rough action that made her flush hot with horror. “I’ll take it!”

Emma was dreaming. She had to be. There was no way that the man she loved and had loved for over half her life would do this to her. There was no way that Killian Jones would let himself be so blinded by resentment, be so livid, that he would take it out on the woman he loved. Emma was terrified, the events unfolding in slow motion and the sounds of his hateful rant overwhelmed by the buzz in her ears.

That was when she saw her reflection, looking back at her, eyes puffy and red, from the polished steel blade of the knife. She didn’t recognise the person she had become, a meek, mousy thing without the strength to find her own light, but she would be damned if she didn’t have the strength left in her to determine her own destiny.

Emma kicked out, taking advantage of a split second in time when Killian swayed backward again, his inebriation on her side. Her foot connected with something hard and she felt him let her go as he stumbled back, doubled over in pain. She bolted upright, tears blinding her wide eyes and hands shaking as she grabbed the knife from beside the pile of freshly chopped vegetables and held it out in front of her.

“Stay the fuck away from me!” She wailed in a quivering voice, her hair messed up and only still half in a ponytail. She was trembling from head to toe, her adrenaline off the charts and she struggled to find the breath she needed to say anything else.

Killian sank to his knees with his hands covering his partly exposed member that had begun to shrink back into its flaccid state. He let out a groan, eyes tightly closed and chords of his neck straining to fight away the pain that had invaded his groin area. There was sweat across his brow and his face had paled. He opened his eyes, the clear blue back once more that made Emma’s heart swell with solace, and then promptly fell forward onto his hands and threw up a foamy, dark brown liquid concoction of rum and bile.

Killian coughed, the sound hacking in the back of his throat each time he alternated between clutching his stomach and his manhood, the dull aching sensation jumping from one to the other. He finally stopped retching and sat back up on his heels, exhausted and drained, arms hanging loosely at his sides and face wet from tears. Emma tightened her grip on the knife, fingers constantly repositioning themselves over the handle to get a firmer hold, but when Killian looked up at her with nothing but remorse in his eyes, she relaxed a little and let out a tense breath she had been holding.

He was pathetic, physically drained, a mere shell of the man he portrayed to the world. Killian was broken, a million pieces of who he used to be scattered all over the world. Some he had lost abroad, flashes of horrific memories imprinted on the back of his eyelids from service and an inner voice that never let him sleep. Some he had lost more recently, buried with his brother, never to return, just like the man he had called his hero. He blinked away his tears, his heart falling to his stomach when he realised he had finally hit the bottom of the bottle, the end of the road, and was at the lowest he could ever get in his miserable life.

There would be no coming back from this, the whites of Emma’s knuckles and the whites of her eyes evidence of her distress. How could he have let the demons win? How could he have been so weak? He had broken his promise, to Liam and more importantly Emma, and he in no way deserved mercy. He was now a slave to Emma’s retribution, the glint of the knife in her hand as she towered over him all he could focus on. He would willingly accept any punishment she saw fit if it meant she would spare him the ache in his heart he knew was coming.

“Emma, I…” he whispered through his tears.

“Get out,” Emma said darkly, tossing the knife back onto the countertop and reaching for her leggings, pulling them back up her shaking legs to try and regain some sense of dignity.

Killian’s chest heaved with another sob, his emotions on full display. “But I have nowhere to go,” he pleaded weakly, his beard dripping with foamy spittle and mucus dripping from his nostrils. He had nowhere, no one but her to run to, but he had crossed a line that not even she thought they could come back from. Emma looked at him and at what he had become. What she had let him become.

“This is so hard,” Emma snivelled, wiping her nose with her forearm. She knew what she had to do, even if it meant a sacrifice neither of them would have ever made before.

“Emma, no,” Killian implored, shuffling on his knees through the patch of cold, putrid sick between them but not even caring. “It doesn’t have to be,” he panicked, reaching out for her.

“Killian…” Emma sobbed, looking away.

“Emma, please, don’t do this. Don’t leave me,” Killian cried, his words catching in his throat, watery and muffled from his sorrow. He clutched at her legs and through the fabric of her leggings he felt Emma turn rigid under his touch.

“Killian, please, this is already hard enough,” Emma pushed against his shoulders weakly, her hands moving of their own accord to lace her fingers through his ruffled hair and pull his face against the warmth of her body. She felt him sigh, his cries filling the room, the cries of a man she didn’t even recognise anymore.

“Emma…” He began but she cut him off quickly.

“Look at you,” Emma cried. “This isn’t you. I can’t watch you destroy yourself anymore,” Emma sniffed, pulling his face from her sweater and tilting his head so he was looking up at her with wide, watery, childlike eyes.

“I’ll get help. I promise, I’ll get help,” Killian nodded in desperation.

“I don’t want to give up on you…” Emma told him softly.

“So don’t,” Killian interrupted her eagerly, his chest shuddering with another rack of sobs.

“You scare me,” she cried, the honesty in her voice shocking even her. Killian looked up at her and he was small, innocent and as much a victim of his own actions as she was, but he would never change if she didn’t find the strength. “I have to go, Killian,” Emma smiled weakly down at him, her tears falling down her cheeks. This time she did not stop them, letting the salt filled droplets fall from her chin. She brushed her thumb over the apple of his cheek and wiped at the tears that had burned lines into his scruffy, unkempt stubble littered face. “You can’t mend with me here. I can’t help you anymore.”

That night Emma walked out of their home, away from the blackness in her heart and the turmoil that had torn them apart for the last seven months. She didn’t look back, taking just a few personal items and the clothes on her back. She didn’t kiss him goodbye and he didn’t try to kiss her, because they both knew that if they had the faintest of contact it would set the fires burning within them once again and they would be back where they began, scrambling for the surface under a sea of sorrow.

This wasn’t her home anymore. It hadn’t been for a long time. Now New York was calling her name, a city full of lights where she could get lost and bathe in the eternal brightness of being nobody forever.

[ducknotinarow]

Bailey was staring at Richard over the top of his glasses; the Rooster was doing work, for once, but it was needed. Holidays were coming up, so that means new sets, and new items. Bailey had something in mind for a new item, but, he needed a little word with a certain someone, "Richyyyy," He coos, "So, I've been thinking of new flavours, and well," He soon smiles at them, fluttering his eyelashes, "Can we use your coffee to make lube?"

Richard was drinking his coffee very aware of Bailey peering over thier glasses at him. You could see the gears working in the rooster head Richard just left them be though, it was differently different when seeing the rooster in work mode. Besides Richard wasn't going to stop them from staring at him.

It was interesting to see this side of Bailey. Seeing him being serious for once, probably took up all thier energy with hkw they are lazy pretty much the rest of the time. Sipping from his coffee as he hears Bailey finally speak up. The coo in thier voice is enough for Richard to know they want something. Eh if its peanut butter sure they be working so hard he should be allowed to go all out-

"Can we use your coffee to make lube"

Richard chocked on his coffee a moment turning around to cough and clear his throat. He wasn't listening, so the question was a bit sudden to him. After no longer breathing in coffee,...hmm if only he could?

He looked to Bailey a moment "you mean for floavors?" He thought it over a moment "hmm I dont see why not, I trust you I know you wouldn't soil my own branding after all" he answered and got up to get a new cup for himself.

[lancetuckershairgel]

Insatiable Part 1

Dark! Jefferson x Reader (she/her)

Requested by Anon

Warnings: PLEASE ADHERE TO THESE AND DO NOT @ ME WITH YOUR BULLSHIT BECAUSE YOU CANT NOT READ SOMETHING THAT WILL TRIGGER YOU.

Sex pollen, pre meditated administration and abudction, stalking, masturbation, DUBCON.

I'm trying not to make this extremely dark and noncon but since this turned into a multi part story, I'm not sure what other parts will contain. I will post warnings accordingly.

Author Note: I didn't plan for this to turn into a multi part and I'm not sure how many parts there will be. I hope Anon likes it. Thank you for the request, I love my dark mysterious boy so much 😏 On mobile so typos are apologized for in advance. Feedback is greatly desired.

