#mentions of injury

[sincerelybubbles]

The Being (Un)Known \\ S. Reid x fem!reader

You never meant to orbit Spencer Reid, but somehow, you always do. The space between you is filled with quiet observations, lingering glances, and a tension that hums beneath every near miss. A brush of hands, a breath caught mid-sentence—small moments that build into something undeniable. It takes a near-disaster to bring you closer, but it’s the nights spent tangled in conversation, stolen glances over case files, and the weight of his name in your mouth that seal your fate.

12.1k, fem!reader. Slow-burn, lingering tension, quiet devotion, and Spencer being insufferably charming without realizing it.

CW: mutual pining, near-miss injury, brief emotional vulnerability, mild anxiety, excessive overthinking, cannon-typical violence, references to religion.

Spencer Reid is an enigma you never mean to chase, a sun you don’t realize you’ve been orbiting until the pull of his gravity is undeniable. He’s not someone you’re supposed to know, not really—he works in profiling, a world built on instinct and razor-sharp deduction, while you’re still buried in textbooks, an academy student trying to shape yourself into something worthy.

He’s only a few years older, but the distance between you feels vast, like a canyon carved by time and experience. And yet, no matter how often you tell yourself that he’s just another name, just another agent, you keep finding him. Or maybe—just maybe—he lets himself be found.

You don’t think much of it at first, the way your paths cross in quiet places—hallways humming with fluorescent light, libraries steeped in dust and silence, moments that seem incidental but never quite are. And then, without warning, that quiet fascination tilts your entire world:

It’s Spencer who speaks your name when SSA Hotchner asks for a student to shadow the team.

“It’s only a few cases,” he tells you, voice warm with something like certainty. There’s a rare kind of confidence in the way he smiles—small, knowing. “But Rossi and I agree—you’ve got too much potential to stay in a classroom much longer.”

“You’re sharp,” Rossi agrees, stepping in with the weight of experience, his approval easy but meaningful. “Play this right, kid, and you’ll be glad you did.”

Rossi’s words settle over you, weighty with promise, but reality is heavier.

Your first case comes fast—too fast. One moment, you’re standing in the bullpen with a crisp folder in your hands, the next, you’re on a jet with seasoned agents, listening as crime scene photos flick past on the monitor. It’s a triple homicide, the kind of case you’ve only studied in theory, where the victimology is murky and the suspect is still a shadow. The words feel clinical in the briefing, just patterns and deductions, but then you’re standing in a house that doesn’t feel like a crime scene yet, where someone left dishes in the sink and a jacket draped over the back of a chair, never to be touched again.

You swallow hard.

“Deep breath,” Spencer murmurs beside you, so quiet you almost miss it.

Your fingers curl into fists at your sides. You don’t want him to notice—don’t want anyone to notice—but Spencer’s eyes are too sharp, always catching things before they surface. You inhale, steadying yourself.

“This is different than the academy,” you admit, voice just above a whisper.

“It should be.” Spencer doesn’t sound condescending, doesn’t sound like he’s telling you anything you don’t already know. Just a simple, grounding fact. “But you’re still here.”

You are. And for now, that’s enough.

Slowly, you become accustomed to it. The days fly by while the hours drag on. \\

“Okay,” you tell the team, throwing your folders on the table to begin organizing them in the order you’ll present them. “JJ gave me four cases flagged as urgent,” you say, clicking the remote in your hand. The screen behind you flickers to life, displaying a title screen verging on too childish, nearly girly. You built the theme last night, sipping dregs of coffee, clinging to something that makes you feel human. A colorful border is enough to make you feel better about plastering victims' faces on a PowerPoint slide. “Each presents a significant threat, and each has something that warrants immediate intervention.”

CASE ONE: THE RITUALIST

You’re following the curriculum exactly, formatting how your professor told you to, but coming up with titles for the cases felt exaggerated, almost picturesque. You hesitated to do so last night, fingers flinching above your keyboard.

Your favorite professor, kindly answering your 3 am email, assured you it was natural. Par for the course. Identify the cases, give them a name to be referred to. It feels childish, she conceded in her response, but it’s what they want students to do.

“In Savannah, Georgia, three women have been found buried in shallow graves near the riverfront, all posed identically and dressed in wedding gowns.”

Emily crosses her arms, frowning. “That’s theatrical.”

“It is,” you agree, clicking to the next slide—a zoomed-in shot of the delicate lace on one victim’s gown, carefully arranged over stiff, lifeless hands. “The unsub is mimicking a local legend—one about a grieving bride who drowned herself in the river in the 1800s.”

“An emerging pattern?” JJ asks.

You nod. “The first body was found two weeks ago. The second, one week ago. The third, two days ago.”

“Which means he’s escalating,” Hotch observes.

“Yes. If the unsub continues following this timeline, we could see another victim within days.”

Morgan exhales, shaking his head. “A guy like this? He’s loving the attention. He’s not gonna stop on his own.”

“No,” you agree. “And if his rituals are as important to him as they seem, he won’t just pick random victims. He’s looking for something—someone—to fit his narrative.”

Spencer leans forward, fingers tapping absently on the table. “That level of organization suggests a highly controlled personality. He’s not just killing—he’s curating.”

“He’s hand-stitching the dresses, too. Each is perfectly tailored to fit the victims.” The thought leaves a bitter taste in your mouth. You switch the slide.

CASE TWO: THE FAMILY ANNIHILATOR

“In Tulsa, Oklahoma, three families have been murdered in their homes over the course of the past two days.” You keep your voice steady, clicking through the crime scene images—too much blood, overturned furniture, a dinner table frozen mid-meal. “In all of the cases, the father was restrained and forced to watch before he was killed last.”

A grim silence settles over the room.

Rossi rubs a hand over his jaw. “He’s not just taking them out—he’s making them suffer.”

Morgan exhales sharply. “Which means this is personal.”

“Possibly,” you say. “There was no forced entry in either case, which suggests the unsub is either someone the victims trusted or someone who knew how to manipulate his way inside.”

“A service worker, maybe?” Emily muses. “Someone posing as law enforcement?”

“That’s a strong possibility,” you admit. “And if the pattern holds, we’re looking at another family being targeted in a few hours.”

JJ’s expression hardens. “We can’t let that happen.”

The weight in her voice lingers as you switch to the next slide.

CASE THREE: THE PHANTOM ABDUCTOR

“Denver, Colorado,” you say, clicking to a map marked with four red pins. “Four people have vanished over the last five months—one woman, two men, and a child. No bodies, no forensic evidence, no trace of them after the moment they disappeared.”

Spencer tilts his head. “No pattern in victim selection?”

“None that we can see,” you agree. “Different ages, different backgrounds. The only common thread is that they all vanished from public places.”

JJ frowns. “Security footage?”

You shake your head. “In each case, cameras malfunctioned or lost power at the exact moment the victim disappeared.”

“That’s not a coincidence,” Hotch says.

“No,” you agree. “Which means we’re looking at an unsub—or possibly multiple—who is incredibly meticulous, well-prepared, and willing to wait for the perfect conditions.”

Morgan exhales. “Damn. If he’s this careful, we might not even know how many victims we’re missing.”

You nod, the reality of it settling into your gut like lead. You click to the final slide.

CASE FOUR: THE JANE DOE MURDERS

“Phoenix, Arizona,” you begin. “Five women have been found dead in the last six months. None have been identified.”

Emily shifts in her seat. “That’s a long time for that many women to go without names.”

“Exactly,” you say, flipping through the slides—malnourished bodies, identical scars along their spines. “We suspect the victims were held for an extended period before being killed. Medical reports indicate malnutrition and signs of prolonged restraint.”

Rossi exhales slowly. “Torture?”

“Maybe. But what stands out are these.” You zoom in on the marks along the victims’ backs—precise, deliberate incisions. “The wounds suggest medical knowledge. Someone who knew what they were doing.”

JJ’s face tightens. “He’s experimenting.”

“That’s the concern.” You glance at the team, your stomach twisting. “The unsub could still have others in captivity.”

A beat of silence.

Then, Hotch clears his throat. “Alright. You’ve presented four cases, all high priority. Now comes the hard part.” The part where you choose.

You inhale. Exhale. The weight of the decision presses against your ribs, but you don’t let it show.

“Take a moment,” Hotch says, voice even. “Decide which one we handle first.”

The room is quiet as you grip the remote a little tighter, eyes flicking between the slides, between the horrors laid out before you. Whichever case you choose, the others will wait. But not forever. You swallow hard and decide. The weight of it sits heavy in your chest, pressing against your ribs like a vice.

You shift your gaze between the slides still illuminated on the monitor—each one a tragedy waiting to unfold, each one a door closing on lives you’ll never be able to save if you don’t act now.

You exhale slowly, steadying yourself. How awful that the fate of lives rests on a test for a student. You know it’s important – they have to test you. You’re here because Rossi and Spencer see potential, kept around because, according to Hotch’s last report, you’re proving to be irreplaceable. Still, the decision feels too big to be handed off to you.

You have to make a case, despite. You bite your lip, wrinkle your nose. Tells everyone around you can see, signals they’re noting and remembering. “The Tulsa case,” you say, finally, voice firm, but not as even as you want it to be. “That’s where we go first.”

Across the room, the team absorbs your choice in silence.

Hotch nods once, expression unreadable. “Walk us through your reasoning.”

You click back to the slide, the images of two shattered families staring back at you. You resist the urge to look away. “The unsub’s pattern is clear. Three families, mere hours apart. If he keeps to his timeline, another family is in danger—possibly right now”

JJ’s jaw tightens, her fingers tapping lightly against the table. “And this isn’t just about killing them,” she adds. “The way he makes the fathers watch—it’s personal.”

“Exactly.” You glance at Spencer, who’s already nodding in agreement. “The level of control, the methodical nature—it suggests military or law enforcement training. Someone used to hierarchy, dominance.”

Morgan folds his arms. “Which means he’s not picking his victims at random.”

“No,” you agree. “If we can find the connection between the families, we can narrow down potential targets before he chooses his next one.” You click to the next slide, where the family structures are laid out side by side. “Right now, we have limited victimology, but the fathers were in leadership positions. One was a high-ranking bank manager, the other an attorney, the most recent one a sheriff.”

Emily tilts her head, considering. “A grudge? Financial ruin, a court case, something that connects them?”

“Possibly,” you say. “But we won’t know for sure until we dig deeper. And we don’t have time to wait for another murder to give us more evidence.”

Hotch doesn’t hesitate. “Agreed.” He turns to the team. “If we leave within the hour, we’ll be in Tulsa by tonight. JJ, contact the local PD and get us access to the crime scenes. Morgan, start looking into the victims’ professional histories—see if there’s overlap. Prentiss, work with Garcia to pull any major financial or legal disputes in the last six months. Rossi, coordinate with victim services—we need to talk to the families.”

Everyone moves into action around you, gathering files, pushing back chairs, murmuring in low voices.

Then, Spencer speaks, “You made the right call.” You glance up to find him watching you, head tilted slightly, something unreadable in his expression.

You swallow. “I hope so.” Because it doesn’t feel like the right call. It just feels like the least wrong one.

Spencer studies you for a moment longer, then nods, as if he understands something you haven’t said aloud. The decision is made. 

You catch the guy — you’re with the best team in the world, of course, you do — and subsequently pass the ‘test’ JJ posed for you. This is the deal with your professors: aid in exchange for grades. It’s not totally unheard of, accepting an academy student onto a team for a brief trial to test-run them. Especially a student top of their class like you are.

What’s unusual is how long you stay on the team. 

It’s long enough to catch more sightings of Spencer, scattered across the building, like watching a dove rest.

You don’t mean to linger, but you do. A moment too long, just enough to feel like a pause in a conversation neither of you started. His fingers drum against the ceramic of his mug—quick, controlled, an absent rhythm. You can’t help but wonder if he hears the world like that, like patterns waiting to be unraveled. Like music waiting to be played.

You scamper away, like a startled animal, afraid of what the mundane action awakens. 

You don’t have time to be entranced by Spencer Reid. You really, really don’t, but you still feel the beginnings of it pool in your belly. 

\\

 The air in the bullpen is thick with the low hum of voices, the shuffle of papers, the occasional ring of a phone cutting through the din before being silenced by a hurried answer. Stale coffee lingers in the air, curling around the sharper scent of printer ink and the faintest traces of cologne clinging to coats draped over chairs. It smells like exhaustion, like long hours pressed into fabric, like something too lived-in to ever be fully washed away. The air conditioning murmurs somewhere overhead, cooling the space unevenly so that certain corners feel frigid while others remain stubbornly warm, weighted by too many bodies moving too slowly.

You should be focused. You should be finishing the report in front of you, should be paying attention to the pages you keep flipping through but not actually reading. But instead, your gaze drifts, betraying you before you can stop it. Across the room, at the coffee station, Spencer stands with his back to you, one hand in the pocket of his slacks, the other wrapped loosely around a ceramic mug, fingers curled just slightly, resting on the smooth surface in a way that seems absentminded. His thumb moves in slow, methodical circles against the ridges of the cup, a rhythm so small and controlled that you might have missed it if you weren’t watching. If you weren’t, despite every part of you screaming not to, noticing. The fluorescent lights overhead cast a pale glow over the angles of his face, sharpening the cut of his cheekbones, catching in the strands of his hair that are just slightly disheveled, like he’s run his fingers through them one too many times.

He doesn’t look up.

Not at you, not at anyone. His focus is turned inward, lost somewhere else, eyes fixed on the dark surface of his coffee as if he’s reading something in it, tracing the shape of a thought that hasn’t yet fully formed. His brow furrows slightly, just enough for you to notice, and then his fingers drum once—twice—against the ceramic, a quick tap-tap before stilling again. A habit, you think. A rhythm he follows without meaning to, the kind of movement that comes from a mind that never truly rests.

It is only then, only in the moment before you force yourself to look away, that he lifts his head. Not in your direction, not searching for you, but simply breaking free from whatever thought had been holding him captive. His lips part slightly, as if he might say something, but no sound comes. He just breathes, slow and measured, before lifting the mug to his mouth, taking a small sip, swallowing in a way that seems almost careful, like he’s weighing the warmth of the liquid against the feeling of it settling in his throat. You shouldn’t be watching this. It’s too small, too insignificant, and yet you can’t help but be transfixed by the way something as simple as drinking coffee becomes a deliberate act with him.

You realize that you’re still staring but you’re struggling to stop. You need to, you really need to, but the impulse to look at him is strong. It’s beyond physical attraction — something in him calls to you. A hunger to understand him, to be near him, to listen to him talk. He soothes something inside of you just by existing, piques your interest without trying, captivates your attention and hardly notices.

You tear your gaze away, back to your report, blinking rapidly, but it’s too late. The image of him is already burned into your mind, curling itself around your ribs, slipping into the spaces between thoughts like ink seeping into paper.

You tell yourself it’s nothing.

But you don’t look up again.

The scent of rain clings to his clothes when he sits beside you. Not the sharp, metallic bite of a downpour, but the softer, earthier remnants of a drizzle that has already passed, leaving only damp fabric and the faintest trace of petrichor in its wake. His coat is slung over the back of his chair, sleeves still holding the ghost of the movement he made when shrugging it off, the fabric folded in on itself in a way that suggests he hadn’t given it much thought before sitting down. He smells like paper and ink, like something faintly sweet beneath it—maybe cinnamon, maybe something darker, warmer, something that lingers just long enough to make you yearn to lean closer, to breathe in deeply enough to decipher it. You don’t, of course. You force yourself to stay still, to keep your eyes on your screen, your hands resting on the keyboard even though you haven’t typed anything in at least five minutes.

Spencer doesn’t notice. Or if he does, he doesn’t say anything.

Instead, he flips open a case file, fingers moving fluidly over the pages, eyes scanning the text with a kind of quiet intensity that makes it look effortless. The silence between you is thick, but not uncomfortable. It is the kind of silence that settles rather than lingers, the kind that feels less like absence and more like something tangible, something with weight, something wet and dripping, something shared. You wonder if he feels it, too.

After a while, he shifts, just slightly, and the movement is enough to break the stillness.

“Did you know,” he says, without preamble, voice smooth and even, “that the human olfactory system can distinguish over a trillion different scents?”

You blink, glancing at him, and he’s still looking at the file in front of him, fingers tracing the edge of the page like he’s only half-aware that he’s doing it.

“A trillion?” you echo. You hope you hadn’t inhaled too deeply when he sat down, pray to a god you don’t believe in that you don’t smell, start to attempt to calculate the probability of him simply thinking similar thoughts to you about the rain. The roof has been leaking, the scent of the sky is impossible to ignore. 

His lips twitch slightly, not quite a smile but something close to it. “Most studies used to claim it was around ten thousand, but newer research suggests it’s significantly higher. The brain can recognize scent combinations even in extremely small concentrations, which means—”

“That we’re capable of identifying more smells than we ever actually register.”

His head turns slightly toward you, just enough for his eyes to flicker up, catching yours for the briefest second before he nods. “Exactly.”

There is something about the way he looks at you in that moment—something unreadable, something lingering just beneath the surface—that makes your breath catch in your throat.

You glance away first. Spencer exhales through his nose, quiet, considering. He doesn’t continue with the tangent.

But the scent of rain still clings to him, even now. And for some reason, you can’t stop thinking about it.

After stretched moments, the scent of rain and dirt and musk and sweet lingering between the two of you while you try your hardest to get actual work done, Spencer clears his throat. “You know, you have a tell,” he says, voice thoughtful, not teasing.

You turn to him, brow lifting. “A tell?”

“Whenever you’re thinking about something but don’t want to say it, you press your thumb to your middle finger. Like you’re holding something between them.” His gaze flickers downward. Sure enough, you’re doing it now.

You exhale, glancing out at the room in front of you. “I didn’t realize you paid that much attention.”

Spencer smiles, small and knowing. Nearly sad, it twinges at your heart. The organ aches to leap out of your chest and fall into his hands. “I always do.”

The silence returns, but it’s different now. He’s looking at you like he’s already memorized the way your hands move, the way your breath catches, the way your thoughts betray themselves in the smallest, most inconsequential gestures. And maybe he has. Maybe you shouldn’t be surprised that he sees you so clearly, that he can read the shape of your hesitations as easily as words printed on a page. It’s his job, of course he does.

The weight of his attention sits heavy on your skin, not uncomfortable but warm, seeping into the spaces between your ribs, something close to reverence but not quite. You don’t know what to do with it.

So you do what you always do. You look away.

It’s nothing more than what he’s trained to do. You’ve noticed his habit of clinking his nails against his coffee mugs. Beyond that, ignoring your fascination with him, you know Hotch only ever sleeps on the plane after a case is solved, never on the way even though the rest of the team will if it's convenient. Emily has a cat that she never talks about, one she methodically lint rolls hair from off of her pants. JJ smoothes her hair when she’s happy. Morgan flares his nostrils often when he’s tired.

You all notice things, it’s natural. There’s nothing more to it than that. Spencer Reid isn’t watching you for any reason other than it’s a habit he’s developed to survive, to thrive, in this line of work. 

The night outside is thick with the slow hush of passing cars, headlights dragging shadows across the pavement, the distant murmur of a city that never quite sleeps. The rain has stopped, but its remnants remain, clinging to the asphalt, to the scent of damp earth rising in waves from the ground, to the fabric of Spencer’s shirt, the faint musk of it curling in the space between you.

You curl your fingers tighter, pressing your thumb to your middle finger again, not even thinking.

Spencer’s breath shifts, barely audible, and when you glance back at him, his eyes are still on your hands, watching, studying, something flickering behind his expression—something unreadable, something you don’t think you have the courage to name.

“What is it?” He asks instead of taking the leap. 

“What is what?”

He gestures at your hands, veins flexing at the movement. “What’re you thinking and not saying?”

You flounder for a moment, lost in what to say. I think you’re beyond attractive, I can’t believe you’ve been staring at my hands, can you tell how often I stare at your hands, did you know sometimes I fall asleep thinking about you, that I have your smell memorized, that I’m sure this means nothing and I just admire you as a person and there are definitely no fluttery feeling in my gut begging me to put my mouth on you? Also, do I reak? Are you spewing facts about smells, about something so unavoidable, because your desk is next to mine and I’m simply putrid?

“I’m allergic to oranges,” you blurt out instead. 

Spencer seems shocked, blinking at you, mouth slightly open. You can see the pink of his tongue between his teeth, slowly pressing into the bone as he begins to smile, pinching the soft skin there in reflex. You hadn’t noticed it in detail before, but you suppose he does that often — bites the tip of his tongue when he’s fighting to keep that full-mouthed smile at bay. 

“What?”

“I’m allergic. And Garcia gives one to me every week and Rossi noticed and assumed I love them so he’s started giving them to me, too, and, well,” you push back your desk chair and pull your drawer open. Orange scent wafts out, perfuming the air and making your nose wrinkle. 

Sitting in the desk are five oranges, collected over the week, that you’ve been waiting on a clear office to throw away. 

“You’re kidding!” Spencer cries, peering over your shoulder and snickering. “I thought you loved them, too. You always smell like them.”

“Oh, ew.”

Spencer waves you off, plucking the fruit from your desk and cradling them in his arms, “It’s lovely, don’t worry. Why didn’t you say anything? You could get sick.”

You swallow the lovely comment, feeling it hit the base of your skull and sink into your blood, warming you all the way down. “It’s only a problem if I eat them, nothing happens if they touch me. Shove a slice down my throat, though, and I break out in hives.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Spencer says, snickering and tossing the oranges away for you. 

You make it through the rest of the evening. You get back to work. You pretend like none of it happened, like you didn’t just let him glimpse a piece of you that you didn’t mean to reveal. You tell yourself that it’s fine, that the moment is already dissolving into the rest of the day, folding itself into the pile of interactions that mean nothing, that don’t linger.

But later, when you’re in bed, staring up at the ceiling, you realize two things.

One—Spencer noticed your scent.

And two—he thinks it’s lovely.

“You lied, earlier,” Spencer tells you, hours later in the elevator. 

“Hm?”

“About the oranges.”

“Do you want to see a doctors note?” You’re tired, struggling to remember what he’s talking about. You two are the last in the office usually — you’re just a student and Spencer is vocal about not doing much outside of work. 

“No, I believe you’re allergic, it’s just not what you were thinking about.” He’s leaning against the wall of the elevator, golden hair illuminated by the fluorescent lights. It’s not the most flattering — the harsh lighting gives him a sickly complexion, deepening the dark circles under his eyes. Frankly, he looks nearly sick. 

Frankly, he still looks so handsome that you feel slightly overwhelmed with it. 

You decide to give him a piece of the truth to satiate him, knowing there’s not much use in lying to a seasoned profiler. There’s a reason why he’s only a few years older than you with years more experience under his belt. 

“You freaked me out. I was thinking about how you smelled like the rain and cinnamon and then you started talking about smells. I thought I either smelled so bad that you couldn’t think of any other way to tell me or you suddenly learned how to read minds.”

Spencer chuckles, motioning forward with his hand as the door opens. You walk forward, keeping your head turned to the side slightly to catch how his eyes crinkle as she smiles. His eyes drift up and then down, a habit he has before he speaks when he’s tired, and then he pushes himself off of the wall to follow you. 

“I mentioned it because I could smell you, but it’s not bad, I promise.”

“Reassuring.”

“I’m telling the truth!”

“Sure. Just say I reak and I’ll change my shampoo or something, promise!”

“Oh, please don’t,” Spencer pleads, laughing. “What will I do without your Pantene-y scent filling the office every morning!”

\\

The safe house is supposed to be secure.

It’s supposed to be a temporary holding place, a nondescript home tucked into a quiet neighborhood just far enough from the city that no one should be looking. The doors are reinforced, the blinds drawn tight, the exits mapped and double-checked. A necessary precaution. A routine assignment. A night of keeping a witness safe until she can testify in the morning.

You tell yourself all of this, but none of it changes the sharp tug of unease curling in your gut.

You don’t let it show. Not when you check your watch for the third time in twenty minutes. Not when you shift your stance near the window, your fingers flexing at your sides like your body is already preparing for a fight you haven’t seen yet. Not when Spencer, who has spent the better part of the evening reviewing case notes at the kitchen table, finally lifts his head and looks at you like he’s about to ask what’s wrong.

“Nothing,” you say before he can speak.

He doesn’t believe you.

He tilts his head, studying you, eyes flickering across your face like he can read the tension there. Maybe he can. Maybe he has been for longer than you realize. You press your thumb to your middle finger, grounding yourself, and Spencer notices that, too.

You roll your eyes as you notice his noticing but say nothing, turning your attention back to the window. The street outside is still. Too still. The kind of silence that doesn’t settle right, that carries the weight of something unseen pressing against it. It makes your stomach twist.

Spencer shifts behind you. “The odds of an actual attack on a safe house are statistically low. Most unsubs won’t risk a direct confrontation in a location they can’t control.”

“Most,” you echo.

He hesitates. “There are exceptions.”

“And this feels like an exception.”

