#somebody should probably help him search

[nicohii]

Part two to this promt

Sylus isn't proud about very few things. You can count in one hand, and on top of the pile is his silent search for you despite the fact you wished for him never to find you. In the days where he is accompanied by himself, his feet drag him in front of the door of what was your room. There are days when he finds himself lost in the memories of the things you have left behind, they're still there. Just like how you left it. It's an instant really, how it all crashes down on him, that all the things you left are all the things he had given you. 

He sits on what used to be your bed. There is still a faint trace of your scent on it, when he closes his eyes, he can almost hear you breathe. "Come on, Sylus, tell me what's going on in that brain of yours... "

And when he opens his eyes there is nothing but neatly kept sheets. There is a worn out photograph on your night stand. You and him. Almost tore at the edges from being in your pockets. He caught you looking at it at times, when you thought no one is there. There is youth in that photo, how there is is mirth, how there is oozing affection from you that wraps his entirety that makes him to warm in this cold city. 

He isn't proud of his decision to send Mephisto your way in secret. He isn't proud of how he lurks. He isn't proud of the tinges of regrets and remorse in the nights even after being one with the one he had sought for. There is already shared lifetimes between them, but sometimes, when he sees her with other people she's shared lives with, he can't help but think if that's applicable to him too. Dis he have other people to share his other lives too? Did he share a lifetime with you too? 

He sees you, in Mephisto's eyes. You are a far cry from who you were when you were in the N109 with him. He sees you in probably the biggest smile he has seen you in, laughing with a man who waited for you to come out of the building you just came out off. There is something in the way you run to someone else's arm in a carefree way. There is pain when somebody else lifts your body and twirls you around like you're the greatest treasure in the world. Because you are. There is something in the way you caress their face, bury your nose in their hair, the way you look into somebody else's eyes. 

He isn't proud of it, the way he didn't stop looking even when you went home with your partner. Eavesdropping and watching through birds eyes as you go about your day with someone who loves you back. He can see it, the way you are held back, the way you are wrapped in their arms as you cook a meal , the way you both waltz in the kitchen barefoot. 

This is how you love when you are loved back, don't you? This is how you love in a safe place don't you? You love in a peaceful, quiet and content pace. You have created a beautiful world without him in it. You have created a haven out of the freedom you had asked of him, and here he is, watching you. Wondering if things turned out differently, maybe the peace you had made could be shared by the both of you. 

Does you fiance know about him? Does he know about who you loved unadulteratedly before? Does he know about the way you yearned for him---

"If you invited the twins, don't you think you should invite him too?" He hears your partner ask you. 

So he does know about him. 

And that punches him more, knowing that you have left nothing hidden of your past. There is no little secret in between. There is no whispers of him and you, because you have laid it all out. 

"He's a busy man. The twins are all I need baby. " You smile before you kiss him on the lips. 

Sylus hates the ugly bitterness in his tongue. But what is there to say? Is there anyone to blame? 

----

Sylus stares at the photo of Luke, Kieran and you. 

Sylus had always saw you in red and black. 

There is blur in his vision, there is tightness in his chest, there is an unexplainable void in him that opens as he stares at you. He isn't proud of it. But he'll live with it. 

For the record, he admits, you look most beautiful in white.

[xenyasplacex]

Condoms

Chris Sturniolo x Female reader

“Chris be quick before somebody notices you.” She said, looking around. 

Chris just laughed, continuing to look through the the shelves, searching for the right one. Normally, they just ordered their condoms and saved themselves the potential embarrassment of getting caught, but Chris was on tour, currently in new york, and was incredibly horny.

“What’s the name of the one you like?” Chris asked rather loudly, making Y/N’s eyes widen and her checks turn a deep shade of purple

“Chris, will you shut up.” She whisper yelled causing chris to laugh

she pushed him out of the way before looking herself. She then found a pack 

“Can we go now?” She asked holding it up.

“That’s a large babe, you know i’m not going to fit in that, right?” Chris asked, an amused smirk on his eyes. 

She paused, the looked back on the shelf “…they don’t have extra large.”

Chris grinned, his mischievous smile only growing wider. "Guess i’m going to have to ask one of the workers." he teased, his voice lowering to an exaggerated whisper. 

Y/N shot him a warning glare, but she could feel the heat creeping up her neck as the absurdity of the situation hit her full force.

“Just ask the worker and let’s get out of here,” she hissed, her eyes darting nervously around the aisle. 

Chris raised an eyebrow but obediently made his way toward the front of the store. Y/N stood there, the awkward silence only broken by her heartbeat pounding in her ears. She grabbed the pack of condoms from the shelf, inspecting it like she was a scientist studying an ancient relic. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Chris was going to make her relive this moment forever, she could already tell. Just as Chris returned, shaking his head and muttering something about how the employee seemed way too eager to help, they heard a voice from behind them.

"Excuse me, oh my god, are you Chris Sturniolo?"

Y/N's stomach sank. She turned slowly, her face going pale, and there, standing with a phone in hand, was a teenage fan. A young girl, barely in her teens, her eyes wide with excitement as she approached them, ignoring the large box of condoms in Y/N’s hands.

"Uh, yeah," Chris said, almost too casually, looking over at Y/N with an amused smirk. “What’s up?”

"I’m sorry to bother you, but could I please get a picture with you?" the fan asked, her voice full of enthusiasm.

Y/N froze, her cheeks flaming. She looked down at the box in her hands, willing the ground to swallow her whole. Of course, the fan had to ask for a picture in the condom aisle. The one place Y/N had been desperately trying to avoid. Of course, it had to happen now, when she was holding the largest box of condoms on the shelf. She silently cursed Chris for his decision to do this in the first place.

Chris, on the other hand, was completely unbothered. In fact, he found the entire situation hilarious.

 "Sure, we can take a picture," he said, his grin growing wider as he stepped forward. "But can you make sure to get the whole aisle in the background? We’re, uh, doing some very important shopping."

Y/N shot him a death glare, but Chris was clearly having the time of his life. The fan, oblivious to Y/N’s embarrassment, was already positioning herself next to him for a selfie.

Y/N hesitated, biting her lip, before she reluctantly agreed, handing the fan her phone. “You should take the picture quickly,” she muttered, her voice barely above a whisper.

The fan snapped the photo, and as she thanked Chris and turned to walk away, she stopped and turned back, “Can you, uh, give us a shout-out on Instagram?”

Chris chuckled, shaking his head. "Yeah, I’ll get to it later," he said, sending her a wink before the fan rushed off, probably still riding the high of meeting 

her favorite creator

Y/N, meanwhile, was still standing in the aisle, holding the now-infamous box of condoms. She shot a glance at Chris, mortified. “I can’t believe you. Of all the places to take a picture with a fan, this is where it happens.”

Chris just laughed harder, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Hey, babe, at least it wasn’t in the middle of the lube aisle," he joked, winking at her. "Could’ve been worse."

Y/N rolled her eyes, but the laughter in Chris’s voice was contagious. “You’re impossible,” she muttered, though she couldn’t help the smile tugging at the corners of her lips. She was embarrassed, yes, but Chris had a way of making even the most awkward situations feel a little less painful.

“Now, let’s get out of here before someone decides to ask for another picture," she added, heading toward the checkout.

Chris followed her, still chuckling. "Come on, Y/N, it wasn’t that bad. Besides, it’ll make a great story for later.”

Y/N shot him a playful glare. "I'm telling everyone this was your idea, not mine," she warned.

“Oh, I’m counting on it," he replied with a smirk.

And as they made their way out of the store, Y/N couldn’t help but laugh too, realizing that, despite the cringe-worthy moment, she wouldn’t want to be anywhere else with anyone else.

THIS WAS FUN TO WRITE

luv ya,

Xenia🖤

[sl3epyaf]

Asking them to dance! WHB kings + ???

Important notes: Most likely contains writing mistakes but I've tried my best, the scenario start is the same however they all have their own individual stories!

I lowkey ran out of motivation at the end so forgive me-

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So Abyssos is holding a ball event with all of the kings invited along with you.

You're kind of bored just sitting around when shockingly your favorite song comes on- you're not sure how the hell dj knew that or well if it was just a coincidence but either way you weren't going to miss this opportunity to ask one of your favorite devils to dance with you.

So you gave yourself a ten second pep talk because taking longer and hesitating is for pussies and after that? (Okay ngl you gave yourself a 2 minute pep talk) You scan the room, searching the thrones the kings were at and the crowd for your favorite devil.

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You lock eyes with Satan and he flashes you a wide grin which eases your nerves slightly as you approach his throne. You smile before clearing your throat "Satan.. do you want to dance with me?"- Somehow you managed to say that without stuttering so that's a bonus.. in your book at least.

Satan's grin widens as he stands up and takes your hand, leading you back onto the dance floor. As you walk you could definitely some eyes fall on you, Gehenna devils looking at you with a mix of awe and slightly envy though whether or not they were envying you or Satan you didn't know- You could also see Leviathan glaring daggers at Satan, clearly jealous that you didn't ask him to dance- well maybe he should try hanging you less.

You look at the DJ and she somehow takes the message of restarting the song! 'That's awesome' you think to yourself, smiling.

As the song starts you take Satan's hand- luckily he was either the same height as you or only a bit taller because otherwise that might've turned very awkward-

At first it felt embarrassing to dance in front of so many devils but as the song progressed you felt yourself becoming more confident- the younger you who lived on earth could never!

And as the song progressed you could hear Ppyong and Paimon cheering you on. The red lump devil moving so much he accidentally dropped your glass- but that was a problem for later, for now you were just going to enjoy the dance you were having with Satan- well that was until somebody accidentally bumped into you which caused Satan to kick their ass outside the club, making a huge hole on the wall- In the background you can hear a few devils gasp along with a few others laughing- Beelzebub seemed to be enjoying himself as his laughter could be clearly heard from the thrones-

'I hope that's not gonna cause a lawsuit' you think to yourself while stepping aside, letting the Gehenna devils rush over to Satan to get their asses kicked as well- You know Gehenna devils could handle it but you were slightly nervous for the first devil- you weren't sure which country they were from and depending on where they were from Paradise Lost might be getting a patient later on-

Your eyes fall on Mammon who was actually standing not so far away from you, talking with Bimet, Eligos and Valefor. You smile, approaching them though as you open your mouth to speak Mammon beats you to it, holding his hand out "Would you like to dance master?" Well damn- were you that obvious in your intentions- probably or Mammon wanted to dance with you- or both..

You nod and grab his hand, following him to the dance floor- goddamn you felt small next to him and the stares you got didn't exactly help your cause. Mammon grabs your chin gently "Focus on the dance master, would you like to change the current song?"

You shake your head "No, I quite enjoy the current one"- you were just hoping it wouldn't turn into a slow dance cuz you could barely reach Mammon's shoulders- you'd look like an idiot trying to keep up with him-

As the song ended Mammon picked you up and placed you on his shoulders as he started walking towards Bimet who pulled a donation box from out of nowhere "Alright whoever witnessed that dance has to pay."

"... Is he seriously charging people for that?" You ask, half in disbelief and half in amusement- "Aye.. looks like it" Ppyong responds, flying next to you and handing you your drink. After you've taken a sip Mammon grabs the glass with his other hand "I'll hold it for master until you're thirsty again." Without letting you get a word in Mammon walks out of the club- or whatever the place was- When you arrived outside there was already a helicopter waiting- did Mammon plan this from the beginning? To steal you away from the other kings and then fly away?

If that was his plan then damn- you were impressed- considering the dumb shit the kings do.. whenever they're acting smart it impresses you..

Mammon gets inside the helicopter and sits you down on his lap, signalling for whoever was controlling the helicopter to leave.

You couldn't help but feel bad for Bimet and other Tartaros devils considering their king just kinda ditched them but- you were sure they had their own ways of getting back to Tartaros.

You didn't even have to look for Belphegor, you already knew where he was. As you step closer to the thrones you notice how Belphegor was only half laying on it, his lower body on the hard ground- and that did NOT look comfortable in the slightest- then again the king of sloth was named the king of sloth for a reason.

You also knew that there was no chance in hell that you'd get him to dance with you so you turn to Beleth "I want to take a nap so can you carry him somewhere comfortable?"- hell if you can't dance with him then you're going to do the second best thing, sleep.

Beleth laughs at your question and casually throws Belphegor over his shoulder, starting to walk towards one of the private rooms with you following behind him. As you did you could feel the other kings staring at you with slight envy or in Leviathan's case- huge envy- but you were going to deal with that later, for now the more you thought about taking a nap with Belphegor the more tired you got.

"Here ya go, just call if ya need anythin" Beleth suddenly states as he lays the devil on his shoulder onto the couch- apparently you were too lost in thought to notice the lack of conversation between the two of you.. He nods at you again as he leaves. You observe Belphegor for a few minutes before facepalming, you really didn't think this through all that well did you- were you supposed to just lay down next to him or you know- wake him up and ask him permission to take a nap together- then again Belphegor would probably say something along the lines of 'How annoyin' or 'Don't ya dare ask me for permission for something like this'

So fuck it- go big or go home.

You carefully lay down next to Belphegor and close your eyes, sleep almost immediately taking a hold of you-

A few minutes later Beleth walks back into the room to check on you and he decides to tuck you both under a warm blanket.

Shockingly you had to look around for Asmodeus for around 30 seconds before you spotted him, sitting on the throne- yeah shockingly not flirting with anyone- perhaps someone tied him down on the throne. Though you couldn't help but smirk to yourself as you observe the thrones, to the right there were 6 thrones and to the left only one reserved for Asmodeus- It was a funny sight though you weren't sure if you wanted to voice that part- not with Asmodeus looking at you like you were a snack..

"Keke- don't be shy MC～" He says while winking at you- how the hell was he even allowed in this party/ball anyway- 'Fuck it, go big or go home'

You clear your throat "Would you- like to dance with me?" Holy fuck you were regretting those words almost immediately and as for Asmodeus? Either because he was enjoying your discomfort or he was just happy that you asked him to dance out of all devils- a wide smile falls onto his face. "In which way?"- Oh for God's sake.

"Dance as dancing?" you raise an eyebrow. "I know keke～ I was just teasing you" Well you were relieved- because for a second or two you wanted to smack Asmodeus for even thinking about something else..

Without letting you get another word in Asmodeus takes your hand and gracefully walks you onto the dancefloor- which for some ODD reason was now completely empty- but at least you didn't have to worry about bumping into anyone and having them get mad at you for it?-

You signal for the DJ to restart the music before whispering to Asmodeus "Keep your hands to yourself". Your sentence earned you another laugh from the devil holding your hand- "I'm serious." You frown but considering how the smirk on Asmodeus's face widened- you didn't look very serious to him.

"I know, I know～" Did he though?

Looking for Beelzebub was a pain- you could not see him anywhere so you decided to go up to Bael who was discussing something with Beleth at the thrones. Before you could go up the stairs somebody had already captured you into his arms. "Beel." You state, looking up to see Beelzebub placing his chin on your head already, a bright smile on his face. "I want to dance with you"- well at least you didn't have to ask Bael where he was now-

And instead of waiting for your answer Beelzebub drags you onto the dance floor, gesturing for the DJ to change songs which was a bummer- well for about 10 seconds before you heard the new beat which was far more energetic- a perfect song for dancing- it was funny though considering the other songs were a bit more.. formal- not to mention how everyone was dressed at least somewhat fancy-

Beelzebub grabs your hand and immediately starts to dance, spinning you around with a smile that was somehow even brighter than around 40 seconds ago- but you couldn't blame him considering you were also already having a lot of fun!

As the song progressed the beat got even faster and more fun and as you span around you came to the conclusion that your legs were definitely going to hurt a ton after this.

Suddenly Beelzebub lifts you up and dashes out of the club, flipping off the other kings. You could see Satan break a part of the throne and Leviathan's face darkening a lot- A boop on your nose forces you to focus your attention back on Beelzebub who had a smile that was both mischievious yet adorable at the same time- or maybe his smile was always like that when you weren't on the receiving end of his mischief- either way you were happy right now.

And so you spend the entire night running off with Beelzebub, occasionlly stopping at a random stall in Abyssos for either a drink or for a bite to eat while also dodging the search party which consisted of Mammon, Satan and Leviathan-

At a few points Beelzebub had even taunted them on purpose before skidaddling out of the view- it was utterly hilarious though you were sure that either you or him or well both were going to deal with a few angry kings later..

You saw Leviathan sitting on his throne, glaring daggers at the dance floor and even his fellow kings as if they owed him something- You clear your throat and start walking up the stairs though you quickly bumped into Leviathan who had already stood up. He then grabbed your hand and he starts dragging you away from the ball room- you look to see a few devils staring at you with envy- mostly Hades devils-

You had no idea where Leviathan was leading you- probably somewhere more quiet where he can hang you in peace for simply breathing wrong.

"Hey uhh Levi-.. athan?" You ask, quickly adding the last part of his name because you were totally not about to call him 'Levi' "Where are we going?"

"Back to Hades, this place is too loud" Well you couldn't argue with that- it was definitely loud. Suddenly Leviathan opens his coffin- which you assume was placed there well in advance. He then basically yeets you in there! You're not sure if the coffin is safe for human transportasion- perhaps you were going to meet up with Solomon again in the land of the dead or whatever he called it.

Well whether or not you wanted to see Solomon you unfortunately didn't. Instead you ended up in a large hall somewhere in Hades, shockingly it also seemed like a dance floor. As soon as you step out of the coffin music starts playing and Leviathan grabs your hand once again, almost immediately forcing you to slow dance with him.

Leviathan tightens his grip on you as you stumble forwards- hopefully he wasn't going to hang you later for that- "You're clumsy" "More like not used to slow dancing" You grumble, giving Leviathan a half-hearted glare before continuing "And especially not used to suddenly being forced to dance the second I'm out of a coffin"

Leviathan presses his lips in a thin line but doesn't say anything though you could feel him dancing slightly faster, forcing you to try and keep up with him even more

'Deer man is so damn cranky'. Now that you think about it the scene of Leviathan glaring at the dance floor wasn't probably actually glaring but him searching for you..

Finding Lucifer wasn't as hard as you thought considering you could see him sitting on his throne, talking to Marbas about something. Finding the balls from god knows where you step up and take a few steps forward to the throne.. and then you decide to skidaddle back- after all you were planning on asking Lucifer of all people to dance! You needed to give yourself another pep talk, one which was a lot longer than the 2 minute pep talk you gave yourself a few seconds ago- The balls you got deflated about 5 seconds after you got them.

"MC is something wrong?" Ppyong asks, handing you back your drink "Just wondering how I should ask a certain someone to dance" You reply, reaching to pat Ppyong's small head.

As you continue talking with Ppyong someone suddenly taps your shoulder and when you look up? You're face to face with Lucifer who offers you a small smile as he's holding his hand out for you to take- well damn.

You could see Gamigin basically beaming with excitement in the corner of your eye-

And so you chuckle and nod, taking Lucifer's hand as he leads you to the dance floor. At that point the song had already changed from your favorite one to another one befitting of a slow dance- 'well shit' You think to yourself but hell- when were you ever going to get the chance to dance with Lucifer again? Probably when you were near your 80's or something- assuming Gabriel hadn't kicked your ass by that time- either way you knew it'd be in a very long time and you knew you wouldn't have the patience to wait.

Lucifer sensing or seeing your nervousness shakes his head and guides your hands to rest on him. After making sure you were comfortable Lucifer begins to move, guiding you with him, his movements truly filled with grace- you were 100% certain you looked like a frog that was drunk trying to keep up with him but did you care?

Perhaps not considering how much fun you were having and you felt like Lucifer was also having fun- well at least you hoped so. In the background you could see Gamigin cheering you both on while being held back by Buer- you could only guess he also wanted to join you two.

You made a mental note to yourself to ask Gamigin to dance with you sometime whenever Paradise Lost wasn't busy.

Trying to look for Belial wasn't hard considering you could hear his gremlin cursing at some devils from Tartaros. You raise an eyebrow and walk over. Almost immediately both Belial and Jiyu turn their attentions on you "MC? What are you doing here? You smelly.. thing!"

"Jiyu insult me again and i'll actually boil you for breakfast tomorrow morning" You basically hiss at the small red devil perched on Belial's horn who shut up very quickly. You clear your throat again and offer Belial a smile "Sorry, would you uh- like to dance with me?"

You could see a small smile also rise to Belial's face and he nods with Jiyu speaking for him- of course with his own remarks "I'd be happy to. Please don't boil me for breakfast I'm sorry."

"We'll discuss that later" You state while taking Belial's hand, leading him to the dance floor though unfortunately the song had changed from your favorite one to another but hey- the beat was still good!

Now that you thought about it you realized you weren't sure if Belial even enjoyed dancing- but he said yes so he might..

