#what always takes my breath is that they sit with this grief. and priest too forces us to sit with it.

[sirenofthegreenbanks]

zhiji. zhiyin.

moments since then--

i wanted / the past to go away /

i've been looking for places where silence means peace

i wanted to leave it, like another country;

and not loneliness, because i've spent enough time

i wanted / my life to close, and open / like a hinge, like a wing, like the part of the song / where it falls /

tell me about despair, yours,

down over the rocks: an explosion, a discovery; /

and i will tell you mine. / meanwhile the world goes on. / meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain are moving across the landscapes, /

i wanted /

over the prairies and the deep trees, / the mountains and rivers. / meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air, are heading home again.

to hurry into the work of my life; i wanted to know, whoever i was, i was /

tell me about despair, yours, and i will tell you mine. / meanwhile the world goes on.

alive /

i've been looking for places where silence means peace and not loneliness

for a little while.

"Moments since then" (from 'Places I’ve Taken My Body: Essays' by Molly McCully Brown, source); "I wanted the past to go away" (from 'Dogfish' by Mary Oliver, source); "Tell me about despair, yours, and i will tell you mine" (from 'Wild Geese' by Mary Oliver, source)

TYK excerpts under the cut:

"Close friends that can completely understand each other" ('Story about Zhiyin', from the wikipedia article of Bo Ya, source); "I thought you said you intended to live and die with me, Part 1/2" (TYK, Ch.46, tl. wenbuxing); "Luckily, I haven't fallen deeply in love with you yet." (TYK, Ch.29, tl. lianzi); "Does it hurt?" (TYK, Ch.45, tl. wenbuxing); "I thought you said you intended to live and die with me, Part 2/2" (TYK, Ch.46, tl. wenbuxing); "To feel a closeness to a friend or a loved one despite being seperated by a great distance" (from the idiom definition of "海內存知己，天涯若比鄰", wiktionary article, source)

[rhysiana]

Organizing various unfinished cdrama writings this morning and found this in my drafts, which I like a lot more as a standalone snippet than I thought:

Wangji comes to sit with him sometimes. Wangji is very good at silence; always has been, better than Xichen, though his silence never felt particularly serene. Xichen thinks he understands now. He has gotten much better at silence, and he is not serene.

He is still the one to break it, though. It’s been long enough since he last spoke aloud that his voice scrapes out of his throat, rough and ugly and broken. It seems fitting. “You must have hated me so much. All those years when he was dead, and I had them. For me to be happy while you were buried under so much grief.”

Wangji’s spine stiffens in surprise next to him, something that would have been a flinch in anyone else. He continues to stare out into the garden, but his fingers disappear into his sleeves like they have since he was a child, clenching where no one can see.

“No,” he says, firm, definite. “I did not begrudge xiongzhang his happiness.” He pauses to take a breath, slow and measured. “I was angry with the world, though. That it continued when he did not. As if he never mattered.”

Xichen should say that he is happy Wei Wuxian has been returned to his brother, against all odds. He doesn’t.

Silence descends again. Eventually, Wangji leaves.

***

At first, Xichen thinks the man on the path at the edge of his garden must be Wen Qionglin, but on second glance, he is too tall, too slender, too… elegant. Still a fierce corpse, though.

The man bows in apology and turns to head back down the path. Xichen racks his brain for who this might be, a fierce corpse incongruously dressed as a priest, and memory snags on a pile of confused night hunt reports from the juniors in the days before everything fell apart.

“Song Zichen?” he tries. It comes out dry and quiet. It’s been too long since he spoke, again. A bad habit.

The other man turns back, bows in acknowledgement this time.

“Would you like some tea?” Xichen asks, surprising himself.

Song Zichen quirks half a wry smile.

Xichen curses his uncharacteristic lapse in tact. Truly, he must have been away from people for too long now. He’s not wholly sure he regrets it.

He tries again. “Ah… or just to sit?” He gestures out at the garden, where a few fireflies have started to blink in and out over the flowers.

Song Zichen considers him for a moment, then inclines his head and comes to sit on the edge of the porch. He arranges himself with care, a perfect straight-backed meditation posture Xichen has seen in other temple-raised visitors who have come to consult the Gusu Lan libraries. Then he reaches into his sleeve and draws forth a spirit pouch, very white against the black and gray of his robes, and places it reverently in his lap. He looks at Xichen to see if he understands.

Xichen feels tears well in his eyes and blinks them away as he resettles himself on the other side of the porch. They sit there in twin silence, two men in love with ghosts, watching the fireflies long into the night.

***

I think our founder was wrong, he writes. He has to keep butterfly messages short, but he finds he doesn’t have much to say these days anyway. We should not have turned to cultivation in the world. Staying apart is better.

Song Zichen’s reply is over a week in coming, a letter written in excruciatingly careful calligraphy. Xichen remembers long, almost delicate fingers handling the spirit pouch and wonders how difficult such dexterity is for a fierce corpse.

Not better, just easier, he has written.

The blunt brevity startles Xichen into a laugh.

***

Doesn’t withdrawal from the world help us on the path toward immortality? Xichen returns, days or possibly weeks later, he no longer keeps track.

It can. Song Zichen had, of course, spent years traveling with a disciple of Baoshan Sanren. He should know. But should immortality really be considered an end goal? What will you do after achieving it, if you have no more attachment to the world?

Xichen can think of no reply to this startling question.

[Now also on AO3]

[samstree]

for the drabble thing: “you weren’t there”

maybe post mountain geraskier? i’m in an angsty mood rn but whatever you wanna write will be good :)

Creatures of the Night (2)

It's the night of Jaskier and Valdo's wedding. Geralt needs to do something.

(endgame geraskier, background valdo/jaskier, angst, infidelity)

Previous | AO3

The Oxenfurt Observatory might just be the grandest building in Redania.

The great hall is decorated with countless flowers and candles, giving the ancient walls a soft glow. Through the tall glass ceiling, stars are shining in the clear night sky, the perfect weather for a wedding.

It must be Jaskier’s idea, to be handfasted at midnight, to have his guests slow-dance under the moon and the stars until dawn breaks. Their new life will begin when the candles burn out and the first ray of light spills into the room.

If only there’s a competition for the biggest romantic on the continent. Jaskier could win without breaking a sweat.

The room is being filled up with guests—mostly bards and professors, old schoolmates of the two grooms. After all, both Valdo and Jaskier are Oxenfurt’s children, which means everyone is dressed in the most colorful clothes one could imagine. In another word, the room is being filled up with Jaskiers, and it’s getting loud.

It’s more difficult to locate the bard himself through the din of the room, but Geralt hears him, unmistakably. Jaskier’s heartbeat approaches the Observatory, thrumming with nervousness.

No more nervous than Geralt.

He breathes in, and exits the room in a few strides. And there Jaskier is, surrounded by pale moonlight, with jasmine flowers braided into his hair and pure joy painted across his cheeks. He seems to be murmuring a private joke to Essi, and they both burst into strings of giggles.

Geralt almost backs out.

“Geralt!” Jaskier notices him. “You came! I was worried for a moment.”

��Of course.” Geralt gestures to the outfit he helped pick out. “You look nice.”

“Thank you. Now, Poppet, can you give us a few moments?” Jaskier sends Essi inside with the sweetest smile. She shoulders past Geralt a little too curtly. There’s always an air of wariness whenever Essi regards Geralt, an untrusting side-eye here and there.

“Don’t mind her.” Jaskier waves when they are left alone. “Little Eye is a tad too protective. She’ll get over it.”

“Hmm.” Geralt swallows hard. “Can we find somewhere more private? I want to talk to you.”

Jaskier blinks, but leads them away anyway until they are by the side of the road, the celebrating crowd and the orange glow of candlelight in the distance.

“Here to make sure I end up someone else’s problem, aren’t you? Don’t worry, in about half an hour, I will be legally required to only bother Valdo for the rest of eternity.” Jaskier nudges Geralt in the shoulder, a jasmine slipping by his ear.

Geralt rights it without thinking, his fingers trembling.

Gods, he can’t say it. He can’t. Jaskier is so happy and Geralt will only ruin their friendship. His second chance is too precious to be risked—

“No, actually,” Geralt heaves out a breath, his heart pounding. “The opposite."

Jaskier snorts, “And, my dear witcher, what is the opposite?”

Here it goes.

“I am in love with you.”

The words sink into the silence. Geralt’s world narrows down to the steady rise and fall of Jaskier’s chest and the little hitch in his breathing. In the darkness of the night, Jaskier’s eyes stay in the shadows, his emotions obscured.

“No, you are not.” When he finally answers, it comes out in a snort. “Ha! A good one, Geralt! And they say witchers don’t have a sense of humor, idiots!”

Jaskier lets out another dry laugh, although the waver in his voice betrays everything.

“I am,” Geralt stresses again, “in love with you, Jaskier.”

Jaskier is staring, the upturn of his lips freezing into shock, the rise and fall of his chest picking up into a frenzy and suddenly he’s breathing too fast. “You can’t. You just can’t…” Air seems to trap in his lungs and a salty tang of tears hits Geralt full-force.

“I wish I couldn’t love, like what they say, but Jaskier, I can and I do—”

“You can’t do this to me!” Jaskier shouts, crying openly. “No, no! You don’t get to tell me this now! We had twenty years…”

Geralt wants more than anything in the world to pull Jaskier into his arms and wipe away the tears, but the space between them is too great. “I didn’t know for twenty years, Jask. Forgive me. It was only after the mountain that I learned how important you were to me. I couldn’t go on like this—”

“The mountain?” Jaskier chokes out a whimper. “You realized after the mountain? You mean when I bared my heart to you and you stomped on it like it was nothing?”

Geralt shakes his head, the guilt constricting his chest. “I’m sorry. For all the pain I caused you.”

“For months I thought I was but a mistake to you, that you hated me for two decades and couldn’t wait to cast me aside like dirt stuck on your shoes. Do you even know… Geralt, do you have an ounce of idea what I went through?”

Jaskier sways and Geralt catches him in his arms, placing his head on his shoulders and feeling the uncontrollable shakes running down Jaskier’s spine. The sight of Jaskier hurt because of him, again, pains Geralt more than any monster’s claws or talons.

“I love you, Jaskier,” he vows. “You were never nothing to me. You are everything. I was an idiot. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Jaskier struggles and swats at his shoulders and Geralt takes it all the while murmuring more sweet nothings into his ear. Finally, when Jaskier calms down, it’s with another whimper. “You are an idiot.”

“I am.” Geralt cradles the nape of Jaskier’s neck, running his thumb in circles, soothing the last of the trembling away. “Just one word from you, Jask, I can take you away. You don’t have to marry him. Just give me the word and I’m yours. Gods, I’ve waited for so long for this day. At last, I’m sure of my heart, just as I’m sure of yours.”

He buries into Jaskier’s hair and inhales the grief and the flowers, and something that is distinctly Jaskier, expecting a whispered plea. Just one word from Jaskier and they can start their new life together.

What he doesn’t expect is the way Jaskier goes stiff in his arms and the hand that pushes him away.

The soft moonlight catches a glint in Jaskier’s eyes, and it speaks of determination. “Valdo,” he says, as if in a dream.

“You don’t have to marry him. We can lea—”

“Valdo will be here soon.” Jaskier sniffles and wipes at his tears frantically. His whole face is puffy from crying and there’s no way he can hide it. “It’s almost midnight.”

Geralt’s world comes to a stop.

“What?”

“Get inside, and don’t say anything about this.”

“I don’t understand. Jask, you don’t need to go through this anymore. I’ll give you anything you ask. Just say the words, please,” he begs for the first time in a century, catching Jaskier’s hand.

“I am saying it. Get inside. Sit in the back row and don’t speak to me. Valdo might be able to tell.” With a few deep breaths, Jaskier school his features back to neutral. “Only the gods know how he can read me like an open book.”

Geralt’s blood runs cold. “Do you love him?”

The anguish by the corner of Jaskier’s lips says everything. It remains as he smiles a crooked smile. “He loves me. Oh, Geralt, he loves me. I can’t hurt him like this.”

“I thought,” Geralt looks down in shame. “I thought I knew your heart.”

“I thought I did too.”

“Then why?”

“You weren’t there,” Jaskier shrugs like it’s the easiest explanation. “He was.”

Despite every cell in Geralt’s body screaming against it, he nods and lets go of Jaskier’s hand, allowing his limp fingers to slip from his grasp at last.

Jaskier has asked it of him after all.

He doesn’t know how he got back into the crowd, the warm light only a blur in his vision. Another group is stopping near the hall, among them is the other groom-to-be. Valdo’s worried voice when he sees Jaskier is another blow to Geralt’s chest.

“Oh, Julian, are you crying?”

“Just…too happy.”

There’s the sound of kissing, and Geralt can’t tune it out. He laughs at himself for the masochistic tendencies, but maybe he deserves the torture.

“No more tears. Let’s get married, my love.”

The guests settle, and the music begins.

The happy couple walks towards the altar in the witness of family and friends, and Geralt watches every moment of it.

If the smile on Jaskier’s face is a bit strained as the priest ties the ribbon, no one seems to notice.

---

A big thanks to anon for the prompt! I asked for some one-word or one-sentence prompts and the next thing I knew they were connecting into a whole story.

Each chapter of this story will be based on a prompt, so send in one if you want to steer it in certain directions ;)

Tagging: @wanderlust-t @rockysstupidity @flowercrown-bard​ @alllthequeenshorses @mothmanismyuncle @percy-jackson-is-sexy- @constantlytiredpigeon @behonesthowsmysinging @kitcatkim3 @endless-whump @rey-a-nonbinary-bisexual @llamasdumpsterfire @dapandapod

Please feel free to tell me if you want to be removed or added to the list <3

[penwieldingdreamer]

Dante's Prayer - A Peaky Blinders Story

It's been a while since I wrote anything regarding the fandoms I used to be active, but thanks to @fortheloveoffanfic I found another one that picked my interest. This is the first part of my Peaky Blinders story, let me know what you think. Like, reblog, comment if you want and let me know if you'd like to be tagged.

Summary:

When the dark wood fell before me And all the paths were overgrown, When the priests of pride say there is no other way I tilled the sorrows of stone.

I did not believe because I could not see Though you came to me in the night, When the dawn seemed forever lost You showed me your love in the light of the stars

- Dante's Prayer by Loreena McKennitt -

Warnings: Mentions of war, mentions of sex, period-typical sexism, canon-typical violence

Words: 1410

Prologue

Outside of Birmingham, 1923

Breathless pants were the only sounds echoing in the silence of the small cottage.

"I missed ya so fookin' much." he mumbled against her back as they tried to catch their breaths and Arthur pulled the sheets over their naked bodies.

Niamh smiled at the sensation of his beard lightly scratching her skin, committing it to memory before he'd leave her again. "It's not my fault, you've been avoiding me."

"I know, I'm sorry." he sighed, running his fingers along the skin of her shoulder and neck. "I'm going to marry Linda."

Swallowing the lump that formed in her throat, the redhead blinked away the tears that were gathering in her eyes, thankful for facing away from the eldest Shelby brother. "I believe this means goodbye then?"

"It doesn't have to be goodbye." Arthur breathed, his lips languidly moving along her spine. "We ain't serious."

Turning her head towards him, Niamh shook her head. "We can't continue this, it was good while it lasted."

"Why not?" he asked, leaning onto his elbow to watch her closely. He had known her since before the war, occasionally having had a tryst under the bridge by the Cut and when he had been drafted he spent three days until his leaving with her, promising to return as the same man that he left but he couldn't keep that promise, just like he never could promise her his heart.

"I'm scared, Arthur." she finally said after a while, her voice vibrating in the quiet air.

Brushing his hair out of his face, he moved his hand closer to her face, his roughened fingers stroking along the column of her throat. "What are you scared of?"

Biting her lip, Niamh put her smaller hand on his own. "Of falling for you, like I'm trying to avoid ever since you have gotten back. You're marrying her and if we continue, you'll only break my heart." Her eyes turned red from the unshed tears she kept at bay the entire time.

"I never promised ye love." Arthur replied gruffly, sitting up on the bed. "I best be going, or else you'd be throwing your heart at me feet."

Pulling the sheets up to her neck, Niamh wordlessly watched him get dressed, feeling the sting of heartbreak in her chest when there had been no love on both ends. Once he had haphazardly thrown on his pants and dress shirt, leaving the vest and suspenders off, Arthur turned one last time, burning the image of his favorite redhead into his mind's eye. Never would he forget the faces she made when he had given her the ecstasy she longed for, knowing he'd not be able to see the same expressions with his soon-to-be-wife.

One last time she watched him nod in goodbye, knowing his head couldn't be turned. The eldest Shelby would have only committed, if - and that was a very big IF - she had been with his child, but Niamh knew how to avoid it as well as he did. Nights in the war could be very cold and lonely so the army had handed out precautions for the soldiers to enjoy their time between the fights. Arthur had told her often enough how his dreams of family and romance had been snuffed out by the brutality of the war, that he would avoid the subject as best as he could, yet here he left her stranded in her cottage by the lake they used to swim in as teenagers, to have a wife and family, probably children along the way.

Arthur climbed inside Tommy's car, taking a deep breath before he screamed out the despair and grief that had been eating away at him ever since he returned from France. Niamh had been a distraction and Linda had given him the hope to get his dreams back, so why did he feel the same sense of loss he had felt when their father had betrayed him and left them again? The noose around his neck was back, tighter than before.

"FUCK!" He hit the steering wheel with such force, that it rattled the whole construction. Arthur needed to let go, he would marry Linda in three weeks and start a new part of his life with her.

“I, Arthur, take thee, Linda, to be my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth.”

“I, Linda, take thee, Arthur, to be my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and to obey, till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I give thee my troth.”

The eldest Shelby brother gently took her hand and slipped the golden band onto her left ring finger, repeating after the priest. “With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow: In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

Linda smiled up at him, her eyes so full of love and shining with happiness that he couldn't help but get infected by her. Returning her smile, Arthur leaned in and gently laid his lips on hers. His brothers cheered, albeit forcing themselves to be happy for him and his new wife. She had brought faith back into his life and would help him achieve his dreams of family and fortune.

When he looked up, at the end of the aisle Arthur thought he saw a flash of red before it disappeared again.

Had she come to witness his wedding? Maybe trying to stop it all together?

But no, he had told her goodbye, told her she wasn't the one for him because unlike Linda, Niamh hadn't changed his way. Hadn't made him see the light in this darkness again. At least that was, what he was trying to tell himself, because buried deep down in the pit of his heart there was a small fire burning for the redhead, that would never be put out, no matter how much water he'd use to kill the flames.

"Come on brother, let's celebrate your union." John called, pulling both Linda and him into a tight hug before he joined his wife Esme and their children on the way to the Garrison where Tommy had prepared the reception. At first Linda had protested, having wanted a proper banquet but she was soon overruled when Arthur told her it was easier that way. She'd have to learn that arguing with his brother or even Aunt Polly was never a good way to live in the Shalby family, it would be more peaceful to just concede and try to be happy about it.

"Come on now, luv, let's get some refreshments before we consummate our wedding and really make it official, ey." the eldest Shelby grinned at his wife, leaning down to swiftly brush her lips with his own, before he grabbed her waist and pulled her along to the pub.

Niamh had been planning to avoid the ceremony, knowing that only heartache would follow but she needed to be there to hear his vows and see his actions. Only then could she try to forget Arthur Shalby and move on, just like he did. No thought had been spared for her when he had repeated the words, giving his ring to her and promising a new life.

During the wedding she had wanted to stop them so many times, but when the final words of their vows had been spoken, she knew it was too late. He now was a married man and she, just a girl, a woman he used to know before he found Linda and her faith.

Taking a deep breath, the redhead hastily brushed a stray tear away and grabbed her bag, leaving the church as fast as possible, yet one pair of eyes followed her, always watchful for the happenings around them, knowing fully well that she hadn't just been there by mistake and trying to piece together what the real reason had been behind her short visit in the house of the Lord.

[sculderfan]

Never Give Up On A Miracle

Also on AO3

Mulder sat quiet, not daring to breathe, not daring to hope, the anger in his gut white hot as it burned out of control. Here he was again, at her bedside and this time was just too Goddamned close. ‘Why?’ He asked of Whatever it was “out there”. ‘Why are you doing this, what’s your grand plan?’

Scully’s faith had always been such a part of everything she was. Her unbending Irish Catholicism had always been the one thing she counted on. He knew this, because she had told him this many, many times.

“I just wish I could believe”, he murmured. “but how can I when You keep pulling this shit?”

He slowly got to his feet, his knees aching with their refusal to kneel and pray. Walking to the window, he looked up at the sky where a shadow of a sliver of moon floated in the not night of the city lights. Leaning his forehead on the cool glass of the window, he closed his eyes over tears of pain left over from years of loss and broken hopes.

“I can’t.” he cried softly, “I can’t!”

The door to the hospital room opened softly and a nurse entered. She was tall and sturdy, with dark hair cut in a short bob. Mulder turned as she entered and was met with the kindest, most loving gaze he could remember. She smiled gently and reached out to touch his arm. The anger that had been raging within him at the unfairness of the situation and his own impotency to do anything dissipated with that one touch. He felt the love coming from this woman in a wave that quenched the burning embers of his soul and instead left a soft wonder.

“I’m Nurse Owens”. She said. “I’m here to care for Dana.”  

“I’m ….” The lump in his throat kept him from speaking.

“I know.” She said moving towards the bed where Scully lay unconscious. “It’s so hard when they’re beyond our reach. We just have to trust and have faith.” She looked up at the sound of Mulder’s derisive snort and waited until he met  her gaze.

“You always have wondered how she never wavered. How she always believed so fully in the face of challenges. Faith knows that no matter what the situation, in our lives or someone else's that things will turn out for good; that there’s something bigger than us at work, guiding us; watching out for us.

You think yourself a non-believer, yet you trust so deeply. Your faith in her would stun her if she could feel it.”

“How do you know?” he asked quietly, overwhelmed that someone he just met would know him so well.

“I know.” She said almost in a whisper.

Nurse Owens bent to softly kiss Scully’s forehead and looked up at Mulder standing by the window, transfixed by grief and the feelings he wasn’t used to experiencing. “You were right to come tonight. Dana has a choice to make and you always are at her side for the hard ones. She needs you here.”

She straightened the sheet covering her patient lovingly and left the room almost without sound leaving Mulder in the not-silence of beeping monitors and Scully softly breathing.

Walking slowly to her bedside, he gently took her hand as if it were a fragile baby bird. He stood silently, the truth within him swirling in his gut and squeezing the breath from his lungs.

