#just to quell any worries they just rip the blankets apart

[bambambambino]

I had to hold a toy hostage to get this picture, but it was worth it. I have a new phone background now!

(They need new blankets, I know 😭)

[runningfrom2am]

cold nights // part six

summary: all the stars aligned, and it was you.

pairing: coriolanus snow x fem!reader

wc: 2.7k

masterlists / nav / requests

tags/warnings: tribute!reader and mentor!coriolanus, r is very sweet (too kind for this world. literally.), sunshine x grumpy trope kinda, he falls first, violence typical for the source material, r is very smart (as she should), district twelve!reader.

a/n: i just finished writing s1, and we're halfway through! so in case anyone was wondering, s1 will have 12 parts :) i haven't started s2 yet but i am so excited to!!

series masterlist // playlist

Days passed, no sign of Coryo. The only reason you know he isn't dead is because Sejanus came and told you he would be alright. That didn't do much to quell your worries.

Selfishly, you were scared you wouldn't get to see him again. You knew you wouldn't, actually. Now you were truly alone. Just you and his blanket, the book he gave you, and the dress your mother made. And Sejanus Plinth, you supposed. None of the surviving tributes would even talk to you- not that you really felt like talking. Just reading. You've read and re-read Romeo and Juliet no less than three times since Coriolanus passed the book through the bars to you the night before you went into the arena.

"I know you asked for this, and it's a little early, but happy birthday." Coryo whispers, smiling as the dark of night encases the two of you into your own little world.

He hands you a small box, wrapped in parcel paper and complete with a ribbon made of some kind of knitting thread. You grin, taking it from his hand and carefully untying the bow, delicately pulling the paper apart where it's taped together so as not to rip it. A copy of Romeo and Juliet. Old, tattered, falling apart; well-loved.

"Oh, Coryo, you didn't have to give me anything. That's too sweet." You grin, immediately flipping through the pages despite the dark preventing you from seeing a single word. "Thank you."

"Of course." He says, watching only you as your eyes flick over the pages. What little light falls from the moon is reflected in your eyes, and he wouldn't dare look away.

"My bounty is as boundless as the sea, my love as deep; the more I give to thee, the more I have, for both are infinite." You say softly, and at first, he thinks you're talking to yourself until you look up at him. A small, almost shy smile fit perfectly onto your lips.

"You like it?" He asks, the answer obvious even to him.

"I love it."

You were his tribute. Not a friend, certainly not more, but as he reaches through the bars to let his fingers brush over your cheek all rational thought means nothing. He doesn't realize he's staring at your lips until you comment on it.

"Is this why you asked if I have a boyfriend?" You whisper, your natural smile returns, and he's quickly looking anywhere else. Your eyes, your hair, the spot where his fingertips meet your cheekbone just below your hairline. Anywhere else. "Because I know it wasn't on that list of questions."

He's quickly backtracking, dropping his hand. This was wrong and he knew it. "I, uh, Tigris made you some cake. It's not good, but it's the best we could do." He says, redirecting his attention to his bag as he pulls out the small paper bag.

You sit back, blushing furiously. "I'm sure it's delicious." You smile, and it comes across more nervously than you intended.

"Here." He hands it to you, and you gently place the book next to you on the ground so you don't get any crumbs on it. "I have to go. I'll see you tomorrow."

And just like that, he's gone.

You're grateful when you see Sejanus coming back with his bag of food and water. It had become some form of a routine, at this point. The citizens of the Capitol weren't allowed to bring you food anymore, he was the only one who did for you now that Coryo was gone, and now that his tribute had escaped as well.

"Sejanus." You smile, standing up as he gets closer.

"Y/N. Holding up okay?" He asks, a sad look behind his tired eyes. He looked almost as tired as you, you were sure, but you hadn't seen a mirror since you left your house before the reaping.

You sigh. "I'm holding up." You answer simply. Sejanus is the only person you feel comfortable being totally honest with, but at the same time, you don't want to because you know he already feels bad for what you're going through. He's the only one outside this cage who kind of understands. "How about you?"

"I'm alright." He shrugs, reaching into his bag and pulling out a sandwich for you. You could never get sick of these. "I also have salt, if it needs more of that." He hands you a small bag of table salt alongside it.

"Thank you." You grin, tucking the bag into your pocket incase you needed it. "Any news about Coryo?" You ask hopefully, taking a bite. You already feel your starvation-induced nausea fading away.

"Not really. He's recovering, though." Sejanus answers. "Are you ready for the interview tonight?"

"As ready as I'll ever be." You grin. "I was right, I didn't need the book. I already had the whole thing memorized, but it's been so lovely to get to read it again."

"It must be." He nods. "Gives you something to do."

You hum in agreement, looking around at the other tributes. No one is even moving much anymore. "Can I ask you something?"

"Anything."

You look down at your sandwich while you think about how you want to word this. "Is Coryo..." No, that's not it. "I got the feeling that he actually cared for me. Is that true?"

"Coryo has never been one to tell anyone what he's thinking." Sejanus says, entirely unhelpfully. That's not his fault, though. "But if I had to guess, I would say yes."

"I'm just wondering because it's nice to have friends now. Here. At the end." You smile sadly before taking another bite. "And I was worried I had upset him."

"You? No." Sejanus shakes his head. "I don't think you could if you tried."

"Why's that?"

"Well... It's hard to explain. He's always been super focused on school, on the prize, but now, when it matters most, I feel like he's more focused on you and making sure you actually win." He tells you. "But, like I said, he wouldn't talk about it even if I asked him outright."

You nod. "Thank you, Sejanus. For always being honest with me."

"Of course. It's the very least I can do, all things considered."

"Can I ask you for one more favour?" You ask hopefully. "If not I understand, you must be quite busy."

"I have the rest of my life to be busy." He shakes his head. "What do you need?"

"Will you tell Coryo thank you, for me?"

"Yes. Of course." He agrees without hesitation.

"And do you have a pencil and paper?"

Sejanus headed home for a while and then back to the hospital after his visit with you, armed with your note in his pocket to pass on to Coryo. He was hoping he would be awake right now, he had been so on and off the last few days. More grumpy than normal, and Sejanus could tell it was driving him up the wall that he couldn't go see you. But the interviews had already started, so he would get to see you soon- even if it's just through the screen.

"Tigris." He whispers, pulling back the curtain as he sees the familiar girl sitting at his friend's side. She hadn't left her cousin most of the time he'd been bedridden, she was there every time Sejanus checked in.

"Oh, hello." She whispers, smiling at him. "He's still resting, but he's feeling a bit better today I think."

"That's good. I'm glad to hear it." Sejanus agrees, taking the seat next to her. "I went to see Y/N. She's eaten. She doesn't look good, though."

Tigris nods, returning her gaze to her sleeping cousin and pushing his hair away from his eyes. It's not like he needs to see, but she would do it anyway. Just to make sure he wouldn't be annoyed when he woke up. "He's been worrying about her. I can tell."

"She asked me if she did something to upset him. Has he said anything to you?"

"No, nothing." She shakes her head, lip jutting out at the confusing statement. Nothing at all would indicate to her that he was upset with you, but it's entirely possible that stuck in that cage day in and day out you could quickly become paranoid about who you could trust.

"Okay, good. That's what I told her anyway." He tries to be quiet as he speaks, but the whispering wakes his friend anyway.

Coryo's eyes fly open and he gasps, eyes landing on the two of them sitting in front of him.

"Coryo," Tigris says softly, a small, worried smile on her face.

"Y/N?" He asks, his voice husky from sleep. "Is she-"

"She's alive," Tigris promises, gently rubbing his arm, landing her hand on his and squeezing it gently.

"Is she hurt?"

"Not badly." Sejanus shakes his head. "A few decent cuts and bruises, but she'll be okay. I brought her some antibiotics the other day so nothing will get infected." You won't be okay, they both know that, but you certainly wouldn't be dying from the minor injuries you sustained in the rebel bombing.

He nods, slightly, trying to sit up. "How long was I sleeping? What did I miss?"

"Another tribute died from injuries," Sejanus replies. "Everyone is still scared. No one will go see them anymore, I haven't seen any of the other mentors there either. But I've been feeding her. She's okay."

Coryo nods, wincing at the pain in his back as he moves. The burn was bad, but apparently, it was healing well.

"Marcus is still missing. I haven't heard anything about him. They're hunting him but I still think he has a better chance out there than he would tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" Coryo asks, rubbing his head with his free hand, Tigris still holding his other one. "They're still going ahead with the games?"

Sejanus just slightly shakes his head, looking away. Coryo knows that that is a yes.

"Oh no... Y/N.... She could've run," He mumbles. "But she saved me."

"I tried to convince her to. I did." Sejanus reminds him. "She wouldn't budge."

All heads turn as Lucky's voice on the TV catches their attention. "And now, our final tribute. I first met this young lady in the zoo not too long ago. From District Twelve, Y/N Y/L/N. Come on out here!"

Lucretius motions for you to step out onto the stage and you do, gently placing the book and the blanket you had brought with you on the floor in a neat pile before joining him.

"Lucretius." You smile. "It's good to see you." You're nervous in front of so many people, the audience in front of you is much larger than the small one you spoke in front of at the reaping, and being in front of a camera without Coryo by your side made you antsy.

"You as well, Darling. Now, I was told you had something you wanted to do for us so I'll just leave you to that. Charm us! Remember, the world is watching." He smiles, gently patting your shoulder before walking just out of view of the cameras. His statement was far from reassuring.

"Uhm..." You stare out at the audience, and suddenly you're scared you've forgotten the entire thing. You had to do well. For Coryo and his prize. He needed this. "I've become aware that not many people know this play." You chuckle, trying to hide your nervousness behind it. "But Romeo and Juliet has always held a special place in my heart and I want to share that with the world, before I go."

You take a deep breath, closing your eyes. You wonder if Coryo is watching. He's not here, you're sure of that, but you do hope he gets to see. And he does.

He stands up as soon as your face first appears on the screen, declining help from both Tigris and Sejanus as he limps over to the TV, cranking up the volume. Your fate depends on this, he knows it, but he can't look past the blue tint under your eyes and the bruises that litter almost every part of your exposed skin. The cuts are what get him the most. Your knuckles are cleaned up, mostly, but red and irritated as you twist your hands together nervously in front of you. Same with the crude black stitches on your upper arm. Irritated, neglected by professionals, but at least it wasn't serious.

"Come on... You can do it." He mumbles mostly to himself, and Tigris reaches up to place a reassuring hand on his shoulder as the three of them watch.

"O Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?" Immediately, he is confused. He expected to be, of course, but he could also tell as soon as you started reciting it, after the first line, your confidence was coming back to you. This play was your safe space.

"Deny thy father and refuse thy name. Or if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love; and I'll no longer be a Capulet." You look out at the silent audience as you speak, a smile forming on your lips. They're listening. "'Tis but thy name that is my enemy: Thou art thyself, though not a Montague."

Coryo is wishing you had explained more to him about what this play is about. "What's Montague? It is nor hand nor foot, nor arm nor face nor any other part belonging to a man. Oh, be some other name." He should have asked. Why didn't he ask? You told him yourself that you could talk about it for hours. Why didn't he take advantage of that when he had the chance?

"What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet; so Romeo would, were he not Romeo call'd, retain that dear perfection which he owes without that title." A rose. Of course a rose, was this for him? He longed to understand it better as he watched the donations tracker tick up and up toward the thousands.

"Romeo, doff thy name, And for that name, which is no part of thee," You take a deep breath for the first time since you started speaking. "Take all myself."

It was a beat or two before the audience clued in that you were done, and then the cheers started. A standing ovation, people wiping their eyes and clapping for you like you had changed their lives.

"Wow! Now wasn't that something, everyone!" Lucky laughs, coming back into the frame of Coryo's view from the camera. Tigris was in tears. The continual uptick of the donations counter was reassuring to him. As you smiled, cheeks flushing red. "The donations are just flooding in with a record high! That must feel good."

"Thank you, it does." You nod at Lucky, trying to place all your focus on him so you don't get too embarrassed in front of the crowd. At least you knew Coryo would be pleased. If you understood his prize situation as well as you thought you did, this was very good for him. "I just want to make my family and my mentor proud."

"You have a real talent. It's such a shame." The host says to you and you laugh awkwardly.

"Well, everyone loves something. I just loved books."

You continually referring to yourself in the past tense makes Coryo want to puke, looking away from the screen only briefly to take in the other nurses and patients watching too.

"We have just a few moments left, but I need to know, what is that about?"

"Oh! Well, Romeo and Juliet is a tragedy." You explain, back to yourself again. "It's about two star-crossed lovers from feuding families. So, what Juliet was talking about, to put it very simply because I could go on and on about this, was that she loved Romeo for who he was- not just his name or his family. It didn't matter to her that they came from different places. She loves him anyway, and if he couldn't let go of his family, she would give up her own life for him."

Coryo's eyes widen. So it was about him. He can't help the tug on his lips that threatens to form a smile.

"Alrighty then, that's very sweet." Lucky replies. "Now, you said it's a tragedy. What is so tragic about a love story?"

"Well," You chuckle nervously. "They both die at the end."

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if your user has a strikethrough i wasn't able to tag you! i'm so sorry!

[silastheanon]

Merry fuckin christmas

merry god damn christmas @professionallydeadinside literally love you smmmm here you go it's down below you fuckin know how it is

The yule log crackled and snapped in the fireplace. Alexandra sat toward the foot of her bed, blankets pulled up around her like a cloak. The warmth from the burning logs was somewhat unpleasant on its own, that close, but on top of her fever, it was almost unbearable. 

She didn’t care, though. It made her feel somewhat normal, the thought that others throughout her kingdom, throughout the world, were sitting in front of their own fireplaces. That innumerable people were watching as their own yule logs burnt. It felt a bit like she didn’t have the fever, like she wasn’t being consumed and destroyed from her insides out, like her skin wasn’t stone and aflame. Like she wasn’t alone. 

But, it was funny, because she wasn’t alone. The figure was there, standing completely still in the corner of her room. That seemed to be his favourite spot, where he could see the whole room. He was like a predator, Alexandra thought, so similar to the animals she could only read about. 

He was shrouded in darkness, like he always was, but his eyes glowed so green and so brightly that she could make out most of his face, at least. She could tell he was tall, and he had such soft hands, but that was it. He never came close enough when the lights were on for her to really see him. Even trying to look at him in the warm light of the yule log made her eyes strain and her head hurt. 

For some time, unknown to her, she simply sat on her bed and stared at him, or stared at the fire. He didn’t move, and there was no noise of him breathing, of him even shifting or fidgeting, at all. It was almost like he was dead, or maybe Alexandra was the corpse in the room. 

“Hi, Galante,” she whispered, barely a breath in the room. He’d told her his name one night, when she swore she burned so hot her flesh was melting, that she would look at herself and see only bone. She’d thought she was going to die that night, and he had told her his name. 

She’d never admit it aloud, but she was certain that was the only reason she hadn’t died that night. 

“Hello, Alexandra,” he answered, voice even softer than hers. It always was, and she could see how his mouth didn’t move, his throat never twitching with vocal chords. The whispers came from the air, from the nothing that surrounded them both. His voice came from the shadows and abyss, just like him. 

“Do you celebrate yule? Do you burn yule logs?” Alexandra asked. He rarely ever actually answered her, but maybe he would be feeling extra giving. She didn’t think she ever asked much, or pushed boundaries and lines. She just wanted to better know her only friend, her only companion at all. 

A humm simply rumbled in the room, and then Alexandra had no mind to use to watch him. 

The fever flared, and her body seized. Her nails, uncared for and long and cracked, dug into her own palms, and her body burned. If she had any use of her mental functions, if they weren’t being consumed by death itself and the destruction of hell, then she would’ve worried she was going to set her bedding aflame. She was in an eternal supernova, ripping her apart at the atom. 

The room was nothing, it was a blur as tears ran down her red cheeks and her pupils exploded as her body tried to escape its torment. She could see so little that she only realised anything had changed when the bed sagged next to her. 

The fever grew again, climbing to a somehow higher temperature, before it plummeted to nothing. A gasp tore itself from her, and then she panted so harshly she worried her chest would cave in on itself. 

Galante was saving her. He hand rested atop her forehead, and she was free from her agony. His touch was Gods holy gift to her, Galante was her salvation, her absolution, and he would save her. His touch quelled her fever, softened her stone skin, and eased her throat filled with stinging bugs. Sobbing, heaving with disgusting cries, she reached up and held his wrist, keeping his hand on her head. 

“Please, please, please, Galante, please. . .” she begged him, desperate for the peace he gave her. Alexandra couldn’t even fathom the idea of him ripping away her only safety, her only hope of comfort. It made her heart ache, and her stomach roll. 

“Easy, little one, easy,” Galante soothed, his piercing green eyes digging into her skull and her soul. It was like he could see everything she was, and everything she ever would be. 

He didn’t move his hand from her head, no, rather he let her shuffle closer to him. He even permitted her to lay her head on his lap. He even stroked her hair, slowly, easing away the last bites of her pain and fever. 

“Thank you,” she stammered out after a long time of silence, basking in the slow burning of her yule log and how his eyes gleamed against her few belongings from a time long ago. 

“Of course, little one. It is no problem to aid you in your own problems.” He paused for a time, but his hand never stopped gently running along her hair. She sighed quietly, settling better onto him. “Would you be willing to hear about a plan I’ve been thinking of? Something of a deal between us?” 

“A deal?” She asked, trying to look up at him by just moving her eyes, “I don’t have anything to give you, anything you would want.” 

“Ooh, but you do. Be assured, there is much I will get from this agreement, but none of it must come from you, merely from your acquiescing to it,” Galante comforted her, his accented voice rolling the words around in such a pleasing way. 

“Oh. . . Alright, what do I get out of this deal?” 

“Your life. All we need is your twin brother.” 

And so, Alexandra sat there, her head on his lap, listening to him tell her about how he could help her. She listened, and she believed him. After all, Galante was Gods gift to her, her salvation, her absolution. He would save her.

[spritehouse]

colorful regret

ralvez + past moreid | what used to be mine drabble

⚠️Content Warnings: fighting (verbal), relapsing, panic attacks/flashbacks, referenced past domestic abuse

spencer and luke get in a fight. spencer relapses and luke spirals. (from #2 of this post)

luke hates fighting.

he's a pretty chill guy, usually avoiding conflict, especially when it comes to his close relationships, trying to de-escalate the situation, but sometimes, it's inevitable.

that doesn't make them any better—the shouting, doors slamming, hurtful words yelled across their sanctuary—the inescapability never easing the pain and panic that come with their outbursts.

and the worst part is he understands.

luke knows they're approaching the anniversary of derek morgan's death, that his partner isn't trying to hurt him, just grieving, the date ripping open old wounds that never fully healed, not trying to hurt him, but that doesn't stop the panic rising in his chest, bad memories overlaying their argument.

he knows he should worry about spencer when the younger brunette storms out of their apartment in the middle of the night—he shouldn't be alone right now—but he's too busy attempting to quell the panic clawing at his throat, hands shaking and body trembling as he talks himself down from panic attacks in the bathroom.

no, spencer doesn't mean it, wasn't trying to hurt him, sending luke spiraling, gasping for air the way his ex did, but he did.

there's no damning the floodgates of his memories, a trickle of sensation erupting into a flood of repressed recollection, screaming, shouting, sobbing echoing in his skull.

he gets through the worst of it, still shaking slightly as luke emerges from the bathroom, grounding himself in their apartment as he gets a glass of water, trembling hands gliding across the soft fabric of spencer's favorite blanket on the couch.

he almost manages to fall asleep, waiting for his partner to return, dozing in their living room, fighting to keep nightmares at bay when the front door opens.

"there you are. i was starting to–" luke's face falls when he makes eye contact with spencer, vacant pinpricks staring past him, glossy-eyed as he stumbles into their shared space.

and he knows ptsd isn't logical, that is isn't his fault, that spencer wouldn't blame him if he were sober, but the older man still feels guilty when he flees the room, slamming the bathroom door behind him as he gasps against the hand– her hand around his throat.

he can't breathe, can't think, everything reminding him of her as he staggers to the bathtub, sitting in the porcelain basin as he breaks down, sobs wracking his exhausted body until his vision blurs.

he doesn't remember having his phone in his pocket or dialing a familiar number, pressing his phone to his ear between dry heaves, only aware of his movements when a voice penetrates his panic–

"luke? can you hear me?"

he swallows, choking on a cry as he releases a quiet, affirming hum, hugging his knees to his chest.

"what's wrong, sweetie? are you okay? are you safe?"

"i– it's– he– spe– we got in a fight–" luke stammers between sharp, painful inhales, returning to himself as he forces the words past his lips. "he– he relapsed."

he can hear her shuffling, moving around her house as spencer's aunt springs into action.

"okay. where is he?"

"home– the living room."

"good. now where are you?"

it hits him that she doesn't know about his ex, about the layers of this situation, how he's seeing parts of her in him–

"luke? are you still there?"

"i'm in the bathroom. i– i should be with him, i know–"

"it's okay, luke. focus on yourself right now," her voice is calm and constant, the voice of someone who understands after years as an agent, and comforting. "you did the right thing. okay? i'm a few minutes away. keep yourself safe; i'll take care of spencer. do you hear me?"

"yeah– yes. yeah. i– yeah, got it."

"do you have someone you can call? i'm probably going to take him to my place and i don't want you to be alone right now."

"yeah, i have someone. i'll text them."

"good. that's good, luke. will you stay on the phone with me? i'm almost there."

"yeah, i can do that," luke takes a deep breath, counting the tiles on their bathroom floor. "thank you."

"thank you for calling. are you feeling better?"

"i am, sorry, i–"

"it's okay; you don't have to apologize or explain. i'm honored you felt safe calling me."

he hums in response, melting into the bathtub as he listens to alex drive.

"i'm pulling up right now. okay? i'll be up in a second."

"the door's unlocked."

