#secret stab wound

[bloodyfeverdreams]

Like I Could Pull Aside the Mask, and There Would be the Face of My Son, Diego

Soooooo I know this Zorro fandom is literally so dead, as the show's been over for literally over sixty years 😅 but I was watching the show for the first time since I adore Zorro, and as I went, I got an idea for this, annnnd then this happened. Whumptober let me finish this so it counts haha. If y'all don't mind reading fanfics for fandoms you're not familiar with, I'd be really excited if you could try this one. I'll give you a guide so you can follow the story.

Don Diego de la Vega - Zorro, the main character of the show. He's convinced the rest of Los Angeles that he's a dandy, completely inept with a sword in order to keep people from discovering he's Zorro.

Don Alejandro de la Vega - Diego's loving father, who doesn't know who Zorro is under the mask.

Bernardo - Diego's manservant, and best friend. He's mute, and also pretends to be deaf so he can help Diego with being Zorro.

Tornado - Zorro's horse, who's incredibly smart.

Sergeant Garcia - A soldier of the King of Spain, who's not the brightest, who's charged with arresting Zorro while also "secretly" thinking he's a hero

Corporal Reyes - Another soldier, who's probably slightly autistic lol who takes everything Sergeant Garcia says way too literally, and is as dumb as a box of rocks.

The Eagle - The main villain of the second half of the first season.

Juan Ramos - A guy I made up for the sole purpose of hurting Diego.

pueblo - What Los Angeles was before it really became a city. When they say pueblo, they basically mean the whole city.

hacienda - Alejandro's house, he's a rancher, Diego lives there with his father after returning from university in Spain.

cuartel - basically the police force/police station

Okay, now that we've got that out of the way, let's get down to the actual story.

Adrenaline really could be a powerful drug sometimes, Diego thought vaguely. It was why he never drank too much wine when he was drinking, he never liked his senses being dulled. But sometimes, as Zorro, he would get so caught up in the simple act of not getting killed, that his world narrowed to just what he was doing. Facing multiple enemies at once will do that to a person, even the most accomplished swordsman. And while the idea of Zorro could never be destroyed, that didn’t mean that Diego de la Vega wasn’t still just a mortal man.

The Eagle’s men were often very well-trained in swordplay, some even rivaled Diego himself, and this one was no different. Juan Ramon had been sent to smuggle a supply of weapons from Mexico to the Eagle’s men waiting in the outskirts of Los Angeles. As soon as he’d figured out the Eagle’s plan, Diego donned his mask and Zorro rode, and he intercepted the wagon full of the concealed weapons, redirecting it to Sergeant Garcia to prevent any of the Eagle’s men from getting their hands on it. The shipment of weapons had been stopped, but Ramon decided to ride with Sergeant Garcia to capture Zorro, citing the reward. It had been all too easy to evade the Sergeant, as it usually was, but Ramon wasn’t so easily misled, continuing to race after him as he rode on Tornado.

Tornado was the fastest horse in the pueblo, but it seemed nothing would stop Ramon from capturing Zorro. Ramon’s sword slashed at his back, slicing through some of his cape. So he’d turned Tornado around to fight the man honorably, though it seemed the man had none, and their swords began to clash in the darkness. Ramon was a fierce swordsman, a true challenger to Diego’s skills. Being Zorro for so long, he’d gotten very used to fighting in the dark, so he could parry Ramon’s strikes, though fighting on horseback was quite difficult. He didn’t just have to protect himself but he had to protect Tornado. He had no doubt that this man would strike Tornado just to get to him. As his blood thundered through his veins, his heart pounding in his chest, Diego felt the world narrowing to this fight, keeping himself and Tornado alive.

Luck it seemed was on his side though, and he could hear the rattle of a snake in between the crashes of their swords. Ramon’s horse bucked into the air, causing Ramon’s last thrust to veer off course as Ramon was thrown from his horse. Diego could sense that Tornado hadn’t seen the snake yet, though his good friend clearly heard it, and he used his new advantage to ride away before Ramon could get back on his horse to chase after him.

But something strange began to happen as he rode to the hacienda. His vision began to blur a little around the edges as his heart couldn’t slow down. Diego could tell that something was wrong, but he couldn’t tell what, this had never happened to him before. He tried to ignore it, hoping if he just made it home, he could deal with it then, but black spots began to dance across his vision as he rode. After checking that no one was following him, he had Tornado slow down, thinking that would ease his heart into something calmer. Again, it didn’t. Black spots still began to dance across his vision, actually if anything they got worse. At this point, Diego knew that something was terribly wrong, but he wasn’t sure what. He began to slump a little in his saddle, and he became aware of a distant throbbing in his right side. He urged Tornado home, never more grateful that Tornado was the smartest horse in the state, as he was losing the ability to guide Tornado himself.

The throbbing in his side was beginning to get stronger, turning sharper and fouler with a kind of pain he’d never felt before, and he felt himself getting weaker and weaker far too quickly. Diego’s hands then came to his right side, trying to ascertain what was causing his unusual and unpleasant feelings. He ran his fingers up the right side of his shirt, and found part of it to be wet for some reason. He didn’t understand, his sharp, witty mind moving unusually slow, and he looked down at himself.

Wearing all black often let him move around in the pueblo in complete secrecy, moving as one with the shadows. But something he’d never thought of before was that being dressed in black would prevent him from seeing things like blood when they started to stain through his shirt. It wasn’t until he noticed that his shirt was ripped that he even saw the wound. It seemed Ramon’s last strike had found its mark.

All at once, when he finally registered he was wounded, the pain slammed into him like a horse kicking him in the chest. He doubled over, crying out as his hand covered the wound, and his breath left him like he’d been punched in the stomach. His mind went a little dizzy at seeing his flesh sliced open, and he leaned on Tornado to keep himself upright.

“Tornado, take, ahh, take me home.” Diego murmured, his eyes having trouble staying open. But he trusted Tornado, as he was the smartest horse Diego had ever met, and he knew his friend would get him home.

Darkness started to pull at him a little as Tornado trotted along carefully, as if sensing his master was wounded. Pull it together, he thought to himself, the hacienda wasn’t far. He just had to make it back home, and then Bernardo would be able to get him a doctor. He was sure Bernardo would be able to make some excuse of why Diego had been stabbed that didn’t involve Zorro. Probably in a way that made his father disappointed in him again.

Diego’s thoughts began to stray as the pain became unbearable, his body lurching with every step Tornado took. He wasn’t sure why he was thinking of his father, and the disappointed look he always had in his eyes whenever Diego backed down from a fight. Maybe because he’d just fought proudly and honorably for the people he and his father wanted to protect, but his father would never know it. He preferred it that way of course, because he never wanted his father to get caught up in his adventures of Zorro, as he risked his life often and losing his father would absolutely destroy him. But that didn’t make disappointing him any easier.

Thoughts of his father drifted as his body got weaker, as his mind lost the ability to think beyond the pain. He was slumping further and further in the saddle, his body now laying against Tornado’s neck, as he was unable to sit up anymore. His blinks got longer, heavier, his eyes feeling like lead, and he was losing the strength to keep them open.

“Torn’ado, get… get ‘ernardo. Get help…” Diego whimpered, the pain overwhelming him to the point where he could barely speak anymore. The adrenaline that had kept him going this entire time was fading, and he was losing what little strength he had.

But Diego couldn’t see his horse’s answer, as his eyes slipped closed and stayed closed. His body went limp, and he slowly slid out of the saddle. He collapsed onto the ground with a soft groan. He felt Tornado nuzzle his face, heard the fright in his friend’s neighs, but he couldn’t respond beyond a low moan. Tornado tried to get him up once more, but Diego still lay unmoving on his side. With the little bit of strength he had left, Diego tried to reach out to Tornado, unsure of what he was even reaching for, but desperate to try and not give into this darkness. Even though Zorro was a fearless hero, Diego was still just a man, and he was scared he was going to die here in the dirt, away from anyone he loved. His hand trembled as he fought as hard as he could, putting all of his remaining strength into trying to move, but his hand went slack as the little strength he had waned, and he collapsed into darkness.

Originally, Alejandro had wanted Diego to ride with him this morning since he thought that getting some fresh air would do his bookworm son some good, but when he knocked, Diego hadn’t answered. He assumed his son must still be asleep, having stayed up late due to his books and poems, no doubt. Thinking that he’d just see his son at breakfast,  Alejandro decided to ride  across his hacienda alone.

Riding across the hacienda every morning had become a part of his routine when he’d sent Diego off to Spain to finish his education. He’d missed his son terribly, so he’d taken to riding in the morning to clear his head to start the day. Diego had always loved riding when he was younger, so Alejandro rode in the mornings to make him feel close to his son while he was gone. And even though Diego had returned from Spain, Alejandro still missed the young boy he’d sent to college. Diego had been such a rambunctious youth, always getting into trouble, always swinging his sword at every problem in an effort to imitate his father. He wasn’t sure what had changed in his son during university, but something had. So Alejandro still rode every morning to clear his head, to let him focus on the day ahead of him, and to think about his son. He’d tried to understand, tried to get Diego to tell him what had happened to him, but Diego had suddenly become very evasive over his true feelings, and he wouldn’t speak to his father the way he used to. Whatever it was that had happened, he hoped that Diego would tell him eventually. He wanted his son to trust him, regardless of what path he walked in life.

A horse’s neigh started him out of his thoughts, and he was stunned to see Zorro’s black horse riding up to him. He’d only seen the horse a few times when he’d run into the outlaw, but it seemed that Zorro owned the only black horse in the entire pueblo, and everyone would recognize the horse on sight. But something was wrong, as an experienced ranchero like him would immediately spot the tell-tale signs in the horse. The horse came up to Alejandro without fear, and bucked a little. Alejandro could tell the horse knew something was wrong, but he couldn’t tell what.

“Where is your master, horse?” Alejandro murmured, very confused as to why he was seeing Zorro’s horse without seeing Zorro. The horse still had his complete saddle on so Zorro must have been with him last night. Then the horse then nipped at his arm, gently grasping Alejandro’s jacket and pulling. The kind of control Zorro’s horse had of nipping at him without hurting him was incredible, and Alejandro wondered how Zorro had been able to train his horse so well. The horse nipped at him again, clearly trying to communicate through their language barrier, and he could tell the horse clearly thought whatever it was it was urgent.

“You want me to follow you, is that it?” Alejandro asked, and even though he hadn’t been expecting an answer, it seemed the horse was smarter than Alejandro thought and immediately took off. The horse turned a little, looking at him, and Alejandro nudged his own horse on, following Zorro’s horse.

When the horse realized that Alejandro was indeed following him, Zorro’s horse took off like a shot. Alejandro had to ride quickly to keep up, and the faster the horse ran, the more worried he became. Dread churned in his gut the more distance they covered, and Alejandro wondered what he would find when they finally reached their destination. Animals were often much smarter than most people thought, especially the ones who didn’t spend their lives raising them and training them. But Alejandro was an expert in horses, and he knew that Zorro’s horse wouldn’t have left his master without a good reason.

His eyes went wide when he finally saw what the horse had been leading him to. Zorro was lying on the ground, facedown, in a pool of blood, and he didn’t seem to be moving. Alejandro couldn’t even tell if the man was even breathing. Even though Zorro was a bandit, an outlaw, Alejandro respected him immensely for always riding for justice. He hadn’t forgotten how Zorro had saved him from Comandante Monastario, and how he owed Zorro his life. So Alejandro acted immediately, dismounting the moment he saw the still form of the hero, and he rushed to the man’s side. His hands hovered over Zorro for a moment, but then Alejandro grabbed the man’s shoulder and rolled him over, instantly leaning down to the man’s chest to check his heart. Alejandro could hear the soft thump-thump of Zorro’s heart, though he thought it sounded a little too fast, but the important thing was that the man was alive, and that meant that Alejandro could help him.

Even though Alejandro was getting up in years, he was still able to slide his arms underneath Zorro’s back and knees and he was able to lift the man into the air. He whistled his horse down, and with his horse kneeling, he was able to finagle the unconscious man onto his saddle and get behind him. Zorro was a little taller than he was, just about Diego’s height, so his head lolled onto Alejandro’s shoulder as they began to ride away. Alejandro had one hand on his horse’s reins and the other over Zorro’s chest, holding the unconscious man in the saddle as he whistled for his horse to take them back to the hacienda. Even though Alejandro hadn’t said anything, Zorro’s horse trailed after them, still upset and as frantic as a horse could get, easily matching his horse’s strides. Zorro truly had a magnificent horse, he’d never seen a horse so loyal before.

As they rode home, Alejandro wondered how long Zorro had been lying unconscious on the ground before his horse found Alejandro, how long his horse had clearly sought help. Zorro rocked back and forth limply in Alejandro’s arms as they rode, and Alejandro’s grip got tighter as they approached the hacienda. Even though he was being bounced around a little on Alejandro’s horse, Zorro still hadn’t woken up, and a pit of dread was starting to form in Alejandro’s stomach. With Zorro’s head on his shoulder, he could feel the man’s shallow breathing, and he prayed that he had gotten to the heroic outlaw in time to save the man’s life.

The hacienda was quiet as Alejandro approached, which was usual, as his vaqueros were already out taking care of the cattle and horses, and the servants were most likely still preparing breakfast. Alejandro rode into his hacienda, and he opened his mouth to call Diego down so he could help, but he thought better of it. He didn’t want to put any of his servants or employees in any danger by associating with someone who helped Zorro, even if they loved Zorro. But thankfully, Diego’s manservant exited Diego’s room, probably having just woken Diego for breakfast. Bernardo saw them almost immediately, and he ran down the stairs, coming right up to Alejandro and Zorro. Alejandro dismounted his horse, and Bernardo helped him ease Zorro’s limp body down from his horse and together, they wrapped his arms around their shoulders.

Unfortunately, Zorro’s horse had followed them into the hacienda, still very attached to his master, and Alejandro tried to gently shoo the horse away.

“Go on, horse.” Alejandro waved the horse away with the hand not currently holding the still unconscious Zorro. “We’ve got him, you’ve got to get out of here. It’s dangerous, you must go.”

The horse just neighed and bucked in response, obviously not wanting to leave Zorro’s side. But in order to keep Zorro safe, it had to be a complete secret that he was here, and this horse was far too recognizable. Bernardo turned to him and gestured for him to take all of Zorro’s weight. Alejandro was confused, but Diego trusted this man, and he trusted Diego’s judgment. So he held the limp Zorro in his arms as Bernardo approached Zorro’s horse. Strangely enough, the horse actually reacted to the deaf-mute. When the man put his hand on the horse’s chest, the horse calmed a little. Bernardo then pointed for the horse to leave, and miraculously, Zorro’s horse actually trotted away, obviously returning to where he lived with Zorro. Alejandro stared at Bernardo for a moment, completely bewildered by the man’s actions, but Bernardo then took Zorro’s other arm from him and wrapped it around his shoulders. Alejandro knew he could be confused as to why Zorro’s horse had reacted to a man he’d never met later, right now, they had to get Zorro into the hacienda where no one would stumble upon him.

“We need to find shelter for him.” Alejandro said, and then cursed himself as the man stared at him a little. Right, he couldn’t hear. Lord, he didn’t know how Diego communicated so well with the man. Bernardo then pointed to Diego’s room, and Alejandro nodded. Diego would have no issues giving up his bed for Zorro. He knew that Diego always spoke about how Zorro was a criminal, but he knew the twinkle in his son’s eyes when he was teasing, even if others didn’t.

So Alejandro and Bernardo carried Zorro’s unconscious body up the stairs, and maneuvered him into Diego’s room. Surprisingly, his son wasn’t there as he’d expected Diego to be. He wanted to ask where Diego was, but Bernardo couldn’t hear so that would have to be a question for later. Maybe his son had already gone down for an early breakfast.

Carefully, Alejandro and Bernardo laid Zorro down on Diego’s still made bed. Alejandro removed Zorro’s hat and torn cape, and Bernardo removed Zorro’s shoes and gloves. Then Alejandro gently pulled at the fabric stuck to Zorro’s skin, and hissed at the sight in sympathy. There was a roughly three inch gash in the man’s right side, dried blood mixing in with the dirt Alejandro had found him in. When Bernardo saw the gash, his face was extremely expressive in his worry. Bernardo placed his hand on Zorro’s forehead, and Zorro’s cheeks. He looked at Alejandro, clearly frightened and Alejandro gently touched the man’s skin around the wound. Dammit. It was already warm with fever. Alejandro cursed under his breath.

“Okay. We have to clean the wound, and no one can know he’s here.” Alejandro said slowly, trying to use gestures to explain what he was saying. Thankfully, the man seemed to understand, and he nodded. Alenajdro then gestured to the room, and the books that Diego loved so much. “Where’s Diego?”

Bernardo struggled a little, his gestures not making any sense. Alejandro sighed, wondering how Diego dealt with this all the time. At least his bookworm son had learned patience in Spain. Bernardo then shrugged, and Alejandro sighed. “I have no idea what you’re saying.”

Well, he could worry about where Diego had disappeared to later. Zorro needed him now. He trusted his son, Diego would be alright without his father and his manservant for a little while. His son was perfectly capable of taking care of himself.

“Go get some water and several soft cloths.” Alejandro said, and tried to mime that to Bernardo. Even though Alejandro was not used to communicating only with his hands, Bernardo nodded quickly, and slipped out of the room. Having been deaf his whole life, he was probably very used to understanding gestures.

Even though Alejandro only knew cattle and horses, and wasn’t a doctor himself, he’d seen enough injuries over the course of his life that he had a fair idea of what to do. He had to clean the wound, stitch Zorro back up, and let him rest for at least a few days so he could recover from the blood loss and fever. He hoped that that was all Zorro needed, as Alejandro wouldn’t risk bringing a doctor to the hacienda unless it was at the uttermost end of need. The less people who knew of this secret the better.

Bernardo was rather quick in his return, carrying a large basin of water with several soft washcloths. Alejandro cleared a space on Diego’s nightstand for the man to set everything down. Alejandro then tried to gesture for Bernardo to lock Diego’s door, and he nodded quickly. At least now no one would be able to come in unannounced. Diego would understand why he was locked out of his own room once he came home.

When the man returned to Diego’s bed, worry still written clearly on his face, he pointed at Zorro, and then pretended to undress himself. Alejandro nodded resolutely. “You’re right, let’s get his shirt off.”

Bernardo then came around to the other side of Diego’s bed, and carefully, they eased Zorro’s body into somewhat of a sitting position. Alejandro ripped the already torn sash around Zorro’s waist and removed his gloves, and Bernardo supported Zorro’s unconscious body as Alejandro began to slowly try to remove Zorro’s shirt. The man moaned softly in pain as he did so, and while it hurt Alejandro’s heart, he was almost glad for it. The heroic outlaw wasn’t too far gone if he was still able to make noises. Bernardo helped Alejandro wrangle Zorro’s limp arms out of his shirt before they managed to pull it off his head. The pull of the fabric pulled a little at Zorro’s mask and bandana, and when that happened, Alejandro saw Zorro’s eyes open a little. He must have trained himself to recognize anything trying to unmask him, even when he was barely conscious.

“No… n-no…” Zorro whimpered, his trembling hand trying to come to his mask.

“Shh, it’s alright, Zorro. You’re safe here.” Alejandro took Zorro’s hand and squeezed gently. Zorro weakly tried to pull away, his hand trying to come back to his mask. Alejandro could see the fear in Zorro’s eyes, so he spoke with pure conviction, his only goal reassuring the outlaw. “I give you my word, Zorro. We will not unmask you. You’re safe here.”

Zorro stared at him with brown eyes that reminded him of Diego, and he must have seen Alejandro’s sincerity even though the haze of his fever, and he nodded a little, his head then falling limply down as his hand clutched Alejandro’s as tightly as he could. It frightened Alejandro with just how weak Zorro’s grip was.

“... hurts.” Zorro moaned, clearly insentient from the fever, as Alejandro doubted that the masked man would ever admit he was in pain if he were fully in control of his wits.

Again, Alejandro was reminded of Diego, of a time when Diego had been about twelve years old, still young but trying so hard to be a man like his father. Diego had climbed a tree to impress the young Rosarita Cortez, but he’d been more concerned about showing off to the girl he was infatuated with than caution, and he’d slipped and fallen out of the tree. He’d landed hard on his left wrist, and Alejandro had immediately taken him to the doctor in town. As Diego had clung to him in the saddle, he’d made the same exact sound, whispering that it hurts. He’d been trying very hard not to cry, but constantly being jostled around in the saddle had overwhelmed the small boy. But Alejandro had promised his young son that admitting he was in pain was a strength, and not a weakness. Diego then started sobbing into his father’s shirt as Alejandro rode to the doctor, and he comforted his young son as best as he could. If he remembered correctly, Diego still had the scar on his left wrist from the break, even though he’d fully healed years ago. But now was not the time to reminisce about his son. He needed to think about the man in front of him now.

Somehow, as if sensing Zorro’s distress, Bernardo then pulled down Zorro’s mask so it properly covered his face again. The restoration of his mask seemed to calm the outlaw, and his eyelids fluttered as he struggled to remain conscious. Alejandro wondered if he should let the man sleep again, as what he was about to do was going to be painful, but he also didn’t want the man slipping into unconsciousness again to the point where Zorro wouldn’t wake up again.

“Lay him back down.” Alejandro said, there was silence and stillness for a moment, and then he gestured for Bernardo to lay him back down. Gently, Bernardo laid Zorro back down, careful with his head, until Zorro was once again laying flat in Diego’s bed.

Alejandro then reached over, grabbed a small cloth, and dipped it into the water. The water was only slightly cool, and Alejandro hoped that this wouldn’t be too much of a shock to Zorro’s fevered skin. Bernardo then got his attention, and gestured for a cloth of his own. He mimed placing something on his eyes, and Alejandro nodded, understanding. He handed Bernardo the cloth he’d had and grabbed another one. Bernardo folded the damp cloth and then placed it over Zorro’s eyes, over his mask. Alejandro hoped that would help ease the heroic outlaw into knowing that his secret was safe with them.

Taking a deep breath, Alejandro then brought the cool cloth to Zorro’s right side, starting with the skin around the wound. Zorro whimpered in pain at the touch of the cool cloth, but Alejandro knew he couldn’t stop even if his actions were going to cause the man pain. He slowly began to wipe away the dried blood and dirt around Zorro’s wound, trying not to use too much pressure but also trying to make sure he washed off all of the dirt around the wound. As he worked, he saw Bernardo out of the corner of his eye, gently stroking Zorro’s cheek, most likely trying to do what little he could to comfort the suffering man.

Stroke after stroke, Alejandro used gentle pressure to wipe away the dried blood and dirt around the gash in Zorro’s side. He tried to ignore the soft noises of pain that slipped past the outlaw’s lips, knowing that even though this hurt, he needed to clean the wound so Zorro could heal. But each noise twisted his gut a little, even if his hands remained steady as he cleansed the man’s skin. For a reason Alejandro couldn’t figure out, Zorro’s noises of pain sounded almost exactly like Diego. Alejandro ignored it, thinking that it was just his paternal instincts responding to Zorro’s pain as Zorro had the same eyes as his son. Though, Zorro clearly had much more muscle than his scholarly son, training to fence as well to be as skilled as Zorro was would of course build up that muscle. He wished Diego had put that much devotion into his fencing skills rather than his books. He’d heard from around town of just how hopeless his son was with a sword, which he didn’t understand. Diego had been a fine swordsman when he’d left for Spain. Even if he didn’t fence the entire time he was there, he shouldn’t be so hopeless now.

Even though Alejandro couldn’t stop his thoughts from drifting to Diego, his hands moved just as they should. Slowly, carefully, he gently cleared away the dried blood and dirt away from Zorro’s right side. When he finished, he looked back up at Zorro. Bernardo was still softly stroking his cheek, and Alejandro saw droplets of water running down Zorro’s cheeks. Alejandro hoped that they were from the cool compress over his eyes, rather than the poor man being in so much pain that he was crying, though he knew it was probably the latter. Alejandro sighed. Unfortunately, it was only going to get worse.

“Bernardo, hold him down.” Alejandro said, trying to gesture to the deaf-mute. “This is going to be painful.”

He saw the fear on Bernardo’s face, as if he could hear the grimness in Alejandro’s tone, but most likely, he just understood what had to come next. Bernardo shifted a little, using his arm to pin Zorro’s shoulder’s to the bed. Using his other arm, Alejandro pinned Zorro’s waist to the bed, and he took another deep breath, trading the dirty cloth for a clean one.

Alejandro then brought the clean cloth to the wound itself. Zorro shrieked in pain as soon as Alejandro touched it, but Bernardo quickly covered Zorro’s mouth, trying to muffle the shrieks and groans of pain as Alejandro worked. The wound had stopped bleeding at some point during the night, but as soon as he began to try and wipe the dirt from the gash, it started bleeding sluggishly once again. Having been a ranchero all his life, Alejandro was very used to blood, human or cattle. But out of all the blood he’d seen in his life, this was the worst. This wasn’t some vaquero who’d been gored by a bull for getting too close to his mate, this wasn’t a man who’d accidentally cut himself as he was fixing the perimeter fence, this wasn’t a man who’d been kicked by a horse. This was a man who’d been intentionally injured because he fought for justice and cared about all people in the pueblo. Still, Alejandro had to do a job to keep the man alive, so he pushed away all thoughts of the cruelty of this wound.

