#probably never touching alight motion again

[sunshine-cat]

Had to watch a tutorial to make this

Anyway @plush-galaxy :3

[mrpenguinpants]

Green Slumber

— "Ah, look! Is Alhaitham taking a nap?" "Shh...You're too loud, Paimon." "Th-That's not true…Paimon was definitely whispering-wait, who is that beside him?"

— Alhaitham

Ayato Ver: Pale Blue Slumber Traveller & Paimon lines are taken from the official Genshin Twitter post. [Masterlist]

Congrats Alhaitham, your birthday postpones the fic where I tear you apart for scamming me. I usually don't write birthday fics but pretty art. Can you tell I'm not used to writing second pov and rushed again :)) I don't know how to end fics.

"Ah, look! Is Alhaitham taking a nap?"

Lumine looks in the direction of Paimon's voice, her floating companion peeking through a room with a giddy face. No doubt hatching some sort of plan to get back at the scribe for his words during their quest to rescue Lesser Lord Kusanali. On one hand, she should probably scold Paimon for immediately jumping to payback since the reason both of them are here is to wish the man a happy birthday before departing to the next region. But on the other hand...

“Shh…You’re too loud Paimon,” Lumine whispers as she tip-toes towards the door and gently pushes it open further. She's pointedly ignoring the face Paimon is throwing her for acting just as bad as she is. If anyone asks, she'll make an excuse that she was just being a polite guest and if Alhaitham was sleeping, she would excuse herself quietly. In no way is it her curiosity to see the ever-serious Alhaitham in any mode that's defenseless and relaxed. So with Paimon’s head hovering above hers, they both poke their heads into the room. Alhaitham doesn’t look any different from the last time they met, although asleep, he looks far less intimidating. He’s leaned back in the wooden chair, arm propped up to hold his lolling head in place. Calculating amber and teal eyes are closed as his chest falls up and down slowly with each breath while the gentle sun paints him in warm yellows and soothing whites. If Lumine had never met Alhaitham before, she would have thought he may have been the Dendro archon with how serene the scene itself is. Something that almost makes her want to reach out and touch him just to check if he’s real or not.

"Th-That's not true…Paimon was definitely whispering-wait, who is that beside him?" Paimon’s voice tapers off at the end, eyes alight with confusion. Lumine tears her eyes away from Alhaitham to look at where Paimon is pointing. Seated on the desk right in front of Alhaitham’s sleeping figure, a stranger hums softly with their ankles locked as they swing their legs ideally in the air. In their hands appears to be the beige book Alhaitham usually carries around, the one about physics and motion if she remembers correctly. Now that she’s looking - she can't believe she missed an entire person because she got distracted by the image of a sleeping Alhaitham - the stranger looks far more comfortable in the room than she is. Maybe they're another roommate? Although Alhaitham doesn't seem like the type to have an extensive list of friends and she's positive she's met most if not all of the people Alhaitham could call close enough to have them in his home. She shares a look with Paimon who returns it with a shrug of the shoulders. Neither one of them has ever seen this mysterious person before.

"Haitham, this section here about..." the stranger's voice brings blue and yellow eyes back to the room. Lumine watches intrigued as the stranger finally looks up from the book to see Alhaitham fast asleep. A soft sigh escapes their lips as they close the book, shoulders dropping into something more relaxed, and they just sit and look at the man. They have the same look in their eye but instead, their hand slowly reaches out until their fingertips meet the tips of soft silver hair. Pushing strands away from his face before waltzing down to caress his cheek. It's an intimate touch and Lumine isn't sure whether she should be here interrupting the moment. The stranger surely seems to be having fun as they return to playing with silver strands. Through it all, Alhaitham remains asleep yet, his body seems to lean into the touch naturally. As if these practiced movements have happened before.

Oh. Oh, she understands now.

“Hey, Paimon…” Lumine starts as she slowly picks herself off the floor as quietly as possible lest she disturbs the peace. "We should leave."

"Huh? But why? We've never seen this person before right? What if they're one of those bad guys that are after Alhaitham because he's the acting grand sage!" Paimon adamantly nods, small hands clutched into little fists. It would be cute if it weren't for the fact that Paimon has no sense of volume. Before Lumine can reach out and press her palm against Paimon's mouth to stop her from shouting again, a light chuckle rings out. They both freeze in place, flicking their heads back inside the room.

"You know...if you talk any louder you will actually wake him up," the stranger drops their hand as they turn to face the duo. There's mirth dancing in their eyes and Lumine has enough decency to look embarrassed at getting caught red-handed. Paimon on the other hand has no such reservations.

"Ah, sorry! We didn't mean to! Wait-Hey! Don't turn this on Paimon. Who are you and what are you doing in Alhaitham's house?!" Paimon stomps her feet in the air, crossing her arms as she pouts at the stranger. Her frown further increased by the stranger laughing harder.

"I basically live here. There's no need to be so on edge. I doubt Haitham could sleep so easily if a stranger was in his home," they say, gesturing to the still peacefully unaware scribe who hasn't moved a muscle since they arrived.

"Ohh, so you're like that blond guy from before! Ka-Ka something? But wait, why were you touc-"

"Ahem, sorry for barging in. We just wanted to say Happy Birthday to Alhaitham. We'll visit again some other time when he's awake," Lumine cuts Paimon off, successfully managing to slap her hand against Paimon's mouth. She can feel the back of her ears turning red as she bows and practically sprints away and out of the house. She'll just write a note to the scribe instead.

+

You blink a few times before chuckling again. Wow, that girl sure can run fast. You've heard stories about the Traveller and this "Paimon" character, patiently waiting for your turn to stumble into their journey. Although you wish you had met them with better first impressions, they seem like a lively bunch. Your eyes slide over back onto the sleeping figure in front of you, and there's a slight nudge of his lips. The smallest of smiles threaten to burst before it placates into something more neutral. A small detail that hasn't escaped you.

"I know you're awake Alhaitham," you state blankly, your gentle hands reaching back up before suddenly turning harsh and tugging at his cheek. Pulling the skin so he has a lopsided smile. True to your words, teal and amber eyes open without an ounce of shame. "Weren't those your friends? Don't be rude and ignore them when they came all this way to say happy birthday."

He offers a half-hearted shrug before the hand supporting his head moves to take your fingers still tugging at his cheek. Intertwining them together until his face is free. His smile is still small but his eyes shine with fondness that you're forced to look away. Sometimes you forget just how pretty Alhaitham can be.

"Weren't you the one that said I should indulge on my special day? Is it so wrong that I want to spend it with you and you alone?" He adds to his point by brushing his lips against your fingertips before pressing a kiss to your palm. There's a small smile as he extends his other hand out, eyes taking in how pink your ears become. "So let's indulge."

“For such a pretty face, you sure are…” you trail off but you take his hand and let him move you onto his lap. It's unfair how fast he can turn the tables on you and how easily you let him do so. It was fun being able to poke and prod the man to your heart's content since he had to hold the disguise of being asleep, even if you do feel a bit bad that the Traveller had to postpone their greeting, but now it's his hands that roam over your body. Slipping under your - his - shirt and rubbing small circles into your hip before growing bored and moving onto another patch of untouched skin until there's nothing left to take. Lip hungry as he kisses away your words because every breath that isn't mixed with his is worthless. Perhaps it's a blessing that you need to take a proper breath because you're sure that Alhaitham would keep taking until there's nothing left. Disregarding how tightly your hands cling to him and refuse to let him stray too far away.

"Greedy."

"Pot meet kettle."

---

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[cheesymellow]

Trying to learn alight motion:

my gosh this is hard and im probably never touching the app again

[honeyhobi]

Hello! Don't feel pressured to make something with this but I figured I would send one in ❤️🐈 Spider and/or any other characters you're feeling inclined to write, and a combination or just pick which ones work of; 2 (time loop), 39 (avoiding a conversation), 49 (self-sacrificial)

Put That Guy In A Situation™️ Ask Game!

Crossposted on AO3

2. Time Loop and 49. Self-sacrificial + Spider Socorro

Content Warnings: Brief Father/Son Incest, Non-con, and Major Character Death

It happens the same way every time. 

The Sea Dragon crashes. A battle breaks out. The surface of the sea alights with fire. Neteyam’s eyes go lifeless. His blood stains Spider’s hands.

Then he wakes up in the morning in that tiny bunk on the ship, with his murderer���s monster’s rapist’s kidnapper’s father’s head between his legs. This many repetitions into the loop, things that were once funny to relive have become constants that Spider uses to stay sane. Wainfleet burns his tongue on too-hot coffee during breakfast in the commons. The days (weeks, months, eternities) old bruises on his hips start to turn from purple to green. One of the crewmembers in the control room during the debriefing on the tulkun hunt from yesterday (yesterday for everyone else, fifty-eight days ago for Spider) slips a hand under his tewng, only to get his nose promptly broken by Zdinarsk. 

And just when the start of midday comes around, Quaritch spots the Sullys and some Metkayina kids trying to free a tulkun from one of the Sea Dragon’s trackers. It all goes downhill from there. 

He’s tried to change it over a dozen different ways. He’s used his mouth to distract his father from going out on deck, but someone else always spots the kids anyway. He’s tried slowing the crew down by throwing a fit in the control room, in the dining commons, out on the deck when Prager pins Lo’ak face down on the ground. Every single time they just lock him up below deck and forget about him while he drowns with the sinking ship. And when he doesn’t change anything, just goes through the motions of the loop in hopes that something will miraculously be different this time, he ends up back here. 

Here, on an outcropping of rock, with the waves lapping at his feet and Neteyam’s blood spilling everywhere.

“I want to go home,” Neteyam says through ragged breaths. His voice is small, scared, a reminder like a poison arrow right to the heart of how young he is. Younger than Spider, even though he always acted otherwise.

Jake cradles his son’s face, and almost subconsciously Spider mouths along to his next words. ‘I know, I know. We’re goin’ home. It’s okay.”

But it’s not. Because Neteyam still goes wide eyed as he looks at his dad, not quite seeing him but instead seeing right through him. He gasps, “Dad, I—” 

And that’s it. In every version that Spider has ended up here, Neteyam never gets to finish his sentence. 

“No,” Spider whispers, but his voice is lost beneath Neytiri’s same awful, wailing scream. 

“No. No, no, no. Neteyam!” 

Lo’ak sits back in shock as reality sets in. The Metkayina girl that Spider learned is named Tsireya somewhere around loop thirty cries quietly to herself. Jake pulls Neytiri into a hug, but it doesn’t make a single thing better.

“Dammit!” Spider shouts, slamming his fists against the rock. His knuckles split and ocean water intermingles with his blood, and the sharp sting of it only fuels the fire in his chest. He looks up to the sky, at the disappearing sun as eclipse draws nearer.

He screams, “What do you want from me? What could I possibly do that’ll be enough to end this?” 

Eywa does not respond. He screams again, wordless and agonizing, beats his hands against the rock again and again even as Jake and Tsireya reach for him. They call his name, restrain his arms so he can’t hurt himself anymore. He fights, hissing and spitting and yelling nonsense. 

“Get off me! Don’t, don’t touch me! Daddy, don’t! I’m sorry, I’m sorry, it’s my fault, get off!” He’s probably crying. He always cries. 

This is supposed to be Neteyam’s moment. Spider is being selfish for taking the attention away from a grieving family, but it doesn’t really matter. They’ll have a million more chances to grieve if things keep going the way they are. Spider will have a million more chances to watch as the breath leaves Neteyam’s lungs, and Spider wants nothing more than to be the one bleeding out on these rocks instead—

He abruptly stops struggling against Jake, who at some point has pulled Spider into a restraining bear hug. The sky goes dark as eclipse cuts through the day, but Spider has never before seen a light as bright as this one. Jake loosens his grip minutely.

“Spider?” He asks. His voice is rough with tears. ��Are you back with me?”

Spider nods his head wordlessly, and Jake lets go. He moves around to be in Spider's line of sight, his hands up placatingly like he expects Spider to lash out at any moment. But Spider has never felt calmer than he has at this moment. 

“I figured it out.”

“Figured what out, kiddo?” Jake's tone is patronizing in its gentleness. 

“What I have to do to stop this.” Spider doesn’t explain further, because any moment now Jake will stop listening as Quaritch starts speaking into the comms. 

“Stop wha–” Right on time, Jake's focus turns inwards as his earpiece comes to life.

And Spider moves into action. Before anyone can shout in alarm, before they can think to stop him, he rips off his mask and chucks it as hard and as far as he can into the ocean. 

“No!” Lo'ak yells and reaches for Spider's hand, but he’s too slow. 

Even Neytiri sits up from hunching over Neteyam's body to cry out in denial. Tsireya probably doesn't quite understand the importance of the mask, but she immediately dives into the water after it anyway. She won't find it in time. Spider takes a giant gulp of toxic air, relishes in how his lungs reject it even as they try to pull more in. His fingers go numb, his vision blurry, and then his head is on somebody's lap.

“What did you do? Spider, what the fuck did you just do!” Someone shouts above him. It doesn't matter who.

“It's okay,” he tries to tell them, but he isn’t sure it comes out that way. 

“No, you stay with me, boy! I can't lose another son!” That’s Jake, he realizes, screaming his name and shaking him relentlessly as if that'll stop the inevitable. 

Spider would feel more guilty about putting them through this if he didn't already know they won't remember it in the next loop.

“It's okay,” he says again. “You're gonna get him back.”

He knows what to do now. Eywa has given him this chance to perfect every detail down to the second just so he can save Neteyam. Maybe it's just the lack of oxygen talking, but Spider can't find it in himself to be afraid. He was never supposed to make it out of this loop.

His vision tunnels into darkness and the last thing he hears before he goes under is:

“Spider! Spider! Spi—”

And he begins again.

[piningbuddies]

and i confess babe (in my dreams you're touching my face)

it’s there, on the precipice of sleep that it happens.

it’s feather light, at first. the ghost of a touch, then a pause. then the touch comes again, but it’s more insistent. a repetitive motion that feels a lot like home, and buck doesn’t have the energy to verbalise that, his eyes shut as he slips deeper towards the inky abyss. the mysterious touch stills for a second, and then a whispered confession.

(or five times eddie reaches out for buck, and one time buck reaches out for eddie)

inspired by a prompt the lovely @thatbuddie sent me for "caressing your lover's cheek." enjoy!!

(read on ao3)

one.

the first time he reaches out for him, buck thinks he’s dreaming.

he’d been susceptible to colds and flu for as long as he could remember - growing up in pennsylvania meant that a winter never passed without him sniffling through it. his mother would sigh and roll her eyes, taking it personally like he’d deliberately shut his immune system down just to spite her. if he had the ability, he probably would have done. his father was quietly stoic about the whole thing, never asking him how he was or if he needed anything. buck preferred that, he thought. it was easier to deal with, more palatable than his mother’s passive-aggressive hovering.

after a while, he’d learned to just suck it up. he kept a bottle of tylenol stashed in his bedside unit and, when he felt the characteristic headache brewing (a warning shot, of sorts), he’d knock them back and just learn to muscle through it. he’d ignore the chills that rattled his bones and chug water through the fever threatening to set him alight. he’d ignore the pointed comments from his mother of you’re looking rather peaky, evan. you need to stop staying up all night playing video games. he knew there was no point getting into an argument about it, so he just used to grin and bear it and occasionally cry into his pillow when the pressure building in his skull threatened to consume him.

that is, of course, until LA.

in LA he has bobby and maddie and chimney and hen and ravi and so many other people. but, most importantly, buck has eddie. and ever since buck’s parents landed in LA when maddie was pregnant, all sharp smiles and circling buck looking a little too much like a pair of vultures circling its prey, he’s made it his personal mission to make sure that buck knows he doesn’t have to feel alone. so when buck calls him on their day off, asking eddie in a thick voice, slurred and soft at the edges to please get him some tylenol and also some cough medicine if it’s not too much trouble, eddie is in the loft within thirty minutes.

he sits down on the edge of the bed, watching buck swallow down his pills and the entire glass of water before he lies back down. they exchange some mindless small talk about various topics, most of which relate to christopher in some way. as the time ticks on slowly, buck finds himself becoming more and more relaxed, his muscles relaxing and his eyes beginning to droop. his responses to their conversation become shorter, and the time between responses gets longer until buck can’t remember how to get his mouth to form words anymore.

it’s there, on the precipice of sleep that it happens.

it’s feather light, at first. the ghost of a touch, then a pause. then the touch comes again, but it’s more insistent. a repetitive motion that feels a lot like home, and buck doesn’t have the energy to verbalise that, his eyes shut as he slips deeper towards the inky abyss. the mysterious touch stills for a second, and then a whispered confession.

“you’ll be the death of me one day, buckley.”

buck doesn’t know how to tell eddie that with him, he’s never felt more alive.

two.

the next time it happens is in the middle of a particularly harrowing shift. it’s been call after call, a day of too lates and not close enoughs and better luck next times, and buck feels like the universe is playing one massive joke on him. he feels the weight of every loss on his shoulders, bearing down on him and he’s worried that one day, he might collapse under the weight of all that grief.

the last call is one that buck knows is going to be etched in his mind for the rest of his life. a young couple, one of them proposing when a freak accident happens, and the escalator sucks him in. they did everything right, they got him out, tied tourniquets around his legs to stem the bleeding, ran iv’s wide open to try and counteract the fluid depletion. they did everything right. buck was supporting his girlfriend, but saw an opportunity to help, so he helped, and there was a moment where they could all breathe. and then he just…stopped. and they did everything they possibly could have done, but it wasn’t enough. buck can still hear the woman’s screams and sobs as she collapses next to her partner, begging them to do more. her harrowing cries are still ringing in his ears, and it’s probably why he doesn’t hear or see eddie approaching until he takes a seat on the couch next to him, their knees knocking together.

“you alright?” eddie asks, angling towards him.

buck chokes out a snort, lifting a hand to rub at his eyes, whether that’s to stave off the fatigue or the impending headache or the onslaught of tears he can feel building is anyone’s guess. “been a rough shift so far, ‘sall.”

internally, buck’s begging eddie not to ask, because if he does, he knows he’ll shatter, and he can’t afford to do that in the middle of a shift - not when there’s still floors to clean and paperwork to fill out and lives to be saved. and eddie doesn’t ask, doesn’t look at him with sympathy or pity. just regards him quietly for a second, like he’s seeing through him. like he can see everything he’s both saying and not saying and buck falls a little bit further in love with him. eddie stands, stretching with a yawn and raising his arms so his shirt rides up a little bit and shows a little glimpse of his tummy. what buck wouldn’t give to be able to rest his head there, close his eyes and just breathe.

“i’m gonna go and make some coffee, you want a cup?”

buck nods, glad the topic of conversation’s shifting, glad that eddie isn’t pushing him to say anything he isn’t ready to. “coffee would be amazing, thanks.”

eddie nods, half turning towards the kitchen before pausing. buck thinks he can see the gears turning in his head and almost asks him what he’s thinking, but doesn’t get a chance. eddie’s shoulders square and he turns to buck, brushing the back of his fingers over buck’s cheek in a gesture so intimate it makes something in buck’s chest sing. it says everything eddie needs it to, says i’m sorry you’re in so much pain and i wish i could help and i’ll be here when you’re ready.

buck doesn’t know quite how he got so lucky.

three.

he stumbles out of the burning factory, the employee’s arm slung over his shoulder as he repeats it to himself, over and over, a prayer and an affirmation. one more step buckley, one at a time. a cacophony of noise descends upon him, threatening to drown him. at some point the factory worker gets taken away from him and there’s hands on him, pushing him into a sitting position, tugging at his turnout coat, pulling his helmet off of his head. eventually, a voice breaks through.

“—ck? buck? are you alright? are you in any pain?” eddie asks, eyes frantically roaming over his form in a way buck knows means that eddie’s in triage mode. internally, he assesses himself thoroughly before shaking his head, wincing as he swallows before replying hoarsely.

“i’m okay, just gonna have a sore throat in the morning.”

eddie lets out a harsh breath between his teeth, closing his eyes for a few seconds before opening them. buck swears they’re a little cloudy, and a question forms on the tip of his tongue but he doesn’t get to ask it. because eddie’s mumbling something under his breath in spanish too fast for buck to even begin to decipher and then he’s pulling buck against him. his forehead meets eddie’s stomach and he freezes, eyes wide and arms rigid at his side, unsure of what to do. he pauses, feels the rise of eddie’s stomach signalling his breathing, and wonders what is going on. after a few seconds, eddie pulls back, looking down at buck with a hint of glassy eyes. his hands cradle buck’s cheeks gently, like he’s something worth looking after. and when he looks into his eyes, buck sees…well. he sees something. something warm and precious, something that lets him know that this moment means something.

eddie smiles softly at him, thumb running over buck’s cheekbone as he speaks quietly. “you’re an idiot, you know that?”

buck knows now that there’s things they need to talk about, an important conversation they need to have about what they’re both not saying. but, he thinks, that can wait for another day. he simply grins up at eddie in return, leaning his forehead right against eddie’s stomach and thinks, i can allow myself this. i’ll let myself have this moment. he rests his head against eddie’s body and just breathes. we’re allowed to have this, his subconscious whispers, and for once he doesn’t find it within himself to disagree.

four.

all buck can see is red. it’s everywhere, seeping into him. into every cell and every pore. the inside of the firetruck, and some of the buildings whizzing past them, even his fingertips all stained in different shades of red. but his focus is on the river of red steadily streaming out of eddie’s shoulder.

there’d been no warning, no sign he could see. eddie was standing and then he wasn’t and then buck was flying. being slammed into the ground by a captain he’d never met, his life being saved, but all buck could see was eddie. he couldn’t physically rip his eyes away from eddie’s, being locked in some sick iteration of a staring contest as the asphalt of the street beneath them leeched the life from eddie’s body. buck could see how he was struggling, but felt like he couldn’t move under the weight of his own paralysing fear, realising all the things he’d never get to say to eddie, realising there was things he wanted to say in the first place. he watched eddie’s eyes slip closed and everything inside him was screaming to get to eddie, to do something.

he doesn’t remember getting eddie into the firetruck, or most of the ride to the hospital. he remembers frantically tearing bandages open with his teeth, fingers too slick with blood to do it that way. he remembers eddie’s little pained noise, remembers telling - no, begging eddie to hang on. and then, and then -

eddie blinks up at him owlishly (shock, buck’s brain helpfully supplies, he’s more than likely in shock) and reaches up with a weak arm, hand knocking against buck’s cheek feebly in an act of reassurance that makes buck both want to smile and break down in floods of tears.

“are you hurt?” he grunts through pain, and buck laughs around a sob, the hand not trying to hold eddie together coming up to close around the fingers against his skin, trying not to become hysterical. he looks down at himself and oh, that’s why eddie thought he was hurt. his white button down, crisp with grey pinstripes is covered in blood. he shakes his head, eyes flicking back up to eddie’s face quickly to combat the nausea he can feel building.

“no i- i’m okay. i just - i need you to hang on, eds. i need you to hang on.”

buck knows the exact moment eddie lets go, can see it in the way the muscles in his face relax and his eyes roll to the back of his head. and in that moment, he lets go too. he allows himself to feel the true, unburdened terror of it all. he allows a few tears to escape, and then they’re at the hospital, and buck’s focus is on getting eddie into the hospital. but once that’s done? he finds himself rooted to the ground, unable to move as he watches eddie get wheeled through the double doors of the hospital. he vaguely registers movement around him, and sees the captain who saved his life approaching him in his periphery. i should really say something to him, he thinks, thank him for saving my life. but buck can’t move.

“you okay buckley?” captain mehta asks, a moment of concern before he’s swept away and buck is once again, alone. (as you should be, his brain unhelpfully supplies).

