#just fell down twelve flights of stairs

[tetsuskei]

@yuukimiyas @rineater @zorosdimples !

drawing the best boy ever in the breaks to not to go off the rails ✌️

[kingofthecotas]

postscript | ao3

future fic | ~1.5k words

love writing post-reconciliation with no idea how they got there

——

Marc gets in three and a half hours after he was supposed to.

Storms in Japan meant a delayed flight out of Tokyo, a missed connection in Doha, and landing in Rimini just after two in the morning. By the time he collects his bag, finds his car, and makes the drive home, he’s ready to sleep for the next twelve hours.

The house is mostly dark when he opens the front door, holding his breath as if that’s going to make him any quieter, and gently slides his keys onto the hall table. There’s a light on in the living room, though, and he slips down the hallway, leaving his suitcase by the door.

He hasn’t had enough time here yet, caught in the winds of a busy season, but there’s traces of him: Ducati cap slung on the coatrack; a pair of cycling shoes under the stairs, the decorative glass jar filled with the peppered colours of Aragón stones—they’d given it to him on the podium along with his trophy, said this place is yours, and he’d had to bite back tears.

He throws his coat over the banisters, over a BMW WRT jacket, and follows the warm light down the hall.

Valentino is sitting up on the sofa—well, propped up by his loosely balled hand against his cheek, knuckles pressed into his face. The throw blanket, the one he hates, is twisted around his thighs; Marc had snagged it from the household section of some English supermarket, and Valentino likes to complain that it shits fluff everywhere, it’s all over my sofa, it’s all over my jeans, Marc. His eyes are closed, shadowed in the lamplight.

Marc swallows a fond smile and kicks his shoes off, leaving them in the middle of the rug, before he slides himself onto the sofa beside Valentino and pulls the blanket over his legs.

Valentino blinks out of his doze, heavy eyelids and scrunched expression, but it all softens when he finds Marc next to him. “You’re back.”

“Shit journey,” Marc whispers. “You didn’t have to wait.” He always waits.

Valentino shakes his head. “I fell asleep watching the, ah, IMSA. Actually.”

“Of course.” The TV is dark, no laptop in sight, but Marc lets him have it. “Must have been exciting.”

“Mm.” Valentino yawns. “You must be tired. Very hard to be a MotoGP rider these days. All these first-class flights.”

“Terrible, yes. I’m comfortable here, unless your back cannot handle it.”

A smile cracks. Victory. “I am fine.”

“Good,” Marc says, and stretches up to kiss him.

The first time they’d done this again, pressed their lips together after nearly ten years apart, Valentino had shoved him against the wall too hard, overeager, and Marc had nearly headbutted him in the nose and they’d had to laugh at themselves—Marc thinks he would have cried otherwise, at how apart they’d grown, how they’d forgotten how to move together.

No such problems now; they aren’t starving for each other, trying to breathe it in after years of suffocating. It’s—and Marc never thought he would say this about Valentino—easy.

Marc usually runs hot, Valentino cooler, in a way that makes Valentino roll away in the heat of summer nights, grumbling get the fuck away from me, and curl around him as soon as the temperature drops again. His feet, under the blanket, find Marc’s legs.

“Vale,” Marc hisses, because he may as well have pressed an ice cube against his ankles. It’s late October, and Valentino’s core temperature appears to be the same as that of their fridge.

“We can go to bed.”

“You said you were fine.”

“I am fine.”

“Put some fucking socks on.”

Valentino just laughs into the top of Marc’s head. “Ah, you are tired. We should go to bed, yes? You must be stiff from the plane.”

Because he’s laughing, Marc acquiesces, downs blades. “Fine.” His arm is sore, and from the way Valentino is rubbing it, it must be obvious.

They might play at sword-fighting, feints and jabs that are incomprehensible to anyone else—Pecco had watched them bickering in Misano, forehead pinched, until Valentino accepted defeat with a delighted laugh—but in the quiet, between duels, it’s gentle.

“I can get the hot water bottle,” Valentino offers, “or I put the electric blanket on the bed while you were away. Is it bad?”

“Not bad,” Marc whispers. Just hard airport seats and the autumn-night chill. He’s got the rest of his life to get used to it.

“Come on,” Valentino says, soft now. “Ducati will not be happy if I am not taking care of their rider. Plenty of rest before the next race. You know how it is.”

“Oh, but I thought you were watching the endurance race?”

“Probably for the best, you know.” Valentino lets out an exaggerated sigh. “I might sign up to race in another championship if I am not careful.”

“Give you something to do, no?”

“Ah,” Valentino says, “but who would wait up for you with the light on?”

“Not you, you fell asleep.”

Another huff of laughter. Vale lets him get away with a lot these days, silent apologies Marc has already accepted for transgressions long since forgiven. Valentino’s eyes had been huge the first time, uncomprehending, what do you mean okay?

Forgiveness had always come easy to Marc, relatively speaking, even with Valentino. Especially with Valentino.

They peel themselves off the sofa, untangle the blanket—Vale picks a thread of fluff from his jogging bottoms with a sigh, then bends down to scoop up Marc’s abandoned trainers and a long-forgotten wine glass. Marc folds the blanket, places it over the sofa arm, waits for Valentino to head towards the hallway so he can follow. Glass on the hall table: they can wash it tomorrow. Shoes under the stairs. Suitcase left by the door.

“Who has your trophy?”

“Someone in the team.” Marc shrugs. “It will get home somehow.”

“Too many this year for you to keep track of, hm?”

“One hundred and eight,” Marc reminds him, sing-song, and almost relishes the flash in Valentino’s eyes. There’s no danger in it, not anymore.

“I will have to make Pecco work harder, then. We are training on Wednesday.”

“Promise I won’t run him off the track.”

“You are getting soft,” Valentino says with a smile that’s all teeth, but holds the door to their bedroom open and flicks the light switch.

“Like you?”

“Maybe.” And he says it like he doesn’t mind. “Brush your teeth, you smell like you have been on a plane for twelve hours.”

“I have no idea why that is.”

“Mm.”

When Marc is finished in the bathroom, quick shower, teeth brushed, shivering a little as he dries off, he crawls into bed and can’t hold back a sigh at the warmth beneath his skin.

Valentino watches him, so fucking smug—Marc used to hate that expression, used to grit his teeth and lift his chin against it, but now it’s closer to satisfaction, that he was right, that Marc needed something and he got to give it.

“This is the best thing we ever bought,” Marc says with conviction. “My favourite thing in the whole world, maybe.” Álex can laugh at him for having an electric blanket, my God, you’re old, but the heat of it against his arm is heavenly.

“Your favourite, hm?” Valentino smiles again, easy as breathing. “I will remember this.”

There’s no prodding, no you said it wasn’t bad, no see, I told you, wasn’t I right? No knife sliding through the chink in the armour.

“Eh, you are up there as well. Maybe third on the list.”

“So high?” Valentino stretches out his leg, lets Marc move closer. “There must be at least ten bikes you like more than me, yes?”

“It is close,” Marc murmurs, “but you have a lot going in your favour.” His hands find Valentino’s waist, his stomach—still toned, racing GT cars is no walk in the park—and he presses his cheek against Valentino’s outstretched upper arm.

“Yes?”

“Well, you put the blanket on the bed.”

“Ah, yes.” Valentino lets him shift, shift again until he’s comfortable, without complaint, and offers him a tired smile. It’s one of Marc’s favourite smiles, because it’s one just for him. “This is okay?”

Marc closes his eyes, sighing at the brush of fingers on the back of his neck. His arm will be stiff tomorrow, but this will help, and he has ridden through worse. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Vale repeats, and his fingers curl through Marc’s hair. “I bought eggs for breakfast also.”

“You are getting soft,” Marc tells him, grinning loose and easy where it might have been sharp, once.

Valentino only smiles back, and the part of Marc that still gears up for a fight, buried deep but there, stands down. Three years of this do not erase everything that came before, but every minute they spend like this is another coat of paint over the bloody stain. That’s fine; he has time.

He’s got the rest of his life to get used to this.

[patchworkorphan]

The Hero and the Infant: Part Two

Read part one here

*~*~*~*~*

“Villain.”

The hero didn’t shout it. They didn’t need to. Villain would hear them fine even over all the destruction and screaming and emergency services. Hero just stared from the street up at Villain and Villain looked down at Hero. Hero lifted their hand in a wave and then pulled the cigarette from their lips, exhaling a lungful of smoke.

“Hero –” sidekick began but Hero shook their head.

“It’s okay kid. I got it from here,” Hero said still staring at Villain. “So, you gonna invite me up or do I have to climb twelve flights of stairs?”

Villain just stared. Sidekick moved forward, suddenly hesitant in bringing Hero here. Just as they opened their mouth to say it to Hero, Sidekick was wrenched into the sky by an invisible hand and suddenly Hero and the street were below them.

“Fucking shit,” Hero cursed, flicking their cigarette to the ground as they started running to the apartment building to the left of Villain and taking the stairs two at a time.

Villain stared at Sidekick with a probing, scientific kind of curiosity, like they were able to look under Sidekick's skin and unravel all their secrets with enough determination.

“You’re new,” Villain purred. Their voice like liquid silver dancing its way through the sky to Sidekick’s ears sending a shiver down their spine.

“Yeah. I’m Superhero’s sidekick.”

Villain tilted their head to the side and asked, voice deadpan, “do you know the mortality rate of Superhero’s previous sidekicks?”

Sidekick stared Villain in the eye as they said, “I do.”

“And you took the job anyways?”

“I did.”

“Hmm. Not very chatty. You remind me of an old friend of mine.”

“Forgive me, I don't usually chitchat while floating this high in the air."

"Hmm," Villain rumbled, "how about falling?"

For a single terrifying moment, Sidekick felt gravity's effects on them, yanking them back to earth and they gasped, reaching forward and grabbing Villain's leg like their life depended it.

"NO! Nononononononononono, wait! FUCK!" Sidekick cried as their grip on Villain faltered and they slipped. They fell an inch further in the air before they were suspended again, this time with their back to the ground below, staring up at Villain with wide frightened eyes. The only thing keeping them from the hard tarmac below thirteen stories below and being alive.

Villain turned over in the air, rolling onto their stomach and lying like a schoolgirl on their stomach with two hands supporting their head as they grinned down at Sidekick, drinking in their fear.

"You sound just like my favourite hero, Sidekick. I knew letting you fall would loosen your tongue a bit."

Villain was fucking insane, Sidekick realised, their heart still pounding like a rabbits at seeing a hungry dog catch their eye.

"Hero, I’m guessing?" Sidekick said eventually, though their voice still came out higher than it should have.

Villain smiled a fond smile that went to their eyes and lit up their entire face. “Yes. My dear cantankerous hero, so foul-mouthed."

“I met them today," Sidekick said, just trying to keep Villain talking and keep themselves suspended until Hero was able to talk Villain into hopefully letting Sidekick go. Where the fuck were they?

Villain's interest was piqued and they dove slightly towards Sidekick, grabbing Sidekick by the collar of their shirt and sitting on their waist, legs dangling over either side. Somehow, Villain made sure that even flying in the air, Sidekick could still feel the restrictive weight of Villain on top of them.

"And what did you think of them?" Villain asked.

What did Sidekick think of Hero?

"They were... difficult," was the first word that came to mind. Villain grinned and nodded sagely, agreeing with Sidekick as if it was a sacred moment.

“Nothing easy is worth having, Sidekick. Some parting advice.”

“You’re letting me go?”

“Oh yes,” said Villain with a disarming smile. “Quite literally.”

Sidekick didn’t have time to process Villain’s words before Villain shoved Sidekick down below them and wind rushed through their clothes, through their hair, through them as they fell like a comet to earth. This was how they died.

Then their momentum stopped suddenly, and they were swinging into a brick wall, their arm yanked out of its socket and Sidekick cried out in pain. Craning their neck up, they tried glancing up to see Hero above them, leaning half out a broken window, two feet planted on the sill and pulled Sidekick up despite their cries and cursing.

“God, I know. I’m sorry Sidekick. You shouldn’t have been here, god where the fuck is Superhero in all this!” Hero pulled Sidekick in the window and into their chest before stepping back and setting Sidekick down on the window sill.

“Fucking what the fuck?!” Sidekick mewled cradling their arm to their chest.

“I'm sorry, Villain doesn’t usually act like this,” Hero told them.

Sidekick blinked, pain lancing through their shoulder and down into their chest. “What?”

“They don’t usually act this way. First impressions are everything, but I swear there’s good in them.”

Sidekick blinked at Hero, shaking their head. “You’re defending them?!”

“Well, it’s my fault you see. This whole temper tantrum. I haven’t been returning their texts.”

“You haven’t—” Sidekick asked, then blinked and let out an exasperated “what?!”

“Your shoulder—” Hero said. “It’s dislocated.”

“No fucking shit!" Sidekick mewled. "You yanked it out of its socket!”

“Would you rather be a splat on the concrete? Cause I can still push you out the damn window, kid.”

Sidekick walked to the stairwell, fury and pain mixing in their heavy breaths as they braced themselves against the wall. Hero stepped forward a warning on their lips: “kid, I wouldn’t do th—”

It was too late. Sidekick had already thrown themselves against the wall. A resounding pop echoed throughout the stairs, followed by a sharp shriek of pain from Sidekick as they slid down the wall, breathing harshly through gritted teeth.

Hero opened their mouth, but Sidekick just held up a finger from their good arm and wagged it in Hero’s stupid face: “don’t. Say. A thing.”

Sidekick braced themselves against the wall, sliding up it with a groan of pain and rolled their shoulder. Forwards. Backwards. Then they set their furious eyes on Hero and without a word turned and started ascending the stairwell to the roof.

Hero laughed, stunned at the kid’s resilience, and followed them up the stairs. “Do you want some—”

“Just shut the hell up,” Sidekick said, kicking the door to the roof open and looking down pointedly at Hero who was midway through taking a bag of sweets from their pocket. “And go out and do your job.”

“Yes boss,” Hero said with a smile, putting a fizzy lace through their teeth. They emerged onto the roof, arms spread wide and yelled: “Hey! What the fuck are ya doing?” to Villain who was no doubt still floating in the sky, and Sidekick sat down heavy on the steps and took a few deep breaths.

They nearly just died.

Villain almost just killed them.

They would have killed them if not for Hero, and all they wanted to do was cry, but they were too angry.

“Just go out and do your job,” Sidekick chastised themselves, standing and wiping the remnants of tear trails from their cheeks before joining Hero on the roof.

Crying could come later if they lived that long.

*~*~*~*~*

Continued Here

[radioactivepeasant]

Snippets: Free Day Friday

Prev

Trespasser, In Which Jak Gets Another Bad Idea

When he'd hastily redressed and stumbled out of the garrison locker room before anything else could happen, Jak quickly found himself confronted by that Strom guy again.

"An hour? Really?" Strom pursed his lips disapprovingly. "You think we have some magic supply of water to spare?"

"Lay off, we weren't washing for an hour -- much as I'd love to," Daxter argued, "The big guy fell asleep!"

"In the shower? Isn't that dangerous?"

Jak shrugged. "How would I know?"

Strom decided after a moment that this fell under the category of "none of my business". He sighed and waved for Jak to follow him.

"The king says we're to put you up in the barracks for now." He eyed Jak's face, somewhat startled by how much younger he looked under the dirt. "How old are you?"

Jak shrugged. "Midway through seventeen-ish. I think. My "guardian" wasn't exactly a reliable source."

More things to file under "none of my business"

"Oh...kay..." Strom did his best to move past one or two odd questions surfacing in his mind. "Well that narrows down which dorm you're in, at least."

"How so?"

They stepped back out into the late afternoon heat, onto the main road through the Gate District. The burning sun barely touched Jak, deflected by his wet clothes as if he were wearing his own air conditioning. He decided to pretend it had been intentional. Just in case someone asked why his clothes were all wet.

They were led towards the end of a row of houses built into the city wall, leading to an impressibly high flight of stairs into some kind of coliseum. Strom did his best to explain as he led them up the stairs, but he wasn't usually the guy they called for rookie orientation for a reason.

"It's um. So- okay look. The Arena sublevels are divided into three floors: the hospital, the armory, and the barracks. Barracks are split between militia, citizen candidates, and teenage Squads."

He didn't explain Squads.

"You're going to end up in that last one -- probably Dorm 4, that's where they put orphans or unregistered foundlings."