“Scully, I hope you can hear me.” He said choking on the lump in his throat. “I’m here. I have to tell you. You can’t leave me. Please! I need you…. I …I… I love you” he sobbed.  

He crumpled at her bedside to his knees, his forehead bowed, remembering all the times he could have said something but was too scared by the enormity of what he felt for the diminutive redhead, her prone form belying the strength and power she had within her. His lips found the back of her hand, disturbed by the loop of IV tubing taped there.

“Scully, please”, he whispered. “Come back to me”.

The IV pump started alarming on the other side of the as the infusion was complete. One of the other nurses came in quietly to check it and turn it off, looking at the broken man before him. His own eyes burned with tears for the shattered man before him. Mulder didn’t even look up. Another person entered and spoke softly to the nurse.

“Time to drain the tubing and do my vent check. How’s she doing tonight, Mike?”

“Holding her own”. Said the nurse.

The Respiratory Therapist nodded and stepped over to where Mulder knelt in front of the vent. She lightly rested her hand on his shoulder.

“I’m so sorry to bother you, Sir, but I need to get behind you. Are you all right? Is there anything I can do for you?”

Mulder looked up into young old eyes. The RT didn’t look like she had been long out of high school yet had a wisdom and a weariness of having seen too many things for her age. No judgment was there, only kindness. He sniffed and stood up, moving out of her way but still holding Scully’s hand.

“Sorry” he mumbled.

“Oh it’s no problem,” she said, “I just need to do my vent check and I’ll be out of here.”

As she was checking the seal of the tubing and the machine breathing for the woman in the bed, she reached over and thumbed the nurse call button. Mulder heard the beeping outside the room and Mike came back in, looking askance at the standing occupants.

“You rang?” he said with a small smirk.

“Yeah, Thought you should know, she’s starting to fight the vent. Might want to let her doc know”.  

Just then the alarms began going off on the monitors and the ventilator. Mike quickly went to assess the patient and the screens. Assuring Mulder that this was probably nothing while he urged him out of the room, he quickly pulled the curtains. Closed out and dismissed, Mulder looked around, seeing the hospital around him for the first time in hours. He stepped to the Nurses’ Station.

“What’s happening?” he asked.

“Hard to tell, we’ll see. Don’t worry. Mike’s one of the best and Tabitha knows her stuff.” The nurse at the desk told him. “Why don’t you go get something to eat while they’re busy? You’ve been there for hours without a break. You’re no use to her if you don’t take care of yourself.”

Mulder was obviously not in the same world she was, so she stood and reached across the desk to him, lightly touching his arm. “Agent Mulder. I know you don’t want to leave your partner, but you need to take care of yourself. Go. Grab something downstairs. I’ll call you if anything changes, I promise. I have your cell number.”

Mulder nodded slightly and turned to walk off towards the elevators like a lost little boy, each step dragging with the weight of his sadness. The nurse at the desk watched him go and shook her head, sitting back down. “Hmph,” she mumbled. “Just partners my ass”. At the next desk, another nurse smirked and shook his head.

“I know, right?” he said. “Who does he think he’s fooling? That man is in love!”

Just then Mike came out of Scully’s room with a kilowatt smile. “Call Dr. Daly. Stat! I think we’re waking up! Too early to tell, yet. ”

“No shit?! Well, all right!” she said reaching for the phone as Mike returned to his patient.

***

Mulder wasn’t hungry as he came out of the elevator, but he knew the nurse upstairs had been right. He had to eat something. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had anything. He got himself a cup of coffee and a bagel, almost breaking down again as he reached for the silver foil packet of cream cheese – they had regular and light. ‘I’ll never let her eat light cream cheese again’, he thought to himself, remembering how she always made it a point to go light or diet conscious whenever possible. He chucked to himself at her constant war against calories. He found a table off to the side and sat down, lost in his thoughts.

“Excuse me. Mr.  Mulder, is it?”

He looked up to see the Scully family priest, Father McCue standing there.

“I thought it was you. I was in the hospital for another parishioner and was going to stop in to see Dana while I was here. You look like you could use a friend.”

Mulder motioned for him to have a seat. With a sigh, he told him what he knew and didn’t know. There was something about the man that just made it easy to talk to him.

“You know she has to make up her own mind about this. Dana has always been a stubborn little thing.”

“You’ve known her a long time?”

“Her mother and I go way back, to before she married Bill. We were in school together. I know all the Scullys. Look, Mr. Mulder. I don’t know if you are a religious man, but I think you know there’s more than meets the eye out there. Sometimes you just have to have faith that things will work out. It’s hard sometimes in the face of struggle, but you can’t give up on miracles.”

Just then Mulder’s cell phone rang. He almost dumped his coffee on the priest in his hurry to get it out of his pocket. As he listened to the caller, a smile began and grew. He looked over at the priest as he disconnected the call and held out his hand.

“You’re absolutely right, Father. Miracles happen every day. Scully woke up. I have to go.”

As he hurried out of the cafeteria with a spring in his step, Father McCue looked heavenward and smiled to himself and nodded.

[spencers-renaissance]

let him be soft (and let him be mine) p2

Summary: After Derek pulls another self-sacrificing stunt at the culmination of their most recent case, Spencer runs out of their apartment as he desperately grapples with how it makes him feel

or; Derek's self-sacrificing tendencies meet Spencer's abandonment issues. It gets messy before it gets better

Tags: hurt/comfort, crying, abandonment issues, injured!derek, hurt!spencer, miscommunication, angst with a happy ending, fluff, protective!derek

TW: abadonment issues, allusions to grief/loss, some religious imagery (a catholic church and a priest have a small role in the plot)

Pairing: Derek Morgan x Spencer Reid

Word Count: 2.1k Total Word Count: 4.5k

Part One // Masterlist // Read on AO3 // Emily's Edit 1 2 3

Emily (@criminalmindsvibez) and I have worked together on a project based on this poem. Her edits and my fic go hand in hand, so go and check hers out! She posted part two yesterday and just posted part three! It's been so fun to work together, so please go and reblog her beautiful edit <3

Spencer smiles, feeling a little bit lighter after getting everything off his chest. “Thank you.”

As he watches the priest walk out of the nave and into what Spencer suspects is the Sanctuary, he hears something that simultaneously warms his heart and twists his stomach in anxiety.

Derek, calling his name.

“Oh, God,” Derek cries as soon as he’s rushed over to sit next to Spencer, wrapping him up in a tight hug, “baby, I was so worried. I was trying to give you the benefit of the doubt and let you come back to me but I just couldn’t do it. I had to get Pen to track your phone in the end.”

“I’m sorry, Der,” Spencer says, pulling away and blinking tearily at the anxiety mixed with relief written across his boyfriend’s face. Guilt floods his stomach as he thinks about the terror he’s just put Derek through: the exact same feeling he’s been lamenting over Derek inflicting upon him. How is he any better? If anything, he’s only worse; Derek does what he does to serve others, Spencer’s been nothing but selfish all evening.

“No, baby,” Derek protests, lifting a hand to his face and brushing away a falling tear, “you don’t need to apologise, just… talk to me. Tell me what’s going on.”

Spencer doesn’t waste any time in agreeing. It’s the least his boyfriend deserves. “Can we go home? I want to eat that Thai food in bed while I tell you. I’ve already cried one too many times in a church for the day”

Derek chuckles at that. “Of course, pretty boy. Come on. Let’s get you home.” He takes Spencer’s hand gently and leads him towards the exit, and when Spencer turns back briefly before walking out of the building, he doesn’t miss the smiling priest lingering near the altar.

⭐️

Derek doesn’t let go of his hand the whole drive home, clinging tightly even on the elevator up to their apartment, and it only serves to make Spencer feel guiltier. How had this not clicked earlier? He never stopped to think about the worry his boyfriend was going through back home, only prioritising himself and his own selfish feelings.

He starts to wonder whether he should actually tell Derek after all. His boyfriend is so endlessly kind and selfless and wonderful and Spencer wants to point out his one flaw? After he’s left him panicked and concerned for his well being all evening?

He anxiously gnaws on his bottom lip as Derek tucks him into bed, seemingly oblivious to his distress as he kisses his head gently before making light work of reheating the take out he’d ordered earlier. Spencer’s stomach spins and turns with anxiety as he burrows himself under the covers, desperate to hide from all that’s to come, unable to escape the helter-skelter of emotions consuming his mind.

Soon enough, Derek makes his way into the bedroom, turning off the main light in favour of their various cosy lamps and flicks on the TV, setting it on reruns of Fawlty Towers with the volume turned down before arranging the takeout on trays before finally slipping under the duvet himself.

“Baby, I know that for whatever reason you don’t want to tell me what’s really going on,” Derek says softly, turning Spencer’s chin to face him and gazing imploringly into his eyes, “that poor lip of yours will be bitten off by the morning. But I want you to know you can trust me with whatever this is. I promise that there is no problem, no issue, no stressor that we couldn’t overcome together. Me and you, we’re a dream team, aren’t we? We can solve this, but not if you’re not completely honest with me.”

Damn it, now Spencer’s going to feel guilty no matter what path he chooses. He either lies and breaks Derek’s trust, or he tells the truth and breaks his heart.

But the priest’s words from earlier flash through his mind, and he takes a deep breath, knowing what he has to do. “I’m scared,” he admits, tentatively. It feels like a good place to start.

“Okay,” Derek replies soothingly, eyebrows knitted in concern as his thumb traces the side of Spencer’s face. “What are you scared of, Spence?”

“I’m scared… I’m scared of losing you,” he whispers, casting his eyes downward.

He feels Derek tense next to him, but he doesn’t know whether it’s because he’s confused or something worse. “Baby boy, you have to understand that you’re it for me, I’m never going anywhere—”

“No,” Spencer interrupts, meeting his boyfriend’s eyes again, “not like that. I know you love me, I’ve never doubted that for a second. I’m scared of losing you to something worse than another person. I’m scared of losing you to a gunshot, a stab wound, a bomb blast. I’m scared of losing you to the job, Derek.”

“Oh.” His thumb falters in its soothing movements against Spencer’s cheek before it retracts completely.

“You’re a hero, Der,” he says tearily, not bothering to try and fight them this time, “you’re an inspiration. You’re strong and powerful and the kindest, most selfless man I’ve ever met, but I— I’m gonna need you to start being a little more selfish.”

“I don’t… What do you mean?”

“Remember back in 2007 when that woman was trapped in her car with a bomb under her seat? You stayed right next to her the whole time, even though you knew that if that bomb went off, it was taking you with it. Because in that moment, looking after that woman was all that mattered.”

Derek nods hesitantly, his brows knit even tighter.

“Well, I could deal with that. I accepted it. We were newly in a relationship, and I knew the kind of man you were when I started dating you. I didn’t think you’d give that up for me so soon. But, Derek, it’s been seven years now. We’ve been together for almost a decade, and you’re still the same man. You run headlong into danger with no regard for how it will affect you. And I love your selflessness and generosity, I really do, but I need you to know how that makes me feel.

“It makes me feel like I’m not important to you, Der.”

“Oh, baby, no,” Derek says, distraught as he wraps Spencer in a tight, urgent hug, hand flying to run his fingers through his curls.

“But, no, it does, Derek. Because it feels like one of these days, you won’t be as lucky as you always have been, and I’ll be alone again. You’re all I have, and I can’t lose you, I just can’t.” The tears are joined by heaving, desperate sobs as he cries into Derek’s shoulder, both of them holding onto one another with clawing fingers, impossibly close as emotions fill the room.

When Spencer finally calms down enough, he pulls away to find Derek’s eyes red and his cheeks wet, too. “I— I had no idea you felt like this, baby boy,” he says earnestly, looking deeply into his eyes as his devastated emotions play across his open expression. “I’m sorry that I ever made you feel like you were anything less than the most important person in the whole world to me, because you are, Spencer.”

“It’s okay,” Spencer whispers sadly. “You didn’t know.”

“No, but I do now. I never stopped to think how this was affecting you, and I’m so deeply sorry for that.”

They lapse into a comfortable silence as they fall against one another, both accepting that the Thai is going to go cold again and they’ll probably end up with a greasy 2am pizza instead.

“It’s because of my dad,” Derek admits eventually, breaking the silence. “When I watched him bleed out in front of me, I swore I would never let that happen to another person. I would never let another person die on my watch, not unless I was going down with them. And that was an easy principle to live by when I was a cop, it translated well to the FBI, and it worked great when I was single. But now… I have you. And you’re more important than a promise I made to myself when I was ten.

“The thing is, though, that I don’t know how to override an instinct that I’ve built and enforced for my entire career. Spencer, you’re everything to me, and you’re more important than this, but I… I don’t know how to change.”

Another tear slides down Spencer’s tired, puffy face at Derek’s words, mostly because they were exactly what he was expecting. The only reason he’s kept this to himself for so long is because he knew that no possible resolution could make this okay.

“It’s okay, Der,” he says sadly, “I get it—”

“I think I should leave the BAU.”

Spencer sits bolt upright at that, turning to his boyfriend with shock written in every line of his face. “What?”

“Listen, I’m 43. I’ve been on the job for twenty-one years, and I’m getting tired, Spencer. I was planning to bring this up at a much better moment, but I’ve just finished that house on the Mount Pleasant border, and I think we should move in there. I’m ready for a quieter life, Spencer. I want to do things that make me happy, focus on the future of our family, me, you, and Clooney — kids, too, if we decide that’s the way we want to go — and leave this life revolving around death and crime and the bad in the world behind.”

“You’re serious?” Spencer asks, completely in disbelief as he stares at Derek like he’s grown an extra head. This was never a possibility he considered. Not even a little bit.

“I am,” Derek promises. “I’ve been thinking about it for a while, and this just seals the deal, really. I don’t want you to be feeling this scared all the time, especially not if it’s set off even by a couple of bruised ribs. Diving in front of a bullet when wearing a vest is hardly the most dangerous thing I’ve done.”

Derek chuckles but Spencer just smiles sadly at just how true that statement is. “No, it isn’t.”

“I’d love to focus on the property business full time, renovate more houses and really make a career out of it. Build a proper business, live in the suburbs, be happy and safe and alive with the love of my life for as long as possible,” Derek says, eyes warm and serious as he brushes his hand against Spencer’s face again. “I’m so in love with you it hurts.”

Spencer’s heart melts and he presses into Derek’s side, burying in as close as he can get. The tears that leak from his eyes this time are at least happy ones. “If you leave,” he says, after considering it for a moment, “I think I want to leave, too.”

“Really? You don’t have to, Spencer. You can stay at the BAU if you want to.”

“I know. But I’ve given over a third of my life to this job, and it’s given me all it can, I think. Before Gideon recruited me, I always thought I’d end up teaching, and I always knew I’d love it. Researching and teaching others what I’ve found out for a living sounds like a dream, and the thought of coming home to you, knowing that you’re safe every night as we sit down for dinner and chat about our normal, civilian lives… well, it’s everything I didn’t know I’d been longing for.”

A kind of peace that Spencer hasn’t felt in years settles over his chest as he basks in the thought of a safe and happy future with Derek, one not plagued by the trauma they’ve faced willingly for far too vast proportions of their lives, and he knows it’s the right decision.

“Wow,” Derek says, and woven in with the shock in his voice is relief, clear as day, “we’re leaving the BAU.”

“We’re leaving the BAU.”

Spencer eventually packs the Thai away and orders an extra large pepperoni pizza for delivery, letting Derek rest in bed as he takes over the beavering around. Fawlty Towers continues to play across the TV screen throughout the course of the night, Spencer resting his head on the top of Derek’s chest, careful to avoid his injuries. In that moment, with his favourite TV show playing, and an empty pizza box on the floor of their bedroom, cuddled up safely with the man he knows he’s going to spend forever with, Spencer thanks a God he’s not sure he believes in that Derek, right now, is soft, happy, and most importantly, his.

Let him be soft, and let him be mine.

— Please, let him be happy.

If you haven't already - check out Emily's post, and give some love to the original poem source here!

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[thehangeddemon]

Waiting for a Tuesday || Self Para || September 14, 2021

☠ WARNING ☠

This work contains graphic descriptions of violence, gore, and torture

Reader discretion is advised

“More tea, sir?”

Xavier glanced up from his newspaper and gave the waiter a pleasant smile. He shook his head. “I’m fine, John, thank you. You can bring me the check as soon as y—”

“Actually, John. Why don’t you go ahead and bring us another pot of tea? Anything but English breakfast,” he added with a chuckle that almost sounded condescending. “I don’t share my son’s fondness for it.”

The waiter watched as a man, who had seemed to appear out of nowhere and was dressed head to toe in black, invited himself to sit opposite Mr. Rossmara. He’d said ‘son’, but he didn’t really look old enough to have a son Mr. Rossmara’s age. He didn’t really resemble him either but that seemed less strange somehow.

What was strange was the way Mr. Rossmara was looking at the man across from him. He looked…stunned, like he’d seen a ghost or something. But beneath the surprise was an indiscernible emotion on Mr. Rossmara’s face that John thought looked just a little like fear.

At the stranger’s expectant look, John collected himself and cleared his throat, addressing Mr. Rossmara. “…Sir…?”

Xavier seemed to collect himself as well, though far more subtly. He folded up his newspaper and put the pleasant smile back on his face, determined to make it seem like nothing was wrong. Only someone who looked very closely would see how forced the smile was, or how measured his movements were.

“Yes, of course. Does earl grey meet with your approval?”

The man smiled like the proverbial cat who ate the canary. “It does.”

“Very well. A pot of earl grey then, John.”

The waiter nodded. “Right away, sir.”

Xavier waited until John was well out of earshot before he spoke again. “Hello, Father. I didn’t expect you.”

Zagan let out another of those condescending laughs that set Xavier’s teeth on edge and dragged him right back to all his memories of Hell. “No, I’m quite certain you did not.”

“How did you know I was here?”

“My dear boy, it was hardly a mystery worthy of Sherlock Holmes. For as long as you’ve had your shipping business, you’ve come to San Francisco every Tuesday without fail to check in. And without fail, you finish your work just before teatime. By your own admission, this hotel has the best afternoon tea in the city. All I had to do was remember the name of the hotel and wait for a Tuesday.”

Zagan helped himself to one of the cucumber sandwiches that remained on the tray. “You’ve become predictable in your old age, my boy.”

Xavier had to fight to keep from shifting in his seat. Not any-bloody-more. He’d be changing that particular habit immediately. It didn’t suit him at all for someone outside his household to have such intimate knowledge of his movements, especially if that someone was his father. Such information was dangerous in the hands of a man like Zagan. It didn’t matter if it was only the day and location of a standing reservation for tea and cake, Xavier knew from experience that the less his father knew, the better.

Which was largely why he didn’t take any great pains to see him. Unless, of course, he was forced to.

“I see,” Xavier said, settling for an amused smile since a laugh was impossible. “I suppose I am becoming a bit predictable. Anyhow, it’s nice to see you, Father. Have you been well?”

“Well enough.” Zagan was watching him carefully, studying every nuance in his expression, listening to the tone and inflection of every word. Becoming familiar with anything that had changed since the last time he’d seen his demonic progeny.

Thankfully Xavier didn’t have to endure it for very long. John soon returned with their tea, giving him a reprieve from paternal scrutiny as it was poured. It was the only thing that would for the next little while.

This time it was Zagan who waited until they were alone again before he spoke. “So. Tell me. How is that shipping business of yours doing? And your myriad other ventures?”

The next hour or so was spent in what one could call easy conversation. They spoke of Xavier’s businesses, the sights he’d seen, the things he’d collected, the weather, the state of the world. Perfectly light, perfectly casual. At least from an outsider’s perspective.

From Xavier’s point of view things were far more fraught. Everything he said had to be carefully weighed, and there was a desperately thin line between revealing too much and appearing withholding, between looking at ease and projecting discomfort.

Having a conversation with his father hadn’t always been this difficult. In fact, just a few years ago Xavier would have been—and had been—completely comfortable not only talking to Zagan but spending entire days in his company. He’d even sought him out once or twice. But then, Xavier had had far less to lose a few years ago. He hadn’t had a child, a fiancé, staff that depended on him, friends he cared for.

He had all those things now. He had more than he’d allowed himself to have in fifty years, and the memory of how things had gone then still lived all too vividly in his mind.

Getting back to a point of comfort with Zagan after that hadn’t been easy, but he’d done it. There hadn’t been a choice. It was either swallow his pain, grief, and desire for vengeance and make nice, or tempt his father into carrying out his threats.

Sitting here now, Xavier felt much the same as he had then; trapped, resentful, and desperate to get away.

He had no illusions of being able to do that any time soon, however, even when his father finally asked for the check. After such a long absence, Zagan was sure to take up as much of his time as possible.

His suspicions were confirmed almost immediately.

“Come,” said Zagan, getting to his feet. “Let’s take a walk.”

Xavier remained at the table while his father stepped outside, indulging himself with a long, weary sigh the moment it felt safe to do so. It had only been an hour and he was ready for another five-year interlude in their relationship.

What had brought Zagan up from Hell anyway? Surely this visit hadn’t only been for tea and a walk with him. His father hated humans, hated looking at them and being amongst them. There had to be another reason and no doubt it was something Xavier really didn’t want the know the details of.

“Probably scouting his next project child,” Xavier muttered to himself as he pulled his card from his wallet.

Bill settled, he stepped out into the late summer evening and breathed deeply. There was a chill in the air that said autumn was well and truly on its way. Soon the days would grow shorter and the nights longer. His collection of coats would emerge from storage. Every hearth in the manor would roar to life with cheerful, welcoming fires.

He sighed again, longing for the comfort of home as he looked for Zagan among the crowd of people in front of the hotel. That expression of disdain was easy to spot.

“Where shall we go?” Xavier asked, approaching him.

“I don’t know how you can stand it.” His father’s tone all but dripped disgust. “Being here day in and day out among these…creatures and the stench of their cities. It’s revolting.”

“I’d rather smog than brimstone.”

“I think I prefer brimstone.”

Right. That nipped the notion of walking on the street squarely in the bud. If only that were enough to dissuade his father, but alas.

Fortunately, there was a park nearby.

Zagan didn’t say a single word as they made their way there, clearly preferring to stew in his distaste until they were well clear of anyone who might catch a snippet of their conversation. Of course, he hadn’t been nearly so averse to it back at the hotel.

Xavier would just chalk that up to the difference between a well-appointed dining room and a crowded street.

His father’s demeanor seemed marginally more pleasant as they entered the park. It wouldn’t be empty for a good while yet, but it was an improvement from the street. Hopefully it wouldn’t be enough of one to tempt him to stay much longer.