"You're a good dancer MC. No they're not!" "You're one step closer to becoming my midnight snack Jiyu" You state while glaring at the small devil who lets out a small 'eep'- Seriously Belial should bring him to a dog training school or something-

As you continue dancing you notice how Belial's smile seems to grow even so slightly- so he was having fun! That was a good thing- he's been through a lot. Jiyu even seemed to keep his mouth shut when it came to insulting you- your threat clearly in his mind but the other devils? They still received his- colorful, nice language- well as long as it wasn't directed at you tonight!

"Solomon would you like me to refill your drink?" Sitri's voice catches you off guard and you almost drop your glass- luckily you didn't. You turn around and shake your head, offering Sitri a sweet smile "No not yet at least- I think i've had a lot though I have a question for you".

Sitri nods his head and you take a deep breath "Would you like to dance with me? I'm not really a good dancer but- you know" You explain.

Sitri shakes his head and for a second you were 100% certain he just declined your request to dance but no "I'd love to dance with you Solomon, it has been a while since we've had the chance to"

He takes the glass from your hand and gives it to Ppyong, after that he takes your hand, intertwining your fingers as he leads you to the dance floor.

The song had changed to a more calming one- reminding you of tea times with Sitri ironically but you weren't really complaining considering it helped soothe your nerves a bit.

After the song ended you walk back to Ppyong to get something to drink only for Sitri to shake his head and offer you a new glass of black tea- when he had the chance to do that you'll never know- but hey once again you weren't complaining

To be honest you werent even going to try and look for Foras, already knowing that he was probably somewhere near you, invisible so you sigh and mutter "Foras?"

Foras offers you a smile as he manifests in front of you- yep you were right though did he know about your intentions of asking him to dance?- well you weren't sure about that.

"Foras would you like to dance with me?" You hold your hand out in anticipation. Foras looks a bit taken a bit by your request before he nods, taking your hand in his as an adorable smile appears on his face.

"I'd be happy to" God you wanted to protect that smile- You mentally chuckle to yourself as you walk Foras over to the dance floor, placing your hands on his shoulders.

You could sense Leviathan glaring daggers at you which made Foras try to pull away but you shake your head "I'll deal with mr grumpy deer later"

[cressidagrey]

The Ties that Bind - Chapter 1

Summary: 

Shadowsingers were made, not born. Made out of trauma and loneliness and desperation.

So when Cilla and Azriel meet and their shadows entwine, they both meet the only other person that could understand these particular childhood scars.

The last thing Azriel had ever expected from his mate, however, was for her to have a surprising connection to his brother.

Warnings: 

My usual amount of Rhys bashing, Low Self Esteem, Mention of child abuse, Azriel threatens to unalive somebody

(super pretty dividers by @tsunami-of-tears)

There weren’t many Illyrians in Velaris. And even less Illyrians who clearly had no clue how flying worked. 

Azriel watched the spectacle from a safe distance away. 

He didn’t really have a choice about that after all. 

Not if he wanted to enjoy a cup of tea out on his porch. The porch of that little comfortable lake cabin right in the mountains of Velaris. 

He had settled in for a Sunday afternoon with nothing to do for once. No pressing issues, no intelligence to sort through that couldn’t wait for a while…just him and his thoughts…and her . 

It was a young female, probably just on the cusp between girlhood and growing into an adult, with the lankiness of her limbs not yet fully subsided. 

Azriel did give her credit for being smart enough to find herself one of the mountain lakes in the mountains of Velaris…which had been a brilliant thing to do because every time she threw herself off one of the cliffs on the other side of the lake, she plummeted right into that icy water, wings trying and failing horribly to keep her adrift. 

It was probably less smart to do this right now, however,  when winter was just around the corner. Nobody was stupid enough to go swimming now…not if they didn’t want to turn into an icicle. 

Still, every time without fail, she somehow managed to drag herself back out of the water, to dry land and up the cliffs to do it again. Azriel could respect that kind of single-minded determination. 

It reminded him of himself…of his own first few attempts at flying…after he had gotten out of that cauldron-forsaken cell. 

He couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to this girl…what had happened to her that made her learn to fly now , when that was something that should have happened years ago…something that should have been natural to her…

She could extend her wings fully, so he didn’t think that she had been clipped…though maybe somebody had done a truly horrible hack job at it and that explained why her wings didn’t seem to hold her body weight…How did an Illyrian female end up in Velaris in the first place? 

Question over questions and he didn’t know the answers to it. 

It was peculiar…And it was making him sit up straight, watching her clamber up that cliff again, the grey dress she wore soaked with water and clinging to her figure. 

What had brought her here? Was this a…He didn’t think that she knew that he was there and watching her…He had warded this house with everything he had, had thrown every fucking glamour at it that he could, making it impossible to be seen if somebody didn’t know that it existed…and not many people knew that it existed in the first place. 

It had become his…little escape. Far away from the House of Wind or the River House…far enough that nobody would search for him here, but near enough that…well. 

If they needed him, Azriel was just around the corner. 

And he could get some sleep in the silence of the mountains surrounding him. 

Cassian and Nesta were never going to manage to be quiet. And quite frankly, that was a very particular kind of torture after last Winter Solstice. 

His High Lord had made himself very clear…and Azriel…well, that stubbornness that had meant that he had clung to Mor for 500 years…he couldn’t manage the same anymore. 

The very heart of him was exhausted. Exhausted from always, always not being the one chosen. Exhausted from never seemingly being good enough, never measuring up. 

So silently, quietly, Azriel had let it go. Let go of wishful dreams and stolen touches…Let go of that particular wish. 

He would never have a mate. He would never have a wife. He would just exist in his loneliness. 

It was better for everybody involved. 

Regardless of how envy burned deep in his chest…regardless of jealousy, regardless of what he wanted . Azriel should have figured out centuries ago that he never got what he wanted anyway. 

So why hope anymore? 

Why hope and have that hope dashed and have his heart broken again? And again and again and again?

Why not simply accept it? Why not try to make the best out of it? 

If he would end up alone, he could do it on his terms. Thus, that charming lake cabin with only one room he actually used. 

He liked it. Scratch that. Azriel loved it. 

Loved the quietness, loved how roomy and bright it was, the perfect antithesis to all of the years spent in that cell. 

And if he made this his home… his home …well, only he needed to be content here. 

His home. 

Nobody else needed to like it. Just him. His and his alone. The perfect place to be lonely all on his own. 

Master!   His shadows snapped at that moment and he startled. She hasn’t come up yet.

What? he demanded, his gaze immediately snapping up to the lake. 

No trace of her anyway. 

She jumped and hit her head. 

Why didn’t you fucking say something? he demanded harshly. Great. Now he needed to rescue her.

Definitely not how he wanted to spend his Sunday afternoon doing. 

She must have managed to catch an updraft, because he didn’t need to pull her from the depths of that lake. Though maybe that would have been better…It would have left her with fewer scrapes. 

Instead, she had landed in a heap in the shallows of the lake, water just knee high and Azriel hissed at the ice-cold water lapping against his skin as he gathered her up. 

She was unconscious, her skin pale and ice-cold to the touch. Nearly frozen solid. 

He pulled her into his arms, lifting her up and carrying her the few feet to dry ground, a hand immediately finding her pulse point. 

He looked at her face, at the black hair and skin that was pale and clammy and…

Oh. 

His. His . 

There she was. 

After 500 years, there she was. 

He touched her with shaking hands, with reverence. Cupping her cheek, feeling her rattling breath against his scarred hands, turning her to her side as she started coughing. 

Still unconscious…a wound on her forehead bleeding nearly sluggishly. 

The water she had inhaled came back up and he made sure that she didn’t swallow it back down nearly automatically, unable not to stare at her. 

His…His mate?

His mate. 

Just a slip of a female, small and delicate, cheekbones and clavicles standing out sharply. She could use some more fat on her, to be completely honest. She looked… emaciated , not just simply thin. Starved . 

And if her body hadn’t been the first clue…her wings were the second. He stared at the scars that crisscrossed where they protruded from her back…He knew scars like that. He himself had scars like that. Her wings had been bound to her back so tightly that whatever rope had been used had rubbed at the delicate skin covering the bones…rubbing it raw. 

He swallowed at that realisation, the fury in his chest bursting wide open. It wasn’t the only scar on these wings…there were more. No wonder she had difficulty flying. It was so bad that he wondered if she would ever be able to fly at all. 

Who had done this to her? 

If he ever found out, he would plunge Truthteller into their chest and make them regret ever having been born. 

His mate coughed again, sounding miserable. “You’ll be fine,” Azriel promised her fiercely. If he had a single thing to say about it…she would be fine. He would make sure that she would be fine. She was his now. 

His mate. 

The one person that he was allowed to care for…the one person he could pour all that attention and love onto that he normally held so tightly buried in his chest. His mate . 

She was his and he was going to make sure that she was treated properly now. 

“Come on, Sweetheart, we’ll get you warm and dry,” Azriel promised her, picking her up again. She weighed next to nothing to him as he cradled her into his arms and made his way back to his cabin. 

Warm and dry and he would do something against the wound on her head and the scrapes on the rest of her. He couldn’t do anything against how thin she was, but he could probably manage to scrounge up some soup or something… Anything and everything so that she would be fine. His mate. 

His . 

Azriel reached his cabin seconds later, putting her down next to the mattress he used as a bed.

He really should have invested in some fucking furniture, but with a regrettable lapse of judgment he hadn’t. 

He hadn’t because just for him, he hadn’t seen a need for it other than the necessities. A mattress was more than enough, no reason for a bed frame. No reason to put that mattress in an actual bedroom, if one corner of his living room and kitchen would work just as well. 

Well, he could change that. He would change that. His mate deserved a bed, and a proper closet and everything else her heart desired. 

He would make sure she would want for nothing. 

Get her out of her dress and underneath the blankets, he told the shadow sharply, who for once seemed to be silent in pure shock. 

He wasn’t going to touch her anywhere. Not like this. Not more than absolutely necessary. 

Instead, he got himself dry, a pot of water boiling on the stove, all the vegetables he had stocked in the cooling cabinet and the chicken he had bought to roast thrown in right along with it. 

Then Azriel raided his stock of healing supplies, bringing them to her bedside. 

Now, safely dressed in an old dry shirt of his and tucked under every blanket his shadows could find in the house, her skin was still cold but no longer icy. Thawing. 

He dabbed at the wound on her forehand and wrapped the scrapes that covered her hands…hands that were blistering and covered with a rash. Hands that were definitely used to harsh physical work. 

These weren’t the hands of a lady. These were the hands of somebody that worked for a living. 

Azriel tucked her hands under the blankets with the rest of her, and gently tucked a straw curl back behind her ear…and then came up short when he realised that…that her ear…it was pointed . Not the usual rounded ear of a pure-blood Illyrian. Pointed like a High Fae. 

Oh . 

She must be half Illyrian, half High Fae. 

Exceedingly Rare… but not impossible. Rhys was the proof of that. 

Master! He startled a second time, glaring at his shadows. Why did they keep startling them? And why were they screaming at him in pure excitement? 

Only then, he saw the tendril of shadows. Hesitantly twirling out from her hair. 

Not one of his. He didn’t know how he knew that, but he knew. 

This wasn’t one of his shadows, this wasn’t…

Oh. 

Was she…

Are they… hers? he asked, nearly hesitantly. Was she…just like him? A shadowsinger ?

He had never gotten to meet another one. He had never…There had never been anybody that had explained to him how they worked, how he could master them…all of it…he had learnt through hard work and determination and not often the feeling that he was truly going insane. 

He had never thought that he would get to meet another shadowsinger ever. He had thought that maybe it was just a quirk of fate that also in this one ability, he would be unique, removed from everybody around him…Given that was how he felt any day of the week. 

Yes, they are, his shadows answered excitedly, a few tendrils of his slowly approaching hers…that seemingly wilted away, hesitantly. He wanted to reach out and cradle them in his hands…make sure that her shadows and his mate understood that no harm would come to her from him. 

How high were the chances that his mate, the one the mother picked for him, would be a shadowsinger just like him? 

He swallowed.  

Ask them for her name? he requested from his shadow hesitantly, wondering if they were able to communicate with hers…if he could talk to her shadows…if she could talk to his…

Cilla, the shadows answered after a moment. Cilla . Her name was Cilla. 

Then very quietly:  They are begging you not to hurt her. 

Somebody thrust a knife into his heart and twisted. 

Of course, they would ask that. Of course. 

They didn’t trust him at all. Why should they?

She wouldn’t be a shadowsinger if she hadn’t spent years feeling so alone that the shadows started talking back to her. Why should she trust him?

I am not going to hurt her. I swear that to them on my life, he promised fiercely. He would not hurt her. Never. 

She was his mate . 

He would spend the next few centuries trying desperately to make sure that he was worthy of her, nothing else. He was not going to hurt her. Not if he had any choice in that matter. 

His mate. His mate . He was going to take care of her, even when it was the last thing he did. 

Nobody was ever going to hurt her again, not if Azriel had a single thing to say about it. 

He was going to draw his line into the sand just like Enalius had down all these millennia before him at the Pass. And whoever would cross it, they would rue that day. 

It was easy enough to tug harshly at the dormant thread Rhys had long ago left in his mind…easy enough to let his brother into the ante-chamber of his mind once he had his attention. 

I won’t be available next week. 

Are you asking me for a vacation, Az? Rhys asked with some amusement. No. He wasn’t asking. 

He was going to take the next week and get to know his mate and nobody was going to stop him. Unless she told him no. 

It’s not a request. This is me informing you that I won’t be available, Azriel gave back, his voice even. 

He could nearly hear Rhys’ mental sigh. Is this still about you and Elain? Rhys asked him, long sufferingly.  

There is no me and Elain, Rhysand, Azriel shot back. Rhys had taken care of that. Though he probably did owe his High Lord a bottle of some ridiculous expensive alcoholic beverage for that. No Elain, which meant he was free to conduct his love life however he saw fit. Which meant that if Cilla was willing to give him a chance…

Then what it is about? Rhys asked him. 

Azriel could tell the truth. But he had absolutely no fucking want to do that. Rhys had made himself very clear last Winter Solstice. And Azriel didn’t want anybody to meddle. Cilla was his mate and nobody else’s and the only thing that mattered was what she wanted. Not what anybody else thought about her or their Mating Bond or anything else. 

I have some things to take care of that need my undivided attention, he said, his voice hard. Making it very obvious that Azriel wasn’t interested in answering any questions about it. 

And you couldn’t tell me that weeks ago? 

No. 

Fine. 

It’s not like it would have mattered to him if Rhysand had disagreed. Azriel was still not going to come in next week. 

It wasn’t like took many days off in the last few centuries. He was probably long overdue for a vacation. 

A soft noise pulled him away from that particular line of thinking and he looked down at Cilla, her nose scrunched up, shifting slightly. 

“It’s alright,” he promised her, keeping his voice calm and easy. “Can you open your eyes for me, Cilla?” he asked and one eye blinked open…showing him a pair of dark brown pupils.

 “There you go,” he praised her, “Good, Sweetheart.”

For one moment she looked at him utterly petrified, not understanding at all what was going on. Just a second later, he felt her fear and terror pour all over the fledgling Mating Bond, that must have just snapped for her. 

One hand flayed out and one of his shadows caught it, her eyes jumping from him to the shadows and then back again. He watched as she seemingly tried to work through it, one of her shadows gently caressing her cheek, clearly calming her down.  

“You…You’re just like me,” she whispered, her voice rough from disuse, wings twitching with something. 

“I am,” he agreed softly. 

And then, he saw the shadow curl behind her ear, whispering something in her ear. And then: “Mate?” she whispered, staring at him, her eyes wide, the expression on her face wanting and desperate and a thousand other things. 

His mouth went dry. He managed a nod. 

And then to his surprise, she pounced. There was nothing graceful about it as she clung to him, nearly slapping her with one of her wings, as he pulled her against his chest. 

“I am your mate,” he agreed with a weak chuckle.

Hers.

[ni-kism]

「Bad Luck」

Inspired by "Yellowstone", the scene where Beth smashed the store.

Mafia!Cheol x wife!reader ft. Secretary Shua

Warnings : mentions of insecurity, blood and violence, punching (?), explicit language, very fluffy at the end, wonwoo and hao has wives, pet names

Genre : fluff

Everything below is pure fiction made for entertainment purposes. Do not copy any of the actions below.

"If my husband came in here, he'd kill somebody"

You hopped out of the car after saying goodbye and thanks to one of cheol's men. He'd taken his day off just to drop you off at the street where all the designer stores are. With no special day yet your husband insisted that you should go shopping while he dealt with meetings. Your husband? Mafia boss of the underground world. They're all wary of him while he fears none except you - his precious wife. The way he'd get on his knees to apologise so quickly if he were to be the reason you're upset.

You grabbed yourself a latte while looking for a store to walk into. Deciding to look for a necklace you slipped into the store with a pretty lilac stone on display. Immediately you realise the gaze of the shopkeeper on you, eyeing you up and down. After looking around and having enough of her glares, you approached her to ask for the necklace you saw by the window.

"I've seen enough of your type of people. You can't afford this unless you sell a kidney why don't you get your ass over the store down the street where poor people are supposed to be?"

Before you could respond, " You stole something didn't you, I'd like to check your bag missy." spat the shopkeeper.

"Get a warrant"

"I don't need one. Lock the doors and call the cops" she ordered the guy standing by the door.

Infront of her face you threw your bag on the counter while fishing out your phone to call Joshua.

"(Y/n)? Something wrong?" He questioned immediately since you rarely call him

"I need help. A store by main street with police cars outside. You'll see it." You can already hear the sound of key hitting against each other in the background before he spoke again.

"Why did you call me? Why didn't you call cheol?"

"If my husband came in here, he'd kill somebody" you answered.

You eyed the shopkeeper's name tag that said "Veronica". Ooh it's the one that's gotten a few complaints about being rude to customers. When the cops arrived so did Joshua. Upon seeing him the cops....squirmed away back in their car...?

"Sorry Mr.Hong we're closing now as we are having some issues with this...thief here. She probably shoved it in her bra or pants. I'll have the cops search her right away if you must shop today!"

"No need." said Joshua as he gave her a side eye.

Upon seeing Joshua's attitude, the air got awkward and scary at the same time whilst you could only hide behind him hoping he would just slap her and take you home. You'd deal with her after asking cheol to buy the store or something...maybe get someone to run her car over. Does she even have a car?

The bell hung above the door gave out a soft ring, signalling that someone had just entered. Before you could register who in the hell enters a store with police cars parked outside and before Veronica could tell the person that they're closed, a baseball bat flew straight into her face so quickly it cracked one of her teeth! You quickly turned fearing the worst for Veronica. The police cars are long gone now replaced with a black Roll's Royce and...your husband who's walking through the entrance. Oh no. Rip Veronica.

You hear cheol ask Joshua to go back and finish off his work before he goes home. Joshua approaches him and hands him a recording pen before nodding and leaving in his BMW.

So.... everything was recorded...of course Joshua told him...now Veronica's fucked...like fucked.

"Mr.Choi-!" Slap. Ooh her mouth started bleeding. If she knows about your husband...and your husband's secretary how come they don't know you? Wierd. Everyone in dirty work or involved in underground stuff knew who you were.

"Mr.Choi? What's wrong you're our most precious custo-"

"You messed with the wrong girl, Veronica."

"This girl? She's a thief!! She tried to steal our jewels and stones!!" She quickly answered while holding her cheek. Slapped yet so respectful because she knew what would happen if she weren't. "Here it comes" you thought to yourself.

"This girl you claim to be a "thief" is my wife."

You've never seen colour drain from a person face this quickly as she realised she messed up big time. Accusing the wife of the man who makes even the police run away? It's better if she just shut up and get lost but cheol would never let that slide. As he went towards the door to lock it, Veronica dropped to her knees to apologise saying things along the lines of "spare me", "I have children to feed" and "I can't die". Seungcheol picked up the baseball bat that was forgotten on the ground since earlier while telling her that she should have been polite to just show you the necklace instead of judging just because you didn't dress up. Following the end of his sentence he hits the nearest piece of glass with the bat, resulting in a loud shattering noise and silence so thick it could be cut with a knife after the shards have settled.

"Cheol that's enough let's go-" you tried to grab him but he took your hand in his to kiss your knuckles instead.

"Oh babygirl we have all night. The sun is setting, why don't you try on the jewelry you came here to look for. Let me guess, that big one by the window? I'll fetch it for you." He pecks you and grabbed a high stool for you to sit on. Seungcheol puts on the necklace with big lilac diamond around your neck and steps away to admire you.