Jefferson knew from the moment he saw her in the bookstore that he had to have her. He had discreetly stalked her for weeks after their first encounter, mapping her patterns, the places she frequented, the people she talked to. He knew where she lived and where she worked. He knew the name of the bar she went to every Friday night, even the type of drink she ordered. An expensive brand of scotch, neat. He expected her to be a fruity with an umbrella kind of girl. Curious. He had become addicted to her, craving her like a drug and he hadn't even spoken a word to her yet. 

Now he stood over her unconscious body. Slumped, bound to a chair in the center of his living room, her hair hung in her face. He wanted to brush it out of the way but he didn't want to wake her just yet.

Soon she began to stir, her eyes fluttering as she lifted her head. A groan escaped her throat only to be stopped by the scarf gag tied around her head. She blinked, shaking the hair from her face, and her eyes widened at the realization that she was now captive in this man's home. 

Her mind raced with a frame by frame replay of how she ended up in this position. She remembered bumping into him at the grocery store, his pearly white grin as she apologized for being so distracted that she didn't see him, his notice of the contents of her cart and offer to have her over for dinner. It was the least she could do after hitting him with her cart, he had said. She remembered accepting and showing up to his elaborate mansion, in awe of such a big home for one man. He had prepared a dinner of steak, roasted vegetables, mashed potatoes from scratch, and cherry pie. She had complimented his cooking abilities and his almost flustered reaction to being given a compliment. She remembered looking around his living room, running her hand over the keys of the grand piano as he poured her a drink. Scotch, neat. She didn't connect that the drink was what she always ordered at the bar in memory of her late grandfather who always partaken of the beverage after dinner every night. He had feigned surprise when she sipped it expertly, not making a face at how strong it was. He had smiled when she told him the story as to why it was her favorite drink. 

The last thing she remembered was the purple flowers sitting in a vase on top of coffee table. The flowers were stunningly beautiful, something she had never seen before. She had bent to smell them and everything went black. 

She looked at him with wide eyes, jerking and n the ropes that held her to the chair. She screamed into the gag, the thickness of the scarf cutting off much of the sound. 

He slowly walked toward her, his black boots heavy on the hardwood floors. He stood, towering over her, and she cowered back as his hand reached out to stroke her hair. 

"I'm very sorry that you had to wake like this" 

His voice was velvet, calm and collected. As if this wasn't a strange situation for him at all. That scared her. 

"It's very important for you to remain calm until you understand the effects of the flower. Therefore I had to bind and gag you. You really can't be running off into the night in your current condition."

She furrowed her brow in confusion, looking up at him. Fear still filled her eyes but he noticed the glint of something else forcing its way through. He grinned and that's when she felt it. The warmth in her core, the tingling between her legs and the dampness in her underwear. She was aroused. She began another attempt at screaming, but he placed a finger to his lips. 

"Shhhh, Darling. There's really no need for that. I'll remove the scarf if you promise to speak calmly. Can you do that?"

She nodded and he reached up to pull the scarf away. 

"What did you do to me?" She asked, voice high pitched with panic "What do you want?"

Jefferson chuckled and shook his head. 

"I didn't do anything, Darling. You did this to yourself when you smelled my flowers." 

"What do you mean?!" 

"The flowers, better known unscientifically as the Rose of Midnight, give off a certain type of pollen" 

"What the hell does that mean?!" She asked

"The pollen from the dark roses cause a reaction in the person who touches or inhales it. They become incredibly aroused for a period of time and nothing can quench their desire."

Jefferson smirked at her and she squeezed her legs together. 

"You're feeling it now, aren't you? Your skin is flushed, your cheeks have become pink. Your eyes are clouded. Your breathing...it's becoming more shallow by the second."

She shook her head

"Oh Darling, there really is no use in denying it. It only gets stronger"

She bit back a whimper as he ran a finger across her cheek. 

"I'll be more than willing to help you alleviate some of that pressure you're feeling, if you wish"  Jefferson lowered his hand to cup her chin "Or I can leave you tied to this chair for the rest of the night, only to suffer. It's your choice."

"You're insane!" She spat, glaring at him

"Defiant, are we?" He chuckled "Suit yourself." 

Jefferson spun on his heel and left the room, closing the door behind him. She sat there, legs trembling as her arousal grew. Her mind was screaming at her to find a way out and she struggled in the ropes. Jefferson knew what he was doing, however, and the bindings were inescapable. After several minutes she gave up. The heat grew between her legs and she groaned, wiggling in the chair and rubbing her thighs together. What she wouldn't give to touch herself right now. 

"Jefferson!" She cried out after nearly thirty minutes of debating with herself 

He walked into the room and raised an eyebrow. 

"Ready to accept my help, Darling?"

"You wish" she glared "I need to use the bathroom"

He frowned, looking her over. 

"Please" she pleaded 

He untied her and led her down the hallway, a hand gripping her arm tightly. She went into the bathroom and closed the door. He shook his head when he heard the click of the lock. 

She instantly dropped her pants to her feet and began rubbing her clit vigorously. She covered her mouth with her hand to prevent herself from moaning as she came. Panting, she leaned against the wall, her legs shaking. 

"Fuck" She muttered under her breath 

She was still horny, now even more so than before. She thrust her fingers inside her wet hole and pumped them in and out until she came a second time. Still, she was unbelievably aroused. She gave up with a whine and pulled her pants up. She opened the door and scowled at Jefferson. 

"Feel any better?" He asked, boredom dripping from his tone

She didn't say anything. He stepped to her and grabbed her wrists. 

"Touching yourself isn't going to help" he said

"I-I didnt-" 

Her defense was cut short by Jefferson lifting her hand and taking the two fingers she had used to get herself off into his mouth. Her eyelids fluttered as he sucked on them, the taste of her arousal lingering. 

"Do you want my help or not?" He asked 

"I-i-" She stammered, looking up at him "Can you make it stop?" 

"No, unfortunately the pollen needs to wear off on its own." 

"How long will that be?!" 

"Depends. Varies from person to person, usually. Could be a few hours, or it could be a few days" 

Jefferson chuckled as her eyes widened. 

"I can, however, help you relieve some of that pressure. Sure you can do it yourself, but do you really want to be standing in that bathroom with your fingers shoved inside yourself for who knows how long?" 

She shook her head. 

"I didn't think so. Shall I lead you to the bedroom?" 

He extended his hand to her and she nodded, taking it.

Tag List: @lookwhatyoumademequeue @captainsbestgirl @noisy--brain @southernbell91 @spacemansam @jobean12-blog @anxiousamandapanda @marvelgirl7 @darkficsyouneveraskedfor

[justimajin]

Catching a Case of the Doctor Blues ⌠Part 13⌡

⇢ Pairing: Taehyung x Reader

⇢ Genre: Fluff, Comedy, Angst

↳ (2.3k) Doctor/Surgeon AU, Enemies to Lovers AU

⇢ Summary: When asked about Dr. Kim, a string of beautifully aligned words are ready spew from your lips. You could possibly go on and on about how his wonderful stubbornness wasn’t similar to talking to a brick wall, or how his observation skills were especially great in preparing your blood vessels for a drastic rupture or even how one gracious stare of his nearly had you on the verge of ripping your essential documents in half. But it seems that, perhaps, there was a lot more to Dr. Kim then what meets the eye…

⇢ Warnings: Dr. L/N and Dr. Kim actually having a decent conversation 

⇢  Moodboard Prologue Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12

⇢ Next Update: Tuesday, June 4

A patient in distress? 

You can comfort them.

Reports needing to be filed?

It’ll take you only five minutes.

Conducting an intensive operation? 

Save for a long string of hours, but otherwise a task that can be completed.

Inviting Dr. Kim to go get coffee with you?

A huge error sign is ringing inside your head, screaming at you for even trying to do this and screeching that there was no way a positive outcome could actually happen.

But you ignore that sign, acknowledging the advice that had been given to you these past couple of days and trying to make use of it. After all, you were even getting chance to go out somewhere that was other than work and this leads to the hope that perhaps the change of environment will allow your evening to run by smoothly and pleasantly.

However, that reassurance doesn’t do any wonders to solve the multitude of problems you keep facing.