A few long minutes of not-quite-companionable silence passed before Zagan saw fit to fall into conversation again. The additional privacy meant they could discuss things that were far more relevant to his father’s interests than the weather or the goings on at a shipping company. Namely, any magic Xavier had learned, magical artifacts Xavier had acquired, and any kills Xavier had made.

The latter would perhaps prove to be a bit of a disappointment. Not only did Xavier kill less frequently these days, his choice of quarry had changed. The people that he’d once hunted were those he found interesting or amusing or intriguingly intelligent; only on the very rare occasion did he hunt someone who truly deserved it.

That was no longer the case. Lately when Xavier hunted it was only people who truly deserved it. He went for rapists and abusers. He went for people who hurt children, including and especially priests. There was immense satisfaction in knowing exactly where those people were going and what awaited them when they arrived, and even more in describing it in vivid, excruciating detail as they bled to death among the debris of a forest floor.

Hell was a far greater torment than anything he could visit upon them, and he was more than happy to send them on their way.

Zagan let out a loud, derisive laugh at that. “Are you indeed?” The old demon laughed again, putting Xavier’s back up and setting his teeth on edge. “My dear boy, you have been away from Hell too long. Who would’ve imagined? My son, the divine hand of justice for ne’er-do-well priests the world over. Never mind predictable; you’ve grown positively moral in your old age.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Xavier said softly, fighting to unclench his jaw.

His father gave him an amused look. “No?”

He shook his head. “No. I’ve merely…unearthed an intolerance I didn’t give sufficient regard to before.”

“Have you? Well.” Zagan chuckled and adjusted his sleeve, looking positively chuffed in a way that both infuriated and unsettled. “You never did like priests. Who would, having had your childhood? I suppose that particular aspect of your personality was bound to rear its head again eventually. Perhaps…it’s entirely appropriate that it should do so now.”

Xavier didn’t register the movement until it was too late. He only had a moment to feel his father grabbing his arm before he was whisked through the familiar vacuum of demonic travel, and even less to register his new surroundings before he was thrown bodily against something cold and unyielding.

“You unearthed an intolerance, did you?” Zagan’s voice, so casual and amused just seconds ago, now quivered with rage.

Xavier went flying again, this time into something that splintered beneath the force of his weight. Wood?

“And when exactly did you do that, Xavier? Was it perhaps around the time that you became a father?”

Again, back into the unyielding cold. Stone. “Father, plea—”

“Not that I can even tell, since I’ve scarcely seen the child—my grandchild—more than twice since the day he was born!”

Xavier cried out as he was flung for a fourth time, several bones breaking upon landing forcefully on a stone floor. There was something soft beneath him, but whatever it was, it hadn’t been enough to cushion his fall.

He braced for another hit, relieved when none came. He could still hear the echo of his father’s furious footsteps, however, which meant the torment wasn’t over. Far from it. The pleasant Zagan of earlier was gone, and who had remained in his place was someone Xavier was very, very familiar with.

Familiar enough to know that he had only a few precious seconds to catch his breath and orient himself.

There wasn’t much he could see from this position apart from the ceiling of whatever edifice they were in but, not wanting to draw attention to himself too soon—or move lest he worsen his breaks—he observed what he could by turning his head.

Said ceiling, high and crisscrossed with thick wooden beams, appeared to be constructed of the same stone as the walls and floor. Dusty chandeliers covered in thick cobwebs were hung every few feet, the candles in them long unlit. The same went for the metal sconces on the walls.

He appeared to be lying in the middle of an aisle bordered on either side by what he could only assume was the wooden something he’d been thrown int—

No. Not just wood. Pews.

Xavier struggled into a sitting position, heedless of his broken bones and desire for inconspicuousness in his rush to confirm his suspicions, to confirm what he already knew.

Panic rose in his chest as he saw the cross silhouetted in stark relief against the waning sunlight streaming in through the stained-glass window.

They were in a church.

Had this been any other time on any other day Zagan wouldn’t have missed the opportunity to mock and use his son’s fear against him. Xavier’s childhood memories of being harrowed and abused by his stepmother and local priest amused him to no end but on this day, he didn’t so much as comment.

He just stalked down the aisle toward Xavier and slammed him back against the floor with a flick of his hand.

“After all,” he said, voice dangerously soft as he crouched beside his son. “I can hardly drop by for a visit now, can I? Not with all those wards you have on the estate that threaten to annihilate anyone who comes in unannounced.” He almost smiled. “You’ve amassed quite the bag of tricks over the last fifty years.”

Xavier could only shake his head. “The wards aren’t—”

“Aren’t what? Aren’t meant to keep me out?” Zagan scoffed, giving Xavier a dubious look as he grabbed a handful of his hair from the back of his head and stood. “Dear boy, do you really expect me to believe that?”

He gave Xavier’s hair a good hard yank, ignoring his son’s cries of pain as he dragged him down the aisle and deposited him on the small set of stairs leading to the altar. “You didn’t ward against me fifty years ago only because you didn’t know how to. If you had, you would’ve done it in a trice to help keep that pathetic little slave of yours out of my grasp, but I’m sure that’s already occurred to you.”

Indignation fought its way in beside pain and panic, and Zagan noticed. His son’s emotions had always been pitifully easy to read, moreso when they ran as profoundly as he knew this did. The servant was still a sore spot even after all this time.

Zagan paused.

“Had you realized?” he asked, crouching again to run a single finger down Xavier’s cheek, those ancient eyes gleaming with cruel amusement. “That this year marks the fiftieth anniversary? Had you realized, my beautiful boy, that half a century had passed since you came so close to defying me?”

Fifty years of pain and rage and grief so rarely expressed churned in Xavier’s gut and pulled at his soul. That his father could speak so cavalierly of Maximus and his loss made him want to scream and be ill in equal measure.

Had he realized? How could he not, when every day for the past year and a half had been a battle against remembering? How could he not, when every day he walked halls and sat in rooms identical to those Maximus had once drawn breath in, only to remember that they had burnt to the ground?

How could he not, when dead leaves and rose petals and ash were still enough to bring him to tears?

The same tears that streamed down his face now. Xavier was powerless to stop them and even if he could have, he likely wouldn’t have. After what he’d done to Maximus, an acknowledgement of his grief was the least Xavier could give him, even if his father was the only one who witnessed it.

“Oh my, look at that.” Zagan stroked his son’s face again, collecting those tears and rubbing the moisture between his fingers. He tsked, shaking his head. “My dear, it’s been an absolute age since then. How can a measly little servant still cause all this upset, hm? There now.”

Zagan slipped one arm under Xavier’s knees and the other behind his back, lifting and carrying him the rest of the way up the steps as if he weighed absolutely nothing. He gathered Xavier close, even took care not to jostle him too much.

Such loving gestures were not uncommon for the old demon. There were times in Hell when he had been the absolute image of gentleness and paternal affection, when he had held him as he did now and given him a reprieve from the torture.

But more torture had always followed. Showing him affection was rarely meant to comfort; it was meant to torment.

“I’m sure you feel like the past few decades have been a trial, but you see, I don’t think that’s entirely accurate.” Zagan set Xavier down as carefully as he’d picked him up, petting his hair as that indignant look returned to his son’s expression. “Don’t misunderstand me. I don’t doubt you’ve suffered a great deal over your servant. I don’t see why you would when they’re so readily available, but I don’t doubt it. I just think you haven’t quite…put things in perspective.”

With of wave of his father’s hand, every sconce, chandelier, and candelabra flickered to life, allowing Xavier his first real look at the derelict church. Not that there was much to see. No one had set foot in here for a very long time, let alone used it as a place of worship.

But when he turned his head, Xavier saw something that made his blood run cold.

Until now he’d felt trepidation, resentment, emotional anguish. Only when he saw the lines of a demon trap scorched into the threadbare carpet beneath him did he finally feel fear.

“Father…?”

“You see, my dear, I don’t think you realize how easy you got off all those years ago.” Zagan shed his coat and rolled up his sleeves.

“Father, please—”

Zagan knelt beside him. “My own son considers rebelling against me, disobeying me, gives a servant pride of place over his father, and what does he have to pay for it? Absolutely nothing.” He unbuttoned Xavier’s suit jacket and shirt, undid his trousers. “My son defies his father and still he gets to keep his estate, his businesses, his treasures. His life. All these things my son gets to keep, he goes virtually without punishment for fifty years, and does he realize that? Does it occur to him how generous his father has been in his infinite mercy? No. Rather than show gratitude, he has the childish audacity to believe he is the aggrieved party!”

Xavier didn’t see Zagan move. There was just an awful squelching sound, then searing pain as his father, having pierced his torso with a bare hand, sliced it upward and gutted him like a fish from groin to sternum.

“Which doesn’t mean I haven’t noticed your efforts,” Zagan said calmly above the echoing din of his son’s screams. Casually. “You’ve been such a good boy, treating your papa to afternoon tea and accompanying him for a walk. But I have been far too lax with you. You see that, don’t you?”

He gripped the jagged edges of Xavier’s wound and forced them apart to another chorus of screams. “All those wards, the prolonged absence.” Zagan shook his head. “There comes a point where it all gets to be a bit too much. What’s that expression? Getting too big for your britches? I think you’ll agree you got too big for yours a very long time ago. What’s more, I think you’ll agree that it’s high time that you paid the piper.”

Zagan got to his feet and made his way over to the wooden table beneath the stained-glass window at the head of the altar. He retrieved a hammer, a covered metal bowl, and a set of railroad spikes and brought them over to the demon trap, kneeling again.

Xavier could only watch him, borderline delirious as his chest heaved and his wounds bled. He didn’t dare lift his head to look at the damage; he’d seen enough of his own insides in Hell.

There was a vague hope that his blood would break the demon trap and allow him to get away, but he knew it was impossible even as he thought it. Zagan had prepared for this.

There was no getting away, especially once the first spike was hammered through one of his feet, piercing shoe leather, flesh, and carpet as it was driven into the stone beneath. Xavier bit back another scream, only to give in as his father pinned his arm above his head and drove the second spike into his hand.

“A necessary precaution,” Zagan explained, moving around to repeat the process on Xavier’s other side, barely reacting to the scent of demonic flesh charred by iron. “To make things easier for both of us. Remember what I always used to tell you?”

The third and fourth spikes were driven into Xavier’s free hand and foot, rendering him not quite immobile, but significantly limiting his range of motion. He was left completely vulnerable to Zagan.

“Well?”

He turned toward his father. The demon was looking at him expectantly, warmly—a complete contrast to that cold smile on his face that never quite reached his eyes.

“The more you struggle,” Xavier began, breathing raggedly, “the more it will hurt.”

“That’s exactly right. Good boy.” Zagan bent to kiss his brow and set the hammer aside. “Now be a love and stay still for your papa while he works.”

“What are you going to do?” Asked in a voice too soft and timid to belong to a demon.

“I thought you might ask. You see, I needed to come up with an appropriate punishment.” Zagan reached into his abdominal cavity and tore out a chunk of his liver, placing it on the carpet beside him while his son howled in agony. The shock and blood loss weren’t enough to kill him, of course, but there would be a great deal of both before Zagan was done.

“It had to fit the crime, else how could the lesson be truly felt?” His stomach joined his liver, spilling its bloody contents as it hit the floor with a sickening plop.

Xavier hadn’t felt pain like this since Hell. He wondered for a moment if he was in Hell. That endless red sky and the ceiling of the church blurred together in his mind while the stone under his back became the rocky banks of that boiling river of blood. He heard a scream—or perhaps a thousand—but no longer registered it as his own.

When his father spoke, he heard it as only an echo.

“I mentioned taking your estate and your belongings but upon reflection, that wouldn’t be a practical solution to the problem. You could always acquire more, and really, what do I want with a bunch of wine and trinkets and land?” The other half of his liver followed, then his spleen and pancreas, all added to the growing pile of viscera.

Zagan turned to Xavier, whose screams had quieted to pained whimpers as he began coughing up torrents of blood. “No matter how you look at it, it would only be an inconvenience to us both. An inconvenience, not a punishment. That was when I realized that there was something I could take from you that would serve as an appropriate punishment.”

The old demon reached into Xavier’s body with both hands this time, ripping through sheet after sheet of connective tissue as he worked to tear out Xavier’s intestines. Messy work but very necessary, although he did find himself wishing he’d brought a blade to speed up the process. But that’s what happened when one was forced to move with haste; things were bound to be forgotten.

To Xavier, that process seemed to take hours. Perhaps it did. He couldn’t help but think it would’ve been kinder to just kill him.

His only comfort was that the shock setting in made his body go almost numb, a small mercy for which he gave profound thanks. It was liable to be the only one he got. He only wished he could go deaf as well, or better yet, fall into blessed unconsciousness so he wouldn’t have to listen to or feel the rending of his flesh.

More hopes he knew would be dashed.

Such was Zagan’s concentration on his task that he fell silent. Humans did have such a lot of parts, but he had gotten most of it. It would do.

He gathered the slippery mass in his hands, considering adding them to the pile before deciding to simply drop them on his son’s lap. They didn’t need to be removed entirely, just moved out of the way.

“Right,” he sighed, looking around at his handiwork while he gathered his thoughts. “Where was I? Ah, yes. Your punishment.”

Zagan scooted a bit closer and tenderly took Xavier’s face in his hands, smiling beatifically as he stroked his son’s cheeks and smeared that handsome face with blood. “I believe you’ve lived in poor dead Christian for quite long enough, my precious one. Don’t you?”

For the second time since this ordeal began, panic took hold of Xavier. Not just a trickle of it, but huge, violent waves that made his adrenaline surge and had him struggling against his restraints despite the burning pain of the iron.

Please, God, let him not have heard correctly. Surely it was the delirium, the blood loss making him think his father had said what Xavier thought he’d just said. Or if had said it, perhaps Xavier just didn’t understand his meaning. It could mean anything, everything. Too much. Was it to be his life, a return to Hell? Was it—

“Settle down, Xavier,” Zagan chided, placing his hands on his son’s shoulders. “What did we say, hm? The more you struggle the more it will hurt, and this is going to hurt quite enough without you thrashing about like a landed fish. Settle.”

“Wh-what is?” Xavier’s voice was a raspy, choked sound, devoid of its usual elegance. For all that he struggled—or tried to, before pain and fatigue forced him to stillness—it was a battle to get out every single word. “Fath…father. What are y-you going…?”

“What am I going to do?”

At his son’s jerky nod, Zagan smiled and stroked his face again. “Just what I said. You’ve been living in Christian Deidrich’s body for far too long and it’s time for a change.”

“But w-what—”

“I’m going to take you out of Christian, Xavier. You will be removed from this vessel and placed into a new one.”

Xavier looked at this father in abject horror for a few silent, eternal moments before panic and adrenaline flooded back in with a vengeance.

He began to struggle to free himself in earnest as his father’s words and their full implications sank in. Whatever he’d suffered so far—gut-wrenching reminders of the past, the sear of iron, the removal of his organs—it would be nothing compared to what he knew awaited him now.

At this very moment, even the full weight of what it meant to lose Christian as his vessel couldn’t hold a candle to Xavier’s fear.

This reaction pleased Zagan immensely, and unlike before, he was perfectly happy to let Xavier wear himself out. In this weakened state it was all he’d manage to do, which would only make things easier once the real work began.

Besides, even if by some chance Xavier did tear the wounds around the spikes and freed himself, he was still inside the trap. He wasn’t going anywhere.

Zagan hummed to himself, giving his son’s cheek one last pat before getting to his feet.

One by one, he brought candelabras over to the altar. Not many remained after so many years of the church having been abandoned, but they were enough to give him the light he needed. The larger ones were placed around the perimeter of the trap and the smallest just inside. A single candlestick was placed beside Xavier.

Had he been able to, Xavier would’ve knocked that stupid candle over and set fire to the rug. Something his father probably would’ve considered if he wasn’t so obviously confident that it wouldn’t happen.

Xavier couldn’t deny that he was right to be. Already he was exhausted to the point of giving up. Physically, at least.

“Father…” he wheezed. “Plea…please…don’t—don’t do this to me…”

“Ahhh, I see we’ve moved from anger to bargaining,” Zagan chuckled, returning to his son’s side. “I understand, of course. A new face will be an adjustment after so many decades spent looking at the same reflection in the mirror, but don’t worry, my dear one. You’ll get used it.”

Xavier shook his head, swallowing back more tears. He didn’t want to get used to it. He wanted to remain in his body. No matter how mangled it was, it was his, and leaving it would mean suffering beyond measure in more ways than one.

“The spell…”

His father nodded patiently. “Yes, yes, I know. You locked yourself in. An excellent notion, truly. After all, one can never know who does and does not know an exorcism rite. No doubt it would have spoiled your fun if in the middle of a hunt, your quarry dispatched you back to Hell.”

Zagan stroked his hair again. “Pity that your good judgement should have to hurt you now.”

Tears began to flow freely again as Xavier tugged at his restraints with all the might he had left. It was precious little. “Fat-ther, please…please d-don’t…please…”

“Hush now. Begging won’t save you, Xavier.” Zagan picked up the bowl that until now had sat untouched beside the revolting mess of entrails. “As I’m sure you’ve gathered from the very fact that you’re able to be here, the church we are currently in is no longer consecrated ground. Faith left this place…” he shrugged, “a century ago, perhaps more. But despite that, there is one thing I’m so terribly curious to know.”

He removed the lid. “I wonder…despite the decades of absent devotion…if this water is still holy enough to hurt you.”

“N-nononono wait, don’t—!”

An awful steaming hiss drowned out his protests as Zagan slowly began pouring the bowl’s contents into Xavier’s abdominal cavity.

“You’re making it worse,” he said, raising his voice to make himself heard over the cacophony of tortured screams and howls of demonic pain.

His admonishment fell on deaf ears. The moment the first drop of holy water had touched his mutilated insides, Xavier had begun thrashing about in a desperate, mindless effort to escape from the torment.

Exhaustion had no hope of stilling his movements, even if those movements caused the water to splash and slosh about and cause even more pain. This was beyond the physical, beyond the human. Short of an exorcism this was the greatest suffering that could be inflicted on a demon, and Xavier had the great misfortune of knowing that was precisely what awaited him next.

He screamed, he sobbed, he begged his father to stop. At some point he even succeeded in tearing free of two of the spikes. But still the ordeal continued and would until the bowl was empty.

It would continue even when the bowl was empty, because for all that Xavier had moved about, a good deal of holy water remained on and inside of him. As long as it did, nothing would stop the screaming.

“Shhhh, darling, shhhh,” Zagan cooed at his son, pulling out the spikes that still restrained Xavier’s limbs so he could turn him on his side and empty out the water. It had completed its intended purpose and was thus no longer required.

He eased Xavier onto his back again and picked up the candlestick. “Right. I would very much like to say that’s the worst of it over, but we both know that’s not the case. Tell me, should I bother asking where you carved it?”

Although agonized groans and broken sobs had replaced blood-curdling screams, Xavier wasn’t in any condition to listen to his father, much less respond.

“I thought not. No matter. I have a fair idea which rite you used, and I believe that particular one calls for the inscription to be placed on the spine.”

At last, the true reason for the evisceration revealed.

Zagan brought the candle close to the gaping void that was Xavier’s torso, using its light to find exactly where the spell had been carved into the bone—a slightly easier task now that the holy water had rinsed out most of the blood.

“Ah, there it is.” Zagan tried to make out the symbols to confirm his suspicions. “What did I tell you?” he chuckled, setting aside the candlestick. “Predictable.”

Xavier had been left even weaker than before. His chest barely rose. His skin, already pale from loss of blood, looked gray and lifeless. There wasn’t a part of him that wasn’t burning in agony. The dread and fear and grief he should have felt eighty-six years ago when the hangman’s noose had been placed around his neck fell upon him now, far more heavily than they would have then.

Still, he had to try just one more time.

With what little strength he had left, Xavier turned to his father. “Please,” he begged, the barely audible whisper ragged and frail. “Father. Please…please don-n’t. You don’t—don’t kn-now…” he gasped for breath, “…what you—you’re take…tak-king…”

There was a beat of silence during which Xavier thought, just for a second, his father looked apologetic.

“But I do,” Zagan murmured, taking Xavier’s bloody, tear-stained face in his hands. He stayed like that for several moments, studying his child’s features one last time. He loved this face. It gave him no pleasure to destroy it. “I know exactly what I’m taking. My beautiful, beautiful boy.”

He bent to place a tender kiss on Xavier’s forehead. “Don’t fret. The pain won’t last. You’ll still be beautiful, I promise. I could never take that from you. You’ll even look like your brother.” He kissed Xavier’s forehead again, his brow, his cheeks, allowing them both the indulgence of true affection for just a moment.

Perhaps it would offer some comfort in the days to come.

Sighing, Zagan took the candlestick again and made another examination of the spell his son had used to lock himself in. It was simple, but perfectly effective against exorcisms and other such attempts to dislodge a demon from their vessel.

The symbols themselves were spread across four vertebrae and, upon closer inspection, appeared to be burned into the bone rather than inscribed. He had no doubt the process had been rather painful; things like this always were.

He reached in and carefully tore the first vertebra from Xavier’s spine, ensuring he removed only bone and nothing else.

Painful, yes, but not as painful as its reversal. Not in his hands.

Zagan recited a small incantation under his breath, brushing his thumb back and forth over the symbols as if merely rubbing away a bit of dust. With every swipe the symbols grew fainter and fainter until they disappeared altogether, leaving behind nothing but clean, unmarred bone.

He held it up to the candlelight and examined it again. Pleased, he tossed it away and pulled out the next one.

Xavier, no longer strong enough to scream, could only groan and sob as his father ripped yet more parts out of his body, overwhelmed by fear and pain.

But there was another sensation as well; an odd, supernatural pull somewhere deep inside his being. It seemed to exist independently of the pain, and had nothing to do with what was happening to him physically.

It did, however, have everything to do with what was happening to him magically. This body, having been technically dead for so many decades, was dying again. In all reality it had already died again, and as his father methodically did away with his lock, Xavier’s hold inside his vessel began to loosen.

By the time the last vertebra was torn from his spine and the symbols on it erased, that hold was all but nonexistent.

“There we are,” said Zagan, sighing again as he smiled to himself. “Now the real work begins.”

Even if he’d been inclined to bother with an exorcism, it was no longer necessary. Given enough time Xavier would be forced to leave Christian’s body on his own, but Zagan wasn’t inclined to wait.

Instead, he reached into his son’s abdominal cavity one last time, thrusting through dead flesh and fractured bone and into the very core of him, physical and metaphysical, feeling around until his hand closed around what he sought.

Making sure to maintain an iron grip on his prize, Zagan ripped Xavier free from what remained of his moorings. When Zagan’s hand emerged, bloody and singed, it held a cloud of oily black smoke that crackled with electricity.

