#multi-chaptered fic

[kimium]

Chapters: 17/? Summary:

Canon Divergence. University AU. Mafia AU.

“Let’s leave. We’re not sticking around here,” Yuu said as they began to walk through the tall grass. If they were lucky, they’d run into someone that was willing to help and not ask many questions.

“Well, well what do we have here?”

Yuu jumped, a scream bursting from their lips. Grim squirmed out of their arms and floated in mid air, his ear flames bursting brighter. Standing in front of them was a man wearing the most ornate outfit Yuu had ever seen outside of cosplay inside an anime convention. Clearly going for a steam-punk like style crossed with opera, Yuu couldn’t tear their eyes away from the birdlike mask or the feathers adorning the long cloak with ends that looked like bird wings.

“Goodness gracious!” the man exclaimed, a little too cheerful. “You’re not from this world.”

In where Yuu is summoned to a strange new dimension (by an occult) and will find their way home (and solving the mystery to why they were summoned in the first place) through the power of accidentally befriending the local organized crime fractions. (Or Yuu is accidentally the most powerful person in this world through the power of Friendship.)

~

Hello everyone! I finally wrote another chapter! I’m super excited for this one and I hope you all enjoy it! Please, let me know!!

[maisonbelligavi]

An excerpt from the first chapter of Dynasty, a Jude/Kylian multi-chaptered fic...

There was a rightness to it, when he finally put on his Madrid jersey, the surreal feeling intensified and he struggled to accept that it had finally happened. He couldn’t stop smiling. His happiness was encompassing as he kissed the crown on his jersey again and again. This was everything he’s ever wanted. When he walked out into the stadium that was filled with thousands of Madridistas who had come to welcome him, the deafening roar of their screams was almost his undoing. His cheeks were hurting by now from all the smiling and as he headed to the podium without a rehearsed speech in mind, he feared for a moment he wouldn’t know where to begin. But that was something he didn’t have to worry about. He spoke from the heart, and the words just flowed out of him. It was natural and easy, and as the entire stadium shouted a Hala Madrid with him, he knew he’d arrived. He was home at last.

***

That night, he had a celebratory dinner with his parents and Brice as they were heading back to Paris the next day. Kylian felt as though he was missing their presence even though they hadn’t left yet. Now that the excitement has dialed down, there was a feeling of melancholy laced with it. The only home he’s ever known was Paris. That’s where all the people who mattered to him lived. And now he had to contend with living in another city and all the changes that would bring to him. It’s as though his mum was reading his mind because it was at that moment she chose to speak up.

“We’re not that far away, mon cheri,” she said, holding out her hand for Kylian to take.

“I know, maman,” he responded, “but I still feel a little…” he drifted off, not knowing how to finish the sentence.

“Terrified?” she said, and Kylian nodded. “It is only normal for you to feel that way, but you will do just fine. You were made for this. It will be an exciting journey, one that would bring a lot meaning and growth in your life.”

Kylian went to bed that night with those words echoing in his head. Change was never easy but as his mother said, he’s made for this. He’s prepared for it his whole life. He went to training the next day, eager to get things started and meet the whole team. He was already familiar with Vini and Rodrygo as he’s texted with them a few times. He also knew Courtois fairly well. And of course, Edu and Aurelien were already his boys as they were teammates in the France national team. He went around exchanging greetings with everyone, permanent smile etched on his face. He hugged Brahim briefly and shook Fede’s hand. And then there was Jude Bellingham. Kylian held out his hand as he’d done with the others. It wasn’t the first time they met. That was during the world cup about two years ago, but this was a completely different setting and circumstance.

Jude shook his hand, smiling himself. “It’s so nice to have you here, mate,” Jude said, his accent thickening on the last word.

“I’m just as happy to be here, Bellingham,” Kylian responded. Then he realized his hand was still in Jude’s and withdrew it.

“Just Jude is fine, no need for the formalities,” Jude said, fidgeting where he stood, not really looking Kylian in the eye.

“Alright then, Jude it is,” Kylian said, nodding his head.

Jude gave him an awkward wave and a half smile before hurrying away, as though he couldn’t wait to get away from him. Kylian stood rooted to the spot, wondering what that was all about, but then they were called as training was about to commence and he jogged outside, forgetting the incident altogether.

[takaraphoenix]

Single Mom Stiles (*cough* Stiles and Liam) leaving the pack because of Theo and, now packless, find their way to the Hale Pack.

Who are. Still alive and around and thriving.

Alpha Derek, Peter, Isaac, Boyd, Erica, Jackson, Cora, maybe the twins, I haven't decided on that one yet.

(Maybe Malia/Kira will go with them. Because I love Kira and I think Malia needs to get to own the Hale heritage.)

Can you imagine Derek seeing Stiles be pack mom even without a pack and desperately wanting to court Stiles, like, his inner wolf is going nuts over this. But. To get to Stiles, Derek will have to get past Stiles' very protective pup first.

[mikichko]

⛔ this blog is 18+ !! minors and ageless blogs please dni ⛔ part of: blurb a day series (trying to get these gears moving)

ghost hates the feel of hands on his skin. despises it. it makes him feel dirty, filthy. even the cotton of his shirts feel too thin on some days and he wishes he would've added more layers. just as a precaution.

so when you ask, "may i touch you?" it catches him completely off-guard.

it's been a long time since someone asked if they have his permission to do something to him. simon has long since lost the privilege of choice, since he'd joined the SAS that is. he's long parted with the idea that he is something other than a weapon and a tool for the crown to maintain its power, however fleeting it may be. molded to obey orders and execute them as cleanly as possible. and yet, here you are, offering him a choice, something he hasn't had in years.

it makes his mouth water.

he nods silently, fearing he'll drool onto his mask if he opens his mouth. he watches your fingers work, peeling back the soiled fabric of his shirt as you expose the fresh wound. you're diligent, handling his arm with such care you'd think he was made of porcelain.

you rummage around in your kit, pulling out the alcohol and the gauze, "this'll sting a bit, apologies." you're so sweet for thinking that a mere swipe of alcohol would bring pain to his battle worn skin. too sweet.

jesus christ. he has to look away lest the entirety of his blood flow suddenly redirect itself between his legs. it's insanity that this bit of kindness is enough to drive him to such a state. he's had men hurl knives, grenades, shoot live rounds at him, has felt them thrash at his body with full force. has become so accustomed to violence and yet, your gentle touches make more of an impact than any of those blows ever did.

you are so careful with him. he wants to let you know that your hand, your blessed hands, could never harm him. not the way the rest of the world seeks to.

he wonders what kind of man he'd have become if you had found him earlier. if he had felt your soft hands before he ever felt the hot metal of a bullet graze his skin. what if he had been handled as softly as you handle him now since his birth?

would he still be here? a man turned weapon, in the perpetual cycle of violence? would he have opened his farm?

he doesn't know, probably would never know, but he knows one thing. he would have found you. would have still met your soft touch.

he'd still felt like a proper man, an honorable man, under your hands.

[tadpolesonalgae]

Can’t Bring Myself To Hate You — Part 19

Azriel x Third-Oldest-Archeron-Sister!Reader

a/n: so frustrated with tumblr—this didn’t save anything the first time so ultimately I had to spend forty five minutes re-editing everything

warning: a lot of head nodding

word count: 7,723

-Part 18- -Part 20-

——————————————————————————————————————————————

Tentatively, you raise your hand to knock on the door. 

And pause. 

Your fingers are trembling faintly, a cool shiver sweeping down the length of your spine, a cold sweat beginning to prickle up from beneath your skin. 

You knock, lightly. 

Shadows dip at the handle, bringing the door open.

Hazel eyes glance away from the partially opened window, a cool morning breeze circulating through the room while watery autumn sunlight warms the floorboards. There’s a smell of dew in the air, along with something vaguely smokey and fresh, and it nips at your throat. You tug your sleeves a little lower over your gloves—made to conceal your skin, not keep them warm. 

“Are you…are you free to talk?” You ask, stood hesitantly on the threshold. 

“Sure.” He nods. “Have a seat.” 

You give only a small delay, space enough for a breath to pass in between moments, one that would have gone unnoticed by human minds and eyes. Then you’re covering the distance between you, taking a seat in the armchair that’s been pushed to accommodate longer visits to his bed. You try to take your time in organising yourself in the seat, making sure your skirts are flat and unwrinkled; sat evenly on the chair; split between facing directly forward as the seat would have you, or angling yourself to face him; but it’s all belied with that sense of hurry you get around him that causes your fingers to fumble and shake, for your heart to start a butterfly-flutter in your chest, throat tightening from being in his presence. 

Your tongue darts out to wet your lips, hands settling in your lap, pinching lightly at the fabric to give yourself something to hold on to. You struggle to look at him, keeping your gaze averted. 

“…how are you?” You ask. 

Sheets rustle and you can hear the quiet shift of the wooden beams before he answers. “Good.” 

Toes cross in your socks, teeth tugging at the interior of your lip. “How…” —you swallow past the shudder in your chest— “Will you be up again, soon?” You ask, shifting in the chair. Eyes glance to the bedside table, peering at it for the sake of looking somewhere. 

“A few more days,” he replies, sounding as if he’s uncommitted to the time frame given. A fresh breeze rolls in through the open window, curtains wafting with the wind, and you hold down a shiver, pulling yourself tighter to keep warm. Fresh air’s probably good, right? 

“How are you?” He asks. 

“Good. Good,” you reply, nodding your head gently. “Up and about.” 

Another breeze enters, and the curtains swish against the wallpaper, scraping faintly against the vaguely abrasive texture. A book rests on the table, the edges faded yellow and for a second it strikes you how strange it is that there might not be a spell to prevent ageing. Perhaps he prefers the worn edges, though. You can imagine how they’d rasp against your fingertips. Like thousands of tiny cuts. 

“Feyre mentioned you were sick a lot, when you first woke up,” you say into your lap. 

“A bit.”

“But it’s over now?” You ask.

“It’s over.”

“Good. Good.” You nod your head faintly. “That's— I’m glad.” 

A glass of water is beside his bed, along with a candle that’s dripped wax over its silver holder, carefully welded vines making up the handle, small flowers flourishing around the rim. Lilies.

A leather-bound notebook rests beside the novel, a pencil set straight atop it, the tip worn down and blunt. 

“I heard your conversation with Mor,” he says, and your eyes flit away from the table, peering at your lap. You nod. 

“From a few days ago?” He prompts, and you nod again. He sighs. “It was good that you took initiative. Maybe a bit too soon, but she’ll need some time to process what happened.” 

You nod, accepting each slice across your skin. He’s known her for much longer than he has you, and he’s loved her. The blessed moments when you forget those unreachable likes of his only make the moments you’re reminded more staggeringly painful. Of course he’ll be on her side. But would it be so difficult to…

Don’t I deserve a little affection? 

“Why did you…” you falter over save, disagreeing with its narrative. Lick your lips.

Just a small bit of care? 

“Why?” You ask, looking at him. Tone rising at the end.

…please…

The bandages are clean across his middle torso, obscuring fractions of the ink on his chest where they curl beneath the wrappings. You know exactly where the wound lies, despite not having had the time to really study it when it happened. Just knowing it sits opposite the tiny scratch over your heart, formed into a scar. So tiny nobody would spot it unless they knew to look. 

“Instinct, I suppose,” he answers after the quiet passes. 

“Instinct,” you repeat, a touch faintly. You don’t know what you’d been expecting, but that makes enough sense. Maybe you’d at least been wondering if it was something more emotional than that. At least an, I couldn’t let you die. But instinct will do. Blind, indifferent instinct.

“Have you spoken with Rhys?” He asks after a pause. 

“We spoke in the kitchen a couple of days ago. …he said I should speak with you…?” 

“Okay,” he nods, waiting patiently. You blink, unsure where to put your eyes. You don’t know what Rhys had wanted you to visit him for. No idea if it was to try and clear up the mess that’s tangled itself between you and the male on the bed; whether he just wanted you to take the first step in improving something, to clear the air, to get things on the mend? 

“Would it help if I asked you some questions?” He prompts tentatively. 

You flush, lips parting slightly as you peer down into your lap, fingers pinching your skirts to keep out their tremble. You’re not…speaking about what happened; the arrow; the deep darkness that’s been cloying at your mind for the past few months… Years… 

But if it’s going to be anyone, it’s going to be him. 

Your lip is pulled between your teeth, blunt enamel prodding at the full flesh of the interior of your mouth. The idea of speaking about it…why you aimed the arrow at yourself…a lot of it wraps around him in a way. So if you’re going to share that with anyone…  

Lungs shake when you inhale quietly, but you manage to sit a little straighter, steadying yourself. You have to learn to take the first step.

All you have to do is answer. And be honest.

“Yeah.” You nod, swallowing. “Okay.”

“Alright.” He nods. “We can go slowly, to start off. I would appreciate answers, but if you aren’t ready, tell me so and we can move on.” 

Your heart thunders in your chest, but you agree, gloved fingers twining together in your lap, legs crossing themselves apprehensively. But slow, and easy breaths. Keeping calm, and steady. Answering as truthfully as you can bear.

“Okay,” he says, “what can you do with your magic now?” 

You nod a little to yourself, swallowing, “…I think, sometimes, I can…I mean, I think I can bring it out by myself sometimes now?” He nods encouragingly. “…it didn’t hurt the last time it came out. I hardly even noticed it, actually, compared with how it was before.” 

“And when was the last time it came out?” 

“Oh…” you falter, quieting. “Yesterday. With Mor.” 

“With Mor?” 

“We had a…an argument, I think,” you answer, wanting to shrink into the floor.

“What happened?” 

You fumble, there. “Can we…can you ask something else?” 

“Okay.” He nods. “I can ask Mor, if that would be easier?” Your lips part, glancing at him in surprise before your eyes flit away again. “I…we just bumped into each other after dinner, and she…she asked why I went to…” You trail off, shifting uneasily in your seat. 

“Did you tell her?” 

“We spoke about it…yes,” you hedge, peering into your lap. 

“That’s great,” he says, voice sounding softer than before, and you look at him hesitantly. “You should have mentioned that to start with. I can speak with her about it, when she comes round. If you come back tomorrow we can clear up anything left out. Will you be okay with that?” 

You nod, unable to do much else as you attempt to digest and process what’s happening. 

Please ask.

Hazel eyes glimmer faintly and his mouth softens, as if trying to show he’s proud with you for managing the conversation. “Was that fine for you?” He asks, watching you quietly while thousands of tiny eruptions occur beneath your skin. You manage a nod. 

He glances at the clock mounted on the dresser pushed against the far wall. “I think Feyre mentioned you’ve been seeing Madja around ten, haven’t you?” He asks, and again you manage a nod, not really thinking about the occurrences. 

Please don’t leave it here. 

“She’s been keeping an eye on me, yes. Making sure everything’s working right.” Your voice is distant to your ears, feeling as though you’re being pulled back into your skull, watching from somewhere further away. 

Ask me. Please.

“Ah. Have they been okay for you?” He asks, and you nod your head. “Fine.” 

He nods. “Then I won’t keep you any longer.” 

You stare at him through the surreal moment. 

Show me you care. Even a little bit. 

But he doesn’t, so you stand, watching distantly as your skirts swish over the floor, and you turn to leave, feet carrying you to the door, obeying the dismissal. Heart feeling as though it’s being squeezed. A heavy pressure crushing down on your chest. It’s only when you reach the threshold that you pause, something making it impossible to leave without…

You turn. 

“Is it a deliberate choice?” You ask, voice shaking, hands curling in your skirts. He looks at you patiently, waiting for you to elaborate. “Are you—… Are you choosing not to ask me why I want to die, or has the thought plainly not crossed your mind?” You try to hold his gaze, but your heart fumbles, and you look away before you can even count to two. A hot wetness drips down your cheek. 

“I hadn’t though you’d want to tell me,” he answers. 

“Why wouldn’t I?” You ask before you can think. “You were the only one who was there. Who saw how it happened. Why wouldn’t you be perfect to speak to?” 

He pauses, but you can’t bring yourself to be embarrassed over the vulnerable wording. “I don’t think you should make me the person you go to for that kind of solace,” he answers at last. “I don’t wish to give you reason to believe me the best choice for that.” 

“Who else?” You ask, staring at him. “Who else can I go to?” 

“Your sisters will always be there. I’m sure they want you to go to them. So don’t share with me that part of yourself. They’re the ones who have been there for you.” 

“How can I expect them to understand? They weren’t there.” 

“And you think that I’ll understand? That I do understand?” 

“Yes.” 

He shakes his head; is the first one to look away. “You can’t expect them to know what you feel if you haven’t even tried speaking with them about it. You’re cutting them off before you’ve even given them a chance.” Hurt aches across your chest—you want to speak with him. Want more than anything to have that shared moment between the both of you. 

You open your mouth, but he looks at you again, beating you to it. “Speak with them first,” he says firmly, his features set. “If you try honestly speaking with them, giving them the chance to look after you…and if that doesn’t work, if you feel they haven’t understood you as you need them to,” he continues, making it impossible for you to look away from him, caught up in the connection. “Then I will speak with you. You may tell me about whatever you like, what you’re reading; how your day was; anything that has taken or caught your interest, be it from the Night Court, the Autumn Court, or anywhere else in our realm. But give them a chance first.” 

Your jaw is trembling lightly, a delicate heat simmering in your flesh as a cool sweat slides down your spine, overwhelmed and quietly trying to keep up. 

Again you open your mouth, but again he speaks before you do. “And I know you’ll instinctively want to speak with Elain, but you always pick her first. Nesta has been through what you are going through, or at least something similar,” he says, watching you with an expression you can only call imploring. “Speak with her.” 

You’re too stunned to reply, left staring at him silently. 

It’s probably the most you’ve heard him say. The most the two of you have spoken so intently without the conversation taking a sharp plummet. 

You barely manage a nod of your head before you acquiesce, then you’re turning from him, carefully bringing the door to a close, heading for your room while the conversation circles through your mind. 