"Orphans?!" Daxter chirped indignantly. Then he paused. "I mean. I guess it's accurate, but you didn't have to say it!"

They didn't end up in Dorm 4.

The Resident Advisor took one look at the slightly dusty, slightly soggy, boy and ottsel and assigned them to an empty bunk in the second hall, Dorm 2. Jak was handed a canteen and a folded set of sheets before being unceremoniously ushered down the hall and into a sparse dorm room holding two bunk beds. For the moment, it was empty.

"Lights are out at 9 bells, no exceptions unless you got a case of the screaming meemies," the RA said gruffly. He pointed at a bottom bunk without sheets -- Jak's, apparently.

"You're responsible for keeping that bunk at least clean enough to pass weekly room checks. Check the schedule on the wall if you want to know when mess hall is open. If you miss that, you can hit the markets, but you're on your own for paying for it."

Jak eyed the bunk uncomfortably. He was responsible for maintaining this bed? He probably wasn't even going to be here that long! He cringed when the RA pushed a twelve by six metal box across the floor with a terrible scratching sound.

"That's your footlocker. If you want a lock, get it yourself. You kids keep losin' em and now we're out." The RA snorted. "But most of the squad in your room is on home rotation this week, so you only have to worry about maybe Sam stealing your stuff. He won't, by the way. Too busy training."

He turned to go, then turned back quickly. "Oh. Gotta confiscate your gun mods, so don't lose your marbles when you get your gun back plain."

"The rot you do!" Jak protested, "I earned those!"

"Don't care." The RA shrugged. "None of your dormmates have and I don't want 'em getting ideas about "borrowing" em."

With a stern warning not to start any fights, and to not miss allotted mealtimes if he didn't want to go hungry, the RA keft Jak alone with Daxter. They stood in the center of the room, blinking incredulously.

"Well..." Jak said after several seconds, "It's not a cell."

"Or an alley," Daxter agreed.

He hopped down and examined the mattress. Nothing fancy, but it was miles better than they were used to.

"Here, gimme the fitted sheet."

"What's a fitted sheet?"

"The one with the stretchy corners." Daxter pointed. "That's the one that goes on the bottom. Wraps around so it don't get pulled off if you roll around a lot."

"...oh. Weird."

Jak handed the thing to Daxter and watched in fascination as his friend set about attaching one corner at a time. It looked difficult.

Before he could offer help, his talk-box activated. That was a bit of a surprise. They'd been traveling for two days already and nobody had made a peep. Daxter had thought they'd have noticed the first time he turned off the location tracker!

"Jak! Jak, where are you?!"

Samos. Jak's stomach churned.

"Don't know," he answered flippantly. "I think we just got put in an orphanage."

"Don't be ridiculous! Get out of whatever nonsense you two knuckleheads have walked into and get back to Main Town! Something is going on, and I need time to investigate without those blasted Deathbots shooting at me!"

"Life's hard."

"What did you just say?"

Jak scoffed, feeling a little of the bubbling anger of dark eco in his core.

"You can't handle a little gunfire? You didn't have an issue making a couple kids walk into it daily. You'll figure it out."

"How can you say something so horrible to me?! I raised you to be a hero, Jak! You sound like that mercenary!"

Jak snorted."Well good. Sig's the only adult in that city I still trust."

Samos sputtered for several seconds in helpless, bewildered anger. Then he gathered himself.

"Get over yourself, Jak! Lives are at stake! I don't care what you're playing at, you turn around and get back here before something worse happens!"

Jak rolled his eyes. The sage sounded like Ashelin. He tossed Daxter the top sheet and studied the foot locker, wondering if he should use it.

"Nah, can't."

"What do you mean "can't?"

Jak shrugged as if Samos could see him. As if Daxter hadn't placed a piece of tape over the lens when he got tired of the spying.

"Oracle says I'm not done out here. Wherever "here" is. Lay off, wouldja? The Precursors sent me out here!"

He listened to Samos's stunned silence a moment before dryly asking, "Did you think they only spoke to Onin, or-?"

"But-" the old sage stammered, "But why would the Precursors send you from us when our need was greatest?"

"Probably because yours isn't the only city in the world? There are other people out there, Haven can get over itself," Jak flung the sage's words right back at him.

"What makes you think there's anything beyond the walls other than ruined wastes?"

"Those eco shipments for Praxis were coming from somewhere," Jak reasoned. Then his voice darkened to match his mood.

"There's no law that says I can't investigate. Sandover may have turned into Haven, but that doesn't mean I'm chained to it. You people already tried that, remember?"

"Jak!"

"I think the Precursors want me to find out who else survived," Jak said, though he wasn't sure that was it at all.

"I'll let you know if I find any sages."

"But Jak-!"

"Have to go, Samos. That hall monitor guy didn't say comm calls weren't allowed in the dorms but I need this thing, so I'm not taking chances."

He ended the call before Samos could make more than an outraged cough. When he looked down, Daxter was watching him with a funny expression.

"What?" he asked, a bit defensively.

"Nothin," Daxter said, unconvincingly. Then he gave a bittersweet grin. "Just never heard you stand up to Loghead like that before."

Jak looked away. "Should've been fighting him from day one. Like you. You knew he was bad news from the start, didn't you?"

Daxter rubbed his arm ruefully. "I um. I don't got a lot of memories of my folks. I was pretty little when the shark got em. But I remember my old man saying "Never trust a man who won't apologize to a kid", and then Samos came through dragging you. An'...an' you cried that whole first day, kept pointing to the sky and making a circle with your arms. And Samos ignored you."

Jak swallowed hard. "I don't remember that," he said softly. "Or much of Sandover at all now."

He sat down on the floor next to Daxter. The thanks he'd given Samos just weeks ago sat sour in his stomach. The real person he should've thanked had been right there beside him and he'd overlooked him just like Samos always did.

"Daxter?" he said gravely, "Thank you. For everything. All of it. I wouldn't be here without you."

Daxter leaned against his shoulder. "Well duh," he joked, trying to lighten a somber moment, "Heroes don't leave their sidekicks with weirdos! It goes against the bro code!"

Then he sobered.

"For the record, I don't blame ya for not knowing he had his hooks in ya. He um. I mean, you were real little, y'know? I think you maybe stuck with him at first because he was the only familiar face, and he used that against ya."

Jak laughed bitterly. "I wonder if I'd have had the guts to say all that if he was actually here?"

Daxter recognized the beginning of a spiral and elbowed him hard in the ribs.

"Well he ain't! And we're not gonna will that into existence with what-ifs!"

He scurried up onto the bunk and spread out in the middle of the mattress.

"Ahhhh! Hey, are you gonna know which morph gun is ours when we get the key to that gun locker?"

Jak pushed him to one side and, after a moment's debate, unlaced his boots.

"The stock on mine looks striped because of all the tally marks on it. The others are completely blank."

"Oh! Didn't see that!"

Reluctantly, Jak took off his goggles and gauntlets and dropped them into the foot locker. At least if it didn't have a lock, he could get them back out at a moment's notice. His knife and amulet he kept on him.

The Call hadn't subsided. He still felt it, and he still didn't know what it meant. So for now, that seemed to mean staying in this hostel/barrack/orphanage combination with more Wastelanders than he'd ever known existed. At least they were Wastelanders and not soldiers. He would've slept on the streets before letting them put him in a dorm with soldiers.

The wall schedule said that the cafeteria didn't open until 6 bells after noon. That left roughly an hour before they could find out if they were allowed to take anything from it.

For a time, Jak occupied himself by polishing his channeling ring with his damp scarf. Daxter tried and failed to braid Jak's hair, but the condition it was in was just too poor.

"Pal," Daxter said reluctantly, "I don't think these mats are comin' out."

Jak sighed in resignation. He'd wanted to avoid this -- the only haircut he could remember had been a traumatic buzzcut because a KG accidentally spread bugs through the cell block -- and got himself a spot in the cell two doors down from Jak when the bugs spread to Errol. (Who was absolutely hideous with a buzz cut, and was in utter anguish about his "beautiful hair". Couldn't have happened to a nicer person. It had been the absolute highlight of Jak's entire year.)

Jak took his knife, sheath and all, from the back of his belt and held it out to Daxter.

"Do what you gotta do," he groaned, "Just don't cut it all off."

The roommate who wasn't on "home rotation", whatever that was, came back midway through the haircut. In his state of exhaustion, he didn't actually see Daxter.

"Your...hair is falling off," he mumbled in confusion.

"It's on purpose," Jak said.

"Oh."

Sam leaned against the door to pry off his boots, then blinked.

"Wait, what?"

"He's getting a haircut, doofus!" Daxter sniped.

"Ohhhhkay, the kangarat is talking." Sam dropped his boot and stared with very wide eyes. "Cooooolll coolcoolcool everything's cool."

"Ottsel, not rat," Jak corrected. "Daxter is sensitive about that."

"...uh-huh..."

Sam swung a gear bag up over the top of the top bunk bed post. With little effort, he swung himself up the ladder after it. Apparently he shared the bunk Jak had been assigned.

"Are you new? I don't remember you," he yawned.

"First day here," Jak admitted, "still dunno what's going on."

Silence for a few seconds. Then, "So...does that mean you came from Outside?"

"I guess? Don't know how I got here from Haven, but I'm not complaining."

"Oh."

Sudden Sam was leaning over the rail of the bunk, spiky blonde hair falling in his face.

"No kidding? Me too! I mean, I ran away from Kras, but. Stowed away on a cargo ship and got caught at the docks."

Kras. The name was familiar. Something to do with racing, but Jak hadn't been paying attention.

"So you planning on the Arena too?" asked Sam.

"I still don't know what the Arena is," Jak said pointedly. "Is it for races?"

"See, that's what I thought at first!" Sam exclaimed, "But apparently the only races they do in there are Leapers. It's kinda a community place? Big meetings, festivals, executions, games, theater, combat trials-"

"Festivals?" Jak was mildly intrigued.

"Executions?!" Daxter was not.

"Yeah man. Though to be fair, there's so many ways to die normally outside the walls that it takes a lot to get the death sentence around here. You have to do something really bad for Lord Damas to kill you himself. Like "engaged in the slave trade" or "abused a kid" or "betrayed the city to enemies" kind of bad. Stuff that dishonors a warrior's name for life. Otherwise he gives you a chance for pardon in combat trials."

Jak squinted up at their temporary roommate. "How...does that work, exactly?"

Sam rolled back onto his mattress with a noncommittal sound.

"Depends on whatcha did I think. Smaller offenses you gotta fight a metalhead. Bigger offenses get you more than one metalhead. If it's bad but not death sentence bad, you fight other Wastelanders who already know how you fight."

"Remind me not to get on these guys' bad sides," Daxter stage-whispered.

"So then why would I enter the Arena if I didn't do anything wrong?" Jak pushed.

"Oh yeah, that's the other thing. Civvy candidates who want to be permanent residents gotta prove they can survive the three main dangers of the Wasteland: enemy shooters, treacherous terrain, and lava. So the king makes us do combat trials simulating those conditions until he's satisfied that we won't like. Immediately die if he lets us outside."

Jak considered this for a moment.

"Fair enough," he decided.

"No??? It's not??" Daxter finished slicing off the last mat and gave Jak an appalled look. "Precisely none of that is normal!"

Jak swept the clumps of hair onto the floor and leaned back to let Daxter continue braiding what was left.

"So...you prove you can handle yourself, and they let you stay?"

Sam reappeared over the rail. "Well, you also gotta prove you're willing to work. They don't like lazy people out here, everybody does at least one thing that keeps Spargus operational, even if it's just sweeping the sand out of the stables -- which is about all they let me do on account of last time-"

"What happened last time?" Daxter asked as he finished tying off three fishbone-braids.

They could almost hear the wince.

"I...kind of...failed so hard at wall patching that I dropped an entire bucket of wet clay on a district representative. He got a concussion. It was bad."

There was a chagrined silence, but then Sam rallied. "So yeah, I'm not allowed near construction equipment anymore and I can't switch chores yet. All kids get maximum one job a day, but you get to pick what you do once you either turn nineteen, or get through the third trial."

Wheels were beginning to turn in Jak’s mind. He'd never given much thought to the future, but what if he just. Didn't go back to Haven? What if the crisis ended and he didn't go back? Might be nice to have a place like this on standby.

"So that what the grouch-in-chief said you're training for?" Daxter asked.

"Yep! Already got my first amulet and gun mod!" Sam said cheerfully. "First full trial hurts like a son-of-a-cob, but at least Scatter rounds are non-lethal."

"No they're not?" Jak sputtered.

"Yes they are?" Sam wrinkled his nose. "Scatterguns are what they give kids and civvy candidates because it's not live ammo?"

"No," Jak argued, "You can definitely kill with Scatter rounds. It just takes like six shots."

Sam stared at him with wide eyes.

"What the rot, dude," he whispered.

"What?!"

"You're telling me you've killed people with a practice gun?!"

"Well- well Haven doesn't know they're practice guns!" Jak defended.

"Okay..." Sam grimaced. "Well. Don't do that in your first trial. Only way anyone is supposed to be able to die is if they try to prioritize hunting an opponent over avoiding lava."

"None of this is making me want to try this Arena thing!" Daxter complained.

"What's the second trial?" Jak ignored Daxter's complaints.

Sam looked a little unsure suddenly. "Yellow eco trial. That's um. That's going to be my first combat to the death. And not many candidates signed up for this month's trial so it's just me and three others against a Marauder crew they captured."

"Marauders?"

"Colonists from the mainland," Sam explained. "They're wannabe Wastelanders and I'm pretty sure they're all insane because they run around out there with no shirts, ever. They also run most of the slave trade between Haven and their colony."

Jak's eyes darkened.

"They're slavers?"

"Yep." Sam shuddered. "I've seen some of the survivors brought back when the Wastelanders raid their camps or when Marauder defectors start a riot. They've been through it. And like half the Arena Guard are survivors of the Marauders, so the ring isn't where you wanna end up if you're a blood merchant."

"It's not the guards they should worry about," Jak muttered darkly. Before Sam could ask what he meant, he looked up. "So if you get through three trials, then what?"

"Full rights as a citizen, same as if you were born here."

There was a glint in Jak’s eyes that only Daxter could see, and it Concerned him.

"Ja-aak, nooo-" Daxter groaned, but he knew it was useless.

"I'll go in with you, when they do the trial," Jak offered. "World could always use one less slaver."

"For real?" Sam raised his brows. "You've only been here a day, dude. You need to do some training before you're ready for that."

"Haven's an active warzone," Jak retorted, "and I got forced onto the frontlines for a year. I'll be fine."

"I mean. If you're sure," Sam relented, "I wouldn't mind the company."

"I would," Daxter grumbled under his breath. "I have some objections!"

So, it turned out, did Damas.

[gothlcsan]

No, Mr. Ghostface ; HAN JISUNG

PAIRING killer!afab!reader , victim!jisung

GENRE 18+ smut mature

SYNOPSIS reader who taunts the pretty boy in their class, Jisung. you had overheard Jisung’s conversation, expressing his love (and unholy thoughts) for ghostface. so, you study the series, becoming his perfect ghostface.

WORD COUNT 2007

WARNINGS blood, reader is a bit nuts, noncon to dubcon, reader attacks han, gore (not detailed), kissing, handjob, intentional use of pain to subdue han, choking, improper care of open wounds

♫ …baby one more time - the marias

a/n day twelve of kinktober, i decided on something a little close (but still mellow) to the typical things i write. i hope that you enjoy it as much as i did. > < please like and reblog!

Han is curled on the couch, feet tucked into his comforter as his phone rings, he doesn’t recognize the number so he ignores it and settles back to continue his movie. There’s a moment of silence until his phone goes off, Han sighing in annoyance as he gets up to answer it.

“Hello,” Han speaks with a slight annoyed edge to his voice, still not recognizing the number. The other side of the call is quiet for a few seconds which Han nearly hangs up before a sudden voice breaking the silence makes him jump, nearly dropping the phone to the ground in shock.

“I wouldn't hang up if I was you, Han Jisung.”

Han freezes, removing the phone from his ear to see who had called him but it only showed, “no caller id.” He rolls his eyes as he places the phone back to his ear so he could hear the other person rambling on about how he, Jisung, had some freaky fantasies. After the caller said that is when it clicked, this annoying prankster was imitating the scream movies. He decided it had to be one of his stupid friends who was using their conversation from earlier against him, sighing before replying.