"thank you, luke."

idk how to finish this scene but i have to go to sleep

[wcrpbubble]

she's grateful they've made it through unscathed without another warp core incident. frankly she isn't sure how they'd continue if something were to happen to it; there wasn't a luxury of getting it replaced anytime soon if they were to be forced to eject it. sometimes she worries they're barely going to make it home with voyager held together with little more than bubblegum and string (she thinks she might be held together with much the same, unless she's dead by the time they get back). another harsh reality put forth by the delta quadrant. it's like it will never end - and even in the quiet hours she spends with chakotay or their sons, it's a thought never far from her mind.

if they're lucky, they won't have to deal with species 8472 anymore. that they're finally away from this sector of space. it doesn't mean there aren't more enemies down the line, however. ones just as cruel or calculating or destructive as the last.

it's strange, how easily she and chakotay move through what is a well rehearsed nighttime routine. like two satellites orbiting each other, they move in tandem in putting the boys to bed. she settles keiran onto his bed and pulls blankets up around him, tossing chakotay's jacket over her arm as she takes the stuffed sloth that has made quite a journey on it's own. she is careful to tuck it into keiran's embrace; he latches on with a heavy sigh in his sleep, pulling the toy against his chest in a familiar gesture. she's grateful neither of them have woken up; not until she and chakotay can figure out how to explain things to them in a way children would understand.

no one ever warned her how difficult it would be to be a parent, to try and navigate such difficult conversations while trying to keep them from being hurt or worse. it's no secret she would do anything for her crew, but the fierceness that is in her chest to protect these two smallest of their crew rivals nothing else. she knows chakotay feels the same; they would do anything for their boys.

satisfied kolo and keiran are settled for the time being, she presses a kiss to each of their heads before she lets chakotay pull her from the room. she tosses his jacket vaguely toward the nearest surface, and then melts almost immediately into his embrace. their height difference allows her to neatly tuck herself beneath his chin, face buried into his neck as her arms curl around him. the rest of the universe fades away and she feels the uncomfortable tightness in her chest lessen; her worries are still there, but not all consuming. nothing else matters but her children, and chakotay - and there's nothing in the universe that can touch her, wrapped in his embrace. it's a balm she takes very generous advantage of when she can - the steady warmth of his presence quells any emotional din of her mind, forces her to slow down and simply be.

together. such a simple word and yet it means everything to her - she'd never expected to rely on someone so much, both in command and in life. but she's learned, and she's grateful beyond measure for the strength chakotay gives her, both as an officer and husband. it's allowed her to learn to rely on other members of their crew - none of them can get through this alone.

"i knew it wasn't going to be easy, bringing them to voyager. today's just . . . the first time i truly saw how much danger they could be in." she misses the ease of new earth, the only danger being a twisted ankle or a scraped knee. she and chakotay had been more in control of their own environment there, able to keep their sons in a veritable bubble of peace. out here, they can only control voyager, not the ones outside of the bulkheads who would rather see them ripped apart or the ship scrapped for parts.

through all of it, however, there's only one person she can ever see doing it all with. she'd said as much, some years ago, and it still holds true.

"i'm glad you're safe." she murmurs after another moment of being lost in her own mind. "much as i am our sons. i don't know what i'd do without you."

chakotay knew she was right, he had never kept anything from the boys and he wasn’t going to start now. getting keiran to understand  with how young he was would be the difficult part and yet his aversion to strangers would play a key role in understanding what they would try to tell him.  “luckily the warp core sustained very little damage in the attack. we’ve repaired several clamps and were able to stabilize the dampers to get us moving again. the course you and seven laid in has gotten us far enough away from 8472, they won’t come after us again.” with the hull breaches being temporarily contained, it was that much more of an incentive that they could take the time off shift to gather themselves. 

they knew that something like this could and would happen. in a way, he was hoping they’d have more time to prepare some sort of way to explain how the universe and delta quadrant worked to the boys. unfortunately, that time had run out. the freedom they once had to run around in the forest, to play without concern was long gone. there were dangers out there that were never present on new earth, dangers that affected not just their children but themselves as well.

following behind her, he waited until the door slides closed behind him before he replies. “it was never our intention to keep anything from them. if we had more time before this, we would have sat them down. we had no way of knowing 8472 would make their presence known.” 

passing a table with several books on it, he reaches for keiran’s favorite toy, a stuffed sloth that had been worn down by the years spent being cuddled and carried through the forest, puddles of mud and in lakes. its wear and tear had begun to show in the months before the voyager crew appeared and sent kolo running into his arms. the sloth had seen far better days but it was one thing keiran refused to let go of and they weren’t going to take it from them. 

it was surprising, remembering how the captains quarters looked before they were confined to new earth to how it appeared now that it housed four of them. it took on an entire life of its own. it was no new earth, or the home they built there, but it was home enough to become a familiar comfort to not only the boys but himself as well. he never knew– never imagined at the end of a long shift, he’d return to his quarters to find small hands reaching for him and a million questions waiting for him as he walked through the door would be something he looked forward to.

chakotay knew new earth had changed him; five years of building a life, raising two children and building his relationship with kathryn, it had all made him a better man. 

as the door to the boys room slid open, he waited for her to step inside before he followed, setting the panel so the door would remain open once they were done. it would allow them to keep an eye on them as they slept. a comfort in knowing if one of them woke, they’d be able to see it. the boys would be able to see them and know they were safe in their own beds, in their quarters. 

handing her the stuff sloth lovingly named bear, he agreed with her. “all we can do is be honest and try to explain things as best as we are able to. everything. starfleet, the danger and what to do incase we can’t get to them.” it would be a hard conversation to have. something they never considered they’d need to do on new earth. 

tossing the blanket that had been around kolo onto a chair in their room, he carefully laid their oldest down, moving the hair from his face before covering him with is own blankets. he watched as kolo moved to nuzzle into his own pillow. as his breathing evened out, chakotay knew he was still asleep. it was late, long past a bedtime they’d been used to—though the events of the afternoon would be enough to be draining on both of their sons. 

chakotay understands her worry and her concern. he has the same worries and concerns. there is also a myriad of concerns the alpha quadrant would bring for him as well. for now he needed to focus on the task at hand; getting his family settled and her mind at ease. “i can’t tell you that it won’t happen, or that we can prevent it… because i can’t make that promise to you.”  he speaks softly, switching on a light tom had replicated for the boys, giving a soft yellow glow to the room. 

taking her hand, he leads her from the room, once they are in the main room of the quarters he uses that hand to pull her into his arms. a heavy sigh follows and he can feel the adrenaline drain from his body, and the tension of the last few hours melt away. his family was safe, his wife was in his arms and their boys were asleep nearby. “whatever comes, we will handle it together.” just as they always had and continue to do so. they’ve overcome far too much to let it come crashing down around them. voyager will return to its proper state, he knew they’d return to the alpha quadrant safely with their children in tow. 

“i know,” he says, his voice low against the quiet sounds of the boys sleeping and the hum of the nacells as they move the ship at warp four.  “this is not what we imagined. i can’t promise you nothing bad will ever happen. but i can promise that i will never let anything happen to you or our children.”

he had made that promise the moment the boys had come into the world and changed their lives and he planned to keep it. whatever the delta quadrant threw at them, he knew they were more than capable of handling it and getting the ship home. chakotay would never let her shoulder the burdens of their mission alone. her fight was just as much his. 

[thewidowsghost]

Agent Danvers - Chapter 6

Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist

I was going to post this tomorrow, but I decided just to post it today!

Enjoy what nonsense I put in here . . .

I love y’all! 

Kara kneels over a man’s body in her Supergirl suit.

“I called her, sir,” Alex tells Hank. “We hunt aliens. She is one. It’s a resource we didn’t have before.” Kara looks around, smiling slightly up at her sister.

“What can I do to help?” Kara rises to her feet.

“Don’t cause any oil spills,” Hank says.

Harsh, Kara thinks.

“Take a look around. Don’t touch anything,” Alex tells her younger sister.

“Alex,” Hank says and the two take a few steps away, “this whole facility specializes in chemical manufacturing. Sodium hypochlorite, ammonium nitrate.

“Ingredients for a chemical bomb?” Alex questions.

“Yeah,” Hank replies. “We need to find this alien, fast.”

. . .

There is a knock on (Y/n)’s front door from a pair of concerned sisters.

“You think she’s okay?” Kara asks, her eyes wide with worry. “She’s been mentioning for the last few days that she’s felt sick.”

“I hope she’s okay,” Alex replies. She, once again, sees the image of her baby sister crying over her redheaded girlfriend’s unconscious body and pain rips at Alex Danvers’s heart.

. . .

Loud knocking wakes (Y/n) from her place on the couch, still feeling nauseous. As (Y/n) stumbles sleepily to the door, Liho meows, looking annoyed - and sleepy.

(Y/n) opens her door, her gaze softening.

“Lena! Come in,” (Y/n) opens her door, letting Yelena Belova.

(Y/n) gives Yelena a hug, her eyes softening with a sisterly affection.

Liho toddles over on little legs, letting out a soft mew.

“Hi,” Yelena crouches down, petting the cat on the head.

(Y/n) sits back down on the couch, trying to quell her nausea.

Yelena studies (Y/n) for a moment, but then shrugs, sitting down.

. . .

(Y/n)’s leans back in her seat at her desk at CatCo, furrowing her eyebrows. The ache in her lower back had been frustrating her for the last hour and a half, yet she had no time to get up and try to relieve her pain.

The firewall she was trying to build had frustrated her even further.

Kara walks over to her sister’s desk, sitting down on the edge of the desk. “Are you okay?” Kara asks, her eyebrows furrowing with concern.

“My back is killing me,” (Y/n) grumbles, pressing her hand to the small of her back. “The firewall isn’t helping either.”

(Y/n)’s fellow IT walks over. Winn leans over (Y/n)’s shoulder, typing in a few commands.

“Thanks Winn,” (Y/n) smiles slightly, glad that her friend helped.

“Maybe you should go home,” Kara says, looking concerned.

“Maybe I will,” (Y/n) says, swallowing down her sudden surge of nausea.

Cat Grant walks out of her office, glancing between Kara and (Y/n). Her expression softens uncharacteristically. “Why don’t you both have the rest of the day off?”

Kara glances, her eyes widening slightly, up at her boss.

“Go on,” Cat says.

“Yes, Miss Grant,” both Danvers sisters say.

Kara helps (Y/n) pack up her laptop and all her other work equipment before heading back to her own apartment.

“I’ll go get Liho,” Kara says, knowing the kitten was the source of (Y/n)’s happiness.

(Y/n) grabs a blanket as Kara leaves the apartment from the window.

(Y/n) had fallen asleep by the time Kara had returned, and Kara grows more concerned.

Liho lets out a soft mew, kneading the couch before lying down. She sniffs at the fabric of the blanket that had bunched up around (Y/n)’s stomach, but seems content and Liho closes her eyes.

“I hope you feel better soon,” Kara murmurs, running her fingers through her sister’s hair.

. . .

Eight-and-a-half months later, (Y/n) finds herself on a bus with Jo’on and Alex.

“Remain seated,” a police woman steps onto the bus, and (Y/n) rests a hand on her stomach.

Jo’on had disguised himself as a little boy, and Alex had dawned a blonde wig.

(Y/n), who had just gone with Jo’on and Alex to go visit her mother, relaxes slightly in her seat.

“We’re on the lookout for a pair of fugitives,” the police woman says, “wanted in connection to some very serious crimes. They are considered to be extremely dangerous.”

Jo’on rests his little blonde head against Alex’s shoulder, wrapping his little arms around her waist.

Alex wraps an arm around Jo’on’s shoulders in a motherly fashion.

The police woman passes past the three before turning around and getting off the bus.

. . .

Night had fallen by the time (Y/n), Alex, and Jo’on arrive at their old house in Midvale.

“Hi,” Eliza Danvers wraps her youngest daughter in a hug, being careful of (Y/n)’s baby bump.

(Y/n)’s expression softens. “Hi, Mom. I brought a few friends,” (Y/n) continues.

Alex and Jo’on come into view, and Eliza hugs her eldest daughter tightly. “Are you alright?” Eliza asks, resting her hands on Alex’s forearms. “What is going on?”

“Well . . .” Alex pauses, trying to collect her thoughts.

“And who’s this?” Eliza goes on.

Jo’on shifts back into himself, and Eliza takes a step back. “What the hell?”

“No, no, no, Mom. It’s okay,” (Y/n) rests a gentle hand on her mother’s arm.

“No, whatever that is, that killed your father!” Eliza replies, meeting (Y/n)’s gaze with wild eyes.

“No,” (Y/n) shakes her head.

“The real Hank Henshaw blackmailed Dad into joining the DEO,” Alex says, throwing off her blonde wig.

“Jo’on tried to save Dad,” (Y/n) says, sitting down in the nearest armchair. “He’s a shape-shifter from Mars.”

“Is it true?” Eliza Danvers asks.

“What’s true is that your husband was one of the best people I’ve ever known,” Jo’on replies. “He saved my life.”

“And Jo’on has saved mine and Kara’s,” Alex adds. “You can trust him. Mom, we don’t have much time,” Alex goes on. “Jo’on and I are on the run. We just stopped by to supply up.”

(Y/n) furrows her brows, leaning back a little in the chair.

“Wait. ‘On the run?’” Eliza asks. “How did the three of you even get out of the city?”

“What?” (Y/n) asks, her head tilting slightly.

“You don’t know what’s happening in National City?” Eliza questions. The two Danvers sister shake their heads, frowning.

“Then their’s something you have to see,” Eliza replies, her expression grim.

. . .

Eliza finds Jo’on in the living room, looking down at a family photo - the three sister with Jeramiah and Eliza standing behind them.

“It’s a nice photograph,” Jo’on tells Eliza. “Beautiful family.” His gaze falls on a picture with (Y/n), possibly sixteen, with a redhead, who also looked about sixteen. He goes to ask about it, but Eliza interjects.

“We were,” Eliza says. “So Alex and (Y/n) say that Jeramiah saved your life. Were you with him?” she questions. “Were you with him at the end?”

“His only thoughts were for you and the girls,” Jo’on replies. “I made him a promise that I would look after all of you; I’ve been trying to keep that promise every day since.

Eliza nods her understanding. “Thank you. So Mars . . .” Eliza sits down on the automan. “I have to ask, underneath it all, are you a little green man?”

(Y/n) walks into the room, her eyes twinkling with mischief. She sits down beside her mother.

Word Count: 1231 words

Taglist:

@imapotatao

@confusinggemini612

@marrymemcgrath

@yeahthatsmelolz

@softballaikido916

@dopeyouth

@maria-403​​

[inkykeiji]

the clock is ticking, running out of time

characters: shigaraki tomura

genre: smut and angst

notes: AAAAAAH HAPPY BIRTHDAY TOMURA!!!!!! sorry i seem to write angst for all of my faves birthdays ehehe. this is technically set in the touya-nii universe!! | title cred: birthday by katy perry

warnings: 18+ minors dni, cheating, implied stepcest/pseudo-incest, toxic relationships, the slightest hint of degradation, noncon/dubcon video recording, extreme feelings of guilt

words: 4.4k

synopsis:

“It’s fine—”

“It’s not,”

“I didn’t come here to talk about Touya,” you say gently, letting your dress drop down as you straighten up. “Let’s—Let’s not think about him right now, okay? Today is your day, and I want to focus on you. Forget about Touya,”

A deep frown mars his face, his nose twitching again. It looks like he wants to say more, but then your hands are on him, roaming across his bony chest and sliding into the tufts of silvery-blue hair at the nape of his neck.

“It’s hard to buy a gift for someone who already has everything,” you’re continuing softly, gazing up at him through your lashes, so close your noses nearly bump together. Sweet breath wafts over his face, a tongue darting out to lick at his lips, as if he’s trying to taste it. “So I thought…I thought the best gift I could give you is me,”

And suddenly, Touya’s wiped from his mind.

You shouldn’t be doing this.

That’s the thought that’s been looping through your head for the past forty-five minutes, for the entire bus ride from Touya’s apartment to Tomura’s, for the walk from the bus stop to his condo complex, for the thirty-seven seconds it takes him to answer the door.

You shouldn’t be doing this.

But you want to.

It’s been months since you’ve seen him last, months since you spent the night with him, months since you’ve spoken to him at all.

4:06. The glowing numbers glare up at you from the screen of your phone, unable to stop obsessively checking your phone, mentally calculating the time you have left over and over again, even though you’ve already meticulously planned this outing down to the very second.

It’s rare for Touya to be out for an exact amount of allotted time, but when he mentioned that he had a three hour full body check up with his doctor that just so happened to be scheduled on Tomura’s birthday…Well, it was too convenient for you not to seize the opportunity.

The door swings open, breaking you out of your thoughts, and your name leaves his lips in a gasp, crimson eyes searching your face in disbelief. A beat of silence passes before he speaks again. “What’re you doing here?”

“Wanted to see you for your birthday,” you say simply with a shrug and he blinks several times, still staring at you incredulously. “You didn’t think I forgot, did you?”

And for a moment you’re terrified you’ve made a grave mistake, terrified that he doesn’t want you here, that he thinks the risk is too big—Touya will murder the both of you if he finds out—too dangerous, his body gone rigid in the doorway, breathing stopped.

But then a brilliant smile is splitting his face, and he’s pulling you into his arms, crushing you to his chest as his fingers curl in the material of your dress.

And you—you practically collapse against him, sighing out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. He still smells exactly the same, just as you remember—like cheap cigarettes and watermelon bubblegum.

The scent evokes thick unfurling remorse, sinking heavily in your stomach, the mantra you’ve been repeating to yourself for the past few days immediately flowing through your mind, a desperate attempt to reassure yourself, to reason with yourself, to justify this decision.

Because you both deserve closure, don’t you? After everything that’s happened? After leaving him without a trace, without so much as a phone call or a quick text to at least let him know you’re okay?

Because Touya’s cheated on you how many times throughout the first six months of your relationship? One more teeny tiny instance of infidelity—the last one, you promise yourself—shouldn’t hurt, so long as he doesn’t know about it.

Right?

Really, this does nothing to dispel the culpability churning in your chest. No, Tomura’s bright boyish smile does that all by itself, sincere in the way it’s stretched across his face as he tugs you inside.

And...And suddenly, none of it really matters. Not in that moment, at least. Suddenly, all of those statements are rendered true; Tomura does deserve this. Suddenly, you realize just how much you’ve missed him.

“I have to be quick, I’m sorry,” your voice cracks under unexpected emotion, but Tomura doesn’t seem bothered by it at all, ecstatic over the fact that you’ve come to visit at all.

“That’s fine,” he’s saying as his hands roam your body, kneading and squeezing with surprising gentleness, eyes shining and wide as they follow his touch, as if he can’t believe you’re here, can’t believe you’re real.

It has your heart shattering in your chest, jagged shards puncturing your surrounding organs, burying themselves deep within you, never to be dug out. A lump lodges itself in your throat, voice frail and full of spit as you speak around it.

“I missed you so much,” the words rush from between your lips without your permission, and Tomura pulls back, smile fading as his gaze searches your face.

For a moment, you can tell that he wants to berate you for disappearing without any contact at all, can see it shining clear as crystal in his eyes as they narrow, as eyebrows knit and his nose scrunches, and you nuzzle your face into him. Guilt, a different kind than that which Touya evokes—this type lighter than the dense acidic guilt that sticks to your insides like thick tar any time sapphire sears through your mind, this type bitter and saturated with melancholy—roots in the pit of your stomach.

“I—I’m sorry I haven’t been able to text,” you mumble meekly, tears pricking your eyes. “Touya—”

“It’s okay,” he cuts you off with surprising softness, fingertips still trailing up and down your spine. “I figured. Uh, how is he? Like, how…How was he?”

The brand of those five letters, now fully healed, scald your flesh, blistering bright and hot as if you had just been branded again. With your bottom lip sucked between your teeth, you contemplate just outright telling him—he’s going to see it eventually either way, but you’re worried about ruining the mood a little too early.

No.

Better to rip it off like a band-aid, to get it out of the way now, instead of interrupting your birthday festivities later.

Your chest swells with a deep inhale, exhaling the words slowly.

“He was…” Livid. Furious beyond belief. Deeply hurt—distressed, distraught, dismayed. Visibly shaken up. In more pain than you’ve ever witnessed before. Terrified. “Upset. Naturally.”

Tomura waits for you to continue, speaking after a few moments of silence. “And?” he prompts, knowing Touya didn’t let you get away with a mere verbal warning, knowing you have more to say.

“A-And—” you bury your face against his neck, hot tears leaking from your eyes and staining his skin as they squeeze shut tightly, forcing the quivering words from your throat. “And he—He, um, he branded me,”

“What?” The word is just a huff of breath as large hands curl around your shoulders, yanking you from the sanctuary of his body so he can scrutinize your face, flashing crimson flying across your features. “He what?”

“His name,” you whisper, eyes still shut, face screwing up in distaste, the words bitter on your tongue.

“Where?”

“My ass,”

“Let me see,”

Eyes snapping open, your head begins to shake, motions cutting off when your stare meets his glare. Reluctantly you turn, flipping your dress up as you bend over a bit, pulling your panties down just enough to show him the slightly raised letters etched into your flesh forever.

Save for the soft, choked noise that sounds in the back of his throat, silence blankets the room, atmosphere suddenly stale and suffocating.

You glance back at him after a few beats, when your chest is beginning to burn from holding your breath in your lungs, and the sight that you are met with has your chest tearing itself in half, ribs caving in, giving way to the deep, dark ache swirling at the very core of your body.

Crimson eyes gleam in the setting sun, a thick layer of tears catching in the golden rays streaming through the window. It’s almost pretty in a way, brilliant ruby that shimmers and shines in the waning beams, practically glowing. But those beautiful, beautiful eyes are transfixed on your bare flesh, unblinking stare etching itself into your skin much like the letters Touya left behind.

His chin trembles just a little, front teeth sinking into his bottom lip in an attempt to halt it, head nodding in minuscule motions, barely noticeable, almost as if he’s confirming something to himself, affirming some unsaid thought sailing through his mind—almost as if he’s blaming himself.

“Fucking bastard,” he spits, though the words are wobbly, lacking heat and coated in sticky saliva. Using the sleeve of his black shirt, he wipes at his nose almost aggressively, quelling it’s twitching as he exhales harshly, nostrils flaring, before he sniffs twice and rolls his shoulders back, gaze finally meeting yours.

“It’s fine—”

“It’s not,”

“I didn’t come here to talk about Touya,” you say gently, letting your dress drop down as you straighten up. “Let’s—Let’s not think about him right now, okay? Today is your day, and I want to focus on you. Forget about Touya,”

A deep frown mars his face, his nose twitching again. It looks like he wants to say more, but then your hands are on him, roaming across his bony chest and sliding into the tufts of silvery-blue hair at the nape of his neck.

The glittering scarlet lace barely obscured by your thin dress singes itself into your flesh as his palms cascade over it, tracing every dip and curve of your body as they slide down to grope your ass.

You had bought the set for this occasion specifically—using cash you had stashed away, of course; Touya regularly checks your bank statements and credit card—with the intention of letting Tomura keep it, as a present.

“It’s hard to buy a gift for someone who already has everything,” you’re continuing softly, gazing up at him through your lashes, so close your noses nearly bump together, sweet breath wafting over his face, a tongue darting out to lick at his lips, as if he’s trying to taste it. “So I thought…I thought the best gift I could give you is me,”

And suddenly, Touya’s wiped from his mind.

He surges forward, foreheads bumping together from the strength, and crushes his lips to yours in a bruising kiss, nimble fingers curling in the hem of your dress and yanking, pulling the material from your body in one erratic motion.

He’s just as enthusiastic as he was all those months ago, large hands settling on your lace-clad hips as he guides you—back, back, back, stumbling over your own feet a little as he shoves forward, teeth clacking as his tongue tangles with yours, interspersed drool pooling at the corners of your lips.

A soft cry of surprise leaves your lips as he roughly spins the two of you so he’s the one reversing, collapsing in the overstuffed gaming chair abandoned near his desk and hauling you down with him, wheels rolling against the hardwood from the force.  