“no.” he replies brokenly, realising there’s no one around to hear it before he shatters completely.

five.

eddie’s on his couch. eddie’s on his couch in his house surrounded by photos of him and christopher. buck feels like his heart might burst. he’s full of nervous energy, flitting around eddie’s living room as he asks him a billion and one questions of are you feeling okay? are you comfortable? do you want a blanket? shall i make you some lunch? eddie stops him, shaking his head and patting the spot on the couch next to him. “come and sit down a minute, buck.”

he crosses the living room, sitting down next to eddie as he wrings his hands. his leg won’t stop moving up and down and he can’t bring himself to look eddie in the eye. he knows eddie’ll see right through him, see everything that’s eating him up inside and he just - can’t. he can’t break, not yet. so he breathes, and he waits, and he doesn’t look at eddie.

it’s silent for a few moments, and then a hand lands on his knee. buck feels the warmth and the weight of it right down to his core. eddie’s thumb fits perfectly into the divot of his knee, and eddie breathes his name so quietly buck almost loses it over the sound of the AC.

“buck.” he whispers, patient and warm but concerned, buck can tell. “evan, why won’t you look at me?” eddie sounds a little like he knows both too much and nothing at all and it’s this that causes buck to shatter. he shakes his head as tears spill unbidden down his cheeks, and all the crushing guilt, the pre-emptive grief he’s been feeling, everything comes rushing to the surface all at once as he just shatters into a million pieces.

a touch he knows all too well brushes against his cheek, and he wants to reassure eddie, the words i’m fine tasting bitter on his tongue. but he can’t bring himself to form any coherent thoughts. eddie knows, because of course he does, and because he knows him, he doesn’t try to force him into saying anything he isn’t ready to. instead, buck feels the gentle press of eddie’s lips against his forehead, his thumb catching tears as they fall down his cheek. he murmurs assurances against buck’s forehead.

“i’ve got you, evan. you’re okay. we’re okay. we’re gonna be fine, evan. i promise you. we’re gonna get through this, you and me. i won’t leave you alone, baby. i won’t do that. i love you.”

buck hadn’t imagined eddie’s confession to come at such a raw moment, when he couldn’t even reply, but it’s so inexplicably them that he can’t bring himself to complain. again, he knows that all is not well - there’s conversations they need to have and decisions that need to be made. there’s secrets that need to be told that both of them have been hanging onto for way too long now, but all of that can wait. eddie loves him. buck allows himself that much, at least.

he thinks he deserves it.

(plus one.

eddie strolls in from the hospital, smile wide and carefree in a way buck hasn’t seen in a long time, since before the shooting at least. it’s been a long few months of pt and rehab, and there’s been a lot of frustration, a lot of yelling, a lot of tears. but they’ve clung onto eachother as tight as they can and they’ve somehow managed to come out the other side, stronger than ever.

“i officially have a clean bill of health!” eddie cheers, spinning on his heel and it hits buck then exactly how much he’s in love with this man. he’s been in love with him for as long as he can remember and honestly can’t remember a time when he wasn’t. he chuckles quietly, crossing the kitchen to approach eddie and wraps his arms around him, swaying them both from side to side.

“babe! that’s amazing! i’m so proud of you!” he exclaims, and he means every word. he pulls back from their hug a little to hold eddie’s face in his hands, thumbs smoothing over his cheekbones where he can see the first hints of colour beginning to dust. eddie shrugs, bashful as he grins at buck, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“couldn’t have done any of it without you, evan. i hope you know that.”

“anything for the man i love.” buck replies easily, leaning down to place a gentle kiss to his lips. “now, lunch…” he begins.

buck fires off options for lunch, settles on one without eddie getting a chance to reply, and drags him to sit at the counter while he cooks. eddie watches buck flit around his kitchen like it’s his own, and can’t help but marvel over how much he looks like he belongs there. like he’s made for eddie’s kitchen, his house, his life. there’s a box in a drawer upstairs and a question burning inside him that he wants the answer to. but, eddie thinks, they have all the time in the world.

eddie knows buck’s gonna be in his life forever, he doesn’t need a ring to prove it.)

[fruitcoops]

Could you maybe do that part 5 of truth or drink you alluded to?? :) with Jules and the lupins and basically Jules spilling ALLL of re’s secrets & Marley loving it 🥰

Oh, Jules, how I missed you. The truth or drink referenced in this ask is here (it's been an age since I did one, wow!) and SW credit of course goes to @lumosinlove!

“Please can we have alcohol?” Jules swung his legs under the table with wide, pleading eyes.

Marlene barked a laugh. “Over my dead body, baby Loops.”

“It would be,” Remus agreed with a teasing grin.

“Welcome back to Lion Pride, both of you,” she said, ruffling their hair. Both scrunched their faces up in identical expressions of displeasure. “There are fifteen cards in your deck, and if you don’t want to answer the question, you have to take a drink of apple juice. Not alcohol.”

“You used to be cool,” Jules sulked. Marlene rolled her eyes and Remus reached over to flick his ear. “Hey, that hurt!”

“No, it did not.”

“I’m gonna tell mom you hit me.”

Remus turned to Marlene with a long-suffering look. “Can I have alcohol?”

“Get crackin’, boys, the world wants to know your secrets.” She tapped the deck of cards with a wink and wandered behind the cameras again.

“Alright, here we go.” Remus sighed. “My name is Remus Lupin, I’m the Lions’ right wing, and I’m here with my baby brother to answer some questions. Take it away, Jules.”

“I’m not a baby,” Jules clarified to the camera. “I’m twelve. Who’s the most attractive sibling?”

Remus frowned. “Me? Just ‘cause I’m older.”

“As if.”

“Oh my god,” he muttered, reaching for his own card. “Oh, this should be fun. Name your favorite parent.”

“Dad,” Jules answered without hesitating. Remus’ eyebrows shot up. “What?”

“First, you’re not supposed to answer that fast, and second, what?”

“Dad’s cool!”

“Dad is not cool!” Remus laughed. “I don’t have a favorite parent—”

“Liar.”

“—but mom is the cool one. Dad’s a dork, and we love him for it.” He shook his head. “I can’t believe this. Mom would literally do anything for you. She learned to skate for you.”

“It’s not like I don’t love mom!” Jules protested as he took a new card. “I love her so much! And I know mom is your favorite, so it’s only fair. Which of us is the most successful, and which is the screwup?”

“I don’t have a favorite parent,” Remus insisted, leaning back in his seat. “And neither of us are screwups.”

“You’re more successful.”

“That doesn’t mean you’re a screwup. It means you’re twelve. Who’s the overachiever?”

“You,” Jules snorted. “You’re such a nerd. It’s embarrassing. What’s the meanest thing I did to you when we were kids?”

Remus rested his chin on his hand and thought for a moment, then turned to look behind the camera. “Since we were only kids together for, like, three years, can I say something from a little later?”

“Anything before age 25,” Marlene called.

He nodded decisively. “Sweet. In that case, it’s the time this little monster let a rat into the house, freaked out when he didn’t know what to do, then locked it in my bedroom and didn’t tell anyone until I went to bed and something ran across my sheets.”

Jules shrugged. “You survived.”

“Yeah, and you almost didn’t.”

“So dramatic,” he muttered.

Remus whacked him over the head with the next card before reading it. “Oh, god. Share the most mortifying memory you have of me. If you drink that apple juice and don’t answer, I’ll get you ice cream on the way home.”

Jules leaned back with a hum, already grinning. “Let’s see…”

“No,” Remus groaned.

“Probably—” Jules broke off to giggle. “Probably when you took me into the locker room to meet the team and the whole time I was talking to Sirius, you looked like you were about to melt into the floor. You had this stupid grin on your face—”

“Shut up.”

“—and almost tripped over your own feet, like, four times. This was before you guys were dating, too.”

“You are the worst,” Remus said, though his voice was muffled by his forearms. “Next question?”

“I can keep going. There was the time you gave yourself a black eye hanging Christmas lights, and when you bounced off an enforcer when you tried to check him, and when mom asked you to defrost the chicken for dinner and you forgot so you put it in the microwave and almost set the house on fire, and—“

“Marlene.” Remus raised his head with a pitiful look. “Please make him stop. Please.”

“Okay,” Marlene laughed, a little breathless. “Alright, one sec. Jules, your turn.”

“Ugh, fine. Do you let me win at things?”

“When you were five, sure.” Remus tilted his head to the side. “Otherwise, no. Do you want me to let you win?”

“I’d be so upset if you did. I only get better because I want to kick your ass one day.”

“Language. Am I a good brother?”

“Well, yeah,” Jules said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. He blinked at Remus, clearly confused. “Duh. You’re weird and annoying, but you’re one of my top three favorite people?”

“Before or after dad?” Remus teased, but it was soft with fondness.

Jules narrowed his eyes and leaned his elbows on the table. “Wouldn’t you like to know. Have I ever disappointed you?”

“Never. I don’t think you could if you tried. Who’s smarter?”

“Me.” Remus gave the camera a disbelieving look as Jules took a new card. “Ha! I like this one. Which of us was a mistake?”

“Oh, that is a good one. Honestly, I don’t think either of us were planned. Mom and dad definitely weren’t expecting a kid at 21 and 25, and absolutely weren’t planning on another one fifteen years later.”

Jules cast the camera a bright smile. “Oops!”

“But we’re their best mistakes,” Remus said solemnly with the ghost of a smile, as if he was repeating a sentiment that had been said many times before. “Okay, I need to have a talk with whoever set up these questions. Do an impersonation of me, or drink to—”

“Oh, look at me, I’ve got a fancy degree,” Jules mimicked, dropping his voice comically low. “I’m so cool, I’ve got a secret boyfriend and I’m not gonna tell anyone about it for three whole months even though I suck at keeping secrets. I’m tall, so I’m gonna grab my awesome little brother by the ankles and shake him around—”

“You asked me to—”

“Shh! I’m not done!”

Remus gave him an incredulous look. “They get the point!”

Jules stuck his tongue out, but grabbed a new card from the stack. “What are your best and worst memories of mom and dad?”

“Aw, man.” Remus tapped his short stack of cards on the table and bit his lip. “Best and worst…best would probably be Christmas two or three years ago, when we all went skating on the lake.”

“That’s a good one,” Jules mused.

“It’s hard to think of my worst memory of them. Um, maybe after I stopped playing hockey in college? There was a lot of walking on eggshells and it was really uncomfortable.”

Remus read the next card and his frown dissolved into laughter; he reached for the apple juice and filled both glasses to the brim, then pushed them across the table to Jules without a word. “What are these for? You have to read the card, dummy.”

“The most spoiled sibling has to drink,” Remus said with a wide grin.

“It’s not me!” Jules protested, though it was weak. “You were an only child for fifteen years!”

“Yeah, and?” His amusement only grew as Jules struggled to make a comeback. “See, you can’t even deny it! You’re the baby of the family and everybody loves you. How many times have you been to Gryffindor?”

Jules opened and closed his mouth a few times, going red with indignance.

“How many?” Remus’ expression was pure glee. “Buddy, I didn’t leave Wisconsin for anything other than roadies until you were old enough to travel, and then mom and dad had to show you off to everyone.”

“They love you, too!”

“I know they do,” Remus laughed. “They’re great parents and we both had amazing childhoods. You’re still the more spoiled one.”

“I don’t like this game,” he muttered as he drank one of the glasses. “And I’m not drinking that other one. Okay, last question. Should we see more of each other?”

“Of course,” Remus said. “I wish we lived closer to each other all the time. Do you think so?”

Jules reached for the glass, then burst out laughing when Remus’ jaw dropped. “Oh, I got you so good! But yeah, I miss you a ton during the school year.”

“You little…” Remus bit back his threat and ruffled Jules’ hair despite his protests, cheeks turning pink with embarrassment. “Keep that up and you’re gonna get flipped again.”

“You wouldn’t. Not on camera.”

“Try me.”

Jules bolted from his seat and tried to make a run for it, but Remus was faster—he caught him around the waist, hefted him under one arm, and turned him around until he could get ahold of his skinny ankles. “No!” Jules shrieked through his giggling as Remus started swinging him lightly back and forth. “No, no, put me down!”

“Just making sure you really don’t want to see more of me,” Remus said, alight with happiness. Jules’ fingers nearly touched the ground. “You’re almost too big for this.”

“Good,” Jules wheezed. “Are we done yet?”

Remus looked back to the camera. “Thanks for tuning into Lion Pride, everyone. Make sure to like and subscribe if you want a slow-motion tutorial on how to transform your little brother into an emergency pendulum.”

“No!”

“Can you get down by yourself?”

Jules stretched his arms toward the floor, but Remus pulled him up an inch just as his fingertips brushed the tile. “Hey! Stop it!”

“Stop what?”

“Pulling me up!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Remus said, adding another inch.

[hercleverboy]

persistence

spencer reid x reader

summary ↠ when spencer finds out that the reader has a stalker, he is determined to not let history repeat itself. 

category ↠ angst/fluff

warnings/includes ↠ stalker-like activity, death threats, few swear words, descriptions of blood, puking, spencer being kinda emotionally manipulative

word count ↠   8.2k

“Normality is a paved road. It’s comfortable to walk, but no flowers grow.”-- Vincent Van Gogh

Y/N stared down at the letter in her hands.  Her fingers trembled, tears blurring her vision as she reread the words over and over.  Written in an ominous red ink, a chicken-scratch-like writing filled the page. 

‘If I can’t have you, no one can.’

*

It had all started two months ago. 

First, it was the dark blue Sedan that she began noticing sat across the street from her apartment complex. Of course it easily could’ve belonged to one of the many people who lived in the complex, or perhaps even a friend of theirs. At first, it went unnoticed by her. It was only when she started taking note of the hours it was parked there that she began to get slightly concerned. 

8am to 8pm. Every single day. 

Like clockwork. 

She’d peak through her living room curtains at 8am, and watch the car pull into its usual spot. It wouldn’t move all day but as soon as it struck 8pm, it left again- only to return the next day. 

However, ever the sceptic, she didn’t want to blow the situation out of proportion. Her mind came up with countless possibilities. The owner was staying with a friend who lived close by (but then why would the car not be there overnight?), or perhaps it was an plain-clothed officer doing some form of undercover work? Honestly, there was nothing she hadn’t considered. So while the presence of the unexplainable car was a little unnerving, it wasn’t enough to make her paranoid. 

The paranoia began when sheets of paper began being posted through her letterbox. They always came between the times that the blue car was parked outside, and had only a few words on each one that was delivered. 

‘I’ve been watching you, you know.’ 

‘You’re so beautiful.’ 

‘That boyfriend of yours, does he hold you like I did?’

‘Does he touch you like I did?’

Whilst they weren’t exactly threats, they were enough to set her skin alight. She was constantly looking over her shoulder, jumpy and paranoid. 

Spencer noticed it, too. 

He’d seen the subtle change in his girlfriend’s body language, but didn’t want to push her on the matter. He had asked once, but she’d reassured him that she was fine. So he decided that he’d let her confide in him when she was ready, but that didn’t mean that this change in behaviour didn’t make his heart ache. 

He was a profiler, one of the best, he knew the behavioural tells that signalled fear. 

So what was she so afraid of?

Then the phone calls started. 

Y/N heard the buzz of her phone, assuming it was Spencer calling. He was out of state on a case, but he always called to check up on her, or to notify her he was almost home. Although they didn’t live together yet, Spencer spent most of his spare time at her apartment. (He’d joked once that it was because her place was bigger than his, but really it was because his work took him away from her so often that he wanted to spend any spare minute he could with her.)

Reaching for the device, she frowned as she saw ‘Unknown Number’ flash across the screen. 

“Hello?”

Silence.

“Hello?”

and then she heard it. 

Heavy, husky breathing on the other end of the line. 

The caller didn’t speak. 

Unease filled her as she pulled the phone away from her ear and hung up. She placed her phone down beside her, biting down on her bottom lip as she attempted to rationalise what’d just happened. 

Probably a butt dial, or maybe even a wrong number? 

She pushed it to the back of her mind, distracting herself so that she wouldn’t have to confirm what she already knew was true. 

The second call came two days later. 

Spencer had returned earlier that day from an exhausting but overall successful case. He hadn’t even stopped by his place after landing, instead opting to go straight to Y/N’s apartment, unable to contain his excitement of seeing her for the first time in a week. 

He let himself in with the key she’d given him for their one year anniversary, as he quietly made his way into the home. He called out her name, announcing his presence so she’d know he was home.

When she didn’t come to greet him in the hallway, or even call back to let him know she’d heard him he frowned. He slipped off his shoes before moving down the hallway, his eyes finally landing on her figure in the living room. She was stood by the large window that overlooked the street below them, her phone pressed to her ear. Spencer took in her body language, noting how her shoulders were tensed, and how the hand not holding her phone was gripping tightly onto the curtains as she peaked between them. 

The unknown caller hung up, and Y/N looked down at her phone in her hand, eyes welling with tears- still unaware of Spencer’s presence behind her.  

“Y/N?” He asked quietly, trying not to startle her but still managing to. 

She shrieked, turning around to face him, relief filling her features as she saw the familiar sight of her boyfriend. She forced a smile on her lips and pushed her worries away, wiping the tears from her cheeks quickly and hoping he hadn’t already seen them. “Spence! God, I’m sorry. I didn’t notice you were home.” She chuckled. 

His frown only deepened as he moved toward her. “Is everything okay? Who was that on the phone?” 

Y/N’s breath hitched as she quickly came up with an excuse. “Oh, It was no-one.” She waved it off, hoping she’d played it off well enough to ease his worry. 

Once he reached her he put his arms around her, enveloping her in a tight hug, his arms around her waist. She sighed, hugging him back with her arms around his neck. 

He nuzzled his face into her neck, placing a kiss there that was so soft and delicate that it almost moved her to tears. “You know you can tell me anything, right? If something’s bothering you or worrying you then you don’t have to keep it to yourself. I’m here.” He whispered. 

“I know.” She whispered back, squeezing him gently to comfort herself. “Thank you.” 

Truth is, she knew she could tell Spencer what was happening. She knew that he would immediately inform his team, and with their wonderful minds and Garcia’s infinite systems, they’d have their unsub within days. So what was stopping her?

or more specifically, who was stopping her?

The answer would be Maeve, the woman that Spencer once loved, who he lost so suddenly and so tragically. She’d heard what had happened, and had comforted Spencer when he cried as he told her of the only other woman he’d ever loved, apart from Y/N. He’d confided in her about Maeve around four months into their relationship, and Y/N was grateful that Spencer trusted her enough to tell her such a thing. Losing the person you loved like that? Y/N couldn’t fathom it. Her heart ached for Spencer, and the heartbreak he’d endured.

She didn’t want to worry him over what might be nothing. After what happened with Maeve, she didn’t want to make him suffer all that again, to make him think that it was all happening again. She never wanted to be the reason for his hurt, and she knew that telling him is exactly what it would do- make him anxious, worried. She knew her boyfriend like the back of her hand. He’d go into overdrive trying to protect her, to prevent what happened to Maeve from happening to her. But still, she refused to be the one that set those events into motion. She knew it was stupid, he boyfriend was in the FBI- who are exactly the type of people you’d go to if you had a stalker. 

She had tried to tell him a few times but when she opened her mouth to say the words, nothing would come out. 

The final straw was the letters. 

The first one was pushed through her letterbox on a Friday afternoon. Spencer was at work, thankfully only on a paperwork day instead of being called for a case. There was no name or address on the front of the letter. 

She felt sick. Immediately she knew it was from him. At least she presumed it was a ‘he’, from the possessive tone of voice in the notes. 

She ripped it open, taking out the letter. It was a single sheet of paper, both sides filled with that chicken scratch writing. Her eyes skimmed over the words written before her, tears blurring her vision. It was a love letter. Her stalker even gave her a nickname, ‘Dove’. 

‘My darling dove, you were made for me.’

‘My love for you knows no bounds.’

‘You’ve got such a beautiful laugh, I’ve heard it.’

‘And your skin, so perfect, so soft looking. I’d love to run my fingers along your-’

Y/N let the letter drop to the floor as she felt the bile rise in her throat, dashing to the bathroom and throwing up her stomach contents in the toilet. 

She felt sickened. She couldn’t bring herself to read what was left of the letter, instead screwing it up and throwing it away. The words she had read haunted her, made her feel disgusting. She spent hours in the shower that night, as though she was scrubbing his filthy words off of her skin. 

The letters continued, and with each one, the comments became more and more repulsive. Instead of declaring his undying love for her, her stalker began to get enraged. With each letter he became increasingly angrier, and it shook Y/N to her core. 

‘You whore, I could hear your moaning for that little boyfriend of yours from across the street’

‘When I get my hands on you, you’ll be begging for me to show you mercy’

‘I’ve protected you, watched over you! I’ve taken care of you for months now and this is how you repay me?’

‘Fucking dirty slut. I’ll kill you for that.’

‘What a shame it would be for that pretty flesh to be torn so carelessly, but it seems I’ll have to teach you a lesson, dove.’

‘You’ve made a mistake, choosing him over me.’

All of those led to one final letter. 

Written in red ink, eight simple words with a sinister underlying message. 

‘If I can’t have you, no one can.’

*

Dropping the paper as though it had burned her, she desperately tried to slow the breaths that were increasing rapidly, willing the air to fill her lungs. 

The realisation hit her like a freight train. 

She was in danger, real danger. Now that her life had been threatened, she knew she couldn’t hide it any longer. 

No matter the consequences, she had to come clean to Spencer. 

She scrambled around her apartment, grabbing any evidence she had in the form of letters/threats and made sure she had her phone so she could show them the phone calls from an unknown number. 

She glanced out the window to the street below. It was only midday, and she could see the familiar blue Sedan parked opposite her complex. She just had to get to her car safely, which should be a relatively easy task, given the numerous people who were walking down the bustling street- the perks of living on a main road. 

She made it to her car thankfully unscathed, locking the doors behind her. She didn’t dare look across the road at the car, afraid of what, or who she would see.  As she drove to the BAU, she anxiously tapped her fingers on the steering wheel. She anticipated what Spencer’s reaction was going to be- he’d be angry, definitely. Y/N was torn, she wanted to stand by the decision she’d made two months prior to not involve her boyfriend with what was going on, but now she couldn’t help but wonder if she’d made a poor choice. If she’d have told Spencer earlier, things would’ve been resolved. But by telling him the truth, she couldn’t help but ponder if she was putting him or his team in danger. 

Shaking her head clear the thoughts, she pulled into the car park that was next to the building. Taking a few deep breaths, she grabbed her bag and headed toward the buildings’ entrance. Her palms were sweaty and her throat was dry. What the hell was she going to say? ‘Hey Spence, I have a stalker who’s threatening to kill me that I neglected to tell you about, how’s your day going?’

After being granted access at the front desk, she was given a visitors badge and headed up to the sixth floor of the building. As she stood alone in the elevator, she tried to take a few breaths, feeling the familiar clawing at the back of her throat that indicated she was close to breaking down. She’d been holding it together for so long, been so fucking scared for so long. 

As soon as the doors opened she was greeted with the smiling face of one Penelope Garcia. 

When Spencer and her had begun dating he brought Y/N along to one of Rossi’s pasta nights and the whole team immediately took a liking to her, especially after seeing how happy she made Spencer. However Penelope in particular absolutely adored Y/N, and the two had even hung out together a few times. 

Garcia gasped with a grin as the doors opened. “My sweet Y/N! I got the notification that you’d checked in downstairs and thought I’d come greet you!” She moved toward her, hugging Y/N tightly. “Are you here to see our boy wonder? He’s around here somewhere-” She pulled back when she noticed the tenseness in Y/N’s shoulders. When Garcia met her teary eyes she gasped at the sight. “What’s wrong?” 