Spencer doesn’t answer right away, but the flicker in his expression is enough. The same unease that’s gnawing at you has made its way under his skin, too. He may not operate on instinct the way the others do, may rely on numbers and data and probabilities before action, but he isn’t blind to the feeling in the air—the one that says something is coming.

And then, something does.

The first gunshot cracks through the silence like a splintering branch, tearing the night open. The second follows immediately after, embedding into the window frame centimeters from where you were standing just seconds before. You don’t think. You move.

Spencer is already on his feet when you shove him down, his body colliding with yours as the two of you hit the floor. The room erupts into chaos—glass shattering, bullets puncturing drywall, the distant, terrified gasp of the witness as she ducks behind the couch. Your heart pounds, adrenaline splashing hot and fast through your veins as you press against Spencer, shielding as much of him as you can. He’s speaking, but you barely hear him over the sound of your own pulse roaring in your ears. The ringing of the gunshot so close to your head has left you dizzy and deaf.

“Move!” you manage to shout, grabbing his wrist and pulling him with you, keeping low as another round of gunfire splinters the table where he was sitting just moments before. You don’t know how many shooters there are. You don’t know where they are. But you know you have to get out.

Spencer doesn’t hesitate. His fingers tighten around yours, and together you bolt for the hallway, ducking as another window bursts inward. You shove him ahead of you, searching for cover, for an escape, for anything but the open target the living room has become.

“Basement,” Spencer says, voice sharp, focused. It warbles against your pulsing ears, barely understood. You’re mostly relying on lip reading and context clues. “We need to get underground.”

You don’t argue. You barely register the movement of your own body as you drag the witness with you, shoving open the basement door and practically throwing Spencer down the stairs before following, slamming it shut just as more bullets spray against the frame. Your breath is ragged, too loud in the thick darkness, the only light coming from the single flickering bulb overhead. The space is small, cluttered with storage boxes and old furniture, but it’s shelter. For now.

You’re still gripping Spencer’s arm. Hard. You can feel the hammering of his pulse beneath your fingers, mirroring your own. It takes effort to release him, to force your hands to unclench.

He doesn’t move away.

The witness is shaking, her breath coming in uneven gasps. Spencer kneels beside her, murmuring something soft, something steadying. You press your back against the door, listening for movement above, trying to piece together a plan while your body still thrums with leftover adrenaline.

Spencer looks up at you. His eyes are dark in the dim light, sharp with something between urgency and something else, something you don’t have time to name.

“They’ll breach soon,” he says, quiet but certain.

You nod, swallowing hard. The air is thick. The scent of dust and damp wood clings to it, mixing with the faint trace of Spencer’s cologne, something warm and familiar despite the chaos above. You focus on it, on the grounding presence of him beside you, close enough that you could reach out and touch the fabric of his shirt if you wanted to.

You don’t.

You grip your gun tighter.

“Then we make sure we’re ready.”

Spencer exhales through his nose, slow and deliberate, and shifts closer, just slightly, his shoulder brushing against yours. The contact is brief but solid, enough to remind you that he’s here, that he’s real, that this isn’t just a moment suspended in panic but something unfolding, something with weight.

The witness sniffles, drawing both of your attention back. Spencer softens his voice, murmuring reassurances, quiet, steady things meant to anchor her. You keep your focus on the door, ears tuned to the movements above, but some part of you latches onto his words, the cadence of them, the way they smooth over the jagged edges of the moment.

Another creak from upstairs. A shuffle of movement. Your fingers flex around your gun. Spencer glances at you again, expression unreadable in the dim light, but his meaning is clear.

Hold.

Wait.

And when the moment comes, move together.

Then the door bursts inward, and everything moves at once. Gunfire explodes, too close, too loud. You fire off two rounds before a sharp pain sears through your side, white-hot and immediate. The impact sends you stumbling back against the cold concrete floor, breath catching as a wave of dizziness threatens to pull you under.

Spencer is there before you even register falling. His hands are on you, pressing against the wound, urgent and shaking, his breath coming fast.

“You’re hit,” he says, voice tight, edged with something near panic.

You grit your teeth. “I noticed.”

Spencer doesn’t laugh. He just presses harder, trying to slow the bleeding, his fingers slick with warmth that doesn’t belong to him. He glances up, scanning the dark corners of the basement, the outline of the intruder slumping forward as your shots take effect. The danger isn’t over, not yet, but Spencer isn’t moving away from you.

“You’ll be fine,” he mutters, more to himself than you.

You try for a smirk but only manage a wince. “Worried about me, Reid?”

His jaw tightens. “Always.”

A crash echoes upstairs, heavy footsteps pounding against the floor. Reinforcements. You and Spencer exchange a glance, unspoken understanding passing between you. You both know that staying here is no longer an option.

Spencer shifts, keeping one hand pressed against your wound while the other reaches for the gun at his side. “We need to move.”

The witness, still trembling in the corner, looks between you both with wide, terrified eyes. “What do we do?”

You grit your teeth, swallowing the pain threatening to pull you under. “There’s a cellar door. Side of the house.”

Spencer nods sharply, adjusting his grip. “We go now.”

He helps you up, his arm sliding under yours, bracing you against him. The movement sends fire through your side, but there’s no time to dwell on it. The sound of approaching footsteps upstairs is growing louder, more deliberate. Whoever is coming isn’t planning to leave survivors.

The three of you move as quickly as you can, Spencer leading the way with his gun raised, the witness keeping close behind. The basement door groans on its hinges as you push through, emerging into the damp night air. The rain has started again, a fine mist clinging to your skin as you stumble forward.

Headlights slice through the darkness just as the first gunshot erupts behind you. Spencer pulls you down, shielding you as best he can while the FBI-issued SUV skids to a stop at the curb. The doors burst open, Morgan and Hotch emerging with their weapons drawn.

“She’s hit!” Spencer shouts, his grip on you tightening as the gunfire continues behind you.

Morgan doesn’t hesitate. He returns fire, his stance steady, controlled. Hotch moves to cover you and the witness, his eyes sweeping over your injury before snapping back to the fight. “Get her in the car!” he orders.

Spencer doesn’t wait. He all but lifts you into the backseat, the witness scrambling in after you. You can feel how his muscles strain to lift you, flexing and rolling as he lifts you as carefully as possible, refusing to allow you to help. The slam of the door barely muffles the chaos outside. Your breath comes in shallow gasps, the weight of adrenaline keeping you upright.It takes your swimming mind time to process that Spencer is curling the van instead of allowing you to move over. You should protest but your mind continues to jump around, straining to pay attention to the scene outside. Have they caught him? The witness is safe, she’s sobbing beside you, but is the rest of the team?

Then the passenger door swings open, and Spencer climbs in beside you. He’s breathing hard, his knuckles white where they grip his gun, but his eyes are locked on yours. “You still with me?”

You nod, though exhaustion is dragging at your limbs, pulling you under. “Still here.”

His shoulders sag, just slightly. “Good.”

Morgan jumps into the driver's seat and peels away from the curb, tires screeching against wet pavement. You glance out the window just in time to see Hotch and the rest of the team securing the scene, the last of the gunfire fading into the distance.

Spencer exhales, finally lowering his weapon, and turns back to you. “Let’s get you home.”

\\

The jet hums beneath you, a steady vibration you feel in your bones. Most of the team is asleep, exhaustion weighing heavy after the mission. The overhead lights are dimmed, casting the cabin in soft shadows. You should be asleep, too, but the throbbing ache in your side keeps you from finding rest.

Spencer hasn’t left your side. He sits next to you, his book open but untouched, his fingers drumming against the cover in restless patterns. Every so often, you catch him glancing at you, eyes flicking toward your face, your side, your hands.

“You’re staring,” you murmur, not opening your eyes.

Spencer shifts. “I’m not.”

You crack an eye open, giving him a pointed look. “Reid.”

He presses his lips together. “I’m just… observing.”

You huff a quiet laugh, shifting slightly, wincing at the sharp pull of your injury. Spencer moves before you can stop him, adjusting the blanket draped over you, tucking it carefully around your shoulders. His touch is light, careful.

“You lost a lot of blood,” he says, voice soft but firm. “And, statistically, someone in your condition should be experiencing lightheadedness, muscle fatigue, and an increased need for rest. Your body is trying to compensate for the blood loss by increasing your heart rate, which is why you’re still feeling so warm despite the cabin temperature being nearly ten degrees lower than standard room temperature.”

You blink at him, half amused, half exhausted. “You always talk this much when you’re worried?”

Spencer huffs. “I’m not worried.”

“You’re quoting medical statistics at me, Reid.”

He shifts uncomfortably but doesn’t argue. “I just think you should be resting.”

“Then stop talking and let me sleep.”

A pause. Then, almost reluctantly, he nods. “Right. Okay.”

You sigh, closing your eyes, exhaustion creeping in. Just as your body starts to go heavy with sleep, you feel movement beside you—the soft rustle of fabric. Something warm drapes over your shoulders, heavier than the blanket.

You crack an eye open and see Spencer shrugging out of his jacket, carefully settling it around you.

“Spence—” you start, but he shakes his head.

“Just sleep,” he murmurs, voice softer now. “You need it.”

You don’t argue. The warmth of his jacket, the steady hum of the jet, and the quiet presence of Spencer beside you lull you under.

The last thing you hear before sleep takes over is the sound of him turning another page—not reading, just waiting.

\\

The bullpen is buzzing with the familiar hum of keyboards clacking, quiet conversations murmuring through the space, and the occasional scrape of a chair against the floor. It’s one of those rare in-between days—no pressing cases, no jet waiting on the tarmac, just paperwork and coffee refills. A brief, deceptive calm before the inevitable storm.

You’re at your desk, fingers drumming absently against a stack of reports you’ve been meaning to go through for the past half hour. You should be working, but your attention keeps drifting—particularly to the desk across from yours, where Spencer is deep in thought, a book propped open against his keyboard. He’s not even pretending to do his paperwork.

You tilt your head, watching him for a beat. His lips move slightly as he reads, fingers tapping a rhythm on his desk, entirely lost in whatever tangent he’s found himself in. You fight a giggle.

“Should I be concerned that you’ve been staring at that same page for the last fifteen minutes?”

Spencer blinks, snapping out of his reverie. He looks at you, then down at his book, then back at you, brow furrowing like he’s just realized he’s been caught.

“I wasn’t—I mean, I was reading. But I was also thinking.”

You raise an eyebrow. “About?”

He hesitates, glancing toward his book as if debating whether to explain. Then, with a small sigh, he leans back in his chair, pushing his hair out of his face. “Did you know that the average person speaks about sixteen thousand words per day? But in reality, most of our daily conversations are filled with repetition, small talk, and pleasantries that don’t contribute much meaningful information.”

You blink at him. “So, what, you’re saying we all talk too much?”

His lips twitch. “Not exactly. Just that… statistically, most conversations are redundant. People say the same things over and over again, sometimes just for the sake of filling silence.”

You smirk. “And yet, you’re one of the most talkative people I know.”

Spencer narrows his eyes, but there’s amusement flickering there. “That’s different. I provide new information.”

You hum, pretending to consider that. “Debatable.” The joke dances on your tongue and you see the edge of a smile fight to peel its way across his cheeks.

Before he can argue, a coffee cup appears in your peripheral vision, and you glance up to see JJ setting it on your desk with a knowing smile. “Flirting through statistics again?” she teases before apologetically placing another file on your desk next to the coffee-offering and walking off.

Spencer clears his throat, suddenly very interested in his book again, while you just chuckle, lifting the cup in silent thanks, adding the case to your impending pile.

“Face it, Reid,” you say, taking a sip. “You talk a lot. Don’t worry, it’s endearing.”

He exhales, shaking his head, but there’s the hint of a smile playing at his lips. “You’re impossible.”

You grin. “And yet, you’re still talking to me.”

You turn back to your work, flipping through the pages stuck in your folder. You weren’t on the assignment you’re tasked with processing, the curse of being lowest on the totem pole, but the case is interesting enough. Still, you find your eyes skimming, fingers tapping on the desk. 

“Now who’s zoning out?” Spencer asks. When you look up, he’s smiling at you.

“Sorry, I was just wondering. Were you saying that because you feel like our conversations are actually redundant?”

Spencer tilts his head, considering. “No. If anything, our conversations are anomalous.”

You arch a brow. “Anomalous?”

“Yes.” He shifts in his seat, leaning slightly toward you. “Most daily conversations consist of formulaic exchanges—small talk, routine inquiries, expected responses. But ours deviate. We don’t follow typical social scripts.”

You take another sip of coffee, fighting a grin. “So what you’re saying is… we’re special? Different? Not like other coworkers?”

Spencer huffs, clearly trying to fight back a smile of his own. “Statistically speaking, yes.”

You hum thoughtfully. “That’s a very fancy way of admitting you enjoy talking to me.”

Spencer opens his mouth, then closes it, before finally shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”

You smirk, leaning back in your chair. “You already said that.”

“I’m repeating myself,” he says, deadpan. “Which, as I previously stated, most people do without realizing.”

You burst into laughter, shaking your head. “See? Redundant.”

Spencer exhales, feigning exasperation, but you catch the way his lips twitch, like he’s barely containing his amusement. He glances down at his book again, but it’s obvious he’s no longer reading. Instead, his fingers tap absently against the desk, his gaze drifting back to you as if he’s waiting for whatever you’ll say next.

After a beat, you shift slightly in your chair, hesitating before asking, “If most conversations are menial and redundant, is there anything you’d actually like to know about me?”

Spencer’s fingers stop tapping. His head tilts slightly, eyes brightening with interest. “Yes.”

You blink, caught off guard by his immediate answer. “Oh. Okay.”

He leans forward, forearms resting on his desk. “What’s your favorite color?”

The question is so simple, so unexpected, that you laugh softly. “That’s what you want to know?”

He shrugs. “I like colors. They’re associated with memory and emotion. The colors we gravitate toward can tell a lot about how we perceive the world.”

You consider it. “Hm. Blue, I think. The kind of blue right before the sun sets.”

Spencer’s lips twitch, like he’s cataloging that information for later. “That makes sense.”

You raise a brow. “And yours?”

“Yellow,” he says easily. “Statistically, it’s associated with intelligence and optimism. But mostly, I just like how warm it feels.”

You nod, smiling. “That checks out.”

Spencer watches you for a beat before continuing, “Do you like to cook?”

“I can cook,” you say hesitantly. “Do I enjoy it? Debatable.”

His eyes crinkle at the corners. “So, a reluctant chef.”

“More like a survivalist cook,” you amend. “You?”

“I actually do like cooking. It’s methodical. Precise.”

You snort. “Of course, you’d say that.”

His lips twitch again. “What about books? Do you read for fun, or do you avoid it since we deal with enough research at work?”

You glance at the stack of case files on your desk before meeting his gaze. “I do read. But nothing… analytical. I like stories. Ones that pull you out of reality.”

Spencer hums, clearly pleased by that. “Escapism.”

“Something like that. What about you?”

“I’m currently translating a Russian novel written in the 16th century.”

“Ah. So you research at work and at home.”

Spencer hums, tilting his head to the side. “No, I think it’s still escapism. It’s something to focus on that takes just enough of my focus that I can let the world fade away. General novels don’t do enough to ‘pull me out of reality.’”

Your conversation continues, the questions growing deeper—favorite childhood memory, biggest irrational fear, if you believe in fate. The air between you shifts, still lighthearted but threaded with something more thoughtful, something lingering. Neither of you notice how much time has passed, how the rest of the bullpen has faded into the background. Neither of you seem to mind.

“Are you two actually planning on doing work today, or just nerding out over here?” Morgan saunters over, arms crossed, a teasing grin plastered across his face. “Seriously, I don’t think I’ve ever seen two people more excited to talk about words.”

You roll your eyes but play along immediately, sitting up straighter. “We’re conducting an in-depth analysis of human conversation patterns, actually. Very important work.”

Spencer nods solemnly. “It’s a highly valuable study in linguistic redundancy.”

Morgan snorts. “Right. And how many case files have you two managed to process between all this very valuable research?”

You glance at the untouched stack of paperwork on your desk. “Define ‘process.’”

Morgan barks out a laugh, shaking his head. “Unbelievable. You’re really letting him rub off on you, huh?”

Your grin falters, just slightly, something warm settling in your chest at the thought. You don’t want to just be letting it happen—you want to belong here, to be part of this team in every way that matters. And for the first time, it feels like maybe you already do.

Later that evening, Rossi hosts a team dinner at his house, a tradition that has somehow become a staple among the group. His kitchen is full of the warm scent of garlic and herbs, the clinking of dishes, the comfortable laughter of people who have seen the worst parts of the world together and still choose to sit at the same table.

When you arrive, the house is already brimming with conversation. Morgan greets you first, throwing an arm around your shoulders with an easy grin. "Look who finally decided to show up. We thought you might be hiding out, avoiding us."

You roll your eyes. "As if I could ever avoid all this chaos."

"Chaos?" JJ chimes in, nudging you playfully as she passes by with three drinks balanced between her two hands. "This is tradition."

Emily smirks, leaning against the counter as she sips her wine. "Some traditions involve singing. Others involve roasting marshmallows. Ours? A fine mix of sarcasm and psychological analysis."

“And food,” Rossi interrupts.

"And some of us even make an effort to discuss more elevated topics," Spencer adds, stepping into the kitchen with a book tucked under his arm.

Morgan groans. "Oh God, don’t tell me you brought a book to dinner."

"It’s not for dinner," Spencer says, offended. "It’s just something I was reading earlier. Did you know that communal meals have historically played a significant role in human bonding? Anthropologists argue that the act of sharing food helped shape early societal structures, reinforcing a sense of trust and cooperation."

You smile, all warm edges and fuzzy thoughts. "So what you're saying is, this dinner is historically significant?"

Spencer nods, pleased. "Exactly."

Morgan shakes his head. "Yeah, alright, professor. How about instead of a lecture, you help set the table?"

Rossi moves through the kitchen with practiced ease, stirring sauces and pulling fresh bread from the oven, effortlessly hosting while still engaging in every conversation. He waves you over at one point, nudging a wine bottle toward you. "Since you brought such a good one last time, how about you do the honors?"

You take the bottle from him, grateful for something to do, something to focus on besides the bubbling warmth of the evening settling under your skin. As you work the cork from the bottle, Spencer sidles up beside you, watching with quiet amusement.

"You know," he starts, "there’s actually a method to opening wine that prevents cork residue from contaminating the liquid."

You glance up at him with a self-conscious smile. "Is that your way of telling me I’m doing it wrong?"

His lips twitch, a near-smile. "Not wrong. Just… suboptimal."

You roll your eyes, finally freeing the cork and handing him the bottle. "Then, by all means, Dr. Reid, show me the optimal way."

Spencer takes the bottle, hands brushing against yours. You find yourself still looking up at him for a moment, fingers gently touching, a moment collapsing into itself. You watch as his pupils dilate, slightly, a normal reaction to eye contact and nothing further (a notion your body refuses to acknowledge, filled with the silly idea that maybe it’s attraction pushing his eyes open further to observe more of you). His mouth opens, ready to explain what he’s doing. But, before he can launch into an explanation, Morgan’s voice carries across the room. "Oh great, the nerds found each other again. Should we all just clear out and let you guys talk statistics over dinner?"

Emily snorts from where she’s leaning against the counter, sipping her drink. "Honestly, I’d pay to watch that."

You play along easily, shaking your head in faux exasperation. "We were having a very riveting discussion about wine physics, actually. Life-altering shit."

Morgan grins. "Yeah, I bet. What’s next, the molecular breakdown of garlic bread?"

Spencer straightens slightly. "Actually—"

You elbow him lightly before he can get started, and his mouth snaps shut. It’s the smallest moment, but it sends a ripple of warmth through you—this unspoken understanding, the ease of teasing him without making him feel small.

You’ve noticed before when the gentle teasing goes too far. When the team pushes a bit too much, makes him feel like a burden instead of a fountain of knowledge. The painful edge of it digs into your stomach more often than you would care to admit. A significant amount of your energy when talking to Spencer is spent toeing that line. You can’t help but tease but you never want to make him feel like his interests and knowledge are a burden.

Rossi chuckles, setting a tray of pasta on the counter. "Alright, everyone, grab a plate before the food gets cold."

The group disperses into easy movement, laughter trailing behind as plates are filled and seats are taken around the long wooden dining table. You settle beside Spencer again, your knees brushing under the table. The proximity is unintentional, but you don’t move away, and neither does he.

The meal is indulgent, the flavors rich and familiar, but it’s not the food that lingers—it’s the feeling. The warmth of being gathered around this table, among these people, feels sacred in a way you’re not sure you’ve ever experienced before. Like communion, like breaking bread with disciples who have seen you bleed and stayed anyway. You wonder if Spencer feels it, too, if he sees the holiness in shared meals and easy laughter, in the way the team fills the spaces between each other like stained glass fitted carefully into its frame.

You and this team have been through so much together — the rest more than you. The past months shadowing the team have been insightful, exciting, and have done more than anything else to solidify that this is what you want to be doing with your career. Beyond that, the time has been tough. Your grit, your ability to persevere and persist, and your skills, have been tested day beyond day. 

Beyond the toughness though, you’ve found a home. Community. Family. You see through their exteriors to admire them, the people around you. It’s more than you could have ever thought it to be, this life. Before this, you’ve been floating. Drifting through life, living for exams and physicals and finals. Studying, working for a result you were unfamiliar with. Now, though, the taste of the life you’ve ground yourself to the bone for glistening on the tip of your tongue, you’re hungry. Starving for life to continue, salivating at the mouth for any and all opportunities to stay here, in this moment, with the team. 

Conversations flow freely around you, a mix of teasing and genuine storytelling, warmth curling in your chest as you sip your wine and let yourself exist in this moment. Spencer doesn’t talk much, but he listens—really listens—his attention flickering between the voices around the table, occasionally back to you.

At one point, Rossi taps his glass, drawing attention. "Since we’ve got everyone here tonight, I’d like to make a toast. To this team, to good food, and to the fact that somehow, against all odds, we manage to stay sane."

A chorus of laughter follows, glasses raised and clinking together. You catch Spencer watching you again over the rim of his glass, something unreadable in his gaze. Not quite curiosity, not quite something else. Whatever it is, it lingers between you like the space between notes in a song—present, felt, but not yet fully realized.

You take another sip of wine, and the flavor sits heavy on your tongue, tart and deep, reminiscent of something older than yourself. You wonder if this is what devotion feels like—lingering in a moment you don’t want to leave, knowing that if you close your eyes, you’ll still hear the echoes of this laughter in your bones.

Spencer shifts beside you, his knee pressing just a little more firmly against yours. He doesn’t look away this time. And for the first time, you let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, this is where you belong.

\\

It starts over coffee, late in the afternoon when the sky has begun its slow descent into gold. The café is small, tucked between a used bookstore and a florist, the kind of place that smells like roasted beans and cinnamon, where the music is just quiet enough to let conversation breathe. You meet there often, sometimes after work, sometimes on weekends when neither of you have anywhere urgent to be. It feels like neutral ground—safe, familiar, but tonight, something feels different.

Spencer is fidgeting.

His fingers curl and uncurl around his coffee cup, tracing patterns in the ceramic like he’s working up to something. His gaze flickers to the window, the steam curling from his drink, your hands resting on the table. Anywhere but your face.

You sip your drink slowly, watching him with quiet apprehension. “You look like you’re debating something incredibly complicated.”

He huffs a breath, almost a laugh, but it doesn’t quite land. “I am.”

“Must be serious, then.”

“It is.” He shifts, finally—finally—meets your gaze, something fragile and certain flickering in the warm depths of his eyes. “Would you—” he stops, swallows, starts again. “Would you want to go to dinner with me?”

The words settle between you, weighty but delicate, like something precious placed carefully in waiting hands. You can see the way he braces for impact, his fingers tightening around his cup, his breath just a little too still.

You tilt your head, letting the moment stretch, just to watch him squirm. Then, softly, “In what way? A date?”

You are hesitant, voice barely audible. You’re scared to ask, feeling childish, the words tasting forbiddenly sweet on your lips. You tell yourself you can’t have been imagining everything between you two the past weeks — months, even. The lingering touches, the connection that sits at the base of your spine and ignites you with something far beyond holiness. 

Spencer watches you for a moment before ducking his head. He looks shy, uncertain. “If that’s okay, yes.”

The words hit you in the center of your chest. You’re certain you’ve heard wrong for a full second, sure that he couldn’t possibly be confirming your wildest dreams. 

“I would really like that.”

His shoulders loosen, just slightly. Relief unwinds in the smallest of ways—the way his fingers flex, the subtle shift in his posture. He nods, barely, taking a slow sip of his coffee like he needs to ground himself against the movement.

You don’t miss the small, pleased smile he hides behind the rim of his cup.

\\

The evening of the date arrives, and your apartment is a disaster zone.

Clothes are strewn across your bed in varying states of rejection, your closet door hanging half-open as if it, too, is exhausted from your indecision. You tell yourself it’s not nerves—it’s just a normal dinner, just Spencer—but your pulse betrays you, humming under your skin like an electric current.