His lips are plush and chapped, kisses messy with strings of viscous saliva, and you’re reminded of how fun kissing Tomura is, playful giggles spilling from one mouth into another consistently breaking the flow as eager hands paw and pull, snapping the clasp on your bra and haphazardly discarding it, your fingers toying with the silver button of his charcoal jeans.

“Get on with it already,” he groans, impatient and entitled as ever, exactly how you remember, hips rutting up into you clumsily as hands travel up your torso to knead your breasts much too hard. And even though it shouldn’t, his predictability inspires a burst of intense warmth in your chest, burning bright like a tiny sun, heat seeping into your blood and flooding your veins as more involuntary giggles pry their way out of your mouth and into his.

“Think that’s funny, huh?” he asks, and although his eyes are fierce and sharp as they scrutinize your face, there’s a playful little grin decorating his lips, slender fingers tweaking a peaked nipple and snickering at your resulting yelp.

“Just missed you, s’all,” you mumble against him, lips dragging along his jaw then trailing down his neck, tongue peeking out to give kitten licks at self-inflicted scars and tugging pathetic little half-whimpers from deep in his throat, rough and uneven as he tries to swallow them back down.

There isn’t enough time for thorough prep, your only form of foreplay consisting of his cock being rammed down your throat—just get it fucking wet, he had demanded—hips stuttering as he desperately tries to keep from bucking while your tongue laves around the shaft, drenching it in spit.

“Fu-Fucking stop, or I’m gonna cum,” Large fists tangle in your hair, trying to yank you off his cock with a pathetic little whine. Gaping pupils outlined by a fine ring of scarlet observe the way your shining lips pucker around his girth as your mouth slides up, grip on your strands already loosening as his chest heaves, completely absorbed by your actions, breath escaping slightly parted lips in sweet little puffs.

A little tongue flicks against the slit as you reach the tip, placing an obscene openmouthed kiss to the head before pulling away completely. Your mouth hovers an inch above it, allowing a large glob of sticky saliva to dribble from your mouth onto the head, then kissing it again, pressing slippery lips to heated silky skin.

“Jesus Christ,”

The curse is nearly a moan, and you look up from your place between his thighs, batting your eyelashes and offering him a tiny smile. His eyes glitter as he gazes down at you, chest rising unevenly under the force of ragged breaths, a thumb swiping across your cheek in a manner that’s almost awestruck, as if he can’t believe you’re here.

“Get on my cock,” he orders a moment later, when the aching between his legs draws him back to reality, hips jerking up in reflexive, instinctive micro-movements, gleaming cock bobbing with the action. “And take your fucking panties off,”

It’s a little awkward and a lot uncoordinated, trying to maneuver yourself onto his lap while he slouches in that ridiculous gaming chair, unable to quell the way his hips prematurely thrust the moment you’re hovering over him, legs folded and cramped on either side of his thighs.

Pathetic little whimpers leak from your lips as his slick cock stretches your ill-prepared hole, cunt stinging as it struggles to adjust to the sudden breach, your nails digging into the lean muscles of his shoulders as a hiss is spit between clenched teeth.

But the moan he emits, deep and satisfying as you sink down on him, how his eyelashes flutter shut and his head knocks back against the headrest as he bottoms out, long ivory neck and prominent Adams apple on display, and the way massive hands grip your hips, fingertips digging into your soft flesh as he forces you to begin bouncing almost immediately, make it all so worth it.

Because he’s still so pretty, lids lifting a moment later to reveal dazzling ruby gazing at you in an almost voracious manner through thick dark lashes, glued to your face as he memorizes every micro-expression that transforms your features, the way your eyes roll back and eyebrows twitch, the way your mouth forms around those cute little gasps of his name that his rough thrusts punch from your chest.

“Did’ya miss my cock?” his breath is already coming out in short little pants, hips grinding urgently against yours, lacking any kind of finesse or rhythm. “B-Bet’cha did,”

“Uh-huh,” your head nods jerkily, hips rocking just as desperately into his as if to confirm your statement. His cock is pretty, too—a darker pink than Touya’s, half an inch shorter but just as fat, thick veins snaking around the shaft like vines.

“Dick drunk already?” he teases, and you’re positive his voice was meant to be more rancorous, but the large grin it’s spoken through, as if he’s proud of himself, chest nearly swelling with it, dilutes it, disintegrating the bitter shell that was supposed to coat the words. His tongue clicks, fluffy tufts of hair bouncing a little as he shakes his head. “What would your precious niichan think?”

You don’t answer—can’t answer—because it’s already so much, uncoordinated thrusting almost teasing in a way, the head of his cock unintentionally grazing that spot buried deep inside of you, the fleeting sensation mixing with that of the taboo, of the naughtiness of the situation, mewls spilling from your lips.

And you wish, so desperately, that you could take your time, that you could enjoy such amateurish gyrating, crude movements giving way to sloppy squelching that makes your stomach swoop and cunt throb as your clit glides against his pubic bone, but the mention of niichan reminds you of your finite amount of time and you lean back, soft palms finding the edge of his desk, fingers curling tightly around it.

Tomura’s bare feet planted on the hardwood keep the chair from shifting as you begin to really ride him, starting with slow, hard rolls of your hips that have cute little grunts hitching in his chest, bright eyes darkening as they watch, lids drooping a little, your movements increasingly gaining speed with each rock forward of your hips, leaning back against the desk and using it for leverage.

Blunt nails bite into your skin, and you want to remind him not to leave marks, but the words won’t keep their shape as they gurgle in your throat, evaporating into moans that break with each rough buck of his hips.

He finds a rhythm with you quickly, though, your lust-hazed mind dully noting that he’s better than before, the thought conjuring sudden, fierce spears of jealousy that slice through your chest, jaw clenching.

“Fuck, you—you’re still the best I’ve ever had,” he practically whines out, like he’s reading the thoughts on your face, but his voice is genuine, strained and hoarse with the confession. “Will probably always be the best I’ve ever had,” his sentence fades into a growl, almost as if he’s angry about it, hands squeezing your hips.

Nevertheless, you’re unable to stop the little smile those words paint across your lips, giggling breathlessly as bubbly warmth tingles in your chest, a sense of shameful pride rushing through your veins.

“Yeah?” he seethes in a huff, eyes narrowing. “Bet you’re proud of yourself for that, little slut,”

You are, you’re nodding, tongue rendered useless as his hips piston into you, cockhead repeatedly slamming against your cervix, reaching deeper and deeper and deeper the further you lean back, until the sharp edge of the desk is cutting into your back.

“I know you are,” he sneers, callous tone emphasized by his brute force as he fucks you. “V-Vain little bitch, happy she’s ruined me—ruined sex for me, forever,”

It’s getting harder for him to speak now, words punctuated by half-baked whimpers and swallowed, stifled moans, the sentiment under his speech accentuating pleasure for the both of you, dirty humiliation only making everything that much more intense, heady and addicting as it intoxicates your bodies, your minds, your souls.

“S-So the least you could do,” he begins in a keen, pace faltering as he squirms under you, yanking his phone from his back pocket. “Is give me something to—ah, Christ—remember you by,”

You should tell him no. You should cease all bouncing on his cock the moment he presses that little red button on his screen, the moment the flash next to the camera turns on, signaling it’s recording. You should.

But you don’t. You don’t, because he’s right. Because that guilt returns, seeping up through the floor of your stomach and spreading to your other organs, chest tightening as it reaches your heart. Because you took something from him, something he’ll never be able to get back, purely for your own selfish gain, just to get back at the man you love, and that isn’t fair. That will never be fair.

Instead, you look straight into the lens, hips beginning to ride him almost viciously, pushing out your chest further, bouncing tits on display as they heave with your lewd moans of his name, begging him to fuck you, begging him for his thick cum, and oh please, Tomura, please, give it to me, want your cum so bad, need your cum so bad, please!

He chokes on his own groan, the hand holding his phone beginning to shake slightly as the other finds its place on your hip again, his own thrusts pumping wildly as he spits expletives through gritted teeth, your pathetic little mewls egging him on.  

“G-Gonna cum?” he whines out, almost as if he’s begging you to say yes, the needy canting of his hips indicating that he’s about to, too, crimson searing into you as you nod messily. “Fucking do it, then, cream all over my cock like the good little whore you are,”

And you’re powerless to stop the loud cry that rips from your throat as your cunt clenches around him, only half of his name escaping in a yelp before your own shuddery gasp cuts you off, choking a little on the intense inhale, air sharp as razors as it rushes down your throat.

He follows less than a second later with a ferocious growl of your name, potent cum filling your aching little cunt, phone clattering to the floor as both hands grip your hips and force you to continue milking him until both of your bodies are shivering from the overstimulation.

You collapse against him, sweaty body melting into his, muscles quivering in exhaustion. Long arms encircle you, cradling you to his chest in a way that’s almost tender, phone laying forgotten a few feet away.

It’s just as nice as it was the first time, being swathed in his embrace, a gentle sigh slipping from between your lips. Nimble fingers trail up and down your spine, pressing into the notches, tracing the smooth, soft plains of your skin.

“Wish you could stay,” he mumbles into your hair, so quiet you nearly miss it—would have missed it if not for the vibrations in his chest.

Me too.

You want to tell him, want to express the same sentiment, to make it known that you desire the same thing, but the words tangle in your throat, that sticky brand of guilt that is specifically Touya refraining them from leaving your lips, yanking them back down into your chest with painful hitching breaths every time you try to speak.

You don’t even realize you’re crying until Tomura coos, pulling back a little to cup your face and tilt it up, big thumbs swiping across your cheeks as they catch glistening teardrops.

He doesn’t say anything—there is nothing to say—instead dipping his head to press his lips chastely to yours in the softest kiss he’s ever given you, mumbling his thanks for the birthday present a moment later.

There’s so much more you want to say, so much more you want to ask, but there’s no more time, opting to kiss him again in response, praying that it conveys all the things you can’t, all the things guilt won’t let you.

And then you’re scrambling off of his lap, collecting your dress off the floor and hastily pulling it over your head, turning back to find Tomura standing, holding out his hand, soaked lace in his grasp.

“Keep them,” you whisper, curling his fingers into a fist around the dainty material. “Happy birthday, Tomura,”

   ✰          ✰          ✰            

You have forty-five minutes before Touya arrives home—that’s cutting it close, you were supposed to have a full hour, but Tomura’s arms were so warm, his gently rising chest so inviting, his entire aura so comforting, that you had allowed yourself to indulge, just for a moment, to let your eyes slip shut and exhale a soft sigh of contentment, snuggling into his embrace and inhaling his distinct scent deeply, holding it in your lungs for a moment, wishing it would stay, wishing it would stick to the gummy walls, take root and find a home there, wishing you could keep a piece of him with you, always.

The water scalds your skin as you step into Touya’s glass shower, hands instantly reaching for Touya’s bodywash and squirting a generous amount in your palm.

You lather your entire body with it, until every inch of your skin is covered in foamy white suds, until your flesh has been scrubbed raw, the sharp scent—something woodsy and musky, like a crackling campfire of burning hickory wood, smoky and sweet—enveloping you entirely, stinging your nose.

It sticks in your throat and invades your lungs, as if cleansing you from the inside out, and you choke on it, are suffocated by it, little gasps and coughs falling from your lips while nails claw at your neck.

That dull ache returns as you rinse your skin, throbbing incessantly at the very core of your body as you watch the last remnants of Tomura swirl around the drain, infused in the soapy water.

It shouldn’t hurt this much, you’re thinking to yourself as your fingers massage shampoo into your scalp. It shouldn’t, but it does, a painful lump lodging itself in your throat, expanding a little more every time you try to reason with yourself until it’s gagging you.

Something stings your eyes—soap from the shampoo as you rinse it from your locks, or maybe the potently fragrant scent from Touya’s bodywash, you try to convince yourself, that lump sprouting tiny spikes and viciously slicing into the gummy walls, that lump forcing saliva still containing traces of Tomura to collect in your throat, that lump reminding you that you’re a fucking liar.

It’s fine. It’s fine. Touya doesn’t need to know everything, does he? What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him, right? And it was only a one time thing, wasn’t it? It’s alright, isn’t it?

These are the questions that cycle through your mind obsessively, running laps in your skull as you absentmindedly towel off your dripping body in your niichan’s bedroom, the gentle buzz of your phone snapping you out of your reverie.

For a moment, you’re terrified it’s Touya, texting you to tell you that he knows, you little slut, scrambling to snatch it off of the nightstand as trembling fingers hastily unlock it.

It isn’t Touya.

It’s Tomura.

best birthday present of my life, hands down. thank you. i love you.

The resounding slam! of the front door has your entire body flinching violently, the heels of Touya’s heavy boots thumping against the tile as he kicks them off mingling with his smooth voice as he calls your name.

It’s with watery eyes and painful little sniffles catching in your chest that your quivering thumb jabs at that tiny little trashcan in the corner of your screen, watching through blurry vision as the entire conversation disappears into the ether, gone forever—though those three glowing words that concluded the text are etched into the very tissue of your brain, where they will remain, forever.

[bunnyofnegativeeuphoria]

Prompt Fill: “Cold”

I’m what they like to call not a clown but the entire circus. I’ve managed to delete one of the asks by accident, but rest assured I did see an anonymous prompter wish for “cold” or something to that effect...

Dear reader, it’s 3,3K words, so here we fucking go, lads.

Islanders

Cleaned up and now also on Ao3

“A room and a bath,” Geralt says without even glancing at the barman, attention fully on the precious cargo in his arms.

“Hang on, Witcher, you can’t just–”

“You’ll get your coin,” he grits through his teeth, “but whether your head is still attached to your neck when you do is for you to decide. Room and a bath. Now.”

A key lands on the countertop. 

“Upstairs and second door on the right.”

 The man shouts to someone behind himself. “Ilde! Hot water for the Witcher, sharpish!” 

“Geralt?” 

His senses turn from the foul stench of old ale and unwashed bodies and funnel inwards towards the shape of Jaskier. His bard moans softly and leans an icy forehead against Geralt’s neck. 

“Hmm?” Geralt murmurs against Jaskier’s hair.

“C-cold.”

He reeks of misery, sharp and undeserved. A great shiver runs through Jaskier, and Geralt tightens his hold around him.

“Cold water will do,” he grunts at the barman.

“But–”

“As fast as you can,” Geralt says, grabbing the key and making for the stairwell.

***

Casting igni in the direction of the hearth, Geralt lays Jaskier out on top of a humble straw mattress and begins to undress him. There’s no cloak, and the fool’s doublet is wet through. It refuses to budge, but Geralt has one ear turned towards Jaskier’s heartbeat and doesn’t hesitate to rip apart the fabric to get to skin. It’s paler than it should be and cold to the touch – cold where on any other day it is warmth itself. His bard gravitates towards sources of heat like a stable cat to an opportune sunbeam, and to exist in his orbit is a blessing greater than any coin Geralt has ever earned. 

The ruined doublet hits the floor with a squelch. Geralt moves to grab Jaskier’s breeches, but a shaking hand stops him.

“I-I r-rather lik-ked that ‘n,” Jaskier says, looking if anything even more unhappy than before. 

His pulse spikes, and worry roils in Geralt’s gut. 

“Doublets are replaceable,” he says. He spares a quick squeeze to Jaskier’s fingers before pulling the breeches and boots off in one desperate, inelegant action.

Jaskier is not a small man, but now, sad and shivering on the cusp of blue-tinged infirmity, he hunches and curls, reducing himself. Geralt misses his all-encompassing business. 

“In here,” comes a voice from the hallway, followed by what looks like the barman and his entire family. Two boys roll a tub in and settle it in front of the fireplace, and the others empty several buckets worth of water into it. 

“More, go on,” Ilde says, and the troop leaves as quick as they come, casting wary glances at Geralt’s swords as they go. 

“W-we’ll h’ve t-to p-pay more,” Jaskier says.

Geralt frowns and throws a threadbare blanket on top of him, inadequate and dusty though it is. 

“If they get the rest of the water within the minute, they can have double.”

“Not double. They’ll ch-cheat you. Always d-do.” Jaskier clasps at the blanket. His hands, normally so clever and expressive, jerk with exhaustion and looming danger. “Not-t worth it.”

“Let me account for what value I keep,” Geralt says. “Not hush. You have to conserve energy.”

Geralt sits down and takes a hold of Jaskier’s hands.

“W-what?”

“Shh.”

He wraps his giant paws around Jaskier’s hands, feeling wiry strength and a lifeline beneath the cold. Pressing his lips to the gap between his own thumbs, he blows warm air into the space between them. When he looks up after the third blow, he finds Jaskier looking at him. He smells less scared now. There’s a thought dancing on the tip of the bard’s tongue, but Geralt gives him a quelling look.  

“Right,” Ilde says from the doorway, and buckets follow with the kind of efficiency born of a strong desire to done and elsewhere. In less than a minute they are alone once more, door closing with a firm press. 

A steady stream of controlled fire erupts from Geralt’s hand, and he guides it across the surface of the tub until steam rises like from Roach’s back when she’s been safely put to bed in a warm stall after a day of cold and damp. The water ripples as he tests the temperature.

“G-Geralt?” Jaskier is sitting up, blanket having dropped to the ground. “C-can I?”

“Hmm,” Geralt says. Jaskier’s heartbeat has yet to settle, but his lips have lost their frosty stiffness. Though dry and cracked, they look pinker and plumper than before. “It’s all for you.” 

Gathering Jaskier in his arms once more, he hurries to the tub. He lowers Jaskier as well he can, but when they break the water’s surface–

“Ow,” Jaskier hisses. “Ow, G-Geralt.”

“I’m sorry, but you have to–”

“Hurts,” Jaskier presses, turning his face into Geralt’s neck with the same blind faith as he had when Geralt had come across him only an hour earlier, sodden and lost on the mucky road to the northern realms. His face, however, is not defiant or proud. This is a quiet pain, and Geralt aches in a place he had long thought broken beyond the repair of all charity. 

“I know. Shhh. Hold on to me,” he says. “All in one go.” 

Hands tighten weakly around his arm, and then he sinks Jaskier into the tub.

He doesn’t yell.

He doesn’t yell, but he does whimper – small and vulnerable and a thousand leagues beneath the surface of what he is entitled. 

Geralt pulls his arms away.

“D-don’t g–”

“I’m not.”

Stripping down with stern efficiency, Geralt gets in the tub himself, taking care to not jostle Jaskier. Water spills over the side as he guides Jaskier against his chest, making sure to move his medallion so the sharp angles of the wolf’s head don’t do him harm. It is cramped, and he settles in to cover as much of Jaskier’s surface area with his own body. They sit with their knees bent and peaking out of the water like make-believe islands – an archipelago of muscle and bone.

“How are you feeling?”

Jaskier breaths deeply and leans his face against Geralt’s shoulder. 

“Like I’m b-being poked by a h-hundred n-needles.” 

Geralt draws an arm around Jaskier’s chest, using his other hand to cover one of Jaskier’s knees. 

“Rest.”

“I-I’m so...I shouldn’t h-hav–”

He shakes his head. Jaskier must feel it for he falls silent again.

“Rest.”

***

Jaskier falls asleep in the tub with Geralt wrapped around him like a giant octopus from out of a Skelligan skald. The rhythm of his heart gradually calms to his regular song – almost bird-like by Geralt’s reckoning. Twice he warms the bathwater, content to let his meditation be guided by the measure of Jaskier’s recovery. He wills his own warmth to seep from his skin and through Jaskier’s, and if something else should flow with it, then he reckons he is far too old to be duplicitous now. 

“You needn’t stay on my account.”

Geralt looks down into the wild blue yonder.

“Do you want me to go?” he asks.

The thought sits awkwardly in him, pinching with the discomfort of new shoes. 

“I want you to do what you want to do.”

“Jaskier–”

“Stay,” Jaskier says on the wave of a quiet exhale. Geralt watches the word’s traces whisk across the water and sends a small flicker of flame after it. Steam rises once more, and Jaskier sighs, and it sounds acceptably content.

“How are you feeling?”

“Much better. On the whole, practically divine.”

There’s a snobbish artfulness to Jaskier’s tone now, and Geralt allows himself the press of a smile against Jaskier’s hairline. 

“Better or worse than a weekend with the Countess de Stael?”

“Darling, must you? I’ve quite reached my limit with humiliation for today.” There’s a tightness to his lips as Jaskier speaks, and Geralt frowns.

“Will you tell me why you were on the road, no cloak or lute to be seen?” 

Jaskier looks down, and his scent turns abruptly with embarrassment, smelling faintly like something is burning. 

“I suppose I’ll have to tell you.” He looks up with a tinge of defiance in his eyes, but it’s no hardship for Geralt to keep looking at him. “But you’ll have to earn it first.”

“Oh?”

“Wash my hair?”

There is life in his cornflower blues again, and that is reward enough for any challenge. Without a word, Geralt gets up and out of the tub. Water drips all over the creaky floorboards as he makes for the saddlebags brought up by one of the boys. His nose guides him to a bottle of oil scented with mild lavender, and he picks up a cup on his way back to Jaskier. 

With pink-tinged cheeks, Jaskier watches him climb back in behind him.

“I didn’t mean–”

Geralt huffs. 

“Yes you did. Hush.”

Cup in hand, Geralt guides Jaskier’s head into a tilt and scoops water over his hair, using his other hand to block the water from running into the bard’s eyes.

“You know, telling me to hush really isn’t as charming as your dour self might imagine.”

“Try sitting quietly in the knowledge of being,” Geralt says, feeling his lip twitch with the sort of maddening lack of control that eases into existence whenever Jaskier is around.

“Unbearable. Take that back.”

“Close your eyes.”

Jaskier closes his eyes immediately, and Geralt finds he has to swallow past all his want at the blatant display of trust. He spills some oil into his palms and wonders if Jaskier would let him do this if he knew the true shape of Geralt’s heart. Whole kingdoms believe it to be nonexistent or at the very least shrivelled and decaying. Jaskier thinks different. If he is to be believed, Geralt’s heart is like a honeyed bun – warm and dripping with a sweetness that Geralt knows was exterminated the second he saw Kaer Morhen rise in front of his too-young eyes. Little does Jaskier know that if you were to open Geralt’s chest and break it open past ribs and sinew and hold his heart, you would find it alternatingly smooth like silk chemises and rough with fingertip callouses, beating a rhythm to whatever tune it pleases. 

“Are you alright, darling?”

Jaskier has tilted his head back even further to look at him nearly upside down.

“Sorry,” Geralt mutters, hurrying to start to run his hands through Jaskier’s hair. It is brown and short and soft to the touch. With every turn of his hands, he washes away the smell of Jaskier’s hurt and replaces it with lavender and his own touch.

“Did I say divine before? I must have lost my wits. This is my religion.”

Geralt feels a chuckle rumble up his throat and into the still bedroom air. Eyes closed again, Jaskier seems to settle in on his own terms, and Geralt is more than happy to let him.

“Did you know there was an inventor from the southern continent – further south even than Nilfgaard – who discovered the measurement for density by sitting in a bathtub?”