————

Slim, pale fingers latch through the delicate ceramic of the teacup’s handle, thin and elegant, easily broken with an application of force, requiring careful handling. It’s a temptation Feyre resists every time she picks one up, refusing the urge to press her fingers together and snap the thin bone-like curve. How many things had she accidentally shattered after first turning? How many spoons had she inadvertently bent? 

She supposes it doesn’t matter now, but the urge is still there, stronger than usual. 

The two females are sat in the parlour, a fine silver tray perched between them on a dark-wood table with ornate swirls carved into its edges and swirling up its legs. A few pastries sit untouched on a finely decorated plate, a carafe of cool cream at the edge, three flavours of jam contained to glass pots that fit nicely to the dip of one’s palm. The sugar pot remains undisturbed upon the tray, its short, golden shovel tucked deep within the sweetened grains, nestled beneath and awaiting use. 

“Were you aware of it?” Feyre asks, raising the teacup to her lips, basking in the wet heat that’s rising from the steamy liquid. Across from her, Mor is cupping her own drink, heated and steaming like Feyre’s, idly swirling the thin spoon to stir in the milk. 

“No,” Mor answers honestly, gazing down at the swirl of her tea, clasped between her hands. Red nails squeaking faintly across the porcelain. 

“You had no right to tell her any of that,” Feyre says quietly, watching her friend from over the rim of her cup, before glancing down, and taking a sip, testing out the heat. Too hot. She takes another sip, feeling the tingling singe of pain as the scalding liquid trickles down. 

“I know,” Mor agrees, also looking at her tea. “I didn’t mean to.” 

“Didn’t you?” 

Blue-grey eyes are watching keenly, a sharp wildness glinting just at their edge, one that’s been surfacing more and more as of late. Everything seems to have such unfortunate timing. A damn filling up to its maximum capacity, before breaking. Mor meets her High Lady’s gaze steadily, unwavering. “I didn’t.” 

The connection remains unfaltering, each not wanting to look away, one for the sake of appearing mistrustful, and the other for the sake of appearing too forgiving. 

“What do you think it is?” Feyre asks at last, and the two mutually avert their eyes. 

“I don’t know,” Mor answers quietly. “It doesn’t feel good, though.” 

Feyre sends a sharp glare in Mor’s direction, but her red lips purse. “You felt it, too,” Mor points out. 

“Briefly.” 

“And it set you on edge, too.” 

“I also only came into contact with magic a few years ago. Don’t give me excuses.” 

“I’m telling you the truth,” Mor grits out, raising amber eyes from her pale mug. “I hardly noticed it  having an affect until you appeared.” 

“Because you were too caught up in all the emotions you wanted to unload onto my sister.”

“I’m not trying to make you pick sides,” Mor says carefully. 

“Good. Then don’t.” 

“You know it’s a tender wound,” she whispers, lowering her mug. “It shouldn’t have come out like it did, but it hurts.”

“You know what else hurts, Mor?” 

The rest of that sentence lies unspoken between them. 

Feyre knows she’s being unfair, that she clearly is picking a side. But she’s speaking as Mor’s friend, and also a sister. Not as High Lady. 

Mor once again raises her eyes to Feyre’s blue-grey set, putting every ounce of sincerity, and truth she can find within herself behind her amber eyes. “I wasn’t myself,” Mor whispers, fingers paling from their grip on the cup. “I don’t know what happens with her magic, but it’s influential, even on me.” 

“You want me to let this slide, then?” Feyre questions, her jaw set but there’s an obvious conflict in her eyes. Neither of them are enjoying this fallout. 

“No,” Mor concedes, looking away. “My actions are my own, and I agree I went too far. But you felt it, too. You know what I’m talking about, Feyre.” The two females share a look. “Madja’s going to be here to check up on her soon, isn’t she?” Mor asks, earnestly. 

“Every day, at ten o’clock.” 

“Ask her to give her own opinion. What it feels like,” Mor urges. “I know my anger, I know how I hurt, and I don’t lose myself like that.” 

Feyre’s lips are pursed, her brow pinched. Fatigue lines beneath her eyes, the stress of a newborn unavoidable, even with all the support being offered. It’s not easy for her. For anyone. 

Not easy to deal with everything else, either. Not to mention a sister who apparently wants to die, on top of all that.

There’s so much to think about…it’s inevitable a mistake will be made. 

“I’ll mention it to Madja.” Feyre relents, drinking deeply from her tea, savouring the hot liquid on her tongue. “Maybe she can offer some insight to what’s going on.” 

Insight. If only it were available for the mountain pile of other problems plaguing their lives. That might crumble into an avalanche, if they aren’t careful. 

————

“It’s good to see you again,” Madja greets, her round face smiling as she enters your chambers. “How have you been?” 

You manage a reciprocating smile, hands tucking together in your lap as you shift on the bed. “I’m good, for the most part anyway.” 

“For the most part?” She questions, taking a seat, and you toe off your slippers to settle properly against the pillows. “I…my magic flared up a little yesterday,” you admit, glancing at your toughened, flaky skin. “It didn’t hurt like it usually does; I hardly felt it. Though I was a little carried away…” 

Madja nods gently. “Yes, Feyre mentioned something about that.” You look up at the healer with raised brows. “…she did?” 

“She requested I look into it, if I could; it’s something I would like to discuss with you, before we start with the checkup,” she tells you clearly, that gentle look in her eyes that helps keep you at ease. 

Your tongue flicks over your lips, but you agree. 

“Your sister spoke of your magic feeling deathly,” Madja begins. “I’d like to see if there are any abnormalities that appear while it is in use—if you think you can manage that?” 

“You’d like me to… You want me to intentionally use it?” You question, a hint of fear creeping into your voice. “I don’t know…I…” 

“If you’re worried about it getting out of control, or that you might injure me, I will remind you that I am a healer,” she says solemnly. “And if you are still concerned, I can tell you that your sister and I agreed it might be better if the High Lord were present, should anything get out of hand. He is available should you wish for that reassurance.” 

Something sinks in your chest—you’d forgotten Madja is their healer, that she is theirs more than  she is yours. She’s just doing her job. 

“I…I should be able to do it on my own,” you hedge, looking at your palms. Nobody else can see how ugly your skin is. Your sisters…Madja…technically Azriel too, though he hasn’t seen it now that it’s crawled up your arms…you don’t want to have that humiliation with anyone else than you must. “If that’s okay with you?” You check, looking at her. 

Madja smiles, nodding her head. “That is fine by me. Whenever you’re ready.” 

Teeth worry the interior of your lip, but you splay your hands out, palms tipped upward as you recall their tingle, gathering what you can remember and bringing it to the tips of your fingers. There’s no more than a slight itch beneath your skin. 

It comes easier to you that it has done before, and you can’t help the breath of ease that slips into your lungs. Before it had felt stunted, like it was trying to squeeze a full, fleshy body through a windowpane of jagged glass, slicing itself as it attempted to crawl out. But now… “There’s no pain…” 

You stare down at the faint green glow, the golden shine at the edge of your skin. You could simply push, and— The light brightens, filling your flesh and shining from your knuckles, hands encompassed in the strong light. 

Madja opens her hands, fingers splayed as she approaches you gently, before you feel a slight company. Something else joining you. You try to push toward it, in the direction of her magic so she can examine it better, like you do when offering your hands, shifting yourself so she can better access them. 

Madja nods, and you let the magic recede back into your body, curling itself up into a peaceful rest. “I’m going to check your torso now, please hold still.” Her hands open over your body, palm settling firmly over your rib cage, that tingling warmth sinking into your skin. Her brows narrow. “You’re going to feel a brief surge of heat…” she murmurs, eyes closed in concentration. 

Sure enough, there’s a small spike in temperature, and a slight sting in the aftermath but it fades swiftly enough. Her palms inch over a bit, slowly making their way across your stomach, fingertips still faintly hot with power as she continues with the checkup. You keep yourself as relaxed as possible but your heart is beating faster than usual at the discovery.

“Another quick surge,” she murmurs, and you nod despite her eyes being closed. You feel a small ball of tension popping along with a careful, targeted burst of heat. You ease a full breath into your lungs. 

Her brows furrow as she settles her palms over the base of your sternum. “Will you activate your magic again?” She requests, voice faint while she concentrates. You do as she says, unspooling it again, and the heat of her palms intensifies in response to your own. “Can you bring it into your body? Away from your hands?” She asks, and your brows furrow. You’ve never tried to manipulate its centre before…but you can try now. 

Your eyes flutter shut, easing back incrementally into the bed, allowing the power to prickle up your arms, crawling between the bones, wrapping around your shoulders…the two of you recoil at the same time, though you flinch from the sting of pain that splits down your spine; lacerating across your chest; through your lungs, while Madja’s retreat is from shock. The corners of her mouth are slack. Her eyes dark. 

“I’m sorry,” you say frantically, trying to sit upright, “I didn’t mean— Are you okay? Did it get you?” 

Madja looks at your torso, then at her hands. Then she’s settling her palms back atop your ribs. “Will you repeat that?” 

You pause, looking at her as she gently guides you to lay back in the bed. “Madja…I’m not sure…are you okay?” 

“I’m very well,” she replies with a smile, voice as soft and smooth as it usually is. Carefully curated to put you at ease. “I saw something that I should examine in more detail, if that’s possible. Will you repeat it?” 

You look at her, lost. Concerned. Helpless. You swallow. “Okay…” 

Your lids slide shut, and you reach for the power again, feeling as Madja’s warmth begins seeping into your torso, filtering through your vessel as heat begins rising in a steeper intensity to your surface, as if being called to one place by her magic. Again, you own power sprawls itself across your palms, dragging itself higher, slinking between bone and muscle, threading itself through sinew and cartilage until it reaches your shoulders, and…

“Try and hold it steady,” Madja tells you, the heat from her hands amplifying at the peak, just as you power curls itself to strike down from your shoulders. 

Your throat shuts, eyes squeezed closed as you attempt to grapple with it, hands balled into fists as perspiration breaks on your brow. Trying to keep it from lashing at your internals, causing that familiar, piercing pain. 

“I want you to try pushing it back to your hands now,” she instructs, but you’re struggling enough as it is. Barely keeping it contained. You need to breathe. 

Madja releases her magic over your torso, and the weight of your power increases, your body straining beneath the tension when she removes that blanket that had been between you and this blazing magic. But then both her hands are firmly gripping your own, and you can feel as it filters through you, prying the pain away, dragging it back down into your forearms, then your palms, and eventually your fingertips, until it’s dissipated entirely. 

You inhale heavily, breathing ragged as you try to calm yourself. “What…what was that…?” 

Madja’s quiet, thumbs stroking carefully over your knuckles, keeping her magic to a faint pulse so she doesn’t upset your skin. “Will you breathe with me?” She asks. “Deep breath in…hold…one, two, three…slowly exhale…” She makes you repeat the process thrice before deeming your pulse to be relatively calmed. She offers you the glass of water that’s always sat by your bed, never draining, and you take a few sips to appease her, then a few more. A couple of small gulps, before handing it back to her. 

You lick your lips, finding them hot and crisp. 

She looks at you solemnly. “I would like to ask you a few questions about your magic, if you feel right enough to manage,” she tells you calmly. “I would like you to answer with as much clarity as you can. It’s imperative you’re truthful and don’t hide anything. Are you alright with that?” 

You stare at her, bewildered—where has this come from? Is it serious? Are you going to die? Is it going to be painful? Will you know when it happens? Or will you have no warning. Is it happening now? About to?

You inhale sharply, deeply, breaking out of those thoughts. Exhaling heavily, before managing to nod. 

“How long have you known you’ve had magic?” Madja starts with. 

“…I think maybe two months? I can’t remember exactly how long ago it was that I first realised what was happening…” 

“Perfect. And can you tell me what made you first realise you had magic?” 

“I think it was when…I had an altercation with someone, and felt upset and angry. My hands were glowing.” 

“Great. I believe you’ve mentioned a feeling that accompanies your magic?” 

“Yes. …It used to hurt a lot, but recently hasn’t? The past few times, at least. Not while it’s been in my hands, anyway.” 

“Lovely, you’re doing well,” she smiles. “You sister mentioned a deathly feeling to those around you, have you ever noticed that?” 

“No. No, not a deathly feeling. I had no idea it felt like that for other people.” 

“Okay, can you tell me how it feels for you?” 

“It’s…it used to be like burning? My fingers and hands would hurt a lot. They would sweat, and I would feel dizzy some nights…I used to get up to drown my hands in water, when it started.” 

Madja nods, her brows furrowed faintly as she listens carefully—believing you. Your heart tightens, and you avert your gaze. 

“And all of that has been happening over the past two months or so?” She inquires. 

“Well, no…I…” you pause, trying to grapple with your memory, get it into a coherent, linear form. “I’ve…I experienced the sweats, and nausea, and dizziness a lot when I first…after the…when we came to Prythian,” you answer. Madja nods her head encouragingly, and you wet your lips. “Sleeping was difficult, and it lasted for a few months before I could be normal again…I think we each had our own…moments, after the Cauldron.” 

“But you didn’t experience any feelings similar to what you now know is your magic?” She asks, offering you the full glass of water, that you sip from again. Hand it back. “No. Those have only been in the past couple of months.” 

Madja pauses in thought, her round face tightened as she thinks, though she doesn’t look unkind, or stern. She still looks like Madja. Then she looks up again, her warm brown eyes softened, an intent look on her face. “And how have you been feeling?” 

“Me? I...” You trail off, unsure how to answer. “I’ve…been reading a lot…?” 

She smiles, “that’s lovely, but I mean how have you been feeling internally?” 

Her lips twitch when your brows furrow in question, looking at her strangely. “You’ve been telling me about your physical senses, tell me about how you’ve been feeling these past few months. I can imagine it might be scary to go through this?” 

“Oh…I suppose…” 

“You sound unsure,” Madja speculates, “do you not feel fear is an accurate descriptor?” 

“I mean, I’ve been scared when it happens, naturally. It hurts, and I don’t know what causes it, or how long it will last, so I suppose in those moments it is scary.”

“But the rest of the time?” Madja prompts. “I understand you were staying up in the House of Wind, by yourself for the most part. Do you like being alone?” 

“I guess I do,” you hedge, “I don’t…there wasn’t really anywhere else to go. And I liked having my own space up there, so I think it worked well. Plus I could access the libraries, so I enjoyed that part a lot.” 

“You’re a big reader,” she smiles, nodding her head. “What do you like to read?” 

“Mostly whatever I can find, but I like the books that tell me more about the world. There’s a lot of information I never would have gotten access to as a human, like the different climates in each of the courts, some small accounts of what it’s like overseas, where the food we eat comes from too which I find particularly intriguing. The plants and flowers are engaging too—you can see correlations between the flora and fauna distinct to each court and the characteristics they each exhibit, which I find fascinating.” 

Madja’s smile broadens as she nods her head, eyes twinkling. “I remember first learning about their benefits, how different plants have certain properties too. Often plants endemic to the Dawn Court are the most potent, and it’s where we import a lot of the ingredients for medicine from.” 

“Yes! I remember reading about that! But that sometimes the riversides and shores struggle with overgrowth, and measures are made to make sure seeds don’t spread too far. I remember reading too about the animals there—that a lot of them seem more jovial, compared to their relations in other courts.” 

Madja’s smiling so wide you can see her teeth, one of her canines is slightly twisted inward, and the teeth on her lower jaw are a little crooked in places. You can’t see anything wrong with them—they’re just hers. 

“And who else do you tell all of this?” She asks, “I imagine you would have read a lot over the course of your time here so far, who do you share all of it with?” 

“I don’t…really,” you say, trailing off. “I don’t mind though. I love reading.” 

“Elain enjoys botany too, doesn’t she?” 

“Yes, but to the extent that she can have, I suppose. She has a garden that she keeps alive, and she bakes, too. They’re similar interests but they ultimately lead in different directions.” 

“So you don’t speak with anyone about what you enjoy?” Madja asks, and you blink, fumbling a little. 

“I…I choose not to, so it’s fine,” you assure. “I like reading. And I speak with Azriel about…” You wet your lips, voice fading. “I mean when I was up in the House of Wind…we spoke a lot more.” 

Madja’s watching you quietly, listening to what you have to say. It feels like she’s expecting you to continue, and you don’t want it to be quiet, for the conversation to halt its flow, so you think of something to say. “We spoke a lot more…back then…” 

“Has something changed?” She asks. 

You look down into your lap, feeling a little far off. Distant. Not entirely present. 

“I like his company…” you say vaguely, “but he’s busy, and hardworking. …and I don’t think he…” Your lips curl at the edges like dried leaves tend to beneath the sun, then they seal together. “I think he finds me a bother, at times.” 

Madja’s quiet, but you can’t bring yourself to continue. Silence falls. 

“Can you tell me how long you’ve been feeling that way?” She asks gently, allowing pause for you to recollect yourself, should you wish. “I think a few months,” you murmur. 

“And can you tell me why you think he finds you bothersome?” Madja asks. 

Your lips part by a fraction, a small gap opening between the centre of your upper and lower lip, then you’re closing them again. “I…I make bad choices, quite a lot,” you answer quietly. “And I…I don’t make it easy to be around.”

“I think your company is lovely,” Madja says softly, palm resettling over your hand, drawing your attention back outward. “What makes you think you’re difficult to be around?” 

You open your mouth to give your answer, but your throat tightens sharply, lips forcefully being dragged down in the corners, and you crumple back into the bed. “I am,” you insist, eyes growing hot, then squeezing shut when they blur. “I don’t know how…I don’t know how to be normal around him. I feel like every time we speak I make it so obvious…and he doesn’t like it…and I just…” 

You pull your hands away from hers to try and hide your face, to push the tears away as they fall heavily. “I wish I hadn’t tried to tell him what I…how I felt for him. I never should have…”

“Does how you’re feeling right now have any reason to do with why I was tasked with looking after you?” Madja asks, voice softened to a tender effect, and you could weep from how believable she sounds. 

