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nshtn · 2 months ago

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Wesker is a man of no half-measures whose risks are calculated. You are one of his finest researchers, growing on him like a moss.

He should reward your hard work in his name, shouldn't he?

You reach bubbling, dangerous fever pitch when you ask him to indulge a little fantasy of yours - good doctor, bad doctor... unfortunately for you, he has much grander, lavish ideas than that. He also has every chemical substance manufactured in the last thirty years at his disposal.

This is a trust fall, and Wesker inflicts the rise and the plunge; will you sink or swim? Do you trust him with a butterfly needle?

11.6k, tags: medical - medfet;dubious science experiments;gloves;iv / needles;labcoat;pharmacokinetics, intox - consensual aphrodisiac;fantasy drug, nsft - blood;biting/marking;dom wesker sub reader;edging;sadomasochism;overstim;penetration, themes of obsession, PW(much)P/reader uses gn pronouns & female genitalia - technically an in-universe 'continuation' of Mind the Gap.

1st fic of C Complex. | 2nd | AO3

This had been planned for longer than you could think of – in some way, at least, floated as an idea that had become more and more coherent the longer you knew the mysterious virologist until you found yourself sitting in a medical bed somewhere within the confines of your workplace, closed off from the rest of its’ office-spaces and lab-units.

You’d thought that he’d use the opportunity, when you’d first brought it up, to bully you, but instead he’d made a tentative hum and raised his pointer finger to his chin, shades trained on you as a single eyebrow arched with the heady temptation of the power that he’d hold over you if he did it.

God… you trusted him with that? To play God over you in his own right? To take the reigns of your mind – to inject you with a drug, far above pharmaceutical standards, and use it as an aphrodisiac while maintaining your consciousness?

You were very stupid or very brave, or, the third option: very desperate. He found that his thoughts warred over which of the three you presided on – surely, you had at least some awareness of the truly terrible amount of blood that stained his hands, so what made you trust the world’s best virologist (...and phlebotomist – Excella not withstanding) with decommissioned medical equipment and TRICELL’s finest supply of Cellegelyn Hydrochloride?

Was it because you trusted him with something far more superficial – your daily dose of medication – though he’d show you the swirling liquid each time? He wouldn’t now; oh no, he’d leave it in the air and see if that would make you squirm a little.

With the perceived safe danger of it. With the thoughts that would cloud your mind, and your own reaction to them. Oh, he’d prepared – he was no man of half measures.

Filthy minx. He supposes you did tame him, however – his violent urges spared you, replaced with an intense need for you to provide him stress-relief when you were within his presence. The self control it took not to run tongue over bare skin and bite when he was stressed out of his mind… you knew, didn’t you, little devil?

L-deprenyl. Enantiopure from Deprenyl, unnecessaries trimmed for your body’s convenience and your mind’s sanity – you were getting the best of the best, something that wasn’t even considered marketable. He wasn’t looking for your complete, stolen submission under the duress of a sunken mind; he wanted your willing, pleading submission handed to him as the MAO-B affinity bled into MAO-A. The infusion system would drip-feed your pliant, greedy vein far past the tipping point of a pharmaceutical dose.

In theory, this would be a slow build-up and the ride of a lifetime – literally, considering the inflictor. The excitotoxicity, though, was fine-tuned compared to the sledgehammer of a much rougher, barbaric chemical that prodded dopamine, serotonin, and norepinephrine out of unwilling receptors mindlessly... Oh, no, this was measured; this would trigger within the context of the situation. If you didn’t want it, then it wasn’t going to force your hand. And that was the real magic of it, wasn’t it? To see you squirm with how badly you’d want him to control you… to watch you beg for his touch, for more, for less; it hardly mattered, he just wanted to feel the rawness of your need – as long as you wanted him.

Only him, though.

Perhaps that was what made you desire this so strongly from him specifically? You could’ve asked someone else, but you’d delegated it to him.

You were always quick to fluster when he’d do anything that might tease at the seams of your mind and unfurl the fringes of your deeper feelings – you weren’t very good at hiding them, no. But that was something so appealing about you: undeniably book-smart even to him, yet your social defenses were lacking in the thickness of your mask. Your cheeks would pop with color at the slightest provocations – when he’d compliment your papers or handwriting, when he’d inject your thigh and run his nitrile-gloved fingers exaggeratedly over your bare skin, when he’d pull his labcoat’s arm up to his elbow and you’d watch, hungry-eyed and slack-jawed, at the way his veins shifted and his muscles tensed as he depressed the plunger of a syringe, bead at its’ tip swelling with the threat of spilling.

What an interesting little specimen… distracting thing. He was surprised he had yet to spill anything – a testament to the degree of his precision, he supposed. You’d make for a fine subject in testing the true unchained abuse potential of L-deprenyl.

Really, you should thank him for what he was about to do to you. There was a lot of other things he could do rather than fuck his finest researcher hopped up on a harmless discontinued psychostimulant. He had to admit it, too: he wanted you under him, surrendering and breathless, with a ferocious depth even he had not yet come to fully understand. None of the pieces of his set were intended for what he was about to do with them – it was its’ own breed of blasphemy, but something in that made his cock stir with the event that would transpire.

That Wesker would inject you and fuck with you until you were little more than a puddle that didn’t know what you wanted. Fucked-out under his touch, quivering and moaning long after his hands and hips would cease. Fuck, you’d be so cute like that.

And you couldn’t help it – there was an incredible intimacy in the needles he’d sank into your skin. You’d done them first, but then he’d took an interest and all-too-conveniently chided your skills in rotating your spots. Then he’d taken over for you, and it’d really only been downhill in the sheer depth of your bludgeoning crush since then: you had come to find that there was a radical intimacy he took to when he did it, always a sort of deftly placed respect for the needle he used as if a reverent tool, lack of clinical detachment clear in the way he’d languish in your squirming.

You kept coming back. You weren’t that socially maligned – he figured you must’ve liked it. Liked the attention, liked the gentleness from a man who could snap you. Yes, you liked when he played nice. And he had to admit it: you were remarkably tolerable. Or, at least, you’d grown to be.

That gave him pause sometimes. Since when had he grown so soft for another? It didn’t matter, though, did it? Who would stop him – Spencer? Marcus? Their precious Doctrine? Ha. No. Only their ghost. And he’d vanquished the idea of that when—

You were just… you were stubborn like that. An extremophile of your own, well aware of the danger and lambasting yourself in his presence regardless of blaring, bleary red. Though, after all, he’d hired you as a temp and you’d turned it into a permanent position through the deathly combination of your brains and your unwitting, accidental charisma. You reminded him of someone he used to know – someone who had been a lab partner, too... but you were soft where that man had been hard. You didn’t seem to hunger for power at all – you just wanted for connection, for knowledge (and he could’ve said that about the man he’d known at one point, too, but their lifetimes had corrupted them both beyond the grasp of a simpleminded humanity) – and Wesker could give you these things as easily as he could breathe.

No, it wasn’t hard to be a chameleon to someone who barely cared whether you even wore the mask these days. He dreaded to admit it to himself, but you were terribly, awfully, horribly amicable. Maybe that was a negative observation – to get along with him? Did you possess a superego? Oh, what was he saying – of course you did. Yours was just better than everyone else’s, like his.

Anyway, your daily injection was just your medicine, nothing more than a routine with a sprinkling of powerplay from him �� but now? Now it didn’t have to be. Now he could take it to the next level.

You tap your leg against the bed with an air of mild impatience. You’d like it better that way: he could stop pretending he had any degree of detachment. He wasn’t any more subtle than you. Did he think he was?

A shiver of anticipation ran up your spine as Wesker approached, light gray labcoat, black turtleneck, black pants, distinct lack of a tactical belt a sore thumb in his appearance and what he had planned as he leaned his frame into your personal space.

“Hello there,” he punctuated, simply. His gloved fingers reached out and two digits slithered from the edge of your jawline to the fat of your neck, where they pressed in your soft flesh until your chin tilted to meet the intensity of his gaze at an odd angle. It wasn’t entirely comfortable – though perhaps that was intentional. “Are you… ready for your treatment?” A statement more than a question – and dripping with sin you both knew, thin veneer of professionalism no cover.

So very abrupt, though. You’d have to adjust.

“Oh, yes, Doctor Wesker,” you quipped back, finding it somewhere in you – heart thumping a beat faster – to bring your hand up to settle at his chest. He’s far quicker than you with his own, grabbing your sluggish wrist in his hands, a sliver of skin peeking from his labcoat and muscles taut with the strength of his grip. “Ah ah ah,” he tuts, chiding gently as he lets your hand down at your side, “touching is my job. You wouldn’t want to render me jobless, would you?”

In any true professional environment, this would shatter his medical license irrevocably. And yet… and yet, with this knowledge, you huffed a laugh and a hot, bothered breath in one. “Of course not.”

Wesker responds with an appraising look, gentle upturn in the corners of his mouth approvingly. “Good. Good.”

A moment of silence passes as he cases you, adjusting his shades, letting them drift down the bridge of his nose with the aid of gravity until he’s certain they’ll nearly fall off. You sit up a little in the bed as he lets go of your jaw, fingertip slinking away. Then, he removes the offending pair himself, tucking them in a breast pocket when it doesn’t go as he planned.

No matter – that magmatic gaze is fully trained on you, now, no degree of separation from which to cloak itself in. Both parties run deep with unspoken desires, it seems.

“Any doctor will tell you that all operations start with preparation of the patient,” he begins, smile dripping away into a natural disguise of cool neutrality as he reaches behind your bed and pulls a holter monitor out, placing it on your stomach and bending over you – your nose filling with the oddly compelling scent of dark, earthy-sweet vetiver, black orchid and the sanitized dichotomy of ozone – to fetch three leads.

You bring your hands out to help him, but his free hand darts out to them, warm glove brushing your digits to remind you to still yourself silently.

You flush a little. You’re not used to this level of Wesker’s unbidden attentions or this degree of enforced helplessness – and it was only going to become more prominent as the night passed. You’d expected a little when he’d unexpectedly agreed to this – but he’d really… he’d gone above and beyond your… your simple idea.

Loyal to a fault, you raise your arms above your head and he pulls your gown up, chest exposed to cold and bare air. Goosebumps raise as he trails his fingers ever-so-lightly, gaze trained on your soft, supple, easily-broken skin. He makes a noise of further approval as he attaches the leads to the holter monitor and slips one under one breast, the cold sinking in and making you shiver a sound of your own that makes you clear your throat.

How uncouth. He hadn’t even gotten started and your tiny mind was already his playground.

“So eager,” he croons out-of-character, voice low and dripping timbre and a little grit as he places the other cold lead.

The third has his hand sliding with an indecent slowness up your bunched fabric, deliberately placing the last of the leads high on your chest so he can swipe his wandering digits across the canvas of you.

“You want this treatment, don’t you?” It’s consent wrapped in the easily-swallowed pill of his role as the good doctor.

But, god, how you wanted the bad doctor to come out.

“Yes, I’ve…” you quibble, “I’ve wanted it for so long.” You avert your gaze with a shyness one part real and two parts theatrical. You should’ve been an actor, the way his eyebrows twitch from their normal cinch a little before they settle again. To pull that out of a man who prided himself on his degree of control… or to know that he laxed his walls around you… both contributed equally to the reverence that had him hanging the stars in your eyes.

Like a tiger that bared its’ teeth upon you but never truly bit down. A monster of a man in the palm of your hands, offering some hidden facet of himself for you to cast your adoration upon.

The trust alone from the closed and thorny mind of a razor-sharp intellect could make you moan a little. You instead tilt your head at him, and Wesker’s vision creeps up into your own. If you were truly guileless, you might’ve thought his lens contained a degree of insecurity with the weight of your silent affectations, like you might not like what you’d find.

As if this meant something to him. You cast it out of your mind – there’s no way. But perhaps you don’t notice that he stiffens and then relaxes with a breath a little too deep.

“You’re going to get it, don’t worry,” it’s a sultry hum, and he’s holding down the power button on the device laying on your stomach until it powers on. Three lead mode. He’d even charged it. Damn.

You both fall into a comfortable silence as he turns on the infusion system – a TC Atlantis, a collection of many features in one and no doubt a climbing expense to license that was pristine and unblemished by the horrors that it was steeped in – and sets it to 80. You wonder to yourself the degree of what this machine has seen in its’ time, what stories it would tell if it could. The flow it’s set to seems slow...

You trust him with it out of necessity. You lend him the same trust he’s lending you in this moment, and perhaps you are a fool for it – but that’s part of the fun, the not explicitly knowing. You squirm a little, pressing your legs together with the intention of drawing him from what he’s doing.

Wesker’s hand strays from the machine, now set, to your leg, giving it a curt pat as he returns dutifully to it. You still caught him, but he was nothing if not a careful and well-disciplined man.

But the wisp of warmth that swirls around in your abdomen curls and inflames as Wesker hooks up a harmless bag of saline – with a little potassium, he might add – to the machine, hitting a setting at the bottom before he turns to you. “Now, just let me fetch your… analgesic,” he offers, a stumble in the search for words that fit his current role as he briefly reaches out for your hand and gives it an ever-so-polite squeeze.

You flash him a knowing smirk. “Take your time,” you reply gently, though you both know that the wait is torture.

The virologist stalks off momentarily with the sound of his black boots clicking like heels against the pristine, sanitary tile, and you are left to stew in your curiosity. A frown tugs at you. The Atlantis is set to a custom name instead of what it should really be, merely labeled ‘pain relief’. That must’ve been what he’d been gently tapping in.

Is the effort a matter of pride? It seems like so much.

You look around you and it all truly sets in as you curiously bring your arm up to you, careful not to disturb the holter monitor – a mean eighty six beats per minute and a wonderful ninety eight percent saturation – as you move the bracelet with your fingers, admiring his work. It’s an admission bracelet to a fake hospital, but your name, birth date, weight, eye color, and gender are all perfectly correct – and he’d never taken birth date or weight from you. Something about that makes the curl of warmth in you tighten a little. The stakes increase – the danger – and what you know he knows.

About… about you. What else does he know? The unknown fills itself with contextually relevant info that makes your cheeks burn a small deal before he’s even done a thing. How did he get that information?

But Wesker returns before you can continue to dwell beneath the surface of it. You let go of the bracelet before he can notice, your curious eyes searching the small bag and insertion needle – its’ tip as small as he can afford to go, a butterfly needle a nicety in the name of your creature comforts.

“Which arm?” he says, leaning forward and right back into your space a little. You mock up a ‘hmm’ before you offer the one closest to the Atlantis. The damn bag had its’ label removed. Some part of you feels outclassed by this and demands brattiness to make up for it, but the threat of getting stuck wrong has you on your best behavior. “This one, please, sir,” you drawl.

He tosses a glance straight at you, eyes teeming with a darkness to their gaze that sends a shiver down your spine. Do you know? Do you know the fire with which you are constantly playing with? You stoke a flame you can’t hope to vanquish, you lovesick fool… but he doesn’t voice the projection he’s heaped upon you.

He doesn’t compress it either, curiously – but it drains away nonetheless as he breaks two of his fingers from one of his black nitrile gloves, fingers breaching the material. He pulls an overly-convenient isopropyl alcohol pad from his labcoat and generously rubs the tips of his fingers with a bit too much attention and panache before he brings the same pad to your offered inner arm, sliding it entirely from there – “Do you prefer insertion… here?” – all the way to your inner wrist, where he rubs it a little more insistently until your mouth goes dry, massaging the alcohol in – “or here?”

God, he plays with his food, doesn’t he?

And he plays so well, so gently, little circles against the sides of your wrist as your inner nerves adjust to his touch, making your body twitch a little. So pliant, so easy that he can’t help himself… “I-I don’t-- I don’t mind,” you stutter, flexing your fingers a little as he brushes against such sensitive, smooth skin.

That makes him let out a huff of a laugh with a short pause.

Still so eager – even now. The lamb walks to slaughter itself… “The veins here are easier to see,” he lies coolly, pinprick cat eyes casing your reaction and the splotches of telltale color that rise in you at it. Aren’t you an odd one? His pointer finger brushes it intently, rolling it back, and forth, and back, and forth along the tendon it sits, pushing it down a little like a tensile cord in faux demonstration that makes your breath hitch.

Fuck, you really are a devil. Are you a masochist?

“It responds very well,” Wesker adds, then, emphasis on ‘very well’ as his gaze falls back to real concentration as he fetches his needle, one extra dab of alcohol at your wrist for extra-extra-sure as he uncaps it. You hold your breath. He holds the needle close to your hand. “Don’t ball your fist – that’s schlock.” Ah, Wesker always used such… odd eloquence – old and regal. Apparently, according to him (he’d told you, at least) Umbrella taught him a lot of them. But it’s befitting of someone with his status, somehow. Right now, he’s both antagonist and protagonist. “Mhm,” you nod, keeping your arm still.

He stops, then, free hand wrapping around the side of your arm that faced down to trap your wrist in place as his other hand closed in with the needle, those slit eyes of his intently calculating where to stick you to get a clean hit. Or if he even should – if he should intentionally miss and dig and see if you squirm, or how much of a social misstep it would be to selfishly indulge in his own sadism.

But he chooses not to play with an unknown variable, giving a little huff at his unspoken desire to make you hurt so well before he leans in a little more. Then, like that, he strikes – it’s over swiftly, needle breaking your tender skin and ravaging the vein wall. A tiny click sounds out as the sharp is disposed, and a tinier tube that leads out is the only remainder of the action.

...huh? All that lead up and… “Wow. That was… I didn’t expect that,” you say, blinking a little despite yourself. You can’t help it – you expected it to be more… more painful. He chuckles, and it morphs at its’ tail end from something lighthearted to painfully dark.

“Perhaps I should forget a little,” is all the doctor offers you from the unwoven threads of his thoughts, deep and wizened by the ports he’s placed in times past. ��Would you like that next time, my patient?” You give a tiny gasp as the situation is re-acquainted with you, the elusive ‘my’ making your brain twirl. It doesn’t mean anything, of course it doesn’t, but it’s another part of a grand set aimed at the warmth slowly spreading through you. “I think you could s-stand the humbling,” you shoot back, smirking.

Alas, he brings reality into you by pressing a little on the insertion point, which causes you to instantly cringe with the uncomfortable digging sensation. Ouch.

“Hm? What’s that?” he purrs out, smug, and he does it again as an experiment, viperous eyes digging past your own with unrestricted glee. You suck in a breath and hiss through it, but his other two fingers are applying enough pressure that trying to pull your arm away won’t work without injury to the wall itself. “Fuck, that is an odd sensation,” you growl out, eyelids crinkling.

Wesker chuckles. It breaks off into a manic, deep bark of a giggle that is somehow as much powerplay as it is oddly, inescapably genuine. You’re… your facial expression simply caught him – like an ant with light bearing down on it or… or something. He’s in control of the situation, he can spare the emotion, he reasons away.

“What a dirty mouth,” he says. And before you can object, he leans forward and your lips brush – then meet – a quick, chaste kiss before he pulls back. “Mm. Spreading your disease,” he quips, shaking his head a little at his own virologist humor. That one could use a little more tinkering, he thinks.

“A-Ahuh,” you say, eyes lidding a little as you move your head forward just enough to try and re-capture his thin, soft, frustratingly far lips. He punishes you for your greediness by reminding you of his grip on that fucking point and, in spite of yourself, you moan a little, and then your horrified expression nearly kills him again.

“So responsive,” he croons, belittling, letting go of it entirely before he gets carried away; he doesn’t want to collapse anything. Then again, he could restick your other arm...

But you can tell that he’s reluctant. You can nearly smell it on him – a shark that has snagged its’ tooth and barely restrains the desire to really pull. “It was the kiss,” you pout, eyebrows drawing together with a pitiful look that is befitting of your current position, if anything.

“Hm. Of course. Typical,” Wesker asserts. He might not even be joking – “Just how many kisses do you dispense on average, doctor?” You quirk one of those pity-brows.

He regards you, blinks a little at your comment, seeking its’ intent. Then, he relaxes – you’re not the jealous type. No, not like he’s becoming. The thought of your lips on anyone else’s makes him want to grab your shirt and make you the outlier. But, he has to admit it: you’ve already become a statistical anomaly in his world…

“Hmm. One or two, if I’ve deduced that they’re susceptible,” he admits, and the honesty surprises you. It makes sense, though – he’s married to business, but he’ll do what business demands to make deals.

You nod a little, nonchalantly.

The fire seeks to burn you, though – he seizes your shoulder instead of your shirt and presses his lips to yours again, a little more insistent. You gasp and he pulls back a little, but then he’s back on you, and you’re surrounded in his delicious scent, and he smells quite macabre like black orchids warring with the isopropyl and too much hand sanitizer, and it’s odd but beneath it all you can smell the diluted day’s sweat of him.

That makes you have to bite your own cheek not to chase the contact when he breaks it again, finally satisfied with having painted a more dazed expression on you.

More pressing matters await than the continuation of discussion, though, and Wesker forces himself to focus on something other than his urge to take and taste the object of his own bud of crawling, itching desire.

“Now,” he says, breaking the moment, “time to begin treatment.” He sounds a touch breathless and it makes the corners of your mouth turn up a little. Not so unaffected now, huh?

He looks back to the TC Atlantis and moves from nearly leaning into you to adjust it. You watch as he fiddles with the bag he’s got. He produces a small syringe – no steel tip this time, rubber – and attaches it to the end of the bag, pulling back the plunger with two fingers until it’s filled with a measure of white, unassuming liquid.

What could it possibly be? You hum a little, eyes narrowing. Knowing the man you’ve come to acquaint yourself with, it could be nothing but more saline – or it could be something insane, like… like ketamine. Or something like that. You hope not – that’s a bit much for you.

Wesker picks up on it, though his red slits remain focused on what he’s preoccupied with. “Having second thoughts, little lamb?” This new addition makes you swallow and avert your prying eyes. “I’d hope not,” he adds, a little darkly, “it’s a little late to be turning back, don’t you think?”

Because you won’t be, not soon, he thinks. But he doesn’t say that.

You churn with an eccentric mixture of sudden illumination to your situation and a surge of lust. No escape… Your breathing gets a little heavier and the corners of his mouth turn up. “I understand that this is hard for you,” he assures, though he’s put on all the theatrical professionalism of a patient’s advocate, “but please,” it drops from that into something serious as his eyes turn to yours, smile falling, “don’t worry – I’m an expert.”

And Wesker says it with such courage that you just nod. You are in too deep now. But, god, it feels good to be surrounded.

He pulls the syringe out, satisfied, and lines it up with one of the branches on your IV, screwing it in. Before he begins, though, he stops. “Are you ready?” The way Wesker says it, slow and dragged out, is as if you will be hit with something dreadfully strong. The calpain potential makes you tremble lightly.

“It’s… it’s nothing truly insane, right?” You look to him for safety, and he shelters your mind with a scoff, as if the mere notion escapes him. “Of course not. I am interested in how you’ll fare with it, though,” he admits, one hand brushing your hand to impart his presence. It’s shockingly intimate, somehow.

It’s also all you need to be bewitched by such a dangerous, cunning, calculating man. For all you know, this is a sick trap and you’re crawling onto his sacrificial altar. What if it’s… what if… but then Wesker’s making unbroken eye contact with you as he pushes on the plunger, looking at your eyes for anything, and you greet that with a whimper that makes him smile a little. It climbs into a very toothy little smirk, one canine peeking as the final Cellegelyn in the syringe disappears in you.

But you don’t feel different, and you blink. Do you have some kind of immunity? “Um…”

He doesn’t respond, he just nods a little, as if he knows, and he adjusts the bag and the speed of its’ draining – he sets it up to mix with the saline on 100. That’s… a little quicker. “Mm, we’re just getting started,” he says, hint of something predatory emerging as the seconds eclipse.

You gulp and chuckle nervously. “Am I supposed t-t-to… to feel any d-different?” You can’t help it – you feel a tug of disappointment at the lack of anything noticeable. “Not necessarily. Not yet. Patience, patient,” he chides, holding a single gloved finger up at your worried protest. Wesker does something a little more like when the two of you are alone rather than as a doctor; he leans both of his arms against the side of your bed – which would, in your shared lab unit, be his chair, usually – and regards you.