What should you wear? What time should you get there by? What are you even going to talk about?

These questions aren’t very easily ignored and one of them roughly get an answer when you just opt out to wearing a pair of jeans combined with a simple black dress shirt. Though, as you take one glance in the mirror at your attire, you get the strange urge to just rip it all off and change back into your comfortable pajama’s; completely away from the impending interaction you had inevitably set up for yourself.

The constant glances at the clock are also taking their own toll on you when you have absolutely no clue if you should be early for polite reasons, exactly on time so you don’t appear to be waiting too long or late to show you don’t care for the meeting as much even though you clearly asked for it.

Taking one final glimpse in the mirror, you deeply inhale and try to calm your fleeting mess of emotions.

Stop freaking out Y/N, it’s just coffee with a colleague, you’ll have a nice time and strike some conversation, then you can come home and bury yourself for eternity for having this idea.

With one final stare, you crack the door open and hope to yourself that you hadn’t made a huge mistake.

You arrive exactly on time and grimace a bit on the inside when you find yourself alone standing outside the shop. But of course, you can’t expect that he’ll be there on time like you and now you begin wondering if coming late was the better optio-

“Dr. L/N?”

The voice shuts down your trail of thoughts and you’re pleasantly greeted to Dr. Kim, but taking in his appearance leaves you a bit perplexed.

It’s strange to say you’ve only seen Dr. Kim in normal clothing briefly when you were considerably sick, but even in that instance it was hard getting a glance at the doctor when you were spiking up at high temperatures and struggling to breathe from all the congestion.

However now, you can properly see him and he appears to dress similar to that specific day – a tucked in colourful shirt with elegant swirls printed on combined with a dark trench coat hanging off of him. Based on just observing him, you could tell that he was interested in high branded clothing when not adorning the white coloured coat. It’s a nice change, causing even you to admit that the man knows how to look proper even when meeting you like this.

“Shall we go inside?” He asks and you nod, slowly trailing behind him.

But then again as you reflect on the absence of the coat, it keeps dawning on you more that this encounter was definitely stepping outside of the usual day to day basis you were comfortably associated with.

The interior isn’t too bad, with freshly warm coffee being brewed in the background and the endless chitter chatter of others flowing into your ears. You’re extremely grateful for it, as it’s the only thing holding together the dead-panned silence resting within the air you share when somehow both of you have already managed to sit down and order, yet your gazes are firmly locked on your drinks.

Of course its awkward; it was something you had expected when this truly was out of the blue. Yet from all the instances you had with the man to the pieces of perspectives you have plucked out from your co-workers, you are certain that something has changed.

However, there is still a layer of built up confusion inside you on how to take the next step.

You quickly glance at him and widen your eyes when in fact, he wasn’t relaxed either with the situation just like you. His eyes occasionally drift off to the window outside and he lifts his hand ever so often to place on the side of his cheek, tapping his fingers mindlessly.

Although it was easy to tell he was nervous by the way it was radiating off his stance, your eyes drift over to the full cup of coffee before him.

“You…don’t like coffee?” You ask and his continued silence is the only indication of a response for you when he uncomfortably shifts.

Your eyes widen and with a sigh, you repress the abundant urge to kick yourself. You had asked him to come all the way here with you and yet failed to grasp that what you had in mind wouldn’t be to his liking.

But then…he could have refused…right?

You discard that thought, knowing what you needed to do now.

“Do you want to go outside?”

Although the shop was comfy with its appearance, the built up awkward tension and his natural dislike for the substance isn’t going to help you much. Your reasoning also dips into the fact that that he’s directly planted in front of you and with absolute certainty you can declare that talking like this isn’t going to be especially great for you in particular.

Heading out of the shop proves to be an idea you wished had before as the light breeze actually sooths down the inner turmoil brewing inside of you. You even acknowledge that it was doing Dr. Kim good as well when the two of you weren’t trapped and confined to a single space.

“Why don’t you like coffee?”

“Too bitter.” He explains, “It’s the same for alcohol, it’s too bitter for me.”

“Then why did you agree to get coffee?” If Dr. Kim didn’t like the idea, he could have easily expressed his dislike for it.

“Because you asked me to come.”

You widen your eyes, opening and closing your mouth several times.

“I see…” It’s all you can muster up to say.

“So you grew up in Daegu?” He makes eye contact with you and the sudden curiosity leaves you puzzled.

But you decide that there was no harm in telling him, “I lived there with my mother for a while before I was taken in by my aunt and moved here.”

“How...was your aunt?” He sounds deeply contorted in thought.

“My aunt…” Truth be told, you aren’t a huge fan of the woman, who was only borderline obsessed with the notion that she finally had someone to take care of. But it can simply be thrown away; all the love and support she had given to you when you had ultimately decided that becoming a doctor was the pursuit of your life. “Is a kind lady, she took me in when I was really young and had supported my dreams. But she could be overbearing at times.”

“Do you miss Daegu?”

You contemplate, turning to him, “Sometimes? I have a career here but I left a lot behind.” A distant look remerges in your eyes, “I think more than Daegu, I miss my childhood friend the most.”

“Friend?”

You nod, “I had moved into the house next door to his and my health wasn’t the best, but he would always come over and try to lift my spirits.” A nostalgic sigh escapes from you, “I don’t know where he is now, but I hope he’s doing well.”

You turn to Dr. Kim with a smile at the memories, but you only find his gaze locked onto you. It isn’t stern and direct as it usually was but is contorted with something more, causing you grimace at the abrupt load of sheer pain filling his eyes.

“Cherry blossoms?”

He flinches, snapping back instantly when you point behind him at the petals fluttering down. “They’re finally blooming.” You say in astonishment and an entire roster of emotions are swirling around in his eyes, from grief to utter regret. You walk closer to observe them more as they slowly dance down and one rests itself in your palm.

“Didn’t Daegu have festivals for the cherry blossoms when they bloomed?” You turn to him when you recall that he had too said he originated from there.

He hums, “Every year. And everyone would gather to see them.”

You let out a sigh, “I wish I got to see it before I left.” You shake your head, “My aunt was in such a hurry to leave.”

She was.

Because I wanted to go with you.

“I never got to see them either.” He says instead and curiously you turn to him.

“What about you? Why did you leave?”

He pauses, eyes void of anything when his lips set into a repressed line, “I couldn’t stay there anymore.” His voice comes out harsher, a darker undertone lacing it. But he notices you staring at him and he lightens it up, “I left someone behind as well.”

You hum, “Who was this person?”

“Just someone...I had a crush on.” Your eyes widen dramatically and you stare at Dr. Kim bewildered to which a small smile tugs on his lips.

“A crush on?” Your mind is going on rapid whirlwinds at the new information being thrown out when you can’t even consider associating the concept of love with Dr. Kim. However, it makes you think in a different way, that perhaps there was more to the doctor that you simply hadn’t seen of.

He nods and the smile doesn’t fade off from his features. He almost looks like a young boy who was experiencing the feelings for the first time and not the established doctor you know so well.

“I unfortunately never got to confess. Like your friend, I hope she is doing well too.” You smile at the idea and there’s a warm, mutual feeling between you two, like there’s actual air you can breathe from and it isn’t considered horrific to be within the same proximity as him.

The rest of your evening actually passes by well, from you and Dr. Kim conversing about matters in the hospital with the recent surgery you had conducted together to then shifting completely to personal topics in which he seem invested about knowing from how you grew up in your time in Daegu. Its something you simply brush off considering that it was not only your hometown but his own as well and you welcome expressing thoughts from the past that you never imagined talking about alongside the doctor.

He eventually ends up taking you to your apartment and there is an immense load of tension getting uplifted from your shoulders that the time spent wasn’t entirely awkward as you had initially wondered. Instead, it was so much more interesting to talk to him outside of your professional workplace and just to simply understand Dr. Kim on an actual personal basis.

But the one spark that brings this evening to its close, is the question that had been hanging by a mere thread for majority of the time and you assume now is potentially the best time to bring it up.

“Dr. Kim?”