With Bernardo muffling Zorro’s sounds as best as he could, Alejandro worked, trying to get all of the grime in the wound. He had to use a fair amount of his strength to keep Zorro pinned down, but he tried not to focus on that, on how much pain this was causing the man. He just did his best to work as quickly as he could without losing his caution and attention to detail. It felt like it took hours upon hours to make sure there was no more dirt in the wound, but just as he was finishing up, Zorro went completely limp in their arms. The poor man must have passed out from the pain. He wasn’t sure if that was a good thing, but at least the man wasn’t in agony anymore. Alejandro finished cleaning the wound as Zorro lay unconscious in Diego’s bed, and he sighed heavily when he thought that this would be as clean as he could get a wound like this.

Alejandro then stood up, taking the bloody rags, and threw them in Diego’s fireplace. When he turned back to the man, he saw silent tears running down Bernardo’s cheeks as he continued to stroke Zorro’s face. Even though the man couldn’t hear the horrid cries of excruciating pain he’d been trying to muffle, it seemed he could still tell just how much pain Zorro had been in, and tried to do what little he could to comfort the outlaw. Alejandro then placed his hand on Bernardo’s shoulder, surprising the man a little, but the deaf-mute just nodded at him. The man then started miming the act of sewing, and Alejandro motioned for him to continue. Bernardo then slipped off of Diego’s bed, and went to his desk. He ruffled around for a little bit before returning with some skin sewing thread, which confused Alejandro.

“Why does Diego have medical supplies in his desk?” Alejandro asked.

Bernardo must have understood the question even though he didn’t hear it, and he picked up one of Diego’s books, and pulled his hand back as if he’d been injured.

“He has sewing thread for the skin in case of a papercut?” Alejandro said incredulously, unable to believe that Diego would have something so extreme for something as insignificant as a papercut.

Again, Bernardo seemed to understand, probably going off of his facial expression, and he shook his head. He mimed getting another papercut, and Alejandro realized he’d gotten the wrong conclusion from his actions. Bernardo then mimed riding a horse, and Alejandro finally thought he understood. The man was just using a book to imitate the sensation of getting cut. He remembered how Diego had struggled to ride Princessa even though he was a fantastic rider, how sore he’d been after he’d slipped off of her. When he’d seen his son on the ground, he’d been afraid that Diego had been seriously hurt. Suddenly hitting the ground after being on a horse could cause any manner of injuries. Diego must have the thread because he knew just how dangerous it was to be thrown from a horse, and that sometimes the doctor couldn’t be reached immediately. If anything, his bookworm son had a good, logical head on his shoulders.

“I understand, come here.” Alejandro said, waving the man closer. Bernardo came to him, handing him the thread. He could see the hesitance in the deaf-mute’s face as Bernardo mimed sewing, clearly trying to ask a question.

“Yes, I can do this.” Alejandro nodded. He’d stitched up small wounds on cattle before, so he was confident that he could handle this. He then guided Bernardo’s hands to Zorro’s skin, lightly pressing the wound together. Zorro made another small sound of discomfort but he didn’t move, so Alejandro assumed the man was still unconscious, and Alejandro thought this was the best time to do this.

Alejandro threaded the needle, and with a fierce determination, he began to sew Zorro’s skin together. The process was arduously slow, and every time the needle pierced Zorro’s flesh, he let out another soft noise of pain, feeling the agony even as he slept. It broke Alejandro’s heart, but he didn’t let that affect him. Bernardo had turned away, unable to keep looking as Alejandro stitched the gash closed, and Alejandro didn’t blame him. Sometimes even the most experienced vaquero could be sick at the sight of an injury like this.

Puncture right, push through, puncture under the left, pull, switch sides, then repeat. The repetitive process of sewing Zorro’s skin back together was grueling, as the man had never stopped making those small noises of pain that reminded far too much of Diego. But eventually, after what felt like ten hours but was actually about ten minutes, and roughly twenty stitches later, Alejandro finished stitching the wound shut. Zorro’s skin kept twitching a little as his body adjusted to the stitches, but Alejandro knew that the man’s body would calm after a little while. Alejandro readjusted the cool compress over Zorro’s eyes, feeling Zorro’s warm forehead, but other than keeping Zorro safe and helping with his fever, Alejandro wasn’t sure what else he could do to help the outlaw.

As soon as Alejandro had finished stitching, Bernardo had let go, just staring sadly at Zorro. Alejandro grabbed Bernardo’s shoulder, trying to do what he could to comfort the man. Bernardo just looked at him. Bernardo then gestured to Zorro, and then mimed looking for something and then a question mark.

“I’m not sure,” Alejandro said, still speaking aloud even though the man couldn’t hear him. “I don’t know if the soldiers know he’s wounded, but I suppose it’s only a matter of time. So we must keep his presence here a complete secret.”

Alejandro tried to communicate his words in gestures, which was still a struggle, but Bernardo nodded, so he assumed he might have done something right. He then looked to Diego’s locked door, wondering where his son was. Diego wasn’t the type to go missing for such long periods of time. Alejandro noticed that Diego’s bed hadn’t seemed slept in, but he just assumed that Diego had gotten up during his father’s ride and Bernardo had just remade the bed. Of all the times to be off by himself reading his books or doing whatever it was that he was doing. His son truly had become a mystery since his return from Spain.

But now that the worst part was over, Alejandro was able to focus on other things again. Alejandro then got Bernardo’s attention.

He pointed at Zorro, and then tried to mime riding a horse, and then used his fingers trying to imitate how Zorro’s horse had listened to the deaf-mute. “How on earth did you get Zorro’s horse to obey you?”

Bernardo seemed to understand his question, and then he pointed at Zorro and also mimed riding a horse. He then mimed a lasso, and reached out and held an imaginary horse. Finally he mimed a spoof of one of the king’s soldiers.

“Ah, when Zorro’s horse had been captured by the soldiers, yes.” Alejandro murmured, speaking aloud instinctively. He nodded and then motioned for Bernardo to continue.

Bernardo pointed to himself and used his fingers to imitate walking and then the horse again.

“You were walking by where they were keeping the horse.”

Bernardo mimed the satirized version of a soldier again. Then he mimed a whip, and Alejandro gasped lightly.

“One of the soldiers was whipping Zorro’s horse?” Alejandro asked. “How dishonorable, attacking a defenseless animal like that.”

Bernardo continued as if he hadn’t spoken, miming the whip again, and catching it in the air. He then waved his finger from side to side in a fierce ‘no’.

“You tried to stop him.” Alejandro nodded, putting the puzzle pieces together in his head. Bernardo had been near the corral, and had tried to intervene when he saw the soldier whipping the horse. With as smart as Zorro’s horse seemed to be, that easily explained how Zorro’s horse knew that Bernardo could be trusted. “So he knows you as a friend. I see.”

It was very lucky indeed that Alejandro had been the one who found Zorro. The horse would’ve followed his master into the hacienda of whoever had found him, as everyone in the pueblo would have taken Zorro in, and they might not have been able to send the horse away. He did wonder where the horse went, but Zorro needed his attention more. He had wanted to wait a little to wrap the wound, wanting to give the poor man a break as his body adjusted to the stitches, but now it was time to continue.

“I’ll be back in a few minutes.” Alejandro said slowly, trying his best to mime out his words. “I have some extra bandages in my room from when I was injured, I need to go get them.”

Bernardo nodded. Alejandro still marveled at how easily Bernardo was able to understand him, even though he couldn’t hear him. Alejandro then slipped out of Diego’s room, and carefully came to his own room. He searched through his drawers and found the bandages. As long as the wound didn’t reopen, he thought what he had would be enough.

A knock startled him, and he shoved the bandages into his pocket to hide them. He took a deep breath to steady himself before answering, “Yes?”

“Senor, breakfast is ready.” Alejandro sighed, recognizing his servant’s voice. He’d been afraid that it would be a soldier looking for Zorro.

Alejandro then exited his room. “I shall come down for it later, my son and I have some important business to attend to. I ask that you don’t disturb us.”

The servant nodded, and Alejandro just sighed, walking causally back to Diego’s room. But he trusted his son. Diego was a smart boy, when he returned if anyone asked about this ‘new important business’, his son would easily catch on that his father needed him.

He was beginning to become worried, as it was not like his son to go somewhere where he’d be gone for a while without telling anyone. But he trusted his son to be careful. He was sure Diego was alright. As his father, he felt he’d know if something happened to his son. Still, the longer Diego went without coming home, the more worried he became. Oh mijo, where are you?

Alejandro slipped back into Diego’s room, and pulled the bandages out of his pocket. Bernardo helped ease Zorro into a sitting position again, causing the man to again make a soft noise of pain as they unfortunately jostled his wound. Bernardo then got his attention and mimed a circle and then pointed at himself. It seemed Bernardo wanted to wrap the bandages. Alejandro nodded, seeing no reason to deny him, and handed him the cotton bandages.

Holding Zorro by the shoulders, Alejandro then adjusted himself so he was holding Zorro upright. Bernardo then began to softly wrap the bandages around Zorro’s wound. The man’s touch was incredibly delicate, almost reverent, like he was bandaging a close friend. Maybe Zorro had thanked him for rescuing his horse from that cruel, dishonorable man in some sort of way and Bernardo felt indebted to him as he did, as many did after encountering the hero.

Alejandro watched as Bernardo’s nimble fingers wrapped the white cotton around Zorro’s abdomen. Bernardo moved quickly but tenderly, making sure not to cause any further pain to the hero. He seemed very experienced in this, and a small part of Alejandro hoped that he’d just learned how to do this in his training as a manservant, and not because he’d bandaged an injured Diego before. He hoped that wasn’t what changed his son while he was in Spain. He’d seen the aftereffects of some battles that left men shaking whenever they held a sword again.

Swathes of white soon covered Zorro’s abdomen, and Bernardo tied the two ends together. Together, they laid Zorro against the pillows once more, and adjusted him so he’d be as comfortable as he could be. Alejandro sighed. At least now, all they needed to do was let Zorro rest. They shouldn’t need to cause him any more pain.

With Zorro taken care of Alejandro needed to tend to the hacienda as he always did, trying to assume a look of normalcy. No one could suspect that Zorro was here, that anything was out of the ordinary. And even though Alejandro wanted to remain with Zorro, to watch over the hero as he had watched over Alejandro, it would be better for him to keep the secret and act completely normal. That would keep him the safest.

“Watch over him.” Alejandro said, pointing to his eyes and to Zorro. “I need to tend to the hacienda, otherwise it will seem suspicious.”

Bernardo nodded, and Alejandro placed his hand on Bernardo’s shoulder before heading out. Even though he didn’t really feel like eating, he went down to breakfast anyway. Maybe Diego would be there, waiting with a smile that always calmed Alejandro’s heart.

Bernardo had been exhausted from waiting up all night for Diego to return, but the second he saw his friend in Don Alejandro’s arms, he’d suddenly become wide awake. It was as if he’d drunk a whole keg of coffee, his heart racing in his chest at seeing his friend so injured. Bernardo knew that being Zorro was risky for Diego, it was risky for him too when he joined his friend, but this was the first time Diego had really gotten injured. There had been that one instance when Diego had hit his head against a rock, but he’d been fine afterwards, except for a rather strong headache. He’d been perfectly fine after a little rest. This injury would not go away so easily.

Holding Diego down as his father cleaned the wound was one of the hardest things he’d ever had to do. Hearing Don Alejandro’s promise to not unmask Diego had been slightly comforting, but his friend was so injured, already afflicted with fever that it was hard to feel it. He’d had trouble keeping up the ruse that he was also deaf, especially when Diego had started screaming in pain. Covering his mouth to muffle his sounds broke Bernardo’s heart, but he knew it was necessary. Diego couldn’t be found here like this, unable to defend himself, and Diego certainly wouldn’t want his father being implicated in helping Zorro, no matter what state he was in.

When Diego finally passed out from the pain, Bernardo didn’t know whether to be grateful or distraught. While he hated to see his friend be in pain, he longed to see Diego’s eyes open once again, so Bernardo could see that he was alive, he was awake. But even in unconsciousness, Diego wasn’t relieved of the pain. He’d kept stroking Diego’s face as gently as he could, trying to bring what little softness and comfort he could to his best friend, trying to give Diego something to focus on that wasn’t the horrible pain he was in. Unfortunately, it hadn’t seemed to work, as Diego continued to make those soft noises of pain as Don Alejandro worked, even after he’d finally lost consciousness.

Bernardo had almost been sick at having to hold the two edges of Diego’s skin closer so Don Alejandro could stitch them together, but he forced himself to be strong for his friend. Diego had always been so strong for him, defending him from people who thought that his inability to speak was a deficiency and made him unintelligent. It was one of the main reasons he’d become so devoted to Diego, who never got frustrated with him because he couldn’t speak. In Spain, Diego had never let anyone speak ill of Bernardo, even dueling a couple of people because they insulted him. Diego was one of the kindest, most patient men he’d ever met, and Bernardo would do anything for the man who had become his best friend. He’d never thought he’d become best friends with someone who was sixteen years younger than him, but Diego was special. He’d never had such a good friend before. So no matter what, no matter how ugly or hard this healing process would be for him to watch, he’d see Diego through this if it killed him.

When Don Alejandro told him he was leaving to keep up appearances, Bernardo nodded, wanting some time alone with his friend. Bernardo locked the door behind him, so he wouldn’t be disturbed. Slumping a little in relief, Bernardo immediately came back to his friend. Gently, Bernardo removed Diego’s bandana and then his mask. This time, Diego’s eyes remained closed, knowing Bernardo’s touch even in sleep. Bernardo then dipped another one of the cloths into the water, and began to dab at the dirt still on Diego’s face, trying hard not to wake him. Judging by the dirt on Diego’s body, he must have fallen off of Tornado at some point. He wondered how long Diego had laid in the dirt before Don Alejandro had found him.

Tenderly, Bernardo began to reveal Diego’s soft skin from under the dirt. His friend slept on, unaware, only occasionally murmuring nonsense in his sleep. He’d never known Diego to talk in his sleep before, but fevers often did strange things to people. So he just focused on his task, gently cleansing Diego’s face with the cool water. This way, Don Alejandro didn’t have to do it and they wouldn’t have to risk Diego’s father potentially accidentally seeing under his mask. Bernardo knew that Don Alejandro promised he wouldn’t unmask Zorro, but still. He and Diego didn’t like to take risks they didn’t have to.

As he worked, little droplets of water ran down Diego’s face, mixing in with the tear tracks so obvious within the dirt that still remained. Bernardo softly stroked Diego’s face with his fingers again, looking sadly upon his friend. Seeing Diego cry was such a rarity that the memories were vivid in his mind. The first time was when Diego wept at the bedside of a good friend when he’d died unexpectedly of yellow fever, and the second was at a wedding as Diego (and most of the crowd) had teared up during the vows. And now this was the third.

Once Diego’s forehead and eyes were clear, Bernardo immediately put the mask back on. Even though the door was locked, he knew Diego would be more comfortable with it on. Despite his fever, Diego still clearly had enough of his wits to remember that he was Zorro, not Don Diego de la Vega. Bernardo hoped the mask’s presence would give Diego the emotional comfort he clearly needed to reassure him that his identity had remained a secret.

Bernardo’s touch was gentle as he brought the cool cloth to Diego’s cheeks, but it seemed that all the touches to his mask and face had woken his friend anyway. Diego’s brow furrowed as his eyes fluttered open. Bernardo could see the fevered glaze in Diego’s brown eyes, and his heart hurt for his friend.

“Ber… bern’do?” Diego whimpered, and Bernardo was grateful that Diego wasn’t too far gone to not recognize him. Bernardo cupped Diego’s cheek gently, and Diego whispered, “wha…?”

Bernardo shushed him gently by putting his finger on Diego’s lips, and then he took Diego’s hand. When he’d first become Diego’s friend, Bernardo had taught him a few hand positions to use as a way to communicate with him. He’d taught Diego the same signs his family had used for the alphabet. It wasn’t something he needed to use often, as Diego was unusually good at communicating with him, but it was what he used to spell out his words as a last resort.

Carefully, Bernardo shifted Diego’s fingers into a fist, with his index and middle fingers raised, and he waited for Diego to recognize it. It took a moment for Diego to understand him through his fever, but eventually he murmured a breathless, “U…” Bernardo then crossed Diego’s fingers, and again waited. “R…” Bernardo guided Diego’s fingers into four successive letters, and when Diego didn’t respond except a confused noise, he did it again. “S-s-a-fe. Safe.”

Bernardo nodded, and cupped Diego’s cheek again. “‘ts good.”

Diego’s eyelids seem to hang heavy over his eyes, and Bernardo’s fingers softly brushed over his bandana. He then grabbed the glass of water he’d gotten earlier, and brought it to Diego’s lips, cradling Diego’s head to help ease him up. Diego wasn’t strong enough to hold the glass, but he managed a few sips of cool water.

“Tor… tornado.” Diego suddenly gasped, his exhausted eyes opening wider in fear, and Bernardo shushed him gently again, setting the glass aside.

Bernardo mimed himself sending Tornado back to their secret hideout, and then he softly stroked Diego’s forehead again. Diego nodded weakly, understanding that Tornado was safe too. Tornado was a smart horse, he’d keep himself out of trouble.

It seemed that the knowledge that he and Tornado were safe was enough for Diego to slip back into sleep, and Bernardo just stroked his cheek until he was sure Diego was deeply asleep again. Bernardo then brought the damp cloth to Diego’s cheeks, softly washing the dirt from Diego’s skin. His touch was featherlight, not wanting to wake Diego again when he clearly didn’t have the strength to stay awake.

After that, Bernardo worked in complete silence, just washing the dirt from Diego’s cheeks, and then Diego’s neck. His costume covered everything else except the wound, and that had already been taken care of. But just as Bernardo placed the dirty, damp cloth to the side, he noticed a thin sheen of sweat on Diego’s skin. He felt Diego’s forehead again, still feeling too warm as the fever burned within him. Hopefully it would burn itself out soon. Diego would need all of his strength to recover from this wound.

Diego hadn’t been at breakfast. He also hadn’t been home for lunch. Alejandro hoped that Diego was just in town, with his friends, and that he was alright. It really was not like Diego to go for so long without at least telling his father where he would be going. The only thing he could think of was that Diego had taken a spur of the moment trip, perhaps to the mission, as potentially someone in town wanted his presence. Still, Diego usually stopped by the hacienda to tell his father where he was going, but perhaps this was an emergency. Alejandro just hoped that Diego came home soon, he missed him.

It was evening by the time that Alejandro had been able to return to Zorro’s side without arousing suspicion. It took a little while for him to get the deaf-mute’s attention inside, but eventually Bernardo unlocked the door upon seeing him.

“You should get some rest, Bernardo.” Alejandro said, doing his best to mime, seeing the exhaustion on Bernardo’s face. “I’ll watch over him for the night.”

Bernardo seemed torn, looking at Zorro with forlorn eyes, obviously not wanting to part from the hero. Alejandro placed his hand on Bernardo’s shoulder, miming “I’ll fetch you if I need you.”

While the man clearly still did not want to go, he did nod. Alejandro wondered if the man had slept the previous night, but whatever had exhausted him was catching up to him. Bernardo took one last look at Zorro, but he went to the door. He knocked three times in a rhythm, and then again. Alejandro realized he was setting up a code for him to use, so he nodded, showing he understood. At least Alejandro could hear the knocks when Bernardo wanted back in.

Alejandro sat at Zorro’s bedside, watching the hero sleep with a worried expression. Zorro’s eyes darted around under his eyelids, his body restless and trembling. Alejandro pressed his hand to Zorro’s forehead, and frowned at the heat he found. All they could do now was hope that an infection had not taken hold and that what was causing this fever would not be as serious as that. An infection would mean Alejandro would need to fetch a doctor, and he hoped that he wouldn’t have to do that. Alejandro grabbed another cloth, it seemed Bernardo had restocked while he was gone, and he dipped it in the cool water.

Carefully, Alejandro brought the cool cloth to Zorro’s collarbone, deciding to forgo touching the man’s face since the slightest touch to his mask had woken him the last time. Tiny beads of sweat had formed across Zorro’s skin, and he softly wiped them away, hoping the cool water would help break the man’s fever. He brushed the cloth over Zorro’s chest, carefully avoiding the bandages around his waist.

As he brushed the cloth over Zorro’s arms, he saw something rather incredible. Zorro also had a scar on his left wrist that Alejandro could’ve sworn looked exactly like Diego’s. He lifted Zorro’s hand, taking great care to be as careful as possible, examining the scar curiously. It was the same length, same width, seemed just as old as Diego’s.

“You know, my son has a scar just like this.” Alejandro murmured. He wasn’t quite sure why he was talking to an unconscious man, but he hoped that his voice could bring the hero some kind of comfort as he slept. “Though, I’m sure you got yours a different way, being the master swordsman that you are. You probably got yours as you honed your incredible skill. My son fell out of a tree, heh.”

A soft moan filled the air, and Zorro’s eyes fluttered open. His brown eyes were glassy and dazed, and it took them a moment to focus on Alejandro.

“Father?” Zorro murmured, his voice weak and confused.

“Shh, it’s alright, Zorro. It’s Don Alejandro.”

Zorro just whimpered again, raising his hand a little. “Father.” Alejandro just grabbed his hand and held it tightly.

“Father… I’m sorry.” Zorro whispered, staring directly into Alejandro’s eyes. Alejandro frowned in confusion, pursing his lips, feeling a little discouraged that Zorro didn’t recognize him. The fever must be distorting Zorro’s mind into thinking Alejandro was his father. “I tried… tried so hard to make you proud.”

“Shh, Zorro, it’s alright.” Alejandro squeezed the hero’s hand. “You did everything you could. Even the bravest in battle get injured. I’m sure your father is very proud of you.”

“No…” Zorro slurred, his glazed eyes drifting softly to the wall. “My father isn’t proud of me.”

“Nonsense.” Alejandro instinctively started stroking Zorro’s hair over his bandana, as Diego always liked his father petting his hair when he wasn’t feeling well. He just hoped that Zorro took comfort from it too. “You’re a great hero. A savior of our people.”

“No… my father thinks I’m a coward.” Zorro muttered. “Always so disappointed in me. I can see it in his eyes.”

Unconsciously, Alejandro’s mind flashed to Diego, that first day when he’d returned from Spain and he hadn’t wanted to take up arms against Comandante Monasterio. How heartbroken Alejandro had been when Diego hadn’t wanted to draw his sword against the corrupt captain, or even draw his sword at all. But how could anyone think that Zorro was a coward? Zorro risked his life constantly for the people of Los Angeles. No one could dare call him a coward or a disappointment! He was tempted to ask who his father was, as he had a few words to exchange with the man. Zorro had risked his own life to save Alejandro’s, how could anyone ever say that he was a coward or a disappointment?

“Your father is wrong.” Alejandro squeezed Zorro’s hand again, his voice full of conviction, which brought Zorro’s fevered eyes back to Alejandro. “You are no coward. You are a hero to us all, Zorro, from the richest ranchero to the poorest peasant. Every day, you risk your life to save us from tyranny and injustice. If your father can’t see that, then even a blind man can see more than he can.”

Zorro’s eyes glistened as Alejandro spoke, and he saw a single tear slide down into the mask. Alejandro’s heart twisted in pain. His thumb came to Zorro’s face, softly brushing under Zorro’s eye. Zorro’s eyes fluttered closed, and Alejandro didn’t stop his ministrations until he was sure that the hero had fallen asleep once again.

Alejandro sighed softly as he gazed upon Zorro’s sleeping form. He hadn’t met the outlaw often, but he never would’ve guessed he’d had such a difficult family. He couldn’t imagine having a father who treated him so disrespectfully. Even he had gotten used to how bookish and unwilling to fight Diego had been since he got back from Spain. Truthfully, it had been hard, but Diego was his son. That meant that Alejandro loved him unconditionally, whether he was a master swordsman or a dandy. Diego was the best thing in his life, nothing could ever change that, even his son’s inability to handle a sword. But Zorro, he was a hero! He did more for the pueblo than anyone. How could anyone be disappointed in that?

Alejandro shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. As much as it hurt to hear that Zorro’s family didn’t appreciate him as they should, there was nothing he could do about that. But what he could do was do his best to help the man heal. He continued wiping the sweat away, brushing Zorro’s skin with clean cool water. He checked the bandage, and thankfully, he didn’t see anything that would indicate an infection. This fever was most likely caused by the stress of getting such an injury, Diego and his late wife had been prone to them as well, Diego especially once his mother passed.

A sudden knock on the door startled him, and he quickly composed himself, covering Zorro with Diego’s blanket and trying his best to hide his mask with a cool compress over his eyes. He then went to the door, trying his best to calm his nerves.

“Yes?” Alejandro answered, seeing one of his servants.

“I’m sorry to disturb you at this late hour, sir, but Sergeant Garcia is at the door and is urgently requesting to speak to you.”

Alejandro’s heart raced. What could Sergeant Garcia be wanting at this hour? Had something happened to Diego? Were they looking for Zorro? His stomach twisted with dread, but he kept a straight face, looking appropriately worried rather letting the terror and panic he was feeling show. He nodded simply, and then headed down to the entrance of the hacienda.