There’s a sort of artificial softness imbued there. Is it weird if you find his effort endearing? It should scare you. You can, at least, cast out the thought that he somehow got his hands on a dose of uncharacteristically gritless Progenitor-based-something. If you’d mentioned your concern he would smack you, and you’re sure of that, too.

He interrupts to ask you a question. You see it, now – the desire behind that cold, creeping gaze. I want you, it says. He’s quiet, almost a silver, electric whisper. “What do you want?” It’s so charged.

You quirk a brow, but then you let the statement wash over you. What do you want? To continue. But what do you want? “I want you,” you say, nodding with certainty. He smirks, brows drawing together at that in approval.

“That’s it,” he compliments, and then he puts a hand on your stomach, brushing up and up your skin.

You shiver as he does. It feels… very nice. Then, he dips it beneath your gown again and traces over the leads he’s placed, hand climbing higher very slowly as he appraises you. The texture of the glove, warm and clinical, makes you huff. And then you whimper, and he gives a little ‘oh?’ and continues, dancing his fingertips along your sternum before he draws his hand back down, down, down, against your thigh, tips of his prim and proper nails brushing against your skin.

It feels really good – really, really good, and it makes you arch a little. Oh. “That… that feels n-nice,” you qualify, and your free arm twitches as it attempts to reach to him to guide him.

You stop yourself.

He doesn’t stop himself, though. He gives a tiny tug to that catheter with his free hand and you crinkle so beautifully as the sensation climbs through you, moaning a little, drawing your thighs together and clenching them gently – so helpless, so adorable. And all his to play with, now.

Putty.

“Struggling, lamb?” Wesker chuckles accusingly, letting go and sliding his hand up your arm instead, the touch erupting fresh goosebumps across your skin and making you lean into it as if starved. “Whatever you gave me is- is… y’know,” you avoid, beginning to flush more.

His touch is a lot – but it’s not enough, you want more. He chuckles a little more as you shoot him a very desperate glance.

“What ever happened to patience, hm?” But even as he says it, Wesker is sliding his hands over you and grasping at your grabbable hips, making you shift to allow him better access. “Feisty,” he breathes, digging his digits into them. You moan pathetically – the sensation is enhanced, spilling out from your hips and feeding your core like a direct connection you didn’t know you dialed. “T-That’s… nice…” you comment, eyes wrenched shut as you surrender yourself to more sensation.

The TC Atlantis clicks and filters more into your vein in the background. Everything is starting to feel like a pleasantry, just a little bit better than it should be – even just background noise that fills your ears, almost… musical.

Wesker acknowledges you with an affected sigh as a hand dips nearer to the corner of your thigh, massaging the flesh with deft, experimenting swipes of his fingers. You buck a little trying to encourage him to where, optimally, you’d prefer him, but your insistence is met with his resistance. “Not yet. But… soon.” He’s a little lax because he notices your eyes have dilated significantly.

You mewl in return, pleading at him – “How soon?” – and buck your hips a little.

“Soon,” Wesker repeats, a bit more snippy and sharp, letting go of your thigh a little hesitantly. You miss the warmth of it, your own desires laid bare as your brows press up together pleadingly even without the prosody of your speech.

He pushes down the bed’s arm and leans forward, then, forcing your lips against his own. It’s surprisingly sweet and needing of you, like the more he notices that you’re falling under the Cellegelyn, the more of himself climbs out from his chest.

From his shell.

You’re hopelessly addicted to that, grasping, perhaps, at the ghost of what you perceive as closeness, moving your lips on his own, digging your hands into the sides of your bed so you don’t try to lean forward to grab his – because you know, cognitively, that the intimacy will get you punished. He massages the pads of his thumbs at your hips all over again, hard,kneading sensitive flesh to the point of bruising as his tongue laps at your lower lip, and you open your mouth obediently, if sloppily, letting him in with a yelp.

Letting him all in. God, please. You moan into his mouth at his grip strength and you swear he drinks it in. You are massaging his ego so excellently. What an entertainment. He’s surprised at how fast it’s kicking in – aren’t you just dearly receptive? Some kind of polymorphism or something, perhaps? What a malleable little oddity.

Wesker’s tongue rolls against your own and even now, you notice it – it’s longer and leaner than a normal person’s, pressing into your wanting mouth with the strength of his need as you moan again into his own. He swallows the sound down, lips synchronizing with your own pair only enough that your mixing saliva doesn’t spill from you. You’re forced to swallow because you’re producing so much, and the sensations running through you make your legs furl and whimpers spring from you.

Your face is cherry red, and he stops kissing you to let you heave breaths in with a satisfied sound, only to nudge his nose up against yours in a tease before he leans back the rest of the way.

Wesker, of course, lacks the same embarrassing composure-drop – aside from a string of hair that peeks forward and the way his labcoat leans over your legs, he’s still perfectly normal. How frustrating. “And…” he sucks a breath in, himself, “...and how is the treatment progressing? How do you feel?”

His eyes are trained on yours, searching as he thumbs your hips with apparent absentmindedness, no longer the grip he had before, sparingly. Those pupils are so intense – and they always have been, but they’re even more intense now. They also gleam a little brighter, something you take great interest in as the cue that he’s feeling something and you’re not alone. It makes sense that he wears his shades so often, because without them, those eyes – and how bright or dim they are – are peepholes into a grander being.

You look a little dazed, but you manage to swallow a bit more, clear your throat and speak through the warmth that clamors through your guts, pawing insistently at the seams of your mind. It’s odd – your wits, you find, are still about you – at least partially. You don’t feel dumb. Perhaps you feel loose, but you’re not out of control. Everything just feels so good, and everything that makes you feel makes you feel so much.

You squirm... you’ve been doing a lot of that. It makes Wesker smirk with a self-satisfaction. “I-It’s going very well, d-d-doctor Wesker,” you reply, though you sound far more affected than you mean to. Or is that just the perfect representation of your slow, marching unraveling?

“Mhmm...” He stops crowding your space and pretends to immerse himself in thought, his voice deep and telling. Then, one of his wispy brows raise. “And what could I do to assist you further, hm?” His eyes flit to the holter monitor as he speaks. The way he looks at you, next, is suggestive, but it belies that you’re obviously not allowed to breach the unspoken rules of this game and beg him to fuck you.

Not yet, at least. There is time until the Atlantis has completed its’ infusion – the bag isn’t nearly empty. This doesn’t mean you can’t pathetically beg for other forms of contact, however.

So you puff a little and think really hard, and sustain your blush and roll your hips with the power of your powerlessness… “Please, I just… I just want you on me, just… touch me, p-please?” You look down, very ashamed at the way you sound and yet hopelessly turned on, and it makes Wesker’s eyes glint dangerously.

Your defenselessness is truly delicious. He really ought to keep you. He can imagine it, a fantasy he almost certainly cannot partake in: you in his lab, leashed and collared to his side, where he can take a break whenever he so feels the whim chase him to touch you. And you, whimpering and needy at every turn, always ready to give and give selfless stress relief like a good toy. So utterly human.

It should disgust him. Instead, your specific breed of naive humanity is like a fetish. You’re not bound to the ghost of a Doctrine, you’re not infected with any virus; your DNA is unblemished, untouched like a tap of pure, rippling potential. You’re so corruptible… and yet… and yet he cannot find it in himself to do that with any real, consequential permanence. God, he wonders if you’re compatible with… no, no, no.

Your moans would be a pleasant background chatter as he compares different strains under electron microscopes though, he thinks, instead of your mindful chattering. And you must see it in his eyes, the way they flare up as they gaze into your own with a deathly precision, because your spine feels a shiver climb up it and you let out a shaky whine.

You’re beginning to need him so badly that the emptiness in you aches.

“Keep talking,” he urges, one of his gloved hands shifting to slide over the fabric of the front of his pants, the other sliding over your body, seeming to really focus, with honed calculation, on the parts of you that draw the most sound from your throat.

You feel so lit alight with sensation this time that you writhe under him as his other hand draws, deliberately, over your sides – “Oh, g-god, why does it feel so- so-… hmmah,” – over each rib, across your hips and the outsides of your thighs, where he presses his digits inward teasingly as your core tightens – “F-f-fuck, Wesker, please, please,” – under your gown, which he bunches up and unbuttons to expose you to the air, making you whimper pathetically amidst the cacophony of your own groaning, his gloved fingers, two bare, pressing into your chest and your sternum and wrapping around your neck. You suddenly feel like you’re going to––

Wesker pauses. He’s leaning over you, gray coat draping across your legs, watching your face intently.

Like he’s looking at an anodized experiment encased in a tube. So clinical, cold, and utterly transfixed by the exponential disentanglement of your mind. Your psychology entrances him, laid bare and leaking.

Your eyebrows bunch up and a look of betrayal crosses you, and then you pout – embarrassment is far away in another land, you were so... “Don’t- don’t- why did you s-s-stop?”You almost feel like you’ll cry, bucking your hips incessantly into nothing, nothing at all. Since when had you been moving them? “Don’t stop, please, oh, please, p-please,” you prattle on, breathing shallowly. His grip increases a little and it falters.

“Why?” he asks, voice rough with need and accusatory, though he’s well aware of the answer – he just wants to force it out from you under the duress of all that dopamine, serotonin, and norepinephrine. Oh, yes, it’s long since leaked from one to another. But, fuck, you’re making him want to give in to his own basal urges and fuck you hard into the bed.

But he has more control than that. Plenty more restraint than you currently possess. It isn’t time yet – he knows what he’s doing. And when it is, he’s going to ruin you...

You actually sniffle. “I was so-- I was so c-c-close,” you manage to stutter out, your eyes seeking out his with a drugged desperation that makes his cock throb. “Is that so? … Really?” Wesker’s grip on your neck releases a little, and you lean your head and press the tiniest, defeated little kiss against the gray cuff of his labcoat in your addled confusion.

It releases completely and you swear he chuffs at you. “Well? Keep going, then.”

He slides his hands across your shoulders and dips them across your chest, digs them underneath your back and runs them along the sides of you. “Oh, thank you, thank you,” you babble breathlessly. You arch so beautifully, so wonderfully pathetic, and you sing and moan for him.

“So responsive,” he croons, “so powerless against me. Against the slightest little touch…” He demonstrates it by wrapping them across your stomach, pushing his hands deftly, each finger trailing themselves across each of your ribs in a dizzying pattern, each movement making you twitch and whine. So pitiable – such a far cry from your book smarts.

“Doesn’t this embarrass you?” But he knows it doesn’t – not now.

You can feel the lust in the coils of you tightening and pulsing with his touch like electric lightning. He dips one of his hands between your rolling hips – “Ohhhhh, yesssss,” – finally, middle finger running over you, and your labored breathing gives into rhythmic cries as you gush all over his hand, arching. “Wesker, oh, god, Wesker, oh, oh, fuck, f-f-fuuuuuuuckkkk, W-W-Wesk– Wesker… hhhhhah, ah, hhah, ah...”

He keeps it there, wriggles his digits about a little as you cry out so prettily for him. He keeps it until your gasping and moaning of his name (something he deigns for you to stop doing, such music to his ears) become the tortured rasps for him to stop. “Oh, GOD W-W-Wesk– Wesker it’s TOO much- T-TOO much,” you hiccup, legs pressing together, body writhing around even as he strokes you, sadism very clear in his catty, agitated gaze. “Please! Please, no m-m-more, no more, no more-more-more Wesker, W-Wesker, ple-e-eaaaase,” you beg through your teeth, free hand grasping at the other arm of the bed with a white knuckle grip.

Should he really give you mercy? You’d continue to say his name, a nice ring coming off your lips. “And here I thought you wanted me to touch you,” he muses, mock complaint going unheard to the higher regions of your mind. Your voice is as pretty begging to stop as it is to go… decisions, decisions… and he’s so indecisive, really, as you wriggle helplessly and squeak, dribbling even more on his fingers. It’s such sweet, embittered torture to your electrified nerves.

But then you start to cry, tears rolling down your cheeks as you plead and plead, and he ceases, stilling his hand but never pulling it away. “Fine.” It’s said sharp and final, but his expression is amused. The glove between your legs is covered in you – sticky strands that make the nitrile glisten wetly, truly a sight to behold.

His mouth is awfully dry. How lucky for you that you’ve got a bag of saline to keep you company. All he has is a heaping dose of your saliva.

You thank him breathlessly as you come down from your high, finding that it takes an abnormally long time. You’re so dizzy. Your body feels like it runs with pleasure in your aftershocks like an almost-painful livewire of lightness, your chest puffing so much and so quickly that the holter monitor – which has migrated to the side of the bed by now – beeps about your low oxygen saturation.

Wesker quirks a brow, his smugness wiped away at it and replaced with a little frown. He yanks his hand from you, which makes you stiffen before you relax, jelly-like, and he rips off his gloves, one of his hands finding your own to hold. “Easy, now,” he chides. But you want to yank your hand away – it’s so sensitive, and this is oddly intimate, so you twitch and whimper and...

The already-quirked brow climbs higher as his free hand pauses the TC Atlantis.

Wesker certainly thought that you had some kind of oddly strong reaction, but he hadn’t expected it to be to this degree or this fast – perhaps there were secrets to your mind he had yet to uncover about its’ inner workings? Things that your medical records simply didn’t divulge because nobody had ever looked. Intriguing. “Breathe with me, alright? In and out,” he splays your hand against his chest, underneath the fabric of his labcoat and over his turtleneck. Your hand slides a little, admiring even in your daze as you follow his command wordlessly, the holter monitor finally ceasing its’ siren.

“Good. Keep going, I’m nowhere near done with you,” he admits, humming a little from deep in his chest to occupy you away from his words save for the command inlaid. You continue, and eventually you find you’re no longer dizzy.

“So…” the virologist begins, his hands grasping your own to place it back on the bed, then darting away as if the potential connection scares him off – especially when your brain is lit alight with so much oxytocin. Your hand twitches after his, but then stills. This is Wesker, and this is a scene, not a normal man and a warm bed – but you still appreciate what you perceive as aftercare.

“How are you feeling now?” It comes out a little awkward, something that you’ve not quite heard from him in a long time, like he’s a little unsure of himself. You reckon he is, the way his eyes keep flitting to the monitor and then you, though when he notices your noticing he forces them to remain on you.

But he’s not terribly empathetic – he’s still roiling with arousal, evident in his own budding impatience.

“Better,” you nod, giving a weak smile as you shiver with a particularly strong aftershock.

He kicks off his boots very suddenly and climbs onto the bed with little grace, sitting on his knees and between your legs, once more regarding you. When you gasp, he gives a cocky, toothy grin, the predatory streak in them returning full force, no longer pressed down to comfort you. “What, did you think that was it? That I was going to make you cum without internal stimulation and let you free?” He giggles – and then it turns into a chuckle. The chuckle turns into a sadistic cackle of a laugh that shakes his shoulders.

“Oh, no, little bambi, you’re very far from home,” Wesker says, eyes narrowing with a mean look as he leans in to steal a little of the saline he’s been loyally feeding your vein. He grabs your jaw harshly and you squeak in delayed surprise as he pulls your chin forward and down, tongue relishing in the taste of you together as it tangles in your own dominantly, suckling and pulling sound from you as he lets his first clipped moan out.

You take the opportunity to swallow it and he forces your head back and against the bed for your attempt, lips so tightly packed against yours that you squirm under him.

He lets you up on his own time, pulling back as you cough and heave breaths in. Everything is so much right now that you already feel like he’s been touching you again, your hips twitching. It isn’t unnoticed, especially when your legs are flowing around his knees. “How convenient for me, you’re already ready again…”

“...but I suppose I’ll be a gentleman,” he croons, stroking his own ego as he pulls another pair of nitrile gloves on with a snap that makes you weak, tightening your knees around his waist as you hoist yourself a little in preparation. Just the feeling of shifting them makes you pant for a second – you’re fried.

“P-Please?” You shiver with anticipation and say the first thing that comes to your mind. You don’t know if you’re pleading for him to be easy on you or to prep you, honestly. You might be dripping wet, but you do need a little prepwork before he just s—

Wesker’s fingers are at your slit again before you can continue to dwell on it, his gaze tilting down and his brows furrowing in concentration as he experiments with your sensitivity, thumbing at your swollen clit a few times. You suck in a breath and your hips twitch – “A-ahhhh, god,”– and he parts his knees more to force them apart. That makes you full-body shudder, your hands grabbing at the cloth of his labcoat and squeezing it when he begins to move his thumb in a circular motion, other fingers sliding against your slit, one slicking itself up and driving into you.

You moan as he works it in and out of you in calculated strokes, eyes flitting from the holter monitor, your face, your glistening, fluttering hole. He grits his teeth and huffs, breath hot, face beginning to get flushed – something you realize even in your haze that you have never, ever seen before, the sight before you making your back arch and your fingers curl. He doesn’t quite realize that it’s his own appearance – debauched in his own way – that set you off, and he sets to hammering his finger in you with forceful insistence to make way for another digit.

You quiver and buck your hips disobediently, and you know you’re really in it now because he doesn’t even respond except to grunt, eyes narrowing as they land on you in meaningless warning before they refocus on your fluttering grip.

Fuck, you’ve got suction. He had expected Cellegelyn to loosen you up like a muscle relaxer, not leave you gripping his finger like you’re trying to milk it. You’re so goddamn hot, you know that? To debase you like this – to steal your intellect away and leave you the weak one writhing beneath him… it could become an addiction if he wasn’t careful.

Maybe all the little powerplays he’d pulled had been intentional to get to this very point. Had you ever considered that? Had you? “You have no idea what you’re entertaining, doll,” he growls.

The pet name, completely unexpected and new in the moment, makes you heave. Doll? “W-What?” you squeak, staving off the curdles of warmth that threaten to overwhelm you all for the sake of his own satisfaction and the potential at more of that. Oh, you’d be so good – you’d be the best doll, anything to keep this going. “F-Fuck, Wesker, feels so-- so good,” you mumble, barely coherent.

His nostrils flare at your damaged, telling cadence, and he slows his pace, which only makes you squirm a little more trying to force up some friction.

The squelching sound of your utter arousal is driving him mad. He needs to bury himself to the hilt in you sooner rather than later, lest he pop the button on his pants. The strain against them is starting to hurt, and the discomfort only serves to fuel him as he pushes a second finger in you, ceasing his thumbing so that you don’t overload before he’s got a chance to comfortably seat himself in your pink, blushing warmth.

You curse at the second insertion, but you stretch with beautiful ease. Your hands, though, are gripping his labcoat enough that it’s actually starting to pull him a little closer. You can smell him, and you can smell his cologne again, and the sensation of his fingers driving into you is making you whimper. Everything is crackling through your entire body and you want to curl up in a ball and hold onto the sensation for as long as you can. You sink your teeth into your lip to try and silence yourself even though it feels so good it’s almost burning with each deep stroke, and you bite yourself so hard you bleed.

You’ve released blood in the water.

The scent of copper tang makes him growl inhumanly, and his free hand doesn’t bother to disrobe of its’ filthy wet nitrile, wrapping around your back and pulling you forward with an unexpected strength as he continues to press into your walls with his other, tongue lapping along your lower lip and teeth lewdly. It makes you whine – it burns so good, and everything feels so good, and you white knuckle his labcoat as he lets go of you, shoving you back.

“Nghh, fuck, Wesker, I-I-I won’t––”

“No more fucking games,” he interrupts, shaking his head and puffing strands of hair out of his sightline. You nod, unable to answer him properly with your mouth. He’s beginning to lose his mask and his patience, and he fiddles with the button of his pants and pulls down the zipper, freeing himself.

You encourage him as he pulls his digits out, and you whine at the startling lack-of, greedy hole still clenching around the air. He wastes no time, smearing your natural lubricant over himself in pumps that make his mouth hang open enough for his elongated canines to be seen.

You let go of his labcoat and bring your hand to your mouth, biting your fingers to keep from babbling about how gorgeous he looks. But then you tear them away. It must be known, even at great personal cost, because how many people get to see him this way? Has anyone ever even told him? To bare another second in this world without him shouldering this knowledge will kill you, your addled mind is certain.

Or maybe it’s just the oxytocin surging through your veins and demanding you bridge minds. But you cannot deny yourself, consequences be damned.

“Y-You’re gorgeous,” you breathe, eyebrows raising in total earnest. You look so thoroughly smitten that he can’t help but lock eyes with you, and his very own fate in pretending this is merely a scene is ruined because his cock visibly throbs in his grip at your honesty.

He diverts his cat-like eyes, long lashes fluttering. Like this, he almost… almost looks bashful. Tendered. You nearly forget the situation before you feel his hot tip at your entrance and practically choke, so wet and bothered that it slides right in and he groans in turn.

“God, you’re still so tight,” he praises, ignoring whatever happened seconds ago, one hand gripping your hip, the other on the side of your thigh.

“You’re f-f-fucking… beautiful,” you say, eyes wide and blown out completely. Before you can continue your tirade to ruin his appearance of detachment, he punishes you by tightening his grip painfully, his cock driving into you to the hilt as you scream for a second. He curses alongside you, the noise surprising him, barking it out in equal at the way your walls quiver as they take him.

But he doesn’t tell you to stop…

It’d be more noticeable if you weren’t desperately trying not to cum, thoughts difficult for you to grasp and direct as your nails dig into his labcoat. Urge was easier, but you wouldn’t deny him this now; not after he’d treated you to such an experience prior.

He picks up on it by the way your walls move around him, incessant, and he growls low, long and deep as if to force your body to submit to his demand to hold off. “Not yet, I hav-haven’t… had my fun,” he commands, chest expanding with a labored breath.

He’s wide, and it makes it all so much worse – no, so much better. You ball your fists until crescents are digging into your hands as he pulls back and then rocks forward a few times, each one making you whimper at its’ peak, and your whimpers only serving to further ingratiate you to faster rocking.

Wesker’s grip on your hip tightens as he rolls in and out of you smoothly, wet slapping filling the air. Skin-on-skin. His gaze finally returns to you. “Know what? You’re the fucking pretty one, taking me so well, fuck, I want to… hhah, keep you like this,” he babbles, both his hands gripping your hips tightly as he fucks your taut body back and forth on his length with the ease that Progenitor bestows upon him.

What he gets in return – the prize of your reply – is your broken moan tearing through the air. You’re leaking out of yourself, hardly capable of remembering your own name, less and less of it all springing to you with each successive thrust.

To be privy to such power makes your core pulse.

You’re trying so hard for him, but you can’t help how your body grows impossibly tighter, beginning to lose your grip on thought as you mumble. Your vision crackles with the weight of his throbbing length pistoning into your soft, gracious heat.

“Mmmah’gnna, g’nnaahh-hhahh,” you slur, trying desperately to warn him, your hands patting and grasping at his sides to convey the spirit of your meaning.

He just keeps going, spilling noises that match your own incoherence against a wall of unintelligible complimentary ramblefucking you never could’ve expected from such a cold man. “Mmnhh, sofuckinggoodforme, you gonna be so– FUCK, fucking good for me, huh? Gonna k-keep you, hnnh, gonna fucking keep– keep you– make you m-m-mine, allmineallmineallmine…” His prosody blears around the edges and tightens when he drives into you, slurs when you milk him and leaks emotion around seams that can no longer bare to keep themselves together in lieu of his frantic fucking. Cellegelyn was the best fucking choice for this he ever could’ve chosen, and he’d do it ten times over to feel your heavenly grip crushing the day’s stressors away.

He’s a genius.

Hopefully you aren’t paying attention to what he’s actually saying enough to see the startling, alarming bright red – and if you are, which he severely doubts (and even he is having great struggle to pay any heed to your admittance that you were dangling on the edge) you’d discount it as lustful rambling.

But your head is lolling, tongue out and panting desperately as your orgasm crashes over you for the second time tonight. Your pulsing, dribbling, gasping warmth hugs his in a rhythmic pattern, head drawn back in a silent scream as one hand pulls at your own hair with the intensity that bombs your nervous system with each quick, deep, hard stroke he’s mindlessly, mechanically performing.

He leans forward, suddenly, breath a hot gasp, mouth hanging open as he seeks your neck.

Wesker diverts only enough to avoid incidentally murdering you, lax mouth – and each glittering, monstrously inhuman canine shaped by something truly ancient you couldn’t hope to understand on the level he did – sinking into the tender, sweet flesh of your shoulder like the strike of a viper.