You tug at the hem of your sweater, second-guessing, then third-guessing, your reflection offering no clarity. A date. The word itself feels foreign on your tongue, weighty in your mind. The possibility of something more, something unknown, something irreversible—

Then, the knock at your door.

You exhale sharply, pressing your hands against your thighs like it’ll steady you, before crossing the room. You hesitate for just a moment, long enough to gather breath, then open it.

Spencer stands there, scarf wrapped around his neck, cheeks flushed from the cold. He’s holding flowers, wrapped in delicate brown paper, not random but deliberate, purposeful. His fingers tighten around them as his lips part, ready to explain, but you reach out first, brushing your fingers over the petals.

“They’re beautiful.”

His gaze flickers to yours, searching. “They, uh… they all have different meanings. I can tell you, if you want.”

Your chest feels warm, full. “I’d like that.”

He nods once, clearing his throat. “Well, the blue cornflowers—they mean ‘hope in love,’ and the lavender represents devotion. And the ivy, that’s for fidelity, and um—” he stops, shifting awkwardly—“I wanted it to mean something. To you.”

Your fingers tighten just slightly around the bouquet, breath catching.

“It does.”

The drive to the restaurant is wrapped in quiet conversation, the kind that feels like warmth on a winter evening. Spencer talks—of course he talks—his voice weaving through facts about the historical significance of first dates, how certain cultures believed that sharing a meal was an intimate ritual, a way of binding souls together.

“You’re romanticizing it,” you tease, studying the way the streetlights paint fleeting golden patterns across his profile.

He huffs a soft laugh. “It’s just history.”

“History can be romantic.”

He glances at you then, something unreadable settling in his features. “I suppose it can.”

You watch him as he drives—the way his fingers flex against the wheel, the small furrow between his brows when he concentrates. There’s something in the ease of this, in the soft lull of conversation and the quiet hum of the road beneath you, that feels like it’s teetering on the edge of something significant.

When you arrive, he moves to open your door but nearly smacks you in the face in his haste. He freezes, mortified, clears his throat. “Sorry.”

You bite back a laugh. “It’s okay. I appreciate the effort.”

The restaurant is intimate, the kind of place that makes everything feel softer—low candlelight, warm wood paneling, the steady murmur of quiet conversation. A flickering candle sits at the center of your table, casting shifting patterns along the surface, making everything feel just a little dreamlike, just a little surreal.

Spencer shifts in his seat, his fingers tapping once against the table before stilling. He exhales a quiet laugh. “This is… nice.”

You nod, the candlelight catching in his eyes. “Yeah. It is.”

The menu is filled with dishes just unfamiliar enough to make you both pause, debating choices. Spencer, of course, has read about half of them before.

“You know, the origins of risotto actually trace back to the Middle Ages. It was influenced by Arabic rice cultivation techniques brought to Sicily, and—” he stops himself, clearing his throat. “Sorry. I can, uh, get carried away.”

You shake your head, smiling. “I like when you get carried away.”

His gaze lingers, just a second too long.

The night stretches in slow, golden increments, conversation winding through shared stories, quiet laughter, the clink of silverware against plates. He tells you about childhood books that meant something to him, you tell him about the first time you realized you loved what you do. The space between you narrows, not in distance, but in something deeper, something quieter.

And then it happens.

The realization strikes like a bolt of lightning, sharp and electric. You want to kiss him. It isn’t a slow realization, isn’t something that builds over time—it hits all at once, undeniable.

The candlelight flickers, catching the sharp cut of his jaw, the way his lips move around words. His fingers curl around his coffee cup, knuckles flexing. Something about it feels holy.

You realize, suddenly, that you’re staring. That you’re leaning in.

Spencer pauses mid-sentence, blinking at you. “What?”

You exhale, a slow smile tugging at your lips. “Nothing.”

He watches you for a beat longer, his gaze searching, curious, like he’s trying to decipher something just out of reach. The air between you thickens, humming with something unspoken, something waiting.

But he doesn’t press. Instead, he picks up his coffee again, takes a slow sip, and when he speaks next, it’s with the same easy rhythm as before.

And you let yourself sink into it, into him, into the quiet certainty of being here, together.

\\

The knock comes late. Too late for pleasantries, too late for anything but something raw, something that has been waiting to surface.

You aren’t asleep. Haven’t even tried. The air in your apartment feels too thick, the weight of the last case pressing into the spaces between your ribs, making every breath feel just a little too shallow. So when the knock sounds again, quieter this time but insistent, you already know who it is before you even reach for the door.

Spencer stands on the other side, hands buried in his pockets, his shoulders hunched like he’s been standing there for too long, debating whether or not to knock again. The dim hallway lighting casts shadows under his eyes, exhaustion lining his face, but there’s something else, too—something hesitant, something that flickers behind his expression like a barely-contained thought.

“Spencer?” you ask, brow furrowing.

He exhales, slow, measured, the way he does when he’s trying to pick the right words before speaking. “I—” He hesitates, shakes his head. “I don’t know why I’m here.”

A lie. You see it in the way his fingers twitch, in the way his breath stumbles. You see it in the way his eyes don’t quite meet yours, how they flicker toward your shoulder, your collarbone, before darting away again, like he’s afraid of being caught.

You step aside, let him in.

The silence between you stretches, thick and heavy, but not uncomfortable. It settles, wraps around you both as he moves past you, as he lingers near the kitchen counter without quite leaning against it, as you close the door and turn to face him.

You should say something. Should ask him why he’s here, why he looks like he’s spent hours convincing himself not to be. But the words don’t come. They tangle in your throat, unwilling to break the moment that is already unraveling between you.

Instead, it’s him who speaks first.

“I think about you.”

The words are soft, careful, but steady. Not a confession, not quite, but something close. Something that shifts the air between you, makes it sharper, makes it real.

You inhale, slow, deliberate, but it doesn’t steady you the way you hope it will. Your pulse jumps, a small stutter beneath fragile skin, and you know he sees it, knows he’s cataloging it the way he does everything.

Spencer exhales, a quiet, disbelieving laugh escaping him, and when he finally looks at you, really looks at you, there’s something unguarded in his gaze. “I think about you all the time.”

You watch as he sways slightly, like he’s resisting the pull, like gravity itself is urging him closer.

And then he stops resisting.

He moves carefully, like he’s giving you space to step back, to stop him, but you don’t. You stay rooted where you stand, watching as his hands hover at your sides, reverent, hesitant. His fingers flex once, a brief curl like he’s debating whether or not to touch you, whether or not to let himself have this.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, barely more than a breath.

You don’t.

Instead, you reach for him first.

Your fingers brush against his wrist, a featherlight touch, tentative, but it’s enough. Enough for him to let out a slow, shaky breath, enough for him to tilt his head, just slightly, enough for his hands—hovering, waiting—to finally settle at your waist. His touch is a whisper of warmth, hesitant, reverent, the weight of it barely there as if afraid that pressing too hard will shatter whatever fragile thing exists between you in this moment.

His skin is fever-warm beneath your fingertips, the heat of him bleeding through the fabric of his sleeves, seeping into your own. The air between you hums, thick with something unspoken, a tension so finely drawn it feels like it might snap at the slightest movement. You don’t know who moves first. Maybe it’s him, maybe it’s you, maybe it’s the inevitable force that has been pulling you together for longer than either of you has been willing to admit. But suddenly, impossibly, there is no more space left to close.

He is close. Close enough that you can see the flicker of uncertainty in his gaze, the way his pupils darken like ink spilling into warm honey. Close enough that you can feel the tremor in his fingers where they rest against you, like he’s bracing himself against something too big to name. Close enough that his breath—uneven, shallow, shaking—ghosts across your cheek, the warmth of it sinking into your skin like an imprint that will never leave. His fingers flex—barely, just a little—but the movement is enough to send a ripple down your spine, enough to make your stomach dip like a held note in a song unfinished.

He exhales again, something like a laugh but softer, more fragile, like he can’t quite believe this is happening. Like he is standing at the edge of something vast and unknown, and for once in his life, he is hesitating.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he admits, voice barely above a whisper, almost swallowed by the quiet between you.

You smile, small and real, the kind of smile meant only for him. “Me either.”

Spencer swallows hard, his throat bobbing. His gaze drops—to your lips, flickers back to your eyes—searching, waiting, still holding himself back. The space between you crackles with electricity, the kind that comes before a storm, before the sky splits open and the world drowns in something relentless, inescapable.

You make the choice for him.

You lift your chin just slightly, tilt forward just enough, and that’s all it takes.

The first touch of his mouth to yours is hesitant, uncertain, the kind of kiss that feels like a question. A quiet, careful can I? rather than I will. His lips are warm, softer than you imagined, and his breath stumbles against yours as he presses just a little closer, as if afraid you might pull away. You feel it the moment something in him gives way, the moment the tension in his body unwinds and he stops second-guessing himself and simply lets go.

His fingers tighten at your waist, just barely, but enough to make you shiver. His other hand drifts, fingertips skimming up the curve of your spine like a whisper of a prayer, settling lightly at the back of your neck, a delicate anchor. He kisses you like he’s memorizing the shape of it, like he’s afraid he’ll forget how you fit against him if he doesn’t take his time.

He tastes like coffee, like exhaustion, like something sweeter underneath it all, something uniquely him. You drink him in, slow, deliberate, every second stretched thin and precious. The world has narrowed to this—his breath, his touch, the way he exhales so quietly when you sigh against his lips.

And then he pulls you closer, deepening it just slightly, just enough to steal whatever air was left between you.

When you part, neither of you move away. Your foreheads rest together, breaths mingling, still wrapped in the hush of the moment, still holding on, just for a little longer.

Spencer exhales, barely more than a whisper. “I don’t want this to be a mistake.”

You press your fingers against the back of his hand, grounding. “It’s not.”

Something eases in his expression. He nods, just once, before his fingers trace lightly over your jaw, tilting your face back up toward his.

And then, he kisses you again.

[drluvsick]

𝐗𝐎𝐗𝐎 !! — 𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐣𝐢𝐫𝐨 𝐤𝐚𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐨

simple fluff with tanjiro. established relationship. mentions of injury.

word count : 551

it had been tiring. all the missions, injuries, and near death experiences would wear anyone out after a few weeks practically packed to the brim with activity. and that’s just how tanjiro’s schedule had been—full of battling demons and putting his life on the line.

finally, however; he was graced with a break. and he knew exactly where to go to find you next.

after your encounter with a powerful demon, you’d suffered a few ‘breaks’ that needed time to heal. it’d been close enough to a week or so since he’d last seen you in a short passing of the house, so he was eager to go back, see you, and rest; with you in his arms, preferably.

upon arrival with zenitsu and inosuke in tow (causing quite a ruckus), tanjiro gazed at the building that he was revisiting yet again. after entering and paying his respects, he sought to find out where you were.

his body ached with days on end of use. he could’ve just looked for you later, especially with the mightily inviting futon in his shared room with the other two. but, you were a priority.

he wanted to make sure that you knew he was okay. he wanted to make sure that you were okay, even if you were under sufficient care these past couple weeks.

the old lady had shown steps to find you, and after a few more minutes of running around, he found your room.

he gingerly knocked on the door, immediately regretting it as the thought that you might be asleep crossed his mind.

his nerves were washed away once he smelt your familiar scent walking up to open the sliding door.

he loved your automatic smile upon seeing him. he loved the way your arms went up to hug him semi-tightly. he loved the closeness he now felt with you now that he was here.

clumsily walking into the room, tanjiro left a chaste kiss on your lips. while rather fleeting, it gave you the opening opportunity to pull him closer for the both of you to sit on your own futon and leave one in return.

“i missed you,” he sweetly says.

“it’s only been a week and a few days!” you teasingly giggle.

“a week’s still long! that’s seven whole days!” he replied, a small pout on his face. “well, you’re here now, and so am i.” you ruffled his messy hair, kissing his lips again.

he fell into the kiss, bringing you to lie down against the crinkled comforter on your bed with him hovering above. you had fun running your tongue against his lower lip, getting that involuntary shiver from him you’d grown accustomed to.

he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear before hesitantly pulling his mouth away. rolling onto his side and bringing you along with, he lovingly held you closer.

the sense of ease after what seemed like an endless amount of reapers coming and failing to capture his soul felt amazing. he wrapped his arms around you tighter, more possessively.

“…i love you.” he whispered.

“love you, too.” you replied, nuzzling your head into his neck. tanjiro felt himself warming up, his mouth curving into a bigger smile.

finally, you both fell to slumber with the other’s warmth lulling you in.

overluvsick | please do not repost, translate, and/or claim my works as yours !!

[lady-bess]

Fallout - Chapter 1 "Into The Ether"

Jack Daniels x F!Reader Explicit/18+ (Minors DNI please) Chapter Word Count: 6.7k Chapter Tags: Description of Injuries, Graphic Description of Injuries, Canon-Typical Violence, Comatose Patient, Grief, PTSD Referenced, Medical Equipment Mentioned (Not Graphic Detail), Angst, Golden Circle Fix-It, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Deceased Character, Discussion of Death, Hallucinations.

Series Masterlist | A03 Link | Tumblr Masterlist

<- Previous Chapter (Prologue)

Four months after his accident, Jack is finally showing some signs of life. Clara and Jane work to stabilise him, but his welcome back to the land of the living is not as smooth as they'd like.

3:27am. February 8th, 2018.

It had been like any other evening. Quiet, fairly boring, and with nothing more than a soft hint of jazz music filling the crisp, white room. Aside from whenever agents needed urgent care, the lab was usually a peaceful place; but the night shifts were the best for it. Nothing but silence for hours at a time, filled only by a soft hum, pen tapping, or one of Statesman’s workers mumbling along with whatever tune the radio played. It went down like this most shifts. 

Until tonight.

A shrill ring came from the other side of the room – nothing overly loud, but in the dead silence of the room it was jarring enough that it made people jump slightly. Working away at her desk, the noises piqued the interest of the lab assistant, Jane, who was working the night shift. Normally her shift was a quiet one, tasked with monitoring anyone who was in stasis and just maintaining the equipment. It was her boss, Clara, who mainly used the machinery during the day.

Monitors sprung to life next to one of the stasis chambers in the Statesman labs. A higher heart rate than normal was picked up, a faster flow of oxygen was being delivered to the patient in question, and the chamber itself was registering small movements up and down their body. Standing from her seat, Jane went down to the stasis chamber that was making all the fuss, her heels clacking on the linoleum floor as she paced towards it. 

It wasn’t very often that Statesman needed to keep anyone in stasis – not long term, anyway. Most agents would be in it for an hour or two, potentially overnight if their injury was severe, and the nanites would do their job and get people fighting fit almost immediately after waking. But this case was unique. 

There was only one chamber in use at the moment, so finding the suspecting noise wasn’t too difficult. It wasn’t uncommon for this machine to spring to life on occasion if certain components needed adjusting to best support the life that laid within it, so Jane initially didn’t think much of the noises.

Jane stood at the foot of the chamber, which laid horizontally, plugged in to all manner of monitors and Statesman’s versions of life support machines (everything being significantly more technologically advanced than what even the best hospital in the world could offer, of course). She squinted at a panel that was fixed to the end of the chamber, trying to make sense of the numbers it was giving. This would always be the first thing to check; the panel in question gave out readings for inside the chamber, things like temperature, oxygen levels, and there were sensors littered throughout that would tell her if the patient had moved even a millimetre. It never yielded much information, and had so far only been useful at letting either Jane or Clara know what might need adjusting – but today those readings were very different, and she almost couldn’t believe her own eyes. 

“It can’t be…,” she whispered to herself as the panel told her there was movement being registered up and down the patients’ body. Nothing major, but their muscles were slowly starting to shift inside the chamber. It wasn’t enough to warrant being concerned by most patient’s standards, but this one was different. In the four and a half months since this chamber had been occupied, there hadn’t even been an eyelid twitch. Aside from their breathing, which in itself was being aided by an oxygen tank, many would look at the life within the chamber and deem the patient to be deceased. 

Jane moved down to the head of the machine, which had all the heart rate monitors, brain scanners, and life support machines set up. She glanced up at the heart rate monitor and gasped; for the first time since September last year it was actually registering the patient as having a steadier, stronger, heartbeat. The brain scan was also picking up more activity than usual, synapses firing properly for the first time in months. Their frontal lobe specifically was active, and activity was registering in areas of the brain that correlated to memory and executive function. Both the left and right lobes were firing up, indicating that movement would soon be noticeable on both sides of the body. A relief, really, considering what they went through…

Jane turned to the chamber and looked in through the glass panel which ran down the length of the chamber. Her eyes widened at what she saw; the patient who had laid borderline dead for over four months was now starting to twitch. It was barely noticeable, but after monitoring for so long the whole lab had gotten used to the fact this guy just never moved a muscle. At first she only noticed his hand move slightly, but the longer she observed the more movement she saw. His fingers spasmed, his legs kept making small jumpy movements, and then as she looked at his face she noticed his eyelids were flickering.

“Holy shit,” she said to herself, then promptly left the bedside of the chamber and headed back to the desk. She picked up the receiver of the phone which was there, and dialled her boss’ emergency line. Since this patient had come in, Clara had given Jane and all the other lab assistants strict instructions that her direct emergency line only be used in this very scenario. With shaking hands, Jane pressed the phone to her ear and waited for the click on the other end.

“Jane?” came Clara’s voice down the line. Jane breathed a sigh of relief at the sound – she knew what to do when the patient awoke, but she also knew it would probably be better if Clara were here. Not for her sake, but for the patient’s.

“Clara! Thank heavens. It’s happening; he’s waking up,” she said, then looked back over the machine. An even louder noise had just started up, indicating more significant movement. Jane couldn’t help but smile slightly – everyone had been waiting for this day since he came in. It was all a little surreal to think that it was actually happening.

“Are you sure, Jane?” Clara questioned, disbelief laced in her voice. It wasn’t that she doubted Jane, but rather that by now she’d written off this day as ever being possible. Jane nodded, still looking at the machine, until she realised Clara would have no way of knowing that she was moving her head. Clearing her throat, she looked away from the machine and paid attention to the call again.

“Yes, I’m positive. There’s movement, Clara. I can actually see it, too. It’s not just one of the machines playing Hell,” she explained.

“Alright, I’m on my way. Keep him stabilised. If you think he’ll wake up properly before I’m there, let him. It could be dangerous if we keep him under any longer than he’s already been. Don’t wanna risk another four months of nothing,” Clara explained.

“Got it; see you soon!” Jane said, and hung up the call. She headed straight back over to the machines and started monitoring, fiddling with some dials as she went to make the waking up process a bit more pleasant on him.

“Alright cowboy, let’s get you back with the living,” she muttered to herself as she worked away diligently.

After four months being in a comatose state, former senior agent Jack Daniels was finally waking up.

4:23am. February 8th, 2018.

“Jane?” Clara said, bursting through the door of the lab, hurriedly throwing her lab coat on as she strode towards Jack’s bed. “How is everything?”. 

Jane turned to see Clara walking through the lab, her eyes slightly wide in a kind of shock she’d never seen on her face in all the years she’d been working here. She smiled faintly, taking her reading glasses off momentarily while she spoke with her boss.

“We’re good, don’t worry. His movements are getting more frequent, and stronger, same with the brain wave frequencies. But he still isn’t awake yet,” she explained, handing Clara a digital chart of the patient’s progress. Clara mulled over the data, swiping through the various statistics to see how fast the rousing process was looking to be, attempting to estimate when he might be fully conscious. She nodded slowly as she took it all in, huffing out a breath of air as she finally let herself calm down. She’d made it in time, and that was what mattered.  

“Alright, let’s have a look at him,” she said, heading over to the opposite side of the stasis chamber. She analysed every machine, even though she knew Jane would have already looked over everything with a fine tooth comb. But it was the only thing she could do to put her mind at ease, the nerves for Jack waking up rising in her chest, and a sickening swirl presenting itself in her stomach. She steadied her breathing as she looked over the tests, eyes widening as she saw for herself that this was really happening.

“I’ve been thinking, Clara…,” Jane said, snapping her out of the little trance she’d been pulled into while her fingers danced over dials, wires, and tubing.

“What’s that, Jane?” she asked, looking over at her younger assistant. Jane chewed her lip slightly and nervously tucked a stray strand of her mousy brown hair behind her ear, knowing she was about to say what would be on most people’s minds once he was awake.

“When he wakes up…he won’t know will he? That you’re no longer Ginger, and that he’s no longer Whiskey,” she asked.

Clara sighed as she placed the chart Jane had handed her on the side, then shook her head solemnly. These last few months had been tough – with Jack in the med-bay this whole time, completely out of action, Champ still deemed it appropriate to hand over his moniker to Clara. She’d been reluctant to take the title at first, not wanting to step on any toes – but, as Champ pointed out, “He’s no agent of ours now, even if he does survive this”. So, she threw her hat into the ring. 

That had been the one thing to make the decision slightly easier; Champ had been dead set from the second he had his accident that Jack would no longer be on the payroll as soon as he woke up. He intended for the former agent to heal up, and then he’d be sent on his way. A new identity, and far away from here, left to fend for himself and deal with the consequences of his actions. 

Clara had taken over all Jack’s previous duties since the moniker became hers last September, including the training of new agents alongside Tequila. With Kingsman suffering heavy losses last year, and with Statesman resources backing their British cousins, a whole new generation of agents were being cherry picked from across the world to eventually be part of the new Kingsman regiment.

It had been a lot of work, albeit rewarding, but that didn’t stop Clara from having a hand in the labs. It was how she came to be here in the first place, and without these labs she’d never have had the hands-on expertise to even shoot for Jack’s old job. That and, having now got his moniker, there was an element of responsibility that she still felt for her old friend.

She hated what Jack had done, and his rationale for trying to derail Harry and Eggsy’s mission; but he still didn’t deserve this. Even the British agents had agreed that things went too far, and they hoped just as much as she did that he would soon recover – although it was almost a hell of a lot worse. Clara couldn’t bear to think about what could have happened if he hadn't been pushed so far over. If his head had tipped back just a little further, sending him into the machinery instead of clipping the outside of it – knocking him unconscious.

Shuddering slightly at the thought, Clara turned back to Jack. The head wounds he’d sustained were basically healed now, thanks to the Statesman developed alpha gel and nanites, but no doubt there would be memory loss and a stack of physical rehabilitation for him to go through. Statesman tech was good, but it wasn’t physically possible to prevent muscle atrophy in its entirety. Jack had a long road ahead of him.

But a complication in this road, she’d found, was Champ’s sudden change of tune. For weeks he’d been bitter about what Jack had done, as was everyone else in the organisation who knew him personally. They all knew about his strong feelings towards drug use, but never in a million years did anyone see it manifesting how it ended up. At worst it had caused a bit of tension between Jack and Jefferson (better known as Agent Tequila) whenever he mentioned using a narcotic substance recreationally, but the feud never went beyond a shouting match and aggressive eye rolling.

Lately, though, Champ had started wondering if Statesman were inherently to blame for Jack’s outburst. Agents went through routine psychological intervention, making sure that they were always fit for duty, but the tests stopped there. Previous trauma was never really considered, and with the exception of an on-site psychologist for when agents needed intervention after a mission, there was nothing in place for the team to use as an outlet for anything else they might have been struggling with.

Jack’s outburst highlighted a fundamental flaw in how agents were screened before going out into active duty, and Champ had begun to carry a lot of guilt on his shoulders as a result of this. Procedures could be changed, differences could be made going forward, but that didn’t undo any of the damage which had already been afflicted. He wondered how fair it would be to punish Jack indefinitely for something which could very well have been prevented by the organisation in which he worked for.

While Clara agreed that perhaps there was a better course of action than just sending Jack on his way once he was better, that did rather leave things in a sticky situation right now. He was slowly waking up, and he had no idea that life had changed for him quite so dramatically. Handling this would surely be difficult.

“No, Jane. He’ll have no idea,” she sighed, again. “I honestly think we can worry about that later, though. If he calls me Ginger, don’t correct him. Let’s get him awake and stable; then we can bring Champ in for a full debrief,” she said. Jane nodded, folding her arms across her chest as the two women just waited for time to pass. That’s all this was now – a waiting game.

“Yes, ma’am.”

A plush duvet surrounded Jack as he gently stirred from a good night’s sleep. The bedding had been freshly put on last night, and he always loved the first morning after changing the bed. The pillows were nice and fluffy, the sheets were all neatly tucked in, and everything smelt of fresh linen. Aside from sharing this bed with the woman he loved, there was nothing which could improve how he woke up feeling on mornings like these. 

Jack’s eyes slowly began to open - nothing major at first. Just a faint flicker to establish it was actually daytime - sunlight streamed through the cracks in the curtains in the master bedroom, lighting up the solid wood furniture Jack had spent so much time painstakingly crafting for him and his wife. 

He felt a warmth next to him, and a slight stir of movement. He rolled towards the shifting weight, his arms reaching out to touch the body of whom lay next to him. His hands felt soft skin and he smiled, humming in contentment, all while his eyes were still partially closed.  

“Jack?” a woman’s voice said. Her breathy voice filled his ears, making his entire body prickle with goosebumps. Her voice was always so calming, and the sound of his name coming from her lips filled him with a warmth that enveloped him entirely. It was something he could never get sick of. 