You’re stationed right in front of your apartment’s door and from extreme lengths, the recollection of you dragging him inside flashes through when you had gotten sick. You decide to caste that cringing thought away completely however. For your own sanity.

He hums, his gaze not feeling like it was attempting to judge you in anyway or as if it was infuriated with your simple existence. It’s instead a comfortable gaze, eyes that are relaxed and gleaming with a tint of playfulness as they draw curiously onto you.

“I know...” You begin, wanting to word this properly, “We’ve had our differences in the past, especially at work. But I do believe something had changed.” Carefully observing him while speaking, you notice that he just nods and doesn’t attempt to inject with anything you are saying.

“So what I wanted to ask was,” You pause, scoffing slightly in the back of your mind when words Yoongi had once spoken emerge, “Can we…”

“Personally, I think the two of you could be good friends.”

“Can we possibly be friends Dr. Kim?”

[frightknights-n-monstergirls]

I Love You, Professor

Original Imagine: Could you write a reader insert with the imagine: scarecrow being your professor, whom you have a crush on?

My first Jonathan Crane oneshot. I’m going more by Comic!Crane more so than Cillian Murphy since we never seen him as a professor in the movies thus not giving me the background knowledge I need to write him correctly. Not sure if there are any warnings so enjoy!

You are getting a PHD in psychology for you to work as a Behavior Analyst by the end of this semester and finally leaving the title as student and going off into the world to live your life.  You weren’t too sure if you wanted to move on especially without getting your secret off your chest to Professor Crane. Of all 7 years at Gotham U, you made sure you took all of Professor Crane’s psychology classes, even though it was about the same thing every single time. You liked his methods in getting the best score possible out of you, keeping you on your toes, and fueling you with spite to prove him wrong. Crane would say in his lectures that no one in the class could gain a good score on his tests. You relished the challenge.

You were a student assistant for Crane, hand picked because of your good grades allowing you to see your professor more often. It didn’t bother you, it would mean that your chances of making it easy were greater. You and Crane had slowly gotten to a relationship of Professor and Protege. Even though Crane is a bitter man, probably twice your age, but you felt a kinship with him. Until you started seeing him outside the University in random incidents in your daily life did you realize that there was a certain fondness you felt for Crane.  By the time you had came to terms with the facts about your true feelings for a certain professor, it was almost time for you to graduate from Gotham University.

You really have no idea were this attraction towards Professor Crane came from. At first you thought it was how awkward his body moves, skinny limbs swimming in his shabby hand-me-down suits, coupled by how tall he is, such a turn on for you. The thrill of having such a giant of a man easily overpowering you, this little fantasy would get in the way of your studies for his classes. Then it came to his obsession: fear, it frightened you but in a good way you never thought possible. Maybe the true reason for this fascination with Professor Crane was the way he could preach fear like a preacher, full of ecstasy and fire. The notion that fear was the basis of everything a human does seems justifiable when he explained it. Whenever a student would challenge the theory, Professor Crane would rave as if he were unhinged, like some desperate, howling demon. How you loved it.

Thankfully, the day before your graduation your professor had agreed to meet with you one last time at your usual spot in a coffee shop. You are walking there now, adored in a light sweater over a nice fitting short dress wit leggings to protect yourself from the late cold front that is sweeping through Gotham. You had gotten him a farewell gift, a pair of cuff links and a brand new tie to wear at your graduation. You approach the moderate sized cafe anxious on how Crane will react to your gifts and confessing your love for him.  Your nerves are getting the better of you as you see Professor Crane in the booth you both have shared on several occasions before you start to sweat a bit thinking the worst before you can even step a toe inside the building. Big round glasses shine with the lights hitting them the right way to make the glass block his steely blue eyes. Your mouth goes dry as you watch Crane’s prominent Adam’s Apple bob when he takes a swig of his coffee wondering how it would be like to kiss along his neck. You take a deep breath to steady yourself before walking in, idle background noise of the lively cafe going mute to your ears as you make your way towards your professor.

Professor Crane looks up from having set his cup down, his usual Americano that you got him to enjoy after getting one on a coffee run. A small pleasant smile stretches on his thin lips that you reflect when you take your seat. “Good afternoon, Ms. Y/N.” Crane greets, formal as per usual. Spider like hands move for your own but they detour towards his cup instead. “I’m glad you could join me one last time.”

“So am I.” You reply a light blush heating your cheeks having taken in note that he had ordered you your favorite beverage. “You got me something.”

“I took the liberty.” Professor Crane blurts out hastily his glasses sliding down his aristocratic nose in distress, “I knew it was your favorite. I didn’t mean to over step.” It was like he was afraid that you would reject his offering…

“No, it’s very considerate of you.” You reassure him by taking a sip of the drink he had given you. It was perfect, just the way you liked it, “Thank you, professor.” Crane appears to be more relaxed after you showed your gratitude like an inverted sigh of relief. The two of you stay in silence for a couple of moments enjoying your coffee and company. While he looks as comfortable as a cat in sunshine, you couldn’t help but feel like you’re taking your finals all over again. Butterflies continue to flutter in your stomach even after you try to burn them with your drink. It was time, “Professor, I have something to give you.” You start out fishing for the box in your pockets, “And I have something to tell you.”

“Oh?” He quirks an eyebrow in question, as if he were back in the classroom. Giving you the impression that Crane is judging you. A smirk plays on his lips, “Is this were you tell me that you cheated on all my tests?”

“What-no!” You nearly shout feeling a bit offended that he would think that lowly of you, “It’s more than that.” You dart your eyes to see his face, it is in waiting, wanting you to continue. You take a deep breath placing the box you had been looking for on the table, “I love you, professor.”

The silence to you is a bad sign, looking up you see Crane’s blank stare. Then a chuckle escapes his throat followed by a hard glare, “I would have never thought that you would be the one for cruel jokes.” He hisses at you, taking all breath out of your lungs. Did he really think this was a sick joke? “Did you play all your professors or am I just that special? Getting your kicks from the nerdy, geeky Jonathan Crane?” He stood up slowly as he continues to interrogate you. Warmth prickles the corners of your eyes, you couldn’t believe it Crane really thinks you would play him. He hunches down to were you are looking eye to eye “I hope you had your fun!” He growls out before taking his leave.

You feel your heart breaking into pieces as you sit there not paying attention to the murmurs around you from the other people in the building. Hot tears stream down your cheeks without you even knowing as Crane’s harsh words play in your head on repeat. You stay in this state until a barista comes up to you with a cup in hand.

“Here.” He says placing it in front of you, a decent sized mug with espresso and a scoop of vanilla ice cram in it topped with whipped cream. “On the house.”

“Thank you.” You managed to say wiping your tears with your sleeve. That’s when you noticed the box with the gifts is gone. Crane took the box! That jerk! Your sadness completely dissolved into anger, how dare he rip your heart up and take the gifts anyway! But why would he take it? Wouldn’t he be disgusted by how he thought of you to keep anything that reminded him of you? You couldn’t bring yourself to care at this point, you will not ever being seeing him again after tomorrow so what’s the use?

The rest of that day went by in a blurr, the next thing you know is that you are now in a crowd of your classmates. The head of your class is giving a speech on the future and such. Your future looks pretty bleak with that the love of your life just rejected you like a hussy wasting his time. This is supposed to be the greatest day of your life yet you feel like crap. You look around at the ceremony seeing some professors, Bruce Wayne, the Mayor, and then you see him. Professor Crane in the best set of clothes you have ever seen him wear. He looks so handsome, he even tried to tame his rat’s nest of hair. Crane catches you staring, you see his Adam’s Apple from your seat bobbing nervously, he fixes his tie. He is wearing your tie and cuff links! You cover your mouth with your hands in joy making Crane blush a bright red fogging up his glasses. You giggle at how cute he is being, just a few more minutes.

Finally, the ceremony ended allowing the crowd to break out. You look for Professor Crane, but your peers are making it difficult. You get up on the fountain to see over heads until you find a mop of mess peek over the mass of bodies. You rush off towards the mess of hair you love so much easily spotting Crane.

“Professor!” You call out running up to him, a blush still on his cheeks, “I wasn’t playing you.”