You cry out and he groans into your shoulder as his hips finally give way to stuttering as they fuck too deep and too quickly into your overstimulated heat, and then he paints your insides, one arm seeking your side to death-grip as his other digs his nails, intentionally, into the flesh of your hip, drawing blood as his hips jerk and he bottoms out in you with each hot spurt.

You feel so good squishing and squeezing around him, you’re such a good hole.

You’re still twitching as he pulls out of you, releasing your shoulder from his mouth only after gnawing into it a little more – which makes you sob and sniffle and kick and moan, your body transforming the pain into otherworldly pleasure beyond your understanding.

“Nnnnh… ooohhhh, ohhh goddd,” you breathe, legs shaking as your abdomen leaks a heady mixture of the two of you.

So fucked out... what an adorable, pleasant look on you. Or is that the hormones talking? Wesker doesn't dedicate the time to dissecting it, he lets it wash over him in the way his face – and brows, more notably – take on a certain rare peacefulness, an expression they don't normally occupy.

You can do nothing but watch, no strength to intervene as Wesker’s tongue licks languidly at the wound he’s made, rolling over the beads of heme-rich blood that leak from you, teeth stained with your essence and breath tainted with the scent of iron. No drop of his mark is left to waste – it is almost ritualistic, though some small corner of your mind clinging to sanity whispers that this isn’t something he normally does.

It’s not quite cuddling – more like he’s trapping you against him, though he’s polite enough to prop himself to the side to avoid crushing you underneath him (that’d be rather unfortunate). This doesn’t mean he ceases his mindful lapping, continuing despite how you wriggle a little beneath him – if anything, he seems to find amusement in countering it.

He’s let go of your hips and lessened the grip on your side at some point, though you don’t quite register when.

It altogether reminds you of a big cat with a carcass, licking and gnawing idly to pass the time, more than it does the cuddling and afterglow you’d associate with what followed sex. But, strangely, you find that you… enjoy it. Not fucked out enough to attempt real affection, your hands come up to grip themselves in lieu of your desire to grab one of his. He seems to understand this, an unexpected and gentle hum that rises out of his throat, deep and low and claiming, his degloved hands – when did he take them off? – smoothing the gown you’d nearly discarded over you, shielding most of your naked body from the world around it, though not your shoulder.

He smells a little like you and you smell a little like him, a mix you find endearing – one you believe you may not soon forget, wonder in the back of your mind on the debate of whether or not he’ll commit this to his memory, too. Did he have a snapshot memory? His intellect would lead you to believe that he might.

The sensation of his slender tongue against the bite makes you struggle not to let any more sounds escape you, breathing elevating a little with each gentle lave – but you struggle, more truthfully, not to make a feeble attempt to shove him off of you; there’s absolutely no way you’re going to be able to cover the rich, deep bite unless you wear a scarf. And everyone… everyone will know who bit you with the shape it’s made.

Wesker knows that, too. He’s indulging in the thought of it, actually, knowing it will inflame – and maybe cleaning the blood from it with himself rather than the third party of an alcohol wipe is a little more alien than it is human, a hunger for heme that is satiated by your very own supply. Dangerous, though, because it’s not the first time he’s tasted it from another person – though it’d never been under this context, he supposes.

How all of this plays out for your future working with him – working under him, next to him, that is – he’s certain it’ll lend itself to his finer manipulations very well, in fact.

You wonder yourself, vaguely, more in concepts than words, how long he’s going to be cuddly before he resurfaces as the cold, emotionless figure he presents to the world and stalks off. You didn’t take him for the type to stick around, so to get anything at all after the conclusion shocks you in a pleasant – and perhaps a bit thoughtful with the weight of implication – way.

“H-hi,” you say, vocals shaking a little as you begin to come back down from it all. Wesker’s throat bobs, chest puffing with the edges of a laugh at your greeting, as if waking from a dream. Conjugation still threatened to escape you.

He stops cleaning you and lays his head in his hand, magnificently dulled gaze boring into your own. “Hello,” he replies, clearing his throat to shake it of the blood that clings, swallowing the last of it, tongue licking his lips in savor of you. The sight kicks up the dust of your blush again, having recently calmed.

When did he tuck himself away? He looks entirely clean – and you, on the other hand, are an absolute wreck.

“Enjoying yourself?” Wesker chuckles impolitely, brow cocking at your disheveled appearance and the catheter still wedged in your wrist.

Oh… that’d have to come out. You give a curt nod, sit up (with one hand as your guide, which still feels awfully sensitive) and look around you for something to stem the inevitable bleeding when you pull it out.

He tilts his head a little, watching you.

“Do you need something?” It’s both smug – as he is the only one who can provide it, really – and truthful, as he’s not quite sure your wits are totally about you to be pulling on anything. So, as your free hand moves to your wrist, he reaches out and grabs it.

“I’ll take care of it,” he swiftly decides, voice gold-lined with what little of the natural and yet uncharacteristic softness remained. After all, you seem amicable to it.

You blink as it washes over you. One event would unfold after another, and your brain would process them all individually. This painted an odd dichotomy you allowed yourself to steep in if only for the coddling it provided: you can think, but it’s hard to speak. The remnants of a dissociative? But you certainly remember the experience.

“O-oh, okay,” you softly say, reply delayed by your condition and the gears in your mind that cowed to his purposefully gentled tone.

Wesker gingerly turns your other arm over and retrieves a bandaid – though you feel more than too old for those, the situation demands it of you in your clumsiness. He runs his digits along the area and kneads a little at the thin tape holding the catheter down, then knits his brows as he pulls it out in one swift motion, replacing its’ presence with a bandaid that he holds down with frightening strength, quite a bit more than is necessary, perhaps because he must curtail the urge to lave at that, too.

You close your eyes tight and his brow quirks. “You’re still that sensitive?” Then, the virologist leans in a little, a conspiratorial hint in his tone. “Could you be… exaggerating?” But he leans back out with an edge of playfulness and ease, almost showy, rather than caution or anger.

“No,” you shake your head, opening them once it’s over. He hums thoughtfully.

The time has come for Wesker and you to depart, and he shuffles around with the meaning to stand before your hand sluggishly tugs at the cuff of his coat. He turns to face you, though you see that he creeps with a subtle impatience.

“Just wanted to say… t-thank you,” you cough out, pushing yourself into a sitting position and stretching your legs as you mean to stand.

Your belongings were bagged nearby in a themed tote. The man had truly thought of it all.

He considers something for a moment, seeking beyond your words, before he relaxes his shoulders and stands up, dusting himself off with the intention to stalk away.

“Don’t thank me yet,” he chides, slit pupils glinting with something you cannot define that surpasses the weight of the red flags you’ve seen before as he turns away, perhaps intentionally, unclipping his shades from his breast pocket and pushing them up entirely.

Wesker begins to walk away. “Thank me when you understand the depth of my generosity…” - a line that you find climbs up your spine, but he adds one last bit as he rounds a corner, clack of his boots with his disappearance to clean up - “...or the consequences of it.”

(thanks for reading this massive 11k!! lil aftercare tune soup for your soul:)

#albert wesker #resident evil #albert wesker x reader #nsft #tw medplay #tw medical #tw blood #tw sadomasochism #tw needles #tw intox #/dev/art/#/dev/writing/

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tera-91 · 4 months ago

Text

I need a vacation .....

I am a ball of nerves.

Im terrified of having another migraine, just the amount of stress im currently under.

The manager decided to be whatever the correct word is and scheduled me outside of my availability.

More than once.

I refuse to do it.

Additionally, this manager scheduled me on days that I specifically asked off. Normally I would probably shake it off. Rearrange whatever, as that is what I have been doing. This time I can’t do that.

It is not mine to rearrange.

It has already been rearranged once. Plus its medical and that is difficult to rearrange especially when it is less than a month away.

No matter what happens today or tomorrow it has to get fixed. Either by this manager or I am going to the manager above this one. The schedule is basically what I “quit” over before. Like I understand the staffing issue. Ive said to this manager before if I am needed outside of my availability, ask so that I can make arrangements.

“I don’t have time to ask everyone can they work this day or that day”

Im not asking to be asked about every shift. All I asked was for outside my availability. I have worked outside of it before. That has generally been because something came up and I couldn’t work what I had been scheduled so I could only switch shifts with someone that had a scheduled shift outside of my availability but I did it instead of calling out and leaving them a person down.

I don’t know why I do it because other people don’t.

Ive already started to apply for other jobs. I like my job I really do. Just not the manager. If I could get my old manager back that would be great.

School is ok. Im WAY ahead in one class because the instructor has the class open that way and its online. The other one im struggling a little bit. Mostly because I don’t have really good time management skills. One assignment I completely forgot to do. Mostly because I had my days mixed up. I knew the assignment was due on the day it was due but I thought I was in a different day. So I went to bed thinking I could do it in the morning since I didn’t have work.

I was wrong.

Then I was too terrified to bring it up to the instructor that I thought I was living a Tuesday when in reality I was living a Wednesday. I think its ok though. I know the lowest grade gets dropped and right now I think my current grade is including the zero for that assignment and Im still passing the course.

But still im stressed about missing something else. We have the mid-term coming up and I need to start studying for that. And try not to forget about the homework.

Then there is my youtube channel. Its like I killed my channel. I know I slowed down posting because I didn’t have my videos edited so I spaced out what I had done so that I could finish up what I had to edit which was taking me a little longer than usual.

I introduced shorts and that seemed to go ok. Like the first 3 or 4 went fine. I made sure to not just only release shorts and to kind of alternate my longer videos with the shorts. But then like 3 weeks ago or so I went from a good number of views (nothing crazy like in the hundreds which was great) to just nothing. I thought maybe I didn’t put tags or something, which one short I accidently didn’t put tags on, but everything had tags.

I released at least one of both, a short and a longer video, so its not like youtube just wasn’t showing one and promoting the other. I don’t know what happened.

But now that I actually had more than a day off in a row I was able to edit more videos. Not a ton but a decent amount. Enough that I don’t particularly have to worry about not having anything to post until after my mid-term. So I have the mental relief of knowing I can use my time to focus on it.

I know that sounds weird. Prioritizing my youtube video “bank” over a mid-term. The material is stuff I have gone over a lot of times whether it be through work or school already that I have a decent understanding that I don’t feel like my “academic life” depends on studying day in and day out for it. But also, I was doing so well that I was really hoping that I could build up my channel enough to get monetized. Not like to do youtube full time or anything, I don’t think I could make a “living” off of it but I was hoping for just enough that I could at least quit my job without any immediate worries. These classes will hopefully lead to a decent paying job but that is still a minimum of 2 years away. And that’s assuming I get into the program.

I don’t know that I could handle this manager for another 2 years.

Also I would like to get my ability to write back. I mean stories, I get that Im writing right now. Its just that I get an idea in the middle of working and I cant write it and then when I can I either don’t remember or I don’t have that spark to write. Like right now its kind of like therapy just to spill my frustrations all over the keyboard.

I want to read and write stories so bad but I almost don’t feel like I have time for them. Or at least I cant find the stories that I want to ready very easily.

Its like no one posts to fanfiction.net anymore, I really like how the site has its search system. Like if you’re searching for a specific pairing. I cant really easily find what I want to read on Ao3. Most of the specific thing I want to read I’ve found on Tumblr but you cant really find it, its just a endless scroll.

I was once told, Im paraphrasing, like to give creativity you have to refill your creative well. So for me that is binging movies and tv shows and reading. Which takes up time. Ive found myself staying up to the early morning hours, where I get maybe 6 hours of sleep just trying to find something good and fluffy with the characters of my current fixation.

In the short term so far I’m fine but I know in the long run that could not be great. Im sure especially for stress and anxiety.

While I know some of it isn’t something that I need to stress over, I just do. A lot of it comes from future looking like making sure there are no conflicts coming up between the schedules in the home. Hopefully I can sort that out in therapy.

That’s part of why Im trying so hard to get my youtube monetized or at least figure out something that I can do that is a little more flexible or on my own time. Because if I didn’t have to keep struggling with the manager scheduling me out of my availability or on days that I ask off. I know that sounds bad but I only ask for days off for a reason. Mostly for when there are appointments, either my own or that I have to handle in some capacity. There have been a few times where I ask off because of a mentally beneficial event happening that I would like to attend but I don’t just ask off because I think oh this would be a lovely day to have off.

Though now I probably should.

Just go in the system and ask for a bunch of random days off. Like oh this date sounds like a wonderful day to have nothing to do.

See how many days in a row I can get away with asking off.

I have a lot to do in the next 3 months.

I should make a list. It might be a scroll but I should just make a long list of everything that needs to get done. Number them and pull up a random number generator and roll it a time or two and just do it.

Maybe if I did that anyway it would unlock something in my brain.

Take away some of the stressors that I have.

It probably wouldn’t stop me from writing these rants but maybe it would help me get back to writing stories.

I miss writing fluffy things.

I miss losing myself in the writing and just breezing through 1000 words, I did a quick check of my master list and of the ones that I posted the word count next to my longest story is nearly 4000 words long! That story just flowed, it played out in my head as I wrote it. I didn’t stop the whole time I wrote it.

I want that back.

I NEED that back.

#tera-91 #writing #rant #rant post #stream of consciousness #I miss writing #Ball of frustration #frustrated #anxitey #annoyed #stress #stressed #angry #i want to write again #I want to write #creatively empty

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ask-the-clergy-bc · 2 years ago

Note

Papas with an so who age regresses (like when they’re stressed they’re kinda child like?)

I hope this is what you are looking for! :)

And to avoid confusion this is NOT to be confused with the 18+ Subject of DD/LG or any kink content related to it!! THIS IS NOT FOR ANY SORT OF NSFW SO DO NOT INTERACT WITH OR TREAT IT AS SUCH!!! I DO NOT WRITE FOR THOSE KINKS NOR DO I WANT THIS TAGGED OR FOR IT TO BE ASSOCIATED WITH IT!!

This is for the very real coping mechanism utilized by therapists and individuals. :) Also looking into it I wasn't sure if you meant full regression or just very casual, so I did more casual stress relief.

Also a very minor content warning in the tags because this is a coping mechanism for many and can be related to trauma.

Papas with an S/O who Age Regresses

Papa Nihil: Honestly has no idea what the hell that means or what it is used for in therapy, but he tries his best! And it makes you happy so who cares? Papa is very good about using a baby tone or child like tone when talking to you if that's what you prefer. After all, he had three kids so that's not hard for him to do! Nihil doesn't typically assume any sort of care taker role for you. But he does get you whatever you want! You are quite literally a kid in a candy and toy store on days you need it! He just hates seeing you stressed in any capacity.

Papa I: Out of them all, Papa is the most familiar with Age Regression. So he recognizes immediately how it helps you and makes you happy. He has sat you down before to express that no, he is not put off by your coping mechanism. Instead, you both have a good long talk about what you need from HIM during times of regression. Papa doesn't skip a bit when you start speaking in a childish tone or ask for help for 'grown up' tasks. He's very gentle and patient, and happy to give you words of praise when you get things done! Very good with head kisses and giving you treats to make you smile.

Papa II: Usually when you regress he leaves you to it, knowing you are decompressing and managing your stress. He's never sure how to exactly engage with you, but Papa is not one to push you away during. He's never been good with childish things or situations. But it makes you happy so he's content to let you be happy. His main concern is that you feel safe and loved when you do regress. On one occasion you were a bit self conscious of your regression because you were scared what others would think or that Papa found it weird... but instead he handed you a toy you put back the last time you went shopping. "Don't like fools shame you for what brings you peace."

Papa III: Papa is a refined and dignified gentleman... but that sure as Hell doesn't mean he wants to grow up either!! He is happy to see you do the same, and even happier when he knows it helps you. Papa makes sure you have the space to regress and feel safe in doing so. There has been more than one times he has taken one of your stuffies to make it talk, dance, and sing for you. He's also happy to tuck you in for naps and sing to you. His main concern is only that you always feel comfortable when you regress. But he would be lying if he said he didn't enjoy doing simple childhood activities with you. He didn't exactly have the most stress free youth so it brings him comfort too.

Papa IV/Cardinal Copia: For a long time he thought you were just very young at heart and sometimes loved to express it. He thought it was adorable! The closer you got the more you eventually opened up about what you were doing and how this state of mind helps you manage stress. Copia did his research immediately so he could help! While he doesn't offer a care taker role, he certainly likes to help! There was one time he surprised you with a coloring book when you were having a particularly rough week. His logic? "When I was a boy I loved crayons... I thought you would enjoy them too! eheh!"

#the band ghost #ghost bc #ghost headcanons #age regression #ghost fluff #reader insert #coping mechanism #papa emeritus i #papa emeritus ii #papa emeritus iii #papa emeritus iv #cardinal copia #papa nihil

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ravenskneebrace · 2 years ago

Text

Season 1 on the ark

*smut*

Clarke had been my best friend for as long as I could remember. Her, Wells and I had spent all of our time together and I practically lived with her. Sometimes I would get jealous of how close she was with Wells. I was afraid that she had feelings for him, and I knew he had feelings for her. Neither of them knew that I did as well. I couldn't remember when it started, but I remember feeling warmth when she was around. She radiated happiness.

She probably doesn't even like girls. I thought to myself one afternoon while her and I were studying. Wells wasn't around, I spent more time with her than he did, but he was around a lot. Too much if you asked me. I did like Wells, he was one of my closest friends. But I hated sharing Clarke. I wanted all of her attention, and time, and love.

"Is everything okay?" She asked. Her blue eyes peered into my soul. I shook my head, trying to shake the thoughts that consumed me.

"Y-yeah." I managed to say. I was flustered. But she did have that affect on me. It was weird, I felt so comfortable around her but I also felt so uneasy. I wanted to tell her how I felt, we never kept anything from each other. But I couldn’t.

"You've been acting weird lately." She raised an eyebrow. She's onto me. "You seem stressed."

"You know I suck at Earth Skills. If I dont pass this next exam I'll have to repeat the class." It wasn’t why I was actually stressed, but it was true.

"So let me help you. I have the best grade out of everyone in that class, yet you can never seem to focus when when we study. You'd be aceing the class if you would listen to me." She sighed. I cant focus on studying with you because im too busy picturing you naked.

I squeezed my eyes shut and took a breath, maybe it was time to tell her. I had sat on these feelings for far too long and they were starting to consume me.

"Hey, what's wrong?" She placed her hand on my shoulder and my body filled with heat.

"Clarke, I cant study today." I said with my eyes still closed tightly.

"Why?" She questioned. I finally opened my eyes before grabbing ahold of her hand and removing it from my shoulder. As our hands connected I swore I felt a spark.

"We need to talk I think." I pulled myself up, I was now standing. Pacing. She didn’t say anything, she just watched with her eyebrows furrowed. "I think im in love with you."

The words came out fast. Faster than I thought they would. It was nice though, the weight had been lifted off of my chest.

"Really?" She was looking at me in disbelief. Perfect. I messed everything up between us. I nodded my head. "I didnt know you felt that way, (y/n)."

"Im not expecting anything from you. I just cant focus on anything else when im around you and I understand if you need space." She reached up, grabbing hold of my hand.

"I didnt know you felt that way because I didnt know that you like girls too." Wait a minute. Clarke likes girls?

"Why did you never tell me you liked girls?" I asked, shell shocked.

"Why did you never tell me you liked girls?" She gave me a pointed look. "(Y/n), youre the most beautiful girl ive ever seen. Not to mention youre smart, and funny."

"So what are you saying?" I didnt want to assume she wanted me back. Maybe she was just being nice to me so she could let me down gently.

"I want whatever you want. If you want a relationship, im willing to try. And if you want to have fun...well I think we could both use some stress relief." Is this real? It cant be. She squeezed my hand gently as she pulled me closer to her. "Just tell me what you want."

"I want you." I answered. "Youre all ive ever wanted."

I felt like i was holding my breath. Everything i had wanted for as long as i could remember was sitting in front of me giving me the green light.

She took my hands and ran them carefully over her body. "Im all yours."

I nodded my head, suddenly feeling nervous. I leaned down and connected my lips to hers, she kissed me back immediately and with passion. It was as if she had wanted this as bad as I had. I played with the hem of her shirt as we kissed and she rested her hands on my back, creeping them under my shirt. I pull away from the kiss for long enough to pull my shirt off, she did the same. Our shirts were laying on top of each other and I hoped that we would be mirroring them on top of her bed.

Neither of us had done this before, and were both unsure of what was next. Without saying anything I pulled my bra off and tossed it onto the small, but growing, pile of our clothes on the floor. Once again, she copied what I did. I climbed on top of her and began to kiss her again, hooking my fingers in the waistline of her pants.

"How long are we going to be alone?" I asked her.

"Another hour at least." She replied breathlessly.

"Good." I wispered in her ear before connecting my mouth to her jaw. I kissed it before sucking lightly, leaving a trail of kisses down her throat. She layed back on her bed as I continued going lower, stopping at her breasts to grab and suck on them. She took a deep breath in as I rolled my tongue around one of her nipples with my tongue.

Next I ran my tongue down her stomach, kissing below her belly button as I unbuttoned her pants. I pulled them down and they dropped to the floor before I pushed them aside with my hand. I rubbed her over her panties as I kissed her thighs, slowly spreading her legs and working my way closer to her center. I wrapped my fingers around the sides of her panties and pulled them off as well.

I stuck two of my fingers in my mouth and pulled them out before pushing them into her. Her head fell back. Keeping my fingers inside of her I brought my mouth to her clit, licking it before lightly sucking on it. She let out a gasp of pleasure as I began to move my fingers in and out of her while I continued to work on her clit. I pulled my fingers out and sucked on them before licking her from the bottom to the top of her pussy.

I got up, unbuttoning my pants and pulling them off along with my underwear, tossing it on top of hers. I crouched down in front of her again, this time placing my fingers on my own clit and rubbing circles while I put my mouth back on her. I turned my hand so that my palm was facing the ceiling and inserted a few fingers in her again, curving them to hit her g spot as I flicked my tongue against her clit. Moments later she finished on my fingers. I pulled them away closed my mouth around them, sucking her juices from my fingers.

I glanced at the clock, worried that one of her parents would be home soon. Time had gone by fast.

"Maybe we should do some homework." I said to her, pulling my underwear back on. Clarke looked concerned.

"Is everything okay?" She questioned. I nodded my head.

"Of course. I just dont want anyone to walk in here and see us naked." I grabbed onto my pants next and pulled them up over my legs. "If you enjoyed it we can study again tomorrow."

She smirked. "I will always want to study with you."

I picked up her clothes and dumped them on top of her. "Good, now get dressed. I would hate for your mom to come in here and hate me forever."

"My mom could never hate you. She loves you actually. Im sure she'd love it if you were her daughter in law."

#the 100 #clarke griffin #skaikru #the 100 smut #smut #clarke

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crowfootwrites · 4 years ago

Text

Los Guardianes | Part V [Nestor Oceteva x Fem!Reader]

Ok, I promise there's a comedown from all the adrenaline after this! And very soon we will see characters other than Cristóbal lol.

Warnings: mentions of blood, drugs, and domestic violence; police interactions; language | Words: 1,900+

Taglist: @chibsytelford @megapeacelovemusic-blog @broiderie @est1887 @mveggieburger

Part IV of Los Guardianes

As you thundered down the alley, you glanced over at a wailing Cristóbal, splashes of crimson quickly drying across his arms and t-shirt from where you had carried him.

“It’s gonna be ok, Cristóbal, alright? I promise. Just hang tight,” you shouted over the strained whining of the engine. He quieted, shaking violently in his seat, but you turned your attention back towards the road, quickly reaching the end of the alley. You made a sharp right, having no idea where to go, but hoping to find a main street quickly.

Luck appeared to be on your side. You kept your eye on the rearview, but you didn’t see anyone behind you yet. You came up on a main street, mostly empty of traffic, and made a sharp left, immediately flooring the accelerator again. Your eyes flickered to passing signs, looking for anything you recognized.

“Fuck!” you growled, squeezing the steering wheel as you passed a sign for the Sun Bowl, panic rising in your chest as you realized you were in El Paso, Texas. You had no idea how you were going to get all the way back to California without getting caught, either by your kidnappers or by police, although at this point, you would have preferred the police. But you also had plenty of experience with dirty cops, and if your kidnappers had brought you here, of all places, it seemed likely that the police would be in their pockets.