Jaskier prattles on about mathematics and science and a man running naked down cobbled streets, and Geralt lets the sound of his voice cleanse him of all worries. He finishes washing Jaskier’s hair, and rinses it with the cup. Afterwards, he gathers more oil and settles his hands across Jaskier’s shoulders. There’s a hitch in Jaskier’s throat as Geralt begins to gentle the oil into soft, pale skin.

“G-Geralt?”

Geralt frowns.

“Are you cold again?”

“No.” Jaskier’s voice sounds small.

“May I continue?”

Jaskier’s chest expands with a visible breath.

“Please,” he says, shoulders gaining a healthy dusting of pinkish glow. He starts talking again when Geralt continues to oil his skin, Jaskier moving on to a fevered and slightly panic-tinged monologue about the Cintran sonnet form.

Jaskier’s body is strong beneath him. His skin bears only a few scars from youthful mishaps and a characteristic refusal to be left behind. There is one running length of his back that he earned as a boy slipping down a rocky hill. Another – much smaller – has nicked his ear from when he did not move fast enough away from a drowner’s grasp. Geralt remembers tending to the wound in a furious silence, and he also remembers the apologetic look of abject misery that trailed him for a full week thereafter. It is the longest he has ever heard Jaskier be quiet, and he is grateful the bard has never again felt cause to curb his words in his presence.

I love him, Geralt thinks. 

It’s not the first time he’s thought it, and he knows it will not be the last. He will carry the knowledge with him for however many centuries he may have left, and he will die with its truth glowing in every part of his body – an idea so well lived and nurtured that when his rotting corpse becomes earth once more around him will grow a ring made of dandelions and buttercups.

They have bathed together many times, but though Jaskier washes him after practically every monster fight, Geralt has until now not had the opportunity to return the favour. In the beginning he had no desire to. After that he had no cause to. Now, as he watches Jaskier’s nervous energy dispel at every gentle touch of Geralt’s hand, he thinks that perhaps he’s never needed more cause than that he wishes to. 

Geralt may not have as much experience as Jaskier when it comes to bathing another person, but he finds it comes easy when he thinks of how Jaskier bathes him. He thinks of Jaskier’s hands on him, soothing touches on bruised skin – careful even when minor wounds have long healed. He thinks of clever fingers massaging his neck and back. He thinks of timid motions turning methodical with confidence for every evening spent plucking endrega entrails out of white hair. At Jaskier’s waist, Geralt’s hands still. He thinks of – he thinks of how he himself has only ever given impersonal washes to his brothers, cleaning the necessary wounds and skirting quickly past the groin to everyone’s better happiness. He thinks of two nights ago – on the cusp of their yearly parting – how Jaskier had cleaned his thighs, his hips, the vee of his abdomen… 

He thinks of Jaskier with a washcloth, strong with tender caress between Geralt’s fingers – between Geralt’s toes. 

He thinks of the care and acceptance that saturates every action. 

He thinks Jaskier certainly deserves it. He deserves to have the same love – for love he now realises it is – reflected back at himself with as much willingness and devotion. And for that reason alone he shall have it.

Jaskier’s left knee has a thick scar on it from when he tried to ride Roach without permission and she dumped him in a field.

“Darling? Your face looks very Geralt-y.”

He looks to see Jaskier’s face inches from his own.

“What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

“Brooding? Plotting? Dreaming? I haven’t the foggiest. What are you thinking about?”

“I think our knees look like islands.”

Silence falls save for the occasional sound of a drop of water hitting the now tepid bath and the comforting crackle of the fireplace. Geralt feels Jaskier’s toe twitch next to his own before he shifts, leaning back against Geralt’s chest, and raises his leg straight up into the air.

“I suppose that makes our leg hairs the islanders,” Jaskier says in such perfect sincerity. 

Geralt swallows.

“Where is your lute?”

He feels rather than hears Jaskier’s sigh as he puts his leg back into the water.

“Hopefully still back at the Squealing Pig.”

For a second, Geralt is stunned.

“Wh–”

“I left it–”

“On purpose?” 

Geralt doesn’t think his eyebrows could rise any higher if he willed them to.

“Of course not! Well, perhaps. Not really, though. It’s hard to explain.”

“Explain.”

“You left.”

As if in agreement, they both pause to let that short truth hang in the air like a brightly coloured flag. 

“I left because it’s winter. We always part for winter.”

“I know.”

“You even hugged me goodbye and waved me off.”

“I know.”

“You–”

“I know.” Jaskier digs his forehead into Geralt’s clavicle so hard it hurts, but Geralt finds he has no intention to ever ask him to move. “I know I did, and then I woke the next day, and you were gone, and I felt like something was missing, and then I forgot my lute and my bag and my cloak, and I set off after you.”

There’s a warmth brewing beneath Geralt’s skin, and it ignites at every touchpoint shared between them. 

“And then it snowed,” he says.

“And then it snowed,” Jaskier says, “and it was too late to go back, but I didn’t have my cloak, and I didn’t have my lute so I could play my way to a room. So I kept walking, but it was so cold, and I got lost, and then…”

I love him, Geralt thinks.

“And then you fell asleep in the woods,” Geralt says.

Jaskier rests his hand over Geralt’s heart.

“And then you found me,” he says.

“And you scared me half to death,” Geralt says. 

“And here we are.”

“Hmmm,” Geralt sounds and does not know what to say. Words leap out of Jaskier like pufflballs in a summer breeze, scattering dandelion seeded meaningfulness all across the northern continent. He doesn’t know what to say, and so he gentles his hand down Jaskier’s side, curls his legs up more, and brings Jaskier even closer to him. Jaskier gasps into his neck as Geralt settles him in his lap, and then – slowly, tentatively, achingly – arms come around Geralt’s shoulders. Geralt turns his head and nudges Jaskier’s nose with his own, their foreheads resting together in a pleasure so perfect that where he to die in the morning he would do so with the knoweldge that he knew the touch of happiness. 

Hands caress through his hair and cup the side of his face, a thumb stroking back and forth over his cheek, and he can feel it’s well pruned from the water. Jaskier gasps again, almost as if on a sob, but no tears come.

“Geralt, I–” he croaks, faltering as he draws the knuckles of his right hand up and down Geralt’s neck. “Geralt, I think you’re the most magnificent…” 

He tightens his arms around Jaskier and feels his every breath dance across his lips. 

“I think you’re the most magnificent person I’ve ever met. You’re–” Jaskier laughs and shakes his head so their foreheads rub together. “Geralt, I don’t even have the words, I–”

“I do,” Geralt says.

Jaskier blinks.

“Y–you do?”

I love him, Geralt thinks.

“I love you,” Geralt says, not for a second looking away from Jaskier’s face so that he may see the hope, the surprise, and the happiness write themselves across him like an open book. And here they come, and there they go, and here love is to stay. 

Jaskier makes a noise – relief and desperation all in one – and then cracked lips are on his own, and Geralt kisses back. He kisses soft, he kisses gentle, and he kisses joy. 

“You really did know what to say,” Jaskier laughs.

“Mmm,” Geralt says, kissing him again. 

Jaskier cups his face between both hands. 

“Dear heart, I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you,” he says and draws breath as if to continue on forever and ever. 

Geralt kisses him one more time, feeling Jaskier’s lips curve up into a helpless smile.

“Not the most complicated rhyme scheme you’ve ever come up with, my lark,” he murmurs. 

“Darling,” Jaskier laughs, “I’ll write you so many songs.”

Liked it? Prompt me!

[garbagevanfleet]

Brightest Blue (series)

PART EIGHT

Pairing: Josh x reader Warnings: snuggling, tiny amount of bodily injury  Summary:  Things are changing. New state. New school. New roommate. You just pray things are going to click into place. Notes: I’ve been on a tiny bit on a hiatus, but here you go! Thanks for all of your support! I love you 

taglist: @valleyd0ll @satingrass-maidensfair @guitarfingers @thebohemianpenguin @peaceisouranthem @oblvions @hansonobsessed @myownparadise96 @lara-gvf @anditsmywholeheart @kill-fear-the-power-of-lies @bigblack-catattack​ @myownparadise96​

MASTERPOST 

Kate was missing from class on Friday, to your deep dismay. You had been hoping to tell her about how shitty Trevor had been, but instead, you received a text that she had overslept her alarm and decided to just stay home.

That left you and Josh alone at lunch, just like you had been at the beginning of the year. He was excitedly explaining that there were a few kids in his production that you would “absolutely love”, and you had to agree.

“They’re catching on so fast. Rachel gave them some not-so-easy routines to the choreography, and they’ve almost got it down. I feel like that’s tough for kids so young, you know?”

You couldn’t help but grin as he spoke with such candor.

“I was doubtful that they would be able to get it, but she insisted that they could,” he finished, grabbing his bottle of water and lifting it to his mouth.

You had your lips open to reply until you caught sight of his hand; the knuckles were bruised just lightly enough that you couldn’t tell if it was just the lighting or not. As soon as he caught you eyeing it, he went to set the bottle back down.

“What happened?” You laid your hand down on the table, palm up as a gesture for him to take it. Reluctantly, he did, and you took a moment to inspect.

“It’s nothing, I’m just clumsy,” he said, pairing his assurance with a sweet smile.

You frowned at him in disbelief. “No, you’re not; I saw you make that shot across the room with your sucker stick the other night. You’re very well coordinated.”

He stared into your eyes for a moment as he gauged your reaction, and then hummed amusedly. “It’s really not that bad, it just looks gross. Just a musical mishap.” You shot him a look, to which he quickly replied, “Don’t worry about me, ‘kay?”

Not sure what else to say, you pushed forward the ziplock baggie of apple slices you had been munching on. He reached in and plucked one out for himself.

“Do you want to have a movie night with me tonight? You could invite Kate if you want.”

The offer made you genuinely smile, though you hadn’t quelled the long list of questions you still had.

“That sounds lovely. I think we have string cheese, so we could make homemade mozzarella sticks or something.”

He was looking at you in an oddly serious fashion, and you weren’t sure what he was going to say until he opened his mouth. “Hell yeah.”

+++

You hadn’t considered that you’d have to see Trevor again so soon, or rather - you did, but you had been pushing it to the farthest corner of your brain, not at all ready to think about it. So that’s why when you were sitting in class and he walked in, your stomach lurched.

You tried to keep looking straight ahead, but it only lasted so long before you couldn’t help yourself. He was sitting as far away from you as he could get, but it still wasn’t terribly far.

He had his eyes firmly on his desk, head tipped down. His posture was crumpled in on itself, and you could only imagine how embarrassed he was - or at least you hoped he was. At the very least, you knew he should be.

Until the end of class, you kept yourself busy - even tried to actually pay attention, but when you were dismissed, you let out a relieved breath.

You stood and collected your things, then promptly headed for the door.

On the way out, he looked up and met your gaze, and the sight of his face made the air catch in your lungs.

The skin around his left eye was stained a purplish-grey, his brows tipped down into a scowl.

You hadn’t hit him that hard, had you? A whole cocktail of emotions flooded your brain, and you bit your bottom lip, ripping your eyes away from him as you exited the room.

Your pace was a bit faster than usual, which is why you beat Josh to the B doors by a couple of minutes.

Could slapping someone give them a black eye? You thought yes, but there would have to be some real force behind it. You were pretty sure that you’d have to wind up to get him that good.

“What’s wrong?”

You hadn’t even heard Josh approaching you, so it made you startle just enough for him to notice. He put his hand on your back in a comforting gesture.

“Ah, sorry. I was just thinking,” you replied, giving him a weak smile.

“About what?” he chanced softly.

“Nothing - not a big deal.” You started off walking, him right by your side, matching your pace.

  “How are things going with the play? You haven’t even told me what it’s about yet.”

His face lit up. “You haven’t asked. We’re doing Alice In Wonderland. Some of the songs are original.”

“What, like you wrote them?” you asked, looking over at him with a shocked expression.

He nodded, laughing under his breath. “Rachel is working on the wardrobe; costume design and all of that. I have the sculpture class working on the props and set, but they can only come like once a week.”

“Do you need any help?”

He looked over at you, surprised. “Do you want to? Can you paint?”

You shrugged. “Kinda. I mean, I can make it work. I’m not perfect, but it’s manpower, at least,” you admitted.

“No, no - any help would be amazing but don’t overexert yourself. You need to still work on your stuff.”

“I won’t,” you promised. “I’m happy to help.”

+++

You had texted Kate at lunch asking if she wanted to come for a movie night, as Josh had suggested, and she had eagerly agreed. You were still surprised, however, when she showed up with a handbag full to the brim.

You watched her pull out a bag of kettle corn, a few little glass bottles of nail polish, some packets of face masks, a stack of DVDs, and a bottle of white wine - all while chatting you up about her morning.

“This looks like just a girl thing, so I’ll leave you guys to it,” Josh said, not a shred of animosity in his tone, but you frowned up at him from the couch as he stood.

You went to open your mouth to protest, but Kate beat you to it. “Oh, no, you should stay. I brought three masks.” She fanned them out like a deck of cards in her hand.

He raised his eyebrows at her, looking rather impressed. “Oh.”

“You do want nice skin, right?” she prompted.

“He has very nice skin,” you replied in his defense, making her shoot you a look.

“Everyone has room for improvement,” she quipped back, as Josh just shrugged at you.

“I’m down,” he agreed, taking his seat again on the couch. “Are we watching a chick flick?”

“Well, I brought some choices. Otherwise, I’m open to suggestions if you guys have any good ones.”

“Maybe we should let Josh pick,” you suggested. “Since he’s going to be the one really watching it while we do nails.”

She smiled at you and then him. “You heard her - gentleman’s choice.”

“So, if I pick Human Centipede,” he started through a shit-eating grin.

You lovingly rolled your eyes at him. “If you own Human Centipede, I’m going to be moving out.”

He tipped his head back and laughed unabashedly.

In the end, he picked a rom-com, which you knew he would, and took a seat next to you on the couch. About a quarter of the way through, you realized that Kate didn’t have a lot of intention of actually watching a movie, per se. It seemed that she was more interested in using it for background noise.

The night was therapeutic. Everything felt easy. You found yourself laughing genuinely, leaned in to watch as Kate dabbed a wet washcloth over Josh’s nose, causing him to scrunch it up in distaste. She immediately scolded him, explaining that it had to be wet for the mask to work right, and he needed to sit still.

Once it was on, you couldn’t help but snap a picture of him as he play-pouted at you, his bottom lip jutted out.

It wasn’t until your nails were finished that you started to feel a chill. “Does it feel cold in here to you?” you asked.

Both of them looked at you questioningly.

“Maybe just a little bit,” Kate agreed.

Wordlessly, Josh stood and grabbed a thick blanket from the basket by his side of the couch and then spread it out of your laps. You had thanked him, and that had fixed the problem for then, but by the time Kate was packing her stuff up and ready to leave, you had a chill you just couldn’t shake.

As soon as she was gone, you turned to him and frowned. “You really aren’t cold? Like at all?”

“It’s a little cold, yeah,” he agreed, but you sensed it was mostly to make you feel better. “Do you want a sweatshirt?”

You nodded, giving him a grateful look.

“I hope I’m not getting sick,” you mumbled.

He frowned at you, rubbing at your shoulder. “Hang on, I’ll check the thermostat.”

His feet made a patting sound as he crossed the hardwood; a sound that had become a comfort to you.

“Hmm, it is colder than usual in here. I’ll turn the heat up,” he replied, and then a moment later, he finished. “The heat isn’t kicking on for some reason.”

You shot him a concerned look, suddenly terrified you were going to freeze.

“Hang on, I’ll be right back.”

“Wait, where are you going?” you asked as you watched him make his way to the front door.

“Just into the hall, sit tight.” With that, he disappeared.

You pulled his sweatshirt on and sat back onto the couch, your knees tucked up to your chest and the blanket up to your neck.

When he got back in, he gave you a sympathetic look. “Apartment 4 said that theirs is working just fine, so I think I’m going to call the landlord.”

“It’s 9:30 at night,” you reminded him, brows tipped up in concern.

“Yeah, but heat is kind of an emergency here in the winter.” The phone was already up to his ear as he spoke. You could hear the line ring and then someone pick up on the other end. He explained the situation to her with ease at first, but he seemed to quickly lose his patience with her.

“That’s absolutely ridiculous,” he snapped, filling a tea kettle with water. “It’s going to get freezing in here tonight.”

Then a pause, and you could hear her responding pointedly.

He let out a huff. “We don’t have the money for that. What are we supposed to do?”

You could hear him relent, just by the tone of his voice. He thanked her and then promptly hung up. You waited for him to come over, two cups of tea in hand, before you threw any questions at him.

“Well?” you asked, knowing full well that nothing had been accomplished.

He exhaled a long breath. “She said she’ll get someone on it later tomorrow, and if we wanted it fixed tonight, we’d have to pay for it upfront and she’d pay us back minus the emergency fee.”

You frowned but still reached your hand out of the blanket to set comfortingly on his knee. “It’s okay. Thank you for trying.”

“We’ll pile the blankets on you tonight,” he promised.

But even with - what you were sure was - twenty pounds of blankets, you were cold in your bed. You laid, staring at the ceiling for nearly an hour, trying to will yourself warm. You even tried moving around a bunch under the blankets, hoping to produce enough heat from friction, but it was no use.

You had known what you were going to have to do just moments after settling under the covers, but you couldn’t bring yourself to do it until you started to shiver involuntarily.

You let out an annoyed huff and pushed the covers off. It wasn’t until you were out in the open air that you realized how much warmer it actually was under the covers.

You crossed the hall, poking your head into Josh’s doorway.

“Josh,” you whispered into the dim room, and he stirred instantly.

“Yeah,” he responded, a rasp in his throat.

It took you a second to work up the courage to ask, “Can I sleep in here tonight? I cannot get warm for the life of me.”

“Yeah, of course.” His reply came after a moment of him shifting over for you.

You rushed back to your bedroom, snatching the blankets off of the bed. They were too thick to really bunch them up in your arms to carry, so you ended up half-dragging them over. When you returned, he held the comforter open for you.

“I hope I’m not intruding.” You climbed in, quickly pulling all of the blankets over you as he helped you situate them comfortably.

He shushed you assuringly.

“Why is your bed so warm?” you complained, shuffling down until the blankets were up to your chin.

The smile on his lips could be heard through the hum he let out. “I’m used to the cold. I’m sorry to tell you that this isn’t even close to the coldest it’ll get here. You probably haven’t had to make your own body heat much back home.”

“This is literally like body heat donation for the needy,” you teased, turning in bed until you were facing him. “Can I lay where you were laying?”  

“What, no,” he said through an incredulous laugh.

“I bet it’s so warm though,” you whined. “Feel how cold my feet are.”

You shifted until you could press your toes against his bare ankle, making him jolt.

“Jesus,” he hissed. “If you want the heat you’re just going to have to come over by me.”

You took a second to gauge that response, trying to find any evidence of teasing in his tone. “Really? You wouldn’t mind?”

“How do you wanna do this?” His tone sounded like it was inching toward disbelief.

Through a frown, you asked, “What do you mean?”

The sound of him quietly clearing the sleep from his throat filled the otherwise quiet room. “Just. I don’t know, do you wanna put a blanket between us?”

You giggled breathily at him. “No, I’m too cold to be worried about modesty, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Okay, I’m just going to lay here and you just situate yourself however feels comfortable for you.”

Without any hesitation, you scooted toward him until your chest was flush to his side, your chin rested against his shoulder.

“Is this okay?” you inquired, snuggling deeper under the sheets.

The warmth was heavenly.

“Your skin is fucking freezing,” he mumbled, clearly close to sleep again already.

“Good, so you see that the situation is dire,” you quipped, wriggling your fingers until he let you slip them between his chest and his bicep. His muscles jumped, and you could tell just how cold your skin was just from the way he felt hot to the touch.

He breathed a laugh, and in a teasing tone, agreed, “Life-threatening, I’d go so far as to say. Wake me up if you need anything, okay?”

You agreed, pressing your nose against the sleeve of his shirt, and drifted off.

+++

When you woke, it was to the sound of his alarm. You felt him reach a hand out of the covers and flick his phone off, putting a stop to the shrill ringing instantly.

It took you a second to realize you were borderline hot. You couldn’t figure out why it was so dark until you realized that one of the sheets was almost completely over your head, blocking out the sun that shone through the slats in his blinds. You wiggled until your head was out from under the blanket, but quickly pulled it back up to your chin when you felt how the cold room made your skin prickle.

Once you got your wits about you, you wiped the sleep from your eyes, popping them open in shock when you realized the position you were in. You weren’t sure if it was him, or you, but somehow he had shifted in the night so that your chests were pressed flush together.

In his sleepy state, he placed his hand on the back of your head, pressing your face back into his neck where it was positioned - unbeknownst to you.

With your nose touching his skin, you could feel his pulse on the tip of it, slow and steady - like he wasn’t really awake. The smell of his cologne was familiar to you now.

“Josh,” you whispered, tipping your head up until you realized the limited mobility you actually had.

He hummed, and you knew the second he was conscious because his muscles tensed all at once before loosening enough to release you.

“Sorry,” he mumbled as you untangled your legs from his. “I must have really been out.”

“It’s okay, I was too.” You looked up at him with a smile. “We survived the night.”

He hummed through tilted up lips. “That’s good; I would have been really upset if you died in my bed.”

After a moment, you groaned a complaint. “I do not want to get out of bed. I know it’s going to be fucking freezing. If we move out of here, can we go somewhere warm?”

He tilted his head over to meet your eyes with a subtle smirk.

“What?” you asked.

“Nothing,” he replied. You were contemplating pressing further, but he spoke again. “I’m staying home today from school so I can be here when the repairmen come.”

You frowned. “Do you want me to stay instead? Or with you to keep you company?”

“No, I’ll be good. You need to go to school and stay warm.”

You grimaced at him, secretly wishing he had asked you to stay so you didn’t have to get out of bed.

“Okay, you’re sure?”

He laughed at you. “Yes, you should get moving. Feel free to wear any of my warmer clothing.”

You shot him a grateful look before closing your eyes and throwing the blankets off of yourself.

[theevangelion]

Red Bottom: Red Kryptonite D/S Supercorp Story (Complete)

Prompt Fill for Gabs: Redk!Kara wanting it fast and hard and lena fucking her gently until she's in tears? With lots of praise kink pls

*OR*

Under the effects of Red Kryptonite, Kara has to be kept somewhere secure. The L-Corp Laboratory is about the only location with enough lead lining to hide her heat signature while the DEO worries about bigger threats. Kara’s frustrated arousal and darkened mood is nothing compared to her girlfriend, Lena Luthor’s.

There’s a dark and evil side lurking inside Lena too. Always there, always out of sight. With Kara under the influence of the Red Kryptonite, Lena finds herself indulging in her own primal dark side in order to quell Kara’s own.

“Again?” Lena’s eyes fly wide open at the DEO circus.