Y/N finally let the tears tremble down her cheeks, reaching into her bag to grab the handfuls of threating letters from the person who’d made her life hell for two long months. She handed them to Garcia, who after years of working that job knew from the first few words what they were dealing with. 

Y/N met her worried eyes. “It’s bad, Penny. Really bad.”

Garcia nodded, shocked but still placing a comforting arm on Y/N’s back. “Reid- He never mentioned-” 

Y/N shook her head. “I didn’t tell him. I didn’t want him to worry over nothing but- this is the first time he’s threatened my life and I’m scared, Pen. I’m really scared.” 

Garcia burst into action, coaxing Y/N with gentle words to head into the bullpen. As soon as they walked through the glass doors, all of the team member’s heads turned toward them. Spencer’s eyes immediately fell on his girlfriend’s tear stained cheeks and within seconds he was by her side. 

“Y/N, what’s going on? Are you okay?” 

She shook her head, moving forward and wrapping her arms around him. He didn’t hesitate to wrap his arms around her, holding her to him as she cried into his chest, her shoulders shaking as she let out everything she’d buried so deep inside. 

He looked over at Garcia, bewildered. She simply walked up to Hotch’s office. The team could faintly hear Garcia presenting him with the papers Y/N had brought with her, explaining what she had told her when she arrived. 

Minutes later Hotch came out of his office, walking down into the bullpen to where the team all looked at one another, confusion on their features. 

“Y/N?” He asked as he approached her, and she pulled back from spencer to see him, wiping her tear stained cheeks. “You’re gonna need to tell us everything. You may be in immediate danger.”

Y/N nodded and Hotch headed off toward the round table room, Garcia scurrying in behind him. The rest of the team, with concerned glances to one another, followed into the room. This left Y/N and Spencer alone in the bullpen. 

She felt Spencer gripping her hand, squeezing gently. Worry laced in his tone, he moved to stand before her and locked onto her eyes. “Please tell me what’s going on.” 

Y/N nodded and cleared her throat, her voice quiet with shame as she spoke. “I have a stalker. He sends letters, calls just to breathe down the line and scare me. In his recent letter, he said he’s gonna kill me.”

Spencer’s eyes widened, his hand dropping from hers and he turning and stalked toward the board room. He had to see the evidence for himself. 

He reached the room and the groups gazes all shifted to him, but he could’ve cared less. He reached out for one of the sheets of paper, eyes quickly scanning over the threatening words as Y/N entered the room behind him. 

“When did this start, Y/N?” JJ asked, that caring, motherly tone present in her voice. 

“About two months ago.” 

“Did you notice anything odd about the neighbourhood beforehand? Cars that weren’t normally there, people stood on street corners at odd times of day?” Derek queried, his eyes scanning over some of the notes she’d received. 

She nodded. “There was a car I noticed, right at the start. I didn’t think much of it until I started taking note of the timings. It would sit there all day, but be gone overnight. Then it would return the next day.” 

“Do remember the colour, or make of car?” 

“Yeah, a dark blue Sedan. Then a few days later the phone calls started.”

“Garcia I need you to run through Y/N’s phone records, see if you can trace the number they were calling from.” Hotch ordered and Garcia quickly left the room, heading to her bat cave. 

“Here, listen to this.” JJ started, holding up one of the first letters. “I’m doing this because I love you, pretty dove. So very much. It’s okay, you’ll see.” She looked up to her team. “He’s planning something.” 

Hotch turned his attention to her. “Y/N’s safety is our primary concern. This unsub seems to have fixated on her, for whatever reason. Y/N, do you have any ex boyfriends or enemies we need to know about?” 

“I have five ex’s, but I don’t think any of them would be capable of this.” She reasoned, but there was a seed of doubt in the back of her mind. 

At her words, Spencer stood up, slamming the letters down on the table with an audible thud before leaving the room. Y/N stared after him hopelessly, Hotch clearing his throat before speaking again. 

“I’ll need a list of their names.” 

Derek piped up. “We also need to know locations of spots that you frequent, anywhere you may have met this guy. Coffee shops, restaurants, even the library. No detail is too small, okay?” 

Y/N nodded, turning back to stare out the door that Spencer had stormed out of moments before. “I’m just going to go check on him.” She murmured, earning an apologetic smile from JJ. 

* 

She found him outside the building, sat on one of the stone steps of the staircase that led up to the buildings entrance. He had his head in his hands, trying to calm down the thoughts that sped through his overworking mind. 

She sat beside him, draping his coat that she’d grabbed from his desk over his shoulders to combat the cold winter air. “You’ll catch a cold.” She muttered, offering a small smile as he looked over at her. Despite how he felt, he let the smallest of smiles find its way onto his lips at the comment. She had a stalker threatening her life and she was worried about him catching a cold?

They sat in silence for a little before Y/N broke it. “I’m so sorry, Spencer.” 

“Why are you sorry? It’s not your fault.” He mumbled, looking out to the street, watching people walk by. When Y/N didn’t answer, he spoke again. “You could’ve told me, you know?”

“I know, and I’m sorry I didn’t.” She whispered sincerely. 

“Why didn’t you say something, Y/N? I would’ve dropped everything to make sure you were safe.” He promised, trying to make his voice sound strong, but failing as it cracked with his words. 

“I didn’t think it was important. He wasn’t threatening at the start, and I thought I could handle it.” Now the words were leaving her mouth, she knew she sounded stupid. 

“You didn’t think it was important?” Spencer repeated back to her, his breaths heavy as he failed to understand her reasoning. “Y/N you are the most important thing in the world to me. Okay? Please tell me you know that.” He turned his body toward her. 

“I know. I know and I’m sorry I didn’t say anything sooner. It’s just I know- after everything that happened before with Maeve-“ She paused for a moment. “I didn’t want to worry you over nothing.”

His breath hitched when she said Maeve’s name, and Y/N could almost see him replaying the moment he lost her in his mind. The curse of an eidetic memory. 

“I’m not going to let that happen to you- no, not you. Never you.” He sniffed, reaching over to take her hand in his. 

She nodded, tears filling her eyes once more. She cuddled into his side, her head dropping on his shoulder. She sniffled. “I’m scared, Spencer.” 

“It’s okay. He’s not coming anywhere near you, Y/N. I swear to you, he’s not going to hurt you. Not while I’m here.” He brought her hand up and pressed a kiss to the back of it. 

*

Over the next few days, the team spent hours analysing ever piece of evidence Y/N had received, and Garcia went through tons of security footage, trying to get a good look at whoever was in the blue Sedan. She’d ran the license plates, but they’d come back as being fake, so that had been a pretty dead end, and the phone number she’d traced had come from a payphone, so there was no lead there either. 

Spencer was evidently over-working himself, not taking breaks from work to eat or sleep. He reread the words a hundred times, desperately looking for what it was he must’ve missed. He was filled with this overwhelming need to protect her, to keep Y/N safe. To succeed where he’d failed previously. He couldn’t afford to make the same mistake he’d made with Maeve. He’d let his emotions cloud his judgement and it cost Maeve her life. He wouldn’t make that same mistake again. 

There wasn’t time for that, not when Y/N was in danger. 

Y/N spent most of her time alongside Spencer at the BAU, mostly because he insisted that she was somewhere he could keep an eye on her at all times. She only went home in the evenings so she could change and sleep in her own bed, but always with a police escort that Spencer had himself done a thorough background check on and knew could be trusted. 

Eventually, It had been an entire week. Spencer had only had a handful of sleep, only when the exhaustion became too much did he pass out and actually get a few hours of sleep before he was right back at it. Members of the team who attempted to gently voice their concern for him received a scowl in response, with Y/N even trying to get through to him, but he just shrugged her off. Ultimately, Hotch had to pull him aside to talk. 

Hotch walked into the room where Y/N sat reading silently in the corner while Spencer’s eyes ran over the words he’d already read a hundred times. 

“Reid, Can I speak to you?” 

Spencer’s head snapped up, pissed that he was being interrupted from the task before him. He grunted under his breath, standing up and walking out of the room. 

Hotch brought Spencer up to his office, closing the door behind them so there was some dilution to the raised voices that were definitely going to come from this conversation. He sighed, turning to face the younger man and crossing his arms. “The Bureau don’t want us using any more of our time on this case. The unsub has been inactive for a week, and we have other cases building up that take priority.” 

Spencer scoffed. “You want us to stop? You can’t be serious.”

“I’m afraid not. The order came from above me, I have no power here. The best we can do for now is send Y/N home with police protection until this guy resurfaces.” 

“You wanna send her home? No way, Hotch! There’s some son of a bitch after her and you want her to be at home?” He was angrier than Hotch had seen him be in a long while. 

Hotch sighed. “Reid. It’s out of my hands. I recognise how hard this is for you, but we have no choice.”

“But I- I can’t protect her if she’s not with me! I can’t keep her safe.” His tone changed from angry to more of a begging. “Please, Hotch. There’s got to be something you can do.”

“I’m sorry.”

Spencer huffed, his anger returning. “Bullshit! You know as well as I do that she’s vulnerable as soon as she leaves here. Police presence or not, if something happens to her-” 

Hotch shot him a warning look, which made Spencer stop mid-sentence.

“You’re done with this case for now, understand? Until he resurfaces, we have other priorities.” Hotch spoke. Spencer scoffed, walking and brushing past his unit chief. “That’s an order, Reid.” He warned. 

Spencer ignored him, heading back to the room he’d left Y/N in, his mind refocused on getting back to his previous task-  despite Hotch’s orders. 

He stepped into the room, slamming the door closed behind him, earning a surprised squeak from Y/N, who still sat in the corner with her book in hand. He looked over at her, running a hand through his hair frustratedly. “He wants you to go home, and we have to put the case on hold because we have others to work on. Can you believe that? How could he ask that of me?” He laughed humourlessly as Y/N shut her book, placing it next to her. 

She sighed, standing, knowing he wasn’t going to like what she had to say. “Maybe that’s not such a bad thing.”

His eyebrows furrowed. “What?” 

It was just the protective side of him coming out, and at first Y/N thought it was endearing, but he couldn’t neglect his own needs to favour hers any more. She wouldn’t let him. 

“Spencer, you gotta stop this. I know how hard you’re working, and I’m so grateful, but you’re killing yourself here.” Her voice was gentle, hoping she’d be able to appeal to him. 

“No! No Y/N I’m not stopping until we get this guy, until you’re safe.” He snapped. 

“You heard what Hotch said, you have other cases that need to take priority.” She moved toward him, still trying to reason with him. She was still scared to death, and she didn’t particularly want to leave Spencer’s side- after all he made her feel safe. But there were people who needed him and his team, and if she was no longer in imminent danger, his talents were needed elsewhere. It made her feel sick, but it’s the way it was. They were just going to have to wait for this guy to make his next move. 

“But Y/N, you are my priority. Don’t you get that?” He asked, moving back as she came toward him. The motion hurt her, so she stood still. 

“I do, I promise you I do, but there’s people out there who need that beautiful mind of yours more than I do right now.” 

He scoffed. “So you just expect me to give up?” 

“Of course not, but Hotch is right. What if this guy never makes any other moves? What if he just wanted to scare me? You can’t waste your time. It’s too valuable.” 

“And what if the second you walk out of those doors he gets you?” Spencer shouted, his arms coming out by his sides to exaggerate his point. 

“Then you’ll find me. If that happened, which is a worse-case scenario, I have faith that you and this team would find me and bring me home.” 

“And if I can’t? If I fail, again? If I have to watch you die like I watched-” His breath hitched, his voice catching. He cleared his throat before speaking again. “No, No. I will not lose you, do you understand? I will not stop looking for this son of a bitch, not ever. I’m not letting you go home, Y/N. I’m sorry, that’s final.” 

“Spencer, you can’t keep me here. You’d be disobeying Hotch’s direct orders-” 

He shook his head. “I’m not having this conversation with you, Y/N. I’ll talk to Hotch, change his mind. Just- stay here. Please.”  The last word was quiet and pleading, a stark contrast from the tone he was using before. He picked up the evidence files he was going through and walked away, feet stomping as his anger still radiated off of him. 

* 

Y/N had stood there for a minute, collecting herself before she took a shaky deep breath, bringing her hand up to wipe the tears that trickled down her cheeks. 

She walked out to the bullpen, ignoring how Spencer had asked her to stay. Her eyes met Derek’s who offered her an apologetic smile. 

“Hey.” He called out to her as she passed by. “Whatever the kid said, he didn’t mean it. He just wants to keep you safe.” 

She gave a sad smile. “I know. Um, is it alright if I just step out the front for some air? I’m feeling a little boxed in.” 

“Sure thing. I’ll keep you company, make sure you get back alright.” He stood up from his desk chair, grabbing his jacket and accompanying her downstairs. 

When they got there Y/N turned to him. “Is it alright if I have a moment alone? I’ll stay where you can see me, I just need a minute.” 

Derek was hesitant, but nodded. She pushed open the doors, out into the cold night. She remained stood by the front doors, where they bright lights from indoors seeped outside, lighting up the pavement. She took a few deep breaths, letting the cold air fill her lungs, hoping it’ll help alleviate the stinging pain in her heart. She looked up at the sky, willing herself to keep her tears at bay. She appreciated what Spencer was doing, and adored his instinct to protect her, keep her safe. She knew how stubborn he could be at times, but now she thought about it, maybe when she sided with Hotch earlier it made it seem like she didn’t have his back, which was certainly not the case. 

Derek watched as Y/N collected herself, seeing that she was about to turn and come back inside. Suddenly someone bumped into his side, his attention turning from Y/N to the person who collided with him. He looked over to see a young man he didn’t recognise. 

“Oh, I’m sorry. I wasn’t watching where I was going. My apologies.” The man apologised before walking off. 

Derek furrowed his brow, before turning back to look outside. 

Y/N wasn’t there. 

He bolted forward toward the doors, flinging them open and looking left and right for any sight of her. 

She was long gone. And so was whoever took her. 

Hearing a crinkle beneath his feet, Derek looked down at the sound, noticing a scrap piece of newspaper on the floor where Y/N had been stood. 

He picked it up, unfolding the paper. On it, written in the familiar blood red chicken scratch was the same threatening message Y/N had received before. 

‘If I can’t have her, no one can.’ 

* 

Derek placed the paper down on the roundtable, that the team was now gathered around, shock and worry on their faces. 

Hotch closed his eyes with a sigh as he looked at the paper, guilt rushing over him. Just then Spencer came into the room, immediately picking up on the mood that had settled over the team. 

“What’s’‘-” His eyes landed on the message, the realisation spreading over his features. “Where’s Y/N?” He asked, a sort of denial in his voice. 

“He has her.” Derek confirmed, bowing his head down in shame that he hadn’t protected her like he was supposed to. 

“Morgan, What happened? You took her out to get some air and then what?” Emily asked, trying to establish where it’d gone wrong. 

“I took my eyes off of her for a minute, some guy bumped into me and it distracted me, and when I looked back she was gone.” 

Emily’s mouth opened as she connected the dots. “It must’ve been a distraction, one guy bumps into you so that you take your eyes off of her while the other guy grabs her.” 

“So what, we’re looking for a partner here as well?” JJ posed, looking up at her team. 

“It would seem so. He waited for his opportunity, and when it came he took it.” Rossi chimed in. 

“This is now an active investigation, we have a missing woman who’s already been gone for nearly an hour. We’ve got to work fast.” Hotch ordered, which sent the team out of their seats, each with a task assigned to them. However, Spencer still sat in one of the chairs, trembling fingers trailing over the words before him. The air in the room seemed thinner, his lungs working harder to fill themselves. 

“Reid? Reid.” Morgan tried, but all he got from Spencer was little incoherent mumbles. 

Finally, he looked up to meet Morgan’s eyes, the words he’d been whispering falling from his lips in a more audible whimper. “He’s gonna kill her.”  He choked on his words, the realisation crashing down on him. “I’m going to lose her too.” 

* 

Time was a precious thing. 

Spencer had never been more aware of how quickly the seconds passed than he was at that moment. 

He was on his knees, hunched over the toilet, hands gripping the sides in a vice-like grip, desperately trying to push down the nauseating feeling creeping its way up his throat. After the note that Morgan found, Spencer had rushed into the toilets, standing over the toilet bowl as he dry-heaved, holding himself back from being sick. He took heavy breaths, eyes screwing shut as he tried to think of anything other than the danger that Y/N was in. 

He tried so hard to ignore the familiarity of the situation. 

The thought set in motion a memory that he’d much rather forget, one that he pushed so far back in his mind so he could deny it had ever happened, that he’d ever allowed it to happen. 

Ultimately, it was the curse of his brilliant memory, having the ability to perfectly recall things that happened years before. 

As if he could ever forget that day, eidetic memory or not. 

“Diane, Diane, there’s still a way out of this.” 

“You never wanted me. Never! You lied!”

Diane has her arm around Maeve, gun pointed at her head. The bullet she’d shot into Spencer’s shoulder felt numb, the scorching pain felt irrelevant to the fear spiking his heart. 

“I didn’t. Diane, I offered you a deal and you can still take it. Me for her. Let me take her place.” His eyes lock on Maeve’s, so full of fear, and he tries to reassure that she’ll be fine- because he knows she will. How many times has he talked down an unsub waving a gun around? She would be okay, she had to be. 

“You would do that?” 

“Yes.” 

“You would kill yourself for her?” 

“Yes.” 

Of course he would. In a heartbeat. 

“Thomas Merton.” 

Maeve’s voice was small but sure. What scared Spencer the most was how certain she sounded, as though she’d accepted that this was her fate; her end. 

“Who’s Thomas Merton?”

“He knows.” 

She loved him. And he loved her. Oh how bittersweet. 

“Who’s Thomas Merton, who is he?” 

“He’s the one thing you can never take from us.” 

Its only a moment’s hesitation, a moment that he should’ve reached for a gun, a moment where he should’ve taken his shot. 

“No.” Diane scowled. 

Time is a precious thing.

and Maeve’s was up.

“Wait-” 

The shot still rung clear in Spencer’s ears, a sound he was sure he would hear for the rest of his days. His breaths were heaving again, his eyes flying open as he willed the image of Maeve’s body to leave his head. But when his eyes screwed shut again, it was someone else in her place. 

It wasn’t Maeve’s body on the floor anymore. Instead, in her place lay Y/N, blood gushing from the open wound at the side of her head, her lifeless body cold against the concrete floor. 

That’s the thought that made him sick, throwing up into the toilet at the thought of watching Y/N die the same way he watched Maeve. 

Taking gasping breaths, he sat back against the side of the cubicle, hands running down his flustered face, feeling the streaks of tears that trembled down his cheeks. 

He shook his head, as if that would erase the horrific thoughts swimming around. He reminded himself that Y/N was still alive, and they had no reason as of yet to believe that she wasn’t. It was that thought that made him pull himself to stand, raking his hands through his hair and trying to calm his quivering hands. 

Y/N was still out there, waiting for him to save her. 

He grit his teeth together as he walked out of the toilets. 

He wouldn’t hesitate this time. He was not going to lose her. 

*

He walked back into the roundtable room, ignoring the looks he received from the team. They had been bouncing theories off of one another, trying to use their profile to figure out who their unsub was, and where they would’ve taken Y/N. 

“Is it possible a woman is our unsub, or perhaps even the partner?” Emily posed, her eyes scanning over one of the letters. 

Derek shook his head. “I don’t think a woman would use language like this, it’s very derogatory, it exerts a power over Y/N.” 

The team fell quiet in thought, only interrupted when Garcia came scurrying in, her laptop in her hands. “You’ll never guess what I just found!”

Everyone looked up to her, Hotch speaking. “What is it, Garcia?” 

“I looked over the list of Y/N’s exes, and only one of them jumped out to me as a little suspicious. So I did some digging.” She tapped a few keys on her laptop before grabbing her remote and  broadcasting to the team what she’d found on the TV. “Daniel ‘Danny’ Stone, 29, dated Y/N three years ago. He was her last boyfriend before she met Reid.”

“Three years? You don’t think he’s still bitter about the relationship ending?” Emily asked, confused. 

“Three years is a long time. Why surface now?” JJ chimed. 

“Reid, did Y/N ever mention her previous relationship ending on a rough note?” Rossi asked, turning to face the younger boy. 

Spencer frowned. “She said the breakup was a little rocky, but nothing awful. The last time she spoke about him was a few months ago, said he got in some sort of accident?” He looked to Garcia for confirmation, and she nodded. 

“Indeed. Stone was involved in a road collision four months ago.” 

JJ hummed, looking through the medical reports on her iPad. “Says here he suffered brain damage, specifically to his pre-frontal cortex.” 

“Well that would explain why this stalker seemingly came from nowhere. People who suffer damage like this are impulsive, unable to make rational choices.” Derek posed. 

“So what’s the theory here? He wakes up after this accident, and because of his injury chooses to track down his ex? Three years after they break up?”

Morgan shook his head. “It isn’t a choice. Not anymore. He has to do it. He’s become fixated on her. He knows she’s with Reid, and like he said, If he can’t have her, the neither can Reid.”

“Okay, but why stalk her? What does he gain from that? Instead of just taking her and getting what he really wants?” Emily questioned. 

“This newfound impulsivity would make him a risk-taker. He’ll do things that the average person wouldn’t dream of trying. But it’s unlikely that Stone actually staked out Y/N’s home, or delivered the letters to her door. He wouldn’t have the self-control to span this out over months. He just pulled the strings.” 

“So that was his partner, then.” JJ deduced, earing nods from the team. “Then  what does the partner gain from this? Why help Stone?” 

“Maybe Stone manipulated them. Perhaps he has some form of information on them he’s using as blackmail?” 

“Did you get an address on Stone, Garcia?” Hotch asked, and Garcia nodded enthusiastically. 

“You know I did, It’s already been sent to your phones.” 

“Alright, let’s go.” 

The team all stood, heading for the doors. Spencer was quick to get up and follow, hope sparking in him now that they had an address. He was just about to leave the room when Hotch’s voice stopped him. 

“Reid, you know I can’t let you come with us.” His voice was firm, he knew there could be no room for error here. Not after what happened last time. 

“Like hell you can’t.” Reid snapped, turning around to face him. He’d regret his smart mouth later when Hotch undoubtedly told him off for it, but at that moment who couldn’t have cared less. 

“We will get her and bring her home, but you can’t be involved in this. It’s a conflict of interest, you know that.” 

“Oh, so it wasn’t a conflict of interest when you went after Foyet?” 

It was a cheap shot, one that Spencer really regretted the second he said it, but amends could be made later. 

Hotch’s face didn’t falter, despite the petty jab. “Yeah, and look where that got me.” 

Spencer’s defesnive stance dropped, his arms falling by his sides. “Hotch. You were there when when Maeve died. Do you remember it?” 

“Of course.” 

“Not like I do. I can see every second of it every time I close my eyes. I can’t go through that again. I almost didn’t make it out the other side, If it happened again I don’t know if I could cope-” He stopped, his voice catching in his throat. “Just- Please.”

Hotch grunted, giving in. “Fine, but you can’t allow your emotions to cloud your thinking. I know it will be difficult but I need your head to be in this.Y/N’s life depends on it.” 

Spencer nodded and they headed down toward the SUV’s. 

*

They pulled up to the address, lights blaring and sirens sounding. They all quickly jumped out and regrouped, strapping their kevlar vests to their chests as they moved. They were stood in front of an abandoned apartment complex, one that had ben uninhabited for years. 

 “Alright Morgan, Prentiss I want you to go around the back, find a way in through there, see if you can find this partner of his. JJ, Rossi and Reid you’re with me. ” Hotch ordered, as they all drew their guns and prepared to head in. 