You whipped past a sign for I-10 northbound and made for the onramp, revving the engine to merge into traffic. You darted immediately into the fast lane. Traffic was relatively light, but you hadn’t yet decided if that was good or bad. Your eyes flicked keenly between the road in front of you, your odometer, and the traffic behind you, watching for signs of a tail. It seemed like you were clear for the time being, but you hesitated to get too comfortable. It wouldn’t be long before the shattered back window drew some kind of attention.

Taking stock of your surroundings, you realized you had an almost full tank of gas. You wouldn’t be able to make it all the way back to Santo Padre on one tank, and you had no idea how you were going to pay for another. But you relegated that to the back of your mind, a concern for later. There was a balled-up hoodie in the backseat, and you stared blankly at the rosary swinging from the rearview. The glove compartment was empty.

Your eyes tracked the nearest freeway sign, realizing I-10 would take you into New Mexico. From there, you could head towards Phoenix. You didn’t love the idea of staying on a major freeway for so long, but it was the quickest way to get where you were going. From just south of Phoenix, you could take smaller highways towards home, and that suited you better. But the feeling of being chased propelled you forward; you were constantly pushing the odometer and scanning of your surroundings.

You reached New Mexico without a problem, but without a solid plan in place, you sped through it. As you careened down the highway towards an empty desert horizon, you heard Cristóbal’s breathing begin to calm. There was no chance of your pulse slowing or your body settling; you sat on the edge of the driver's seat, your thighs and core constantly clenched, ready for hell when it came.

Around two hours after you left El Paso, you were rapidly approaching Deming, New Mexico, and by then your brain was shouting at you to stop. You wanted to try to find a gas station to get yourself and Cristóbal cleaned up, in case you did get pulled over. You also wanted to check the trunk. While you had certainly been making good time, a sneaking suspicion nagged at you, one that questioned why no one had come after you or appeared to have reported the car stolen.

On the far edge of Deming, once you had passed through the center of the city, you followed signs for a gas station that looked, from the highway, to be mostly empty, in the middle of an empty stretch of commercial buildings and vacant lots. You guided the car towards the back of the gas station lot, behind the building, where you breathed a sigh of relief that there were bathrooms on the exterior of the building. You pulled into a parking space and only once you had scanned your surroundings did you get out. You went around to the passenger side door and guided Cristóbal out, grabbing the hoodie from the backseat.

The lock on the bathroom door was broken, so you pushed your way in, gagging a little at the stench. The sink was filthy, but the water ran clear, and you quickly rinsed your skin, watching the pink-tinged water swirl down the drain. Flashes of the man you killed flickered behind your eyes whenever you closed them, bile rising in your throat. The gnawing in your stomach reminded you that you hadn’t eaten in almost 24 hours. The adrenaline had kept the hunger at bay, but suddenly you were so hungry you felt nauseous. You helped Cristóbal wash his face and hands, then pulled the hoodie over your soiled shirt, zipping it all the way up.

Back at the car, you popped the trunk and your mouth fell open.

“Oh, fuck,” you groaned. Six bricks of cocaine were packed into the back of the small trunk, along with a duffel bag. You supposed that was why no one had reported the car stolen. It made you feel a little better that the cops wouldn’t necessarily be looking for you, but if you did get pulled over, you’d be fucked. You dug through the duffel bag, finding it full of clothes, and your heart lifted when your fingers skimmed smooth leather. You pulled out a black leather wallet, flipping it over in your hands. There was no ID, but there was a singular twenty dollar bill in it, and that would have to do.

Cash in hand, you tugged Cristóbal into the gas station store with you, grabbing a couple of protein bars and a large bottle of water, wanting to hang on to enough money for gas down the road.

You planned to dispose of the cocaine out in the middle of the desert, so you hightailed it out of Deming. A little less than an hour later, you took a tiny offramp and followed a deserted road past a dilapidated gas station out into the barren desert. You pulled the car off into the dirt, sending a cloud of dust up around you.

“Wait in the car,” you told Cristóbal gently, who nodded at you with wide eyes.

Pulling the sleeves of the hoodie over your hands, you dumped the clothes out of the duffel bag and packed the drugs into it, zipping it up. Careful not to touch anything with your bare hands, you slung it over your shoulder and hauled it towards a thick patch of scrub brush several yards from the road. Dropping the bag behind a clump of brush and prickly pear cacti, you booked it back towards the car, heading immediately back towards the highway.

You were approaching Gila Bend in Arizona as dusk gathered over the skyline. You had already gotten off of I-10 and onto the smaller highway that would take you to Yuma. From there it would be an easy drive to Santo Padre, one you had even made before. You had every intention of driving through the night, desperation fluttering in your heart at the thought of home. You were hungry again, and you could hear Cristóbal’s stomach grumbling from the passenger seat, but you were dangerously low on gas.

Pulling into a small gas station in Gila Bend, you went inside the store to pay, bringing Cristóbal with you. When you came back out, your breath hitched in your throat and you froze. A police officer was standing beside the car, inspecting the shattered back window. Flashbacks flooded your brain and you squeezed your eyes shut, trying to force them out. Through the rapid swirling in your mind, you felt Cristóbal squeezing your hand hard, the touch pulling you out of your trance. Immediately, your mind went into overdrive, laying out a plan.

You approached the car, schooling your features into a timid expression.

The burly, dark-haired officer looked up curiously at your approach, and you caught the slightest softening in his eyes as he studied you and the child clinging to you. He looked young and green, fresh on the job, and you wanted to use that to your favor.

“Good evening, ma’am,” he said, hands authoritative on his hips.

“Evening,” you murmured, dropping your gaze meekly.

“You know it’s illegal to drive with a busted window?” he asked sternly.

You let all of the stress of the last couple of days pour into your brain, breaking the dam behind your eyes. Tears tumbled freely over your cheeks as you looked back up at him and he startled slightly at the sight.

“I’m so sorry, officer,” you sniffled. “My son and I, w–we came from El Paso, trying to get away from my husband. He smashed it as we were leaving. I’m just trying to get us to California so we can stay with my brother.” Your voice caught on a sob, cracking on the last syllable.

The officer’s stance softened and your heart lifted just slightly. His inexperience was showing.

“Who is this car registered to?” he asked.

Your chest tightened as you prayed he wouldn’t run plates or ask to see documentation. “It’s mine, sir,” you whispered, meeting his eyes with your most sorrowful look. “He just didn’t like that we were leaving.” You hoped that you looked wretched enough to prevent him from asking too many questions.

The officer pursed his lips, his thumb lightly tapping his utility belt. “Where you headed to in California, ma’am?” he asked.

“Palm Desert,” you lied smoothly, letting your lower lip tremble for good measure. “I have family there, sir.”

The officer hesitated as he considered what to do next. “And you’ll be safe there?” he asked. “Does your husband know where you’re headed?”

“Probably, sir. Th–they’re the only family I have. But they’re going to help me file a protective order against him. And... start the divorce process,” you mumbled, shuffling your feet in the dirt. You felt a quick pang in your heart as you said the words, ones that weren’t too far from true in another time.

Perhaps sensing that it was a good time to lay it on thick, Cristóbal tugged on your hand. As you glanced down at him, he reached his arms up and you pulled his weary form into your arms, depositing him on your hip.

The officer studied the pair of you intently, then sighed. “Alright. I’m not going to write you a ticket, but once you get to Palm Desert, you need to get that window fixed, do you understand me?”

You nodded fervently. “Thank you – officer, thank you so much,” you stammered, hugging Cristóbal tight. The officer tipped his hat and turned on his heel, making his way towards his police cruiser. Your body felt limp as the rush wore off yet again. Your mind reeled, pushing the limits of what you could handle without sleep. You needed to get home, and soon.

You slid into the driver’s side seat and slid Cristóbal over, helping him buckle his seatbelt.

Praying for an uneventful last leg of your journey, you pulled away from the fluorescent lights of the gas station, headed yet again towards the moonlit horizon.

Part VI of Los Guardianes

#mayans fx #mayans mc #mayansmc #nestor oceteva #nestor oceteva imagine #nestor oceteva x reader #mayans mc imagine #mayans fanfic #mayans mc x reader

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fruitcoops · 4 years ago

Note

Hi!! So I was listening to paper rings by Taylor Swift today and the lyric 'I like shiny things but I'd marry you with paper rings' made me think of coops and o'knutzy. Could you write a prompt about this?! <3

This song is so perfect for Coops and it’s the best way to start of the long-awaited wedding series! Yay! Sweater Weather credit goes to @lumosinlove!

Combined with:

1. Domestic Coops

2. Remus making fun of Sirius’ initials

3. Sirius trying to make Remus moan while he’s on the phone with his folks

4. From @colored-rain: Taking Hattie to the vet

TW for mild smutty content, taking a pet to the vet, and the inherent stress of wedding planning

I: Six Weeks Before the Wedding

“Where are we even going to do this?” Sirius asked, running a hand through his hair.

Remus shook his head silently, pressing his forehead into the wooden edge of the table. “What if we elope?”

“Celeste would skin us both.”

“True. Oh, god, my dad would cry if we did that.” Remus slid down in his seat and stared up with sad eyes. “Can’t we just be married already?”

“I could get tinfoil from the kitchen and just…” Sirius mimed wrapping it around his ring finger and Remus snorted.

“Baby, I would marry you with paper rings, but I think we want them to last.”

“You like shiny things!”

“I do, that doesn’t mean I want tinfoil on my hand for the rest of my life,” Remus laughed, pulling him in for a quick kiss. “Alright, let’s go through our list again. We agreed on small, right?”

“Just the team and families. We still want it to be outside?”

“Yep.” Remus checked off two boxes on the piece of paper they had been grappling with for the past four days. “Rings have already been ordered?”

“I’m doing that this afternoon. What kind of cake do we want?”

“Uhhh…an edible one?” Remus shrugged. “I don’t have a huge preference. Chocolate is really good but all the ones from the store are spongy.”

“Wow, an edible cake, so original,” Sirius teased. “We can ask Celeste what she thinks.”

“Good plan.” He paused for a moment. “Where outside will we do it? We need an actual venue. I think people would be upset if we just had a wedding in a public park.”

“The media would be all over it, too.” Sirius scrunched his nose up in thought just as their timer went off and both sighed as they headed for the door. “It’s going to be hard to focus on practice when we know next to nothing about the wedding we’ve been planning for over six months.”

“We’re disasters.”

II: Four Weeks Before the Wedding

“We’re not putting that on the cards.”

“Why not?” Sirius frowned and looked down at the mock-up invitation. “It’s our initials. It’s cute.”

Remus blinked at him. “Sirius. Your initials.”

“Do you not want my initials on our joint wedding invitation?”

“I would love to have your initials on our joint wedding invitation, except for the part where it’s the same acronym as ‘son of a bitch’.”

Sirius paused, then groaned and put his hands over his face. “Fuck, I forgot about that.”

“You forgot your own initials?”

“I forgot the son of a bitch thing!”

“Okay, I clearly don’t tease you enough for that,” Remus snickered, wrapping an arm around his waist to kiss his cheek. “Alright, attempt number eight is a bust.”

III: Three Weeks Before the Wedding

Sirius ran his fingers gently through Remus’ hair, feeling him shift in the darkness. “What’s on your mind, mon amour?”

“Are we changing our last names?”

“Did we…not discuss that?” Sirius wracked his brain, but it was so exhausted from wedding topics that he came up empty.

“I don’t think so.” Remus scooted around so he was on his side, facing Sirius. “Both our names are super connected to our jobs. Plus, Lupin-Black might be a little long for jerseys.”

“I’d rather not go through the whole name-change process.” There was a beat of quiet. “Though I do like the sound of Sirius Lupin.”

Remus’ breath audibly caught and he leaned closer to Sirius, nuzzling against his shoulder. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

IV: Eighteen Days Before the Wedding

Remus’ back hit the mattress with a soft bounce that was quickly stilled by Sirius’ weight pressing him down by the hips, his mouth skimming along all the right places on Remus’ neck. “Yes,” he hissed as Sirius ground down, their bare chests bumping together. He dipped his hands beneath the waistband of Sirius’ sweats and he shivered, nipping the hinge of his jaw.

“Wait,” Sirius gasped, pulling back to straddle Remus’ waist.

“What? Is this a flamingo moment?” Remus panted, still buzzing with arousal.

“Did we invite your parents to the wedding?”

Remus stared at him in disbelief. “Are you fucking kidding me right now?”

“I don’t think we did.”

“Sirius, you are literally about to—holy fuck, did we invite my parents?”

“I don’t know!”

Remus groaned and let his head fall back against the pillows before tapping Sirius’ hip and swinging his legs over the edge of the mattress. He grabbed his phone off the nightstand and dialed his mother’s number, taking a few deep breaths to collect himself as it rang.

“Hello?”

“Hey, mom, how’s it going?”

“Oh, it’s going fine out here. How’s wedding planning?” Hope asked. Remus could hear her smiling.

“That’s what I’m calling about, actually. Did you—” He bit his lip as Sirius’ fingertips trailed up his thigh. “Uh, did you get an invitation?”

Hope was silent for a moment, save for a few rustling sounds. “Now that you mention it, I don’t think so. Lyall! Honey, did Re send us a wedding invitation?” There was a low humming noise as his father responded. “He says we didn’t get one.”

Remus winced. “Sorry about that. I can text you the details, if you want.”

“Will you mail one as well? I want to put it in our memory box.”

Sirius’ hand slid further along Remus’ leg, growing closer to his inner thigh by the second and doing nothing to quell his frayed nerves. “Yeah—yeah, mom, we totally can.”

“Are you alright? You sound a bit out of breath.”

“Hattie was running around and being a little crazy.” Remus covered the speaker with his hand and turned to glare at Sirius, who grinned and kissed his cheekbone.

“Okay,” Hope sounded skeptical. “So you’re not getting sick or anything?”

“Nope. Healthy as a horse.” The last word came out a little breathless as Sirius licked a stripe up his neck and bit down on the junction to his shoulder, making Remus’ eyes flutter closed. He smacked Sirius’ hand halfheartedly and felt him grin.

“How’s Sirius doing?”

“Fine, he’s fine. We’re a little stressed with the wedding planning and everything, but things are good here.” Really good, he thought as the heel of Sirius’ hand pressed down just next to his dick. He swallowed down a moan and squeezed his eyes shut. “Alright, I’ll text the details to you this afternoon love you mom bye.”

“Love you t—”

A millisecond after the call ended, Remus slammed his phone into the nightstand and pushed Sirius into the sheets, bracketing his face with his elbows. “What the fuck was that?”

“I’m just keeping things interesting.” Sirius tugged his lower lip between his teeth and smirked, which really left Remus with only one option: kissing him senseless until he couldn’t even remember his own name.

V: Three Days Before the Wedding

Sirius’ leg bounced up and down nervously and he gripped Remus’ hand as they waited in the lobby of the vet’s office. “She’ll be okay.” His voice was noticeably higher than usual and he cleared his throat. “She’ll be fine. It’s just a cough.” A cough that’s been going on for four and a half days.

Remus hummed his agreement, though he hadn’t stopped twisting Hattie’s leash in his hands since they arrived. “Just a cough. Probably a cold, or—or something like that.”

The doors ahead opened and both of them stood as Hattie trotted out next to the vet tech, who looked rather amused. “What’s wrong with her?” Sirius asked, scanning her for any signs of illness. “Is she alright?”

“She is a very talented actress,” the vet said, rubbing Hattie behind the ears. She whined pitifully and cuddled into Sirius’ side. “Have you two been busy lately?”

“We’re planning for our wedding.” Remus looked as confused as Sirius felt. “Why?”

“Because Miss Hattie here is one of the healthiest, snuggliest dogs I’ve ever seen.”

“But she was coughing.”

“She was faking.” The vet knelt next to her and petted down her back, raising an eyebrow. “Weren’t you, munchkin?”

“Hattie!” Sirius exclaimed, torn between relief and shock. “You little monster!”

Remus frowned and tapped her forehead lightly as he slid her leash on over her head. “We were so worried about you! Why would you do that?”

“She’s probably been sulking because you’re busy with wedding stuff,” the vet said with a smile. “Quite the drama queen you’ve got there.”

“Tell me about it,” Sirius huffed as he kissed her head. “Don’t ever do that again, young lady. You’re in big trouble when we get home.”

“Thank you for your help,” Remus said, shaking the vet’s hand. “We really appreciate it and we’re so sorry for wasting your time.”

“Are you kidding? She was the best part of my day,” he laughed. “All the other techs can’t stop talking about Hattie cuddles now. Have a good one, you three.”

+1: The Lions, the Media, and the Locker Room

Word spread like wildfire in media circles, and the rumor mill had never worked harder once news of the Black-Lupin wedding came out.

Naturally, the Lions decided to have a little fun with it.

“Pots! Pots, what can you tell us about Black and Lupin’s wedding?” Four different microphones were shoved into his personal space, but James put on his best confused face.

“What wedding?”

A wave of murmuring spread through the reporters. “So you weren’t invited to Sirius Black and Remus Lupin’s wedding?”

“There’s a wedding?”

Across the room, two other interviewers mobbed Thomas Walker in his stall. “Talker, do you know anything about Black and Lupin’s wedding?”

“Who?” he asked with a perfect act of innocence.

“Sirius Black and Remus Lupin.”

He bit his lip. “I don’t think I know them, sorry. Are they fans?”

“Talkie!” Remus tossed him a towel from the adjacent stall, and he caught it with a grin.

“Heads up, Loops!” Talker threw it right back and headed toward the ice baths with a wink to the cameras. “Good chat, guys.”

One of the interviewers muttered under their breath and hurried over to Pascal, who was still unlacing his skates. “Dumo, when is the wedding between Sirius Black and Remus Lupin?”

Dumo frowned. “Quoi?”

“The wedding. You were invited, yes?”

“Desole, je ne parle pas l’anglais,” he said regretfully. “C’est un…wedding?”

“Yes, the wedding between your teammates.”

“These words, I don’t know them.” His French accent was almost comically thick as he shook his head. “Desole.”

Out of view of the cameras, Sirius gave him a thumbs-up and reached over to high-five Pots.

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raysberries · 2 years ago

Text

Writing hospitals

Experiences of someone recently been at an intensive care unit, having gone through the ER

About my situation: This happened in a European country with free healthcare, didn’t involve an ambulance ride and I’m a minor, so not everything will be applicable to everyone

Admission process

It’s not always easy to find the right entrance, sometimes it’s not even walking distance

Walk of shame to the desk to explain what’s wrong (especially if it’s late at night/it’s busy)

Having to wait in silence in a room for a nurse/doctor (and not knowing for how long you’ll have to wait, depends on how urgent it is)

Having to answer private questions and your answers being written down, if someone took you to the ER they may be asked to leave the room if you prefer

Talking to so many different people, having to repeat yourself a lot, many of them you’ll only see once

At the intensive care unit

IV pulling uncomfortably when you move your arm (not being able to sleep easily)

Regular (maybe one hourly) blood pressure taken (the device around your lower calve most of the time)

It’s never really silent (always beeping and moving)

Never being really dark (monitors and hallway lights)

Having to wait for (and not knowing exactly when you’re gonna see) a doctor or anything really, nothing is every really „scheduled“ if it’s not life threatening

Having to pee in a bed pan if you’re not allowed/able to stand up (and the whole process around it like calling for a nurse to bring the pan and take it away), most humbling experience

So many blood tests, they may not find a suitable vein on the first try

Puking in a plastic bag (and everyone hearing it)

Your vitals being tracked at the monitoring station (and alarms going off there alongside your monitor)

Your heart rate possibly outing your feelings (a raised one indicating stress for example, embarrassing)

Finger clipped in, not being able to use it

A remote with a red button to call a nurse (attached with a cord to the bed)

A remote to change the bed position

A TV may exists though channels are limited, if the remote falls it’s a pain

Possibly no socket in immediate reach

Probably no Wi-Fi (at least on the childrens’ ward)

Having to be clipped off and on to the machines after standing up (and how uncomfy it is for them to reach under the gown)

The gown being comfy but also open back so your whole ass hanging out while you move around (though you could possibly wear your own clothes but the tubes may interfere with them, I preferred to wear the hospital gown)

Feeling sticky (since you’re not really able to shower for however long, though you might get a disposable cloth and warm water to freshen up a bit and toothpaste and such)

Hospital food, not as bad as I thought though very plain and not always warm when it arrives

Maybe getting visited but spending most of your time by yourself

Visits being strange and feeling pitied

Only one visitor being allowed in at a time (COVID policies like that and a mandatory mask and current Covid test)

Having to share a room since there’s not enough space to have a private room (on childrens‘ ward possibly even with infants, their parents being there constantly and it being pretty awkward, especially when they have nap time)

Release and aftermath

Getting released even when you’re not totally recovered, they just don’t have enough space/people to keep you there

Paperwork to be signed when released (either by you or your guardian)

The hospital scent clinging to you, the relief of finally washing it off and the familiar scent of home

Taking the toothpaste (and toothbrush) with you since they gave it to you and it would’ve thrown it away if you left it there

Marks from the EKG on your chest not washing off immediately, being reminded of the experience every time you shower (for me it took over three showers to wash off)

IV mark not fading fast (very noticeable for up to a week, not totally faded even after two) + the marks from blood tests

Dealing with the missed time, possibly having to make excuses for your absence and dealing with indiscrete people (your doctors note indicates a hospital stay so you can’t hide it completely at your school or work place)

Choosing to keep your stay to yourself and almost forgetting you didn’t tell them, feeling alone in your experience since talking about it may be difficult and you don’t want pity so bottling it up may be your path of choice

That’s everything technical about the experience that I could come up with, there’s much mental stuff to talk about but that differs even more

#hospital #intensive care #intensive care unit #icu #writing #writing a hospital #personal experience #Hope this helps #fanfic #hospital au

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missmonsters2 · 4 years ago

Text

Between the Lines || XII

PAIRING: Steve Rogers & Fem!Reader (Platonic) / Natasha Romanoff x Fem!Reader / Wanda Maximoff x Fem!Reader / Natasha Romanoff x Fem!Reader x Wanda Maximoff

Summary: Vampire AU. Life has changed drastically since the 1600s. Things are always on the move, and you’ve been very careful to not get on SHIELDs radar. Living on the down-low owning a café, you’re content to live out a quiet existence. That is until the Avengers enter your life.

[Set after the New York Invasion, in CAWS, and goes up to AoU. Canon divergent after.]

Warnings: This series will contain smut(**), poly-relationship, and dark themes.

Note: Introducing....David’s king 😏🥰

PART I || PART II || PART III || PART IV || PART V || PART VI || PART VII || PART VIII || PART IX || PART X || PART XI

PART XII of XX

Translations:

не против - Don’t mind

ти си моето семејство, во овој и во следниот живот - You’re my family, in this life, and the next.

Count: 5,633

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⋆⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷

"Ah..."

The sound made you stop, pulling your mouth away as you stood straighter while licking your lips.

Wanda stood in front of you, breathless as she leaned against the wall, unable to move too much with the tight space. Her hands drifted from your neck to rest on your biceps. Turning, you look at the mirror before you.

Eyes red with stained lips, you internally sighed, feeling an uncomfortable pit in your stomach that told you everything felt both right and wrong.

"I think that's enough..." You say quietly so Wanda can hear, but you don't attract too much attention outside. You turn to grab some paper towels from the dispenser as you wet them under the sink to wipe your mouth.

Turning to Wanda, you notice you hadn't closed up the wound on her neck and purse your lips. The brunette seems to realize as well as she tilts her head to the side, exposing her neck to you once more before she grabs the edge of your bomber jacket and pulls you back against her roughly.

"Wanda," you call her name in warning. Though you are a seasoned vampire, you weren't looking to dance along the edge with the newly feeding you have to do.

"You should finish me off before you say you're done at least," Wanda says, and you feel yourself biting your tongue at how suggestive she sounds.

You wonder if she's doing it on purpose.

Nonetheless, you sigh, leaning your head down, careful to not brush yourself more against her than you must. You lick at the bite wounds, tentatively but quickly, watching the wounds close after.

You pull away, Wanda letting her grip go on you. You use the wet towel to wipe her neck clean of the bloodstains before you throw it down the toilet and flush.

Though feeding gives you energy and revitalizes you, you can't help but feel drained from the experience.

You're about to leave again when Wanda pulls you back.

"Wanda," you say in a more serious warning this time. She's been a little more daring the past couple of days, and you're both intrigued and frightened by it.