“So, Mr. Ghostface, what’s your intentions with this, huh?” Han moves to go sit back on the couch, playing with the frayed ends of his comforter. He's met with silence again, only being able to hear faint rustling. Han repeats himself, beginning to debate on ending the call again but stops when he hears rustling again on the other end and the classic ghostface voice telling him to go to his bedroom. Han bites his bottom lip, he knew the classic horror tropes and how idiotic that would be but curiosity ran through him so he obeyed, standing up and slowly walking up the flight of stairs to his bedroom on the second floor. Walking down the small hallway, he stops at his bedroom door, sighing into the phone as he slowly turns the doorknob, walking in being introduced by nothing. There’s laughter on the other end, the voice asking him if he was scared, informing him how he really was the stereotypical dumb blonde of the horror film for listening to him. Han’s heart raced in his chest, banging against his rips as he angrily hung up the phone and fell into bed. He placed the phone onto the side desk, angrily going back downstairs as annoyance enraged him but there was a slight twinge of arousal, the idea of someone stalking him let alone his weird thing for ghostface’s voice.

The silence is pierced when the landline phone rings this time, not bothering to check the caller id as he answered knowing who it was. He places the phone against his ear, cursing as angry screaming rips through his ears.

“What did I fucking say about hanging up, you want to be murdered you idiotic fuck?”

Han slowly placed the phone back up against his ear when the yelling stopped, sighing with annoyance before speaking.

“Look, this was funny at first but now you’re just being annoying. I’m not sure which one of my friends paid you to bother me but I got to go back to studying which means you need to stop calling.”

There’s silence on the other end of the phone, Jisung asking them if they’re still there. He figured maybe they got the hint to give up on scaring him, going to hang up before he hears a laugh.

“Is watching The Dark Knight what you consider studying now? What’s your homework? Rob a bank?”

Han whips around to stare at his tv screen, seeing it paused on the bank heist scene, his heart beginning to race in fear. He grabs the remote and shuts the tv off, walking around the house to ensure everything was locked. The laughter in his ear makes him nauseous, throwing the phone onto the couch and darting upstairs to grab his cellphone. Slamming his bedroom door behind him he makes a mess of his side table hunting for his phone swearing he left it there, his blood running ice cold when he hears it going off in the closet. Han knows he shouldn’t, this would be on his top ten list of dumbest decisions he’s ever made, but there was still that twinge of hope this was all a prank set up by his friends. Taking a deep breath he throws open both doors to his closet, cautiously bending down to pick up the phone, hanging up the call. He doesn’t take his eyes off the array of black clothing silently cursing himself for doing such, slamming the closet doors and going to run back downstairs. However, he slams into something instead, no more so someone. Han swears, trying to push past them instantly recognizing the classic Ghostface attire, swearing loudly as his thigh gets swiped by the blade. He tumbles down onto the ground in the hallway, clenching his thigh as he scoots further down hoping to reach the stairs. Han didn’t care, he’d rather roll down the hard wooden stairs than be killed by a copycat killer, reaching the stairs setting himself up to roll but yanked back by his hair, screaming in agony as he gets thrown back into a table, the potted plant shattering next to him as it makes contact with the floor.

You let go of his hair, kicking the broken shards of pottery out of your way as you step closer to Han, squatting next to him. Pressing the blade against Han’s throat, you ensure it’s not deep enough to cause any damage, but enough to get your point across. Han stops moving, staring up at the masked man - no woman on top of him, failing at not getting distracted by how hot the situation felt to him. He goes to speak, grimacing as the blade cuts deeper, opting out on speaking and just lying there compliantly. A hand sneaks its way down to his thighs, the thin fabric of his shorts leaving nothing to the imagination, Han silently moaning as the gloved hand wraps itself around his balls, tugging to the point it felt like they’d be ripped off. No longer caring about the blade against his throat, Han moans loudly, arching his body to get more out of the hand touching him.

“You look so stupidly pathetic, are you seriously this turned on when I can simply kill you,” you questioned, the crackle in the voice disguise making Han light up. The idea of him being murdered in his own apartment was slightly thrilling, especially with the Ghostface on top of him, who started to squeeze the base of his cock with enough force to bruise it. He brings a hand to caress the cheek of the mask, forcing the intruder down so he can plant a kiss against the opened mouth, now completely disregarding the reality of the situation. You’re slightly taken aback by it not realizing how deranged Han really was. Going to pull yourself back Han looks at you with so much yearning you feel it clench around your heart, opting to stay put. Raising the knife up you watch Han scrunch his eyes in fear, no in acceptance, as you slam it into the wooden floor beside his head, telling him to lift his hips. He obliged with your demands, hissing between clenched teeth as the cut on his thigh is also moved, watching you intensely. Wrapping your hand around his throat, not caring about the pain he’d be in, you tell him to instead stand up and walk to his bedroom. You follow close behind, yanking the knife out of the floor, there goes his security deposit, you chuckled in your head, growing annoyed with his slow steps as he clung to the wall for support.

“Jesus fucking christ, move already.” You screamed at him, angrily going behind him and pushing him into the bedroom, kicking him behind the knee to cause him to slam chest first onto the floor. The air is thrown out of his lungs, Han curled into a fetal position in pain, whimpering when you squat next to him. Debating on what to do with Han, you settle for grabbing him by the back of his neck, having his eyes water as he slowly lifts his head up to look into his mirror. Humility covers his skin in a flushed red, his dick hard in his shorts from the situation. You didn’t have time to be patient with him or take your time as you hoped, knowing his downstairs neighbors surely heard the rokus and would be complaining soon enough. Damn old fucks, you thought to yourself. Pulling his shorts down to his ankles you ignore Han’s pained cries and his annoyed remarks over his blood staining the carpet, rolling him onto his back. The glossy look in his eyes fills you with thrill, Han being a very pretty crier, lifting up the end of the cloak to show off your black lace panties. Han moans staring at your body, growing prideful as you take his leaking dick into your free hand, giving it a few painfully slow strokes. His head fell to the side, his teeth clenched in pain but he was ignoring it, choosing to focus primarily on the pleasure you were giving him with your hand. Part of you debates walking away but you were not going to lose this opportunity, quickening the pace of your strokes as Han grabbed at your arm, grumbling about it being too much.

“You’re such a perv.” You laughed at him as he barely nodded, agreeing with everything you said to him. Han’s hands shake against your arm as you rubbed your thumb pad in and out of the slit of his dick, spreading the precum down his shaft. You weren’t entirely focused on pleasuring him, more so entertained with how much he was enjoying this with you, a complete stranger unbeknownst to him the reality of you being a classmate. Refocusing yourself on Han, you go back to stroking him, grabbing his hand to bring down to your panties letting him feel the lace under his fingertips. You bite down on your bottom lip, licking off the iron taste of blood, cursing yourself mentally for enjoying the way his fingers felt in between your legs. Needing to focus, you swat his hand away telling him that was enough, lying by saying he was terrible, solely focusing on making him cum by your hand. Han scrunches his eyes together, eyebrows furrowed as he tries his best not to cum, eyes shooting open when you harshly slap the cut on his thigh, demanding that he cum already.

The muscles in his stomach tighten and then relax as he cums, spilling over your closed fist, his groans gurgled with his saliva being in pain and bliss simoustanly. Leaning forward, you tell Han to keep his eyes shut or you’ll take the knife to his stupid face, tipping your mask back just enough to expose your lips. Trailing your lips down his throat, you pepper his wound with kisses, smirking at the pained noises he made, wiping your dirtied hand against his shirt, fixing your mask before getting up to walk downstairs.

“Are you seriously going to leave me like this?” Han questioned while trying to sit up, his thigh throbbing in pain whilst doing so.

“You figure it out, freak.” Is all you say as you walk away, throwing him your lace panties, knowing that pervert would be using them to get off once more before attending to his wounds. Tucking the mask and knife into your cloak, fixing your hair as you pass the hallway of doors, an old lady popping her head out to which you smile at, telling her to have a goodnight.

Han Jisung was now your pretty victim and you weren’t going to let anything stop you from having him.

[chaotic-orphan]

The Hero and The Infant part 2

Read part one here!

I found this orphaned in my drafts and I don’t know why I never posted it but here you go now, eat that up it’s good for you

*~*~*~*~*

“Villain.”

The hero didn’t shout it. They didn’t need to. Villain would hear them fine even over all the destruction and screaming and emergency services.

Hero just stared from the street up at Villain and villain looked down at Hero. Hero lifted their hand in a wave and then pulled the cigarette from their lips, exhaling a lungful of smoke.

“Hero-“ sidekick began but Hero shook their head.

“It’s okay kid. I got it from here,” hero said still staring at Villain. “So you gonna invite me up or do I have to climb twelve flights of stairs?”

Villain just stared. Sidekick moved forward, suddenly hesitant in bringing hero here. Just as they opened their mouth to say it to hero, they were wrenched into the sky by an invisible hand and suddenly hero was below them.

“Fucking shit,” Hero cursed, flicking their cigarette to the ground as they started running to the apartment building to the left of Villain and taking the stairs two at a time.

Villain stared at sidekick with a scientific kind of curiosity. “You’re new,” Villain purred. Their voice like liquid silver dancing it’s way through the sky to Sidekick’s ears sending a shiver down their spine.

“Yeah. I’m Superhero’s sidekick.”

Villain tilted their head to the side. “Do you know the mortality rate of Superhero’s previous sidekicks?”

Sidekick stared villain in the eye as they said, “I do.”

“And you took the job anyways?”

“I did.”

“Hmm. Not very chatty. You remind me of an old friend of mine.”

“Hero, I’m guessing.”

Villain smiled. “Yes. My dear cantankerous hero.”

“I met them today. They were difficult.”

“Nothing easy is worth anything, sidekick. Some parting advice.”

“You’re letting me go?”

“Oh yes,” said Villain. “Quite literally.”

Sidekick didn’t have time to process Villain’s words before wind rushed through their clothes, through their hair, through them as they fell like a comet to earth.

Then their momentum stopped suddenly and they were swinging into a brick wall, their arm yanked out of its socket and Hero above them, leaning out a broken window, two feet planted on the sill and pulled Sidekick up despite their cries and cursing.

“God, I know. I’m sorry sidekick. You shouldn’t have been here.”

“Fucking what the fuck?!” Sidekick mewled cradling their arm to their chest.

“Villain doesn’t usually act like this,” Hero told them matter to factly.

“What?”

“They don’t usually act this way. First impressions are everything but I swear there’s good in them.”

Sidekick blinked at Hero as Hero helped them to their feet. “You’re defending them?!”

“Well it’s my fault you see. I haven’t been returning their texts.”

“You haven’t— what?!”

“Your shoulder—“ hero said. “It’s dislocated.”

“No fucking shit! You yanked it out of it’s socket!”

“Would you rather be a splat on the concrete? Cause I can still push you out the window.”

Sidekick walked to the stairwell and braced themselves against the wall. Hero stepped forward a warning on their lips: “kid, I wouldn’t do th—“

A resounding pop and a shriek of pain from sidekick as they slid down the wall, breathing harshly through gritted teeth.

Hero opened their mouth, but Sidekick just held up a finger and wagged it in Hero’s stupid face: “don’t. Say. Anything.”

Sidekick braced themselves against the wall, sliding up it with a groan of pain and rolled their shoulder. Forwards. Backwards. Then they set their furious eyes on Hero and without a word turned and started ascending the stairwell to the roof.

Hero laughed, stunned at the kid’s resilience and followed them up the stairs. “Do you want some—“

“Just shut the hell up,” Sidekick said, kicking the door to the roof open and looking down pointedly at Hero who was midway through taking a bag of sweets from their pocket. “And go out and do your job.”

“Yes boss,” Hero said with a smile, putting a fizzy lace through their teeth. They emerged onto the roof, arms spread wide and yelled: “what the fuck are ya doing?” to Villain who was no doubt still floating in the sky, and Sidekick sat down heavy on the steps and took a few deep breaths before joining Hero on the roof.

*~*~*~*~*

Continued here

[sprnklersplashes]

lifeline (ao3) 1/3

wylan is severely hurt on a job. jesper is pushed to his limit. cw for serious injury and jesper's gambling addiction.

It happens in three parts. 

Part one: Kaz asks Jesper to wait outside. They’re already his least favourite words, wait outside. They have boredom laced through every syllable, and they make a mockery of his specialist skill set. But when it involves Wylan, trusting Kaz to cover his back but not wanting him to leave his sight… no. He doesn’t just hate it. He can’t do it.

He argues. He protests. He asks Inej to back him up But Kaz doesn’t change his mind, and Wylan swears he’ll be okay. So… he stays outside.

Part two: the plan goes wrong. It’s what plans do and so he shouldn’t be surprised. Perhaps he’s not. What he is is freaking terrified. The light switches on in the upstairs room, the same one Kaz and Wylan just broke into. Jesper curses, and behind him Inej does the same. They’re positioned outside what they thought was the only entrance. They were meant to be the diversion. Did he not pay attention? Did he miss something or someone past him?

It doesn’t matter. They’re caught, and they have about ten seconds to think of their next move.

Part three: Wylan falls. Jesper doesn’t see what’s happening at first. He’s too busy whipping his guns out of their holsters and debating if they should just run up and start shooting. He doesn’t even look up until he hears Inej gasp and her hand grabs his shoulder.

At first, all he sees is a shadow, plummeting down the side of the building. If luck were on their side tonight, it would have been Kaz sailing down on a rope, Wylan coming after him. They would have been silent, sure, and running back with their prizes tucked in their coats.

Instead, the figure reaches up, desperately grabbing at nothing. Instead of silence, a rough, terrified scream pierces the air, and it stops Jesper’s heart. Then he screams again, and it sends Jesper running.

Wylan hits the ground just seconds before Jesper reaches him, and then he’s silent. 

“Wylan?” he falls to his knees, his hands shaking as he cups Wylan’s face. Scarlet cuts mar his skin. Some are shimmering, and Jesper realises with a start that there are small pieces of glass buried in them. Blood runs down his cheeks in thin rivers, trickling into the collar of his shirt. Jesper slides his hand beneath Wylan’s neck and his fingers brush against a series of large knots. Wylan’s breath hitches, and the muscles in his face jerk. He almost makes a noise, almost like a murmur. But then he goes slack.

“Wylan, I’m here,” he tells him. He brushes his rough fingers against his cheek. It’s so white, so still. Like the marble in their parlour. His fingers trace Wylan’s cheek and keep going. They find the little spot behind Wylan’s ear where he’s especially ticklish. Normally, he shrieks with laughter when Jesper touches him there. Now he just lays there, oblivious to everything. He’s not even this still when he’s asleep. Something is very, very wrong. 

Faintly, about seven stories up, he can hear someone getting the shit beaten out of them. It feels like it’s a world away.

“Wylan, wake up,” he says again. He’s begging, he realises. He didn’t think he begged. He does, now because Wylan just fell out of a building and he doesn’t look like he’s breathing and-

He’s screaming. He’s sobbing. He’s begging.

“Wylan wake up!” 

That was twelve hours ago. At some point, they brought Wylan back to the Slat. At some point, Jesper carried Wylan up three flights of stairs (he wouldn’t let anyone else hold him). They laid him out on the bed and called a medik and did what everyone does when someone is hurt or injured or dying; they made coffee.

His father used to say that there was nothing a nice brew couldn’t fix.

It’s been twelve hours now, and five rounds of coffee. Forgive him if he doubts his Da’s Kaelish wisdom.

The medik made their assessment about an hour after they brought him back. They paid them double to keep their silence. If word got out that Kaz Brekker’s demo man was hurt, every gang in the Barrel would have their sights set on the Slat.

Jesper had stood in the corner as the medik gave their diagnosis. They rattled it off on their fingers. Four broken ribs. Dislocated shoulder. Shattered hip. Glass lodged in his neck. Lost a lot of blood. Significant damage to his head. At the very least a concussion, more likely something worse. 

She had spoken in hushed tones that were a little too familiar to him. Tones from another time, a time of farmhouses and cherry blossom trees. As Nina and Matthias and Inej all listened intently, Jesper pressed himself into the corner. As if he could will it hard enough, he could disappear altogether, come back when Wylan wakes and go on as if nothing had happened.

What a childish thing to think.