He opened his eyes more and smiled as he came face to face with his wife. She smiled down at him, leaning up on her elbow in bed. Her long, dark brown hair cascaded over her face and shoulders, brushing against his cheek. Jack smiled and chuckled as her hair tickled his face slightly. 

“Good morning, my love,” he said, reaching up to caress her cheek softly. His thumb stroked her soft skin, a stark contrast to the roughness of his own hands. She smiled and leant into his hold, her own palm moving to sit atop his fingers. 

“Morning, pumpkin,” she giggled. Jack smiled, his hand sliding down the woman’s tanned skin, down her shoulder, and across her arm. 

“When will that nickname be dropped, Lela?” he asked. She giggled again, sticking her tongue out flirtatiously. 

“Never! The day you agreed to marry me was the day you agreed to a lifetime of silly name calling,” she teased. 

Jack chuckled, slipping his arm across his wife’s waist as she slipped down back into bed with him. She was right - he had agreed to that the day they got married, but he wouldn’t trade this life for anything else in the entire world. 

“Alright, that’s fair enough,” he smiled, “Did you need something, my love?” he asked. Lela had got into the habit of waking Jack slightly earlier in the morning if their baby boy was moving around a lot - at first it was accidental, she would wake him when she couldn’t settle. But after a couple of instances he insisted that she just wake him, not wanting to miss a single precious second with his wife or unborn son. He always had a horrible feeling he’d miss something if he wasn’t awake and present for every second with her. 

“It’s time to wake up, Jack,” Lela said, smiling softly. Jack furrowed his brow, confused. 

“Lela, we are awake?” he said, chuckling softly under his breath. She smiled faintly, tears prickling her eyes. 

“No, Jack. I mean really, wake up,” she said softly, sitting up in bed. Jack wondered if she’d had another bad dream and was still slightly confused, so he sat up with her. He wrapped his arm around her waist and squeezed her slightly, comforting his wife. 

“I am awake, doll. We both are, we’re just still in bed. Everything is alright,” he said, planting a kiss to Lela’s cheek. She smiled softly at his touch, but sniffled. “What’s wrong, sugar?” he asked. 

Lela turned to face Jack, her eyes now red from holding back tears. His heart pounded in his chest, now concerned as to what was upsetting his sweetheart so badly. She had seemed fine just minutes earlier…

“You’re not awake, Jack. Not really. None of this is real,” she said. 

“Not real?” he said, clinging slightly tighter to Lela’s body. He didn’t want to believe a word she was saying. 

“Think, Jack. Really remember. What happened to me?” she said. 

Jack screwed up his eyes, a splitting headache shooting through his head, causing him to cry out in pain. Lela shifted on the bed, her hands holding either side of Jack’s head. 

A phone call. That’s all he remembered. A phone call that changed his life. But how-

“I died, my love. This isn’t real,” she said, answering the lingering question at the front of his mind. 

Jack opened his eyes at last to look back at his wife, nausea filling his body and a migraine coming on that made him feel like he was going to pass out. As he opened his eyes, everything around the two of them had fallen away to nothingness - only each other remained. There was no ranch, no comfortable king size bed, no hot mugs of tea on each other’s nightstand. Just each other in the vast abyss of nothingness. 

“You…,” he began, not entirely sure what to say. If she was dead, then where was he?

“You got it,” she said, smiling taut. 

“Where are we, Lela?” he asked, his fingers curling around her wrists as he desperately held onto her in case she left him. In case whatever vision of her that was clearly before him dissipated into the ether like everything else around him had. She shrugged. 

“I’m not entirely sure. I haven’t fully figured it out, truthfully. I’ve been here a while, but I wasn’t expecting you to join me any time soon,” she said. Tears ran down her face as she spoke, and by now her words were almost choking her in the back of her throat. 

“Why do I need to wake up?” he softly cried. Lela kissed her husband gently, tasting the salt from their tears as her lips touched his. 

“Because it isn’t your time. Not yet, anyway, Jacky,” she said. 

“But I don’t want to wake up. If I do, if I go - you won’t be there,” he sobbed. Suddenly the memory and pain of losing his wife came flooding back, overpowering Jack’s emotions. Wherever he was, he wanted to stay. He couldn’t go through that again. For so long he’d worked to repress what happened to Lela, never being able to cope with the fact she and their unborn son had been taken from this world. 

“I don’t want to say goodbye again - I can’t, I won’t!” he pleaded. Lela smiled softly. 

“I know you. And I know you’ll stay strong. At least, this time, I get to say it,” she said. 

“Say what?” Jack asked, his grip tightening on skin that slowly felt like he was losing his grasp on. 

“A proper goodbye. We never got one last time,” she said. 

“Lela, please, don’t!” he said. In spite of his grip, Lela slipped away from him with ease. 

“Jack, don’t make this any harder than it already is,” she cried, “But you’ve got to wake up”. 

With the words ‘wake up’, his vision became even less clear. Wherever he had been, he was slowly slipping away. He braced himself as best he could for whatever was about to come next. The only thing he knew for certain was that Lela would not be where he was heading. 

“Goodbye, my love,” he said, wiping his eyes of tears. 

“Goodbye, Jack,” she smiled, then whispered, “Wake up”. 

Jack’s eyes slowly began to open.  

5:39am. February 8th, 2018.

It was over an hour before there was any more significant movement from Jack. Jane and Clara had done all they could, and since she’d arrived at the lab earlier this morning, the two women had just been making sure that he would be comfortable when he eventually woke up. The side effects of being comatose for over four months would still cause havoc, undoubtedly, even in spite of the Statesman technology making the transition a more pleasant one. 

Blindingly bright lights – that was the first thing he noticed. That and a very dry mouth. Like, painfully so. Jack grunted slightly, trying to move his body and get a feel for where he was. 

What had even happened?

His eyes felt heavy as the lids fluttered open, Jack grimacing as the blinding white of the room he was in flooded his senses. Mumbled voices filled his ears, and in a way it felt like it was the first time Jack was actually hearing anything.

“Wh-what- where am I?” he muttered, but he wasn’t actually sure if he was loud enough for anyone to hear. 

His vision was blurry as he slowly began turning his head, trying to see where exactly he now found himself. All he could surmise thus far was that he was in a bed, and somewhere clinical, judging by the lack of colours shining out at him in the room. He could feel something up his nose moving as he turned his head, and with each movement a tube rubbed against the skin of his cheek. 

Was he in a hospital? The Statesman med bay? And why did he have a ventilator tube inserted? 

Jack blinked a few times to try and clear his eyes, and slowly the film began to dissipate across his pupils. Blurry masses of shapes began focusing somewhat, now making way for discernable objects. Monitors, IV bags, other beds further down the room. 

And then, running past his line of sight quickly, was Clara. She barrelled over towards him just as a wave of fatigue came over Jack, and a piercing screech came from one of the machines around his head. He screwed his eyes up, cursing inwardly at the noise, but when Clara muted the mechanism he found it hard to want to open his eyes again. 

All he knew was that he wasn’t with Lela anymore. He wasn’t sure how long he’d actually been with her, in whatever kind of purgatory dream-like state he’d found himself in, but every fibre of his body longed to be back there. He didn’t know exactly how he ended up there, how he ended up here either, but he didn’t greatly want to be anywhere other than by her side again. 

Back where he belonged. 

“Jack?”. 

The faint muffled voices of Jane and Clara managed to break through to Jack, and in spite of his best efforts to try and force himself back to the land of the dead, he just couldn’t. Slowly he began opening his eyes again, refocusing to the bright light and the face of Clara now leaning over him by his bedside.  

“Ginger?” he said, croaky and hoarse as he forced his words out.

“Jack, stay with us, we need to stabilise you,” Clara said, frantically messing with the controls on the panel closest to her. Without even realising it, he was panicking as he adjusted to being awake again, and it was sending all the readings way out of sync; she needed to get him under control before he flatlined again. His heart rate was off the charts, and his blood pressure was joining it. 

“Where am I?” he asked, breaths speeding up as worry set in, causing his chest to tighten in the process. He hadn’t been breathing autonomously for months, and his increased breaths was putting undue pressure on the ventilator which had kept him alive all this time. The more he woke up the more a tightness made itself known across his chest, sweat collecting on his brow as he panted, slowly feeling every wire and IV line that was inserted into his body. 

“You’re in the med bay. Calm down, Jack, it’s going to be alright,” she reassured him, administering procainamide to him through one of his IVs to try and return his heartbeat to normal. 

Jack felt the effects of the drug given have an effect almost immediately, and that weight left his chest in mere seconds. His breathing began to regulate, and the blood rushing through his ears from a pounding heart gave way to the sound of a gentle rumble of the machines behind his head. 

But then, like someone turning on a light switch, Jack’s mind went blank. 

“Whe-who…who am I?” he stammered.

“Shit,” Jane said. “Clara, his amnesia has already set in!” she exclaimed. Clara looked down at Jack, his eyes darting around the room frantically. They had worried that this would happen, that the amnesia often experienced by agents in the stasis chambers would rear its ugly head before they could properly stabilise him. 

“Get the photograph,” she said bluntly, her hands still working away at the machinery.

“But you said-,” Jane began protesting.

“I know!” Clara yelled, tears pooling in her eyes, “It might fuck him up for good, Jane, but we can’t have him forget who he is, or else there’s no going back. There’ll be no saving him. We’ve got to use it,” she explained.

Clara didn’t want to use the photograph of Jack’s wife for this - not after the grief of her death, and his subsequent actions, were the reason he was even in this position to begin with. But things had moved too quickly for him to be stable, for another prompt to be used - they didn’t have the time they needed to let him sit with something else, a new trigger, and hope it worked. He was crashing, and if he forgot who he was then it would be game over. 

Agents forgetting their own identities was not uncommon. The same happened with Harry only 18 months ago. But, unlike with Harry, Clara surmised that the trauma that would be needed to bring Jack back after a complete memory lapse would be too severe to safely recreate. They had to just work with what they had, and restore him as much as they could, before that became the reality. 

“Alright,” Jane said before rushing to Clara’s desk. Flinging open the desk drawer, she began pulling out a stack of paper files. Clara had made sure to keep all of Jack’s personal information nearby in case of an emergency, so anything people needed to know about the former agent sat in these brown envelopes.

Flicking through the papers, a photograph fell out. A small polaroid, with a woman’s portrait on it. She was young, early twenties, and had long dark brown hair. She was smiling in the photograph, taken on what looked to be a birthday, in a local bar that was still operational now, over twenty years later. Jane grabbed the picture and headed back over to the bedside.

“Jack, I’m sorry,” she whispered as she reached the bedside, holding the picture over his chamber.

“Oh…oh who-who’s this lovely lady?” he asked, the first smile in months spreading out onto his face. It hurt, he noticed, and for a brief moment he wondered why. But his eyes remained locked onto the image of the young woman, and slowly a searing pain started making itself known to him. Like a hot, burning migraine, gradually taking over his head as he tried to piece things together. 

Who was she? Why is she familiar? 

“She’s dead, Jack,” Jane began, steadying her breathing as she allowed Clara to continue to work away. Her boss gave her an approving nod before she continued her monologue, “Cops said ‘wrong place, wrong time’,” she said.

Jack’s eyes widened as everything, everything, came flooding back to him. Clara managed to just stabilise his vitals before the visceral screams started, filling the room and ringing in the ears of everyone around.

Jane withdrew the picture as Jack began to yell, his voice hoarse and screams cracking from not using his vocal chords in so long. But it was too much to bear as everything came flooding back; his wife, losing her, him joining Statesman, and every decision he had made which led him to where he now found himself; plugged into machines with a serious head wound. He had no idea how much time had passed, or how much of his life he’d lost in these four walls.

The heat he felt from the oncoming migraine soared across his head, almost burning at his temples as he sat bolt upright. Anger filled his body, raising his heart rate higher than what it had been in months. Clara’s eyes darted from Jack to the monitors, worried about her friend immensely. After waiting so long, this couldn’t be what ended him; she wouldn’t let him die like this.

“JACK!” she yelled, leaning forward and holding him by the shoulders and trying to get him to lay down again. “You’ve got to calm down, come on!” she pleaded. Her fingers tightened around his shoulders, bracing his frame in her hold. She nodded towards Jane who administered a higher dose of his IV medication, all the while allowing Clara to comfort him. He needed to lay down, or else he’d risk passing out and having to go through this rigmarole again. 

Jack’s breathing remained fast, the panic searing through him as he remembered everything that had led to this moment. His splitting headache shot through him again, beginning to feel like a pulsing sensation behind his eyes, which momentarily snapped him out of his anger fuelled haze for a moment to screw his eyes up and drop his head into his hands. 

“That’s it, come back to me,” she said, soothing him as she lay him down gently.

“She…she’s dead…and I-I almost…I almost killed millions,” he sobbed, tears streaming down his face. They stung as he cried for the first time in years, Jack never being the kind of man to show much emotion, even before the accident. He looked up, catching eyes with Clara.

She almost broke as she looked into them, dark brown pits which were laced with torment and anguish, bloodshot red and petrified. It was a look she had never seen before in Jack – he always was the one who kept things in check, never let anybody in, never let anybody show if he was suffering. She supposed that was where the fault lied with, really – the fact that he had never let anyone in on the fact he was clearly suffering with so much that it ended up bleeding into his work. His principles. His morals.

“But you didn’t, Jack. They’re alive. Eggsy and Harry stopped you,” she said. There was no point sugar coating what had happened – the truth would come out eventually. Her hand moved to gently caress his thick brown, and slightly greying, hair. She soothed him softly, comforting him as he came back to them. 

“Th-they did,” he said, voice quiet as he tried to piece together the entire chain of events that lead to him having a head wound this serious that it put him in this state for so long. “In September?” he asked. Clara nodded.

“Yes, that’s right,” she said, still holding him in her arms.

“What month is it now, Ginger?” he asked. Jane caught eyes with Clara, a look of sympathy on her face briefly – it was expected this would happen.

“It’s February, Jack. You’ve been out cold for four months,” she said, choosing for now to ignore him using her old moniker. A more appropriate time would come where he’d find out that now was no longer her title, and that instead she now carried his. 

He slowly nodded, wiping a hand down his face. He felt that his signature moustache had remained, a sign that someone had clearly cared a great deal for him personally while he’d been out for so long. 

“What was I thinking?” he said quietly, pressing the heels of his hands in his eye sockets. Clara sighed slightly, pulling him into her. Instantly he dropped his hands and wrapped his arms around her body, clinging to her for dear life. He knew that if it weren’t for Clara, there was no way he’d still be alive. He didn’t fully remember what exactly happened during the fight, what in particular got injured and how, but he knew for certain that she would have been the reason he would live to tell the tale. For that, he would never be able to thank her enough.

“You had a psychotic break. Or, at least that’s what we think. Unchecked psychological issues caused you to go rogue, Jack, and that should have been something we caught much, much sooner,” she explained.

Jack slowly released Clara from his arms, sighing to himself as he steadied his breathing and tried to collect himself. He knew he would undoubtedly have a long road ahead of him now, and no doubt a severe punishment to boot. His body felt weak the longer he was awake, and if he had truly been out cold for as long as Clara said, he would need to do a lot to recover from being almost dead for so long. 

But all that could wait, as far as Jack was concerned. He’d pay the price physically every day of the week if it meant that what he originally intended never came to fruition. But the thing he needed to know the most was what would happen now he was back. 

What was his punishment? 

“What damage did I do? What’s gonna happen to me?” he asked.

“Jack, I need you to just calm down. You’ve got a long road ahead of you both physically and mentally. Last thing I need right now is for you to be getting agitated. You just woke up from a coma,” Clara said, almost a chuckle in her tone.

“Clara,” he said, voice cracked and broken, “Please,” he pleaded, “I need to know”. Clara shook her head, but a pain in her chest tugged hard at telling those pleading eyes ‘no’.. 

“It ain’t my place, Jack. Champ will be down here later today though. Rest up, we’ll get you some solid food, and you can freshen up a bit if you can manage to sit for a prolonged period of time. That’s all I want you to do today,” she said.

“Clara, I-,” he began, but she turned around and cut him off before he could continue to speak.

“Are we clear, Jack?” she said sternly, a tone she didn’t like taking, but one she could if needed.

Jack’s breathing hitched as her voice tore into him, piercing his skull as he still adjusted to sounds again. He rarely heard Clara use that tone, and from those four words alone it answered to him any lingering questions he had about the severity of what was to come - even if it was Champ who would deliver the punishment, it was no doubt going to be harsh, albeit just. 

He nodded slowly as he settled back down into the bed he’d laid in for months, his arms loosening around Clara’s torso as her comforting embrace came to an end. She was right; all he had to focus on now was resting up, and seeing what his body could cope with after so long being comatose. The rest to come would unfold, and he’d come to learn about the fallout of his actions. 

“Yes. Perfectly clear.” 

Clara nodded and smiled faintly as she began explaining a few details to Jack about the condition he was in, and what rehabilitation might look like. But he wasn’t listening; not really. Her words got lost into muffled speech as he slowly began dissociating, the gravity of the situation dawning on Jack.

He worked for years to become the hard outer shell people knew him for; the stern agent who never complained, and never faltered. He repressed his wife’s passing for so long he almost could convince himself that it never happened in the first place. 

But now, after over two decades of burying and hiding behind the facade, Jack now had to finally open himself up to his reality. He would at long last have to face the music, and accept his suffering. 

A single tear rolled down his cheek as his eyes fluttered closed, heavy and tired after his body had to fight so hard to keep him stable and alive once he awoke. Clara wiped his cheek gently as she allowed him to slip away to sleep, happy he was stable enough to do so, then headed towards the phone. 

She picked up the receiver and dialled her boss’ number. She knew Jack would need time before proper questioning, or punishment even, but she had to let the relevant parties know. 

Taking a few deep breaths while the phone rang out, Clara’s hands stammered slightly with nerves and the anticipation that rose within her as she awaited for Champ to pick up the phone. Soon, the reality of Jack’s actions were about to become painfully clear - and it terrified her for what was next to come. 

The receiver clicked on the other end, and Champ’s familiar southern drawl filled her ears, paired with the fatigue from the early morning nature of the call. Clara would normally mock Champ for such a trait, but today there was no time. 

“Champ, it’s Whiskey. Jack’s awake, sir,” she said. 

“He’s alive.”

Series Masterlist | A03 Link | Tumblr Masterlist

Next Chapter (Ch. 2 - A Curious Affair) ->

A/N: Aiming to release new chapters every Wednesday! Comments and reblogs are always appreciated 💕 Thank you for reading!

LadyBess xox

[sparks-and-wires]

Who Are You? - Flavio Vargas x Reader

⚠️ Warnings: Mentions of injury + blood, breaking the persona, sort of angst, idk ⚠️

Word count: 1,337

He grew up thinking he was a god that could have whatever he wanted. So he slept around, dabbled in frat house partying, and was frequently posting or live streaming something. With a click a day, if not multiple, he could satiate the addiction he has to the attention he'd get over social media.

You are probably the one person who has ever said no to him. Every other person would be falling over backwards to get his attention, yet you don't seem to even notice he exists half the time. It. Drives. Him. Crazy. You aren't his type, and he'd only asked you out as a joke, but hearing a firm and deliberate 'no' really messed with him.

How could you just say no? Everyone either wanted to be with him or be him. He's got money, good looks, charisma, what was there not to like about him?

------

"No? What do you mean 'no'?" He was understandably upset to being shot down for the first time in over twenty years of his privileged life. Flavio's eye almost seemed to twitching as he tried to maintain a smile and friendly tone, despite becoming more and more anxious by the moment. You saw the grip on his drink become tighter and tighter until the enviable happened, the glass shattered in his hand. Blood mixed with the shards of glass that embedded into the faux blonde, him hissing in pain due to the alcohol that immediately splashed the wound.

If it wasn't for his brother you would have never been here in the first place. You owed his family a favor, 'entertain his brother so he doesn't go out tonight'. It was such a simple request, and if it wasn't for Flavio's overly irritating bravado, it would have been done without issue. Instead you have to witness the teary scarlet eyes of Luciano's dear brother, signature shades being knocked off his face with the jerky movements of his body in response to pain.

-------

Then you saw him as what he was, a very sensitive man with a fragile ego. The expression of hurt mixing with the utter pain of the unintentionally self-inflicted wound. You can only liken him to a kicked puppy when you remove all the bragging he'd done. It'd be embarrassing for him to acknowledge that his own brother couldn't trust him to stay at home alone.

You could see why he was alone most of the time. His pride drove others away, made him overly eccentric, all in the attempts to cope. The man has no real friends, it's only him saving face for the fact that outside of his job and family, he has nothing noteworthy to cling onto. Material objects are nothing to having the attention of millions but even that shallow amount of likes on his phone couldn't quell how he feels at night. You were one of the nicest people that Vargas's knew, and you still managed to royally fucked up babysitting the eldest man in the family.

--------

"Can you.... just be yourself for once? Every word out of you seems so unnatural." You can only voice your frustrations as you finished checking his wound for the remaining shards of glass. Blood seeping into the wet paper towel you used to catch shards, the color almost everywhere, leading from the pool to the bathroom. The wound was much deeper than you thought, and you knew getting blood out of Luciano's hardwood floors was going to be a hassle.

"....What do you mean? This is me. I..." You look at him as he trails off, tears still adorning his face. He isn't even sure of it, you could hear it in his voice. You can practically see the cogs in his brain work before his eyes meet yours again. The silence goes on for too long, way too long for you to stand. Before you knew it, you were scrutinizing every detail of him as you absent mindedly drape and wrap the wound in his hand.

---------

"Huh, I didn't know you were a brunette." He's immediately thrown into a meltdown over his roots showing again. You grip his wrist before he could scramble over to find his hair dye.

"It's just a comment, why do you care so much about the color?" He can't even answer that for you. Does he even know himself? He just seems so distressed by the question.

".....Do you even know who you are at this point?"

"Of course I do! I'm Flav-"

"I know your name. Do you know who you are as a person?"

All he could do is stare at you. You were only upsetting further, you could see it from how he was tearing up once more. You're breaking the facade he put up, he can't handle that. He doesn't want to be that vulnerable with someone he barely knows.

---------

".....No. No I don't. Not anymore." That was probably the most honest he's been with anyone in years. With that you hand him back the shades you pocketed when he got hurt. Then you release your grip on him. It's rather sad just how weak he seemed to be; something about you being able to restrain him with a single hand just doesn't sit right in your mind. You're starting to wonder if this is why Luciano made you watch over him, the guards he set up didn't even come into the villa at the sound of shattered glass.

"Whoever he is, I'm sure I'd like him better than the person you pretend to be all the time." He seems dejected with that, swiping the shades from you and put them back into his place to obscure the scarlet hue of his eyes. You just shoo him back to the living room so you could clean up the mess of blood and glass.

--------

You could see him picking at the bandages by the time you're done. You have to stop him once again, making sure that the wound stayed covered. He's just... moody. He's not used to any of this, to be seen as a person. You can only patronize him by running a hand through his hair, a movement he seems to initially recoil at, before leaning into your hand. Eventually, his head is on your shoulder as you're just smoothing out this hair. Half of his body was practically draped over you, trapping you on the couch.

Though the minute the front door opens, he jolting to make himself more presentable and turns on the facade once more. Luciano doesn't seem phased with his brother's wound.

--------

"Well, it's probably the best outcome I could have expected from leaving him with you. I'm sure you'll do better next time."

"Next time?! You said-" You tried not to raise your voice as to not alert Flavio of Luciano's arrangements with you. It'd be embarrassing to hear that your younger brother set you up with a babysitter.

"Shut your mouth, you're at the service of my family for however long I want. You just happen to be the only one to handle my brother without destroying my home. If you value your life you'll do me these favors without complaining."

"I'm not a child!" Flavio suddenly interjects into the quiet conversation you were having. The first time you'd heard the man raise his voice in anger the entire time you'd been there.

"Of course not, I just need someone here to keep you entertained. You seemed too clingy after I've left you alone for too long, and I can't just let you out at night. You know what happened last time."

With that your job for the night was done and you were allowed to leave. You were out the door as Flavio continued to basically scream at his brother. Whether you wanted to or not you knew you'd be stuck spending time with the faceless personality that was Flavio once more, and it was going to be very awkward.

At least you're getting paid.

End Note: This was SO much longer than I expected this fic to be lol. The writer in me was craving a character to dig into I guess and poor Flavio had to be the victim today.

[lizard-shifter-noms]

Still Subject to Change Chapter 26 (NEW)

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Hello everyone! i decided to repost arc 1 of SSTC

(the chapters were way too long and had a bunch of typos but hopefully this will make reading easier)

this Story contains Vore, Dont like dont read.

if there are still any grammatical errors i’m sorry.

——————————————————————————

Arthur then made a gesture for us to stop.

“Arthur? Something wrong?”

He pointed at the window we just passed and both me and Robin looked out of the small thing.

We were on ground level right behind the shed, technically we didn’t have to walk to the door now since the window should just be large enough to climb out.