Luckily for you, Wanda seems to know where the line is.

"Relax," Wanda cocks her brow. "Your eyes are still glowing red. You should wait until it subsides before you go out."

You look back in the mirror, eyes glowing red brightly, and you sighed. Your body was overly excited about feeding again, and it would take time to adjust.

The two of you idly stand in the small space. You could hear people coming back and forth to check if the washroom is empty.

"So, how often is often?" Wanda asks.

You stand stiffly, cursing at how small airplane washrooms are.

"For now, once a week," you answer her. "But let me know if you feel unwell, and I will check to see if it's my venom."

Wanda nods, blinking languidly.

"I'm sorry," you say when you notice she looks tired. "I promise I will find a way to fix this."

Wanda gave you a tiny smirk.

"No rush."

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⋆⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷

When you returned to your seat, you sat down with a sigh.

"You alright?" Natasha asked as she grabbed your hand. You turn to look at David. He was clutching his legs in tighter so that Wanda could squeeze past him to her seat.

"Yeah, sorry for taking so long. The red in my eyes are still adjusting to fresh blood," you apologize to Natasha, pulling her hand to kiss the back of it gently before you settle in your seat.

It was just you and Natasha in the aisle, a small moment of peace that you're thankful for. It's been rather quiet between you and Natasha the last few days. When David had located Leo's descendant, he wanted to book the flight for the next day, but you insisted on taking a couple days to get your things together and rest.

The days that followed were simply being in your home with Natasha, quiet as it seemed like Natasha was working through her own emotions and things she seemed not ready quite yet to speak to you about.

And you were okay with that.

"Have you been to Nashville before?" Natasha asks as she looks out the window, the city getting closer in view as it lowers.

You nod, rubbing your thumb idly on the back of her hand. "Yes," you say, "In fact, David and I lived there for a few years."

"Oh?" Natasha smiles. "Did you like it?"

You shrug. "It's a little too country for me and not the good parts of Country culture."

Natasha nods, and you take a moment to put your head on her shoulder, deeply inhaling the scent of vanilla and dry leaves. Natasha leans her head over, pressing her lips to the side of your head, causing your heart to flutter.

"I think I want to be in Bora Bora or maybe the Maldives," Natasha says softly after a moment.

You turn your head upwards slightly, peering up at Natasha's face.

"I'll take you anywhere you want to go," you say as Natasha smiles, head lowering as she presses her lips against yours.

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⋆⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷

It seems like autumn is also coming to an end in Nashville, the air smelling a little crisper for winter arrival.

Pietro has called Wanda again once her plane landed. He was a little upset that he couldn't come along, but Steve said he could use the help with locating Bucky, and speed would definitely be helpful.

At first, Pietro declined, but then Wanda insisted that he go with Steve. If they were going to make up for the things they've done and be a part of the team, this was the time to show it.

And so, they parted ways for the first time since, well, ever.

"How are we getting there?" Wanda asked as she looked around the airport. Her face held a thinly veiled layer of discomfort that she was trying to hide, though poorly.

"Are you okay?" Natasha asked as she looked at Wanda, seeing through the tough act.

Wanda stared at Natasha, and for a moment, you don't think she's going to answer.

"Yeah," Wanda says finally, licking her lips and swallowing. "I'm just a little tired...and there's a lot of people here. It's...loud."

Natasha looks around and notes that it seems to be prime time for flights. People are bustling around trying to get to their gate on time, and families have gathered to meet people coming off the plane or say goodbye.

"I can't do anything about the loudness," Natasha says, digging into her pocket. "But, here." Pulling out a hard candy wrapped in transparent paper, she gives it to Wanda.

Wanda holds the candy in her palm, tilting her head slightly before she looks back at Natasha. "Thanks."

"Might help with the tiredness," Natasha shrugs before she tells you she'll go grab the bags and walks off with David following her.

Wanda is opening the candy from the wrapper, popping the little thing in her mouth as she sighs, eyes fluttering close as she rubs her temple.

"Headache?" You ask her, garnering her attention.

Wanda nods with a frown. "Yes, more so lately, and it's worse in a crowd. I can hear everything in people's heads, and in a crowd, it's a jumble."

"Turn it off," you tell her with a shrug, and she gives you a look.

"It's not that easy."

"It is," you tell her back. "You're like a radio picking up every station is the available area. It gets easier with time and practice to distinguish the noise, but if you can't handle it in such a large crowd, turn it off."

Wanda merely stares at you as if she doesn't know whether or not to believe you, but she supposes because it's not like you're a stranger to her powers, she sighs.

"How?" She asks.

You come to stand closer to her, blocking her view of anything behind you.

"Focus," you tell her, "You only need to be hearing one voice, and that's your own. Focus on the space within your own mind. Live there."

Wanda gives you a look where it tells you she doesn't quite think it will work but closes her eyes with a sigh and takes a deep breath.

"I...I can't focus," Wanda says frustratingly.

"Relax," you tell her. "Try again, but this time, focus on my voice."

You go on to talk about miscellaneous things like the color of the walls, the scuff marks on the ground, the man with an obstinately ugly hat. And before you know it, the stress lines on Wanda's face begin to fade.

"Better?" You ask when she opens her eyes.

"Yeah," Wanda says breathlessly with relief, "Thank you."

You don't say anything else as Natasha comes back with David.

"So, how are we getting there?" Wanda repeats.

"We rented a car. I'll go grab it and pull it up front," you walk off before anyone say anything.

The ride is silent, with just a radio playing quietly in the background. It's you and David in the front as David helps you navigate and discuss details with you.

But that leaves Natasha and Wanda in the back. The two girls are on opposite ends, looking out the window.

You sigh internally as you focus on the road in front of you.

"What's his name again?"

David pulls up a file. "Robert," he says after a moment. "Devayan. He is Leonard's great-great-grandson. He's the priest for a church in his neighborhood. Well-known and respected in his community. He's got a wife, two kids, and a dog—very American dream with a picket fence and all."

You hum.

"Does Leonard's descendants know about...?" Natasha asks as you look in the rearview mirror.

"Us being vampires?" You supply for her helpfully with a smile as she nods. "Yes, they do, but the secret is only passed to the child who has the greatest alchemy affinity, which most kids won't show until they're at least 13."

"That being said," David jumps in, "we haven't really kept in touch because we only go to a descendant when we have another vampire entering a coven because they have to get the searings to be able to go into the sun, amongst other things. And as you can see, we haven't added anyone new since me."

You turn into a bright community. The sound of children's laughter and dogs barking make their way to your ear. It's a lively little suburban neighborhood, and you wonder if this was something you would have ever wanted.

"Leonard seemed to be really close to you, to be willing to do so much," Wanda comments as she continues to stare at the window at the children playing.

You pull up to the house, putting the car in park with a sigh.

"He was family."

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⋆⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷

"Sorry, the wife and kid's are out shopping right now."

You look at the man before you. He was a young priest, and there were hints of Leo that you recognized in him, like the subtle ginger hair.

"Didn't want to tag along?" David asks, and Robert laughs.

"Goodness, no. Can't say that's how I like to pass my time." Robert sets down a tea tray for the four of you, and Wanda takes up the task of pouring it. Putting in a splash of milk and two and a half sugar cubes, she gives a cup to you.

"Thanks," you say, scrunching your eyebrows initially. But it was your favorite way of taking simple tea, and you took it with ease.

"не против," Wanda mutters as she continues on with pouring tea for Natasha and David, but leaves them to put in their own condiments.

"So, what's this about?" Robert asks as he settles into his seat.

You shift in your seat a little, licking your lip before you clear your throat and bring his attention to you. "Yesterday is gone, tomorrow is a mystery, and today, I have you..."

Robert just stares at you wide-eyed and mouth gaped open. He seems to regain himself and clears his own throat.

"Until the days run out..." he breathes.

"ти си моето семејство, во овој и во следниот живот," you both complete the passage. His Slavic being much rougher than yours, but still, he completes it.

"Huh," Robert grunts in the back of his throat. He slumps in the back of his chair, blinking as he clasps his hands together. "You really exist."

"Did you think I didn't?" You cocked your brow at him.

Robert gives a short, humorless laugh. "To be fair, no one in my family has seen you for a very, very long time. It's not like we have a family photo of you just lying around. I thought my grandfather was lying to me, and my father was not a believer either."

"Well," you shrug, "It gets hard to keep up with visitations when there's no reason to really."

"Even though the passage literally says we're family?" Robert cocks his brow.

"Leo was my family. By that extension, yes, you are somewhat family, a wonderful legacy Leo left behind that I promised him I'd take care of," you try to delicately tell the man before you that no one could ever be family the way Leo was.

"Kind of hard to take care of us when you're not around," Robert says, but not in an unkind way.

"Being around is not the only way I can fulfill my promise. You truly think your family's trust fund just comes out of nowhere?" You rest your jaw against your hand.

Robert seems surprised at that like he had no idea his entire family line was sponsored by you.

"So it seems," Robert smiled softly before clearing his throat. "So what can I do for you?"

You lick your lips.

"I'm looking for you to find a way to break my curse, or at least, find a counterspell to suppress it until I can find another way," you tell him.

Robert stares at you. It takes a long moment, but he gives another small smile, sighing deeply as he grasps his temples. "Hah..." he lets out. "Figures the one time you come to see us for help, and I can't even help you. I was hoping you just needed a place to stay."

"What do you mean?" David asks, frowning. "You haven't even tried."

Robert looks up again, staring at David before he turns to you.

"I don't have the affinity for alchemy."

Silence ensues after Robert reveals his lack of gift.

"You...don't have the affinity..." David says slowly.

"Guess it decided to skip a generation. My father wasn't much of a practitioner either," Robert pursed his lips together. He gets up, walking over to the kitchen, grabbing something off the refrigerator before coming back and passing the item to you. "This would be the person to go to if you're looking for help on that."

You look at the postcard in your hand with an address from Vermont.

There wasn't anything else but a name and a short message.

Liam Bai I have settled in.

"And who is this?" You frown. The idea of having some outsider know your secrets was not ideal.

Robert sighs.

"He's my adoptive brother."

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⋆⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷

The annoyance of traveling all the way to Texas just to go to Vermont, an hour away from New York, irks you slightly.

David pulls up a file on Liam on the way, but not too much is found.

Chinese descendant. 26. Tattoo Artist. Adopted by Robert's grandfather when Liam was 17.

He seems to run a small tattoo shop in Vermont, a decent following on his Instagram. Other than that, it seemed Liam prized his privacy and peace. No tickets, no personal social media accounts, a minimal online presence.

"Jeeze, this guy gives me serial killer vibes. Only weirdoes have such a small digital footprint," David curls his lips.

"We all have virtually none too, David," you cock your brow at him.

"Case and point," David smirks back at you while Natasha and Wanda chuckle.

Liam's house is a little away from the city where his tattoo shop resides. There are houses but quite spread apart, and it only reaffirms how Liam likes his quiet.

The trees are bare with autumn colored leaves on the ground. The air crisp and cleaner being away from the city. When the four of you approach Liam's home, it a quaint house, wider than it is taller, and painted a deep burned orange.

Hopping up the steps, you cross your arms and tap your foot impatiently, turning to look at the open space while Natasha rang the doorbell and knocked on the door with her knuckles.

You hear footsteps within the house, stern steps as they lazily make their way to the door.

When it opens, you turn, and your eyes widen along with everybody else's.

This man, at least six feet tall, towers over everyone as he casually lifts his arms high to lean against each side of the door with his left leg crossed lazily over his right.

He wears a muscle shirt, most of the top part of his body exposed.

Tattoos.

Everywhere.

A large black ornate religious cross tattooed on his throat, while you could see most of the creations of hands branded across his front chest near his collarbones, fingers just about it meet at his jugular notch. Each arm had a full sleeve tattoo.

His left arm was designed with a twisted snake going downwards, a bitten apple in its mouth, shrouded with leaves and vines. His right arm were things you didn't quite recognize but could guess it was alchemy spells, fully tattooed elaborate circles and symbols. Even his hands and fingers had symbols and shapes.

He looks like belongs in a gang rather than the adopted grandson of a long line of priests.

"Well," his voice is somewhat low but soft. "You must be the visitors my dear brother sent my way." The way he says dear brother has the slightest tone of amusement, and you're not sure what to make of it.

You stare at him a bit longer because his face is much clearer than the photo David pulled up. His skin is fair with a cool complexion, thick brows, and tousled black hair that seems to be perfectly styled that way with his fringe cascading just above his eyebrows, parting to reveal his forehead. His almond-shaped eyes showed a deep dark brown, like the rich soils of the earth, but yet hold no warmth.

He looks somewhat familiar, but you're not sure if it's just because you recognize those eyes in yourself once upon a time.

You look over to David, who has his jaw hanging as he stares at the man before them. You nudge him, drawing him out of whatever trance he was in as he coughs to clear his throat.

"Er, yes," David stutters before he rambles off everyone's name quickly. "Can I--can we come in?" David blinks, and Liam turns his head slowly, locking eyes with David. A moment passes, and you're about to speak up again when Liam stands straighter and turns to walk back into his house.

The four of you follow the man inside, looking at the place around you. Antique furniture, just like yourself, but there are shelves upon shelves of books.

Liam walks into his kitchen, putting on a pot of hot coffee as he pours himself some, but doesn't offer any to anyone else. He then walks into his study room and leans against his desk, half-sitting on the edge.

"What are you looking for help with?" He asks, neither sounding reluctant or eager.

"Robert mentioned you were adopted into the family because you had an affinity for alchemy," you say. "I'm assuming you know--"

"That you're a vampire?" Liam cuts in. "Yes."

"You don't seem surprised by that," David interjects slowly. "Even Robert was taken aback."

Liam rolled his eyes lightly. "You can spare me the details. Robert and I both went through the spiel with his grandfather. Robert doesn't have the affinity. I do. Belief is different when you are different too."

"His grandfather...?" You raise your brow.

Liam puts his coffee down beside him. "You must realize that though I've been adopted by them, I'm not an actual descendant of Leonard Devayan. It was clear that I was brought in to help fulfill the promise between you and Leonard. I get financial support from them, but I'm not entitled to your trust fund to them, nor can I inherit the church."

"That's kind of fucked up, considering you'll be doing all the work here," you frown.

Liam shrugs. "No need to feel sorry for me, I have zero interests in their money or inheriting the church, and Robert is annoyingly persistent that I visit them during the holidays. Besides, you can probably tell, I don't quite look like the regular priest."

"Actually," you give Liam a small smile, "Leo was rather similar to you. He liked tattoos as well. Though, just on his hands. He wasn't as adventurous."

Liam gave a small smirk but moved on. "So," he takes a breath, "What exactly are you looking for help with. Robert wasn't clear on the phone. Are you looking to turn more people and need searings for the sun?"

"No," you breathe, "I need you to help figure out how to end my curse."

Liam stares at you for a moment. The curse wasn't discussed in great length to him as not too much information was passed down because Leonard believed you wouldn't try to ask to remove it again.

Still, he eyes you before he turns and studies Natasha a bit before Liam looks at Wanda.

"You bit her, spreading your curse to her," Liam deduces.

"How do you know it's Wanda?" Natasha asks with a slight narrow of her eyes.

Liam licks his lip as he stands up, using his fingers to gesture everyone to follow up. He walks up to his bookshelf and pulls a book down like a lever, and the entire bookshelf splits and makes way into a secret room.

Inside the room, there are rows of tables filled with papers and things you would find in a science lab: beakers, stirring rods, mortars and pestles, and chemicals.

"In some ways, alchemy is a derivative from a witch's spells or magic. What do you think alchemy is?" Liam asks.

"Leonard always said it was a power given to them by God to be able to protect themselves against the supernatural," you recall.

"Kind of, not really," Liam says as he walks over to grab a black chalk and begins to draw circles and symbols on the ground around Wanda, motioning her to stay in place. "There are different types and levels of alchemy. Alchemy, one on hand, can also be a science. It's changing one thing to something else. Anyone could practice it. Even Robert could to a degree."

Liam finishes drawing and drops the chalk to the side as he dusts off his hands.

"But to have the gift for alchemy," Liam lifts his thumb to his lips, "Means your DNA has an affinity to the sun, the moon, the wind, or the earth."

Liam bites down on his thumb hard enough to break the skin, blood rushing out, the smell assaulting both you and David instantly before Liam presses his thumb against the line of the circle.

The air changes.

A white, hot electric buzz fills the air as the alchemy circle flashes a bright blue for a second before returning to normal. The chalk drawing underneath Wanda disappears.

"What...happened?" Wanda asks slowly as she looks at her hands and the rest of her body, but she doesn't find anything amiss.

Liam gestures at Wanda to check where her sternum is. Pulling the front of her shirt at the neck, she peers down.

"What..." Wanda mumbles.

Both you and Natasha looked at each other before moving forward to check, Wanda holding her shirt open for the two of you. Wanda's bra was blocking part of the view, but her sternum now visibly bore the curse's inscription. The black words on her skin and then dark-colored veins prominently spreading outwards from her sternum.

"What did you do to her?!" You whip your head towards Liam, snarling at him.

He holds his hand up to calm you down.

"Nothing dangerous, relax," he cocks his brow at you. "As I said, Alchemy is about changing one thing to something else. I used the chalk as a medium to bring the curse to the front of Wanda's body so it can be visibly seen."

When you realize Wanda's not in any imminent danger, you pull your snarl back, and the red from your eyes fade away.

"This will help you tell when the curse is spreading. Wanda's veins will darken and spread as her cells deteriorate. Don't EVER let the dark veins spread past her chest. If you do, the curse is meant to collapse her sternum and pierce her heart. She will die." Liam warns sternly, eyebrows furrowed together, and lips in a straight line.

"How do you know?" David asks with a slight frown.

"As I said," Liam looked at David, "Alchemy is a derivative from witch's spell or magic. The inscriptions are alchemy transmutation spells. If an alchemist has an affinity for alchemy, they can tell when it's been used on someone." Liam turns to you. "That's how I know it was Wanda that you bit."

You nod curtly. You think about how the veins were just barely protruding from her sternum, so Wanda would be relatively safe for a while since you just fed on her during the plane ride to Texas.

"What did you mean that your DNA has an affinity to the sun, moon, wind, or the earth?" Natasha asks.

You turn your attention back to Wanda, trying to inspect if she was indeed okay. It wasn't that you didn't trust Liam, but you couldn't help but worry.

All of this was your fault.

The fact that Wanda was cursed with potentially no way of getting out of this.

And the complicated mess you know would only hurt everyone in the end, so you needed to get this shit sorted out.

"It means," Liam interrupted your thoughts. "I have an extra DNA strand."

You blink.

"Honestly, I don't blame people in the past, believing alchemy was a gift or power given by God," Liam shrugs. "In a way, I guess they're not wrong. Alchemy's affinity comes from people who have an extra DNA strand from one of the natural elements. The sun, the moon, the wind, the earth." He uses his fingers to count as he speaks. "Having an extra DNA strand is a...mutation. The deformity being able to perform alchemy as a power. As you can guess, depending on what extra DNA strand you have, that's the alchemy you have an affinity to."

Natasha nods thoughtfully as she holds her chin. "I see. So the sun would be fire, the moon would be water, the wind would be air, and the earth is well...earth."

"Exactly," Liam nods.

"Leonard must've been fire," you say pensively to yourself, reminiscing.

"What are you?" David asks Liam, licking his lips.

Liam tilts his head to the side.

"I have four extra DNA strands."

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⋆⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷

Something has been putting you on edge since you've arrived in Vermont.

"Are you okay?" Natasha asks softly, catching you look out the window for maybe the millionth time now.

"Yeah, sorry," you breathe, uncrossing your arms. "It's just...something feels off," you tell her quietly, as to not attract the attention from others.

Liam and Wanda were currently looking over his books and scrolls to see if he could find anything that would help Wanda while David helped them.

"What do you mean?" Natasha asks as she takes a seat on the couch's armrest, pulling you closer, so you were between her legs. She rubs your arms up and down, hoping to comfort you.

"It's just..." you start to say before you turn sharply at the window again. Natasha's brows furrow, but she has no time to ask as you barrel into her while David tackles both Liam and Wanda to the ground.

The glass of the window shatters as a body breaks through. It happens so fast, you hardly even have time to move, but you do.

You smell burning flesh because there's still sun out, though it's setting. A snarl rips through the air as the intruder turns and leaps toward Wanda. David gets up, forcing his feet to push off the ground as he launches towards the vampire. The two of them collide into a blurring mess.

Natasha starts to get up, but you hold her in place.

"What--"

"Don't," you warn her. "If that thing collides into you, your body will tear apart, enhanced, or not."

You get up, running over to David as he's pinned to the ground as you rip off the vampire.

Even with his fleshed burned, he was strong.

Liam scrambles to get up as he grabs another chalk nearby and starts drawing another transmutation circle on the ground as fast as he can.

You're trying with David to get the upper hand on this vampire, one locking him into place while the other tries to rip his head off.

"Wanda," Liam calls, and she turns to him with worry in her eyes as she stands in the corner, unsure of what to do. "I'm creating a prison for him. You need to use your powers to place him in here and keep him down."

"Okay," Wanda says determinedly.

You look at David, who nods in sync with you. You both let go of the vampire at once, and Wanda lifts her hands, casting her powers over the vampire to lock it in place.

He tries to thrash in place, but it's impossible to move with Wanda's vice-like grip on him. She wobbly moves him until he's in the middle of Liam's transmutation circle.

Liam bites in the same place of his thumb earlier, breaking the wound once more, letting a single drop of blood fall in.

The ground starts to shake slightly as the floor where the vampire lies crumbles, giving way. The outline of the circle lights up, and suddenly, vine-like branches with spikes shoot out of the ground. It wraps around the intruding vampire, the spikes piercing his body. He screams out in pain, trying to move, but is unable to due to Liam.

The light fades, leaving the vampire bleeding out as he's trapped in his spot.

"What...was that?" Wanda asked, everyone clearly knowing that he was after her.

You help Natasha off from the ground, checking her for injuries. You find nothing other than a tiny cut on her cheek from a stray glass shard.

"I'm okay," Natasha assures you, more frustrated with herself for being unable to do anything.

You frown, wiping off some of the blood with your glove before you turn to the offender on the ground.

"That was so cool," David breathes as he looks at Liam, who is giving him a tiny smile.

With the vampire immobile, you could finally take a good look.

He was somewhat sickly pale. His eyes were red, a dark red, meaning he wasn't hungry when he lunged for Wanda.

But the thing that stood out the most to you what the prominent veins underneath his eyes.

And you've seen that before.

"No," you frown in denial.

"Where did you come from?" You demand, but the vampire just smirks.

You want to leap in to strangle the thing, but Liam holds your arm to hold you back.

"Anything that steps into that circle will be roped in just like him," Liam warns.

The vampire continues to bleed out as it laughs.

"Wait--" David says, "he's actually dying. Look!"

Everyone looks to where David is pointing at, and you clench your jaw. As a vampire, the only thing that could kill you was wood from the Methuselah tree. Yet, this vampire was disintegrating, turning to dust at his toes.

The vampire looks at you, and you feel a chill down your spine.

"How cute," he tells you, voice raspy as he's disappearing. "Looks like you have everything you've wanted."

You furrow your brows at him.

"Do I know you?" You say, but the vampire doesn't even seem conscious of the fact that he's speaking.

"My love," he says, looking at you, and while you revolt, there's something familiar in the way he says it.

Like you've heard it before.

"It seems you've learned how to want more," he smiles cruelly. "But if it's not more for the right things...then I'll show you what it's like to lose everything you have."

Your heart drops.

"Wait!" You shout, trying to somehow get him to stay, but before you could say anything else, the vampire completely crumbles to dust, leaving nothing behind.

All of you stare at the empty space. The shackles that were holding the vampire in place disappears along with the transmutation circle.

"No," you start to say quietly. "No, no, no, no--"

"Hey!" David grabs you, trying to keep you calm.

"This can't be," you say slowly.

"What? What's wrong?" David shakes you by the shoulder a little.

You look at him.

"That was her."

Silence.

"What?" David says, not understanding.

You look at the ground where the vampire used to be.

"I don't know how...but that was her," you say.

"That was Tatyana."