Jesper flexes his fingers and shifts in the chair beside the bed. Wylan is completely white, the only colour being the purple shadows beneath his eyes and cuts on his cheeks. It’s been thirty hours since the medik left, he hasn’t moved from this spot. Neither has Wylan though. Nina tucked a blanket over him when it turned cold, and Jesper arranged his hands carefully over his chest. It doesn’t look right, Wylan doesn’t sleep like that. Normally he sleeps with one arm around Jesper, his cheek pressed into his shoulder and his knees pulled up to his chest. 

But he had to do something. And Nina hadn’t objected. 

“Here.” He jerks, instinctively cocking his pistol, but when he blinks he finds it’s just Matthias, standing over him with a stern expression and a bowl of something in his hand. Jesper stares at him for a minute, waiting for whatever is meant to happen next. Matthias sighs softly and places the bowl in front of him. “You need to eat something.”

Oh, right. Eating. 

“Thanks.” He pushes the spoon with the tip of his finger. The heat from the bowl sinks into his palm. He hadn’t realised how cold he was until now.

Behind him, Matthias folds his arms and rests against the wall. 

“How is he?” he asks, all gruffness gone.

“The same.” He lets the spoon fall against the side of the bowl. Jesper avoids looking at Matthias because the last thing they need is to see the amount of pity held in those ice-blue eyes. He doesn’t need a reminder of how fond he is of Wylan. A million memories flash through Jesper’s mind; Matthias bowing to Wylan in the tomb on Black Veil, the proud, awestruck smile whenever Wylan something new, the countless times he’s carried him away from a bar fight, Wylan shouting profanities from over Matthias’ shoulder. He remembers it all, and he keeps looking away.

He’s selfish, an asshole. But he doesn’t want a reminder of everyone else’s grief. 

“I can take over from here,” Matthias says. “If you want to get some sleep or go outside or-”

“No.” The firmness surprises him, and it shuts Matthias up. “I’m not leaving him.”

And he means it. Although his hand has been tapping the same rat-a-tat-tat against the chair for the past two hours, and although he can now hear the sound of his heart bouncing around in his ribcage, he’s not leaving. They’re not leaving until Wylan is awake and talking. They’re not leaving this building unless it’s to take Wylan home. 

“Okay,” is all Matthias says. Then he turns his gaze back to Wylan, and neither of them says anything.

It’s been thirty hours. The bowl of… whatever it was now sits on the bedside table, cold. Jesper took a few bites to appease Matthias. If someone asked, he wouldn’t be able to say what it tasted like. It tasted warm and mushy, and he swallowed it. That was enough.

Another coffee sits where the bowl had been. The sun has come up, bathing the room in a weak, silvery light. Jesper wishes it hadn’t; Wylan looks even paler now. 

He tosses the coin in the air again. He doesn’t know when this buzzing started, this feeling like a swarm of hornets made a home beneath his skin, but it’s here, and this is one of the few things that ease it. Toss, catch, Fabrikate, repeat. So far he’s made a spring, a needle, a wire, and some other things they can’t remember. They don’t stick in their mind. What they do is calm the relentless fizzing through Jesper’s veins and keep at bay the whirl of thoughts and memories trying to edge into their mind. So they keep doing it. 

Toss, catch, Fabrikate, repeat. Toss, catch, Fabrikate, repeat.

A small rush flows through him, the mental shifting beneath his hand, and-

“Oh… is it a coathook?”

“Oh, oh it’s a key.”

He stops. The key/coat hook/whatever it is falls through his fingers. It hits the ground and spins around. It sounds like Makker’s Wheel. 

A shudder wrecks his body and he pulls his arms around himself. The memory attacks him on all fronts, compounded by the coin rolling on the floor. They were barely more than kids when he gave Wylan a key to this room. Wylan’s eyes had lit up, and his mouth had fallen open. His hair was sticking up like a bird’s nest. He’d been wearing Jesper’s shirt, and when he kissed him, it tasted like coffee and smoke. His hands had cupped Jesper’s face, and it had felt like home.

“Do you remember that?” His voice sounds like rusted iron. “D’you remember when I first gave you that key?”

Wylan doesn’t answer. The only reply he gets is the sound of the coin, spinning, spinning, spinning like Makker’s Wheel.

It’s been forty-five hours. 

Forty-five hours and Wylan hasn’t so much as stirred. He doesn’t know what cup of coffee he’s on now. People just keep bringing them and he keeps drinking them. Not that he needs them. The buzzing in his veins has grown stronger, a low rumble of thunder that has since turned to lightning. His whole body crackles, keeping him on edge and keeping sleep at bay.

He’s reminded, dimly, of his time at the Ice Court. How many hours had that been? No matter, he’d spent all that time running on adrenaline and the promise of a fat pot of kruge waiting at the end. 

When the door opens, he’s done three stretches of the room, wall to wall. He can’t find the coin and doesn’t like the idea of fishing around under the bed for it. So he’s paced, twirling his revolver around his finger, in the hope that the energy inside of him goes somewhere.

Kaz doesn’t look all that surprised. Jesper is though. He’s not seen Kaz in… well, more than thirty hours. He’s the only Crow that hasn’t been in to see Wylan and Jesper should be annoyed about that. But he isn’t, for two reasons. One is that he remembers the screams from the window, the night Wylan fell, mixed in with wet crunching and the sound of Kaz’s cane hitting the ground.

The second is the tightness in Kaz’s jaw, the slow, measured way he breathes. He may never know what goes on in Kaz’s head, but it looks like he’s putting a shit ton of effort into walking in. That counts for something. 

Kaz walks in, silent save for the thump of his cane, and stops a little before the bed. Wylan doesn’t stir at his presence. Nina had slid another pillow beneath his head, and the medik returned to bandage his ribs again. Other than that, nothing has changed.

“How many ribs did the medik say he broke?” he asks.

“Four.” Jesper coughs into his elbow. Hours of disuse have made his voice rusty. “Why?”

“Just checking.” A pause. And then, “I gave the man who pushed him four.” He turns his cane on the floor. “Maybe I should go and double it.”

If Kaz wants Jesper to agree, he doesn’t. He doesn’t disagree either. Instead, he returns to his chair and grabs the back of it, flexing his back as he stretches. The hours return to his body, bringing aches to his legs and cracking to his knees and elbows. 

“When’s the last time you slept?”

“I don’t need to sleep,” is his reply. The next time he sleeps will be in his own bed, with Wylan beside him. That’s what he told himself during hour two. It doesn’t sound as strong now. Still, Kaz doesn’t have to know that. “I don’t.”

Kaz makes some small noise that sounds like agreement. The silence is thick between them, and Jesper is okay with it.  Kaz knows better than to ask if he’s okay, or to tell him to try to get some sleep. Kaz stands with him, not quite shoulder to shoulder, and doesn’t judge him when he twirls the gun around his finger.

They stay together as the sun moves across the sky. Jesper stretches, paces, twirls, bleaches the colour from the curtains. Kaz doesn’t react. He remains still, almost as still as Wylan, except for his eyes. Jesper swears he can see his mind moving behind them. Where it’s moving to he can’t say, but it’s moving.

Eventually, Kaz is called. Of course, Jesper thinks, more than a little deflated. Life goes on. It doesn’t care about them, or anyone’s problems. The world moves on outside, even when Wylan is stuck in bed and hasn’t moved or woken in nearly two days.

It’s not right, but who is he to argue?

“Anything in particular you’d like me to do to him?” Kaz asks just as he reaches the door. Jesper frowns, thinking at first he means Wylan, but then realisation dawns on him. He thinks about all he’s done in the past day; the pacing, the coffee, the unnatural stillness of Wylan through it all. He thinks of Wylan, falling, and his body snapping as it hit the ground.

He thinks about it all, and for a moment he is so, overwhelmingly, completely, angry.

“Give him hell,” is all he says.

He has a feeling Kaz will oblige. 

It’s been fifty-nine hours. Jesper’s nails are now tiny slivers on his fingers, framed by hot, reddened skin. His breathing has gotten steadily more sporadic as the sun has disappeared, his chest feeling more like a small engine than anything else. In-out, in-out, in-out. In-out, in-out, in-out. 

There’s a coppery taste on his tongue that he can’t place and he keeps shifting his jaw like that will dislodge it. 

His ears are ringing, and pressing his shaking hands to them doesn’t help. It just traps the sound inside his skull, and with nowhere else to go it jabs his brain.

What had started as buzzing turned to crackling, and now it feels like explosions. Like someone replaced his blood with gunpowder and lit the fuse. His heart beats louder, faster, pumping more around his body, and it just keeps exploding, and he can feel the ash beneath his skin and-

And Wylan hasn’t moved in fifty-nine hours. 

Jesper has tried. He tried to give him sips of water, tried to pour broth down his throat. It barely worked and in the case of the broth, it nearly choked him. Nina had to hold his head up and check his airways to make sure nothing was lodged there, while Inej had whispered to Jesper that he’d done nothing wrong.

Jesper couldn’t hear her, but he nodded anyway.

“Wake up,” he says. His voice is trembling. He’s crying. “For Saint’s sake, wake up! You can’t leave-you can’t do this to me. You can’t leave me here.” His shoulders shake and something is wrenched from inside him, something deep and guttural that burns his throat like cheap whiskey. 

“Wake up Mama. Mama, wake up!”

“Wyaln, please,” he begs. He’s crossed over to the bed and sitting on the mattress, one hand on either side of him. The tears land on Wylan’s cool skin. He doesn’t even twitch. “Wylan you have to wake up, you have to because… Because I can’t do this without you, Wy. I can’t do any of it without-” His voice trails off, his words eaten up by heavy, wrecking sobs.

Trembling, he pushes Wylan’s hair away from his face. There’s a little more colour in him now, but his skin is still cold. The bags beneath his eyes are still heavy. “Just wake up. Just come back to me and whatever happens after, we’ll deal with it.”

“Come back, Mama, come back!”

“I love you, Wylan.” He whispers it like it’s a prayer. Because it kind of is. If he would pray to anyone, it’d be him. “Please, please just come back to me. Just wake up.”

He doesn’t.

Jesper falls from the bed. Somehow, he pulls his shaking limbs into a ball. His back rests against the bed, his face turned towards the open window. The room is warm, summer sunlight streaming through the glass, but he shakes like it’s the depth of winter. He shakes until his organs rattle inside him, until the copious amounts of coffee he’s consumed come back and end up spewed across the floor. Tears stream freely down his face, his empty stomach turning at the sour smell that permeates the room.

There are hands on his shoulders. For a moment, he thinks someone has come to take him away. But then a cloth is pressed to his cheek, a glass of water lifted to his lips, and his eyes meet Inej’s. 

Behind her, Matthias and Nina check over Wylan. They reapply his bandages, check his pulse, monitor his breathing, check his ribs. 

Through all the poking and prodding, Wylan doesn’t wake. His body is still as glass, silent as Reaper’s Barge.

It’s been sixty-three hours, and he can’t do this any more. 

The hot air has seeped through his skin, pressing in the spaces between his muscles and his bones. His chest feels like an empty, gaping cavern where his lungs should be. The chair beside the bed has long since been empty. Instead, he is sprawled on the floor, his gangly limbs spread across the floorboards. Above him is the cracked, yellowing plaster of the ceiling. There’s a split near the middle, caused by the intersection of two cracks, and he can see through the blackness of the roof space creeping through. If he closes his eyes and listens hard, he swears he can hear the crack growing. It snakes through plaster, and they’ll have to fix it because one of these days it might break and it might crash on top of him while he’s in bed. The idea isn’t entirely unappealing right now.

He hears it- craaaaaaaaaack, craaaaaaaack - shifting around the ceiling. The room is silent enough for him to hear.

He needs to get out of here.

His mind is blank. He feels his body move. He sees his hands grab his coat from the chair and blindly checks the pocket. A small wad of kruge sits there. There’s some more in the inner pockets. 

The Dregs part for him as he heads out of the room and down the stairs. If he were more alert, perhaps he’d notice their widened eyes or the way they whisper behind their hands. As if happens through, Jesper’s brain is little more than a smoking pile of embers. He can only be vaguely glad Kaz is not here, though he doesn’t remember why, and then all but run out the front door and into the bizarre hellscape that is the Barrel.

He doesn’t stop, not even to soak it in. He’s been cooped up inside for too long, and part of him wants to just stand and appreciate the cool night air against his flushed skin, to breathe in something other than stale coffee grounds and sweat. But he can’t. His mind is moving faster than his body can keep up with, forcing him to keep chasing whatever it is his mind is seeing. So he keeps going, footsteps uneven on the crooked cobblestones. He trips and sways and feels himself lurching into other people again and again, but it doesn’t matter. If they say something to him, to harass or apologise, he doesn’t hear. He just keeps going, shaky step by shaky step.

He is, at least, aware enough to avoid the Crow Club. Because if Kaz isn’t at the Slat he will be there, and the very idea of the Bastard just makes Jesper move faster. Right now, Kaz is linked with the one part of his brain telling him to stop and go back. So no, he won’t be going to the Crow Club.

He doesn’t know where he is when he stops. It’s the Barrel, he knows that much. It’s a whirlwind of reds and yellows and greens and blues, and it's sort of familiar. Perhaps he’s played here, once or twice. The important part is that it’s far enough from the Slat and Kaz and… everything else. 

Inside, there’s a large table as soon as he goes in, crowded with patrons young and old, natives and tourists, shouting and jostling and clapping each other on the back. A large roar erupts from the table, enough to blow Jesper’s eardrums out. It reverberates around his bones and his skin and dulls his frayed nerves. For the first time, he feels warm, flushed. A Zemini summer’s day, bursting with cherry blossoms and honeysuckle and sweet-smelling sunflowers. The feeling courses through him, a powerful midday wind, and it beats away the unending hopelessness and replaces it with something else. Something that tricks him into thinking anything is possible. That luck exists and that it favours him. 

“Got room for another?” he asks above the din. The men turn to look at him, sceptical, but then he waves his stack in the air and he’s clapped on the back like they’ve known him all his life.

“Deal this young man in!” one of them calls, and for a second, Jesper’s mind aligns itself. Questions sprout up one after the other, what are you doing here, why aren’t you with him, get out of here! They shock him like cold water against his skin, and for a second he rises, just a fraction off his chair.

He rises and almost turns. Almost. But then the wheel spins, the patrons cheer, and he’s done for. The buzzing in his mind turns to gold, and all that exists is this room. There’s no past, nothing is waiting for him outside. There’s no future, no bad news waiting for him when he steps outside. All there is is him and the cards and the exhilarating rise and plunge he feels every time the wheel is spun. When the cards are thrown his way, he can’t even feel his fingers pick them up. 

Vaguely, he knows he’s doing himself far more harm than good.

But it’s been sixty-three hours and he can finally breathe.

[rexscanonwife]

Ok one more thought before I try to get some sleep. Obviously a good source of comfort is to think about f/o stuff and it would be...objectively kinda hilarious if Brea fell down a flight of stairs as well 😂😂

Anakin tries to give her shit about it like "youre a Jedi, you've fought countless battles and the stairs is what gets you?" And she's like "Skywalker I've probably seen you fall down twelve flights of stairs in our life >:/"

And I was talking to my friend Jude about how Rex doesn't have a ton of first aid knowledge, thats really Kix's forte and even then its field medicine. So he'd be fretting over me and trying to do things that don't actually really help before I grab his hand and tell him the only thing I really need is a little emotional support 🥺👉👈 and he smiles and kisses me and says that that is something he can handle, and probably just sits with me or let's me rest against him

[casspurrjoybell-22]

Dream Eater - Chapter 6 - Part 2

*Warning Adult Content*

When Damien hasn't returned by midnight, I start to worry.

To be fair, there's very little else to do.

Entertaining guests is clearly not a priority of this establishment.

The room has no T.V. no radio and nothing to read.

At least at home, I'd have had one of those awful hotel-room bibles to laugh at.

I pace, look out the window and pace some more.

When the smell from the weird takeout selection starts to bother me.

I decide to venture out in search of a trash receptacle.

The narrow hallway is empty and despite the 'no vacancy' sign, it feels like the place is deserted.

Trying not to make any noise, I sneak down the hall to the door and let myself out.

It's cold and the overgrown garden has an aspect of creepy decay that makes me shiver.

I walk to the street and toss the takeout boxes in the bin.

When I turn to go back inside, the old man is standing in the doorway.

He's wearing the same clothes as before... a sort of stuffy, outdated suit that was in style half a century ago.