As they stealthily walked through the building, they listened for any noise that indicated where the unsub was. Hotch, who was leading the group, pushed open a door to the staircase, and they were about to head up when they heard a bang coming from the floor below them. 

They headed down the stairs, seeing that they were entering the buildings basement. They rounded the corner, guns at the ready, and stepping into a small boiler room. 

In the centre of the room, Daniel stood. He held a struggling Y/N to his chest, his arm around her neck and gun placed at her temple. 

Spencer recalled how it the sight was all too familiar, how Diane had held Maeve the same way. 

Daniel’s voice broke him from his thoughts. “If you step any closer, she dies.” 

“Okay, okay. We’ll stay back, but I need you to put down the gun.” Hotch tried, shooting a look over his shoulder to Spencer, a look that told him to stay put. 

Daniel shook his head. “No. You’re going to ruin everything!”

“Ruin what?” JJ asked. 

“My chance do what’s right. Y/N doesn’t want me. But I love her, can’t she see that? I would do anything for her, and still she would choose him over me?” Daniel’s eyes moved to meet with Spencer’s, narrowing. 

“Daniel, we know what you went through. We know about your accident, how you’ve felt so out of control since, but if you come with us we can get you the help you need.” Rossi was next to attempt to convince him, but to no avail.

“No- No!” Daniel scowled, clenching his teeth as his gaze fixated on Spencer, who’s eyes were locked with Y/N’s, trying to silently reassure her that she was going to be okay. “She’s mine. I protected her, I’ve looked out for her. She’s finally going to understand.” He looked down at Y/N, his grip on her tightening, causing her to let out a frightened yelp. 

Spencer gulped, tearing his gaze from Y/N and onto the unsub, putting on a strong and unbothered facade. He wouldn’t let himself be clouded by his emotions, not this time. “You’re right. You kept her safe, and I’m very grateful that you protected her when I failed to.”

“Thats right. You failed her. I’m so much better for her.” He seethed through his teeth. “ And that’s why, if she won’t chose me, she’ll have to die with me.”

“You don’t want to do that, Daniel. Put down the gun. We’ll bring you in, and if you tell us all about this partner of yours, we’ll tell everyone that you co-operated.” JJ suggested, her gun still aimed up at him. 

“Why are you doing this?” Y/N gasped out, still struggling against his hold. 

“Because if I can’t have you, the neither can he. No, No.” He grinned, bringing the gun up to his his own head. From where it was angled, the bullet would pass through his own head, and lodge itself in Y/N’s too. “You’re mine, Y/N.” 

This time, Spencer didn’t hesitate. 

One single gunshot. 

Daniel collapsed to the floor, a bullet between his eyes. 

Y/N fell to the ground with him in a fit of sobs, scrambling to get away from the man who lay dead on the floor, the pool of blood growing around him.  

Spencer holstered his gun, immediately surging forward to wrap a trembling Y/N up in his arms. 

“It’s okay, you’re okay. I’ve got you, you’re safe.” He cooed, rubbing a hand on her back in a soothing manner. 

She sobbed into his chest as he held her, tears forming in his own eyes at the sound of her cries. But Spencer allowed himself a moment to breathe, looking over Y/N’s shoulder at the man he’d just shot without hesitation. 

And he’d wouldn’t be losing any sleep over it, either.  

He tightened his arms around her, thankful that she was safe. He brought her up to stand, his arms still tight around her. He looked toward his teammates, nodding gratefully at them as he walked Y/N out of the building. As he passed, he overheard JJ and Hotch’s conversation. 

“Emily and Morgan found the partner fleeing out the back. They say he’s agreed to talk.” 

With an internal sigh of relief, he held Y/N closer as they stepped out the doors of the building, guiding her toward the medical staff so she could be checked for injuries, despite how she told him she was fine. After it was concluded that she’d come out pretty unscathed, with only a few cuts and bruises, Spencer came and sat down next to her. She smiled weakly up at him, and he knew it would take a while for her usual bright smile to return, but she was alive- and right then that was all that mattered. 

He immediately took her hand in his, gripping it tightly. 

“Is it over?” She asked quietly, and he nodded. 

“Yeah, they got the partner, and he’s going to co-operate in return for a reduced sentence, but he’ll still be going away for a long time.”

She nodded, her head dropping onto his shoulder. “Thank you so much, Spencer. You saved me.” She whispered. 

“You don’t have to thank me. I’m sorry about the argument we had, I was being a jerk. I just wanted to protect you, but in the end you still ended up getting hurt.” He frowned, looking down at the gravel ground. 

“It’s okay, I understand. I’m sorry you had to relive all of this again, I can’t imagine how difficult that must’ve been for you.” She sighed, guilt overwhelming her. 

“Hey, no. You’re safe, that’s all that matters.” He promised and she nodded against him. 

Giving her hand a squeeze, he turned slightly to press a lingering kiss to her forehead. 

“Let’s go home, sweetheart.” 

[bibliocratic]

muddle along or: the Pokemon / TMA crossover I’ve been promising @speakerunfolding for AGES jonmartin early S4

Jon considers the knapsack left for him.

Exhaustion is already feasting on any clarity he might have obtained in the near quiet. His body stiff, unused to the casual labour of his bones. The storage room, its shelves overburdened, the air vents popping like cracked knuckles, has gained nothing in his absence except a resurgence of dust and, in a dismal corner, a pile of boxes and a suitcase. A pathetic truncated shrine to his thirty odd years of living.

They moved his possessions here, when his rent went unpaid, when his water bills and council tax and internet payment reminders piled up like demanding snowdrift on his mucky welcome mat. Mutely, he glances over the hastily sellotaped boxes that now form his packaged-up life with all the distance that six months of bad dreams have afforded him.

He wonders who packed up his kitchenware, despairing at the mismatched cutlery harvested from student halls and charity-shop finds; clucked their teeth at the bread freckling mouldy in the barren landscape of his fridge; folded his clothes neatly into the suitcase he always kept stuffed under his unmade bed, even pairing up his socks; who took the books off his shelves in the belief he might thumb through them again one day.

He wonders if it was Martin.

Basira gave him the knapsack some hours ago. When he’d found some semblance of normalcy in the dull weight of a sandwich coating his stomach, dressed in clothes that now hang like rags off a coat hanger, sat at the table in the otherwise empty staff room with the heat of a cup of tea cactus-prickling his palms.

“He asked if you’d look after them,” she’d said. The strap of the bag held securely in the jaw of her Absol. “While he’s – well, you know…” She waves an exasperated done-with-it hand that manages to express a multitude of emotions that refract and merge like the morphing shades of a bruise. “Doing whatever the hell it is he’s doing. Or he thinks he’s doing.”

Jon wishes he knew.

He sits cross-legged in front of the storage room door, a sharp-boned barricade, thrumming like a struck tuning fork with the thought that even here, he will not be safe.

Gardevoir is a heavy weight against his shoulder. She’s quieter than he remembers, solemn and sombre in her new form. She used to demand being lifted up when she was Ralts, her flat red horns digging into his chest and leaving impressions, scrabbling down to shelter half-behind his legs when strangers approached. He left for the Unknowing and she’d been Kirlia, her face set and her cries insistent and infuriated, trying to push her Pokeball into his hand to make him bring her with them. Tim hadn’t asked where she was, when they all piled into the rental car, Houndoom taking up one of the seats in the back but snarling when Basira suggested putting her in her ball.

Jon doesn’t know when she evolved. It pains him, a dull-knife strike of thought, another wave against his tide-bashed flood barriers, to have slept through such a moment in her life when every other milestone they shared together.

“Now is a good a time as any, I suppose?” he asks her. His voice traces above a whisper. His Abra has calmed now, drained down from a difficult and teary reunion, and is now breathing deep and slow, curled into the port of his crossed legs. His three-fingered hands are still clenching the fabric of Jon’s shirt.

Gardevoir nods. Then gives him a nudge and a look when it seems as though he’s stalling, when he must be bleeding out apprehension like watercolours seeping through paper.

“Can’t get anything past you now, huh,” he says. She smiles, fond and he manages a short smile back, and it is almost, almost like it was before.

The bag is old, its original function probably for a laptop of some kind. The plasticky outer skin of it has rubbed away, flaking to mesh at the edges, the piping worn down to wires. Jon folds back the front of the bag, and inside there are four Pokeballs, the basic and cheapest red-and-white models. Jon had worked a thankless summer job at a beach-side amusement arcade to save up the money to get Ralts a customised ball, and had done similar when Abra came along a few years later.

To the side of the Pokeballs, ziplocked and labelled, there is a small forest of freezer bags bulging with berries and treats and care equipment. In a plastic pocket, there are precisely written instructions pertaining to each Pokemon and their requirements, and Jon’s throat tightens unexpectedly to see Martin’s looping joined-up handwriting, to see words that seem penned by someone who doesn’t expect to be coming back.

Gardevoir makes a low noise next to him. Her arm alighting on his, a solid weight, grounding. Jon clears his throat and takes out the Pokeball nearest the top, pushing the button on the front so the size balloons to fill his palm.

Most people have one Pokemon, maybe two, unless they’re involved in competitive breeding and training. When Abra came along, he remembers his gran remarking on the upkeep, how it would be his responsibility to feed and care for and train them, and it hadn’t been the cheapest venture but Jon had born the expense gladly.  It doesn’t surprise him that Martin has amassed so many in comparison to the norm.

At lunch one day years ago, the weather nipping frost-touched, they’d sat outside a cramped cafe because there’d been no seats indoors, and Martin had confessed that he was always taking them in. Thinking back, Jon knows that Martin was attempting to keep the conversation buoyant, coaxing him away from deeper, darker waters. Jon remembers being irritated, sore-eyed with sleeplessness, his spine strung with paranoia.

“My lost causes, Mum called them,” Martin had said, and his voice had tried for a levity that landed without cushioning. He’d torn off a bit from the end of his panini to feed a hopeful-looking Pidove pecking expectantly around their feet. The cause of the conversational turn, Martin’s newest acquisition, had sat grumpily mewling on the other man’s knee, wriggling and sniping as he tried to feed them some medication he’d got from the vet. Despite himself, Jon had been distracted from miring thoughts of Gertrude by watching Martin’s charade unfold, the man making a show of giving up with a theatrical sigh to scratch the Nidoran behind the ears in a show of defeat, being careful of their spikes. The Nidoran had headbutted his hand whenever his motions slowed to stopping, and Martin had used the distraction to fold a chorizo slice he’d pulled from his panini around the pill, which the Nidoran had happily snaffled from his fingers, gulping it down before returning to demand affection.

“They’ll be all healed up within the week,” Martin had continued, plastering over the continued lull with his chattering. “I’ve taken in a few Nidorans before, they tend to be pretty hardy.” He had scratched under the Nidoran’s chin as his words ebbed with the nudging of an undemanding tide.

Jon had picked at his sandwich as Martin had fold him about hiding Pidgeys and Swablus in an old shoebox under his bed, lined with the nesting material of some of his t-shirts donated to the cause. A chipped-edge bowl borrowed from the kitchen brimming with water and his own early team of Pokemon keeping them company while their wings healed in their splints before they were strong enough to leave again.

These four Pokeballs in the knapsack aren’t just random strays. They’re Martin’s Pokemon. The ones that never left him, the ones that he’s raised and doted upon and taken worriedly to the Pokecentre over every cough and sniffle and fever.

And for the meantime, they’re Jon’s.

Jon presses the release button on the first ball.

There is a chittering surprised coo as an Oddish materialises in a buzz of light and reforming matter.  They reform to stand a little higher than Jon’s ankle, only to fold their leaves half over their eyes at the unkindness of the halogen strip light. They totter when they take a step, tumbling to sitting with an affronted noise before, with a determined heft, they rock themselves up to standing again. Jon’s seen Martin’s Oddish before, approaching every walk around the assistant’s office space like a tightrope. Tim had bought them a little plant pot as a novelty Christmas gift once, and they’d unironically loved it, hopping into it cosily and getting specks of soil all over Martin’s desk.

Their leaves are poked through with ragged little holes, like they’ve been nibbled away, the green tinged in places to a sickly yellow. In the bag there is a vial of luminous blue medicine, complete with dropper and application instructions. It’s a stress thing, he dimly remembers Martin had once explained to him. It’s like an eczema, of a sort, that afflicts Grass-types, but it affects Oddish’s balance when it flares up.

The Oddish looks at Jon. They don’t have a neck as such, so they lean their whole bulb-like body backwards on their stumpy legs to study Gardevoir, who gives a reassuring blink. They glance around the storage room and its uninspired treasures of boxes and the unpromisingly weak-seeming metal frame of the cot, with a fretful shake of their leaves. They’re expecting to see someone else.

“Hello,” Jon says. He clears his throat, attempting to present a friendly face, to avoid the grimace he senses forming at his discomfort, his presentation to a critical audience that is already finding him wanting. “I’m… well, I’m Jon. You’ve probably seen me before, I’m um… I’m a f-friend of Martin’s. He’s, well, he’s not here at the moment. But he asked me to look after you. While he’s – he’s away.”

Oddish blinks their beady round red eyes. Their leaves wave uncertainly with the lazy swish of palm fronds. They coo again, a longer sound, plaintive and stretched out in melancholy. They take the opportunity to look around again, a full-body swivel that has them unbalanced, but Gardevoir leans down with a careful hand to steady them upright.

Jon watches them amble off to study their surroundings. Every so often crying out in a searching noise. Gardevoir keeps an eye on them as they rootle around in one of the boxes they can reach.

The next few releases are equally unsuccessful. Skitty reforms only to barrel under the cot as a pink-and-white blur, slinking further back with his tail swishing furiously whenever Jon addresses him. One undamaged ear twitches anxiously. The next Pokemon fails to materialise at all, refusing to leave their ball.

This was a mistake. Martin should have known better, known him enough to see that he would be no good at this, his skills in offering comfort atrophied. He can barely take care of himself, these days. Never mind additional charges who are scared, who need reassurance that is rendered rusty in his throat.

He reaches out to cradle the last ball in his cupped palms. He knows who is inside. The youngest of Martin’s acquisitions, and as far as Jon was aware, full-on adverse to getting inside a Pokeball. Their favoured mode of travel was Martin, using him as a climbing frame while he attempted to work, kicking their little feet against his forehead, clinging giggly to his mop of hair to get a better view, squealing shrill and disruptive and delighted when Martin would playfully shake his head to rock them. He thinks with the uncertainty that memory offers him, that Sasha had loved them, lifted them and pretending to throw them while they chattered and babbled, snuck them berries when Martin wasn’t looking. Jon has paid ear to more than one lecture from Martin on nutrition and proper feeding times and sugar levels. They might have played with Sasha’s own Pokemon, like they had tottered after Houndour’s short and wagging tail when she was out of her ball, like they had ran after Skitty to join in games, but that memory has been scratched from recollection like initials scored out of tree bark.

They were by nature vocal, rambunctious, unthinking and unheedful of danger, a child really, and Martin had been forever apologising when Jon would find them where they weren’t meant to be, carrying them back cautiously and carefully to Martin’s fretful hands. He thinks Martin had thought that they had irritated him. It hadn’t been that. They had been so small, smaller than they should have been for their species, the runt of some litter abandoned or lost by their parent or cracked and emerging blinking from their egg over-early. They had been so curious, and the world of the archives had grown increasingly unsafe around them. Jon had worried, in his own poorly expressed way.

He presses the button, and aims at the ground. Martin’s Togepi manifests in a fizz of red light and sound crackling like champagne.

They turn around with a confused noise.

Jon gets the chance to voice an awkward, low-pitched ‘hello’ before they take one look at him and their face clenches upset, breath starting to bubble with sobs.

“Oh, oh, nonono, hey,” Jon says, scooping them up into his hands. Abra is dislodged, wakes up startled and teleports a few feet away with a ‘pop’ of displaced air. “It’s… nonono, shush, it’s alright.”

Big messy tears fall out of screwed up eyes. Hitching sobs lengthen into wails. Jon looks frantically at Gardevoir as he rocks and shushes the bawling Pokemon against his chest in a way Martin was so much better at.

Martin would know what to do, what to say. How all this could work out for the best. But Martin isn’t here.

Jon’s own eyes dampen.

“Shshshsh,” he croaks thickly. “It’s – it’s going to be alright. I’ve got you.”

He uses the sleeve of his shirt to wipe away the worst of the tears. He strokes the top of Togepi’s head.

“It’s going to be alright,” Jon repeats.

Many hours later, Jon wakes up, cotton-mouthed and his back vengeful for the position he’s slept in. His legs, still crossed, have degraded to numbness that he’ll pay for as soon as he wants to stand. In his lap, he sees the matryoshka doll set up that’s occurred, Togepi exhaling with little whistling breaths into Abra’s chest, Abra’s face planted against Jon’s shirt. Skitty has emerged from his defensive fort under the cot to coil into a ball of heat, curled up in the crook of Abra’s overhanging tail. Gardevoir is half-awake in that dozing but alert way she has, and she must have turned off the light in the room because it’s dark except for the emergency glow from the fire-exit sign that casts the walls and floor in an unsettling green. Jon sees the husk of an opened Pokeball, the shadow of something small and yellow crouched on Gardevoir’s shoulder, and something inside him eases, just a little bit.

Oddish is looking up at him from the floor. Jon moves the only hand he has that’s not squashed under Abra, and when he sets it down they alight with an unsteady gait and he transfers them to the higher terrain of his knee. He rubs a careful finger along their leaves until they sit, their head nodding as they struggle to stave off sleep, although they still glance around with uncertain eyes.

The room has dropped colder. Oddish shivers along with Jon.

“I know,” Jon says. “I miss him too.”

[themorphine]

The Picnic-Feysand Date <3

So happy to announce that me and @wintersouldier57 teamed up and wrote a feysand fic in celebration of both hitting 100 followers! Go say congrats to @wintersouldier57 SHES AMAZING

It had been a long few weeks for the high lord and lady of the night court. Between their regularly scheduled meetings and taking care of Nyx, things had been hard. They had scarcely found any time for themselves in the midst of it, hardly any to just be together, enjoying each other’s presence. When Feyre wasn’t at a meeting, Rhys was in the Illyrian mountains handling the armies with Cassian. When Rhys was home, Feyre was at the art studio. Their schedules never seemed to line up.

They often spoke mentally, providing each other as much comfort as they could in that capacity, but they soon found that even psychic communication had its limits when it came to comforting one another. Feyre missed the way his arms felt around her, the way he would whisper soothing words into her ear when things became too much to handle. She understood that they had their responsibilities to their court. They were high lord and lady, after all. Still, she was restless. She wanted nothing more than to feel his embrace, nothing more than to drown in a pool of the transcendent love he offered her.

There was a dull ache in her heart that she knew only he could alleviate. She longed for him. She had not known desperation so deep since her days before coming to Prythian. That desperation, that hunger, had burned, but never like this. It had seared from the inside out, but never straight from the heart. Not like this did. This killed slowly, she thought, deliberately. She felt as though she had been traipsing around Velaris with half a soul, never quite able to get comfortable anywhere she went.

She would see him today. For the first time in weeks, everything lined up. Cassian and Azriel had agreed to take Nyx off their hands for the day for what Cassian called “much-needed uncle time”. They would pick him up as soon as she returned home for the day.

She was a bit surprised that Cassian had not said anything, no teasing. She didn't say anything though, she did not want to give him any ideas. He probably does not want to lose any time with Nyx, she thought, and chuckled silently.

“What’s so funny my High Lady? Rhysie has some good jokes for once?” Rhysand must have heard that from wherever he was, because he responded in Feyre’s and Cassian’s head, At least my jokes don't have every female in all of Prythian running for the hills Cassian. Feyre laughed harder, Cassian chuckling as well.

“Well have fun you two, and be sure to be home at a respectable time, and PLEASE use a sound barrier, I do not want to have to explain what noises are being heard all over this cauldron-damned city to this little one.” He said in his most “mother hen” voice, and tickled a giggling Nyx in his arms. Feyre glared at him while he laughed, and Rhys must have said something in his head, for he laughed even harder.

“BYE CASSIAN” Feyre shouted, making a beeline to the door. She could still hear Cassian's laughter,

Once she was outside, she took a deep breath of the fresh air. It was a nice day, perfect for a walk in the park or a trip to the market squares. Perhaps she and Rhys could take a walk when he returned. She would love nothing more than to walk through Velaris hand in hand with her mate. She missed simple intimacies like that, little touches.

You look simply delectable in that dress, Feyre darling.

He had spoken into her mind. Could he see her? Where was he? She looked around but could not find him. Suddenly, there was a pressure underneath her knees, lifting her into the air. She yelped, surprised that he had picked her up.After the initial surprise, she spoke;

“You should have given me some warning, you prick.”

He chuckled, “Now what would be the fun in that Feyre Darling?”

She tried her best to look unaffected by the nickname, and replied “The fun would be that I wouldn't have to scream and not fall on my face for all of Velaris to see.”

He put on a face of mock hurt. “You really think I would drop you darling? I would never!”

She glared. “Based on what you did last time, I won't trust you for another 1000 years, 900 if your lucky.”

He laughed harder, burrowing his face in my neck, to try and silence it. Once he calmed he breathed in my neck, savouring her smell.

“If I could bottle your smell I would drink it every day.” He sighed, hugging Feyre tightly, as if she could disappear any moment. And to be honest based on how long they had been apart, they both felt as if they would disappear, but thank the cauldron they wouldn't.

Finally, after all this time, they were together. She smiled as she nuzzled closer to his chest. Through the bond, she could feel the pure happiness coursing through Rhys. Her grin widened as she felt the wind blazing past them.

She wondered where he might be taking her. They hadn’t discussed their plans beyond spending the day together. Wherever they were headed, though, Feyre knew she would love it. She would love it because he would be there with her. For the first time in a long while, she was home. An unyielding warmth welled up in her heart in the place of the ravenous longing she had been experiencing before. She was with Rhys now, and all was well, at least for the day.

She looked down and watched the vibrant landscape of Velaris fly by beneath them. She could easily fly herself, but she didn’t want to. At least for now, she wanted to be held by him. Judging by the way his arms were wrapped around her more tightly than usual, it was clear that he was enjoying it too. There was something about him holding her like that. It always gave her butterflies, no matter how long they had been together. Even with the centuries stretching out before them, she could be sure that that would never change. Not this, and not the way they felt for each other. She would always look at him as though he had hung the very stars that shone above Ramiel on the Night Court’s insignia, and he would always look to her and see his darling mate, his salvation.

They continued their flight. When he landed and sat her on her feet, she mourned the close contact. She took in their surroundings. They stood on a hill overlooking the city. From the vantage point, she could see it all. She saw the rainbow and the Sidra, twinking as it reflected the sun’s light. What she took the most note of, though, was the blanket laid out on the grass, a small basket sitting at its center.

A picnic.

Rhys had planned a picnic.

She didn’t realize it was possible to love him more than she already did.

He watched her intently, taking in the shift in her expression. He grinned widely. He loved seeing her like this, happy and content. For once, she looked her age. She looked like the 20 year-old girl she was, and without eyes that looked haunted or scared. Their duties could wait. Right now, as they stood on this hill, things were for once simple. The world was quiet, save for the slight breeze that occasionally brushed against their ears. They were happy. War and politics be damned.

“Happy, my love?”

She looked down to find that her hand was glowing. It seemed that her body was speaking for itself. Instead of answering, she took a few steps toward him, placing her shining palm on the side of his face, stroking his cheek. His violet eyes were alight with the spark of love. He leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to her lips. It wasn’t like things had been recently. It wasn’t the quick kiss of someone trying to make time between meetings or the kind of kiss she would give him as she passed him on the way to feed Nyx. The kiss they now shared was sweet, unhurried, as though they had all the time in the world to stand there and relish in what they were feeling.