“He finds me a nuisance,” you whisper, hot tears dripping down your lowered face, letting them roll down your cheeks to collect at the underside of your jaw, before falling heavily into the crisp linen of the sheets. “I’m always causing him trouble of some kind. All of them.”

Heat wells behind your eyes, wishing you could go back and reorganise events so things wouldn’t have ended up like this. So you wouldn’t have caused him so much trouble, and given him reason to further distrust you. At least before he trusted you enough to give reliable recollections of your sister. If only you could go back to then. 

You could at least have a use. 

Madja’s thumb gently swipes across your knuckles, magic softly seeping from her fingertips. “You’re not a nuisance,” she replies solemnly. “You are not causing them trouble.”

You stare at her with a down-tilted mouth, and tears overflow from your lashes, dripping down your cheeks as your brows bunch, heart aching in your chest as small sobs break through your lungs. “I am,” you cry, head hanging as you try to inhale, but your body takes control of itself when it’s sad, and it’s not giving you chance to breathe. Madja, I am.

“Is this how you’ve been feeling these past few months?” She murmurs, stroking your palm, a hand at your shoulder as you curl your knees up to your chest, pulling them from beneath the duvet. You nod. 

“I thought it might be something like this,” Madja sighs, making you look up questioningly, pushing at the tears so you can better see her. She takes both your hands in her own, and looks into your eyes. “There’s no quick fix to matters of the heart. The way you’re feeling right now, the way you’ve felt in the past, and the lows you’ll experience in the future—I can do very little right now to give ends to those. But what’s going on with your magic, within your body—that we can work on. We can start somewhere familiar, and take steps from there. How does that sound?” 

But despite her good words, you shake your head. “I can’t, Madja,” you whisper. “I don’t want to.” 

“Sometimes you have to,” she says, squeezing your hands. “Do you believe I have any reason to lie to you?” 

You shake your head. 

“Then have faith that I’m telling you the truth: you are not troubling them.”

You watch her, a pained look in your eyes. “I can’t believe that.” 

“Why not?”

“Because, Madja,” you cry. “It doesn’t matter what you say, or what anyone else says. I am convinced. I know it like you know a bone will break under pressure, or that adding sugar to a tea will sweeten it. How I feel is not temporary, or fleeting, it is ceaseless and pervasive; it’s not something you can simply disprove like that—please don’t try to.”

“But in the same way I know a bone will snap with too much force, I know you are not as bad as you think you are.”

“Please, Madja,” you whisper. “If you can’t help me, do me the courtesy of believing me.”

The healer is silent, gripping your hands with her own warm palms, squeezing them gently but firm.  “I do believe you,” she says with conviction. “I believe you because I have seen what you are going through, and I know how you’re feeling is as real as a broken bone, or sweetened tea. But the bone will heal, and the tea will cool—can we both agree on that?” 

You cast your head down, eyes falling to your lap. “I chose poor analogies.” 

Madja thumbs across your knuckles. You can hear the almost sad smile in her voice. “Then I’ll return tomorrow and you can tell me what you’ve come up with.”

———

Outside, the wind bites at your throat, stinging at your nostrils with each inhale, burning on the way out. 

You clasp the scarf tighter around your neck, shoving your hands under your arms as you make the walk down the streets, careful to watch for ice on the cobbles. Winter is a while off yet, but the nights are becoming frigid enough for you to keep an eye out, particularly as the sun hasn’t yet gotten to her point in the sky where she could thaw any frost out. 

Before midday you find blues and purples lurking in the shadows, greens and yellows splashing where the sun spills across the exterior of coloured houses, shop windows shining viciously where the light is hitting just at the right angle to temporarily blind and disorientate. Though an upside of Prythian is the magic that’s infused into the land, sustaining special plants that thrive in this environment: frost lilies that bloom in the coldest months, taking their water from the dew that freezes on their petals over night; moon drops that have a pale, hanging outer shell of short petals that shrivel up and die if faced with an overdose of pure sunlight; the pale pink sprawl of the lengthened, stretching leaves that creep up from the earth between houses and cobble, settling narrow, capillary-like veins spreading across whatever they can cling onto. 

The long walk is enjoyable, despite the intrusive and unpleasant cold. Enough to look at, study, and recognise, to preoccupy your mind from the chill nipping at your skin, even beneath the gloves. By the time you reach the house however, your body is freer flowing, less stiff and disjointed though your extremities remain a little on the numb side, fingertips tingling faintly, and you have to remember to keep wiggling your toes in your shoes. But you’re warm enough you’ll be happy to discard the scarf once you’re inside—if she’s inside. 

Looking where the shadows lie, you would think it’s an hour or so from midday, so Nesta should be in… As far as you know for certain, training is the only activity that might be an obstacle, but that should surely be done by now.

Their house is a relatively new build, but finished enough for them to have moved into soon after their mating ceremony. While remaining naturally a little barren from its short-lived existence, there’re obvious touches already emerging in the patterns and style they’ve opted for, selecting things that catch their eye, taking time to build a home rather than to rush it in a year. 

A window of stained glass sits in a half-circle atop the wooden door, the panels that make up the imagery mostly clear. Dimples ripple in the crystal clear frames, while the neat cuts of coloured glass are smooth and flat, showing off the sprawling petals of a tuft of milk flowers—you realise with vague surprise milk flowers are endemic to the Night Court, but perhaps more interestingly are mostly found in Illyria. Exclusively found, rather. They’re rare, and symbols of endurance, due to the unforgiving and brutal environment they live in, remaining a small beauty amongst the barren rock of mountain. Compared to the wealth of information available on other plants, there’s little recorded about milk flowers, likely due to their habitat up in the Illyrian Steppes. 

You wonder if it’s a subtle way to hold onto Cassian’s history, without brutalising their home with architecture particular to the Illyrians: exhibiting traits expressed as sturdy and practical—an antithesis of that aspiration caught in the elegance of the stained glass. 

Maybe that’s a bit of Nesta’s humour bleeding through. 

You land three knocks to their door, starting with a hard strike to the wood with your knuckles then a sharp decrease in force when pain bleeds through your carpals, the final knock hardly louder than a soft tap, all but giving out entirely. You cradle your hands beneath your arms, regretting the bout of recklessness. 

No noise comes from inside, so you’re startled when the door opens, sharp hazel eyes peering at you from within the relative darkness, watching for a second before the door opens wider and a broad smile breaks across his face. “Well aren’t you far from home,” Cassian chuckles, shoulder keeping the entrance open, “what are you doing all the way out here? On a mission?” 

You swallow, managing a smile, understanding he’s joking but too drained to be believably reciprocative. “Somewhat,” you reply, trying to sound humorous, “is Nesta in, too?” 

“I should have known you’d be here to visit her,” Cassian remarks, sighing into the frame before gesturing for you to come inside. “Come in, I’ll go pull her from her reading.” 

You give an appreciative nod before following in behind him, catching the door as it closes with an oomf, surprised by its heavy weight, knocking you back a step. You gingerly step inside, crouching down to untie the laces of your boots, freeing your socked feet as you push the shoes to the rack before again standing, peering about the entrance hall. The walls are pale, having not yet been painted with whatever colour or wallpaper they’ll eventually settle on. From around the corner you can make out the faint pad of footfalls, and Nesta appears a few seconds later, sharp eyes finding you instantly. She greets you. Asks you why you came. 

You fumble. How does one begin a conversation like this?

“I…haven’t visited in a while,” you end up telling her. “I thought I might come by—if you aren’t busy? It’s not urgent,” you quickly add.

“I’ve nothing planned,” she replies, glancing to where the light is falling on the floor. “It’s a little early for lunch, but I suppose we can begin.” 

“Oh, it’s fine,” you assure, “I don’t think it’ll take long.”

“What will take long?” 

“Nothing,” you affix, blinking once. 

Nesta hums, then turns in the hallway. “Then we can go to the sitting room. It’s still lacking some furniture here and there, just so you know.”  

You nod, forgetting she can’t see you with your head turned, then follow after her as she makes her way down the hallway and to the right, entering through an empty doorway that leads to the living room. She takes a seat in a chair with a dipped pillow, guessing it was where she’d been before you interrupted. You take a seat adjacent. 

Ataraxia lays upon the table like a discarded shopping list, except much bigger, and much deadlier. 

“So,” Nesta muses, “what did you want to speak with me about?” 

——————————————————————————————————————————————

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[spaghettixdemon]

J Stands for more words than one PT.1

“While introducing his new girlfriend to the team, JJ is automatically confronted with her feelings for Spencer when they begin to get in the way of things"

DISCLAIMER You are responsible for the content you consume. Make sure to read all necessary warnings. Minors do not interact. Please remember this is a work of fiction; if you don’t like it, don’t read it.

Warnings: Drinking/Drunkenness, P in V, getting freaky in a car, fighting, slight mentions of death, Jealousy??

Pairing: Spencer Reid x F! Reader

Word Count: 1.3k

This was originally in my Google Doc but I seem to have lost access to it :( SO I am re-writing it! (I will definitely add more chapters bc omg this is long)

—————————————————————————————————

"Alright anndd finally done!" Emily turned to JJ, clapping her hands together and beaming. Today was a paperwork day, and everyone had been working until the late hours. "These reports are killing me...I've been on the same one the majority of the day..." JJ spoke to Emily with a sigh and a slight smirk playing on her lips. Yes, JJ had been stuck on the same case most of the day, but it wasn't just the amount of work, no. That wasn't the only reason her day was moving so slowly.

Right across from her desk, in perfect view, was Spencer Reid- their little resident genius. His legs were crossed in his office chair, his curly hair fell in front of his eyes, and his long, slender fingers traced down the written report, scanning every word and spreading it within seconds effortlessly. JJ had always been close with Spencer- because of their tight-knit team, their ages, and of course, the butterflies she would get around him. They were the two closets in age at the BAU, so maybe that was part of the reasoning behind her crush, but honestly, she just thought he was very attractive.

So earlier today, when Spencer was talking on his phone nonstop, JJ was confused. Spencer was not a fan of technology, thinking back on how it took Spencer literal years to finally sign up for an email address. So, whatever was keeping Spencer on speed dial on the other line clearly didn't bother him too much. JJ would sneak glances towards her coworker hourly, taking in his body language and how he seemed to be head over heels. He would fidget and spin in his office chair as someone talked to him, he had a faint blush on his cheeks, and a smile plastered on his face. In all actuality, she'd never seen Spencer look so dopey- maybe he truly was just happy right now, but the emotions on his face surprised her.

"Hey lover-boy, what's going on over here?" JJ shot her head down, burying her face in her work. It was Derek who popped the question already on JJ's mind. Derek crossed his arms and leaned against Spencer's desk as Spencer looked up at Derek. Rolling his eyes and hanging up the phone, Spencer set the phone down on his desk. "Was that a girl on the other end of the line? I don't think I've ever seen you so happy to pick up a call at work." Both men laughed as Spencer grew a little quiet, sheepishly shrugging. "I mean- yeah, actually, you're right for once." Spencer laughed as an expression of excitement and shock plastered onto Derek's. "Wow really?" He laughed, a little in disbelief "Congrats man! That's awesome!"

JJ watched as the two guys hugged and discussed Spencer's new girlfriend. Weirdly, JJ felt a pang in her chest of embarrassment...or more like frustration. Why? She wasn't sure. JJ could read anyone within minutes, but she could never read her own emotions that well.

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

Days had passed, and work was pretty much back to normal. Normal meaning JJ wasn't constantly hearing about Spencer's new girlfriend, who he adored so much. It was cute, yeah, and she did feel happy for the man and his newfound love, but it would get pretty repetitive after a while. Derek and Penelope, in particular, would not let up on the subject. It was cute when Penelope giggled and twirled her hair when asking about this girl, but the way Spencer would drop information on her so easily was frustrating.

Penelope beamed, ecstatic over all this new news. Then, looking at Derek, she gasped and clapped her hands together. "You should bring her here! We could all meet her it would be so nice..!" Spencer looked a little uneasy. The few times his relationship did start getting this serious, work would interfere and often kill the relationship. Though, Derek backed up Penelope and agreed it would be fun.

"I don't know guys...That might be a little intense..." JJ heard this and thought over the idea in her head. Meeting the girl Spencer was so enamored by might be interesting...to say the least. She looked up and smiled at the three talking. "No Spence you should totally bring her in! I want to meet this girl!" Spencer gave JJ a hesitant look, visibly thinking over the interaction in his head. He slowly smiled and rolled his eyes, looking at the three before him. "Ok Ok..I'll bring up the idea and if she's cool with it, I'll bring her here next Friday"

Penelope and Derek cheered while JJ sat there, smiling quietly. She clapped her hands together and sighed "Amazing! I can't wait".

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

The week that followed that conversation wasn't a pleasant one. The team had traveled out of state to work on a pretty gruesome case- Spencer, in particular, had a rough time during the case. He should be used to the horrible feelings that came with the job, but it was never really easy dealing with death so often.

The team had thankfully made it back to base Friday, and everyone was exhausted. They spent the day quietly filling out paperwork and trying to unwind as they worked into the early hours of the night. Around 7pm, Spencer got a call. JJ noticed this in particular because of how eager he was to answer the phone. A small smile appeared on his face, and the faint blush was back. He ran a hand through his hair and sighed, hanging up the call with a simple goodbye.

Spencer looked around at his friends as the smile on his face grew. "My Girlfriend is apparently downstairs in the lobby! ...I was thinking of bringing her up is everyone ok with that?" The office was suddenly filled with energy again, and everyone seemed to wake up. JJ in particular, shot her head up and looked at Spencer, a little shocked. She had completely forgotten this would be happening...She made eye contact with Spencer and looked a little hesitant as she spoke up. "um...yeah that would be great..!"

"Yes, PLEASE bring her up! I need some fun to distract me from all this work." Penelope popped her head out of her office as she spoke to Spencer. Spencer looked a little confused by what JJ had said but smiled and nodded anyway. He slowly made his way towards the elevator, a bit of pep in his step.

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

Everyone in the office had quickly wrapped up what they had been working on and made their way to the office cubicles to meet this girl Spencer was so into. Penelope pulled up a chair next to JJ and beamed. "Are you excited to meet her?" JJ...still felt very conflicted. Just earlier that week, when they had been solving the case, She was staying in the hotel room next to Spencer's. She thought about how she ran into him shirtless and wearing sweatpants. He apologized and made his way inside his room, but she felt so conflicted.

She wasn't upset that he was shirtless...definitely not...but something about getting caught off guard like that made her blush. She remembered the feeble nerd she used to work with. He was in his mid-twenties and looked so new to the BAU world. Now, the man she saw earlier that week and today was a bit different. He had toughened up more and was a bit more muscular- not to a Derek level, but he definitely wasn't feeble anymore.

"Something like that" JJ mumbled to Penelope, a faint blush on her face. Penelope was about to question JJ, just as an elevator 'dinging' noise saved her. Everyone's attention was on the elevator and who was inside.

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[lilacxquartz]

A SIGHT FOR SORE EYES

part 1 of 3 • mahito x reader

summary: following an accident that destroyed your vision, you begin to suspect that your boyfriend, your caretaker, was actually replaced by an imposter.

tags/themes: body horror, psychological horror, reader insert, disturbing themes, dead dove, dark

ao3 • masterlist • more series • part 2 >

1. Fade Away

The accident itself came out of nowhere.

All you could remember was the squeal of the tires and the slamming force that threw you forward against the dashboard. The glass around you held for maybe a second before it collapsed and fell like sharp, near lethal snow.

Soon after, darkness followed, but not the slow pull of sleep or even death, but quite literally something pitch black and devoid of colour that crept into your vision, or lack of.

Before you knew it, the world was taken away from you and as was your remaining hope.

Essentially, you were left unable to see.

At least maybe temporarily, or so the doctors had otherwise claimed, feeding you a false sense of promise that the light could one day return. Days, maybe weeks all blurred together in perpetual darkness otherwise, so it didn’t take too long for your hope to fade.

The recommendation was to wear eyepatches over your eyes, or rather, a dual patch to both protect your eyes as they heal as well to hopefully make the gradual return of vision not feel so overwhelming.

You hated the things if you were honest; the very feel of them resting atop your eyes only served as a mocking reminder of just how easy it was to ruin the course of your life within mere seconds.

Your boyfriend however, as sweet as he was, tried to see you through it all. His calm and kind voice was the only consistent thing throughout your entire experience. He was always there to guide you when you couldn’t find your way—telling you it was all going to be okay—even if that word no longer made sense to you.

What was it… to be okay anymore?

Everyday, you looked forward to his calming voice and his gentle touch, except for when you didn’t; at least not anymore.

It was a subtle shift in the air, but something had changed.

When he walked into the room, something about his presence felt off. He greeted you the same way that he did before and the sound of his voice was familiar enough, but there was a different quality to it. It wasn’t wrong, at least not exactly, but something about the way he spoke had suddenly felt unnatural.

The way he touched you felt slightly… off, too. His touches were usually light against your skin; yet whoever this was, seemed to apply an uncomfortable amount of weight against you.

The scent in the room, the scent of his cologne that he wore was the exact same, although it was certainly faint, as though stale.

Maybe you were just going insane…?

It wasn’t that unlikely, you supposed. The trauma was life altering enough and after being in a loop of total darkness for the last couple of weeks, it was highly probable that the very last strings of your sanity were finally on their last threads. This whole thing was disorienting enough, since you essentially lost what you knew as the entire world in just a matter of minutes, so maybe it was the case of your senses being elevated a little too much.

It was a possibility, right?

Your mind was probably to blame, playing sneaky and cruel little tricks on you and feeding into the exhausting paranoia of losing one of your most vital senses.

The feeling however still persisted deep down. It was a creeping unease that would sink to the depths of your stomach and bubble away into poorly digested yet festering doubt every time he would reunite with you.

His laughter, while soft and familiar, now carried a hollow tone. His breath felt somehow hotter, his words felt almost… rehearsed. Your heightened remaining senses be damned; you knew it in the core of your very being that you weren’t crazy for picking up on such things.