PART XIII

#natasha romanoff x reader #wanda maximoff x reader #wandanat x reader #natasha romanoff imagine #wanda maximoff imagine #avengers reader insert #avengers x reader #avengers imagine #marvel reader insert #natasha x wanda x you #natasha romanoff x you #wanda maximoff x you #black widow x reader #mm: my fics #series: between the lines

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yoshkeii · 4 years ago

Text

𝟹𝚛𝚍 𝚆𝚒𝚜𝚑 | 𝟹𝟻𝟶+ 𝙴𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚝

࿐ character: Nobuyuki Kai, Tsukishima Kei, Shouhei Fukunaga

࿐ prompt: 3) “You keep staring at me.” 7) “You’re safe now. Breathe.” 9) "Please never do that again."

࿐ type: imagine

࿐ requested by: anon for my 350+ event.

⌦ male!reader (he/him)

⌦ tw: panic attack (on Kai’s part.)

⌦ slightly suggestive?? on Fukunaga’s part- (its just.. thighs...)

⌦ ‘for the event, could I request an imagine with the dialogue prompts, 7, 9, and 3, with the characters Kai, Tsukishima, and Fukunaga? male pronouns‘

A/N: writing for characters i haven’t yet makes me have to use my brain to be original but its a fun process lmao- also hopefully i portrayed the panic attack for Kai’s part okay. Ive had some personally but they are really hard to explain for me.

𝚃𝚜𝚞𝚔𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚖𝚊 / “𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚎.”

Being the fifth 1st year on the Karasuno team, you really found it hard to fit in and communicate with the others. Adding on with not being in the main set or switched out often. During practice you mainly look different.

Often taking off some piercings you had that would make stuff difficult to play in, often just having the classic small earrings on. Your h/c hair being slightly longer than most boys, often tying it up into a half-up french twist during practice while you left it down during school hours to hide your piercings from attention.

After another rough afternoon of practice, you slumped down against a wall sighing in relief as you shut your eyes. Sweat dripping down your face, “another tough.. practice” you heaved softly to yourself. Sitting there silently you just listened to the idle chatter of the other members and the squeaking of rubber on the hard floor. Flinching at the sudden cheer of your name from Yamaguchi, you opened your eyes to see him with Tsukishima aside of him.

“Hurry up y/n! Tsuki’s gonna leave ya if you don’t!!”

“A-ah shit! M-my bad, Tadashi-”

Quickly standing up you jogged over towards the two, already having your bag in hand. “Sorry about that..” you sighed, “..today was just really tiring..”

“It’s fine! Today was pretty tough than usual” Yams replied reassuringly.

As you three left practice you walked each other home, it often went like this. You and Yams bickering about your interests and what happened throughout your day, while Tsukishima just listened. Usually butting in with a retort or a salty joke at one of you. But as the distance grew close, Yamaguchi left first home. Tsukishima second. Then leaving you to walk home alone which wasn’t very far from his house luckily. But this time... he’s walking you home first, claiming he wanted to talk a little longer with you, oddly enough to hear.

Agreeing reluctantly, you both walked down the road towards your house.

“You said you wanted to.. talk right?” You looked up at the short-haired blond, head tilting to the side. “..but you’re oddly quiet now! What’s up with that-”

“Nothing in particular idiot.”

“Is that so Kei?” “You’re so weird sometimes yknow that”

“Same goes to you piercing-boy.”

You stuck your tongue at him, revealing a silver ball on your tongue. How- How has it not caught that sooner? Has it always been there? He just stared intently at it then you, back and forth as you continued to talk about whatever... comeback you had. Was it a comeback? Or were you just talking. He didn’t fucking know at this point. His mind clouded with whatever.. thoughts he had. Before the soft raising of your voice snapped him out of them,

“..Kei! What’s up with you- You just keep staring at me? Are you not feeling well or sumn’??” you questioned, eyes squinting at him.

“N-no.. I’m f-fine..” Tsukishima stuttered.

“Hey!! You stuttered! That’s not the Kei I know-”

“I didn’t stutter- Now shut up dumbass-”

𝙺𝚊𝚒 / “𝚈𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚏𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚠. 𝙱𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎.”

It was finals week. Having less time to relax and have fun, you were here stressing out in your room. Sitting at your desk with a laptop, notebooks, textbooks, everything. You needed to pass. You needed too, this being your last year at Nekoma made it your last stretch.

Letting out a deep sigh as you slammed your head on your desk, the books and paper lightly cushioning the harsh contact. You were so stressed. Overwhelmed. The stabbing thoughts of being a disappointment stabbed your mind, heart, and even soul. You were scared of it. Deciding to get some fresh air, you got up and started to leave your room. As each step was taken, your legs felt like jello. Not solid. Worrying yourself, you grabbed the doorway as you swung the door open. Standing there for moment, everything felt weird... You felt weird.

You didn’t know what was happening. Your mind was too hazy. Clustered with confusing thoughts.

Collapsing onto the floor, your knees roughly meeting the hardwood floor possibly bruising them. Struggling to regain your breaths from the hyperventilation, you had no luck. Grasping at your shirt for closure. You just kneeled on the floor.

Not noticing the front door opening from down the hall, the sudden bag drop. And the surprising warmth of Kai’s hands met yours and your face. Hot tears dripping down your face as your body continuously changed from hot to cold. Not being able to understand the words slipping out of the vice-captain’s mouth, he quickly took note and engulfed your body into his. Arms securing comfort around your back as he started to massage your scalp.

Releasing your trembling hands from your shirt, you slowly grasped your boyfriend’s jersey. Chin resting on his shoulder as he whispered reassurances and comfort to you, the tears dripping down your face didn’t stop. But you had shortly stop hyperventilating, having uneasy shaky breaths still. Hearing the particular words slip past Kai’s lips,

“You’re safe now. Breathe. Baby please...”

𝙵𝚞𝚔𝚞𝚗𝚊𝚐𝚊 / “𝙿𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗.”

Having Fukunaga as a boyfriend is really really nice- His personality and yours meshing well together, his presence is really comforting oddly enough. Even if its just him and you sitting in silence together in your shared space or him spitting out jokes he thinks out of the top of his head in any moment- It never fails to make you laugh or feel uncomfortable, and that means the world to him.

But as of now, your flustered expression only made the short-haired male look up at his boyfriend with a dorky expression... inbetween his lover’s thighs. His cheeks slightly squished as he lightly pushed your thighs with his hands that were on the sides. The silly grin on his face only made your face flushed up more, never really thinking Fukunaga would be.. kinda a thigh man.

You were just insecure about them. But he proved you wrong in the most adorable way. His dorky face being squished lightly inbetween them as he giggled softly are your expression.

“My lil’prince is flustered~” he cooed, placing a soft kiss on your inner thigh, earning a squeak from you.

Fukunaga gazed up at you, his eyes glittering at the cute noise you let out. He kissed you again in the same area, retrieving the same noise but with a few more words.

“S-shou! Stop that!! Y-you I’m pretty ticklish babe-” You angrily muttered, your rosy face making you look soft more than angry.

Without a reply coming from him, he did it again.

“I s-swear to g o d, S-Shouhei..!! Please never.. do that again..” you muttered, the deepened color of flush on your face signaled it was a lie.

“..not even in be-” before Fukunaga could finish his snarky reply, you shoved a pillow on his face.

“SHOUHEI NO-”

#at-dusk;- 🌆#events;- 🎏#folder 📁;- 𝙷𝚊𝚒𝚔𝚢𝚞𝚞 #kai nobuyuki x male reader #kai nobuyuki x reader #tsukishima kei x male reader #tsukishima x reader #fukunaga shohei x male reader #fukunaga shohei x reader #haikyuu x male reader #haikyuu x reader #hq x male reader #haikyuu imagines #hq imagines #hq x reader

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winterscaptain · 4 years ago

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fear itself.

Aaron Hotchner x Gender Neutral Reader

a/n: part two of the 100 arc! this installment covers the events of faceless, nameless. i am living for the feedback! please keep it coming. i can’t wait to hear what you think as we go through this (very emotionally wrought) section.

words: 4.5k warnings: canon-typical violence, language, hospital setting

summary: four hours of sleep and aaron’s missing. what else could go wrong?

masterlist | a joyful future masterlist | requests closed!

4:02am “Just got home, so I’m calling like you asked. Shoot me a text when you get back to the apartment, if you aren’t already asleep. Call me when you’re up and we can work on that Nebraska consult, maybe in the early afternoon? Goodnight. Sleep well.”

8:13am “Hey, it’s me. I know I’m not supposed to be worried about you, but we were called in a half hour ago and you’re still not here...so...give me a call when you get this. Bye.”

8:48am “Hey, it’s me, checking in again. You’re probably still asleep, but I’ve never known you to sleep more than seven hours...so if I don’t hear from you by eleven I’ll drag you out of bed myself.”

9:51am “We’re headed to the crime scene. Garcia’s sent you the address. I know JJ’s been calling you too, so just...I dunno? Call us back? Bye.”

10:20am “If you’re getting these and ignoring me, I hope you know you’re taking years off my life right now.”

11:08am “Um...Call me back. I’m starting to worry. Well...not starting. I’ve been worried. But I’m getting...really worried.”

11:37am “Aaron please call me and let me know you’re alright. You’re scaring me.”

+++

Needless to say, it’s been a weird day. Why you expected anything else after that wretched Canada case and four hours of sleep, you have no idea.

You had a horrible dream last night, on top of everything else. The image of Aaron broken and bleeding beside you hadn’t left your mind since it first appeared in Foyet’s kitchen. You tried to shake it off every time, but it was persistent.

We’ll worry about that later.

You check the time again, trying to ignore the weird feeling in your gut.

Where is he?

Your phone rings and your heart leaps. Guilt (and a little bit of embarrassment) pricks at you when you’re disappointed to see Emily’s name on your phone. You answer.

“You have to get down here.” Her voice isn’t frantic, per se, but the urgency is undeniable.

“What’s going on?”

She takes a breath. “I just got off the phone with Garcia - I have crime scene techs and SWAT on the way to Hotch’s apartment, and I need you here.”

All the blood in your body seems to rush into your head, and you lean heavily on the nearest object - the dining room table. “What?”

“I - I don’t know. All his stuff is here and there's -” She stutters for a second. “There’s blood on the carpet, broken glass, and a bullet hole in the wall by the kitchen. No Hotch.”

An eerie kind of calm washes over you, and you straighten, making eye contact with Derek. “Okay. Let me just -”

Derek gets a call, but keeps his eyes on you. “What’s goin’ on, Baby Girl?...What do you mean ‘Emily just called SWAT to Hotch’s apartment’ what -“

You break his gaze as he nods at you and turns to the rest of the team. “Emily, I’ll be right there. Don’t go anywhere.”

+++

You make it to the hospital with Emily. You flash your credentials and it gets you exactly where you want to go.

When you see him, your breath catches. He looks awful - drawn and small and wrapped in what seems like miles of gauze. Emily grabs your arm, but you’re not sure if it's for her benefit or yours.

This is, after all, your worst nightmare come to life. A little chill crawls up your spine. This whole thing has you feeling six different kinds of scared.

The nurse lets you into his room, telling you he’ll be out for another hour, at least. “He needs the rest.”

Emily leaves you to retrieve coffee. You take the opportunity to sit beside him and slide your hand under his, careful not to disturb the IV. Your hand shakes - whether from anxiety, fear, fury, or all of the above, you’re not sure.

“If you die, Aaron Hotchner, I’ll kill you.”

You hear a little laugh from the doorway and you pull your hand from him. Emily shakes her head, two cups of coffee in her hands. “You’re fine. I'm not going to tattle.”

You squint. “Tattle?”

She rolls her eyes. “You’re so clueless it’s almost cute, but he’s worse.” She throws her head toward Hotch with a fond smile, handing you your cup of coffee.

+++

The rest of the team arrives in a flurry a little while later, and the nurse has to warn them off as Aaron starts to wake.

They quiet down, surrounding his bedside. You haven’t moved, making it your mission to keep your eyes on him at all times.

His eyes flutter before closing again. “Where am I?”

“You’re in the hospital,” you say, keeping your voice quiet and steady despite the tightness in your chest.

“How did I get here?”

Derek gets that one. “Foyet drove you.”

Aaron takes a breath. It’s shaky, and you imagine he’s in a lot of pain. Emily leans forward, looking for his eyes. “Can you remember what happened?”

He tells you, slowly, about how Foyet broke into the apartment, waited until he was home with his guard down, fired a shot, and then...He trails off. A heavy breath leaves him. “What did he take?”

You have an answer. “There was a page missing from your day planner, the Bs from the address section.”

He closes his eyes and his breath grows faster, his heart rate increasing. After a moment, he collects himself and asks Emily, “What did he leave?”

“I don’t know.”

“He also leaves something with his victims.”

Emily shakes her head. “I looked through your entire apartment. Nothing felt out of place.”

“Where are my clothes?”

“Right here.” You reach over, grabbing the bag and removing his bloody shirt with only the barest moment of hesitation. He reaches for the envelope of his personal effects and you press it into his hand, saving him the effort.

Tears prick at your eyes as you watch his hands shake, opening his wallet. He’s eerily quiet, and you catch a glimpse of a photo, tucked into the fold.

Haley and Jack. There’s blood on it. You recognize it from the desk in his home office space.

No.

Aaron’s come to the same conclusion, falling back on the pillows with a look you can only describe as defeated. It scares you. You swallow, pushing your tears back.

That’s the last thing he needs right now.

“Haley’s maiden name is Brooks. I always listed her in the Bs in my personal information in case it fell into the wrong hands.” Your hand, like JJ’s, has fallen over your mouth.

Oh.

Of course.

Of course, he keeps her under Brooks. All he wants to do is keep her safe.

You hope, one day, that someone will love you that much, will want to protect you with the same ferocity, will think of you before anything else.

You could only be so lucky.

He swallows and continues. “He knows where they live.”

Derek makes assignments. You’re to stay right where you are, while the rest focus on locating Haley and Jack.

When it’s just the two of you, he closes his eyes again. “I don’t know what I’m going to do if -”

“They’ll find her. They’ll find Jack. They’ll be safe.”

You have to believe it, too. They’re too important to you, to central to your life, now

He shakes his head, his eyes cracking open. “Why didn’t I just take the deal?” Clearing his throat, he continues, his voice a little stronger, but still rough. “He told me I should have. I never thought -” He cuts himself off.

You hand him a cup of water, and he takes it gratefully. Idly, you note he hasn’t looked you in the eye yet.

“Do you want an answer to your question?”

He doesn’t answer you, looking across the room.

You lean into his eye line. “You didn’t take the deal because you have the most integrity of anyone I’ve ever known. Anything he does is on him. It’s not on you.”

“But,” his voice breaks and the smallest of tears falls out of his eye. It tracks down his temple until you gently wipe it away with your thumb. “But I could have stopped all of this.”

“No,” you whisper. Your hand lingers on the side of his face. “No. He’ll be this way wherever he goes. The only way you change that is by catching him, Hotch.”

He finally looks at you, his brown eyes exhausted, hurting, and bloodshot. You card your fingers through the hair at his temple, putting the oxygen cannula back over his ear. Soon, he closes his eyes again, his vitals evening out as he falls asleep.

“We’ll get him, Aaron.”

A few tense minutes later, your phone buzzes in your pocket. When you see the caller ID, a shot of adrenaline zings around your body. “Haley?”

Your name is a sigh of relief in her mouth. “SWAT scared the hell out of me and I just - I don’t know.”

“Oh, Haley I’m so sorry. I should have gone over there with the team but -“ Derek knew my stress wouldn’t be useful.

“No, no. It’s fine. They’re getting Jack from a friend’s house, but they told me what’s going on. I’ll see you when I get to the hospital. I just -“ She laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “I just freaked out.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I’ll see you soon.”

“I’ll see you soon. I love you.”

Your heart pulls. “I love you, too.”

She hangs up, and you stuff your phone back in your pocket.

Aaron wakes again when you pull a case file from your bag, but you’re not sure it’s your doing.

Shit.

He looks around a little frantically for a moment, still disoriented. You rise and cross the room, finding one of his hands.

“Hotch, it’s okay. You’re still in the hospital.”

“Haley?”

You nod. “They got her. She’s safe and she’s on her way with Jack.”

He finally relaxes, sinking back down into the pillows. “Thank you.”

You nod and resume your place on the other side of the room, patting the back of his hand as you let him go. He’s quiet, if not a little fidgety. You look at him for a minute. He takes a talking breath.

“After the first one, it kind of goes blank.” His breath is still a little unsteady, and you take your chair next to his bed again. “There were nine, apparently.”

Your breath catches. It’s not new information, but it’s still raw, sharp-edged.

Awful.

He swallows. “He taunted me.” His eyes beg you to understand, to keep him from flying off the rails.

“He’s a bastard, Aaron.”

He levels you with a withering stare. No shit.

“I know you know that, but it’s worth repeating.”

“I don’t want -“

You interrupt him, knowing exactly where he’s going. “You’re not going to become a victim. You aren’t a victim.”

“I don’t want Haley to -“

You press a hand to his arm, mindful of his bandages. “One day at a time. They’re safe today.”

His lip quivers and his voice leaves him in a whisper. “That’s not good enough.”

+++

Eventually, Haley arrives looking a little worse for wear.

Her haircut’s really cute.

The thought almost makes you laugh.

Of all the things to notice...

You startle a little as you remember where you are and rise, ready to give them space. She waves you off, giving you permission to stay.

“How do you feel?” She asks.

Aaron sits up a little more, not without effort, and says, “I’m gonna be okay.”

That’s not what she asked, stupid.

He continues. “Did they explain to you what’s happening?”

She nods. “They said the marshal's service is taking us straight from here and putting us into protective custody.” Her eyes meet yours, and you dip your chin. She’s right.

Aaron apologizes to Haley for the first of what you imagine will be many times.

Her lower lip disappears between her teeth. “Do you know where they’re gonna take us?”

“No,” you answer. “We don’t. And that’s the point.”

“I can’t know where you’re going,” Aaron adds. “If you have any contact with anyone, he can track you.”

That shocks her a little, and you can see she’s getting upset. “Jack has school. He has friends. I have a job now. I have -” She cuts herself off.

“I know.” He levels a steady, solemn gaze upon her. “And I’m sorry. We will catch him and you’ll come back.”

She looks at you again. “Are you sure we’re in danger?”

You nod, almost imperceptibly, and Hotch answers. “Yes.”

“And what about you? Are you gonna be safe?”

There it is.

She does love him.

You knew that, of course. Seeing them together during visits at home or out to dinner or otherwise in the presence of that other, that was never in question.

Your heart tugs.

Twenty-five years...

“He wants to see me suffer. Knowing that my son is out there and that I can’t see him is better than killing me.”

Haley wets her lips and swallows.

That’s her tell.

You figure she’ll burst into tears pretty soon. It was only a matter of time, and you don’t blame her in the least. You’ve had tears threatening you all afternoon, and this wasn’t even happening to you.

“Jack wants to see you.”

Aaron’s jaw gets a little tight. “I want to see him, too. I just don’t think it’s a good idea.”

You hear what he can’t say, too. I don’t want to scare him. I don’t want him to see me like this.

“Look,” she says, exasperated. “I know you’re trying to protect him, but you both need this. Please.”

He nods, resigned. “Okay.”

Haley looks over and offers you a shaky smile, trying to break the tension. “He also asked me if you’d be here. He’ll be thrilled.”

That almost does you in. “So will I,” you tell her, meaning every syllable.

With another brisk nod and wipe of her face, she leaves the room to retrieve Jack. Aaron sits up a little straighter and you help him. He tries to suppress his wince, but fails.

“Do you need another round?”

He shakes his head. “I’ll be fine.”

“Just let me know.” You settle back into the corner, the case file in your lap.

Haley and Jack return, and she brings him to Aaron’s side, lifting him up onto the bed.

Aaron meets his eyes and tells him that he’s okay, giving him a little preparing for what’s about to happen. “But, what do I tell you whenever I go away?”

“That you love me.”

You hide your face, looking out the window as tears finally fall from your eyes. Haley’s eyes are on you and you know it. You wipe at your face and take a quiet breath before turning back, pretending to pay attention to the case in your lap.

In your periphery, you can see Aaron looking over Jack’s face as if to memorize it, as if he doesn’t already know every plane, every curve, every angle of his son’s face. “More than anything in the world.”

They exchange a few more words before he brings him close and kisses his forehead. You glance up, and they look so alike in their profiles it almost makes you smile. Haley’s crying, too, and she meets your eyes.

Something passes between you, but you don’t have a name for it.

You don’t need one.

Haley takes a breath and tucks her hair behind her ears. She redirects Jack’s attention to you, and his eyes light up. She helps him scramble off the bed and he books it around the bed to you.

You close the case file and open your arms to him. “Hi, bud.” It’s hard not to scare him with the feverish way you hold him close, your fingers wound in his hair.

There’s a failed attempt to avoid thinking about the uncertainty of the future, when you’ll see him again.

If ever.

Stop.

The pair of you lean back for a minute, and you brush his hair away from his forehead.

“Are you going away, too?” He asks.

You shake your head. “I’m gonna stay here with your dad.”

“Are you going to keep my dad safe? I’m going to keep Mom safe.”

It’s Aaron who looks away this time.

“Of course, my love.” You offer him something you hope looks like a smile. “We always keep each other safe. We’re a team, like you and your momma. I’m so proud of you.” You check in with Haley, who’s looking away, the back of her hand swiping at her cheek. When she turns back to you, you tilt your head a little.

Want a minute?

She nods.

You stand, Jack still tucked against your chest. “I think,” you say, as he sits back in your arms, “Miss Emily and Miss JJ are back and might have something fun for you over there.” You tip your head toward the waiting room. “Wanna go see?”

He nods, leaning back into you and playing with your collar. You pat Aaron’s knee and squeeze Haley’s shoulder with your free hand as you pass.

Aaron watches you go, your low murmuring comforts to Jack lost in the ambient hospital noise. When you find JJ and look back, giving him a small (if not a little watery) smile, he looks over at Haley, guilt closing up his throat.

“I’m so sorry, Haley. I promise, when this is all over, I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you.”

She gives him a half-smile and sits on the edge of his bed. She reaches for him, and he takes both of her hands in his. There’s silence for a moment as they sit together. She studies him.

While it doesn’t bother him (she has been looking at him for nearly twenty-five years, after all), he does feel more exposed under her gaze than he’s used to.

“You should do something about that, one of these days,” she says, looking over her shoulder. You’re still visible in the window, talking to JJ while Jack is still glued to you. His little arms are tight around your neck, his head tucked under your chin.

Aaron’s brow furrows, but the EKG picks up the increase in his heart rate, much to his embarrassment. “What are you talking about?”

Haley laughs, a light, watery, delicate thing, and turns back to him. It almost brings a smile to his face. “Do you think I don’t know what you look like when you’re head over heels, Aaron Hotchner? After eighteen years of marriage and twenty-five years knowing you? Give me a break.”

His jaw grows tight, but he holds her gaze.

“You used to look at me like that, you know.” A little smile plays at her lips and she looks down, almost shy. “Still do, sometimes.”

“I love you, Haley.”

She squeezes his hand. “I know you do.” A sigh leaves her and she looks over her shoulder again, just catching a glimpse of you and JJ out in the hall with Jack as you go scavenging for something sweet. There’s a little smile at the corner of her mouth when she turns back to him. “You are so loved, Aaron.”

“I don't…” He huffs, frustrated. “I don’t feel -”

“I’m not saying you have to do anything, but it might do you some good to just…” She sighs, throwing a hand up in a kind of searching gesture. “I don’t know, be honest with yourself. Think for a minute.”

His teeth worry the inside of his lower lip as he thinks about it. He does care about you. But love?

He thinks of the way his chest feels too small whenever you laugh, the way he always goes above and beyond to make sure you’re safe in the field, how he looks for you when you’re out of the room, how he looks for you when you’re in the room.

The way you are with Jack brings him to his knees every time. The sound of his son’s laughter under your tickling fingers never fails to bring a smile to his face.

You’ve helped him heal what seemed like an insurmountable chasm between him and Haley, and though it’s not perfect, it’s better than it would ever be without you.

You always take a second to straighten his tie and ensure his suit jacket lays flat across his shoulders before leaving the plane, just like he always takes time to count the rounds in your magazines or tuck your tag back into your shirt collar.