“I know.” He smiled down at you, but you didn’t hear him

“I really do love you!” You cry holding his long hands in your own, “I don’t just want to be your student.”

“Y/N…” He tries to stop you again.

“Please, I just want to know if you-” A bony finger presses to your lips to finally shut you up. You blink repeatedly looking up at your professor, the soft look on his features almost made you wonder who this person in front of you is.

“I return the feeling.” Crane cups your face in his hands, you smile tears about to spill out, “You may address me as Jonathan now.”

“Right.” You nod holding his hand in yours walking out of the campus, “I love you, Jonathan Crane.”

[bastionkeeper]

@nonbinarydisaster and @myspidersensesaysimgay asked for a rk1k fic loosely based off this post so here ya go full thing under the cut!

Connor was dimly aware of a light drizzle raining down on him as he walked. He was sure he'd been in a cab at some point, wasn't quite sure when he'd gotten out.

There was an annoying ringing sound in his head, and the gleam of his LED blinking yellow in the corner of his vision.

Connor did the thing that made the blinking and ringing stop, and almost regretted it when he heard Hank yelling.

“Kid, where the fuck did you go?”

“Uh…” Connor looked to his left and right. “... somewhere?”

“That's super helpful. Seriously, where are you?” Hank asked. “I turned away for like ten seconds.”

“I dunno, I went home I was drunk!” Connor whined.

“Connor…” Hank sighed. “We were drinking at the house.”

“Shit, then where am I?” Connor asked, glancing around again. His eyes landed on a familiar house, so he stumbled his way towards it.

“That's what I'm tryin’ to find out!” Hank said. “Connor? Hello?”

Connor ended the call and after trying several times to ring the doorbell only to miss and whack his finger against the wall, he groaned and slapped a hand on the door to hack into security system and announce himself that way.

It wasn't long before someone opened the door Connor was leaning on, causing him to fall forward into their arms.

“Shit!” Connor swore, hanging on tight to the person who had caught him. “Uh, hi! It's me drunk I may be a little Connor. Wait…”

Markus was a little surprised, he certainly hadn't expected a visit from Connor tonight much less in this state. His usually neat hair looked as though it had been set free and curled by a hand running through it several times, his tie was hanging loose around his neck, and his sleeves were rolled up at varying length.

Oh, also he smelled like a bar.

“Hello, Connor,” Markus chuckled. “What are you doing here?”

Connor blinked, hanging loosely in Markus's arms. “I… don't know.”

“Okay,” Markus said. “Maybe you should come inside and sit down.”

“I… I don’t think I know how,” Connor said helplessly.

“Alright, is it okay if I carry you?” Markus asked gently. Connor nodded, so Markus lifted the other android off his feet and into his arms. It was lucky Connor found himself at the home of a former caretaker, because it looked like he needed some taking care of.

Markus shot off a quick message to Hank, and got a drunkenly typed but relieved message in return. With the family notified, Markus took Connor into the living room where he deposited him onto one of the couches. Connor was quick to roll over and grab a decorative pillow, which he held close to his chest as he rolled back onto his back.

“I'm going to get you some thirium, I'm sure you've gone through a lot processing the alcohol,” Markus said, heading for the kitchen. He grabbed one of the bottles of thirium out of the pantry, and when he came back he found Connor laying half on the floor with his legs up on the couch, still clutching the pillow with one arm while the other arm was thrown limply over his eyes.

“Well, you’re going to have to pick, couch or floor,” Markus said.

“Call Hank,” Connor said wearily. “I can finally tell him what happens when androids die.”

“You’re not dead.” Markus set the thirium on the coffee table and lifted Connor back up onto the couch. He uncapped the thirium for him and passed it over.

“But there’s so many angels helping me,” Connor replied, winking. Markus spared a moment to blush, they’d been flirting awhile now though Connor had never been quite as bold or cheesy. Then the sentence played out in his head again.

“How many angels are you seeing, Connor?” he asked.

“I dunno!” Connor huffed, throwing his hands up in defeat, somehow managing to not spill the thirium Markus was still trying to get him to drink. “How many of you are there normally?”

“Come on, drink some of this and then I’ll get you to a bed, how’s that sound?” Markus tried to stifle his laughter. He knew Connor could be prideful, and just how bad it hurt for him when his pride was wounded. Not that Markus thought Connor was currently saving memories correctly, and was likely to see Markus laughing at him in the morning when he recalled them.

“You know,” Connor said, taking a quick sip of thirium before continuing. “Your eyes are like…”

“... like?” Markus prompted Connor to finish.

Connor’s LED went yellow and started spinning, Markus could almost hear his processors firing up. “... I don’t know. Pretty things? I wasn’t programmed for poetry and I’m very drunk.”

“You are very drunk, yes,” Markus agreed with a laugh. “But thank you for the compliment.”

“I think I know what I’m doing here now,” Connor announced. Markus, who had taken a seat on the edge of the coffee table, leaned forward to push the thirium bottle towards Connor’s mouth. Connor rolled his eyes and took another swig before speaking again. “I have an unconscious program which directs me to places registered as safe to recover from any sustained damage.”

“It’s a good theory, but you started at Hank’s house and that’s pretty safe,” Markus said.

“Hank’s house is where the poison is,” Connor said grimly, swaying slightly.

“Maybe you just wanted to see me,” Markus teased. The comment got a giggle and a blush out of Connor.

Connor took a drink of thirium and then paused, lowering the bottle and studying it seriously. “... was I supposed to be analyzing this?”

“Just try to get it all into your body,” Markus replied fondly.

“Yessir,” Connor said, giving a goofy salute. He attempted to take another drink and missed his mouth by half an inch, pouring thirium onto his shirt. “... shit…. Does on my body count?”

“I’m afraid it doesn’t,” Markus said, shaking his head and covering his smile with one hand.

“It’ll evaporate.” Connor shrugged, taking a more successful sip.

“How about in the meantime we get you something dry to wear?” Markus suggested. He stood, and pulled Connor to his feet, wrapping an arm around his waist to support the swaying android. “I’ve got some clothes upstairs that would fit.”

“Good idea, this is why you’re the leader and I’m the…” Connor waved vaguely. “... finder. Finder and shooter guy.”

“Detective?”

“Yeah, the finder and shooter guy.”

Markus all but dragged Connor into his bedroom, lowering him to sit on the edge of the bed while he rifled through his drawers looking for a t-shirt. He found one, and draped it over his arm as he approached Connor.

“You need help with that?” he asked, watching Connor struggle to pull his still buttoned shirt over his head.

“I’m an advanced prototype, I know how to undress,” Connor insisted, his voice muffled by the shirt over his head. Markus started work on the buttons, eventually freeing Connor. He worked his arms out of the sleeves, and then quickly pulled the t-shirt down over Connor’s head while he was still dazed. It wasn’t really hard, Markus could dress a man and carry him into the next room in record speed.

Only it looked like Connor wasn’t moving into another room or, quite frankly, anywhere for the rest of the night. He’d fallen back against the bed, arms spread wide and legs still dangling over the edge.

“Comfy?” Markus asked.

“Yes,” Connor breathed. “Can’t get up. Staying.”

Markus chuckled fondly, and lifted Connor who started protesting. “Hang on, you’re not going anywhere I’m just going to make you comfy.”

Markus pulled back the blankets before depositing Connor back into the bed, pulling the blankets back up tight around Connor. Something about it gave him the urge to lean down and kiss Connor’s forehead but, no, they’d flirted before but they’d never put any label on it. Connor being drunk was not the time to figure out what their label was. If Connor wanted a kiss on the forehead tomorrow he could certainly get it then.

“I left the thirium on the nightstand for you,” Markus said. “Try to stay in rest mode a little longer tonight, okay?”

“Yeah,” Connor agreed, already turning onto his side and letting his eyelids flutter closed. Markus watched as Connor fell asleep, and then grabbed his own pajamas to take to the guest room he was apparently sleeping in tonight.

Connor woke up in an unfamiliar environment. After checking his location and finding himself at the Manfred house, he calmed considerably. He signaled the lights to turn on, and seeing the room did bring back some memories.