It was the way his footsteps walked down a methodical path on his way to be with you. or how he hesitated to say your name, instead calling you sickly sweet nicknames that he had otherwise never before in his life used on you.

It was strange, but the company of someone you supposedly had loved for the last five years, had become almost foreign to you.

At one point, you reached for his hand while lying down next to him in bed and your fingers grazed against his, only for you to pull back away in an instant. His soft palms were now calloused and you could feel strange sorts of sutures line up his wrist in brushing retaliation.

You continued to try and drill in the idea that this had to have been all in your head out of desperate delusion, hoping, praying even, that it was the fault of the darkness for twisting everything into something so vile.

But still, that nagging feeling persisted. It wasn’t fear clouding your judgement; it was an innate warning to trust your gut to understand that something was actually terribly wrong.

You didn’t dare question him however, because after all, this person—whoever he actually was—was the only one who had fed you, bathed you and cared for you. How could it not be him? You kept telling yourself that it had to be because you were otherwise stumped on all other plausible explanations.

Whoever it was that tucked themselves away next to you in bed and idly traced haunting patterns in your skin was not the person you once knew.

It was absolutely, without a doubt, someone else.

Someone pretending to be him.

~~~

The doctors had been cautiously optimistic concerning your recovery; a phone call with the person who had initially treated you had revealed that while the accident had been devastating, your future might not be in ruins just yet. With time and provided that you were correctly taking the medicine that your boyfriend had been giving you, you should actually begin to heal.

There were signs to look out for in your returning vision; flickers of light, passing shadows and the like. They warned you that it might at times seem alarming, but it was all positive; a sign of healing, if you were lucky enough.

And much to your delight, you started to indeed notice hints of your vision returning after a while. Exercised moments without the eye patches would reveal partial sight in the form of colourful blurring patches manifesting within your view. It was something so little yet so hopeful, but you couldn’t help but cling to the fleeting glimpses of colour that painted your vision with almost elated anticipation.

Anything but constant darkness.

If you could at least see colour, even if it wasn’t so clear, then suddenly the future wasn’t as bleak as before.

Yet, every time you thought you were getting better, the progress would soon slip away every time he visited.

Just like the initial shift, it all started subtly. The brief casted moments of light would be stolen from you the second that he left the apartment, leaving you behind in a suddenly plunged black void and whenever you would mention this in a call to the doctors, they were simply perplexed. According to them, if you were seeing positive changes in your vision, then it should be improving—not deteriorating.

They told you that they would arrange for your partner to pick up a changed strain for the medication, hoping that an adjustment to your treatment should guide you in the correct direction.

But try as you might, the pattern continued to repeat itself, again and again.

You would heal and then the lights would go out.

You could have sworn that it was his doing somehow, even if the assigned blame was insane in its own right. With every touch from his tainted fingertips, he would somehow weaken you despite being otherwise gentle. It was so odd, because it was like he eluded poison from every stroke against the contours of your flesh.

You soon grew to fear contact with him as a result; dreading any sort of contact with the impostor who claimed to be your lover, lest he would damage you again. It was as though every time his fingertips brushed against your skin, he changed something about you and with every recurring visit, it only got worse.

You kept trying to talk to him about it, hoping that his once warm personality would return and tell you that you were wrong about your assumptions but you never got such comfort.

Again and again, you would ask him something of the same sort of variation, “I’m getting worse, aren’t I?”

But there would be no comfort that followed.

“Don’t be silly,” he would often taunt, almost, his words always so playful as they flicked off of his tongue with hidden venom. “Why would you feel worse, huh? That’s so funny to me, because you shouldn’t. I’m taking such good care of you, silly. You should be feeling better.”

His voice was soft when he spoke too, like smooth dripping honey against your weary ears. “Maybe you’ve got it all wrong, even. You’re feeling worse from me not being around. Don’t worry though, I’ll keep you running, safe and sound.”

His words were now more erratic, almost playful. He no longer carried the same patterns that your partner once did with his speech. You wanted nothing more than to pull away from this monster—because that’s what he must have been—to escape from him, to scream at him to leave you alone because how dare he pretend to be someone you loved?

And yet you didn’t.

You couldn’t.

Instead, you did nothing, resigning yourself to just sitting there, laying there as he would continue to purr falsely planted reassurances into your ears with promises that you prayed that he would not keep.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere,” he would say, “I’ll be right here, always. Watching every last bit of you unravel—I mean heal. We’re in this together, right? I’ll stay with you until there’s nothing left—I mean, until you’re fixed right up.”

You could only sigh and endure, the ache behind your eyes getting gradually worse, as if something was pushing and pulling inside of your skull somehow; messing around internally, poking and prodding in places that should have remained untouched.

It didn’t take long for your body to feel wrong, like it wasn’t put together correctly anymore.

Like it didn’t belong to you anymore.

You could have sworn that your skull was contorting under your skin, slowly twisting and waning through whatever pressure his passing touch would apply.

Sometimes, late at night (or what you assumed to be night), you would lie awake and feel things moving inside of you; slowly, and deliberately—as though something was crawling beneath your flesh.

And all you could do was just sit there.

Broken, blind and waiting for the next visit.

For the next time that this thing wearing your boyfriend’s persona would return and wrap its hands around your body once again, uttering sweet little lies while tearing you apart from the inside.

“It’s all gonna be okay,” he would murmur or rather, mock, “I’m here for you, after all.”

But it wasn’t going to be okay.

That much you did know.

In fact, you had a very good idea that nothing was ever going to be okay ever again.

[stormz369]

☕💖 Can I Get Your Number? ☕💖 Ch 3

Jason Todd x Chubby! Reader (fem)

written with a female reader in mind, first person pov, no use of Y/N, fluffy, mild angst, will probably get NSFW later, let me know if there's anything else I should tag this with!

warnings: reader character dealing with anxiety from previous chapter (non-descriptive),hinted at trauma from fatphobia, hints of Jason's self esteem and body image issues, otherwise it's fluff central

word count: 2.2k (oops? 😅)

Chapter Selection

Ding!

I looked over at my phone, briefly considering not picking it up. When I got through my front door I had ripped my jeans off, suddenly hating everything touching me. I showered, scrubbing the night off until my skin was raw and tingling, and now I was curled up on my bed sheets, having a good cry. I didn't really want to talk to anyone right now…

Ding! Ding! … Ding!

God, whoever it was was insistent though … I sighed softly and picked it up, checking the messages:

Jason: Good morning! I am so sorry for the sudden disappearance - my phone broke on my way to visit my brother! 

3:15am

Jason: Just got back into town, so I've finally got the sim card in an old one for now.

3:17am

Jason: I feel bad, I owe you a week of good mornings! 😭

3:17am

Jason: And sorry for spamming you - I just didn't want you to think the worst for a second longer than necessary…

3:18am

I stared at the screen for a long while. Jason was back … just like Red Hood said. Huh… 

Me: Don't worry about it, shit happens!

3:40am

Jason: … What are you still doing up? 

3:41am

I briefly considered telling him everything. Maybe it would feel good to tell someone … or maybe it would feel even worse. We didn't really know each other yet, who knew how he would react? Nausea gripped my stomach and I shook my head, taking a few deep breaths before replying.

Me: Just got home is all. Picked up a late shift tonight.

3:50am

Jason: That's a hell of a late shift, that must have sucked!

3:52am

Me: … Yeah, honestly it wasn't great… 😔

3:53am

Jason: What are you doing tomorrow?

3:54am

Me: Nothing in particular, y?

3:56am

Jason: That settles it then! No more excuses, come hell or high water I will see you tomorrow!

3:56am

I stared at the screen, not sure how to feel about that idea. I did want to see him again, but I also really just wanted to sleep for 48 hours straight…

Jason: Seriously, name a time and place. We'll do anything you want! 😁

3:59am

Me: You don't have to do that, Jason - you just got back! Don't you need to work?

4:00am

Jason: Nope! We came back a day early, so I am all yours!

4:02am

Me: … All mine, huh? 😏

4:05am

Jason: 100%! Anything you want, name it!

4:06am

Me: … Gotham City Mall, meet in front of the bookstore at … say 4?

4:08am

Jason: Perfect, see you in 12 hours! Good night

4:08am

Me: Good night Jason

4:09am

I was exhausted, but couldn't seem to sleep. I was still coming down from the anxiety and adrenaline from being attacked, and now I was also nervous and tentatively excited about seeing Jason. This was the step that usually proved someone was playing games with me. I sighed softly, sliding a hand down my soft tummy. I didn't mind the way I was shaped, but other people sure had a way of making it seem like the end of the world… I silently begged the universe; let this one be good. No more games, let it be real this time…

When I finally did sleep, my dreams were filled with red. Blood all over the pavement, staining everything. Red chrome staring me down as I cried. Large hands, so gentle against my cheeks, pulling me against a warm, broad chest…

I woke with a start and peered over at my discarded clothes in a heap from the night before. Red Hood's flannel peaked out from under my ruined pants, taunting me; I was about to go on a date and I was dreaming about another man? A man I was surely never going to see again no less? That's real healthy, well done Brain.

I stepped over the clothes on the floor, not wanting to deal with the mess left over from last night, and selected a cute but comfortable outfit. I ate a quick breakfast, spent longer than I'd care to admit on my hair and makeup, and headed downstairs to catch the bus to the mall.

My anxiety grew as I approached the front doors. It’s a trick, it must be a trick. The cold air conditioning hit me in the face, a welcome respite from the summer heat, and I made my way toward the bookstore. He's a hottie, and really sweet. Or at least knows how to play sweet. He's definitely not actually interested. I could see the sign for the bookstore on the other side of the mall. And he's a Wayne too! What could a Wayne want with me?? … Oh god, I threatened them, didn't I? I told the little one I'd stab them if they came back to the table. Why did I say that???

I blinked a bit, pausing. That was him, leaned against the wall right next to the bookstore. He had actually shown up. I watched him scroll on his phone for a minute before looking up and scanning the crowd. When his eyes landed on me I continued walking toward him. He pocketed his phone, kicked off the wall, and walked over to meet me, a little grin lighting up his face.

“You're actually here…” the words left my mouth before I could reconsider, my disbelief apparent in my tone. Jason looked a bit confused at that, awkwardly rubbing the back of his head.

“Well, yeah? … You said 4, right?”

“Sorry! Yes, I said 4. I just … I honestly wasn't sure this was … real…”

“Why wouldn't it be real?”

I blushed a bit, clearing my throat slightly; “n- never mind! Sorry, I had a weird week; my brain hasn't fully caught up.”

He nodded a little, smiling gently. “Well, I hope it's getting better at least.”

I nodded. “Yeah, it is. Thanks. … So, what should we do?”

“Like I said last night; anything you want.”

“Well, … we're right here, do you want to start at the bookstore?”

He nodded and fell into step beside me, smiling gently. I could feel his eyes on me as I walked into the store, browsing the aisles. It was odd how comfortable this was; he was a good half foot taller than me, and at least 200 pounds of pure muscle. If his arms and cheek were any gauge he was absolutely covered in old scars, and he had a bandage on one forearm so whatever gave him the scars probably wasn't confined to the past.

I should be terrified - everything about my upbringing told me this was a dangerous situation to be in. But when I saw the look in his eyes, like I was the most interesting thing in the world, all of my self-defense training fell out of my head. The voices urging me to get to safety quieted, all my instincts stilled, and there was peace. His eyes were so beautiful… 

“... Is there something on my face?” He blushed a bit, chuckling awkwardly.

I blinked, looking away. “Sorry! I wasn't staring, I just …”

“... Did you want to ask about this?” he pointed to the scar on his cheek.

“Huh? No! I have a policy of not asking people about stuff like that; you'll tell me or not on your own time. No, I just … I like your eyes is all …’’ I blushed brightly, staring at but not reading the back cover of a book.

“... My eyes?” I nodded, still pretending to read the back cover. “... You're really not going to ask about my scars?”

“Unless you want to talk about them, it's not any of my business.”

“... You're a very unusual girl.”

“Because I'm not going to pry about something you may or may not want to talk about, particularly on a first date?”

“Well, they're usually the first thing anyone wants to talk to me about. If they don't avoid me in the first place…”

I frowned a bit at that. If we met under any other circumstances, I would have taken one look at him and ducked my head to avoid an interaction. “... People suck…”

“It's not their fault; I'm intimidating…” I cautiously looked over at him. He was also staring at a book cover, a pensive little frown on his face.

“... I don't think you're intimidating.”

His eyes darted over and back to the book, and the corner of his mouth curled up ever so slightly. “... Thanks.”

I nodded, setting the book down. “.... So …”

“So? …”

“... Play a game?”

He chuckled, looking over at me. “A game?”

I nodded. “You tell me some of your favorite things in books, I'll tell you some of mine. We separate, select a few of our favorites that the other might like, and reconvene.”

“Alright. Is there a way to win this game?”

“Well I assume we'll each pick at least one book the other hasn't read, so we'll get to make each other read at least one of our favorites. That sounds like a win to me.”

He chuckled. “Alright. Meet back up at those comfy chairs in the back?”

I nodded, telling him some of my favorite tropes, genres, and settings. He did the same, and we darted in opposite directions. He beat me back there, but I eventually approached with a small stack, falling into the seat next to him.

He gestured toward my books; “ladies first.”

I tucked my feet under me, passing him each book in turn and making a case for it. He took each one, read the back cover, and listened intently. He had read one of them, and I figured he'd pick one of the others, if that, but he insisted he was going to get them all. When it was his turn, I wasn't entirely sure what to expect, but Pride and Prejudice wasn't the first thing that came to mind. 

“I've seen a few movie adaptations, but I haven't gotten around to reading it.” I smiled softly, taking the book. It was a beautiful blue cover with swirling calligraphy font in gold.

“An unparalleled tragedy - I insist this is the one you're taking home!” I giggled at his determined tone and nodded.

“Yes, sir!” I made a little mock salute, trying not to smirk at the sudden wave of pink overtaking his face. “... Well, what else do you have for me?”

He cleared his throat awkwardly, looking at the books in his hands. “Ah, um …”

One by one he passed me Hamlet, the Three Musketeers, a book of Greek myths, and … a trashy romance?

“... Not gonna lie, this is an unexpected choice.” I read the back. It looked like your typical bodice ripper.

He chuckled, blushing a bit. “Look, it was the only book I had access to one day and I was losing my mind with boredom. But if you give it a chance, it's actually really well written, and the love interest isn't one of those creepy possessive guys the genre is known for, so …”

I nodded, taking a picture of the book covers. “I will give it a chance then!”

“... Why are you taking a picture of them?”

“... To get later? I'll start with this one, since you were so determined that I read it.” I held up Pride and Prejudice. Jason gathered up the others, putting them on his stack, then gently took Pride and Prejudice from me as well.

“Or I could just get them for you.” 

“What? Jason, no. I mean, that’s really sweet of you, but that's way too much!” Between the books he'd picked out for me and the ones I'd selected for him, he was holding at least $200 in his hands. And he'd picked the pretty hardcovers too! 

He shook his head. “I've had to cancel on you at least 5 times, and then I disappeared with no warning. You have been incredibly patient and understanding, and I will make today worth it.”

I blushed brightly, a bit surprised. “Jason, … you're worth waiting for. I enjoy talking to you, you don't have to spend money on me for today to be worth my time.”

He looked away uncomfortably, bright red, holding the stack of books to his chest. “... I … I like talking to you too … just let me do this, yeah? Call it a first date splurge.”

“... Alright, if you're sure. But I don't want you making a habit of this.”

He nodded, smiling softly. “Don't worry; I know you're a strong, independent woman.”

I nodded once, chuckling. “Damn right.”

Jason grinned, god he had an infectious grin, and led me to stand in line together. He held the stack of books in one hand, and we chatted a bit more while we waited for our turn. I was looking at a selection of little plushies in the impulse items when I felt something brush ever so slightly against my finger. I looked down; his trembling hand was next to mine, his pinky slightly extended toward me. I chuckled softly, extending mine toward him, and gently linked our fingers together. He stiffened ever so slightly before relaxing into it, gently squeezing back.

Next ->

Divider by @saradika (and my thanks for making them free to use!)

Taglist (let me know in the comments if you want to be added or dropped!)

@jawdropforkpop @krys0210 @snowy-violet @superthoughts @wordsfromshona

[morphestic]

Only in the bsd fandom will you see people shipping Jesus Christ with Fyodor Dostoevsky.

[consultingskeletondetective]

Virginal, chapter 1

Michael accidentally discovers his dick while he's trying to kill you, and then he comes back for more.

Or: you awaken something animalistic and sexual in Michael Myers, and he cannot resist you in any way. You just hope you survive it.

masterlist ❤️🖤 ao3

chapter tags: serial killer, death, violence, blood, gore, weapons, knife, non con, female reader, rutting, forced orgasms

You didn't even know why you were running, not really. You could hear the heavy thud of his booted footsteps echoing almost cruelly in your ear. It was a cosmic joke, that no matter how fast you scrambled, Michael would always catch you, leisurely following behind as if your blood on his knife was a certainty he was merely playing into. 

Still you ran, into the pitch of night, darting between trees and praying to something that you didn't smack face first into one you couldn't see in the hellish gloom. You hear his breathing, amplified by the mask that hides his face from the world, as if it's ghosting over the flesh of your neck and leaving goosebumps there. 

You wail, low and stupid, as fear carries you, your trainers crunching loudly on every twig and leaf on the floor as if screaming 'follow me! find me!' and he does. 

Large thick fingers curl around the back of your neck like a solid brick and you squeak, terrified, as you're held immobile by Michael's gargantuan hand. Your fingers scrabble back, both of your hands barely able to close around his wrist, boiling hot and solid, as you try and tug him from you like you're batting uselessly at a statue. 

"Please - Michael - please don't do this, you don't have to - I don't…" 

You hear his breathing in your ear, the rubber of his mask against your cheek and you freeze, paralysed, as everything goes silent. 