He always feels so warm under your fond and attentive touch. With a little bit of alarm, he hopes you feel the same under his. Safe. Cared-for.

Loved.

Oh.

Oh no.

He knows the realization is clear on his face when Haley laughs again, surprising them both. She swipes at her eyes again, clearing any remaining tears. “You know, I can’t say I’m surprised you didn’t know, but it’s still funny, even with all this.” She shakes her head. “You haven’t changed much, have you?”

His face breaks out into a little smile as he looks back at her. “Oh, quit.”

“I’ll never quit giving you hell, as long as we live.” Haley reaches out, pushing gently against his shoulder. He takes the shove like a champ, even through the ache in his chest and abdomen, thankful she’s not treating him like he’s made of glass.

“Don’t I know it.”

They look at each other for a minute before Aaron sobers, the mirth evaporating between them. He already misses her. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for all of this. I’m hoping it’ll be...temporary.”

“I do have a life, Aaron. And Jack…” She sighs and her eyes fill with tears again.

“I know. I’m sorry. I wish there was another way to keep you safe, but -” He cuts himself off, knowing there’s nothing he can say.

She swallows again. She already misses him. “How am I supposed to keep him safe when there’s nobody I know to help me?”

He sighs, but speaks with conviction. “Haley, you’re strong. You lived with me in this job and you’ve practically raised Jack all by yourself. You’re a great mother.”

Haley’s actively crying now, trying to stem the tears with her fingers. It’s not working. After a moment, she collects herself. “Can you catch this man?”

“I will catch this man.”

+++

When she leaves Aaron’s room, you bring Jack to her. You take a moment to lightly fuss over them both.

Her blue eyes find yours. “Take care of him, please?”

You nod. “I will.”

“He needs you.”

She says it with a simple kind of conviction that makes your chest pull. You put a hand on her shoulder, trying to communicate everything you can’t say into your touch. “He needs you more.”

“No, he doesn’t.” Her lips twist in an odd sort of smile and she wraps you in a hug and kisses your cheek. “I’ll see you soon.”

You hold her tight, Jack trapped (and whining a little) between you. “See you soon, Hales.” You pull back, looking deeply into her eyes. “We’ll get him.”

The U.S. Marshals arrive, and you have to let go of each other. You press a kiss to Jack’s forehead and tell him you love him one more time, and wait until they’re in the car and out of sight before you break down.

You don’t know where he came from, but Derek wraps around you, catching you before your knees hit the ground. You don't know what you’re crying about, really.

It could be the overwhelming task of catching Foyet.

It could be Hotch in the room down the hall with nine stab wounds to his chest and abdomen.

It could be the indefinite absence of your dear friend and her son - a boy you love more than anyone except maybe -

Nope. Don’t go there. Not now.

Sobs wrack your chest, and your head hurts and your throat is sore by the time your body lets you breathe.

Derek’s there the whole time, rubbing your back and keeping your face hidden in the crook of his neck and shoulder. “It’s gonna be okay, kiddo. It’ll be okay. He’s okay. We’re gonna catch this son of a bitch.”

“It’s just so much, Derek.”

He sighs. “I know. I know.”

+++

“Did you hear what happened this morning?”

You’re woken by Dave’s voice, coming from the doorway. Cramped and crunched into the corner of an uncomfortable chair, you stretch and what feels like every joint in your body cracks.

“No.”

When did Aaron wake up?

You look over at him and he glances at you before returning to Dave, who’s leaning on the door frame.

“We had a situation. Unsub had already killed two people. Said he was gonna keep killing unless a man used his son as bait.”

“What happened?”

Good question.

Belatedly, you realize you’ve neglected your case duties all day in favor of holding vigil over Aaron’s bedside. The weirdest part about it? The rest of the team let you.

Why?

“We kept the boy safe. Worked the profile. It was a happy ending.”

That’s good, at least. One fucking happy ending today.

It’s like Dave’s reading your mind as he asks Aaron, “Do you know why I’m telling you this?”

“Yes.” Aaron’s gaze is impassive, but there are universes behind his eyes.

“No other group in the world could have pulled off what yours did in a matter of hours.” Dave checks in with you, and the corner of your mouth lifts.

Sorry.

He shakes his head just a little. No sweat, kid. You did your job.

“I appreciate what you’re trying to do, Dave, but -”

Dave cuts him off. “We’ll get Foyet.”

“I promised Haley I would get him. But the truth is, if he stops killing we have no way of tracking him. He stopped killing for ten years just for the pleasure of watching Shaunessy’s life fall apart.”

He’s crying again, and your heart breaks. You’re surprised Dave can’t hear it crack all the way across the room.

“What’s Jack going to remember about me in ten years?”

No.

“Hotch, look at me.” You rise from your chair and sit on the edge of the bed, careful not to disturb his position. He turns his head just so, his brown eyes locking onto yours. “We’ll get him. We will get him.”

We have to.

+++

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#aaron hotchner x reader #hotch x reader #aaron hotchner imagine #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fanfiction #aaron hotchner #criminal minds #hotch #tali writes fanfiction #tali talks cm #a joyful future #shut up tali #a joyful future fanfic

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honeypirate · 4 years ago

Text

This is pro hero AU. Everyone is aged up and in my mind like all 23/24

Event Masterlist

Kirishima x fem reader, best friends to lovers, smoke sesh

Summary: monthly get together with your hero friends from high school, but you’re most excited to see the man you’ve been crushing on since graduation. Friends to lovers with happy tears bc weed makes me want to cry with joy sometimes and I know that Kirishima would be so sweet if his love was reciprocated.

Warning:! It’s a little suggestive at the end!! Kiri gets a boner!! Weed makes people horknee

You put your car in park outside of Kaminari’s apartment, excited to see your friends after a long hard month. Nerves are twisting around in your belly, anxiety from being able to finally see the man you were secretly in love with.

Since the end of high school you’ve all been amazing friends, bonding in your last year over smoking weed and having a tradition that stuck even now.

Once a month you’d smoke together and have a sleepover in someone’s room(but now apartment), always rotating rooms/person who brings the weed. This month you were in charge of the drugs and Kaminari was in charge of hosting.

You knock a few times on the door and several voices yell ‘come in’ making you think of high school and bringing a smile to your face.

“Hey guys!” You say when you walk inside

“Y/n!” Kaminari yells

“Y/n’s here!” Sero says and hops from the couch to come hug you

“Who’s here?!” Shinsou shouts somewhere deeper in the apartment

“Y/n Is!” Mina says excitedly as she gets up from the couch with Hagakure who both run to hug you after Sero lets go.

“Hey y/n” Shinsou says with a head nod as he exits the kitchen

Bakugou grumbles a hello from his place on the floor, back against the couch as he plays a switch game “can we finally get this show on the road then? I’ve been stressed all damn day and looking forward to this stupid shit” you walk over to him and ruffle his hair, he had new undercut and it looked nice.

“Good to see you too Kacchan” you say and he rolls his eyes gently pushes your hand away even tho his cheeks were a little dusted in pink. Oh how you loved to tease him.

“Is Kirishima here?” You ask, hoping your voice sounds calm cool and casual

You hear some things falling down in the kitchen and the sounds of scrambling before your favorite redhead comes into the living room

“I’m right here!” He says with an embarrassed laugh before he envelops you into a big hug, pulling you to his large chest as he holds you tight. You laugh and wrap your arms around him as much as you can, burying your face in his chest and hoping when you pulled away your cheeks wouldn’t be too warm.

“Glad you could make it” he says when he lets you go and you smile “me too” you say softly, your eyes sparkling

(Not pictured, the rest of the room staring like “I swear to god if they don’t get together soon...” and bakugous envious eyes)

You reach in your bag and pull out the black glass jar you use to keep your weed in. Your thumb brushes over the golden sunshine that was on the side of the jar and you smile, remembering when Kirishima gave it to you. You pull off the rubber lid and pull out a few joints you already had made, the smell of strong weed escaping the jar and filling the space around you.

You sit on the floor beside Bakugou and Kirishima sits on your other side, legs out in front of him and one arm behind him as he leaned subtly toward you. Sero sat next to Kiri, Kaminari next, then Shinsou, Hagakure, and Mina to round out the circle all lounging on the couch.

You hand the first one to Bakugou and he snatches it, placing it in his lips as you smile, holding out a lighter and he leans forward keeping eye contact as the end lights, sending your heart into a frenzy with his smirk. He knew how hot it was and abused his power, it’s why you could never fall for him.

He takes a long inhale and holds it “that’s nice” he croaks with eyebrows raised and a smile, holding in the smoke for another moment before letting it out. He takes another hit before passing it to you, Mina sliding open the window behind the couch.

You take in a lung full of the acrid smoke and hum, your eyes closing as you hold it for a moment then let it out with a satisfied sigh. “Yeah” you say and take another hit, passing it to Kirishima who winks with a shy smile when the joint leaves your fingers.

Him on the other hand. He was handsome and adorable but he didn’t abuse it. He was a good man and what mattered most to him was helping people and being a good hero, how could you not fall in love with his kind eyes and heart? Or the way his jaw tensed when he swallowed or the way his high smile looked, the way he texts you periodically through the weeks to make sure you’re doing okay, or the way he...

you pull your gaze away from Kirishima’s profile with a shake of the head and warm embarrassed cheeks. You were feeling just a little bit high and we’re staring and zoned in to just how much you adore Kirishima and how much joy you feel when you’re around him. get it together y/n.

You make eye contact with Bakugou and he raises his eyebrows with an accusatory look and crosses his arms. You laugh softly and cover your cheeks with your hands, looking away and pretending nothing just happened. Bakugou scowls but eventually gives in to the relaxed state the weed gives him, accepting that you wanted Kiri and not him and that it was okay.

After the joint makes its way around you pull out your puff puff pass card game and shuffle them before placing them in the middle of the group, the three on the couch sinking to the floor so they could reach as the joint finds Hagakure

“Kacchan.” You say “First hit equals first card”

he rolls his eyes before leaning up and snatching the card and reading it out loud “name all the cereal brand mascots” he reads and then flicks the card back down, it spins as it flies across the circle and he chuckles when it hits Kaminari.

“Uhhh” he says as he sits up straighter, taking the joint from Hagakure and pulling a hit as he thinks “tony the tiger” he says with smoke as he exhales and takes another quick hit, handing the joint to you and you tap the ash into the top of an empty soda can as he continues.

“The leprechaun fucker. Snap crackle pop. Toucan Sam. Trix are for kids bunny.” He continues to name them all easily and you are staring at him in shock for a moment before laughing

“nice one Kacchan” you say as you take a card yourself.

You take a nice long hit with a smirk as you hold up your card that says “puff” and Kirishima laughs, taking the joint from your fingers as he leans for a card “lucky lucky y/n” he says and then looks at his card, reading as he takes a drag. “Go in a circle naming colors until someone messes up”

he chuckles and starts off by saying “blue” the game ends when Bakugou says “Skobeloff” and you laugh so hard against Kirishima’s shoulder you can’t think of any more colors.

But what you can think of is how your stomach flutters and your skin is on fire under Kirishima’s large hand resting on your back, holding you close as you both laugh together.

The game goes on for an hour and a half until all the cards are gone and everyone is just high and chill, someone is playing soft music through Alexa and all the windows and balcony doors are opened, cool night air coming up as you talk and eat snacks that were brought out earlier.

“Come with me” Kirishima says and hooks his pinky into yours when your conversation with Mina ended.

“Lead the way” you say with warm cheeks and hooded eyes as he guides you to the empty balcony.

“It’s such a nice night don’t the bugs sound beautiful?” You sigh as you lean on the railing, looking up at the moon, the bugs in the park below seeming to sing to you.

“I’ve missed you so much” he admits with a shy laugh and when you turn to look at him his cheeks are flushed and his eyes are on the floor as he scratches behind his head.

“You have?” You ask, unable to hide the happiness and smile in your voice and he looks up as you walk slowly up to him.

“So much” he says with a shaky laugh

you wrap your arms around his neck, standing on your tiptoes as you pull him close.

“Oh Eijiro” you say breathless into his ear, your heartbeat racing and body feeling like you’re spinning as his arms hold you tighter to him “I’ve missed you too” you admit and he sighs in sweet relief as his shoulders relax.

“I don’t want to go a month without seeing you again. You’re more to me than just a high school friend or pro hero college. Through school and now when we work together I just, I couldn’t help but catch feelings for you. Your wonderful personality and your kindness shines through every part of you and you are such a beautiful person inside and out”

He’s saying all this as he hugs you, less flustered without having to see your face and your heart is soaring. You feel your eyes well up in happy tears and you pull back, cupping his cheeks in your hands as he looks down at you with worry in your eyes.

“Y/n what's wrong?” He says and you laugh with a smile as he wipes your tears

“Eijiro,I’m sorry.” you say with a smile wiping your cheeks “Ive been in love with you since graduation and I guess it’s just overwhelming with the drugs” you say and laugh softly, your eyes burn from your makeup as you get it together.

he feels his own eyes well up with tears and he looks up with furrowed brows and eyes screwed shut trying to stop them

“Really?” He asks and his voice cracks a little

you take his hand, leading him to the couch on the balcony, sitting him down and sitting in his lap, straddling his legs and running your fingers through his hair. He sighs softly in relief, your fingers sending extra tingles down his spine with every pass through his hair.

“I love the way you treat the community like they’re your friends and family” you say and kiss his cheek “I love how you always remember the little things about me, things I never even realized I mentioned. Like when you brought me lemon iced tea” you kiss his nose and he chuckles softly, his cheeks turning pink and his eyes looking into yours as a few happy tears escape his eyes

“I love when you laugh, your nose twitches just a little bit and it’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen” you kiss between his eyebrows

“I love so many things about you, Eijiro. I’d love to spend as much time as it take telling you every one of them” you cup his cheek and kiss away his tears

“I love you so much” he whispers, his voice cracking again from the tears and he chuckles at it

You lean down and brush your nose against his, his eyes fluttering closed as he sighs happily “Eijiro can I kiss you?” You whisper and he nods excitedly as he cups your cheek and connects your lips.

His lips were soft, softer than you originally thought they’d be. His other hand rested in your hip and squeezes lightly as he bit your bottom lip between his sharp teeth.

You gasp softly then laugh when your body floods with tingles from his action.

Your tongue licks at his as he deepens the kiss, his hold on your hip tightening and your hands burying in his hair.

Your lips tingle in the most amazing way, your head was light and you felt like your whole world was spinning and falling through space as your tongues and lips moved in tandem.

You aren’t entirely sure how long you’ve been kissing him, your sense of passing time fucked with how high you felt, but when you leaned back you sucked in a big gasp of air with a smile and a breathless chuckle.

Your thumb runs over his bottom lip as you gaze down at him, his lips were swollen and you’re sure your lips match. Your chin felt like you got a burn from his stubble but you didn’t care.

“We should go back in before they come looking and find us sticking out tongues down each other’s throats” you say and he chuckles, his fingers carding through your hair and his hand on your hip had at some point moved to be on your back, his thumb up under your shirt with his thumb rubbing across your skin slowly as he held you pressed to his chest.

“I don’t want to” he says quietly with a chuckle

“Come on love, don’t tell me you haven’t been missing some down time with Kacchan” you say, his face brightening as you remind him about his other best friend.

“Okay maybe I want to a little bit but .. uhh” he looks away embarrassed, his cheeks flushing “I need a moment or two” he says, voice rising a few octaves at the end, hoping you understand what he’s saying.

You look at him for a beat before you feel something pressed to your thigh “Oh!” You say, your heart hitching and cheeks immediately warming “okay” you say and lean forward, kissing his cheek before getting off his lap carefully and sitting beside him on the couch.

You lace your fingers together and lay your head on his shoulder as you look up at the stars “it really is a wonderful night” he says as the cool night air blows.

You give his hand a little squeeze and sigh softly with a smile “yeah. The best one had in a while”

#kirishima fluff #ejiro kirishima x reader #kirishima x y/n #kirishima x reader #kirishima x you #bnha kirishima #tw drugs #tw suggestive

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moldisgoodforyou · 4 years ago

Text

you’re my favorite (iv)

wordcount: 1.6k

part one | part two | part three

______

The next morning, Rafe didn’t wake up until nearly noon. He checked his phone with a groan, seeing a single text notification.

Sophie: hey. can I see you?

When Rafe finally woke up, head pounding, he rolled over to check his phone like he always did first thing in the morning. (Then he was sorely reminded that the only time he didn’t do that was when Sophie stayed over.) When he saw the text from her, he practically shot out of bed, yanking his phone charger out of the wall in the process. He dialed Sophie’s number almost immediately - only taking a split second to have to scroll through his contacts, as they hadn’t talked on the phone in weeks.

She’d been up since seven am, anxious as she waited for his reply. Both Julia and Allie had told her to wait, text him later in the day when he was actually awake so she wouldn’t stress herself out, but her nerves won out. Sophie was a little surprised to see him call first, expecting the cold shoulder through text for a moment.

“Rafe? Hello?”

He breathed a sigh of relief. “Soph, hey. I got your text.”

Just the nickname alone made her feel sure of herself again. “Yeah...can I come over and we can talk? Is that okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, of course. You can head over, I’ll see you soon.” He smiled, almost instantly forgetting about the last two weeks he’d had. At her expense. The second he hung up, he caught the look James was sending him. “What?”

“You’re gonna let her off the hook that easy?”

“I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean.” Rafe frowned.

“She’s the one that hurt you here. Then she calls and you’re smiling like an idiot.” Colin told him, standing to give him space. James promptly whacked Colin upside the head. “It’s been two weeks, he’s not hurt. Don’t listen to him, Rafe.”

He regarded the two of them with a little confusion. “Uh. I think it’ll be okay. Do you guys mind giving us the room?”

“No, not at all.” James dragged Colin out of the room and Rafe could hear an argument brewing between the two of them, but decided not to listen in. Instead he hurriedly made his bed - and on second thought, Colin and James’ too - to make it look like he hadn’t spent all his free time in their room for the past two weeks.

Sophie let herself into Delt, like always. (It felt oddly formal to have to text Rafe and ask to be let in.) She passed through the living room to the stairs and James called out to her, him and Colin pretending to study. “Hey, Sophie!”

She turned and gave them a hesitant smile, hands shoved in her pockets. “Hi James. Hi Colin.”

“It’s good to see you around. Just, uh, go easy on him, okay?” James returned the smile easily, while Colin stayed silent and didn’t look her way.

Sophie frowned and stepped closer, lowering her voice. “Huh? I don’t understand.”

Colin sighed exasperatedly, always blunt. “If you’re gonna hurt him -”

“What? No!” She shook her head quickly. “No, I don’t want to - I’m not going to - look, I want to talk this out. Promise.”

“Oh.” James nodded. “That’s not what I expected.”

“I would never.” She emphasized.

“Hm. Carry on, then.” Colin sat back into the couch and Sophie gave them one last look before nodding and heading up the stairs. She felt slightly more confident now, figuring the boys wouldn’t react that way if Rafe didn’t want to stay together. She paused just before entering his room and knocked, just once.

Rafe took a deep breath before opening the door, then turned the knob and stepped back to let her in. She bit the inside of her cheek once she saw him, offering a small smile. “Hi.”

“Hey.” He did the same, a slightly awkward tension growing between them.

“Are you okay?” She frowned, looking over his expression, then her eyes flitted around the room for any sign of heartbreak.

“I’m alright.” He paused. “I missed you.”

“Fuck, I missed you too. So much.” Sophie lifted her hands just a bit toward him, then shoved them back in her pockets. “I’m so sorry, Rafe, I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t want this.”

He cocked his head a little, floppy hair falling into his eyes. “Then why did you say yes? When I asked about the break?”

“Because! I thought you wanted it!”

“You thought I - what? No, god, I offered it hoping you wouldn’t want it!” Rafe exclaimed, letting out a quiet laugh.

“Oh my god.” Sophie reached out, arms extended for a half-hearted hug, then stopped herself. “I’m sorry, can I -?” She barely got the rest of her words out before Rafe stepped closer too and crushed her in a tight hug. She wrapped her arms securely around his waist, burying her face in his chest. He held one hand to the back of her head, thumb stroking over her hair as he pressed his lips to the top of her head. “Missed this.” He mumbled.

She nodded, growing a little teary. “Me too. Couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

“Me either.” He confessed, not wanting to let her go. The two stood there for a moment until she pulled away first, only to reach up and kiss him. He kissed her back slowly, hands tight on her hips. “Soph.” He murmured.

“Hm?” She mumbled back against his lips.

“Still need to talk.” He pulled back, resting his forehead on hers. She nodded. “I know. I’m sorry. Let’s talk.” Sophie paused. “I’ll be open, promise.”

Rafe kissed her shortly again before taking her hand, pulling her to the couch. He turned to face her but kept ahold of her hand, not willing to let her go just yet. “Can I ask you something?”

She faced him, cross-legged. “Yeah, of course.”

He hesitated, careful with his words. “Am I wrong to say you’ve been acting a little off? Since the Christmas party?”

Sophie avoided his gaze for a moment, thinking over her answer. She was surprised someone could read her so well, almost so sure she had kept herself guarded enough from Rafe for him to pick up on it. “No. You’re not wrong.”

He frowned, rubbing his thumb in gentle circles over the back of her hand. “But why? I thought we were in a good place with the two of us.”

“We are, we are.” She reassured him quickly. “I just...” She paused to think, not sure how much she wanted to tell him, to truly let on how insecure she’d felt. “I just - you have this whole world around you, and people treat you differently because of who you are. Your dad looked like - I don’t know, disappointed that you brought me, and -”

“Sophie.”

She kept rambling, more talking to herself now than anything. “I’m not in the same position as you, I can’t give you expensive things -”

“Soph -”

She barreled on anyways. “- and take you to fancy places, I can’t really measure up to your expectations -”

He reached out and squeezed her knee to break her train of thought. “Hey, hey, stop! Shh, please. Listen to me.”

She bit the inside of his cheek, preparing herself for what he might say. Rafe laughed a little as he sensed her nervous anticipation and kissed her cheek, trying to lighten the mood. “I don’t expect any of that from you, baby. I don’t care. I really don’t.”

“But I’m not like you.”

“Good. Wouldn’t want to date someone like me anyways.” He pulled her close, his arm around her shoulders.

“What about your dad?” She frowned.

He shifted, a small scowl on his face. “I’ve talked with him. It won’t be an issue.”

“Oh.” She fell quiet and leaned into him, cuddling into his side.

He pressed a kiss to the crown of her head. “I hope I didn’t make you feel that way. About any of what you said.”

“No, that’s the thing.” Sophie lifted her head to look him in the eye, giving him a shy smile. “You’re the constant in all this. It’s just me being dumb.”

“Hey. Don’t call my girlfriend dumb.” He nudged her, grinning when she rolled her eyes. “Look, Soph, I want to treat you, okay? I know you like your independence, that’s part of why I -” Rafe stopped himself abruptly before he could finish the sentence. “Part of why I like you so much. But I want to do things like take you out for dinner and not have you worrying about when you’re going to pay me back.”

She nodded, slowly. “You’re sure?”

“Positive.” He kissed her, short and sweet. “I just need you to talk to me. I can’t read your mind.”

“You should work on that.”

He laughed and flicked her arm. “I’ll get right to it. Are we okay?”

Sophie nodded again, meeting him with a kiss. “We’re okay. I’m sorry. I’ll do better.”

“I will too, I should have picked up earlier that something felt off.” He tucked a small piece of hair behind her ear and gave her a wry smile. “You should have seen me the past two weeks, I was a wreck. Don’t wanna go through that again.”

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t great either.” She admitted, dropping her head back to his shoulder. “I do have a really busy schedule this semester though. Like, way busier than I thought it’d be. So I might tell you I’m doing something, but I’m not making excuses, promise.”

He hummed in acknowledgment. “We’ll make time, Soph. I’m not going anywhere.”

“You mean it?”

“Always. You’re my favorite.”