Which Robin promptly did, almost headbutting my chin in the process.

“I'm first outside!”

Oh well, The window wasn’t big but I had to be extra stupid to get stuck in it so I heaved myself onto it and jumped down the meter or so to the ground.

Arthur followed swiftly and managed to snag his foot in the windowsill and barely avoided falling onto his Numb face by bracing himself with his arms.

Heaving him up again i looked around to try and spot Oakley, the fucker was fast i gave him that.

Arthur gave me once again a thumbs up what probably was meant to substitute a ‘thank you’.

Robin had already run ahead and I noticed that Oakley was indeed walking right into the shrubbery of the less maintained part of the castle grounds.

So dragging Arthur behind I followed the ginger into the trees that stood between the castle and the protective wall.

Arthur mumbled something incomprehensible again but I guessed it was something along the lines of ‘I can walk myself’ so I let go of his tunic.

Considering the direction Oakley was going he was heading right for the tower, well it was his now and I assumed he’d have to do a lot of cleaning to make it livable.

Who knew how long that half broken tower had been abandoned, not to mention there was an Oak tree growing out of it which probably broke the wall in some places.

We caught up to Robin rather quickly but then stopped as we heard someone call for us.

Turning around I saw Rikaad, now free of mud, walking at a brisk pace towards us.

Robin immediately waved excitedly at him as he came up to us.

“Where are you going? And what’s with Arthur’s face?”

He sounded rather concerned at the last part, but since Arthur couldn’t talk I’d explain it instead.

“He got punched in the jaw and Oakley put something to numb his face and now we wanted to ask how long that works for”

He nodded in acknowledgment before looking at the bruise a bit closer.

“Why were you punched? What happened?”

Well this was about to turn really awkward in a few seconds.

I was in Luck as Robin started explaining what happened before I could open my mouth.

Spared me awkwardly trying to coherently tell him that people in the castle tried to kill me.

Hell, that could have gone so wrong if Arthur had been just a second slower.

Better not dwell on that grimm outlook.

Besides, Judging by Rikaad's face they were going to be fired very soon anyway so it was unlikely that I would ever have to see them again.

“I will deal with that as soon as i can, for now we can go to Oakley, i wanted to ask him what he plans to do with the tower anyway”

True, he said he’d wanted the tower but not what exactly he was going to do with it, and aside from that i also wanted to finally ask him if he had anything to make that absolutely irritating itching go away

Resuming to walk where Oakley had gone, I noticed that this part only looked less well maintained.

There were no bigger branches on the ground and none of the other signs that it was abandoned.

It looked to be expertly well kept even if these plants weren’t cut into fancy shapes.

Also most of the trees were apple or Pear and I guessed that they were planted for when the castle was under lockdown.

Between two trees the tower came into view and it was just as rundown as I thought it would be.

There were holes in the walls and the top half was missing completely so that it had only three stories at most.

It was also slightly askew as the Oak Tree next to it had pushed it aside a bit, getting shelves installed would be a nightmare for sure.

There was rustling from above and it seemed Oakley was sorting trash on whatever remained intact on the upper floor.

I didn’t dare stand anywhere near the tower itself as there could be a risk of falling bricks, especially with Oakley messing about up there.

So shouting up it was and hoping he’d come down without triggering a downpour of stone bricks.

“OAKLEY! HEY! DOWN HERE! WE WANT TO TALK TO YOU!”

A head popped up over the ledge of the tower, it seemed I had been loud enough, and out of the corner of my eye I saw Robin hold his hands over his ears, maybe too loud then.

Whatever the case it worked as Oakley just jumped down and used his wings to glide to the ground.

Yeah, the Air element was a very good guess.

He landed gracefully in front of us and then tucked his wingarms closer to his body.

“Something the matter? Anyone else gotten punched?”

Of course that would be the first thing he had to point out.

I shook my head.

“No, we wanted to ask how long Arthur’s Jaw is going to be numb for”

“And also how you like the tower!”

Robin butted in, pointing at said tower.

Oakley smiled and I could clearly see his fangs again, they were almost off puttingly white.

“Well it should be numb for about one hour total, but! It’s going to remove the bruise entirely and no it does not work on anything worse than that.

As for the tower, well it’s dusty for one thing but I’m working on fixing that.”

Ah, so as soon as the stuff wears off Arthur’s bruise should be gone, That was nice.

And I could plainly see that it was dusty as hell in the run down building.

Maybe i’d offer to help later, first i had to ask if he had anything to make the fucking itching stop.

I debated waiting until the others left but they knew about it already anyway so it didn’t really matter.

Well Rikaad might feel guilty again about stabbing me but right now I just wanted this uncomfortable feeling to stop already.

Maybe he’d give me whatever he gave Arthur to simply numb it.

“Hey Oakley?

Do you have anything that helps in dealing with a painful itch?”

Okay I definitely could have worded that better.

“Did you touch poison ivy? Or what did you do?”

Maybe I should have waited after all, because this was about to be extremely awkward.

Like how the hell was I supposed to explain the fuckery that had happened? And it was my fault too.

But before I could say anything else Robin had already started talking.

“Oh no, its for the stitches in his pouch that Rikaad made after he stabbed Donovan in a snowstorm”

Oh, that was probably too much information at once blurted out in a short sentence, I could almost see Oakley’s brain working to process this strange heap of information.

Then he turned to Rikaad strangely enough.

“Aside from the fact that you STABBED him, what kind of thread did you use?”

Oakley suddenly seemed a bit bigger than before if only due to being puffed up like an angry bird.

I was a bit confused however, why would he need to know what type of thread it was?

Did that influence what type of treatment he was going to use?

Rikaad himself looked rather uncomfortable.

“Just a normal sewing thread with a normal needle, why?”

He suddenly got a face full of wing as Oakley just opened the appendage in his direction.

“A NORMAL thread?!? Are you insane?

That’s way too frayed to be used for wounds!

That just amps up the risk of an infection!

And then a normal sewing needle! That is not sanitary!

Why would you even use that?”

Rikaad had shrank back a bit at Oakleys rant but I could clearly see that where the wing had struck him it was slightly red.

It didn’t look damaged in any way however, apparently it had just been a light smack and not intended to cause damage at all.

Rikaad himself looked stunned for a second before composing himself red face and all.

“I am sorry, i was not aware of this, i only wanted to help”

Well that was nice and all but apparently I had been running the risk of infection for a few days now, which was not good.

Oh no, what if the itching was a sign that I had already gotten one?

Somewhere to my left I could make out that Robin was hiding behind Arthur who also tried to stay out of the way as much as he could without outright leaving.

Oakley was still not very happy but he turned to face me anyway.

“Aside from how the hell you ended up stabbed There of all places, How bad is it? Does it hurt a lot?

And do you have any estimation on how big the wounds are?”

“Well it’s an annoying uncomfortable itch, i’m not sure how big it is but there’s like two places i got stabbed soo uhh”

Oakley just put his three fingered hand on his forehead in exasperation.

“Alright, you are aware that someone has to go get the stitches out right?

An infection risk like that needs to be removed”

Oh fuck, that meant Oakley would-

aww dammit my luck really had run out for today hadn’t it?

He grabbed at my shirt with the end of his two pronged tail and dragged me to the other side of the tower where there was more space as the trees grew further apart from each other here.

“You stay next to the tower and shift bigger, i need to get some supplies, you shouldn’t have shifted with stitches literally lining an organ but there’s nothing to do about it now, just wait here i’ll be right back”

Without saying anything else he spread his wings and then flew up into the sky to get whatever he needed.

Well, best to heed his advice and shift bigger for now.

I chose the Ardua form as people had seen that before and the sudden appearance of a Giant might scare someone into attacking.

Soon enough I was back to being a fuzzy green Beast.

Just as I had shifted the other three rounded the tower and I could see clear concern on all of their faces.

And there was the obvious guilt in Rikaad’s still slightly red face.

I hoped he’d not be too upset by it as it was an accident, I was also pretty sure the only one that knew anything about first aid in this group was Arthur.

Well at least Robin didn’t seem too down by it as instead he came over to my sitting form and hugged my leg.

Now I had to wait for Oakley to come back from wherever he went, which was probably his old shed, and who knew how long that would take.

Sure, he could fly but I had no idea how fast so I was stuck just sitting here worrying if I had an infection or not.

Rikaad came up to me and looked me earnestly in the face.

“I want to apologize again, not only for stabbing you but about the whole issue it turned out to be now due to me using the wrong equipment”

“It’s okay i guess, you didn’t know after all, also since when is there a special thread just to sew up wounds?

But really i should have explained better back then, maybe we wouldn’t have this problem then”

He still didn’t look happy, if anyone could even tell when he was, but he seemed to let it go, at least for now.

Well, now it was waiting for that winged fucker to return.

At least there was grass to sit on instead of just dirt.

I lighty shoved Robin, who was still clinging to my leg, out of the way so I could sort of lay down on the ground, even if I ended up looking like a tired dog.

That gave me an idea, Robin had compared me to a cat so just maybe i could-

Tucking my legs under me like I had seen some of the stray cats do, I ended up doing exactly what I hoped I could.

While Robin had been confused by being shoved away his usual spark returned when he saw why.

“Ohhh Loaf”

He immediately flopped onto the part of my arm that was not hidden underneath me and tried burying himself in fluff.

At least one person was sort of happy right now.

“Dude, you look like a big cat!”

Apparently Robin was not the only one that got joy out of seeing me Loaf, at least judging by Arthur’s amused, if slightly muffled, voice. Oakley's stuff was already slowly wearing off huh? well he did say it would be DONE being numb in an hour, not that he couldn't talk before that.

“So? I can kinda understand now why they do that, this is actually comfy somehow”

That much was true, my limbs actually cushioned the softer underside of my body from the ground and also kept it warmer than the cool grass itself.

Yeah, no wonder cats did this, and with the way my arms were positioned it didn’t put any pressure on my pouch either.

Now i just had to wait for Oakley to come back and do- Well, whatever would help me.

“You really are like a big cat, not that i mind as long as you don’t start pushing things of tables”

I glanced over to Rikaad and saw that he had spoken without looking at me and was staring past the tower towards the castle again.

That reminded me-

“Hey Rikaad, i had expected that now there would be guards around you at all times, did you tell them to fuck off for a bit?”

That gained the attention of Arthur who joined in on the conversation.

“Yeah, what did you tell them you were gonna do?”

Robin didn’t seem to hear anything as he still had his head buried in the floof on my upper arm.

Rikaad looked back at us then.

“I know that, and i didn’t tell anyone that i was going out, i just went out the door when no one was looking”

I just stared at him as he said this, Thus far he had not seemed the type to just do something like that.

And I wasn’t the only one that shared this sentiment as Arthur was also a bit confused by this.

“Don’t you think that’s gonna give someone a heart attack if you just vanish like that?

Also you said that there had been assassins in the past, Should you be walking around with barely any protection?”

That was a good point actually, while the assassin MIGHT have been that Vampire guy we didn’t know for certain, and I was pretty sure the one Arthur meant would get a heart attack was Norrin.

But yeah, if there was an assassin around somewhere being out in the open like this was a bad idea.

But by now i had learned that Rikaad valued his independency a LOT, And not being in control of his own actions was probably really uncomfortable for him.

Still it didn’t seem like us just telling him to go back would make him do it.

Then Robin piped up.

“Hey how far did you get with the paper stuff? Did you find the one that bans Fae folk? Oh and did you find anything cool? How much paper is it anyway?”

Oh right, I had forgotten about that, well at least i would get an answer now.

“Sadly i did not find the paper i wanted, there is so much of it and none of it is organized in any way, it looks like someone toppled the cabinet over and then just stuffed the documents back in, they aren’t even in stacks they are just shoved in and partially crumpled”

Wow, the old git really did not care about anything other than himself huh.

Well, at least Rikaad was trying to fix things now, even if it would be slow going.

“Well, since I doubt Oakley is going to need my help I will go back to try and sort that nightmare of a paper avalanche waiting to happen, and prevent Norrin from a panic attack as he surely has noticed me missing by now”

“Alright, don’t get buried under paper, and I mean that both physically and metaphorically!”

Arthur called to him, earning a rare smile.

“Don’t worry, i’m careful, and taller than the cabinet, see you later then”

And with those words he left to get back to the probably very boring task of sorting paper.

Arthur then turned to me, or more specifically Robin who had buried himself in the floof of my neck again.

“Good call! Bringing attention to the fact he’s got to do stuff in the castle was a fine idea!

If there is an assassin he won’t be in harm’s way out here anymore!”

Robin just blinked at him.

“I did want to know if he found the paper tho, i don’t want people to get stabbed in the city just cuz they have pointy ears”

That was, strangely sweet of him, and that Rikaad was back in the safety of the castle was a nice bonus too on top of that.

I turned my head so that he got a makeshift hug by squishing him into the crook of my neck.

“That’s nice of you, and i agree, nobody should get stabbed for their heritage”

He shoved at the side of my head and stuck his tongue out.

“You’re squishing me!”

He was laughing as he said it so i wasn’t hurting him by doing this, good to know.

Then I decided to be a little gremlin and moved my head away in one swift motion so Robin ended up sliding to the ground.

Before he could get up, I put my head over him and effectively trapped him under my jaw.

I made sure not to use any pressure though, I wanted to annoy him a bit and not hurt him.

A muffled

“Hey!”

Sounded from under me but then he started laughing again.

“I’m not a pillow!”

While shoving at the underside of my jaw lightly.

Arthur had heard that too and was now grinning from ear to ear.

He went next to me and got close enough that Robin would be able to hear him.

“Well now you are!-”

Then he looked at me.

“- just make sure he doesn’t suffocate, yeah?”

I gave an affirmative hum as I didn’t want to move my jaw at all.

Deciding that Arthur just grinning at Robin’s predicament wasn’t exactly fair, I unfurled one of my arms, front legs?, and sneaked it up next to him.

Just as he turned to look at what I was doing I lifted the appendage and softly ‘dropped’ it on him, trapping him beneath my lower arm.

“HEY! Get off you big cat!”

He was trying to crawl out using his arms that he had managed to stick free from under my arm.

Honestly seeing him flail like this was kinda funny, but I still made sure to be very careful so as not to squish him.

“You really are just a big cat! Now get off! This is stupid!”

He was grinning with clear amusement in his voice so I knew I didn’t overstep any boundaries.

I hummed again before slowly easing up on Arthur and lifting my head again.

“Fffffff man you could just fucking obliterate someone like that!

How heavy are you as Ardua anyway?”

Arthur got up and brushed off the dust he got on his tunic.

“No idea, and i don’t think that can be accurately measured”

Without looking I knew Robin hadn’t moved from where he was so I glanced down to what he was doing.

He was still just sitting there, and I knew he was conscious by the fact that he had his eyes open and was sitting upright.

“And what are you doing?”

He stuck his tongue out and then sprung into action.

Standing up abruptly he headbutted the underside of my jaw saying loudly with lots of amusement in his voice.

“BONK!”

The action surprised me and he managed to hit the soft part between my jaw bones.

“Ack!”

I jerked my head up and shook it like a dog which earned even more laughter from the redhead.

Well, i did just trap him under my head so-

“Yeah, i guess that’s fair for trapping you under me”

He was still laughing and had now draped himself over one of my arms like a sack of wheat.

I immediately put my head over him again, which made him laugh even more.

“While you have fun i’m going to poke around the tower before Oakley comes back, don’t worry ill be careful”

Arthur waved before he went around the tower after I gave a confirmative hum, likely to locate the entrance.

Well, there probably wouldn’t be much since Oakley had barely anything moved yet.

Maybe stuff from his backpack that he already put away.

The feeling of tiny hands brushing through my fur made my gaze swivel to the little redhead.

He had that distant stare again and was repeating the one motion over and over.

Spaced about again huh.

I let him, he was just brushing the fur so I saw no reason to stop him.

Besides, it actually felt nice, as weird as it was to admit.

I decided to blame the Ardua form for that, Entire new nervous system and all that.

So for a while I just kept still and let Robin pull his fingers through my fur.

I hummed again when the sun came out from behind some clouds which were probably a leftover from the snow madness and shone on my fur.

There was a small laugh again and it seemed Robin was done spacing out.

“Can you do that again? That humm i mean”

I wasn’t sure why he wanted me to do that again but I could see no harm in it so I did.

The moment I did Robin hugged my jawbone much to my confusion.

“That sound rattles all of my bones! It’s funny!”

Ah, so that’s why he wanted me to do it again.

Well, he could have that.

I trapped him again under my jaw and hummed louder than before which got me a laughing fit from Robin.

Somewhere near the tower I heard cursing and lifted my head again to see what was going on much to the ginger’s disappointment.

I could just about make out Arthur near the tower, He was holding his foot and insulting something I couldn’t see.

Peering closer I could see a stone brick sticking out of the ground and surmised that Arthur hit his toe.

I wasn’t the only one that had run out of luck today it seemed.

Looking up as a shadow passed over me I saw Oakley again, he was a really silent flier if he wanted to be.

I’d better remember that to avoid getting jumpscared in the future.

He landed and I could see a new backpack filled to the brim with stuff I had no way of recognizing all of it as some of it seemed like more magic fuckery.

“Oakley hey! You’re back already?”

He shook the backpack off before answering.

“Of course! Flying is way faster than walking, and I don’t have to maneuver over changing terrain or follow roads!”

He opened the bag and started pulling things out that should not have fit in it.

For example a really long and sturdy but smooth looking rope as well as a box that made a clattering sound.

PREVIOUS / NEXT / OVERSIGHT

[lady-astras]

In the Line of Work - Summer of Yuri

@autumn-arts @mcyt-summer-of-yuri

THE SUN BEAT down on Gem’s neck, as was usual on a summer afternoon. The mountains she lived among usually provided welcomed shade, but today, she was working atop the plateau. That meant no clouds and no shade except for a couple of trees - that she had to cut down anyway.

Gem wiped her brow and sighed, leaning against a tree trunk. It was hot. All that she had done today was place a couple of wood blocks as a foundation for her to-be wizard tower, plan out a winding mountain path, and procrastinate a lot. 

She’d already visited Fwhip, so it’d be awkward to visit him again. Her gaze drifted to the southeast. She could almost see the wheat fields that occupied the majority of the Gilded Helianthia and Mythland lands.

Surely, the sun would be affecting Pearl as it was affecting her. And she was sure to be toiling away in the blistering heat, tilling wheat fields and tending to crops and building and whatnot.

Sighing, Gem made her way down the rough mountain path to her house embedded in the rock. She shielded her eyes from the bright glare of the light off of the amethyst crystal roofs. Her wings, made from the same material, hung on a hook by the door. She picked them up and strapped them on, grabbing her rockets as well before taking a deep breath and heading outside to do the routine jump off of her balcony.

Right, before I forget… some crystals might be important for healing, she thought to herself, racing back inside and opening a chest of amethyst shards. Gem pulled out some crisp, unbroken ones, pocketing them before heading to the balcony again.

On her way there, she tried to stick as much as possible to the mountain shades, finally giving up when she reached the planes. There were the Grimlands - Gilded Helianthia would not be farther now. Spotting her brother Fwhip, she swooped low to breeze past at a dangerously close distance, laughing mischievously when he almost screamed in surprise.

“See you!!” She called back, firing a rocket to gain altitude before soaring over the foundations of his palace towards Pearl’s humble kingdom.

There - where a forest of oak and birch trees began. Within those trees would be a large clearing, and there would be Pearl. Sure enough, when Gem fired a rocket and propelled forward, the brushy tops of wheat stalks appeared past the green leaves. 

Pearl was leaning against her shovel, eyes facing the ground to avoid the piercing sun despite her wide straw hat - which had a couple holes in it. Gem landed on the nearby path silently, carefully trekking through the wheat plants to avoid trampling any of them. Pearl looked up wearily when her shadow crossed her face. A bright smile immediately adorned it, envying the star that so tormented them today.

“Gem! Hi! How’re you doing? Quite sunny today isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is, Pearl. Which is why you shouldn’t be out here working on your wheat fields.” Gem gestured to the expanses of dusty gold plants around them. “You are literally the number two wheat producer in the lands. Why do you need more?”

“C’mon Gemgem, it’s some friendly competition between neighbours! Sausage promised me a part of his unused land if I managed to produce more wheat than him! The offer’s too good to resist!” Gem raised her eyebrows.

“And? Pearly Pop, come on. You can always do it on a cloudier day or a cooler hour. Do you, by any chance, know what the phrase ‘take a break’ means?”

Pearl shook her head innocently, her eyes wide and mirthful. Gem groaned.

“Come inside, your wheat plants aren’t going to die if you abandon them for a couple of hours. Any sane person would wait until near sunset to do such strenuous labour.”

“Ay, but these plants ain’t gonna plant themselves are they now?”

“Your sense of logic is incredibly… what’s the word again?”

“Incredibly intelligent perhaps?”

“Most certainly that is not the word I am looking for. Come inside now and get some water, food, and rest.”

“Okay, who am I to argue with the great wizard Gem Tay?”

“Exactly. Now you’re getting it.” Gem took Pearl’s hand and led her along, her free hand taking Pearl’s shovel and carrying it. As they started walking, Gem noticed Pearl’s slow pace and masked limp. She whirled around once they were under the wooden awning’s shade.

“What happened to your leg?” She demanded. Pearl hesitated. Gem leaned the tool against the wall so she could cross her arms and tap her foot impatiently.

“Okay, fine. I got stabbed.”

“Oh Pearl! By?”

”I hit myself with my hoe. Don’t worry, it wasn’t that b…” Pearl trailed off, noting Gem’s furious expression.

”If you got hurt enough for you to limp like that it’s definitely bad. Come inside - I’m so glad I had the foresight to bring some crystals. You’re going to sit and rest for the rest of the day, and some cuddles wouldn’t hurt. It might help ease my anger, even.”

”What do you even have to be angry about?” Pearl complained, following Gem inside her house to her cooled bedroom. Gem sighed as the wind from her electric fan hit her sweaty face. Beside her, she could feel Pearl equally relaxing and enjoying the false breeze.

“Maybe you were right then, this is nice.” She admitted. Gem clapped her hands in triumph before extracting the violet crystals from a hidden pocket, and her grimoire from her bag. Pearl had chosen to wear pants for the occasion rather than her iconic green and gold dress.

”Roll up your pant leg, I have to see the injury.” Gem instructed. Pearl did so, and Gem simultaneously gasped and sighed in frustration.

”That is definitely bad. Okay, to the bathroom, rinse that off without soap. Go.” Pearl got up and blundered her way to the bathroom. Gem heard the sounds of splashing water as she opened her spell book to the corresponding page—Moderate Cuts, Bruises, and Other Abrasions.

Pearl limped her way back into the bedroom and plopped down on her bed with a sigh. “You found anything that’ll work?”

“You want a potion or a spell?” Gem asked, scanning the page. “The potion’s gonna take like twelve or so hours to brew if we do everything right, but the spell will be pretty uncomfortable and maybe even painful.

“Uh… spell. I deal with discomfort all the time - I work in a wheat field half the day for goodness sake. I can deal with it. I’m a strong woman.”

“That you are, Pearlo.” Gem replied affectionately, handing her two decently sized crystals. “One in each hand.”

“This feels like an occult ritual.”

“I’m literally a wizard, trust the process.”

“I do, Gemgem. I trust you very much.”

“Good.” Gem poured a few drops of healing salve around the wound. Pearl flinched.

“Is it meant to sting like that?”

“It’s the amethyst. Now shut up, this is technically a new spell and I want to make sure I get the pronunciation right.” She took a deep breath. “Sana aptissime mediu.” Pearl shivered again.

“Why does that tickle?” She whined.

“It’s meant to - the crystals are empowering the spell so the salve works faster. At least I got the spell right! I’ve never used the medium spell before.”

“If there’s crystals in the salve then why do I have to hold these ones?” She waved her hands and consequently the amethyst in them.

“Those help channel the magic all throughout your body, healing any other minor injuries you might have. Which, I think you had a good amount because that took a lot more of my energy than the book said it would.”

“You trust that book more than me.”

“It’s never lied to me.” Gem jabbed with a small smile. Pearl gasped loudly enough to indicate that whatever she was about to say was teasing.

“I would never lie to you! How could you ever suggest I’d betray you like that! All I did was not tell you, it’s not like I explicitly said I didn’t get hurt.” Gem smiled.

“Okay, whatever reasoning makes you believe you upheld your morals.”

“HEY! You’re implying so many incorrect things about me right now. How dare you even think I have morals?

Gem sighed again. “What can I do to make up the apparent insult to your personality?”

Pearl’s face shifted from surprised to thoughtful, then smug.

“CUDDLES!”

“Hey, that’s my thing! Thief!” Gem protested, carefully setting down her magic supplies on the floor by Pearl’s bed.

“Nuh-uh!” Pearl retaliated, taking Gem’s hands as soon as they were free and pulling her closer, making sure not to disturb her leg and the magic that was still working with it.

“Fine. I wanted those anyways.” Gem conceded. Immediately, Pearl cheered and wrapped her arms around Gem joyfully. “Don’t tell me you’d rather be working out there than in here with me.”