After what felt like a millenia, he slowly pulled away from her, once again meeting her eyes.

“I’ve missed that,” he said.

“I’ve missed you,” Feyre replied, tears brimming in her eyes. But she was smiling, a broad, indestructible smile that made Rhys look at her in wonder

They stared at each other for a moment longer before Rhys motioned to the blanket.

“Let’s get more comfortable.”

They made their way over to the blanket and they sat next to one another. She leaned over, resting her head on his shoulder. With his other arm, he reached for the basket, producing several sandwiches and a container of what she assumed was some sort of stew. He sat the food in front of them before he tilted his head and placed a soft kiss on her hair.

She knew she was likely still glowing. She didn’t need to look down to know. Rhys picked up one of the sandwiches and held it to her lips. She took a bite, savoring the taste. She quickly realized where she had tasted it before. It was one of the sandwiches from her favorite restaurant. She beamed. Her clever, loving mate had gone there and procured it for her, just to make her happy. She recalled a time when such a thing would have been an ordeal, a time when her former lover had refused to so much as let her leave the house. She wished more than anything that she could go back in time and tell that girl that this was waiting on the horizon, that such a love awaited her beyond all the turmoil.

He put a hand on her hair, lightly stroking it as he held up the sandwich once again for her. She took another bite, turning slightly.

“I can feed myself, you know,” she laughed.

“What kind of male would I be if I didn’t care for my lovely hardworking mate?”

She reached over, grabbing a sandwich and holding it up for him. They spent the rest of the picnic like that, feeding each other bits of food and staring into one another’s eyes. When they had finished their meal, Rhys put what remained back in the basket and pulled her closer, pushing her head down onto his lap as he continued to stroke her hair. They stayed like that for a while, him stroking her hair and occasionally leaning down and pressing a kiss to her forehead. It had been going on for some time when he finally said, “I don’t know what I’ve done in this life to deserve this. To deserve you.”

She looked up at him. His eyes were tender.

“You do deserve this. You’ve done so much good in your life, Rhys. You deserve every bit of happiness.”

He smiled.

“You are my happiness,” he said, his voice shaky, pressing another kiss to her brow, “and I will spend the rest of this eternity showing you how much I treasure you, my love, my mate, my salvation.”

She looked into his eyes. She wanted to say something, but she was at a loss. No words in her vocabulary could accurately describe what she was feeling, the depth of her affection for the male in front of her. She hoped her face and the glow of her skin said enough. They seemed to, as a moment later he pulled her into a tight embrace.

“My Feyre,” he said, nuzzling her neck, “my light.”

“I love you,” she said. She had never meant anything more.

“I love you too,” he responded, pressing a kiss to her pulse point.

He continued trailing light kisses down the column of her throat, smiling into her neck as he heard her breath hitch slightly. He readjusted, laying her down on the blanket. Her face was flushed as he stared down at her. He knelt down on top of her, pressing a long kiss onto her collarbone.

“Now prepare yourself, darling,” he said, “I’m going to show you just how much I’ve missed you.”

She was not prepared.

Tag List:

@feysandandnyxsworld

@that-sociopathic-hufflepuff

@emikadreams

@highladysith

@cardansfae

@aelin-bitch-queen

tagging some ppl who wanted to be in my jealous rhysand fic just in case u wanna se thisss

@live-the-fangirl-life

@story-scribbler

[pitviperofdoom]

Me: I’ve got some time and motivation on my hands! Maybe I should work on one of my immediate projects, like putting the finishing touches on my RQBB piece, or making some headway on my TMA BB piece, or editing the next chapter of the DND AU...

Me: *writes a 5k opener for an au that’s basically The Owl House*

------

“Again.”

Jon held still and kept his eyes shut. Everything ached, his head most of all; the slightest movement sent lightning bolts of pain through his skull. Even now it throbbed like a quiet threat behind his closed eyes.

“Get up, Jon.”

He couldn’t. He was done. Wasn’t that obvious?

“I don’t have time to indulge you. I know you can do more. Now get up.”

He couldn’t.

“Open your eyes, Jonathan.”

That was a simpler request, at least. He could do that much, couldn’t he? He could open his eyes. It barely counted as moving.

Dutifully, Jon forced his eyelids apart. Punishment was swift; this time the pain was so intense that he couldn’t even scream, only curl up tighter on the floor with a strangled whimper. The polished tiles were cold against his face, but they did little to soothe the ache. Warm liquid trickled from his closed eyes; when had he started crying?

Across the room, Jonah sighed. “Already? We’ve barely scratched the surface, Jon. I expected another hour from you, at minimum.” Footsteps echoed against the floor, and Jon tensed in spite of the pain, but the hands that picked him up were gentle. “Come now. Our work is too important for me to indulge you like this. For Titan’s sake, your endurance was better when you were a mere child.”

Jon kept his eyes shut, and hated the part of himself that wanted to curl up again, apologize, and promise to do better. The ache was beginning to recede, just barely, but he kept his eyes shut. If he opened them too soon, then Jonah would take it as a sign that he wasn’t as tired as he behaved.

“Can you make your own way back?” Jonah asked, steadying him by the shoulders. “Or do you need help?”

Jon’s blood ran cold. That was a dangerous question. If he chose to go under his own power, then Jonah might change his mind about letting him stop. But he didn’t want help. His limbs felt like wet clay, and there wasn’t a single muscle in his body that didn’t hurt, but at least they were still his.

“I—” HIs voice cracked in his dry throat. “I can—I can make my own way. Th-thank you, Jonah.” He held his breath.

After far too long for comfort, Jonah sighed again, heavy with disappointment. “Alright, Jon. Get some rest. We’ll do better in the morning.”

“Yes, Jonah,” Jon replied, faint with relief, and waited.

He was met with silence.

“Have you changed your mind?” Jonah said, after a moment. “If you’d like to continue…”

“No,” Jon replied. “No, I’m—thank you. For letting me stop. Just…” He held his hands out in a blind plea. “It’s my eyes, so I need…”

“Ah, of course, how could it have slipped my mind?” He heard a faint rustle from Jonah’s robe, before warm, smooth wood was pressed into his waiting hands. Jon swallowed another sob of relief. “There you are, then.”

“Thank you,” Jon repeated, and turned toward where he hoped the exit was.

The shape in his hands shifted. Smooth wood became downy softness, before the feeling left his hands and landed gently against his face. Soft wings brushed his cheeks, tiny legs grasped the bridge of his nose, and the world returned to him.

He hadn’t opened his eyes, but he could see the room once more: the library’s main room, a vast space where he and Jonah did most of their work. He could see Jonah as well, watching him with the weary patience of a parent indulging a child’s tantrum.

Jon looked away, muttered his thanks again, and limped out of the room.

Even with a closed door between them, the weight of Jonah’s scrutiny never left. Not helping the matter was the wallpaper that, currently, was openly tracking his progress through the countless eyes hidden in the intricate pattern.

That was the downside to navigating with these eyes; when he used his own, he couldn’t see the Beholding that soaked every nook and cranny of the manor. At least then he could pretend that closed doors and distance meant something.

It was a long way from the research wing to his quarters—their quarters—and Jon had to pause several times for a moment’s rest. By the time he reached the last flight of stairs, he was shaking from exhaustion, and strongly considering the benefits of simply curling up in a corner of the hallway and falling asleep on the floor. Jonah certainly kept the carpets plush enough.

His borrowed vision went hazy for a moment, and soft wings beat gently against his face. Jon braced himself against the wall as another powerful headache washed over him, closed eyes be damned. His face was wet with tears again.

“Alright,” he murmured. “Alright. Just a bit farther.”

The mask of wings left his face in a sudden flurry of beating, leaving him blind again. Jon bit back a cry of alarm and stayed where he was, leaning against the wall. He wouldn’t leave—surely he wouldn’t. He’d be back. Maybe he was just…

Before he could work himself into a proper panic, he heard the door at the top of the stairs creak open. Familiar footsteps came tumbling down the steps.

“Fuck, Jon,” a familiar, wonderfully welcome voice breathed out, and Gerry caught him before he could fall.

Jon made the rest of the journey leaning heavily against him, blind and trusting. He could feel gentle puffs of air against his face, fluttering wings that didn’t quite touch, and smiled gratefully.

Eventually Gerry deposited him in a chair and went to retrieve something—from the potions stand, going by the clatter of glass vials. Less than a minute later, one of them was pressed into his hand.

“Here. Need help drinking?”

Jon shook his head. “I can manage. Thanks.” He downed the potion and was rewarded by a receding headache. His eyelids were so sticky that he had to massage them open, and his vision came back in blurry patches, one piece of the room at a time: A single table and chair by the kitchenette. Two beds shoved together in the far corner. The sparsest alchemy array on the Isles. Gerry's face, watching him with open concern.

"Do you know how much you lost?" Gerry asked.

"What?"

Gerry gestured to his face, and Jon mirrored the motion until he found rough, sticky stains streaked down his face. He was confused until some of it crumbled off at his touch, and he looked down to find flecks of congealed blood clinging to his fingertips. "That's probably not good."

"Yeah, Jon," Gerry sighed, short and forceful with held back anger. "Probably isn't." He moved off to the kitchenette, and returned moments later with a damp towel.

Jon cleaned his face, sighing in relief at the coolness against the lingering ache. He put the now-soiled towel aside, eyes finally clear, and caught the briefest glimpse of amber eye spots on coppery wings before their owner alighted gently on the side of his head.

"Yes, of course," he said, reaching up to stroke one of the moth's large downy wings. His familiar nuzzled his finger in return. "Thank you, Atlas."

"He alright?" Gerry asked grimly, already checking the moth for any sign of damage.

"Jonah had him for the entire session," Jon replied. "No overt threats today, he just… didn't let him go until we were finished. So. Could be worse."

"Could be a lot better," Gerry muttered.

It will be, he carefully didn't say. Soon, it will be.

It wasn't safe to talk like that. Not here. Not yet.

After Gerry coaxed food into him, Jon crawled beneath the covers and curled up as small as he could manage. Patched and mended blankets didn’t offer any more protection than the walls of this place, but huddling in the dark made it easier to pretend that Jonah couldn’t see him here. It was the only way he could make himself sleep, these days.

When he awoke to Gerry’s gentle shaking, Jon found that he hadn’t moved so much as a finger in his sleep.

Without a word, he slipped out from under the blanket. The light in their quarters was dimming as twilight approached. Gerry barely glanced up from the book he was reading at the table as Jon shuffled to the kitchenette and the kettle.

Casting the spell was a simple matter of well-practiced sleight of hand, disguised beneath mundane activities. One spell circle traced idly by Gerry’s finger against the page as he turned it, the other drawn in the air as Jon waved away the steam. They never did it the same way twice, nor with any regularity by day or week or month. If it became a pattern, then Jonah might catch it.

The spell slipped into place smoothly, with none of the clumsy ripples of their earliest attempts, and Jon let out a shaky sigh. They had to assume that Jonah was always watching—but now, if he was, all he would see was Gerry reading at the table, and Jon drinking tea at the kitchenette. It was a routine they had set long ago. It was exactly what Jonah would expect to see.

Titan willing, it would be enough. They couldn’t afford to slip up now.

“It’s almost ready,” Gerry assured him. “Everything’s in place. All we have to do is wait for the moon’s alignment to power it.”

Jon ran his hand absently over his arm, scratching at the pockmark scars that dotted his skin. Some of the ingredients had cost them dearly to procure. They likely wouldn’t get another chance on any of them.

When he looked at Gerry again, his friend was watching him with something indescribably soft in his face. “It’ll work, Jon.”

“And if we’re caught?” Jon blurted. “We can’t hide this ritual behind false visions. He’ll sense it no matter what his eyes tell him.”

“Once it’s cast, it won’t matter,” Gerry said with grim satisfaction. “We’ll have our out. And where it leads, Jonah won’t have any of the power he does here.”

Jon took a deep, shaky breath, and nodded. His hands curled and uncurled at his sides, nails digging deep into his palms.

Gerry’s eyes never left him. “What’s on your mind?”

Swallowing against the thickness in his throat, Jon struggled to find an answer. “Is it—is it wrong that I’m afraid?”

“Jon, no—”

“I didn’t want to be here,” Jon went on. “I never wanted—ever since I came here, I’ve wanted to leave. And now we finally have a chance. Why am I afraid?” Gerry opened his mouth like he was about to reply, but Jon couldn’t have stopped himself if he tried. “It’s not like I’m safe here. Today wasn’t even that bad, compared to… it wasn't that bad.” A bitter, ragged laugh tore itself from his throat. "He pushed me until I bled from my eyes, and he was happy to keep pushing, and all I can think is it wasn't that bad. Why am I afraid to leave?" His voice trailed off. Atlas’s wings fluttered against his head, mirroring his agitation.

Instead of answering, Gerry held out his arms. Jon walked into them without hesitation.

“You were a kid.” With his head on Gerry’s shoulder, his hand to his heart, and Gerry’s arms holding him close, Jon felt surrounded by his friend’s voice.

“I was nearly eighteen,” Jon protested. “Hardly a child.”

“I’m just saying, you’ve been here too long not to be scared of what’s out there,” Gerry reminded him. “And it’s not like we’re escaping out the front door. We don’t really know what we’ll find on the other side.”

Jon’s hand curled into a fist against Gerry’s chest, and his other arm tightened around him. If they did this right, then their exit strategy would dump them into an entirely new world, of which Jon had only ever read old books or heard second and third-hand stories. A fresh wave of apprehension seized him.

Not for the first time, he let himself be desperately, pathetically grateful that he wasn’t doing this alone.

“Can you keep it together?” Gerry asked, still quietly gentle. “I just—I know you’re scared. I’m scared too. But I can’t do this alone. This is a two-person job at least, and—”

“Of course.” Reluctantly, Jon pulled back to look him in the eye. “I’m not going to give up at the last moment. You can rely on me.”

Gerry smiled. That was a rare thing, these days. All the more reason not to lose his nerve. Once they got out, Jon was going to spend the rest of their lives giving Gerry every reason to keep doing it.

“I know,” Gerry replied. “Now come on. Let’s finish prepping before we run out of twilight.”

***

“You know,” Gerry whispered late at night, as Jon settled himself into the curve of his body. “By the time I left home, I’d passed up five chances to escape.”

Jon listened in silence. He was never quite sure what to say when Gerry talked about how he grew up. Nothing felt like the right thing to say. Luckily, Gerry never seemed to expect him to say anything at all.

“Those are just the ones I was looking out for, at the time,” Gerry went on. “Couldn’t tell you how many I just didn’t see.”

“You were a kid,” Jon murmured back.

Gerry scoffed into Jon’s hair, and Jon smiled. “Don’t you turn my words back on me. How dare you.” A moment later, “But… you’re not wrong. I was a kid. She was all I knew. I didn’t know who I was without her.”

Safely out of Gerry’s line of vision, Jon allowed himself a thoughtful frown. It was different for him, wasn’t it? Gerry had been born his mother’s son, but Jon had been someone before he was Jonah’s… whatever he was. Student, research assistant, test subject, prisoner.

Before, he’d been the son of parents he barely remembered. He’d been the grandson of a woman who did her best until he drove her to give up on him, and a coven leader came to her with a kind smile and a promise to take away her burden. And now…

And now he wasn’t any of that. Because there wasn’t anything for him to go back to. The only way out was forward, into the unknown.

“I figured it out in the end,” Gerry told him. “You will too. I know you will.”

“I might need help with that,” Jon admitted. “I could use your expertise.”

A soft huff of laughter jostled him. “I’m gonna be in the same boat as you, you know? I’ve never been to the human world.”

“You still know more about it than me,” Jon pointed out.

Gerry was quiet for a moment. “He didn’t tell you anything?” he asked eventually. “It didn’t take much to get him talking, when I was running around with him.”

“Only a few things. His family, his brother, some of his favorite foods. It was all we had time for before we parted ways.”

“Ah, that’s a shame,” Gerry sighed. “The human world sounds amazing—if even half the things he told me about were even real.”

Jon laughed softly. “I know what you mean. Can you imagine someone actually swimming in the ocean? It would strip the flesh clean off your bones.”

“Not if the water’s cold and non-corrosive. Which it apparently is. People swim in the ocean all the time. It’s a thing. They take their kids and everything.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.” Jon stifled a yawn.

“It was weird, you know?” Gerry went on. “The things he’d talk about like they were nothing. Sometimes he’d say just the wildest thing, and he’d look at me like I was crazy when I didn’t know what the hell he was talking about.”

“Like what?”

“Hmm… trying to think of one I haven’t told you before…” Gerry hesitated. “Did I tell you about how mornings in the human realm just… make water?”

“You mentioned something about the rainwater being cold,” Jon replied.

“No no, this is different. Titan, how did he explain it…” Gerry hummed thoughtfully. “Something about how, when it’s cold enough, everything’s covered in little droplets of water in the morning. The air just… does that. Makes water out of nothing.”

“I’m sure there’s more to it than that.”

“Can’t remember,” Gerry admitted. “He showed me a picture, though. Water droplets on a spiderweb. Looked like tiny little diamonds. Dunno what kind of face I was making, but he laughed at me.”

“Rude,” Jon murmured.

“Still not sure I believe it.”

“Maybe we’ll see it for ourselves. One day.” One day very, very soon.

Gerry’s only reply was to run gentle fingers through Jon’s hair, again and again, until Jon finally fell asleep.

***

The moon sat at its apex, round and bright and wreathed in blue fire that seemed to dim the stars around it. It was the first thing Jon saw when Gerry gently shook him awake.

He stirred, wincing when his movements jarred his injuries. Most of the day had been devoted to Jonah’s experiments, and Jon had fresh wounds to prove it. The burns on his face would heal without scarring, but his right hand was still wrapped in liniment-soaked bandages. Jon avoided putting any weight on it as he rose to a sitting position and pushed back the blanket. The sight of the moon, burning brightly in celestial alignment, chased away any lingering weariness.

They cast their usual cloaking spell with less caution than usual. It was only a stopgap measure at best, a few minutes’ safety to get everything in place. The table, chair, and alchemy set were pushed aside to clear the floor. With steadier hands—Jonah had been focused on Jon today, leaving Gerry a day of respite—Gerry borrowed Jon’s staff to draw the circle. Atlas alighted on his place at the top of the staff, colors fading as he shifted back into wood, and the symbols glowed brighter. Jon fetched each component from their hiding places around the room, and began laying them out amid the lines that Gerry was tracing.

They worked quickly, not speaking, barely breathing. For all their planning, there had been no time to practice. They would get only one chance, and no more.

And so, there was no time or opportunity to brace themselves before Gerry drew the last line, and Jon poured the last drop of Titan blood, and the circle caught the moonfire blazing through the open window.

The spell ignited, and the sheer force of clashing power nearly knocked them both off their feet. Their flimsy cloaking spell shattered, exposing them to Jonah’s sight, but it was far too late to turn back.

Jon had barely regained his footing when his own magic, coursing through the spell circle alongside Gerry’s, was caught in the moonlight’s amplifying effect. For a single, glorious moment, for the first time in years, Jon felt magic—wild magic, covenless magic—coursing through him. He smelled fire and earth and sea air, felt wind against his face, sensed the distant light of stars above them, tasted blood in the back of his throat as drumbeats pounded in his ears. Every sensation rushed him at once, melding together into a storm of color and music. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever felt.

And then the coven brand on his arm blazed, burning away the storm until only the Beholding remained.

It seized him mercilessly, knowledge clamoring its way into his head all at once. It was a confusing mess, so many sights and sounds and thoughts that he couldn’t have picked out a single one among them. But in the end he adjusted, the stream became more focused, and his mind was his own once more.

At the center of the circle, a seam formed in the fabric of the world. It split neatly down the length of it, opening wide into a ragged doorway.

Jon’s heart leapt. They had been planning this for years, researching in secret, sneaking and lying and stealing to get the components together, and yet—only now did he realize that he had never expected it to actually work. The fact that it had, that freedom lay only a few steps from where he stood, was as exhilarating as it was terrifying.

Jonah was on his way, he realized absently. It wasn’t just the inevitability of it; even without his focus on the river of knowledge flowing through him, he couldn’t help but catch a few drops. One of them showed their captor flying up the stairs toward their quarters, wild-eyed and intent.

“Gerry,” he said. “We have to—”

Another scrap of knowledge slipped into his mind, like a dagger between his ribs.

“Jon?” Gerry’s voice sounded far away. Everything was suddenly muffled, even the portal. Even the Beholding, swollen with moonlight, felt far away. The whole world was contained in a single, inescapable truth.

“We can’t.” The words slipped from Jon’s mouth. His hand closed on Gerry’s arm. “Gerry, we can’t.”

“Jon, let go, the portal’s right—”

“It won’t work.” Jon squeezed his arm. “It won’t—there’s not enough power. It’s not stable enough for both of us. As soon as one of us goes through, the spell will fall apart and the portal will close. It won’t work.”

Gerry stared back at him, face suffused with dismay.

Dismay, but not surprise.

Jon’s heart sank like a stone in mud. “You knew.”

“Jon, there’s no time for this, now let go—” He was pulling away, prying Jon’s fingers from his arm, and the portal was within his reach, and Jonah was so close to their door.

“You knew,” he repeated. “How long have you known? How long have you been lying?”

“I had no choice!” Gerry shouted over the crackling, ringing din of the spell. “There was no other way! What was I supposed to do, sit here while both of us wasted away? What other chance was either of us going to get?”

The worst part was, Jon couldn’t bring himself to be surprised, or even all that angry, really. Of course this was going to happen. It was simply the culmination of his entire life, thus far. His parents, his old friends, his grandmother—and now Gerry.

Maybe it was just his lot to be left behind.

Across the room, the door rattled. Jonah called to them from the other side. Jon barely heard either.

“I…” His throat grew thick. “I understand.”

“Jon, I’m sorry,” Gerry said desperately. “I wish there was another way.”

“No, I—” He really shouldn’t be crying. This was a happy thing, after all. Gerry was going to be free. “At least—even if it’s just one of us—”

Gerry smiled through his own tears. “I’m really gonna miss you,” he said.

“It’s not fair,” Jon blurted out. “We were supposed to go together. We were supposed to see it together!”

“When has any of this ever been fair?”

Tears gathered in his eyes until Jon blinked them away. His last sight of Gerry should be a clear one. “Please don’t forget me.”

The door rattled again, and Gerry choked back a sob. “Fuck. I could never. You’re not the sort of person anyone just forgets.”

Before Jon could reply, Gerry lunged forward. Not toward the portal, not toward freedom, but to Jon. The kiss was fast and clumsy with desperation, but the hands against the sides of his face were ruthlessly gentle.

“I love you,” Gerry whispered. “Don’t look back.”

Jon blinked back his tears, confusion cutting through the grief. “What?”

Gerry curled Jon’s hands around the staff and threw him into the portal.

He fell through the riot of color and music, too shocked to scream as the image of Gerry shattered into pieces above him. The light winked out, and Jon fell into the emptiness alone.

***

Jon landed hard, though not nearly hard enough for how long he must have been falling.

He lay in darkness and silence, wheezing softly as he regained his breath, gripping his staff until his fingers went numb and his injured hand screamed in protest. The air was cold and smelled stale. The light show from the portal was gone, but he could still feel its power humming beneath his skin, threatening to burst free.

After a while, Jon gathered himself enough to roll over. The floor felt like stone beneath his hands, relatively smooth but unpolished. With a grunt of effort, Jon planted his staff on the ground and pulled himself to his feet. It was too dark to see well when he opened his eyes, so he felt along the length of the staff until he found the shape of wooden moth wings at the end.

“Atlas?” His voice rasped in his chest. The wood turned to soft chitin, and Atlas took off from the head of the staff to flutter in frantic circles around his head, buffeting him gently when he flew too close. “Yes, yes—it’s alright. We’re alright.”