There were no anguished screams to mark this final parting, no sobs or desperate pleas to echo off the stone.

There was only the burnt out, mutilated husk of a body, the scent of sulfur, and a cloud of oily black smoke.

Zagan smiled at the smoke and released it, leaving it free but still stuck inside the demon trap, before pushing the husk out of the way to give himself more room to work.

What came next would require every last ounce of his will and concentration. This was magic he did not inherently possess, and if he could not see his vision clearly, if he could not believe in it wholly, it would not bear fruit.

He closed his eyes, steeling his will as he began to draw every bit of energy in the room outside his own toward him, no matter how small. The remnants of Xavier’s emotion, the electricity of a demon in true form, the lifeforce of the plants surrounding the church—all were taken and absorbed.

Even the candles were drawn in, extinguishing themselves one by one as Zagan pulled their heat and energy close, inserting his will and chanting ancient magic to manipulate the mass of energy to his whim.

And there, in the middle of the demon trap, it slowly began to take form. A single point of light that pulsed and grew as yet more light surrounded and encased it, becoming a womb for an old demon’s creation.

With every pulse, the air shimmered as it regained its charge, making Zagan’s skin prickle and burn to the point of pain. But still he did not buckle, digging even deeper and giving even more of himself as he watched the light become something at once both liquid and solid, something that elongated and molded itself until it resembled a human body.

Almost done.

He looked up at where the cloud of smoke hovered above his head. It would be cleaner to do it in one fell swoop. Faster. Even for a being as old as he was, keeping this level of concentration took its toll. Mere seconds could be the difference between success and miserable failure.

The new vessel was almost complete; the moment it was, he would draw Xavier into it and seal him inside. He had to move quickly, but gingerly, with the precision of a surgeon.

Zagan took a deep breath. Clenching one hand as tightly as he could to hold his creation in place, he used the other to draw his child down and guide him into his new vessel.

A different kind of light began emanating from the body as it was slowly given life. Zagan grit his teeth against the strain as it grew in strength, as he was pushed to the very edge of his limits by the effort of controlling so much raw energy.

No sooner had the last wisp of black smoke disappeared from view than the light burned out with enough force to shatter every window in the crumbling church.

Zagan fell back, utterly exhausted but brimming with triumphant hubris as he gazed upon his creation. His vision, made flesh.

It was perfect.

Zagan spent a few moments catching his breath and recuperating some of his strength, after which he got to his feet to gather himself. He adjusted his sleeves and went to retrieve his coat, brushing off bits of colored glass before slipping it back on. He placed the bowl and the candlestick back on their table, took a piece of glass and sliced through the carpet, breaking the demon trap.

And when he finally approached the unconscious, supine body that now belonged to Xavier, and watched as he drew his first breath, Zagan bent to place a kiss on his forehead.

“Perhaps now you’ll learn,” he whispered. “My beautiful boy.”

A rustle of wings, and Xavier was left alone in the darkness.

[pepperpills]

The Harvest - RE8 fanfic

The Harvest

A Resident Evil 8 fan fiction by Joana

Karl Heisenberg x Female Reader

NSFW content

Hi, guys, hope u're enjoying it and if u want, feel free to send a message and share your thoughts.

This is the second half of Part I, when The Harvest actually takes place, as I promised I would be posting it today. Part II will be out next tuesday and has more of Karl's participation.

Part I - Destiny (1)

Part I - Destiny (2)

The site was formed by four giant statues, each one in a corner, in the opposite side of the gate, a low stone fence protected people from falling from a cliff into the misty unknown that laid below. All of its surroundings were made of grey, antique stone, carved directly into the mountain. In the middle stood a symbol in the ground in the shape of an umbrella where the Giant’s Chalice was placed.

Mother Miranda was right in the middle, dressing her usual priest like costume, only this time her areola was bigger. The parents, your parents included, with their anxious expressions, were on the left side, forming a mid-circle. No other villagers were allowed in The Harvest except the children’s guardians, it was exclusive. You smiled to your folks reassuring them that you were okay, prepared. Your mom buried her head deeper in your father chest, but smiled insecurely back at you.

You couldn’t help the feeling that a couple of eyes were laid on you, you felt observed and finally gave up to your curiosity and stared at the lords. Closer to Mother Miranda, on the right side of the site, stood tall Lady Dimitrescu, the tallest person you have ever seen and also one of the most elegant. She wore a white dress that resembled the Greek columns with three black roses on it, red lipstick and a black wide hat. She seemed excited as she analysed the 20s.

Then followed Lady Beneviento, her face covered in a grief veil, she was all dressed in black, except for her doll, Angie, who wore an unclean wedding dress and was laughing almost hysterically for no reason. It would have given you the chills if you weren’t so strangely calm.

The next was Lord Moreau, forever bowed with that bone crown topping his head, he looked like he enjoyed the spirit of the festival, more entertained by its totality than the young people there.

And at last, Lord Heisenberg, a couple of steps from you as you all closed the circle. He was smoking a cigar, making a mess of bracing smoke. He was wearing round sunglasses even though it was already very dark there, his clothes were crumpled and even a bit dirty, but had an explorer’s charm to it as he wore a once-white half unbuttoned shirt, a worn hat, a camel-coloured overcoat and some kind of baggy pants.

You had the uncanny feeling it was his glance that caught you since you arrived there, but couldn’t be sure, once his eyes were hidden from you. The other thing you noticed was that he has kind of handsome with his somewhat grey hair on the height of his bearded chin. Overall, he seemed rough, a brute beauty, but beauty anyway.

The air became denser, like it was charged with electricity, however, scanning your mates, everyone appeared to be still bewitched by Beneviento’s powers, paying attention only to Mother Miranda. It had nothing to do with you disliking Miranda ever since you laid your feet in the Village. No, this was another thing. You were attracted by something else, tempted even to look to your right. Being too suggestible to battle this urge, you moved your head only to be certain that Lord Heisenberg was looking straight at you.

You quickly turned your attention back to Miranda as she played with a black liquid inside the Giant’s Chalice. She called you all her children and made a speech about destiny and natural forces that pull you to it.

“Night demands you, my children. The moon reveals your fate and today your sacrifice will be noticed.” Miranda chanted, her voice floating through all of you, reverberating the ground.

She blessed you, walking the circle and pinning a dot of the Chalice’s black liquid in your foreheads. It moved, itching a little, as her words filled the ceremony site.

“Very well.” She spoke. “Now I shall call your names, the ones I call, please step to the right part of the site, the ones I don’t, to the left.”

A shiver flowed through your spine, awakening every part of your body, bristling your hair, hardening your nipples making you feel completely unclad – which kind of reached the ceremony idea of a virgin blossoming. The sensation was curiously similar to electrical shock, even the iron taste on your tongue reminded you of the electricity discharge, nonetheless, for your surprise, it wasn’t exactly unpleasant, definitely made your feel alive and even dilatated your pupils.

When it happened, you swore your heard Lord Heisenberg chuckling alone, he was contained for obvious reasons, but it disturbed you to see a smirk playfully on his scarred thick lips. No one else appeared to be bothered though, they hadn’t noticed the man acting schizophrenic, but it also made sense, they were all absorbed by Miranda’s discourse and, somehow, that grin was intended, presumably, only for you.

Just then you realized that Miranda had already been calling names and people were actually moving around you. Two of the boys who came with you were now on the very right side of the site. You were getting tense, the magical feeling that drove you to that place was slowly fading away, giving space to the cold sensation of fear. The girl to your left got called, she lost her breath as she heard her name, but rapidly joined her new, and temporary, team.

You looked up to your parents, your mom had that overwhelmed expression lines on her forehead again and you were most sure she was crossing fingers as she is a little stitious, not super, though.

Right now, you don’t believe that any herb, crystal, sacrifice, nor witchcraft would have spare you from your doom. A part of you knew it, even at that moment, as Mother Miranda made your name thunder in the site. Your mom held a scream, your dad looked down. You must go on.

Trembling a little, you went to the right side, closer to Lord Heisenberg, as he was the last one on the lords’ line. Your mates were rigid, the other girl was holding tears, one of the boys had desperate written all over his face, but the other one preferred to show bravery and you chose to stay with him in his decision. It didn’t past unnoticed to Heisenberg, but he constantly peering at you wasn’t of your greater attention, so on you didn’t acknowledge his offbeat interest.

You weren’t going to lie to yourself, you were afraid. You didn’t want Lady Dimitrescu to use your blood in her famous Sanguis Virginis, neither to be with Lady Beneviento and her forever tea party, Lord Moreau frightens you, due to your thalossophobia and for Lord Heisenberg, his temper is well known and poorly spoken by the villagers, he tends to get angry easily, not to say that no one knows what goes on in that factory, the bridge that leads to it emerges from the water, activated by some sort of mechanism that is inaccessible from the Village, so no one goes in, no one comes out.

When The Harvest ended, the villagers were exempted before the Miranda and her family, and you were allowed to go home, the lords knew you were supposed to say goodbye to your loved ones, after all, they aren’t monsters, right?

Thus, you walked back home in your parents embrace, they didn’t let you go, neither you wanted it. Being held like that made it feel better as if you had a bad dream and that was all. Your mother even sang you your favourite childhood song about a girl who gets lost in the dangerous woods inhabited by four monsters and a malevolent witch, but in the end, her parents save her from the beasts.

In the dawn, no villager was asleep, so you spoke to a lot of people, all your siblings, friends and acquaintances. Some of them cried, others smiled and a couple encouraged you saying it was going to be okay. You doubted it, but didn’t say a thing, you were too shaken still trying to be brave.

When the sun rose, you heard the chicken starting their day. You got up, put on a Victorian black dress with long sleeves and a corselet for the thorax area, and packed your few belongings, taking good care of your bow and arrows that once were a secret and now, you thought, might be discarded, but you would still be stubborn and give it a try, maybe they would let you have it.

You left the bedroom, leaving behind your talisman made by the cabin people with a note to your younger sister. Once she was born in the Village, she didn’t know much about the cabins, but you were sure it would protect her after you were gone.

You believed you could go away unnoticed, but your mom was sitting in the kitchen table, waiting for you, looking restless, but she found vitality to smile a good morning at you.

“You look pretty.” She said as she walked towards you and twirled your hair.

“Thank you, mom.” You simply replied, thinking that touch was soothing.

“We will miss you.” She sighed. “I will miss you, deeply, my angel.” Your mom is one of the kindest people you know, she always took good care of you even when you got older, you will miss her too.

“I will miss you too, mom… I love you.” You added and hugged her. You must be strong; her smell of country flowers softened you tempting you to run away from your fate.

“Promise you will try to write.” She pleaded, staring into your soul with her woody-brown eyes.

“I promise.” You meant it and did afterwards.

“It is okay, angel, you may go now, I won’t make it any harder.” She stepped aside, giving you space to walk to the door, when there you looked back one last time and waved goodbye.

At the ceremony site, they said you should gather again at the Chapel. A part of the building is destroyed, you are not sure what was responsible for it, but there are parts of the ceiling and the ground that are missing and underground tunnels with Gods know what meandering under your feet. The others arrived not long after you and less than an hour later Mother Miranda joined you.

She spoke from the pulpit. This sight gave you an uneasiness. You never liked her manners, always thought she considered herself too much of a priest, but you were not sure for what gods she spoken, in addition, she was also very domineering. There were stories of her whispered by mourning souls saying that she would tear some locals apart while laughing and enjoying the bloody spectacle. Maybe she was crazy. Believing it or not, she didn’t please you at all.

“Children.” She began. “Destiny calls you. You must fulfil your role in this circle. It is a sacrifice for all of us, so we can preserve our way of life.” Miranda went on like this for some more minutes before getting to the point.

“Each one of you has been designated or requested by one of the four lords. I will now say your name and the name of your Lord.” She finally said.

Your heart rate was worrying, your anxiety levels were high. You breathed heavily, trying to regain composure. Miranda called the brave boy first, he went to Moreau. Two girls got sent to the Dimitrescu’s castle, one more boy went to Moreau, another girl went to Lady Beneviento. Thus, there was only you left and Miranda’s phrase reverberated through the Chapel with its angelical acoustic turning horrifying.

“Y/N. Lord Karl Heisenberg.”

Your stomach sunk. You didn’t know if you were relieved or even more preoccupied. But then you felt that shock sensation again, the iron taste made you salivate and you thought it might have been worst, maybe all he expects from you is some cleaning, laundry and your normal daily routine.

Still, one thing that Miranda said echoed in your head: did you get designated or did he request you? You didn’t know which one would be better.

[tryingmybestpls]

Only Ones Who Know (Steve Rogers x Reader)

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader

Summary: Four years before Steve showed up on the reader’s doorstep, she was waiting at the church for him to show up. (Read Part 1 right here)

Rating: T

Word Count: 3.1k

Warnings: Cursing? Someone gets punched in the face. Angst.

A/N: This is sort of a prequel to Do Me A Favour. I wanted to explore what had led to the reader’s decision to leave Steve. Hope you enjoy!

Four Years Ago

She should've known this day was going to be one of the worst days of her life as soon as it started. Y/N woke up that morning feeling sick to her stomach, barely making it to the toilet before the Chinese food that her and Natasha ate the night before decided to vacate her body via her mouth. Of course she knew it was pre-wedding jitters making her queasy. It was the fact that she was two months pregnant.

At first, Y/N had thought that her period was late due to the stress of the impending wedding. It wasn't until Natasha jokingly said that she should take a pregnancy test just to make sure did it dawn on Y/N that there might be a chance that she was pregnant. She was extremely shocked when those two little lines appeared on the piece of plastic and made Natasha buy fifty more in order to make sure that this wasn't a fluke. When each one came out positive, Y/N called new-parents Tony and Pepper, freaking out. Both of them and Natasha had to calm her down and tell her everything was fine before she was able to see any positives in the situation.

Y/N had wanted to tell Steve immediately. She knew that he wouldn't be mad, in fact he'd probably be over the moon. Every time he walked through their apartment door, it would be on the tip of her tongue, ready to spill out of her mouth, but then he'd be in a mood or he'd talk about his grief circle. Y/N would have to immediately force those words down and listen to everything he had to say. It's not that she didn't like listening to his problems. She was his fiancée and she'd always be there for him in anyway he needed. However, as the wedding drew nearer, Steve had stopped asking about her and grew distant. Even though they eat with each other and slept in the same bed, it felt like they were millions of miles apart. Y/N would just tell herself that after the wedding, everything would be okay once they said "I do".

Yet, as Natasha fretted around her, making sure her makeup was perfect and not a hair was out of place, Y/N couldn't push her worries away. She once again felt nauseous, but couldn't tell if it was morning sickness or her emotions causing it. Either way, she rubbed the skin where her thumb attached itself to the rest of her hand, trying to calm herself down just like her grandmother had taught her to.

"Hey, everything's going to be okay. In an hour, you're going to walk down that aisle and everything will just float away." Natasha told her, looking at the bride in the mirror. Y/N gave her friend a small smile as the ex-Russian spy's hands rested on her bare shoulders. It had taken Y/N weeks to find a dress that she liked, but God when she did-Y/N didn't even want to take the dress off.

"I know. I can't remember Pepper being this nervous, but then again I don't think I've ever seen her nervous." Y/N responds, her smile growing. Nat was just about to respond when someone knocked on the door. Y/N twisted in her seat as her maid of honor moved to open the door. Tony, Pepper, and sweet little Morgan were standing there, all dressed up and looking like a perfect family. Y/N swallowed the lump in her throat, trying not to look like she's on the brink of a breakdown.

"Hey, you look great kid. White is definitely your color. Romanoff, can I borrow you for a sec?" Tony asks, his thumb motioning out of the room. Natasha nods, sending you a quick smile before she and Tony walk down the hall. Pepper walks into the room, nudging the door shut with her hip. Y/N smiles at the mother and daughter walking towards her.

"You look gorgeous, Y/N. Huh, doesn't your Auntie Y/N look pretty?" Pepper asks the babbling baby in her arms, who is already making grabby arms at you as the two of them walk further into the room. Y/N and Steve had chosen Morgan to be their flower girl and ring bearer (it's not like they knew anyone else with children), so the infant was dressed in a pretty little white dress with a navy blue ribbon tied around the middle.

"Thanks, Pepper and thank you for letting me have this little munchkin in my wedding. I think she's the cutest little flower girl I have ever seen." Y/N responds, her nervousness melting away as Morgan smiles at her. Pepper smiles, taking a seat in the small little chair that was in the corner of dressing room that the church they were in provided.

"No problem. You know Tony and I don't mind. How are you feeling?" She questions and Y/N swallows hard.

"I've already thrown up today, but I think that was because of the morning sickness. Is it normal to be this nervous?" The bride asks, trying to smooth out the tulle that makes up the skirt of the dress. Pepper gives her a kind smile, handing Morgan a teething toy.

"Of course it is. And it's only normal you're even more nervous because the baby. You're going to be okay, Y/N." Her words are sweet and almost motherly. Y/N relaxes her shoulders, letting out a breath she didn't realize she was holding. Images of a possible future appeared before her eyes-glimpses of a home in Brooklyn, her and Steve chasing after a couple of kids. It brought a small smile to Y/N's face.

"I'm going to tell him tonight. I-I have it all planned out Pep. I just hope he'll be happy." She announces, her hand slipping down to rest against the nonexistent bump. That's all she wants really-for Steve to be happy in general. Y/N hopes that the wedding and the news will just make him relax, make him focus a little more on her, just like he used to.

"Steve will be, I'm sure of it." Pepper replies and Y/N wishes she can believe those words, but her worries have already started gnawing at her stomach once more.

-

It was ten minutes before the wedding was supposed to start and Y/N was as ready as she'd ever be. Her hands were wrapped tight around the bouquet of white roses and white peonies, her knuckles turning white. She could hear guests were already inside of the church, talking amongst themselves. Natasha and Pepper were moving around her, both of the working on putting her veil into her hair.

"There we go-Perfect." Natasha announces, both of them taking a step back to admire their work. Y/N smiles, standing up in order to look at herself in the full length mirror. She wanted to cry at the sight. For the first time, everything felt perfect, like it was falling into place. Y/N had been worried over nothing.

"Oh my God." Y/N gasps softly, watery eyes glancing at Pepper and Nat, "Thank you two so much-."

The door opened and Tony and Rhodey stood in the doorway, eyes wide. They looked worried, which makes the smile on Y/N's face slip away. She has spoken too soon and she knew it.

"We have a problem." Tony quickly says, both men walking into the room and shutting the door behind them. Y/N's brows furrow together as Natasha mutters curses under her breath in Russian.

"What's going on?" The bride questions, looking from Tony and Rhodey to Natasha and then to Pepper, searching their solemn faces for an answer. The spy sighs, drawing Y/N's attention back to her.

"Y/N, we-we can't find Steve. He hasn't shown up and he isn't answering any calls." Natasha finally tells her, her voice gentle. Tears prick in Y/N's eyes, but she quickly blinks them away, not wanting to ruin her makeup. She wanted to question why she wasn't informed of this earlier, but she doesn't want to overthink the situation.

"No-No he's just running late. Maybe he's just stuck in traffic-Steve will be here." She replies, shaking her head as she wrings out her hands, "There is ten minutes still. He'll be here."

Y/N quickly moves to where her phone is charging, grabbing it. With shaky hands, she pulls up Steve's contact and hits the 'call' button. She raises the phone to her ear, setting her bouquet down carefully on the vanity. The call goes straight to voicemail, making her stomach fill with dread.

"H-Hey Rogers. I'm just wondering where you are. The wedding is in ten minutes and I-If you're just stuck in traffic, please let us know. Let me know. Alright. Uh, I love you. See you soon." Her voice is tightening with emotion that's she's desperately trying to shove down. Y/N sets the phone back on the vanity, trying to tell herself that Steve was going to show up soon.

The bride-to-be watched as the start time of the wedding rolled around. Pepper excused herself to go talk to the priest and explain the situation to him. Tony went to entertain the guests while Natasha left to hunt down Steve. Pepper returned to the room twenty minutes later, finding Y/N sitting up straight in the chair, texting Steve.

Where are you?

Steve, I'm getting worried.

Just answer my calls, please.

Please.

You're never late.

Is everything okay?

Twenty minutes turned into an hour. One hour into two. And two slipped into three.

By then, the guests had left. The priest returned to wherever he goes to when he isn't working. The flower girl had to be put down for a nap. Tony, Bruce, and Rhodey sat with Y/N in that little dressing room until Natasha came back. When she announced that she had found Steve and that he had been at his grief circle this whole time, Y/N finally left herself cry. Her throat felt like it was raw. She wanted to scream, break things, and curse the man she was supposed to marry, but she was in a church and she was raised better than that.

"Get out. Please, just get out." Y/N barely recognized her voice when the words came out of her mouth. It almost hurt too much to speak. Tony moved to speak, but she shook her head. Y/N snatched the veil out of her hair, ruining Natasha's work. Her voice still tiny as she continued, "Get. Out. All of you. Just get out."

Her teammates quickly got up, sending her empathetic looks before they filed out of the room, Natasha shutting the door behind her. Y/N finally let a sob out as she let her veil fall to the floor. She pulls and tears at her ivory dress, unable to have it on anymore. Y/N could care less about the lace and tulle that's tearing in her hands, ignoring how it floats gently to the floor.

Black colored tears are cutting through the makeup that Natasha spent too much time on as Y/N finally gets the dress off. She leaves it in a heap on the floor, sobs racking her body as she grabs her phone. Her fingers move without her having to tell them what to do.

Once again, she is sent to voicemail.

Rage fills her and she throws the phone to ground, the screen shattering upon impact. Y/N brings her white stiletto clad foot down into the phone repeatedly, forcing all of her weight on the poor phone until it stopped working. The bouquet went into the trash can, petals falling off with her rough movements, heels soon following.

Steve had decided not to show up, decided that he didn't want to get married anymore without letting her know. And he hadn't even bother to fucking call her. Y/N felt stupid, like she should have known that this was going to happen.

She couldn't do this anymore. Y/N knew that Steve was hurting, but God damn it he wasn't the only one. If she wasn't important in his mind-in his life, she knew that meant that baby inside of her wasn't going to be either. Y/N couldn't bear the thought of being a child into that environment and she most certainly could not return to Steve and pretend like nothing had happened. This was irredeemable and even though Y/N loved Steve with her entire being, she was tired of it all.

Y/N had to make a choice. For both her and her child's sake.