“Sergeant.” Alejandro said, fighting his every nerve to keep calm. “What brings you here this late into the night?”

“I’m so sorry to disturb you, Don Alejandro, but on our last attempt to capture Zorro, it seems he was wounded.” The Sergeant said. “ One of the swords that did battle with him came back with blood on it. So we’re searching everywhere in the pueblo for him, as he’d need help, and since we couldn’t find him in any place he’d seek a doctor, we’ve started searching all the haciendas to see if we can find him.”

“We want to make sure he’s still alive.” Corporal Reyes added.

“Babosa!” Sergeant Garcia shouted, smacking Corporal Reyes upside the head. “You’re not supposed to say that!”

“But you said-”

“I know what I said, Corporal, now be silent!” Garcia growled, and then turned and smiled bashfully at him.

Alejandro’s heart raced, his mind becoming a whirling dervish as he struggled to think of a reason he could deny them entry.

“Well, Sergeant, it is very late, perhaps you could come back tomorrow.” Alejandro said. “Most of the hacienda are already in bed, and I’d hate to wake them.”

“I’m afraid I must insist.” Sergeant Garcia said, sounding regretful. “We must check everywhere for Zorro, even this late at night. N-Not that I suspect you, Don Alejandro, but the Comandante would be very upset if I didn’t search everywhere, including your hacienda. But we’ll try to be quiet.”

Alejandro fought to keep his composure. He had to think, how could he keep them from discovering Zorro? There was no way to sneak him out without the soldiers noticing!

“Well, if you must, but I must ask you that you do not go into Diego’s room.” Alejandro said, hoping this excuse was enough to deter them. He didn’t have the time to think of another. “I’m afraid my son is sick, and cannot be disturbed. A-and I wouldn’t want you catching what he has.”

Sergeant Garcia looked surprised. “Diego is feeling unwell? Oh I’m very sorry to hear that. I was wondering why he hadn’t met me for lunch yesterday as we’d agreed. It’s not like him to miss our lunches together.”

Wait, Diego had made plans and then not kept them? Sergeant Garcia was right, that wasn’t like Diego. That wasn’t like his son at all. He almost asked when the last time the Sergeant had seen his son, but he stopped himself as he realized that he couldn’t. He was pretending Zorro was Diego. The Sergeant would find it very odd that Alejandro needed to look for Diego when supposedly he was lying sick in bed. He would send Diego’s manservant out tomorrow at dawn, and see if the deaf-mute could find his son. Bernardo knew Diego best since he returned from Spain, perhaps he’d be able to find Diego.

“Yes, he has a fever.” Alejandro said, trying to hide his worry for his missing son. “He’s asleep at the moment, and the noise of someone searching his room will most definitely wake him.”

“I do apologize, Don Alejandro, but I must search every room.” Sergeant Garcia said. “But I’ll check his room myself and just peek in there to make sure I don’t wake him.”

“I appreciate your understanding, Sergeant.” Alejandro said, a vice grip squeezing at his chest. The only thing he could hope for now was that the Sergeant wouldn’t recognize Zorro on sight.

With his heart pounding out of his chest, he followed Sergeant Garcia up the stairs while the other soldiers began to search the hacienda. He swallowed nervously as they went up the stairs, using every faculty he had to keep himself acting calm, even if he wasn’t inside. Quietly, Sergeant Garcia opened the door. The soldier peeked through the door, and Alejandro was so anxious about him finding Zorro that he could barely breathe.

Miraculously, Sergeant Garcia closed the door after just a moment. “I apologize for disturbing him, Don Alejandro. It’s obvious Zorro is not in there. Please let me know when he feels better, I would like to come by and see him.”

Don Alejandro smiled, and he actually meant it this time, knowing that Zorro was safe. “Of course, Sergeant. When he feels up to seeing visitors, I’ll send for you.”

Sergeant Garcia nodded happily, smiling broadly at him.

After that, Alejandro could act as he usually did around the soldiers, chatting with them as if nothing was wrong. He knew nothing else in the hacienda would give away that Zorro was here, so there was no chance of them finding Zorro here. Internally, he worried about Diego. What could’ve happened to his son to keep him away from home for so long? To miss plans that he’d made. Diego was not one to go back on his word. Alejandro had taught him the importance of integrity from a very young age. Where on earth could his son be?!

Alejandro wasn’t sure how long the soldiers spent looking for Zorro, but it was still a relief seeing them leave, Sergeant Garcia again apologizing for the disturbance as the rest complained to the Sergeant that they wanted to stop and go home so they could sleep. He bid them adios before returning to Diego’s room. There was nothing he could do about Diego since it was late in the night, and there was only moonlight and starlight to search for him. But the moment the sun rose, Alejandro would start looking for his son.

The moment Alejandro stepped through the door, he could tell something was wrong. Zorro was thrashing a little, having kicked off the blanket which was now tangled between his feet, with the cool compress laying on the pillow beside him. He was murmuring nonsense in his sleep, but it was clear that he was in distress. After locking the door, Alejandro rushed to Zorro’s side.

“Shh, Zorro, you’re alright, you’re alright.” Alejandro said, trying his best to sound soothing.

“No, no please,” Zorro whimpered, still lost in the throes of a nightmare.

“Zorro, wake up, you’re having a nightmare, you’re safe here.” Alejandro gently cupped Zorro’s cheek, hoping the touch to his face would wake him.

But Zorro kept thrashing, his head moving from side to side, his face twisted in fright. Alejandro tried again to wake him before suddenly going still, unable to comprehend what he was seeing. Zorro’s thrashing had dislodged his mask, revealing part of his face. Even though he was asleep, Alejandro still recognized the face of his son.

Diego… Diego was Zorro??? His bookish, pacifist son was the hero of the pueblo who fought with the strength of ten men? Impossible. Yet here he was, staring at his son as he thrashed from a nightmare, clearly Zorro under the mask. Surely, it must be a dream, but he was wide awake, and this was no dream.

Alejandro then acted on impulse, his paternal instincts screaming at him to comfort his son. He took Zorro- Diego by the shoulders and brought him up to Alejandro’s chest, his arms wrapping around his suffering son’s body in a fierce hug, holding Diego close to him. He slowly began to rock back and forth, just as he’d done when Diego was a small child.

“Shh, Diego, it’s alright, Father’s here, you’re safe, shh, you’re safe.” He whispered, keeping one hand on Diego’s head, keeping him pressed against his chest. He knew his son, he knew what would comfort him. It had always worked when he was a child, he saw no reason it wouldn’t work now that he was an adult.

Just as he thought it would, Diego’s murmurs of fright softened as his father held him, whispering comforts as he slowly rocked back and forth. When Diego’s mother was alive, Alejandro would often find a sleeping Diego in his late wife’s arms as she sat in her rocking chair. He knew that the feeling comforted Diego, especially after his mother passed. So he just kept rocking back and forth, holding his son tightly until Diego’s cries quieted down. But even though the nightmare seemed to have passed, Alejandro didn’t let go of his son.

Carefully shifting Diego’s weight so he could hold his son with one hand, he gently pulled off the mask of Zorro. He figured, since he’d already found out it was Diego, he wasn’t breaking his word to not unmask Zorro. Gently dropping the mask and bandana onto the bed, he tilted Diego’s head up a little. Alejandro had burned his son’s face into his memory when he’d come home from Spain, having missed him so much. And here he was, in his arms, sleeping peacefully now.

How could he have missed this? How could he have not seen that his own son was Zorro? Obviously, Diego had gone to great lengths to hide his identity from his father, as well as the rest of the pueblo, but Diego was his son. Alejandro should’ve been able to tell. Now that he knew, the clues were rather apparent. No one had ever seen Diego and Zorro in the same room at the same time, Diego was never around whenever Zorro appeared, the fact that Diego was constantly being accused of being Zorro (even though previously it seemed so evident that he wasn’t), Diego’s sudden evasiveness over his feelings, how Zorro sounded so much like Diego especially when he was in pain, the scar on his wrist… it all made sense now.

“I fail to see what we can do.”

“We can stand up to him, fight him!”

“Calm yourself, Father. The use of force should be our last resort.”

“I hardly expected such discretion from a son of mine!”

Diego hadn’t been a coward in the face of Comandante Monastario, he just made Alejandro believe that. He’d seen the hurt in Diego’s eyes when Alejandro had been so vocal about his obvious disappointment when Diego had refused to take a stand against Monastario, but he’d been more concerned about his son becoming a coward after he left for college rather than comforting his son. It must have been very painful for Diego to let him think such low things of his own son.

“I’m sorry. I tried… tried so hard to make you proud… My father isn’t proud of me. My father thinks I’m a coward. Always so disappointed in me. I can see it in his eyes.”

The only time words had caused Alejandro to feel such pain was when the doctor had told him that his wonderful wife was dying. Never before had Alejandro felt such a sickening regret in his chest that consumed him so entirely. Diego, his incredible, precious son thought that he was a disappointment. That Alejandro considered him a coward. Admittedly, Alejandro hadn’t been very good at telling his son how proud he was of him when Diego constantly ran from a fight, not understanding how his amazing son could’ve become such a coward in a few short years. But… he understood now. Diego never ran from a fight, he just became Zorro to fight that fight.

“It is strange. So strange. It is almost as if I had known you. You seem so much like someone I know. I'm a foolish old man with foolish dreams. So often have I dreamed that my son came back from Spain and he would be like you. Now that you're so close, it is so much like my dreams. I feel almost that I could pull aside the mask, and there would be the face of my son, Diego. I would not pull away the mask. I would not have the courage. An old man must cling to his dreams as desperately as he clings to life.”

Alejandro startled at seeing tears run down Diego’s cheeks as he slept, but he soon realized that the tears were coming from him, dripping down from his face onto Diego. He tucked Diego’s head into his shoulder again, kissing his hair.

“Oh, mijo. Why didn’t you tell me?”

He held his son all night, unwilling to let him go. His only consolation was at least now he didn’t have to worry about where Diego was. His precious son was right here in his arms, where he should be when he was… wounded. It was the smallest of silver linings that he hadn’t known that this was his son when struggling to treat his wound. He felt nauseous just thinking of his son being so grievously injured, especially when all his son was trying to do was help people.

Dawn’s early light surprised him, as he was so lost in thought that he hadn’t noticed that several hours had passed. Diego was still overly warm in his arms, but he seemed to be resting quietly.

A set of three knocks in a row startled him enough that he nearly dropped his son. There was a pause, and another three knocks. Alejandro’s shoulders slumped when he realized it was just Bernardo. He leaned forward, cradling his son’s head with the utmost reverence as he laid Diego back down. He got up to let Bernardo in before he hastily remembered to put on Diego’s Zorro disguise. He wasn’t sure if Bernardo knew, but if he didn’t, he wouldn’t reveal his son’s secret.

Alejandro then let Bernardo in, and the man immediately rushed to Diego’s side. Bernardo’s hand came to Diego’s forehead, his cheeks, checking on his fever. Diego didn’t stir at the touch, and now Alejandro knew what that meant. Even as Zorro, Diego recognized the touch of his friend. He wondered if that meant that Bernardo knew too.

Diego murmured nonsense in his sleep again, and Alejandro sat beside his son, stroking his hair over the bandana. “Shh, Diego, it’s alright, you’re alright. Sleep my son, shh.”

His son calmed, soothed by Alejandro’s voice. Alejandro just stared at his son for a moment, taking in his peaceful expression before he noticed that Bernardo was looking at him in panic. At first it confused him, before he realized that somehow Bernardo must have understood that he knew now that Diego was Zorro.

“You knew?” Alejandro said, his voice incredulous before it turned to anger. “You knew this whole time?”

Bernardo struggled again with nonsensical movements before he just nodded.

“You knew and you didn’t tell me?” Alejandro demanded. “I’m his father!”

Bernardo then pointed to Diego and pressed a finger to his lips, showing that Diego had asked him not to tell.

Alejandro groaned and ran a hand over his face. Then he stopped.

“Wait, you can hear?” Alejandro exclaimed. “You could hear the whole time too?”

Bernardo nodded again.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Alejandro asked. “Why deceive everyone in such a way?”

Bernardo pointed at Diego again, and then he covered his ear. He then mimed walking again, and used his hands to mime talking. Then he placed his hand behind his ear to mime the word listen. Then he placed his hand over his mouth as if he was whispering and pointed to Diego.

“Diego wanted you to pretend to be deaf so you could overhear others’ conversations and what, report back to him?”

Bernardo gave him a hand wave to indicate perhaps a maybe, and pointed at himself. “You wanted to do that?” Bernardo nodded again. “Why?”

He placed his hand behind his ear again, and then mimed running and then whispering to Diego again. He made a ‘Z’ sign, and then pointed to Diego, and then mimed a shield.

“So… you could overhear things that would indicate that Zorro needed protection?” Alejandro asked.

Bernardo nodded happily.

Alejandro sighed. “At least Diego trusted someone to help him.”

Bernardo frowned and patted his shoulder in what seemed to be a gesture of comfort.

“So Diego has been Zorro this entire time.” Alejandro sighed again before a terrible thought entered his mind. “Even… even when we drew swords against each other.”

He remembered dueling Zorro when he and the other landowners tried to rush the cuartel to free the unjustly imprisoned Torres’ women. He’d noticed back then that Zorro had seemed very reluctant to draw his sword against them, a sadness in his eyes that he hadn’t understood in his anger. And all the time, it was Diego. Diego forced to fight his own father. Even if Alejandro’s intentions were good, his actions had still led him to fight his own son. Poor Diego. Diego had never hidden how much he loved his father, even if he hadn’t told Alejandro his secret.

Bernardo nodded at his statement, pointed at Diego, and then mimed an obvious frown, telling him that Diego had been very upset at having to do that. He could tell the man wasn’t trying to make him feel bad, just trying to tell him that Diego had been just as upset as he was right now, that Diego hadn’t wanted to fight him, but that brought him no comfort. He couldn’t imagine the strength of will Diego must have had to make himself fight his own father on his quest for justice. He doubted he’d have been strong enough to be able to draw his sword against his son.

“We need to take off his mask.” Alejandro said, reaching over. Bernardo grabbed his wrist, shaking his head and waving his finger in a no gesture.

“I’m not doing this because I know now.” Alejandro said. “Last night, while you and most of the hacienda were asleep, the soldiers came here.” Bernardo’s eyes went wide with fear. “Don’t worry, I was able to convince them that Diego was ill to hide Zorro’s presence, but now people expect Diego to be ill. And… I suppose he really is. But if we cover the bandages with a blanket, and hide his mask, then no one will be able to tell that Diego is Zorro. We could let him rest without worry of someone discovering him.”

Alejandro could tell that Bernardo was still uncertain about his plan, but after a moment, he did let go. Alejandro tenderly reached over and slipped Diego’s bandana off, and then very carefully, his mask. Without his Zorro disguise, Diego looked so young, like the boy who he’d sent to university those few years ago. Alejandro softly stroked his son’s cheek, unable to tear his eyes away for a moment. His poor son. Having to shoulder all of that responsibility, all of that pressure to protect the pueblo and distribute justice all alone, unable to confide in his own father. He didn’t know how Diego did it.

They lapsed into silence for a while as Diego slept beside them. Bernardo placed another cool cloth on Diego’s forehead, and Alejandro just sat, brushing another cool cloth over his son’s skin. At least, now that he knew it was Diego, he knew how to help his son. Whenever Diego had gotten stress fevers before, when he was a child, Alejandro just had to give him water, and keep him cool. When they checked his wound as they changed his bandages, the wound showed no sign of infection. Alejandro was nauseous at the sight of seeing his son’s body torn up and stitched together, but he had to be strong for his son. If Diego could fight under his mask as Zorro, then Alejandro could take care of him as his father. When Diego was born, he’d promised to always take care of his son, and he wouldn’t let him down now.

Dusk was settling gently in the west when Diego stirred again. To Alejandro’s immense relief, and when Diego opened his eyes the glaze of fever was gone. He smiled softly at his son.

Soon, fear entered his son’s eyes, and his hand came to his face, obviously searching for his mask. “Father, what… why did you…”

“Last night, you were thrashing in your sleep.” Alejandro explained, his voice saddened by his son’s fear and confusion. As much as he was grateful that he knew, he would’ve wanted his son to tell him of his own free will, and he knew Diego would’ve wanted that too. “It disturbed your mask, and well… I could recognize your face from the other side of the pueblo.”

Diego just stared at him, with his fingers still under his eye. Bernardo then took his hand, and Diego startled a little, having been so distracted with Alejandro’s presence that he didn’t notice his friend. Bernardo smiled a little, but Diego didn’t seem to react to it.

“I am sorry, my son.” Alejandro said, and he knew his son could sense his sincerity. “I know this isn’t how you wanted this to happen.”

Diego slowly brought his hand back down, and he suddenly couldn’t meet his father’s eye. “Are you upset with me? For not telling you?”

“Of course not, mijo.” Alejandro stroked Diego’s hair as he did when he was a child. “I could never be upset with you because you decided to keep a secret. Even one so big as this.”

Diego met his eyes once more. It hurt Alejandro’s heart to see shame in his son’s brown eyes.

“I’m sorry, Father.” Diego murmured. “I didn’t mean to lie to you for so long. I hated doing it.”

“It’s alright, Diego.” Alejandro smiled down at his son. “I can understand why you did it.”

Diego tried for a smile but it didn’t quite make his eyes. He shifted a little, seemingly uncomfortable, and then he winced, frowning in confusion. “What…?”

“Diego, what’s the last thing you remember?” Alejandro asked quietly, as it seemed like Diego didn’t know what had happened to him.

His son paused, his brow furrowing a little. “Riding Tornado. We’d just gotten away from Ramon, the last man I fought. He was trying to smuggle weapons into the pueblo. I… I remember my side hurting, and I didn’t know why. After that, it’s a bit of a blur.”

Alejandro hummed slightly, nodding. That lined up with the timeline that Alejandro had been able to figure out from what little information he had.

“What happened?” Diego asked. “How did you find me?”

“Your horse, actually, he’s incredibly intelligent.” Alejandro explained. “You must have fallen out of the saddle as you rode, and your Tornado went looking for help. He found me and brought me back to you. I found you lying in the dirt with your side sliced open. I brought you home, and since Diego de la Vega wasn’t in his room, I thought we could use it as a place to keep Zorro safe. Bernardo and I took care of you from there.”

“Oh.” Diego said softly, his hand coming to his right side. “I wondered what hurt so much.”

“I can send someone into town for laudanum tomorrow.” Alejandro said. “I couldn’t risk it when you were Zorro, but since the soldiers now think that Diego de la Vega isn’t feeling well, we can ask for it without repercussions.”

“The soldiers?” Diego asked, becoming afraid. “Why were the soldiers here? Is everything alright?”

Alejandro explained how the soldiers had come looking for him and left easily enough, thinking that a sleeping Zorro was a sleeping Diego. That calmed Diego visibly.

“Thank goodness.” Diego murmured. “I never wanted to put anyone in danger.”

Alejandro cupped Diego’s jawline, brushing his thumb over his cheek.

“Bernardo,” Alejandro muttered softly, and the man turned to him. “Can you give me and my son a moment alone?”

Bernardo looked to Diego, who nodded. Alejandro wasn’t sure of what had happened to make Bernardo so loyal to Diego, but he was glad his son had someone who would always stand by his side. It was clear Bernardo didn’t want to go, but he still listened to Diego, and he stood. He mimed getting Diego some water and food, and Diego smiled gratefully.

“That would be nice, Bernardo, thank you.”

Bernardo smiled at his son, and then he slipped out of the room. Now that he and Diego were alone, Alejandro sighed heavily.

“Why didn’t you tell me, mijo?” Alejandro murmured, asking the question that had been burning within him since he found out. “You know I wouldn’t have told anyone. You didn’t have to make me think that you had changed so much since I sent you to Spain.”

“Because I knew being Zorro would put you in danger, and I couldn’t risk that.” Diego whispered, his voice tinted with shyness and shame. “I knew I had to become someone I’m not to fight Comandante Monastario, I had to become someone he would never suspect. A scholar who couldn’t wield a sword couldn’t possibly be Zorro, and it worked. I knew if we took open action as you wanted to do, your life would be in danger. And I had to protect you.”

“You’re my son, Diego, you’re not responsible for protecting me. “ Alejandro said. “I’m responsible for protecting you. I swore to your mother that I would protect you until the end of my days and I will keep that promise. Even if it means dying for you.”

“I couldn’t risk that.” Diego said softly. “I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you. Seeing you get shot was one of the worst days of my life. I’ve never been so scared, not even when I’m fighting the whole of the cuartel at once. I couldn’t knowingly put you in danger, and being Zorro is nothing but danger. I could choose to risk my own life, but I could never ask you to risk yours. I had to protect you, Father, even if it meant lying to you about who I was. I’d rather be a disappointment in your eyes than the reason you were killed.”

“Oh, mijo.” Alejandro sighed, stroking his son’s cheek. “You could never be a disappointment to me. You’re my son, I will always be proud of you. Yes, it was difficult to understand why you wouldn’t fight alongside me, why you suddenly had become so interested in books and music when you hadn’t been before. But that never meant that I thought of you as a disappointment.”

“Father-”

“Diego.” Alejandro said firmly. “Whether you’re a scholar and a diplomat or a dueler and an outlaw, I will always be proud of you. I’m sorry if I ever made you doubt that. You’re my son, I love you more than life itself.”

Diego smiled again, and this time, he could see it in Diego’s eyes. “I love you too, Father.”

Alejandro smiled in return. This was probably the most honest talk they’d had since Diego returned from Spain, and he was glad that his son could finally be honest with him.

Diego huffed quietly, slightly smirking. “I will say, I’m not looking forward to the worry and fretting you’re going to do whenever I go out at night.”

“I see no reason to do that.” Alejandro laughed, seeing Diego’s attempt at humor for what it was, but going with it anyways. Diego looked surprised at his answer. “You’ve bested me in a duel, my son. Not to mention you constantly fight the curatel and always escape unharmed. You… do escape unharmed every time, right?”

“Yes, Father.” Diego nodded, soothing Alejandro’s worry. “This is the first time I’ve ever gotten seriously hurt being Zorro. Usually, I’m very good at avoiding it.”

“Then I have no need to be worried.” Alejandro said. “I trust in your skills.”

Diego smiled. “Thank you, Father. I’m glad Zorro is skilled enough to earn your trust.”

“I did wonder what happened to your skills when you came back.” Alejandro mused. “When you left, I was sure you’d become the best swordsman in California before age thirty. But I suppose I wasn’t wrong, I just thought it would be under the name de la Vega.”

Diego chuckled. “So did I. I wish I could’ve shown you the medals and trophies I won back in Spain for fencing. You would’ve been so proud.”

“Medals and trophies?” Alejandro asked, confused. This was the first time Diego had ever mentioned anything of the sort since he came back.

“Yes.” Diego nodded. “I won several. I was one of the best swordsmen at university.”

“Where are they? Did you hide them?”

“Yes… at the bottom of the ocean.” Diego said wistfully. “I was warned our bags would be searched when we arrived in Los Angeles, so in order to keep up the illusion that I was completely inept with a sword, I had Bernardo throw them out the port window.”

“That’s a shame.” Alejandro said. “I would’ve liked to have seen them. And shown them off.”

“I can always go swimming the next time I go to the coast.” Diego smirked, and they both laughed together. A somewhat heavy tension between them dissolved softly into nonexistence.

Bernardo soon returned with some soup and a glass of water for Diego. His son went to sit up, before he immediately fell back into the pillows, whimpering in pain and clutching his right side.

“Easy, son.” Alejandro soothed, helping Diego adjust, sliding behind him so he could keep Diego up, maneuvering him into a sitting position. “You’re not ready for that yet. Just let us help you.”

“I don’t seem to have a choice in that.” Diego muttered, and Alejandro could hear the slight bitterness in Diego’s voice. His son had always been independent, and Alejandro knew how difficult it was for him to accept help sometimes.

“The more you rest, the faster you’ll heal.” Alejandro murmured. “I can certainly attest to that.”

Diego huffed quietly, still obviously upset at his situation, but he didn’t protest further. Bernardo could also clearly sense Diego’s desire to not be dependent on them, as he fed Diego as quickly as he could without making him sick so Diego wouldn’t have to deal with being so weak for longer than he had to. Alejandro could tell his son’s strength was waning as he finished, and when Diego was finished, he gently moved so Diego was resting against the pillows again. It took a moment for Diego to adjust and get comfortable again, but his eyes were half-lidded by the time he was done, clearly exhausted.

“Sleep, my son.” Alejandro whispered. “You’ll feel better in the morning.”

It was barely a few minutes between Diego nodding softly and Diego’s breathing evening out as he slipped back into sleep. Alejandro stayed with him the entire night, promising himself that he’d watch over Diego until his son was fully healed and riding for justice again.