"Love, how about this one?" He said as he smashed yet another glass covered shelve. For the next ten minutes, he chose some nice rings and necklaces for you to put on and "take home" as well as stepping on the gems that weren't polished or looked ugly. You protested, insisting on going home many times but he would silence you with a kiss on the lips. Everything unfolded infront of Veronica as she could only stare in horror. When he reached the last piece of intact glass in the store, Seungcheol pointed the bat against it as he turned to her to speak.

"You bring your sorry ass on your knees before my wife and apologize for judging her for how she dressed, and for treating a fellow customer rudely."

Losing her cocky exterior, she crawled towards you on her knees to apologise word for word while asking you to ask Seungcheol so he would spare their last piece of unshattered glass as well as the accessories inside.

"Much better. Here love, have a bag." He handed you a medium sized box and a bag to store all the things he'd put on your lap or around your neck and fingers before turning to Veronica again.

"You're lucky my wife was here or you'd be painting those pretty tiles with red right now. Regardless you'll be losing your job and your boss will be losing this shop lot. Enlighten me, what will you tell your boss?"

"A runaway criminal came in and attempted to steal....Mr.Choi had driven him away...so I gave his wife our jewels." She managed to stutter out while still trembling.

"Good." he said. He walked towards you to help you off the high stool and into his Roll's Royce. You tried to look back, catching Veronica phoning her boss and telling him exactly what she said she would. Wow. It's honestly the first time seeing your husband in action. You'd heard from the fellow wives of your husband's peers, namely Wonwoo and Minghao's wives that he can be impulsive but it's the first time you've ever been on the scene of his anger. Well the ladies were serious when they said he's the scariest.

You set the box of jewellery next to your feet while turning to look at your husband. His scary facade was over, now smiling about the scene he caused back there and happy that he brought you justice.

"Someone is happy~" you cooed. "Are you proud of me sweetheart?" He asked while he stopped at a red light.

"Shua told you didn't he..." You questioned, admiring the way he drives the car with only one hand, the other on your lap.

"Of course he did, you were in danger. You accused that I would kill someone but cmon baby I'm not that bad...I fight but nothing illegal! Ever!!" He said while pouting. Nobody dares to challenge him. His company and family controls 70% of the economy and his underground dealings that involve weapons and solutions used to make medicine that are somehow legal every time it is checked bring In lots too. You somehow managed to marry this guy and not find out about his whole identity until you were so inlove you're ready to be the evil man's wife that fights with him to death in those movies.

You once questioned him, and he allowed you to go through this stuff. He sells the solutions and medicine at a cheaper price in big batches to hospitals and labs because the government is using it for money but he actually wants to help, that's why the government is always looking for something to get him in trouble but they end up shining the lights on their own dirty work. You can't help but want to give yourself a pat on the back everytime you see or hear of his deeds that aren't posted all over the media. He knew you liked cats, so adopted two for you and donated a few millions to cat shelters overseas. You loved this man. Even when he gets sick and almost puked on the ground you'd still love him.

The ride back home was comfortable with soft tunes playing in the background. He'd take peeks at you and you'll both giggle. Three years into your marriage, the love never faded. Most say that marriage is the grave for love yet everyday spent with Seungcheol felt... genuine and happy. You help him by diving Joshua's workload, mostly organising stuff about his company or his personal schedules. Before starting work you'd make him a lunchbox, write a cute note on it and pack it up. Afternoons were spent with your cats by your side or playing with each other as you typed away on your computer. At night, he'd come home around 8. He never postpones coming home because of work. Usually it's traffic or he got something on the way back for him to be late as he likes to say that the important stuff should be finished at the office, the rest can be put off until tomorrow and he will leave at 7:30 sharp to go home and see his beautiful wife.

He usually comes home to a purring engine on the cabinet of the mansion's door and another furball on the floor with the smell of dinner going into his nose. He always greets you with a kiss or hug when he comes home. During dinner, he either pouts and complains about work or shares the interesting things that happen today. Does he let you do the dishes on your own? Hell no. He can and he will help you no matter what. If you scrub the plates, he will rinse and try them ; if he mops the floor then you clean the counter tops and dinner table. That's just how fantastic of a husband he is. The man that people fear most will wear a pink apron with cats on it and mop the floor even if you asked him to rest.

His car gently rolls into the porch of your marble white mansion. You both enter the door and your cats immediately run to greet you. He once said that the cats lift his mood, but you do wonders on him. You tossed the food into the steamer and quickly joined him in the bathtub. You like to take baths together by cleaning each other. You wash his back while he washes and dries your hair for you. You always feed the cats first before taking a bath together. Although it is mostly relaxing and warm to bathe with your husband, yet things can get freaky when he's moody or horny. You once fucked so hard the both of you collapsed and fell asleep until the next day waking up to very grumpy cats as they didn't have their dinner. Oops. Today was one of those relaxing warm bath days.

After you both finished dinner, you cuddled on the couch with dimly lit warm lights around the huge living room equipped with floor-to-celling glass windows facing the sea for a spectacular view. Your cats, hanging by the cat tree sharpening their claws and running around playing. You enjoyed "us" time the most. Before bed, after dinner or when you wake up in the morning. He holds you close against his bare chest as he has a habit of walking around the house shirtless almost all the time. You set your head on his muscular chest and he buries his head in the crook of your neck your your hair. Then, you talk about random things or just simply enjoy the embrace of each other.

You've thought about having kids but...your cats and your husband are enough now. You want to have peace and quiet, not quite ready to give up what you have right now. Seungcheol is totally fine with it as he says that it's your choice. He's happy as long as you're with him.

Seungcheol is the type of man to choose you before his baby because "we can always try again for another baby, but I can never find another you. I don't want a family or anything if you're not my wife♡"

Suddenly he spoke up. "Love?"

"Yeah?" You answered with eyes closed and your hand reaching down to pat your cat who has decided to loaf Infront of the couch.

"Would you rather choose a hero or a villain?" He asked. You scooted up a bit to look at him, acting like you're actually thinking when you already know the answer.

"The villain." You stated

"Why?"

"Because the hero would give me up to save the world, but the villain would give up the world to save me." You answered knowing that the world sees him as a bad guy who pursues violence and force to get his way as well as trades stuff behind doors to earn money.

Your hands intertwined, wedding rings on both of your fingers gently hitting against each other as he kissed you ; soft giggles and meows filled the room when you chat into the night.

"Sweetheart, i'd burn the world to ashes if it meant that there will always be a you and me."

A/N : hope you enjoyed and thanks for all the likes and reblogs on my previous story "Christmas, Airports and Coffee". I appreciate every single one of them. Feel free to request for cheol if anyone is interested~ (only cheol because I've tried writing for other members and discovered I could only come up with ridiculous ideas for my bias while the others sounded so dry and uninteresting I just deleted everything. Like seriously.)

<3

[topazy]

Tomorrow’s promise

Pairing: Daryl Dixon × reader, Rick Grimes × sister reader

Warnings: Swearing, violence

Chapter: 5.05

Using a damp cloth, Michonne helps to wipe the blood that’s starting to dry off your skin. Breaking out in a sweat, your heart hammers in your chest; Daryl and Carol haven’t come back from collecting water, and the small search party out looking for Bob hasn’t returned.

Whimpering pulls you from your thoughts; you look over at Carl, who was holding your fussing son.

Father Gabriel speaks up from his place near the door, breaking the near silence in the room. “They are our future; humanity’s not dead—we still have hope.”

“Maybe there are survivors, but humanity is gone.”

Just as you go to stand with the intention of taking Jace from Carl, you hear a loud noise coming from outside that startles everyone. Just as you reach for your knife, a gunshot rings out, and Abraham, Rosita, Michonne, and you all aim your weapons at the main door, expecting to see an intruder, but the doors burst open and Rick stumbles inside. “We need help moving him!”

“Him?”

As you rush outside on the heels of Glenn, you hear Rick say, “Maggie, Tara, we need to make space.”

Before you know it, you’re standing on the dirt path staring down at Bob’s bloody body. Your chest tightens when you notice why Sasha is so frantic; now that your eyes have adjusted to the darkness, you can see clearly that Bob’s left leg from the knee down was amputated.

—

Once inside, you help place Bob on a blanket on the floor of the church. Maggie brings a first aid kit out from the back room, but Bob shakes his head; he didn’t want any more help.

Sweat drips from his forehead as he starts to wheeze. “I was in the graveyard, and somebody knocked me out, a woman, I think. I just remember seeing a lot of blonde hair, then everything went dark. I woke up outside this place; it looked like a school. They were eating my leg in front of me, like it was nothing. All proud, like they had it all figured out.”

Rick asks the question you’ve been too afraid to voice. “Did they have Daryl and Carol?”

“Gareth said they drove off.”

Sasha struggles to hold back tears and, forcing a smile, says, “you need to take some painkillers.”

“No… I don’t want it wasted on me.” Bob pulls the collar of his top down, letting you all see a chunk of flesh that’s been bitten from his shoulder. “It happened at the food bank.”

The wound wasn’t a human bite; it was from a walker.

—

Noticing the look of devastation on Rick’s face, you try and comfort him, squeezing at his shoulder. “How are you holding up?”

“Bob… he’s… I didn’t know…”

Bob was resting on the sofa in the church's office.

“I know, but it was his choice to keep it to himself,” you say quietly. “I know this is a bad time, but we’ve still got two people missing; those freaks are probably outside waiting to see what we do next, and there is a school ten minutes away full of walkers. We need a plan.”

The room briefly falls silent until Abraham gets to his feet. “Alright, people, it’s time for a reality check; we all need to leave for DC right now.”

“We aren’t going anywhere without Daryl and Carol, and we can’t travel with Bob…”

“Look, I respect not wanting to split up your family, but there’s a clear threat to Eugene. I need to extract his ass before things get any uglier. So if y’all won’t come, good luck to you. We’ll go our separate ways.”

Both Eugene and Rosita follow the redhead hesitantly. After all the time you’ve spent together, this wasn’t how you imagined you’d all go your separate ways. Scoffing, Rick says, “you leaving on foot?”

“We fixed that damn bus ourselves.”

Rick’s tone goes dangerously low, “there are a lot more of us.”

“You want to keep it that way? You should come.”

Rick and Abraham go back and forth in circles. Eventually Glenn intervenes and tries to calm the situation down. “Do you really think that you’re going to be any safer leaving right now in the middle of the night?”

“Yeah,” Abraham nods. “Yeah, I do, actually.”

“It’s pitch black out there, and for all we know, they have slashed the tires on the bus or are waiting inside it. You should wait until morning.”

Tara suddenly stands. “If you stay one more day, I’ll go with you to DC.”

Abraham waits a beat before replying, “Glenn and Maggie, too.”

“Absolutely not.”

When Rick and Abraham start to charge at each other, still heated from their argument, you jump between them and shake your head at the redhead. “You’re the one who told me we’d kill every one of those sons of bitches when they took Jace. But we didn’t, and now they are going to keep coming back and pick us off one by one.”

“That’s exactly why I, Rosita, and Eugene are getting the hell out of here.”

He goes to pick up his backpack to leave, but you call out to him, “help me, help me stop them.”

Knowing that Abraham still wasn’t fully convinced, Glenn steps forward: “if you stay and help us, me and Maggie will go with you to Washington.”

Your heart sinks; you didn’t want your group to split up, but you respected Glenn a lot for what he was willing to do.

—

The atmosphere is tense; everyone is too afraid to speak in case it causes another argument within the group. The loud voices from before had drawn in a few stray walkers, but thankfully the unexpected caused them to be drawn to another noise in the distance.

Gently rocking your arms while staying out of view from the window, you suddenly get an idea. “The lasker trap,” you mumble before addressing the rest of the room. “The governor was much smarter than them, and he fell for I bet they would as well.”

Rosita raises her brows questioningly, “fell for…”

Maggie tells everyone who wasn’t present at the prison a short version of what happened with the governor. It was risky, but you were running out of options; those people could attack at the church at any moment, or they could be waiting for Carol and Daryl to return and grab them then. Going head-to-head with the people from terminus was the only way to end it.

“We don’t have the same supplies as we did then,” Glenn says. “Plus, we don’t have Beth and Hershel to watch over Judith and Jace.”

Rosita gets to her feet. “I’ll do it; I’ll keep them safe.”

Abraham gives her a pointed look. “Eugene stays here. He’s not a fighter.”

You nod in agreement.

Rick licks at his lips, “okay then, let’s come up with a plan.”

—

While the others quickly reloaded their weapons, you took Carl into the back room and showed him the secret escape in the floorboard. You hand him a bag with food rations, water, and ammo along with the keys to the bus. “If things go south, you take Jace and Judith and run. You don’t stop to look for us; you just keep going.”

“No, I’m not leaving you or my dad.”

“Carl—“

“This will work,” he says confidently. “It had to; I’m not losing anyone else.”

Pulling him into a tight hug, you let out a deep sigh. “I hope it works, kid, but if it doesn’t look good, promise me you’ll go. I can’t go out there without knowing you, Jace, and Judith are safe.”

“Fine,” he reluctantly agrees. “Aunt Lil?”

“Yeah.”

“Daryl will be okay.”

—

Your group splits into two, with Tyreese and Rosita staying behind in the church to protect the kids along with father Gabriel and Eugene, although you suspect Carl would be much better at keeping them safe than the latter.

“We’ve got this,” Sasha whispers as you start to walk away from the church. “Just don’t look back; if they know we know, it’s all over.”

“I’m sorry about Bob.”

“It’s not your fault.”

When the church almost disappears behind the thick trees, you all crouch down and wish. Rick counts until three minutes and then raises his hand for the group to return.

You and Maggie scout the outside of the church while the others go directly inside. With all the candles out and torches turned off, half of the church hall was cast into darkness by a shadow. You tap your foot twice on the steps as previously discussed and make your way into the main hall with the brunette by your side. Just as you enter, Rick shoots two men in the head who are about to unlock the office door; their blood splatters across the church walls.

“Put your guns on the floor.”

Panicked Gareth stares in the shadow, trying to figure out your brother’s location. “Rick, we’ll fire right into that office. So you lower your gun…”

Rick shoots him in the hand, causing him to cry out in pain. Slowly, he steps out into the moonlight and says, “Put your guns on the floor and kneel.”

All of them get to their knees aside from one man, whining. Gareth gazes up at him, his teeth clenched. “Martin, there’s no choice here.”

“Yeah, there is.”

From what Tyreese and Carol told you, Martin is the man who had his hands wrapped around Judith’s neck. Abraham emerges beside him, pointing his gun at Martin. “Want a bet?

Gasping in pain Gareth looks up at your brother and says, “There’s no point in begging, right?”

“No.”

“Still, you could have killed us when you came in. There had to be a reason for that.”

The deadly look in your brother's gaze turns your blood cold. He cocks his head to the side and says, “We didn’t want to waste the bullets.”

Slowly you backed up and stood by the open door under the pretense of keeping watch, but in reality you just didn’t want to watch what was about to happen. No doubt there was a twisted irony when you were the one who came up with this plan but didn’t want to actually kill anyone. Not again.

“I already made you a promise.” Rick raises his machete and hacks Gareth in the neck.

Michonne, Sasha, Abraham, and Rick let out all their pent-up anger as they brutally beat the survivors from terminus to death.

They needed to die.

But it was still horrid to see.

When the door from the office creaks open, you practically leap over the backed-up bodies on the ground and shove Carl back inside, shielding him. The inside of the church was covered in red blood splatters that painted the floors and walls, which was something Carl didn’t need to see.

—

The last twenty-four hours have been agonizing. Not only did the incident at the church happen, but Bob was dead. The dirt from digging his grave is still fresh underneath your nails, and Daryl and Carol have yet to return.

“It feels weird without them.”

Smiling, you crouch down to help your nephew scrub at the blood-stained floor. Chances are the blood would never fully wash away, but it felt good to help remove as much as you could. “Yeah, but we will see them again. Glenn and Maggie are survivors.”

After Maggie, Glenn, and Tara left to go to DC with Abraham, Rosita, and Eugene, everyone remaining was emotionally exhausted. It didn’t take long for people to start falling asleep in the two back rooms, aside from whoever was on watch, which right now was Michonne.

“So I'm awake because I was checking on the babies. Why are you up?”

“Couldn’t sleep. I keep having the same dream or nightmare.”

Concerned, you stop scrubbing and ask, “What’s your dream about?”

Carl goes to answer you, but he’s cut off when the main door creaks open and two sets of footsteps enter. You don’t even need to look down the aisle to know whose the heavier footfall belongs to.

“Daryl.”

“I’m going to wake my dad,” Carl whispers.

Daryl starts to walk towards you and waves for a kid who looks to be around sixteen or seventeen to follow him inside. “Michonne told me what happened—”

“Where were you?”

[moniquesha]

exfil

part three: first job back.

18+

Pairing: Congressman!Bucky x Reader

Summary: Shaken but unable to walk away, you find yourself back in the fight. The past lingers, the weight of old habits settling in. And when the moment tests you, someone is not convinced you’re ready.

Warnings: Angst. PTSD. Panic attack. Violence. Mentions of past trauma.

a/n: if you haven't noticed yet, this is my attempt in the most realistic way a soldier can act towards others! in other words, this is a slow burn series.

“I detected irregularities in your vitals,” Vision said, eyes scanning you. “Your heart rate is still elevated.”

You sighed, barely suppressing an eye roll. “Yeah, thanks, I noticed.”

Vision tilted his head, studying you for a second longer before concluding, “You should sit.”

You weren’t going to argue with a synthezoid, not when your legs still felt unsteady. Before you could even think about finding a seat, Wanda appeared beside you, pressing a bottle of water into your hand.

“Here,” she said softly.

You hesitated. Then, with a muttered thanks, you took it.

Wanda didn’t leave. She just stood there, watching you like she was debating whether or not to read your mind.

You shot her a look. “Don’t.”

“I wasn’t going to,” she replied, but there was something too innocent in her voice.

You narrowed your eyes. “Wanda.”

She sighed, crossing her arms. “Fine. But only because I don’t need to.” She tilted her head slightly, searching your face. “It’s written all over you.”

You looked away, taking a sip of water. It didn’t make the bitterness in your throat go away. By now, the others had gathered again—Bucky, Yelena, Sam, and of course, Tony, who looked way too satisfied with himself for dragging you back inside.

Bruce was there, too, watching cautiously from the sidelines. Clint and Rhodes had started talking amongst themselves, probably debating whether or not this was their problem.

Thor, at least, had the decency to look a little lost.

You exhaled, staring down at the bottle in your hands.

Then, Tony clapped his hands together. “Alright, so, now that we’ve all had our little emotional meltdown—”

“We?” Sam scoffed.

“—can someone please tell me what exactly we’re doing here?” Tony ignored him, looking at Yelena. “You’re the one stirring this pot, so start talking.”

Yelena glanced at you before answering.

“I asked her to help with Fontaine.”

Tony raised a brow. “And her response was to nearly pass out in the parking lot?”

“More or less,” Bucky muttered.

Tony exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose. “God, I hate this job.”

“Technically, you don’t have a job anymore,” Rhodey reminded him.

Tony waved a hand. “Semantics.” Then, he turned back to you. “Alright, what’s your deal?”

You clenched your jaw. “I don’t have a deal.”

“Oh, you so do,” Tony shot back. “Look, I get it. You wanna stay out of this. You don’t wanna go running back into another spy thriller disaster. But—news flash—you already care.” He pointed at the water bottle in your hands. “That’s why you’re still here.”

You looked away. “I didn’t have a choice.”

Tony scoffed. “You always have a choice.”

You exhaled sharply.

Silence hung in the air.

Yelena spoke next, voice measured. “I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t need you.”

You swallowed hard.

Bucky, for once, said nothing.

You let out a breath, staring at the ground.

Then, finally—

“I said I’ll read the damn file.”

Yelena’s shoulders relaxed slightly.

Tony smirked. “Look at that. Progress.”

You shot him a glare. “Don’t push it, Stark.”

He held his hands up in surrender, still grinning. You sighed again, rubbing your temples. This was a mistake. You knew it.

But just like Tony said—you already cared.

Your apartment was quiet when you stepped inside. Too quiet.

You locked the door behind you, tossing your keys onto the small table near the entrance. The lights flickered on automatically, casting a dull glow over the space—small, simple, nothing like the places you used to stay in when you were somebody.

Now? You were just someone trying to get through the day.

You shrugged off your jacket, throwing it over a chair before making your way to the kitchen. You grabbed a glass, filled it with water, and leaned against the counter, staring at nothing.

The file Yelena had given you sat on your coffee table. Untouched.

You exhaled sharply.

Against your better judgment, you walked over and picked it up. The paper felt heavier than it should have.

You don’t have to do this.

That’s what you told yourself. But it was a lie.

Because the second you took that file, the second you agreed to read it, you were already in.

Like a bad habit you couldn’t shake. You sat down, flipping open the folder. The first thing that greeted you was a photo.