“If  I’m gonna be overly warm anyways, I’d rather it be because of you than the sun.”

“If you’re so warm then take off the blanket. Or turn up the fan or something.

“It’s a comfortable kind of warmth. Hey, my leg doesn’t hurt anymore.”

“Good. Now be quiet.” They stayed in comfortable silence for a few minutes, Pearl holding tightly onto Gem despite the awkward position. Gem sighed, resigned to the fact that she wasn’t getting out of this bear hug any time soon.

“Hey Gem?” Pearl asked, a mischievous glint in her eye.

“Hmm?”

“Are you a witch? Because, Gem, I think you’re enchanting me to love you like this.”

Gem huffed. “Not quite a witch, but I’m a wizard, it’s essentially what I do. And I can assure you that I have no love enchantments cast on you.” Pearl hummed.

“I wouldn’t be mad if you did turn out to, you know.”

“For Aeor’s sake Pearl! I am not enchanting you! Also we’re literally just friends.”

“Suuure.” They fell back into silence.

“Hey Gem?”

“If this is another corny pickup line I will do things to you.”

“What kind of things?”

“You wanna know?”

“Eh… depends.”

“I will send you back out there in the heat and you will be working until sundown regardless of leg. Oh, and no more cuddles.”

“NO CUDDLES? So cruel. All I wanted to say was: I love you.”

“Oh, well, I love you too Pearl. You know, as a friend.”

I’m sorry I’ll post the Ao3 link later haha

[bobattef]

Not my Loki

POV: You were in a (some what complicated) relationship with Sylvie. Due to being on the run from the TVA, you both got split up over different timelines. You tried pretending you were a hunter for the TVA so you’d be put on missions to help find her but your long term goal of returning to her side is knocked off its path as you start to fall for another Loki variant that was drafted in to help track down Sylvie also.

Möbius was sure this time, surer than sure that Sylvie was last spotted in 1977 London.

You had been through the 3rd time-jump door this evening alone, things were getting exhausting on this mission to find Sylvie but you promised yourself you’d never give up.

Walking the cobbled streets of London right now, you shuddered slightly at the cold.

“Can I offer you my jacket?” Loki was right beside you now after slowing his pace to drop back from Mobius. 

You smiled warily, he was always so kind to you since the moment you had met. 

Saving you from the bullying tactics of Renslayer on your very first day.

He was pretty much the sole reason why you were working so closely with Mobius and B15 now on the mission to track Sylvie. 

“I’m not sure it’ll quite fit over this armour” you looked up at him now as you both walked down another alley, following the other two.

Loki looked off into the distance, feeling slightly awkward.

He’d always liked you since the moment you had met.

He couldn’t quite explain the pull he had towards you, but you had always felt like ‘home’ to him.

He was forever grateful for your help in trying to locate Sylvie, he was in awe at how much you cared to find her but he didn’t know the real reason why. 

Möbius intuition was right.

Sylvie was here.

Her face was like some sort of lost puppy as you clocked eyes together down that dead-end alleyway.

You wanted to run to her.

Embrace her in your arms.

Run off together in the London fog but it felt like she tore your heart right out of your chest when she shouted at you.

“Stop trying to find me y/n!” 

“It’s not going to work” were her last words before stepping through another time jump door.

They cut like a knife.

Deep.

As the blade felt colder than the London night air that was now nipping away at your face as your tears ran down it.

Möbius and B15 only just catching up to you as the orange glow from the door disappeared fully.

“Argh so close!!” B15 threw her helmet down on the street in frustration.

“Did you get a reading on where she jumped to??” Möbius asked Loki but he hardly heard him speak. 

He was fixated on you. He couldn’t believe what he saw, what he heard.

You and Sylvie.

You were ready to risk it all. 

You wanted to jump through that door with her, he could see it in your eyes.

Those eyes that lit up when they laid upon Sylvie, he knew that look as his eyes did the same.

You were in love with her as much as he was in love with her.

***

You couldn’t possibly sleep.

Mobius told you all get some rest as another timeline jump has been a failure.

But all you kept seeing when you shut your eyes was her.

How could she do this.

You promised each other no matter what you’d stick together.

Yes your situation had its difficulties but you were happy to jump from timeline to timeline, live different lives week after week.

It was exciting.

Was…

You were so lost in your thoughts you didn’t realise Loki had joined you where you were sat now in the canteen.

The squeaking of the chairs metal leg on the tiled floor pulled you out of your daydream. 

“We need to talk” Loki says matter of factly as you stand from your chair now.

“No we don’t” you really didn’t want to get into this right now. 

You weren’t sure just how much he knew.

If he heard anything you and Sylvie said to one another.

He grabs you by your arm as you look down at him.

His eyes almost begging you to sit back down.

You feel something in the pit of your stomach as you return to your chair, sighing out loud so he would know the inconvenience.

Loki looks around the almost empty canteen. Time worked differently here at the TVA so there was no set meal times but, much to his relief, right now was quiet.

“What’s the deal?” He practiced this conversation a few times in his head on the way to see you but now he’s lost for words. 

You look at the floor and shrug.

“Y/n?…” he voice sounded desperate as you look up to his eyes now.

Usually they were curled up around his iconic smile but right now they were filled with sadness.

You swallowed hard as the look reminded you of Sylvie’s.

“Deal with what?” You snap back. Putting your guard up.

“You and…” Loki cuts off as another TVA personnel walks past your table, they nod their hello as you both fake a smile at them.

“There’s nothing to say Loki” you stop him from saying her name.

“But…what she said, the way she…looked at you” Loki lowers his voice to a whisper.

You cross your arms.

You really didn’t want to speak about it.

Especially to him.

He watched as you clenched your teeth together.

The muscles twitching alongside your jaw.

He often thought about having his mouth move along that delicate skin of yours, planting kisses down that same jawline.

Trailing them along your neck and…

He coughs, bringing his thoughts to a stop.

You look at him.

“There was… something” you emphasised on the something for use of a better word.

“But now there isn’t so…let’s drop it!” You smile at him but he knows it’s fake.

He almost lets out a laugh as it’s his turn to cross his arms over his chest. 

“And you didn’t want to say before because..”he tilts his head at you as you furrow your eyebrows at him. 

“Seriously??” You say a little too loudly as a few other workers look up from their lunches.

“What did you want me to say??” You whisper now.

“I’m really working undercover. I’m not a hunter. This is just an elaborate and desperate way of getting back too…”

Loki full on chuckles now causing you to cut off mid sentence.

“I meant…what about…us?” You chew your bottom lip, causing him to lose the amusement from his face.

“Is there an…us?” He asks you now as you look away.

You both sit in silence for a while, not knowing what to say.

Yes, there had been times where you and Loki shared moments.

Tighter hugs, lingering kisses on the cheeks or foreheads, you did flirt outrageously with him but most of the TVA staff did, it was the affect he had on others.

You never knew there was something growing on his side though, just assumed he was being normal ‘protective’ Loki.

Now as he stares at the ground out of embarrassment you realise it was a little more than that.

But what is it to be now?

Is Loki going to tell Mobius the truth about you?

You’d get kicked off the hunting team for sure but what will they do to you knowing you had been playing them all this time? 

Prune you?

You shudder at the thought.

“Look…” Loki reaches out to touch your hand resting on the table but thinks better of it and starts tapping his fingers against the shiny surface instead.  

“I won’t tell anyone about, you know” he says to you as you guess wether or not he’s been reading your thoughts. If he could even do that.

“But we do need to find Sylvie” 

“She doesn’t want to be found” your voice waivers slightly as you process your words.

“By you..” Loki says as you look at him in surprise at his outburst.

Suppose it was justified.

“But we still need to find her…the TVA does. We need to know what comes next…with he who remains and the branched timelines and…” Loki starts to word vomit as you watch his face.

He’s always been determined on finding Sylvie.

The whole team has but as he tells you these reasons why you see past them all.

You saw how his face dropped as you both watched Sylvie step through that time-jump door.

“You liked her too?” You say quietly to yourself as he stops mid conversation.

“What?!” He spluttered out.

“Sylvie…” you look up at him as you see his eyes close in realisation that you figured it out.

***

Beepbeepbeep 

The alarm blasting through the speakers above were draining on your ears.

You were in the locker room, gearing up.

Loki had kept his promise of not telling a soul.

You hadn’t worked out if it was a good or bad thing.

Good because, no pruning, yay!

But bad because it meant when that klaxon sounded, you were still pretty much a hunter and had to answer it.

You would avoid Loki on a mission.

He’d obviously be there for updates and instructions but where as before you’d be laughing and working closely together, right now it was awkward.

You both were obsessed with the same woman. 

That was complex enough but when you also had feelings for one another, it was too much to even think about.

“Alabama 1982…” B15 was reeling off the details of this mission as you both marched down the corridor to Möbius and Loki waiting by the time jump door.

“Sylvie was last spotted by one of our locaters working in a…McDonald’s? A restaurant it looks like. In a town in Alabama” your mind casts back to how you both would love a McDonald’s date.

Cheap food, made even cheaper the further back in time you would travel.

It was so cool to watch how it evolved over time.

What was weird was that she was ‘working’ in one but you had given up trying to guess her plans.

Seeing as you weren’t in them anymore.

“Remember suspect is highly dangerous and in no doubt armed” Mobius voice almost drowns out as he gives his usual heads up before a mission. 

You pull your helmet down further over your face as you cover the bottom half with the scarf.

You could feel Loki’s eyes on you the whole time as all 4 of you step through the door.

The orange flow from the time-jump door disappears into thin air as you take in your surroundings.

You were in a field, must of been the middle of the day as the sun beating down on you from above started heating up your armour.

You and B15 start to trudge through the long grass towards the yellow M sign of McDonald’s.

You feel Loki staring at the back of your head as he tries to work out what your motives are now Sylvie no longer wants you to rescue her.

What will you do if she is inside this restaurant.

Abandon the mission.

Help her escape.

Fight her perhaps?

He couldn’t work you out and that scared him.

You reached the car park of the restaurant now.

Mobius and B15 in low hushed voices as they planned 2 would go in the front and 2 round the back.

You squinted in the sunshine.

Deep in your thoughts.

Loki stands next to you now.

“Looks like we’re going through the front” he tells you not looking at you.

“This doesn’t feel right” you cut him off.

“Look, I know it’s far from ideal still doing what we are doing but we need to see the bigger picture here. Find Sylvie, locate he who remains and…”

“I mean this” you gesture to the almost full car park of this McDonalds, it was only a small restaurant on the out skirts of the town but it should of been buzzing inside going by the many vehicles parked up.

Meaning the restaurant should have been full also.

But you couldn’t hear a word from inside.

“An ambush?” Loki sounded worried now, working out where your thoughts were going.

“Guys, what’s up? We going in or?” B15 was always wanting to spring into action but you weren’t 100% convinced this was a normal set up.

“It’s too quiet” you tell her.

“Hmm you’re right…” Mobius sighs out as he pulls out a time pad from his pocket, putting in the co-orindates for the TVA, just in case you needed a quick exit.

You and B15 both pull out your time sticks.

Holding them up close to your chest you step inside.

Loki holds his breath as he hates watching you have to go in head on first.

The strategy was always you and B15 going in armed to see if the coast was clear, you’d both call back either it was or he’d hear the shouts from you as you stepped into a fight but this time there was nothing.

Worried and going completely against protocol, he swings open the door but isn’t prepared for the scene that was before.

You were ok, was his first sight.

Then he looked around, following your eye of vision as he laid his eyes upon every diner and worker that was inside slumped over on the tables, sprawled across the floor.

All fell after what seems to be a puncture wound or 5, their blood oozing out onto the shiny tiled floor.

“Oh my…” Mobius voice sounded choked making you look up at the both of them stood in the door way.

B15 almost gagged when she kicked over a fallen man to reveal a stab wound in his eye.

“This is…a massacre” she whispered out as you walked towards the counter, stepping  carefully over a young man that was against the serving table.

“How could she…” Mobius now sounded lost for words as you look up at him.

“You think Sylvie did this?!” You snap.

B15 scoffs.

“Who the hell else?!” She shouts.

“It’s not Sylvie….” You say but your voice trials off.

Your eyes find Loki’s as he tries to work you out.

He’s seen some horrible things whilst on this TVA journey of his.

And in his many years of life before it.

It was always common grounds for the loved ones to not believe what evil their spouses or family members were capable of but he could see it in your face.

He believed you.

This wasn’t Sylvie.

It definitely wasn’t her style.

You turn to face the counter once more, feeling tears start to sting your eyes as your brain whirls around.

If this wasn’t Sylvie then who was it. 

Who could commit such a horrific act inside this sleepy towns McDonalds.

You place your time stick down on the counter as you feel your arms start to shake.

Both with anger and of worry.

Was Sylvie alright?!

You lean against the tills now, your head dropping low as many what ifs circle your mind.

But as you glance downwards you see an arm raising up towards your face.

You feel the pain before you can even react to move out the way as a fist comes crashing down on your face.

You cry out as you stumble backwards slightly from the blow.

The mysterious person springs up from their hiding place holding a small pistol.

You go to shout to the others to take cover but your voice is turned into a scream as the searing  pain flies through your shoulder.

It feels hot, so hot.

As your head cracks on the tiled floor, your helmet luckily taking the brunt of it. 

Everything seems to move slow motion as just when shooter fires his shot, he’s thrown backwards into the shelving area by Loki’s magic as B15 runs toward him, time stick raised.

You try to lift your head to see if she had gotten him but it hurts.

The throbbing of your split lip and definitely fractured cheekbone competes with the searing pain in your shoulder.

“She’s been hit Mobius!! She’s been hit!” Loki’s voice sounded so scared as you bring your good arm up to apply some sort of pressure on your wound.

“I got her!!” Mobius was stood above you now.

“Help B15!!” He shouts at Loki as you’re not even sure where he was right now.

Mobius drags you to sit upright against the back of the chair.

You cry out at the pain shooting across your arm and face.

“Medi kit?!” Mobius barks at you as you lift one of your hips up slightly, revealing the small first aid box that was strapped to the thigh of every Hunter in the TVA.

He wastes no time at grabbing the pain relief shot, ordering you to bite down into the plastic coating as he pops it into your mouth.

The sour taste of the medicine bursting and making its way into your blood system causes you to gag.

You never actually had to take one before and thankfully as it was the most disgusting thing.

Using the small pocket knife you had on your utility belt, Möbius cuts open your sleeve to where the bullet had penetrated your skin.

“This is going to hurt” he quickly tells you before shoving two fingers into your wound.

You want to scream but you’re cut off by hearing another man’s scream.

You glance up to see where it came from as you spot Loki walking towards you all smug.

“How am I supposed to cuff him when you’ve just snapped his arm?!” B15 calls out as you smile faintly at him.

Loki’s smile quickly disappears when he sees your bloodied lip and bruising appearing on your pretty face.

“You ok?” He almost can’t talk as you bite your already swollen lip to stop yourself from crying out.

After confirming the bullet had come back out, Mobius applies the quick fill gel you had in your medi kit to close up the wound.

It was only a temporary fix while those that were injured, got to the medical bay back at the TVA without bleeding out.

“I’ll kill him” Loki told you matter of factly as Möbius rolls his eyes at him.

“Kill our only suspect and lead to get to Sylvie?” He says as he shakes his head at the god of mischief being so dramatic.

“It’s only a scratch” he smiles at you trying to cheer you up.

You cough as he makes you laugh.

“Come on, we need to get him detained” he says as B15 walks over to you all, dragging the shooter behind her “and you, to a medical bay” he places a hand on your shoulder, you wince as he apologies for touching you in that one area.

Loki snakes an arm around the back of you as his other lifts you by your legs.

“What…what are you doing??” You splutter out.

“I was… going to carry you” he says as if it was the most obvious thing.

“I can walk” you tell him, avoiding his eye contact as you feel your cheeks heat up at the way he clutches you so close to his chest. 

“Ok” he sighs out as he lowers your feet back onto the floor.

“But I’m holding you up” he tells you as he keeps the arm he had placed round your back.

You don’t realise how much you needed his help as you practically leaned against his body the whole way through the jump door and onto the bed the nurses had waiting for you back at the TVA. 

***

The heaviness of your eyes were too much to fight. You felt yourself slipping into a dream as you laid on the hospital bed.

The medical facilities the TVA had always blew your mind.

So clever and so advance yet it was still the same old few stitches in your arm and a cold compress on your face what the doctor had ordered.

At least you felt next to no pain now.

“I’m sorry…” Loki lures you from your slumber but you keep your eyes shut.

“…I didn’t realise you were sleeping, ill, I’ll come back later” the shyness in his voice causes you to open your eyes slowly.

“I’m awake” you smile weakly as you sit up.

“What are you doing? Lay back down” Loki stands next the bed now as he fluffs the pillow a few times.

“I’m fine Loki” you laugh at him.

“Are you?” He asks.

“I mean, minus the hole in my arm and the smashed up face, yeah” you joke but he doesn’t laugh.

“Y/N I’m sorry, i didn’t react in time, I wasn’t quick enough, it just happened so quickly, I, I panicked” he starts mumbling but you reach out for his hand with your un bandaged one.

“Don’t be silly Loki, no one would have known what was going to happen…we got him, that’s the important part….” You squeeze his hand now.

“He is still alive right?” You smile up at him as he avoided your gaze.

“You didn’t kill him did you?” You say as he looks up at you.

“No” he smiles now “I wanted to…still do” he says not letting go of your hand.

You both stay with your fingers entwined with each other, you don’t find it as awkward as you would have before when you would accidentally brush past each other.

Loki stares at your split lip, the wound had closed up but it was still red and swollen. 

Trailing his eyes up the the bruising of your cheeks, he has a different set of emotions now.

It infuriates him that you were so hurt, he feels like taking you into his arms, wrapping himself around to you protect you from this.

To promise you he’ll never let anyone hurt you again.

He seems to be lost in his thoughts as he doesn’t realise you had asked him a question but instead of asking you to repeat it, he places his lips on yours.

You take a fair few seconds to catch on what was happening right now.

Was he kissing you?

There wasn’t much movement in this kiss, it was more your lips were just pressed together but as you close your eyes to be lost to it, he darts his tongue out.

You weren’t too sure that you should kiss him back but once he added his tongue to the mix, you shredded any doubts and mimicked his movements.

Your lips stung as your cheekbones throbbed under the force of Loki’s mouth on you but you didn’t care.

He places a hand behind the back of your head, holding you in place as he kisses you deeper.

Your one free hand goes to rest on the waistband of his trousers as you indistinctly pull him in closer to you.

The urgency in you causes him groan into your mouth as your thoughts race to having him devour you right here on the hospital bed.

“A-hem!” The sound of B15 clearing her throat cause your eyes to fly open in fear.

You almost push Loki away from you as he sighs out his frustration at being stopped.

“Möbius is about to interrogate the guy from the restaurant…” she tells you both looking at you more than Loki.

You nod as you had no words.

“If you’re not too other wise occupied?” She looks at Loki now as he exhales a laugh.

She turns on her heels and walks out the medical bay, you feel a long ass lecture is coming your way from your counterpart.

Adjusting his belt buckle and straightening his jacket slightly, Loki watches you as you jump down from the edge the bed.

You shuffle your boots back on and ask him to pass you your jacket that was hanging on the back of the door.

“Where do you think you’re going?” He asks you genuinely intrigued.

“To the interrogation room” you say matter of factly.

“What? No!” Loki snaps “you are to stay in bed and rest, you’re not coming to the…”

“What? No!” You find yourself repeating him.

“I need to know who that guy is, what he was doing there, if he saw…” Loki now cuts you off.

Pushing you backwards til you sit back on the end of the bed.

“You’re staying here, you’re going to rest, and then when I’m done questioning this guy, I’ll come back and tell you all about it” he taps you on both your shoulders, you wince slightly as your shoulder throbbed.

“See…you’re in no fit state to be in the same room as him” Loki gloats at you as he knows he’s right. He places a kiss on the top of your head as you glare at him walking out the door.

As soon as that door clicked closed behind Loki, you jumped back onto your feet, awkwardly placing one arm through your Hunter jacket whilst draping the other side over your bandaged up shoulder.

You make your way to the interview room that was attached to the interrogation cell.

Loki told you weren’t in no fit state to be in the same room as your shooter but he never said anything about being in the room next door to him.

You were surprised B15 was stood in there also.

Expecting her to be in the cell doing the questioning with the other two.

You avoid her gaze as you stand next to her, staring through the one way mirror out to where your suspect was sat, with Mobius and Loki before him.

“What was that back there?” She asks you, still looking forward.

“Nothing” you shrug.

“Hmmm” she crosses her arms now “didn’t look like nothing to me” 

You don’t say anything else.

You felt embarrassed she had walked in on you and Loki playing tonsil tennis but you also didn’t have an answer for her.

What was this? Even you didn’t know.

Interrogations are long.

The suspects always long out questions, choosing silence over answering anything. 

You were leaned up against the wall of the interview room now, the tiredness from earlier on catching up with you.

B15 comes back inside with a caffeine beverage for you.

She doesn’t say a word as you say your thanks.

You weren’t exactly friends, more like work colleagues that happened to be put on the same missions over and over again so you did create some sort of a relationship with her.

But things were definitely strained right now in the tiny confines of that room. 

You want to say something more to her but the opening of the door once more stops you in your tracks.

It was Loki.

“I went to check on you in bed and…” he says to you as he runs a hand through his hair, totally annoyed.

“Surprised?” You grin at him sarcastically.

“Not one bit…however I think you’re wasting valuable resting time. He’s not talking and you’re not healing” he stares down his nose at you now, knowing he’s right.

“Oh Loki, it’s only a scratch” you tease him as B15 scoffs at your obvious flirting.

“By a bullet!” Loki snaps.

“Yes…by a bullet but he got a lucky shot!” You quip back.

“Purely getting the one part of me that wasn’t covered by my armour” you roll your eyes at the stupid design of your Hunter armour being so gappy at the shoulders.

“Hmm..a little too much of a lucky shot” you say working something out.

If you had taken a hit anywhere else, the bullet of ricocheted off you, you would have still be stood on your feet in front of the shooter as you could have attacked him back.

But he aimed for your shoulder knowing it wasn’t covered.

“He’s a hunter” you whisper out.

“What?” B15 can’t seem to work out what you said.

“He knew where to hit! He knew where our armour was at it’s weakest” you tell her as you poke the hole that was in her armour now.

“Ow!”

“See!” You turn to face Loki now as he understands your point.

“Not every one knows about the gappy armour! You literally put the chest piece on separately from the arm piece” you look between them both as your clarify your point.

“He’s a hunter” you say out loud as you look at the man still sat in the middle of the cell next door.

***

[final-bae-stination]

Let Me Help You (Kevin Fischer) (FD3)

Prompt: Wendy having to help Kevin undress after an injury.

Scenario: After Kevin gets hurt, Wendy has to help Kevin in and out of clothes, and it's kinda funny, kinda cute.

Author's Note: In case anyone's confused, let me clear something up: In every fic/one shot/whatever, pretty much only a select few live: Wendy; Kevin; Ian; Julie; and maybe Erin, so keep that in mind!!

Third Person POV

It was a close call. Too close. Kevin remembered waking up every day back then, terrified. Was that hammer gonna go through his skull? Was the car gonna run him over, flatten his head? Or would he choke on a spoon? A Cheerio? But now, it was over. It was all over.

They'd lost people, yeah. Ashley, Ashlyn, Frankie, Lewis, Julie's Asian friend Perry...but somehow, they'd survived it: Erin, Ian, Wendy, Julie, and Kevin. And now, he'd broken his left leg in a fucking car accident. A normal one, but still pretty scary. And Wendy...was gonna have to help, he realized. "Um...hey, Wen," Kevin said slowly. Wendy peeked her head in the room. Her and Kevin were trying to date, seeing how it went, and they'd gotten a small apartment outside McKinley, two blocks down from Ian and Erin's place, with Julie somehow right in the middle, a floor down from Kevin and Wendy with Amber, her other friend. "Yeah?" Wendy asked. Her hair was longer, more reddish in the summer. Kevin huffed, "I...need help with something." She smirked. "I...kinda figured."

She tugged his shirt off, then carefully took his shoes off. "Wait, wait, not--no, leave." He said before she could touch his pants. She raised an eyebrow. "You sure?" She asked. "Am I sure that I don't want you to take my fuckin' pants off? Yes. Very much so." She snorted. "You're such a boy." She shut the door, and Kevin rolled his eyes. He quickly but carefully took his pants off, and then paused. "Uh." He frowned. How...was he going to get his sweats over his bulky cast? "I can help, you know," Wendy called through the door, as if sensing his struggle. "Kevin, you act like we're not dating or something." "It's weird, Wendy, no." "It is not! Just let me help you. I won't look." A pause. "Fine."

Wendy came in, keeping her word and her eyes above his stomach. "Okay, here." She kneeled, slipping the legs of his sweats over his cast, and then he jerked them up. "Thanks," He said, without looking at her. She kissed his forehead. "Course, Kev."