So she forced herself to stop sobbing for a moment as she put on the clothes she had arrived to the church in. Y/N carefully gathered her wedding dress and put it back in the garment bag, carefully adding the veil. She zipped it up and set it aside before picked up the destroyed cell phone and adding it to the overfilling small trash can, the ripped fabric joining the other items. It wasn't right to leave the room in such disarray.

Gathering her things, Y/N wiped her tears and made her escape out the back door. Her mood shifted, mindset changed. No longer was she focused on how her heart was aching in her chest, instead, Y/N focused on how she was going to make herself disappear. She was a skilled agent, trained by the best. If she wanted to, no one would ever find her or her child. It would be like she was disappeared off the face of the earth.

There was no use in crying over a man that had already made his choice. Steve made it clear that he didn't want a future with Y/N and she wasn't going to force one on him. He had made his choice and he couldn't be mad at her for making hers.

-

Tony Stark was furious as he pulled up in front of the Veteran's Hall that the Star Spangled idiot has been hosting his "grief counseling circles". How dare that fucking asshole leave poor little Y/N at the fucking altar. The best thing that had ever happened to Steve was asking Y/N to marry him and now he had fucking thrown it away. Tony barely bothered to shut off the car before he is climbing out of it and slamming the door shut behind him.

They all knew that Steve and Y/N had been having...issues. They might have not explicitly told their teammate they were having problems just because it was as clear as day. Before they were engaged, Steve had been distant. The remaining Avengers were surprised that he had proposed to Y/N, probably just as surprised as Y/N herself. They all had hoped for the best, hoped that this would bring the couple closer together. Natasha and Tony were the only cynical ones, bracing for the worst. Tony wanted to outright tell her to turn Steve down, but Pepper made him promise that he wouldn't. The billionaire knew that this whole situation was only going to end in heartbreak for Y/N, especially when she had told him and Pepper that she was pregnant. Tony was already incredibly protective of Y/N and it only increased with the news. 

"Tony-Tony, what are you going to do?" Rhodey asks, clambering out of the car as fast as he can. He shuts the door, trying to catch up with the older man who is stalking towards the building.

"I'm just going to talk to him." Tony responds as his friend catches up to him. Rhodey was incredibly worried about this whole situation. Tony already wasn't Steve's biggest fan and to make this worse, Tony and Y/N had a close bond. They treated each other more like siblings rather than colleagues. Y/N was Morgan’s godmother. Hell, he was going to walk her down the aisle earlier today.

Key word: was.

Because of that, Rhodey was afraid he was going to be a witness to a murder. He could stop Tony before that happens, but Steve  did deserve it.

"Tony, please. Why don't we go back to the church and make sure Y/N is okay, huh? She needs us, needs you." Rhodey is desperate as Tony rips the door open and steps inside. Rage is coming off of Tony in waves as he continues to walk down the hallway, practically vibrating with anger. People glanced at them as they walked past, murmuring to each other about who they had just passed by. Rhodey himself wanted to pummel Steve too, but Pepper was going to be pissed at him if he didn't at least try to stop Tony.

And then, they walked out into the room where the meeting was held, evident by the circle of metal folding chairs in the middle of the room. Steve was talking to some of the members of his little group as the nursed cups of stale coffee. Tony clenched and unclenched his fists, the tapping of his Italian leather shoes against the discolored linoleum drawing the attention of everyone in the room. Steve's eyes widen as Tony quickly crossed the room, Rhodey hot on his heels. Steve opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

Because Tony's fist connected with his jaw. Hard.

"You're a fucking asshole, Rogers. A fucking asshole." Tony spat as Steve stumbled backward slightly, holding his face. The other people in the room quickly gathered their things and left, obviously not wanting to be in the middle of  two Avengers fighting. Tony was still clenching his fists, debating whether or not to swing again.

"Y/N's the best fucking thing that's ever happened to you and you are a fucking idiot for throwing that away." He snaps, pointing a finger at Steve as Rhodey attempts to hold his best friend back. The color has drained from Steve's face and God, Rhodey wants to let Tony go so that Steve can get what he deserves.

But Tony shrugs his way out of Rhodey's hold, still glaring at the blonde man. He shakes his head and turns on his heel, walking away. Rhodey sends Steve a nasty look before following after his friend. The Captain is left with an aching jaw and a sinking feeling in his gut.

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

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 @soleil-dor @fangirl-swagg @oofjustanothermcufan​ @dummiesshort​

[justfrozenthings]

I Have Loved You Since Forever

Pairing: Anna/Kristoff

Rating: T (just to be safe)

Word: 2,641

Notes: This was just an idea that popped into my head so I figured I would write it because why not. Sorry for any grammar mistakes I have made because I know for a fact that there are some.

Summary: Church bells tolled for a wedding Kristoff has been dreading ever since he received the invitation in the mail.

He sat on a bench in the park absentmindedly running his fingers through Sven’s soft silky fur; the exact bench where he and a particular redhead would meet up to vent about all their troubles and get them off their chests. He remembered the many nights she had called, asking him to meet her at their place so that he could hold her as she cried. Sure, it usually meant getting out of bed at some ungodly hour, but damn he would do it for all eternity if it meant he could bring a smile to her beautiful freckled face. This time, however, instead of his ears being met with the heavenly sounds of her laugh; they were met with the sound of bells from the church nearby, sounding like death tolls with every breath that racked his body. 

There was a wedding being held today; one that he had been dreading ever since he received the white envelope decorated with intricate golden scrolls. 

 Today was the wedding of Anna Arendelle, his best friend and love of his life. Yeah, you heard it right, he, Kristoff Bjorgman, was deeply and utterly in love with his childhood best friend. The friend he had told that he was unable to make it to her wedding during one of their daily park bench meetings. He could still hear the pain of her voice in his head.

 “And why not?” Anna said sternly, trying to hold back the swell of tears in her eyes. He hated that he was the cause of them. “Don’t you want me to be happy?” 

“Anna you know I do but-”

“Then come. Please Kristoff,” she croaked. “It wouldn’t be the same without you there.”

 He stared down at his feet before he gave a deep sigh and stared back into her beautiful blue orbs again. She was wearing the pink beanie that he had gotten her one year for Christmas, and the matching scarf that came with it. Her button nose tinged with a light hue of red from the chilly autumn breeze that spread to her cheeks, her freckles looking like little stars twinkling in the night sky. “I’m sorry Anna, but I can’t.” And before she could say anything else he got up from his spot on the bench and left.

 He couldn’t bear to hear her sobs as he walked away and he wanted so much to turn back around and tell her he was sorry and that he loved her and that he would do anything to never make her cry like that again. But he couldn’t, because he didn’t want her to see the tears that had formed in his own eyes. 

 Kristoff hadn’t noticed, but those same tears that had formed in his eyes the night before came back to visit him. He blindly wiped them away with the sleeve of his old high school hoodie; the purple letters were faded out and hard to read. He had told her he couldn’t make it to save his own heart, but he ended up breaking hers in the process. 

Unable to last another minute on the bench any longer, he got up and whistled for Sven; who, at some point during his flashback, had trotted over to chase the frogs in the creek. He shoved his hands in his front pockets and walked with a slight hunch in his back from all the grief he was holding in as leaves of reds, oranges, and yellows danced and swirled around him. He needed to find solace, and there was only one other place he could do that.

 Bulda’s was the local cafe owned and run by Kristoff’s adoptive mother Bulda and was another place he and Anna often found themselves visiting. At the beginning of their friendship, Kristoff was too afraid to tell Anna that he had been adopted because he was worried that she would judge him. Anna was his only friend at the time, besides Sven, still is in fact, and he didn’t want to lose that friendship with her. She eventually found out through some people at school, though this wasn’t until they were seniors in high school, and when she had asked him about it he figured that there was no reason hiding it. As he readied himself to lose the only human friend he had ever had, Anna placed her hands on his and told him that there was nothing wrong with that. It was at that moment when he realized that he had fallen hard for the feisty redhead sitting next to him.

 Kristoff had smiled back at the memory; if only he had told her his feelings then maybe he wouldn’t be here wallowing in his own self-pity. 

Maybe coming here was a bad idea, he told himself mentally. But before he could leave, Bulda attacked him with a big bear hug. 

 “Hi Krissy!,” Bulda exclaimed as she planted dozens of little kisses on his face. 

He returned the hug causing him to smile only a little bit. It seemed no matter how dire or sorrowful the situation was, his mother always put a smile on his face. “Hey Ma’.” 

 Beulda unwound herself from her son’s embrace, “The usual I’m guessing?” 

“You got it.” He tried putting on the happiest tone he could muster, but it was no use. He knew she could see right through.

“Okay,” Bulda said, eyeing him cautiously. “I’ll be back in a jiff.” 

Not even five minutes later, Bulda had returned with a large slice of her famous Chocolate Eruption cake and a cup of hot cocoa with whip cream, chocolate drizzle, and chocolate shavings. It didn’t take long for Kristoff to notice that Bulda had only brought one fork. Usually, there were two, one for him and one for Anna. He had never been too much of a chocolate fanatic. He liked it just fine, but he’d choose something like vanilla over it any day. At least that had been true, he had realized before he met Anna. No matter what, he was always amazed by the amount of chocolate that such a small person could consume. It was impressive really, he wasn’t going to lie.

 “So,” Bulda sighed as he plopped down in the booth next to him. “What brings ya’ here?” 

“Well, I was in the park and decided to grab a bite to eat.” 

 “No,” Bulda shook her head. “What I mean is what are you here instead of at that church trying to stop that wedding?”

 Kristoff let out a frustrated sigh and buried his face in the palms of his hands before bringing one of them up to run through his golden locks. “Ma’ I can’t just go crash someone’s wedding just because I have feelings for them.” 

“Sure ya’ can. When it’s someone who loves ya’ back that is.” Noticing that her son was still not picking up on what she was saying Bulda continued. “Listen baby, I may be old and crazy but I know true love when I see it. And let me tell ya’ whatever Anna and that Hans guy have ain’t it.” 

Annoyed, Kristoff shoved a forkful of cake into his mouth. “What exactly is it that you're trying to say Ma’?” 

“I’m saying that Anna loves you and that you have a chance to win her over before it’s too late.” She rested her hand on his shoulder, “I know you love her Kristoff. And Anna loves you. Deny it as much as you like, but it’s the honest truth.” 

“What makes you so sure?” he asked, still not buying what his mother was saying. 

“Because I’ve seen the way she looks at you, and I’ve seen the way she looks at him. It’s not the same. She loves you Kristoff. She just needs help seeing it.” He stared at the cake, deep in thought as he ran his mother’s words through his head over and over. “And plus I’m never wrong,” Bulda winked before giving him a peck on the cheek and leaving to go wait on another table. 

He sat there contemplating what his mother told him as he watched cars pass by through the window. He knew it was crazy, but he had to try. If things went wrong? Well, then at least he gave it his best. At least she would know that he loved her. 

Quickly glancing at his watch, he sprinted out of the diner ignoring the honking horns and shouts of angry drivers as he made his way to the church. There wasn’t much time left.

Running up the steps of the church two at a time he burst through the two grand wooden doors. He couldn’t hear any music, which was a good thing he thought until he heard the priest prepare the couple for their “I do’s.” 

“I object!” Kristoff practically burst through the doors of the nave sprinting past the pews and up to where the young couple stood. 

“Kristoff? What are you doing here?” Anna’s brows were furrowed and a look of bewilderment spread across her freckle-painted face. 

Kristoff’s chest heaved up and down, his voice labored with heavy breaths that shook his entire body. “I’m sorry Anna. But I can’t let you marry him.” His honey-brown eyes bore into her glittery blue ones, a small twinkling of hope reflecting in them. “Not before I told you.”

“Told me what? Kristoff, what's gotten into you?” 

“Anna, there's something I need to tell you. I was too much of a coward to do it before and because of that, I missed my chance. So before you marry Hans I just need to let you know that I love you Anna Arendelle.” Gasps spread throughout the crowd and everyone sat there, mouth agape, including Anna. “If the feelings aren’t mutual then that’s fine. We’ll still be friends and nothing will change. I just had to finally get it off my chest.” 

Anna blinked, her shocked expression never left her face. “Kristoff I-”

However, before she could say anything Hans had stepped in between them, he looked at Kristoff like he was some kind of fool. “Gee thanks for stopping by buddy, but unfortunately for you, it was a waste of a trip. Now if you’d please kindly leave so I can marry my fiancée that would be greatly appreciated.” Hans gave him a pat on the shoulder.

“No.” 

Hans, who was currently heading back to his place next to Anna, turned on his heel. “What did you say?” Hans’s eyes shooting daggers into his. 

“I said no. I’m not leaving unless Anna says so.” 

This only seemed to make Hans angrier causing him to fist his hands. However, before he could lay a punch on Kristoff a streak of white ran past him. He was confused at what was going on at first, that was until he turned back to look at Kristoff, the scene before him sending him into total shock. 

Anna had run over to Kristoff and had meddled her lips with his. “I love you too Kristoff. Always have.” 

Hans shook with anger. In a flash, he grabbed a gun from the inside pocket of his tux and aimed it at Kristoff. Then, as if by some kind of miracle Sven came running in biting Hans on his rear end before he could pull the trigger. He cried out in pain, dropping the gun as he did so. 

Everyone was evacuated from the building as soon as the fiasco was over. Fortunately, one of Anna’s friends she had invited worked for the local police station who had called in asking them to send a deputy over with a car so they could bring Hans in for questioning. 

Wedding guests stood outside of the church conversing with one another as if nothing had ever happened, waiting to hear from Anna to see what was going to happen now that the wedding was obviously not going to continue.

“So,” Anna said from where her head sat on Kristoff’s shoulder. “Did you really mean it when you said you loved me?” She looked up to gaze at him, his eyes so welcoming and warm.

 He placed a kiss upon the crown of her head. “Every word.” 

“For how long?” 

 She smiled up at him and he had fallen in love with her all over again.“Since forever.” 

“Me too.” They held each other tighter, relishing in their moment of bliss. “I just can’t believe I was about to marry a complete psycho. I’m just lucky my true prince charming came and saved the day.” Kristoff only responded by stroking her hair, hoping that this would bring her some ease. “Everyone’s still here. What should I tell them? I’d hate to send them back home, I feel like I should give them something.” 

Kristoff tried to think of ideas. “Hmm…we could all go to mom’s cafe.” He nuzzled into the soft skin of her neck and a tiny giggle escaped her dainty pink lips.

“I’d love that.”

  ———

  2 Years Later

Church bells rang throughout the town, but this time they made Kristoff’s stomach swell with happiness instead of sorrow. 

As he stared at himself in the oak framed cheval mirror straightening his bow tie, he smiled at himself. He’d never been a tuxedo kind of guy, quite frankly he’d never been all that into dressing up in general. For today though, he would put up with it. 

While he was excited, he wouldn’t ignore the fact that a tinge of fear had somehow peeked its way through. There was no denying the butterflies in his stomach.

 A knock came from the door and Elsa, Anna’s older sister, peeked her head through once she got the “okay” that it was safe to enter. She asked him if he was ready before mussing up his hair a bit from its slicked-back style and adding any last-minute touches to his tux. “She always did say she preferred your hair when it was wild and free.” With that, she gave him a hug and left to go make sure everything was running smoothly. 

Glancing at himself in the mirror one more time and letting a nervous breath, he left to go take his place at the altar. Kristoff walked down the aisle, which had been decorated with sunflowers, lace, and cream-colored ribbons, each step feeling heavier with anxiousness and exhilaration. The sun hitting the stained glass windows cast colorful hues on the cherry wood pews filled with family and friends. And as the music began Kristoff felt his heart flutter.

There was a parade of bridesmaids and flower girls. Even Sven got to join in having the very important job of being the ring bearer, carrying both rings tied to a white ribbon around his collar.

Suddenly people stood from their seats and the long exciting wait was finally over. Anna turned the corner, arm in arm with Elsa, her bluebell eyes swelling with tears of happiness. Her wedding gown was simple, nothing too extravagant. Its sleeves were made of lace with intricate flower patterns showing off her creamy freckled arms. The dress reached the end of her knees and buttermilk yellow satin ribbon had been tied around her waist. Sunflowers and baby’s breath had been woven into her ginger locks, the sun’s glow giving it a halo effect. She looked like a redheaded goddess. 

She took his hands in hers, promising a vow of everlasting love. They slid their rings on one another’s fingers, thankful for there not being any kind of interruption. It was then, Kristoff realized, that confessing his love to Anna, two years prior, had been the best decision he would ever make in his life. Well, creating a child together from their love, who would be due in nine months time.

Ao3

[pricemarshfield]

first of her name

Written for Day 4 of @acocweek; Tragedy + Favorite (Platonic) Relationship + Amethar. Read on AO3 here.

Saccharina knows, when Ruby's gaze meets hers, that she might die.

It's not the first time she's thought she might. The nuns never cared for her well-being, and she'd not always been so good at finding enough food to feed herself after she'd drowned them all. A Bulbian priest who was better with a sword than she thought, a marauder whose views on magic were less positive than they'd assumed, an arrow that could hit Cinnamon while they were in the air so she'd fall gracelessly and never bring magic back to anything.

She could move first. Gooey meets her eyes with a pleading look, or Cinnamon's fire could reach her. She could run, get out of range of her arrows. But that's her sister, even if she doesn't seem to care.

Saccharina shakes her head at her marauders, then looks back to Ruby. Ruby, whose gaze has hardened, who doesn't answer when Saccharina messages we don't have to do this. Who nocks an arrow and fires it at her faster than Saccharina can even process.

She throws up a shield, knows her dear sister's aim is true enough for it not to matter. Saccharina doesn't have the energy to feel anything other than tired, and closes her eyes against it.

She doesn't die, or feel an arrow pierce her armor, or hear Cinnamon roar in rage. Instead, Ruby screams.

Saccharina opens just one eye just in case Ruby's missed and she has time to run, and sees Amethar lying on the ramparts in front of her, an arrow in his neck. She's sliding down Cinnamon's hide to get to him before she's finished processing what's happening, his scales opening cuts on her skin.

"Amethar?" she asks, rushes forward. "I can heal you, just wait--"

"Saccharina," Amethar says, blood gushing out of the wound. She knows enough to not take the arrow out, but God, she's used most of her spells, and he's so far gone-- "Are you okay?"

Saccharina laughs. It's not funny, but she doesn't know what else to do. "Why did you do this?"

"You're my dau--" Amethar coughs, and Saccharina tries to heal him, but he'll die too fast if she takes out the arrow, and he'll lose too much blood if she does nothing. "And I couldn't let Ruby kill you. She'd have regretted it."

Saccharina thinks of the steel in her eyes, and thinks he has to be wrong. "If you cared, why didn't you just tell me?"

Amethar frowns until some recognition sparks in his eyes. "I don't know. I don't know."

"It's fine," Saccharina says, like Ruby hadn't tried to kill her for it. "Don't talk, it's only making it worse--"

"Dad!" Ruby says from far-too-close, and Saccharina throws up a shield between them without even thinking. "Let me in, I need to see my father!"

"Our father," Saccharina snarls, and it would be so easy to throw a lightning bolt into the other girl, fry her alive, let Cinnamon eat her heart and make sure she's tasted enough of betrayal. It would be so, so easy. "This is your fault."

Ruby's face twists into a grimace, reaching back to her quiver. It's only Amethar coughing again that prompts Saccharina to look away from Ruby. It's just like her life, to find out her father cares enough about her to die for her when he's going to.

"I don't think I can heal you," Saccharina says, and she's choked up, fuck. "I don't--none of my spells can take care of this. I don't know what to do."

"It's okay," he says. "Can you drop the shield? I want to see Ruby."

It's stupid, and it's dangerous, and she drops the shield anyway. She trusts that Cinnamon will fry Ruby if she tries anything, or that her magic will be enough now that she's on guard. Ruby drops to her knees next to Saccharina, taking her dad's hand instinctually.

"I'm sorry," Ruby says, sounding younger than Saccharina's ever heard her. It's been easy to forget she's only barely 18, with the way she always looked down her nose at Saccharina. "I didn't mean to. I'm so sorry. Please don't die. You said you wouldn't go anywhere."

"Yeah, well," Amethar says. "I've never been a very good dad, have I?"

"No," Ruby says. "No, this is my fault. I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Amethar says. There's blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth now, and Saccharina casts a spell to ease the pain. It's all she has now. "I would do it again."

"Why?" Ruby says, voice venomous. "Why would you die for her?"

Saccharina would throw her off the ramparts now, but she does want to know the answer, and besides, there'll be time enough for it after Amethar stops breathing. He deserves that much, since she can't save him.

"She's my daughter," Amethar says simply, and Saccharina's heart breaks. "So are you. You two shouldn't--you should hold onto each other. Family's all we have. I would give anything to have found one of my sisters alive."

There's a tug in Saccharina's mind at that, the wind whispering to her about some chocolate in the woods, but she waves it away. She'll follow that thread when anyone who might've betrayed her is gone.

"Dad," Ruby says, and then just weeps. Amethar lifts his other hand, moves it vaguely in Saccharina's direction until she takes it.

"Don't hurt her," Amethar says, making eye contact with Saccharina. She nods, and isn't sure if she's lying as she does it. Amethar smiles, though, and it feels, for a second, like all she's ever wanted.

Then his eyes slip close, and he exhales one long, rattling breath, and he shits himself.

Ruby doesn't nock an arrow, and Saccharina doesn't throw a bolt of lightning at her. For just a moment, they sit, mourning their father. Then Ruby stands, says, "I'm going to make sure Cruller is dead," and leaves.

Saccharina stands. The castle around her is throwing up white flags, Cinnamon is shifting, eager to get back to it, and her father's still-warm corpse is on the ground in front of her. There isn't a battle to be won, but there's a throne to be claimed, a land's magic to resurrect, a church to raze to the ground.

A sister to...

Something.

---

Sitting on her throne, Gooey at her right, Theobald at her left, Saccharina waits.

Liam approaches with the Book of Saint Citrina. Its holy light illuminates the room, painful to look at directly, and everything in Saccharina tells her to burn it, feed it to Cinnamon (sticking his head through one of the holes their siege weapons had left, keeping a watchful eye on everyone), throw it into the sea to join the nuns that would have revered it.

Instead, she puts her hand on it, and says, "I am the daughter of Amethar Rocks and Catherine Ghee. After my father's passing in the battle today, I am the rightful Queen of Candia. Are there any who have a better claim than me?"

It's an obvious challenge, but Ruby doesn't rise to the bait, Caramelinda's arm around her shoulders, holding Payment Day and staring down at her feet.

"All kneel before her Majesty the Queen!" Gooey calls, and Theo's armor thuds to the floor first. Everyone kneels, including Caramelinda, including Ruby.