[nereidprinc3ss]

hi!!! here for a request. can we have a imagine where reader has a wound from surgery or whatever on like in a rib and she hides to change the bandages but then spencer sees her and he’s like ‘lemme help you’ and…

you do you for the rest!

in which spencer helps BAU fem!reader change her bandages in the bathroom at work. it's intimate, and he's adorable and awkward, and it only fuels her terrible, terrible crush.

warnings/tags: fluff, talk/description of wound, brief talk of being stabbed (does not actually occur in this fic lol), reader wears a bra, spencer undoes said bra but not sexually, lots of suggestive humor and teasing, a TINY sprinkling of angst but not really, idiots in love

a/n: i'm picturing early seasons spencer and it is filling me with so much unbridled joy. I. LOVE. HIM. thank you for the request!! and lets not talk about how inconsistent my formatting for requests is pls and thanks!!

It’s not like you meant to bend down so quickly that your wound reopened—but here you are, suffering the consequences of your actions in the women’s bathroom at Quantico as you try to assess the injury before you re-bandage it. And your shoe is still untied. 

Unfortunately, the fact that you had quite literally been stabbed in the back last week makes it hard to reach said injury—especially when you’re at work and so can’t take off your shirt like you normally would. And all this struggling means it’s taking longer than it should, so now you’re focused on the wound and its scabby, wet edges and all the things it’s secreting rather than hurrying to give another statement of the entire event to Hotch since the first one had apparently been too sparse on the details. 

A knock sounds on the open door. Spencer calls your name. 

“You in there?”

The angle of your neck has your voice slightly strained as you call back, “yeah, what’s up? Is it Hotch?” you pause to hiss as you accidentally scratch at the wound with a nail. You don’t even want to know how much bacteria you just introduced to it. “Tell him I didn’t forget our meeting, I’ll be there in—”

“It’s not Hotch. I just wanted to make sure everything was okay with your back? I know you said you were going to check on it, but you’ve been in there a while.”

You sigh, dropping your sore arm as you continue to hold up your shirt with the other and regarding the reflection of your back in the mirror. 

“Actually—could you come in here?”

There’s a pause. 

“You want me to come into the women’s restroom?”

“Yes, Spencer. It’s fine. There’s nobody else in here. I just… I need some help, I think.”

The last part is admitted quietly, with an air of defeat. To admit to needing help, is, by your standards, the same as failure. Spencer knows this, which is probably the only reason he puts aside his hesitations and shuffles uncertainly into the tiled room. If you’re asking for help, it’s because you really need it. 

“What do you need help with?” he asks, sweeping his gaze suspiciously around the lavatory as if you were lying about there not being any other women present and this whole thing might be a trap of some sort. 

“It’s gross, and you can totally say no.”

He raises his brows expectantly, before spotting the weeping wound on your back. Unconsciously he steps closer, leaning forward. It’s not your fault, and the gore is not specific to you—anyone’s body would react this way to being stabbed. But you still feel embarrassed by the close attention to such an ugly marring, which nobody besides you and your doctors has actually seen up close.

“That doesn’t look good,” he mutters. The expression on his face is irritatingly familiar—the drawn brows, tightened eyes, barely parted lips—but it takes a moment before you realize what it is. 

“Reid,” you complain. He’s still stooped over slightly to examine the wound, and looks up at you through dark lashes with those infuriatingly warm puppydog eyes.

“What?”

“You’re looking at me the way you look at a dead body on the slab.”

His nose scrunches.

Some might say it scrunches adorably. 

“No, I’m not. That’s just my face.”

“Okay, well stop. It’s freaking me out.”

He pouts—actually pouts. Subtle, but bottom lip jutted out and all. It’s ridiculously endearing. 

“My face freaks you out?”

“Wh—no! That’s not what I said! You have—you have a great face! I didn’t mean—” 

You manage to claw yourself out of the hole you’re digging when you see the dopey smile growing on his face. 

Oh. He was fucking with you. 

He never used to do that. It’s unnerving to be the fucked with instead of the fucker for a change. Especially when it’s Spencer. 

“What did you need me for?” Spencer asks by way of peace offering. You close your eyes and sigh, attempting to collect your thoughts without his presence re-scrambling them.  

“Um—I just need you to put this bandage over it. I can’t reach without taking my shirt off.”

And now you’re forced to wonder if he’s thinking about you shirtless as much as you’re thinking about you shirtless.

“Yeah—don’t do that,” he says absentmindedly, stepping again closer to get a better look before turning to the nearest sink.

For some reason, this offends you. 

“Why not?”

Spencer pulls another face as he washes his hands—you love the constant flow of expressions he always seems so unconscious of. Even when they’re not pleasant and directed at you.  

“Are you asking me why shouldn’t you take your shirt off?” he clarifies. 

“I know why I shouldn’t take my shirt off, but I want to know why you think I shouldn’t take my shirt off.”

“Because we’re at work?” he observes astutely. You frown deeply at his completely logical reply. Spencer chuckles as he dries his hands and approaches once more, taking the square of gauze pre-lined with medical tape from your hand. “I mean, I can’t stop you. But it would be kind of a weird choice.”

“Oh, so me shirtless is weird?”

Cool fingers meet the comparatively hot skin of your back—where everything is still sensitive because the wound wreaked havoc on your nerves there. You flinch slightly. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs gently. Though his touch is so incredibly light it doesn’t really hurt—it hurts much less than when you’re tending to the wound, anyway. It’s almost soothing. After a moment he continues, a bit louder. “And that is not what I was saying. But I am completely comfortable asserting that it would be weird for you to be shirtless at work.”

The gentle touches contrast with his teasing words and serve to disorient you as you’re shaken back in to your usual dynamic. Which is markedly more sarcastic. 

“Well—”

Before you have to think of something to say, Spencer interrupts you. 

“Your, um—I think your… brassiere… is in the way.”

As soon as he says it you burst out laughing. It echoes through the room. 

“My brassiere? Are you actually 70 years old?”

His brows knit even tighter and his face gets very pink very quickly. He can’t meet your eyes over your shoulder. 

“That’s what it’s called.”

“Spencer, you may be the first person to use that word since 1952. Say bra.”

“I don’t want to,” he complains. Your laughter only grows as your head tips back. 

“Why? How is brassiere better than bra?”

“It’s—it’s too colloquial! I’m trying to be professional!”

“Call it a bra or I’m going to rub my dirty hands all over my back,” you threaten, adopting a poker face so he knows you mean business. His eyes widen immediately. 

“Oh my god! Bra! Do you want to introduce staph and meningitis and g—do not do that!”

“See? How hard was that?”

“I hate you,” he mumbles, face still flushed and adorable. “And you still have to take it off.”

“Excuse me?” you grin, pretending to be affronted because you know he didn’t mean it like that but it’s fun to pretend he did. Fun for you, of course. Not so much for him. He's utterly flustered by this point.

“Or at least undo it! It’s in the way.”

With a deeply bored sigh, you go to unclasp your bra—but as you go to do it your shirt drops down. You grimace, humor briefly forgotten as the fabric brushes the damaged skin. 

“I can’t—”

“Okay, just—I’ll do it,” Spencer says. “Just move your shirt again.”

So you do, watching his reflection as he works.

And you have not one joke to break the heavy silence with as you feel his knuckles gently pressing into the middle of your back, as he unclasps the bra with his characteristic tenderness and a surprising amount of agility. It’s quiet except for your pulse in your own ears as he carefully pushes it out of his way, holding it down with a hand to your rib cage and fingertips slipping just under the fabric of your shirt—unintentionally and certainly non-sexual, no doubt, but skimming under your heart in a way that still feels so intimate you’re realizing how touch-starved you are. 

“You do that often?” you find yourself asking, because you’re stupid, and you need to cool the tension before it chokes you, and you can’t help yourself even though you don’t actually want to know the answer. 

“I,” he begins, voice quiet as rustling paper, tongue darting over his lip and eyes narrowed. The sentence stalls as he focuses on placing the patch just so. “Do not think that is an appropriate workplace question.”

Something aches in the pit of your stomach. 

Something resembling jealousy. 

It was not the timid evasive linguistic maneuver of someone who is insecure about the thing they’re discussing. It was not the awkward fumbling no but I don’t want to tell you that which you were expecting from Spencer Reid. 

Nor is it an easy yes—an admission between friends. He doesn’t want to tell you. 

You swallow and try to act like yourself. 

“Yet here you are, in the woman’s restroom at our place of employment, undoing my bra. I think we’re past professionalism.”

“When you decontextualize it like that it sounds like something it’s not. This is professional, because I’m helping you with a wound you sustained on the job. I’m being a good colleague.”

Your lips twist into a smile he can’t see. 

“A great colleague would kiss it better.”

“It's almost like you want me to file a sexual harassment complaint with HR," he says through a little smirk as he smooths the bandage over. Before you can snip back, he steamrolls over his own teasing—you’ve both been speaking in almost reverent tones since he started but his voice loses the sarcastic edge from a second before and reverts back to concerned and sweet. “Does that feel okay?”

You rotate your shoulders best you can without letting go of your shirt or flashing the good doctor to check if it feels secure.  

“It’s good. And hey—if I were going to sexually harass you I would do a lot better than that. You think that’s my best material? That’s just the tip of the iceberg. I keep so many inappropriate comments to myself. You’d be shocked by some of the things I have almost said to you.”

He laughs, secures the band of your bra and begins fitting it to the clasp you’d had it on—and at that precise moment Emily walks in. 

“H—woah.”

“It’s—I’m—I was helping her!” Spencer panics, immediately removing his hands from you like his palms are burning and holding them up defensively. 

“Oh, you helped me alright,” you tease, pulling your shirt back into place. 

“Don’t say it like that!” And then, to Emily, “I was changing out her bandage!”

“Changing my bandage,” you emphasize, winking more than is advisable. 

“That’s—this is a hostile work environment! I feel unsafe!” Spencer almost yells, half laughs, as he scampers towards the door. “I’m going to HR!”

“Shut up! You love it!”

His laughter audibly travels farther away for several moments as he presumably goes back down the hallway to do his actual job. 

You have the stupidest grin on your face, but you wipe it off when you notice Emily staring. 

“What?”

“Nothing,” she says, shaking her head and looking away, moving toward a stall. “You’re just… you guys are funny.”

“What do you mean funny?” You demand, standing right outside her stall as she closes it. 

“Wh—I mean funny! Are you going to listen to me pee, you weirdo?”

You frown. 

She makes a good point. 

Unfortunately, giving Hotch a more detailed statement is just as bad as you’d thought it’d be. Despite how cheery you’ve tried to remain about the whole situation, despite the way you insisted that the wound was so shallow you didn’t need more than a few days off work, despite the jokes you make about forgetting it’s even there because it’s on your back—it’s hard not to remember exactly how the glass felt twisting under your skin, how you’d felt suddenly so hot and lightheaded and sick to your stomach and the way Morgan hollered because he didn’t know how deep it had gone after you crumpled quick from shock, when you’re asked to describe it all in excruciating detail. 

It only takes ten minutes, but they seem to drag on and on and by the time you’re leaving Hotch’s office you feel utterly drained. You hurry back to your desk, covertly wiping away moisture that you refuse to allow to become tears. Once seated, and having dodged sympathetic looks and avoided any do you want to talk about its, you allow yourself a few deep breaths with your eyes shut. 

When you open them, you realize there’s a fresh cup of your favorite tea on your desk, in the Snoopy mug the team is always fighting over. Now his little black nose is covered by a square of yellow paper. You’re already smiling as you peel away the sticky note and hold it closer. 

On it is an adorably odd smiley-face, and a note in familiar, messy looping scrawl. 

I would never report you to HR beautiful

That would be a stab in the back!

You snort loudly and clap a hand to your mouth—but you’ve already drawn the attention of almost everyone in the bullpen. 

When you turn to look at Spencer, he’s not looking back. Instead, his eyes are firmly trained on his computer screen. But he’s got his chin propped on his fist over the desk, and his knuckles are doing a poor job of concealing a giant self satisfied grin. He is the only person on the team who knows you well enough to make such a distasteful joke. And he also knows you well enough to know that it would make you feel so much better after your meeting with Hotch than all the well-meaning sincerity in the world ever could.

Funny. 

Maybe that is the right word for what you two are. 

[yukurie]

So I got a dcxpd idea, so I’ve seen a few takes on this so I wanna do my own

Danny is an ex hero / vigilante as we know and is now living with the batfam, the batfam are trying to keep their night activities secret from Danny cause he’s both new to the family and seemingly wants a normal civilian life but uh, they don’t exactly do normal well and you can’t really hide anything when the person you’re trying to hide things from is hearing ghostly gossip at basically all times and likely has more experience than most of you in being a hero

So Danny helps out occasionally with weird things but is still technically not involved: like maybe he says vague clues in question form to Tim who is working on a cold case because the dead person in question happened to turn into a ghost and told him about what happened, maybe Jason came in to get Alfred to help stitch up a particularly bad stab wound and Danny walks up looks at it and the stitch type Alfred was about to do before gently nudging Alfred aside alerting both to his presence before taking the needle and doing a different type of stitch expertly before walking away to get a cup of coffee without saying a word, maybe he walks into Tims room to give him a cup of tea (or coffee) where he was looking over a blueprint for a new gadget and he glances at the blueprint for a brief moment before Tim can hide it before making a small comment about something Tim could do to get it working before leaving as if he didn’t just easily solve something Tim’s been trying for a month to get working, maybe they would mention a past injury and then Danny would bring up a similar injury that is very concerning for a civilian to ever have even moreso a child, etc etc

So basically Danny just kinda… corrects them occasionally on things and they are desperately trying to figure out if he’s an ex vigilante, ex villain, or if he just had a particularly fucked up childhood (which I guess you could technically say it’s all three?)

Danny shows up and just dumbfounds them because his background check show nothing of note, maybe even too clean but he just does and says the weirdest things so easily

[squipa]

not today, maybe tomorrow

aka your childhood best friend (and crush) came back… different.

———

you’ve been patching up jason for a long time.

it started when you were both just kids. he’d come to you with the injuries he didn’t want to show his father, and you, who had experience in patching people up, were happy to help. mostly you were eager to spend any time with him he would give, even if that meant brutal gunshots and ugly stab wounds. you refused to admit to yourself that you had a ginormous crush on him— but you did. it was a secret that sat on your chest like an elephant: you are in love with jason todd.

then he died, and that excitement became grief. you became a nurse, fixing people up for a living because it was the only thing you were really good at. you spent years just… stuck. stuck on him, stuck in the past, stuck wishing he didn’t die.

and then jason came back, and it was just different.

the first time, he stumbled in through your apartment window, bleeding buckets from a bullet lodged in his shoulder. he failed to come to you as red hood (because you pointed a tiny little revolver at him and he was in no position to leave), so you were the first one who saw him as jason. still, he refused to say a word. not when you cried so hard your hands shook, not in the hours you spent fixing him up, not when you begged him to stay, to come back.

you didn’t see him after that for nearly six months. you were starting to think it was a dream. you had all but convinced yourself the blood on your windowsill came from your own hands, that this version of jason was a cruel manifestation of just how much you missed him.

but it happened again, and again, his visits growing more frequent as time went on. before, he only came to you when he was circling the drain. now all it takes is a deep cut in the arm for him to request aid from your gentle hands. he spoke almost exclusively in its better than it looks, and thank you’s, but at least he spoke.

you hate this arrangement. you really do. you want jason, all of him, your friend, and the boy you loved back. you want him to actually speak, talk to you like he’s your friend and not your patient. you’re tired of being woken up in the middle of the night to put a bandaid on his injuries. you’re tired of dropping everything to get nothing in return. but what’s the alternative? losing him? not when you just got him back.

not when you love him so much. so much your chest hurts when you think about what would happen if you asked for more.

but it’s draining. being jason’s on call personal doctor— no matter how much you care about him, you’re not sure how much you have left in you.

“my therapist said i need to start saying no to you. put myself first.” you say, pulling the thread through jason’s wound, sewing it closed.

“smart lady. you should listen to her.” he says, flickering his eyes up to yours.

“you wouldn’t come back if i stopped sewing you up.”

“that’s not true.”

you don’t respond to that. it’s too vulnerable, the way his eyes chase yours while you stare down at the gash on his arm, running a sewing needle back and forth through his skin. you don’t know what to think, it’s far too late and you’re far too tired to have any idea what it is you want from him.

you’re scared. scared that if you stop doing this for him you’ll lose him all over again. scared that you’re nothing more than a private medic. scared that the moment you ask for more than 2 am visits and blood stained carpets you’ll get left behind.

he sighs, pulling you out of your head just as you finish the last stitch. you cut the thread with a pair of grooming scissors, tying a small knot to keep everything in place. you look up at him, noting the frown firmly tugging at his features, and the defeated expression in his eye.

“you’re good to go.” you say, leaning back, putting your supplies back into your first aid kit, wiping the blood on your hands against the white box.

“thank you.”

he stands with a small groan, slipping back into his costume. you focus on cleaning up, refusing to look up at him as he walks back towards the window where he came, his combat boots scraping against the floor.

“i’ll come back.” he says, quietly, with his hands hooked under the windowsill.

sure you will you think, but instead you simply nod, keeping your eyes trained on the blood stains in your carpet. you know if you look back up at him the tears stinging your eyes will spill, and you’ll lose the scraps of jason you’re so determined to keep.

he sighs, pushing himself through the window, and just like that, he’s gone. just like the first time, the only confirmation you have that he is real are the droplets of blood running down your fingertips.

you wait for him to come back. one hour, one night, one week. you feel stupid, hoping so desperately he’ll come when you know he won’t. at least, not without a near-fatal wound you have to magically heal. anxiety overwhelms any thoughts of him— did you scare him off? was that moment too much for him?

you feel like such an idiot, that is, until he returns. you don’t expect it to be him when you open the door. because it’s only six p.m and he’s… at the door… and not breaking and entering through your window…

but, to your surprise, it’s him.

jason, who isn’t making eye contact and you can only assume it has something to do with how absolutely rigid his stance is. jason, who is white knuckling a bouquet of lilies with one hand and a bag of takeout from your favorite guilty pleasure restaurant with the other. you didn’t realize he remembered your favorites, not after all this time.

“ah- shit.” he says, looking up at you with those ice blue eyes. this is the first time in… you can’t even remember how long that he’s come to you just as jason, no red hood attached.

“jason?” you ask, your eyebrows knitting unconsciously together. he looks back down, mumbling something along the lines of i look like a jackass.

“i’m late.” he says, looking back up to you. you swallow down a wad of spit that resembles your overwhelming anxiety. you can feel the crush that you can never seem to kick bubbling up again, fighting to spill over the surface, as your eyes go back and forth from the flowers, the food, and him.

you nod, staring at him blankly, unsure of what to expect. he awkwardly shoves the bouquet towards you, taking a breath.

“i told you i’d come back.” he says, while you take the flowers from his hand. it’s not a cheap grocery store bouquet either, the flowers are fresh and perky, arranged professionally with baby’s breath, the stems cut carefully at an angle.

you look up at him, gently bringing the lilies to your nose. “are you hurt?” you ask, because honestly, you’re confused as to why jason would be here without a knife jammed in his back.

he grimaces, shaking his head. “no, i— fuck. i’m fine, i just— i wanted to say… look, i’m sorry.”

your eyes widen. you lower the flowers and press them against your stomach, confused and nervous and excited all at once. “…for?” you prompt, tilting your head.

he sighs, forcing the words out like it’s the hardest thing he’s ever done. “i’ve been a real asshole. i, uh… i should’ve been treating you better, y’know, not waking you up ‘cause i’m bleeding just enough to get to see you. not leaving you behind over and over.” he omits the part that some nights he’s less careful than others because he wants to see you so badly it hurts. “‘cause…” he starts, taking a deep breath. “i really care about you. and it took me way too long to get my head out of my ass and realize you deserve better. and a week ago, that meant getting the hell out of your life before i ruined it. today that means doing everything i can to make it up to you.”

your heart beats faster than you can bare, your eyes wide. you feel like you’re falling, your stomach doing somersaults as he speaks. just about everything you’ve wanted him to say just fell from his lips, and you don’t know what to say in return.

luckily, he’s not done.

“i brought you the food and the flowers, ‘cause i didn’t want to spring too much on you. i figured i’d wait for you to decide whether or not you hate me before i ask you out on a proper date.” he says, looking up at you.

oh.

now it’s your turn to speak. you don’t know what to say— you’re on cloud nine because the boy you’ve had a crush on for nearly a decade is asking you out. all you can do is look up at him like a complete idiot, while his expression grows more and more nervous.

“would you like to come in?” you ask, finally pushing the words out, praying you don’t sound too gleeful.

for the first time in years, you see him smile. part of its relief, that much you know, but there’s this unfamiliar look in his eye that tells you it’s much, much more. he relaxes, letting his shoulders fall back.

“lead the way.”

———

pause i just want to thank y’all SO MUCH for all the love on my previous fics. i’ve had this acc for like a week and i am so grateful for all of the notes and reblogs and people who have been so kind as to follow me !! this account really is just to force me to write and like… have hobbies so y’all interacting means so much <3 i hope you enjoyed this one !! tysm!!

[yandere-romanticaa]

Marriage was often used as a tool of convenience - be it to upgrade one's own social status, get some much needed silver and gold, or to just get one leg up over your enemies, it really did not matter in the end.

Like it or not, you were tied to that person till death did you part.

That was a chant that has been sung to you ever since you came out of your weeping mother's womb. As the daughter of the household, it was natural for you to wed one day. However, the family was one of average standing, it had no special titles tacked onto it nor did it have any grotesque reputation which could sully it to the darkness and back. In its own way, it was oddly blissful, being invisible like that. No one expected you to act like a stuck up lady who would be locked away deep in a tower and you were also safe from becoming a measley wench who would be forced to spend the rest of her miserable days stuck rolling around in the mud, selling her body to all sorts of horrific strangers just in order to eat for a day.

You had the privilege of being born into a happy life. Perhaps a slightly dull one sometimes but regardless, a good one at that. You were content with everything which was given to you, perhaps even happy.

However, all things come to an end, and your end came in the form of a man riding on horseback.

He was strong, capable, handsome... But you kept that thought to yourself as you helped the wounded stranger get back on his feet, his midnight black steed happily trotting away somewhere as it accidentally shook the rider off its back once it locked eyes on you, a stranger in the woods.

"And who might you be?" asked the dark haired man, his curly hair framing his pale face so wonderfully that it took the breath from your lungs away.

You held onto him tightly and pressed him close to your body, the odor of blood and sweat covering him from top to bottom but you couldn't be bothered to care. He wore simple clothing which made you think that he was in a similar position like yourself in terms of finance, which gave you a slight glimmer of hope.

It was embarrassing how much you were swooning over the stranger.

Taking him back to your hut took longer than expected but all was well in the end. The handsome stranger had a name, Robb he said it was, and you couldn't hide the adoration in your voice whenever he would speak to you. The night flew by like a summer breeze - too fast and too sweet. Come first daylight he had to leave, which you understood.

That didn't stop you from feeling a little blue.

He mounted his horse like a knight in shining armor, its mane tussling proudly in the bitter north wind as Robb looked down at you, his warm blue eyes desperate to tell you many stories and secrets, but time was cruel and scarce.

He would come back to you, he promised.

And you gave him a smile sweeter than any juicy fruit, telling him that you would gladly wait for him.

He rode away all the while looking back at you, sending you a heart stopping smile which could make anyone weak in the knees. The horse left large hoofprints in the snow and you focused your attention on that, rather than the bitter stabs of pain in your heart.

There would never be a day when you'd see Robb ever again.

You were due to leave for the South in a few weeks time, in order to finally be wed off. The fantasy of Robb was saccharine and enchanting, many hours of sleep were lost due to him. Even if you barely knew him, the matters of the heart were reckless and stupid.

The heart wants what it wants and your heart ached for Robb.

All the while, you hadn't a clue of him and his plans. The men in Winterfell grew tired of his constant ramblings of this lovely woman he met, this sweet little thing which made his heart sing like no one else. He would walk in the corridors with a pep in his step as he thought of all the ways he could take you back to his home and give you the life you deserved.

His candied tirade quickly came to an abrupt halt once his mother had informed him of the grave news, that you had been promised to another man.

Robb was furious.

Who was this man?! Who did he think he is?! Ever the meticulous man, he got to work immediately. In less than a few days he had managed to gather all the information he could on this mystery fiance of yours, all the papers sprawled across his massive table. The candles in his chambers glimmered gently, the shimmering light a stark contrast to the raging flames in his heart.

If he could have his way, he'd be out for blood. Robb was too much of a jealous man for his own good but he needed to think, he needed to prepare if he wanted to do this right.

In less than a day, he had everything set up. If the man wasn't willing to take the gold he was offering him, he was not above using any scare tactics. His anger ended up getting the better of him though, so a bizarre combination of both was used.

The way in which your fiance left you made your heart sink. How were you going to break the news to your parents? Whatever could you have done so wrong to earn the ire of this lord whom you haven't even met yet...

You weep in your room, staining the mattress with your salty tears, completely oblivious to the small cavalry with House Stark banners raging on your front door.

Robb Stark had come for his bride. And she had no idea what sort of future awaited her...