In a rush of air you're swooped forward, pushed, until your forehead is richoteing off of a tree directly in front of you. You wail low in your throat as pain spirals out onto your face and down your neck, blood dribbling down your nose and into your mouth. You have no time to do anything else as you're yanked back, your body bowed against his, you can feel every hard line of his hulking form through his boiler suit, the small of your back only connecting with his thighs and you scream - expecting to be thrust forward again into the tree, expecting this to be the blow that kills you. Everything goes quiet again. Eerily quiet. 

Michael doesn't move you, his fingers still firm on the back of your neck, he keeps you tucked snug against him for minutes as if he was thinking. 

You're too scared to think, until your brain onlines from the pain and fear and you try again to scrabble your nails across his wrist, to wriggle your small body free and break his hold. His free hand comes sharply down, resting heavy and dangerous on your hip, you freeze again. His message is clear. Stop struggling.

His fingers curl dangerously around your hip, pinning you immobile against him, and your heartbeat is erratic in your chest. Why is he taking his time with you? Why doesn't he just end this? What's he going to do? Choke you? Shatter your pelvis with the barest flex of his fingers?

Moments pass, his grip on your hip tightens and he pulls you back into him, you scream, short and shocked, as he - he wriggles you against him, pulls you in tight to his hot heat, his thighs framing yours, large and muscular and intimidating and - and - is this fucker hard?

Your breath comes out in a stuttered exhale as you feel the unmistakable drag of Michael Myers' erect cock over the small of your back, just above the cleft in your ass. He's utterly silent still, except for that breathing, that hasn't changed pitch or volume, but you can somehow tell he's thinking, calculating, only if in the slowness of his movements. His hands on you are not gentle, you can feel bruises blossoming beneath his fingertips, but you're not dead. 

You'd never heard those kind of stories about Michael Myers before, as far as you knew he was pretty much sexless, either killing or comatose. You'd never heard even a single rumour that he got off on killing. It only served to increase your fear, making your death that much worse. He moved again, hips pistoning slowly until you feel his cock jam against the cleft of your ass and a sharp exhale leaves Michael's mask and he stills to a statue. Except his cock, his cock, twitches against your ass and you tremble violently. You're utterly defenceless and vulnerable, trapped in the arms of a brutal subhuman killing machine as he rubs his thick arousal against your defenceless, weak body. 

Something dribbles traitorously in your underwear. 

You feel it then, tears, hot and thick as the blood drying in rivulets down your face and you sob openly. You didn't want Michael Myers to fuck you, or kill you, so why were you clenching so hard? The white hot fear in you was making you crazy. The waiting, it was torture, you couldn't stand it - you were close to begging, but for what? For what? 

The hand on the back of your neck was gone, and your head snapped forward, tendons in your neck springing back to life painfully and you sucked in air through your scream-damaged throat. Then pain was shooting through your spine as something metal and sharp sliced down the skin of your back, nicking the tops of your trousers and the hands on you were gone completely as Michael seized the frayed edges of your slashed waistband, the muted rip of fabric being torn apart in his bare hands loud in the silent woods as he tore your jeans down to your thighs, leaving you exposed from the waist down in nothing but your panties. 

"No, no, no, Michael, please don't do this, you don't have to do this - I'm begging you -" 

He doesn't listen, maybe doesn't even hear you, as you hear the drag of teeth as he pulls his zip down and then there's nothing in the air but your twin breathing, Michael's measured and heavy, yours panicked and trembling. 

The hot weight of his stiff cock presses between your thighs, slippery with blood that had been dribbling down from your ruined back, and a burst of breath comes from his nostrils like a wild bull as he bucks into you, fucking the slick coppery cleft of your thighs, his gargantuan hands coming to rest on your hips, pushing your legs together to give him something tight and motionless to fuck into. 

You honestly don't know how to react, each one of his tight pistoning thrusts is hard enough to shake every bone in your body, and you can feel each ridge, each thick vein of what you can only imagine is an immense cock to match this immense man. You shake violently as he uses you, the sharp snap of his hips the only indication of what he's doing, his entire body is still, his breathing unaffected, the rubber of his mask brushing the back of your neck a constant reminder of how close he is to you, how fucked you were, figuratively and literally. 

You don't have time to wonder why he's doing this, to humiliate you? To get off without having to fuck you? Because his thrusts speed up, the height difference between you enough that he's lifting you off your feet with every upward brutal shift of his hips, and enough that he's jamming his thick cockhead, weeping with precome and slathering you as thick as the blood between you, against your clit with each thrust. 

The pleasure is sudden and all-consuming, the repeated rough treatment of your poor clit nothing you've ever experienced before, it's painful having your sensitive nub rubbed like this, merciless and uncaring, igniting waves of pleasure in you you didn't even know you could achieve. Your core feels violently hot, your thighs squeezing Michael's length of your own volition and he likes that, he must do, because he squeezes your thighs in response, whole body tensing, and it's the first time you've managed to communicate with the murderer in any way. 

You realise, with dizzying, bone-shaking horrific delight that you're going to come, his cock is too hard and unyielding against your clit. Your knees lift all by themselves, your thighs tense and shake as your vision blacks and you all but collapse back against Michael's body as pleasure ignites every one of your nerve endings. He doesn't stop fucking you through it, stringing out your orgasm until you're a jolting, trembling, mewing mess, every muscle twitching as you soak his cock with more than just your blood. Your cheeks are scarlet, your body alive and thrumming with fear and pain and you think your orgasm has hurtled you off into another realm. 

Your hands scrabble back to grab at him, seizing fistfuls of his boiler suit if only to anchor yourself as you babble. 

"Michael, Michael, Michael -" 

He stills completely, jammed right against your weeping cunt as you feel his cock pulsing, and suddenly your clothed and dripping seam is flooded with hot wet seed. He doesn't make a single sound, except for the flexing of his fingers on your bruised and wrecked thighs, he might as well be made of stone. 

You're trembling, you can't do anything else, shrill little animal screams of pure emotion ripping themselves from your throat every now and again before he's stepping back, releasing you completely, and your ruined body hits the woodland floor like a ragdoll. You feel twigs snapping under you and you register somewhere in your brain that it probably hurts. 

You roll onto your back, the biting sting of the cut and the devastation to your mottled and purple thighs, the size and shape of Michael's hands, making you twitch in pain but it's worth it to look up at him. 

He's stood where he first caught you, huge and towering, the emotionless mask not even out of place on his face. The only indication of what just happened was the opened zip on his boiler suit and his cock, good fucking christ his cock, hanging heavy and hard and scarlet with blood and white with come, if it had been inside you it would have torn you apart, of that you're certain. 

You hazily register that you're going to die now, you've served your usefulness, Michael Myers' cooling come between your legs a testament to that. You know you should run, but your feel drugged somehow, fuck drunk, your brain supplies somewhat stupidly. How pathetic was that? How pathetic was it that arousal shot through you even now at the mere sight of this colossal beast standing in front of you? 

He doesn't look at you as he zips himself back up again, not bothering to wipe his cock as he does. He might be looking at you, you'll never know. But those blank eyes seem to be staring ahead as he bends and retrieves his knife, crusted in your blood just like his cock was. 

Lazily, your hands find purchase as you try and push yourself up, animal brain finally kicking in to tell you to move now, or you're going to die. A sharp incline of his head stills you, he's definitely looking at you now. His mask cocks, regarding you almost, and your heart stutters and stops. 

It barely begins beating again as he turns his hulking form around and disappears off into the trees. 

What, your brain tries, Where is he going?

There's nothing around you but trees, you hug the nearest one to you when you finally stand, seeing the outline of your own blood there in the dim moonlight. 

That shakes something in you, and you remember the pain in your forehead, concussed probably right? That's why you'd acted like such a maniac. Your whole body ached with pain and shock. 

But you were alive. 

Why?

link to chapter 2

[kimium]

Chapters: 14/? Summary:

Canon Divergence. University AU. Mafia AU.

“Let’s leave. We’re not sticking around here,” Yuu said as they began to walk through the tall grass. If they were lucky, they’d run into someone that was willing to help and not ask many questions.

“Well, well what do we have here?”

Yuu jumped, a scream bursting from their lips. Grim squirmed out of their arms and floated in mid air, his ear flames bursting brighter. Standing in front of them was a man wearing the most ornate outfit Yuu had ever seen outside of cosplay inside an anime convention. Clearly going for a steam-punk like style crossed with opera, Yuu couldn’t tear their eyes away from the birdlike mask or the feathers adorning the long cloak with ends that looked like bird wings.

“Goodness gracious!” the man exclaimed, a little too cheerful. “You’re not from this world.”

In where Yuu is summoned to a strange new dimension (by an occult) and will find their way home (and solving the mystery to why they were summoned in the first place) through the power of accidentally befriending the local organized crime fractions. (Or Yuu is accidentally the most powerful person in this world through the power of Friendship.)

~

Hello everyone! I am done another chapter of this fic! I’m so excited to share this with you, especially since I just hit 105k words! Wow! That’s so many! I hope you enjoy this chapter! Let me know!

[maisonbelligavi]

Almost at the finish line...

[laurrelise]

someone talk with me about an AU where delores is a real girl who somehow survived the initial apocalypse and spends it growing old with five and keeping him sane

someone talk with me about delores being five’s age when he discovers her body in the rubble and thinks she’s dead before he notices the small rise and fall of her chest before he pulls her out and desperately tries to help her breathe normally again and watches the life fill her eyes with tears in his own that he’s finally no longer alone

someone talk with me about delores being an only child to parents who she wasn’t close with leading her to become dependent on herself until she meets five and learns to trust other people before finding out about his huge family and doing everything in her power to help him not only because she cares about him and wants him to be happy but also because she wants to experience the family she’s never had

someone talk with me about how delores never had powers but survived for the 40+ years in the apocalyptic wasteland of the future due to her seriously genius mind (and five’s help) and lives to help five figure out how to save his family

someone talk with me about young five and delores searching for anything they can find to survive before they stumble upon a half-broken mannequin with a surprisingly intact polka-dotted blouse that five says would suit her so she puts it on out of boredom from looking for materials before five looks at her with the most genuine, in-love eyes she’s ever seen and she decides to keep it just for him

someone talk with me about five always making sure delores has a comfortable place to sleep, to rest, to eat, etc

someone talk with me about five explaining his childhood so nonchalantly one day once he realizes that he can trust delores to her surprise, and she asks why he suddenly had the strength to tell her and he looks her in the eyes and says “believe it or not, you’re stuck with me, and i’m stuck with you, and i want you to know who i am when we’re kicking this apocalypse in the ass”

someone talk with me about teenage five teaching teenage delores how to defend herself with the training he was given during his childhood but reassuring her that he’ll always be there to protect her if something were to happen (to which she reminds him that she appreciates it, but knows she can defend herself with the spite and sheer willpower she has to survive)

someone talk with me about five and delores having a makeshift wedding and five’s vows being along the lines of “even if the rest of the world was alive, i don’t think i could ever hope to find someone that makes me as truly happy as you do, and i will be eternally grateful that of anyone i could get stuck in this goddamn apocalypse with, it was always you, and it will always be you”

someone talk with me about the handler showing up from the commission to recruit five as a temporal assassin and delores as a case worker because they’re both dangerously smart and incredible at surviving in harsh conditions (also, the handler approached them separately to see where their loyalties lied and they both firmly explained they wouldn’t go anywhere without the other)

someone talk with me about delores getting fed up with the handler repeatedly making moves on five despite him clearly being uncomfortable until it bubbles to a climax and she punches her square in the jaw, which results in an ER trip and zero regret (plus five falling even harder in love with the woman who endlessly sticks up for him)

someone talk with me about five and delores plotting an escape plan to get back to 2019 which all goes well, except five had once again messed up the math (or so he thought) and he and delores are placed back in their 13 year-old bodies, but she confesses that she doesn’t mind seeing the boy she fell in love with all those years ago once again

someone talk with me about delores learning to trust and love the hargreeves just as much as five, as they learn to love and trust her just as much

someone talk with me about five always keeping track of dates and specifically remembering the exact times of significant events for himself and delores, like the moment she looked at him for the first time, the moment he knew he was in love with her, and the moment they decided they were going to stop at nothing to keep each other alive and stop the world from ending

someone talk with me about five and delores, the 58 year-old couple that they are, snuggling up on elliot’s couch together because they can’t fall asleep without the other one there to remind them that they’re safe and out of harm’s way (mostly)

someone talk with me about how delores has never been the type to step down, and she continues to stand her ground and be brutally honest when shes upset or wants five to listen to her, and he admires her bluntness (and frankly, needs it) due to his impatience and expectations of honesty at all times

someone talk with me about delores knowing exactly when five needs his time alone and stepping away to help his siblings as much as she possibly can, usually by encouragement or (again) brutal honesty hidden behind a kind and genuine smile

someone talk with me about five reminding delores of his love for her whenever it’s too quiet or he thinks she’s gone too long without him showing it, in every way he can think of, like letting her know that he would’ve lost his mind in the apocalypse without her (which.. he kind of did?), finding little things that remind him of her and bringing them to her, and holding her hand whenever he sees frustration or discomfort bubbling behind her eyes

[too-much-tma-stuff]

Beach Episode (Part 19)

Previous | Masterpost | Next

Danny and Jason talked out their issues and dealt with it. Jason didn’t think he’d fuck up again, he’d felt so fucking bad, but Danny didn’t trust that. Which was fair, even if it hurt, he was going to have to prove that he meant it and could hold to it even when he was angry. He needed to get into therapy too, he’d been putting it off because he was scared, and protective of his identity, so much of the shit he’d seen and done was so hard to explain in a civilian situation.

But now that he was on slightly better terms with the JL he could prevail himself of one of their therapists. That ended up being the favour that Danny demanded from them was providing Jason with a therapist, one that wouldn’t be too judgmental of his… ‘methods’. They asked for Wonder Woman’s advice on that, which she was very happy to provide, relieved that Jason was facing up to his bad behaviour and taking steps to make it right. She’d been worried she was going to have to physically knock some sense into him.

The other favour that Danny asked for, not of the JL but from Jason, was not to complain about the family vacation that was being planned between Dick, Tim, Danny, and Alfred. Jason still didn’t love the idea but Danny gave him puppy dog eyes and insisted that it was needed to make him forgive Jason for his slip up. Necessary to make things right with his family and moving on, so he accepted it.

It took a lot of arranging and planning to get the family on vacation. They had to find a time everyone was available, find people they trusted to cover their patrols or cities, and of course agree on a destination. That was harder than you would expect, especially when Bruce got involved and tried to insist it should be in the deep woods somewhere and be a training exercise more than anything.

In the end he was shouted down and it was decided that they were going to go to a beach somewhere warm and sunny. Far enough away from any of their usual haunts that they wouldn’t feel the urge to work as long as there weren’t any natural disasters and Tim was kept off his ipad. Since it was a family vacation Danny invited Ellie and Dan too, though he wasn’t sure that Dan would come. Half of him hoped he wouldn’t because having Dan there was bound to be complicated, but they had decided to be family so Danny was going to put his money where his mouth was. 

Dan had been doing well anyway, he hadn’t missed any check ins and hadn’t caused any chaos in space. So he at least deserved an invite, whether he wanted to come or not. They had a check in two weeks before the trip so Danny brought it up with him then.

“A family vacation huh?” Dan asked, they were ‘sitting’ on a broken satellite which was still orbiting earth through inertia.

“Ya, God knows the Wayne's need it. And honestly so do I. Ellie will be coming too, and you're welcome too if you want to,” Danny said with a little shrug.

“And draw more attention from the GIW onto both of you?” Dan asked skeptically.

“Ya, but they already know Phantom is back and working with the Justice League now. I really don't think they're brave enough to touch us now. And if they try to, with all three of us together with the bats? Frankly I'd like to see them try. Maybe it would give the Justice League the push they need to really give them the smack down.” 

Dan snorted a little at Danny, he still didn't expect that ferocity from his younger self. “Ya I guess so,” he agreed with a crooked little smile.

“But if that was an excuse and you just don't want to come, that's fine. I don't want to push you, I just don't want you to feel left out since we decided we're family now,” Danny explained.

“Nah, I want to come. I want to meet my future brother in law,” Dan said with an absolutely feral smile.

“Oh dear,” Danny said faintly. “That doesn't sound good. Is it too late to uninvite you?” 

“Oh absolutely,” Dan cackled wickedly. “If you're going to be my little brother I should get to vet your boyfriend,” he teased, reaching over to ruffle Danny's hair and laughing when Danny smacked his hand away.

“Fine, you'll be a better judge than some people since I'm assuming we have the same opinions about violence?” He asked, glancing at Dan.

“I think I'm probably even more down for it then you are, but ya. Why?”

“Batman tried to stage an intervention about Jason hitting me. Trying to explain to them that I was totally fine with it and kinda liked it suuucked,” Danny groaned, flopping back dramatically as Dan laughed at him.

“Poor you,” Dan said, entirely unsympathetic. Danny flipped him off. “I'll probably give him shit about it.”

“Just don't scare him off. I really like this guy. If you pull anything I swear I'll spend the rest of our eternity making sure you never get a date!” 

“Sheesh, that's a serious threat kid! As long as he's not a wimp I won't scare him off. If I do scare him off he wasn’t a good fit for you in the first place,” Dan pointed out reasonably.

“Fine, I'll be keeping an eye on you though,” Danny warned.

“Of course you will, I'd expect nothing less after everything I've done,” Dan agreed dryly. “I'm surprised you're letting me be around your new found family at all.”