#rafe x sophie #mine #rafe cameron #rafe cameron fanfic #college rafe #frat rafe #obx fanfic #rafe cameron fanfiction #outer banks #outer banks fanfiction

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supernaturalfreewill · 5 years ago

Photo

Words: 5,232 Sister!Winchester Reader x Gabriel Warnings: violence, intense scenarios, violent imagery A/N: So... once upon a time I was writing two series at once... Mess Is Mine and Fangs and First Impressions. And I said to myself, "Self, we are never going to write two series at the same time again! This is stressful!" And yet, here I am today, already writing two series (The Wrong Bed, Sam x Reader which is almost done! and Even in the Darkest Heart, a Demon!Dean series) and now I'm being dumb and chucking in a third. This was supposed to be a One Shot but as we've already established on this blog I am apparently incapable of writing short fics. So HERE YA GO! New Series. Don't ask me how many parts it will be because I literally have NO IDEA. :) But having a steaming slice of Gabriel, straight out of the oven.

Your name: submit What is this?

White. Clean, blank, pure white. That was all you were aware of suddenly. It was blindingly white and as you sat up and then pulled yourself to your feet, you saw that it was like an expansive room, painted in the color of freshly fallen snow, unmarred by any track or trail. All was pure white.

“Hello?” The only answer you received was the lonely echo of your voice, so distorted by the time it bounced back that it was almost unrecognizable. Where the fuck am I? you wondered. You started to walk, but as everything was the same, the sensation of moving was unaccompanied by any visual cue that you actually were moving. This was so unsettling and disorienting that you ceased your tentative steps quickly. Your heart started to race a little faster and a disturbing thought popped into your mind. Am I dead?

_ _ _ _ _ _ “I need a large bore IV, wide open. And up her oxygen percentage. Her numbers are tanking!”

“Sir, you really have to stay back. Sir! You’re not allowed beyond these doors!”

Dean watched helplessly as your unconscious body, straddled by a doctor with their hands pressed firmly down onto your abdomen, was hurried through a pair of swinging doors, flanked by an army of medical personnel. Dean finally registered the nurse in front of him and stopped before he collided with her outstretched hands. “Where are they—”

“They’re taking her straight into surgery. Are you next of kin?”

“Yes—My brother and I. She’s our sister! I need an update! As soon as you have one!” Dean urged.

“Do you give us permission to perform life-saving actions like resuscitation if necessary?” The words came out in a fast tumble and Dean didn’t even process them before he answered.

“Yes, goddammit! Do whatever you have to—she has to be okay!”

“We’ll let you know as soon as we know anything,” The nurse turned and ran down the long hallway, the swinging doors closing finally behind her. Dean paced a tight circle, a bundle of nerves and rage.

In about 20 minutes, Sam came running up and spotted Dean collapsed in a chair in the little seating area, endlessly bouncing his knee. “Hey—what’s going on? They wouldn’t let me leave—I almost punched out a security guard,” he said desperately. Sam had fresh stitches in his forehead and he was developing quite the bruise around one eye.

Dean let out a heavy exhale. “They rushed her right into surgery.” Dean rubbed a hand over the stubble on his chin. “Are you okay?” he asked, finally looking up to inspect Sam’s stitches.

Sam collapsed into a chair beside his brother. “Fine. They said the concussion is probably mild. Nice to be numbed for stitches for once,” he said, but his eyes kept darting back toward the doors and he was wringing his hands. “Did you hear anything yet?”

“No.”

The Winchesters sat in a heavy silence for almost two hours before a doctor came out.

_ _ _ _ _ _

You were becoming so anxious by the lack of anything and the horrible thought in your head that this was it, this was dying, that your heart was absolutely racing in your chest now. Sitting still didn’t seem like a good option, but the thought of trying to move again through all that blank nothingness seemed just as bad. “Hello?!” you yelled once more, this time as loud as you could.

“Hi there.”

You jumped with a startled gasp and spun around, one hand on your chest out of fright and surprise. There was a figure there. He had a small, warm smile on his face and his irises seemed to blaze golden and light brown. It was strange—you felt an overwhelming sense of calm as you looked at him. Your heart rate had slowed to its usual pace and you no longer felt that bubble of rising panic in your chest, threatening to burst. You were keenly aware that in your profession, a seemingly kind face didn’t necessarily mean anything—and yet, he had somehow stopped your wounded whirling.

“Who—who are you?” you asked, finally able to recover from your surprise and find your voice.

His smile widened on one side, curving up in a crooked half-smirk. “Well… I suppose you can call me your guardian angel,” he said.

Your brow only furrowed down in confusion. “Where… are we?”

“Difficult question to answer. We’re nowhere and yet, in some sense… kind of everywhere to you right now.”

The wrinkles on your furrowed brow deepened. “Am I—am I dead?”

He threw his head back and laughed heartily, while you merely looked on in perplexity. “Now, what kind of guardian angel would I be if that were the case?” he asked you. He suddenly stuck a hand into his pocket and pulled out a large Twix candy bar, bouncing a little unconcernedly on his toes. He opened it and took a big bite, before meeting your eyes again.

“I’m sorry—but who are you?” you asked again.

He let out another small chuckle and you watched as the corners of his eyes crinkled this time in a broad smile, but he still didn’t give you an answer.

“If I’m not dead, what exactly is happening?”

He tilted his head a little and looked at you for a long moment. “Do you remember that man in the bar?”

And suddenly it was like you were there—sensory overload. You could hear the drone of the music in the background and smell that heady scent of beer… And there was the man. You saw his face clearly, and now you saw that he had been watching you.

“I see him,” you said, and suddenly you were back in the white space. “Saw him.”

The figure nodded. “Well, he wasn’t just a guy in the bar.”

Now, you tilted your head a little in an unspoken question and your eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

“He was the thing you were hunting. And he figured out that you were hunting him.”

As soon as he said it you heard a crack like thunder and a flash like hot, white lightning. Your body jolted and there was a searing pain in your stomach. You looked down saw an expanding circle of dark crimson on your shirt, and when you pressed a hand to it your fingers came away stained bright red, sticky with blood. Now when you looked back up at the figure he wasn’t smiling anymore and there was no sign of the candy bar or wrapper. He raised two fingers and snapped, and the searing pain disappeared along with the scarlet stain on your shirt.

“Sorry about that,” he said. His voice now was lacking the playful lilt it had before. It was soft and serious. “That can happen from time to time. Reality leaks in a little bit.”

Suddenly, you understood and then you remembered. You had heard his footsteps behind you, first at a distance and then quickly, running. You had turned and then… the crack of the gun going off and echoing in the lonely parking lot—the flash of the muzzle. More gunshots, must have been Sam and Dean shooting back—they had been ahead of you going to the Impala. But you were already on your knees, bleeding, clutching your stomach and struggling to see anything through the searing pain.

“He shot me,” you said.

“He did,” the stranger said.

“But I’m alive?”

“Yes.” A long silence stretched where you both just looked at each other, and you were reeling from the implications.

“So, is this real or all in my head?” you asked him.

He smiled again, just a small one, and it lit fireworks of light off in his eyes. They were mesmerizing. “Why can’t it be both?” he asked. “We’ll be seeing each other again. I promise.”

“But—wait!”

_ _ _ _ _ _

Sam and Dean both jumped to their feet when the surgeon came out through the swinging doors and eagerly ran to meet her.

“Y/N is going to make it,” she said. The brothers both heaved huge sighs of relief. Sam crumpled half over and put his hands on his knees, forcing in air. Dean shut his eyes and clenched a hand into a fist. “She’s very, very luckily to be alive. The bullet lacerated her liver and she lost a lot of blood but it missed her hepatic artery by mere millimeters. If that had been hit, she would have bled out in minutes,” the surgeon said. Sam straightened back up stiffly and exchanged a look of horror and desperation with Dean. “She’s in critical condition and we will keep her in the ICU until she is more stable, but she’ll be okay. Thank goodness you two got her here so quickly,” the surgeon said.

“Thank you,” Dean said forcefully.

“Yes, thank you so much,” Sam added. The surgeon nodded and headed back through the doors. The Winchesters stood there in silence after the doctor left until finally Sam broke it.

“That was way too close,” he said.

Dean swallowed hard at the lump in his throat, but it wouldn’t lessen. “Way too damn close,” he said, his voice breaking a little. He wandered back over to collapse into the chairs. Sam sank down next to him and glanced over at his big brother.

“At least the shifter is dead,” Sam said. “Yeah. But we still have to deal with the cops,” Dean growled. “Afterall, we did kill someone in a parking lot…”

“There was surveillance at the bar. It was clear self-defense. We have nothing to worry about,” Sam reassured him.

“Well, not nothing,” Dean said. “You know what a pain in the ass it is going to be trying to keep Y/N from doing anything to heal up?” A faint touch of a smile reached his eyes as he looked over at Sam.

He nodded. “She is a Winchester.”

_ _ _ _ _ _

You were finally moved from the ICU, and Sam and Dean snuck in early, even before visiting hours, so they could be there when you woke up. Sam had a huge bouquet of sunflowers on his lap and Dean had brought your favorite herbal tea. You woke up slowly, still a little foggy from all the painkillers, but you immediately sensed the two figures in your room. Sam noticed you stirring first.

“Hey,” he said sitting up. His voice was soft but you could hear the smile in it. “You’re awake,” he said, climbing to his feet and coming to stand beside your bed. “Brought you something to brighten up the room. I know they’re your favorite,” he said, setting down the huge bouquet on the side table.

You blinked heavily a few times and managed a weak smile at him, “Thanks. It’s good to be up and have my room brightened,” you said. You put your hands down on the bed and tried to sit up a little more but immediately winced and hunched over, a hiss of breath drawn in through your teeth, drawing concerned looks from your older brothers.

Dean was immediately at your other side. “How are you feeling?” he asked. His voice sounded extra gruff to your ears, and you knew it was likely due to worry.

“I’m doing well for someone who has staples holding their guts in,” you said dryly, a small wry smile creeping onto your face. Neither of your big brothers laughed. “Oh, come on! I’m kidding!”

Dean swallowed at the lump and tightness in his throat again but it didn’t abate. “Really though? How’s your pain?”

You shook your head. “I’m fine. Really. You can stop giving me those classic Winchester furrowed brows. I’m okay. They have me on the good drugs,” you added with a small smile. You noticed the paper cup clutched in Dean’s hand. “Is that for me?”

“Oh, yeah. Your favorite tea.”

You grinned at him and accepted the cup. “Thank you.”

Sam sighed heavily beside you, and you could sense your brothers exchanging a glance. “Listen, Y/N…” Sam started. You lowered the cup from your lips and looked at him.

“Stop,” you said holding up a hand. “Before you say anything else, I need to say something.” You struggled to find the words. You wanted, no—needed them to hear every word you were about to say. “This is not your fault,” you said, deliberately turning your eyes to Dean and catching his green ones. “I mean it. This was bad luck. It could have been any of us. I was just the slowest walking to the Impala. My legs are a lot shorter than yours,” you joked. “Alright?” A heavy, thick silence held the room in suspension, feeling like a stifling summer evening heavy with humidity. “I mean it. None of us saw this coming. It isn’t anyone’s fault except the dickhead who shot me.”

Sam was staring at your face and you caught his eyes, which were a little sad and glistening more than they should have been for the light. “We’re your big brothers though,” he said. “We’re supposed to protect you.”

“We thought we lost you,” Dean said.

“But you didn’t,” you retorted. “And you did protect me—you saved my life. They said if you had waited for an ambulance I might not have made it.”

Dean’s jaw clenched and you watched the muscle in it twitch. “Did they tell you?” he asked you, his green eyes holding yours—and you saw fear there, something you rarely saw in his eyes—not that it was never there. He just never let you see it. “Millimeters and it wouldn’t have been fast enough.” You looked down at your hand on the comforter of the hospital blanket.

“Yeah, about that, actually…” you started. Sam’s brow creased even more in the middle. “There’s something else that happened I need to tell you about.”

“What is it?”

“I think while I was in surgery—or maybe even before, I don’t know for sure—but I saw something,” you said, wrapping both your hands around your paper cup again, soaking in the warmth of the tea.

“What do you mean?” Dean asked, apprehension growing with every word your spoke.

“It’s kind of hard to explain. I was in this pure white room… and at first there wasn’t anything there. It was just empty but then this… figure appeared.” Your brothers watched your eyes grow a little distant.

“A figure?” Sam repeated. You looked up at him and nodded.

“I asked him who he was and he told me that I could call him my ‘guardian angel’,” you said, now looking over at Dean and trying to read his reaction. His face seemed to darken and you watched the muscle twitch in his jaw again.

“It was probably just your brain trying to process what was happening to you,” Sam offered. “You almost died. The mind does crazy things when the body is in shock—trust me, I know,” he said sincerely. “And so does Dean.”

You shook your head. “No,” you said, vehemently. “It wasn’t that. It wasn’t. It was real. I’m telling you; it was—” you sighed heavily, not even knowing how to explain without sounding stupid. “—it was happening in my head but this figure, I don’t know… There was something about him. I think he really exists,” you said.

“Did he say anything else?” Dean pressed you.

“I asked him who he was and then I asked him where we were and he said something like, ‘We’re nowhere and yet, in some sense everywhere.’ Whatever the hell that means,” you said, fiddling with the sleeve on your hospital gown. You hesitated, knowing the next question you asked would be hard for your brothers to hear. “Um. And then I asked him if I was dead… and—it was the strangest thing. He laughed and he made some joke about it.”

“He made a joke? What the hell?” Sam repeated.

Dean shook his head. “What kind of joke?”

“Like, ‘oh, how good of a guardian angel would I be if you were dead?’ Oh! And it gets weirder… then he reached in his pocket and pulled out a candy bar.”

Now, Dean and Sam both straightened up involuntarily and looked at each other long and hard in some kind of silent communication. “What? What is it?” you asked. “Come on. Don’t do the silent, telepathic thing. I hate when you do that,” you said.

Sam swallowed hard. “What did this figure look like?” he asked.

You tried to call up an image of him in your mind, and as soon as you shut your eyes you could see him as clear as day. “He has sort of warm brown hair. It’s a little shorter than yours, Sam, kind of swept back. And he has these—these eyes that look like they’re golden brown or amber. A little stubble on his face and he has this cheeky sort of little smile…” You opened your eyes again and looked at your brothers. Their expressions made it quite clear they knew exactly who you were describing.

Dean ran a hand over his face and licked his lips. “You said he pulled out a candy bar?”

“Mhm. I wouldn’t get that detail wrong,” you said.

Sam shrugged and his eyebrows lifted. He shook his head, a little disbelieving.

“What?” you repeated, looking between your brothers. “Who is it? What’s going on?” You were met with stony silence again. “If you two don’t tell me right now I’m going to climb out of this bed and if my stitches rip out it WILL be your fault!”

Dean sighed heavily again. “Alright! Alright! Calm down, turbo!” You sunk back against your pillows again. “Yeah, I think we know who you saw. But—I mean—” Dean looked to Sam who shook his head again, apparently having no explanation. “It doesn’t make any sense.” You gave a questioning look.

“We knew him. Before we knew about you. It was definitely not your mind inventing this, but—he’s dead as far as we know,” Sam said.

Now it was your turn to gulp at the tightness in your throat. “Dead?” you repeated. Sam nodded.

“Yeah,” Dean said. “It’s complicated.”

You laughed sardonically and let your head fall back against your pillow, feeling suddenly tired. “Isn’t it always with us?”

“You’re tired. You obviously need to rest so we can talk about this later,” Dean said, putting a hand gently on your shoulder.

“What?! No! You’re not just gonna say that and expect me to be able to—to sleep!” You looked between your brothers in annoyance. “I’m serious! Cough it up! If you think I’m giving the two of you time to concoct some bullshit cover story you have another thing coming.”

Sam closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Alright. Just—relax. We don’t need you getting all worked up… You remember that trickster we told you about? Way before we found out about you?”

“The one who made you watch Dean die over and over again?”

“Yes, exactly,” Sam said.

“…Wait, you think that figure I saw was this—this trickster? That’s way too powerful for a—”

“He wasn’t a trickster,” Dean interrupted. “He was an archangel playing at being a trickster.”

Your jaw dropped open. “What?”

“Gabriel. It was the archangel Gabriel,” Sam said. You stared at him like he was insane. And then you looked over at Dean, who was refusing to look at you and instead staring, brooding, at his boots, chewing on his lower lip.

“Pardon my French but fucking--Gabriel?? THE Gabriel?”

Sam nodded. He could see your mind starting to spiral. “Whoa, whoa, whoa—he said he was my ‘guardian angel’. You don’t think he was being serious, do you?”

Dean shrugged. “We don’t know. We don’t even know if he’s back. He’s supposed to be dead. Sam and I basically watched him die. Besides, just because he said something like that doesn’t mean anything. He loves goofing around,” Dean said, and you heard some bitterness still in his voice.

“I don’t think saving my life is goofing around,” you retorted.

“We don’t know for sure that he did that,” Sam said. “We need to be careful here. There could be some other agenda. I mean, he was dead. So, if he is actually back that is a big enough mystery right there to warrant being concerned. Resurrections tend to have a catch.”

“I didn’t even know archangels could die,” you said, a little sadly. “Why did he—?"

“He died to save Dean and I,” Sam said. You let out an exhale in an audible rush of air. “Y/N, did he say anything else?”

Now you couldn’t think. Your mind was spinning. You pressed your palms over your eyes. “Umm, yeah he—I asked him if I wasn’t dead what was happening and he walked me through the shooting. The guy in the bar… the parking lot—” you suddenly shuddered and your eyes flew wide open. You pressed one hand over your incision.

“You okay?” Sam put a hand gently on your arm.

“It was like I was there. I could see everything as if in the actual moment. I saw the man in the bar watching us. I heard him running up behind me when we were in the parking lot. And then I could feel it again…” You trailed off and the room stayed silent for a long moment, each of you grappling again with how close to true disaster and devastation you had all come. Sam reached out and grabbed your hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“But he just snapped his fingers and it was gone—the pain and everything.” You looked over at Dean. “I heard more gunshots—after I was shot. Did you and Sam—?”

Dean nodded solemnly. “We got him. He’s gone.”

That answer was weighty. You were glad that he was gone, but you wondered about the implications. “Are you and Sam going to get into trouble? I’m guessing there is an investigation and—you killed someone. What if—” Dean smiled fondly at you and chuckled a little. “Are you really worried about that? You almost died, and you’re worried about Sammy and me dealing with the cops? It’s all taken care of, okay? There were surveillance cameras in the lot. They caught everything. It was a clear case of self-defense. Don’t worry.”

You nodded and let out a relieved sigh. “Good. That’s really good. Who is going to wait on me hand and foot if the two of you are in jail?” you joked.

“Y/N,” Sam said, his tone again serious. “What else did Gabriel say?”

“Right. Umm, I asked him what was happening if I wasn’t dead—if it was real or all in my head. He said ‘Why not both?’ and then he told me—” you suddenly remembered his last words to you and the beeping on the heart monitor increased to match the rushing of your heart. You gulped. “He said we would be seeing each other again. What do you think that means?”

Sam shook his head and looked to Dean, whose face was stern and serious. “I don’t know.”

“Do you think it was really Gabriel?” you asked. “I mean, it could have been something else pretending to be him, couldn’t it?”

Sam rubbed a hand over the center of his chest, where a tightness seemed to be taking hold. “I don’t know. We don’t know. But you should get some rest now. Dean and I will look into this, okay?”

They both kissed your forehead and made sure you were comfortable against your pillows before retreating to the hallway, hoping that you would take their advice and get some sleep while they investigated.

Dean pulled out his phone and pressed the speed dial number for Cas, who was back at the bunker. Cas answered on the first ring.

“Dean?”

“Yeah, hey. Sammy and I are just leaving the hospital.”

“How is Y/N?”

“Well, you know, as good as can be expected. She seems to be in good spirits though.”

Cas breathed a sigh of relief into the phone. “Good. That’s very good news. I feel so… useless,” he said a little quietly.

“I know,” Dean replied. “But there’s nothing to be done about that right now. And none of this is your fault.” There was a beat of silence where Dean guessed Cas was still wishing as hard as he could that he would somehow magically regain his angel mojo. “Hey, listen, though… there does seem to be something else strange going on…”

“What do you mean?” The angel’s voice immediately deepened with worry.

Dean ran a hand back through his hair. “Y/N said when she was unconscious that she had some sort of dream or vision or something. She is fairly convinced that it really happened.”

“Okay…” Cas’s voice was uneasy.

Dean quickly related the whole story to Cas with as much detail as he could remember, but purposely omitted the key moment—the candy bar. “This figure claimed to be her guardian angel.” “Well, that is odd because the human idea of a ‘guardian angel’ is quite rare in actuality. Only a very, very small number of humans would ever be given that kind of special protection and they would have to be very important.”

“Right. But we asked her to describe who she saw and guess who it was?”

“Dean, you know I don’t like guessing games—”

“Frickin’ Gabriel. The archangel.” Dean waited for Cas to say something but the line was quiet. “Cas? Cas, are you still there?”

On the other end, standing in the front room of the bunker, there was a very good reason Cas was silent.

“Hello, brother.”

Standing before him was the very being Dean had just mentioned.

“Oh, why don’t you just go ahead and tell Dean-o you need to call him back.”

Cas was so shocked that he gulped and did just that without thinking.

“Cas, wait! What’s—” Dean let out an annoyed sigh and Sam’s brow contracted low over his eyes.

“What was that?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Cas just hung up on me all of a sudden. He sounded weird,” Dean mused, frowning down at his phone. He redialed Cas’s number but it simply rang and rang.

Back in the bunker, the angel stared in shock at Gabriel. “Wow. What exactly have you done to yourself, brother? I mean, I was never a big fan of the trench coat but even that was better than this,” Gabriel said with a grimace, taking in Cas’s sweatshirt and jeans. “Yikes. But, I’ll admit I do kind of dig the scruffy look you’ve got going on with the beard.”

Cas’s dark eyebrows were casting a heavy shadow over his cobalt eyes. “Gabriel… How—how is this possible?” he asked, stepping back slightly. “You’re supposed to be dead.”

“Well, I was dead. Dead as a door nail. But—then, all of a sudden, I wasn’t,” he said. He walked casually over to the table and hopped up to sit on it.

“What—” Cas gulped anxiously. “How?”

“Beats me. Dad up to his old tricks again if I had to guess. I was given some specific instructions though…” he added mysteriously.

Cas didn’t say anything and just studied him. He seemed to be quite the same Gabriel that Cas remembered. “What were they?”

“Oh, come on, Cas! You never did have much flair for the dramatic. You really think I’m just going to sit here and tell you? No, no, no… especially when you’re the only one here…” he said, glancing around. He jumped back down onto his feet. “Listen, don’t bother calling those flannel-swaddled jawlines back—first of all because your phone is broken—”

Cas glanced down at the screen on his phone and it was cracked and did not light when he pressed the button on the side. He gave the archangel an annoyed look.

“And second of all, because they will know when it’s time for them to know. Which, by my calculations, will be when they get back here in three to five days once Y/N is able to leave the hospital.”

“Dean said she saw you when she was unconscious or… dying,” Cas said. It was hard even to get the word out.

Gabriel smiled. “Did he now? How interesting, don’t you think?”

Cas was getting irritated with him for playing coy. “Enough, Gabriel. Did you save her life?”

He pointed to himself. “Did I? Y/N had some sort of vision of a mystic figure? Sounds like a classic near-death experience to me. Who’s to say if it really happened at all?” He smiled serenely at Cas again. “Where is Y/N’s room? This way?” he asked, pointing down the hallway. Cas frowned at the question but Gabriel only took off in that direction.

“Gabriel,” Cas called after him, rushing to catch up. “I don’t have my grace but you do. Why don’t you go heal Y/N now?”

Gabriel gave Cas a doubtful look. “Yeah, I’m sure that miracle would go completely unnoticed by the hospital staff… Look, brother, as much as I would like to simply go and fix her, take away all the ouchies, I can’t yet. Y/N is going to have to wait until she’s released.”

Despite his usual playful tone, Cas thought he saw real concern in his brother’s eyes while he spoke of you. “Well, is it true?”

Gabriel was continuing his hurried walk down the hall, poking his head into every room to see if it was yours. “Is what?” he asked carelessly over his shoulder.

“You told Y/N you were her guardian angel!”

Surprisingly this stopped him in his tracks and he turned to face Cas, his lips pressed together into a thin line. “Castiel, you know how rare that is. I mean, they hardly exist. Only a handful over all the millennia,” he said softly. There was a strange light in his eyes and Cas studied his expression carefully.

“That didn’t answer my question.”

And in response to that, Gabriel only smiled.

Part 2

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