Time Skip: 3 days later

"So..." Erin drawls. Her, Ian, Wendy, and Kevin were at a small cafe. "Heard Wendy had to help remove your pants." Ian and Kevin immediately choked on their drinks, and Wendy went bright red. "Erin!" "What?! It was a fact!" Erin snapped.

"Wait..." Wendy smirked. "Don't you help Ian---" "Wendy!"

[itsaash]

[podfic] Let's Get Physical, by WrappedUp

I read this fic and immediately knew I wanted to record it! (honestly there's so many of wrappedup's that are on the to-do wishlist)

✨ listen here ✨ As @wrapped-up says in the author's note - Remus doesn't like himself much in this, but I find it very relatable, and even if we can't all have Sirius Black as a personal trainer, maybe just pretending a bit can help too. In fact, I might go do some pilates right now 💪

[filypadreams]

[ Guardian Angel ]

(Obey Me Brothers x gn!reader) angst/fluff ] based on Nightbringer's initial synopsis.

A-Asmo-chan!? It's ok Asmo, it's gonna be ok, look at me sweetheart. H-hey now…crying isn't a good look on you, let me help.

I had been looking for Asmo since Michael's blast. We were right next to each other but the light was so strong I was scared I would go blind.

(Y/N)...? (Y/N)! My wings!! The left side hurts and, and… I think I smell iron? Is my wing ruined? Please fix it, fix my beautiful wings!

Silly goose, you shouldn't be worrying about at a time like this. What if your flight gets impaired? Turn around, will you? Let your local dashing doctor see them~!

Asmo had a broken wing. He still looked as beautiful as the day he was born. Even whilst sobbing.

*sniff* I-I know but it's important! Michael always called me the cutest of archangels. Not that it matters now…

《It never will but at least you'll always be beautiful even without my help.》

_________

Levi? Leviathan where are you?!!

Ah! Finally I found you! Where were you? You got Lucifer worried.

I hadn't meant to be a burden to them but I couldn't shake away my worry for Asmodeus. Besides, there were so many casualties.

That's my line, I've been looking for you since the blast! Are your eyes ok? It was really bright.

…To be honest it's all a little blurry. The only thing that differentiates you from all the white plumage around me are the jewels decorating your wings!

Levi…they are quartz. Clear quartz, how can you see them if everything looks as bright?

Is my Levia-chan hallucinating??

The only assurance I got that he didn't hear the shake in my voice was his goofy smile. Like me, Levi was trying to keep himself together. He was happy to see a familiar shape.

I brushed his bangs away, his eyes were unfocused but nothing too serious, I hoped.

Hahaha! Silly normie. Your wings always shone brighter than most! My eyes do hurt, can you fix them? I'm…afraid to be honest.

《Oh, Levi… you ain't alone. I'm also afraid. Afraid I couldn't help anymore.》

__________

(Y/N), stop for a moment, please! You've been flying around non-stop. Aren't you hungry? I managed to keep some Pão de Deus* stashed away.

…Beel where did you even stash it?? In your pants?!

Probably the only time I got a good laugh out of this war. The bread tasted great regardless of where he took it from. Beel was relatively fine even if he looked worse for wear.

I assure you it's not contaminated. I need to go back and look for Belphie before he gets himself… … Please be safe.

He didn't dare speak his thoughts less they became reality. Which it almost did. He was always so gentle. Too gentle.

Wait Beel, you have a huge gash on yoru chest- LET ME FIX IT!

《How pathetic could I be at this point. To still even try, to believe I wasn't forsaken!》

__________

MAMMON!! Come back here this second or I'll throw you down to Earth myself!

Oi! That's not funny at all (Y/N)! We could end up there ya know?! Stupid Belphie…

I admit, bad choice of words. I couldn't let that idiot roam around with a gash in his chest though!

You don't mean that…nor did I mean to sound callous. But you need to sit down this instant, a gold piece fell off and you are bleeding! Honestly, what were you thinking when you got those??

Got a problem with my war medals?! They represent my proud and precious achievements for your information.

They say to be proud of your scars for those are marks of bravery. Of life.

Those are also heavy and attached to your skin in an impractical and unwise way. Let me fix that gash for you then we can look for Lucifer together.

Hmph! If you insist. Take haste, I can't stay idle for too long!

Really though, thank you. I'm scared for once…

《It's tragic you couldn't see yourself equally as treasured as your hoard anymore. I wonder how many you'll have. How many scars once this conflict is over will mark your body, that I couldn't heal?! There's too much gold on you.》

__________

…

…..

Lu…Lucifer? Hold on I'm here to help!

Even if for a moment, Lucifer had fallen on his side. The first of many during that battle.

I never saw him as damaged as in that moment. I had to do something!

Get…away from me! It's not safe out here for guardian angels! Hasn't Raphael provided you with shelter or something like that?

My brothers, sisters and, and… e-everyone was dutifully safely guided, sir! You need to worry no more, I'm here to…

To help.

(Y/N)...thank you. But I'm afraid you are of more help alive than with dead weight. Don't make me drag you with us.

Every guardian angel under Raphael had been dispatched to safety to help the wounded. I was one of the strongest but still low in rank, especially compared to someone as prideful in their capabilities as "The Light Bearer" himself. Please sir, don't push me away this time. Let me.

What are you saying…? Lucifer what are you doing you baboon? Stop being so incoherent, you know this is not like you.

I think the blunt end of a spear hit your head pretty hard, let me fix that for you, sir! It's my duty to be here.

《To be a useless withering and trembling angel. How can I expect to clean all that blood if I couldn't even fix Asmo's wings?!》

__________

Where is she? My sister…where's my bubbly, kind, naive sister?!!!

He screamed into the void, voice hoarse. No one was in the right mindset to help him. It's a blessing…it's lucky we survived. Most of us.

Belphie don't force yourself to speak! You…it was a huge fall. It's a miracle we are not as mortally wounded as I expected, hehe… let me have a better look at your leg, it seems to be broken. I'm sure I can fix it-

SHUT UP! Who have you "fixed" since we started fighting?! You can't help anyone anymore, you couldn't "fix" any of us. You were useless, (Y/N)!!!

And you fell just like that, like…like an incompetent!

Belphegor, please don't say that, I tried…I'm sure I can… I can still…

I let my tears spill after holding them in for so long. He was right, I had long lost my powers or at least I was forbidden to help them.

There's nothing I can do.

If you could fix this you could help Lilith. Where is she? Please tell me she's going to be ok, (Y/N). Can you do that?

He sounded desperate. I myself wasn't sure of what Lucifer was doing but I didn't have it in me to tell the truth.

Beelzebub saved you. Lilith was mortally wounded. If she's not gone yet then she's about to die.

Belphie would be none the wiser by looking me in the face, as I would find out.

… …

Yes. She's- There's someone much stronger than me. Lucifer is talking to him right now. I'm not sure what will be of dear Lilith but it's hard to deny that thanks to him, everyone will be fine.

Better tha-

Thank you. I apologize, you never disappoint. I should know.

I can't see anything, could you take me to Beel? He doesn't feel quite right.

Of course. I'm so lucky to be blessed like this even down here, uh? Your local doctor will fix all your troubles!

《Better than with someone as useless as me, who left you blind.

Who even Raphael* has forsaken》

_____[ House of Lamentations]_____

[ Some unknown time in the future]

Fix them. Fix them, fix them, FIX THEM (Y/N)!

In the silent living room your form shakes on the sofa. You fell asleep again.

" Oh? Mammon, call Lucifer!! I think (Y/N) is having a nightmare again! "

Asmo shrieked in panic at his older brother. He had stayed to look after you. You were such a cutie in dreamland!

" Another one?? On it!

Oi, Lucifeeer!"

Mammon's voice is carried through the halls, echoing his worries. Meanwhile Asmo tries to find a comfortable place to sit close to you and pets your head.

" What are you dreaming of this time, angel?"

" Fix…"

Asmo inclines his head curious. Fix? Mammon's garage?

" Fix them. You can't… useless… why?"

Why are you also alive? Why were you able to walk, why did you keep wings stronger than Asmo's to fly?! Why do you still exist-

You feel a pair of hands on your shoulders, shaking you awake.

Your eyes unfocused on orange eyes and hair that today is brown, some other days is pink and in-between.

" Angel?! Wake up beautiful you shouldn't be in dreamland right now. It's not yours to live in."

" Asmo? Your wings, where are they? Oh, look at your face, you'll get wrinkles if you look at me like that. Don't be sad!"

Asmo blinks at you, worried. You lift a hand to his to caress his cheek.

He manages to force out one of his signature giggles.

" Silly goose~ Did you forget? This is how I look when I want to rest my wings! No need to use them indoors. Hehe."

" Rest… oh, I fell asleep again in the sofa. So… Levi and Belphie…?"

" Their eyes never worked better. Well, bright lights are not as easy to take in anymore but we are healthy. Thanks for always guiding us, angel~"

You are silent for a long moment, looking who knows where while Asmo puts a hand on your forehead. You weren't sick at least.

" Did Beel eat yet? That scar-"

" Yet?! (Y/N), he's always eating! Hahaha, I'm so jealous of his metabolism~

What scar? He hasn't gotten hurt since the last time Dia sent us to scout the lower levels. I tell you, I might be 5th but those restless incubi have sharp nails and temper!"

He jokes. That's all he has ever done whenever you wake up from a memory. It's all he knows to do whenever you have such a vivid nightmare.

" I admit that Mammon looks as dashing as ever, although I have better taste of course. He went to go fetch Lucifer."

Oh, oh. He started sweating once he said that name. Your bulging eyes didn't help.

" No, wait. What I meant- (Y/N) it's fine, Lucifer would be in a worse mood if he wasn't there to comfort you!"

You grab his arms, quite painfully, begging him with your eyes to not tell Lucifer.

The guilt in them makes Asmo tremble.

Luckily someone unexpected was reading close by.

You were never as close to Satan as you were with the other brothers for obvious reasons. Yet he never minded your presence.

If anything you were a great reading buddy. Not too loud, not completely silent and a great listener.

He didn't need to know the details to help you whenever Asmo talked too much.

" Even I would panic at hearing that name. Did he find out about one of my pranks? Truly scary."

He says condescendingly (at Asmo) but also with a lilt of humorous sarcasm. He aproaches you, ignoring Asmo's tantrum and shows you the new book he picked up.

" Sorry Satan, I didn't mean to disturb your reading time!"

" Any time is reading time (Y/N), don't sweat about that. Have you heard the tale of King Midas? I think that Solomon had a hand in it if this book is to be believed…"

Any shady business done by the shady wizard is worth your immediate notice.

Fifteen minutes of gossiping about Solomon and what he might or might not have done pass before Lucifer pushes the doors open, the poor things weren't a match to his strength as they hit the walls so loud everyone except for Satan jumped on their sits.

" Lucifer! (Y/N) had another nightmare and I might have said too much-"

" Calm down Asmo, you are fine. Everything 's fine.

It's late, you better get your beauty sleep. I'll take it from here."

Asmo nods fervently, ruffling your hair as he gets up. You giggle at the gesture, Satan pats your leg before he also takes his leave.

" Do I also have to go? Doesn't The Great Mammon, deserve to help our miracle worker~?"

Mammon jokes. Lucifer doesn't take it kindly if his glare is anything to go by.

" I trust we both know why it's best if you go to bed too."

" Fine, sorry… welp, see you tomorrow (Y/N). We are still having that shopping trip, daddy needs some new specs~"

" Daddy doesn't look good on you Mammon. RIP your future significant other."

With a grumble he stomps away.

" Don't forget you still have a huge debt to Lord Diavolo!! I swear if he breaks another statue…"

Lucifer rubs the bridge of his nose before helping you sit up.

" Don't you prefer to go back to your room? Or talk in the study?"

" … Can we… talk in yours?"

Lucifer is caught off guard by your proposition but relents.

He clears any other doubts you might have about the state of the family while you walk down the corridors to his room.

" Belphie is still grieving, I don't think that will ever be fully healed. Levi is faring well, he sees her in Henry…both of them."

You laugh, the memory of the giant serpent who now inhabits the catacombs coming to mind.

" Satan couldn't be happier to have a friend who isn't as closely related to us or the war. Take it as you will, I guess."

" And you…sir?"

Lucifer pauses for a moment, solely the sound of his footsteps is heard.

You arrive at his lascivious bedroom and he locks the door behind.

" I enjoy my privacy so forgive me for locking you in."

You shake your head, shrugging your shoulders in indifference. At any other time it would feel quite intimate, possibly.

" I'm doing well as you can see."

" I'm worried about what I cannot see."

Once again Lucifer's eyes widen but he let's you speak.

" There's Satan, your new job, position…workload."

" I told you to stop worrying about my work ethic. I sleep enough."

… …

" Enough to take care of my family."

You smile, a little smug perhaps.

" You couldn't have done anything. Not because your blessings were stripped from you, at least some of them."

He adds remembering your state after the fall. You were for the most part healthy save for ripped bloody feathers, a bent arm and a bruised face.

" Simply, I wouldn't let you. I ripped them out of my sheer will, wings I didn't need anymore. You shouldn't be in the middle of a rebellion you aren't part of. You would have been happy with the others. No need for nightmares."

You fidget in place.

" You can't be so sure. I couldn't bear to see everyone I cared for hurt. Yet I was powerless for once. If not for the prince…

Is it my fault…?

Are you a slave of another because of me?!!"

Lucifer grabs a hold of your shoulders as you scratch as your scalp with both of your hands, helding your head in place.

He guides you to his bed, leaving to start a fire in the fireplace and returning with a handkerchief in hand to clear your tear stains.

" I'm no one's slave, (Y/N). You haven't stripped me of my most valued aspect. It's simply a different job in a different world under a different ruler. I take pride in my achievements here and my prowess the same way.

Stop blaming yourself. No one holds resentment towards you and no one wishes to go back, if we are to be quite honest.

The nice days are gone so we can have new days."

He holds both your hands.

" I told you I would drag you with me if you kept pushing your luck. You made the choice to be at our side. We are happy to have you."

He cleans the snot like one would do to a toddler, his thumb making circular motions on your hands still clasped in his gloved one.

" I can't make them stop Lucifer. The nightmares, Asmo's face- every time! I want them to stop. I don't want to disappoint anyone ever again… sometimes I wish I could disappear so this wouldn't happen again and again and again!"

Lucifer hugs you against his chest, taking deep breaths waiting for you to follow along.

" I'm only good at making people sad now."

" I know this won't help. It never goes away. But a reminder, (Y/N), that it was never your job to fix the already broken. Those who deny help won't get help and you never let anyone down. Even Belphie has a soft spot for you.

For we remember you as our guardian angel who still fusses over Levi's addiction to technology because he might hurt his eyes.

Who worries that Beel's stomach might burst someday, the one person who relents to having a self-care day with Asmo even when it's mostly him who gets the self-care.

The angel who takes responsibility for half of Mammon's debts, don't think I haven't noticed.

What you couldn't do back then, you do now.

Thank you for your sacrifice."

You burst into tears, hiding your face on his chest.

" I'm sorry…I'm so sorry, sir! But everyone is taking care of me when they should move on…I'm tired of being kept behind by my own mind!"

Lucifer ponders for a moment, checking your scalp for signs of self-inflicted injuries.

"Hmm. I also have my fair share of nightmares.

How about we help each other? Do you want to stay the night?

Like back in the day."

You nod your head. Lucifer lays you down, covering you under the sheets.

Before changing himself into anything comfortable he adds:

"Also, stop addressing me as sir."

" Sorry. Force of habit."

You say eyes looking as the flames dance beautifully. Back then seeing everyone naked as a baby wasn't as embarrassing as it is now. You sometimes wonder how much you, yourself changed.

Something brown and fluffy is put on your line of sight, moving up and down like a cartoon character.

" I couldn't find one like Mrs. White Feathers, the Dove. So I hope you like Cerberus Jr. as much."

You smile picking the three headed plushie.

" Thank you…Lucifer. I still miss Mrs. White Feathers."

Lucifer nods, thinking of mentioning it the next time he speaks with Michael. Or perhaps Raphael could retrieve it for him.

" Sweet dreams, angel."

___________ Notes! __________

*Pão de Deus > a portuguese crunchy and sweet bread usually topped with grated coconut. It's one of the delicacies baked by nuns back in the day where they would take offerings like eggs to help bake sweets for religious festivities or for themselves to have something different to eat (some nuns were previously noble women).

**Raphael > an archangel cited to be the patron saint of healing the sick and ill and the angel of all healthcare workers. The staff that he carried can be a nod to the caduceus, Hermes' own staff and symbol of health.

[lucy-frostblades]

rating stair related injuries based on how embarrassing they are

falling down the stairs - 2/10 very embarrassing is only caused by you being a clumsy idiot. entirely self inflicted plus you always look dumb

falling up the stairs - 3/10 you tripped. dumb and embarrassing. bonus point because it can be funny for other people to watch

falling through stairs - 7/10 it’s the stairs fault, plus you could get cool scars and possibly discover a new room. loses points for possible rat bites

getting stuck falling through stairs - 5/10 similar situations to above but you get stuck halfway. embarrassing. your legs are dangling and you can’t do anything and risk getting more injured, so you have to wait until someone helps, likely paramedics. embarrassing.

getting pushed over a railing - 9/10 this only happens if you are a henchman in an action movie but it means you get thrown over by a conventionally attractive main character and a cool story. loses a point for possibility of breaking your neck

something gets caught on a railing - -1000/10 literally the worst thing to ever happen ever. this happens in a public space i cease to exist

let me know if i missed any and i will add to this list

[sweettoothcandystore]

got hurt :(

[quality-on-a-patch-of-awesome]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: SEAL Team (TV) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Eric Blackburn/Scott Carter/Mike Smith, Mandy Ellis/Jason Hayes/Brock Reynolds Characters: Mike Smith, Scott Carter (SEAL Team TV), Jason Hayes, Brock Reynolds Additional Tags: Swearing, mentions of injury, Bickering, mentions of workplace sex, Workplace Relationship, Year of the OTP Prompt Event 2023 Series: Part 20 of Universe of Trios, Part 18 of Two Guys, a Girl, and a Navy Base, Part 2 of 2 Navy 1 Marine Summary:

“They’ve been doing this for forty-five minutes straight. I thought they might pause for breath at some point, but I guess I was wrong.”

Brock and Jason are bickering, Metal is endlessly entertained and Mike really wants to be the sensible one

[floofanflurr]

Chapter 10 of Heart on the Table hurt me to write. So here's an alternate ending. THIS IS NOT CANON TO THE STORY!!! THIS IS NOT CANON! Pap is speed running a lot of emotions that will take him a longer time to process in canon. But!!! I needed my hug!!! I needed my comfort!!!! So have this alternate universe spin-off of Chapter 10.

@just-a-soft-kid You've done this to me. You've made me need those hugs stat TT.TT

Papyrus could only stand off to the side as Sans placed Frisk down in bed and tucked them in.

He should go. He—he shouldn’t be here. What if Frisk woke up and was upset (scared) when they saw him? Just the thought sent a jolt of pain through his SOUL, worse than any harmful intent.

He couldn’t back away.

Every time he blinked, those holes that had been torn through them reappeared. All he could do was stare at the way their chest rose and fell. He checked them again.

*HP 20/20

*They are still exhausted.

He took a step back to stand next to Sans by the door, ignoring the wrenching in his chest. But then Frisk’s eyes fluttered open weakly and landed on him.

Papyrus froze.

But they didn’t flinch this time. Instead tears filled their eyes. Which was! Not much better! His SOUL stuttered and thumped in his chest. He was about to shove Sans forward and run away because he couldn’t stand it if just being near him was enough to make them cry. His child was afraid of him. But their bond didn’t scream fear. No—Frisk was upset, but not scared right now. And they were also… reaching for him?

It was subtle. They… were still very weak and exhausted. But… their fingers twitched towards him.

There was an invisible force that tugged him forward, the need to comfort Frisk overwhelming. The need to see that they were still alive. 

Papyrus took that next step forward. Frisk still didn’t flinch, but their face screwed up more and their tears fell harder. They were still so confused. But. They… wanted him?

When he stepped forward again, something in their SOUL wavered and they were still confused and worried and tired, but they were also… hopeful?

He dropped down to his knees next to them. They didn’t reach out. And Papyrus could finally feel some fear radiating from them. He flinched violently and drew back. He couldn’t—

But when he got further away, their fear only grew.

That didn’t make sense!

Frisk’s fingers twisted in their blanket, and a small sound almost like a whimper came from them. And Papyrus’s SOUL shriveled up right then. They lifted their hands to sign.

“Papy—“

They were about to sign his name. But they stopped and then curled up further. They closed their eyes and turned into their blankets and the fear they felt was replaced with resignation when Papyrus drew back more.

…

…Oh.

He… He couldn’t afford to be wrong here. He didn’t know if he would survive if he terrified Frisk more right now. It certainly didn’t feel like it. If he did what he was planning on, and Frisk was scared, then it felt like his SOUL would wither up into dust right there to be blown away on the wind. 

He didn’t think he was wrong, though.

Papyrus took a deep breath in and then reached up to take off his blood-stained pajama shirt so that he was left in his tank top. There… was still blood on that too, but it was less. And Papyrus didn’t even want to think about getting that blood back onto Frisk by accident. (Flashes of their bloody body filled his mind and he stopped breathing. But then he blinked and Frisk was back in front of him, curled up in a ball and torn to shreds emotionally, but still alive.)

He threw his shirt off to the side, and he didn’t even think about the mess he was making in Sans’s surprisingly clean room. Instead he reached his hand out in front of him towards Frisk. A distant part of him noticed that he was shaking.

“FRISK…?”

They flinched, and Papyrus flinched too. But they opened their eyes again and looked at him.

His voice was maybe a bit wobbly when he asked, “…DO YOU… WANT A HUG?”

Their eyes flew wide open and the sheer disbelief and hope that rose up in them again made Papyrus’s SOUL ache. They stared at him for a long second. And then they nodded their head tentatively, fear still lodged in their SOUL right along with that hope.

But. If Papyrus was right… 

It wasn’t fear of him.

He crossed those last few inches and rested his hand on their shoulder. They tensed up so tightly they felt like a spring under his hand, and Papyrus almost drew back. But then they melted, practically sinking into his touch.

Oh.

Tears filled Papyrus’s sockets, and he surged forwards. He was careful as he all but yanked them into his arms. Gently, though. So gently. He made sure their blanket was wrapped around them tightly and he cradled them to his chest.

Frisk was so tiny and frail against him. But their SOUL was so full of love and disbelief it was overwhelming. They twisted their fingers into his tank top and buried their face against him. Their tears were soaking into the fabric.

They were safe. They were alive.

Papyrus bit down on an audible sob and buried his face in their hair as his shoulders shook and he cried silently.

At some point, Sans had crossed the room and sat next to them without saying a word, and he put one of his hands on Papyrus’s shoulder.

Frisk was alive.

He held them against him, soaking in the warmth of their body, the movement of their chest as they breathed, and even the way their tears were soaking into his shirt because they all told him that they. Were. ALIVE. 

His voice was hoarse and raspy, and not at all befitting his normal put-together self, but he tried to reassure Frisk anyway. (Or maybe he was trying to reassure himself.)

“IT’S OKAY NOW. IT’S OKAY, FRISK. IT WILL ALL BE OKAY. I LOVE YOU SO MUCH. I CAN’T—I CAN’T LOSE YOU.”

And then Frisk—Frisk who was always so quiet (even when they were being killed) even when they cried—Frisk wailed.

Frisk wailed and wrapped their little fingers into the material of his shirt with all of the strength they could muster.

And Papyrus broke too. He sobbed, a tsunami crashing through his SOUL as his shoulders shook violently, and he held Frisk to his chest as tightly as he dared.

“PLEASE FRISK, I CAN’T LOSE YOU. PLEASE DON’T LEAVE AGAIN. PLEASE.”

They nodded their head into his shirt, and Papyrus broke further.

He was never letting them go again.

Heart on the Table:

[lizard-shifter-noms]

Still Subject to Change Chapter 27 (NEW)

——————————————————————————-

Hello everyone! i decided to repost arc 1 of SSTC

(the chapters were way too long and had a bunch of typos but hopefully this will make reading easier)

this Story contains Vore, Dont like dont read.

if there are still any grammatical errors i’m sorry.

——————————————————————————

The last thing Oakley pulled out of the bag was weirdest of all a glowing roundish crystal.

This one actually made sense seeing as he would need light and at least that thing did not emit smoke.

I wondered if it emitted any heat though, I hoped not much.

“Hey where did the other two go? I wasn’t away that long, was i?”

Robin clumsily climbed over my arm again which wasn’t exactly necessary since he could have walked like four steps around it.

“Rikaad went back to sort paper stuff and Arthur is somewhere around the tower just looking how run down the thing is.

The winged man nodded.

“I see, and the little ginger decided to use you as a mattress I guess?”

Robin just stuck his tongue out at him.

“Eh maybe, don’t really care about that, also how the hell did you fit that much stuff in such a small bag?”

While I spoke Robin went over the said bag and peered in before managing to stick his entire arm in up to the shoulder.