“Ya, well, you're one of my new found family as well.”

“Shit.”

“If you didn't want to be part of my found family you should have killed me when you had the chance!” 

“IS THAT A FUCKING MEME?!”

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

All the Wayne’s could have asked their respective flying friends to give them a lift to the resort, but it had been decided no kryptonians were invited. They were trying to keep things to their family, though Dick was bringing Kori, that was fine they had been together off and on for years and were well settled together this time. She might as well be an in-law already. So she would be flying Dick in from Bludhaven, and everyone else was going to fly out from Gotham in the Waynes’ private jet. Well, the Waynes and Babs and Steph, who had taken a little more convincing to come, getting past their insistence they weren’t actually family being the trick. Thankfully the fact that the phantom siblings were coming too helped them see it wasn’t only a trip for the Waynes, and with different heroes and allies found to cover protecting Gotham they were bundled onto the private jet as well. 

 Which Danny and Ellie teased Bruce and Tim relentlessly about owning, Jason snickering in the background and egging on the two ghostly siblings in their teasing. They deserved it, no matter how much Bruce tried to defend that it was expected of him to have a private jet and he needed it for business! 

Teasing didn’t stop them from enjoying it though, Ellie chasing Tim around the isles, with Alfred chiding but not actually trying to stop them from having their fun and being kids for once.  Danny spent half the time exploring and stealing any snacks he found, and half the time murmuring in Jason’s ear about how they should steal the jet to join the mile high club. It was sweet torture and Jason did not want it to stop even as he shifted awkwardly and tried desperately to think unsexy thoughts so he wouldn’t get a boner surrounded by his family! Thank fuck Dick wasn’t here, the knowing smirks he’d be shooting the two of them would be too much.

It was a 16 hour flight, and once Ellie and Tim tired themselves out and fell asleep Bruce pulled out a sleep mask and settled in. Danny gave them this, it was much more comfortable to sleep in, and Jason and Danny slept soundly, at least until Ellie got bored and pounced on Danny. They phased out through the wall of the plane to go for a fly, racing the jet and flying loops around it until Ellie got tired and Danny had to help her back into the jet when she started to fall behind. 

Everyone else had started to wake up while they were gone, so by the time they got back it was just in time to have a family breakfast, and talk about what they were going to do once they landed. They had booked the entire top floor of the resort for privacy, which Danny thought was kind of overkill, but these were The Bats, they were incredibly security minded people, so he didn’t argue about it. Danny was mostly excited about swimming, this was a beach vacation after all!

Finally they landed, and grabbed as much of their stuff as they could from the plane before the bellhops could get them, as if all the staff hadn’t already been vetted by Babs. They were only staying for a week so they didn’t have so much they couldn’t reasonably carry it, and Danny suspected at least Tim had some stuff in his bags he would not want anyone else to see. He was going to keep an eye on the younger man to make sure that he hadn’t smuggled any work with him on vacation. 

They piled out of the plane, chattering excitedly about the vacation, Dick coming onto the plane to help Babs on the slightly too steep ramp from the plane. Kori was waiting for them on the tarmac with a warm smile, taking a couple of the heavier bag.

“We already picked out her room on the left side. I suspect Jason and Danny will want to be on the right, and the… single, and younger members of the family should be in the middle so we all have some place,” Kori suggested. 

“Kori!” Dick chided, though he clearly wasn’t actually shocked. Actually those who’d known the two of them for a while knew that was far more delicately put then she might have said it a couple years ago.

“What?” She said, blinking her bright green eyes innocently at Dick. “This is a romantic destination, and we love each other, we are only doing what is surely expected of a loving romantic union. I doubt your father wants to hear-”

“YES thank you Kori you’re right. We’ll make sure you and Dick, and Jason and Danny have your privacy,” Bruce promised.

Before the conversation could continue Ellie shrieked and dropped her bags, taking off running away from the group. It startled everyone, but hackles smoothed immediately when they spotted Dan, strolling across the lot to meet her at a more casual pace. He rolled his eyes but there was a smile on his face as he bent down to scoop Ellie up before she could headbutt him in the gut at full sprint. He was wearing regular clothes, a black shirt and pants with white stripes down the side, and his fiery hair had been gathered into a low ponytail. He still looked obviously inhuman with his grey-green skin and red eyes, but there were all sorts of meta-humans around and he didn’t look like a supervillain at least. 

Ellie scrambled from in his arms to onto his shoulders as he grumbled at her without any real heat behind it. He shrugged his shoulders, making her squeak and hold on tight as he strolled over to the rest of the group.

“I’m glad you could make it,” Danny said, approaching Dan and patting his arm.

“Hey I told you I would,” Dan said ruffling Danny’s hair and ignoring the way the humans around them shifted nervously. Danny was either ignoring it as well or hadn’t noticed the nerves.

“I don’t believe we’ve met!” Kori said cheerfully, holding out her hand to shake. 

“Hey, I’m Dan. I’m these two’s big brother, by technicality,” Dan joked, gesturing to Danny and Ellie with his free hand, shaking her hand and squeezing too hard. He looked impressed when her smile only brightened and she squeezed back just as hard. “And who might you be?”

“I’m Kori, I’m Dick’s partner,” She said brightly. “You seem strong, we should spar some time soon.”

“I’d like that,” Dan agreed with a shark's grin. Grunting and dropping the smile when Danny elbowed him in the side. 

“Behave,” Danny grumbled at him, getting a growl and an eye roll in return, before his gaze landed on Jason. 

“And you must be Danny’s boyfriend huh?” He asked, letting go of Kori’s hand and offering it to Jason.

“Ya, I am. It’s nice to meet you. He warned me about you,” Jason said, standing up straight and shaking Dan’s hand firmly, trying not to wince when he squeezed it far too tightly. 

“I’m sure he did. I warned me about messing with you too,” Dan cackled, letting go of Jason’s hand before it could crack and shoving his hands in his pockets. 

“Right, well now that everyone’s met each other let’s head inside hm?” Bruce interrupted trying to shoo them all towards the door. They were starting to attract attention standing out in the open like this. “We should pick out our rooms and get comfortable.”

“Ellie, how do you feel about sharing a room with Dan?” Danny asked, glancing up at his young clone, still perched on Dan’s broad shoulders. 

“I don’t need a babysitter!” Both Dan, and Ellie said at the same time before looking at each other, startled as Danny laughed.

“You’d both be absolutely terrible babysitters,” He said fondly. He expected them to get into a good deal of chaos together, but he did think that Ellie would keep Dan from killing anyone, or get Danny if things got completely out of control. 

“Fine, we’ll share,” Dan sighed, and Ellie nodded. 

“Thanks guys,” Danny said, smiling at his siblings before grabbing Jason’s hand and tugging him towards the door. “Come on, let’s go find the most extravagant room we can!”

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

There was a bit of a scramble for rooms, not that there weren’t plenty of rooms, but Step, Dick, and Tim were petty and silly and argued over the ‘best’ rooms. And of course once they started Ellie had to get in on the action. Danny and Jason left the younger ones (and Dick) to their squabbling and went to pick out their own room as far away from the rest as they could manage. They found a lovely one with an airy, beachy theme and a window seat looking out onto the ocean.

“It’s beautiful here,” Danny said, sitting down on the padded bench in front of the window and making grabby hands at Jason.

“Is it,” Jason chuckled, going to sit with Danny, who practically dived into Jason’s arms. “I wouldn’t want to live in a place like this, but it is very nice to visit.”

“Of course you wouldn’t, you're a Gothemite and a bat! If it’s not a little close, dark, or gloomy you stand out like a sore thumb,” Danny teased, nuzzling against the underside of Jason’s jaw, who laughed along. “I like our home and our nest though, it’s cozy,” Danny added before Jason could get insecure about it.

“Me too, do you want to unpack first or go exploring?” Jason asked softly.

“As much as I want to go exploring, I think we had better unpack before anyone tries to kick us out of our room by throwing out our bags,” Danny said with a put upon sigh, going nearly boneless against Jason’s chest. 

“You know you’re going to have to get up for us to unpack, right?”

“Noooo!”

-----------

The resort really was beautiful, and since they’d rented an entire floor it wasn’t as crowded as they were sure it usually was. Danny had never been to a place like this and he intended to make the most of it, all of it! The beach, the spa, and the incredibly fucking fancy restaurant and bar where he and Jason could actually drink since the Maldieves actually had a reasonable drinking age! 

Over the course of the week they got couples messages, got so drunk they had to lean on each other to get back to their room, and ordered far too much room service. But undoubtedly the beach was absolutely the main attraction. They spent a lot of time there, to the point Danny got a tan, and Jason was very glad he didn’t burn like Bruce did, who spent most of the second day laying on his stomach in bed with Alfred scolding him about not refreshing his sunscreen after swimming. On the second day Danny remembered he didn’t strictly have to breathe! And Jason spent the rest of the day sitting on the beach while Danny (and Ellie or Dan in turns) disappeared into the water for hours and came back to tell him about everything they saw.

On the third day Jason rented some scuba equipment so he could go down with his boyfriend and see all the wonders he’d been so excited about. At least the ones in shallower waters, he couldn’t follow Danny deeper where the pressure got too much, when Danny realized that he stuck to the shallower areas. By the time they got back to shore Jason was exhausted and very ready for supper, which was a family affair every night of the trip. It was really nice, since Alfred didn’t have to cook he could actually join them and he kept it from being too rowdy. 

They had to push tables together to accommodate the whole family, but the Waynes had more than enough money to get away with it and establish an extra long table for themselves for the entire week of their stay. They tended to eat late, which worked too because there were fewer people for them to disturb with their chatter and chaos, and the eleven of them were usually more than enough for the kitchen to contend with since most of them were big eaters. The dinners were really nice, it didn’t have the baggage of being at the manor, and though they’d met up in smaller groups all of them (minus Kate who had opted out) had never been in the same place. 

It was the perfect opportunity for… something, something that Dick unfortunately beat Jason too on the third night, during dessert when he got up from the table, and got down on one knee in front of Kori. Silence fell over the entire restaurant as Jason bit back a groan and quickly readjusted his expectations to be happy for his brother. 

“Koriand'r, you and I have been together for a long time, and we’ve been through a lot of shit. But never have I not been happy you were there with me for it. You’ve made all of it easier by letting me be by your side, and I hope you’ll let me stick by you for the rest of our lives. Will you marry me?” 

“Yes!” Kori yelped, holding out her hand and letting him put the ring on her finger before she grabbed his wrist and his collar and hauled him in for a passionate kiss as the family cheered and everyone around clapped politely. “You’ll have to come with me to pick out a ring for you as well My Love,” Kori told him warmly while Dick grinned like an idiot. 

“Congratulations!” Steph cheered, practically leaping over the table to tackle both of them as Bruce ordered a few bottles of the best champagne the resort could offer and everyone else lined up to congratulate them as well. Besides Dan, who was being ignored as he grumbled in the corner about how ostentatious and cliche the whole thing was. 

Hey, maybe if Danny secretly shared some of those thoughts Jason had dodged a bullet not being able to propose on this trip. He’d come up with a new plan, one Danny might even like better.

[disillusioneddanny]

Crackling Flames and Humming Electricity

Prompt courtesy of @stealingyourbones Jason gets his neck sliced by Bruce’s batarang. It irreversibly damaged his vocal cords.

Pros: He can still use ghost speak

Cons: None of his family knows ghost speak (as it’s sounds aren’t for living men to understand)

It had been an accident when it happened. That’s what Bruce had said anyway. He had been so focused on saving Joker from being killed by Red Hood that he hadn’t even realized what he had done to his son . That he had permanently disabled Jason in a way that could never be repaired.

The slice to his throat had destroyed his vocal chords. He hadn’t been able to say a single word in over a year now. After a year of vocal therapy, Jason had learned how to do these strange chirps and growls, these weird noises that didn’t seem to come from his throat at all but moreso his very being let out the noises. The only problem was that no one understood what he was saying.

Cass had been a blessing and had taken the time to teach Jason how to successfully sign. She had taken it on as her mission as the only other person in the family who was mute to make sure that Jason could effectively communicate.

He hadn’t been back at the manor since the accident, hadn’t been around Bruce since it happened. But each of his siblings had come to check on him, they checked in on him every so often and they had even managed to develop their own way of understanding the strange rumblings that came from Jason’s body that were now his only form of vocal communication.

A chirp meant that he was happy.

Two chirps was a yes.

A short growl was no.

A long snarling growl? He was pissed and you better leave him the fuck alone.

It wasn’t the best, but it worked when they spoke with him on comms. They couldn’t understand any of the other noises that came from Jason, the wails, the crackling of fire that somehow espaped him sometimes. A sound that could only be described as the sound of smoke itself slipping through the air. They were sounds that didn’t have names, there were no true words to describe the noises that would come from Jason at times.

His family tried. Oh his siblings desperately tried to understand this new way of communication with their brother but none of it was effective. No one truly understood him anymore. Not even Cass could always understand what Jason was trying to explain in his broken sounds and strange chirps.

That had all changed one fateful day, though.

Jason had gone to pick up a coffee from the only functioning shop in Crime Alley. It had just opened a few weeks before and he had been meaning to try it out. Wanted to see the brave bastard willing to open up such a pretty coffee and tea shop in the middle of Crime Alley of places. Something had been tugging at Jason’s gut about the place, almost as though it was calling Jason here, like he needed to be at the coffe shop.

Seriously, though, as he inspected the layout, it looked like the kinda place to be opened in one of the fancier neighborhoods in Gotham, not Red Hood’s home.

Red Hood had managed to keep his operations running even after the accident. If anything, it had made his people even more loyal to him. Those closest even taking the time to learn sign language just so that they could communicate and translate. They had all seen the way he had tried to take down Joker, only for the fucking Batman attempt to murder him just to save the very man who tormented the people of Gotham. Of course, the people of Crime Alley were more commonly his victims, less likely to be noticed if they were murdered, less likely to be taken seriously.

So it had come as a personal offense to all of them when Red Hood had been nearly killed. They had all respected Red Hood even more after it had happened, realizing that not only had he gone against the bat, but he had done it and lived out of pure spite.

Jason slipped through the door of the shop, Phantom’s Oasis it was called and looked around. Dark black metal chairs and tables lined the walls, Boston ivy grew along the charcoal grey walls. Any parts that were not covered by ivy were covered by bookshelves overfilled with books. And while tables and chairs lined the walls, comfy, overstuffed chairs filled the corners with small coffee tables, the middle of the area sat large velvet green couches. It was like it was the perfect oasis for Jason.

He made it up to the back counter where a single employee stood cleaning the counter. He was young, probably just a year or two younger that Jason. He was tall and lanky with deep black hair pulled back in a pony tail, showing off the shaved sides of his head. Cosmic themed earrings hung from his lobes and cartilage and when the man glanced up, Jason was also surprised to find a ring on either nostril in the man’s nose along with a septum piercing. For all that his looks screamed edgy, though, he exuded nothing but safety and warmth. Something in Jason’s very being ached to be close to the man.

Unable to stop himself he released a soft sound, the sound of walls breaking under strong flames. The man’s head shot up and he smiled at Jason before releasing a sound of his own.

It was the sound of the stirrings of a storm. Hello, it said. How are you?

“You know what I’m saying?” Jason asked, only the words came out in the sound of a roaring flame, those of a bonfire finally growing higher and higher. He signed the words as well causing the barista to grin in response.

“Of course I do, we’re the same,” he explained through sounds of a building creaking against harsh winds.

A childlike peel rang from Jason’s mouth unable to stop himself. It was the laughter of a child who thought Robin was magic. The laughter of someone who had finally found someone who understood him.

“How?” Jason asked, tilting his head to the side, his heart racing.

The barista smiled and a single black painted finger nail beckoned him closer.

In English the man whispered in Jason’s ear once he approached. “Because just like you, I died wrong and came back wrong,” he murmured before he pulled away and took in Jason’s form. “It’s why you were drawn here.”

Smoke crackled in the air showing Jason’s curiosity, his confusion.

The barista smiled. “You don’t know what you are, do you?” after a shake of Jason’s head the man smiled. “Jason Todd, you are an extraordinary being that is both of life and death. A being that has lost more than he ever gained but continued on stubbornly, refusing to back down. You were called to Phantom’s Oasis because your core heard my ghost speak and like calls to like.”

Ghost speak? Is that what the sounds that escaped Jason were? A language of those who had died and come back wrong? Or didn’t come back at all judging by the name. The sound of fire crackling filled the empty coffee shop.

“I’m Danny, by the way. Now, what would you like to drink? I can make it real quick, close up shop and we can talk.”

The crackling of a sparkler escaped Jason’s being causing Danny’s noseto wrinkle in amusement. “You’ve got yoursel a fire core, huh?”

Pops and crackles slipped from Jason, showing his curiosity.

“Order first, then I’ll answer your questions,” Danny said in the form of the sounds of electricity crackling through the air.

Jason frowned and started to sign his order only for Danny to push his hands down. “Use your words,” he said quietly. “I’ll understand.” The sounds that came from Danny were reminiscent of an old generator turning on for the first time in years, the electricity hummed the words out for Jason to understand.

Rustling and crinkling of a fire’s flames going out sounded throughout the room. “Vanilla late with sweet cream,” it said to Danny.

The hum of white noise came through in response, telling him that Danny understood as he got to work. He waved a hand causing Jason to look back as the door to the shop locked itself.

“I’m a halfa,” Danny told him through the sizzling of lightning that had just hit the earth. “You are what feels like a revenant. Someone who died a brutal death and came back to seek revenge. You have someone we ectoplasmic entities call a core.”

Jason listened as Danny spoke in sounds of crackling electricity and quiet hums of white noise as he explained ghost cores to Jason. Ghost cores were their very being, they were created in result of the person’s death. In their examples, Danny had died by electocution, it was why his ghost speak sounded like electricity coursing in the air and lighting crackling angrily and wildly. He didn’t need Jason to confirm before he had said that the revenant had died in a fire of some sort. He explained that all ghosts had the basic chirps and growls for ghost speak but that the rest was specific to their cores as they were all different.