“... oh no…” Connor groaned, certain he’d imposed far too much on Markus already without also stealing his bed out from under him. He noticed his shirt folded up on top of a nearby dresser, which prompted him to check what he was wearing. He looked down at the faded t-shirt he was wearing, attempting to recover the memory of changing. He brought the collar of the shirt up to his nose, breathing in the smell that clung to it. Like an unfamiliar brand of detergent, and Markus.

“Oh, you’re up!”

Connor dropped the shirt, blushing considerably as Markus leaned into the open doorway. He smiled at Connor. “How’d you rest?”

“Well, thank you, I shouldn’t take advantage of your hospitality any longer,” Connor said, trying to swing his legs free of the blankets. He stepped out of bed and lurched to the side, catching himself on the nightstand. “... I might need to take advantage of your hospitality long enough to finish that thirium.”

“No rush,” Markus said, helping Connor to sit back down and handing him the thirium from the nightstand. He sat down as well, next to Connor on the edge of the bed. “You could probably use the time to recover after last night.”

Connor groaned.

“You were…” Markus began, eyes twinkling with amusement. “... not in the best shape.”

“Hank and I were determining which of us could better withstand alcohol consumption,” Connor said. “I theorized that because I was built to be stronger than a human and no organic matter to damage I could drink more than him. He disagreed.”

“You had a drinking contest?” Markus asked.

“I…” Connor froze, and suddenly stood up again. Markus, looking concerned, reached out a hand to keep him steady. “I never found out who won!”

“I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I really don’t think it was you,” Markus grinned. Of course the only thing that would get Connor go Hank levels of reckless was competition.

“I want a rematch,” Connor said determinedly.

“I’ll keep the door unlocked for you,” Markus joked, but Connor blushed a deep blue at it.

“I really am sorry,” he said, worrying at his fingers in the absence of a coin. “I hope I wasn’t too much trouble…”

“You were fine,” Markus said. “In fact at one point you were a poet.”

“I wasn’t, was I?” Connor winced.

Markus tilted his head to the side, affecting Connor’s voice from the sample he had on file. “‘You’re so unfair, your face is so unfair. It’s like… something pretty I don’t know.’”

Connor hid his face in his hands, hating his embarrassment while loving Markus’s laugh.

“So, you think about my face often, or…?” Markus asked.

Connor looked at Markus and thought, yes, he was very often thinking about his face. Right now he was thinking about the crinkling by his eyes as he smiled, and how he’d never seen anything quite so beautiful.

“... it’s not a bad face to wake up to, I suppose,” Connor said, trying to sound nonchalant but wanting to immediately hide his face again once he realized how that comment came across.

“Then you’ll have to sleep over more often,” Markus replied, moving the hand he’d steadied Connor with to take Connor’s hand gently in his own. Connor let his fingers interlace with Markus’s.

“I doubt you’re eager to take care of me again,” Connor said.

“It’s never any trouble to take care of you,” Markus said.

Connor took a deep breath to cool his systems, then leaned down to where Markus was sitting and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Well, I’ll just have to find a suitable way to thank you.”

Markus, smiling dumbly, raised a hand to touch the spot Connor’s lips had just been. “I… uh… I guess that’s a pretty good thank you. I don’t know, I did take pretty good care of you, I might need some more thanking.”

Connor made a big show of rolling his eyes, even as he sank down onto the bed to pull Markus in close and pepper his face with kisses.

[waywarddaughterwrites]

A/N: You guys I have no idea why I’m having so much trouble with tumblr right now. Here goes my third attempt at posting this fic. Maybe it’ll work this time? It didn’t seem to like it last post when I added a title so I’ll leave that off of this one. Anywhoo...on the second day of ficmas, yours truly gave to thee, mistletoe kisses, and snowballs and fun by a tree!

Day Two: Mistletoe!

Day One Day Three

Read Me on AO3:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/16993947

Tag List: @kissofthebadwolf @eurusholmmes @ourloveisforthelovely @pensysto @hankypranky

*****************************************************

The bunker was under attack. That much was clear. The enemy? A sweet-toothed archangel and his unending supply of Christmas cheer. He had taken in yours and the Winchesters’ disappointing amount of interest in Christmas and decided to supplement your lack of enthusiasm by tripling his own. The annoying pile of feathers could be found at any given moment putting decorations in random empty spots (how he kept finding wall space was beyond you, the bunker looked like Santa’s toy shop threw up in it) and singing Christmas carols obnoxiously loud and off-key. Not even your bedrooms had been spared. You woke up one morning to tinsel, fairy lights, and fake snow falling softly from the ceiling, disappearing before it hit the floor. It had taken the archangel half a day to get you to forgive him (not that you hadn’t tried to drag it out...you were a sucker for those puppy eyes and were nursing a crush on the angel anyway so it was only a matter of time before you caved). You had to admit, though, the effect of the snow and the twinkling lights in your room was charming, so you allowed them to stay. Your room wasn’t nearly as horrendous as the boys’ rooms, anyway.

By far the most annoying ammunition the angel was packing was his obsession with mistletoe. It was constantly popping up in the most random spots. You’d developed the habit of glancing at the ceiling of every entryway you walked through, as the mistletoe tended to appear randomly and unannounced. Dean had learned the hard way two days in that this mistletoe in particular was special: it locked you in place until you’d received a kiss to free you. Why Gabriel had chosen this particular brand of torture was beyond you. Dean had been stuck in the doorway of the library for almost an hour before you’d gotten back from the store and were able to peck his cheek. Since then, you and the boys were much more cautious around doorways. Sam was by far the worst, with his habit of reading books and walking at the same time. Nearly once a day you heard your name called in agitation and you had to go free the poor man. Dean was more cautious and had only been caught once this week. You’d wished you’d had a camera to capture his bright red face when Castiel had been the one closest to him and kissed him soundly.

Castiel and Jack had both been caught by the little plant a handful of times. It took some explaining at first for Jack to understand why he suddenly couldn’t move and why one of you kissing him was the only way to get free. He seemed thoroughly amused by this odd new game, although he’d taken to watching his steps carefully, as well.

The one you couldn’t understand was Gabriel. He was caught under the mistletoe nearly as often as Sam was. He was the one who invented the little hellish game, so why didn’t he simply get rid of it if it caused him so much trouble? You asked him once, after kissing his cheek for the third time that day.

“Aw, Sugar, where would the fun in that be? It’s all a part of spreading the love on Christmas! Besides, if my punishment is getting kisses from you, Sugarlips, it’s not a bad way to spend the day,” he finished with a wag of his eyebrows.

You rolled your eyes and flushed at the ridiculous nickname. The next time he was caught, you sent Castiel to him, who thought nothing of planting one smack on his lips, much to Gabriel and Dean’s collective chagrin. The mistletoe’s spontaneity slowed a bit and became more predictable after that.

You glanced up as you walked toward the doorway to the kitchen and saw the tell-tale glitter of the plant forming. Stepping around it, you entered the kitchen, where Sam and Dean were already leaning on the counters, drinking their morning coffee.

“How come you’ve never been caught by the mistletoe, y/n?” Sam asked.

“Simple,” you shrugged. “I pay attention to my surroundings.”

“Yeah, but no one is that over-observant. Even Cas has been caught once or twice,” Dean supplied.

“Not that that’s been a problem for you, Dean-o,” Gabriel responded as he walked into the room. As Dean blushed, Gabriel went to take another step and found he couldn’t. Looking sheepishly your way, you sighed in exasperation and rolled your eyes before stepping over to him and kissing his cheek.

“Speaking of unobservant. That’s the second time this morning, Gabe.”

He chuckled and rubbed the back of his neck. “Heh, yeah. Sorry. I should look where I’m going more. Have you really never been caught by the mistletoe?” He asked suspiciously.

You grinned at him in triumph. “Not once!” You proudly proclaimed. “Not that it matters much, I may as well have for all the kissing I’ve had to do to all five of you the last two weeks. I’ll be glad when it’s gone for good.”