“Why is it like this? There so much room? But the bag is small? Oakley?”

Him sticking his entire arm in had startled me but now he said that the inside was bigger than the bag was? How was that possible?

“Well you see, a little bit of magic woven into the fabric allows for quite a lot of storage!

Sadly it’s the only one i have as it’s quite expensive to make”

A magic bag, of course that’s what it was, Did he own anything normal?

He took the bag from Robin and stuck his tail in to rummage for something else.

Using his two pronged tail for that did make sense seeing as how wings would have trouble fitting.

It was interesting to see how he had adapted to the fact that he couldn’t do everything with his hands like most people and had instead found a way around it.

He pulled out something that looked like an oversized glass jar that was halfway filled with something teal colored and seemed to have the same viscosity as honey.

What the fuck did he need that for? Was that just medicine?

I never heard of bright teal medicine.

Robin also pointed at the jar confusedly.

“What’s that? I do like the color, what is it for?”

Oakley raised the container in the air so we could see it better.

“Basically a disinfectant, among other things, and i agree teal is a nice color”

He put the jar next to his bag and then took the rope to tie it around himself.

That confused me a bit, he probably knew i could get people out without help so why was he tying himself to a safety rope?

He must have noticed my confused stare as he told me what it was for.

“The teal stuff is basically a stronger version of what i gave Arthur, mixed with some other things as well, it WILL make you numb enough to not have control over the affected muscles for about four hours so i do need the rope”

Oh, yeah that made sense, but that meant someone had to stand at the other end of the rope to get him out, well both Arthur and Robin were here, the first of which was just coming back from exploring the tower and full of dust.

“Oh hey Oakley!”

He waved to the winged man who stared back.

“Perfect timing! I will need your help! You just need to hold the other end of the rope here!”

He tossed said end to Arthur who scrambled to catch it out of reflex.

He looked thoroughly confused.

“Wh- wait what do you need the rope for? The hell are you going to do?”

Oakley wasn’t really paying attention to him though and instead picked up the stuff he needed which included the glowing crystal, the weird box and the jar with the teal stuff.

While Oakley did that Robin was messing with the bag by sticking his arm in again, likely to test how deep it was.

After that he even stuck his head in, probably to see if he could make out anything visible.

He pulled it out quickly though and I wondered what else was in there that he had that reaction.

Maybe he saw something spider shaped and noped out.

Then Oakley had everything ready.

He was holding the glowing crystal with his tail and the rest was secured in either his pockets or his hands, The cloak he usually wore was abandoned off to the side.

So that meant the only thing to do now was-

Eugh, my least favorite part of this, Oakley had wings, and a tail, What if I damaged them?

What if one of those appendages got snagged on my teeth?

Oakley didn’t seem to have any concerns though, he was just standing in front of me expectantly.

My brain blanked on what to do for a second before i remembered, right, Oakley was gonna fix the stitches and to do that he had to get to them.

But I wasn’t exactly sure how to proceed, he was only mostly human shaped and I didn’t know what to do with the wings.

Should I tell him to tuck them close?

Or to have them spread out at his side so he’d be slimmer?

At this point he seemed to know what to do better than I did as he tucked his wings very close to his body and wrapped his tail around one of his legs.

“Well, open up big guy, no use wasting time now!”

My brain was still blanking on a lot of things but I simply did as told.

Lowering my head to the ground I opened my mouth wide enough for him to fit, and to my surprise he climbed right in, no fear or hesitation whatsoever.

Also having someone willingly climb into my mouth like this was extremely weird and i was not sure if i liked it.

And strangely enough he tasted of sawdust which did not make it better, At all.

Overall it wasn’t awful but i couldn’t say that i liked it either, frankly i just wanted this all to be over with.

Oh, wait, technically I had to swallow now but my mind was still a bit slow.

That changed when Oakley punched the dangly bit over my throat, the Uvula was it called? Causing me to swallow against my will.

Apparently he’d gotten impatient with me and decided to just go ahead.

At least he didn’t have feathers.

Yeah, now I was sure I didn’t like this, at least not when it was Oakley.

I just about stopped myself from coughing and instead swallowed again, feeling the safety rope that Arthur was holding slither over the groove of my tongue.

That was an uncomfortable feeling as it was like there was something stuck in my throat when it wasn’t.

At this point I just wanted it to be over with as fast as possible so I swallowed again and again till the odd shaped lump was all the way down to my pouch.

Oakley ‘dropped’ in with a weird squelching sensation and then I could feel him right himself, wings relaxing a bit and tail unfurling.

I kept as still as possible and was only breathing shallowly so I wouldn’t disturb him.

I still didn’t know what exactly he was going to do or what he needed the box for when he had the teal stuff but i was not about to fuck things even more up by moving.

So I sat still except for one of my paws which opened and closed repeatedly and dug grooves in the ground while Oakley seemed to get ready to do whatever it was he planned to do.

Arthur was just silent, holding his end of the rope and staring at the ground while Robin had started making flower crowns again with the daisies that grew around the tower.

Then there was an awful sensation, like Oakley had just ripped one of the stitches out by force.

“YOWCH! Oakley! What the hell was that?!”

And my pained shout Arthur almost dropped the rope and Robin did drop the flowers he was working on.

Then Oakley answered with a mildly muffled voice.

“Just as I thought! The flesh around the stitches started to grow over them! the sooner i remove them the better”

Grown over the stitches?! Grown OVER the stitches?! What the fuck!

I didn’t think that could happen, or at least not so fast.

Ughh why me? I only tried to help and now I was stuck with a possible infection risk and the stitches literally melding into the lining of my pouch.

There was another painful twinge that signaled Oakley had just ripped another stitch out and I dug the claws of my free hand into the ground.

A smaller hand suddenly grabbed my paw and I looked over to see Robin holding onto my fur.

I relaxed the tiniest bit until Oakley ripped another one out and I growled in a low tone.

The sound surprised even me as i didn’t know i could emit such a noise, And it had been completely involuntary too.

Worried that the sound had scared the smaller men, I looked at them.

Arthur seemed to just be surprised and Robin moved to hug my hand.

Well, it was possible that they had mistaken it for a sound of pain.

It kinda was if I was honest, and as long as they weren’t scared I could deal with it.

Oakley yanked another stitch out and since Robin was hugging my hand I couldn’t even dig grooves into the ground anymore to distract myself.

And I didn’t dare move the other arm out from underneath me.

There was the sound of a quiet and dull impact behind me as well as signals sent to my brain that indicated that my tail had hit a tree.

Since I couldn’t use any other limbs to fidget it seemed my tail had just started to swivel from left to right like that of an agitated cat.

Sure, whatever, I could deal with that, and there was at least one limb I dared to move now.

Robbin was still hugging my paw in an attempt to be comforting.

It kind of was even, his hands were warmer than the ground so that was something better to focus on than Oakley doctoring around.

I managed to just about contain a flinch when Oakley ripped yet another thread out.

How many were even in there? He had to be done soon right?

Another was ripped out and the hair on my back stood up.

Robin had at this point started to absentmindedly pet the upper side of my paw, it was strangely soothing, and way better than whatever the fuck Oakley was doing.

He had to be done soon right? I wanted him out of there, also-

“Oakley didn’t you say that the teal stuff numbs?

What the fuck are you doing?”

He answered almost immediately while ripping out yet another stitch.

“Well yeah, the ‘teal stuff’ numbs but it also accelerates the healing process by a lot, so if i put it on first the stitches would get stuck more and you don’t want that”

Oh so that was why, fuck me then, just sitting here with a weird Fae fucker abusing my insides even more.

I let my head sink onto the ground with another pained sound as he ripped yet another string out.

“How many of those are even there? Please tell me you’re done”

There was a brief weird numbing sensation that spread from where ever the fuck he applied the teal stuff.

“Almost, this one is done now to the other stab wound!”

The other one? Ohh nooo come on, How many stitches had Rikaad put there in the first place?

At least one was done now, and numb as fuck which i was actually glad for.

“Oakley? How many stitches are there anyway?

Please tell me it’s under ten”

“Well the first one had six, this one has four, So brace yourself, I’m going to remove them now!”

As soon as he said it he ripped out a stitch in the other place that got stabbed.

This time, now that I had a warning, and being used to it from the other stitches he pulled it was a bit less awful.

Still horrible and painful though.

While I tried my best not to move Robin had slunk away from my hand and was now next to me.

He ended up hugging my shoulder a good bit away from my throat or anything connected to it.

“Are you okay? What’s Oakley doing?”

”I’ll be fine, as soon as Oakley is done ripping the stitches oOOUT, Dammit Oakley, give a warning!”

While i Answered Robin Oakley had ripped another stitch out, catching me by surprise.

I really wanted this to be over with but at least there were only two more to go through.

I huffed in displeasure and glanced at Arthur who had sat down on the ground and was fiddling with his end of the rope.

I wasn’t the only one that wanted this to be over with apparently, He looked bored and unsure of what to do.

Well he couldn’t exactly help Oakley or me with this stupid situation.

The best he could do was keep holding the rope and then do whatever Oakley said.

Which was hopefully soon, I wanted him out of there and the rope hanging down my throat did not make it any better.

On top of that the stupid rope tasted like dust and I really wanted to spit it out.

Not to mention that it dug into the groove of my tongue uncomfortably.

Oakley ripped out yet another stitch, making me lash my tail against the trees behind me.

One more to go and then I was done, at least I hoped so.

By now the numbing effect applied to the first wound had helped a lot even if it did feel weird.

Or not feel? Whatever the case I couldn’t feel anything there right now, no pain but no touches from Oakley either which was kinda eerie.

He said it numbed for about four hours right?

Well I could deal with that as long as it was healed afterwards at least.

Finally Oakley ripped out the last stitch and then applied more of the teal stuff, now making the entirety of my pouch numb.

It was clear why he tied the rope to himself for this.

I couldn’t feel anything in my pouch anymore and I wasn’t even sure if my muscles would obey me now.

Yeah, the rope was a good call on his part.

As uncomfortable as it was for me it did serve a purpose.

Said purpose being that Arthur could pull him out with it.

“Heya! I’m done, so tell your blonde friend to tug at the rope and get me out!”

Finally! The entire ordeal had been awful and I was glad it was bound to be over in a minute or so.

“Hey Arthur?-

He looked up at me.

“- Oakley wants you to pull the rope and get him out, just please be careful that thing is literally IN my throat and having rope burn there is not something i want”

He gave a thumbs up and gripped the rope.

“Sure, brace yourself i’m trying to go slow, if you want me to go faster tap the ground or whatever”

I nodded and then lay down again to make my throat as straight as possible and minimize the choking risk.

Robin ran up to be behind Arthur and grabbed the piece of rope that was splayed on the ground behind the blonde man.

Then Arthur counted to three and started pulling.

It wasn’t fast but it wasn’t agonizingly slow either, It was a steady rhythm of pulling the rope and then gripping the bit in front of it to tug more out.

At first it was just more numbness but the more they tugged Oakley out the more I could feel that there was indeed something in my esophagus.

At this point instead of gripping more rope as he went he was just walking backwards, likely to avoid the parts of rope that had been drooled on.

I wasn’t really to blame for that one though, having something dry in your mouth just gave that response, not my fault at all.

Oakley was at this point halfway up and blocking my windpipe.

Good thing I had remembered to take a breath beforehand, and that I could hold said breath for about five minutes.

Feeling the wet form of Oakley slide into my mouth I wasted no time in leaning forward and letting him drop to the ground.

I immediately began coughing as the rope had irritated my throat the entire time and I was really glad that it was finally over.

Even if it felt weird to - well not feel i guess?

True to Oakleys word the entirety of my pouch was numb and would stay as such for about four hours.

Well, still better than before, and Oakley had brought all of his stuff back out so I didn't have to worry about that either, I flopped to the ground where I was and ended up kind of on my side but not really on my side.

Robin immediately took advantage of that to bury himself in the exposed fluff with an adorable squeak.

Glancing over to what Oakley was doing I saw Arthur handing back the slightly damp rope and Oakley tossing said rope into one of the broken windows of the tower.

Well that was one way to get it dry, probably.

whatever, not my problem.

Now I barely had any problems anymore, sure there was still the Fae hating thing, but Rikaad was working on fixing that.

For the first time in forever there was nothing wrong and I could just relax.

That was weird as fuck.

I decided to enjoy that blessing for now.

Just then Oakley came over, ughh, was there something else i had to do now?

“Say how are you? It is numbing as intended right? I just want to make sure i used enough and that there’s nothing else wrong now”

So he was checking up on his ‘patient’, well That was nice of him.

“It’s numb as hell, I don’t feel anything there so I’m pretty sure you used enough of that stuff, though it’s eerie to not be able to feel a part of my body.”

He just nodded in acknowledgment.

“Well if you need anything else i will sweep all the dust out of my new house! You might want to move though unless you fancy a dust shower”

A dustshower was not something I wanted, and I could somehow imagine that Oakley would use his wings to blow the dust out of his house like some oversized bird.

He was an oversized bird, at least in my opinion.

I ought to get a nice and shiny rock to test just how birdlike at some point.

I stood up which felt a bit weird due to the numbness in my core but since i didn’t fall over i didn’t care.

Oakley was now dusting his new place, So where else on the castle grounds could we go?

Aside from the shed and the tower I didn’t know any places, if there even was more aside from plants.

Eh, I could just chill between some of the plants then, as long as I didn’t destroy them I doubted that anyone would care.

Maybe Barsen, but he was who knew where right now.

A tiny hand grabbed at the arm that had the bracelet and I looked down to see a mess of red hair.

Robin was tugging me in a random direction, Well exploring was also something to do.

So I started to slowly walk in the direction he wanted so as to not trample over him.

Maybe we’ll find something cool?

Arthur joined us even if he didn't hold onto my arm like Robin did.

“Well, where to? Just randomly walking or?”

He shook his head.

And while passing the tower I looked into one of the windows and saw a familiar compass laying on top of a broken branch.

Rikaad must have returned the one Oakley gave us while he was here.

“I wanna go along the cliffside!

Like why don’t they have a wall there? Maybe we’ll find out why!”

“The cliffside? You sure? That seems dangerous, and i’m not keen on falling off of THAT”

Arthur interjected, and to be fair he was right.

It might very well be that there used to be a wall but it just fell down into the ocean.

I wouldn’t get too close to the edge in case the ground there was brittle.

Falling to my death after all this would be really fucking dumb.

“I mean we can look but i’m not sure how stable the ground there is, What if it breaks off? As Arthur said i’m also not keen on dying”

“We don’t have to get close! I just wanna look! Like the window in the castle!”

For a second I could have sworn that Arthur’s face went a bit green.

Well, not my problem if he had vertigo, poor Arthur though.

“Well I think that’s fine? But i’m not going to get as close as you are, Im bigger so the floor might just break off”

“Yeah, Donovan’s right, don’t get too close!”

Robin stuck his tongue out at Arthur and then kept dragging me as best as he could forward.

“It’ll be fine! I’m not gonna fall, I promise!

I’m not gonna stand directly on the edge! I'm not that dumb!”

I hoped he was right, but it was just for the sake of curiosity so what’s the worst that could happen if we were being careful.

As long as we kept a safe distance to avoid falling it should be fine.

Somehow I had the feeling that Arthur wouldn’t get anywhere close at all.

Oh well, then i had to make sure nobody got too close to the drop then.

Ducking under a low hanging branch we breached into free space.

Yep, there was the aforementioned drop down to the ocean.

How tall was it anyway? Then I saw something that made my heart, the working one anyway, stop for a second.

Barsen was plucking out weeds and the like while only holding onto a branch from a walnut tree.

He was basically hovering over certain death and did not even blink.

Did that guy know what Fear was??? By the looks of it not.

Still, screaming at him to get away from there might startle him into letting go.

So talking normally would have to do.

“Barsen? What are you doing?”

The other two seemed to only now notice there was someone else and gave surprised and worried noises.

“Oh what the hell man, get away from there! You’re gonna fall!”

Robin hid behind my arm again as if that would help the situation.

Barsen just looked up and waved with a handful of weeds while hanging on to that one branch.

“Hello! Don’t worry, I’ve done this a thousand times before, I’m not going to fall! I'm almost done anyway”

He stuffed the plants into a pocket of his work pants and climbed up the walnut tree’s roots back to safe ground.

Brushing Dust off he walked over to us.

“Nice to see you are all well! What do you think of the garden?”

I just stared at him for a few seconds as he acted like he hadn’t just hung over a multiple hundred feet high drop to death.

Then his question registered in my brain.

“Oh, I think it’s really pretty!

It doesn’t seem to cluttered with random flowers either i like that”

That was true, the noble gardens I had seen before all seemed to be stupid tryhard in comparison to this one, This was more subtle and not filled with eye bleeding bright flowers next to even more oversaturated stuff.

PREVIOUS / NEXT / OVERSIGHT

[bobattef]

He’s come for you:

….

-> I watched Rogue One again last night, in particular the Darth Vader end scene.

 Imagine if you (the reader) were captured alongside the stolen Death Star plans.

The Rebels thinking you were just another trooper working for the Empire but you were Lord Vader’s secret lover and he was fighting his way though that famous hallway scene to rescue you, and the plans of course <-

***

All you could hear was the alarm from the ships warning system.

It was blaring across the corridors, bouncing off the walls.

You were being hurried along, dragged almost, by 3 rebel fighters. 

Out of breath from trying to fight them, trying to keep those Death Star plans hidden, safe.

But you were vastly outnumbered.

“In here!” came a bellowing voice, you look up to see the opening doors of an holding cell, the rebel fighter who shouted trying to usher you inside it.

“I thought we said no hostages?!” comes another voice, this time behind you.

“Just retrieve the plans and get out!”

“Retrieving those plans are the reason why we have a hostage!” the other official snaps back.

Digging your heels in, you flail your arms trying to get away from their grasp on you, to try to stop them from taking you away, away from your base, away from HIM.

Darth Vader.

After giving the task of being a guard for the Sith Lord back on his base in Mustafar a few weeks prior, you spent every minute of every day alongside him.

You fell very hard, very quickly and knew a side of him that no one else did.

You couldn’t believe it when he started showing his interest in you too. 

You’d spend hours on end in his quarters just you and him.

No one else knew of course.

The other officers just thought you were carrying out your duty of guarding him yourself.

And he never once dropped even a smidgen of a hint about how attached he was to you.

On the outside, whilst surrounded by others, he was cold towards you, barley even glancing your way most of the times under the gazes of your fellow troopers, but when those doors slid shut to his quarters, it all changed.

He’d be on you like a rash, sometimes not even managing to get out of his suit in time.

Using the force to his full advantage also to get you to make all his favourite kind of sounds fill his room. 

You were never touched nor fucked by another man like Darth Vader did it.

He’d have you whimpering time and time again as you came over his cock, or even just his fingers depending on the time limit you had together.

Your heart skipped a beat when images of him flashed through your mind just now. 

*Will you ever see him again?*

A pang of sadness hits you, just as you feel the pain from the impact from one of the officers blaster being hit off the back of your skull as he tries to force you into the cell. 

“Aaaah” you cry out as your vision goes blurry.

You’re knocked unconscious.

***

Lord Vader’s breathing is almost deafening though his apparatus.

Along side his remaining troopers following him now to his shuttle, they have never seen the Sith Lord so angry before.

They had taken the Death Star plans which meant they had taken her.

The rebel officers had snatched away his first hand guard in pursuit of getting their hands on the plans. 

And he was livid.

Shooting upwards away from the firey surface of Mustafar, the Lava rivers bubbling and blowing below like it was feeling the anger radiating from Darth Vader.

“T-minus 2 minutes until we reach the rebel force freighter my lord” the pilot calls back to Vader but he doesn’t answer.

He just focuses on you, he has to get you back.

He never once thought of having such feelings towards another being after, you know who.

He thought he wasn’t capable of it.

But he can’t let you slip away from him.

He’s in too deep.

You were always there, listening to him talk about anything or even rant about the latest incompetence of the other troopers.

No matter how angry he’d be, it’ll melt away under your smile.

He wrote off the chance at being with another woman ever again, but that first night you and he finally cut the sexual tension in the room, it was the best he’s ever had!

He pushes the memories he has of you to the back of his mind, instead reaching it out to try and find you.

He can sense your presence even from this far, he felt the fear that went through you as you were taken aboard their ship.

He knew that there was something horribly wrong when he could almost hear you shouting inside his mind, felt you fight to guard his base, his quarters, his plans.

He couldn’t get there fast enough. 

A few of your colleagues were defeated, slumped over along the corridors leading up to the room and his heart dropped thinking that one of them could have been you.

No one knows about you and him. 

No one knows that you are of any more importance than his other troopers.

They could kill you on the spot and not realise just how much of a necessity you were to him.

He can see the rebel ship come into view now as his imperial shuttle breaks through the atmosphere of his planet.

Reaching out with the force he knows you’re still alive. 

All be it, you’re definitely weaker, possibly knocked out.

Another wave of anger radiates through him.

He’s going to kill them all.

Every single one of them.

And he’s not going to stop.

***

The continuing blaring alarm brings you back round to consciousness.

You blink a few times, hoping the memories flashing though your mind about what has happened is all a bad dream.

Opening your eyes you soon come to realise you are in binders.

Sat on the floor, your back leant on the side wall of the holding cell you were in, keeping you sat upright.

The pounding in your head reminding you of the blow you took from one of the rebel fighters.

*from behind…the coward!* 

You think to yourself, teeth clenching together as a new wave of adrenaline starts to pump around your body.

*You need to get out of here*

Trying to get on your feet, you wobble a bit.

Wether it’s due to the dizziness of the hit you took or because you need to find Lord Vader, need to let him know where you are.

*Where are you?*

You stumble over to the door, trying to prize it open with great difficulty as your hands are binded together, it’s locked tight.

“There’s no use fighting…” you almost jump out of your skin at the voice, the other person that’s inside this cell with you.

“Just tell us where the plans are and…” 

“And what?!” you snap back.

“You’ll kill me either way!” you almost spit out the word kill.

The rebel fighter sighs out loud “we’re not like him you know? Not like the Empire…

Tell us where the plans are to the Darth Star and we will let you go” 

“Bantha fodder!” You shout at him and turn to face the door again, trying to work out a way to get it open.

The small window on the door is sat at a certain height which makes you have to tiptoe to peer out of it.

It’s no good though as all you can see is the darkness of the corridor that’s on the other side.

*The lights must of been taken out*

You think out loud as you turn around, sinking down the length of the door, you almost curl up into a ball as you hit the floor.

You squeeze your eyes shut.

You’ve never been sensitive to the force but you’d try anything right now to get Lord Vader to know where you are.

*please, please, please be ok*

You try to force out some sort of signal into the darkness of this very corridor.

To let him know you’re alive, all be it a bit bruised and battered.

Your ears strain along with your eyes closed as it seems you use all your senses at once to try and figure out an escape plan.

A small crackle of a radio breaks the silence between you and this rebel officer as you hear a voice over his comms.

“Commander…A ship…a ship has docked sir! Sir! A shuttle has landed on our freighter and…and…argh!” 

A smile creeps across your face as you lift your head up at those panicked words.

You don’t need to be with the force for you to know who the officer on the radio is referring to.

He’s come for you.

“No! Come in…officer do you read me?” you can almost hear the fear in the rebel fighters voice.

“Dank ferrick!” He shouts and you let out a small chuckle. 

The commander looks at you dead in the eye, you see some sort of change in demure flash across his eyes.

He stalks towards you, grabbing at your binded wrists he pulls you up on to your feet.

“Tell me!” he’s shouting so close to your face you can feel tiny bits of salvia coming out of his mouth at every word he says to you.

“Tell me where those death star plans are!! Now!!” 

He lands a back handed slap right across your face, dropping his grasp he had on you too so the impact caused you to hit the floor.

You spit out and notice blood on the floor from the cut that has now formed on your lip.

You should be scared, it hurt like hell that hit but you smirk up at him instead.

He’s so screwed when Lord Vader sees what he’s done to you.

Your reaction to him hitting you doesn’t have the desired affect so he kicks out in anger, landing his boot right across your ribs.

You cry out in pain this time.

Your side starts to throb along with your lip thats definitely swollen now.

“Tell me or I shall beat it out of you!” the venom from his words drips out as you think to his earlier remarks of not being like the Empire.

Trying to calm your breathing you gather up enough energy to stand but the rebel commander grabs you by your hair, pulling his other arm back he’s ready to strike you again but he stalls. 

You glance up at him, wondering why you’re not feeling the sting of yet another hit, why has he stopped but that’s when you hear it.

The distance screams of men.

You hear a bundle of footsteps, people are running down the corridor past the door you are locked behind.

They’re shouting.

They’re panicked.

He’s closer.

The rebel commander lets go of you once more and walks over to the door, peering out the glass much easier than you could due to his hight.

That’s when you see it, his face is covered in a red glow almost immediately as he screams out in pain.

Looking down towards his waistline, you see the searing light of a red saber.

It’s penetrated through both the door of the holding cell and through the body of the commander…

Darth Vader has found you.