Contessa Valentina Allegra de Fontaine.

Her face stared back at you, just as smug as you remembered.

You skimmed the documents, scanning the details, the movements, the suspected operations. Some things you knew. Some things you wished you didn’t.

You leaned back, rubbing your temple.

This was a mistake.

A big one.

You should’ve burned the file, walked away, never answered another call from Yelena again. But instead, you were sitting here, debriefing yourself, like you still belonged in this world.

Like you were still the agent you used to be. You sighed, shutting the file. You’d read the rest later. For now, you needed sleep. You haven't even noticed how time is the quickest when you worry. The sun barely peeked through your curtains when you woke up, a dull headache pressing against your skull.

You had slept—technically. But it wasn’t the kind of rest that left you feeling any better. Your body still felt heavy, your mind still restless.

For a moment, you just lay there, staring at the ceiling. You could still feel the weight of the file sitting on your coffee table. The second you touched it, there was no going back.

But was there ever a chance of walking away?

You sighed, finally forcing yourself out of bed. The cold air hit your skin immediately, grounding you in reality.

The apartment was as quiet as it was last night, save for the occasional hum of the city outside. You went through the motions—brushed your teeth, washed your face, threw on whatever was clean.

Then, without thinking, your eyes flickered to the coffee table.

The file was still there. Untouched.

You exhaled sharply. Then, reluctantly, you sat down and flipped it open again.

This time, you really read it.

The more you took in, the more you realized why Yelena had asked for your help. Fontaine wasn’t just another opportunist trying to play in the big leagues—she had reach. Resources. Plans that ran deep, deeper than most people realized.

And you? You knew things about her that no one else did.

Because once upon a time, she had been your fix.

That part still made your stomach turn.

You’re out, you reminded yourself. You left that life behind.

But if that were really true, why were you still sitting here, memorizing every detail in that file?

Your phone buzzed. You hesitated before grabbing it.

A message from Yelena.

Yelena: Morning. So… how much do you hate me right now?

You stared at the screen for a long moment.

Then, with a sigh, you typed back.

You: Still deciding.

Three dots appeared almost immediately.

Yelena: Fair. Coffee?

You ran a hand down your face. You had a choice.

You could ignore this. Pretend like you never saw the file. Go about your day like none of this mattered.

Or—

You exhaled, already reaching for your jacket.

You: Where?

The café was a quiet hole-in-the-wall kind of place—nothing fancy, nothing flashy. The kind of spot you’d pass by a hundred times and never notice.

That’s why you didn’t like that Bucky was sitting at the table with Yelena when you walked in.

You stopped just inside the door, debating whether you should turn around and leave.

Yelena saw you first. “Ah, there you are.” She waved you over like this was some casual brunch meetup and not an attempt to drag you back into something you had no business touching.

Bucky turned, catching your eye. You met his gaze for a split second before looking away, sighing as you walked over.

“This wasn’t part of the deal,” you muttered, dropping into the seat across from them.

“Relax,” Yelena said, taking a sip of her coffee. “He was already here when I got here.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “Wasn’t expecting you either.”

“Good,” you said flatly. “We can both be disappointed.”

Yelena smirked, but Bucky just sighed, leaning back in his seat. He looked like he’d been here a while—coffee half gone, a plate pushed to the side.

You ordered yours without looking up, rubbing a hand over your face. “So?” you said after a beat. “What’s the plan, then? Or am I just here for the ambiance?”

Yelena leaned forward slightly. “You read it?”

You hesitated. Then, finally—

“Yeah.”

Bucky didn’t react, just took another sip of his drink.

Yelena, though, watched you carefully. “And?”

You exhaled. “And it’s bad. I didn’t know she divorced Everette Ross, and I didn’t know she had jurisdiction over stuff that was supposed to be SHIELD’s files only.”

“No kidding,” Bucky muttered.

You ignored him. “Fontaine’s been playing a long game. And she’s good at it. I just don’t know what she’s doing with all this intel. Yet.” You glanced at Yelena. “You sure you wanna do this?”

Yelena shrugged. “Wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.”

That didn’t mean it was the right choice.

You tapped your fingers against the table. “It’s not just her. She’s got people. Connections. A lot of them.” You looked between them. “As far as I know after Sam’s heroic event, she has Walker on her side. You two better be ready for that.”

Bucky met your gaze. “Are you?”

That question sat between you like dead weight.

You didn’t answer. Because you weren’t sure you wanted to.

After discussing more points, and probably trying to convince that you could be the girl on the computer while they did all the fighting. You realize now that you should’ve just walked out of that café, tossed the file into the nearest gutter, and ignored Yelena’s texts until she got the hint.

But instead, they insisted that you should also be there, no skills wasted—and after 5 hours later you're now standing in a dimly lit warehouse, double-checking your gear, because you had agreed to run a damn extraction mission for stolen vibranium.

Some things never change.

Bucky was securing a suppressed rifle across his back, his metal fingers adjusting the strap. Yelena was beside him, flipping a knife between her fingers like she was waiting for an excuse to use it.

“Let me get this straight,” you muttered, pulling on your gloves. “T’Challa has an entire army of elite warriors, but we’re the ones handling this?”

“Dora Milaje are occupied,” Bucky said, pocketing the knife. “So he asked us.”

You frowned. “And we said yes?”

Yelena snorted. “You’re here, aren’t you?”

You shot her a glare before looking at them both. “Fine. What’s the plan?”

Yelena pulled out a small tablet, tapping the screen. A blueprint of the warehouse appeared.

“The vibranium shipment is here,” she said, pointing to a storage area near the back. “Heavily guarded, but nothing we can’t handle.”

Bucky glanced at the map. “Security?”

“Armed. Mercenary types,” Yelena replied. “Not Fontaine’s best, but enough to be annoying.”

You sighed. “Great.”

Yelena smirked. “Come on, old friend. It’ll be just like old times.”

“Yeah,” you muttered. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

Bucky rolled his vibranium arm, cracking his neck. “Let’s move.”

No more talking. You followed them into the dark.

The fabric felt suffocating.

It had been years since you last wore a tactical suit—long enough that you should’ve forgotten how it felt. But the moment you zipped it up, that familiar weight settled on your chest, heavier than it used to be.

The holsters, the straps, the weapons—they all sat on your body like a ghost of the past, dragging you back to who you used to be.

Who you swore you wouldn’t be again.

Your grip tightened around the pistol in your hand. Your fingers twitched, muscle memory kicking in as you checked the slide, the safety, the magazine. It felt automatic. Too easy.

Too natural.

You shouldn’t be here.

The thought came out of nowhere, sharp and insistent.

You shouldn’t be here.

You closed your eyes for half a second, forcing yourself to breathe.

Inhale.

Exhale.

You barely registered Yelena’s voice in your ear. “We’re moving in ten. Get your head on straight.”

You swallowed. “Yeah.”

She didn’t notice anything off.

But Bucky did.

You felt his eyes on you before he even said anything.

“You good?” His voice was low, meant just for you.

You gritted your teeth. “Fine.”

Bucky didn’t buy it.

You could tell by the way his gaze lingered, scanning your posture, your hands, the way your breathing had gone uneven.

And just like that, your chest started to tighten.

The room suddenly felt too small, the weight of the suit pressing harder against your ribs, your lungs struggling to catch up—

No, no, not now.

You turned away, squeezing your eyes shut, trying to force it down.

But Bucky was already stepping closer.

He kept his voice steady. “Hey. You need to breathe.”

You swallowed hard, nodding, but the air still felt thick. Your hands clenched and unclenched as your pulse pounded in your ears.

Bucky didn’t push. Didn’t grab you. He just stood there, close enough to be an anchor but not enough to suffocate.

“Deep breaths,” he said quietly. “In through your nose, out through your mouth.”

You tried.

Tried to listen, tried to focus on the way his voice cut through the noise in your head.

After a few moments, the pressure in your chest started to ease.

Not gone. But manageable.

You let out a shaky breath, rolling your shoulders like it would help shake the feeling off.

Bucky studied you for another second before nodding. “Better?”

You exhaled. “Yeah.”

Yelena’s voice crackled through the comms. “We’re moving. Get your asses in gear.”

Bucky held your gaze for another second before he turned.

You stayed there a moment longer, flexing your fingers before gripping your gun again.

It felt different this time.

Because now, you knew that you weren’t ready for this.

The warehouse loomed ahead, its steel walls dull under the dim night sky. It was the kind of place that smelled like oil, rust, and bad decisions. Yelena was in front, scouting the perimeter with quick, precise movements. Bucky stuck to your right, silent but alert.

You kept your grip tight around your pistol, but the weight of it still felt wrong. Like you were holding something that no longer belonged to you.

Yelena’s voice came through the comms. “Four guards at the entrance. Two patrolling near the shipment.”

Bucky glanced at you. “Silent or messy?”

You forced yourself to focus. “Silent.”

Yelena’s smirk was audible. “Boring, but okay.”

You moved. Years away from this kind of work hadn’t erased your instincts. You slipped through the shadows, your footsteps soundless.

The first guard went down without a sound, your arm wrapped tight around his throat until he slumped against you. Bucky caught another, his vibranium arm clamping over the man’s mouth before he could make a noise.

Yelena took care of the other two with her knives, moving with an ease that made it look almost casual.

You adjusted your grip on your gun, signaling forward. The three of you pushed deeper inside. The warehouse was vast, rows of crates stacked high. Your objective was clear—retrieve the stolen vibranium and get out.

Simple.

Or at least, it should’ve been.

You rounded a corner and spotted the shipment. A metal crate, locked down with reinforced security measures. But it wasn’t unguarded.

Two men stood nearby, rifles slung across their backs. One of them was checking something on a tablet.

You should’ve waited. Should’ve assessed the situation, formulated a plan.

But something snapped.

Maybe it was the way the gun felt right in your hands, the rush of adrenaline flooding your veins.

Or maybe it was the months—years—of pretending you weren’t built for this.

Before either Yelena or Bucky could stop you, you stepped out of the shadows, raised your pistol, and fired.

One shot.

The first guard dropped.

The second one barely had time to react before you shot again, the bullet striking true.

Everything went still.

Yelena cursed. “What the hell—”

Before she could finish, an alarm blared.

You barely had time to process before Bucky was grabbing your wrist, his hand closing over the barrel of your gun, forcing it downward.

“What are you doing?” he hissed, his voice low but sharp.

For a second, you just stared at him.

His grip was firm but not crushing. His eyes searched yours, something unreadable flickering behind them.

You opened your mouth, but no words came out.

Because for a moment—a brief, fleeting moment—it was just the two of you.

No mission. No war.

Just his hand around your gun, grounding you.

Then Yelena snapped, “Incoming!” and the spell shattered.

Footsteps thundered against the concrete. More guards. Bucky let go, his expression unreadable. But you knew what he was thinking.

You were losing control.

And if you weren’t careful, this mission wouldn’t be your only mistake tonight.

No time to dwell. You reloaded your weapon, jaw tight.

“Сволочь.” (Jerk)

The second the alarm blared, the whole operation shifted from quiet extraction to get in, get out, and don’t die trying.

Yelena was already moving, ducking behind a crate as bullets sprayed in your direction. Bucky shoved you down just as a round barely missed your shoulder, embedding itself into the steel wall behind you.

“We need cover!” Yelena shouted.

You pushed off the ground, your pulse hammering. “We wouldn’t need cover if I—”

“Yeah, yeah, you screwed up,” Yelena cut in, already firing. “Save it for later!”

Bucky was already ahead, metal arm raised as he fired back at the incoming guards. “Move!”

You did.

It should’ve felt more familiar, more instinctive—but it didn’t. It felt reckless. It felt dangerous. And the worst part? Some part of you liked it.

You took the left flank, dropping low behind a stack of crates before popping up and taking your shots. Every pull of the trigger sent another guard collapsing.

Too easy.

Too familiar.

Too much like before.

Bucky reached the vibranium crate first, yanking at the security lock while Yelena covered him. You moved to back them up, but then—

“Y/N!”

You turned just as a guard charged, swinging the butt of his rifle toward your face.

Instinct kicked in.

You ducked, twisting his arm and slamming him hard into the wall. His head cracked against the metal with a sickening thud, and you didn’t even hesitate before delivering a sharp kick to his ribs, just to make sure he stayed down.

Something in you snapped.

The adrenaline. The fight. The feeling of being back in it.

It took over.

By the time the next guard reached you, you didn’t even raise your gun—you met him head-on, grappling with his rifle before yanking it free and slamming the stock into his throat. He choked, stumbling back, and you pressed forward, using your weight to drive him into the ground.

You didn’t stop.

Didn’t think.

You hit him again. Then again. Then—

A hand grabbed your wrist, yanking you back.

Bucky.

You struggled for half a second before realizing—his hand was tight around yours, but he wasn’t hurting you. Just stopping you.

“Enough.” His voice was low, steady, but there was something sharp behind it.

Your chest heaved. The room felt too loud, your pulse too fast.

For a second, you weren’t in the warehouse anymore.

You were back in that old mission, years ago—when you first realized HYDRA was behind everything. When the world collapsed beneath your feet. When you lost yourself.

Bucky’s grip stayed firm. His expression unreadable.

Yelena’s voice cut through the chaos. “We have the vibranium. Time to go!”

Bucky didn’t let go immediately.

Not until you nodded, your breath still shaky.

Then, wordlessly, he released you.

You didn’t look at him.

Couldn’t.

Because if you did, you’d see the thing you were trying to ignore—the thing you were trying not to be again. The three of you moved, slipping through the chaos and vanishing into the night. But even as you left the warehouse behind, the weight of what just happened followed you. You weren’t sure if you were going to be able to shake it.

The ride was silent at first.

You sat in the back, staring out the window as the darkened city streets blurred past. The weight of the mission still sat heavy in your chest—the rush of it, the violence, the way you lost yourself for a second.

You felt Bucky’s eyes flick toward you in the rearview mirror, but he didn’t say anything. Not yet. Yelena, on the other hand, wasn’t about to let the silence linger.

She let out a sharp exhale from the passenger seat, tossing her gloves onto the dashboard. “Okay. Debrief.”

You didn’t respond.

She turned slightly, looking at both of you. “We got the vibranium. That’s the good news.”

Bucky kept his eyes on the road. “Bad news?”

Yelena crossed her arms. “They definitely know we took it. Fontaine’s people are not gonna be happy.”

You scoffed under your breath. “When are they ever?”

Yelena gave you a look. “Not the point.”

You stayed quiet, staring at your hands. Your knuckles were still bruised. Your hands still remembered what you did back there.

Yelena must’ve noticed, because her tone shifted slightly. “What the hell happened back there, Y/N?”

You clenched your jaw. “I handled it.”

Bucky scoffed. “You lost it.”

That got you to look up. “Oh, don’t start with me, Barnes.”

“Start?” He shot you a sharp glance in the mirror. “You’re the one who nearly took that guy’s head off. That wasn’t handling it—that was something else.”

Your grip on your knee tightened. “He was trying to kill me. I did what I had to.”

“Yeah?” Bucky’s tone was flat, but there was something beneath it. “Then why did I have to pull you off him?”

Your chest tightened.

Yelena sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Alright, enough. We’re all alive, mission’s done—let’s just get back and figure out our next move.”

No one argued. But the weight of Bucky’s words sat heavy in the air, unspoken but there.

You stared out the window again. Head leaning back as your body now accepts that the fight is over, you can sit back and breathe.

The vibranium was gone. Safe.

Sam had taken care of the delivery back to Wakanda, ensuring it made its way into the right hands. It was out of your jurisdiction now—out of your hands.

But the guilt wasn’t.

You sat at the safe house, hands clasped together, elbows resting on your knees. The room was dimly lit, the low hum of a fan filling the silence. You should’ve felt relieved. Should’ve felt something.

Instead, all you could feel was the lingering weight of what happened back there.

You almost lost control.

Again.

The worst part? You weren’t sure if it was a mistake or if some part of you liked it.

A soft thud broke you out of your thoughts.

Yelena had dropped into the seat beside you, stretching her legs out like she wasn’t carrying the same exhaustion you were. She leaned back, arms crossed, watching you for a second.

You didn’t look at her.

She sighed, then nudged you with her elbow. “You gonna sit there all night, sulking?”

You exhaled slowly. “I’m not sulking.”

Yelena smirked. “You are.”

You shot her a look, but it didn’t last long. Eventually, your gaze dropped back down to your hands.

Silence stretched.

Then, softer, she said, “You did what you thought was right.”

Your stomach twisted.

“What if what I think is right isn’t?” you muttered.

Yelena tilted her head. “That’s a stupid question.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Excuse me?”

She shrugged. “You did what needed to be done. And maybe it was messy. Maybe you almost lost your shit.” She nudged you again. “But you didn’t.”

You swallowed, jaw tight. “Bucky doesn’t think so.”

Yelena rolled her eyes. “Bucky is dramatic.”

That almost got a smirk out of you. Almost.

She sighed again, her voice quieter now. “I asked you for help because I knew you could do this.”

You glanced at her. Her expression was unreadable. Not pitying, not condescending—just honest.

“You’re here,” she continued. “That means something.”

You didn’t respond.

Because for the first time in a long time, you weren’t sure what you believed anymore.

But for now, you just let yourself sit there.

Let yourself breathe.

Yelena offered to drive you home. You shook your head.

“Walking seems more… healthy right now.”

She looked like she wanted to argue, but for once, she didn’t. Just gave you a knowing look before nodding.  “Fine,” she said, opening the car door. “Try not to get mugged.”

You snorted. “I’d like to see them try.”

Yelena smirked, but there was something softer behind her eyes. Something like don’t disappear again.

She didn’t say it. Didn’t need to.

Then she was gone, leaving you standing under the dull glow of a streetlamp, the city stretching ahead of you. So you walked.

It wasn’t about the distance. It wasn’t even about clearing your head. It was about breathing. About putting one foot in front of the other and reminding yourself that you were here.

That this was real.

That you had walked back into all of it the moment you showed up at Hill’s funeral.

It had started there.

Seeing old faces.

Hearing old voices.

Feeling the weight of a past you thought you’d buried pressing down on your shoulders again.

And then Tony had seen you. Disbelief written all over his face.

Yeah, well, I actually did.

You hadn’t planned on staying. You’d wanted to just be there, pay your respects, and leave. But then Sam had noticed you. Greeted you.

Sam… I mean, Cap.

And then Yelena.

No work?

As if you weren’t the biggest ghost in the room.

As if you hadn’t disappeared all those years ago because you couldn’t stomach the idea of fighting for the wrong side again.

Then Bucky had arrived, shaking hands with old teammates, the same man you had fought once without knowing who he really was. The same man you’d crossed paths with later—when he was in hiding, and you were trying to heal.

And then the HQ. The hesitation.

For Maria’s sake, Sam had said.

And somehow, you had ended up back at that bar, ordering an Old Fashioned, just trying to exist while ghosts of your past talked about missions, strategies, threats.

Then her name came up—Fontaine.

And suddenly, you weren’t just a face in the room anymore.

You were in it again.

And now, here you were.

Walking the streets of a city that had moved on without you, with bruised knuckles and a mind full of noise. You weren’t sure if you regretted it yet.

But you were sure of one thing—

You had never really left.

You were almost home. Almost.

The night air was cool against your skin, the streetlights humming softly above you. The walk had helped—at least a little. The weight in your chest hadn’t disappeared, but it felt a little less suffocating now.

Then you saw him.

And you cursed.

“Oh, for f—” You cut yourself off, pressing a hand to your forehead. “Seriously?”

Bucky stood near the entrance of your building, hands in his pockets, looking every bit like he hadn’t just been on a mission with you hours ago. Like he belonged there.

He lifted a brow at you. “Nice to see you too.”

You let out a slow breath, irritation settling in your bones. “Are you following me?”

“No.” He shrugged. “We just have really shitty luck.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That’s one way to put it.”

A beat of silence.

Bucky studied you, his expression unreadable.

Then—so casually it made you want to punch him—he asked, “You good?”

You barked out a dry laugh. “Do I look good, Barnes?”

He tilted his head slightly, gaze flicking over you, like he was actually considering it. “You look tired.”

You scoffed. “Great. Exactly the look I was going for.”

Another pause.

You should’ve walked past him. Should’ve gone upstairs, shut the door, and let the night end. But you didn’t.

Instead, you met his gaze, arms crossed, voice quieter this time.

“Why are you really here?”

Bucky exhaled.

“For the same reason you’re still standing here talking to me.”

You hated how much sense that made.

You stared at him.

For a second, the city felt quieter, the usual hum of distant traffic and late-night murmurs fading into the background. It was just you and him, standing under the streetlights, carrying different versions of the same weight. Bucky shifted slightly, his hands still in his pockets. His voice was lower this time, more careful.