Cautiously, I approach.

"I hope I didn't disturb you," I say. "I was just throwing something away."

He doesn't respond and his eyes look black and shiny as beetles in the dark.

"Er... I'll just go back to my room, then. Sorry."

I wait for him to move aside but he doesn't.

"You should leave," he says in a dry, scratchy voice. "While you still can."

Does he not recognize me?

"Um, no, sorry. I'm a guest here. I'm with the tall dark-haired guy? Damien?"

He nods.

"I thought you were the same one, at first. I tried to warn him, too."

What the hell?

"I don't understand," I say. "Has Damien been here before?"

In the light from the streetlamp, the old man's eyes glint like shiny stones.

"Yes. When this place was new."

I'm no historian but this house hasn't been new in a long time.

"When was that, exactly?" I ask.

A few of the crinkles around his eyes loosen and I get the feeling he's seeing something from a memory.

"Nineteen-twelve," he says thoughtfully. "I remember because that ship sank a week before and I was very busy at the time."

The streetlamp flickers and a shiver crawls up my back like something with too many legs.

"What are you?"

He turns to go in.

"An innkeeper," he says.

Despite my fair share of bad travel experiences over the years, I'm pretty sure that's not a variety of demon. I try again as I follow him inside.

"No, I mean what are you."

Stopping in front of a narrow black door, he turns to face me. 

"A psycho-pomp," he says. "I guide the souls of the dead on their journey. Also, a doomsayer, though that is by profession rather than nature."

He opens the door, revealing a steep, narrow flight of stairs.

He starts to go through and I catch at his sleeve.

"Wait... what did you mean before? About leaving and all that?"

He looks at me and I get the feeling he's old as the stones in the foundation.

"The one who brought you here carries doom in his shadow," he says.

"And leaves fire and death in his wake. The last time he was here, he came with another... a creature of beauty and light, much like yourself. I saw the dark end towards which he fell, drawing him swiftly, like a penny in a spiral well. The same darkness catches at you now, whispers at the edges of your fate, calling you to ruin. It may already be too late but if you do not seek death, then you should not stay with that man a moment longer than you must."

Giving me a slight nod, he shuts the door gently in my speechless face.

I'm guessing he's not invited to many parties.

Kind of a downer, honestly.

I return to the threadbare room and lie down, mulling over the man's words.

I should probably feel scared but I'm mostly curious.

I don't plan on sticking with Damien any longer than I have to, anyway, which is hopefully tomorrow morning.

What has me curious is that both the innkeeper and Damien think I have something in common with this Sakariel guy.

But what could a dream-eater with a damaged demonic soul have in common with... for lack of a better word... an Angel?

I'm no more a 'creature of beauty and light' than a pebble is a precious stone.

The room is cold and there's no heating system as far as I can tell.

I crawl under the blankets but they're thin and smell like damp and age.

The mattress dips in the middle and the pillow is lumpy.

I shut my eyes, missing Dante's couch.

A door slams and I jolt awake and sit up.

Damien shrugs out of his coat and casts me an apologetic look.

"Sorry."

I glance at the little bedside clock.

It's 3:33 in the morning.

"Where did you go?" I ask.

For a moment, I think he's not going to answer me but he does.

"Nowhere. I just needed to get away," he takes a deep breath and goes on. "This place holds a lot of memories for me. I didn't think when I teleported us out of my apartment... I just focused on the first place that came to mind and this was it. Well... the forest, actually. But this is where..."

"You were here with him, weren't you? Sakariel."

He nods.

"This was our..." he leans his hands against the wall and hangs his head. "It was a safe place for us or so we thought."

I don't press him for more and after a moment he pushes himself up with a sigh and starts to undress.

"Is there any food left?" he asks.

"I thought you didn't need any?"

He shrugs.

"As long as I'm keeping myself suppressed, my physical body is as mortal as any other. Unless we're in a dead zone, I guess I'll have to eat and sleep after all."

"I'm sorry. I threw out the leftovers."

"No matter. It's almost morning anyway."

He climbs beneath his own blankets on the other bed.

I pull mine around me more tightly.

"It's fucking freezing in here," he complains.

After a moment, I hear the rustle of blankets and then a tug at my shoulder.

"Move over," he says.

He lifts the covers and slides in beside me without waiting for a reply.

"Hey... I didn't say you could..."

"You want to be cold all night? Because I don't."

He wraps his arms around me and pulls me against his chest.

I yelp as his icy hands slide over my back.

"Jeez fuck, you're cold."

"You're warm," he murmurs.

"Compared to an ice-cube, maybe," I shiver.

But his body is already warming, and in a minute I turn over so my back is to his chest and relax into his heat.

He makes a contented noise and squeezes me like a kid holding a stuffed toy.

I sigh and wonder if it's safe to fall asleep like this.

Will he still have nightmares now that his memories aren't suppressed or can I drift off without risking another tour of Hell?

"You smell so good," he says dreamily, on the edge of sleep. "I always loved the way you smell, Sakariel."

I go still but he doesn't seem aware of what he's said.

From his deep, even breathing, I can tell he's asleep.

[ssa-atlas-alvez]

Whumptober Day 21 (BAU & male reader)

No. 21 FAMOUS LAST WORDS

Coughing up Blood | “You’re safe now.” | “Take me instead.”

Warnings: Creepy whumper, blood, guns, death, reader dies (spoiler), sadness, 

Word count: 1095

@whumptober-archive

"Take me instead," Your eyes widen as Aaron steps forward, hands in the air, gun no longer aiming at the unsub. 

The unsub digs the gun into your temple harder and you wince. "Hmm, how about no? I like this one. He's fresh, young. He is full of youth and life. And I want to watch it drain from his eyes," Your eyes meet Hotch in terror, as the unsub continues to taunt you in front of your team. "He's trembling like a leaf, it's okay sweetheart. I'm only going to hurt you until you beg me to kill you. Until you beg me for mercy." 

"Hotch-" The whimper slips out, you can't help it. Normally, you'd be embarrassed, but you couldn't bring yourself to be. You were petrified.

“Just- just take me,” Hotch offers again, hoping that the unsub accepts him.

Laughing, the unsub replies, “This is the Big Bad BAU team. You’re pathetic.” The unsub scoffs, “I’m taking him with me. If you try to stop me, I put a bullet through his brain. I think we all know I’m not messing around with that threat, either.”

You’re pulled back with the unsub and you stumble, you try to keep it together for them if nothing else. You know that whatever happens they’re all going to be wracked with guilt and that’s the last thing you want for your family. 

It takes too long to find you, although the team firmly believes that anything over five minutes is too long. Especially with an unsub like Karl Harris. But eventually they manage to track you down. It’s been twelve hours when they finally do and none of them have slept more than an hour, their only thought is finding you. They’ve seen what Karl can do and they will do everything in their power to stop that from happening to you. 

They hope they’re not too late as they pull up to the warehouse, splitting up to cover more ground but in contact via radio. Aaron uses the side door, follows the hall down a flight of stairs and round. There’s only one door and the handle’s covered in dried blood. Drawing in a deep breath and raising his gun, he opens the door. It’s empty minus a figure in the centre of the room surrounded by a steadily growing puddle of blood. 

Aaron rushed towards you, dropping to his knees, you blinked up at him slowly, trying to clear your vision, “Aaron?”

“Yeah, it’s me, we’re here,” He murmured, he didn’t know where to look. Your torso was covered in blood. Finding the wound that was bleeding the most, he bunched his windbreaker and pressed it against it. A few tears fell down your cheeks. 

“Hey, hey,” Aaron’s hand gently stroked the tears from your eyes, making sure to still keep pressure on your wounds, “You’re safe now, I promise,”

You nod, giving him a weak smile, “I know, you’re here,” Aaron gave you a small smile.

“I’m so sorry,” He said, you shook your head.

“No, not your fault,” You forced out.

“You’re hurt,” Aaron’s voice cracked. You were the youngest, barely old enough to join the team, you walked with a spring in your step and constantly checked up on everyone. You’d listen to Reid’s info dumps, train with Morgan, proof-read Rossi’s books, babysit and catsit for JJ and Emily, you’d go tech shopping with Penelope, you had looked after Jack a few times too, and you always (without doubt) made sure everyone was okay. 

“I can’t feel it,” You replied, giving him a weak smile. You coughed lightly, “Did we get him?”

“Yeah, yeah we did,”

“I did good?” The hopefulness in your voice cut through Aaron’s heart.

“Yeah, yeah, you did,” He whispered, “You’re the most important member of this team, (Y/N), you hear me? You’re the best agent we’ve got,”

A smile graces your lips, looking pitiful with the blood smudged around your lips, “Yeah?” You reply, breathless, “What about Reid?”

“Reid’s got nothing on you,” He jokes, a small smile stretching across his face despite the situation.

"And Morgan? He's pretty strong," You whisper, teeth chattering. Aaron gently wraps his suit jacket around you, hoping it will provide you with some warmth. Now sat to your side, he laid your head in his lap. 

"Not as strong as you," There's rustling as the rest of the team (minus Garcia) start filtering in.

You furrow your eyebrows, “I’m gonna die, aren’t I?” Your voice is merely a whisper, a fresh tear falling from your eyes.

Aaron ignores the tears in his own eyes as he shakes his head, “No, you’re going to be okay, the paramedic’s are nearly here. They’re going to take you to the hospital and you will be fine.”

“I don’t wanna die-”

“You’re going to be fine, I promise.” He knows it's a lie. He looks up at Reid, who (when he knows you’re not looking) gently shakes his head. No one can lose this much blood and live. It’s soaking through Aaron’s trousers as he sits with you. He reluctantly released the pressure on your stomach, hand engulfing yours instead. 

“Okay,” You whisper as you nod. Your eyes flicker up, your team is standing around you, eyes torn with worry. "You should tell them that," You say with a laugh, wincing as more blood spills from your lips. 

You watch as the team smiles at you, "We just worry," Emily offers. 

"I'm gonna be fine," You say with a nod, "H'tch says I'm gonna be fine,"

There's a small pause and you furrow your eyebrows, anxiety spiking, "B-but just in case, I love you all. So much, I do," You say, nodding frantically, ignoring the tears that slip down your cheeks. "I do, I promise, I don't want to die and you all think you were just coworkers to me, you're my family and I love you-" 

"We know, sweetie," JJ says, smiling softly at you, quickly wiping at her tears. 

"I do, I love you, I do," You whisper, nodding. Aaron runs his fingers through your hair, gently shushing you. 

"It's alright, we know," He whispers.

"I do, I love you," 

"It's okay, (Y/N)," He mutters, hand still holding on to yours, thumb rubbing soothing circles. “We love you too.”

“I love you-”

“It’s alright,”  Hotch comforted, “Just relax, it’s okay, you can relax now, we’re here, and we love you too.”

"I do…" The team watch as the breath leaves your body and you fall limp in Aaron's arms.

[luna-writes-stuff]

Info Vomiting, Steven Grant

Fanfic, gn! Greek Mythology nerd! Librarian! reader

Fluff

Word count: 1502

Tw: Clash Of Titans slander, Greek Mythology info dumping, Steven being an absolute sweetheart

Summary: Steven tries to learn something about your favourite stories, but when you come home, you have to tell him all of it was useless. And so you take it upon yourself to teach him some.

It had been a tiring day. Working in a bookstore was fun, as long as there were actual customers. On slow days such as Tuesdays, there was not much to do with few visitors. And so, eight hours could easily feel like twelve. 

Hauling yourself up the flight of stairs had just been the thing that completely drove your day insane. As soon as you reached your level, you let out a tired huff, leaning against the wall as you set your heavy bag down on the floor. A new stock of Egyptian books could not help but remind you of Steven, whom you had been dating for a while, and you could not resist the urge to buy him the new collection. He started to complain about rereading the same books over and over again anyway. 

Looking back down at your bag, you sighed heavily, before lifting it off the ground. With the strap wrapped around your shoulder once more, you grabbed the keys from your pockets, clumsily trying to find the keyhole in the dimmed lights in the hall. When you stood there for about five seconds, you groaned in annoyance, flipping the key, hoping to successfully open the door this time. But with your luck, you would be standing there for a while. You let your head rest against the front of the door, dropping your arm.

“Steven?” You called, too tired to even try again. “Could you-” 

“Already on my way, love.” He returned from the other side of the door, followed by familiar footsteps. 

As the door opened, your head fell forward, leaning against Steven’s shoulder, who just looked at your tired form.

“If one more person jokes about not being able to use their receipt to regain their rent, I’m going to quit.” You mumbled, blindly throwing the bag inside as you remained frozen to the floor. 

Your boyfriend hummed in response, his eyes falling on the bag leaning against his legs.

“What’s in the bag, then?” He asked, trying to look down at you, but you had yet to move your head.

“Gifts.” You deadpanned, walking forwards, making Steven follow your steps, but backward. He wrapped one arm around you to help you maintain your balance, while the other carefully swung the door shut, landing with a click. 

“For me?” He wondered, rubbing his thumb on your biceps.

“Mhm,” You agreed. “I don’t think Gus would find anything at a bookstore.”

Steven chuckled, finally making you raise your head. His eyes met yours as he planted a kiss on your forehead. 

“Funny.” He mused.

Separating yourself from him, you began to take off your coats and shoes, while the man moved to the bag, curiously peeking in. As he spotted the books, he took them out, putting them on the table as he read the titles out loud.

“The Rise And Fall Of The Egyptian Kingdom,” He voiced, turning to your smirk. “Do you not have this one from the Greek Empire.”

“No, because that’s the Roman Empire and I don’t associate with them.” You disregarded from your place on the floor.

“Oh yes,” He remembered humorously, looking at the second book. “The Egyptian Book Of The Dead?”

“Yes,” You called. “It is a very famous one, actually. I’m surprised you didn’t have this one yet.”

“Egyptian Myths,” He read, grabbing the final book. “The Red Pyramid.”

“Oh yes!” You spoke enthusiastically. “That is book one of a series. It is written by the author who also wrote the Percy Jackson series, but,” Trailing off, you looked at the book over his shoulders. “This is about Egyptian Mythology. I figured I’d buy you the first one to see if you liked it. If you do, we have the other parts in store as well.”

“Tempting.” He mumbled, turning to you with a smile on his face. 

“You like it?” You questioned, wrapping your arms around his waist. In return, his hand found your sides, his hands resting on your hips.

“I always do,” He answered truthfully, leaning down to connect his lips to yours, sharing a kiss out of gratitude. You smiled into the kiss, teasing him by placing other little kisses around his lips.

“Good, because I didn’t bring a receipt,” You announced. “Can’t declare it to the government as my favorite customers would say.”

He just chuckled, parting from your hold. He grabbed the books from the table, searching for a free spot in his bookcases. You watched him work, your eyes falling on the little tv in the room. Something had been playing before you came home, the screen now paused. You walked towards it, noticing the case on the small coffee table. You scoffed as you read the name, holding it up for Steven to see.

“Clash Of Titans?” 

His head shot up, looking at you with a questioning glance. 

“What’s wrong? I thought you loved the story of Perseus.” He faltered.

“I love the story of Persues.” You agreed. “I don’t love whatever this was.”

Steven frowned at your words, placing the stack of books on an empty spot on one of the shelves.

“I thought perhaps I could understand more about your stories.” He revealed, his voice disappointed, though his face was set in a grin. 

“This is slaughter of Greek Mythology.” You joked, pointing to the screen as you let yourself fall down on the couch. 

Steven sat down next to you, grabbing the cover from your hands and placing it back on the table. He shot you a look, silently urging you to continue. You raised your eyebrows at him, turning in your seat. You put your feet underneath you as you sat on the pillows.

“To begin with, Perseus’ mother was called Danae, not Marmara. And she did not fall in love with Dyctus, who is supposed to be the fisherman who finds the pair. He does turn into a father figure, but he and Perseus’ mother are completely platonic.” You ranted, already too caught up in your frustration to stop your talking now. 

Steven, however, just stared at you, already making a mental list of the story, discarding everything he had seen earlier.

“Then, the movie is set in Argos, which makes no sense, because Danae and Perseus got banned from Argos, and were found in Seriphos, which is where the supposed storyline actually begins.” You inhaled deeply, debating on whether you should tell him about Argos. “There is an entire thing on why they were banished, but I’ll save you the details.” You simply concluded.