Distracted as you were by the coffee you were pouring, you missed the odd emotion that briefly played on the archangel’s face at your blasé proclamation of how much kissing you’d done recently. Sidestepping the mistletoe in the doorway, you made your way back to your bedroom.

***

Of course. Of bloody course. Now is when it happens. Now you’re too distracted to notice where you’re walking. Now, when the boys had gone to do some Christmas shopping—they still didn’t buy into the Christmas cheer thing but they had some extra money from pool hustling during the job last week and decided to buy everyone presents (you were pretty sure a certain Angel of the Lord had piqued Dean’s interest in gift-giving) and had taken an overly enthusiastic Jack along with them. Castiel and Gabriel were off on Heaven business. You were alone in the bunker and now—NOW—you’d forgotten to look up and were stuck, rooted to the spot, in the entryway of the library. You’d been here for an hour already and had discovered you could at least sit down. You’d begun to pick the link from your sweater and flick the balls toward the wall, having reread the report you’d been reading four times already.

At last, just after your two hour mark of imprisonment, you heard a flutter of wings in the next room over.

“Finally! Whoever that is, get your feathery butt in here!” You called. A bemused Gabriel came waltzing into view. You glared at him as his expression evolved into a thoroughly amused smirk.

“Oh, and what do we have here?” He asked facetiously. “The high and mighty herself trapped by such a foolish trick as cursed mistletoe?”

“I swear, Gabriel, there’s gonna be an angel on top of the tree instead of a star if you don’t get over here and kiss me.” You blushed furiously as the words left your mouth. “I’ve been here for two hours already,” You tacked on a Little desperately.

His eyes widened and he laughed at your grumpiness. His expression softened into something you couldn’t name, but it made your heart stutter in your chest. You were acutely aware of him as he sauntered toward you and gently grasped your shoulders. His head bent down and your breath caught as he softly pecked your cheek with his lips.

“Merry Christmas, y/n.”

[pseudocitrus]

[touken] hc where he brings the handkerchief back, of course.

what she doesn’t expect is that he does it alone. the bell on :re’s door rings and he scans around inside until his eyes settle on her behind the counter; then his gaze drops, shyly. he approaches and tells her his order with his hand in his pocket and afterward he says, too quickly, “a-and i brought this back for you, i mean, i don’t know if you remember me, but, thank you very much.”

he withdraws the handkerchief and holds it out with two hands and a nervous smile.

“i remember you,” touka tells him. not completely, as it turns out. his hands seem a lot larger than they are in her memory, and they’re warmer too, which she discovers when she allows her own hands to brush him shamelessly as she takes the handkerchief back. he also seems taller now (though perhaps it’s just because he stands a little straighter?). he removes his coat before he sits and by the way the clothing rests on him she can tell his body is more trim and muscled than she remembers, from that last time, when they were on the bridge, and he refused to look at her.

speaking of which. here is another thing, both different, and the same: as she makes his drink she feels his eyes on her — peering over his book, peering over the coffee machines. they dart back to the pages when she glances toward him, but his slightly flushed face means she wasn’t just imagining it. she shocks herself with how well she understands what he’s doing — but really, isn’t this the most familiar thing of all? this is how she first knew him: a shy man, gazing. at the time, it had been at rize.

and now. it’s at her.

((content notes))

now that she is the recipient, her nape itches. she adjusts her hair, adjusts her apron, adjusts her blouse. the handkerchief is burning in her pocket. kaneki never acted this way toward her and she finds herself desperate for him to leave, but not because the way he traces her is...uncomfortable. per se. yomo probably thinks he’s doing her some kind of dumb favor by leaving her alone with him and he re-emerges when :re’s bell rings, this time signifying an exit. yomo’s mouth opens and she can tell he is about to ask her something but she asks him, instead, first: “can you watch the store for a bit?”

his mouth shuts, and then opens again. “sure,” he says, and touka rushes off, and up the stairs, to her room. she opens the door, and shuts it, and locks it. only then does she take the handkerchief out. then, before she can stop herself, she puts it to her face, and inhales.

kaneki.

of course it’s him, but still, until this moment...

it’s him, it’s him, it’s him.

this is the one thing she couldn’t summon to herself at night, the one memory she couldn’t truly hold, yet another precious thing she lost when anteiku burned down. she was the one to clean his locker out and she threw away everything but his uniform, which she folded inside her own locker and took out only on the days she closed up on her own. she’d never noticed his warm smell before until then, when it was gone. by herself, she pressed it to her face, held it to herself so closely that she would murder anyone who saw her. eventually, she would fold it away warm.

his name and hair and build and hands might change, but —

it’s him.

the hair is weird, but it isn’t...bad. she inhales again, and feels something static down her spine. it’s him. she makes her way to her bed before she knows it, still wearing the apron, fitting her down down the hill of her hastily unbuttoned skirt. her other hand still holds the handkerchief to her face, and she takes another indulgent breath, and follows her mind as it races to thoughts of his long fingers playing with the tie of her apron, slipping softly beneath her shirt, alighting her hips. his thumbs could rub her belly before sliding lower, forming a cup around her, rubbing gently before (her own hand moves) one finger slips in between, and...

her sigh is full of him. her hips raise, a bit — she knees a pillow into place beneath her to brace herself — she straddles it, grinds it into the mattress earnestly. other thoughts glitter into place as her finger gently flutters into her, in time with the butterflies in her stomach, and just as erratically. if he’s still a virgin now, she could make the first move, she could kiss him unexpectedly and then drag him to one of their safehouses, where she stored a blanket with the very quiet fantasy of one day pulling it out and fucking him right there on the bare floor. she could rub his lower back, the spot she’s certain he hasn’t found yet and is so hard for ghouls to satisfy on their own. she could press her face into his chest, all that brand-new dove muscle, and probably it would smell just like this. she could — kiss him, again and again — crook a leg around his bare waist — shudder when he gripped her upper back just so — spread her legs wider, wider, wetter, and ask him to do it harder, rougher, and finally, set her mouth to his shoulder, and open, and bite —

everything comes at once then. she shoves her face into the handkerchief, into the bed, shoves her shirt up and grips one breast while pumps her fingers in and out of herself with the other until she finishes, unable to stop herself from making one high and smothered moan.

afterward, she slumps down. she’s breathing harder than she ever has; her hand is wet down to her palm and she extricates it, careful not to trail on the black skirt. it takes just a moment to compose herself (wiping her hand on an old shirt, re-arranging her mussed hair, re-buttoning and straightening her clothes). there’s a little bit of saliva on the handkerchief, and she grimaces, embarrassed and also irritated. hopefully that won’t mess up the smell for later.

“thanks,” she tells yomo when she comes back down. he nods at her. he pauses.

“did anything happen?” he asks. “with...him.”

did he remember, yomo means. touka moves to the sink, and starts washing her hands. she puts too much effort in it, probably. she works the lather underneath all her nails, scrubs almost up to her wrists.

“no,” touka answers, finally. “he didn’t.”

[lena-went]

Carmentalia

F: The days that followed my proposal were the happiest we had spent together. That weekend we did nothing but lay in bed and smother each other with kisses and endearments. We traded stories from the past we had yet to tell the other and laughed so hard both of our stomachs were sore. But Monday had come against our wishes and her alarm clock loudly announced its arrival.

I watched with half open eyes as she rolled from bed after pressing a slightly wet kiss to my forehead. The hall was illuminated with light from the bathroom as she showered and brushed her teeth. My lips lifted into a smile as I heard the distant sound of her singing. She was always singing. Soon the shower squeaked to a halt and her humming grew louder as she returned to the bedroom in her robe. I propped myself up against our headboard and watched her begin to dress. First was her black pencil skirt that happened to be one of my favorite items in her wardrobe. Second was the bra that matched the panties I had bought her online after learning her favorite lingerie brand. She was fastening her bra when she stopped humming. I watched as she turned from side to side looking at herself in the mirror. She grumbled softly and then reached for one of her tailored dress shirts. She began buttoning it up and groaned loudly when she reached her chest.

“What’s wrong love?” I asked from my place on the bed.

Bad question. She turned to me with exasperation and frustration written across her face.