“The red kryptonite particles went up with the explosion last week,” Alex says, overseeing the transfer of her sedated sister to the secure L-Corp laboratory. “And what goes up must come down. Jesus, I can’t believe we didn’t account for the rain.”

“Wouldn’t she be safer at DEO headquarters? It’s just, her safety should be the priority.” Lena doesn’t want to seem too eager to palm off her girlfriend.

“If the DEO headquarters were still secret, sure.” Alex rubs her temple, now suddenly thinking of other problems.

Her hazel eyes find Lena with a sense of exhaustion, as though there are too many things being juggled in the air and she needs someone to take Kara out of the equation.

Alex continues, “The League caught intel about our security protocols. Ironically, the one place Lex will probably not look is the place right beneath his nose. The building has enough lead-lining to hide her heat signature?”

“More than enough,” Lena confirms.

“Well,” Alex pats the chief executive’s shoulder. “I’ll call you tonight, and I’ll leave her in your capable hands for a few days.”

Lena laughs suddenly, the uncomfortable noise barely escaping through her tight teeth. “Please don’t.” She eyes Alex cautiously. “Just maybe let’s workshop this idea—”

“It will be fine,” Alex promises. “Just don’t listen to her, put your headphones in, think of it as babysitting duty. I’ll owe you one, big time.” Alex stares as though she means it regardless of the complications it might cause later down the line.

An unconditional favour from one of the higher-ups in the chain of command at the Department of Extranormal Operations… That could certainly come in handy one day.

“Not the holding cell. Put her in the observation suite, the glass is resistant to her heat vision.” Lena points to the clear glass room opposite the laboratory. “Extra restraints, green kryptonite lamps—”

“Green kryptonite could kill her,” Alex balks.

“In larger quantities, sure.” Lena nods. “In a smaller, medicinal dosage it nullifies her power for a short time. Like the small amount emitted by the kryptonite lamps your tech team developed last year in the event of…” Lena pauses, quirking her crimson lips as she searches for the right word. “Something unexpected.” Alex instantly closes her eyes. “Bring them, bring all of the equipment. And extra restraints too, please.”

“Why extra restraints?” Alex lifts her brow, confused.

Lena rolls her eyes, then turns to her personal assistant. “Jesse, clear my entire schedule from now until Tuesday. Alex, trust me, I’m doing you a favour, but I need the restraints and the kryptonite lamps. For my safety, you understand?” She glances at her girlfriend’s sister.

“Whatever you need, Lena.” Alex doesn’t ask further.

***

Kara awakes slowly and feels the tension in her arms. They’re captured around her ribcage, as though she is trapped in a suffocating hug. She shifts her shoulders, wiggling, unable to get herself loose from the poor, rough excuse for a blanket that has entwined her.

“You’ll forgive me for being cautious,” Lena says through the speaker. “It’s for your safety, mostly.”

Kara opens her eyes and simultaneously rolls them when she sees the applied restraints. Her arms are secured in a white strait-jacket, the tan leather straps buckled tightly, with another strap of leather secured between her nude legs to stop her wiggling out of it.

“For my safety or yours?” Kara flexes against the strait-jacket.

“Alright,” Lena levels seriously over the speaker. “For mine then.”

The strait-jacket isn’t torn to pieces when Kara flexes a second time, which strikes her as strange. She wiggles again, harder, flexing, stretching her arms as far as she can against the secured sleeves.

“Sorry baby,” Lena says, walking in to view as she stops in front of the glass door that separates them. “Another precaution. I can survive your bad mood, but only when we level the playing field.” Her emerald eyes glance to the industrial spotlights that emanate a low, dark green colour over the observation suite.

Green Kryptonite.

“If you think there’s such a big bad monster lurking inside of me—” Kara stops, heaving furious breaths. “Why risk it the other three-hundred and sixty-four days a year? Am I not capable of tearing you apart then, if I wanted to?”

“There is always a monster lurking inside of you, baby.” Lena folds her arms over her black cashmere sweater. “But you are the strongest, most level-headed woman I know. You would never let it hurt anyone.” Her eyes flicker with love. “The other days of the year, of course.” She pushes a small smile, but then it disappears as she dips her head.

Kara narrows her eyes. “Oh, you want to talk about monsters, Lena?” She can’t help but laugh.

“Not particularly.”

“Because you know the one that claws inside of your ribcage is so much more violent and hungry than mine.”

“Don’t do this, please,” Lena pleads. “I know you can’t help it, but could you… try and help it?”

“Sad, poor, angry little girl—lost and unlovable,” Kara scoffs, her lips forming an angry smirk. “How does it feel knowing that I am the only one capable of loving a creature as tortured as you?”

Lena’s mouth twitches almost imperceptibly.

Her face is beautiful and smooth like porcelain, but her eyes are utterly empty and her jaw flexes with the tiniest slip of anger. To Kara, she is still beautiful, still the finest human she has ever met, a bride to be made fit for House of El yet.

It’s simply a case of subjugating her first, Kara thinks. To teach Lena who exactly her better half is, metaphorically and literally speaking.

“You’re still pretty when you want to cry,” Kara says coldly, unbothered and unconcerned. “You should know that.”

“Funny,” Lena doesn’t skip a beat, her tone equally cold. “I’ve always thought the same of you.”

There’s a flash, a tiny strike of lightning. It hits Kara right in her belly and sends her flying backwards. The pain is the least of her concerns. She doesn’t understand what it was. Kara pants and opens her eyes, curled in the corner of the glass cage with a tight grimace.

“For my safety,” Lena explains, lifting the remote that controls the shock pulses. “In case I feel threatened.” She smirks slightly.

“You always feel threatened,” Kara laughs despite the painful ripples in her body from the electric shock. “Always threatened by other powerful women, always worried you’re too small, too unimportant, too weak to compete—”

“Whoops.” The powerful shock hits Kara again and makes her whimper. It leaves her crumpled and curling, sweating and gritting her teeth. “My finger slipped,” Lena says, unamused.

Despite the red kryptonite, despite the hubris it imbues her with, she is completely defenseless and that only compounds her anger. Kara wrangles as hard as she can, until she nearly dislocates her shoulder trying to get free from the pathetic little strait-jacket that on any ordinary day could be ripped apart with a sneeze.

The door alarm rings out. Lena steps inside the lion’s den, her Blahnik heels clicking quickly over the cold hard floor. Kara refuses to look at her, she tucks her sweaty head away as the pencil skirt gracefully bends at the knees to appraise her closer, as though she is some kind of small animal.

“See,” Lena whispers quietly, moving the damp blonde hair off her face. “Still so pretty when you want to cry, baby, I told you.”

“Don’t start a war you cannot win, Lena,” Kara growls with gravel in her throat. “I will still have my power and might when the weekend is out, and you—”

“Will still have mine, too.” Lena slips her hand over Kara’s bottom, pulling the curled up little monster close like a pet to be made tame. “Why don’t you be a good girl and let that nasty tongue of yours rest. I don’t want to sedate you. There is so much more productive fun to be had when you’re awake.”

Kara’s ears lift at that.

“Fun?” She looks at Lena with a craned eyebrow.

Lena looks different. Kara isn’t sure whether it’s the effect of the red kryptonite, or whether her girlfriend has always had that air of cruel arrogance and she’s only just noticing it now. But Lena’s eyes glean her as though she’s a wolfish little whore, a thing to conquer. Her crimson lips pull into a small smirk.

“Fun for me, yes.” Lena pets her damp, long blonde hair softly. “The way I see it, Kara Danvers, is that I’m going to marry you one day. That means for better or worse. And, if I can’t find a way to handle you at your worst—” Kara hisses when slender fingers yank her hair tight in a tight fistful. “Then what business do I have enjoying you at your best?” Their eyes lock seriously.

“You think this is me at my worst?” Kara’s eyes grow wide with indignation. “Oh just you wait. The Hell I will reign down upon you—” Material is quickly stuffed inside her open mouth as gag, stifling the threats.

The material is slightly damp, heady almost, the feminine taste that is so distinctly Lena Luthor coats Kara’s tongue… Kara realises that this isn’t a traditional gag.

“Hold my panties for me like a good girl,” Lena whispers and stuffs them a little deeper into her mouth. “Don’t spit them out, otherwise I’m going to push them in another hole. And believe me, I have such better, bigger plans for your pretty tight holes…” Her manicured fingers slipped over the tanned leather strap between Kara’s sweating thighs.

When Kara’s blue eyes fly open in surprise, the question doesn’t even need to be uttered. Lena can practically read her mind. The executive peers down at her with a loving smile, her palms gently taking each side of her face and cradling it close to her own.

“The red kryptonite cannot be chemically neutralised. That means I need to find another way to control you when you’re… under the influence of dangerous substances.” Lena trails her hand through Kara’s long hair, her nails dragging and gathering it neatly. “That means I need to condition you to see me as your handler, to prevent my brother ever using the red kryptonite compound as a weapon.”

“My handler?” Kara scoffs through the panties between her teeth, laughing. “You couldn’t handle a guinea pig without help—” The sentence is slapped out of her mouth, hard.

“Your ears work, how reassuring.” Lena remains blank-faced. “Now, come with me, let’s see how reward-motivated you can be, little one.”

The fingers entwined in the back of her scalp tug, pull, coax her to follow on her knees across the glass room towards a desk with a laptop on top of it in the corner. There’s a soft, plush cushion beside the chair. Kara realises too late what exactly her girlfriend has planned.

“No, no.” Lena stops when Kara stops, glancing down at the ravenous little creature digging her feet into the floor. “Wouldn’t you rather feel good, sweetheart?” She swiftly takes the panties out of her mouth.

Kara thinks, too optimistically, that it’s so she can reply clearly.

Instantaneously, Kara feels all of her muscles tighten at once. Something has started vibrating inside of her—quite literally, vibrating inside of her—it’s pressed deep inside of her folds, right behind her clit against that perfect spot that made her cunt feel tight and hot. The panties were removed from her mouth so they weren’t a choking hazard, she realises.

Then, it dwindles away to nothing.

“I am going to hurt you in ways you cannot fathom,” Kara growls furiously at the denial of her pleasure.

“No, you’re not.” Lena cranes down and pecks her temple. “Because I will crush you before you ever get the chance, little girl,” her soft voice becomes a stern tone against the ear, the responsive slither of crimson red kryptonite emanating from Kara’s temple not going unnoticed.

The moment Kara snatches at Lena’s throat with her teeth—she is made to learn the hard way around why it’s a regrettable idea.

A sudden shock of electricity hits her, but not externally, this time it’s deep inside of her cunt, attacking the back of her clit with needle-like precision. It hits her so hard that Kara squeals and releases Lena’s throat before the slightest amount of pressure can be applied with her teeth.

Unlike the earlier electric shock, this one is prolonged and hateful almost. Kara curls on her side and cries, clenching her thighs, yelping like a wounded little animal. Lena stands over her calmly, hands clasped in front of her neat black pencil skirt while her thumb continues to press the remote control.

“Please!” Kara squeals. “Please make it stop!”

“Good girl,” Lena whispers and lifts her thumb off the trigger. “Manners will get you everywhere, sweetheart. I would advise that you don’t ever try to hurt me, otherwise I will have to rectify the situation with some sense of equalism. You understand?”

“Yes,” Kara spits the affirmation between her clenching teeth.

“Yes Ma’am,” Lena insists.

“You have lost your soft little fucking mind if you think—” Kara wails a sharp sob that cuts her off, squirming her thighs together again as a small jolt hits her deep in the back of the cunt.

“When you’re like this, Kara, I don’t see my girlfriend,” Lena says firm. “My sweet, gentle, strong Supergirl... She would never try to hurt me, would never hurt a fly even. But you?” Her tone is suddenly accusatory. “You are not my Kara. You are the monster that lurks beneath the surface, and you will kneel and be made tame or you will be crushed into dust. I’m not your girlfriend, your little human, or your subordinate. I am the only authority in your tiny fucking insular world and you will obey me.” It isn’t posed as a question, simply posited as fact.

“We’ll see about that, Ma’am,” Kara growls sarcastically.

“Good girl,” Lena’s tone is suddenly praising, her eyes narrowing with pleased surprise. “You don’t have to enjoy saying it, baby, you just have to do as you’re told.”

Instinctively, Kara wants to protest and be difficult. But whatever Lena has buried deep inside of her cunt…it begins to strangely swell, filling her, vibrating and pulsing against her slick hot folds in a way that is entirely pleasurable. Kara understands too late what game they’re playing. Lena is operantly conditioning her. A game of punishment and reward.

The corner of Kara’s vision glitters, almost. The red kryptonite heightens everything, her emotions, her mood, her aggression, and apparently her arousal too. The wolfish creature can’t help but gasp, closing her eyes and unable to form coherent words.

“I think that’s enough baby,” Lena whispers softly.

Slowly, the strange new toy inside of her cunt recedes in size and slows its vibrations. It feels like a knot growing smaller, then a love egg, then it’s too small to be descriptively felt any more. Kara can still tell something is inside of her but it’s the smallest, most inoffensive intrusion. There, but not there, like a tiny pill-sized probe of sorts.

Kara glances down to the  leather strap buckled tight over her slit. She had assumed it was there to stop her slipping out of the strait-jacket, but Kara now understood it was also there to keep something buried inside of her.

Kara shifts slowly on the floor, twisting her hips, trying to feel out the sensations in her body that no longer seemed to exist without Lena deciding they should. It makes the chief executive smile this wolfish, chipper grin that looks strange on her usually dour face. Her beaming white teeth are on display with the breadth of her smile.

She looks beautiful, Kara can’t help but notice.

“What-” Kara blinks, completely confused. “What did you put inside of me?”

“A very, very special toy.” Lena gently takes her by the chin, guiding her shying face to meet her authoritative eyes. “I made it especially for you, though the punishment features were certainly a last-minute revision. If you’re a very, very good girl I’ll show you just how nice it feels when I decide that it should.”

“And if I’m not a good girl?” Kara lifts her brow defiantly. “If I don’t want to be your unconsenting little fucking pet slave?”

At that Lena’s eyes widen slightly.

“Baby,” Lena whispers with a knitted brow, her voice slow and loving. “I’m trying to help you here. The green kryptonite—” She nods at the deep green spotlights that cast the room in dark shadows. “I don’t know how much exposure is lethal, but I know that if you ever posed a risk to the general public then the DEO would ask questions later after they had put you down like a feral animal.” The theoretical possibility seems to make Lena tight with worry. “You don’t have to like this. It’s non-lethal, it’s for your own good, and my Kara would perfectly understand why it was necessary.”

“Then your Kara is a submissive little whore, and you probably know as much.” Kara glares at the unshakeable human she had underestimated.

Lena tucks a long weft of blonde hair behind Kara’s ear.

“Come along,” Lena instructs, turning on her heels to walk to the desk in the corner of the room. “You can either come willingly or I will give you a damn good reason to regret being so difficult.”

***

To Lena’s surprise, Kara did as she was told. Lena sat down in the chair and opened the laptop, her thumb on the shock button, ready to hit her girlfriend where it hurt once she reached zero on her mental countdown from ten.

But Kara crawls forward as best she can like a wounded little animal, her arms secured by the strait-jacket, her cheek pressed to the floor as she pushes forward indignantly on her knees.

The miracle happened. The pigs flew over the sky. The chickens had come home to roost. Lena felt her smile widen proudly, her fingers slipping around Kara’s neck and tickling the nape.

“Good girl,” Lena hushes, then she slips her hand around Kara’s jaw and brings her cheek to her lap. “There you go, just kneel there and show me you can be good.”

Lena rewards her in tangible, felt ways. The bullet-like toy inside of her cunt was activated with the remote, Lena’s thumb slipping over the control trigger to increase the swell in size, then the vibrations too.

Lena kept it on the minimal settings, flexing her thumb back and forth, giving her girlfriend just enough to coax her submission. She imagined that it probably felt like a pulse inside of her tight slick cunt, a pressure that grew and pressed into the back of her g-spot with delicious accuracy, then receded into nothing.

“Say thank you, princess.” Lena idly traces her fingertips on the panting jaw pressing to her thigh.

“Go fuck yourself you arrogant, precious little cunt.”

Lena just closes her eyes and presses the button.

Tense and tight and squealing, the wolfish little creature slumps to the floor and wrestles against the strait-jackets straps. Lena opens her eyes and peers down at her, guilty, curious, aroused beyond words and not ready to take her thumb off the trigger yet.

“Please!” Kara yelps with tears streaming down her red cheeks. “I’m sorry!”

“You’re sorry, what?” Lena lifts her eyebrow, waiting for the appellation.

“Oh go fuck yourself—” Kara regrets it instantly.

It was thrilling to bring a god to her squealing, tightly curled-up kneels. Lena knows it’s wrong, that it’s villainous in all the ways she holds herself to be morally higher than. But all Kara has to do is be polite, it really isn’t that hard. She increases the electricity until it feels like a thousand tiny needles digging and prodding, Lena has no doubts about it.

“I’m sorry, Ma’am!” Kara sobs. “Please make it stop, I’m sorry!”

“Good girl,” Lena hushes and takes her thumb off the trigger. “There’s a good, good girl.” She pets her long damp hair. “See, it isn’t that hard baby. You just have to do as you’re told, you just have to be a good girl.”

Lena replaces the pain with a flood of pleasure. It takes her girlfriend off her centre of gravity. Kara slumps again, her toes flexing and curling, her belly tightening until she is curling like a little kitten. Lena makes sure to show the submission an abundance of reward, her thumb flies upward on the control trigger and gives Kara a brief taste of how good obedience can truly feel.

The toy swells so big and wide inside of Kara that her weeping baby blues fly open, entire constellations mapped in the whites of her eyes. The vibrations are so powerful that Lena can hear them — thrumming, pulsing, mechanically growling away like a revving engine. She brings Kara down slowly, gently, backing her away from the cliff edge of a quick hard orgasm.

“Please!” Kara whines and brings her cheek back to Lena’s lap, kissing and digging her nose into the top of the chief executive’s thigh. “I’ll be good, I’ll behave, please just let me cum.”

“I think I’ll leave you right here.” Lena settles on a low, gentle vibration setting — enough that Kara can feel it stirring her orgasm, but not enough to push her over the edge. “If you’re still being a good girl by the time I’ve finished my ordinance paperwork, we can revisit things.”

“Please,” Kara whimpers, her voice barely a choking whisper. “Please, please, please—” She buries her face into Lena’s lap.

Lena ignores it and gets on with her tasks. It takes longer than it usually does, she’s more aware of the ticking time. The panting little mouth pressing to her thigh whimpers and moans, but Kara’s face is entirely slack and resting on the leg as though she has no energy to hold it up of her own volition.

“Please Ma’am,” Kara whimpers, “Please, Ma’am, make it feel good.”

Lena says nothing, offers nothing in response, but she pushes the trigger upwards and increases the vibrations and swelling size of the toy, incrementally and almost procedural. Then, she clicks into her emails for a quick update on the minute notes from the meeting she missed.

Ten minutes pass, if that.

“I need to cum,” Kara pants. “Please?”

“No.”

“Please Ma’am!”

“I said no—ow!” Lena glances down to where Kara had nipped her with teeth, hard. “What did I tell you?” Lena asks calmly, her fingers catching the shying chin. “I was fair, I warned you Kara, all you have to do is be a good girl and do as I tell you to.”

“Please no more shocks, I’m sorry—I didn’t, I didn’t mean to!”

“I’m not going to shock you,” Lena says reassuringly, closing the laptop lid. “You want to be fucked? You want to be pleasured? I’m going to show you exactly why you wait for my freely-given permission. You think this is degrading? Oh baby, you haven’t seen anything yet.”

***

Kara cries so hard it makes the veins in her throat bulge and stick out. Her legs thrash and kick, her arms wrangling desperately against the tight, taut sleeves of the jacket. Externally, it looked as though she might be in the worst pain one woman could possibly experience. Lena almost felt guilty. But, Kara wasn’t in pain.

She was in terminal pleasure.

“Spread your legs,” Lena only has to whisper the instruction.

Kara does as she’s told instantly, as best she can, opening her shaking legs as far and wide as she possibly can. Her cunt is pink and swollen against the wet leather strap, bucking desperately for an orgasm she isn’t permitted to have.

Whenever she gets too close, Lena dials the toy down—or gives her a tiny shock—depending on whichever is necessary to keep her an obedient and well-behaved girl.

“What a pretty girl,” Lena croons, brow furrowing deeply as she leaned against her chair and crossed her leg. “Tell me again, what are the rules baby?”

“I do as I’m told,” Kara pants. “That’s all I have to do, exactly as I’m told to do.”

“You’re such a good, obedient little girl.” Lena dials up her vibrations almost imperceptibly. “I wanted to break you in gently, Kara, but if you need to be brought under the thumb with ruthless efficiency then that works for me too. Come, hump my foot like a good pet.”

The red kryptonite glows and ebbs under her skin, everywhere, pulsing, from her temples to her toes, the slithers of red slip and glide beneath her skin and then reappear a moment later somewhere else. Lena surmises that her body, her primal aggression, it’s fighting her from the inside out and telling her this is wrong.

Kara ignores it and does as she’s told.

“What a good girl!” Lena cranes down and kisses her temple as the slick leather strap begins to work the top of her bare foot. “What do good girls get, Kara?”

“Rewards, Ma’am,” Kara whimpers.

“And what does the good girl want?”

“For you to fuck me hard, Ma’am,” Kara breaks into a sob and grinds her hips harder. “Please, please, it’s too gentle.” She dissolves into hiccuping tears.

“You’re sure you want a big hard orgasm?” Lena furrows her brow, as though she doesn’t understand. “Wouldn’t you rather a nice, soft, gentle little orgasm that just takes you over the edge—”

“Please let me cum hard,” Kara squeals, her face dipped down and cradled between her handler’s thighs. “Please, Ma’am! I’ll be a good girl, I promise!”

“No baby,” Lena says calmly. “Just a tiny soft orgasm tonight. If you are good, I’ll let you have a big one tomorrow.”

“Ma’am please!” Kara yelps as though agonised, her fingers digging tight into Lena’s kneecaps. “Please, please—”

It’s important that Kara learns the size and depth of a reward is Lena’s to call. She won’t get her own way all of the time, that’s Lena’s rationale with denying her. Lena dials down the vibrations incrementally, then makes the swell of the toy just a little bit smaller. Responsively, Kara sobs and bucks harder as she loses the pressure on her g-spot.

“The more you push the more pressure I’m going to take away,” Lena is stern because she feels that she has to be. “Are we going to be a good girl or a ruined girl?”

“Good girl,” Kara whimpers and bucks. “Can I cum, please? I’ll be a good girl, I’ll be obedient.”

“Chase it. I’ll cut you off when you’ve had enough baby, don’t you worry.” Lena cruelly smiles.

Kara bucks and grows silent for a moment, her pained expression slackening as the orgasm creeps up gently—nowhere near as forceful as the wolfish little thing desires it to be—but that will come in time, Lena thinks. She cups Kara’s chin and stares down at her, appraising, judging perfectly, grinning when the wild little thing comes undone with a sob and clutches at her leg like a humping little pet.