“No, do tell.” Your boyfriend urged, genuinely interested in what you had to say. And so, you went on.

“Well, king Acrisius was Danae’s father, but he went to an oracle once,” “An oracle?” Steven wondered aloud.

“Yes,” You confirmed. “They can inhabit people or objects, though mainly people, but they tell you your future. Usually, the bad stuff, not always.”

“And this king Acrusio- no, Acros-” The man tried.

“Acrisius.” You answered.

“Him. He heard something bad?”

You smiled at him, already mapping out the entire story in your mind. And so, the rest of the night was spent discussing Perseus’ story, and many more, after seeing Steven’s obvious interest. You became comfortable in his arms, your back against his chest as you raised your hands to tell the stories, sometimes casting looks over your shoulder to emphasize your points, or to watch Steven’s reactions. It wasn’t until his stomach started to rumble that you broke your info vomiting, halting suddenly.

“What time is it?” You wondered, trying to reach for your phone without breaking out of his arms.

“Nine thirty.” Your boyfriend answered, looking at the small clock next to the tv.

“Nine thirty?” You echoed confused, your head shooting up.

“We can order something.” Steven offered, already knowing your next words.

You thought about his words, the thought of cooking no longer tempting. Not after your long conversations.

“Or we can go to the snack bar at the end of the street,” You proposed. “Cheaper, and better. Those fries are to kill for. And, they’re open until eleven.”

The man hummed, squeezing your hand once. “I could do with some good fries.”

“That’s what I was thinking.” You exclaimed, jumping up from your seat as you ran to the shoes, throwing Steven his pair.

“Oi!” He shouted, his shoes landing on the couch. As he reached forward to grab them, he shot you an endearing look, your eyes too focused on your own shoes. He was waiting for a certain glint behind your eyes. One that he had known for a long time, but today, it seemed to shine more prominent than usual. And he longed to see them again.

“Hey, love?” He called. 

“Yes?” You answered, still busy with your shoes.

“What happened after Psyche got into that palace?” 

And there that glint was again. Dropping the laces from your hands, you turned your head, smiling brightly.

[xinxiaogato]

— live to tell the tail

summary. you unfortunately lived in a universe where general gorou had found out ms. hina was… himself. and just your luck: gorou’s first impression of you was a crazed devotee of the ms. hina fan club, but you had only been in the wrong place at the wrong time. will you live to tell the tail?

love interests. gn!reader x a watatsumi general, an inazuman vagrant, the balladeer, and the kreideprinz.

warnings. infinite pet puns, referenced character death, weapons, swearing, blood, alcohol, harassment, and mentions of war.

word count. 1,150

chapter twelve ⌇ drop the cattitude

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“sir, how did the meeting go?” you inquired gorou, fighting tooth and nail with your flushed skin.

with a cross of his arms over his chest, gorou bypassed the question and put you in the hot seat. “did you leave because you were feeling unwell, reader? you seem like you have a fever.”

“do they?” kazuha piped up with concern, approaching from behind and lightly pressing the back of his hand against your forehead.

gorou’s tail instinctually shot upright at that, and he blurted out, “reader, can you spare a moment?”

“...o-of course,” you sputtered, stepping away from kazuha and politely nodding to him as a mild form of bowing.

you thought that was the end of your conversation with the roaming samurai, but the impish smile traced across kazuha’s lips spoke a thousand words that could be summed up with “i believe in you, reader”, as he saw this as a golden opportunity for you to get some alone time with gorou.

could the ground of teyvat not swallow you up any sooner?

in complete and utter silence, you and gorou meandered past several dummies used for target practice and some lances on the ground that were neglected during the fort’s restoration. you stooped down to pick them up, which elicited a quick directive from gorou to leave them alone.

when you returned to his side, a wave of guilt washed over gorou, just like yesterday when he was ministering to your cuts and abrasions.

life on the battlefield called for a general with an ironclad heart, but it still hurt each time he lost a familiar.

a soldier that fell while under gorou’s command was a man with a significant other and children waiting for him at home. a man with unparalleled allegiance to protecting his nation’s citizens. a man who had ambitions, hopes, and desires—his own form of a vision despite not being an allogene.

gorou still couldn’t get used to it no matter how much he had witnessed during his time as a fighter, and had kazuha not been alerted of your life in peril the day before… 

“what did you want to talk about, sir?” you queried in a courteous manner, drawing his attention to your slightly dilated pupils.

gorou wasn’t so sure of the answer himself. the blood that rushed to his head at the height of a battle had randomly surged forward when he purloined your company from kazuha… which was really uncalled for.

“i wanted to know your opinion on… m-mountaineering,” gorou finally quavered. he immediately bit his tongue after, but the words had already tumbled out of his mouth.

i’ve gone insane! he brooded over shamefully. it was ridiculous for the adroit leader of a military force to pull you over for something so trivial.

mild bewilderment commingled with a trace of uncertainty that flashed through your eyes. if you expressed a dislike toward mountaineering, would things just get worse before they could’ve gotten better between you and him?

you stifled an awkward laugh behind your hand. “um, general, i don’t know if you could tell during our trip to yashiori island, but even a flight of stairs in the city winds me…

“i think mountaineering really suits you though!” you appended, partially to kiss up to him.

an unexpected warmth climbed into gorou’s heart. “what makes you say so?”

gorou couldn’t say he was the most confident about his figure. sure, he maintained tip-top shape and worked up a sweat during the daily routine of exercises he crafted for optimal results…

…but no matter how many deadlifts, planks, and squats gorou did, he couldn’t get himself to have a similar build as that of the other men in watatsumi’s armed forces. when they would go to the aisa bathhouse after a long day of training, one could find their revered general a bit scrunched up in the corner, bashful about his physique.

caught off guard, you maundered, “well, mountaineering isn’t easy. my old friend from mondstadt gave it a shot, and then he had his unconscious body hauled back to the city by the branch master of our adventurer’s guild. it takes a lot of physical effort, so you look like you fit the bill, sir."

you explained this in a long-winded way as you did your absolutely damndest not to make eye contact with gorou’s very bare stomach. it was as clear as day that the guy worked out.

gorou’s lips quirked up into a little grin. typically, his associates didn’t hesitate to take playful jabs at his small frame. even her excellency treated him like a child for his not-so-impressive height, rubbing the spot on his head between his ears whenever she had the chance.

peering over gorou’s shoulder, you noticed that the sun was sinking into the horizon where the land met the sky. 

i haven’t written in that stupid notepad today! you agonized with a bitter taste in your mouth. you still couldn’t believe kazuha hopped onto the gorou x reader train without a second thought.

“it’s late, so i won’t keep you for long,” gorou said, sensing the urgency in your shaking eyes. “best to turn in for the night, and rest well. your training begins tomorrow.”

“looking forward to it,” you couldn’t help sarcastically drawling as you twirled around to head for your tent. “see you in the morning, general.”

on the spur of the moment, gorou stepped forward to clasp you by the hand, making your heart do a somersault. you and gorou dropped your gazes down to your touching fingers, as you both weren’t expecting that to happen.

gorou’s furry ears laid tightly against the top of his head, uncharacteristic of their usually alert stance.

“reader, i’m… i’m glad i got to talk to you today.”

seeing the corners of gorou’s lips lift, you felt the hairs on the back of your neck rise and your eyebrows arch upward. for a second, you thought you imagined his words.

he was glad?

you weren’t the type of person to blush at the drop of a hat, but there was no mistaking the heat creeping up your neck and into your face. your relationship with gorou had gotten off on the wrong foot, so…

“i’m glad, too,” you spoke gently, slipping your hand out of his. “um, good night.”

without looking back at gorou, you scurried away like a little rat and burst through the flap of your tent, shaken by the tingly feeling still dancing on the palm of the hand gorou grabbed.

your eyes fell on your notepad that you had stowed away under your pillow. all you wanted to do was just hit the sack, so you hoped the divine priestess didn’t mind that this entry was basically a filler.

day three — my stomach feels weird, but, like, a good weird. is that normal? the general must be so popular.

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[the-and-sign-anon]

Christmas/Winter Prompts

One Word Prompts

Snow

Lights

Scarf

Snowman

Snowball

Tree

Decorations

Sweater

Bells

Hat

Star

Carols

Gloves

Boots

Blanket

Fireplace

Cocoa 

Situations/AUs

I’m recruiting you to help me terrorize your friend because they pelted me with snowballs at the park the other day

We’re in a meeting that I should be paying attention to, but I’m making paper snowflakes instead and you glare at me every time you hear my scissors

I’m trying to buy a last minute gift for a friend, but they’re impossible to shop for, so your little shop is my last hope

This is your first winter with lots of snow and you’ve never made a snowman before, so we’re making one; no arguments

I’m shopping for Christmas decorations with my friend, but neither of us can reach the top shelf, so they asked you for help and now I’m nervous because you’re really cute

I didn’t know you would be at my house talking to my roommate, so I came dancing down the stairs singing Christmas songs and now I’m embarrassed because you joined me in Last Christmas

I was in the middle of a nice dream, but your screaming over the first snow woke me up and now I’m grumpy

I read our kid a book about the things snowmen do at night and now we’re taking a walk at two in the morning to show them the actual snowmen don’t do anything

I brought you hot chocolate without asking and you seem really flustered by it because you didn’t think I’d remember that you like hot chocolate a lot

I’ve never decorated a gingerbread house before, so now you want to teach me and you seem to be taking it way more seriously than you need to

I moved in next door a few months ago and had no idea how enthusiastic you are about Christmas, but I mentioned I hadn’t decorated, so now you’re knocking on my door with a box full of decorations and are begging me to let you decorate

My family is picking out a tree, but I’m so cold I’m just waiting by the warm doors and you came to stand next to me because you have no desire to hear your siblings argue over the right tree to buy

I work at the local library and I’m trying to put up all the decorations myself, but I fell off the ladder trying to hang up the garland and you caught me

You hate heights, but your friend convinced you to go skiing for the first time and now the ski lift is broken and you’re kind of freaking out, so it’s my job to comfort you

You’re painfully bad at wrapping presents, so I’m going to teach you or just end up wrapping them all myself because you really are terrible at this

This is an ugly sweater party and I was so ready to make fun of you, but you even make that reindeer sweater that plays a carol I hate look cute, so what am I supposed to do now

I shoveled your driveway for you since I was out anyway, then you brought me cookies to thank me and now we’re in some sort of passive aggressive contest of niceness

I got you for Secret Santa and your best friend knows it; they keep trying to tell me what to get you, but I already have a plan so now I’m just trying to keep them from spoiling it

We’re snowed in at a little airport and we both just want to be alone, so we decide to sit together to keep everyone else away because there are some very determined carolers wandering around and employees who keep trying to check on us

We go to the same college and are trying to get home for the holiday break, but our flights got cancelled so we’re road tripping it together; when we finally get there, we realize that the friend you’re visiting is actually my sibling who was plotting to set us up, but their work is already done now

Dialogue Prompts

“Don’t forget your gloves!”

“I have to beat them!” “They’re twelve, and they’re just building a snow wall.” “Yeah, so I have to do it better.”

“Merry Christmas!” “It’s November.” “I said. Merry. Christmas.”

“I can never have enough Christmas decorations.”

“Come decorate this gingerbread house with me!”

“You’re wearing this sweater and you’ll like it.”

“I can’t believe I’m gonna jump face first into that snowbank.” “You don’t have to. You could choose not to.” “No, I’m gonna.”

“I need more lights.”

“The last thing I need right now is a flaming Christmas wreath and what do you have for me when I come home?” “A flaming Christmas wreath.”

“All I want for Christmas is you.” “Don’t quote Mariah Carey at me.”

“I feel like I’m in a Hallmark. Where’s my generic white guy love interest?”

“I don’t really care about Christmas, but you do, so just come to this Christmas party with me please.”

“Do you need some help with those lights?” “No, I don’t. Stop asking me that.”

“If you don’t stop singing, I will walk straight out into the blizzard.”

“You say mistletoe, I say mistlefoe. If you can beat me in hand to hand combat, then we can kiss.”

“You know, I don’t trust you when you say to come outside with your hands behind you like that. If you’re about to throw snow at me, I’m about to lock you outside for the night.”

“Please open the door. It’s cold out here.”

[frankcastleissoft]

Lover

Frank Castle x reader

Word Count: 4,431

Warnings: angst, attempted rape, conflict/tension, and fluff (( but that’s not a bad thing :) ))

__

This new life with Frank was very simple. Not much else to be said about it. You both went to work and came home. Day after day, week after week. Simple.

It had been almost five months since Frank had finished off the last of the people responsible for his late family’s death. You could tell it still hurt though. It stung deep in his core. Like there was a ton of bricks inside of his chest, weighing him down. It hurt you too, to see him like that. Work for him was just a way to let out everything he was holding deep inside of him. He worked at a construction site, tearing down an old building. Sometimes he didn’t come home till dark and that scared you.

You worked at a catering company. You would go to the companies and help cook and keep the food refreshed. Cooking was something you really loved to do, so when you were able to get this job it really helped the situation.

The situation:

Frank was dead. And technically you were too. Not really anyone knew about you, but you had to be dead too. Now you both were living in a small, one room apartment.

You would come home around 5:00pm every day. Frank never beat you home. The last five months had been rough to say the least. Your marriage felt like it was hanging by a thread. You hardly talked and there was always this tension between you two. Some days you wouldn’t see Frank at all. He would come home after you were asleep, take a quick shower, find the plate of dinner in the fridge, then go to bed. You always made him dinner. Without fail. Frank loved your cooking. He was always starving when he got home.

And by the time you woke up in the morning, he’d be gone. It gave you this ache in your heart when you woke up and he wasn’t beside you in the bed that was much too small for the two of you.

So you would get ready for the day, then head out the door for work. It was always the same. Unless on the rare occasion, Frank would be dead asleep next to you, breathing heavily. He slept so hard sometimes it made you worry about how intensely he worked.

Work was long today. It felt like everything was ten times harder than it usually was, so you were looking forward to getting off your feet and sipping some tea, while reading a book. The little things meant the most living like this. The air was cool as you walked along the busy, Brooklyn streets toward home. You pulled your coat collar up against your neck, attempting to warm yourself.

After a few flights of stairs, you pulled your keys out of your bag and unlocked the door. You set your things on the table in the middle of the room and put your coat in the wardrobe that was just small enough to fit in the room. You looked around the apartment. The bed was facing you, across from the door and the wardrobe. In the middle a table sat there with two chairs on each side. To the left was a door that led to the smallest bathroom in history. Then a doorway beside the bathroom led to the narrow kitchen. The cabinet space was limited and there was a small oven and only a little bit of counter space. The Fridge seemed to take up the most room. It wasn’t much, but you did your best to make it feel like a home. Flowers on the table— they were dried up and dead now. A rug in the kitchen, a knitted quilt on the bed, and a few books on the nightstands.

You made your tea, then made dinner soon after. Just like always, saving a plate for Frank. You had finished dinner, avoiding the mess, now sitting at the table, reading and indulging in another cup of tea to help you sleep well tonight. Then you heard a key slide into the lock and the door opened. Frank’s heavy boots stepped in, the weight of his feet sounded like he had had a long day too. He placed his metal lunch box on the table, and sat down to take off his shoes.

“Hey,” his deep voice whispered.

“Hey,” you said just as quietly.

He put his shoes by the door, then went to the bathroom to wash his hands. You watched him from where you sat. His dark hair was getting longer and his beard made him look so different. You didn’t mind it though. Your eyes traveled down to his hands. They were so calloused with so many welts and blistered. More proof he worked so hard.

“I wish you wouldn’t work so hard,” you said without even thinking about it.

Frank turned off the water and patted his hands dry. You knew he had heard you, but he pretended not to.

“I’ll heat up your dinner,” you said, setting down your book and heading for the fridge, avoiding eye contact.

As his plate made its way around the microwave, you stared at it intensely, lost in a jungle of thoughts.

You and Frank had met during his massacre in Hell’s Kitchen. One night (or early morning) you were walking home from your dead-end job at a crappy diner, when a strange man came up behind you, sticking a gun against your side. He casually told you under his breath to stay quiet or you were dead. You felt fear spread through your entire body, not one finger left without terror. You continued to walk, the panic making it hard to put one foot in front of the other. But the man helped you out by shoving you along.

“Wha-What do you want?” you managed to crack out.

“I haven’t quite decided yet,” his voice sounded evil and cold.