“I just wanted to say sorry.”

That threw you off.

Your brows pulled together, skepticism creeping in. “For what?” His jaw tensed for a moment, like he had to force himself to say it.

“I get what you meant,” he said, eyes not leaving yours. “The other night. When you called me two-faced.”

You swallowed, not expecting him to actually bring that up. You had said it in the heat of the moment, bitter and frustrated, hurling words at him like knives.

He continued, gaze steady.

“You were right. I got out.” He inhaled, like the words were heavier than they should be. “And you didn’t.” Something in your chest twisted, sharp and deep.

You looked away, your arms tightening around yourself. “I didn’t mean it.”

“Yeah, you did.”

You huffed, shaking your head. “Fine. Maybe I did.”

Neither of you spoke for a moment.

Then, softer, you muttered, “I was just angry.”

“I know.” Bucky sighed, his stance shifting. “It’s not fair. Any of it.”

You scoffed. “No shit.”

Another silence.

Bucky hesitated before adding, “But you’re here now.”

You weren’t sure if that was supposed to be reassuring.

You looked back at him, studying his face—the exhaustion buried deep in his eyes, the kind that never really left. He understood. Maybe not in the exact same way, but he understood.

And somehow, everything about this man made sense.

You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. “Go home, Barnes.”

Bucky watched you for a second longer. Then, with a small nod, he took a step back.

And just like that, he was gone.

series masterlist

divider from: daylighted !

[rotworld]

Blue Moon

the treaty of aneptyra states that every witch must be partnered with a nightbound, but the system is far from perfect. some people slip through the cracks. some, like you, make it all the way to adulthood without ever arousing suspicion. unfortunately, all it takes is a single stroke of bad luck to ruin everything.

->an introduction to the "meanvamps" universe. contains mild gore, power imbalance, mind control and mild feral behavior.

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Your office is about to be haunted.

It’s fixable. The lights dim and flicker but they still turn on. The cold spots are confined to one corner of the breakroom and those whispers you hear echoing in the vents are soft and indistinct, no intelligible words just yet. But management would actually have to do something to keep it from getting worse, and they’d rather fire off condescending emails about the “charm and personality of historic buildings,” as though you and all of your coworkers are collectively hallucinating the tap water in the restroom turning to black sludge, or the humanoid silhouettes that settle in empty cubicles at night.

The printers have started spitting out eerie images so you’ve started collecting them on the office corkboard, partially as a joke and partially as a cry for help. When things get quiet during the late shift, everyone gathers around to gawk like it’s an art gallery or a collection of Rorschach inkblots, musing over possible meaning in the smudges. 

“Looks like a human heart, I think,” Monroe says. 

Cindy shakes her head. “Really? I think it’s a palm tree. With skulls for coconuts.” 

“I kinda see a cat,” Devon says. He squints over his coffee mug. “A cat with a gun.” 

“With a gun?”

You stare at the misshapen thing. You know exactly what it is but you pretend you don’t. “Praying mantis, maybe?” you say. 

Monroe sighs and rubs his temples, trying to smother a budding headache. “We shouldn’t have said anything about the printer. They’re just going to say printers always act haunted. And they’re right.” 

“Maybe we should send them some pictures next time,” Devon says. You all nod, and you all know it won’t make a difference. Inspection and cleansing services aren’t cheap. Nothing will change until absolutely damning evidence rears its head, probably when someone gets mauled by whatever coalesces from the unnaturally dark shadows growing like mold in the breakroom. If the company’s smart, they’ll sell the building just as things start to boil over and make it somebody else’s problem. If your coworkers are smart, they’ll take all their emails and creepy print-offs to a good lawyer and sue this place into oblivion for endangerment and concealment of a haunting. 

It’s a mess, but it’s not your problem. You’ll be long gone by the time that happens, onto the next town. 

“Hey, uh, guys?” Your boss, Bryant, rushes over and you expect a problem because you’ve suddenly become “guys” rather than “team” or “buddies” or “my favorite people,” whatever faux-friendly corporate bullshit he usually calls you. To your surprise, he’s not here to chew you out for chatting on the clock. In fact, he doesn’t say anything right away. He keeps glancing back over his shoulder, twice, three times, tugging at his company lanyard and ID nervously. “Hey, so. I know there’s been some, ah, stress in the office lately. And I just want you to know that I hear you, and I am absolutely willing to pass along any of your concerns—”

“Is this about the thing in the bathroom?” Cindy asks.

“The—I’m sorry?” 

“The thing,” Monroe says, “in the bathroom. It moves when you’re not looking at it. We told you about it months ago, did you finally see it?” 

Bryant looks back again and you follow his gaze this time, starting to worry. He leans in, lowering his voice. “Which one of you called him?” You share silent, searching glances with your coworkers. Nobody seems to know what he’s talking about. “There’s a fucking fed outside,” he hisses. “And he wants to interview everybody who’s here right now—”

“Excuse me.”

The fed is inside, as it turns out, strolling between the cubicles with his hands in his pockets. Bryant looks like he’s going into fight-or-flight and your coworkers aren’t sure what to make of him. You stay behind everybody else and hope that he can’t distinguish your racing pulse from Bryant’s. Hauntings, potential or otherwise, fall outside the jurisdiction of human authorities. This guy isn’t a normal fed. He’s wearing something that looks borderline military, a black tailcoat with a collection of small, shiny symbols emblazoned on one shoulder, a golden canary embroidered on the left side of his chest. His ID is in its own leather case, his name and face printed on a little white card. 

Canary Task Force, it says above a headshot with the same sideswept black hair and olive eyes. Edmund. No last name listed, because he doesn’t have one. Most nightbound don’t. “My apologies for intruding,” he says, stiff and formal. “I’ve been dispatched as part of an active investigation. My name is Edmund. I’d like to speak with each of you privately before you leave this evening, if that’s no inconvenience.” 

If that’s no inconvenience, he says, as if he can’t hold you here as long as he wants. He sets up in the conference room across the hall. You can see his silhouette moving on the other side of the frosted glass. Bryant gets called in first and the rest of you convene around the water cooler. 

“You think he’s here about the haunting?” Cindy asks.

Devon shrugs. “He said ‘active investigation.’ Sounds like something else. Probably doesn’t hurt to mention it, though. The CTF loves stuff like this, especially if they get to punish somebody.” 

“We should bring him some of our printouts. You want the gun-cat or the dead spider?” Monroe jokes, nudging you with his elbow. You don’t answer. You’re too busy staring at the carpet, trying to get your breathing under control. “Uh. You alright?”

“Yeah,” you say too quickly. “Just wasn’t expecting this.” You can’t fucking believe this! You’ve kept your head down, you’ve stayed busy, you’ve avoided attracting attention to yourself as much as possible, and yet here’s a CTF agent sniffing around your workplace, about to get you alone with him. He doesn’t know, does he? He can’t know. Nobody knows. You’ve been in town for three months at the very most, smoothly left the last one by accepting an office transfer. This can’t be happening.

“They kind of freak me out, too,” Cindy admits. “They’re so intense, right? Like the way they look at you…” Devon cuts her off by clearing his throat, glancing pointedly across the hall. You can’t hear what’s going on in there but nobody’s screaming for help yet. Bryant comes out looking a little bewildered but still in one piece. 

“Excuse me, Miss?” Edmund leans out of the conference room doorway, nodding to Cindy. She stands up shakily whispering ohshitohmygod and tells you to water her daffodils if you never see her again. You consider slipping out while everyone’s distracted but that’d put you on the CTF’s radar if you’re not already. You’ll have to get through this interview. And you can—you will. You picked this city for a reason. If Edmund gets suspicious, he’ll have to investigate further, poke through your files and follow your paper trail to its eventual dead end. You’ll have skipped town by then, gotten a different name, changed your hair, whatever it takes to disappear again. 

Cindy’s interview passes quickly, or maybe you’re just so panicked you’re losing track of time. She rejoins your group huddle with a small frown. “Huh,” she says, sounding dazed and a little hoarse like she just woke up. “It wasn’t that bad, I think?” 

“Next, please.” Edmund is at the door again, looking right at you. Cindy gives you a pat on the shoulder in encouragement. You’d much rather take your chances jumping out the third floor office windows but you swallow hard, steel yourself, and head for the conference room.

Edmund smiles in what you imagine is supposed to be a friendly gesture as he shuts the door. He sits much closer than you’d like, taking the chair beside you rather than sitting across the large circular table. His posture is painfully formal like he’s posed for a professional photo, back straight, legs crossed to one side, hands joined in his lap.

“You’re nervous,” he says.

No shit. “Uh. Yeah,” you say. You don’t look at him. Should you? Is it more suspicious if you don’t? You glance up and then quickly back down again. His stare is unsettling. You’ve heard that the keen senses of the nightbound are a double-edged sword. They have to train themselves to filter extraneous stimuli, ignoring anything beyond their current focus so they don’t get overwhelmed. You have his undivided attention right now. He’s observing everything from the way you nervously squirm in your seat to the slightest twitch of muscle in your jaw. He can probably smell your sweat. He can definitely hear your heartbeat.

“Don’t worry. This is going to be a fairly routine interview. You’re not in any trouble.”

“Oh,” you say, feigning relief. Does it work? Are you convincing enough? You wish he showed any emotion beyond cold scrutiny or exaggerated concern. “Great. Okay. What do you wanna know?” 

Edmund slips back into his affable mask, that same too enthusiastic if that’s no inconvenience smile from before. “All the usual things. Your name, to start. Are you local to the area or did you move here recently?” 

You give him your most recent alias, the name your coworkers know. The rest of your answers are just as easy, and some are even the truth. You’re new in town, you’ve worked here a couple months. Night shifts in a company call center, nothing special. He asks about your commute, about your colleagues, about your boss. Easy, too easy. You see the curve ball coming before he even makes the pitch and you’re ready for it.

“Apologies, but I’m required to ask,” he says, smiling insincerely. “Are you a witch?”

You’ve practiced this in the mirror a thousand times. You pause, just long enough to sell the surprise, the confusion, a wry little smile that asks, who, me? “Uh, no,” you say, laughing awkwardly. Too awkwardly? You tone it down. “Do I look like one?” 

Edmund stares at you blankly, unimpressed with just a hint of annoyance. Good. Perfect. Maybe he’ll leave sooner. “Moving on, then. I’d like you to tell me more about your coworkers.” 

You don’t let yourself linger on the relief that rushes through you, not wanting him to sense it. You’re not in the clear yet. Yes, you like your coworkers just fine. No, you don’t really know the day shift people. You’re not very social and you like the quiet, almost-empty office. No, nobody’s been acting weird lately. That’s a strange thing to ask, you think. You wonder what this “investigation” is all about. But you keep answering and Edmund listens intently, drumming his fingers on the table. You’re not sure when he started doing it. Ta-ta-ta-tap, like he’s bored or restless. Fine by you. 

“Does anyone in the office seem unusually tired lately?” Edmund asks. Ta-ta-ta-tap. “Maybe you’ve noticed someone coming in late, or calling in sick often?” Ta-ta-ta-tap. 

You let your confusion show but you keep your apprehension to yourself. “I don’t think so. I mean, we’re all pretty worn out by the end of our shift,” you say, drawing the words out and glancing at the ceiling to feign careful consideration. You’re a little too focused on minding your own business to notice what anyone else is doing. And even if you had, you wouldn’t tell this guy. Bryant would rat you out in a heartbeat but the rest of you are sworn to secrecy. 

That’s a huge red flag, though. He’s definitely looking for someone, but who and why? 

“I see. Just a few more questions and I’ll let you go.” Edmund smiles. Ta-ta-ta-tap. The noise was a little annoying at first but now you hardly notice it. It’s kind of nice to listen to, something other than the low hum of the air conditioning. More questions, easy ones, about the minutiae of your work schedule. When does your shift start? When does it end? What’s a typical evening like? Gradually, you sink back against your chair in a comfortable slouch, relaxed, calm, tired. Really, really tired. You can barely keep your eyes open. Ta-ta-ta-tap. Edmund says something but it’s just noise, wordless murmuring you could fall asleep to. 

And then he asks, “Are you under?” 

“Mm. Yeah,” you say. You feel like you’re floating. Drifting away somewhere. Edmund opens a notebook and starts jotting something down, his free hand continuing that same, soothing rhythm. Ta-ta-ta-tap. A sudden realization settles more firmly into place. You can trust him. You feel absolutely certain of this, more sure than you’ve ever been about anything. He’s not your enemy. You think you were afraid of him before but that feeling is far away now, distant and forgettable. He’s here to help. He’d probably help fix the haunting if you told him about it. 

“You told me about the haunting already,” he says. You did? You can’t remember. “You did, just now. One of your colleagues also explained it in detail. You’ve endured that for long enough and I’ll inform my superiors so it’s handled promptly.” His pen pauses over the paper and he looks at you. His eyes scared you before, but they calm you now. You were completely wrong about him. You can tell him anything. “That’s right, you can. That’s all you have to do right now. When I ask you something, you answer and tell the truth. Simple enough, right?” You nod. You can do that. It’s so nice of him to make things easy for you and take all the complicated thoughts away. “Now, I have to ask you some questions. I know it’s silly, but they’re the same questions I asked you before.” That is silly, but you don’t mind. “One more time. Your name?” 

You say it. Your real one this time, not the alias you gave him before when you didn’t realize you could trust him.

He regards you strangely, frowning a little. Was that wrong? Did you make him unhappy? “No, not at all. Thank you for telling me. I have more questions about that, but we’ll come back to it later.” 

He asks the same things he did before just like he said he would. You answer everything the best you can. You don’t want to disappoint him. You see him making notes, scribbling quickly. Where are you from? How well do you know your coworkers? Have you noticed any of them behaving strangely? Some of your answers are different now but he tells you that’s okay, everything is okay. Ta-ta-ta-tap and your worries dissipate before they’ve properly taken root.

“And are you a witch?” he asks, a question which makes something inside you lurch like you’re about to fall. You’re not sure why. It’s not hard to answer.

“Yes,” you say. 

Edmund pauses. He looks up from his notes and stares at you. His expression is complicated. Too complicated for you to think about right now, so you don’t. It’s okay. Everything is okay. “I’m sorry, could you repeat that? To confirm, you said you’re a witch?” he asks slowly. There’s that feeling again, that yanking nausea, your heart plummeting in your chest. That smooth, easy current carrying you through mindless tranquility seems choppy and dangerous now. That soothing ta-ta-ta-ta-tap makes you flinch. You shouldn’t listen to it. He’s trying to drag you back under again. “It’s okay,” he says softly, so softly. Everything is okay. You can trust him, can’t you? You can tell the truth.

“Yes. I’m a witch.”

Terror shocks you awake. You feel like you’ve narrowly escaped drowning, tense and gasping, skin tingling unpleasantly. You bolt out of your chair, sick with fear. Edmund is on his feet just as quickly, hands raised in a pacifying gesture. 

“It’s alright,” he says gently, like he’s talking to a spooked horse. But it’s not alright. Everything is fucked. Your life is over. “This is…completely out of my jurisdiction. Not my department at all.” Somehow he looks just as lost for words as you are, just as blindsided. His eyes dart to the door behind you and you know you’re both thinking the same thing, planning a swift exit that doesn’t alarm your coworkers. “You’re not registered in Skelveross,” he says. “Do you know how I know that?” 

You don’t answer. You don’t care. Your eyes scan the room in a frantic and useless search for exits. 

“Because there’s a database, and I have every name and face that’s in it memorized. It’s not as long as you might think.” He takes a half-step forward and you stumble back, heart in your throat. “Something tells me you’re not registered anywhere,” he says, sounding almost pained. “I don’t know how that could’ve happened, but we can fix this. You just have to see the Council. In fact, I could escort you—”

“No,” you say hoarsely. You’re not going to cry in front of him even though your whole world is crumbling. You’re not.

Edmund seems surprised by your refusal. He flinches at your interruption, frowning tightly. You see him thinking. Weighing his options. Eventually, he smiles, and this one is terrifyingly real. His coldness thaws and he is awed, hopeful and brimming with adoration, looking at you like the most precious thing in the world. He finally lowers his hands and his posture relaxes, leaning casually against the table. “Understandable,” he says. “I wanted to ask you a few more things, but I suppose that can wait until next time. Your shift ended half an hour ago, didn’t it? You’re probably exhausted.” He’s careful, angling his body so you don’t see him settling one hand against the surface of the table, but it doesn’t matter. You’re already gone. 

You don’t care who sees you sprinting full speed out of the conference room or what they think. You barrel into the stairwell, taking the steps two at a time. He let me go. The thought cycles through your mind on a panicked loop. He let me go, but why? He should’ve been faster. Is he starving? That can’t be right. He doesn’t have to be partnered to have access to blood. Maybe he knew how it’d look, a nightbound chasing after a terrified human after being stuck in close quarters together. Predation charges don’t usually stick but it’d be a headache and a PR blunder for the local Council, a potential stumbling block the next time they want something from the human authorities. In that case, the smart thing for him to do is wait. Reassure your coworkers. Leave calmly. 

Then come after you while you’re alone, without any witnesses around.

The only thing that keeps you from sprinting all the way to the train station is the need to keep a low profile. You’re minutes from every nightbound in the city knowing your name and where you work and probably where you live. You fidget restlessly at the platform, racking your brain for a way out of this. Seven hours is too long to hide and wait for sunrise. Go home and pack? No, no way, they’ll check there first. Showing up at the airport is a bad idea but maybe you could hitchhike? Leaving town is just the start. You need to get out of the territory entirely to shake the CTF.

You toss your phone in the trash without a second thought. It was a burner anyway. They can fish it out if they want but your call history is all business and your texts won’t tell them anything more than what Edmund already got out of you. Could you catch a bus? There’s a cheap intercity service with a terminal downtown, but you’d need to leave tonight. Edmund might not be able to chase you when dawn rolls around, but you know the CTF playbook: encirclement, then slowly closing the noose. They start at the edge of the territory and work their way inward, setting up barricades and strangling the highways with checkpoints that will slow traffic to a single-lane crawl. It usually takes a day or two for the Council to wrangle approval from the human municipal government to start closing roads and getting their hands on surveillance footage. You can’t wait around to see how fast they manage it this time.

The glowing sign of a car rental business lures you in. That’s your best bet, you think, especially since it’s some dingy fly-by-night company that takes cash and doesn’t ask too many questions. The only problem is you’re not the only one with the same idea tonight. The line is short but slow, a kid who doesn’t look old enough to even rent a car himself slouched behind the counter. The dingy off-white of the wall clock is seared into your eyes, the sweep of the minute hand seeming purposefully cruel in its slowness. 

The automatic doors are overly sensitive and misaligned, squealing open for a sufficiently strong breeze. You always look, just in case. You yawn and stretch, making a show of your exhaustion to mask your fear, and take another look around. It’s fuck off o’clock on a week night. Nobody around but the desperate few, people who look tired, pensive and a little bit haunted. The man ahead of you in line takes a phone call that’s nothing but hissed whispers. A couple who came in after you doze against each other’s shoulders. A fluorescent light tube winks and buzzes. The shadows are too thick to trust. When you finally have your keys and a pamphlet of paperwork you won’t read, you all but sprint out the door.

You’re flinging the driver’s side door of a silver hatchback open when you suddenly break out in a cold sweat. It’s the feeling of being watched cranked up to its maximum, skin-crawling intensity, the ghostly weight of a predator’s gaze raking down your back. It’s fine. It’s fine. You start the car and check the rearview mirror a few times as you pull out of the lot. Somebody’s just coming out of the automatic doors in what looks like a uniform but you’re too far away to tell for sure. You turn on the radio and try to calm down. Somewhere along a quiet country road, you hear what you think is the start of a storm. Something like thunder but soft still, far away. Heavy gusts of wind.

“…lo? Hello? Can you hear me?”

You almost swerve into the guardrail. It sounds like someone’s right next to you, whispering in your ear. You swear you can feel their breath tickle your skin. But there isn’t. The passenger seat is empty. 

“Please slow down. You’re well over the speed limit.”

“Edmund?” you say. Your voice is remarkably steady for how terrified you feel. “Wh—how—?”

“My mesmerism is…slow.” You feel a nervous twinge in your chest. Embarrassment? Sheepishness? These aren’t your feelings. They’re his. “But it also takes much longer to wear off. Right now, you and I are connected, although it’s tenuous given the distance between us.” He must be out here somewhere, trying to find you. You don’t see any other headlights yet. “You feel…afraid. And lonely. You’ve been on your own for a very long time.” You don’t dignify that with a response. You feel soothing warmth, like Edmund is trying to embrace you, but the sensation doesn’t last. You’re too furious to be soothed by the very thing that wants to cage you.

“What would it take to make you look the other way and pretend you lost me?” you ask.