“There we go,” Lena whispers, turning the toy off suddenly just as Kara hit the peek. “What a very, very good girl. I’m pleased, Kara.” She cranes and pecks her temple, her tear-stained cheek, then her panting lips. “What do we say?”

“Thank you, Ma’am,” Kara stutters.

“Good, good girl.” Lena cradles her cheeks. “Let’s get you comfortable in bed. You’re not going to give me problems, are you?” Lena teases her thumb over the shock trigger.

“No Ma’am!” Kara shakes her head frantically. “No problems!”

“Good girl, that’s what I like to hear.” Lena kisses her more fervently this time.

It was a gamble with her life that paid off, Lena thinks with relief.

The green kryptonite lamps had died hours ago, the room was completely dim and dark save the backlight from the row of monitors opposite the other side of the glass. Unbeknownst to Kara, she had slowly regained her powers, or certainly enough of them to beat Lena in a fight if she so wished. But, she had been such a very good girl.

Lena had no concerns now that her little wolfish pet could be brought to heel.

FIND MORE STORIES/SUBMIT ME YOUR IDEAS HERE!

[moonflower-31]

I Won’t Forget You - Spencer x Reader

Masterlist 

Part 25 

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader 

A/N: So, if you haven’t noticed, I’m gonna do one every other day with this so I don’t get burned out again. Hope that’s constant enough for you! Sorry about my little hiatus but I should be good now! 

Warnings: Talk of murder, PTSD Flashbacks, the usual stuff.  

Also, Feedback is really appreciated :)

Tags: @dra-reid, @eevee0722, @ceeellewrites, @anotherr-fine-mess, @ssahoodrathotchner, @egg-boy03, @helena-way07, @l0ve-0f-my-life, @serendipity-imagines, @kaelyn-lobrutto24, @thatsonezesty13 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

Words have no power to impress the mind without the exquisite horror of reality - Edgar Allen Poe 

Unfortunately for you, serial killers didn't know how to wait. So not two days after Spencer had finally been able to be home with you were they called on a case. Their first one without you since you were hired. 

It left you with a slight dull feeling in your heart as you sat curled up on the couch reading the same page over and over as you kept losing focus. Morgan had stayed, as Spencer had promised. But he was currently asleep in Spencer's bed. Something about it being softer than his own with Savannah. Whatever that meant. 

You grumbled and closed the book after your fifth attempt at distracting yourself from how lonely you felt. And how the nagging feeling of thinking you're being watched didn't go away, even with Morgan’s less than helpful presence.  

You sighed and put the book down on the coffee table and picked up the remote instead. You flipped through a few channels until you find the news channel was having a 'Breaking News' segment. When the title appeared on the screen you almost screamed. 

19 year old Arthur Grant goes missing from his family's estate, reward not yet posted. 

You widen your eyes, your hands beginning to shake. Why? Why you? Why must you be overloaded with so much grief and trauma? Did some bereavement mailman decide to ditch his route and dump all of the bad stuff on your doorstep? 

You didn't even have tears that came to be shed. You'd cried so much the past week that you had run the banks dry and squeezed more than at least 5 headaches out of you. And each of them having lasted at least 4-5 hours. Sometimes more. 

Instead of your normal first step of denial, or depression in the stages of grief you unfortunately knew too well, you found anger boiling up through your feet, making your toes curl and your fists clench. You were pissed. Everyone around you was suffering because of Peter's self-absorbed, narcissistic, and sociopathic God-Complex. And you were sick of it. 

You didn't care who heard, who came running to see if you were okay. You just couldn't hold back your frustration anymore: you screamed. 

You threw the remote against the couch, still having half the mind to keep from destroying it. It was still Spencer's property. You didn't exactly have the 20-40 bucks to give to replace it. So, precautionary aggression was the best course of action. 

Your hands found your hair and gripped tightly, letting out a frustrated and loud grumble. You could still see his cocky smirk, his evil eyes as they stared at you like you were nothing but a good fuck to him. You could hear his sickening laughter in your ear, and you could hear the rumble of the gravel underneath the tires of his stupid truck. You were almost there, same feelings, same feeling of paranoid, survival instinct came rushing into your decision making controls and overrided them.

You were engulfed in the flashback, seeing him, feeling the cold metal of the cuffs around your wrists as they dug into your skin, the shiver of having your clothes ripped off of you like you were some prize he had won, it was too much. 

You were panting and holding your head, trying to make sense of everything and trying to get a grip on your own reality. You ended up backing up into the dining table and sending things to the floor. This only amped up your paranoid reaction, causing you to be on guard, but thankfully the flashback was able to end. 

Then, some poor soul decided to knock on the door. Your eyes snapped towards the mahogany door and you let out an instinctive growl. You then began stalking towards the door, sneering and baring your teeth. 

As you made your way towards the door, a pair of protective arms wrapped around you, preventing you from opening the door or causing anymore ruckus from your rampage. 

"Woah there feisty, what was all that for? I thought you were seriously in trouble." 

Morgan’s calm but worried voice was like a fire extinguisher to your anger and your guard, calming you down in a matter of minutes. The fire quelled inside of you, being replaced with a lake of sadness and pain. And unfortunately, that meant that instead of anger, well, you had to deal with tears. Which you had recently come to find were annoying as hell. 

"Morgan…" you breathed, letting yourself become almost limp in his arms. You felt the tears building, almost climbing inside your eyes. You couldn't do this. You couldn't face him again. Face these memories. But you were fucking stuck with them. You had no way of forgetting them. Ever. Thanks to your stupid memory. You didn't want it. You wished you had a normal memory, or at the very least an eidetic memory like Spencer's. At least then you could forget some things. But you? No. No the only things you couldn't remember were whether or not your parents ever really nursed you or even held you when you were an infant. Even the things you did remember weren't pleasant. No warm glow, no blanket colors. Just the cold, monotone voice of your father introducing you to your 'future staff'. 

Morgan held you, not asking you any questions. He just let you begin to cry and let out your frustration on him. Your balled up fist gently hit his chest a few times as you wailed and inaudibly tried to explain what you thought had happened. He didn't stop you, just tried to sooth you as the knocking sounded again. 

You froze in Derek's arms, the knocking now being persistent and fear-inducing now that you had your overly cautious mind back. 

"D-derek…" you whispered. Derek shook his head. 

"I'll get it, alright? You stay right here." He says, gesturing for you to stay. He didn't have to tell you twice, you were still hiccuping from your sobs. 

Derek slowly approached the door, looking through the peephole before opening it slowly. "Hey… you should've called first. We might've been able to answer quicker." 

All of your fears and concerns and panic all ceased at the sight of the man, well more of a boy, that stood in the doorway. 

You stood there in disbelief as you called to him, hoping you weren't seeing things. 

"Arthur?" 

○●♡●○ 

Spencer sighed as he was put in charge of the geographical profile yet again. He had a newfound routine in having you help him with it so much so that he found it harder to do his job. 

Not to mention his mind was filled with worry about how you were at home. How your well-being was, if Morgan would be enough company for you when you had the nightmares he knew you had after everything. He'd been the one to comfort you after each and every one in the hospital. He just hoped that Morgan could still comfort you while he was away. 

Not only that, but a certain Real Estate Broker had his mind doing flips and his eyes seeing red whenever he thought of him and what vile thing he could be planning next. Spencer hated being away from you. Especially when everyone knew by now that Peter was a snake and was easily able to slither away. And to sneakily find you as he had done before. Spencer was thankful now that he had asked you to stay with him in his apartment rather than your own. If you were staying in yours, the chances of Peter finding you were 90-100%. And he hated those odds. 

So safe to say, Spencer's mind was at odds with itself. And to top it all off all he could think about was what it would be like to squeeze the trigger and kill Peter himself. For you. That's all he wanted was revenge for you. He'd have to make sure he didn't instigate anything, so that it would be seen as self defense. But he would love to feel the backlash of gunfire if it meant that Peter would be dead. And you would be safe. 

"Hey, any progress on that profile yet?" 

Spencer looked up and saw JJ standing in front of where he stood next to the map, having found himself lost in thought with his fist clenched around the little box of pins in his hand. 

 "Oh, uh… no, not yet. I was just… distracted is all." He admitted, pulling out the box from his hand and pinning the last two locations for the dump sites. 

"From what I can see just from first glance is that the dump sites seem to be within 6 or 7 miles between each other, give-or-take." Spencer expressed, trying to flip on his work brain to no avail. He soon found himself thinking of you before he finished his statement. 

JJ looked at him with a sad smile. "You're worried about her, huh?" 

Spencer was caught off guard by JJ's question, causing him to turn towards her a few seconds later. "Huh? Who?" He asked. 

JJ gave him a slightly teasing look. "You know who. Garcia told us and the rest of the team about your little crush on her. Apparently she overheard you talking to your mom a few weeks ago. Said you loved her." JJ reveals, a gentle and motherly smile on her face. 

Spencer felt a warmth rise to his cheeks, suddenly feeling much warmer in his cardigan than usual. "S-she did?' 

JJ nodded. "Mhm. It's okay, Spence. Besides, I kind of figured after how you carried her back to the ambulance. She was snuggled up on you. And you refused to let her go until you knew for certain that the lead medic had an actual medical license." JJ teased gently. 

Spencer sighed and rubbed his neck, closing the box of pins so as to not spill them all over the carpet. "Is… is it that obvious?" 

JJ nodded again, a slight giggle on her lips. "Am I or am I not a liaison for the BAU?" She asked, obviously giving him a half hard time. "But seriously, I know you're worried about her. We all are. But she's gonna be alright. Morgan’s with her. Even with a busted knee he can wrestle any man to the ground." 

Spencer sighed. JJ was right. The only reason Morgan had been taken by Peter was because he caught him off guard and was shot before he could shoot first. He was more than capable of protecting you. So why did he feel so badly? 

Spencer rubbed his face and put the box down on the map's marker holder. "I know, JJ. I just… I can't help but worry about her. What if she has a nightmare and I'm not able to be there to comfort her? Wh-what if she has a panic attack and I can't get to her cause I'm all the way out here in South Dakota?" He asked, his worries getting the best of him. 

JJ lifted her non-full hand and laid it on Spencer’s shoulder, no matter how much taller he was than her. "Spence. She's going to be okay. We have people watching over your apartment building on Strauss's orders. They're doing it on their overtime. I think she's safe. Even then, you're just a phone call away, right?"

Spencer sighed again, now noticing that JJ carried with her a coffee in her hand that wasn't on his shoulder. JJ laughed. "I'd be wary of the day you don't smell coffee when it's available. You're lucky it's for you." JJ teased, handing the warm cup to him. 

Spencer took it and took a quick sip of the liquid. "Thank you, JJ. Really. I… I really needed this." He says. JJ nods. 

"I figured you did. Now I gotta go address the press. They're gathering like vultures out there. So I gotta be their food source." She jokes. Spencer laughed and nodded. 

"Yeah… actually, most vultures tend to go for larger prey than the usual roadkill, as that is more sustenance for them-" Spencer began to ramble. JJ laughs as he caught himself. 

"Yeah, just like every animal it seems." She answers before he leaves the room, opening the door wider as Garcia bursts into the room with her laptop. 

"Reid! Reid I think I might've gotten word about Peter!" 

○●♡●○ 

"Arthur?" 

Your brother chuckles slightly and rubs the back of his neck. "Surprise? Please don't tell me you've watched the news. You know how dramatic mother is. I told her I was going to come visit you and-" 

He didn't get to finish his sentence  as you very quickly engulfed him in a hug. You felt short, as he had grown much taller than you. But you didn't care. He was still your little brother. And you loved him. 

"Y-you're okay… you...you've grown so much…" you begin, looking up at him as you pull away. Arthur's arms had very quickly reciprocated your hug, enjoying the first bit of contact he has had with you since you left. 

"Yeah, apparently somewhere in my genes there's supposed to be another inch or two. But I think I'm done." He laughs, laying a hand on your head. You smile at him, your panic completely gone at this point. 

Derek raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms from where he stood. "(Y/N), you wanna tell me who this is?" He asks. 

You look over at Morgan and laugh softly, Arthur having given Morgan his most awkward expression. He really hadn't changed much. 

"Derek, this is my younger brother, Arthur Grant." You introduced. Then you turned to Arthur. "Artie, this is SSA Derek Morgan. He… He was the agent P-Peter captured alongside me." 

Arthur widened his eyes and held out his hand to Derek as he gulped. "N-nice to meet you. T-thank you for protecting her. She's really all I've got." He says, rubbing his neck. 

Derek smiled and gave Arthur a firm handshake in return. "It was my honor, Arthur. I'm glad she's got some real family left. Not that her work family isn't good." He jokes, nudging your arm. You rolled your eyes and smiled to yourself. 

"Hey, as a wise man on Supernatural once said, 'Family don't end in blood'. And I think that qualifies here." You giggle softly, happy to have found even a small bit of happiness and willingness to be able to express it freely. 

Arthur shook Morgan’s hand gladly and smiled his signature smile, looking back towards you. "Hey, uh… sis? Can we… can we talk? I haven't seen you for… what is it… five years now? I just wanna catch up." He expresses, his eyebrows turning up genuinely. 

You sigh, but nod. "Morgan, can you go into the other room while we talk? Just for a half hour?" You ask. Morgan shrugs and nods. 

"'Course kid. He's the only member of your damn family I'll trust. Just don't be gossiping without me." He teases as he leaves the room. You giggle softly as you watch him leave. 

"So… how have you been? O-other than-" Arthur began, his awkwardness taking over. You sigh and hold up a hand and look at him sadly. 

"Artie… please, let's just… not talk about that. I'm dealing with it. That's all that you need to know right now. You might be taller than me, but that doesn't mean that you're gonna know all of my secrets like an older brother." You tease, guiding Arthur towards the couch. 

Arthur playfully rolled his eyes and followed you, mocking offense. "Oh come on, height has to factor in there somewhere Sis." 

You shake your head and take a seat beside him on Spencer’s couch, sighing gently. "Nope, sorry little bro." You insist. 

Arthur smiles at you and leans back on the couch, sighing as he looks at you. "(Y/N/N)... you… You have no idea how much I've missed you. I pushed myself to graduate with all honors because of you. I got a scholarship too. In business. Because you always pushed me to do better. To do my best. I… I want to do something for you in return. Please. Name it. I can start making it up to you." 

You give Arthur a joking look and shook your head. "No need, Arthur. Besides, that was all you. You just needed the extra push. I'm so proud of you." You say, laying a hand on Arthur's arm. He smiled at you and took a sigh, signaling to you that the conversation was about to take a turn. 

Arthur's hands intertwined with each other and he leaned over for a moment, his elbows digging into his thighs. "(Y/N)... Look I… I know you said you were okay but…" he sighed again. "Mom she… she forbade me from seeing you in the hospital, I promise that's the only reason I wasn't there. After I promised to testify against her for you she banned me from leaving home." 

You widen your eyes, your mouth gaping a bit. "Arthur… y-you're testifying?" 

He looked up at you and nodded. "Yeah. She assaulted you at work and literally sold you, sis. If I can put her away, along with him, I'm gonna do it. For you. I want you to be safe. I may not be your older brother, but I want you safe too. I'm gonna try and protect you like a brother should. I couldn't do much as a scrawny 13 year old you know." He chuckled. You laughed briefly, a smile teasing at your lips. 

"Yeah… not really." You giggled. He shook his head and laughed back. 

"Ha ha. Very funny. But really… it's good to see you sis. I… I'm sorry I didn't do enough for you back then." He exhaled, his expression solemn and regretful. You take his hands in yours and give him a reassuring look. 

"Hey, just as you said. You were a scrawny 13 year old. What much could you do?" You point out. Arthur sighed. 

"I could've protected you. At least told Peter to scram at least once." He grumbled. You shake your head and smile at him. 

"I think I did that enough for the both of us." 

Arthur smiled softly and looked down, showing you his vulnerability when it came to you. You squeezed his hands gently, assuring him it was okay. 

And you both sat there in each other's company for a few more moments of silence. It wasn't an awkward one, so there were no awkward feelings.  

Arthur spoke up a few minutes later, having come up with an idea. "Can… can I at least pay for your therapy? I can pay for it with the money dad gives me. You… you need to see someone. I saw someone, you pushed me to go see Dr. Francesca and now I see her every two weeks. Please… let me do this for you." 

You sighed as Arthur began to try and persuade you. Damn him and his puppy eyes. He still had the gift. 

"Tell you what, how about we call Derek back in here and we watch some procedural cop show that we can all laugh at and I'll tell you what I decide later?" You narrowly avoid. Arthur thankfully notices this and drops the question. 

"Only if the show is dumb enough for a citizen like me to laugh at it." He settles. 

You giggle and nod. "Deal!"

[shortkingzuko]

Title: a shared life

relationship: Bato/Hakoda, past Kya/Hakoda

warnings: canon character death

rating: general

summary:  It takes longer than it should for Hakoda to realize how much of his life he shares with Bato.

read under the cut or read it on AO3 for my tomfoolery in the notes/proper tags

this is my submission for the first day of @bakodafleetweek (modern au/with kids)

It takes longer than it should for Hakoda to realize how much of his life he shares with Bato. They had always been attached at the hip since they were old enough to cause trouble but still young enough to avoid punishment. Growing up, they shared nearly everything: food, toys, books, secrets, clothes (only for a few years though, at first Bato would only wear Hakoda’s, and then after they both had ‘boys clothes’, Bato got a growth spurt that seemed to rocket him above Hakoda), and even a car. When he started dating Kya, many people - including her - joked that she was getting two boyfriends for the price of one, considering how often Bato hung out with them, and, often unintentionally on all their parts, ended up tagging along for their dates. Even before Bato got his name, people would say that they were like brothers - and while Hakoda understood their sentiment, he always knew, deep down, that that wasn’t what they were. Bato’s frank and straightforward confession of his love when he was nineteen only confirmed it.

Not that that even changed anything - Hakoda was already three years into dating Kya, and all three of them lived together in a shitty apartment without heat for university (“Feels just like home!” Kya had declared their first winter there when the three of them were bundled in layers of sweaters and blankets because none of them thought they would need their parkas when they moved south together), and, Hakoda quickly learned, Bato had already cleared it with Kya before telling Hakoda.

“I know that nothing will come of this,” Bato said, voice deep and soothing. “I’m not trying to cause a rift or make you feel guilty. I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable. I’m just tired of holding this in and lying to myself about how I feel.”

Hakoda had been silent for a minute, staring at his best friend, who went from looking nervous to loosening and looking relaxed as the seconds wore on as if he knew that the delay in reaction didn’t denote anything bad. Hakoda cleared his throat. “Uh… thank you, I guess? I didn’t know I was such a hot commodity that I was attractive to the most beautiful girl  and  the prettiest boy of the tribe.”

Bato and Hakoda laughed, and from the next room over, he could hear Kya laughing too. For the longest time, Bato was right, nothing had come of that conversation - Hakoda and Kya continued to date, and eventually married. Bato, for his part, seemed to be more relaxed, like he lost a tension that Hakoda and Kya didn’t even notice he was developing. And while Bato dated a few men, nothing serious ever came of it. When asked, Bato would often shrug and say, “I’m happy as is,” and that would be the end of it.

When Kya was first pregnant with Sokka, Hakoda had a brief worry, laced between all the excitement and overwhelming joy he felt, that things between them (between  him ) and Bato would finally change. Sure, nothing changed after he and Kya married and they finally decided it was time that they didn’t live all together - Bato only lived fifteen minutes away after all, and they often still had ‘sleepovers’ with all three of them - but surely their lives would get thrown into a loop with the arrival of a child. Admittedly, Hakoda was waiting for that moment, the moment where it was clear to the three of them that their trio no longer worked, that Bato would have to be abandoned at the sidelines so that Hakoda and Kya could raise their son.

It took until Katara was born for Hakoda to realize that the moment wasn’t going to come. If anything, Bato had become even closer to them, as he spent more time at their house to make sure Kya had everything she needed, to help them with cooking and cleaning, just to keep Kya company when she was having a tough time taking care of Sokka while being pregnant. When Hakoda was worried about raising two children, about his own abilities as a father, Bato was there to soothe and reassure him. When Kya got worried because her second pregnancy was turning out to be much harder than her first, her husband and Bato were next to her, calming her and helping her quell her worries. Hell, after Katara was born, Bato moved even closer to them - so instead of a fifteen-minute drive, it was only a ten-minute walk from his apartment to the Nootaikok household.

After realizing how much time Bato spent at their house, how much care he held for his children, Hakoda felt bad for assuming that anything that their relationship would suffer from the addition of children. Many times he would come home from work to find Kya and Bato sitting on the living room floor, both speaking Inuktut to a semi-coherent Sokka and a babbling Katara. Then, Hakoda would change out of his work clothes and join them on the floor, kissing Kya on the lips and giving Bato a firm squeeze on the shoulder in greeting, before cooing at his children in their traditional language as well.

And things were good, really good, for a long time. Bato was around for dinner at least once a week, Kya was able to return to work with less stress since there were three adults able to look after the kids, instead of just two, Hakoda and Kya got to go on dates with more frequency than any of their other friends since Bato was always happy and willing to babysit Katara and Sokka for an evening. They went on trips up to their village together, and when it was finally time for Kya and Hakoda to move houses, there was no question of if Bato was going to make sure that he lived close to them. Bato’s name and number were on every emergency contact list, he had a drawer of his things in a dresser in Kya and Hakoda’s room, and the few times that he dated anyone long enough to introduce them to his friends, they had to go through the strict screening process of Katara and Sokka asking, “ Why are you dating our Bato?”

And, silently, Hakoda liked that.  Our Bato.   That’s what he was, in all his 6’6, deep-voiced, long-haired glory. Bato was   theirs,   was   his ; Bato was intricately, intrinsically connected to Hakoda and everyone that Hakoda loved. And he knew, even if he didn’t love Bato the way that Bato wanted to be loved by him, Bato liked being his Bato as well, liked being Kya’s and Sokka’s and Katara’s Bato.

And then. Kya was sick and faster than anyone could comprehend, she was in the hospital and then. Kya died. Painful and sudden, like a bandage getting ripped off and it pulling off the scab underneath, Hakoda was left without a wife and with two children now mourning a mother decades too soon. There’s no sense of cosmic justice or sense in her death and it thrusts Hakoda into a painful fog. There’s no comfort in burying her in their ancestral home, in her family plot, so soon after her own grandfather’s passing, there’s no respite when Kanna agrees to move closer to Hakoda to help him with Sokka and Katara.

It’s in that daze of grief and depression, that Bato seems to waltz in, keeping his family alive in the interlude between them burying Kya and Kanna finally being able to move down. Hakoda tries his best, but often it was Bato waking the kids up for school, making them cold breakfasts, and picking them up when the day was done. It was Bato that made sure the house had a semblance of hygiene, who tried to make sure that there was enough edible food in the house to sustain them. Barely anyone noticed, or if they did, no one questioned when Bato began sleeping in the guest bedroom at night, or how he would only return home to pick up more clothes, before returning to take care of his friend’s needs. When Kanna moved and got her own little house, a little less than a twenty-minute drive away, Bato pushed Hakoda into the car, after helping the kids pack their backpacks, and drove them all to Kanna’s so that the kids could spend a few days there.