Your stomach fell through, your heart pounded even harder. You had hoped he had just wanted your wallet, but now it seemed he wanted more from you.

“Come here,” he growled, shoving you into an alley, no one around to possibly help you.

You let out a cry as he shoved you against the wall, your head felt like it could have split against the brick. You sobbed out little pleases and cries.

“Shut up!” the man yelled in your face.

You finally saw what he looked like and you almost wished you hadn’t. He began to pull off your coat with one hand, the other holding the gun at your stomach. You felt paralyzed. You wanted to fight back, to never let this man take this from you, but you just couldn’t. Once your coat was off, he started on your shirt, a white button down, your diner uniform.

“Oh, hello, Y/N,” he sneered, noticing your name tag. “It’s nice to meet you.” His voice echo through your head. You knew it would haunt you if you made it out of this alive.

At that moment, you heard heavy feet scuffing against the sidewalk outside of the alley.

“Please,” you said a little louder, hoping the person would hear you.

“Shut up!” the man yelled again, shoving the barrel of the gun into your stomach harder. And just then, a large man shoved into the man who had half unbuttoned your shirt, knocking him to the ground. You cried harder, relief washing over you. The big man got the gun from the criminal and began beating him with it. Repeatedly and with so much force, you couldn’t help but stare. When his head was much too beat in to be alive, the big man stood up, looking down at his work. You just stood, melting into the brick wall. Both of your breath was rapid and heavy.

“You okay, ma’am?” the big man’s raspy voice echoed in the alley.

You just nodded quickly, almost scared of your hero too. He turned to look at you, his face splattered with blood. This was all too much. You were just coming home from work, looking forward to sleeping for twelve hours. But there was something in his eyes. They were dark, but full of something you couldn’t quite place. Your mind began to fog up and you felt yourself lose control. Then your legs gave out and you began to lose consciousness. You felt strong hands catch you around your waist, then you were out.

It was dark and quiet except for the faint sounds of cars and sirens. You were laying down and staring up at the darkness, a small light illuminated the space around you. When you were fully awake, you shot up, looking around. For a second you thought you had been taken somewhere, kidnapped, but when you saw the man who had saved you, your fear subsided some; but still wary of your safety.

“Hey,” his voice just as gravelly as in the alley. “You’re safe.” He added, noticing your nervous eyes.

“Where are we?” you asked, looking around.

“An old building,” he replied. “You’re safe here.” He assured again.

You took in your surroundings again, lost in your fuzzy brain. Then something struck you, and you looked back at the man sitting on the floor. His face was stained with bruises. Dark ones around his eyes and lighter ones on his cheeks.

“Wait…” you spoke softly. “You’re Frank Castle. You’re The-The Punisher.”

“That’s what they’re calling me.” he said, almost pissed off at the mention of it.

You felt a bit of fear stir up inside of you again, but it quickly settled. He saved you.

“Why did you save me?” you asked.

“I wasn’t going to just keep walking when I heard you were in trouble.” his gruff voice replied.

You gave a slight smile, thinking.

“You’re not like what the news makes you out to be.” you started. “I mean, what you did to that man was pretty… intense, but you saved me. They make it seem like you’ll just kill anyone.”

“I only take out the ones that deserve it.” he said matter of factly.

You grimaced a little at that; you didn’t know how you felt about his morals. But you watched him from where you laid. There was something about him that was comforting. Maybe it was the fact that he had just saved you from something that would have stuck with you forever, or maybe it was that he seemed like he genuinely cared about your well being.

“Where’s my coat?” you sat up, feeling a little frantic. It was something that felt so important in the moment that it made you anxious.

“Oh, I- I didn’t get it. I didn’t see it,” Frank said, noticing your frazzled state.

“It’s okay,” you sighed. It was just a coat.

“Can I go home?” you asked, slightly pulling the blanket off of you.

“Yeah,” he stood up, a grunt of pain leaving his lips. “I’ll walk you back.”

At first you were going to decline for some reason, but then you realized that was the stupidest thing you could do. You stood up slowly, your head still fuzzy from the passing out.

“Here. You can use this.” Frank laid a big coat over your shoulders.

“Oh- thank you.” you said, caught off guard. You slipped your arms in the sleeves that were too long for your hands to poke through.

“Yeah,” he said under his breath.

As you walked home there was silence between you. You wanted to talk to him though. This all felt so surreal.

Then a loud noise, probably a motorcycle backfiring, came out of nowhere. You were still shaken up by what had happened maybe an hour before, so this sent fear through your body. You let out a fearful cry and grabbed onto Frank walking beside you.

“Hey, it’s okay.” He said calmly. “It’s nothing.” He held your wrists, taking your hands off of his arm.

“I’m sorry,” you let out a nervous laugh. “I’m so on edge. This isn’t my average night.”

Frank gave you a smile. His smiles were magic, his eyes smiled too.

“This isn’t too unusual for me,” he snickered. “Except for you.”

That made you smile a little wider. There was something about him. Had you known him for twenty seconds, or twenty years?

“Well, this is it.” You said, taking a step up to your apartment building, now more level with Frank’s eyes.

He stood there, stocky frame, both hands in his pockets.

“You sure you’re okay?” He asked, a slight smile on his lips.

“Yeah, I’m good,” you said quietly, almost blushing at the care in his voice. “Do you want your coat back?” You began pulling your arms out of the sleeves.

“No- you keep it,” he put a hand out in front of you in rejection. “I lost yours, so.”

You smiled again, putting your arms back in all the way. It was quiet for a little while, just standing in front of each other. The city was mild tonight- well, this morning. It had to be 3am by now.

“Thank you.. Frank.” You said his name, really felt the word, nervous what he would think that you used it. Names are weird to say sometimes… when you don’t know the person very well.

He didn’t respond right away, maybe you were overthinking and it hadn’t really been that long.

“—For the coat.” You giggled, holding the front of the coat with one hand like a model.

Frank snickered, shaking his head. “No problem.” He grinned.

The joke hung in the air for a while as an excuse to not leave each other. But then it left and you both stood there in the silence again.

“Good night… uh.” Frank said.

“Y/N,” you replied.

Frank had seen your name tag, but he didn’t want to sound creepy by knowing your name.

“Y/N.” He said back.

The way his voice carried your name gave you this feeling deep in your stomach.

“Good night.” You replied.

He took a step back and you took another step up.

“Be safe.” He said quickly, then turned away, walking back to where you both came from.

The next night, you were walking home from work again. This time with your pepper spray in hand. As you walked, you felt like someone was following you. You became very aware and walked a little quicker. Then you slightly turned your head and caught a glance of the person. You stopped in your tracks. That frame you knew anywhere.

“Are you trying to get pepper sprayed in the face?” You chuckled.

“Not what I was wanting to happen, but worth it just to know you’re taking safety precautions.” You heard a gruff voice say behind you.

You let yourself laugh out loud, turning around to see Frank in a baseball cap and coat. He was grinning from ear to ear too.

It continued like that. He would walk you home every night. “Just for his peace of mind” he would tell you. That made the butterflies in your stomach fly higher. Those butterflies wouldn’t calm down. Even when you were just at home or at work. Frank was all you could think about.

One night you were at the diner, pulling another graveyard shift. You were in the back filling up the salt and pepper shakers. It had been a slow night. The bell sounded, telling you someone had come in.

“One second!” You called, screwing the top back on a salt shaker. Then you went to the front and saw Frank. You both gave each other bright smiles.

“What are you doing here?” You asked, coming out from behind the counter.

“Had the night off, thought I’d pop by.” He shrugged.

“Oh, okay,” you replied, shrugging too, joking like this was a normal thing he did. “Coffee?” You asked, but already started pouring a mug.

“Thank you.” He nodded. “I’ll just wait over here till you get off.” He went over to a corner booth.

“Okay,” you ducked your head, smiling like a fool.

As things progressed in The Kitchen, Frank walked you home less and less. You knew what he was. You knew what he did. It scared you to think about sometimes. There was something so mysterious about him, but there was something rooted so deeply in him that was just simply good. That’s what you saw every time you looked at him. His goodness.

Frank didn’t tell you much about what was going on, he said he didn’t want you getting in the middle of it; you had a couple fights about that. But you knew about Karen and how she was trying to help him. You were thankful for her. That she was helping him in ways you couldn’t.

He told you about his family. You cried. It broke your heart to hear the way he talked about them. His eyes glossy, his voice growing raspier.

Then he got arrested. You were shocked as you watched the news on the tv in the diner.

As the days dragged along, you felt yourself start to think it wasn’t ever going to be what you wanted it to be with Frank. It was hard to come to that conclusion, but you just couldn’t bring yourself to stop caring about him.

One day, you tracked down Karen Page and told her who you were and you both talked for hours. She told you about how she was investigating his case. You told her what you knew about him, it wasn’t much at all, though.

She told you as much as she could about his case. It was nice to have her, you both got along so well.

You kept up with the trial through the news, it hurt to see the way he was handling it.

Then he broke out of jail. That scared you. You didn’t know what he was doing.

Then all of the shootings happened. Everyone was blaming him, and you didn’t know what to believe. Karen was quick to tell you that it wasn’t him and that he had saved her. Those few days you were a nervous wreck. Karen wasn’t answering your calls and you didn’t know what to do.

Then the next night— or very early morning, you were coming home from work. You dumped your coat (the one that was really Frank’s) and purse on your couch and headed for the fridge; you were starving. Then you heard a sound in the corner of your living room, causing your stomach to flip. You slammed the fridge door in fear. Then a figure stepping forward, into the moonlight coming through the window.

“Frank?” you dropped the apple, tears immediately flooding your eyes. “Wha-What is going on?” Your voice quivered with emotion. You noticed is bruised and bloody face.

“I gotta disappear for a while,” he said slowly.

“Frank,” you said again, running forward, into his arms.

This was the first time you two had had any physical contact like this. His arms wrapped around your waist so tightly, you thought he could break your ribs if he wanted to. Your arms were around his neck, your face in his shoulder. Blood was probably staining your shirt, but you didn’t care.

“Do you mind if I wash up a bit?” He asked after you had parted.

“No, of course,” you led him to the bathroom.

That was the last time you saw him. The news said he was dead. Some explosion. It broke your heart.

A few days after the news, you learned it wasn’t true. The experience in your living room when he showed up was heart stopping. You woke up around 11am after another late shift. You shuffled into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee.

“Can I get some of that?” You heard the familiar, gravelly voice say behind you.

You gave him the what-for for scaring you out of your skin. But it ended in tears and gratefulness that he was alive. You had to admit, you had a feeling he was.  

He left the next day, saying he had to finish what he had started. You tried to convince him not to, but he was too stubborn.

About a week later, he came back. He told you he had to disappear, go underground. He had changed his name to Pete Castiglione and he said he couldn’t see you anymore since he was technically dead. It stung. It hurt him too, you could see it in his eyes. There was something about his eyes that always had you captivated.

“Frank,” you said quickly as he stood up to leave, after telling you all of this.

He froze.

“What if I came with you?” You knew it sounded crazy, but you felt like Frank was someone you couldn’t live without. You’d known each other maybe a month, but it felt like years. You had a feeling he felt the same way.

He didn’t move, holding his hat with both hands in front of him. You stood up from the couch, turning to face him.

“Tell me you don’t feel like you’ve known me for years, like we were meant to meet.” You said, your face burning with embarrassment as you spoke. “Tell me you want to leave and never see me again. That you could just leave and never look back.” Your voice got caught in your throat.

“Y/N…” Frank whispered, taking a step forward.

“Cause if you tell me that, I’ll let you go. It’ll break my heart, but… I’ll let you go.” You bowed your head, closing your eyes, tears streaming silently down your cheeks. You felt a warm hand grasp your face, so gently. You looked up and was met with those eyes. They were glossy and sad.

“Frank,” You said so quietly.

“I can’t tell you those things, Y/N,” he replied. “I can’t lie to you.”

Your heart sped up as you looked up at him, his thumb grazing your cheek, wiping away fallen tears. You leaned forward, your head resting on his, both of you holding onto the moment with everything you had inside of you.

“I can’t let you go.” You whispered.

“You don’t deserve to live like a dead woman.”

“I’ll be with you.”

“What about your life? Your friends and family?”

“I don’t have any of that.” You told him that your parents were both dead and you didn’t have any other family. And friends were never your strong suit.

“But I—“ Frank continued. “I can’t put you in danger and you deserve so much better than—“

“You deserve to be happy, Frank.” You interrupted. “I know you don’t think you do, but you do.”

He was quiet. Standing there, you in front of him, your hands now intertwined in between you, he was in awe of you. He never thought he would feel like this again about someone. To him, you were perfect in every sense of the word.

“Please, Frank,” You stood on your toes and place a kiss on his cheek. Your lips felt the tear that had run down his lightly bruised face.

“You’re gonna have to start calling me, Pete,” he said, and both of you broke into the biggest smiles.

You jumped up into his arms in the tightest hug. Then you pulled away, looking at his sweet face. You both dove in at the same time with a deep kiss. It was full of so much love you both felt like you could burst into a million pieces.

“You are everything, Frank Castle.”

A few weeks passed and you both decided to get married. It was scary and something that was difficult for Frank, you could tell, and you didn’t blame him. But he loved you, simply and hard, so he knew it was right.

You changed your last name and quit your job and began to live a different life. A life away from the internet and the outside world. It was difficult to have to forget about your old life. More difficult than you thought it was going to be. You moved into a much smaller apartment and left everything of yours behind. You were dead after all, and you can’t take your things with you when you die.

You had contacted Karen before everything. She was the only person Frank trusted and you wanted to make sure she knew that you were both okay. She was so happy for you both.

Now here you were, months later, that honestly felt like years. Frank had distanced himself from you and you had curled in on yourself too. Things were rough. The routine was the same and everything was stuck in a time loop.

 Frank had cleared his plate, now taking a shower. You turned on the clock radio for some music while you tackled the messy kitchen. Music was a safe place for you and it was nice to at least have the radio to keep you company. Then a love song came on that you adored. It was one of those songs that you can’t help but sway to. Frank came out of the bathroom soon after it started, but you hardly noticed as you were lost in the tune. You were standing over the sink, washing a plate, swaying to the slow beat. You did notice Frank enter the small, kitchen area, but you were caught off guard when he slowly wrapped his arms around your waist from behind. You were stiff for a moment, but quickly softened into his embrace. You laid your head back against his shoulder as you both swayed from side to side, lost in the lyrics.

“You’re my, my, my, my… Lover.”

You felt Frank’s warm breath against your neck. It was so comforting. His arms tightened around you and you dropped the plate in the dish water, moving your soapy hands to on top of Frank’s. This was everything.

The song ended, it wasn’t long enough. You turned to face Frank, looking into his eyes. His eyes. You hadn’t looked at them and gotten that feeling in so long.

“Frank,” you said with your breath, your hand grasping his bearded cheeks.

You felt his hands grasp your hips tightly, and you both leaned in, your lips pressing firmly against each other. Things got a little brighter as the night went on.

...

[l0vegl0wsinthedark]

Sparkle

Here's a little ficlet I wrote based on a random scene that popped into my head and wouldn't leave. Unbeta’ed.

Tags: implied/attempted noncon, alcohol consumption, eighth year fic. Pairing: Draco/Harry

-------

Draco Malfoy came back to Hogwarts after the War.

He was quiet and was nearly always seen in the company of his books. He talked to people, but not unless they addressed him first. He was always in plain sight, and always seemed to be in the middle of the most banal, tedious tasks, and Harry had no reason to be suspicious.

But Harry watched him anyway.

How was he to help it? Malfoy didn't look anything like the Malfoy he was used to warching.

Yes, he was still deathly pale and tall and reed-thin - but he held himself differently now. He didn't swagger around like he owned the school, but still had an air of aristocratic grace about him that made people hurry out of his way.

He didn't wear his hair combed to slick perfection; he had it buzzed down to the scalp on one side, the rest of his sleek, platinum hair pulled over to the other side in an artfully tousled sweep that sometimes fell over his eyes and caught on his long lashes.

He didn't wear his shirt sleeves down to his wrists to hide the Mark. Instead he had them rolled up to his elbows to reveal the pretty little pink and orange blossoms he had tattooed over the ugly, faded skull and snake.

He always had nail paint on - black, green, ruby red, purple.

He wore eyeliner, stark black against the paper-white skin of his translucent eyelids and blond eyelashes.