Atlas landed on his shoulder, and Jon’s eyes adjusted.

Was this the human world? For all he knew, the portal might have simply dropped him elsewhere in the demon realm. He was in a room, possibly a basement, judging by the clutter. Boxes sat in stacks and piles, some of them too full to close properly. Indistinct objects sat against the walls—an old mirror, frames wrapped in thick brown paper, a tall wooden clock that didn’t seem to be working. A thick layer of dust blanketed everything, untouched by fingerprints or footsteps.

He was alone.

Of course he was alone, he’d seen the portal break apart as soon as he fell into it, with Gerry still on the other side. Jonah had been seconds from breaking the door down, and now—

A harsh sob took him by surprise, and tears blinded him all over again.

Jonah had never set a clear punishment for escaping. And now, whatever it was, Gerry was facing it alone.

They weren’t supposed to be alone, they were never supposed to be alone. It shouldn’t have been him going through the portal, it should have been Gerry, why couldn’t have been Gerry, why couldn’t Gerry have been selfish for once in his life—

A distant scream rang out, shocking him out of his tears. Jon stared around, wide-eyed and searching, but the room was still. Then the ceiling shook with a crash, drawing his eyes upward.

“It’s above us,” he murmured. “Stairs—we need to find stairs.” Atlas took off from his shoulder, eye spots glowing in the gloom.

With an extra set of eyes, Jon found the stairs within a minute. He ran up them, his brand warming as he loosened the leash on his swollen magic. The door at the top of the steps was locked, but he Knew within seconds where to find a key. Atlas vanished from his side and returned moments later, clutching it in all six of his legs.

The door opened to an unlit hallway. Jon hesitated, took one last look back at the dark and cluttered basement, and hurried on.

He could hear more, now that he was really listening for it. Running footsteps, multiple sets by the sound of it. Shouting, always muffled and bitten-off, as if whoever was doing it was trying very hard not to. There were people in trouble—this was the human world, wasn’t it? Was it as hostile as the demon realm after all?

The hallway ended and took him up another flight of stairs. He expected to see light at some point, either artificial or from the windows. The last time he saw the moon, it had nearly blinded him. But instead, the darkness of the stairwell only seemed to grow thicker as he ascended, and reaching the door at the top did nothing to abate it.

At the very least, what he could see of the room he stepped out into looked more like the ground floor. There were proper floorboards, high ceilings, and windows that only showed faint outlines of trees against a dark, starless sky. The house was unlit, and his eyes refused to adjust. Jon drew a quick spell circle on his forehead with one fingertip, and magic poured into his eyes to light the way.

Shouting rang out again from somewhere above. Jon raced to follow it.

Around him, the house was in the slow process of falling apart. Ornate wallpaper hung faded and peeling, shreds of old rugs showed the ragged remains of color and embroidery, and broken shards of wood protruded from walls and doorways alike, as if any ornamentation set into them had been ripped out long ago. This must have been a fine-looking house once, but now it was a crumbling wreck.

Eventually the hallway opened up to another dilapidated chamber, this one a rotting front hall with its doors still standing ajar. Opposite them, the sagging remains of a grand staircase led up to another floor.

Jon had nearly reached the foot of it when he spotted movement at the top of the steps, and his vision went black.

For a split second he thought he’d lost consciousness, but the floor remained firmly beneath his feet. His breath came in short bursts of alarm as he drew another spell circle for sight in the darkness, to no avail.

Jon settled his grip on the staff, wincing at the pain in his burned hand. The bad news was, nothing that simple was going to let him see through this darkness. The good news was, it meant he knew what he was dealing with. He should have figured it out as soon as he left the basement and saw how dark it was. Stupid.

He could hear the others. Their running footsteps had fallen still, but the sound of panicked breathing was unmistakable. Someone was whimpering in pain with each breath. Someone else was whispering frantic reassurances. The darkness swallowed up everything else.

Jon hardly had to reach for his magic. It was brimming all the way to the surface, swollen from the storm of half-wild magic that had brought him here. When he drew a spell circle in the air with a tight whirl of his staff, it all came boiling up and out like a geyser.

Eyes opened everywhere—in Jon’s face and neck, along the length of his staff, in Atlas’s wooden face and wings, and in the choked air all around him. The darkness burned away as quick and clean as thin paper, revealing the scene before him.

There were three people now at the foot of the stairs, in such a state of panicked disarray that Jon could hardly tell whether they’d run or fallen down them. The larger of the two men had the others pushed behind him, backing away from the creature that menaced them, all three of them too frozen in terror to even attempt to cast a spell.

In spite of the glowing eyes that lit the room, a single wriggling mass of darkness remained, crawling and twitching toward its prey with wispy feelers that reached out to touch them. Sour air wafted from its body, filling the room with the smell of rot.

An acid shade. Nasty, hateful things that hunted prey by blinding it, then dissolving it while it was still alive. One touch was enough to melt the skin off your hand. Gerry still had scars from his last encounter with one.

Gerry.

The eyes blazed, and for the first time the brightness touched the shade’s slick hide. It recoiled, convulsing with a sound that was not a scream, but close enough.

Jon didn’t remember crossing the room, but he stood between the writhing mass of shadows and its would-be victims, so he must have. Fear warred with wild, directionless anger. He missed Gerry and hated Jonah. He remembered the feeling of lips on his, and the sight of his only friend weeping as his image shattered. Jon took all of it, gathered up every last drop, and poured it all into the merciless light of his swollen magic. He gave it all of himself, until it was blinding, until he could See every part of the room he stood in, down to every last crack in the walls, down to every convulsing wisp of darkness that made up the shade.

It let out another not-scream as it was utterly, agonizingly Seen.

And then it was gone, and Jon’s last drop of magic trickled out and left him hollow.

The darkness returned—not a demonic creature this time, but regular unconsciousness creeping up on him. He fought it as he turned and looked back at the faces of the people he’d saved. A round-faced man, so pale that his freckles stood out in his face; a woman with wide eyes and dark hair in disarray; and the second man clutching a corrosive burn that covered his arm, whose face—

—whose face Jon recognized.

“Danny?” Half-blind, Jon struggled to focus as the world grew smaller, and the darkness overtaking it nearly obscured the look of shock on the man’s face. “You found your way home?”

He lost his grip on consciousness before he could hear the answer.

[supremeinlilac]

I don't know my name (2)

Part 2/4

Pairing: Outpost!Wilhemina Venable x Fem!Reader

Word count: 3.4k

A/n: Again, apologies if it doesn't make sense 😌✌🏻part 1 here

The next day Ms Venable had informed everyone at the breakfast table that you would be her personal grey, and that they were to abandon your number and call you by her preferred name instead.

She’d had you quite close by for the majority of the day, ready for anything she may need of you. You’d tie her boot laces, be scolded when they became loose again. Fetching her regular water and dispensing orders to the other greys.

While you’d expected her to have you running around after her all day doing menial tasks she probably could do herself, and then keep out of her way while she had free time, you were surprised at her request to read to you when she was alone that evening. Knelt beside her chair, you’d recited poems from a small book from the library.

She’d requested that you read ‘Annabell Lee’ a second time, and you did so. You didn’t mind reading to her, it sure broke up the usual repetitive motion of cleaning and prepping that you usually had to do.

You’d be dismissed earlier than you’d ever been allowed, and you’d been so shocked at how she’d waved you to bed that you’d simply stood there and watched her, searching for any signs in her face that she was lying. Of course, you’d been unable to read her, and your hesitance only gave you a scowl from the older woman.

“I can find you something else to keep you busy for the next few hours if you’d prefer,” she barked, hand stilled in her hair before she could begin pulling the pins out in your presence. You were quick to shake your head and thank her, slipping out of the door and pushing it closed quietly behind you.

That night you were restless, plagued by dreams of a woman with golden fire in her hair. Flowing dresses and hands that could move mountains. Even in a dream, you could feel her power.

The woman face was warm, smile inviting and too familiar, and she held a hand out for you to take. You reached out but her hand disappeared just as you touched her, fingers tingling with electricity as you clutched it back to your chest.

Then you’d look up and the woman would be back again, face smiling and bright, coaxing you to follow with an outstretched palm. You wondered if she was a mirage. Or an angel. She never spoke, but yet you could hear her voice in the back of your head.

Her face was not one you would forget.

But just as your past was a haze, when you awoke, the woman’s face was lost to you.

Days passed, and you fell into comfortable routine. Well as comfortable as one’s routine could get whilst being an assistant to Ms Venable. She constantly surprised you, asking for things you wouldn’t expect, keeping you firmly balancing on pointe like a fragile ballerina.

It wasn’t boring in the outpost anymore, that was for sure. Wilhemina had alighted the same fire within you that you thought had been extinguished. The fire that lit the outpost also licked at your heart.

On one of the Outpost’s mock ‘weekends’, Mina had missed breakfast, a first to your knowledge. You’d been unable to locate her, despite your searching and enquiring; so you simply slipped into the jobs you’d learnt to complete absent-mindedly.

Ms Venable had set the ‘weekends’ up when everyone had arrived at the outpost, since the days had no real meaning when everyday was the same, when there was no one to tell her that she couldn’t. On these days routine was slightly altered with differing activities for both the purples and the greys.

One of the greys had been sent to retrieve you, rushing and stumbling over words and requesting that you go straight to the library to see Ms Venable. You’d been in the middle of changing and dressing the bed in her room, so you bundled the sheets up in your arms and rushed them to the laundry room, not wanting to keep her waiting.

In the library, Wilhemina was thumbing through a book absently, eyes raising as you clattered through the door obnoxiously. She stood from the chair, waving you off when you made to help her, placing the book carefully back onto the shelf and running her fingers along the spines as she turned to you.

Two tocks of her cane and you came to stand obediently in front of her, chest still heaving from having run across the compound to get there quickly. She nodded curtly at you, and you smiled up at the gesture.

“Your posture is horrid.” She stated, making your smile drop. You couldn’t understand this woman, she was constantly keeping you on your toes, never quite knowing where you stood, as she seemed to enjoy it.

She reached a palm to grip your wrist, bringing it up in front of you so your palm lay upwards. You watched her expectantly, glancing down to your hand and back to her. She placed her cane into your palm firmly, directing you to take it from her. You did and it was lighter than you predicted it to be.

Your thumb instinctively ran over the smooth wood of the cane, eyes fixed on the intricately carved bird on the hilt. She let you trace the dips with your fingers for a moment before clearing her throat and demanding your attention once more.

Why she didn’t just ask you to take the cane, or tell you even, you didn’t know. Her mystery seemed to extend to her handling of you, preferring to keep you guessing about her motives than forwardly telling you what she expected.

“We’re here to correct it.”

You went to protest, but she shot you a look, brow raised as if to dare you, and the complaints died on your tongue. Turning, Ms Venable moved the short distance to a table under your gaze, picking up a small pile of books. You cringed, she wasn’t going to make you read them all, was she? You preferred books that you’d chosen yourself.

You noticed that without her cane, she stood leaning slightly to the left, in her body’s natural stance. You looked to her feet as to not draw attention to your staring as she shuffled back to you, and your unwavering eyeline made you miss the grateful smile she offered you.

Wilhemina propped the books atop your head, her face a breath away from yours, forcing a shaky inhale as you started to hold your breath. Your eyes flicked from the bookcase behind her, to her nose, to the candles that threw shadows, to finally, her eyes. They were impenetrably deep, a cold russet, and she was focused on balancing the books. You looked away again, never settling on one thing for fear she’d catch you.

When she’d successfully balanced them, you started to peer up at them. An attempt to catch a glimpse of the books that was quickly derailed by Wilhemina’s fingers holding your jaw. You let the breath out quickly, as a gasp, feeling the books protest at the sharp movement. They stilled again.

The feeling of her fingers grazing just below the curve of your neck was almost enough to have you leaning forward to press anxious lips to hers. Her power, and the fact that you had four books balanced precariously on your head, stopped you from doing just that.

Instead, you shakily handed the cane back to her, careful to keep your head steady by focusing on the way one of her earrings caught the light from the candle and shone opal light onto the column of her neck. You scolded yourself that this moment simply wasn’t the right time to be allured by her beauty again.

Moving backwards to open up the space for you to move into, Wilhemina spoke, quietly, as if barking her usual orders would have the books clattering to the floor before you’d even begun.

“Walk around,” was the only instruction she offered, hand waving nonchalantly towards the empty space on the library floor.

You closed your eyes, willing yourself to concentrate to please her, before starting to edge forward. Wilhemina now watched your movements closely, hands knitted together atop her cane once more, an unreadable expression painted on her face.

Your arms raised automatically for balance, a tightrope walker over the sheer drop. Balancing precariously on a ledge, ready to cross.

“Put your arms down, you’re not some circus performer,” She barked, shattering your imagery and making you flinch. The books tumbled to the floor and you groaned in defeat, wanting to berate her for breaking your concentration.

Her posture was impeccable, as always, as she watched you pick up the books and hold them in place on your head. You knew you were slouching, but you were annoyed and wanted to show it off. You weren’t some doll she could play with and perfect. Her games made you feel like a child, coddled and guided by an impatient mother.

“You are a young lady, and you should act as such.”

“Urgh, fine.” You muttered under your breath. If she heard you, she didn’t say anything; instead opting to tock her cane expectantly as you began to walk again.

You really tried to do it properly for her, but your feet kept scuffing the floor and making your stumble, and you could hear Ms Venable’s audible sighs at your continued failures. At some point, she’d moved to sit down; obviously sensing that this might take a while.

“I don’t think this actually works,” you mused aloud as the book clattered to the floor once again. You were starting to worry about the integrity of the books, being continually dropped to the wood at your feet.

“It willwork. Do it again.”

13 year old Wilhemina, spine curved slightly, showing the first signs of her impending scoliosis. Blamed on her bad posture, her mother pressed books atop her head and peered at her daughter as she’d slowly walk around the living room.

The woman clutched a yardstick in her hands and tapped it against the carpet with a thud.

Mina wore a tight top, which just served to highlight the beginning of the curve in her back, drawing the narrowed eyes of her mother as she walked. Her mother never even tried to disguise the curl of her lips in shame.

Her daughter had allowed herself to become a cripple. Bad posture. Her mother would have caned her for such petulance.

“Wilhemina, you aren’t trying hard enough, clearly.” She pursed her lips, forefinger and thumb pinching the bridge of her nose at the sound of books landing on carpet.

Mina huffed in frustration. She had been trying, wore the brace the doctors gave her during the night, despite how it kept her awake. But she was a realist, even at this age, she knew when something was set up to fail.

This exercise was doing nothing but niggle her back and make her annoyed. She’d glare at her mother and stoop to retrieve the books, gritting her teeth at the pain and ignoring how the older woman would glance elsewhere while her daughter struggled.

“We can’t have you walking around with such posture and such a distinct abnormality. Do it again.”

So she did it again. And again. Until her feet had bruises from the dropped books and her neck ached from the positioning. It did nothing to deter the path her spine grew on, and in turn, nothing to quiet her mothers sharp remarks.

“If only she’d have focused harder.” She’d hear her mother gossip, teary face pressed between the bannisters of the stairs as she’d listen to the chatter from downstairs.

Wilhemina knew better. After her diagnosis she’d been quick to sign up for a library card so she could read up on the condition. She knew that the cause of her scoliosis was unknown, and not because of stupid posture.

Still, her mothers words and accusations hurt, she always tried her best yet it was never enough to satisfy. She swore to herself in that moment that she wouldn’t let others hurt her in the way her mother did.

The first brick of her wall was laid then. The first of many that her mother had given her.

The patter of books and a groan drew Wilhemina out of her thoughts, seeing you on your knees to pile the books atop one another again.

You were doing it wrong. The books weren’t lined up, and she shook her head at the sight. How were you expected to keep the books balanced when the corners jutted out at different angles and they weren’t right.

She motioned for you to put them down on the table, and she tried not to twitch in displeasure at how heavily you dropped them. “See? Like this,” she taught, breathing through her nose as she adjusted the books to stack neatly together. “Like this.”

You walked around the room again, floating as if you weren’t even stepping at all. If your dress would have kissed the floor then there would have been no evidence of your legs moving. You humoured Ms Venable even though you still doubted how much this would actually help you to keep perfect posture.

Stopping in front of her, you beamed. You weren’t expecting her approval, although you craved it. Taking the books off your head, you bent to place them all back in the shelf after checking the order quickly.

Alphabetically, you remembered her saying, that’s how the books were to be ordered when they’d arrived. It had meant the greys had had to reorder the library from scratch, although none complained. It kept them out of the way, and they’d managed to even laugh while they worked. Laughter wasn’t exactly a frequently heard thing since the apocalypse.

Straightening, Wilhemina adjusted the bow of your robe with her fingerless gloves, hands then trailing to the crown of your head to smooth out the tousled hair there. She finished with a light pinch to your cheek and a smile, an almost inexistant act of affection that she gifted you.

“We’ll try again another day. It’s progress.” She said, and your cheeks flushed with heat under her slight compliment. It was a rarity, and not one you took for granted.

You nodded and she excused you, waving you to help the greys with the dinner preparations. You had to fight the urge to skip as you left, although you did hazard a glace back over your shoulder as you swung the heavy library door open.

Ms Venable settled herself back into the chair, leg crossed over the other, the ghost of a smile tugging on her lips as she thumbed through a book again.

One of the nights, when the residents of the outpost had all collected in the common room for a party esc gathering for the evening, Ms Venable had retreated to her room. Per her request, you’d also bypassed the event, and sat perched on the chest at the foot of her bed.

Wilhemina was hidden behind the wooden door of her closet, and you could hear the scraping of hangers against the rail. You wondered if she wanted help, but decided that you best stay put, and only act under instruction, as you’d been taught.

Praying that the night wouldn’t be focused around you doing more washing- your least favourite of all the chores in the outpost, you picked at your nails in your lap. One of Ms Venable’s first lessons that she demanded you learn, was patience. She made you wait for absolutely everything, and your fidgeting often got you into trouble while you stood waiting.

“Put this on, won’t you?” She asked, rifling through her wardrobe and although it sounded like a question, you doubted you had any say in the matter.

She handed you a purple corseted dress on a hanger, one you’d seen echoed in Coco’s wardrobe. You wondered if she’d taken it from there. Taking it, and pressing it to your front to admire, you looked back to see her taking another out of the closet.

It was violet, with ruffles around the neckline and puffed up shoulders. You thought it looked out of place in the outpost. Yes, the purples wore similar clothing, but his dress just had a particular grandeur about it that had you staring.

She noticed your hesitance, raising a brow and nodding to the garment in your hand, which you held tighter under her scrutiny. You made to reason with her.

“But Ms Venable, greys aren’t supposed to-”

“Am I, or am I not, the leader of this outpost?” She retorted quickly, eyes alight in the flame of the room as she stepped closer threateningly.

“Yes,” you mumbled, before straightening your posture and clearing your throat, “-Ms Venable.”

“Good.”

Taking the hanger out of the dress, you laid it over your arm and started for the bathroom adjacent to Wilhemina’s room, giving her the privacy to change herself as you presumed she’d demand of you anyway.

“Where do you think you’re going? Just change here.” She stated dryly, as it were the obvious decision on her part.

Your eyes widened in surprise, face twitching as if she’d discipline you if you simply started to undress in her presence, despite her instruction. Shaking your doubt out with a visible head shake, you turned to face the wall before cautiously pulling your grey over your head.

You kept your eyes trained on the wooden floor while you changed, not wanting the older woman to think you were watching her in a state of undress. It was quiet in the room. This was new, this intimacy. Although you still weren’t sure as to why she’d stopped you from changing in the bathroom, surely she wanted to protect her modesty as well as preventing the blur of the lines between the leader and her follower. The wolf and the sheep.

You heard her move behind you. Felt cold fingers brush against your lower back as she moved to pull the zip up. Calm down, you had to tell yourself, eyes closed to focus on keeping your breathing steady as involuntary goosebumps picked up over exposed skin.

The outfit swallowed you, far too big and it made you look like a small child playing dress up in their mothers clothes.

10 year old Mina and her friend giggled loudly, hands pressed to their mouths in a bid to muffle the shrieks as to not attract attention from her mother downstairs.

Both children were dressed in floating floral dresses, her mothers high heels on their feet as they teetered about the room, wobbling dramatically. Their faces smeared with the makeup the woman had tried to hide in the box beneath the bed. They’d each tried to replicate an intricate hairstyle in the others hair that they’d seen on glossy magazine covers in the newspaper agent’s down the road, which consequently went awry, hair tangled and messed on top of their heads.

Wilhemina’s mother would later tell her that her hair wasn’t the right colour to enable her to wear it such a way, and would make her sit before her as she brushed it out and roughly braided it.

The new dresses ‘borrowed’ from her mother drowned both in the girls, trailing on the floor and causing them to trip and stumble, eruptions of laughter bursting from flushed cheeks.

She appeared behind you in the mirror, hands falling to rest on your shoulders as she raked her eyes over your body in the reflection.

“Well?” she prompted, brow piqued.

“You look lovely Ms Venable.” You breathed, turning so you could admire her.

You were right. The dress was more elegant than those that the purples were made to wear, and you were also confident that Wilhemina was the only one with the ability and grace to pull such a thing off.

Purple was definitely her colour.

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[whumpinggrounds]

Ursula the Sea Witch

all right day two of @whumptober2021 and i am trying the prompt “talking is overrated” + “choking” for my beloveds Liam and Delilah

tagging @hearse-song, @brutal-nemesis, and @whumpy-writings, please let me know if you’d like to be added or removed!

CW: choking, noncon drugging, psychological whump if that’s a thing, brief ableist language, tiny whumper, big whumpee, crying, angst, noncon touch, intimate whumper, creepy whumper

Facedown on the ground, all Liam can see is the wood floor of the cabin under his nose. He can tip his head back a little to keep his forehead from resting flat on the ground, but he doesn’t have enough clearance to really see any of his surroundings except for the panels below him. Still, Liam tries to pay attention, as if anything he can see is going to help him. The light coming through the windows is clear and harsh – is it morning? Afternoon? He’s been asleep for so long he’s not sure, especially now that so much of his rest comes unnaturally. He’s learned to dread the strange, bitter water that Delilah pours oh-so-carefully down his throat.

Or, he mostly dreads it. Sometimes being asleep is so much better than being awake that he gulps the water gratefully and hopes that when he wakes, the nightmare will just be over.

Now would be one of those times. His limbs are his own, his body and mind are his own, but Liam is utterly trapped by the weight of Delilah perched cross-legged on the middle of his back. She presses his bare chest firmly against the boards, which are cold enough to make him want to squirm. Even if Liam could throw her off, he woke up this morning to a brand-new manacle locked around his ankle, one that’s bolted right into the cement of the chimney. He might be able to stand without her on his back, but he wouldn’t get far.

Much more pressingly, Delilah has a belt in her hand, and the leather of it is pressing gently into the thin skin of Liam’s throat. Swallowing hard, he feels his Adam’s apple bob uncomfortably against the wide leather strap. He doesn’t know how long they’ve been sitting like this. It feels like a long, long time. 

“Hey, Eric? We’re gonna play a game.” Above him, Delilah’s voice sounds playful, light.

Throat working in quick, shallow pants, Liam moves his mouth soundlessly for a moment, not even sure what part of that he should address. Finally, he goes with the most basic. “My name isn’t Eric,” Liam whispers, so desperately confused he wants to scream. “I-”

Right then, his voice cuts out, because Delilah hauls hard on the belt, and Liam is left choking, gagging, desperately trying to suck in air that won’t come. He’s never felt this before – this raw desperation, the tearing need for oxygen that can’t, won’t, isn’t coming. Feet beating uselessly against the floor, his hands come up to scrape fingernails uselessly against the smooth leather, but almost as soon as they do, Delilah is relaxing her stranglehold, sighing.