It doesn't feel the way she'd hoped it might. Isn't she entitled at least one simple victory?

"Sister," Saccharina says, and Ruby's flinch is almost hidden. "Would you swear something on the book of our aunt here?"

Caramelinda's gaze is colder than ice, and Ruby looks completely taken aback. Theo is shifting next to her, but he doesn't get up. Good. She'd wanted at least one of them to remain loyal to her.

It'll be a shame to lose Liam, if she's right, but power means sacrifice, and at least she's choosing this one.

"Of course," Ruby says, gets up. The room is quiet enough that the noise of setting down Payment Day echoes throughout. When Ruby puts a hand on the book, her eyes widen, and Saccharina studies her face.

"Do you recognize my claim?" she says.

"Yes," Ruby responds, and there's a sigh from Theo.

"Do you have any intent to take the throne, or to make Caramelinda queen again, or anything else that would threaten my reign?"

Ruby exhales, and Saccharina's certain that neither of them know what's coming out of her mouth.

"Well?"

"No," Ruby says, and Saccharina blinks.

"Good," Saccharina says, and leans in, whispers, "One more question?"

The crowd in the room shifts uncomfortably, and Ruby nods, gaze distant. Liam, still standing next to the throne, makes a face at her.

But she needs them to know. They have to hate Ruby, because trust is nothing.

"Who killed Amethar?"

Ruby shudders. "You know. Don't ask me."

"They don't," Saccharina says, glaring at a Dairy Islander who seems to be trying to listen in, who ducks his gaze. "Ruby, answer the question or I'll tell the room myself. I'll tell them you and your mother conspired." She pauses. "Haven't you lost eno--"

"I did," Ruby says, and Liam's face goes blank. Saccharina wants to turn and look at Theo, but doesn't. It's an obvious sign of weakness to care about the opinions of any but her most trusted generals; she can't do that anymore. "I didn't mean to. I didn't know he would jump in front of you. And I wish he hadn't."

"That will be all," Saccharina says with a polite smile, loud enough for the room to hear, lets her hand accidentally brush the Book of Leaves as she says, "I just wanted to remember my father as he was." The room all seems to nod, understanding grief and loss, after everything. There's a brief rush of magic from Caramelinda's direction, and her gaze is as openly defiant as it could be, given the circumstances. Saccharina makes a note to make sure to keep shield stocked.

As soon as Liam takes the book back, face still blank, hands shaking slightly, says, "Our father would be proud, don't you think?"

Ruby's gaze flashes to hers, and it's not the cruelest thing Saccharina's ever done, but it's possibly the worst thing she's ever said. She doesn't care. She tried politeness, and it got her father dead from an arrow that meant for her.

"Sir Theobald?" she says, and he rises to put a hand on the book. His expression is stormy, but she can't see any resentment of her on his face. When he looks at Ruby, though? There's disbelief, not-quite-hatred, and it works. It's enough for Saccharina's shoulders to relax slightly, to nod at Gooey, who looks more relieved than she does.

"Before Emperor Gustavo Uvano's passing," he says. "I watched him name Amethar Rocks as Emperor of the Concord." The room gasps.

"A shame that excludes you from the running to be Empress, Ruby," Saccharina says with a little put-upon sigh. Ruby doesn't even respond, goes back to her place besides Caramelinda and kneels again. Her hands don't shake.

"The Dairy Islands recognizes the claim of Queen Saccharina Frostwhip, First of Her Name," says Primsy from the front row, and Saccharina manages a genuine smile that she doesn't quite return.

Gooey's hand stays on her sword, and Caramelinda refuses to duck her gaze, and Liam glances between everyone with that same blank expression. She'd hoped the throne would be the end of her fighting to keep her place. But it is hers, for now, and she'll do what she needs to keep it.

This time around, if she's given a chance to strike first, she'll fucking take it.

[kettlequills]

C3: waking dreams: master of fate

On A03 here. tw for grief/mourning, mentioned child death, and mild hallucinations. also miraak is high. you guys get to meet soskro and mirdein!

“Easy now,” the healer, Soskro, murmured, “Easy. Your body has had quite the shock.”

“Hmm,” another voice came, gravelly, rough with ash. “Just patch me up. I need to get back to guarding the temple doors. I don’t trust that those troublemakers have gone.”

Flame-soft light greeted Miraak’s eyes. It rippled warm orange over the curtains that had been pulled around his bed. A bed? It was warm against his body and held him like an embrace, like Mora had decided to dangle him over the ink-dark seas long enough that Miraak’s body heat started to warm the perpetually tepid rubberiness of his tentacles. There were no beds in Apocrypha, nor curtains, and vague notions of some distant past-dream warred with what Miraak knew – the only fabric was the ragged tatters of the seeker’s cloaks. A similar papery colour, these cloaks that wrapped around the world, but they had dried out, and there were no stains.

The healer and the patient were shadow puppets against the light, their bodies licked with slow-moving, peaceful tentacles that swayed back and forth like the sigh of the waves on the shore. Like the remote figures of lurkers, small as a scale on his gauntlet from the vantage point of his high tower, the bubbles they blew in the ink as they idled.

Miraak’s face itched, but gently, as if it was far away. His ear ached a little, as if he’d been laying on it for a very long time. His mask felt odd on one side, soft instead of hard, and the eyeslits were wider, he thought. All the added peripheral vision made him feel dizzy.

He wanted to close them, but he could not figure out how. Instead, he watched the flutter of the curtains in the soft breeze and felt the salt from the distant sea in his throat. The world seemed to inch past in honey-thick grains, each second languid, lugubrious, elongated as an endless rest among the murmuring pages wrapped in tame dragonwings. He did not need sleep, did not ever fully slip into the dark comfort of Vaermina’s realm, but it was… meditative, in a sense, to leave only one ear open for threats, and simply lie quietly for a time.

Sahrotaar was the best to sleep on if Mora did not have him within his curling knot of oil-dark tendrils, even though Sahrotaar was always a placid room temperature. Its scales were smooth and soft, circular, made for slipping like a knife between the skin of the water, and its finned wings would curl round Miraak with the most care, like he was a sea-pearl in the heart of a clam. The bones in Sahrotaar’s wings still jabbed him, and Sahrotaar would insist on sliding its big snout into the pocket of space it had made between its wings and its body, filling it all with the subtle reek of old fish and ink, but it was better than nesting among the ripped pages of books.

Miraak wondered where Sahrotaar was.

“Mirdein, you have a spear hole in your leg the size of a drake,” Soskro said with the firmness of an argument often repeated, “You’ll sit here til I tell you.”

Mirdein grunted. “Yes, muthsera.”

Miraak breathed on his own now, without the tube down his throat and blurry white mask-faces manning bellows to manually pump his lungs for him. The huffing of the bellows had marked his days in and out of silence, and though something had always felt faintly wrong, Miraak could sense the presence of another close by – one of his dragons, surely, keeping watch against the lurkers – that occasionally pressed into him with tender magics that made his muscles unknot and his body loose and limp. Reassuringly, it still hurt, and the insistent feeling of violation and vulnerability was soothing in its familiarity. Perhaps Mora was feeding him again, or taking from him, and that was why Soskro was there, solid as never before when they’d met in dreams, spoonfeeding him potions that left his mind dreamy.

Soskro had seemed proud when Miraak could breathe all by himself. He focused on it, sucking air into himself until he felt buoyant as a balloon, ready to drift away. Fly, all by himself, in windless Apocrypha, with no dragonwings to hold him up.

“Don’t be smart with me, wife.”

The gentle tones of Restoration magic chimed like the ringing of bells to call the priests to evensongs, and Miraak floated in the sense-memory and wondered vaguely if anyone would be mad if he didn’t go, because he didn’t think he had a mouth anymore, and he thought that was good for singing. He had eyes, more eye than he was used to – had there always been so much to see, to the left of him? – but dim memory told him that he didn’t need to see. Mora would be there, to see for him, see in him, see to him, and his voice oily-smooth would tell him what he needed to do.

The curtains were glowing faintly. He wondered if they were supposed to. It looked like dragonfire caught in glass, like the scales of a fire-drake steaming where it lay in the snow. Dragon eyes and dragon names slipped foglike through his memory, and though he tried to shape the words of forgiveness for forgetting the name of the beast whose hide watched him through the curtains, his tongue was busy holding in all his air.

“I need you alive,” Soskro continued, “not dead on the end of some Skaal blade.”

“It was just a training accident,” said Mirdein, dismissively. “Sulis got too close. Nothing serious.”

“Serious enough for you to be stabbed! Since when did training get so violent?” Soskro’s voice was loud. Miraak thought he might sing to calm the tensions so no one would get bitten or eaten, but there was no space around all the air in him.

“Tensions are rising, Soskro! No one likes being sealed in the temple and you know there’s been accusations-“

His vision was going grey at the edges. Miraak released all his breath in a wheezing exhale. The voices went quiet. He mourned them. Mora so rarely put on different voices to catch Miraak out anymore and send him hurtling down book-strewn paths chasing echoes of memories. It had been one of the games they played. Mora had laughed at it, but Miraak did not remember laughing.

He did not remember most things, these days.

“Is he awake?” Mirdein asked, eventually, and Soskro sighed.

“Higher than a netch in a skooma-barrel, but yes, I think so. He’s staying awake most of the time now, can’t get much out of him but nonsense and odd words, but I think he’s more or less lucid. Taking him off the illusions helped.”

The shadow puppets moved, and then the curtains parted like a wound. Furrowed brows like the iron trellises of Apocrypha’s bridges stared down at him, then a broad-shouldered shape nudged into the curtained off section where Miraak nested. Another shape on its heels, merging together and apart, then Soskro appeared like magic and pushed Mirdein into a chair.

“Serjo.” The voice of Mirdein was back, but closer now. Rough, and warm, like the scratch of Kruziikrel’s sleepy mumbles when Miraak stole a moment of rest on his flame-hot throat. There was a bandage wrapped around her thigh at Miraak’s eye-level, a bloody spot the size of a coin already soaking through. Mirdein was a big woman, big enough to make the chair creak when she leaned forward to get a good look at him.

Some impression that something was wrong tickled him, and his face began to itch unbearably. He tried to lift his hand to scratch it, but his arm was tied to his side, his hand immobilised in a thick swathe of bandages. While Miraak puzzled that out, Soskro leant into his vision and smiled at him.

Red, red eyes, like Laataazin’s blood over his hands, these elves had. He thought they were elves. Soskro’s left hand was golden, and clicked and whirred softly when moved, and Miraak knew that it felt cold and hard, like things that touched his face were supposed to. He did not move away when Soskro’s thin metal fingers touched his cheek.

“Here, Lord,” said Soskro, and then lightly draped a gentle kerchief of silk over his face. The itching soothed immediately, and Miraak sighed against the coolness on his skin. It was the wrong weight – he did not know how he knew, but he knew it was wrong – but it felt more right than before. More right than Mirdein looking at him.

Mirdein exhaled slowly. There was a weight in the shadow of her shape through the silk, a slump of tired shoulders.

“Have faith,” said Soskro, quietly, “He will recover when he recovers. We will hold out.”

“I am patient,” said Mirdein, dourly, but then her voice softened.  “I – and my men – will keep you safe, serjo. Do not fear for my loyalty.”

“Geh, aam-hi,” Miraak heard himself say, as if through a very long tunnel. Yes, you serve me. The world shivered in response, and for a brief moment, he thought he heard the lonely cry of a dragon. Soskro’s soft intake of breath was one of awe.

Mora’s tentacles kissed Miraak’s nose on the inside of the silk kerchief, pulsed dizzyingly in his vision when Mirdein spoke again, firm as bedrock, “As you say, serjo.”

---

Frea clung to a jutting rock not far from the Tree Stone and squinted through the blinding snowfall. She had been crouched in the lee of the rock for some time now and her furs were dusted with snow, until she looked like nothing so much as a sleeping wolf taking refuge from the bitter winds.

Once, the animals had lived in the old ruin beyond the boneyard, wolfcubs whelping in the ancient rooms and birds nesting in the crumbling walls. There had been people, there had always been people in the temple, but only three or four at most, wary of outsiders but content to leave the Skaal well enough alone. As the Skaal had been happy to leave them; the cult of the Traitor could have their dusty ruin hidden behind the heaped skeletons of dragons fused together by time and the interminable movements of ice, no Skaal wanted to go near that wretched place. If the All-Maker did not move to kill them, it was certainly no business of the Skaal.

Of them all, only Frea had ever ventured inside. With the Last Dragonborn at her side, they’d carved a path through the temple with might and strength, to uncover the truth behind the disappearance of Frea’s people. The Traitor’s mind-snare was broken at the Tree Stone and the Skaal freed the night Laataazin had returned to read Herma Mora’s dark Book and confront Miraak – but the animals still had not returned to the temple, and Frea wanted to know why.

Frea pressed a far-seer to her eye and peered through it, hoping to catch a glimpse of swishing robes or patched armour along the top steps. Be they brigands, mostly, and honourless thieves, the cult of Miraak had grown hugely during the domination of the Stones. Yet, there was no sign of them, not even fat-bellied wolves slinking to their dens, or vultures drawn to the fresh carrion. Skorn had once cautioned the Skaal to stay away from the cultists and their dark magics, but Skorn was dead now to Herma Mora, and the burden of nurturing the Skaal’s spiritual connection to their land – and defending it – was Frea’s to shoulder.

And so Frea watched, and Frea waited, and the temple remained quiet.

Better that silence than the one in her father’s hall. The village was alive again, if weary and battered from months of gruelling work without their minds, and everyone felt Skorn’s loss deeply as their own wound. Their eyes were sunken when they looked at Frea for guidance, their hands thin and chapped with rough work when they touched her forehead, and though their hearts still were steady, Frea felt their grief and pain both as a stab of guilt to her own. Skorn would have served the Skaal better, but Frea did not know how to fix their nightmares for them or the days they had slaved that had been stolen from them, and though she could make tinctures for the rasping cough Oslaf had developed since a winter night at the Tree Stone she could not bring back the child that had died that night beside him, whose frozen body was found there still clutching his father’s leg.

Frea burned at the injustice of it. There was no guidance she could find meditating with the chants her father had taught her, well-worn as river stones in her mouth, no peace in trying to discern the will of the All-Maker in the dead that slept beneath the icy ground, but there was the fire of hatred in her heart, and that warmed her as she lay in the snow. Vengeance and safety in the knowledge that the temple was watched, and whatever scourge remained within unable to steal like shadows in the night to rob the minds of her people, she could bring the Skaal, if nothing else.

She dropped the far-seer to root in her belt for a pouch of cold-staying berries, her mitts awkward on the ties. Bags and bags of these she’d gone through travelling with Laataazin Dragonborn, whose southern blood chilled easily, and whose joints were worn with age and battle. It felt almost wrong to eat them by herself now, the tartness breaking on her tongue like a memory. But Frea was a practical person, and sentiment would not stop her freezing to death.

A shadow swept over the snow, and Frea blinked. A bird – perhaps, but no bird was so large – she fumbled with the far-seer, and jammed it to her eye just as the dragon passed over the temple of Miraak.

It was a frost one, it had to be, to fly so high, so fast, through the snow that Frea had not even heard the thunder of its wings. Laataazin had told her there were many different types of dragons, that they each favoured elements but it was best to assume all could flame and frost. Frea had seen them fight a dragon once, gripping her weapon tightly as she guarded the idle mage Neloth at Nchardak. Her heart had been in her throat as Laataazin taunted the great beast, evading its snarling and snapping jaws as it crowed slavishly about its master Miraak, and finally sent it to howling retreat with a final, bone-shattering blow to its leg.

The dragon circled over the temple, its head ducked like it was hunting for prey. It held something in its claws, she thought, for its right leg was oddly extended, not tucked close against its spiney body like the left. Unless – was this the same creature that Laataazin had chased off at Nchardak? It could not be. Had it returned to search the remains of the temple for its master?

Suddenly, from the temple another dragon rose on flapping wings, interrupting the lazy flight of the Nchardak dragon. This one was easier to see against the snow, the colour of a burnished ruby, and it spat fire a ship-length in front of it that the Nchardak dragon had to hastily dodge or risk charring. The two dragons circled each other, exchanging snapping forays too quickly for Frea to keep up with through her far-seer. They did not breathe flame or frost at each other, or clash fully, but instead danced around each other in the way Frea had seen wolves of the same pack play-fight – if a thousand times more deadly.

They tussled there in the sky for a while, but after a certain development that Frea could not spot from her position huddled in the snow some agreement was evidently reached, and the Nchardak dragon tucked its wings and dove into the darkness of the temple, presumably to land. As if flushed out like a hen from the sudden appearance of a fox, a third dragon, jade-green all over, rocketed out from the temple walls with a bitter screech. It was a horrible noise, and Frea’s far-seer tumbled from her hand as she hunched to protect her ears.

The screech cut off, suddenly, and through streaming eyes Frea squinted to see the two dragons left in the sky descending together, their blurry shapes quickly swallowed by the snow. Three dragons, solitary beasts one and all, roosting together in the temple, and one of them Frea knew had been loyal to Miraak once.

Tucking the far-seer back into her pocket, Frea rose stiffly, but cautiously, and crept away from the hollow she had made. She kept low until she reached the wooded line of the trees, then straightened, casting a last, perturbed look over her shoulder. Farani Strong-Voice would want to hear of this.

[staygold-ponyboycurtis]

The Funeral

The Curtis parents’ funeral, from Darry’s perspective. Enjoy :)

- 

Frozen. That’s the word. That’s how I’ve felt for the past eight days, five hours, and fourteen minutes. 

In some ways, I don’t think my brain can access the place where it keeps sadness and grief. Growing up like I did, you just don’t let your mind go there. You have to be brave. No crying. No weakness. I have to be strong for my brothers. I can’t let them know I’m suffering and want to fall apart every second of every day since this nightmare began. I have to let them know we’ll be okay. Even if I don’t quite believe it myself.

We got the phone call less than forty-eight hours after we learned mom and dad were gone. As if things couldn’t get harder for us. An apathetic voice on the other end explained to me that they’d be sending over a representative from the state of Oklahoma to assess our familial situation now that there were two minors living parentless in the home. We had less than a week to gather our bearings, then our fate would be decided by an asshole who knew nothing about us.

Before I could even process that my mom and dad were gone, I had the weight of the world dropped on my shoulders. A bitter realization that life as we knew it was about to change forever. Sodapop and Ponyboy couldn’t even mention the subject without anxiety burning through my body. 

It seemed they had a million questions that I couldn’t answer. What would happen to them? What would I do to handle the situation? Could the courts really take them out of our home? They knew there was a chance that they’d be sent off to a boys’ home for orphaned kids and we’d never see each other again. I told them that was impossible. That there was no way in Hell I’d let that happen. I couldn’t lose my entire family in the span of a few weeks. I just didn’t know how I could stop it. 

“They can’t just take us, can they, Darry?” Sodapop had asked. “Don’t we have any say?”

“I have no idea,” I said. “They’re going to do what they think is best for you two.”

“Bullshit. They don’t know what’s best for us.”

But today isn’t about that. Like everything else, I’ve trained my brain to ignore the pressing issues before us. Store them in a place where the truth can’t hurt me too badly. Today is about saying goodbye to mom and dad. 

I stare at the two dark oak caskets sitting at the front of the altar. They’re closed. The harm caused by the accident was unfathomable. I had to identify their bodies at the city morgue. It was a task that I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. When I saw the damage that was inflicted to my poor parents, I got sick all over the linoleum floors. That was the first and last time I’ve broken into tears this week. 

I forbade my brothers from seeing our parents in their final state. They begged, but I couldn’t let their last memories of our mom and dad be such a gruesome sight. One that has haunted me every second of every single day since. I want Sodapop and Ponyboy’s memories of our parents to be warm, loving, and happy. Something to mend the heartbreak.

At the funeral home, my brothers asked if they could leave a few things with our parents before burying them. Ponyboy wrote two long letters, both a few pages long. He mulled over what to write for hours, sitting at the desk in his room crumpling up papers and getting frustrated with himself when he couldn’t get his thoughts out. He folded them up tightly and handed them to a man named John, who was in charge of everything. He give him strict instructions on who to give each letter to, seeming resistant to trust a stranger with what I imagined were intimate, emotional messages to our mom and dad. Sodapop handed over a photo of the three of us on Christmas last year, arms slung over each other’s shoulders and smiling, giddy with holiday spirit. He wanted mom to have it. It was her favorite picture. 

I’m torn out of my daydream when Sodapop starts walking to the front of the church. The turnout is small, with just a few of my parents’ friends peppered throughout the pews. We’ve never had a big family, which is all too apparent at a time like this. Mom was an only child, and dad only had a younger brother who died in the Korean War over a decade ago. All we had was each other. Two-Bit, Johnny, and Steve sit together a few rows behind the three of us. Dallas sits by himself in the last row in the corner of the small church, his head down low. I nod at him when I catch his eye, letting him know how grateful my mother would be knowing that he came to say his final goodbyes. 

I see Sodapop’s hands shaking as he situates himself in front of the podium. Neither mom nor dad had any funeral plans designated for us to follow, so we had to choose how to honor them. Two whole lifetimes summed up a few hours. Mom was always religious and enjoyed going to church, so I decided that she would want a formal service. Sodapop insisted that he wanted to speak. I decided I would, too. Ponyboy said that he wouldn’t be able to. He didn’t think he’d be strong enough. Though I told him that mom and dad would have liked him to share a few words in their honor, he implored me to not bring it up again.

“I don’t even know what I’d say, Dar,” Ponyboy had said quietly. “And I don’t think I could get through it without blubbering like a baby.”

I knew that Ponyboy, like me, would grieve our parents silently. These past few days, he hadn’t mentioned them at all. I saw him lose it when he saw dad’s old flannel draped over the couch the other day and again when he opened the fridge a few days ago and found a chocolate cake that mom had baked the day she died. I acted like I hadn’t noticed him rush into his room and close the door quickly, but pressed my ear to the door to make sure he was alright. I could hear him crying heavily in his room, trying to catch his breath in between sobs. But I knew that this was natural and necessary, and that I’d be less than comforting if I barged in on him. 

“Hi, everyone,” Soda says in a small, defeated voice that is so unlike his usually charismatic demeanor. His voice quivers and I can see his eyes well up with tears before he’s even begun. I want to run up there and pull him into a tight hug, but I know that he needs to do this. He wipes his eyes with the sleeve of his dress shirt. “I’m sorry, I swore up and down that I wouldn’t cry.” 

He looks at me and Pony for reassurance and continues, pausing to gain composure. 