It wasn’t Jason making the noises that came out of him but his very core himself. For the first time in a year, though, Jason was finally able to speak to someone without sign, to use his words to explain what happened to him, the pain he had gone through when realizing that his father would rather kill him than let him get revenge. He had finally found someone who understood the ache of not being able to exact revenge on the person who had killed him.

For the first time in Jason’s life, he had finally found someone who understood. Danny had sat there drinking his own London Fog as he listened to Jason’s tell. Responding in chirps, whistles and a gentle hum of running appliances. He gave insight and advice, had even given Jason his number explaining that yes, they could use ghost speak over the phone as well.

He had never felt so seen in all of his life.

Maybe that explained why he kept coming back to the coffee shop. Every day he would come, order his coffee, using a language that just he and Danny knew and curled up on a couch and read for hours, feeling at peace in a way he hadn’t experienced since he had died.

Maybe it explained why he went out on a limb and asked Danny on a date, demanding that the halfa come over to his place for dinner.

Of course, Danny had only agreed if Jason promised to make the halfa’s favorite. The night had quickly ended with their cores singing for one another as their legs tangled together under the safety of Jason’s blankets.

Rustling and crackling of a candle flame sounded through the room as electricity hummed along with it, creating a symphony of white noise that Jason loved more than anything in the world. The noises provided a sense of comfort and safety unlike anything he had ever experienced. He wanted to drown in the sounds, drown in the sounds of Danny’s crackling electricity that whispered promises of happiness and safety. Just as the whispering flames of Jason’s core told Danny stories of love and promises of companionship, holding him close, wrapping around him in a warm comforting blanket.

The air crackled around Jason as he stood in the kitchen quietly making breakfast, revelling in the feeling of Danny surrounding him from all sides.

His fire chirped at the halfa in curiosity. One or two it asked him.

Two, electricity said with a charged hum, thin arms snaked around Jason’s waist.

“I think you’re going to have to invite me over more often,” lightning crackled, a crash exploding from Danny in a way that made Jason shiver in delight.

“I don’t think I’ll ever be able to let you leave,” fire roared, flames licking high in the air, causing wood to shatter and break under the heat. Danny just chuckled and kissed the side of his neck softly.

Electricity flowed from Danny along with a series of chirps, whistles and growls, telling Jason he had no problem with staying by Jason’s side.

[tadpolesonalgae]

Can’t Bring Myself To Hate You — Part 18

Azriel x Third-Oldest-Archeron-Sibling!Reader

a/n: pls trust me that some things will be explained in chapter 19 🙇

word count: 7,003

-Part 17- -Part 19-

——————————————————————————————————————————————

Sharp, amber eyes pierce down into the male, despite having less than an inch’s difference in height. 

Lucien keeps his surprise under wraps as he greets his oldest brother, stood before the slightly dilapidated building he and his companions have taken up in, a few boards nailed over one of the upper windows that had broken during a particularly vicious storm. He recalls how Jurian had scavenged some of the plain silverware and they’d drawn spoons to see who would have to climb the roof and patch it up before the autumn chill hit. It’s a fond memory, in spite of his loss. 

“Eris,” Lucien greets shortly, holding position in blocking the male from strutting straight into his home as he knows the male would, given the chance. Not the building itself, exactly, but the people hidden away inside it, and he’d rather not subject them to another visit unless absolutely necessary. Neither of them are particularly well-equipped against Eris’ kind of verbal espionage, how he hunts the information he seeks and so effortlessly riles them up. Vassa is particularly prone to bursting into a flaming temper whenever the male pays them an unpleasant visit. 

“It’s rude to keep a guest waiting, Lucien,” Eris drawls from overside the threshold. Even after all this time he can’t help the instinctive part of him that cringes at the razor sharp tone used to cut into his name, carve it into something jagged and serrated. Perhaps when he was younger he might have returned with ‘it’s rude to show up without invitation’, but he learned long ago it’s best to avoid any kind of verbal conflict with the male. Ultimately it’s tiring and a waste of energy, so instead Lucien offers a mildly withering glare, and asks, “What are you here for?” 

Eris’s features remain sharp but blank, unshifting and drawing a clear line in the sand. Another silent demand he’s more than accustomed to, and wishes he wasn’t. “You can’t just show up without prior notice and expect to be escorted in. There are humans inside and you’ll scare them off.” 

“That’s fine by me,” Eris replies, his amber eyes silently simmering with inherent arrogance. “Step aside.”

“Don’t order me around,” Lucien replies evenly, not a note of sharpness to be found, but firm and unyielding. “You’re in their lands. Besides, they’ll be leaving shortly. You can wait a few minutes.” 

“It’s time sensitive,” Eris replies smoothly, neither having broken the eye contact. 

“You can wait a few minutes,” Lucien repeats.

Silence stretches, Eris’ brows narrowing ever so slightly in a frighteningly scathing glare that would have sent him sprinting to his room a few centuries ago. But he’s a grown male now, so he weathers the simmering look, keeping his feet firmly set on the ground, unfaltering in his stance. 

Within the silence, both can pick out the shuffle of human footfalls, the conversation that floats throughout the house, only detectable to fae hearing and each brother picks out as they trail further. It’s not until a latch clicks and a bolt is slid into place on the other side of the slightly wrecked estate that either of them shifts, and to Lucien’s invisible astonishment it’s Eris who looks away first. Even if it is to glance at the approaching Vassa over his shoulder, he notes it. 

“What’s he doing here?” Vassa questions, a derisive sneer in her tone as she pins the male darkening their doorstep with a look that could turn steak to coal in seconds. Lucien glances to Eris, wondering the same thing—wondering if he’ll answer now the humans have left and he’ll inevitably be allowed in. Sharp amber eyes slice to his own russet one, cutting and demanding, and Lucien bites back a sigh at his oldest brother’s incessant insistence on being obeyed. Even after all these years he’s just as controlling as he always was, though Lucien shouldn’t be surprised—Eris practically thrives in the cutthroat coliseum of the Autumn Court. 

Lucien steps aside in the doorway and Eris enters, bringing with him the harsh bite of the cold that’s sharper than it should be in the human lands. The distinct crispness that passes him as Eris strides past the both of them, removing his surprisingly plain cloak in one swift movement and chucking it over one of the hangers without looking. “I have news,” Eris replies vaguely, before striding further into the heart of the house and disappearing out of sight. 

Vassa shoots a fierce glare his direction, a slight scowl between her brows. “Did you know he was on his way?” She asks, already looking about ready to try smacking the male across the jaw. But Lucien shakes his head, already resigned to the evening being ruined, knowing her impatience isn’t directed at him. “I’m sober, aren’t I?” He replies wryly, a twist of a demeaning smile on his mouth to cool her flammable temper. 

After a long moment of pause, she huffs a laugh, low and raspy, some of the tension relieved from her rigid posture, fiery coloured ringlets jostled slightly from the tremble in her full shoulders. “We’d better go after him,” she says, a little more amused than she was previously, though that amusement dims swiftly at the thought of having to deal with more of the male’s unnecessary and underhanded jabs. Lucien nods, sighing once more before steeling himself, knowing he will inevitably end up in the position of mediator as he always does when people lose their calm, following after her. 

“And just when the cards were finally about to come out,” she mutters under her breath, and Lucien can practically see the scowl that has already worked itself back between her fiery brows, “I was looking forward to wiping the floor with Jurian.” 

The comment has his nostrils flaring delicately as mirth curves his mouth, lips twitching faintly. Between the three of them, Vassa is almost constantly on a losing streak, while Jurian frequently takes them for all they’re worth. He supposes it shouldn’t be as surprising as it is—Jurian’s mortality is debatable at best, an unverifiable grey area at worst. 

“Maybe we can fit in a few rounds after,” Lucien suggests as they make their way through the hallways, headed to the sitting room where the meetings most frequently take place. “The mood will probably be in need of some friendly competition.” 

“Friendly?” Vassa repeats sardonically, pausing just outside the door to the living room. “Those games are nothing short of bloodthirsty. Treating them so lightheartedly is why you never win.” 

Lucien refrains from reminding her that she has yet to go on a single winning streak against either of them. 

————

You shift uneasily in your seat, pulling the silk of the scarf a little tighter, making sure no patchy flesh will slip out from beneath the fine covering. Especially not over a meal. 

The comment springs to the forefront of your mind, rising like the sediment that’s stirred up upon a stone being dropped into the murky bottom of a lake. You know you’ll never be first choice. You’ll never have someone who’d choose you over everyone else, and if you’re honest with yourself it wouldn’t be that bad. You’ve survived this long without being someone’s first choice, so what’s changed? 

What’s changed?

A cold feels skates delicately beneath your speckled flesh at the imposing question, impossibly vast and inconceivably nuanced. So much has changed in the past two years it would be unreasonable to try and tackle it now, without even a paper and pen to aid you in the coherency of your thoughts. But maybe it’s a place to start—some small ideas to help take those opening steps, like how freshly born deer totter around on their delicate hooves, on thin, gangly legs before learning to leap and bound. 

So, you ask yourself again: What’s changed? 

Had it bothered you before that you weren’t first choice? Had you known you weren’t anyone’s first choice—yes, somewhere, but you hadn’t figured it out yet. Perhaps that’s why the comment stung, that you were robbed of making the discovery yourself, red-painted nails having clawed over the stone, carving scratches into the previously smooth surface, permanently tarnished and disheveled. 

No, thinking back, you’ve been first choice before. When you were eight, nine-ish, when you’d run down and about in the garden with Feyre who at that point couldn’t keep up with you yet. When you’d leap over tree stumps and balance on fallen trunks, sticking your arms out unevenly and watching with a strange sense of pride as Feyre doddered behind you, mimicking your stance and holding her own arms out as she made the trek over the mossy trunk. 

Then you’d gotten older, and left Feyre to play in the gardens, in the forest, by herself. Then you’d become closer with Elain a bit before your teens, the two of you often joined at the hip at parties, Nesta bearing down on the few who tried to approach, warding off any unwanted company with her fearsome countenance. You think you’d been one another’s choices then, when your mother would dress you up in complimentary fabrics, selecting patterns that would work well with one another, with little regard for the young girls she was dressing up—her own daughters. 

You like to think it had been you and Elain sticking together, in those last few years when your mother was around. 

That’s what’s changed. 

You’re surrounded by people who have found one another. 

And now your loneliness is starker than ever, yet you hadn’t even really realised it. How Feyre has Rhys and Nyx, Nesta has found Cassian, and even Elain is finding her way with Lucien. They’re the closest you’ve ever been with other people, and the closest you’ll get to other people. But they’ve all found someone else now, and you’re the odd one out. Of course you’d be the one without a mating bond, or whatever the special connection is that they were all afforded. 

You’re reminded of the confession you’d let slip in the midst of your fumbling mouth back in the library all that time ago. How you’d thought maybe…possibly there was a reason you’d felt a click with him. But you suppose you should have known better. You can’t even pretend that he was leading you on, in hindsight. It was obvious he was interested in Elain, and yet you’d thought… How stupid. And to tell him, too. To want something so sacred to them, and to wish it between yourself and him. All from wanting to be first. 

It shouldn’t matter to not be first, and yet it’s starkly painful. You can’t help but want that place. Wanted it so desperately you’d fooled yourself into seeing interest when in reality there was, just none for you. 

Your eyes traitorously stray from the small details on the rim of your porcelain plate—tiny ink drops of blue, red, and orange dotted about the edge—to the empty seat to your left, at one head of the table. 

Why had you ever made the mistake of opening up to him? Hoping for a gentle touch when your body feels like it was hewn from the most unloveable stone. The most unforgiving rock, and the coldest ice. So cold it would peel skin from flesh, so harsh it would be impossible to touch, so utterly unbearable there would be no choice but to remain alone.   

“Will you pass the potatoes?”

You’re drawn from your spiralling thoughts by the golden voice, meeting twinkling amber eyes as Mor watches you with a familiar expression. Warm and welcoming despite how you’d last seen one another. 

Swallowing, you nod. “Yeah, sure,” you reply as normally as you can, hand clutching the orange silk of your scarf to keep the material from sliding up as you carefully grip the lip of the ceramic bowl, passing it to her open hand. “Thank you,” Mor smiles, and you blink before remembering to retract your hand. She seems as she was before…back to the female you’d known her as. Is this…does it mean she’s accepted your apology? She’d seemed convinced of what she had told you, so you can’t quite trick yourself into believing that. But maybe civility? 

Right, you can understand it now. No matter how upset or hurt she might feel, she must not want to make it other people’s problem. Causing a scene over a dinner, one of the rare moments everyone’s together—most of you, anyway—isn’t worth it. No matter how your relationship might have soured, there’s no need to make the people around you miserable, too. 

Amber eyes gleam beneath the warm light, and you feel as though you can come to an agreement—one you’re ready to accept. You can both silently agree not to make it an issue for anyone else, a small kernel of warmth daring to flicker to life in your chest, the sense of connection that comes from mutual understanding despite a disagreement. For everyone else’s sake, the two of you can put everything aside. Even if it might only be temporary. 

“I like your scarf,” Mor says lightly, scooping the jagged, crispy roast potatoes onto the side of her plate, setting the bowl down in a spare space, “it suits you.” 

Again, you blink, caught off guard. You swallow thickly, managing a nod of your head, chest swelling as you eagerly take on the compliment, content to pretend even if it’s only for an hour or two. “Thank you,” you reply, keeping your voice steady, “I love your necklace.” Which is true, though in honesty it wouldn’t be difficult to find something compliment-worthy about her. She’s beautiful. 

Mor hums, glancing to another bowl, before settling on the reasonably sized boat of sauce, creating a small pool at the edge of her plate. You’re a little too occupied with watching Mor to notice the wary glance sent her way by Amren, or the warning one delivered from the High Lord himself. The tiny flicker of hope that maybe things could be patched up blocking out the rest of the picture as you gaze longingly at the female diagonal from you. 

“I suppose with the autumn chill in the air yours is a little more practical than some flimsy jewellery,” Mor replies lightly, plucking a cut of bread from the wooden board, drawing the butter closer to slather the fluffy and crusty slice. “Where did you find it? I should fetch one for myself.” 

“I’m sure you have more than enough scarves, Mor,” Rhys interjects smoothly, the serrated blade of his knife slicing effortlessly through the sinew of meat, slowly dissected into politely bite-sized pieces. “Any more and you’ll struggle to shut your wardrobe properly.”

Mor smiles icily, meeting his gaze with a cold look on her beautiful face. “Just stocking up before we have our eastern visitors.” 

Tension crackles across the table, so acute even you realise something strange is happening, watching nervously, and feeling somehow responsible for the perceived fallout. Eastern visitors…? People from the continent? Eastern…eastern…oh. Feyre had mentioned briefly the deal that had been struck between the High Lord and the Lord that reigns over his Court of Nightmares—Mor’s father. The permitted invasion of her safe haven. The slight fissure that had been opened raw between them—one you’d forgotten about, and had assumed had been fixed. 

“How is—” You fumble when Mor’s sharp eyes cut into you, caught off guard by the fierceness held within them. “…How is he?” You manage to ask, unsure whether you should even be interfering or whether you’re just putting your foot in it. Your hands shake under the table, heart pounding but you keep from shifting in your seat. 

“Who?” Mor asks blandly, ignoring the sharp glare Amren’s pinning her with. Disregarding the hard look on Rhys’ face, slight disappointment. Possibly wholly unaware of the grip Feyre has on her cutlery, head cast downward, brows pulled together. Your throat rolls, not wanting to say his name. 

It would be wrong. 

“Who else?” Nesta asks from across the table, her voice singing with the clean cut of steel as it slices through a silk ribbon, a whisper of anger hissing beneath her tone. Sharp amber eyes clash with cool silver, glinting like mercury and ice in spite of the oranges and yellows filling the room to give the allusion of warmth and familiarity. Tension simmers just below the surface, crackling like a metal weather vane struck by lightening, sizzling with barely restrained power. 

“Azriel,” you say quietly, hurrying through his name in less than a breath, feeling it brand your tongue, tingling at the roof of your mouth. Dispersing some of the charge. “How is he?” 

Amber and silver eyes remain locked for a little while longer, a pause stretching across the table and even to fae hearing there’s hardly a sound being made save for the strain of metal as knuckles strangle and warp the handles of fine cutlery. 

At last Mor looks away, dragging her gaze back to your own, the fire dimmed and smothered. 

“Well enough to be drinking again,” she answers, and that seems to be the end of the conversation. 

————

It’s a little difficult to dry the plates off with the scarf tied at your front, hiding your arms, but you manage. 

A cluster of small, iridescent bubbles float past your nose, wafting by, and Elain laughs as you step back suddenly in surprise, having been zoned out. 

There’s no need to be washing up anymore, not with the aids of magic, and if you’re honest you aren’t entirely sure how the two of you had ended up coming to the same wordless agreement, but here you are. Elain’s at the sink, bubbles frothy and foamy as she scrubs at the crockery and cutlery before depositing them on the side for you to dry with a towel. You don’t think the soapiness would agree with your skin.

The quiet settles between you, comfortable and without strain, two people sharing a space, and the apprehension you’d had before the dinner begins to slowly mellow, ice thawing out over a chilly night. 

Despite the slightly rough start, the night had progressed surprisingly smoothly, with you content to sit quietly while the others discussed various matters: Amren’s recreational studying of the Old Language; Nesta’s progression with swordplay, having begun wielding ataraxia during training; a discussion lead by Rhysand about wards that you’d partially tuned out, thinking of the crater you’d blasted through the House of Wind—at least it sounds like something that can be fixed. They aren’t permanently broken, just temporarily disabled. 

“Feyre’s birthday is coming up,” Elain says, seemingly out of nowhere, and you glance at her questioningly, humming in acknowledgement. “What are you thinking of getting her?” You ask, curiously content to follow along this path and see where she takes it. Elain sighs faintly, “I was thinking of making some herbal teas, actually…not many, but a few different ones to see if any help with stress, or sleeping, or the like. Generic benefits.” 