“Wrong,” she informs him. One fingernail is tracing nonsense patterns on his spine, and the sensation of her sharp nail against his bare skin makes Liam shudder against the cold wood floors. “C’mon, Eric. It’s not hard. What’s your name?”

“I-I don’t know who you think I am, but my name is Liam-”

The feeling of the belt cutting into his throat is the worst one that Liam knows. It’s not just that his air is cut off – it feels like it’s being taken from him violently, like his throat is closed and his chest collapsing, lungs burning in instantaneous protest. The pain of having his neck crushed is almost secondary – an ache that makes him heave out wracking cough after wracking cough as soon as Delilah releases her hold.

“Wrong again. You’re not very good at this, Eric.” She reaches up, tousles his hair. “It’s a good thing I love you.”

“I don’t know who you are-”

More gagging, gasping, choking. “Fuck,” Liam gasps, as soon as she lets up, and with a put-upon sigh, Delilah chokes him again.

“Princes don’t swear,” she tells him, when she finally lets go, when the red and black dancing spots are finally receding from his vision.

It takes everything in him to maintain his composure, to keep from breaking down and screaming or cursing or crying, but as Liam heaves in choked, jagged breaths, he curls his hands into tight fists and forces the word out slow and careful.

“…p-princes?”

Liam’s voice sounds thin and reedy to his own ears, exhausted and unfamiliar. He wants to demand an explanation, wants to throw her off his back and force her to tell him who she thinks she is – who she thinks he is. More so than that, he wants her to understand she’s made a mistake, it’s not him she wants, and she needs to just let him go.

But Liam doesn’t have the words or the breath for that, and even if he did, Delilah doesn’t want to hear it.

“Don’t play dumb, silly.” Delilah’s hand cups his cheek. “You’re my prince. You’re my Prince Eric, and I’m your mermaid, Ariel.” Her voice takes on a dreamy tone as she slides her palm down the side of Liam’s face. Sour fear turns Liam’s stomach.

She’s not confused. The girl on his back is fucking crazy.

Swallowing hard, and then gagging at the pain in his throat, Liam tries to think. He needs to play along at least a little. It’s clear from the last few minutes, and the bruises forming on his throat, what will happen if he doesn’t. Trying to think carefully, he clears his throat and then has to squeeze his shaking hands into fists to keep from cursing at the pain. Wetting his lips, Liam tries to speak. It takes him a few tries to get words out.

“P-Princess Ariel,” he begins carefully, and on top of him, Delilah lets out a pleased giggle. She bounces a little in place on his back, and it should hurt, but she’s so damned light. So damned light and yet he still can’t get away from her. “Princess, um, Ariel, I think you’ve made a, a mistake?”

The leather rests snugly against Liam’s throat, making him squeeze his eyes shut, anticipating the pain. Delilah doesn’t pull – not yet – but the warning is clear as the belt tightens just a little further. “A mistake?”

“I…I don’t, um, think I’m the prince you’re looking for?”

There’s one moment when Liam thinks she might be listening to him, one breath of pause in which he lets himself hope. Then he feels the belt tighten.

Liam kicks and hits out with his fists, but there’s nothing to do. His hands come up to try to haul the belt off, but she has it cinched around his throat, and he’s left thrashing uselessly, panting without air, fingernails leaving long furrows in the skin of his neck. The pain is everywhere and it is searing – cutting through his lungs, burning up his throat, making his head ache so fiercely his vision swims. Liam bucks against the floor, heaving, but Delilah uses the belt like a leash, holding her body on top of his, and every contortion only makes the noose grow tighter. It goes on for what feels like forever. It goes on so long that Liam is sure he’s going to die.

When Liam’s vision is so black it’s almost gone, something changes. There’s a loosening, an allowance for a tiny breath of air. Liam sucks it in like he’s trying to drink the ocean through a straw, and that sets off a long and agonizing round of coughing that nearly sends him into unconsciousness – every time he brings in a new breath of air, it’s stolen by a cough, all relief denied. By the time he’s aware of himself, he has tears running down his cheeks, painful sobs heaving through his swollen throat. The leather still rests tight against his skin.

“F-fuck,” he hisses, and then screams as the belt firms inexorably against his trachea, fast and unforgiving as a striking snake. This time, when she stops, he lets his forehead thunk hard against the wood floor. Liam lets himself bawl, tears coming fast and hard, each hiccup and sob tearing through his bruised esophagus like a personal insult. It’s hard enough to breathe without worrying about the tears and the snot – and then Delilah starts to pull the belt taut again.

“N-no!”

“Princes don’t cry like this, Eric.” Delilah sounds faintly disgusted. “This is icky.”

A high ringing starts in Liam’s ears as he thrashes. Somewhere distantly below it, he can hear a horrible gagging, a choked-off grunting gasp that he knows must be coming from him. It’s an animal sound, a plea for air with no interruption from higher order thinking. He goes so much faster this time, vision swimming, lungs seizing, and when the blackness rushes up to meet him, Liam can’t do a thing to stop it.

_

Gasping and spluttering, Liam comes to with a feeling like drowning. There’s water in his face and his mouth, cold and alarming, so he sits up fast, but the motion makes his head spin. Groaning, he grabs at his face, trying to steady himself.

Information comes to him in stages. He’s alive. He’s awake. He’s soaking wet. His body hurts, his head hurts – every part of him hurts, but nothing else comes close to touching the searing ache attacking his throat. Gingerly, he prods at his neck with one finger, hissing at the immediate spike in pain. Every breath feels like he’s swallowing sandpaper.

“Eric! Eric, are you alright?”

Liam looks up and there she is – Delilah, in all her delicate glory, her long brown hair braided back from her face, her tiny hands clasped rapturously to her chest. When she looks at him, her blue eyes are wide and almost dazed. She smiles, her elfin face alight. “Eric?”

Letting his head sink into his palms, Liam tries to take a deep breath, but it won’t come. He can’t get air into his lungs, or at least not far enough to make a difference. He can only breathe shallowly, so shallowly that even now he still feels like he might pass out.

The girl in front of him weighs probably half what he does, and she’s out of her mind besides. Big strong Liam, college lacrosse Liam, works-out-every-day-but-Sunday Liam, could not, should not, cannot be held captive by this glowing little girl.

But there’s a manacle around his ankle and not nearly enough air getting to his muscles and his brain. He feels so helpless he wants to cry, but he has to keep the tears small, silent, manly enough to escape Delilah’s notice.

“Yes, Ariel.” His voice comes out so battered, hoarse and strained, that for a moment, Liam doesn’t quite know who’s talking. “Thank you. I’m all right.”

Her hand comes to rest on his blonde hair, fingers running through it, and Liam can’t tell if the implication is that she’s protecting him…or possessing.

[calaofnoldor]

Fake It ‘Til You Make It

Characters: Sam x Reader (gender neutral), Dean

Words: 3,295

Summary: Dean and his lady of the night are being obnoxiously loud, so you and Sam devise a plan of retaliation.

Warnings: fluff, implied smut, wee bit o’ language, mutual pining and other fun tropes

A/N: thank you for all the love and support on “Dean, Don’t” (there will be a sequel due to positive feedback!) tbh, i’m not sure how i feel about this one, but every single like, comment, and reblog is always super-duper appreciated!

MASTERLIST

Another hunt for the books, another bar tab for your fake credit card. Another leggy blonde for Dean, and another evening spent harboring your secret yet ever-growing crush for Sam Winchester. This was becoming a pattern lately.

You'd decided to join the brothers on their last several hunts after bumping into (and nearly decapitating) Dean in a vamp-infested warehouse in Colorado. That night, you bought him a beer to recompense, but he was rather swiftly distracted by the busty barmaid, and you ended up talking to Sam all night instead.

There was an instant chemistry between the two of you, what with your shared passion for monster lore and college dropout histories, conversation always flowed easily and often without end.

Tonight had been no different, from the moment you walked into the rundown bar in Iowa, and immediately placed a bet on the fate of Dean's evening entertainment.

"Twenty bucks says he goes home with that blonde in the red dress over there," you jerked your head towards the woman in question.

"Oh, you're so on L/N. She's way too classy for him. My money's on that short one over there with the space buns."

"Deal," you shook on it, while struggling to ignore the spark his touch ignited.

Three beers in and you had almost completely forgot about your bet, until Dean swaggered over with one arm draped casually around the shoulders of his blonde conquest. "We're gonna head out for the night, see you guys later."

You waited until the front door closed behind them before turning to Sam with a triumphant grin. "Pay up, Winchester," you held your hand out expectantly.

“How are you so good at that? I’m the one who’s been watching him my whole life.” He shook his head with amiable amusement while digging out a twenty-dollar bill from his pocket.

You shrugged a little, “You learn to read people fairly quickly on the job.”

“Y/N, we have the same job.”

You pretended to ponder this fact for a moment, your brows furrowing, “I guess I’m just a better hunter then?” It was an obvious jest, and you both knew it, as evidenced by the wide, matching smiles that broke out across both your faces.

God, how you loved his smile, especially the genuine ones that brought out his dimples and lit up his eyes, but even more so, you adored any smile behind which you were the cause. Those you stored amidst your most cherished memories and replayed in your mind a hundred times over on nights when the insomnia hit… Oh no, had you been staring for too long?

Abruptly, you turned towards the bartender, waving the newly acquired bill in your hand, and proceeded to order the next round.

Fortunately, the night carried on with its jovial tone, and you were almost able to disregard the desire to touch Sam’s veiny forearms when he rolled up the sleeves of his plaid, or the need to run your hands through his luscious locks whenever a wayward strand fell before his glimmering eyes.

“I guess we should head out soon. Dean’s probably gonna want to leave early tomorrow morning.”

“Right, yeah.” At this point, you were feeling a little woozy from the alcohol, and Sam’s hands were suddenly grasping your biceps as you rose unsteadily from the barstool.

“I’m OK,” you laughed it off, but instantly missed the warmth of his palms that seemed to seep through your clothes and set your skin alight. Sam simply smiled at you, yet something in his eyes was so resplendent you felt goosebumps replace the fire along your arms. You must have been staring again, for Sam looked away somewhat embarrassedly and asked if there was something on his face.

Ugh, why did he have such an effect on you? You’d been around plenty of male hunters in the past, some nearly just as attractive, but you’d always managed to keep your wits about you. Indeed, your unrelenting rationality was usually a subject of pride for you, yet here you were, a blubbering mess after a mere touch on the arm and that stupid smile.

Looking down, you grumbled a quick apology and a senseless explanation that involved blaming the booze before you took off.

Sam followed after you, but not before double checking that you had grabbed all your belongings. There was a strong and instinctive urge to look after and protect that stirred within him whenever you were around, and he couldn’t neglect it if he tried.

It wasn’t that you were weak and needed someone to look out for you. Sam knew you’d been more or less hunting on your own for years now, and could certainly roll with the best of them, himself and Dean included. No, Sam knew you were more than capable of taking care of yourself, yet he still could not brush the nagging need to keep you safe and by his side whenever possible.

At times, he felt as if a spell had overcome him and he was no longer in control of his senses when it came to you. It was annoying, really.

Tonight, for instance, Sam could have sworn he spent the better part of your time at the bar glaring down any man who came within three feet of you, foolishly daring to try their chances with you. He was sure you’d notice his strange behavior at some point, but you simply talked the night away with him, smiling that stupendous smile, the one that made him lose his breath.

Everything about you enchanted him, and Sam often found himself wishing he could just dive in and kiss you, hold you in his arms and never let you go. He was sure you could read it all in his eyes by now.

To his disappointment, however, you never gave any indication of reciprocation, always treating him in a strictly platonic manner, whether intentionally or out of ignorance, Sam didn’t know. But he never dared make a move, and he convinced himself that he felt fortunate enough to have you as a friend.

The walk back to the motel wasn’t long, although Sam took deliberately small steps to prolong your time together. When you reached the brothers’ room, your eyes fell upon a grey sock dangling unceremoniously from the doorknob. So Dean had taken Blondie to his motel room.

“How’s that for classy?” you looked up at Sam with a small smirk.

He let out a huff of a laugh and shook his head while staring at the sock. Well, it wouldn’t be the first time he spent a night in the Impala.

“Hey, why don’t you just come over to my room,” you suggested as you motioned next door, “We can chill in there for a bit, wait it out?”

Sam’s eyes shot up to your face. All he had to hear was “come over to my room,” and his brain immediately began imagining all the potential scenarios those five little words could lead to… if you felt even an inkling of what he felt for you. He gulped and tried to reel his thoughts in, meeting your gaze with a dreamy look.

“Um… yeah, OK, sure, yeah. That sounds good. I mean, you sure you don’t mind?” he stumbled out.

You laughed that brilliant laugh, “No, I should probably sober up a little before I sleep anyway.”

Sam nodded, afraid of what words might escape if he opened his mouth again, and the two of you made your way towards the adjacent motel room. He watched as your delicate hands worked the key and instantly took note of the angry red scrapes and cuts along your palm when you turned your wrist to unlock the door.

Brows knit with concern, Sam silently berated himself for failing to take better care of you. He remembered you took a nasty fall when the ghost had thrown you aside to get to the brothers as they burned the necklace that tethered it to this realm. You must have landed on the concrete and braced yourself with your hands.

As you both stepped into the dim and modest room, Sam was about to ask for your first aid kit when you suddenly brought your arms overhead and stretched out your lithe body with a soft, satisfactory grunt. When the hem of your shirt rode up, Sam had to look away to stop himself from staring at the anti-possession tattoo that peeked out above your hip bone. Just that sliver of skin was so alluring to him; he really was in deep.

When you lowered your arms back down, you sent him a small, apologetic smile, “Sorry, it just always feels good to do that after a hunt and a night out in town.”

Sam nodded again, still finding it difficult to come up with the right words, but then he remembered his previous mission. “Give me your hand.”

“W-what?” you stuttered, dumbfoundedly. It was your turn to wonder if you’d heard right.

“Your hand, let me see it.” He repeated, and this time he simply caught your wrist and took your hand gingerly in his, turning it such that your palm faced up, so he could examine the extent of the damage.

“Oh,” you breathed out, slightly relieved, “It’s fine, it’s just a scratch.” You tried to pull your hand out of his intoxicating grip, but he held on quite firmly.

“Y/N, we need to clean these and bandage them so they don’t get infected.”

He had pulled you rather close to him, to the point where you could feel his body heat emanating towards you, and you hated to admit the proximity was really messing with your mind. All you could think about was the deliciously muscled torso that surely lay beneath those layers of cotton, and what it would feel like to run your hands across it.

Sam took advantage of your lack of response and led you to sit on the edge of the bed. As he went to look for the first aid kit, you couldn’t help but admire his backside, especially when he bent over to rummage through your duffle bag in the corner.

When he returned to your side, you quickly closed your jaw and reached over for the cleaning supplies, but he held it out of your reach and grasped your hand again instead. Your eyes met for moment, and almost as if on cue, a loud, lascivious moan came through the room’s thin walls.

Sam felt his cheeks heat up, and hastily averted his gaze. He mentally cursed his brother’s wanton ways, but when he heard your giggling, all was forgiven.

“I guess someone’s having a good time.”

“Yeah, but I don’t think this’ll be quite as enjoyable for you.” He motioned to the alcohol in his other hand with a sheepish smile, “I probably don’t need to tell you this is gonna hurt.”

You shook your head slightly, but still winced a little when he poured the disinfectant over your wounds.

“Sorry, I’m so sorry.” Sam sounded truly remorseful and you chuckled.

“What are you sorry for? It’s not like you threw me to the ground, and besides, you’re helping me now,” you murmured softly.

“Well you did get in it’s way to protect m- us. And I don’t like to see you in pain.”

He meant ‘people’ of course, you told yourself in vain. He’s obviously a nice guy and he doesn’t like to see anyone in pain. That’s why he’s a hunter. Duh.

You were trying, unsuccessfully, to slow your heart rate when another emphatic cry came from the direction of the older Winchester’s room.

“Oh! Oh my god!” The high pitch had your eyes widening.

“You can call me Dean, sweetheart,” came the muted reply.

You and Sam both rolled your eyes before he continued to treat and bandage your hand. His fingers, though rough, were improbably gentle against your skin and frequently sent shivers down your spine. It was all making you quite jittery and you really weren’t sure you could take it much longer. To exacerbate things, Dean and Blondie managed to vocalize their passions on at least five more occasions by the time Sam completed his work.

It was becoming rather aggravating, particularly because you found it extraordinarily hard to look Sam in the eyes or maintain a normal conversation with him when you were constantly getting bombarded by the sounds of his brother and his lady of the night copulating next door.

You stood as soon as Sam let go of your hand, needing to release some energy. “You know what, we can’t just let them dick us around like this all night!”

Sam laughed at your word choice and looked up at you, a fond curiosity shining through his eyes, “OK, but what could we possibly do to get back at them?”

You paused your pacing for a minute, racking your brain for an answer to their impudence. Sam watched as a gleam appeared in your eyes and a mischievous smile took over your features.

“I’ve got it! My friend and I used to do this back in college when our roommate brought dates home and they got a little too carried away. It’s basically a game of chicken.”

Sam raised his brow in question so you continued, “If they’re gonna be obnoxiously loud with their fornication rituals, then we can go at it too.”

“I-I’m sorry, what?”

“It’s simple. An eye for an eye. We don’t even have to make it sound real, just as long as it’s equally loud and disturbing.”

“Y/N, are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting? That we pretend to have s-sex?” Sam was feeling considerably dubious about your plan, as he couldn’t imagine himself holding back if you were to act in any way sensual around him, even if it was all make believe.

Just then, another resounding squeal of pleasure travelled to your ears and before Sam could stop you, you took the opportunity to show him what you were talking about.

“Oh! Yes!” You exclaimed salaciously in return.

Sam’s eyes grew as he stared at you in disbelief. Your own eyes were closed and your face contorted to an expression of intense pleasure that Sam had only dreamed about. He couldn’t stop fidgeting in his place on the bed, thankful that the first aid kit still sat on his lap as he adjusted his trousers a bit.

“Y/N, I don’t-“

“Come on, Sammy, join me! Trust me, it works every time.”

Sam didn’t have time to contemplate how much he loved the sound of his childhood nickname rolling off your tongue because a second howl came from the next room, this time lower in pitch, though you were there to answer regardless. “Oh my gosh, yes! Right there!”

If Sam thought the effect that you had on him normally was overwhelming, he was undoubtedly unprepared for the way his body responded to you making ludicrously pornographic sounds not two feet from him. Everything seemed to disappear around him until only you remained and held the entirety of his focus.

“Ooh, faster! Harder, Sam!”

Fuck. You said his name. And you said it with lust in your voice. It was as if all his fantasies had come to life before him in some twisted and desperately maddening form. Something in him snapped, and before he knew it, he was standing across from you, staring fixedly at your face, as you shouted in unison.

“Ungh! Oh god, Y/N!”

“Yes, that’s it! Don’t stop!”

Sam’s deep voice compelled your eyes to snap open. He was already looking straight at you, and you could almost taste the tension.

“Oh, baby! You feel so good!”

You didn’t join him this time. You couldn’t. He had you in a trance, his lips, jaw, neck, shoulders, the way his chest moved towards you when he inhaled, the sheer size of him. It was all too much. So you simply stared, feeling your breath come and go faster than you were used to.

There was a split second, or perhaps it was a lifetime, in which the two of you stood still, eyes locked in a fiery exchange, but in the next instant you both lunged forward, lips and teeth and noses and bodies clashing in a passionate, long-awaited display of carnal thirst.

But the kiss ended far too soon for your liking. “Wait, wait, Y/N. I really want this, but you’re probably still drunk, and I don’t wanna take advantage of you or the situation.” Sam panted hurriedly.

You smiled at his chivalry yet shook your head in disagreement, “Sam, don’t be an idjit. I don’t think I’ve ever been more sober, and I definitely haven’t wanted anything more than this, right now.” Your voice was just as breathy.

Sam moved his hands back to your face and that glorious, dimpled smile returned, “Baby, are you sure?”

The nickname brought a flutter to your heart, “Yes, I swear to heaven and hell, if you don’t kiss me again, Sam Winchester-“

His lips cut yours off in another bruising yet completely satisfying declaration of need. Your back arched and he brought one hand down to pull your waist flush against his solid form.

“Mmph,” you moaned against his mouth.

God, Sam couldn’t handle the sounds you made. A man could only hold back for so long. His enormous moose hands frantically grabbed at your ass, hoisting you into his arms in no time and carrying you back towards the bed.

Let’s just say Dean and Blondie truly had no idea of the spectacular and thunderous show they were in for.

The next morning, Sam awoke with a warm weight on his chest. He looked down to find your slumbering form nuzzled against him, head tucked beneath his chin and legs messily intertwined. A fond smile crossed his face as he subconsciously tightened his hold on you and pressed a loving kiss to your forehead. The feeling of elation didn't fade as he closed his eyes to rest again, but it did recede ever so slightly to the backburner when the door clicked and his brother came barging in. “Alright, rise and shine, lovebirds! That was quite the show you guys put on last night, hope it didn't-“ “Shhh! Dean, shut up!” Sam shushed his brother with a stage whisper whilst scrambling to cover your bare back with the disheveled sheets surrounding you, but Dean had already glimpsed the evidence. “Sammy, you sly dog!” He wiggled his brows, grinning proudly at his little brother, "And here I thought I was the only one who got laid last night." “Dean, get out.” "Yeah ok, I'm gone," he raised his hands in assent. "But tell your sweetheart we're leaving in twenty," Dean added before he finally let the door shut behind him.

His sweetheart. Sam sure liked the sound of that. The corners of his lips struggled not to raise with glee. "Mm, was that Dean?" you mumbled against Sam's chest, fingers tracing the ink of his anti-possession tattoo with half-lidded eyes. "Yeah, just came to tell us we're leaving in twenty." He gave your hip a gentle squeeze "He knows, doesn’t he?" You rubbed your eyes with a yawn. Sam chuckled at your adorably sleepy state. “Yeah, sorry…” he trailed off, unsure of how you would respond to the news.

“Well, don’t be. That just means I get to do this whenever I want.” You lifted your head to kiss him hard, and his hands instinctively cradled your face, pulling you closer until you were straddling his lap and completely awake.

“You know, I think we still have about 15 minutes.”

“I like the way you think, Winchester.”

A/N #2: thank you so much for reading! i’d now like to apologize for this obligatory self plug, but there’s new stuff available at lexicolor.redbubble.com, just fyi :)

[officerjennie]

Dream to be

CW: Eskel being self-conscious, some light pining, light pda (hand-holding, arm touching, etc) Characters/Relationship: Eskel/Aiden Rating: T  Prompt: Subtle PDA Summary: Aiden casually touches Eskel a lot, and Eskel isn’t used to it. He likes it.

Aiden was just...a bit more touchy than Eskel was used to.

It wasn’t like it was a bad thing, necessarily. He didn’t shove him away whenever he threw an arm around his shoulders, no matter that there was a crowd and he felt like people were staying. Eskel just took it in stride and tried to not let on that his heart had picked up its rhythm, tried to not let his face heat up too noticeably, though he knew from the sly glance his way Aiden had caught it all.

When they were sitting at a bar in a seedy joint by the coast, Aiden doing most of the talking like usual, snickering at some story he had to share over Eskel’s youngest brother, Eskel didn’t flinch back when rough fingertips drifted to the exposed skin above his wrist. All he did was swallow his ale harder than necessary, the touch shooting heat through him, and he was keenly aware that Aiden was watching him but didn’t take his hand away, no matter that he probably should have.