“Look…it won’t button…it’s too damn tight. I just had these tailored.” She illustrated her point before turning back to the mirror and pulling off the shirt. She leaned on the dresser slightly and took a deep breath. I got up from where I had been laying and moved behind her before wrapping my arms around her bare middle.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m so frustrated. It’s not a big deal, it’s only a few shirts. I’m sorry Freddy.” She spoke softly before rubbing her hands over mine.

I kissed her temple and pressed my nose into her hair acknowledging her apology. Her eyes met mine through the mirror and she pulled my hands to cup her breasts. My eyes widened in confusion and I let her move my fingers across her chest.

“Do my boobs feel bigger?” She asked watching my face carefully.

I was unsure what the right answer was so I elected to tell the truth. I moved my hands and gave her a gentle squeeze at which she winced slightly and I raised an eyebrow.

“A little.” I spoke cautiously.

“Damn. I knew your cooking was going to make me fat.” She pressed a kiss to my jaw and gave my cheek a little pat.

I removed my hands and ran them down her sides before turning her to face me. I reminded her how beautiful she was and how I loved her before cradling her head and kissing her. She giggled and I mirrored her happy to see her at ease again. As she finished getting ready I made my way to the kitchen to fix her breakfast. I scooped out her favorite coffee grounds and placed them in the machine which answered with a gurgle and then steady stream of dark amber liquid.  Soon I could hear her footsteps as she moved to enter the kitchen. I smiled at her but her face suddenly contorted and one of her hands flew to her cover her mouth as she darted from the room. Concerned I followed after her only to see her fall to her knees in front of the toilet and begin to vomit. I rushed to her and pulled her hair back with one hand using the other to hold her steady as she heaved. Her whole body was shaking and starting to sweat. A few moments passed and she leaned back into me breathing heavily.

“Do you feel ill?” I asked while mentally berating myself for asking such a stupid question.

“No…I just…the coffee…Oh god—“ She was cut off by another round of nausea resulting in more contents of her stomach being relocated to the toilet bowl. I reached for a hand towel with which I patted at her neck and forehead. I felt myself begin to panic, what if she was seriously ill? What kind of illness comes on this fast? Jesus Frederick you are a doctor you should be able to diagnose your own fiancée. As the thoughts pounded at my skull her little hand found mine and squeezed it tightly.

“Freddy I feel…horrible. Whats…wrong with me?” The smallness of her voice made my heart break. I would have done anything to make it all go away.

“Let me get you some water. I will throw out the coffee.” I made sure she was steady before I rushed to the kitchen.

I emptied the now full pot and threw away the grounds. Suddenly I remembered something I had learned from a course in medical school. The scent and consumption of ginger was helpful in easing nausea. I quickly looked through our cabinets for anything that contained it. Ginger tea, perfect. I filled and turned on the kettle before returning to her with a glass of water. She sipped at it slowly and leaned against me as I ran my fingers through her hair while lightly massaging her scalp. When the tea kettle beeped three times I helped her stand before lifting her in my arms so I could carry her back to bed. I laid her down gingerly and pressed a concerned kiss to her forehead before returning to the kitchen to finish making her a cup of tea. I added a little sugar before carrying the steaming cup in to her.

She had curled up with her knees to her chest and was shaking visibly. I set the cup on the nightstand and slid behind her moving her ever so slightly towards the center of the bed. I pressed my stomach to the curve of her back and my kneecaps to the underside of hers. I tried desperately to warm her as she whimpered softly before turning inwards to press her face against my neck.

“Freddy what’s wrong with me?” She cried softly and I felt her tears wet my neck. That’s it. I was taking her to the hospital. I told her this and she nodded her agreement. I helped her to sit up in bed before handing her the tea in hopes that it would warm her and soothe her nausea even in the slightest. I quickly pulled on a shirt and pants before looking back at her with worried eyes. Her nose was buried in the mug as she drank deeply with large gulps.

“Is the tea helping?” I asked curiously. She nodded without removing the cup from her face. She was breathing in the scent of the tea before and after drinking. Her brow became less furrowed and her shoulders relaxed. That put me at more ease but I was still concerned. I went to help her from bed but she swatted at my hand and kept drinking.

“More. Please.” She managed between gulps. I raised an eyebrow but hurried to do as she asked.

Within a few minutes the second cup was ready. I took the now empty cup from her hands and replaced it with the full one. She blew at it softly before taking a testy sip. Her eyes fluttered shut and she leaned back against the headboard.

“I feel much better. How did you know this would work?” She spoke with gratitude clinging to her every syllable.

I sat next to her on the side of the bed and put the back of my hand against her forehead. The sweat had gone and was now replaced with what I figured to be a slightly elevated temperature due to the heat of the tea.

“Hmm?” I replied having been distracted from her question.

“How did you know the tea would help?” She repeated as I felt her cheeks and then her lymph noes. No swelling. That was good.

“In medical school we were taught holistic practices as well as the more scientific ones, Johns Hopkins is thorough that way. Ancient Shamans thought ginger was useful in curing all types of ailments from digestion to nausea.”

I noticed she was eagerly listening and so I continued on happy to share some of my knowledge to a intrigued audience.

“In fact there are many ways they would prepare it, sometimes fresh but more often than not they would dry it and then crush it into a fine powder. Women in Ancient Rome would even turn it into an oil because it was thought to prevent morning sickness in…pregnant women.” My speech slowed as my mind began to connect the dots.

Her breasts, the nausea, the mood swings…oh my god. I noticed the look in her eyes and gathered that she had come to the same conclusion. My eyes widened and hers followed rapidly.

“Freddy do you think…am I?” Her voice stuttered and I could no longer remember how to speak or move.

We both sat there motionless for a few moments before she moved to get up. I stopped her and asked where she was going.

“To get a test.” I shook my head and insisted that she stay in bed at which she insisted that she needed fresh air. I could not argue with that.

We left the apartment and practically jogged to the corner store where we bought three kinds of tests. The store clerk smirked at us and chuckled a ‘good luck’ as we thanked him and rushed home. Back inside the apartment I paced back and forth as I waited for her to finish taking the tests. She opened the door and I entered the bathroom hesitantly.

“Well?” I asked nervously watching her face carefully in an attempt to glean the answer before she spoke.

“We have to wait. 30 minutes.” She spoke softly looking at the three pink and white objects that leaned on the edge of the sink.

I mustered the courage for my next question despite how afraid I was to ask it.

“And…if you are?”

Her eyes flashed to me and she considered me carefully before wrapping her arms around me and pressing her head to my chest. I held her tightly and kissed the top of her head praying for a certain answer.

“Frederick I would love nothing more than to carry your child.” She spoke as she repositioned herself to look at me with a beautiful smile dancing its way across her face.

My eyebrows raised together as my eye stung and I tried to breathe but instead released a heavy exhale. I grasped her face and pressed my lips to hers as my happy tears mingled with hers.

“Hey…hey…we don’t know anything for sure yet. We have to wait for the tests.” She reminded me breathlessly while resting her forehead against mine. I feigned a groan at which she giggled lightly.

We both decided we could not wait in the bathroom and so we returned to our bedroom where she called the museum to let them know she would not be coming in that day. My heart had not stopped pounding and my mind was consumed by only one thought. Please god, please…let her be pregnant with my child. She drank the rest of her tea which had cooled substantially though she stated that it tasted fine. The timer on her phone announced that thirty minutes had passed and I exchanged a glance with her before we both stood.

I watched anxiously as she picked up the three tests one by one. Her face did not change from its expression of neutrality. My stomach dropped and I felt my heart break. She was not pregnant.

My eyes met hers in the reflection of the mirror and suddenly her lips pressed together in an attempt to suppress a massive grin as she began to laugh. She turned and held the pregnancy tests out for me to see. All three were positive. Tears fell from my eyes as I broke out into an almost manic fit of joyful laughter. I took her into my arms and kissed her head over and over before returning the tests to their spot on the edge of the sink. I pressed my lips to hers breathlessly before falling to my knees where I left wet sloppy kisses all over the bare skin of her stomach. I felt her hands weave through my hair and I sobbed, completely overwhelmed with emotion. We were going to have a baby.