In their absence, Hakoda’s house felt empty, desolate, like a mausoleum, filled with the ghosts of a life he no longer had. And in their absence, Hakoda finally let himself collapse fully into Bato’s arms and wailed, nearly crumbling onto the floor in the living room. It must have been hours that they sat on the floor as he clutched Bato’s boney, hunched shoulders, burying his face in his chest, mind not processing Bato’s soothing words or the way that he was rubbing his back. Vaguely, Hakoda considered how cruel this was, demanding that the man who loved him, who had built his life around him, comfort him as he grieved for his wife. The thought was quickly banished, in a moment of clarity, when he heard Bato sniff as he quickly moved to wipe his own tears from his face.

In the days that Sokka and Katara were with their grandmother, Bato and Hakoda got more work done than they had during the three months since Kya’s death. With a herculean effort, they went through Kya’s belongings, picking through them like precious treasure or radioactive material, each item handled with care and love and fear. They went through everything in Hakoda’s bedroom, cleaning everything that Hakoda wanted to keep, packing away things that he thought the kids should be able to have one day, and Bato boxed up everything that they decided should be thrown out or donated. By the time that the two men brought Katara and Sokka home, the house was cleaner than it had been in months, and while Kya’s memory and presence were still clearly seen and felt, it was less suffocating, and all four of them finally felt like they were able to breathe.

Vaguely, Hakoda worried that Bato would leave, now that he was (nearly) back to functioning like the adult he was. The thought worried him, scared him even, the thought of being alone again (years later, he would realize he was never really alone, to begin with), the thought that Bato would start to move on with his life, now that he didn’t have to stick around to take care of Hakoda and his kids. The thought that Bato,  his Bato,  would leave him, not as permanently but just as painfully as his Kya did, was enough to nearly send Hakoda back into a spiral. As if sensing his friend's fear, Bato never made any indication that he wanted to leave, that he wanted to move on or change his life. He was always there to wake the kids up when Hakoda could hardly get himself out of bed, was always there to remind Hakoda about the parent-teacher interview happening the next week, and was always there to wrap his arms around Hakoda’s shoulders, petting his hair as Kya used to, muttering condolences and reassurances in his ear after the kids were asleep and Hakoda could finally let himself cry.

It was nearly two years after Kya’s death when Hakoda finally noticed that Bato had actually moved into the guest bedroom, that Bato’s mail was now delivered to their address. It only takes some mild snooping to figure out that Bato didn’t renew his lease on his apartment. Distantly, Hakoda wondered if he should be upset that Bato took on this life change without asking, but he couldn’t bring himself to even mention it to Bato. It wasn’t like the ‘official’ move in even changed anything, as Bato had functionally been living with them since Kya passing.

In the years that followed Hakoda found solace in the new normal of his family. Hakoda never questioned why Bato remained by his side, in the room just down the hall, for all these years, even though both Sokka and Katara grew more curious as the years passed. In their own not-so-subtle way, they tried to figure out why Bato lived with them now, why he never moved out.

(“Are you going to move in with your new boyfriend?” Sokka had asked once, over dinner, when he was fourteen, and Bato mentioned off-handedly that one of his co-workers asked him out. Bato looked surprised at the question, before shaking his head.

“Sokka, I think that I would rather eat dirt than go on a date with him.” Hakoda laughed at the reply, and he let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding in,)

Not that Sokka or Katara could complain about the man’s presence; they loved Bato and were happy to have him in their lives, but the lack of clarity about who he was meant to be, what role he was trying to fill confused them.

In the end, it was Sokka who asked the question when he was fifteen. Hakoda had been driving him home from the mall when he sprung the question.

“Are you and Bato dating?”

Hakoda took his eyes off the road to stare at her for a moment. Belatedly, he realized that Sokka had asked him to pick him up, instead of just busing home, because he knew Hakoda wouldn’t be able to escape. He wondered if this was his influence or Bato's.

“What? No, of course not.”

“‘Cause if you  were , that’s fine! Katara and I like Bato, obviously, and he lives with us anyways, and we know he loved mom too and-”

“Sokka,” Hakoda interrupted, making him frown. He hated it when people spoke over him, but he had to amend the situation. “Bato and I aren’t dating. I’m not- I don’t- We. We’re not dating, okay?”

Sokka stared at him for a moment, before crossing his arms and huffing, “Okay.”

As much as Hakoda wishes he could pretend the conversation never happened, it sticks with him, repeating in his mind for days.  Katara and I like Bato… we know he loved mom too.

The idea of his kids being okay, maybe even happy, if they dated made Hakoda’s pulse quicken more than he’d care to admit. A few times Bato had asked him if he ever thought about trying to date again, and his excuse was always some mixture of, “I’m not ready” and “The kids wouldn’t like it” and “I don’t want them to think I’m replacing Kya.”

But Bato has always been in their lives, has always been rolling his eyes fondly as Hakoda, and eventually, Sokka, made bad jokes, always listened to his children’s impassionate rants, always gently corrected their pronunciation of English and Inuktut alike, and always looked at Hakoda desperately when one of the kids misbehaved, never quite sure if he was allowed to speak to them about it or not. Hakoda was pretty sure that Bato had attended a few PTA meetings for him, he was pretty sure that whenever the kids had a question about homework or life or a concern that they were equally likely to go to Bato as they were to go to him or Gran-Gran.

Even before Kya’s death, Bato had always expressed how deeply he loved Sokka and Katara, how much he cared for and adored them, how he had his own complicated relationship with the concept of children, and how he was uncertain if he would ever have biological children of his own - especially after years of hormone replacement therapy - and yet he loved Hakoda and Kya’s kids as if they were his own. At the time, it made him and Kya nearly tear up, so happy to have someone like Bato, with so much love in his heart for them and their children, in their family. Since Kya’s death, it only became more clear that some of the voids that they thought were left by Kya, were also spaces that Bato could fill, and had filled, for years.

Hakoda mulled the idea - of him  dating  Bato - over in his head. Surprisingly enough, to him at least, he found he wasn’t against the idea of being with his best friend. And looking over how much time they spent together, how often Hakoda would invite Bato to watch movies with him in his bed, how many responsibilities they shared, how he always felt a sense of comfort and belonging when Bato was by his side - different than how he felt with Kya, but no less intoxicating - Hakoda found he understood why his kids thought that he and Bato were already together. And he found that not only was he not opposed to the idea, but that it excited him, brought him comfort and a warm flush to his cheeks when he laid in the darkness of his bedroom at night.

Hakoda still found it difficult to think about talking to Bato about it, so used were they to just knowing one another that they didn’t need to have hard talks with one another. But Hakoda found it easy to let Bato know what he wanted without words. When they drove Hakoda would reach over and hold Bato’s hand, earning him a surprised look that would morph into an uncharacteristically shy smile. When Bato cooked dinner Hakoda would join him in the kitchen, joking with him and helping out even when it wasn’t his turn to cook. Hakoda had taken to sitting close to Bato on the couch, even when there was ample room to spread out, and would carefully rest his head against Bato’s broad and boney shoulders, wrapping his arms loosely around Bato's narrow waist.

It took a few weeks until Bato was finally sleeping next to Hakoda at night, hair fanned out on the pillow, shirt twisted from getting comfortable, his thin hand loosely holding Hakoda’s. At first, Hakoda was worried it would feel wrong, would feel like a shoddy and hurtful replacement for Kya, but all he felt was comfort and warmth when he opened his eyes in the morning and the first thing he saw was Bato.

It only took a little longer than that for Bato to softly press his lips against Hakoda’s, face illuminated by the dim bedside table lamp, both of them tired from a day’s work and from raising rowdy teens. He had to lean down to reach Hakoda’s lips, thumb rubbing a gentle circle on Hakoda’s sharp cheekbone. It felt so innocent, so chaste, and so much younger than they were as if they were teenagers still trying to figure themselves out in the back of their shitty shared car instead of in the house that they lived in together with Hakoda’s kids ( Their kids , his brain supplied fondly). It made Hakoda smile. It made him reach up, fingers tangling themselves in Bato’s sleep braids, and pull Bato down for more.

Hakoda had always known that Bato was his, but as he went to sleep with the taste of Bato’s lips on his tongue and with the image of Bato smiling sweetly in his mind, Hakoda was elated to realize that all this time he - and Kya and Sokka and Katara - have always been Bato’s too.

[resonatingfern]

tell me for the ask box post! specifically nettle telling someone a secret? who they tell is any character of your choice :)

I hope you weren’t expecting something sweet…because this is a whole mess of angst. warning for suicide attempts and blood

-

Laranthir woke up from a frightening dream.

In it Nettle lay on the jungle floor, vines wrapped tight around his wrists and neck. His golden blood dulled even as Laranthir watched, losing the shimmer of life force until it was opaque and cold. Dread rose in Laranthir’s throat, and he snapped himself awake, doused in a chill sweat.

He was home in the Grove for a short time after making a report to the Commander and the Pale Tree. The jungle was far away, and for now he was safe from its clutches. Nettle was too, he assured himself. He had just seen the other second born earlier that day at his home.

Nettle had looked tired, though. There were bags beneath his eyes, his foliage pulled into a messy knot by his neck instead of its usual carefully tended tail and braid. While they shared lunch together he had been withdrawn. Laranthir hadn’t thought too much of it; Nettle had suffered, and he was still recovering.

Only now did Laranthir begin to worry. He remembered the few things Nettle said sounding slightly off — the request for Laranthir to look after the bees kept in his garden in the future, should something happen to him. The wistful way Nettle sipped at his tea and spoke of how it had always been his favorite and how he should miss it.

Tossing blankets aside, Laranthir jumped from his bed. He didn’t stop to dress more fully, only pausing at the door to hurriedly shove his feet into a pair of worn boots. Outside the tepid night air blew past him as he ran down the twisting lanes and paths to the ground level of the Grove. His heart beat in his ears, setting the tempo for his feet stomping into the soft moss and soil beneath him.

When he reached Nettle’s home the interior was dark. No light shone from the windows, no flicker of candlelight from his bedroom or kitchen. He knocked — loud once, then louder a second and third time. Another wave of dread washed over him, and Laranthir tasted bile rise in his throat.

“Nettle?” He called out, and gave up the knocking in favor of pushing the door inward. It opened, revealing the dark hallway leading to the kitchen. “Nisienn? Brother?”

Laranthir stepped further inside, his body now icy with chill and silence. He reached the kitchen, and by the faint light drifting in from the window above the sink he saw Nettle.

“Nettle!” He shouted, darting forward and lunging at the other sylvari who stood calm and still, a dagger digging deep into his wrist. He easily tore the weapon from Nettle’s grasp and tossed it far across the kitchen, where it landed with a sharp screech of metal. “Stop it, stop it! What are you doing?”

“Laranthir?” Nettle was limp in Laranthir’s hold, and his eyes were glazed over as he looked up at him. “I — what am I doing?”

Laranthir watched as Nettle looked down at his arms, one of them coated in the same thick, golden blood that had featured in his dream. Nettle’s hands — still scarred and deformed, though noticeably healing — were slick with the sap like substance, and it dripped perversely to the floor with a wet smack.

Reaching for a hanging towel by the sink, Laranthir wrapped the wound, compressing the area to stop the flow of blood before too much was lost.

“Put this on, brother,” He urged, deftly tying the fabric thanks to years on the battlefield. “Pale Mother, come here, come here.”

Nettle did as instructed and collapsed into Laranthir’s embrace. He began to sob, long, shuddering heaving of his body that pulled all the air from within him. They both slumped to the floor, Nettle’s legs giving out almost immediately. Through the wracking tears and howls of grief and pain Laranthir heard him repeat again and again he was sorry. His voice cracked and broke and found itself again, and each time it was the same mantra of apology.

Eventually Nettle quieted. Laranthir didn’t know how long it took, only that he would have sat there with his brother until the Grove grew over with moss and lichen and the world crumbled away. When his sobs turned to merely soft tears, Laranthir cupped Nettle’s cheek and brought his eyes to his own.

“Why?” he asked quietly, fearing to make too much noise now that the house was still again. “Why, Nisienn?”

Nettle looked at him for only a breath, then looked away. He shrugged, offering no explanation. Laranthir waited, continuing to rest his arms around Nettle’s shoulders.

“It should be me.” Nettle spoke so softly Laranthir had to bow his head in order to hear, even from his close distance. “I shouldn’t be alive.”

“That’s not true,” he answered without hesitation.

Nettle shook his head, the tangle of his foliage falling from its knot and tumbling over his shoulders.

“I killed them,” he said. His eyes were glazed over again, seeing something that wasn’t this room, but far away and lush with humid jungle air. “Aina, Duane, Varian… more. I remember each one. I — Laranthir, I tore into them.”

He broke away from Laranthir’s embrace and held up his hands. Fresh blood still seeped from the one bandaged wrist, but rest had dried to his hand, crackling and filling in the curves of his nails and the ravines of his many scars.

“I ripped them apart,” Nettle went on, each word shriller and more panicked than the last. “I felt their hearts beating in my hands when I tore them from their bodies. And I — and I…”

“Nisienn… ” Laranthir took Nettle’s hands in his own and lowered them. He felt him recoil from the touch, and quickly hid his hands from sight.

“I can’t keep hearing them.” Nettle shook his head again, this time his foliage covering his face. Neither moved to push it aside, instead letting it curtain him as he started to shake. “I can’t. I can’t live with this. I can’t. I can’t.”

The sobs returned anew, harder than the first time. Laranthir worried Nettle may choke, and he did spend a few moments coughing from the force of his crying, but it subsisted without incident. While Laranthir waited it out, rubbing at Nettle’s shoulders now and then and brushing back his foliage, he thought over the things he’d heard.

He knew Nettle’s time in the heart of Maguuma had been disastrous, but he had never heard the details. When the Pact found Nettle he had been crumpled and nearly lifeless, but he had been himself, which was more than many of the sylvari turned to Mordremoth’s call had been. Hearing now what his brother had gone through, what he had done, sent sparks of deep, aching pain through Laranthir’s chest. No one should have had to live through the things Nettle had, and yet here he was, alive and plagued by memories.

Laranthir tilted Nettle’s chin up once he had cried all he could. He looked into his eyes again, this time holding them tight.

“You must, Nisienn” he said. Maybe Nettle didn’t want to live anymore, but Laranthir had to believe that feeling could change. A world without him in it was too bleak to imagine. “The past will fade. I will help you. Mother will help you. We’ll get you help.”

Nettle’s face was still wet from tears, and the now rising sun streaming through the window caused them to catch the light and shimmer. His eyes — gentle, kind, filled with a sadness so deep it was hard to look at — were finally clear.  

“And if the help doesn’t lessen the pain?”

“It will,” Lanarthir answered. “I promise you. I always keep my promises to you, brother.”

Except that wasn’t true. Laranthir had promised to find him in the jungle if he were ever lost. He failed that, and because of it Nettle had suffered, and still suffered now. Laranthir couldn’t quell the feeling that part of the blame lie with him. He vowed then, Nettle still in his arms, his cheek now resting against his chest, that he would be part of the healing as well.

It was a moment before Nettle spoke again, and this time Laranthir felt his words vibrate aganist his chest.

“I’ll try.”

Laranthir held his hand to the back of Nettle’s head and slowly brushed over his foliage. He sighed, the exhaustion of the night hitting him all at once. Nettle would try, he thought. And that was enough for now.

[multiverseofmiracleshq]

After a rather eventful pregnancy, Jean Grey gave birth to a healthy baby boy on Krakoa with both Scott Summers and Logan Howlett on May 1st. The patronage of the baby was revealed shortly afterwards, and unfortunately not everyone always gets what they want.

THIS IS THE OFFICIAL COMPLETE CHAT LOG COVERAGE OF THE MINI IC

JEAN: Like everything over the course of her pregnancy, the birth was unexpected. There was a number of reasons it could have been progressing so fast from the fact that its carrier had almost been wiped out of existence to its double mutant heritage. Irregardless, Jean had done her best. She had remained tightlipped to most about where she was at because the last thing she wanted was a traumatic birth and a mutant healer had walked through a birth plan with her. The second she felt the aching pain she forgot all of that for a moment. Jean hadn’t expected her water to break on Krakoa standing in her stupid little uniform skirt. There had only been a small scene before she managed to get to the portal and back home at the Summers moon habitat. Having her baby on the moon? A bit ridiculous, but it was private. Jean had once died in space but now she was giving birth there. The mutant aide she had talked to before was there to walk her  through it and Jean said a silent prayer for every Jean Grey across the Multiverse who had willingly suffered through childbirth. Her uniform was  replaced with something akin to a hospital gown and then she was crying, pushing, cursing. Scott and Logan had made it in time and she felt hands holding her own. If Logan or Scott looked concerned she didn’t care. They weren’t the ones being ripped apart inside.The situation had been a mess from the start. She and Scott were just barely crawling back to one another and a terrible fear lingered she’d have to pick him or the baby. Jean loved both Logan and Scott, but it wasn’t supposed to be like this. Finally, it subsided. Her throat was raw from exhalations of pain but someone was congratulating her and she was being cleaned, put back together. A baby was crying and then a squirming blanket with ten small fingers and toes was placed in her arms. Jean collapsed back against the pillows then, sweating with her hair a mess around her. The baby itself had a small fuzzy patch on its head, reddish brown in color. It was absolutely perfect and for a long time her eyes remained locked on his face before she glanced up to where Scott and Logan had been kept perfect. “--He’s perfect.” There it was, an announcement of the gender given casually. Jean couldn’t focus on that. She was terribly sore and entirely content.

SCOTT: Jean's pregnancy had been a whirlwind from start to the inevitable finish. The arguments, the doubt, the slivers of excitement that were quelled by the realization that this child might not even be his. Scott had dreamed of a child who grew up to look like Logan, speak like Logan, and have bits and pieces of Jean throughout. Eventually it had just began to keep him up at night as she neared the end of her pregnancy, but Scott had begun to relent in his distance. Before Osborn's inauguration and well after, he'd tried to put his own issues to the side to just...be there for her. To bring her poorly cooked food, to set the right temperature for her bath, to massage her feet when it got too bad. He'd let off the throttle of his emotions and tried to remain as much of a husband towards her as he feasibly could. Scott did love Jean, that didn't change even though the paternity was unsure. So instead of gearing up to be a father, Scott focused on being a husband. When the time finally came, he'd arrived in the room just as Jean was being changed. It had been a process, something he'd experienced before with Madelyne and Nate, and his heart was torn in two as one half loved Jean and the other broke at the realization that Jean's first child in this life wasn't his. But then the baby came and it--he cried and Scott watched over from where he stood off to the side and slightly behind Jean. For the first time since entering this room, his gaze swung over to Logan, but only for a moment. "He is, isn't he." Scott said softly to himself.

LOGAN: It was strange to be feeling like this. Logan was already a father. He was still figuring it out, one mistake and one disaster right after the other, and there was always a part of him that tried its best to convince him he would never be cut out for it. Only time would tell. But this time, it felt different. Well, it was different. Between the two men standing next to Jean, no one truly knew which one of them the baby really belonged to. Up until this point, there had been countless hours racked up where Logan debated on if that really mattered or not. Or, the horrible thought, if it meant he should just leave Scott and Jean be. Every time his mind wandered close to that solution, he pushed it back. There was no way he was leaving this, or them. It was terrifying being here, watching Jean go through giving birth. Usually Logan wasn’t around for the big moments at the beginning of his kids’ lives. It put everything in a different light, like everything was here existing in this moment and right in this room and nothing else mattered. Logan caught Scott’s glance and was pulled back for a moment, gaze lingering on him with an expression softer than practically any other time Logan had looked at him. What he was feeling, he wasn’t quite sure. But eventually Logan focused in on Jean and the baby, taking a small step closer. One hand lifted to gently move some of the red hair covering Jean’s face without a second thought. “So--” Logan spoke softly, almost at a whisper as a smile pulled at his lips. “You got a name for him yet?”

JEAN: It was one of the rare times  that Jean was so excited her she couldn’t focus on her powers. The minds of those around her would always be present but they had dulled to the soft hiss of white noise. Whatever people were thinking Jean would have to see from their faces and words. “Charles.” Her voice was quiet. It made sense after all Charles had done for her and Scott. Logan too, really. “Charles Christopher Grey.” Corsair remained her father-in-law and her own dad had been estranged long before she had died. “Listen,” Jean shifted to better see them. “It’s weird. It’s still weird. But thank you for just being here right now.” The baby cooed and she lifted her arms. “Someone can hold him, you know.”

SCOTT: With a gentle touch, Scott brushed a few pieces of hair from Jean's cheeks, a gentle reminder that he was with her, even if his heart wasn't completely in it. It was impossible to move past it, so Scott tried to focus on the child and upon hearing the name, his eyebrows rose a bit. Charles made sense, it made the most sense, but he was surprised to hear his father's name. He'd hardly spoken to him in years and he didn't know how to feel about Jean honoring his father's name like that. As if the child were Scott's. As Jean lifted the baby in her arms, he just stared at it, watching its little arms writhe in the cool air. He didn't make an immediate move forward, in fact, he stood frozen in place, his mind churning through a million decisions and he was acting on none of them. He was sure the moment he opened his heart to this child he was done for, and Scott just couldn't bring himself to that. Not yet.

LOGAN: Even though Logan had easily gotten himself to move in closer just moments before, watching Scott made him hesitate. He knew his place-- if there was a family in the room, it was the kid plus the couple who were actually married. Logan had learned to be comfortable with what he had with Jean, maybe even being a bit stubborn with it once things got complicated. Now he found himself contemplating whether or not he would make things worse by being here, or being involved at all. But Scott froze. And suddenly Logan found himself anxiously taking Jean’s son out of her arms and placing him in his own. Was he supposed to be this nervous? Needless to say, the Wolverine hadn’t much experience with fragile things like babies. The mutant with rage problems and three knives embedded in each hand certainly wasn’t built for stuff like this. But even with the mild terror he was experiencing as he quickly glanced between Jean and baby Charles, he was also happy. ”Wow--” His voice was barely a whisper, dark eyes locking onto the little face that was staring up at him. “Hey, kid. Nice to finally meet you.” There was a long pause, and then he spoke again to answer Jean. “I’m uh-- I’m glad I was here for this. No matter what happens after today.”

JEAN: Call is post birth emotion, but she couldn’t help but cry. It was both happy and sad and she stopped focusing on Scott’s stillness and instead gathered up a mass of red hair that escaped its ponytail and knotted it away from her face. Logan had the baby and while her heart was happy it was so incredibly sad. She didn’t regret her kid,  but there was a bitter edge cutting into the moment. “After today. We’ll need to figure that out. I assume you’ll want to learn parentage sooner rather than later?” Her arms felt empty without her son in them but she laid her hands on the blanket and splayed her fingers flat instead of asking for him back. “I’m sorry.”