During the nights they made camp together, far away from watching eyes, Aiden would scoot up close until they were practically pressed together - in the middle of summer he’d press his cheek against the upper part of Eskel’s arm, Eskel staying stock still so as to not jab his eye out by accident with his armor, feeling Aiden rub his cheek against him for a short few minutes before pulling back. When they were alone like that, where no one could watch or see him, he understood it better. Relaxed better as Aiden pressed their palms together idly, humming some tune he didn’t bother to translate for his audience of one, braids swaying ever so gently as he rocked to the soft music he was creating.

Alone, he understood it. The need to be close to anyone they could, and so few allowed them within arms reach that Eskel couldn’t blame Aiden for resorting to him, of all people.

They were at a fish market, the stench in the air enough to make Eskel’s head swim but Aiden didn’t seem bothered by it in the slightest. His easy grin was on full display, dark brown eyes having the barest golden glow to them as he bent low with his hands clasped behind his back, tilting his head back and forth as he studied each stall of fish they walked past. The cat witcher was never still, always fluid in motion, and today the gold and silver beads in his hair caught the morning light just right making him seem even more brilliant.

It made Eskel’s heart ache, watching how easily Aiden could rope the fishermen into talking with him. Haggling prices for fish he had no intention of buying, fitting in despite the armor on his back, the daggers at his hip. Eskel found his hand straying to the scar on his face more times than he would like, rubbing it gently, his chest empty and aching for far too many reasons to name them all.

“Something got your tail, wolf?”

Aiden was at his side, and it was a testament to his distraction that Eskel wasn’t certain when he’d gotten there. He licked his lips, trying to answer, but with him he found words were so much harder than they were with others.

It would be a lie to say he didn’t know why. But sometimes, every so often, Eskel liked to pretend dumb to his own feelings.

“S’fine, kitten.” When Lambert called him that, it always sounded like just some tossed around nickname. Something meant to rile him up, make him bristle, make him hiss. When Eskel said it, it sounded like he wanted to breathe it into his ear, against his lips, purr it in the dark of night.

Aiden cocked his head, eyes sharper than daggers, flickering across Eskel’s face before his entire expression softened. And then he reached out and took Eskel’s hand - the one that had yet again drifted to his face without his bidding, rubbing at his scar like it might wipe away.

There were people all around them. Shouting as they tossed their catch into carts, at potential buyers who walked past. People who could be watching and would be watching, ever nervous around their like, with their weapons and scars on display. But Aiden held his hand between them like it didn’t matter, like he didn’t care one lick of what they might think or say, calloused fingers soothing gently over Eskel’s own.

It made his face hot red and his heart race, and Eskel should have pulled away - but he never had wanted to.

“Ever went swimming in the ocean, pup?” Aiden purred a little too close to him, his eyes alight with mischief, but his smile was kind as he tugged Eskel behind him through the crowd. And maybe Eskel didn’t feel like he belonged but with Aiden he could pretend, dream, that he could keep staying by him anyway.

--

@witcher-rarepair-summer-bingo​

[kat-tamin]

i’m here in your bedroom

Summary: Part Two of i’m here in your doorway, Reader experiences her first time with a woman. For @sammymae12​

Ship: Kat x Benson!Reader

Warnings: Language, Smut: fingering

Word Count: 1502

Was it a little bit crazy to say I love you to someone before you even went on a date? Before you even kissed? Before you spent the night together?

Probably.

Did you and Kat care?

Not one bit. 

After admitting your love for each other, you and Kat’s relationship went on a bit of a speed-run. You spent the next week at her apartment, only leaving to pick up clothes and go to work. You made Kat breakfast in the morning, and she bought you dinner in the evening.

Everything seemed perfect. You were walking on air, a goofy grin permanently affixed to your face. Kat’s eyes lit up everytime she came home to see you waiting for her.

There was one problem… the nights.

You knew you had a romantic interest in girls for a long time, basically since you learned what marriage was. Your mom liked to tell a story of you wanting to marry your best friend when you were five years old.

You were a bit of a late bloomer in every other department, though. It seemed easier to sleep with guys when you were in school, because all your other friends were doing it (you lost your virginity to a very nice boy in the back of his dad’s car). 

By the time you realized that you were interested exclusively in women, it felt like it was too late. You went on a lot of dates with girls, but when it came to the physical aspect, everything just felt weird and uncomfortable. You felt self-conscious about your lack of experience with women, and with every date, you felt more and more pressure.

Now you were official with a girl, a girl who you loved and wanted to explore things with. One night, during a make-out session, Kat’s hand slid along your thigh. You froze, shoulders instantly going tense.

Kat pulled away. “Y/N? You okay?”

“Yeah.” You put a hand on her arm. “I’m just not ready, yet?”

Kat kissed you gently. “No rush, baby.”

You felt like there was, though. You wanted to have sex with Kat. You touched yourself in the shower, thinking of her and her fingers and mouth. 

You had no idea how to bring up the fact you’ve never been with a woman. You knew you had to do it soon, but it felt embarrassing. 

One night, after a few drinks, you were under Kat again, in her bed. Your clit was basically aching, wanting to be touched so bad it almost hurt.

The vodka from earlier seemed to loosen your tongue, giving you a burst of courage. “Kat, I need to tell you something.”

Kat rolled off you, propping herself up with her arm to look at you. “Sounds serious. You’re not breaking up with me already, are you?”

You laughed. “No, no, of course not.”

“Good.” She nuzzled at your neck. “Because we haven’t gotten to the good stuff yet.”

Your mouth went dry. “That’s kinda what I wanted to talk to you about.”

This made Kat sit up, her face serious. “What is it?”

“I…” You covered your face with your hands, your cheeks heating up. “I’ve never been with a woman before.”

Kat was quiet, and you peeked at her through your fingers. “Kat?”

“Sorry.” She shook her head, clearing her thoughts. “I’m just surprised. You’ve talked about going out with girls before.”

“Yeah. Just dates.” You swallowed nervously. “They never went any further.”

“Are you…?” Kat frowned, trying to form a question. “Are you interested in sex? Or are you ace?”

You thought back to the shower from this morning, and snorted. “No, definitely not. I’m very, very much interested.” You run a hand along her arm, grabbing her hand. “I’m very, very much interested in you.”

“Thank you for telling me, Y/N.” Kat scratched at the back of her neck. “I was starting to think maybe you didn’t like me.”

You roll your eyes. “Kat, I already said I loved you.”

“I know.” She lays back down next to you. “I love you too. And I want your first time to be good.”

You roll onto your side, wrapping an arm around her waist. “Everything with you is already good, Kat. I can’t imagine it being anything less.”

“No pressure then.” 

The next night you spent together, you had an agenda.

Sex with Kat, or die trying.

You went to the spa earlier for a waxing and a massage. You bought special lingerie, in a purple colour that made your skin and eyes stand out.

You were finally, finally ready.

You entered Kat’s bedroom, where she was waiting for you in the dim light of candles. Your breath catches in your throat of the sight of her. She was wearing a black, lacy bodysuit with a deep V shaped neck. Her legs were long and shiny with fresh lotion. 

“Kat, you look beautiful,” you breathe, practically running to the bed to kiss her.

Your lips crash against each other, immediately wet and heated. Your hands move over her body, wanting to touch her everywhere you could reach. Her skin was soft and warm under your touch.

Kat wiggles out of your grip. “Slow down, babe. I want you to feel good.”

“Trust me, I feel good.” Your mouth goes to her neck, the apex between it and her shoulder.

She pushes you away gently. “No, this about you.”

You stick out your lower lip in a pout, making Kat laugh. She moves so you are positioned under her. “Relax, babe. I got you.”

She slowly unclasps your bra, then lowers your panties, leaving you bare for her for the first time. You fight the urge to cover yourself from her gaze.

“You’re so gorgeous.” Kat presses her lips against yours, gently tracing your ribs with her fingers, your body covering in goosebumps.

Kat moves slowly and sensually, alighting every nerve in your body. Her mouth moves at a glaciers pace down your body, stopping to lick all the sensitive spots you didn’t know you had. It was like she had a roadmap, and she knew every pit stop she needed to make. Your collarbone, your breasts, your belly button.

Your breathing grows laboured, your hands clenched into fists. You didn’t know sex could feel this good. And she hasn't even touched your cunt yet.

Kat finally reaches the apex of your thighs, and glances up. Her eyes are serious. “Y/N, do you want me to do this? We can stop at any point.”

Your heartbeat stutters. You’ve never felt so safe and loved. So you answer with complete honesty: 

“Yes.”

Kat starts slow, with just a finger tracing your lower lips. Even that simple gesture sends waves of pleasure to your core. Her thumb moves to your clit, and you let out a loud gasp. “Kat!”

She takes her time, circling gently, letting you feel every bit of sensation. Your left hand reaches down to grab hers, needing her to anchor you, because with every circle of her thumb you feel yourself adrift in pleasure.

“Can I add a couple fingers, baby?” Kat asks you, her voice hoarse. You see that her pupils are blown wide open with want.

You nod enthusiastically. “Please. I can take it.”

She kisses your stomach. “Good girl.”

The words make you clench, and you can feel your pussy drip like a faucet.

Kat pushes her two middle fingers into you, and a groan escapes your mouth. She pauses to let you adjust, and waits for your nod to continue. When you do, she begins to thrust in and out of you.

You don’t feel any immediate pleasure, but then she curls her fingers in a come-here motion, brushing against your front wall. “Fuck, Kat!”

You suddenly get it. This is what having sex with a woman is all about. Kat knew exactly where to touch, and how to touch it. You can’t help but wonder if this is where she likes to be touched. The image of your fingers in Kat’s pussy, making her moan and gasp, tip you over the edge.

You scream her name as lightning bolt, after lightning bolt runs through you. Your orgasm seems never ending, but Kat doesn’t stop her movements. 

You ride out your orgasm on her fingers, until you release your grip on her arm. She withdraws her fingers, and you gasp when you see how wet they are with your cum.

Kat winks at you, pressing her fingers into her own mouth, tasting you. “So good, baby.”

You feel your cheeks heat up. 

Kat lays down next to you. “How’d that feel?”

“Fucking amazing,” you say, out of breath.

“Good, I’m glad.” She kisses you, the taste of yourself making your toes curl. 

You pull back to look at her. “Do I need to…?” You gesture at her lower body.

“Nope.” Kat kisses you again, smiling against your lips. “I’m perfect.”

After that orgasm, how could you disagree?

[wolveria]

All That’s Due

Pairing: Nines x f!Reader x Connor

Summary: Trapped between a doe-eyed detective and a steely-gazed android, you wondered what you did to deserve this.

Prompt: For the @bannedtogetherbingo2020​ Challenge

Chapter Warnings: Explicit sex, F/M/M threesome, enthusiastic consent

Word Count: 2.7k

AO3

In, out.

In, out.

It was your entire focus, concentrating on each slow breath as you attempted not to lose your mind. You were sitting between Nines’ spread legs on the edge of the bed, back pressed against his sturdy chest. Connor knelt between your knees, hand resting lightly on your thighs as he gave you a wide-eyed look that did nothing to steady your breathing.

You weren’t sure how you’d ended up here, to be honest.

In, out.

“You’re going to be good for Connor, aren’t you?” Nines’ voice was low. Flat, to an outsider, but there was a commanding undertone that required obedience.

You nodded and swallowed thickly.

“Yes, sir.”

Nines gave a satisfied hum and Connor moved closer, laying his tongue against your inner thigh and licking up a stripe. You shuddered, the movement contained by Nines’ arm holding you in place.

Connor continued to lick his way up while you struggled to maintain the steady tempo of your breathing. By the time he reached your soaked underwear, he’d left a trail of glistening, synthetic saliva.

Nines did nothing but watch, or not quite nothing; the rapid flicker of Connor’s LED from blue to yellow gave away the fact he was communicating with his fellow RK unit, no doubt planning their next nefarious move.

The evidence was provided when Connor grasped the waistband of your underwear in his teeth and yanked downward, eyes alight with mischief as he pulled them entirely off. Nines slipped a hand under your shirt and idly thumbed over a hardened nipple. Clinically, as if he were bored.

You squirmed and let out a small whimper. Nines leaned down and growled:

“Be. Good.”

You dug your fingers against his thighs, bunching the fabric against your palm, grounding you enough for you to respond with a “yes, sir.” Nines was still fully clothed, as was Connor, the cruel bastards.

Connor returned to his kneeling position between your legs and leaned forward, tongue poking out before he lapped an experimental stripe against your folds.

You were pretty sure you were going to die, but what an amazing way to go.

His LED flashed yellow and he did it again, growing bolder as he dipped between your folds and licked your clit. It was such a light tough with barely any pressure, but you were already soaked and the warmth in your gut was building rapidly.

“I enjoy her taste,” Connor said, licking again, small and precise, before he took your clit into his mouth and sucked on it.

You threw your head back against Nines’ shoulder, thighs trembling as you tried to close them around Connor’s head, but Nines wouldn’t let you. Arms no longer around your torso, his large hands gripped your knees and held you open for the other android.

You wanted to grab Connor’s hair, touch him some way, but that wasn’t allowed so you stayed put. Connor’s sucking still wasn’t enough pressure, too light and gentle, but the tightness was still growing between your legs and—

“Mmph!”

You arched your back and released a harsh cry, the orgasm catching you by surprise. But Nines was there to hold you steady, allowing you to catch your breath and slow your racing heart.

Disappointed when Connor moved his mouth away, you looked down to find he was staring up at you with lifted brows and a calculating expression.

“Hmm,” Nines hummed. “That was a little too fast.”

You swallowed in lieu of an answer, too blissed out to really care. Your slick was dripping out of you, probably messing up the bedspread, but you couldn’t care about that either.

“I agree.” Connor rubbed his hands gently along the inside of your legs. “How… interesting.”

“Isn’t it?”

Nines’ voice finally snapped you out of your post-orgasm bliss.

“W-what?”

Connor’s LED flashed yellow again and he rose to his feet. Standing next to Nines, you often forgot that Connor also towered over you, and in this context it was even worse with the eye-level view of the large bulge in his pants.

You groaned but were helpless to do anything about it; Nines’ hands were gliding along your inner thighs, silkily trailing his fingers along your sensitive skin.

“Have you been entertaining fantasies about my predecessor?” he purred.

You choked on your spit. Oh, no.

“Uh…”

Trapped between two detective androids, lying wasn’t an option. But maybe you could get away with a teensy white lie.

“I… might have been a little curious. That’s all.”

Nines wrapped a large hand around your throat. He didn’t squeeze but he did pin you against his chest like a small, helpless bird.

“I see. In that case, why don’t you give the detective a show? He’s been curious about you, too.”

That was all the warning you got before Nines delved between your legs, long fingers slipping between your folds and pressing against your clit. As if it were an on-switch, you were immediately gasping and squirming, whining as Nines gave you a warning squeeze around your throat.

You should’ve known Nines wasn’t going to ignore the fact you’d never come that fast before, and this was your punishment: spread open for Connor to watch as Nines fingered you, moving from your clit to your entrance and back again, your wetness and aching heat out on full display.

Connor watched like he was starving, LED spinning yellow as he unbuckled and unzipped his pants. Pulling out his cock, he languidly stroked it, precum already glistening on the head. He spread it along his erect shaft, the lewd motion in stark contrast to his clean, composed appearance. His tie wasn’t even crooked, his suit and hair immaculate, and he jerked himself off while meeting your eye, unblinking.

You might have been on display for Connor’s amusement, but Nines had you right where he wanted you: helpless and under his complete control.

But he wasn’t unaffected, either. The sizable hardness pressed against your lower back made you both smug and desperately needy. You had no idea if Nines would even let you touch him this time. While efficient and fairly obedient in his job, he was often unpredictable in your private moments.

“Couldn’t help yourself from coming all over his face, could you?” Nines asked lightly, as if reading the fact off a report. “Barely touched you and you were already crying for it.”

“Nnnphh.”

You shook your head, eyes watering as you squirmed, forced to keep your head up to watch Connor stroke his length. Nines’ fingers kept you on the edge, just shy of orgasming, and it was purposeful, cruel torture.

“It appears she’s going to come again,” Connor said, head tilted in mild interest. “I admit, I didn’t anticipate she would be so receptive.”

They talked as if you weren’t even there. You groaned and tried to move, but Nines was an immovable mountain.

“She hides it well. But you’re a slut for it, aren’t you?” Nines loosened his hold on your neck, allowing you to look down. You wished you hadn’t.

“Or would you present yourself for any android that came along? A needy, wet, insatiable slut for plastic.”

Nines had pulled back his synthetic skin, the stark white of his fingers moving in and out of you. You throbbed painfully at the sight, desperate, whimpering as you attempted to roll your hips against his hand. You’d only seen his plastic chassis when he had to interface with objects; where had he gotten this idea?

From the twitch of Connor’s lips, you had your answer. Bastards, the both of them.

Fingers rubbed harder against your clit, picking up speed. Nines was done teasing you. Connor likewise picked up his pace, groaning between his teeth as he squeezed and tugged at his cock.

The maddening scene before you, coupled with the dexterous, smooth plastic of Nines’ fingers, sent you careening over the edge. Your vision whited out as the pressure snapped in your gut, releasing euphoric waves over every inch of your body for the second time.

Nines was still holding you securely when you returned to your senses, though he’d taken his hand away, and Connor had slowed in his stroking, eyes laser focused on the glistening mess between your legs.

Boneless and pliant, you leaned back against your android, rubbing against him like you’d never been touched before.

“Please,” you whined breathlessly, turning your head to nose against Nines’ cheek. “Please, Nines.”

“Please, what?” he asked, droll and ambivalent.

You shuddered. Goddamn android was going to be the death of you.

“Please, fuck me.”

He paused in his movements. Connor glanced over your shoulder, meeting Nines’ gaze as his LED flickered.

“Perhaps next time when you’ve earned that privilege,” Nines said.

You opened your mouth to tell him what an absolute fucker he was, and immediately shut it as he looped his arms under your knees and hitched them up, putting you fully on display.

“I’m going to let my predecessor use you to pleasure himself instead.”

Connor eyed you with a predatory focus he only had while chasing down dangerous suspects. You swallowed, unable to respond as the RK800 eyed you like a delicious meal.

Nines spoke, tone shifted to something completely different. Soft and quiet.

“Or should we stop?”

He didn’t proceed any further, and wouldn’t until he was sure this was what you wanted. You turned your head to the side and pressed your lips against his cheek.

“I’m good, babe. Promise. Keep going.”

He paused, probably running calculations of the pros/cons of going any further. Sometimes, he got stuck in his own brilliant head. The downside of being a walking, analytical supercomputer.

You kissed him again, this time dangerously near his mouth, and he snapped out of it, blinking once as he looked you over in your completely debauched state.

“As you wish, darling.”

And then he was back to steely-eyed, scowling, walking wet dream. Whoever’d designed Nines must have had a direct line to your deepest, darkest thoughts, and you were thankful for the thirsty fucker, whoever they were.

Connor moved forward from some unspoken signal from Nines, and without a word they worked together, situating you fully in Nines’ lap while Connor kneeled on the bed between both of your legs.

You frowned at the fact his pants hadn’t been removed, but your complaints were retracted as he reached between your legs and softly petted you. His brows rose as you rolled your hips against his hand, as if he’d never seen a desperate, horny human before. Oh, God, maybe he hadn’t.

“She’s very receptive, even after multiple orgasms,” he commented with a tilt of his head.

“You doubted me?”

“Mmm. I thought you had, perhaps, exaggerated.”

Connor grabbed the base of his cock and leaned forward, his breath hitching when he rubbed the length against your folds.

“Oh… She’s very warm and soft too.”

Yep, you were definitely going to die. Death by android sex. Unexpected but probably deserved.

“Isn’t she?” Nines murmured into your hair, losing his disinterest as he ran his hands along the outside of your thighs. He no longer held you open for Connor. You were doing that yourself, wordlessly begging them to get on with it and fuck you, but you were at their complete mercy and that was where you were going to stay until they decided differently.

“You’re a very lucky man, Nines.”

Connor leaned forward further, bracing a hand against the bed near Nines’ hip as he continued to stroke his length against you. Whining quietly, gripping Nines’ thighs for balance and support, you tried to rut against Connor to make him go faster.

All he did was give a small, close-lipped smirk. There was no sign of the innocent, doe-eyed android now. This was the deviant hunter who took pleasure in taking down his target. Nines got that same harsh gleam in his eye whenever he fucked you into the mattress.

Connor lowered his face and pressed his mouth against the side of your neck, licking and nipping at the exposed skin. You jerked your hips upward, nearly escaping Nines’ grasp, but he shoved you back down in his lap.

“You want him to fuck you?” Nines growled.

You nodded, shaking, unable to lie even if you’d wanted to.

“Y-yes, please, Connor, I want—“

“This isn’t about what you want.” Nines wrapped his fingers in your hair and pulled, exposing your throat to Connor as he continued to rub the length of his cock against your clit. “You’re here to be used. A plaything for androids. Our little human pet.”

It could have been the low disdain in his voice, or the promise of you being treated like an object, but it nearly tipped you over the edge. Connor slowed his movements, and you half-sobbed in frustration.

“Please, please, please—“

You weren’t the type to beg. Proud, stubborn, and often defiant, Nines had never been able to reduce you to this state before. Perhaps that’s why he broke character and groaned, half-lifting you off his lap so he could unbuckle his belt and tug down the zipper.

Expecting the relief of being stretched around his cock, you gave another tortured noise when Nines rubbed his length against your ass in time with Connor’s shallow thrusts. They were fucking themselves on you, making you throb and cry and clench around nothing.

It was too much, too much and cruelly nowhere enough, and tears leaked down your face as the pressure finally snapped and you came crying.

Faintly, Connor gasped your name, and warm liquid spilled over your stomach. Nines buried his face in your hair as his hips stuttered, a growl in his chest as he thrust one last time and came on your back.

Panting, shivering, dripping with cum and pretty much useless, you didn’t move as you were laid back on the bed. Gentle, careful hands removed your shirt and cleaned you up with a warm, wet towel, but you couldn’t tell who they belonged to. Normally you weren’t this helpless afterwards, but you’d never been fucked by two androids, either.

You did open your eyes when two bodies crawled into bed next to you, Nines pulling you in gently against his chest as Connor crowded against your back.

“Are you all right?” Nines asked, stroking your cheek with his thumb as he looked over your face. Probably scanning your heart rate, oxygen levels, fertility, genetic sequence, and SAT scores.

“Mmmhmm.” You smiled dopily. “Good. I feel good.”

Eyes narrowed, Nines didn’t seem to believe you, but the android at your back who nuzzled into your neck seemed perfectly happy.

“That was enjoyable. Perhaps we can do it again?”

“She needs rest.”

Connor huffed at Nines’ sharp words.

“Not now. How about when you wake up?” Connor punctuated the question with a lick to the side of your neck. You shivered, body very much interested at the sudden attention.

Nines glared over your shoulder and Connor huffed.

“All right, brother. No need to get so protective.”

You groaned and hid your face against Nines’ chest. They weren’t technically brothers, you knew that, but the context of the situation coupled with that word should have been shameful. Instead, you rubbed your thighs together and cursed Nines for coming up with this idea in the first place.

You blinked, did a double take of the fact that yes, your nose was pressed against the black satin material of Nines’ dress shirt. A peek over your shoulder confirmed Connor was only wearing his white dress shirt and pants.

“Did… did you both come on your jackets?”

Connor’s cheeks went pink as he winced, lips spreading into a sheepish smile. Nines was expressionless but his limbs locked up and he stopped running his breathing subroutine.

You turned back around, buried your face in Nines’ shirt, and laughed.