[long-live-astronerd-ghost-king]

DPxDC. Talon Dick. Part 2 of Danny Fenton is a new master of The Court of Owls

~Hail, Emperor, those who are about to die salute you~

Danny was terrified when he got the body of Talon in his morgue. The Court of Owls was notorious for leaving no trace after work. But Talon, a young man only a few years older than him, did not look like a mindless killing machine at all. Of course, the first time he had a couple of stab wounds from his new acquaintance but after numerous assurances that his help would remain their little secret and that he would not inform his superiors that he had fucked up on the mission, Talon began to trust him a little. as one dead boy to another. In a few months, most of the Talons come to him for first aid, and of course he got attached to the guys. After all, Gotham is not Amity Park and without the other dead ones around Phantom felt a little lonely. It was nice to give these poor people a few quiet minutes. Danny’s assistant has warned him many times not to mess with the Court of Owls, but Danny are Phantom and from the first time he met one of them he was planning to lose his temper and beat the boys' bosses to free them.

Fenton was not prepared to lead the Court of Owls. Even if Danny got his education as a villain he never thought he’d work according to his profession. But leave a whole den? nest? of creatures turned into weapons he could not. Of course, the best choice after defeating the leaders of the Court would be to destroy the entire organization. But Danny couldn’t do that.

Talons were killers, means of intimidation, even if not of their own volition. They will be killed (again) or sent to prison for the rest of their lives. Talons needed safety and a good therapist, not all of this. Danny’s scared, and he doesn’t know how to take care of them, but the others won’t do it. People are afraid of everything different. They won’t care that these dead are just victims, they’ll only see monsters. He could be half-human, but now he has to think like a full ghost. Talons are dead like him. And they have been dehumanized, tortured, used. People can be cruel. To do the right thing, he has to protect them.

It was difficult for Danny to identify likes and dislikes of his new friends because they always had the same facial expression and were taught that they had no feelings. Bullshit. Danny’s parents also think ghosts have no emotions, but they just have wrong theories and do not manipulate them to make ghosts think the same. Well, maybe it’s because they don’t think ghosts can think at all, but still! So, Danny know that number three loves strawberry jam, and number five always steals some of his cereal, and number 11 always gets closer to the music column to enjoy the sound. And he also know that the Talons weren’t fully fed in their organization because they definitely have problems with their digestive system, and he is going to fix it. Vlad said that he had trouble taking human food for only a few months after the portal accident, and some of the Talons were dead for years and still use injecting nutrient solutions. When a Dead Man can’t have a couple of spoons of treats, well, that’s a crime.

He needs to find a way to consult with Frostbite and conduct a full-fledged health diagnostics for his 'minions'. And he needs to settle the paperwork so guys have a legitimate reason to live in the Infinite Realms.

~~~~~ Danny: Hey Jazz, I’m in trouble. When can you come to Gotham? This time I don’t mind hearing a little advice.

~~~~~

Even though Dr Fenton smelled like death and blood all the time, the smell was different. And this difference was enough that something dead inside them swore allegiance to this Owl at their will. Not that they had it, of course. Weapons don’t have free will. But at least pretending to be able to choose is nice.

The new Master was weird, but in a good way. Not that this Talon know more about what is good than any other Talon. Ah, Di- Talon had a headache. Anyway, serving him is right. They all feel it..And feelings matter!! Well, they are not supposed to have them too but… looks like the young owl didn’t mind.

Master was not angry at how Talon № 4 frowned when the master had to pull a bullet out of his shoulder, and he missed Talon's sweet laughter when it saw the battle of Signal and Spice King on TV. The only times he raised his voice to them were when they were trying to threaten people near the master. Looks like this owl wanted to instill fear on his own. Strange. Usually there was always an enemy of the court who had to be hunted down and destroyed.

~~~~~

Danny: See, when you kill people, you do not make it easy for me. First, I will need to examine the bodies and write the report of their death. Second, if their souls remain restless, they will become my problem again. No more trying to get the cashier to have a heart attack. He said they ran out of the product I needed, not that he’s cursing my family for the next millennium. No one wants to see any more angry ghosts in Gotham. Me after a 24-hour shift is enough, okay?

Talons were alarmed. So far the master had shown no signs that he might want to completely break one of the weapons. But what if this owl is planning on punishing them for all their mistakes at once when he’s really angry?

Talon is not supposed to show initiative or empathy. But Talon 12, who suffered an injury in the course of a mission with old owls, has not yet recovered. They inadvertently hid it when the leadership changed. 12 has not yet met Doctor Fenton, and they do not know whether the privileges of medical care are retained now when they belong to him. So far, the Master has been rather careless about their movements and a few of them have slipped away for a while to check on a fellow. They didn’t lie if they weren’t asked about another weapon, right? They shouldn’t be punished too severely when the Owl finds out. Talons were hoping that Doctor Fenton, who was not in a hurry to look at the document of the court, would allow them not to write off the damaged thing. № 12 was an old and experienced weapon and could train beginners even if it has only one hand now.

Well, that was the plan. Talons allowed themselves to become too careless. Terrible mistake. Even the Owl that is usually nice to them remains dangerous. They need to find a way to satisfy their young master. Young Owls always have anger issues, not that Talons can judge.

The youngest Talon shared information that he sometimes had flashbacks of a working red bird who always had a murderous expression until he got to the coffee pot fluid. And it's non-Talon past was never afraid of this bird. The chick could always be calmed with this dark liquid. Coffee is something that will return the master to the favorable mood!

Talons rejoiced at this remarkable discovery and decided to send one of them on a mission as soon as possible to get rid of the potential danger.

~~~~

Danny: Thanks for the coffee, man. Hey, you also took another drink, judging by the dollars in the check. I'm so proud of you! How it was? Good?

Talon thought for a second and nodded. Yes, it was good. He didn’t drink the drink himself but when a coffee shop employee wrote down his order with a trembling hand, a boy appeared in the door.

This boy, now almost a young man, he was from his memories. Another coffee was automatically added to the order.

On his way out, Talon walked up to the sleeping chick and gave a cup to him. Even without opening his eyes, the bat’s cub sniffed and sucked the drink. Dick chirped with delight and patted boy's head, ignoring the frozen people.

That's a true magic drink which is commanding the minds of the powerful of this world. Yes, it will help them for sure!

~~~~

Danny: See, Jazz, Dick’s making progress! He went to the coffee shop today. That’s great, isn’t it?

Jazz: First, don’t call him that, we’re still not sure that’s his name and not the way Owls used to insult him.

Danny: Hey, the fact that he hissed when you called him Richard proves nothing. I don’t like being called Daniel either, or, over my dead body, Dan. I have to call him something. They’re all Talons. What are your suggestions? Jazz: We’ll talk about this later. Now back to the coffee question. Danny, did you forget anything when you let Talon go for a walk? Danny: Which one? Jazz: Don’t play dumb! Did you open the news headlines today or not? This is serious! Danny: What? Shit...civilian clothes. I didn’t think he’d wear a combat suit for it. Jazz: Didn’t you give them outfits for everyday use? Danny: Yeah, I did! But they still wear their Halloween outfits. All the time. Look, it’s not my fault they take everything I say as an order. When I asked them to make the tea and our teapot broke, they broke into some guy’s house and stole it. Jazz: Which guy? Did you at least apologize? Danny: One of Hood’s goons. I’m pretty sure he’s already met Dick on patrol, 'cause the first thing he did called Jason and start crying about being followed. Lucky for him Red was at my house that night and went to calm goon down. But I swear to you, Dick was a little shit on purpose. Of all the apartments choose his? Nah, such coincidences do not exist.

Jazz: I could be happy that he’s getting more independent in his decision making but now I feel like I have to offer the poor guy a discount therapy course.

Damian: Drake, we need to talk. I know about your investigation. You suspect one of the Talons is our missing Grayson. I’m willing to provide some evidence in exchange for… Tim: I don’t suspect, I know that. Damian: What? Where from? Tim: Well, the quadruple somersault was a good hint. And the fact that the Red Hood ran from him through the streets screaming that he wouldn’t take lunch from a damn golden child is also a tip. Damian:...Not a word to my father until we know more, right? I don’t want my older brother thrown in Arkham. Tim: Agree. It’s not like he doesn’t have a memory problem. He wouldn’t have made Alfred worried if leaving was his choice. We need more information.

Meanwhile in Gotham, Alfred aka the only one batfam member with more than one functioning brain cell *on his way to his first grandson and future husband of his sweet angel Jason*.

Danny: Jazz, we need to clean this house right now. Jazz: Since when do you start spring cleaning? Danny: I don’t know how to explain, it’s not a ghost sense, it’s more an unexplained sense of danger. Where’s the vacuum cleaner?