You feel his dismay like a cold trickle, unpleasant and distressing. “I’m only going to ask once,” he says, tone hardening. “Pull over.”

“Fuck you.” 

“Then I apologize in advance. I’ll try to be careful.”

The wind picks up again and the thunder seems closer, but it can’t be a storm. The sky is clear, a waxing moon shining through a thin gauze of clouds, trees motionless at the roadside. You look back again, searching for a CTF vehicle, and that’s when you see it—a moving shape in the dark. Not a vehicle at all but something alive. It’s big, you think, like a horse, an elk, a stampeding thing but sleeker and gaining on you. You can barely make out any details with nothing but the glow of your taillights haloing the thing’s frightening shape, but you think you see large, reflective eyes and horn-like protrusions, dark fur and sinewy limbs stretched wide.

Wings, you realize. That noise is the sound of the thing flying, soaring after you with predatory grace and agility. It shrieks and its voice is nails screaming down a chalkboard, a painful shrillness that makes you wince and slam your foot harder on the gas. You hear it screech again and see it darting and swooping through the air behind you, struggling to keep up. The road goes blurry through your angry, helpless tears and you drag your palm across your face. You’ve had nightmares like this before. Getting found out, cornered, chased by nightbound, torn to pieces or bled dry in a fit of rage, dragged before an unfeeling Council that sentences you to a life of servitude beneath something so ancient it no longer understands what it means to be human.

Your connection with Edmund has become a headache-inducing stream of pleading and hissing and primal desire all at once, no stop stop slow down not safe listen not going to hurt you listen need you need you NEED YOU!!

The thing lets out another horrible screaming noise and you see it coming, descending, closing in on you like prey. It rams into your car hard enough to send you screeching off the road. You hit the ditch too hard and at the wrong angle, still trying to straighten out and stop yourself from slamming into the trees ahead. The car starts to lean and tip and you realize you’re about to roll, crash, die—

The collision comes before you expect it, a thunderous slam on the passenger side that dents the door and brings you to a sudden stop. All the air in your lungs rushes out in a wheeze, your head spinning. You’re in shock. You shouldn’t be upright, you think, probably shouldn’t even be alive. Something drags over the hood of your car with jerky, animalistic movements, claws scraping steel, a translucent, fleshy membrane squealing across the windshield. The doors are locked but that doesn’t matter. The driver’s side is wrenched open, the door torn off the hinge and flung skittering and sparking down the road. The thing looms just outside, lowering its head to examine you. You look back at it, the two of you studying each other in tense silence.

Yes yes yes have you now, you hear as bright, smothering joy floods your thoughts, safe you’re safe you’re with me safe now.

This is a hunting form. Like many nightbound, its shape is something like an enormous bat. It has a short, curved snout and small daggers for teeth. Those things you mistook for horns are large, conical ears that twitch and swivel. Its body is covered in black fur, a thick patch wreathing its neck like a lion’s mane. One of its arms is crooked, you notice, and starting to swell. You’re alive because it threw itself at your car to keep it from flipping over. You want to hate it but you can’t tear your eyes away from the fresh wound, the way one wing droops like a ripped sail. It did that for you, without hesitation.

You’re dimly aware of things happening beyond the two of you. Car engines rumbling. Tires scraping the cement. Black CTF vehicles blocking off every escape route, stylized canaries emblazoned on their sides. Doors rumble open and slam shut. You could fight if you really wanted to. You could try to push your way past the thing, run for the trees. You wouldn’t get far. It’s over, you know that. You can’t make yourself move. You’re so tired of running, of leaving every place you go and every person you meet, of changing yourself over and over again, living as a stranger because the real you will bring nothing but trouble. You want a bed that’s yours. A place you can always go back to. A person who knows you and cares about you—who would love you even if your blood was the same as anyone else’s. 

There’s a sick sound of cracking bone and the leathery squeal of skin reshaping. The thing grunts as it twists itself into a smaller shape, fur receding into sweat-soaked skin. When it settles, Edmund is kneeling there naked and panting. Without his uniform, you can see the marks littering his body. Lashes and claw slashes, burns in gnarled, spotty patches, old bullet wounds that healed into puckered scar tissue. He runs a hand through his hair, his carefully combed bangs now disheveled and sticking to his forehead. 

“This is overkill, isn’t it?” you say as more headlights blink over the horizon. Thirty, maybe thirty five CTF agents in total when you do a rough headcount, watching them watch you. A lot of them are making phone calls. Reporting to the Council, you assume, piecing together all the identities you’ve lived under in the last few years. “All this for one witch.” 

“You’re worth it,” Edmund says. Even winded and still struggling to catch his breath, his voice has a hard, determined edge to it, absolute and unshakable conviction. There’s no reasoning with someone who’s so sure they’re right. “I know you’re afraid. But this is going to be—”

“Shut up.” You tilt your head back, letting out the breath you’ve been holding. “You have no idea what’s about to happen to me. You can’t possibly understand.” Edmund frowns. He looks at you the same pitying way one might look at a waterlogged kitten or a child crying on a playground, some small, sad thing in need of rescue or protection. You can’t stand it, so you lean back in your seat, close your eyes, and savor your last moments of freedom with tears spilling down your cheeks.

*

The Skelveross Dusk Council meets in Harrow Creek, a city near the heart of the territory. It’s an hour drive from where Edmund ran you off the road, plenty of time for you to break down completely in his backseat. He looks physically pained by your distress, clearly uncomfortable as he murmurs useless platitudes about how good it’ll be to “put this all behind you.” He stops twice to crack open the cooler sitting in the passenger seat, sipping from a blood bag kept on ice, and that lets him use his broken arm without wincing.  By the time you’ve exhausted yourself into listless apathy, you’re in what might be a historical district surrounded by brick buildings and manicured lawns. You don’t have to ask where you’re going. There’s a behemoth of Gothic architecture looming ahead, a cross between a cathedral and a courthouse. The white stone exterior is adorned with decorative arches, crescent moons and birds in flight, ancient symbols of the nightbound.

Edmund clears his throat awkwardly and doesn’t quite make eye contact in the mirror. “That’s the Council building,” he says, gesturing with a nod. “The CTF offices are right behind it if you, ah. Ever need anything. I’m not sure how much you know about this area. You can think of Harrow Creek as the ‘capital’ of the territory. Skelveross is a small region, comparatively speaking, but it’s extremely well-defended. You’ll never have to worry about hunters here.” 

He keeps glancing back at you, maybe hoping you’ll say something, show interest, ask him a question. You don’t. You watch the Council building and its spire bell tower grow steadily closer with dread cold and heavy in your stomach.

Edmund offers to put you under mesmerism for the meeting and seems taken aback by your shock and revulsion. “I thought it might help. You’re so nervous,” he says. You’d like to scream, but you settle for an exasperated glance and follow him inside. 

The Council building is dark like a tomb. There are no light fixtures, no candles or lamps. The weak, watery light that seeps into the mazelike corridors is the glow of street lamps filtered through stained glass, too dim for you to properly take in your surroundings. You cross paths with other nightbound only rarely. Most are CTF agents who exchange greetings with Edmund before continuing on their way, but you spot others just waiting around, sitting outside of offices or filling out paperwork. 

A pair of double doors waits at the end of a long hallway, old wood carved with intricate swirls and floral patterns. Each has a spot of vandalism, deep gouges where the etchings have been obliterated by repeated slashes. “The Dagaric family crest was once displayed upon these doors,” Edmund says solemnly. “They were removed centuries ago to symbolize our transition to a democracy. This is no place for tyrants.” Nightbound politics. You don’t want to know. Edmund pushes one of the doors open and steps aside, holding it for you. You see darkness broken by islands of light, candles lining a grand staircase. The wax is red, the puddles they melt into thick like coagulated blood. A chandelier adorned with dangling crystal strings glows with golden dusklight. This is all for you, prepared for your arrival. The nightbound need no light. 

You descend between rows and rows of red velvet seats, most of them empty. The nightbound in attendance are clustered at the very bottom, seated before a raised stage platform. You catch glimpses of grandeur in the flickering candlelight; a Victorian patterned carpet, curtained alcoves with sculptures and glass display cases, a mural on the ceiling of winged figures in lurid embraces. This might have been a theater of some kind once, an opera house that entertained the nightbound nobility of bygone eras. You can’t imagine how much blood has soaked the floor over the years.

There’s a table on the stage, long enough to accommodate the five nightbound seated behind it. The Dusk Council, you assume. They’re not much different from how you imagined them, stern-faced and imperious, dressed like Victorian lords and ladies in stiff coats and billowing sleeves. They’re all chatting when you walk in, the conversation light and casual with a bit of quiet laughter, but they fall silent when you’re halfway down the steps. That’s when the ones on stage spot you and Edmund. Nightbound eyes gleam in the dark like an animal’s. You fight an instinctual surge of terror when they all turn to look at you, points of silver light following your every move.

“Edmund,” one of the Council members says, nodding. “Well done.” 

Edmund bows his head and you roll your eyes. ‘Not his jurisdiction,’ my ass. At the bottom of the stairs, you find two seats that have been left open in the very front row. Edmund waits for you to sit before taking the open spot beside you, as if running could get you anywhere now. Your name is spoken. Your real name, in full. You flinch. Nobody’s called you that in a long time. One of them passes a stack of papers down the table and they take turns giving you incredulous looks. 

“We must apologize for the disorganized manner of this meeting,” one of them says. “Your situation is unusual and we don’t have all the information we normally would. For a witch to reach your age without proper registration, even as a latent, is simply unheard of. I don’t suppose you’d tell us if you’ve been staying with other unregistered kin?” 

“I haven’t seen my family in years,” you say.

For some reason, this confuses them. They look at each other, then at you, then back at one another with some whispering. You shift uncomfortably in your seat. Edmund is giving you that misty-eyed veterinarian with a sick dog look again and you wish he’d stop. 

“Are you aware of who currently holds the title of Lord Regent in Skelveross?” you’re asked.

You stare at them. “Am I supposed to know that?” you ask. More worried looks and muttering, papers shuffling and being passed around. 

“This is highly irregular,” one of the Council mutters. “Highly irregular. And without records, I’m not sure how we can make a proper match.” 

“They’re not walking out of here unpartnered,” another says firmly. “That’s much too dangerous.”

You clench your armrests in irritation. “I was doing fine, you know,” you tell them. “I was just living my life. Sometimes it was tough, but that was your fault. When I wasn’t looking over my shoulder, I was happy. I didn’t need you.” 

They don’t care. They keep talking in hushed tones, gesturing in your general direction from time to time—all but one. The one in the middle, two Council members on either side of him, sets his papers down and gives you his undivided attention. This one is ancient. You can sense it. His face has the same unnerving, ageless quality as all nightbound, neither soft and youthful nor particularly wizened, but his eyes pin you in place. You expected something more like Edmund, a gaze sharpened with piercing, predatory focus like a wolf who isn’t quite hungry yet, but this one’s eyes are like no living thing found in nature. Nothing is meant to live that long, to see that much and remain unchanged. He stands from the table with effortless grace, his chair scraping the floor as he pushes it out behind him. 

“Then surely you can prove it,” he says.

The sudden silence feels like a warning. The Council stops their overlapping conversations to look between the two of you in muted shock and dismay. “Wh—prove what?” you ask.

“You said you do not need us. An extraordinary claim, but I am open to a good argument.” He holds your gaze as he walks slowly down the length of the table and around it, coming to stand directly in front of you. He’s dressed like a CTF agent but the tails of his coat are longer, the waistcoast beneath a shimmery, midnight blue brocade. His hair is just long enough to tie back in a low, short ponytail. “You have survived the treacheries of the world without the protection of a partner thus far. If you can prove to me that this was a matter of skill rather than luck, then I will let you walk away. You will not be pursued.”

“Lord Regent,” someone stammers behind him. He stops them with a curt wave and watches you carefully. 

This has to be a trap. There’s no way he’d risk letting you go. But the Council is exchanging worried glances now and Edmund is trying desperately to make eye contact in your periphery. Don’t, he mouths, the word faintly echoed in your waning connection. The Lord Regent—the title sticks in your mind just long enough for you to think that this is a bad idea, that you shouldn’t be doing this, that this might actually get you killed—cocks his head to the side, awaiting an answer. He smiles, and you see red.

“Good,” he purrs, watching you unceremoniously haul yourself up onto the stage. He removes his black gloves one finger at a time and then shrugs off his coat, letting it crumple on the floor. 

“Lord Regent, do you really think this is—?”

“I would like to take this opportunity to reopen a discussion started earlier this evening,” he says smoothly.

Your blood is boiling. He doesn’t seriously think he’s going to hold a meeting right now, does he? You can’t remember the last time you were this angry, your face hot and your hands balled up into shaky, sweaty-palmed fists. You’re outmatched, you know that, but you want to hit him at least once. You want to feel his nose crack and shift under your knuckles, want to see that cocky sneer swallowed up by bruises when you knock his fangs out of his mouth. You throw yourself at him with no plan, no strategy, nothing but searing anger, and he neatly sidesteps your fist. He’s still smiling when he lunges forward and it all happens too fast for you to see or understand—a hand grasping your shoulder, a leg sweeping you off your feet, and then you’re spinning, landing hard on the wooden stage with all the air knocked out of your lungs. 

“What is our greatest obstacle in ensuring a witch is properly registered?” he continues, turning his back on you. You wheeze furiously, struggling to push yourself up with your elbows. “I will tell you: it is the witch themselves. Concealment is an epidemic of such staggering proportions that we have lost entire generations. This wayward child knows nothing of the world they rightfully belong to. How many have gone unpartnered because of this? How many live and die beyond our reach?” 

He must hear you stand up. You’re slow and clumsy, your head throbbing and your shoulders sore. The stage creaks beneath your unsteady feet and your pulse thunders in your ears. Your vision swims and your stomach quivers with dizzy nausea. You shouldn’t be on your feet but you push yourself forward, one shambling step after another, driven by hate and fear and desperation unlike anything you’ve ever felt before. 

Your hand wraps around his shoulder, squeezing. Under black silk sleeves, you feel steely cords of muscle. He turns just slightly, just far enough for you to glimpse the smile on his lips. And then he has you, a hand clutching the back of your shirt, another grasping your sleeve, pulled close to him like you’re dancing but only for a moment. Then you’re weightless, the room tilting, the floor rushing up to meet you. You land on your back and there’s an awful animal noise like something shrieking half-dead in the woods at night, and it takes time for you to realize it came from your own mouth. 

“Lord Regent, please.” That sounds like Edmund, you think. You aren’t sure. You can’t even lift your head to look. There’s murmuring all around you, words you can’t understand with the ringing in your ears. Trying to get up again makes you feel like there’s shards of glass ground up into your muscles, pinpricks and sweeping pulses of pain. You’ve got nothing left. Even turning on your side is a monumental effort, a mistake that makes your side prickle and burn. 

You see him. The Lord Regent. His back to you. You see the rest of them, too, standing from their seats with stern, solemn faces, Edmund biting his lip so hard a rivulet of blood trickles down his chin. Your fingers twitch, arms outstretched and hands splayed limp. No. You have something left. You can’t control it and you don’t fully understand it, a true last resort, but you have something. You try to clench your hand into a fist again but it just curls weakly. You smell it first, just faintly, a paradox of odor—sharp, permeating, yet featureless, a scent that isn’t. The chill in your nose on a frigid winter day. You feel numbness and tingling. You see magic, weak and unfocused, gathering at your fingertips. It shivers like a mirage. 

This is a bad idea. You’ve been on the run too long and you’ve never had lessons, no mentors, not even a chance to practice. The magic spins into a miniature vortex, a whirlpool of distortion in the air, and you feel it growing, getting hungrier. It might kill you. It might kill everyone here. It might bulldoze through this auditorium like a wrecking ball and leave a gaping wound of all your last furious thoughts behind, a haunting the size of an office building—

The Lord Regent lunges for you, one hand wrapped around your throat in a firm, choking grip. You don’t have the strength to stop him. You try to hold onto the magic but it’s fizzling out, unraveling in your hand. He’s so close to you now. Pinning you down with his body, straddling your waist. His hands are not perfectly smooth. You feel bumps and ridges against your throat. Scars. Calluses. His eyes are a stormy blue. His lips are moving and you can’t hear him, can’t hear anything over the static in your head, but somehow you know what he means to say. 

"That’s enough."

You breathe slowly beneath the loosening pressure of his thumb. You can feel yourself slipping under. His mesmerism is subtle but it’s stronger than Edmund’s, a wave of stifling calm washing over you. No matter how hard you cling to your anger, it fades like dying embers. You don’t want to fight anymore. 

"I do this for you. For all of us. We will not survive alone, you or I. Someday you will understand."

Time passes, but you’re barely aware of it. Everything is softness and delight. Sometimes the pain will come back, needling at your back and sides, but it’s chased away with a soothing whisper and a hand stroking your head. Gentle fingers massage your scalp and you bury yourself deeper in the warm comfort of the moment. You surface gradually. The Lord Regent gives your mind back piece by piece. Awareness first, the realization that you’re kneeling. That there is a cushion under you, keeping your legs from the hard ground. That you’re at his side while he sits at the Council’s table and he wants to keep you there—forever if he could, just like this, drifting and happy. That someone is speaking, and that he is petting you like a beloved, loyal animal, stealing glimpses whenever he can. 

You pull your head out of his lap slower than you’d like, mindful of the ache in your neck and shoulders. He gives you one last look, smug and satisfied, and then returns his attention to the rest of the Council. “Loathe as I am to admit it, perhaps you have a point,” he says, sounding contrite. “I cannot claim impartiality. Someone else should draft the proposal. We will hold the vote another time.”

“We appreciate your understanding, Lord Regent,” one of the others says. “No disrespect is meant, but perhaps it is best to approach this with the benefit of time and distance. None of us are as clear-headed as we should be tonight.” 

“Indeed. That just leaves us with the matter of placement.” All eyes are on you again. The Lord Regent frowns thoughtfully. “Young nightbound take priority. And yet, I cannot in good conscience partner a fledgling with a witch so…volatile.”

“May I address the Council?” 

A new voice speaks and a new, unsettling silence falls over the auditorium. You see a nightbound walking down the aisle, already halfway down the steps. You didn’t hear him come in but that’s not surprising. Even now, his footsteps are nearly silent. The others recoil when he draws near, trembling and wide-eyed. They respect the Lord Regent, but they fear this one. You can’t see him clearly until he’s nearly reached the bottom of the steps, stepping into the glow of the chandelier. He’s stunning. Long dark hair tumbles over his shoulders and frames sharp, androgynous features. He wears a long, trailing garment, form-fitting at his chest but loose and flowing below the waist like an evening gown, clinging sleeves of black lace adorning his arms. His footsteps are slow and graceful as he glides down the stage.

“Athanasius,” the Lord Regent greets. He’s the only one who doesn’t look scared shitless. He inclines his head in a slight bow, smiling like there’s a joke you’re missing. “It is rare for you to grace us with your presence these nights. Please, speak.” 

Athanasius surveys the Council with a quick glance back and forth. Each of them flinch in their seats. Some avert their eyes, clinging to their papers in desperation for something else to look at. Then he looks at you and your breath catches in your throat. His gaze is paralyzing. You’re reminded of the unnerving feeling you got when you first saw the Lord Regent, the incomprehensible abyss of time within his eyes. This one is old, too. Maybe even older. “As you know,” he says, his voice soft and irresistibly sweet, “I have a convenire, here in Harrow Creek. We recently had a new arrival. They are all young, but the newest is by far the youngest. He was sired during the last Waxing Nights.”

You expect to hear muttering here, discussion, disagreement, but there’s nothing. Not a word from any of them. It feels like the entire auditorium is holding its breath. The Lord Regent hums, considering. “Ah, yes. The dissenter’s child.” You glance between them, trying to piece together what’s about to happen to you. A convenire—that’s just what nightbound call it when a bunch of them live together, isn’t it? “That would indeed solve several problems at once.” 

The rest of the Council gradually thaws from their frozen terror, a few of them offering weak platitudes and agreements. You have no idea what they think of this, but you see more paperwork emerging from somewhere, hear the rapid scribbling of ink pens. They seem eager, at least, for him to leave. “It’s a bit unusual,” one of them says. “But so are the circumstances. Perhaps this will be a good match.” Several of them glance at you briefly with sad, pitying gazes. 

“Very well.” The Lord Regent offers you a smile. Maybe it’s genuine. Maybe it’s not. You can’t tell, but he sounds far too excited. “Wayward child,” he says, his tone solemn and official, “you are hereby sentenced to sacramental service within the convenire of Athanasius. You shall defer to his judgment and you shall submit to his authority before all other nightbound. You shall offer your blood to all members of the convenire without complaint or question. Should you perform your duties satisfactorily, you may earn the sacred gift of partnership. May you find peace and fulfillment in your service.” 