“My mom and dad were the best parents a kid could have. There’s nothing that my ma wouldn’t do for anyone. She always said that being our mom was her favorite thing to be. Well, being her son was my favorite thing to be. Mom and I were one and the same. It was like we had the same exact personality. We were the goofballs… the crazy ones in the crowd. She loved a good time and loved music, just like me. 

She was funny, but not in the way most moms are. She could joke with the best of us, even our friends. And she always knew how to make you feel like you were the most important person in the world. Because when you were with her, you were. She knew how to make everyone feel special and cared about. Gosh, am I going to miss that about her… She was the best. There will never be another person like my ma."

I look over at Ponyboy, whose eyes are inquisitive and burning holes in the side of my head as we listen to Soda speak. His face is swollen from crying so much, the tip of his nose red. He gives me a look that says, Why aren’t you upset? Don’t you care? But I’m petrified. Frozen. There’s that word again. My face is stoic but my heart is cracking with pain and each memory Soda recalls is deepening the weak spots. I want to be a pillar of strength for my brothers. I don’t want to fall apart in front of them.

"When I think of my dad, I think of someone who wanted the best for us. The day of the accident, he was celebrating a promotion at work, which he worked hard to get. But he loved to goof off like mom, too. He loved to play football in the front yard with all of us. Nobody could hike a football like him, no matter that he was twice our age. And he loved sweets, like me. I would always sneak into the kitchen at midnight to grab a piece of whatever mom had baked that day, and dad would have already beaten me there. And, usually, had a plate out for me already. I used to love talking with him in the middle of the night, just dad and me. 

Nobody worked harder than dad, either. He worked his whole life to make sure we never wanted for anything. He never wanted us to go without. I know now that that’s what makes a good man. I wish he could’ve lived to see it all pay off. And I wish I had gotten the chance to tell him that. I don’t know how we’re going to survive without them. I love them both. So much. And I hope they rest in peace. Thank you.”

He wipes his eyes again and makes his way back to our pew. When he sits, I squeeze his shoulder and wrap my arm around him. I feel his body tremble with tears and rub his back until he calms down. 

The priest ushers me to come up and speak, and I hesitantly stand, adjusting my suit jacket. Making my way up to the podium, I look out to the forlorn faces in the crowd. I look at Sodapop and Ponyboy, whose faces are contorted with sadness. I swallow the dry lump in my throat.

“Thank you all for coming,” I say bleakly. “My mother and father would appreciate you all being here to support us and remember them today.” 

I reach into my pocket and pull out a worn piece of paper that I’ve been hanging onto the past few days. I’ve been scribbling notes here and there about what I wanted to speak about. No matter what I would write, it never seemed sufficient to describe the enormity of what my parents meant to the three of us. I didn’t know where to begin. 

“As you all know, we lost my parents over a week ago unexpectedly. There was no time for my brothers and I to say goodbye or tell them how much we loved them. We never got the chance to thank them for everything they’ve ever done for us or tell them how hard it would be to live the rest of our lives without them…” I trail off, feeling the sadness creep in. 

I want to keep it formal. Just say the typical things everyone says when someone dies and get back to my seat as soon as possible. But I want Ponyboy and Sodapop to know that I’m hurting, too. And I want to honor my parents the best I can. So I continue.

“My mom always used to say to us, ‘If we always have each other, we having nothing to lose’… I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately,” I say. “Because now we’re separated. We’ve lost the two people we love most in the world. And I don’t really know how we’re going to go on. But then I’m reminded of so many things about our mom and dad and what they taught us. How to love each other and to stick together, no matter what. How to make a lot out of a little and to be grateful for what you do have rather than focus on what you don’t. And even if they’re gone now, I believe they’re looking down on us, right by our side like they’ve always been. So, really, we’re still all together. It just may look a little different now.” I look at my brothers again, who have small smiles on their faces.

“My mom was the nicest woman you would ever meet. She loved anybody who walked through our front door, no exceptions. She’s the reason why we have friends who became family,” I say, nodding to the gang in the pews. “And dad was the perfect example of a role model. He raised us to be strong, humble, and hard-working. He pushed us hard but loved us well. I’ll miss them both incredibly. We all will.”

I look at the two caskets below me and acknowledge that my parents are in them. A few feet away from me, but it feels like thousands of miles. I’m overcome with grief and I can’t stand it. I almost lose my composure when I feel the tears fill my eyes.

“That’s all I have...” I say. “Thank you all for coming.” I rush off the stage as the tears start coming. Ponyboy and Sodapop stand up from the pew and rush over to me as I make my way back to the pew, joining together for a hug. They push their faces into my chest and I put my face on the top of their heads, letting the tears fall. 

I wish more than anything that we weren’t here right now. That life had some other plan for us. But, then, I don’t want to be anywhere else.

Everyone shuffles out of their pews and out of the church at the announcement of the priest, congregating by the front door. I don’t know how long we stand there hugging, weeping quietly on each other. 

We pull away and look at each other, then chuckle a bit at how distraught we all look. 

“I love you guys,” I say to them, sniffling. “We’ll be okay.... we’ll be okay.”

-

I love you all and your support of my writing lifts me up so much, you couldn’t even imagine. Thank you for enjoying my writing the way you do 🥺

[astraeagreengrass]

illicit affairs [the woods 2/4]

No one ever tells you that picking up the pieces takes longer than shattering them

Word Count: 3.657

Warnings: heavy angst, mentions of death and death-related themes, descriptions of a memorial service.

A/N: Thank you to every one that sent me some love on exile! I'm truly grateful for your comments and I hope you like what's coming up on this story. Special thanks to the always wonderful @xbuchananbarnes​ for helping me out with this. The banner picture was found here. Dividers are from @writeyourmindaway​ ♡

and you know damn well for you, i would ruin myself a million little times

Working for Nick Fury sometimes made you sick to your stomach.

"That's very old school of you," you said, taking a sip from your coffee. The styrofoam cup was hot to the point of almost burning your fingertips, but having something on your hands kept you from twisting them nervously.

Nick raised an eyebrow - the one you could see, at least - and drank from his own cup.

"Your father always said I had a flair for the dramatic."

"Humph," you muttered as Nick rolled down the steel door of the storage unit. "Do you think he would believe your conspiracy theory?"

He shrugged, black leather duster coat swooshing in the wind.

"Your father was a soldier and a spy," he stated. "One of the best, I must say. He believed in his orders as long as he could question them. So yes, I think he would engage my conspiracy theory, as you put it."

You refrained from comment. That was Nick's way: mention your father enough times to instigate your grief, just enough to loosen your morals. The shame was on you for allowing him - even if his suspicion of an undercover plot inside S.H.I.E.L.D. fascinated your curiosity.

“Can I ask what made you start questioning your own Agency?” you mumbled under your breath as you and Nick made your way to his SUV. The sun was slowly dragging it’s hues across the inky sky, the stars fading as the golden light came to be.

“When Stark hacked the Helicarier’s systems there were some… Inconsistencies,” Nick replied. “Which naturally spiked my curiosity.”

“Naturally,” you smirked.

“I suppose I don’t have to tell you that this is not an official assignment, Agent Y/L/N,” he said.

“No, sir,” you shook your head.

“Good,” he pressed a button and the car doors unlocked. “Besides, I’m sure Captain Rogers’ presence in Washington will… Stimulate the inconsistencies we’re looking for.”

“Shit,” you cursed. “That was today?”

Nick tapped the clock on the car’s navigation panel.

“He’ll be at headquarters at nine. I expect you to be there.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” you said. “I’ve just had a lot on my mind.”

Nick nodded.

“How is your grandmother?” he asked. “Is the treatment working?”

“She’s doing a round of chemo every forty days,” you clicked the seat belt tip in the buckle. “She’s stable, but, you know, it’s cancer. I visit her every weekend, though.”

“Are you sure you can’t convince her to move to the city?”

“Nope,” you shook your head. “She’s never gonna leave the woods, Nick. Can you even imagine my grandmother living in D.C.?”

A discreet smile played in the corner of your boss’ lips.

“I couldn’t imagine you living in D.C., yet here you are.”

You didn’t reply, choosing to sip your coffee instead. Nick turned the radio on as he drove off the storage lot and a playlist of Stevie Wonder’s greatest hits was your soundtrack on the journey back to the city. Daylight was high in the sky when the SUV reached the Triskelion, S.H.I.E.L.D.'s colossal headquarters sitting right in the middle of the Potomac.

It was just past seven, but already the premises were bustling with people. You supposed that’s what happens when a superhero starts his first day on the job - people show up early, wearing their best clothes and flawless makeup.

“What the hell,” Nick muttered. “This is an Intelligence Agency, not a fashion show.”

You stifled a laugh.

“You can’t complain about motivation in the workplace now, boss.”

Nick shot you a dirty look.

“My office. Nine A.M. Don’t be late.”

You mock saluted him then went on to find some breakfast.

Natasha Romanoff’s memorial service was held on a balmy December morning, at a Christian Orthodox church in Brooklyn.

All the time you’ve known her, Natasha had never mentioned religion and you were positive that she would’ve cracked two or three jokes about the priest’s monotonous speaking if she were there. Only she wasn’t, and all she left behind was a handful of grieving acquaintances.

There was no body to keep vigil over or bury. In between the thousand of unsaid words between you and Steve, the subject of Natasha’s death lingered. He tried to explain, as he did to so many other things, and maybe you would’ve understood if you just tried to be better at listening - tried harder to make sense of the incredible mess reality had become. Apparently it’s not easy to retrieve a corpse when the person actually died on an alien planet almost ten years ago.

Natasha’s beautiful face smiled at you from a portrait sitting at the altar. Her hair was longer, cascading down her shoulders in fiery red waves that curled into blonde ends. The shadow of a smile on the corner of her lips couldn’t elude the sadness lingering in her eyes. Even so, she hadn’t aged a day since the last time you saw her, in a time so distant it felt foreign, as if it belonged to someone else’s existence instead of your own.

Remembering 2016 felt like being dunked in ice water. Like the time you jumped into the frozen pond in the woods and opened your eyes underneath the stream, catching the twisted, milky sunlight. Looking back at that life - so peaceful despite all the trouble that surrounded it - was equally as numbing.

It was announced to the general public that the woman known as Black Widow bravely sacrificed her life during what was now being called the Battle of the Earth. Yet, when Steve called two days earlier saying that there would be a private service for Natasha's family members, you wept - not so much because a service meant that she was well and truly gone, but because she thought you were her family.

You met her at S.H.I.E.L.D., of course. Even before you crumbled to dust, you’d constantly wonder how different things would’ve been if you’d never let stupid Jimmy Rodriguéz’s words get to you. If you’d just ignored his taunts instead of hacking S.H.I.E.L.D’s database just to prove him you were smart enough to do it, maybe then an old friend your father never bothered to mention wouldn’t have come to your house in the middle of the night, saying that if you could bypass government-patented digital security, then you should move to D.C. and work for him. You would’ve never left the woods, never traded it for the tangled webs of secrets and deceptions a job as an intelligence programmer proved to be.

Perhaps then you wouldn’t be here, sharing a pew with Steve Rogers - the only man you’d ever loved and probably ever would. Perhaps you would’ve met someone else: a nice, normal, maybe even a tad boring guy, but you wouldn’t care because you wouldn’t be very interesting either - just a nice, normal, maybe even a tad boring girl. And the two of you would be ordinary, kissing goodbye in the morning and hello in the evenings, with the ever present assurance that this was how things were meant to be. Not the tragic tale of love and loss you shared with Steve.

You didn't wait for him to walk you out of the church when the service was over, yet your plan to flee without an awkward farewell misfired at the sight of Nick Fury by the door. He looked exactly like he always did - black leather eyepatch, black leather duster coat, seemingly plucked from your thoughts.

"Y/N," he greeted you, evidently surprised although only someone who's spent as much time around him as you had would catch it in the tone of his voice. "How are you?"

"Good," you replied, way too quickly. "Fine."

Nick nodded, then turned to the blonde woman next to him.

"Carol, this is Agent Y/N Y/L/N," he introduced you. "Y/N, this is Captain Carol Danvers."

"Former agent," you corrected, shaking the hand Carol extended. She had a gentle, but strong grip. Noticing her gaze looking up, you turned around to find Steve approaching.

"Carol, Nick," he acknowledged them, then said to you: "You ready to go?"

You nodded, whispering a quiet "goodbye" before allowing Steve to lead you outside.

"Thanks," you muttered when you reached the open air. Even New York's polluted breeze was more refined than the stifling atmosphere inside the church and you inhaled deeply.

"No problem," he smiled. "I was hoping we could talk. You know, if you had the time."

You had all the time in the world, or so it seemed these days. Almost two months had dragged by since you woke up on the floor of your apartment and every minute seemed to make up for the years you missed. You weren’t working or even living in the old building in Bushwick anymore - Cal and Daniel, the father and son duo that first aided you, were. You were just going through the motions.

No one tells you that picking up the pieces takes longer than shattering them. No one bothers saying that when they break, they scatter, and compiling whatever’s left is a perverted scavenger hunt.

“There’s a coffee shop over there,” Steve pointed to a row of storefront across the church parking lot when you hesitated to give him an answer.

You shook your head, trying to scare off the white noise that always seemed to pester you.

“Sure,” you said, wondering if in your alternate life you’d know how to say no to Steve Rogers.

“So, you've experienced this sort of thing before?” Nick said.

“You get used to it,” Steve replied, looking down at the gravestone. Carved on the marble were the words: Col. Nicholas J. Fury, The path of the righteous man. Ezekiel 25:17.

“We've been data-mining HYDRA's files,” Nick continued. “Looks like a lot of rats didn't go down with the ship. I'm headed to Europe tonight, wanted to ask if you'd come.”

Steve shook his head.

“There's something I gotta do first.”

“How about you, Wilson?” Nick turned to Sam. “Could use a man with your abilities.”

“I'm more of a soldier than a spy,” he replied, resolute.

“Alright then,” Nick sighed and you thought he was honestly disappointed. He shook Steve and Sam’s hand and said: “Anybody asks for me, tell them they can find me right here.”

He turned to walk away but halted when he saw you approach. It was the first - and only - time you saw him wearing anything other than the black duster coat and you were surprised to find him affable, rather than alien.

He pointed to the file in your hands.

“How many favors did you have to call in order to get that?”

“A few,” you smiled. “Turns out I still have some friends in Kiev.”

Nick snickered, a whisper of a laugh so discreet that it faded almost instantly in the breeze.

“And you’re sure you’ll pull on that thread? With Hydra out in the open and Congress breathing down your neck?”

His real question was implicit: was your relationship with Steve Rogers worth the trouble?

“I’m sure,” you said, clutching the thick manila folder that contained information on the Winter Soldier.

Beyond the dark disguise of his sunglasses, you caught Nick’s gaze - and you were sad that things ended this way.

“Be safe, Y/N,” he offered.

Nick Fury was out of the graveyard and your life before you could wish him the same.

"I'm sorry I didn't call for a while," Steve apologized as soon as the young waitress left your table with your orders scribbled on a notepad. "I had to leave town for a few days."

You nodded, picking a napkin from it's holder in the center of the tiny corner table where you and Steve sat.

"It's okay," you said. "I know you have stuff to do."

He was still, after all, Steve Rogers. You never tricked yourself into believing you were his priority, instead accepted in your heart that you would always be second to The Avengers, Peggy Carter, Bucky Barnes and whatever else Steve set his eye on and it was fine. You'd be the second place as long as you could be something.

"I went back to return the stones," he added. "Bruce managed to repair the quantum tunnel, so Sam and I volunteered to go back and put them in place."

Back. As in the past.

"Okay," you repeated, because your recent conversations with Steve constantly left you lost for words, with all the information about time travel and elemental crystals from outer space. "Did everything go alright?"

"Yeah," he clasped his hands in front of him, and his colossal frame made the wooden chair he sat in look even smaller. "I saw Peggy."

You looked up from your staring match with the napkin, astounded.

"Really?" your tone was clipped and Steve noticed. Throughout your relationship, Steve's former flame was the unmentionable, the firing pin in the granade. Even if you had accepted the silver medal, it didn't mean it wasn't agonizingly painful to know you'd never shine bright in Steve's eyes like Peggy's gold standards.

"In 1970, at Camp Lehigh," he rubbed his forehead. "She didn't see me, of course, but I saw her. There were a bunch of pictures on her desk - her kids, her husband, one of myself before the serum..."

"Why are you telling me this?" you interrupted him, napkin now balled up in your fist.

"I don't know," Steve shrugged. There was a light pink blush crawling up his neck. "Shit, I don't know why I thought this would be a good way to start what I need to say to you, but… I guess seeing Peggy live her life made me realize how much of mine has been wasted."

You scoffed.

"How could you possibly have wasted your life, Steve? You're Captain America! You've saved the world more than once."

"When it comes to you I've wasted it," he whispered. "And I'm no longer Captain America."

"What?" you gasped, purposely ignoring the initial part of his sentence.

"I passed the shield on to Sam," he announced. "He'll do a good job."

"Why?" you breathed out.

"It was time," Steve said, plainly as if you were discussing the weather and not the one thing that defined who he was for over a century. "The guy that wanted a fight so badly he became a military experiment isn't here anymore. He's changed, the world has changed. That shield is too heavy for me now."

You shook your head, stunned.

"I can't believe this."

Steve started speaking, but stopped when the waitress arrived with your drinks: cappuccino for you, espresso for him. She took an unnecessarily long time pointing out the sugar and sweetner were, placing a hand on Steve's shoulder, telling him with a giggle to call her if he needed anything. Your coffee suddenly looked unsavory.

"The world needs Captain America," he continued after she was out of your hearing range. "But Captain America doesn’t necessarily needs to be Steve Rogers.”

“I think Sam will do a marvelous job, Steve. I just don’t understand where this decision came from. Is this because of what happened with Thonos?”

“Thanos,” he corrected you. “And no. This has been looming on my mind since before him.”

“Since when?” you questioned. “Because before Thanos you were out in the world being a wanted man. Please don’t tell me this urge for normalcy came to you while you were hiding like a coward.”

Steve sighed.

“Look, I know you’re angry at me and you have every right to be...”

“I know I have every right to be,” you cut him off. “I gave you everything and you left me stranded. Do you have any idea how hard that was? My boyfriend of three years became a criminal and he didn’t even have the decency to say goodbye before he fled.”

You slammed your fist on the table, rattling the china. The foam of your drink sloshed, a tiny bubbly dot spilling from the cup to the platter.

Lately, every single one of your conversations with Steve seemed to end in a fight and you were to blame. As much as you tried to move on, either your biological clock wasn't adjusted yet or your heart couldn't let go of the night he appeared on your doorstep after being absent for so long. It might've been five years in history for him, but for you it was a mere sixty days ago. You couldn't match this caring, attentive Steve to the bearded man in the shadows, indifferent and unconcerned, so you lashed at him. You nitpicked his every word and quibbled over the smallest things and he always took it silently, enraging you even further.

"I'm sorry," you whispered. "I shouldn't have said that. It has nothing to do with the subject."

"It has everything to do with the subject, Y/N," Steve exclaimed, hands flat on the wood, like he was going to reach for yours but gave up at the last moment. "I was so busy trying to make the world a better place that I didn't realize I was ignoring mine until I lost it. Until I lost you."

You rubbed your eyes.

"You can't blame your job for your mistakes, Steve. Or mine, for that matter."

"What were your mistakes, Y/N?" he asked. "You could've fled after the fall of S.H.I.E.L.D., but you stayed because I asked you to. You could've started a different job, but you took the position with the Avengers because I asked you to..."

"I loved you," you interrupted. "I did all of it because I loved you. And even though sometimes I wonder what would've happened if I'd said no, I don't regret it."

There's something about the air when the truth is laid bare. It shifts just slightly, as though nature itself can feel the weight of the words spoken, so it moves the atoms around to make space for verity. And in the essence of the world, it is immortalized.

"Do you love me still?" Steve murmured.

"You know I do," you smiled softly. "But I am so broken."

Crushed. Turned to dust long before the Mad Titan snapped his fingers. In the mad race to start over, you were so distant from the finishing line.

You were wrong: your recent conversations with Steve didn't end in arguments, they ended with you crying and him consoling you. This time his chair nearly collapsed as he rose, reaching you in just one step. At first he towered over you, arms hanging without touching your body, but when your sobs intensified he kneeled by your side, taking the crumpled napkin from your hands to dry your tears.

"Shhh," he soothed.

"I'm so sorry, Steve," you said, but it came out jumbled and watery from your tears. “I’m sorry.”

Noticing that the few other patrons and the flirty waitress were starting to look, Steve threw a fifty dollar bill on the table and pulled you up, wrapping his arms around your body as he led you outside.  

Night was beginning to fall over Brooklyn. Sunsets in the city were all about spotting a few twinkling stars amid the smog, before the lights from the skyscrapers scrammed them away. One would argue that the sky in the woods, a dark blue tapestry with hundreds of twinkling dots, was far prettier, but you always thought it was fascinating to see the cosmos shining in the orange firmament.

The city had its own magic. It used to buzz in your veins when you first moved here, staring out this same sky from a window at the top deck of the Avengers Towers. If only you could feel it again.

“Do you feel better?” Steve whispered into your hair when your breathing began to even out.

You nodded, cleaning your tears with the sleeves of your sweater.

“Do you want me to take you home?”

“Yeah,” you croaked. “I need to finish packing.”

“Packing?” he frowned.

“I got a call from my grandparents lawyer when you were gone,” you explained. “Turns out I still have ownership over the house in the woods, so I’m planning to move back home before Christmas break.”

Steve’s arms fell and he stepped away from you. The absence of his touch made you shiver.

“You’re leaving?”

“Yeah,” you sniffed. “Another family lives in my apartment now and I can’t stay with my cousin forever, so…”

“You could stay with me,” he intervened. “You don't have to leave."

"I need to start over, Steve."

"But what about me?" he pleaded.

Steve Rogers never pleaded. He was stubborn and tenacious, the worst person to get in a fight with. You'd learned to cave because he never did, and it was better to swallow your pride than staying days without speaking to your headstrong boyfriend when his job put him in danger constantly. For three years you told yourself that it didn't matter that Steve didn't love you fully - you loved him enough for the two of you. Only enough wasn't acceptable anymore.

You leaned in, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

"I love you, Steve," you said. "But just like you're not the guy from the 1940s anymore, I'm no longer the hacker from S.H.I.E.L.D. either."

Steve cupped your face, touching your forehead with his.

"Don't leave me," he begged. "I can't live without you."

You kissed his palm.

"We've made a mess," you replied. "Just let me try and fix it."

You owe me that, you didn't say, but Steve knew. In the misty twilight, he only hoped you could forgive him.