~~~~~

Talon №5 stood in the knitting shop in thought. What color would the little mistress prefer? It should remain useful even if the Owl does not give them direct orders. Knitting a cute sweater for mistress Dani would be a good start. Yeah, that color’s gonna be perfect. And maybe it should stop holding those needles like a weapon, it makes the cashier nervous, and he wants to pay without saving a civilian from losing consciousness.

~~~~~

Danny became a little alarmed when Talon threw himself at the old man standing on the porch. To his surprise, the Briton readily embraced the bird, and Dick let him. Talons who stood behind Danny happily chirped. Making their youngest member happy things always meant something good.

Alfred: Gentlemen, good afternoon. I guess I should thank you all for taking care of my dear grandson. Would you let me come in for a cup of tea?

[circlemagemal]

[ - Magisters Sidereals - ]

And each was promised Power and glory beyond all reckoning If they would only come to the feet of the gods and ask. And so they joined in secret, telling none Who were not of the temples of their designs. And in Minrathous, in the heart of the Archon a sliver of fear grew, Stabbing like a wound. Though he knew not why. —Silence 1:1-1:17, Dissonant Verse

They'll be featured in some Fade/flashback scenes later on in my fanfic 'Nothing but ambition where hearts once beat' so I decided to come up with some fun designs for these 7 bastards ♡

I was definitely going for that "you're playing with the big boys now" vibe from Prince of Egypt, lmao.

[loomiseater]

Some Fun

warnings: smut ofc!, dub con, intercourse, and cum eating.

Criticism is appreciated! I would love to know how I can improve on my writing.

Billy Loomis x fem!reader

Request page

Masterlist

Written: July 17th, 2024- August 4th, 2024

Published: August 4th, 2024

Summary: Billy wants to have some fun with you.

wc: 1,599

request: ok so it's the end of the movie and billy decided to fuck reader instead of killing reader.

“Oh, don’t think we’ve forgot about you, Y/n” Billy teasingly said as he pointed the knife at me. “Please- I didn’t do anything! Please Billy! I’m begging you, don’t kill me!” I pleaded to him on my knees. It was like he was secretly getting off to it.

Him and Stu were both a bunch of sick fucks. 

“Tell me…why should I not kill you?” He asked me. I don’t know? Maybe because I want to see my future?! I didn’t answer him but instead I looked around the kitchen and the doorways to see if Stu was around. He was no where in sight..so I ran for it.

I hurried up the stairs but Billy was hot on my trail. As he was running up the stairs after me I grabbed the glass vase and threw it at him to slow him down. And it did slow him down, I ran into Stu’s parents room and locked the door. As soon as I ran into the room I saw Sidney’s body. 

She was dead. My best friend was dead. Her throat had been slit along with stab wounds in her stomach, she didn’t deserve to go out like that. I fell down to the ground to hug her one last time. 

As I gave her a kiss to the forehead, I was met with Stu rushing out of the closet grabbing me from behind. He was laughing as I was kicking and screaming. “Let me go!” I shouted. “Now why would I do that?” He questioned with his head tilted. 

Before I answered him I broke down in tears. “I didn’t do anything to you two! Please! Just let me live, I won’t call the cops! I’ll keep it a secret!” I pleaded. “We both know that’s not true, sweetheart” Stu said as he gripped my jaw. “Ounch!” 

He pulled me out of his parents room and dragged me into his bedroom where Billy was waiting. He was sat on Stu’s bed smoking a cigarette but soon blew it out when I was thrown on the bed next to him. As I sat up, Billy traced my cheek with his blood covered hand and I was shaking in fear.

“You can leave now” Billy said to Stu, not even acknowledging him. It was now Just Billy and I in the room. The silence was so loud and so scary. Was he about to murder me next?

“You’re pretty, you know that?” It sounded as if it was a question but I didn’t answer. “I’ve always wanted you Y/n. Since the first time we met in 8th grade, but you never gave me a chance” he started off as he pushed some of my hair back. “But now..I’m gonna take that chance” Billy said before he grabbed the back of my head and kissed me.

I hesitated at first but eventually gave in. I eventually pulled away from the kiss, now feeling guilty. I’m kissing the man who murdered my friends. 

I tried to get up off the bed but Billy yanked me but down as I shrieked. “The hell do you think you’re going?” He asked with a glare. “This isn’t right Billy! You and Stu MURDERED our friends- I’m not doing anything with you” I explained before crossing my arms.

“The hell you are” He responded before grabbing my and pushing me roughly on the bed. “What I say goes” he sternly said as he pointed to himself. “You’re not the boss of me!” I snapped back.

He pushed my chest down with one hand so he could show his dominance. 

“Be quiet!” He lowly but sternly said as he was now face to face with me. 

Billy started pulling my skirt down along with my blood stained top. My face began to feel hot and tears started falling. The quiet room was now filled with my quiet sobs and Billy’s shushes.

“Hey, look at me. Don’t cry” He softly said as he gave me another kiss. He soon leaned down and started placing kisses on the exposed parts of my chest. As much as I don’t wanna admit it, his kisses were turning me on, my panties were beginning to feel soaked.

Billy unhooked my bra and tossed it to the floor. He grabbed my right boob and kissed it before he sucked my nipple. I tried to hold back but a moan slipped out. “Don’t hold back, baby” he replied as I closed my eyes shut.

As he was sucking my boobs, his hands roamed free on my body before they stopped at my entrance. His thumb began rubbing small circles over my clothed clit. “Billy- please!” I whined as I gripped his wrist. He let out a dark chuckle before he answered to my whines.

“Please what? Go faster?” He said with a sinister grin. He picked up the pace and my legs began to shake. “I knew you’d like this. Dirty whore” he stated before I squirted. It was all on my panties and on the palm of his hand.

“Beautiful” he whispered as he went in to kiss my inner thighs. He pulled my panties off and in my head I kept telling myself that I don’t want it but my body was craving it. 

Him, his touch, his dick…

Billy unbuckled his jeans and pulled them down along with his underwear. He pulled his dick out and I was amazed at the size. My eyes widened. He was at least 8 inches, the tip was red, the shaft was veiny, and he was leaking pre cum.

“Ya know? I was gonna stretch you out but im tired of waiting. And you haven’t been all that nice to me today” he arrogantly said, almost as if I was in the wrong. “Maybe because you murdered MY friends! Are you insane?” I shouted. I was furious at his statement. Does he not hear himself?!

He grabbed my throat tightly as he pushed himself inside. The stretch was intense yet pleasureful. He bottomed out in me as he leaned his back groaning. “Billy!” I moaned. 

He pulled back out and shoved himself back in beginning to thrust. “You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for this exact moment” he expressed. Billy removed his hand from my throat and began to grip my hips. 

I started moaning loudly, there’s no point of bothering to hide the pleasure anymore. I’m already wet.  “Good girl” he grunted. His thrusts soon began to get rough and the sound of our skin clapping against each other filled the room.

His balls slapped abasing my clit and to be completely honest this is the best feeling I’ve ever felt in my life. I was filled with lust but also guilt. I was having sex with a murderer. Im just as bad as Billy and Stu.

“Mhhm you like that?” Billy moaned as he placed kissed along my neck. “Yes baby, feels- so good!” I replied as my eyes rolled back. He grabbed my legs and pushed them all the way back until they touched my ears.

His dick was digging deeper than it was before with this new angle. And I loved it. “Shit! I’m about to cum!” He moaned in my ear as whines left my throat. My legs were still pushed back as he began giving me powerful, slow thrusts. “Look at you creaming on my dick” he whispered.

“I love you’re dick so much!” I shouted as tears fell down my face. “I want this pretty pussy to cum on my dick, cmon baby, I know you can” He said in a husky voice. I don’t know but the voice just did it for me.

Suddenly the feeling in my stomach snapped and I came on his dick. “Ohh yesss” I screamed as my orgasm washed over me. Billy was still fucking me bust his thrusts got slow and sloppy, I knew he was coming to an end. 

He pulled out of me and came on my stomach. I looked down and the creamy substance and he swiped some of it with his fingers and shoved them in my mouth. I sucked the cum of his fingers as his rolled back and groans slipped from his mouth.

He eventually got up and began to put his clothes back on as I covered myself with the bed sheet. 

“Put you’re fucking clothes on you’re coming with us” he demanded. I didn’t want to anger him so I did as told without any back talk. I see how well that went for my friends…

As I was putting my shoes back on he walked over to me and stood in front of me. “Me and Stu are skipping town and you’re coming with us. We’re gonna go to the store, grab a couple of things, and leave” he stated.

I simply nodded my head and followed him out the room and downstairs to the front door. I was met with Randy’s dead body. He had been stabbed in his throat several times along with a bullet to the shoulder.

It took everything in me to hold my tears back. My friends were dead and I’m skipping town with their murderers..not like I had much of a choice though.

I was pulled out of my thoughts when Stu appeared next to me. “Maybe Billy will let me have some fun with you” he said with a evil smirk on his face. “Not a chance, fuck rag!” Billy replied as he shoved Stu in the shoulder. ‘Ow!” Stu winced.

[aerynwrites]

Longing

Halsin x Fem!Reader

A/N: I have been burning with an intense CRAVING for Halsin and there is such little fic about him (although there are some good ones out there 👀) so I had to do my part and add to the pool 😏 hope y’all enjoy!

Word count: 2.5k

Warnings: fluff, hurt/comfort, reader is insecure about her virginity, talks of inexperience, love confessions, Halsin is a sweetheart, references to NSFW content. Very very minor spoilers for act 2.

Part 2

The fur of the rabbit is soft between your fingers as you prepare it. Yet, despite having a knife in your other hand and your task being a delicate one, you can’t seem to focus.

Your eyes keep drifting back to the druid across camp chopping wood for the fire. The axe is a large one, heavy - heavier than you’d be able to lift. Yet the large elf manages to bring it up above his head and swing it back down with a grace you never understood how he possessed.

The muscles in his shoulders ripple with each movement, accompanying the rythmic thump of the axe through wood. His soft grunts as he pulls it from the stump he’s using before placing the next log onto the surface and starting the process all over again.

“The rabbit is already dead, darling.”

The familiar voice rips you from your staring as your head whips around to see none other than your vampiric companion standing over you, a smirk tugging at his lips. You huff at him before looking down to the rabbit by your knees and heat rushes to your cheeks. What should have been a simple skinning job to get the meat ready for dinner has turned into a mess. Cuts in the wrong places, the hide nowhere near usable anymore.

You look back up just in time to see Astarions red eyes go from you, to Halsin, then back again. His smile grows. He shifts his feet, one arm resting across his chest as he gestures with his other to Halsin.

“You know, you could paint a portrait. It would last longer.”

Your cheeks somehow get even hotter, as you turn back to the rabbit in front of you, doing a much better job than earlier.

“Leave me alone, Astarion,” you mumble, cursing internally when the elf lowers himself to the ground beside you, arms resting on his knees.

“And why would I do that, when teasing you gives me so much joy?”

You can’t stop the small smile that tugs at your lips. “Okay, well you got me all flustered. So now that’s out of the way, did you need something or did you really interrupt your reading to bother me?”

The vampire sighs, leaning back on his hands as he looks over to you. “What I need is for you to finally jump that druids bones.”

You nearly choke as the words leave his lips, looking around to see if anyone heard and feeling heat creep up your neck once more as you see Shadowheart failing to hide a chuckle.

You turn to face your friend, eyes narrowed. “Could you be a little more quiet? I don’t need the whole camp hearing you.”

Astarion laughs this time, loudly, and it draws more glances than you’d like. You roughly shove the man next to you before he can speak.

“Your next words better be a whisper or I’m going to stab you ” you threaten, poking the knife in his direction.

Astarion places a hand over his heart, faux hurt in his eyes. “You wound me, darling. I’m just trying to help you. Plus,” he gestures to the camp, “it’s not like your attraction is a secret, nor Halsin’s.”

You shake your head turning back to grab another rabbit, embarrassment welling up in your chest. “He doesn’t…” you trail off, getting defensive. “Nothing’s there, Astarion. So can we please just drop it?”

Of course, he doesn’t.

“Look,” he starts, “all I’m trying to say is that neither of you are benefiting from holding back so…indulge, for once. Gods know we all deserve it.”

You ignore him. Curling in on yourself at the mention of…indulging. There nothing wrong with it of course. Everyone at camp has blown off steam along this adventure. Just…not you.

And the vampire must be able to tell too, because at your silence he straightens up, brows pinching in the rare way that shows he’s concerned.

“Wait, have you never…?” he gestures vaguely in the air.

His words, despite their genuine curiosity, strike a chord in you. You stand abruptly, tossing your work to the ground and stabbing your knife in the dirt.

“No I haven’t. Not that it’s any of your business.” Your words are louder than you intended and draw the eyes and ears of your other companions.

Astarion softens, obviously not expecting this reaction. “I didn’t mean to upset you-“

You clench your fists at your sides, interrupting him. “You never mean to Astarion but -“ You cut yourself off, taking a deep breath. “You’re such an ass sometimes.”

You turn on your heel and storm from camp before anyone can stop you, ignoring the concerned gaze of a certain druid.

———

The water is cool against your skin as you squat by the stream’s edge, rubbing at your hands as you try to get the blood off of them.

You feel foolish now, storming off like that. But Astarion pointing out your inexperience just struck you. It’s not something that’s ever bothered you before. Especially not in recent months since dealing with the tadpole. You all have more important things to worry about.

But the moment you rescued Halsin…it’s like something changed. You were instantly drawn to him. His kind smile and thoughtful words. His care for everyone and everything in nature.

And he flirted with you.

The memory is still fresh in your mind. The night of the tiefling party after you had stopped the ritual at the druid camp and saved Halsin. You were worried you were talking his ear off, but he was attentive the whole conversation. Answering your questions and asking some about you.

Then he said those honeyed words. Suggested celebrating by spending the night with someone special. Implied he would spend it with you if his mind wasn’t elsewhere.

You withdraw your hands from the water to drag them down your face as more memories surface.

More flirtatious banter and kind words. Thoughtful conversations and fighting side by side. The night sat by your bedside nursing you back to health after a particularly nasty fight. After Ketheric Thorm almost took you out.

Your side still aches with the memory. But the thought of his hands with their soothing healing glow, makes the ache subside.

You sigh, sitting back into the grass as your eyes lock onto the slowly gurgling stream, Astarion words playing over and over in your head.

Indulge, for once.

You want to. Gods do you want that.

You’ve spent many sleepless nights thinking about it. About his lips against yours, his hands on your skin, the sweet words he’d no doubt whisper against your ear.

You shudder at the thought before shoving it away. Because any time he hinted at that - showed any interest in you - you would be so elated before insecurity took over.

Halsin’s views on love and intimacy are no secret. You’d asked him once about current lovers and while he did confide no one currently held his affections back home he also expressed that there were others in the past.

Others. Plural.

And you’ve never been with anyone. Not physically or emotionally, you’ve never trusted anyone enough.

Not until now.

You sigh, frustration creeping back in as you press the heels of your palms into your eyes before quickly standing up. You need to apologize to Astarion and finally, maybe, talk to Halsin.

You turn on your heel to do just that when you run straight into a solid mass. You gasp, stumbling backwards just as two strong hands reach out to steady you, gripping your wrists firmly.

Once steady, you look up to see none other than the man haunting your thoughts smiling down at you.

“You must have been very deep in thought for someone like me to sneak up on you, little one.”

You have to suppress a shiver at the nickname. A moniker he’d given you since you teased him about his size at the beginning of your friendship.

You shake your head, moving to step away and only stopping when his hands let go only to slip down and take your own gently.

“I’m sorry,” you apologize. “I was just…thinking.”

Halsin stares at you for a moment, a thoughtful look on his face before he steps away, gesturing down the first path, one hand still in your own.

“Walk with me?” he asks. “I know being in nature helps me clear my head of even the darkest thoughts.”

You give a hesitant nod and follow him as he turns towards the path, not able to stop the smile when he doesn’t drop your hand.

———

The walk is mostly silent, a comfortable silence, but silent nonetheless. And you are grateful for it, not sure what you would say if Halsin were to ask what has you so upset.

But, silence can’t last forever it seems, because eventually the large Druid breaks through the sounds of nature surrounding you to speak.

“I overheard your conversation with Astarion,” he says, voice gentle. Probing, but not not forcing you to talk if you do not wish.

You stiffen, your pace slowing slightly, wanting to pull away from the man at your side. But his sure grip on your hand keeps you in place. The warmth of his skin on yours puts you slightly at ease.

“You…you heard that?” you ask, cringing internally. “You were across camp.”

The druid chuckles, gesturing to his ears with his free hand. “One of the curses of us elves. Impeccable hearing. Even when we don’t wish for it.”

You can feel your shoulders creeping up to your ears. Embarrassment settling in once more. “You were listening to us? To me?”

Halsin shrugs. “Not intentionally,” he admits, slowing his steps until you’re both stopped and he’s facing you. “But I find my attention turning towards you more often than not these days.”

His words tie your tongue and before you can gather enough sense to respond he continues.

“Nature works in mysterious ways, little one,” he tells you, eyes never leaving your face. “There is no one way to traverse it, and others journey do not define your own. Each one is unique, as it is intended.”

His words are beautifully woven, as always. And despite his cryptic deliverance, you know the meaning behind his words.

He’s comforting you. And once again, he speaks before you can detangle the jumble of thoughts in your head.

“And,” he reaches out, placing a curled finger beneath your chin to urge you to look up at him, “if it’s any encouragement, I seek you out as much as you do me. Possibly more so.”

Your eyes widen, heart stuttering in your chest at his words. He…does he feel the same way? Rationally you know he does. But that ever familiar self doubt, the tiny voice in your mind has always brushed away the flirting - the kind words and gentle touches as just part of his nature. None of it is reserved just for you.

Right?

Halsin smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners gently as he looks down at you. “Is that really such an outlandish thought? That I return your affections?” He pauses, “unless my heart has run ahead of itself and I have misread-“

You stop him then, reaching up to place a staying hand on his own beneath your chin.

“No! You haven’t…you haven’t misread,” you assure him, trying to still your racing heart.

His smile never falters, his other hand finally coming up to cradle the back of your head, teasing soft strands of hair between his fingers.

“That is good to hear,” he says, pulling you ever closer, his nose almost brushing yours, “it puts this old druid's mind at rest.”

Gods, you can’t breathe. The air in your lungs refusing to expel as he lean even closer, lips a hairbreadth away from your own. Your body sings with anticipation, your skin hot despite the cool air ushered in by the sun sinking below the horizon, the days last rays barely filtering through the trees.

“Can I kiss you, my heart?”

Halsins words are soft, barley a whisper and nearly drowned out by the sounds of nature around you and the roaring of blood in your ears.

You nod. “Please-“

The word barely passes your lips before he descends upon you, sealing his mouth with your own.

It’s both everything you expected and completely surprising at the same time. His hands are sure as he pulls you into him, one hand still cradling your head as the other slips down to your hip before wrapping around your waist. Yet his lips, the kiss itself is…soft. Gentle. Loving. The action speaks louder than any words either of you have said to one another. Louder than the words you never worked up the courage to speak.

Finally, your mind catches up with you, and your hands slide up his chest to clutch tentatively at his shoulders.

Halsins still hasn’t broken away from you, and when his tongue brushes against your lips you let him in. You tug him closer then, one of your hands sliding up to rest at the back of his neck eliminating any empty space between you as his tongue slides against your own.

He only pulls away when he must sense your need for air, but he doesn’t go far, lips pressing gently to the corner of your own, and then another to your jaw.

You’re breathless.

Chest heaving against him, as he pulls away just enough to look at you once more.

“As much as I’d love to continue…” his hand squeezes your hip gently, “we should make our way back to camp. I can imagine our absence as stirred gossip with our vampiric companion and..” he sighs, pressing another soft kiss to your lips. “I don’t want to overwhelm you.”

You can’t surprise the shiver that runs down your spine, or the smile that tugs at your lips.

“I’m…I’m okay being overwhelmed if it’s like that,” you tell him breathlessly.

Halsin laughs, a deep down genuine laugh that makes your heart sing even as he steps away from you.

“Then I will overwhelm you in all the ways I know how.” He promises, eyes trailing over you heatedly.

Your stomach does a flip at his words, and the effect they have on you must show on your face because Halsin chuckles again, leaning in to press one last kiss to your cheek before tugging you back in the direction towards camp.

“Another night, my heart,” he says, thumb brushing over your knuckles from where your hand remains in his own.

You let out a shaky breath, and nod, smiling as you walk closer to him. “I’m holding you to that.”

“I hope you would, though I doubt I will forget such a promise,” he assures before letting silence blanket you both one more.

You can’t stop the thrill that runs through you at his words.

Yes, I’ll hold you to that promise indeed.

[randomgurl2326]

Next To My Wife

Pairing: Azriel x reader

Summary: The one time Azriel let his two worlds collide…ALSO…Based off of this quote from EPIC The Musical: After everything you’ve done, how will you sleep at night/Next to my wife

Warnings: Blood, Torture

The dungeon is cold. Second only to the Winter Court. The sounds of a male’s cries and screams are music to the spymaster’s ears.

The cobalt siphons on the Illyrian warrior’s leathers shine bright down here. Like they knew what he’s doing and that he takes pleasure in it.

The male doesn’t let the guilt creep in. Not yet. Guilt is for the conscience. Conscience is for home. He can’t afford conscience at work. That’s a luxury only innocence can have…. His sweet girl, innocent—

No, he can’t think of her now. Never let the two worlds touch, is what he tells himself. Keep the innocent innocent. Keep the bloody bloody.

Never let them touch.

Azriel’s shadows envelop the faerie. The whisps talk animatedly as they watch their master work. Suggestions ring through his ears from the tiny shadows.

The whip, master, the whip.

No! No! Truth Teller, Master. Surely that will get the job done.

The shadowsinger grits his teeth and lets out a grainy, “Quiet.”

The shadows whispers lessen to a dull roar. Azriel’s shoulder’s tense as he speaks, “Tell me what you know about Beron Vanserra’s dealings with Hybern.”

The faerie hesitates for only a second before hardening his gaze and answering, “Fuck. You.”

The spymaster breaks two of the male’s fingers as a result of his defiance. Azriel tightens his grip on the faerie, “Wrong answer. Tell me before I rip out your fucking veins one by one.”

The faerie male cries out in pain. Finally submitting to the spymaster, “Alright! Alright! I’ll tell you!” The next one quieter, “I’ll tell you.”

Azriel presses down on the other male’s jugular, “I’m listening.”

“T-the High Lord wanted a deal,” the Illyrian senses the quiver in the faerie’s voice, “A-a protection deal o-or something, I don’t fuckin’ know.”

The dark whisps of shadows stir again, sensing a lull.

He’s lying, master.

He knows but doesn’t want to tell master.

If pretty girl were here she’d be able to—

Azriel squeezes his eyes shut at the mention of his girl. Don’t let the two worlds touch, he says to himself, leave the conscience at home. The spymaster’s eyes open once again, reminding him of where he is. What he’s doing.

Scarred hands press down harder on the male’s protruding neck, “Enough of the bullshit. Tell me what you know.”

The faerie winces, “S-security! Security… he wanted to trade Night Court secrets in exchange for security with Hybern. Beron wanted stability. He senses a war. I-I don’t know what secrets he was gonna share. I just know that they were heavy.”

The Illyrian’s shadows exert approval of the truth. Azriel grunts and twists the male’s arm backwards, pushing his leather boot clad foot down on his back and forcing his head down.

The shadowsinger smirks and leans down to the faerie’s ear, with a dark voice he says, “Thank you… But you’re no longer needed.”

He unsheathes Truth Teller and stabs it in the male’s shoulder blade. He waits a beat before slowly pulling it out. The agonizing cries of the faerie bounce through the otherwise quiet halls of the dungeon. His whimpers bring a twisted delight to the spymaster.

Once the dagger is fully removed, Azriel stands and gives one last stomp on the faerie’s foot for good measure.

“Someone will be here in the morning to either clean your remains or your wounds. Make sure not to bleed too much. I do like this dungeon.”

Azriel walks off and cleans Truth Teller with a rag nearby. Just as the Illyrian is about to exit, he hears the faerie’s pain-stricken voice, “After everything you’ve done, how will you sleep at night?”

Azriel stops at the exit and smirks. He doesn’t dignify the faerie with a glance as he says in his gruff baritone, “Next to my wife.”

[anyamaris]

Title: Call Me Monster

Pairing: Monster!Jungkook x Medical Examiner Assistant!F!reader

Summary: A secret experiment hidden within a morgue is uncovered by someone who should never have stumbled upon it. What she awakens will change her life forever.

Word Count: 3569

Trope: Supernatural AU/Smut-Horror

Rating-M for Mature. Very mature.

Warnings: Graphic language, graphic violence (not towards reader), blood, gore, body mutilation, body horror, death/murder, choking(nonsexual), Jungkook is not a corpse at any point (not explained in the fic but he's never been dead), Jungkook has stitches and sutures, unprotected sex, MALE POV, minors DNI 18+ PLEASE BEWARE ALL THESE WARNINGS. It is labeled HORROR.

A/N: This is for @lapydiaries annual spring event by @sanjoongie Sad Boys Club! I really enjoyed doing this male POV and my song for this is Monster by Exo. I was inspired by the lyrics. Thank you to @pars-ley for reading and encouraging me through this whole process as well as the fucking gorgeous banner!

@sanjoongie I hope I did you justice, my muse. As always, @cafekitsune for the dividers! I hope everyone enjoys and once more...read the warnings please.

His very first thought is a gentle caress that gives voice to his meaningless existence.

What ... .is…that…?

The obsidian sea that he’s suspended in is suddenly filled with an intoxicating fragrance that rouses something within him.

Within…me…?

Who...what…am I?

Answers elude him, his mind sluggish as he tries to comprehend the new senses that seem to be awakening within him.

The delightful aroma is suddenly ripped from him as a pungent sting assaults him.

No, no!

Come back!

His mind fights against the disruption before he’s sent back into the perpetual black void.

Hurts.

Hurts!

Searing pain rends his cold flesh as his mind explodes into fragments, agonizingly endless and he longs to be returned to his painless oblivion.

Despite his wordless protests, the torment persists time and again to pluck him from the blissful refuge of his painless vacuum.

Sensation arouses him once more, yet this time a tender caress soothes along the former afflictions mixed with that tantalizing scent. 

This gentle warmth and rich fragrance contrasts the agonized suffering that it has him struggling to…

To what?

More…

Don’t stop…

Must…

Before he can fathom what it is he wants, the sensation is taken from him.

NO!

NO!

Stay-

Sparks ignite within his lethargic brain and travels the expanse of his large body as he grapples against the return to the hellish purgatory of nothingness.

Ages pass as he reaches out with his mind, searching, searching for that divine touch.

Just…

Again…

Please…

His thoughts are disjointed as he pushes…stretching…yearning.

Tingles sizzle through his limbs as he forces his awareness outwards, a dull ache lingering in the wake of the burn.  

Something catches his attention, a muffled reverberation as another sense awakens.

A grating thrum assaults his sanity before a soft, lilting series of notes lulls his anguish.

Much as the soothing caress dispelled the agonizing pain, this melodic tone has him straining towards it.

Before long, he can distinguish them from one another as sounds begin to make sense in his mind.

“Doctor, I-”

“-worry about that, just-”

“-say so, sir-”

“-alright, then you can-”

The sensation of movement jolts his body before the voices are cut off from him again.

No, no, no-!

Deep within a cold metal drawer, his body twitches then goes still once more.

Ages pass as he floats in the limbo between consciousness, motion and metallic clamoring yanking him from his mindless suspension.

Pain.

Agony.

That horrible grating tone.

Then the sporadic lull of that hypnotically mesmerizing voice…

Never enough.

He longs for the gentle touch that can alleviate his painful wounds, that intoxicating aroma to awaken these unknown desires, yet they never come.

Words begin to permeate his mind as the stinging prick of something sharp repeatedly stabs into him, then a drawn out tugging sensation precedes yet another…

“-the last of my creation.  Perhaps I shall fail once again, but I have an inkling that this time around, something is much different in you.  ‘Jungkook’, this part still has its toe tag, how amusing!  Ah and here I’ve been calling you ‘Monster’. Would you prefer a real name, hmm?”

A deep chuckle echoes within his mind as that grating sound irritates his ears, each word cutting through his haze as the steady piercing pricks and tugs continue.

A distant chiming sounds and the unpleasant laughter coming from this being halts abruptly, and he mutters curses under his breath.

“Patience, my friend, and I’ll have you stitched up and whole in no time.”

Want…

Need…

Soft shuffling fades as silence returns as each new wound slowly numbs and he begins to fade back into-

That familiar fragrance wraps around his senses as his entire body thrums with excitement.

Here…

Please-

“Doctor?” 

The sweet aria of that one simple word washes over him and he strains to beckon it closer.

Soft steps approach as he strains to reach out to it, vibrations beginning within various parts of him.

“What in the world-?” 

His mind reels as suddenly he’s given the gift of that sublime caress.

A soft flutter sounds before the voice is purifying him once again.

“Jungkook? Why are you still here, you should have been-”

The melodic voice is cut off by a low keening noise, the harsh din of objects falling seeming to startle the poor creature.  

“Oh my god, are you-?”

The keening sound grows until he realizes it’s coming from within himself.

Please-

Don’t-go-

Unlike before, the presence doesn’t retreat; this gentle lingering touch presses firmly into his neck before the glorious sensation is stroking over various parts of him.

Yes-

More-

“You’re breathing, oh my god, how is this even possible-?”

MORE-

Awareness snaps into place as the once atrophied muscles within him stir, his eyelids peeling back slowly to reveal the source of all of his longing.

He takes in a hitching breath, then another as everything coalesces into one focal point.

The soothing caress, the sublime melody, the intoxicating scent.

This creature…

You…

“What are you doing here?” 

The booming disruption once more wars with that beautiful voice, stirring up a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts and emotions he’s trying to comprehend.

“Doctor! This man, he’s not dead, he’s-”

“Move aside-”

The comforting touch is replaced by agonizing prodding, and he longs to rail against the interruption of his blissful moment.  

“Doctor, sir, he-”

“He is of no concern to you. Get out before I-” 

“You’re right, Doctor, I’ll go let someone know-”

The meaty hands halt their pawing, and the man on the table's large dark eyes flick over to the being they extend from.  

“Wait.”

The tone from that one word sends a primal sense of alarm through him as the doctor’s hands withdraw and bunch into fists.

“Doctor, we don’t know how long he’s been like this, he needs to be-”

“You really shouldn’t have come here today.” 

Each movement sends a dull ache into his muscles and nerve endings as he attempts to turn his head, a harsh rattling leaving his throat as he watches the doctor approaching you.

Unsuspecting.

Innocent.

His mind rages against his uncooperative limbs, not knowing why he needs to move, only that he MUST.

In slow motion, he can only struggle against himself as your eyes lock onto the approaching form, widening in fear as those horrific hands clamp around your fragile neck.

No!

Don’t-touch-!

Your once harmonious voice is cut off by a strangled cry, then your face is contorting in agony as the doctor forces you from the door into the wall.

The sight of your suffering finally tips him over the edge and his ungainly body begins to obey.

Your distressed gaze flicks over at the sight of him rising from the table as you claw at the murderous hands attempting to snuff the life from you.

“What-?”

The sheet covering him slips off as he finally gets to his feet, awkwardly lurching towards you as he reaches out to grab the offensive being touching you.

A low wheezing leaves his throat as he forces sound out, trying to enunciate his thoughts.

“No-”

The doctor’s eyes bulge as he looks up at the towering creature approaching him, his hands loosening on your neck as his monster reaches out for him.

“Stop! I’m your creator, you don’t-!”

Those are his last words as he grips the doctor’s lower jaw and yanks, tearing it from his face in a sickening wet snap.  

You drop to the floor as the doctor’s hands slacken, your poor rasping attempts at breath making Jungkook’s rage flare up as he takes in the red marks on your throat.