SCOTT:  Scott watched Logan's movements carefully; how his arms were positioned, how strong his hold was. He didn't think he was incapable, but it was easier to focus on something than to continue to dwell. Resting a hand on Jean's shoulder, Scott gave a light squeeze. "Don't worry about that right now." his voice was soft despite the emotion behind it. "All that matters is that baby is healthy and so are you."

LOGAN: Logan wasn’t staying quiet on purpose, but for a few more long seconds he simply nodded to Scott’s reply and kept quiet. When he looked up, he looked to Jean. “Like he said, don’t worry about it right now. This little guy is gonna need ya--” Then he turned to Scott, starting to walk a bit closer. “And you. I think it’s your turn.”

JEAN: “Scott doesn’t have to take him.” Jean shook her head, posture shifting so she could take the baby if Scott made no motion to. They were right though. Jean was exhausted but she felt fine. Charles seemed to be in fine health as well and for that she could breathe easier. “People know I went into labor. We won’t be able to keep it a secret and people will ask questions, but tell people to speak to me if they have to know.”

SCOTT: Scott watched the small bundle move towards him, the tuff of red hair an even darker shade behind the lens of his glasses. Doing his best not to think, Scott reached out and took the baby into his arms. In that moment, as he tucked the newborn into the crook of his arm, he stepped back in time, to when he'd first done this. Another boy, but a different shade of hair. Also it had been a different woman, too. It was easy to look down at the baby and forget everything, to let it all wash away into the background. "I think you look more like a Charlie," Scott said with a soft smile.

LOGAN: “If we start callin’ him that, people won’t get confused between him and our other Charles. Plus I think he’s got more hair than the old man does.” When Scott took the baby, he was suddenly unsure of what to do with his arms now that they were empty. So he focused on Jean and let Scott have his moment. “People don’t know how to mind their own damn business. I’ll tell ‘em to come to you if that’s what you want, but you sure you want all that attention?”

JEAN: “I made the mistake of getting pregnant without knowing the father, knowing full well the position I’m in and my visibility. That’s on me, and not either of you.” Her focus on Logan wavered as she looked to Scott again and saw a sliver of softness emerge. Her telepathy was beginning to stir but it wasn’t fully back yet. “Charlie it is. I think he’s gonna be fine.”

SCOTT: How weird it was to be holding this child in his arms, a child that was surely Jean's, but both his and Logan's and yet neither of theirs. They were two men that warred over the attention of Jean for too long, and now they shared a parentage that neither of them had signed up for. At least Scott hadn't. Based on Logan's demeanor, he was more okay with this situation than Scott was. He really couldn't wrap his mind around it, but again, he didn't want to fester. "It's really no one's business." Scott said once he'd looked at Jean again. "And we don't want to overcomplicate things."

LOGAN: “He’s gonna be fine because he’s got you, Jean.” Even if this baby wasn’t planned or expected, Logan knew she would be a great mom. “Scott’s right, but Jean-- this isn’t all on you. This whole thing is.. strange. But if there’s one thing it proves, it’s that you’re not alone.”

JEAN: The healer was supposed to come soon and Jean was eager for relief. It would be a  benefit of a Krakoan birth. “You’re right.” Her words followed Logan’s. “You,” she looked to the Wolverine, “Knew I was married. And you, Scott, knew I was in a five year relationship with Logan.” Which was nearly the same length - if not more - than her marriage. “We all three made our bed and no matter how it ends I hope we can be adults. If it’s easiest I can take care of Charlie alone until we sort it all out.” The baby cried  then and Jean gestured to take him back so she could feed him.

SCOTT: "Don't 'I'm an island' yourself, Jean." Scott shifted the baby in his arms so he could hand him back to Jean despite the tonal shift. "You're right, we knew, which is why we're both here and why we're not going to let you do this alone. So don't force us out."

LOGAN: Logan let out a light scoff, and he was just on the verge of smiling as he replied. “If the two of us agree on somethin’ it’s gotta mean it’s true. I say this as nicely as possible Jean-- but I don’t think you’re gettin’ rid of us even if you tired.”

JEAN: They were both right but she wouldn’t admit it. This whole thing was new so it took a second after she got the baby back to adjust and coax him into latching on. Mouth opening to  reply, Jean froze and her head tilted to the side. Her telepathy had finally surged back on and the mutant midwife spoke from mind to mind. Jean managed to close her mouth and reply telepathically, surprised that the question she had asked the nurse to find out had been done so quickly. Then again, this was Krakoa. They loved to knock your feet out from under you. “Thank you.” She didn’t realize she had spoken aloud until after the fact. “That was the midwife. I had her look into it.” Pull a few strings, check with mutants who could find answers. Green eyes fell to rest on the baby. “She knows who his father is.”

SCOTT: Scott immediately glanced at Logan, his red tinted gaze focusing on everything and nothing at all. In the time since the resurrection, he and Logan had built a strange friendship between them. There was a lot of water under the bridge, a lot of things put to bed. To say they had tabled their differences was going a bit far, but they had come to an understanding. So much so that Scott had willingly allowed three separate chambers to be built instead of one, for him and Jean. But Jean had wanted her space and she had wanted Logan and Scott had lived and lost too much to walk away again. It was a compromise that had been twisted into this and he couldn't break his line of sight as his words burst out. "I don't want to know."

LOGAN: “You what?” That definitely wasn’t an answer Logan expected. “After all that, you seriously don’t want to know?”

JEAN: Jean couldn’t tell if she was happy or sad. Maybe a bit of both. The last thing she wanted was to look back at Charles birth and have regrets, but the weight of their shared transgressions weighed heavily. For a long time she couldn’t help but stare at Scott, tracing the planes and sharp angles of his face. He needed a certain outcome. She knew that. The last thing she wanted was to lose either of them but they couldn’t live in willful ignorance. Jean’s gaze traveled to Logan then, mouth opening and closing before her face crumpled. “--I’m so sorry.”

LOGAN:  It didn’t click at first. Scott didn’t want to know and Jean was apologizing-- two things Logan was confused by. But it was the look on her face that made him realize what she was saying. She wasn’t looking at Scott. She was looking at him. It took a moment for him to react, eyes locked in with Jean as it all settled in. When he finally moved again he stood tall, offered Jean a saddened smile that was trying its utter best to be something it wasn’t, and shook his head. “No apologizin’, alright? You’ve got nothing to be sorry for.” At first, the realization came slowly. But then it all came crashing down on him at once as he looked to Scott. It felt wrong to be this affected by it, but that gave him an excuse to cover it all up. Wolverines didn’t do well with emotions, especially not of this kind. So it was better to just.. not. “Not so bad to know, huh?” There wasn’t any bitterness in his voice-- just a touch of ‘I told you so’. “Congrats, Scott. I mean it.

SCOTT: The apology, the small exchange, the unspoken words tossed at him --- it all registered apparently but made no outward effect on him. He just swung his gaze between Jean and Logan and wondered why the emotion that sat in the center of his chest hurt so much. This wasn't what he wanted, none of this was what he wanted. He hadn't wanted the drama surrounding an unknown paternity, he hadn't wanted Jean sleeping with Logan in the first place. What Scott wanted was not what Scott was going to get until this moment...and while he felt relief, even a flood of happy --- he also felt so taken aback. For months now he was in doubt, he had fears and worries and a lot of anger and hurt that he'd been forced to push aside to be the husband Jean needed, even if he wasn't great at it at all. Now he was standing in the room being recognized as the father and Scott had just wished things had gone so much differently. Exhaling, he tried to relax a little. "Where do we go from here?" the question was also to himself, but it was mostly aimed at Jean.

LOGAN: And that was it. It was all said and done, in less words than they might have expected, but there was a shift in the room that they had all felt in their ways. Logan watched as Scott took in the news and looked to Jean and their kid and suddenly felt just how out of place he was. Before Jean had a chance to answer her husband, Logan walked over to her and placed a quick kiss on her forehead. “See you around, Jeannie.” He turned and left quickly, not looking back.

JEAN: You’re too good for this, Jean’s mind reached out to Logan. She’d need to talk to him later but this wasn’t the time or place. The feelings she was picking up from Scott were conflicting but the weariness that came from bringing a child into the world weighed on her again. “Everyone knows our unorthodox situation.  Logan, I’m willing to handle this however you want.” Whatever would cause the least embarrassment and unease. Then he was gone and it was just Jean, her husband and their newborn son. “I don’t know what to say to you.” Jean admitted. “But we have time. He and I,” that was a  reference to the baby. “Need to rest. I have stitches inside of me and I’ve never been so exhausted. You’re welcome to stay if you want.”

SCOTT:  Without a lot of words in response, Scott pulled a seat over near Jean --- but not too close as to suffocate her --- and lowered himself down. There was a heaviness to him now, both emotional and physical and it weighed on him. Leaning forward, he rested his arms on his knees and looked at both her and the baby, constantly wishing this moment had brought with it a different emotional mood. But you couldn't go back and change time, and Scott had a feeling that their sex life, if it resumed normally, would come with it a lot more precautions. A part of him hated that this was an automatic response, but he pushed it down and reached forward, his touch light on her hand as he gave her a gentle squeeze. "Get some rest, I'll be here."

[omgitsaddyc]

Halloween asks - H4, H28? (Why yes, I DID have to roll dice to choose between several...)

H4 here!

H28 - “You’ve been locking yourself up?” They traced the welts on their best friend’s skin in horror, red and raw from a full moon of chafing. Their friend shoved themselves away. 

“What the hell did you follow me for? Untie me for? Are you crazy! I could have killed you.” 

“You’d never hurt me.” 

“All well and good but the wolf isn’t me,” the werewolf snarled. 

“No wonder it’s pissed off if you never let it stretch it’s legs.”

“Oh, don’t act like you know anything about it! You found out like five minutes ago!”

You know what I had to do with this. It’s slowly becoming my brand. This could be in universe, but it could also be an au. I don’t know! Enjoy!

Eleven kicked the door in, the padlock clattering to the floor. His extra time training had really started to pay off. 

Erik whipped his head around to look over at the intruder. His expression quickly darkened to annoyance, lips turned down into a snarl. Who would be stupid enough to come looking for him?

Eleven. Of course. The guy didn’t know when to take a hint, especially when it came from Erik. His lies had been flimsy at best, and he knew it was only a matter of time before El would figure out something was up and come knocking at the door. Quite literally.

El gasped when he saw Erik sitting on the floor, shackles around his wrists. He was breathing heavy, and his eyes were glowing red. He growled as El approached him. 

“Erik? Is that you? Why are you chained up like this, I don’t understa-” 

Before he could finish the question Erik lunged, fangs bared. He reached out and swiped at El with sharp claws. That was new. The red eyes, where had he seen that before?

A memory flashed through El’s mind. Him, Erik, and Serena were out in the woods, helping Serena practice her magic. She’d found this weird ancient spell, something about unlocking someone’s wild side, their inner beast. They’d laughed at it, it sounded ridiculous, but nonetheless they’d given it a shot. After a few false starts they were able to gather the energy they needed, and Erik had been the only one out of the three to not know a thing about magic. This meant his role was the test subject. Lucky him.

“It’s fine, don’t worry!” Erik said with a dismissive wave of his hand. There was no way it was actually going to work.

Until it did.

“Oh my, that’s…well that’s certainly something!” Serena exclaimed as they watched from a distance as Erik reared back and howled before ripping his shirt clean off. El stood, shellshocked and slack-jawed. What the hell had they unleashed? 

El panicked when Erik had begun to go feral. He tore through the trees looking for blood, and they were lucky he didn’t spot them first. Eleven knocked him out with a sleep spell when they finally caught up to him feasting on a deer carcass. They carried him back home, cleaned him up, and when he woke up it was as if nothing had happened. Or so they had thought.

Eleven took that same course of action now, hitting Erik with a sleep spell once he realized what had happened. He slumped to the ground, claws and fangs slowly disappearing. 

El glanced around the room, but it was empty except for the restraints bolted to the wall and a musty blanket tossed on the floor. 

He carefully reached into Erik’s pockets, fishing around until he found the key. He undid the shackles and put them aside, laying Erik down with his head resting in El’s lap. He stroked his hands through Erik’s dirty hair - how long had he been trapped here like this? Who had put him here?

An hour quickly passed, and El got up to fetch some food and water. He could only imagine how hungry Erik would probably be when he woke up. When El returned, Erik was sitting up, fingers rubbing circles around his temples. El knelt down gingerly, placing the tray of food down beside them. 

Erik looked over to him and scowled again, a warning. 

El reached out and took one of Erik’s hands into his own, gasping lightly at the poor condition of his wrists.

“You’ve been locking yourself up?” he asked quietly. El traced the welts on Erik’s skin in silent horror, red and raw from a full moon of chafing.

Erik pulled his hand back and scooted away a few feet. “Why the hell did you follow me back here and untie me? Are you crazy? I could have killed you.”

The thought of hurting El in his wigged out form brought angry tears to his eyes. He’d never forgive himself if that ever happened. El needed to stay far away from him. 

“You’d never hurt me,” El said, barely above a whisper.

“That’s true, but the beast isn’t me.” Erik’s fists clenched at his side. The flex of muscle stung, wrists still sore.

“No wonder it’s pissed off. You never stretch its legs.” El said, looking out the window. His attention snapped back to Erik once he heard the biting tone.

“Oh, don’t act like you know anything about it! You just found out I was dealing with this, and if I had a choice you never would have. Ever since that spell, I can’t…I can’t control when it takes over. All I know is that I can’t be out when the moon is.”

El reached a tentative hand out, and this time Erik didn’t back away.

“I’m so sorry.” His shoulders slumped. Guilt weighed heavy on his heart. They’d done this to him and left him to suffer with the aftereffects.

“I had no idea you were dealing with this. I’ll talk to Serena and see if there’s a way to reverse it. This is no way to live. But…” He trailed off, an idea forming. “What if you let yourself run free for a night, somewhere where you wouldn’t hurt anyone? Maybe satiating it will give you some relief.”

Erik thought for a moment, maybe El was right. Maybe a night in the forest would quell the urge to rip anything that moved apart when he was still human. It crawled under his skin, the need to rip something’s throat out, the need to feel warm blood running down his chin. He sighed, defeated.

“Well, we don’t have any better ideas, and now that you know, I know you won’t stop until you’ve helped.”

El gave him one of his dazzling smiles, and Erik’s heart skipped a beat.

“I’m sorry I hid this from you. I should have told you sooner.”

El carefully pulled him in for a hug. “Don’t worry about it. We’ll fix this, I promise.”

[dredgen-love]

la douleur exquise: chapter 1.

AO3.

"Welcome to Mark 2 STELLAR IMPACT. Let’s work on your entrance." —Stellar Impact Greaves

THE COSMODROME Pre-Red War: Before The SIVA Crisis//.The Guardian and Cayde–6 The first emotion she ever learned was fear.

She woke up under a blanket of snow, taking a cold, even breath with this white, polygonal orb thing—

“I’m not a thing, I’m your Ghost!”

—screaming at her. She was surrounded by nothing but rusting cars and blistering winds. She was bundled in ponchos and hoods, no doubt to protect herself against the elements. She was alone. 

“Whoever you were with must have not realized when you collapsed and kept moving,” the “Ghost” thing said urgently. 

A guttural yet piercing howl echoed in the wasteland of ice and she twisted to look behind her, the apprehension rising with her pounding heart. She saw no shadow approaching through the screaming wind, but the noises were getting louder. 

Getting closer.

She looked at the Ghost with fearful eyes. His multilateral body contorted and expanded, the pieces of his shell almost blowing apart to reveal a spherical body. The eyepiece darted about, scanning. 

“Fallen,” he noted. His body snapped back into place like a rubber band.

Fallen?

“We gotta get outta here,” the Ghost said, burrowing into the snow beside her. “Pick that gun up. Can you run?”

She found a small sidearm in the hole the Ghost made next to her. It must have been hers. She was still sitting in the snow and began to feel her feet. She hastily stood up, dusting off the icy powder and began to run towards the Ghost’s bright blue eye.

She wanted to speak but couldn’t find the words. A wisp of her long jet black hair fell out of her hood and fluttered in the wind, and she tucked it back behind her ear, lip quivering and eyes wide. She can’t remember who she was, and it scared her more than whatever was chasing her with those horrible snarls.

The Ghost turned left into an abandoned building and she followed him. There was no way to pull the rusted door shut—she didn’t have the strength in her right now, anyway—but it gave some respite to the unforgiving climate outside. The howls were now further away, but the echoes bounced around in her head.

“Hey! I need your help.”

She turned around and found the Ghost hovering by what looked like a small, bulbous fighter ship, run down but still in working condition.

“Fallen skiff. This crashed recently but I can salvage it. I’m gonna need you to plug those wires in. You’ll be faster, on account of my lack of hands.”

She fumbled with the sidearm; not finding any pockets or suitable bands to tuck the gun in, she opted for clenching the barrel between her teeth as she snapped the plugs together. As if waking a sleeping child, the skiff rumbled to life. She shuddered in some relief and held her hands up to the glowing engines; warmth. It was short lived as the Ghost finished whatever he was doing to the engine and shouted, “C’mon, we gotta go, let’s go!” as the piercing growls drew nearer.

She turned away from the heat as the cockpit of the ship swung open. She grabbed onto the holds of the exterior and pulled herself in, the hatch shutting once the Ghost hovered in. At noticing her balk at the dashboard filled with so many levers and switches, the Ghost desperately rattling off instructions, becoming more furtive the louder the growls got.

“You got it!” the Ghost shouted as the radar console turned on. The lights turned green. “Now just—“

She saw “THRUSTERS” labeled on one lever and instinctively flicked it on, gripped the control column and pulled up. The ship curved up and shot through the abandoned building, tearing the roof like paper. Her heart thudded erratically with the deafening engines as they ripped through the atmosphere. Soon they were in the inky black of space. The Ghost, now calmer, instructed her to put in coordinates into the nav system. She obeyed, feeling numb and robotic from the down of adrenaline coursing through her veins.

They soon came floating into the view of an actual tower, high into the sky, right underneath a giant white sphere. It wasn’t a moon–it was too white, too smooth, and far too close. It was awe–striking.

“We’re landing,” her Ghost said.

Fast trip, she noted, as the skiff pulled into the Tower, now being led by the magnetic fields of the docking bay. The lights and booming noises of metal tech and grinding machinery overwhelmed her ears.

“We gotta get you to the Vanguard.”

“How do you know all this?” she blurted out, finally finding her voice. It sounded rough from lack of use.

“You can talk!” the Ghost exclaimed, almost excitedly. “You have no idea how long I’ve been looking for you. I know none of this makes any sense or means anything, but I promise it’ll all be explained. Just follow me.”

She obeyed, the unease eating at her stomach again.

It was like a military hangar. Personnel everywhere dressed in drab greys and clipboards, inspecting a ship or weapon or other gear. There were more unique individuals, donned in helmets and magnificent capes, extravagant robes, with glowing swords and hand cannons on their backs and hips. She couldn’t help but turn and stare as they walked by.

“My, my, is that a Kinderguardian?”

She turned around and was stunned at what she saw. A robot-man with a beautiful blue horn coming out of his forehead under his hood stood before her. Survival chiq, donned in leather with a large knife hanging at his waist. Shocking electric blue eyes examined her attentively.

“Cayde-6,” the Ghost greeted.

“Just call me Cayde,” he introduced himself, extending a hand.

“A robot?” she murmured hesitantly.

He laughed in good humor and clapped a gloved hand on her back before letting his arm dangle around her shoulder. She stiffened at the foreign physical contact, though saw how the gesture was meant to be comforting.

“Don’t worry, grasshopper,” Cayde said self–assuredly. “Your friend here did the right thing bringing you to me! You’re in good hands, I promise.”

Her stomach growled audibly and she soon noticed how famished she was.

“But first some food!” he declared. “Come with me for some of the best ramen the Tower has to offer. Oh, and welcome to The Tower, Hunter.”

THE TOWER Post-Red War: Before The Prison of Elders Emergency//The Hunter and The Drifter

The Hunter transmatted back from her Flashpoint patrols. Cayde has been away, helping Petra Venj quell rebellions and in–fighting at The Reef. The last mission she ran with him was putting away the Barons, months ago, and since then, nothing. She pulled off her helmet with a bored sigh and headed towards the ramen shop.

As she walked towards the Bazaar, she heard music––a guitar? ––from the alleyway next to the shop. Odd, the gate there was never opened before, and the lilting and grizzled humming got louder as she got closer. She found a tiny back storage room, now crammed full of crates and boxes. Right outside of it was a work bench full of papers and screens. A man sat on a chair made of concentrated Light, his feet propped up on the workbench, idly strumming while muttering to himself.

He wore shaders of brown and army green but she’s never seen another Guardian like him. Fur Titan pauldrons, a Warlock’s coat, and a hand cannon strapped to his chest, Hunter style. He stroked a thick black beard with his gloved hand before running through his short cropped black hair. A dark green headband hugged his forehead, with these deep scars hiding in his beard.

“I haven’t seen you around here before,” the Hunter said suspiciously.

The man quickly sat up, the chair and guitar dissipating, and tried to hide his workbench with his body and outstretched arms. His stark grey eyes stared daggers into The Hunter before softening his demeanor, a smirk tugging at his lips.

“Welcome to the Tower, stranger.”

“You’re a sight for sore eyes, sister,” he chuckled.

He straightened himself up in shock when he studied her face.

“A Hero of the Red War!” he exclaimed excitedly. “One of Saladin’s Young Wolves, or should I say, Cayde’s Babe?”

“Is that what people call me?” she responded, taken aback.

The roguish, dashing man cocked his head, amused.

“You and Cayde are the system’s worst kept secret. I mean, Petra Venj is one thing, but you? A Godslayer? Get outta here!”

She didn’t appreciate the mention of an ex so flippantly, but she brushed it off. “You clearly know a lot about me.”

“Ah, how rude of me!” the man exclaimed with a flourish. “Call me Drifter, kid. I’m here bring you something new called Gambit.”

The Hunter let this smooth-talking stranger explain what Gambit was––

“Is this underground Crucible?” she said wryly.

He laughed heartily. “No need to oversimplify it, but I’d let you do things Shaxx wouldn’t,” he said suggestively.

She felt a chill cross her, but willed herself to not shiver. She sauntered over to him by the work bench, graceful, catlike. The Hunter couldn’t help herself but tempt him with saying, “Why don’t you break it down for me a little better?”

She attempted to read some of the papers but the Drifter slammed a large hand down, covering the contents. She was suddenly very aware how close he was. His aura––his energy. Unsettling. Wrong.

“Why don’t I show you instead?” he whispered salaciously in her ear. “You’ll see that I’m a fun distraction.”

She wormed out of his way, hiding her flush, and began backing towards the exit. He walked towards her with a slow, predatory gait.

“Maybe next time,” she stammered.

He brightened and backed off, turning back to his work desk. “Come back when you’re ready to make some cash, toots.”