You nod your head slightly—it’s a thoughtful gift, bespoke and personal, too. She’s always good with presents. 

“You?” Elain asks, glancing at you lightly, speaking only loud enough to top the gentle babbling of water and splashing of suds. You glance down at the stack of dried plates, reaching for the wet cutlery to start on. “I haven’t thought of anything yet,” you answer honestly, considering, “it’s still a couple of months away, so I guess I hadn’t started thinking about it yet.” 

Elain’s quiet for a bit, and you get the sense she has something to say but is unsure how to bring it up. You wait patiently, preoccupying yourself with the cutlery, careful not to accidentally carve a chunk of flesh from the heel of your palm. 

“I think…Feyre would like to do something with all of us,” she says quietly, a little absently. “Perhaps not on the actual day, but sometime nearby.” 

“She would?” You ask, slightly surprised. Elain doesn’t meet your gaze this time, continuing to focus on washing up, giving her hands something to do, and you copy her after a moment, carrying on with the drying up. “She hasn’t said anything explicitly, but it’s the impression I’ve gotten,” Elain says faintly, then pauses again. “I think…I think it would be nice, too.” 

There’s a tremor in her fingertips, but she pushes them below the warm water, out of sight as if reaching for a fork or spoon beneath the frothy surface. 

“Particularly, after…” Her throat closes up, and you hesitantly reach out, gloves temporarily discarded while drying, bare fingers grazing the soft skin of her forearms, unable to feel the gentle tickle of tiny hairs anymore. “I’m sorry…” you murmur uselessly, watching helplessly as a droplet falls from her eye, splashing through into the dishwater below. But Elain shakes her head, hands raising from the water to continue moving, absently washing the last plate from the dinner. 

“I’d like to see more of you, too,” Elain says, swallowing thickly as she scrubs at the gleaming porcelain, clearing her throat. “So would Nesta. I think we’ve all been a bit distant lately, with one another I mean, and with Feyre having Nyx, and Nesta off in Day… We should spend more time together, and see each other more often, and speak more, just in general. And then there’s also Starfall, and we can see each other then, and celebrate, and—”

“Elain, Starfall’s months away,” you say gently, fingers shifting so they’re lightly gripping her wrist, pausing her motions, pulling her eyes to lock with your own. Wider than they should be.

You look at one another, watching silently, and you can feel the flutter of her pulse beneath your fingertips, erratic enough for even your own damaged hands to pick up on. 

“You’ll be there, won’t you?” She whispers, eyes hot and wet. 

You blink, grasping the heaviness of the question, then nod, unable to make your throat work, lower lip trembling a bit. “I’ll be there,” you manage to get out, feeling the familiar pressure behind your eyes. 

She nods back, before finally handing over that last plate that has been clean for a while, but between the soapiness of the dishwater, and the trembling of both your hands, the plate slips, and smashes on the floor. The pale fragments split and shatter, spraying across the cold tiles, and both of you jump at the startling noise, before looking at each other again, and laughing. Gasping, ragged breaths that have both of you leaning for support, tears welling in eyes as each of you are split between crying from desperate, manic humour, and dreadful, fearsome sadness. 

Neither of you can find it in yourselves to care about the shattered porcelain, the jagged fragments with blue, red, and orange ink drops dotted around the utterly broken rim of the plate. 

“I…I need to find something…to clean that up,” you gasp through laughter, wiping away the tears. Elain just nods, still heaving ragged breath into her lungs, eyes squeezed shut, ringlets of hair jostling with each shudder of mirth as she grips the edge of the sink, expression torn between sobbing laughter and wrecking grief, and you don’t think you can stand to be in the same room for much longer, subject to the violent turbulence. 

The light from the kitchen dims but your eyes adjust swiftly as you walk unevenly out into the dark hallway, rounding the corner to go look for a brush, or duster of some kind, even a cloth or a rag would do—

Both of you freeze as you round the corner to see one another, Mor’s figure losing its rigidity much more swiftly compared to your own that will remain locked up for the following few minutes. 

You swallow thickly, eyes wide as you take her in: the dimmed gold of her lustrous hair; the bare expanse of her elegant neck; the tray held in her red-tipped hands, those long, slightly rounded nails gleaming a deep rouge. “Mor,” you greet, a touch quieter than usual, “I didn’t see you there.” 

“Nor I, you,” she replies, watching you. A beat passes, and you swallow again, eyes flicking down to the tray in her hands. “Azriel’s?” You ask through the tightness in your throat, gently probing to see if she’s open to a conversation. You’ll leave, if she’s unresponsive—you know now what it’s like to be on either end of this strange dynamic. Mor nods her head once, still watching you silently, and you look elsewhere. Then nod your own head. “Nice seeing you,” you say quietly, then move to walk around her. 

“Wait,” Mor whispers at the last second, holding the tray in one hand and gripping your wrist with the other. You recoil sharply when her fingers squeeze your arm, and her hold lightens significantly, but she doesn’t immediately let go, digits stuttering away a second later. “Sorry,” she murmurs, stepping back by half a pace. “It’s okay,” you reply hastily, looking away as you pull your hand back to your body, “you didn’t know.” 

The words hang between you, and silence stretches in the relative darkness of the corridor.

When you manage to raise your gaze to glance at her, you nearly regret the choice—she’s making no effort to conceal the fierce defence in her sharp amber eyes. You’re about to turn to try and leave again though, when she speaks, and the tremor in her voice is pronounced enough to root you to the spot. 

“Tell me why you went to Eris.” 

————

The expression that was on the commander’s face had been enough to set the two of them on edge, Jurian offering Eris one of those slow but rare, slightly insane half-smiles he can make, that often has the spiralling effect distinctive to falling down through a nightmare on whoever’s unlucky enough to have it turned on them. It doesn’t come out often, but that it’s made an appearance this evening is a dark sign, and Lucien silently prays he will not be forced into a position where he will have to default to Eris’s defence in attempts to calm the potential ire that could catch in either of his human comrades. 

The day has proven to be tricky enough on its own—none of them need this added abrasion. 

Vassa strides across the room, taking up in the seat closest to the crackling hearth, the flame making her hair blaze brighter than natural, her already sharp eyes glinting in the firelight. 

It seems he’s the only one actively trying to avoid the conflict that’s brewing in the air, the other two appearing ready and more than content to fight fire with fire. He knows there’s no use explaining the redundancy of wielding that tactic against the male across from the human queen, with fire burning in his very blood. 

“You said you had news,” Vassa demands, charging straight to the point before Lucien’s even had a chance to seat himself on the other end of the sofa, opposite from Jurian. Between his chosen family and his blood-given one. But Eris won’t be rushed, and instead turns his attention to his youngest brother, the fire doing nothing to thaw the cool ice in his amber eyes. “How is your mate, Lucien?” 

Lucien allows himself the space of a blink to recompose himself, vaguely trying to hide his suspicion. It’s never good when he can’t see the end Eris is pursuing, but he’s used to being left in the dark when it comes to the male’s schemes—he just can’t help the instinctive aggression that prickles up the back of his neck at Elain being brought into this. 

“You aren’t one for idle chatter,” Lucien replies, calming the flame that had begun sizzling in his blood, “why don’t we skip ahead and get straight to the point, as this is such a time sensitive matter?” A sinister gleam appears in his oldest brother’s eyes, and he braces himself for whatever whip is about to lash into his skin. “Very well,” Eris says instead, leaning back into his chair, practically sprawling across it, dominating the space he takes up in his typically uncaring, arrogant fashion. But then the air shifts, his expression becoming serious. “How well-informed is your mate of Night Court affairs?” 

“Enough with this evasive subterfuge. What news do you bring?” Vassa demands harshly, Jurian seemingly agreeing with her anticipation to have the male rid of as soon as possible, a disagreeable look simmering in his rough features. But Lucien levels his brother with an evaluating glance, mechanical eye whirring faintly against the dim heat of the fire. “We each have our distances,” Lucien replies evenly, yielding a vague answer. He’s getting the distinct feeling something large has happened, or is about to. Maybe even happening as they speak—slabs of rock knocking into one another, having already been pushed into motion. 

Does this have anything to do with Elain’s visit being postponed? She had been supposed to arrive two days ago, but had had to change their meeting to a later date as she’d had a family matter to oversee. Lucien hadn’t tried to pry. 

“But you’re aware that Nesta Archeron and the General took a vacation to the Day Court?” Eris questions, and again Lucien has the distinct sense he’s missing a piece of the puzzle. A very big, very crucial piece of the puzzle. 

He nods, and braces himself. 

Though even foresight wouldn’t have been enough to prepare him for the news Eris had brought. 

A warning that shook him to his fae bones. 

————

You swallow thickly, frozen stiff as her truthful eyes bore into you. 

You open your mouth, lips ajar, but your throat is much too tight to release any sort of sound. 

Mor doesn’t shift, holding your gaze with a steadiness and conviction you can’t look away from, bound to her by an invisible tether that’s keeping you from hiding or running how you’d like to. “Surely you know…” she whispers, taking in a shallow breath, her lashes fluttering with an almost imperceptible shudder. “Surely you know what he did to me.” 

You give a faint nod of your head. 

Her amber eyes sharpen, and your stomach clenches beneath the look. “So explain yourself,” she utters lowly. “Don’t leave it up to me to pry the answers from you.” 

A seed of fear plants itself in your throat, something cool and slimy rinsing gently down your spine and you’re worried sweat is dripping down your ribs, rolling in salty droplets down the soft inside of your arms where the skin hasn’t yet grown dehydrated and flaky. Fingers tighten absently on the silk of the orange scarf banding around your upper body, tugging at the folds to try and hide the tremor of adrenaline that’s filtered into your bloodstream. 

You swallow thickly, but your throat won’t clear, and you realise that’s because there’s nothing there—no matter how much it feels the opposite. 

“I didn’t…” you clear your throat again. Rip your gaze away. “I didn’t want to disappoint any of you,” you force yourself to answer, voice catching at the pitiful excuse. 

Mor’s silent. 

Silent for long enough you nervously look at her. 

You flinch internally at the expression of horror on her features, shoulders bunching with shame as your brows curve, silently begging for a reply, and not this awful quiet that’s slowly gutting you. 

“You chose…” she swallows past a lump in her throat, and her scent has shifted but you can’t understand what it means, the minute changes that occur within fae bodies. “You willingly went to him? He didn’t even have to try and persuade you?” 

“Mor it wasn’t like that,” you try to clarify hurriedly. “I just—…I just thought it would be—”

“Easier?”

“No! I just thought it would— I don’t know… It would’t cause trouble! I just wanted to do it by myself so I wouldn’t have to bother any of you!”

“Wouldn’t cause trouble?” Mor repeats incredulously, a look of disbelief on her features, like she can’t grasp what you’re saying. “We were ready to help,” Mor bites back sharply, “all you had to do was ask for it. You could have spoken to Feyre, or any of your sisters about your magic. Any of us. You could have come to me, even—but you went to Eris.” Her voice is taut, rife with anger and hurt, but even in the dim light there’s a faint shine in her eyes, belying their wetness. “What made you think that we weren’t enough?” 

“I didn’t want to bother you!” You say back, matching her volume. 

“We’re your family! You’re supposed to bother us!” 

You take a small step back, fighting the humiliating wobble of your lip before you shake your head, fingertips tingling. “No. You’re— You’re Feyre’s family.” 

“Feyre’s your sister,” Mor emphasises, knuckles pushing up from beneath the smooth softness of her skin, pronounced from her bone-white grip on the tray that’s beginning to splinter. “Or is she no longer part of your family either? It seems the only person you even bother to speak to is Elain nowadays. Her and Azriel, anyway.” 

“And what does that matter?” You bite back, hands itching. “What does it matter if I only speak to Elain? Would you prefer I start speaking to you, Mor?” 

“Why not?” She nearly spits, energy being drawn out from the cave where she’d tried to smother it over dinner. “Why not?” You repeat, neither of you completely aware of how your voices are beginning to rise incrementally, ignoring or oblivious to the faint, sickly green light that definitely isn’t coming from the kitchen. “You’d like me to speak with you when this is the kind of conversation we’re having? You want me to be emotional, or vulnerable with you, or ask you for help when you shut me out the moment I do something wrong? When I fail?” 

“I might have shut you out but you didn’t even open up. Didn’t even give us a chance in the first place, don’t pretend otherwise,” Mor spits back. “If you can’t understand the pain you caused me, fine. I can’t help it if you won’t allow yourself to think of us as family. But what about your actual family? What about them?” 

“Don’t you dare try and talk to me about my own family Mor,” you grit out, nails digging into the flaky skin of your palms, heart pounding in your chest. “Haven’t you pried enough?” 

“Did you even think to consider how it would make them feel?” Mor jabs, barrelling ahead. “Can you grasp how hurt Feyre was that you didn’t go to her? Three sisters, and you decided that none of them were good enough? Just because you aren’t their first choice doesn’t mean they can’t be—”

“Mor.” 

Utter silence falls throughout the hallway at the barely restrained interruption. 

Both of you freeze at the sound of the third voice, filled with hissing winds and rasping shadow. Managing to stay calm despite the tempest in her blue-grey eyes. 

Before you, Mor blinks, and you’re unsure if you imagine the way colour drains from her features, still watching you. Further unsure if the faint green light was smothered of its own accord or the dark shadows that seem to be heavier now Feyre has appeared. Now the Cursebreaker has entered. 

Mor turns on her heel, shifting to meet Feyre’s eyes, but quiet stretches between them, and you get the impression a conversation is being had, though not through daemati powers. A single lock of golden hair shifts over Mor’s shoulder, falling out of place, though you can no longer see her expression. And then she nods. Just once, hardly perceptible, even to fae eyes, and you watch with a still pounding heart as the tray vanishes from her hands a second later, heels clicking softly across the floorboards as she wordlessly takes her exit, leaving you and…Feyre, alone in the hallway. 

You shift anxiously on your feet, swallowing thickly. 

“How much of that did you hear?” You ask quietly, looking away again, all the fight drained from you after the brief altercation. You’re entirely unaccustomed with those open arguments, haven’t had one since—well, since that last one with Feyre, that had the sound ward placed on your room. 

Feyre watches you, the previous storm quietened, but her eyes aren’t sparkling as usual. Instead she looks drained. Drained, and tired, and a little wary. “Enough,” she answers.

You shift again, a little begrudging she saw fit to interrupt, like you needed her to intervene. “It was fine, you know…” 

Feyre’s quiet, and you’re unsure if she’s angry. Angry at you for speaking to Mor that way. Angry at you for speaking so loudly when Nyx is probably asleep. Angry at you for not speaking to her first. Angry at you for the long, long list of reasons she should have by now. 

“It did hurt,” she says quietly, and you raise your gaze to meet her own, “that you thought you couldn’t come to us. To me.” 

Your lips purse, and you look away. 

“I was upset with your choice. Disappointed a little. Confused,” she continues in that quiet whisper that could carry with ease across a cavernous hall. “But what Mor said wasn’t true. Not in the way she phrased it.” 

“Feyre, it’s fine,” you say softly. “You don’t need to—”

“Mor knows that’s not true either.” 

Your lips purse again, that quiet stretching between you. 

You want to disintegrate on the spot. 

Fabric rustles slightly, and it’s the only clue you have to Feyre shifting. Then, “it’s late,” she says, moving away from the open wound of a topic. “We should talk more about this in the morning. When Madja comes round too.” She nods her head toward the corridor, but you look at her a little apologetically. “I was supposed to find Elain a brush,” you say, feeling embarrassed, “we broke a plate.” 

“The kitchen will clear it up,” Feyre replies, leaving no room for you to skate back to your older sister. 

So you end up walking with her back to your room. 

It’s dark out, and you can’t help but look forward to settling into bed, even if it hurts sometimes to roll over beneath the covers. That it hurts sometimes to lie on your sides, when your arms press into the sheets, with your weight resting atop them. At least you’re beginning to get used to it, the pain much more tolerable now, despite it having not decreased. 

You’ve both reached the top of the stairs, turning down the hallway that will lead to your bedroom, walking close enough together to make up for the fact your arms aren’t linked—Feyre guessing correctly it would probably hurt—when Feyre speaks. “Are Eris and Azriel the only other people who’ve felt your magic before?” She asks tentatively into the darkness of the house, seemingly having cooled off now you’re further from the spot of altercation. 

“Yes, I think so,” you answer in an equally soft voice. 

“Have either of them every commented on what it feels like?” She asks, and you’re aware how she’s keeping her gaze ahead. You move your eyes to look in the same direction, spotting your bedroom door on the right not far ahead. “Not that I can think of,” you reply, before adding, “though it’s never been…going, for as long as that.” 

Feyre’s silent, and you glance at her through the shadows, wondering what she’s thinking. You can’t read her expression, so resume your looking ahead. 

“When I was in autumn, though,” you begin hesitantly, hardly louder than a whisper, worrying who might overhear the unpleasant reference, “my magic almost…I don’t know…burst? It came through me very suddenly, and forcefully.” You recall the frighteningly large creature that had charged at you while in the woods, how your magic had melted the skin from its flesh. “We were both sick afterwards.” 

“Azriel was sick a lot when he first woke up,” Feyre says faintly, and your stomach clenches with guilt. 

You try to swallow past it, but it seems to remain lodged in your throat, unpleasantly settling in your stomach heavily enough you’re thankful when you reach your door, the evening nearly over with. 

“Why did you ask, by the way?” You question before slipping away into your room, paused over the threshold. 

Feyre glances at you, turned to leave but stopping. “Your magic…I could feel it in the hallway,” she answers, a wary note creeping into her voice. 

She seems disinclined to give anything else, so you again shift awkwardly in the doorway, before gathering the gut to ask, “how did it feel?” 

Something passes behind her blue-grey eyes, shuttering briefly as they close, before reopening. “Like I was dying again,” she answers quietly. 

You stare at her silently, the threshold of your room between you, the silence heavier than it was before. You don’t even know what to say to that. 

She doesn’t give you the time to think of a reply, however, as she releases a sigh. Her throat rolls as she meets your eyes. “Sleep well,” she says, and you catch as her attention dips to your hands, like she wants to take them, to hold them. 

But she doesn’t, instead looking back at you again, throat rolling for the second time.

“I love you,” she says hoarsely, speaking those words that are so sparsely exchanged between the four of you. 

You stiffen, emotion of a different kind tightening your throat, and you nod faintly. 

“I love you, too. Sleep well.”

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