Pain flashes in his jaw as it tightens, every slumbering muscle fiber in his body tensing as he turns his wrath on his so-called “creator”.

Jets of hot crimson paint the sterile room as he digs his fingers into the soft pliable flesh, rending and tearing at the vile man until he’s unrecognizable.

The soft sound of your gasping finally cuts through his murderous fog, and he feels his fury recede as he turns his large dark eyes upon you.

“Please…don’t hurt me…” You whisper.

The sight of you cowering on the floor only causes his once atrophied heart to ache, and he falls to his knees before you.  

“Hurt…?” He forces out, his stiff vocal chords raspy and harsh to his ears.

You tremble before him, but he shakes his head as he holds his bloodied hands out to you, palms up in supplication.

“No…won’t…hurt…you…” He finally manages.

Of course he won’t hurt you.

He would never.

Could never.

The coppery air is thick and pungent, a fine mist of scarlet settling upon your delicate skin.

The fear in your wide eyes as you study him has him longing to comfort you, but his mind is overwhelmed with too many senses.

He winces as the tang of iron assaults his senses, and he can barely smell the intoxicating fragrance he’s come to associate you with.

It’s there, but it’s as if it’s buried beneath far too many layers of rotten refuge.

He lets out a soft whine as he looks down at his hands, tacky from the drying crimson as he flexes his fingers.

“You…you really don’t want to hurt me?” 

Your voice has him snapping his attention back on you, and he crawls forward so that his face is mere inches from yours.

His big dark eyes study you, and he inhales deeply, finding your scent and a calm washes over his face as his lashes flutter shut.

There-

Yes-

You repeat your question, and he finally opens his eyes to gaze upon you, his head tilting back and forth as he finds himself longing to get even closer.

Yet your palms are pressing against his bare shoulders, your gaze drawn to the numerous sutures and stitches adorning his flesh.  

“No…won’t…hurt…” he finally manages to grind out, his voice trembling oddly from his withered vocal tract.

You release the pressure of your palms against him, the warmth of your skin like a balm to him as they hover over the various incisions.

He reaches out to touch the red marks on your throat from the hands that threatened to take you from him.

“He-hurt-” His voice grinds out, yet this time it’s not from disuse, but a burning rage still simmering inside of him that reignites.

 Jungkook’s eyes darken, his jaw clenching as his teeth flash, then he’s spinning around to focus on the source of your pain.

You can only watch as he sets upon the doctor’s corpse once more, his fury manifesting into beating the dead flesh into pulp. 

“Stop-” 

“Please…he’s gone-”

“Jungkook-”

The sound of his name washes over him like a lullaby and his aching fists drop to his sides, his head turning towards you.

His dark eyes melt from murderous agitation, widening as he looks at you with innocence and longing.

“Jungkook?” You say once more, and his heart stirs at the sound.

“Me…?” He asks, a tiny smile curling his lips as his face lights up at your voice.  

His entire world trembles as you return the smile, your face taking on a radiance that he can’t help but react to.

“Yes…you…you’re such a mess.  Can…can I clean you up?” You hold out your hand to beckon him over.

He immediately scrambles over to you, rising to his full height as he takes your offering.

“Oh…my goodness.” You whisper as your gaze rakes over his full form.

Jungkook can only beam at you as you study his naked form, though his senses still war with the foul stench of the vile human’s entrails.

His nose wrinkles at the odor and you seem to notice, pursing your lips as you take his hands and look at the mess he’s made.

“You did this for me?” You ask softly, your eyes locking onto his and he nods quickly before reaching out to try to touch your face.

Your skin looks so warm, calling to him to touch and caress every inch-

“Come with me.” You command and he is but a slave to your every desire.

You lead him into an adjoining room, and the overpowering scent of the mutilated viscera fades as he watches you turn on a faucet to let warm jets of water flow out.  

“I’m going to wash you, okay, Jungkook?” You tell him and his eyes follow your every move as you discard the now stained white medical coat and turn back to him.

“Yes.” He says, his voice slowly becoming less pained as he does his best to speak more.

It’s hard to formulate words and thoughts as his senses are assaulted with so much input, everything feels so familiar yet so brand new.

He wanders forward, blood caked hands seeking the cleansing flow of water, letting out a surprised gasp as he watches the red matter coalesce and rinse from his palms.

“Warm…” he hums, fascinated by the soothing sounds raining down upon him as he steps beneath the cascade of water.

“Does it feel nice?” 

His skin prickles as the soft tone, then your tender hands are skimming along his arm.

He shivers as he turns his face up into the water before turning to look upon you.

You are lathering up a sponge as your eyes rake over his full form, stepping closer to start washing the filth from his chest.

He freezes as he takes you in, now completely nude as you stand before him, the rush of the shower drenching every glorious inch of your bare skin.

His lips part as his body reacts in so many unfamiliar ways to your beauty, his eyes tracing every curve and dip of your supple flesh and his mouth waters as he begins to pick up even more of your intoxicating scent.

His breath hitches as his lower region aches and engorges, his hand automatically rushing to press against his stiffening erection.

“Oh..my...I guess you aren’t dead after all-” you quip, and his eyes flick to your face, then he follows your gaze to where his hand is palming at himself.

A low whine escapes his throat as he closes the small distance between you, his eyes consuming the sight of your sumptuous body as he backs you into the tiled walls. 

“Smells…good-” He whimpers, burying his face into your neck as he grabs your thighs and begins to rut against you.  

“Oh my god-um…wow…you really are a monster-” You gasp out as he groans into your neck sucking and licking along your throat.

“Jungkook.” He whimpers, pulling back to give you a wide eyed stare.

“Yes, yes, Jungkook, I didn’t mean-oh fuck right there-” 

His lips close around your nipple, his hand cupping the supple flesh, lifting it as the nub pebbles in his mouth and he explores the unique texture with his tongue.

Your voice is soft and lilting, your gasps and moans ringing through his mind like the most sacred hymn.

Though he doesn’t know what all these thoughts mean, he knows that he must have you.

He just doesn’t know what it is he is aching for, only that you possess the ability to give it to him.

He lets your nipple pop out of his mouth as his hips continue to move with a mind of their own, his cock swollen and throbbing for a release he doesn’t understand.

“Hurts-” He whimpers, looking up at you with those huge brown eyes, silently pleading for you to help him.

“Oh, baby…you’re not used to that, are you?” 

Your voice should be soothing, yet it only serves to make his already stiff member throb painfully.

He chokes out a strained grunt as your fingers encircle his engorged flesh, his hips pistoning into your tightening grip.

“Yes-! P-please-!” 

The sensation of his cock dragging against your palm as he pushes himself into your fist makes his head spin, needing to feel you ever closer to him, skin to skin-

His arms cage you against the tiled wall abruptly as he experiences the satisfying tug and drag of his dick as his thrusts become more desperate.

His breathing becomes erratic as you stare up at him, your lips parted as your sweet voice whispers encouragement and he begins to feel his balls tightening.

Furiously chasing some kind of relief, he lets out a pleading howl as he teeters right on the edge of-

He’s torn back from the brink when you quickly remove your hold on him, but before he can protest, you’re grabbing one of his hands and directing it between your legs.

He realizes that this is the source of his growing hunger; his fingers delve into the syrupy fount pooling at the apex of your thighs and he salivates as the potent aroma assaults him.

He inhales deeply as he’s overwhelmed with your scent, and he can almost taste-

Before he can finish the thought, he’s plunging his fingers through your silky folds to gather the viscous fluids along his digits, then quickly stuffing them into his mouth.

His other hand replaces the empty space, your wanton moans of pleasure encouraging him to continue his search as he slides his fingers along his tongue to taste you.

Your hand covers his larger one, guiding him to where you want him to touch.  

He learns quickly what you’re asking without a word spoken, his large doe eyes studying every minute tremble of your lips, every flutter of your lashes.

His thick thighs push against yours to open you up to him, sandwiching your supple body between his and the tiled wall as he grinds himself against you.

The pads of his drenched fingertips drag over a small swollen nub and the way you throw your head back as your eyes roll prompts him to repeat the motion once more, then again as he sucks your taste from his fingers.

“Oh my god…yes…right there…please-” You whimper and he recognizes his own need echoed in your cries.

“Right…there?” He manages as he roughly pinches and kneads the bud, shocked by the way your body jerks and writhes under his touch.  

“Fucking hell-” You gasp and he’s delighted when you grab his shoulders and wrap one of your legs around his hip.  

Instinctively, he pulls his fingers from his mouth to grab your other thigh to hoist you up off the floor.

The moment you wrap your legs around his waist, he pins you against the wall and thrusts his hips forward so the underside of his length slides along your core.

The sensation of your moisture coating him tips him into a mad frenzy as you push your hand between your bodies, guiding his next thrust into a tight, wet opening that seems to pull him deeper with each clench.

Guttural noises mix with frantic whimpers as he snaps his hips forward and up into you, and his eyes roll as your body encases him fully.

His body is driven solely by an innate primal compulsion as he drives his cock into you over and over; harder; faster-

He can barely comprehend the words spilling from your luscious lips, he knows only that the sound only urges him to chase this overwhelming need within him to bring you both to some sort of culmination of your joining.

The fragrance wafting over him from your arousal, the taste of you lingering on his tongue, the sweltering suction of your body devouring his aching cock finally overwhelms him completely as his balls constrict painfully.

“Oh god, oh fuck I’m gonna-I’m gonna come, baby boy-” 

A growl rips from his throat as your already clenching walls grip him like a vice; a hot rush of fluid floods his pistoning cock as your entire body tenses and quakes and you let out the most exquisite sound he’s ever heard.

As your nails rip through the skin of his back, raking over the taut stitches connecting his shoulders to his arms, he finally reaches the climax he’s been seeking as he surges forward one last time to bury himself deep within you.

His entire being shudders as his balls release their burden, erupting in a pulsing, torrential flood.

All the tension finally leaves his body as he pours himself into you, his gasping breaths and moans slowing as you ply his face with soft, tender kisses.

Soft breathy whispers tickle his cheeks, your gentle touches leaving him trembling and weak as his legs give out and he slowly sinks to his knees.

He whines as he holds you against him, unwilling to withdraw from you as he cradles your body in his lap.

The jets above continue to rain down upon your joined bodies as your melodic voice carries him into an almost dreamlike state.

“My monster…” your words rouse him and he pulls back to look at you.

Your lips beckon him and he presses his mouth to yours, a deep hum vibrating his throat in delight as he experiences your kiss.

“Monster…is bad…I’m -Jungkook…” he forces out, realizing that it’s becoming easier to vocalize his thoughts.

You cup his cheeks and he sighs softly at your tender touch, his long dark lashes fluttering in contentment.

“Jungkook…I happen to like monsters.” 

Your words resonate within him and he studies your face before coming to a decision.

His lips curl, elation flooding him as he gives you a radiant smile before he speaks his first full sentence.

“You…can call me monster.”

[midnightarcheress]

there's a lot of debate about being team civilian x team soldier for ghost's partner but honestly i love both ideas so much. just think of

simon riley with a civilian partner,

who pushed you away in the beginning because you were 'too pure' to be near a hell-sent monster like him.

who got himself lost in your sweet attempts to slip into the cracks of his heart and eventually surrendered on the battle against his own will.

who keeps a picture of your pretty face well hidden in his tac vest, as a reminder of the new purpose of his military service.

who tries to text you at least once a day when he's away, just to assure you about his well-being and to let you know how much he misses you.

who worries too much about your safety whenever he's deployed, so takes his time to teach you everything about self-defense techniques, ways to handle a knife, and how to properly shoot, as much as he hates the thought of you being even near a gun.

who's so scared of you getting hurt and nearly had a heart attack when he saw blood coming out of your finger after a small distraction whilst cutting the veggies for dinner.

who loves the way you view him as a hero, despite knowing how much of a cold-blooded killer he can be - he never told you anything about his missions, but he never needed to, you know.

who never allow you to see him wearing the mask or the balaclava because ghost is for battlefield, in your house he's purely simon.

and

simon riley with a soldier partner,

who was intrigued about your lack of fear when you first met, because everyone else seemed to shit their pants after a simple glare.

who forbid himself of getting close because the military is about following orders and getting the job done, not fraternization.

who nearly passed out after an instant drop in his blood pressure due to a pouring bullet wound - not because your surprisingly soft hands touched his arm.

who thinks you look the prettiest when you're in the field - sweating, panting, grimy with dirt and blood, barking in his comms to get to safety.

who's terrified of losing you during missions but is also completely mesmerized by your dexterity as you stab the throat of the soldier that seconds before had you pinned to the ground.

who communicates with you using his eyes at all times, since you can't see his expressions under the mask, creating a secret language you're the only one fluent in.

who hesitated on showing you his face at first because underneath it all, simon is a soft man, entirely different of the ghost persona you see during work hours.

[yandere-sins]

Can I request a reluctant reader taking care of a very sick yandere? Yandere can be any character of ur choice >.< tyia

Thanks for requesting! ^-^

»»———————— ♡ ————————««

"You're hurt..."

The stench of blood, dirt, and sulfur filled the air in the underground hideout as you climbed off your bed, the heavy metal around your ankles rattling when you moved. You watched as the silver-haired man collided with the wall before sinking to the floor, his body sparely illuminated but his hair shining brightly, giving away his position. Your gut churned with hesitance, with the instinctive need to avoid all evil—especially the one that had threatened and abducted you. But it had been so long since he left. So long that you've been stowed away in secret. You were, unfortunately, drawn to him like a moth to the light.

Even though you kept your distance from your captor, your words barely a whisper as if not to disturb the man sitting on the ground, holding the side of his stomach, Calcharo flinched at the sound of your voice, cranking his head back to look at you. His gaze was unreadable, his whole face a mask free of emotions. But judging by the pool of blood collecting next to him, the wound must have hurt, even if he showed no signs of it.

"I promised I'd be back—" he mumbled as a ripple of tension tightened his muscles, everything in him readying his body to get up from his spot. As if greeting you properly was needed at that moment. But with his teeth bared, the gaping wound stole all of his strength, making him sack back to the dusty ground with a muffled groan.

"Give me a moment. It'll heal."

Curiosity killed the cat as you stretched your neck, bile rising to the top of your throat at the nasty sight of the gash. Even Calcharo's big hands—that you remembered so vividly squeezing and pulling at your body—weren't enough to cover the wound completely, blood soaking all of his clothes and staining the floor. Wasn't there medicine for that kind of injury? Although, seeing a doctor would probably be more appropriate. If it wasn't for the awkward situation you were in, you'd have freaked out at even the thought of seeing someone so badly injured, yet all you could do was stand in one spot, a good five steps out of his reach.

Even when you fiddled with your hands, wrenching and holding them, you were less anxious, knowing he wasn't in the condition to harass you that day. He'd been gone for a while, leaving you to your own devices and the evergrowing boredom. But you were still undecided if you preferred him being back and constantly hovering over you, watching and testing your reactions, or the loneliness and isolation you experienced, chained up and hidden away who-knew-where when he was gone. Both were unideal; both were destructive behavior on his part. You didn't have much choice in it, but him coming back severely injured was a situation you hadn't grown accustomed to yet.

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

His head jerked upwards, eyes narrowing at you suspiciously. Yeah... you surprised yourself, too. You weren't the type to offer help, especially not to him. You were his captive, nothing more, nothing less.

"Or not..." Hands falling to your side, you fiddled with the seam of your shirt instead, avoiding his gaze as always. To Calcharo, you were an object to be observed, one he owned now but still couldn't help but expect to be betrayed by. As if you were going to pull a knife out any second now and stab him, even after he immobilized you with the chains around your legs. He was that kind of man; that much you had learned about him, even if it barely seemed to graze the surface. You began hating the feeling of his eyes on you the moment he revealed himself to you in this shabby hideout, his gaze so incisive it hurt. As if his eyes were daggers that he dragged through your flesh, stabbing over and over in an attempt to rip out your soul for him to observe.

"There are some bandages behind the mirror in the bathroom."

Torn from your thoughts, you couldn't help but stare back at him, even as his head fell forward again, his gaze disappearing. You two didn't have that kind of relationship. You didn't help him when he was in need, so you felt surprised at the simple instructions. They held no weight as if he didn't care whether you followed them or not—as if he expected you not to, rightfully so. Glancing at the blood, you thought that a bandage might be useless, that he needed stitches at least. But Calcharo said nothing more, pressing his palm harder against the wound without making another sound. Your head turned towards the door leading to the bathroom, and although it felt wrong to consider helping him, a compassionate part of you recognized that he needed you, your feet slowly turning away, picking up the pace as you disappeared from his sight.

The mirror caught your reflection as you flicked on the light. You had seen better days that much was sure. You weren't famished, the bags under your eyes more from anxiety and stress than lack of sleep. However, the green glow of the light didn't do you any favors either, and although you didn't think of yourself as ugly, you could only wonder what your kidnapper saw in you that he had to take such drastic measures. You were just you. That seemed to have been enough for him, even if it was strange.

The chain around your ankle felt twice as heavy as you wondered how long you'd be in this situation. Would you ever be free? Would he let you go if you helped him? Calcharo had always been silent when you asked him for his reasons. He'd sit by your bedside and wipe away your tears if you cried, begging him to be reasonable, but he never gave you the answers to console you. That was the kind of man you had offered help to. Someone so cold and selfish.

Opening the cabinet, you realized you had never looked behind the mirror before. Why? you wondered, but you were surprised at the amount of medical equipment. There were a couple of first aid kits and a box of resonator-only medicine and tools. He had every shelf stocked fully, and although he only asked for a bandage, you took at least one of everything you could find.

Calcharo was eerily quiet when you returned to his side. It made your pulse rise momentarily as you feared he might have died in the minute you were gone. The chain you were strung to clattered as you ran over, dropping to your knees next to his, dropping some of the extra weight from your arms to the floor in a moment of panic. You realized your closeness too late, anxiety shivering down your spine with how little distance there was between you two. But your focus shifted instantly, relief filling you as Calcharo looked up at you again, his eyes dropping to the items crammed between your arms and body. He scanned over your haul, and you immediately felt silly for worrying about him at all. He was perfectly fine, it seemed.

But what would you have done if he died?

You didn't know how to get out of here in the first place. Calcharo had never shown you any keys to undo your chains or to open any doors. There were no windows, and if you got out, there was no guarantee you wouldn't be in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by Tacet Discords going for your throat. These thoughts made your heart sink with a sense of panic as if reality was finally hitting you over your head. Or perhaps it was the thought of living with a corpse until you found your demise here as well. Either way, you were glad when he reached for one of the packages, revealing some round pills that he slipped between his lips, glancing up at you for a moment as if to make sure you were watching him swallow them. You fiddled with the medical utensils until you found another package, wanting to give it to him, but he shook his head as you held it out.

"Just use the bandage."

"You want me to do it?" you asked, reluctant to simply act. Glancing at the first aid kit, you were sure you'd find some there, but so far, Calcharo had always handled himself around you. Even when you had an outburst, trying to hit him, he'd let you slap him across the face rather than stop you. You'd half-expected him to retaliate when you stumbled back, recognizing his strength as superior and bracing for the impact, but it never came. He had always remained calm and composed, even with the glowing red hand-mark across his cheek.

It was the same with food or bathing. Calcharo always had enough rations stocked, and if he was back at the hideout, he made you meals all the time, only eating your leftovers or getting something for himself after you had your share. And he never took a shower first, ensuring you had all the warm water that would eventually turn cold (sometimes you let it run out of protest). You thought it might have simply been resourcefulness, but you began overthinking your beliefs now that he wanted you to do something for him.

"Are you sure?" you asked him again. There was a sense of exhaustion when he looked up at you, and much to your own surprise once more, you quickly snatched the first aid kit when he reached for it. "I can do it! Just didn't think you'd want me to..."

Calcharo let out a short grunt before lowering his arm again, not fighting you on this, but his eyes followed every one of your movements as you fiddled with the first aid kit. Ridden with sudden determination, you almost dropped all the contents on the undoubtedly nonsterile floor, only catching the bandage midair while some of the tools clattered to the ground. Quick as lightning, Calcharo caught a small pair of scissors before they could graze your leg, his bloody fist wrapping around it so tightly, you could see his knuckles whiten through the red sheen.

You gulped, watching him drag the scissors and his arm back to his side, too afraid to straighten your gaze and see the wound in full glory. When you agreed that you could do it, you had temporarily forgotten about the truly gut-wrenching part of medical treatment, and suddenly, you were even less sure about all of this.

Calcharo grumbled under his breath, noticing your sudden stiffness. His free hand reached out to touch yours. "Open it," he muttered, and his words put your body into motion. Following his instructions was so much easier than working through the thoughts that made you hesitate. He grabbed the start of the bandage from your hands once you unwrapped it, waiting for you to get onto what he was doing as he placed it over his naval before pressing it down onto the wound.

There was some visible comfort in the way his shoulders rose tensely as he covered the wound, but he dragged the now bloody bandage over the gash with skilled precision. As if he had done this countless of times, and you were almost certain he had. You reckoned that his life must not have been easy if he got so used to hurting himself for the sake of simply healing. But you quickly reminded yourself not to sympathize with him. To not forget how he wronged you despite this moment of unusual humanity. Usually, he appeared to you more like a monster, but right then, he was but a wounded soldier, and perhaps your parents had been right; you were too good-hearted for your own good.

Dragging the bandage to his side, Calchero stopped, huffing as you had stopped unwrapping more of it. He pulled his legs in so he could push his torso off the wall before he looked up at you. Gulping, you knew what you had to do. It wasn't like he wouldn't do it himself, but it was honestly ridiculous that you sat there frozen in place now that you had come so far. Inching closer, you positioned yourself between his legs, hesitating for a split second more before you reached out your arms, wrapping them around his front to reach behind Calcharo.

Carefully, perhaps with less pressure than he would have liked, you wrapped and pulled the bandage from his back to his front again. Calchero released it once he noticed you taking action, but when you reached the blood-soaked gash again, it was his hand that did the dirty work, pressing the bandage down. There was about one more round that you could make, and you quickly guided the wrap around him once more before making an amateurish knot on his healthy side. It was far from perfect, and you tried to ignore the feeling of his blood coating your hands now, too. It didn't feel like you helped him, but it was what he had wanted.

Placing your hands on the ground, you wanted to get up again, get some healthy distance between you two, and clean your hands if you got the chance. But before you could even slip one leg out from underneath you, Calchero's whole body suddenly collapsed forward. In a spurt of a moment reaction, you grabbed him by the shoulders, pushing your own between his collarbones to brace against his weight that could have easily buried you underneath it.

"H-Hey!" you called out, unsure what was happening, when you suddenly felt him inhale deeply, his hot breath releasing against your chest, sending shivers down your spine. And then, he chuckled.

"I didn't think you would."

His voice vibrated against your skin as he spoke them directly into your body. You didn't know what to say nor what he meant, but you felt the goosebumps rise across your arms and neck.

Calchero lifted himself just enough to nuzzle his face between your neck and shoulder, his weight so heavy as it rested on top of you. All you could do was curl your fingers into his body, and you cursed yourself for not immediately pushing him away, a small part of you afraid you might agitate the wound.

"Didn't think you'd care about me."

"I don't," you clarified, sounding pouty rather than confident. It had been a mistake, after all. You should have just let him sort out his own mess and stop being a busybody and help. Then, you wouldn't be in this situation now, your pulse throbbing in your ears as your heart began to beat faster with the anxiety and discomfort.

"I'm glad," he muttered. "Glad you care."

"I don't!"

This time, you did push. At least you tried. Calcharo didn't move an inch away from you, his head resting on your shoulder, his body threatening to bury you underneath if you didn't stay solid in your spot. The thought of Calcharo trapping you on purpose crossed your mind, and you hated yourself for not seeing it coming, walking right into the trap. And even if not, he was clearly exploiting the situation for all it was worth!

Of course, he'd take advantage of your kindness. Of course, he'd use your naivety and kindness to exploit you for something he wanted. Even if you questioned why it had to be you, why he kidnapped you of all people, his intentions—albeit disciplined—had always been clear. Although he held himself back from doing something regrettable so far, you had caught him touching you often: touching your hand while passing you a plate with food, brushing away hair from your face right after waking up, and letting his fingers glide over your arms or legs while you had dozed off, just to name a few. You should have been more careful. Should have listened to your body telling you to stay away. It might have just been something akin to a hug, but you should have never allowed him to go this far.

What if he took your kindness for consent?

"Please stop," you mumbled, feeling the tears shoot into your eyes. You didn't need to turn your head to know his eyes had opened, probably after hearing the sob in your voice. You wished you were stronger, able to push him away. Wished you could have fought him and caused him to stop liking you—wanting you. Wished you never even thought of him as anything but a monster.

"Just a little bit longer," he mumbled, lips brushing against your skin. Even when hiccups shook your body, Calchero didn't move, didn't budge. It seemed he didn't care anymore, getting exactly what he wanted. All you could do was sit there and wait for it to end, just like always. You felt his gaze vanish, the closeness allowing him to observe you differently, without needing to see when he could instead feel you.

His arms wrapped around your body, and you felt more trapped than ever, the feeling only registering when he said two more words that day,

"Thank you."

[vxnuslogy]

╭──────     no matter how long it's been, you're mine.    ✦ ⸝⸝

            ✦   ⭑𓂃   honkai: star rail      ┆     mydei    .ᐟ                ──╯

𐔌  warnings. mentions of blood, murder/assassination attempts, war, implied possessiveness, established relationships, mydei refers to himself as your husband       ♟         notes. a part 2 for my first mydei fic "the challenge for a new king" which explores mydei's past with the reader and dive into their dynamic more

           ━━━ art credits. hoyoverse        ♟        tags.  @lowkeyren @starcharmed @mikashisus @https-sourlimes @dazaisms @powchakko @somniachant @snobwaffles @your-sleeparalysisdem0n @st6rly @gl4di0lus ; if you'd like to be tagged, please fill out the forms on my pinned!!

                                 ౨ৎ crown prince of kremnos, mydeimos — every man that has walked on the paths of okhema knew of the tragic fate that weighed of mydei's shoulders. but very few knew the full prophecy the titans have actually weaved.

mydeimos had his first experience with assassination when he was only six years old. in the comforts of his own home, the palace built to shelter and care for him — it was nothing but a playground for the men who wanted his head. no royal guard nor his own mother could ever prepare for the visceral image of a child plunging a spear straight into mydeimos’s chest as if he were nothing but a sewing doll in need of a repair. 

mydeimos remembered the fury in his mother’s eyes, the way she gripped the spear in her arsenal in white anger as she lifted you by the collar and off the ground. her voice carried unfiltered war as every word that spilled from her tongue all aimed to kill—just as you did with her only son. mydeimos did not care that he got stabbed; in his head, he was far more curious about what prompted someone your age to drive a blade straight through his heart. 

you were sentenced to death not even a day later. in the cold cells of the palace dungeons where you lay to rot, mydeimos visited in the dead of night—in secret, away from the guards, his mother and father who wanted you dead for harming him. you never spoke, just nodded your head whenever the prince asked questions. he brought you food and water and stories; he even sang you the ballads he heard on the streets of castrum kremnos to keep you entertained. most baffling of all, he delayed your execution for as long as he could. mydeimos began acting up—causing trouble within the palace that no one ever expected. even his mother, who proudly exclaimed she knew him best, could not wrap her head around her son’s strange behavior.

on the seventh month of your delayed death, you finally spoke.

“why do you keep me alive?”

you would never forget the shimmer of intrigue that glazed over the suns in his eyes. he opened and closed his mouth, his mind racing with a million thoughts before he settled on one reply, though it didn’t quell the burning curiosity that had begun to pile up since you were escorted to your death.

“i wanted to know your name.”

“that’s it…?” your baffled expression caused the prince to grin. he stepped forward and gripped the bars that separated you both, his eyes shining with a fervent determination befitting of a warrior. 

“tell me your name before you go.”

before you die, is what he meant. and in the bizarre situation you were in, you couldn’t fight the urge to laugh—so you did. warm and comforting, the complete opposite of the presence you had brought since your first attempt to end mydeimos’ life. 

he stood in front of you, motionless and curious—enchanted—by the timbre of your momentary joy. out of instinct, he reached out to push the stray hairs that obscured his view of your eyes. they were dull, unsuitable for someone your age, and yet, your smile all but made up for the lack of life your eyes had.

you were a killer, but mydeimos never realized you would be warm to touch.

mydeimos wished he held you sooner, cradled your bruised face and helped you nurse the wounds from those relentless guards. instead of prolonging your demise for an arduous seven months, he should’ve broken the lock and helped you escape. for titan’s sake, mydeimos learned the definition of eloping because of you. 

“prince mydeimos,” you called to him like a siren. even with the heavy golden chains locking your wrists in a painful position, you still had enough strength to find him in the crowd and smile. “come find me in the next cycle of metamorphosis.”

the son of gorgo did not care for philosophy nor the strange beliefs of the after life. but when you looked at him with eyes of regret and hope, mydeimos pressed his open palm to where you had struck him and bowed.

“i’ll find you—i promise.”

as mydeimos grew older and his path to exile grew clearer and clearer, his duty of finding allies to aid him in battle loomed like an impending shadow. in this ten year long journey back home, he needed pillars of support to keep his foundation—his will to continue—from crumbling to dust.

he already had hephaestion, who loved to tease him for his choice of drinks. though his figure was scrawny, it didn’t equate to his brilliance on the battlefield. then there was perdikkas, who knew all there was to medicine. he was the first to chastise the rest for not being careful and getting so many injuries. leonnius was their trusty messenger, always quick to get on his feet and run through the battlefields, while ptolemy was their guide, akin to something like a teacher with his vast knowledge from mydeimos’ library. and when the nights grew cold and a longing for home crashed into them like a vehement storm, peucesta would sing them a song about glory and homecoming with his mysterious voice.