[sabretoothandsin]

Black is the Color

The reader fell in love with Ahkmenrah after meeting him at one of the ‘living history’ nights at the New York Museum of Natural history. A little while after finding out the truth about him and everyone else in the museum during your courtship, you were able to get a job as the second night guard. Sure you did help Larry out with some of the more unruly exhibits but mostly you just spent time with your love. The two of you have fallen into a comfortable, romantic, bliss. You spend a night teaching him how to paint his nails and just spending time together. The next night Ahk's world changes forever.

(It’s much better written than the description I’m just a bit burnt out as I right this.)

Word count: 1797 // Warnings: death of reader, mention of terrorism, slight talk of death and Ahk’s mummified state // Genre: very fluffy then very angsty // Reader information: she/her pronouns used once or twice but other than that nothing really gendered like a physical description or being called “a girl” or anything

One of those calmer nights, you were sitting on the floor with your hands resting on one of the many benches, painting your nails. Black first, then a shiny red top coat.

Ahkmenrah approached and sat on the floor beside you. "Would you teach me to do that?" he asked with a smile.

"Sure," you said, a bit surprised but eager to show him all the same.

"Here,” You took his hand in yours and inspected it for things like bad hangnails before setting it back down again. 

As you held his hand you saw the way he was looking at you out of the corner of your eye. That way that he looked at you nearly every night, but that still made your heart flutter and your face flush. But you really didn’t feel like getting flustered right now.

“You can use this one,” you cleared your throat as you offered him the small bottle of black paint.

“Black?” he questioned.

“It’s very manly,” you mused, “And it would go great with all the gold you wear.”

Your fingers brushed over the beaded fabric that draped over his chest as you said this.

“If you say so, darling.”

You walked him through the whole process. You giggled when he awkwardly shook the little glass bottle as you had shown him, and at the frustration on his face when he spilled polish on the bench. "Oh it's fine," you said, "just don't drip it on that priceless capey thing of yours."

"It’s a tunic," he chuckled. That was probably the thousandth time you’d said that and the thousandth time he’s had to correct you.

When you showed him how to apply the nail polish, he was a little messy at first and hummed at each mistake.

“Ya know,” you began, watching him meticulously slide the brush over his nail, his lips pursed as he concentrated. Perhaps he was a bit too focused. 

“Painting one’s dominant hand is actually one of the most difficult tasks a modern person can face."

"Oh really," Ahk half-laughed. “If that’s the case I don’t think the human race will survive to see another generation. That is, unless of course, we intervene.”

You hid your face as you felt it turn red. Sometimes you forgot that he could be… like that. 

Your love nudged you with his elbow before he started to stand.

“You’re not going anywhere just yet, pretty boy,” you said, pulling him back down, “you've gotta sit here and let them dry."

"I can't do anything else?"

"Nope.”

"For how long?”

"Too long. Now sit.”

He obliged.

You blew on your nails in demonstration and he timidly mimicked you. He coughed and shook his head when the chemical scent hit his nostrils.

"Ah, yeah you don’t want that." you said, "give me your hand."

His hand rested on yours while you fanned the drying paint with your other hand.

After a bit, you showed him how to test if they were dry. You smiled at the way he cringed at the sticky feeling.

You two just sat there for a while, enjoying each other’s company. You loved every moment you got to spend with him even if all you were doing was watching paint dry.

"Ahk, they look great!"

He beamed at the compliment.

"Thank you for teaching me, darling," he said.

You kissed him on the cheek in response.

"Oh, and you should definitely keep this," you said, handing him back the bottle of black polish.

It was movie night at the museum. The whole time, both yours and Ahk’s attentions were completely on each other, rather than the film. You held his hand in yours beneath the blanket you shared, brushing your thumb over the smoothly painted surfaces of his fingernails. Your hands remained intertwined as you walked back to his exhibit.

"Good night, my darling," he said, kissing your forehead, "you are truly a wonderful teacher."

“Goodnight, Love,” you said.

You brought his hand to your lips and pressed a lingering kiss to the soft skin. Your lips trailed to his wrist and then his palm.

Without even looking up at his face you could practically feel how he was melting. His skin grew warmer beneath your touch. Had there been more time before sunrise, you knew he would have liked to grab you and kiss you hard and probably ravish you on his bed, concealed by the Anubis statues. But eventually, reluctantly, he pulled away and stepped into the sarcophagus, still holding your hand.

"See you when the sun goes down,” you said quietly.

“Until then, I’ll dream of you.”

He placed the little bottle in his encasing and you closed the lid. He had never quite figured out if he was able to dream, but it was a nice thought. He closed his eyes and clutched the glass bottle in his hand, trying not to focus on that familiar pain of the transformation back to a corpse.

Tonight he didn’t feel the decay of his flesh or the air being sucked out of his lungs. All he felt was the ghost of your hands holding his.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The next night, Ahkmenrah was greeted by Larry instead of y/n.

"Oh," he said, surprised. Larry hadn't been the one to help him out of his exhibit in years.

"Hey, Ahkmenrah," Larry said hesitantly, after the man had gotten unwrapped and dressed, "can we sit down? " he motioned to the nearby bench.

"Sure," he said, a bit perplexed, "is y/n sick?"

The man beside him didn’t answer. He just looked down at his hands in silence for a minute. The minute dragged on for ages, to Ahkmenrah. He shifted in his seat, suddenly overcome with a wave of anxiety. His hands fidgeted in his lap, fingertips running over smooth, painted nails.

"Um, so,” Larry finally stuttered, “this afternoon, there was a terrorist attack - wiped out three whole blocks."

The pharaoh felt a pang in his heart at the same time as a weight lifted off his shoulders. The anxiety washed away.

"My friend, I'm so sorry," he said, resting a comforting hand on the other man's shoulder. “I will pray to the gods for all the innocent souls who were lost to your people.” 

“Thank you, Ahk.” The night guard's face hinted at a sad smile before it became even more forlorn and... sympathetic.

"But, ya see," he said, the words getting stuck in his throat, "those three blocks included y/n's apartment."

The pharaoh looked confused. His head felt heavy. He furrowed his brow as he tried to comprehend what the other man was saying.

"She was inside," Larry continued, "when the building collapsed. I'm- I’m so sorry."

Pain and grief seared through the Egyptian, but he shook it off.

"It's alright," he said, taking a deep breath, trying to banish the sobs that threatened to breach his lips, "I know how to perform a mummification. I have all the same rights as a high priest. I can preserve her body and she can be restored to life by the tablet. Where's her body?"

The other man didn’t say anything for a moment as he wiped tears from his eyes.

“Where is her body, Larry?” Ahkmenrah demanded, urgency rising in his voice.

"Ahk, there is no body - the whole area is- it’s just dust." His voice trailed off.

"You mean-” Ahkmenrah’s head was swimming. He had just seen her last night. None of this could be real.

And yet the words still escaped his lips. His mind knew what his heart refused to admit. 

“She's gone?"

His friend nodded, squeezing Ahkmenrah’s hand which at some point he had started holding without him noticing.

The beginnings of words sputtered out of Ahkmenrah's mouth as his face grew more and more distraught and his heart grew more and more heavy. Finally, a silent sob shook his body and he found himself falling onto his friend. Larry held him and ran his hands up and down his back. The tears flowed freely for hours. That night, the museum halls were filled with hardly any sound besides the anguished cries of an immortal in mourning.

That night Larry and whoever else was within hearing distance would learn that there’s no sound more melancholic than that of one who can not be touched by death, feeling its affects more than anyone else ever could.

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

The once-strong pharaoh was never the same. The first night after, he asked Larry to let him remain in his sarcophagus. 

"You know I might be too busy to let you out later?" the man asked, concerned.

"I know. Please close the lid." there was no emotion in the king’s voice.

He slept with the little bottle of black nail polish curled up in his hand. The next night, when Theodore did finally convince him to come out, he just sat on the edge of the glass case that covered his sarcophagus, staring at his hands.

He was never truly his old, more energetic self again. And his fingernails were always perfectly painted black.

Larry POV 

"Larry! Larry!" a voice shouted, rapidly growing closer to the busy night guard. Running down the hall was... Ahkmenrah? He hadn't seen him run in months, ever since she had passed.

"What's wrong?" He asked. He figured whatever it was must be terribly serious.

"I ran out," Ahkmenrah panted.

"Of-Ran out of what?”

Ahk showed him the little, scratched up, empty bottle.

"I ran out!" he said again, the distress in his voice palpable. He sounded almost on the verge of tears.

Realization dawned on Larry. It must have been hers. In fact, it was probably the only thing Ahkmenrah had left from her.

"Hey, it's okay,” he said, resting a soothing hand on the pharaoh’s shoulder, “I'll pick some up for you in the morning, okay? It’s alright.”

"Okay" Ahkmenrah choked out.

End Larry POV

Ahkmenrah slept from that night on with the old bottle in his palm under his wrappings. Before he knew it, it had been decades since Larry had taken the job. Tonight was the new guard's first night.

A woman with short, blue hair let him out of the coffin. Her gold necklace dangled above him.

"Hello, I'm Kirstin," she said, offering her hand to help him out of his resting place.

Ahk looked at her apathetically. He sat up, took her hand, and inspected it. Her nails were painted a neon blue.

"I need some of this. Black." he said dryly.

He dropped her hand.

"Do you need help with the-"

"No."

When she left, he unwrapped his hands. His fingers brushed the aging glass of the bottle, before he gently placed it down in his sarcophagus.

'Good morning, my love.'

'Good evening, my darling.'

[spencers-renaissance]

let him be soft (and let him be mine) p.1

Summary: After Derek pulls another self-sacrificing stunt at the culmination of their most recent case, Spencer runs out of their apartment as he desperately grapples with how it makes him feel.

or; Derek's self-sacrificing tendencies meet Spencer's abandonment issues. It gets messy before it gets better.

Tags: hurt/comfort, crying, abandonment issues, injured!derek, hurt!spencer, miscommunication, angst with a happy ending, fluff, protective!derek

TW: abadonment issues, allusions to grief/loss, some religious imagery (a catholic church and a priest have a small role in the plot)

Pairing: Derek Morgan x Spencer Reid

Word Count: 2.4k Total Word Count: 4.5k

Masterlist // Read on AO3 // Emily's Edit 1 2 3

Colab Alert! Emily (@criminalmindsvibez) and I have worked together on a project based on this poem. Her edits and my fic go hand in hand, so go and check hers out! She will be posting part 2 and 3 of her edit tomorrow and Friday respectively, and I'll be posting part 2 of this fic on Friday, too!! It's been so fun to work together, so please go and reblog her beautiful edit <3

The Poem:

Please, let him be soft.

I know you made him       with gunmetal bones      and wolf’s teeth. I know you made him to be      a warrior      a soldier      a hero.

But even gunmetal can warp and even wolf’s teeth can dull and I do not want to see him break the way old and worn and overused things do.

I do not want to see him go up in flames      the way all heroes end up martyrs.

I know that you will tell me  that the world needs him. The world needs his heart      and his faith      and his courage      and his strength      and his bones and his teeth and his blood and his voice and his– The world needs anything he will give them.

Damn the world,      and damn you too. Damn anyone that ever asked anything of him,      damn anyone that ever took anything from him,            damn anyone that ever prayed to his name. You know that he will give them everything      until there is nothing left of him          but the imprint of dust               where his feet once trod. You know that he will bear the world like Atlas     until his shoulders collapse          and his knees buckle               and he is crushed by all he used to carry.

Dear God,  you have already made an Atlas. You have already made an Achilles and an Icarus and a Hercules.  You have already made so many heroes, and you can make another again.  You can have your pick of heroes.

So please, I beg you– he is all that I have,  and you have so many heroes and the world has so many more.  Let him be soft,  and let him be mine.

—Please, let him be happy ( j.p. )

The Fic:

Spencer offers Derek a weak smile as they sink into their seats on the jet. It’s all he can really manage, considering the emotional exhaustion the case had brought on, fatigue settling deep into his bones as he relaxes into the comfortable fabric of his chair. He keeps his eyes closed to avoid Derek’s anxious, imploring gaze for as long as possible, but he can’t help them opening on instinct as soon as the plane takes off the ground, and his stomach does its familiar vault at the increasing G forces.

“Baby?” Derek asks softly, as soon as he sees Spencer’s eyes flutter open. “What’s wrong?”

Spencer sighs, turning his head to face the evening sunset for a brief moment before looking back to his boyfriend. “I’m just tired, Der,” he lies, throwing in what he hopes is a reassuring smile to try and seal the deal.

It seems to work, some of the anxiety relaxing from his face — though, Spencer notes, the slightly pained expression remains — as he reaches across the table in between them to take Spencer’s hand. He complies, placing his hand in Derek’s and allowing himself to relish in the comfort of his warm, protective hold despite how he’s feeling.

“I’m sorry, Spence. We’ll get dinner from that Thai place and head straight to bed when we get home, yeah? You’ll feel better then.”

Spencer can’t help the flare of anger in his chest at that — so strong he has to shut his eyes tightly against it for a second. How can Derek not realise what’s wrong? How can he sit opposite him, bruised, cracked ribs and all, and not understand that everything is not at all ‘eat Thai food in bed’ okay?

He forces his eyes open again. “Yeah. That sounds good.”

Derek squeezes his hand once before letting go and thankfully, finally, dropping the subject. The sunset is a pretty blend of pinks and oranges as they fly down from New Jersey towards home, but Spencer doesn’t focus on the aesthetics of the sky. Not when that awful, tiny voice keeps whispering in the back of his head: how many sunsets does Derek have left?

⭐️

It might have been a lie, but the tired excuse seems to work. Derek doesn’t try to make conversation with him on the drive to DC, instead settling for reassuring touches that Spencer finds himself pressing back into despite himself.

He dives straight for the shower once they get back to their apartment, vaguely hearing Derek on the phone placing their standard Thai order as he sheds his restrictive suit and steps into the shower, immediately relaxing as the hot water cascades down his back. All of a sudden, the weight of the case catches up to him and he lets himself cry. Afterall, his desperate, grief-filled sobs can’t be heard over the water and he can blame his sore, red eyes on the shampoo.

When his tears eventually dry up and he exits the warm bathroom into the air-conditioned apartment, Derek’s sat on the edge of their bed fiddling with his phone next to an outfit of Spencer’s favourite loungewear neatly laid out. He always does it and it always makes Spencer smile, but this time his heart just clenches painfully and he has to fight back the hot tears threatening to spill down his cheeks.

“Hey, baby,” Derek says, voice concerned at the sight of his visibly upset boyfriend. His wince as he gets off the bed to come over to Spencer is the final straw, though, and he can’t help the violent, choked sob that forces its way past his lips, his body heaving with the myriad of emotions running rampant. “Spencer?”

He ignores him as he drops his towel and hurriedly pulls on the clothes Derek set out for him, tears spilling down his cheeks one after the other, indicating no sign of slowing down anytime soon.

“Spencer? Baby?” he pleads desperately as Spencer continues to ignore him. “I know you’re tired, but this isn’t like you. Why—”

“No!” he cries, turning to face him. “It’s not like me! Because even though I feel like this after every case I’m usually so good at holding it in! But I can’t do it anymore, Derek. I can’t keep feeling like this.”

“Baby, talk to me,” Derek begs. “We can work this out, we’ll figure this out together, but I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s wrong.”

All of a sudden, it’s too much. Standing there in their bedroom facing his injured, self-sacrificing, perfect boyfriend as emotion and fear choke the life out of him is killing him, and all he can do is grab his phone, hastily pull on a pair of shoes, and run out of the apartment.

If it wasn’t for his bruised ribs — Christ, if it wasn’t for Derek being shot not four hours earlier — Spencer never would have outrun him, but as it stands, he escapes the apartment building with only Derek’s pleading cries following him.

He runs through the streets of DC, half-blind from unshed tears, until he sees a bus coming down the road, and before he can overthink it, he’s boarding, paying, and taking a seat right at the back. The streets outside blur as the bus accelerates down the street and the tears he’d been holding back since he left the apartment, spill over, joining the countless tear tracks already decorating his cheeks.

Soon he’s not seeing the vibrant streets of the Adams Morgan district anymore, his brain replaying the shoot-out that ended the case instead. They’d finally cornered their suspect in a dilapidated barn in the middle of nowhere, and Spencer had honestly thought that their attempts to talk him down were working, when he’d suddenly pointed his gun straight at JJ. Derek had easily predicted his next move and wasted no time in pushing her out the way, diving straight into the bullet’s trajectory, shot in the middle of his vest.

Hotch had taken care of the unsub and Spencer had gone straight to Derek’s side, his heart in his mouth as fear overrode rationality with ease. He’d been fine: checked out by an ambulance on site and prescribed some moderate painkillers and a few days rest until his ribs healed up, but Spencer had struggled to see it so positively.

Anger flares up in his chest again at the memory of Derek’s blatant disregard for his own well-being. JJ’s a trained and experienced agent: she could have shot the unsub before he even took the shot if Derek hadn’t pushed her aside, and even if she hadn’t, why was it better for Derek to take the bullet than JJ?

As much as he tries not to take it personally, part of him can’t really help but feel hurt. What if the bullet had missed the vest? What if Derek was really shot? He could have so easily died — in an alternate universe, Spencer is mourning the tragic loss of his boyfriend right now. Does he really not care that all this heroic self-sacrifice could leave Spencer a grieving widow one day?

He feels selfish. The world needs Derek: it needs his heart and his courage and his fierce sense of justice, it needs him to fight for the underdog, it needs him to stop at nothing to apprehend the bad guy, it needs anything he can give them.

But in this moment, Spencer doesn’t care anymore. He doesn’t care about what the world needs. He cares about what Dr Spencer Reid, book nerd and genius prodigy of Nevada needs, and that’s his boyfriend, alive, next to him.

The bus passes a church and Spencer immediately presses the button, getting off at the next stop and retracing the road until he’s standing in front of the beautiful architecture of a Catholic Church. Peace and quiet is exactly what he needs right now, so he takes a deep breath and walks through the heavy wooden doors into the building.

The smell Spencer associates with the churches he’d visit in his childhood when William would dress them up and parade them around a church as the perfect little family for as long as Diana’s meds lasted hits him as soon as he crosses the threshold, and something about it feels comforting. He walks through the small foyer and into the main congregation hall, thankful that no service is taking place. There’s a woman in a pew at the front with her head bowed, but otherwise it’s completely empty, and it emboldens him enough to slip into the back row.

He lets himself zone out, taking in the stained glass windows and the elaborate arcades as well as the ornate statues and decorations around the nave as his mind finally drifts from the torture of his thoughts.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” a voice asks, snapping him out of his trance. He looks over to see a priest standing just to his right, a kind look on his face.

“Uh— yes,” Spencer replies, a little flustered. “Very. An old friend of mine did a PhD in the history of church architecture years ago, but even his high praise doesn’t do it justice in person.”

“Not a regular church-goer, I take it?” the priest asks, smiling warmly.

“Not sure the church would be happy to have me,” he says drily, “on the account that I live with my boyfriend.”

The priest’s face saddens at that. “Would you mind if I sat?”

“As long as you don’t try and convert me.”

He laughs at that, taking a seat next to Spencer. “That’s not my job anyway,” he reassures him. “God takes care of that side of things.”

Spencer nods once, before looking down at his fidgeting fingers.

“What’s led a non-Christian to a Catholic Church on a random Tuesday evening, then?” the priest asks warmly.

“Oh… I’m not sure you’d want to hear about it,” Spencer says awkwardly, blushing a bit at the thought of discussing his relationship troubles with a priest.

“Try me.”

Spencer takes a deep breath. After all, he desperately wants to talk about this with someone, and who better than a completely impartial person whose opinion doesn’t matter anyway?

“I work for the FBI,” he starts, “I have done for nearly a decade now. It’s where I met my boyfriend, actually; we work for the Behavioural Analysis Unit. I love the job, it’s given me pretty much everything I have, really, but… but I don’t know how much longer I can do it.” He takes a shaky breath in to try and abate the tears again, but when the priest lays a warm hand over his own, he can’t hold them back anymore.

“Derek— Derek is so strong. He’s fierce and he’s powerful and he’s a hero, and I used to be so proud of him for that, I still am, but now… all it does is scare me. Today he took a bullet for another team member, he pushed her out of the way and it landed in his own vest. He’s fine, but this isn’t the first time he’s done something like this. He’s run into burning buildings, driven bombs across cities to stop them from blowing up in a populated area, thrown himself into the line of fire to save others countless times, but one day… he won’t be so lucky.

“One day, it’s going to catch up to him, and he’s going to be killed by his own calling. He’s so selfless that he’s truly going to give everything to the job until it kills him… and where does that leave me?” He looks up and meets the priest’s kind, empathetic gaze for the first time, comforted by the reassurance he finds there.

“I never really had a family. My father walked out when I was ten and left me with my sick and confused mother, knowing that she couldn’t take care of me, knowing that he was leaving his child to take care of his mother for the next eight years. When I found the BAU, I found a family, and I found Derek. I love my whole team, but when it comes down to it, he’s all I really have left.

“If he stays in this job, I’m going to end up alone. There will never be another person for me, not after Derek. When people sit in this very building and pray for justice,” Spencer says tearily, “God answers that prayer with Derek Morgan. And those prayers, those pleas for mercy are going to take him away from me one day.”

The priest sits quietly for a moment, thinking, maybe praying, as he bows his head. “Child, God makes heroes for a reason. I know he’s so proud of Derek, that he cherishes all the lives he’s saved, but I also know that God cherishes Derek’s life, and yours, too. Derek sounds like the kind of person who loves with his whole heart, and I suspect that he loves you deeply. The Bible teaches us the importance of kind and honest communication, as well as the value in understanding the people you love, and I think you know that your only shot at a happy ending here is to tell Derek all that you’ve told me.”

Spencer’s always rejected the idea of telling Derek how much it breaks his heart to see him running at danger head on because he can’t think of any possible resolution they could come to — it’s not like he can simply turn off his self-sacrificing tendencies — but he doesn’t really see any other way out now.

He looks up at the priest. “Yeah,” he sighs. “I’m not sure I have any other choice.”

“I’ll leave you to your peace and quiet,” he says as he gets up to leave, “but please never think that God doesn’t want to know you because of your loving relationship with Derek. He loves you both so much.”

Spencer smiles, feeling a little bit lighter after getting everything off his chest. “Thank you.”

As he watches the priest walk out of the nave and into what Spencer suspects is the Sanctuary, he hears something that simultaneously warms his heart and twists his stomach in anxiety.

Derek, calling his name.

I hope you enjoyed part one of this fic - please go and check out Emily's edit here!

PART TWO

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