You inhale shakily. That’s it, then. You belong to someone. A packet of papers are passed down the table, signed by each Council member. It makes its way back to the Lord Regent, who stamps it with an ink seal. That’s all the fanfare there is, and then they start talking about something else. 

“Shall we go?” Athanasius is standing beside you on the stage. The suddenness of his proximity should scare you, but you don’t have the energy to be afraid anymore. “Unless you would like to stay longer,” he says. He smiles, teasing you gently. As though this is something you might find humor in. You watch him sink down to one knee. The folds of his gown gather in a puddle beneath him, dark like shadows. “I will not pretend to understand how you feel nor will I feed you sweet lies. Sacramental service is a punishment. The fledglings in my care have suffered greatly and they will likely inflict this suffering upon you. They do not know what else to do with it. You will be housed, fed and protected, and you will have your own quarters, but I know that means little to you now.”

You hear him but you aren’t really listening. Tears spill down your cheeks and you do nothing to stop them. You flinch when Athanasius lifts his hand, catching a droplet trickling by the corner of your mouth. 

“There is a car waiting for us outside,” he says. “Can I trust you to cooperate, or will you make this difficult?” 

“I’ll make this as difficult for you as I can,” you promise him. You hold his gaze no matter how uncomfortable it makes you. You don’t back down. “You won’t know peace. By the end of this, you’re going to hate me as much as I hate you.”

Athanasius laughs, melodic and clear as a bell. His hand traces the curve of your jaw, thumb stroking your lips. “How delightful,” he purrs, “that you think there will be an end to this.” He leans in, pressing his lips to your forehead. There is no gentle easing, no subtle nudge of mesmerism, just the maw of thoughtless oblivion swallowing you whole.

[pain-indeed]

Galacta Knight headcanons

At this point every single new information we get about Star Crossed World leads back to him, so he'll probably show up (if he does'nt I will riot). If he does those headcanons will probably age like milk, but I don't care.

I subscribe to the theory that Galacta Knight is posessed/influenced by Void Termina/the jamba heart to some capacity. Iwas skeptical in the past, but seing this post convinced me.

This creature has been rotating in my brain, I need to let all those headcanons out.

His personality is unknown to us right now. If you believe the jamba heart corruption theory, there's even more room for interpretation. He could be violent, he could be a goofy goober, he could be very sweet. Personally I really like to think of him as actually kind and caring. The idea that this super powerful warrior who was sealed away for being too dangerous being very calm and good of heart makes me feel things. The fact that in super kirby clash he's the only boss who is not said to be furious goig down his second phase kinda supports it.

During his imprisonement, he is partially counscious. When he is awoken, he has to fight for control over his mind.

Despite being compassionate and thoughtful, fighting is one of his passions (sorta like Meta Knight, but he does'nt bother to hide it behind a mysterious attitude). Whenever he is summoned to battle someone, the sparring is the only thing that keeps him from completely falling to Void Termina's influence, since the positive emotions he feels helps counter it.

He's definitly some flavour of nonbinary to me. Probably agender or neutrois, maybe even gendervoid. There should be a gender identity for being completely clueless about gender ngl.

If he ever gets freed from his crystal, he would probably have trouble adapting to the current world. He comes from an ancient past, after all. Everything he once knew probably withered away ; the ancients, his family and friends, the world as he knows it. That would be rough for anyone, but it'd be worse for someone who was sealed away and strugling against a dark influence for so long. Either way, it would probably take a long time for him to be okay after all this.

Galacta Knight and the other heroes of yore were actually pretty close. I don't know what to headcanon on the topic of what they became, but they probably not here anymore. He probably misses them dearly, wishing they would be at his side.

He does'nt really speak the same language as what is currently spoken on Popstar, nor can he read it. Perhaps he knows some of it, in some way or another, enough for him to understand a bit what he hears.

He likes pretty artsy things, like poetry, painting, and even singing. Physical exercise is also one of his favorite passtimes.

Speaking of things he likes, he gives me the vibes of somebody who enjoys flower flavoured products.

He takes baths like irl birds do. If you don't know what I mean just search it up, it's pretty goofy.

If you have any headcanons about Galacta please share them with me I'm starved

[thislovintime]

Photo 1 from The Monkees Monthly.

“Release failed, he says, because ‘I didn’t know how to stick to it. I ran out of money and told the band members, “I can’t support us as a crew any more, you’ll just have to find your own way.”’ In hindsight, Tork says, he should have asked the others to help support the band and hang with it after he could no longer afford to be its sugar daddy. But at the time, Tork says, he lacked the self-esteem to ask for other people’s help.” - Los Angeles Times (October 20, 1992)

“I don’t really have a lot to compare it with, since I didn’t have a normal life going on at the time to which I could refer, but at the time when the Monkees hit, the fame thing was very difficult for me. […] I had pathological self value. I really didn’t have a sense of it at all. I didn’t get why. I thought I had been picked almost at random. I didn’t have any sense of myself bringing anything except that character to the Monkees. What I thought they hired me for was that character, and I think to this day that that had a lot to do with it. I didn’t recognize how that sprung forth from whom who I really am. I thought I was faking them out. I thought I was handing them a lie and they were buying the lie — and so how could I value myself? Any time you compliment somebody and they can’t take the compliment, what they’re saying to you is, ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’ That’s the message that anybody with low self-esteem gives back when somebody compliments them. Which is where I was. All that played into this fame thing. And it plays backwards, too. The reason that I got into the fame game was because I didn’t have any sense of value. I thought, ‘Jeez, if I can get the millions to love me then I’ll be all right.’ I got the millions to love me — and it still wasn’t all right. What a surprise. Ha, ha, ha.” - Peter Tork, Toxic Fame: Celebrities Speak on Stardom (1996)

“At one point, after I’d been into it [fame], I thought that I could probably found a school for famous people, but then I realized that the things that drive a person to fame make it impossible for him or her to absorb any kind of information. You know, I mean, you’ll take a little business advice here and there, and if you’re inclined, you might listen to somebody advising you on which song to sing, which one not to, and how to hold your head and how not to. But there is no way that somebody can help another person just coming up know how to deal with fame because the reason that you shoot for fame is because you don’t think that the individuals in your home life get you. They don’t understand you. So you do something and suddenly, you know, a hundred people suddenly are whooping and hollering and how great you are, and, ‘Oh my god, this is what I *really* want,’ and suddenly this is — the siren call of fame draws you ever onward and it’s just not available to advice. It was scary and it was interesting and it was fun and it was not fun. And I have to say that if it hadn’t been… I think if it had happened to me alone, as an individual entertainer, I might not have survived it. The fact that I was in a group and that we were ensconced, as I said, in a large organization, I think these were the things that saved me. I think I do see myself as a survivor. I was very lucky to find a — I don’t know how to characterize it except that it’s a group of people through whom, with whom, with which I found kind of a basic core set of values which now see me through. I didn’t have them before, and if you don’t have them, you turn to drink and drugs or chasing women — you know, sex and drugs and rock ’n’ roll — all of which was to compensate for the lack of a core. If I’d had this core before I became famous, I wouldn’t have become famous. That was for lack of that core that sent me searching, you know, and trying to find it through fame, and then through sex and drugs and rock ’n’ roll, and then, you know, through whatever else there was. But now that I have it, I’m ready to see life through. I have no intent to endanger myself, I’m not doing anything riskier than touring (chuckles), which as we know is plenty risky in and of itself, but I’m not doing drugs and I’m not chasing carnal pleasures or any drugs. I am rockin’.” - Peter Tork, RNZ (2016)

[l0verclown]

From pressured to driven Part 2

What happens when you feel pressured to do something you never thought you'd do?

Especially if 4 serial killers are the ones pressuring you.

Slight ronin x reader

| spoilers for Killer chat!!! This is part two of "From pressured to driven". As always, my writing sucks so its probably Ooc. I have no idea if i want to continue with more parts, but hey who knows.

TW: Mention of murder, going insane, light gore, SA?(forced kissing)

PSA: I don't support neither am i trying to glorify/Normalize the words mentioned above. SA should be taken serious and it is not meant to be joked around.

Part 1:

You were walking around, searching for any "victims" to kill whilst trying not to freak out by the amount of corpses were in the alley. Damm, you knew Ronin liked going on killing sprees, but this much? If you counted every corpse you have walked past, it would be already above the 20. It didn't feel right, seeing all those unfortunate souls all on the ground, but you also couldn't help continue searching because before you know you are one going to become one of them if they find out.

*Ding!*

A notification?

Dear Reader,

I heard that you were writing a book, which is pretty interesting so my congratulations for that one.

moving on, one of our best reporters, Greg, has unfortunately resigned.

So my question to you is if you are able to make five new articles before the clock hits midnight. I expect at least two articles, but my apologies if this has come to you late, but if you are able to do it, i will try my best to reduce the amount of work you already have.

I wish you the best of luck on this.

Kind regards

Your boss.

You have to be serious. Five whole articles?

Not only did you have to make five new articles, you have to find a way to pretend that you killed a person. Not only that, it was 19:21.

19:21...

Fuck.

You have 4 hours and 30 minutes before midnight. You have to find a solution, and quick. Fuck, maybe you do want to kill someone, and with someone you mean your boss or either Greg.

Greg...

Always him, the 'best' reporter in the company. Total bullshit, he was average, a total pervert even. But the fact he resigned and that you had to chase after his bullshit!?

You felt anger raising up, adrenaline rushing through your veins, the amount of stress and anger that was mixed in your body was insufferable, that if you went to a therapist, they would either send you to a mental hospital or diagnose you with whatever mental disorder is popular.

*Ding!*

Another notification..?

@BestGregg: Hey Reader! Sorry for resigning so early and sudden but i got offered a wayy better job, and i couldn't pass up on that offer. Btw make sure to finish those assignments lol and because i'm resigning, how 'bout we meet up? I mean ur kinda chill and its gonna be fun. So what do you think?

Seriously? A meet up? Who does he think he is? My dad???

@SerialMC: Uhh..

sure i guess. Can we meet up here? *Insert Purgatory location*, i'll wait for u there, I'm here with some friends but i'm sure they don't mind.

@BestGregg: Sweet, i'll be there in 10 minutes, be prepared to have the best night of ur life ;)

Not only is he a total loser, he's a total pervert too. You continued walking, your mind just being full of total bullshit right now. First, your serial killer friends want you to kill somebody, second your stupid boss wants you to write 5 articles, and third your perverted ex-coworker wants to hangout and is going to try to hit on you.

Life's been going shit these weeks, you got hit with an inspiration block which means no more idea's for your next book. You've been trying to find out on how to tell the server that you're not actually a serial killer (What will probably never happen) and now this.

You gripped the knife that you previously found tighter, resisting the urge to even throw it. You can't kill anyone, you don't want to kill anyone, but in your state, it seemed like the only solution left.

"EYY READER, WHERE ARE YOU!?"

"I have a feeling they left"

"No way, they wouldn't leave us, their friends behind, i know them."

"Hah, So they're not as tough as they seem huh?"

"Hey! Don't say that, people like us just have our own struggles. Just let us be you edgeboy"

Fuck fuck fuck.

They were searching for you, and you haven't done anything at all, and looking at the time, that stupid greg should be somewhere here now.

How the fuck did you end up in this position!? Seriously, this would've been some fun hanging out day, but it always ends up in trouble. You just wished you could bury yourself somewhere.

"Yooo Reader it's me Greg!"

How he greeted himself scared the shit out of you, you hid the knife somewhere in your jacket, so he wouldn't notice. It was pretty dark out here, but from the looks of it and how he talked seemed like he had a bit to drink.

"Oh hey.. Greg."

"Whats up with the sad face reader? Are you not happy to see me?"

"No it's just. Work and stuff.. Gotta write 5 articles.. Ha ha.."

"Awh damn, sorry reader. Didn't know i was that important to the company, i mean, being the best reporter in the department? Hell yeah!"

He continued talking about how cool, and important he was that you didn't notice that you were basically backing up into a corner because of how much he talked.

"Ohh yeah, I think you need to confess something, reader."

"Confess.. What?"

He got closer to you, basically trapping you in that corner that you went to yourself. You said you wanted to bury yourself somewhere? Guess that place is here. He leaned into your face, you could feel his intoxicated breath, it reeked of alcohol and whatever cocktails he was drinking, but he didn't seem to go away.

"Don't act stupid, i know how you've been looking at me, you like me, don't you?"

Like. Him?

You hated that man. First, he got with all your female coworkers, he's the so-called "best reporter", he acts like a total asshole, pervert, and his looks are like the devil himself tried making the ugliest person that has ever existed. Not only that, but he has so much controversy, but of course, your boss ignores it because he was a good worker.

"I don't understand? I don't like you?

"Don't be shy, i know what you want"

Before you knew it, he slammed his lips into yours, forcefully kissing you as he held you by the waist. You yelped in disgust, tears starting to form in your eyes. You hated it, you couldn't move, you felt helpless. After he was done kissing you, he looked at you with a grin and you looked terrified.

"Look, you enjoyed that didn't ya? C'monn, i know ya want more"

"And don't worry, i won't go rough on you"

Oh.

Is this your end?

No.

It is not.

You can change

Maybe they will say you became corrupted.

But was it really, if it originated from fear?

You slowly gripped the knife you hid in your jacket, and held it tight in your hand.

"You know what i want..."

You put your free hand on his chest, he leaned in, looking like he wanted to kiss you, but before you could do that, you plunged that knife right into his chest.

He screamed, but you continued. You kept stabbing him near his heart, he tried pushing you off of himself, but you were too determined to finish him. After everything he did, all you wanted to do is never see him again.

Countless screams were forming in his throat, it sounded so god awfull, but that is why it was perfect. That's what stupid, perverted good for nothing deserve. A deep plunge in the heart. At this point, you were sure the rest could've heard the screams and were probably heading your way, but you didn't care about that. For now.

You pushed his body to the ground, before gripping two hands on the handle of the knife, and plunged even harder into his chest. You dragged the knife from his chest to his intestines, before stabbing him again for countless times. You felt anger and stress slowly leave, the crimson staining you. You felt.. Weird. You did feel guilty, yes but after all he did. He deserved it. You ripped out the knife, before hearing some voices behind you.

"Oh my, So Darlin' did end up killin someone huh? And even stabbing the intestines? How gruesome, i like that"

You turned around, hearing the voices of your friends

"Oh shit... Who that guy was, he was definitely hated by them.. Look at the stab marks holy shit, reader went batshit and im here for it"

"Oh.. My, reader, how are you feeling? I don't think that guy was some ordinary guy guys.."

"... The sight is gruesome"

You laughed, you kept laughing before finally stabbing the knife into his skull. He was finally gone.

".. That guy was my ex coworker. He kept stressing me out, making flirty moves, and.. Ended up forcefully kissing me."

Angel looked at you with a mix of reassurance and a look of "I've been there", and she slowly approached you along with Misaki. Meanwhile Misaki was a bit in denial, not because of the fact that you killed him, but because what he did to you. V was crossing his arms and shaking his head, while Ronin was heading towards the guy.

".. What you did there, reader.. I, oddly relate to it. Weird creepy perverted men hitting on you while you weren't doing anything? Killing him was a good choice, reader."

Angel was quite literally an angel. She is nice, she is understanding and she can relate to anyone. You're great full you have her as a friend.

Misaki was giving you constant back pats, trying to comfort you from that guy. You noticed that she was trying to lighten the mood.

"Hey so.. That guy was a total creep, and what you did was totally valid- I mean as a pervert, what did he expect?"

You forced a laugh out of that one, it was funny but for the sake of Misaki, you cracked a laugh so that she wouldn't suspect anything. But you know she meant good, if it was up to her, she would've killed the guy in a second.

V was looking at you and the guy, sighing before muttering out a sentence.

"You finished him, not for fun or for entertainment.. But for your safety and because of fear. Not bad at all."

His words shock you, because you didn't expect him to say that at all. You didn't really speak to him, and when you did, he was always on some "I will find out who you are" shit. Guess V is able to feel some sympathy after all.

You didn't even notice the fact that Ronin was ripping apart that guy's chest to grab his heart, you were starting to hear some weird- crack and bone breaking noises, that you couldn't help but look backwards at the body to find Ronin trying to obtain the guys heart.

Eventually, Ronin had the heart in his hand, and looked at you with a smile

"Darlin', Would ya mind giving me his aorta? And it's that ugly guy's heart, which makes it 10x better. C'monn, do it for the poor little devil."

He looked at you, with that stupid little smile from the first time you kissed, the moment you began rotting and corrupting. You laughed, and took the heart. Since Ronin started talking about the Aorta that much, you decided to google search a bit just to know where it was for a moment like this (which you never actually expected to happen)

You carefully ripped some of the other pieces of the heart, accidentally deattaching the superior vena cava and some artery, but eventually you managed to remove the aorta, and handed it to Ronin.

"To my dearest devil, the one who corrupted me."

Angel looked at Ronin with a look of "What the actual fuck ronin." and he just laughed. You smiled and He gave you a hair ruffle and put the aorta in some weird place in his bag. Gross, but hey, he can do whatever he wants.

You looked at your clothes, It was basically stained red now, but your face, hands and pants were a total mess. You sighed, before thinking of a way on how to get home without getting the police after you.

" You look like a complete fuckin mess. Not that i'm complaining, but you probably are. How 'bout i give you a ride to my house, and stay there?"

You wanted to agree, you didn't mind the idea, but you wondered about the others, what about them? It would be quite rude to leave them here.

Before you could say anything, Misaki overheard the convo and made an idea.

"YOO IS THAT A SLEEPOVER I HEAR!?"

".. I'm not really fond of sleepovers."

"Maybe we could? I mean it is the best way to end the hangout"

". Fuck no, i don't have enough space for five people. And besides, i don't think anyone can survive the devils little hideout"

"Stop being edgy for once ronin, your living room is big enough"

".. Wow, guess i have no choice do i?"

"A sleepover it is, then."

You decided to take a photo of the body, and you were planning on sending it in the server. To have some more 'evidence' that you killed someone. Would your old self be proud of you? Absolutely not, but people change. You changed by being rotten and corrupted, and you wouldn't want it any other way.

weird..

You have this odd feeling that doesn't go away

It feels like a craving.

More killing, it screams your name.

You feel like killing more people.

Their agony, your pleasure.

Time to show them what you have become.

[sl3epyaf]

Lucifer, Leviathan and Gabriel if you swapped bodies with them for a week

So imagine if you swapped bodies with them for a week-

Note: I made Gabriel's part based off on the story so far

♥ Lucifer ♥

What he'd do/ his thoughts

He's the reasonable one so he'd try to look for a way to get back into his body asap. Because frankly he does not trust his body with you- He's only dreading the chaos you can cause with either the patients in Paradise Lost or even heaven itself!

If you weren't in Paradise Lost before you switch he'd probably call you and warn you not to do anything stupid

If you are in Paradise Lost he'd keep an eye on you.

Lucifer would take this as an opportunity to get a closer look at you though to see if there's something he could've missed with his checkups

Would he cause chaos in your body? Not really, I don't think so

Overall Lucifer would not enjoy this bodyswap- well maybe 20% would but the other 80% does NOT like it.

♥ Gabriel ♥

What he'd do/ his thoughts

God help him- When he heard some lower rank angels freak about a bodyswap thing he didn't care. He started caring really quickly when he woke up in an unfamiliar place that looked similar to hell and he started caring even more when he saw YOUR face staring back at him in the mirror.

You better not think of doing anything stupid in his body because if you do- he's gonna try and kill you even more than before now

Now is he going to try and cause chaos in your body? Ehh.. he's probably debating if he should kill you but in the end I feel like he'd go against it considering HE is the one in your body.. but he is definitely going to take it as an opportunity to scout the surroundings to see which devils you're with and who's potentially protecting you (even though only the kings could really match up with him) and plan your demise for the whole week while praying to God in secret to not expose his cover.

And after the week is over?

He's coming for you-

Overall rating? He HATED it and is blaming you for it (even if you're innocent lol) .

♥ Leviathan ♥

What he'd do/his thoughts

Somebody better get him back to his body or he's strangling the nearest person himself.

If you're not close Leviathan would take this as a moment to see if you have any hidden agenda or any of that sort to ensure Hades's and Hell's safety

If you're close- I suppose he'd act like himself while also searching for a way to get back into his body asap because he also does not trust you in his body.

Would he cause chaos in your body? Not really. Maybe if one of the kings are there and they're getting on his nerves..

Overall rating? 4/10.

[slvt4em1lyprenti2s]

hii !! as i am a sucker for hurt/comfort could you maybe please write smth where emily prentiss x f!reader are already in a relationship and rewrite the episode with tobias hankel to be with the reader the one who gets kidnapped instead of spencer? thank you !