mydeimos was surrounded by people who would not hesitate to lay down their lives for him. something he was eternally grateful for but dreaded more with every body that began to fall in this wayward path to home. even when his pillars began to crack and collapse one by one, mydeimos could not spare even a single moment to grieve their deaths. hephaestion’s passing in particular was a fatal blow no weapon could ever hope to inflict. it was right in front of him, and yet for the second time, he failed to reach out and actually help. 

on the eve of his duel with the wretched king of kremnos, hephaestion layon his deathbed. even with perdikkas’ knowledge in medicine, his death could not be avoided, and it frustrated mydeimos to no end. how much more? how many deaths and blood must be used as a sacrifice for what everyone called“the greater good”? wouldthis prophecy really bring them to peace or just more destruction?

“mydeimos, our king… do not shed tears for me. it’s not befitting of your status.”

statuses be damned, you’re dying! he wanted to cry out. no one, not a single soul nor the writings on the wall could ever judge mydeimos for grieving—they had no right. what use would the title of “king” be if he could not even raise the palace gates to shield all that is precious to him? why wield the spear if it’s only meant to harm?  

the son of gorgo will bathe in a crown of blood.

how true that prophecy has come to life. 

“i know you’re there, assassin.”

a blade, dripping with carnelian waters, was pointed right at his throat. if he was not stricken by grief, mydeimos would be overjoyed that you had remembered his promise. but your very presence now reminded him of another failure: he was supposed to be the one to find you, not the other way around, and most certainly not with you planning to take his life again.

“i had hoped our second meeting would be more favorable.” your voice came as nothing but a dejected murmur. “i’m sorry, mydeimos.”

his fists clenched in anger as he turned to you. his eyes were no longer curious or bright—the shine of childhood had been replaced by the ruthlessness of strife. “have my wretched father and his council sent you to kill me? what a cruel coincidence it is that it’s you again, of all people.”

his voice dripped with venom that could kill, but you saw past it. you hadlearned from your past mistakes as you dropped the blade to the ground with a loud clatter, circling your arms around his shoulders. you embraced him as if it’d be your last chance—it may very well be. but mydeimos had only just learned about the ugliness of the world, he could not bring himself to reciprocate.

“kill me.” your voice, whispered in his ear like a plea, had his eyes widening and stance tensing. “escape into the night, prepare for your final battle, and leave. just leave, mydeimos.”

“for how long must we endure the failure of the gods?” he asked between ragged breaths. 

“until one by one, they fall—until there is a world where no one cages us between the fingertips of fate.” you pulled away, and mydeimos wanted nothing more than to pull you back into his arms—to indulge in short-lived comfort of you cradling his face as if he were just a man. “mydeimos, men are wretched things — but not you. never you.”

“what a foolish thing to say. i am the most wretched of them all.”

“not to me.”

he sucked in a breath and gripped your hand like a lifeline, “must you go, too?”

you only smiled and nodded. mydeimos carefully picked up the blade from the ground with quivering hands—if he were in the presence of his father, he would’ve belittled him for hesitating. but this was you—the reason for his lifelong regret. was it such a crime to make your death peaceful?

as if sensing his hesitation, your hands gently guided the blade and aimed it at your heart. even in such a grim moment, you still found a reason to joke. “i guess we’re even now.”

mydeimos snorted in dark amusement as blood began to pool where he was slowly pressing the blade. “the next time we meet, you better not try to kill me again.”

his voice was small, a far cry from the lion that wreaked havoc on the battlefield. “there was mydeimos, before the son of gorgo. may we meet again, in the next cycle of metamorphosis.”

you still smiled, even when you dimmed and lost life. even when the colors on your face began to fade into a dark red and when your lifeless body dropped straight into his arms, you smiled. 

“may we meet again, in the next cycle of metamorphosis.”

the son of gorgo will be bathed in a crown of blood.

every man on amphoreus knew of the fate that beheld mydei’s existence. but very few actually knew that this was not all. there was a second prophecy, something more personal than claiming the title of strife.

and an assassin from a faraway land will find him in every lifetime.

you were not a ghost that haunted his every waking breath, you were his shadow. a companion in both life and death—inseparable by mortal cycles but a cruel prisoner to time and fate. mydei could not count the amount of times he had met you in his journey. 

when you tried to kill him in his own home, he broke the rules and helped you survive for seven months. when your blood had been spilled on white marble floors, everyone celebrated, but not him. he escaped into the dead of night, and in the middle of an abandoned outpost for warriors, he created a small monument for you. every night, for as long as his fate would allow it, he would visit—recounting stories from the battlefield, laying down pomegranate juice and snacks, and even putting flowers he thought you would like. 

the second attempt to take his life ended with you laying limp in his arms inside a cramped room where hephaestion lay on his bed. two deaths in one night— it was incomparable to the bloodshed he had seen in the battle for power, but it didn’t lessen the heavy weight that dragged his heart into the river of styx where you both waited. he wondered that night, if he had plunged your blade into his chest and traveled to thanatos’ domain, would he find the two of you there and be given the challenge? exchange his apathy for you both to drag you back to the overworld? mydei concluded he would not survive it if he were. what great punishment it was, to fall deaf to your voice.

on the third, you were no more than a civilian caught in the flames of war. he hadn’t had the chance to approach, not when you held a newborn in your arms and another man cradled you for comfort. and for the first time in his search for you, mydei's weakness had been exploited for all of amphoreus to see. somehow, in some way, he was always too late—just at arm’s length to finally catch up to you. he protected your family that day, even though deep down he knew you would die again in a matter of seconds.

the fourth was no better. you were still an assassin out to claim his head. the outcome of that reunion ended with you stabbing yourself to avoid more blood on mydei’s hands. you were angry at him in this lifetime of yours; you cursed him for always failing, and he did nothing but agree with you. that was the first time he ever saw you cry. mydei held you as you were dying. whispered promises to do better next time, and you could only bitterly laugh as you admitted to your exhaustion. you were tired of your reincarnating, but when faced with the option to forget him, you declined without a second thought. 

“mydeimos? is something the matter?” your voice rang in the room like soft bells of union on an eternal afternoon. mydei only huffed in amusement, turning away from the balcony view to find you at the door. you still looked the same—hair, eyes, build, and stance, you were still you, despite all that your soul had endured just to reunite with him. 

“it’s nothing to worry about,” he dismissed, sparing one last glance over okhema’s city before he approached.

you frowned in response, crossing your arms over your chest. the bracer on your forearm gleaming with its blue gem, served as a reminder that you were finally his. “don’t play dumb with me, mydeimos. we talked about this.”

“and how many times have i told you? i’m fine.” his hand rested casually on your hip, rubbing comforting circles as you sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose and letting the topic go. 

“lady aglaea is looking for you.”

he tilted his head in a teasing manner as a grin stretched from his lips, “oh? and here i thought you just missed me.”

you rolled your eyes and broke free from his hold, making your way to the door and looking back at him with playful eyes. “not after wreaking havoc in janusopolis. i bet lady aglaea is going to scold you for doing something so reckless.”

“how cruel of you to let your husband get scolded.”

another roll of your eyes, but mydei caught a glimpse of a bright smile on your lips. “relax, a simple scolding will not kill you.”

he huffed in amusement but nonetheless followed you to meet aglaea. onlookers stared shamelessly, but mydei did not care—he even dared to wrap a protective arm around your waist, tugging you closer to his side until you reached marmoreal palace. you sighed in amusement as he puffed up his chest like a lion when you leaned closer and indulged in his possessiveness. 

“mydeimos, just to remind you,” the man in question frowned in disappointment when you broke free from his hold and pushed him in the direction of aglaea, “don’t use the word ‘husband’ willy-nilly. you’ll give someone a heart attack if you do.”

“and why shouldn’t i? don’t i deserve that title?”  he asked, something akin to a pout graced his lips.

you shook your head in amusement, cradling his cheek as he nuzzled his face further into your palm like a cat. “you do deserve it, mydeimos. but not everyone should have the pleasure of hearing it.” you stood on your toes, lips brushing against his ear as you reminded him: “you’re still mine, and i’m not fond of sharing.”

mydei’s eyes widened as you pressed a quick kiss on his cheek and went your merry way back to your temporary quarters. an armored hand grazed the spot where your lips landed, and he barked out a quiet laugh.

that’s right, mydeimos belonged to you and you alone—in this lifetime or the next. 

© vxnuslogy 2024. do not plagiarize, repost, or translate any of my works without my knowledge or consent in other platforms or websites.

[ssa-danhotchner]

Not alone | Aaron Hotchner x reader

summary: after Hotch recklessly risks his life, reader confronts him, refusing to let him self-destruct.

cw: 5x02, BAU reader, fem!reader, secret relationship, Hotch risking his life, Haley and Jack mentioned,

wc: 1.3k

note: watching these episodes is physically painful

The night was thick with tension, the red and blue lights from the police cruisers casting stark shadows on the pavement. Officers moved around the crime scene, speaking in low voices, their radios crackling with static.

But all you could hear was the ringing in your ears.

Your breath was shallow, your heartbeat erratic as your eyes locked onto Aaron Hotchner—the man who had just walked into a suspect’s house alone with no vest, no backup, no protection. The man who had barely made it out alive.

The BAU had been chasing Darren Call, a spree killer suffering from severe dissociative episodes. The man had snapped in a pharmacy, shooting down multiple people before vanishing into the city. The team had pieced together his traumatic childhood—his abusive father, the trigger that had set him off—but nothing had prepared you for what had just happened.

Hotch had ignored protocol.

Despite barely recovering from Foyet’s brutal attack. Despite the fact that he was still suffering from stab wounds, his body slow to heal. Despite the fact that just days ago, he had lost everything—Haley and Jack disappearing into witness protection, leaving him with nothing but a hollow house and the weight of a shattered life.

He had gone in alone.

And you had been forced to listen to it all over the comms.

The gunshots. The scuffle. The deafening silence.

The fear had nearly broken you.

Now, as he stood among the local officers, giving orders like nothing had happened, something inside you snapped.

Your feet moved before your brain could catch up.

“Hotch.”

Your voice cut through the noise, sharp, trembling with suppressed emotion.

He turned, his expression unreadable—but his eyes flickered with something beneath the surface. Something you recognized.

Weariness.

Pain.

Guilt.

But it wasn’t enough to douse the anger simmering inside you.

“We need to talk,” you ground out, barely keeping your voice steady.

Hotch exhaled through his nose, glancing around. He was hyper-aware of the team nearby—Morgan, Prentiss, and Rossi watching from a distance, concern evident on their faces. You could feel their eyes on you, but you didn’t care.

“Inside the SUV,” he said quietly.

You spun on your heel, stalking toward the black vehicle parked by the curb. The moment the doors shut behind you, the dam broke.

“What the hell were you thinking?”

His jaw tensed. “(Y/N)—”

“No,” you snapped, your voice cracking with barely contained rage. “You don’t get to brush this off. You went in there alone, Hotch. No vest. No backup. You were nearly killed.”

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I had to—”

“You had to?” You let out a humorless laugh, hands shaking. “That’s bullshit. We had a plan. We were supposed to wait for backup. But you—you just walked in like your life doesn’t even matter anymore.”

His silence was deafening.

Your breath hitched as the truth slammed into you. “Oh my God.” You swallowed hard, your eyes stinging. “That’s what this is, isn’t it?”

Hotch finally looked at you, his expression blank. But his eyes—his eyes—told a different story.

“You don’t care if you live or die.”

His flinch was almost imperceptible, but you caught it.

You felt your stomach drop.

“This isn’t just about the case,” you whispered, your voice softer now, laced with something raw. “It’s about Foyet. About Haley and Jack.”

His gaze flickered, his control fracturing for the first time.

Your throat tightened. “They’re gone, and you’re acting like you have nothing left to lose.”

Hotch clenched his jaw, his breathing shallow. “That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?” You wiped at your cheek, furious to find it damp with tears. “Because that’s sure as hell what it feels like. You’re throwing yourself into danger without thinking. You’re acting like—like your life doesn’t matter.”

His lips parted slightly, but no words came out.

Because you were right.

And it terrified you.

Your voice dropped to a whisper, barely audible above the pounding of your heart. “Do you even realize what it was like to sit there, listening to you risk your life and not being able to do a damn thing about it?”

Something inside him cracked.

Hotch exhaled sharply, running a hand down his face, his exhaustion bleeding through. “I don’t know how else to do this,” he admitted, his voice hoarse.

The confession made your chest tighten.

You reached for his hand before you could stop yourself, your fingers curling around his. His skin was warm, his grip hesitant—but he didn’t pull away.

“You don’t have to do it alone,” you whispered. “I know you lost them. I know it feels like everything is falling apart. But you still have people who care about you. People who need you.” You swallowed hard. “I need you.”

His breath hitched.

You had never said it out loud before.

Not like this.

His fingers tightened around yours, grounding both of you. His shoulders trembled slightly, as if he were barely keeping himself together.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then, barely above a whisper—

“I’m sorry.”

The words were raw, almost broken.

Your eyes stung, but you nodded, squeezing his hand. “Just—be more careful,” you murmured. “Please.”

The moment was fragile, delicate—like a thread stretched too thin, threatening to snap.

Hotch’s fingers were still curled around yours, warm and solid despite the way his whole body seemed to tremble beneath the weight of everything he refused to say.

“I will,” he had promised.

But you knew it wasn’t that simple.

You sighed, your grip on his hand tightening. “Hotch, listen to me,” you said softly, your voice steady despite the storm still raging inside you. “I know you think you have to carry this alone. That it’s all on you. But it’s not.”

He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he looked away, his jaw clenched like he was trying to hold himself together.

You shook your head. “You don’t have to be okay right now. You don’t have to pretend. I know you’re hurting—I know that losing Haley and Jack like this is killing you.”

His breath hitched, and his fingers twitched against yours.

“But you still have people who care about you,” you continued, voice unwavering. “You still have me.”

His head turned sharply at that, his dark eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered, your free hand reaching up, hesitating just for a second before cupping his face gently. Your thumb brushed along the faint bruise near his cheekbone—the one that hadn’t quite faded from Foyet’s attack.

His eyes fluttered shut at the touch, his exhale shaky.

“I don’t care how long it takes, or how hard it gets,” you murmured. “I’m here, Aaron. I’ll be here every step of the way.”

His name—his real name—fell from your lips like a secret, a reminder that despite the walls he built, you saw him. The man beneath the armor. The man who carried the weight of the world but never let anyone carry him.

His hands shifted, one moving to your thigh, the other hesitantly settling over your wrist where you still cupped his face, as if grounding himself.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he admitted, voice rough and raw.

You smiled softly, blinking back the sting of tears. “You don’t have to know how. You just have to let me in.”

For a moment, he said nothing. Just sat there, his thumb absently brushing over your skin as if memorizing the feel of you.

Then, in the smallest, quietest voice—one you weren’t sure you were meant to hear—

“I don’t deserve you.”

The words shattered something in you.

You moved instinctively, closing the space between you, pressing your forehead against his. “Don’t say that,” you whispered fiercely. “Don’t ever say that.”

His breath was warm against your lips, his body still tense, but his grip on you didn’t loosen. If anything, he held you tighter.

“You deserve to be happy, Hotch. You deserve to be loved,” you said, your voice thick with emotion. “And I love you.”

His breath hitched again, his whole body going rigid for a heartbeat.

You felt it before you saw it—the way his walls started to crumble, the way the weight of everything began to settle over him.

He didn’t say it back. Not yet.

But when he finally leaned into you, his forehead pressed against yours, his hands clutching onto you like a lifeline—

It was enough.

For now, it was enough.

And you weren’t going anywhere.

---

[persevereforahappyending]

A Legacies Secret |14|

Pairing: Tara Carpenter x Reader

Summary: You just wanted a happy life with your girlfriend but then Ghostface attacks, revealing long thought to be buried family secrets.

Warnings: Canon Typical Violence, Stabbing, Attempted Murder, Murder, Death, Blood, Gun shots

Word Count: 3.2k+

Main Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15

You sat emotionless on the hospital bed as the doctor finished stitching up your shoulder. They had done the wound on your side first, the doctor said you got lucky, the knife had just barely missed your ribs. Luckily it only hurt when you breathed or moved. You let out a hiss as the doctor did his last stitch. He smiled at you and told you when to come back to get the stitches out, not that you really heard him, you couldn’t stop replaying what happened in your head, you couldn’t stop seeing Dewey’s face.

You looked down when you felt a squeeze on your hand, then lifted your gaze to see Tara watching you with a worried expression. You wanted to offer her a smile, something to comfort her, to show you were okay, but you couldn’t even manage that. She stood up as best as she could with her crutches and carefully wrapped her arm around you. You just let your head drop to her shoulder, you didn’t even have it in you to break down. The only good thing to come from the attack was that Ghostface didn’t touch Tara, he didn’t get her again, you kept him away long enough, that was the one thing you actually did right. You couldn’t protect Dewey, you couldn’t run to his aid, but you saved Tara, you were just trying to hold onto that, you weren’t a complete failure at least.

Tara leaned back, caressing your face as she stared into your eyes. “What’s going through your head?” she asked softly.

The death of the father you just learned about. That’s all that was going through your mind. The death of the man who gave you chance after chance, the guy who finally smacked sense into you and made you get your shit together.

“Can we just get the fuck out of here?” You asked.

Tara nodded and sat back down in her wheelchair, laying her crutches across her lap. You got behind the wheelchair and began to push her out the door despite her protests that you could rip open your stitches already. When the two of you got to the waiting room you saw Sam talking to Gale and some other woman. When Gale’s eyes landed on you, she pushed past Sam to make her way towards you and Tara.

“Are you okay?” Gale asked as soon as she was close enough. “I’m so sorry, I-”

“Just stop,” you said harshly. You didn’t miss the way Gale flinched, you just didn’t care, just like you didn’t care that her eyes were red, she probably just stopped crying not too long ago. “Don’t pretend to care.”

“I do care,” she said softly.

“Well, I don’t, so if you don’t mind, we’re getting the fuck out of here.”

“What?” The woman who had been standing with Gale and Sam asked. “You can’t just leave. Look, you’ve been through a lot recently,” she flicked a glance at Gale. “I can’t imagine what you must be feeling, but I do know what it’s like to be targeted by this asshole.” That’s when it clicked for you, this wasn’t some random woman, it was Sidney Prescott. “We could really use your help taking him down.”

“Fuck that,” you shook your head. “Sorry, but no. This,” you gestured around the room. “Isn’t about me. So, I’m taking Tara and we’re getting the hell out of here.”

“Okay,” Sidney nodded. “Be careful.”

“Thank you.” You looked at Sam who seemed conflicted. “You’re welcome to join us,” you directed at her. “Your Tara’s sister after all.”

“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” Sam said instantly. She texted Richie to pull the car up.

You were sure Sam had the same thought as you, now that Tara got attacked twice there was no way she’d stay in town. Sam might not have been your favorite person, but you weren’t about to keep Tara from her sister, especially if Sam was actually willing to stick around this time.

“Alright let’s get the fuck out of this town,” Richie said as he pulled up. You rolled your eyes as he quickly started apologizing to Gale and Sidney.

You glared at Richie when he tried to take over helping Tara, but he quickly let go of the wheelchair and backed up. “I’ll get the bags?” He said it more like a question as he took Tara’s crutches and backpack to sit in the back seat.

Tara gave you a disapproving look, but you caught the small smile on her face. She might not have been happy with you straining yourself already, but she appreciated it. As gently as you could you wrapped one arm around her and helped her slide into the back seat. You spared Gale and Sidney one last glance as they finished talking to Sam.

You were pressed against the door on the right side in the backseat to give Tara as much room as she needed to stretch out her injured leg. As much as you would have loved to be on the other side of her, with her leaning on you, that was her injured side.

“What’s wrong?” You asked when you noticed Tara searching her backpack in a panic.

“What’s going on?” Sam asked, glancing back from the passenger seat.

“I can’t find my inhaler,” Tara said. Her breathing was already getting shallow at simply the idea of not having her inhaler.

“Can we stop somewhere?” You couldn’t blame Sam, the last thing you wanted to do was turn around. You wanted to get out of town as quick as possible and stop somewhere outside of town if you could.

“I need a prescription,” Tara shook her head.

“There’s a spare at my place,” you offered. You always kept a spare inhaler at your place, you never wanted anything to happen when Tara was staying the night or if she was at your apartment alone while she waited for you to get off work or come back with dinner.

“That’s on the opposite side of town. Wait,” her eyes snapped up. “Amber, I have another spare at Ambers.” You wanted to roll your eyes but even you had to admit Amber's place was more convenient, it was actually on the way out of town.

“No, no way,” Richie said, shaking his head. As much as you didn’t want to stop you knew how much Tara needed her inhaler.

“It’s on the way.”

Richie started to shake his head until his eyes landed on Sam. “Please?” She pleaded. “She needs it.”

“Fuck it, where does Amber live?”

A few minutes after Tara gave Richie the address, he was pulling up outside Amber’s house. You helped Tara out of the car and handed her her crutches, making sure to stand close by as you made your way to the front door, which was wide open. Amber was having a party, typical, of course she’d have a party when a psycho was on the loose.

Tara entered the house instantly after Richie and Sam, you couldn’t help but hesitate at the door. You knew where Amber lived because you had picked up and dropped Tara off multiple times, but you had never been in her house. With Ghostface looming in the darkness you couldn’t help but be on edge as you slowly stepped into the house.

You lingered in the background watching as Tara talked to Amber. You furrowed your brow when Amber started yelling that the party was over, Amber wasn’t usually the type to end a party early, especially one she was throwing. You then watched as Tara followed Amber, as everyone else in the house slowly filed their way out the front door.

You waited in the entryway with Sam, having no desire to wander around Amber’s house. Richie wandered off towards the kitchen, saying he was going to find something to drink. You just leaned back against the door and waited for Tara to come back while watching Sam pace back and forth.

You pulled out your phone when you felt it start to vibrate, you furrowed your brow for a second when you saw it was Gale calling you. You ignored the initial confusion and tapped to decline the call with an eyeroll. Almost as soon as you hung up on Gale Sam pulled out her phone.

“Who is it?” you asked.

“Unknown,” she said, holding up her phone for you to see.

“If it’s Gale hang up.”

Sam raised an eyebrow at your request but swiped to answer the call. “How do you know where I am?” Sam asked whoever was on the phone making you furrow your brow.

“Who is it?” you whispered.

Sam’s eyes widened at whatever the person on the phone was saying. Then she took off, yelling up the stairs for Tara. “What’s going on?” you grabbed her by the shoulder and spun her around.

“We’re in Stu Macher’s house,” Sam said. Your eyes went wide as soon as she said the name. Your eyes started darting around the house, you knew Tara lost her inhaler but there was no way all of you ended up at Stu Macher’s old house was a coincidence.

You stuck closely to Sam as she went around the house searching for Richie until the both of you ended up in the living room. “Holy shit,” you said when you saw Mindy bleeding out on the ground.

Sam instantly ran to Mindy’s side, pressing her hands against the wound. “Do something!” she yelled.

You nodded, your fingers stumbling as you grabbed your phone to call for help. You had just brought the phone to your ear when Tara and Amber came into the room. “What did you do?” Amber yelled, running over to Sam and Mindy, making Sam back away from Mindy.

“We found her like that,” Sam defended.

“Oh my god!” Richie said as he came into the room. You narrowed your eyes; you and Sam had gone through the entire bottom floor of the house and didn’t see him anywhere.

“Where were you?” you asked.

“The basement.”

“Alone?” Sam asked.

“Tara and I were together, but all of you are suspects!” Amber said, cutting off whatever Richie was going to say to defend himself.

“I was with Sam,” you said. “You’re the only one unaccounted for,” you looked at Richie.

“You and Sam together isn’t really a solid alibi,” Amber snapped. “Maybe you’re both the killer.”

Everyone continued arguing back and forth until Liv came into the room, hands raised and covered in blood as tears streamed down her face, smudging her mascara. “Liv,” you said slowly. “Why are you covered in blood?”

“I-I-” Liv sobbed. “I-I found Chad.” You could swear everyone held in their breath as you waited for what Liv was going to say next. “He-he was stabbed.”

“You’re the killer,” Richie said.

“I’m not the killer.”

“You’re the killer,” Amber repeated what Richie said.

“Amber, I’m not the fucking killer!” Liv snapped, tears still falling from her eyes.

“I know,” Amber said emotionlessly.

The next thing you knew Amber pulled out a gun and fired a bullet right between Liv’s eyes. She instantly pointed the gun at Sam, but Tara dropped one of her crutches and grabbed Amber’s hand, making the bullet go into the wall. While Amber was occupied Richie grabbed Sam’s hand and dragged her out of the room.

You ran towards Amber and Tara but as soon as you pulled Amber off Tara, she stabbed you in the gut, giving you a twisted smile. You heard Tara scream your name as you collapsed to the floor. You pushed yourself up and began to scoot back away from Amber, Tara was clinging onto her arm, making her unable to aim the gun still in her hand.

Amber whipped her hand back, knocking Tara into the wall. Amber raised her gun at you but as quickly as you could you crawled to the side of the couch, ducking as a few bullets entered the couch just above your heard. You pressed your hand to your new stab wound as you listened for more shots.

You weren’t sure how long you waited, it felt like seconds, but you were sure it had been longer than that when you realized you didn’t hear gunshots anymore, you didn’t hear anything. You risked peeking your head out to see Amber was gone, as well as Tara. You gripped the back of the couch, trying to use it to help pull yourself to your feet. As soon as you were standing someone appeared in the doorway, aiming a gun right at your head. You raised one blood hand, keeping the other on the wound as you stared down the barrel of a gun held by Sidney Prescott.

“It’s Amber,” you said, your eyes unable to leave the gun still pointed at you.

“I know,” Sidney said. “Stay here.” She gave you one last suspicious look before slowly making her way up the stairs.

You don’t know how long you stood there, leaning against the couch, you closed your eyes, meaning to just focus on your breathing but when you opened them again Amber was standing in front of you. You didn’t have time to process what was happening before Amber held her knife to your throat and shoved you in the direction of the kitchen.

When you stumbled into the kitchen you saw Gale, nursing a wound of her own, and Sidney already there. A couple seconds later Richie came in, shoving Sam to the ground. You grabbed Sam’s arm, quickly helping her to her feet and pulling her back towards the counter.

Richie and Amber looked at each other smiling, before pulling each other into a kiss. Richie kept his gun pointed at Sam while Amber dropped her knife to her side, the second Sidney tried to get around them though Amber broke the kiss and stabbed Sidney in the side.

You should have seen all this coming, you never liked Amber and Richie was suspicious from the moment you met him. You never imagined they would be in it together though, and definitely never could have imagined them dating. You always assumed Amber had a thing for Tara and was jealous of you.

“Why are you doing this?” Sidney asked.

“Because the latest sequel to Stab sucked!” Richie snapped.

You lifted your eyes to look at him, you were hoping you were bleeding out and a consequence was hard of hearing, there was no way these two assholes killed a bunch of people all because they were pissed about a movie.

“Richie and I met online,” Amber said, smiling up at him. “We quickly realized we shared similar ideas.”

“Didn’t take us long to come up with our own movie,” Richie said. “Wasn’t hard to find you in Modesto,” he shrugged, looking at Sam. “But you,” he pointed his knife at you. “You were a surprise.”

“But you can find out anything if you dig deep enough,” Amber said. “It’s a small town, secrets aren’t exactly secret,” she chuckled. “One whisper of someone saying Gale Weathers was in town,” she looked at Gale. “And didn’t take much after that. Going back,” she nodded to herself. “Your old interviews, your old episodes, it was clear something was off.”

“So, what’s the plan?” Sam asked. “Kill everyone? Make me your little hero?”

Richie burst out laughing at Sam’s suggestion. “Oh, you’re serious?” he said, clearing his throat. “Oh, sweetheart, you’re the villain, he gave her a devilish smile.

“Think about it!” Amber screamed; her eyes wide with excitement like you had never seen before. “What better movie is there? The secret daughter of the original mastermind,” she pointed her knife at Sam.

“And the secret daughter of two of the original survivors,” Richie continued, his smile matching Amber’s.

“Lied to her entire life,” Richie said, taunting Sam. “Until she discovered the truth,” he gestured with his hand at Sam, a glimmer in his eye. “And decided to exact her revenge.”

“Thrown away like trash, abandoned, never to be thought of again,” Amber continued, looking you directly in the eye. “Then learns the truth,” she smiled, pointing her knife at you. “And decides to get revenge.”

“It’s a revenge story!” Amber squealed. She actually did a little jump, as if she were giddy about the idea of you and Sam teaming up to kill a bunch of people. “Agh! It’s so good!”

“You’re insane,” Gale said.

“No!” Amber whipped around, raising her knife as if she were going to stab Gale again. “We’re fans! We just want to save the movie that inspired us.”

“You’re crazy,” Gale shook her head.

“And you’re a bad mother.” The next thing you knew a knife was shoved in your side. You lifted your head, opening your mouth only to cough up blood. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this,” Amber whispered, twisting the knife that was still in you. “After we rid ourselves of you and Sam,” she wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Tara will be all mine.”

Despite your current situation you laughed, you couldn’t help it, Amber said the funniest thing in the world after all. “You really are crazy,” you rasped out, coughing up a bit more blood in the process. “Tara will never love you.” You made sure to stare Amber directly in the eye as the words left your mouth, the consequences be damned.

Amber let out what you could only describe as a snarl before pulling the knife out only to shove it back in again, and again, and again. You started gurgling on the blood in your mouth, you weren’t sure when you lost count of how many times Amber stabbed you. When she finally stepped away you just collapsed to the floor.

You were only partially aware of the others trying to come to your aid, only to be met with a knife or a gun to their head. You tried to pull yourself to your feet but as soon as you got up on wobbly legs a sharp pain ripped through your knee, sending your straight back to the floor. Your hand went to your knee, instantly being met with the wet stickiness of blood. You rolled over, holding your knee, your eyes pinched shut, you didn’t even have it in you to scream.

When you opened your eyes, you were instantly met with a gun in your face. Amber let out a scoff and walked away. You weren’t sure what happened after that, you decided maybe just bleeding out on the floor was the best-case scenario. You saw blurry figures going back and forth, you were in and out of consciousness, every time you blinked it took you longer to open your eyes again, you could barely hear the muffled sounds of what you assumed was the others fighting.

Everything was silent, you could barely keep your eyes open, you just wanted to close them and rest. You felt a weight hit your chest, forcing you to open your eyes again. You could just barely make out the blurry image of Tara, it almost looked like she was crying, you weren’t sure why, she was safe, she was alive, there was nothing to be sad about. You saw her lips moving but couldn’t hear the words she was saying. Tara’s face was the last thing you saw before everything finally went black.

Taglist: @r-3-becca