During the weekends, he wore soft jumpers over crisp white shirts, often in pastel shades that made him appear delicate and almost ethereal.

Draco Malfoy came back to Hogwarts after the War and Harry was obsessed all over again.

*

It was Christmas in a week. The eighth year common room was in full tumult, the Wireless charmed to blare music loud enough to be heard clearly over the cacophony of dozens of chattering students. Decorated extravagantly by the elves, two tables groaning under food and drink (spiked with an indecent amount of alcohol), and housing every eighth year, over half of the seventh years and a few bold sixth years, the room threatened to burst at the seams.

Harry was pleasantly tipsy, which was very mild compared to the state of some of his classmates. At least he wasn't trying to climb up into the mantel to attempt to jump off of it and land on an overstuffed armchair that was twelve feet away.

He really had to pee, though, and both the toilets attached to the common room were occupied, and when he went up to the dorm bathrooms, he found those occupied too - as well as issuing sounds made by the students inside engaged in various kinds of 'activities'.

Bladder uncomfortably full, Harry jogged back down to the common room and, with a wave at Ron and Hermione, exited the party so he could use one of the school loos. His mind was buzzing very softly and he wasn't worried about homework or, you know, dying, for the first time in a while.

Sighing in relief after having taken a long piss, Harry strolled slowly back towards the common room. It was well past midnight and he knew the seventh and sixth years would be in trouble if caught at the party. He also knew that every teacher was likely aware and chose to let it go. It'd been that way this term after the War.

He was about to pause and take a moment to admire the snow covered grounds and Forest out the nearest window when he heard a sound from the classroom in front of him. There was a soft thud and a garbled human voice.

Frowning, he crossed the corridor and halted outside the classroom, hesitant to walk in on students who likely didn't want to be disturbed. But then he heard, clearly:

"Stop. No."

"Incarcerous."

"No, no, no, I don't want--"

But Harry had already drawn his wand and kicked open the door.

He vaguely recognised the seventh year, tall and slightly plump with a mop of sandy blond hair. He was struggling to contain the thrashing student he had bent over a desk and looked around with a jump, panting softly, when Harry burst in.

"What the f--?" the seventh year began.

"Get out," barked Harry, indicating to the door pointedly with his wand.

The seventh year stepped away and the student he'd been pinning fell to the floor with a thump, his wrists bound at the small of his back, his ankles tied together with the same gleaming, silvery rope. And then Harry started in shock, because-

"Please," panted Malfoy, writhing on the floor as he tried to free himself.

"Go," Harry said in a low, dangerous voice to the seventh year, and there must have been something in his voice or face because the student quite literally pelted out of the room. Harry heard him running all the way down the corridor.

Harry walked forward slowly. "Malfoy?"

Malfoy thrashed again, out of breath and emitting little sounds of desperation. "Pl-- Just let me go!"

Harry quickly bent down and undid the ropes with a wave of his wand. Then he helped Malfoy sit up and lean back against the desk, still panting.

His face was clammy and his eyes bloodshot, eyeliner smudged, his face abnormally pale, likely with fear.

He was also clearly very, very drunk.

Harry suddenly remembered seeing him at the party earlier, flitting back and forth to and from the table of refreshments. And then he'd disappeared altogether.

Apparently, not with his consent.

"You okay?" Harry asked, hesitantly placing a hand on Malfoy's shoulder.

"I don't want to!" Malfoy declared, jerking off his hand.

Harry immediately held both hands up and away. "Okay, absolutely, yes," he babbled. "I'm not gonna-- nobody's gonna..." He didn't know what to say so he left it unsaid.

Malfoy just sat there, still panting quietly, eyes unfocused and rolling around a bit.

"Do... Do you need to be sick? Do you...need to use the bathroom?" Harry asked after long stretch of silence. Malfoy shook his head, hair flopping into his face. There was some colour in his cheeks now, and when he reached up to messily tuck his hair behind his ear, Harry noticed he was wearing sparkly blue nail polish.

"Bed," Malfoy said suddenly, voice hoarse. Harry nodded and stood up. Malfoy looked up at him in bewilderment. "I don't want to," he repeated, slightly plaintively.

The way he looked in that moment, as though pleading for his life, helpless and incapacitated, Harry's chest tightened.

"Nobody is going to touch you," he promised in a low, steady voice. "I'm just going to see you up to your dorm room. Do you need help standing up or are you good?"

Malfoy looked up at him blankly and then looked away with a sigh, uncrossing his legs and making to stand up. "I need help," he mumbled after a beat.

Harry helped him up and then immediately stepped away. "Come on," he said softly, indicating to the door. "This way."

*

Despite having gone to bed only well after 3am after the party, Harry was up by 8. He found Ron awake with Hermione and the three of them went on a walk after breakfast. In the afternoon, Seamus invited them to a snowball fight with the others. After he'd changed out of his sopping clothes later, Harry found himself entrusted with the task of going down to the kitchens to bring up snacks for everybody.

One flight of stairs away from the Entrance Hall, Harry was stopped by a soft voice addressing him.

"Potter."

Harry turned. Sat on the nearest windowsill was Draco Malfoy.

Harry, for some reason, felt his face heat, and absurdly found himself worrying that Malfoy knew that Harry had spent all day thinking of him.

"Hey," Harry replied, nodding. "Alright?"

Malfoy nodded back, expression neutral. Suddenly, Harry wondered if Malfoy even remembered the events of the previous night.

"Where are you going?" Malfoy asked softly, and there was nothing threatening or malicious about the way he spoke.

"Down to the kitchen to nick food," Harry replied honestly, shoving his hands in his pockets. And then, after a moment of hesitation, "How are you...you know, how're you feeling?"

"I feel fine," said Malfoy, a small line appearing between his brows. "Any reason I wouldn't?"

Yeah, he doesn't remember, Harry decided. Then he wondered why he's talking to Harry at all.

"No," Harry said, mouth curving into a crooked smile. "Well, I guess I'd better-" He indicated to the stairs with his head.

Malfoy nodded and said nothing.

Harry was halfway down the stairs when, "Potter."

Harry turned. Malfoy stood at the top of the stairs.

"Yeah?"

"I-- I just--" Malfoy was very pink in the face. Harry thought him very pretty at that moment. "I'm really grateful for your help last night," Malfoy blurted.

Now Harry went pink. Oh, so you remember, he wants to shout hysterically.

"It was no problem, Malfoy," he said instead. "I'm glad I was there to help." Malfoy just looked blankly at him. "Hermione's always going on about consent," Harry blabbers suddenly. "And you know... You weren't... You didn't...consent."

Malfoy nodded, throat bobbing as he swallowed, his hands fidgeting with the hem of his baby blue jumper. "Well, thank you," he said after a few seconds of silently nodding.

"You're welcome."

They stared at one another. Harry was aware of the seconds stretching on and on but he couldn't look away from Malfoy's artfully styled hair and rosy cheeks and sparkly nails and carefully lined eyes.

Then with an awkward and atrociously stupid wave, Harry turned away.

"D'you want to go to Hogsmeade with me later?"

Harry turned, almost slipping off the step and tumbling down the stairs.

"What?" he spluttered at Malfoy who was now scarlet in the face.

"I... I asked if you--" Then Malfoy abruptly seemed to deflate. "Never mind, Potter. Sorry. And thanks again for last night."

Malfoy disappeared around the banister and Harry heard him climbing the stairs while he himself just stood there.

Then, as though jerked into motion by an electric shock, Harry flew back up the stairs.

"Malfoy!" he gasped as he rounded the banister. Malfoy turned, looking surprised. "I-- I'd love to," Harry said, sounding a bit winded.

"What?" Malfoy asked, tilting his head, glossy hair sliding over his eyes.

"Go to Hogsmeade with you," Harry explained. "I'll-- I'd love to go."

Malfoy went brick red but he smiled as he did so, a small, shy smile that made Harry's heart skip a beat.

"Okay," Malfoy nodded, "Six? I'll meet you in the common room," he added, pointing up the stairs with one finger.

Harry grinned. "Cool."

Malfoy grinned back. And then, just as Harry was about to go back down, "Hey, Potter?"

Harry looked back up. "Yeah?"

Malfoy, still scarlet in the face, seemed to be making a physical effort to gather courage. "You... You have my consent."

Speechless and almost faint, Harry just watched him hurry away. Consent for what, he wanted to bellow after him.

Then he decided he'd rather let Malfoy show him what later.

***

[five-rivers]

Secret Saturday prompt? Van Rook ties up and gags Zak then stuffs him into a satchel.

Zak was skilled.  He was knowledgeable.  He was powerful.  

He was also twelve, and, despite his best efforts, not terribly tall.  

As such, it wasn’t terribly difficult for Van Rook to knock him out.  Now, separating him from his family and getting the drop on him?  That was difficult.  Whatever other cryptid abilities the kid had, enhanced senses had to be one of them.  Or perhaps some form of ESP.  

Anyway, one dart to the shoulder, and Zak was out.  Van Rook, with skills honed over a lifetime, soon had him disarmed, securely tied, gagged, and in the bag.  He put the boy’s weapons into a separate bag.  He wasn’t like his ridiculous ex-apprentice, who’d leave the potentially valuable magic weapon in the bag with the magic cryptid child.  

Feh.  

Now. Delivery. Most amateurs would expect this to be the safe easy part. Not so. In fact delivery, particularly to first-time clients, was the most dangerous part of the job. Van Rook couldn't count the times a client tried to kill him to get out of paying for bounties or services rendered.

He couldn't suppress a smile at the memory of the last man who tried to backstab him in that particular way.

He set the plane down lightly, next to the ruins. Well, if this client didn't pay up, there were plenty of other people who would. This particular guy just happened to sit at the sweet crossroads of 'good pay' and 'no apocalypse.'

There was a faint squeak from the bag strapped into the seat next to him. He raised an eyebrow. Kid should have been asleep for another half an hour.

He might have to add resistance to drugs to the list of freaky things about the kid.

He reached over and pulled the zipper down slightly. A pair of faintly glittering amber eyes stared up at him from a flushed face. The kid tried to mutter something around the gag, but failed to produce anything intelligible. Van Rook pulled the zipper back up. This was met with a muffled shout and thrashing.

No skin off Van Rook's back if the kid decided to exhaust himself.

Calmly, he went through his post-flight check before unstrapping the bag and making his way off the small plane.

His client was already standing there, on the grass, sweating and mopping his forehead with his sleeve despite the relatively cool weather, flanked by bodyguards. His face lit up when he saw Van Rook, and even more when he saw the bag.

"You have it, then," he said, excited.

"Of course," said Van Rook.

"Well, hand it over, then," he said, reaching.

Van Rook held up his hand. His client stopped with an affronted look on his face. "First," said Van Rook. "Money. Second, I have, maybe, one, two scruples. You say you need him to control this cryptid? Show me the cryptid."

"Scruples?" said the man, taken aback. "You were advertised-"

"Yes, yes, I know, everyone thinks they want this, this man with no scruples. But they don't. They trick themselves, see? A man with no scruples... a man with no scruples, is a man who wouldn't think twice about just taking the money any way he could. You see?"

The bodyguards had their hands on their weapons. Posers. Van Rook had never taken his off.

"... and, the other scruple?"

Van Rook smiled, nastily. "What do you think? I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt. You tell me to sell you a twelve year old. What am I supposed to think?"

The client had gone very red in the face. "I assure you-"

"Assure me with money. And the cryptid," said Van Rook. "Words can't buy me dinner."

"Very well, then."

The man turned and waddled into the ruins. Electric lights had been strung up to illuminate the darker areas, and there was a significant amount of digging equipment. Someone had been excavating. Most likely less than legally. Van Rook wondered how long it would take the other Saturdays to find this place and mount a rescue. Not that it mattered. The hell family would cease to be his problem as soon as he was paid and away. The client got to deal with them then.

He noted the kid had gone still. Worn himself out, maybe? Or perhaps the conversation with the client had spooked him. Kid might face off against the likes of Argost, but he was still only twelve.

They climbed down several flights of stairs that ultimately terminated in a large, only half-lit cavern. However, the ligting was good enough for Van Rook to see both the massive pile of treasure and the gnarled giant that guarded it.

"A spriggan," said the client, whispering. "All this way, and we can't make the damn thing move." Then he laughed. "There's your payment, for you," he said, waving at the treasure mound.

You know what? thought Van Rook. Screw this guy.

On the other hand, this had been hard work, and he did very much want to get paid. He had expenses.

Van Rook set the bag down and unzipped it, dodging a sloppy attempt at a kick from the kid. He had to give him credit for guts and even getting into position while tied up.

Van Rook hauled him into a sitting position. The client reached down to grab his chin. And forced him to look up.

"My, his eyes really are yellow, aren't they? Except for those, he almost looks human."

The kid growled, deep in his throat. It might have been one of the few sounds available to him around the gag, but it didn't help his case. The client laughed nervously. "Of course, the disposition... haha."

Van Rook rolled his eyes. It wasn't like the client would see behind his visor.

"Now, uh, make the monster go away."

The kid continued to glare.

"I think you'll have to be more specific."

"The spriggan. The giant. Make it leave. Make it go far away."

Still nothing. No magic spooky nonsense, no glowing eyes, no screaming cryptids, nothing.

"Let me, sir," said one of the bodyguards. He leaned down and whispered something lengthy in the kids ear, one hand gripping his shoulder. As he spoke, the kid's breath grew ragged and his skin took on a sickly cast. He tried to pull away from the bodyguard (towards Van Rook, for incomprehensible reasons), but despite the man's shortcomings in the bodyguard department, he could restrain a bound preteen who was probably still recovering from a dose of knockout drugs.

When the man let go, the kid was shaking. Although, that could easily be explained by their surroundings. He'd picked the kid up in Bermuda, and he'd been dressed for it. Now, they were in Cornwall. Much colder.

"Well? Go on, then," ordered the bodyguard.

The kid tried to say something around the gag and was promptly backhanded.

"Hey, hey," Van Rook said grabbing the bodyguard's wrist when he went in for another strike. "Let's hear what he has to say, huh?"

He untied the gag and tugged it from the kid's mouth, only allowing himself a second to be disturbed by how the cloth tore against his teeth. The boy worked his jaw up and down a few times and licked his lips before he tried to speak again.

"I can't actually do what you want me to do," he said, scowling.

The client's face turned thunderous. "Excuse me?"

"Well, to begin with, I'm out of range, and even if I wasn't, my powers are pretty limited without the Claw." He looked at Van Rook with ill-disguised hope.

"I'm not giving you your magic weapon, but nice try."

The kid's face fell back into a scowl. "Beyond that, I don't know who told you my powers were mind control, but they're not." He didn't elaborate. "I can't make that spriggan leave."

"But," said the client, hands fluttering, "magic-"

The boy pulled his lips back in a snarl, revealing too-white, too-sharp teeth. "Just because it's magic doesn't mean it doesn't have rules, idiot."

The list of things Van Rook was truly scared of was short and topped by his own empty wallet and whatever was going on with Argost. Zak Saturday didn't come close. But in ten years... Well. Van Rook would be retired by then, one way or another.

And, to be frank, the kid being stubborn right now wasn't his problem either. "So," he drawled. "I brought you the kid. Where's my money?"

The client's furious expression turned meek in a heartbeat. "Well, you can see-"

"Either pay me now, or I'm leaving with my merchandise."

"But-"

"Not my problem. Pay. Me."

"Well, I-"

Across the cavern, the giant roared something that almost sounded like language.

"He'll pay you," said the kid.

"What?" chorused the adults.

"He'll pay you. The spriggan. The spiggan will pay you, if you can get these guys to go away leave him alone. Double."

Van Rook looked at the kid, then the cryptid, then the massive pile of treasure the cryptid was sitting on. He shrugged. "Sounds good to me."

"You can't be serious!"

"I'm always very serious about getting paid."

.

Zak sat next to the spriggan, arms around his knees, and tried not to breathe too deeply. Van Rook had left a while ago.

"Thanks for letting me wait here with you," he said. He meant it, and the cavern really was much more pleasant once the spriggan cleaned up Van Rook's work. "Mom and Dad should pick me up any time now." He glanced at the entryway and shuddered. It wasn't like he'd never seen blood before, and it wasn't like he'd never been kidnapped before, but...

The spriggan dropped an ancient, ratty fur coat around his shoulders. He looked up with a weak smile.

"Thanks."