It’s not your fault

Summary: Rewrite of the Tobias Hankel storyline but reader gets kidnapped instead of Reid, Emily and reader are already in a relationship.

TW: kidnapping, torture, drug addiction, involuntary use of drugs, depression, hurt/comfort

Pairings: Emily Prentiss x fem!reader

A/N: I've never rewritten an epsiode before so tell me how I did!! Hope you like it anon 🫶🏻

Emily pov:

JJ's here, y/n's..... where's y/n? Oh god please. "JJ look at me." Morgan cut off her panicky rambling. "Look at me. Where's y/l/n?"

"We split up. She said she was going to go in the back."

I hear someone yell that the house was clear.

"So where the hell is she?"

My heart dropped into the my stomach. 

I frantically start searching the property for some sign of her as I walk towards the corn field, it looks like someone was dragged through it jeez. Wait, it looks like someone was dragged through it.

"I think y/l/n followed him into the corn field! It looks like somebody got dragged."

Instantly the team is by my side, desperately searching for y/n/n. My girlfriend, the reason I wake up in the morning. Gone. My chest starts to tighten and tears prick my eyes, I swallow down the lump in my throat and keep looking. I can't break down right now, I need to find her.

—

Reader pov:

My eyes are blurring and my head is pounding. I try to move but my hands and feet are bound to a chair, painfully tight. My thoughts are all over the place, where am I? What happened out there? Did JJ get taken too? Just as I'm about to try get out of the binds a person slams open the door.

He's carrying fish. It stinks.

"They're burning fish hearts and liver to keep the devil away." I stare at him without saying anything, I don't want to.

"They believe you can see inside men's mind."

I hold back the urge to roll my eyes.

"It's not true. I study human behaviour."

"You know what this is? It's god's will." He says totally ignoring my response already set in his ways. "Time to confess, y/n y/l/n."

"I have nothing to confess."

He slapped me. Once, twice, three times.

"CONFESS!"

Tears slip from my eyes, I don't say a word. He pulls out a knife and starts to slice my skin. A crimson river flows out of my paling skin, pain coursing through my body. I still don't crack. His fist makes contact with my face.

I just want this to end. I finally give into the exhaustion slipping into a dreamless sleep.

—

Emily's pov:

"I'm talking tomorrow morning to some guy who knew Hankel from narcotics anonymous. You should come with me. Why don't you come with me, get out of the house?" I say to JJ as I enter the bathroom.

"Yeah." she says back, clearly shaken up and deflated from the recent events.

"Okay. Great." I walk out of the bathroom and into my room.

There it is again, that funny feeling, like I'm being sat on. Or like there's a weight in my chest. Climbing into my bed I can feel it constricting my breath. Tears are pouring out of my eyes at this point, my legs are tucked into my chest and my breaths are short and fast. A wave of pain comes over me as I think about what's happening to y/n. She's hurting and there's nothing I can do about it. I'm failing her.

—

Reader pov:

"What's your name?" I ask the same man who walked in before. He's got multiple personalities that I need to differentiate between, I need to play this right.

"Tobias."

"Tobias? Who was here before?"

"It was probably my father. I'm sorry if he hurt you."

I see him reach into his pocket and pull out a bottle and a syringe. Oh god, please no. Don't do it Tobias please.

"What are you doing? Don't. Please don't."

"It helps. Don't tell my father. He doesn't know they're here."

"Please I don't want it. I don't want it please."

I can feel the warmth pulsing through my body. My system being thrown into a high almost immediately. I hate every second of it. I start to slip in and out of consciousness. I need Emily. I need the warmth of her skin, the softness and comfort of her voice. I need her kisses on my skin. I fight to keep my eyes awake but fail.

—

Emily pov:

"So what was Tobias' drug of choice?"

"Dilaudid."

The man keeps talking about how Tobias' dad used to beat him and burnt a cross onto his forehead. That's one hell of a stressor.

My head is spinning as we get back to the local PD. The evidence was all adding up, we had a name, address, background, information about his personalities. Why can't we find her? We even have live footage of her door goodness sake! I try to control my anger and begin licking furiously at my fingers, biting my nails. I need to find her.

"She's in a cemetery."

We call Garcia and get her to find a cemetery near by and there's one right by the barn. I don't think I've run to an SUV faster to be honest, I need her, need to hold her. To know she's okay.

—

Reader pov:

Im digging my own grave. This is not the way I wanted to go out.

"I ought to bury you alive in there, give you time to think about what you done." He stares daggers into my back as I dig.

"Dig faster!" He yelled at me, I can't dig any faster.

"I'm not strong enough." I say, dejected. I can't do this anymore.

"Y/L/N!" I hear someone yell in the distance.

"Over there!" Another voice calls out, I'm too delirious to register who.

"You killed him." Tobias said to me.

"Tobias" I say, suddenly feeling remorse for him, I don't know what's happening.

I see his body fall limp and realise somebody had shot him, it was over.

“Are you okay?” I hear Hotch say.

“Yeah, uhm can I have a minute alone?” I slowly walk up to Tobias’ body and stealthily reach into his pocket and take the dilaudid. I’m not proud of it, but it’s the only way I can cope right now.

As I’m walking away, Emily is straight by my side, just like always. She’s the only person who knows me, like really knows me. She’s everything to me.

“How are you holding up?” Her gentle voice breaks through the mist of confusion that had descended over me.

“I’m okay. Or, I will be.”

“Yeah, you will. I promise.”

—

Time skip to around a month after

Emily pov:

I’m walking through the doors of the apartment me and y/n share and I hear- well, nothing. Which is strange because normally she’s watching tv, doing something in the kitchen or making some kind of racket.

She might’ve gone out.

I try to reassure myself but have a sinking feeling of dread in my stomach. She’s not been the same after what happened with Hankel. It’s like someone flipped a switch while she was there, like something happened and now she’ll never be the same again.

I’m sure she’s fine.

I try to distract myself and go to take a shower. I walk into our bedroom and see the bathroom door is ajar, I go to look inside and see who’s in there - I assume it’s y/n/n. The sight before me is an awful one. She’s sitting on the floor, needle in hand, taking dilaudid.

“Oh my sweet girl.”

The look of guilt on her face as she realises I’m there break my heart into a million pieces.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I tried to stop, I really did. I didn’t want it I promise, I’m so sorry em.” Her eyes never met mine.

“Honey, it’s not your fault. Let’s stop this okay?”

She reluctantly nods and hands me the drugs. I tip the rest down the toilet and flush it. I put the needle on the side, planning to dispose of it later.

I offer her my hands and help her off the floor. As I bring her into my embrace, she’s noticeably thinner. The more I found out the more my mind races. What do I do? What do I do?

—

Y/n pov:

Oh god, oh god. I didn’t want her to find out. I’m trying to get a handle on it, she’s gunna be so mad at me.

I can feel my hands shaking and tears pooling in the corners of my eyes. Her hands clutch mine and helps me to my feet and pulls me into her. That’s when I finally break down.

“I’m so sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologise. You didn’t do this. We’re going to get you help yeah sweetheart?”

I nod into her neck, where my head lays. My frail body feeling exhausted after this sudden intervention in my daily dose, the withdrawal settling in.

“Em..”

“I know, I know. And I’m going to be with you through it, okay?”

“Thank you. I love you so much emmy.”

“I love you too y/n/n.”

It’s going to be a long road, but, being with her is going to make it so much easier. I’m so grateful for having her in my life.

A/N if you ever struggle with addiction, please never hesitate to reach out and please seek help, you are never alone. You don’t have to suffer in silence.

[thomastanker02]

What we give to God, God gives to us.

If we search for God halfheartedly, and still have our eyes on the things of the world, then we will not find God, since we don’t desire him with our whole heart.

But if we search for God with everything we’ve got, he will reasoned by giving us all of himself.

God desires to be our first love, to have first place in our heart. He wants to be the one that we rely on the most, and the one we always have faith in, regardless of our circumstances.

Our spiritual lives reflect our attitudes towards the Lord. If we have little faith in him, he will honor our hearts, and not perform the miracles we ask of him. How does it feel when you’re asked to do something by someone who doesn’t even think you can pull it off?

“Hey John, can you move this heavy box for me? I know you probably can’t do it, but can you move it for me anyway?”

One thing about God’s character is that he always responds to radical acts of faith.

The bleeding woman was healed by Jesus because of her absolute faith in him. The Roman Centurion’s son was healed because of his faith in the Lord. Zaccheaus had Jesus stay in his house because of his desire to see him walk by.

Every miracle that Jesus performed was a response to their belief in him, and if therefore to go to him in the first place. When God sees that somebody is after his heart, and they humble themselves before him, he gives them what they want.

Our spiritual life is like that of a mustard seed. While it’s small and the least of all the seeds, it can grow into something radical through the life giving water that Jesus provides, and the sunlight of God’s splendid glory.

When we give God all that we have, however small that may be, he gives us all that he has.

This is a relationship after all, and the best relationships are those where both parties give their 100%.

But how do we strengthen our faith? The Bible is the answer.

God provides us with countless examples of his generosity, love, and miraculous wonders. It’s through his word that get to know his character, what he loves and hates, and how to draw closer to him.

We look forwards by looking backwards.

Through the study of his word, we gain a better understanding of his character, and the more we get to know him, the stronger our faith in him becomes.

Cutting out other distractions is also a big help.

Put away the phone for a bit, and spend time in his word. Spend sometime in nature instead on Netflix (or whatever streaming service you’ve got access to). Try to discuss the Bible with your friends (and they aren’t into that, maybe find some better friends).

Our lives should be a life along response to the grace that God has showed us on the cross and in the life of Jesus Christ.

He gave his all for us, let’s try to do the same for him.

God bless, Jesus loves you ✝️❤️

[unforgivable-thatswhatiam]

Somebody to love

"Crowley had lost Aziraphale, and the world was ending in a few hours. He was in Hell's bad books. Not that Hell has any other kind."

In the scene, we see Crowley making a dramatic exit, like a great tragic - queer - hero from the bookshop, magically slamming shut the doors of his sanctuary of love, a place where he would ever return, nor Aziraphale, now gone (or so he believes). He pauses for a moment, takes off his glasses — scorched by fire — and lets them fall, clarifying to himself that he’s not doing it because he’s a demon (the demons has killed is love): “I shouldn't litter, should I? I mean, I probably should litter, I'm a demon after all, but nobody's really keeping score any more.”

Now that Aziraphale is gone and the end of the world is near, nobody's really keeping score any more.

There's no point in pretending to be a “good” demon, now – he’d done that just to stay close to Aziraphale without danger.

Without him, there's no point in dreaming of escape to Alpha Centauri (A+C ❤️), even if the risk is now inevitable. There's no more reason to fight for a better life.

Without him, the very possibility of a better existence — of any life at all — is gone.

And like people who have nothing left to hope for, Crowley lets himself go, just like his glasses: he wants to lose himself, to lose consciousness, and perhaps to feel a little less of the pain of losing his angel — as he waits for the end of the world, for the Earth, and for himself.

But before we see him drown himself in entire bottles of Talisker, it's the Bentley that offers us a glimpse into Crowley’s subconscious* — even more layered than it first appears. Just like she did when Crowley believed he could save Aziraphale, she chooses a song.

* As with You’re My Best Friend, we don’t know whether it’s a Queen song Crowley likes, or if it’s only the Bentley’s choice. But she is an extension of his personality — and in the series, at least, it serves as a window into Crowley’s mind. So it seems she picks the song that best fits what’s going through the demon’s head at that moment.

The song in question is Somebody to Love. In the scene, we only hear the outro, repeating variations on the theme: (Can anybody) find me somebody to love?

We know that Crowley isn’t going out in search of someone to replace Aziraphale, though. So why this song?

It’s not the usual Queen-style classic rock, but a piece of rock gospel, inspired by Freddie Mercury’s deep admiration for Aretha Franklin. The term gospel itself refers to the word of God (see the Gospels), and the genre is rooted in Christian faith, with songs of explicitly religious inspiration. So Somebody to Love, despite the title, isn’t indeed a love song: it deals with people themes — despair, faith, the search for one's soul, and the basic human need to love and be loved. Starting to sound like someone we know?

Looking at the lyrics more closely might help us make more sense of it 😇

[Intro] Can anybody find me Somebody to love?

The intro, sung a cappella by Freddie Mercury, highlights the need to find somebody to love. The tone — both hopeful and uncertain — reveals a deep fear of failing to do so. The line is also ambivalent: it can mean too “Can someone find me somebody to love (= can someone find me worthy of being loved)? In GO this is no longer possible. Crowley had someone who loved him, who saw him as worthy of love. No one else ever will.

[Verse 1] Ooh, each morning I get up I die a little Can barely stand on my feet Take a look at yourself in the mirror and cry Take a look in the mirror and cry Lord, what you're doing to me? (Yeah, yeah) I have spent all my years in believin' you But I just can't get no relief, Lord

[Chorus] (…) [Verse 2] I work hard (He works hard) every day of my life I work 'till I ache my bones At the end (At the end of the day) I take home My hard-earned pay all on my own (Goes home, goes home on his own) I get down (Down) on my knees (Knees) and I start to pray (Praise the Lord) 'Till the tears run down from my eyes, Lord

The protagonist of the song is a grand, tragic romantic and everyday hero: he does everything he’s supposed to, even when it’s too much for him — and each day, he dies a little. He’s exhausted, wounded, depressed. Barely holding himself together. He can’t even look in the mirror without crying. He’s frustrated, because he’s always believed in God, always prayed Him — but finds no relief. What is God doing to him?

“The God who claims to love you, who demands your praise…”

It could certainly be Crowley: he was a good angel, did everything he was asked, and was cast down to Hell, into "a pool of boiling sulphur", for his associations (with other angels!), a bit of critical thinking, and asking questions.

Even then, he always did his duty, trying not to truly harm anyone (only to irritate humans). He continued to speak with God, praise Her, pray to Her, and seek comfort, but never received a response.

He’s desperate because he’s made unforgivable for something that shouldn’t even need to be forgiven. Because he couldn’t live freely the one thing that made him happy, and he couldn’t protect his love. And God, who had already taken away his innocence and happiness as an angel, took it from him again.

And he cries — hidden behind his sunglasses, so no one can see — just as he does in the car, on the way to the bar.

A note: in the Judeo-Christian faith, being good and doing everything God asks — in the Old Testament, a not necessarily good or just God — is not a guarantee of receiving favorable or even good treatment (see Job). But Freddie Mercury was Zoroastrian. The creator he believed in, Ahura Mazda, represents the good and demands goodness (good thoughts, good words, good deeds) to win the cosmic battle against evil, represented by the spirit Ahriman, with the promise of a happy life both in this world and in the afterlife.

[Chorus] (…) [Bridge] (He works hard) everyday (Everyday) I try and I try and I try But everybody wants to put me down They say I'm going crazy They say I got a lot of water in my brain I got no common sense (He's got) I got nobody left to believe No, no, no, no

The narrator feels frustration even in the environment around him: no one respects him, everyone brings him down, they think he’s crazy. And he has no one to believe in, no one to love.

Without Aziraphale, what does Crowley have left? The first verse makes me think of when Crowley was explaining his plan on the M25 to the demons at headquarters. No one in Hell has imagination, the demons don’t understand him, they think he’s “gone native" or crazy (he doesn’t have their "common sense"). The angels hate him, and they’re boring and snooty, bees. Without Aziraphale, what can he believe in? What’s left for him?

[Guitar solo] [Chorus] (Ooh, ooh, ooh, Lord)

(…) [Verse 3] Got no feel, I got no rhythm I just keep losing my beat (You just keep losing and losing) I'm okay, I'm alright (He's alright, he's alright) I ain't gonna face no defeat (Yeah, yeah) I just gotta get out of this prison cell (One day) Someday I'm gonna be free, Lord

[Outro] Find me somebody to love (...) Can anybody find me Somebody to love? (...) Find me, find me, find me, find me

After a new invocation to God, we see that the sad and depressed hero of the song feels inadequate, lacking sensitivity ("don’t you feel it?... Flashes of love") and rhythm. He keeps losing.

But this is a Queen song: there’s still hope! No matter how depressed and convinced he is of having many limitations, against all evidence, the narrator’s pessimism turns into determination. One day, he will free himself from this prison, from this unhappy life. With true love.

Even Crowley feels inadequate, as we see many times, though he pretends to have self-esteem and confidence he doesn’t really possess.

He has lost so many times to be able to be optimistic, to be aware of his own abilities: Aziraphale is the only one who has healed his wounds, who truly knows him, who believes in him and convinces him that he can do things he never thought possible. And he has lost him.

In this scene, in my opinion, the choice of the song is meant to convey Crowley’s despair and depression, whose determination lies in the fact that he will free himself from this life, which, without Aziraphale, has become a prison with no way out. And he awaits that moment with the last pleasure he has left: alcohol.

Then the outro comes, where the main vocals and the chorus seem to slowly fall asleep, exhausted from having fully opened themselves to the audience. And indeed, Crowley puts on his new "protective" sunglasses over the last "love" sung by Freddie Mercury, followed by -bodies, closing both the song and the scene.

However, the choice of this song for us, the audience, also offers another interpretation: we know that the song is optimistic, and the hero will do everything to find his "someone to love". And just a few minutes later, he will discover that it is still possible 💞

[ollyissleepy]

𝟎𝟗. 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐚 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐨 𝐚 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫

summary: Rafayel takes you out to the beach, having you try out different art forms a/n: not sure how I feel about this chapter, something about it just doesn't feel right :( cw: swearing, reblogs, comments and likes are greatly appreciated

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As Thomas drives you to the beach, you enjoy your ride and engage in small talk. You look out the window, curious to see the ocean, as you don't get to visit it often. You have attempted to find out anything about Rafayel's plan from Thomas, but he claims not to know anything about it. The sly smile on his face tells you otherwise.

Thomas pulls up to the parking lot, the sand and the ocean stretching behind the windscreen. Thomas gives you the general direction you should go to, and while you're exiting the car, he wishes you good luck. You watch as he drives off, leaving you to find Rafayel by yourself.

You sighed, adjusting the grip around the handle of your bag, turning to where Thomas claimed Rafayel would be. You begin to make your way through the sand, enjoying the sound of the waves made when coming in contact with the beach. You spot a man in the distance who appears to set up some contraptions. You're too far to see who it might be, but you make your way towards the man regardless, hoping to at least ask him if he saw Rafayel if it turns out to not be him.

As you come closer to the man, you notice that his hair colour matches Rafayel's. The contraptions he was setting up turned out to be two easels and a small folded table between them. The man turns around, probably sensing somebody watching him. Once you're able to see his face, you notice that it truly is Rafayel who's waiting for you.

Once you come close enough, you greet Rafayel with a smile. You watch him finishing setting up the space for the two of you with curiosity. He notices you eyeing the empty canvases, so he speaks up:

"Sometimes when I get stuck with painting, I like to try out different forms of art," Rafayel smiles, trying to encourage you to try.

"That actually might not be a bad idea," you admit, smiling back at him. "I'm just not really good at it." You look away and back at the empty canvas, worried that by the end of it Rafayel might think you wasted good materials for mediocre work.

"That's the whole point," Rafayel assures you. "Trying things you never did before and might fail at is what helps with taking off the pressure from your main form of art, making it easier to pick it up again."

"Wow, that's reallly smart," you chuckle, standing in front of one of the easels. "Fuck it, let's try."

The two of you stand in front of easels, brushes in hand. Rafayel reminds you not to stress over it and to just go with the flow. At first you're unsure what to paint, but before anxiety washes over you, you notice that Rafayel is painting the ocean. You figure if he didn't want you to paint something similar to him, he wouldn't bring you to a pretty beach with the ocean view.

Having no clue about mixing colours and the right techniques, you go with the flow, doing whatever feels right in your gut. You enjoy yourself, putting random blobs of blue onto the canvas. You and Rafayel make some comments here, but apart from that, there's a comforting silence between the two of you. You ask for a small break about halfway through the process; your hand is tired from all of the moving around. Rafayel offers you a snack, which you accept, hoping it would help replenish your energy.

While Rafayel turns around, searching for a snack in his bag, you snap a quick picture of the easel, hoping to post it on your social media later that day. Rafayel hands you the snack, which you accept with pleasure.

"I'm having a lot of fun, Rafayel." You say, not looking at the man as you focus on opening the snack. "Thank you." You look up and smile.

"I'm glad you're enjoying this," Rafayel returns your smile.

After enjoying the snacks Rafayel had prepared for the two of you, you return back to your stations. This time you're not worried about picking up the brush to start painting, the pressure you once felt long gone. Both you and Rafayel continue with your paintings until the sun sets, painting the once blue sky various shades of purple and pink.

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