#*covered in blood sweat and tears* the first draft is done!!!

[naffeclipse]

[ivy-saurs]

yippee i have nearly 10k words written of my next fic :D

[bunniekittiee]

stranglehold- johnny slaughter x fem. reader

Yes, I know none of this is date accurate to Ted Nugent’s release of his album but ykw just go with it, just pretend it’s not something I changed. Based off my headcanon that Johnny would be a sucker for Ted Nugent. Also, you can't tell me that this song isn’t his theme song?!

Curtesy to my bf who showed me Ted Nugent when we first started dating. He is the man, the myth, the legend, my world (referring to my bf not old man Nugent lol). My dad is also a Ted Nugent fan, but I found this out way after I started dating my bf but yk shout out to my dad.

I lowkey suck at endings so I apologize if it isn’t the best. Also, I wanted to change this and give the reader more fight in her. I always write them submissive to Johnny, and I wanted this one to give him a fight.

I’ve had this sitting in my drafts for a couple of months and I knew I needed to finish it.

Content warning: Blood, gore, description of wounds, Johnny being a little sexual and pushy, and not proofread.

December 25th, 1963

The Slaughter boy was a fan of Ted Nugent the minute he unwrapped one of his last few gifts from Chop Top. Hazel eyes scanning the cover, they were caught by the man himself. Ted Nugent, standing there with his guitar and his hair a crazed mess. The outline of him was slightly hazy, but it was still him.

“Heard ’im playing on the radio in the shop.” Chop Top said as Johnny ran his fingers over the cover. “After finding out who it was, I got it for ya’. I have a feelin’ ya’ gonna’ like it.”

Antsy for the rest of unwrapping gifts, Johnny eyed the album that he held carefully in his lap. He was itching to play it, he wanted to hear what Mr. Nugent sounded like. The messy hair, the glistening of sweat on his skin, the blur of his body, this was extremely impressionable on the young Slaughter boy whom was only fifteen.

Presents were done being unwrapped and Johnny immediately dashed off to his room. Chop Top chuckled at the boy’s excitement and elbowed Nubbins. “I am the best gift giver to that kid.” And Johnny would agree with him, he truly was.

Johnny took the record out of its plastic covering and slid the disc itself out of the cardboard holder. Carefully, he placed it on his record player and let the needle drop.

The guitar started echoing in his room, Johnny watching with his mouth slightly agape at the record spinning. He started nodding his head to the drum beat when it came in.

“Here I come again now baby, like a dog in heat. You can tell it’s me by the clamor now baby, I like to tear up the streets.”

Listening intently to every sound that played back to his ears, he felt his blood rush and goosebumps raise on his flesh. Something in this song captivated him. Whether it was the vocals or the haunting howl of Ted Nugent’s guitar, Johnny knew one thing for sure. This song would follow him for the rest of his life.

August 12th, 1973

Nine years had passed, almost ten since that fateful day of Chop Top’s incredible gift. Johnny went from a shy, reserved young boy to a flirty, rough, man. He was not the kid he once was, his muscles and height being very physically telling of that. He once had grown his hair out long, but he chopped it off. A dire mistake had almost cost him his life, so it was not worth the risk anymore. However, he did not want it completely short, so he cut it to where it could not be tugged on or get caught on objects. He hated when his hair was touched, it enraged him.

Finishing his cigarette, he began to get into his truck when Sissy waved at him to stop. He sighed.

“What is it now that ya’ want?” he asked with annoyance traced within his words

She hummed. “When are ya’ gonna’ bring your little girlfriend around? I’ve been wantin’ a new friend.” She smiled and Johnny rolled his eyes.

“I don’t know. But ya’ ain’t comin’ around her.”

“Why not?” She pouted.

“I don’t trust ya.”

“That’s real funny comin’ from ya’. She shouldn’t trust ya’ yet she does.” Sissy said while crossing her arms. “She has less of a risk getting killed by me than she does ya’, and I ain’t even datin’ her.”

Johnny chuckled. “Ya’ right, I’ll give you that.”

“Just think about it, don’t shoot the idea down now.” Sissy said as she tapped the truck and began to walk back to the house.

Johnny shrugged and started to turn the truck around to leave. He was going to see Y/N, and he was excited, but not in the way you think. He was excited to get his hands on her body and rip her apart, but she had barely let him touch her, let alone kiss. It was still a fresh relationship, but the Slaughter boy never took anything slow. It was always fast and rough. Like many attributes of Johnny that you would come to know. He wanted to take her now. But she always insisted on waiting. He would play the waiting game, but there was no doubt that he was going to devour her.

He was tired of her being around other people. Her friends, her family, her coworkers, anyone. He wanted her to be around him and him only. He hated the hot white jealousy that licked away at his lower belly when he saw her interact with people other than him. It made him want to bash her fucking skull in for being so damn insensitive to his feelings. But he played nice, he played the perfect, goody-two shoes Southern boy role with disgust. No one ever noticed how his eyes were empty of all emotion when he smiled or how his face darkened at the talk of the murders that he had dabbled in. He felt like James Dean in a movie role that he was made for.

Putting a tape into the radio, he felt the goosebumps he felt on that life-changing day of December 25th, 1963. He was a very big fan of Ted Nugent, and he had many records and tapes to prove that. He learned how to play “Stranglehold” on guitar and many other Nugent classics that he held near and dear to his heart. To say he was a fan was an understatement, he moreso worshipped the musician.

But “Stranglehold” was something special. Despite the fact that it was his first song he had listened to from the music idol he favorited, he related to it on a primitive level. He and Ted had something in common, they wanted to both devour the girl in their life and let her know that she had nowhere else to go. Johnny wanted full control of her, he wanted her to know that she had absolutely no safety when she was around him. She would stay with him forever, she had nowhere else to run to.

Adrenaline pumping, his fists tightened around the wheel as he drove. He wanted to teach that bitch a lesson for making him wait so damn long for some pussy. He wanted to keep her all for himself. He wanted her now. He wanted her to go with him and never return home. She would be in his presence 24/7, and he would not feel the jealousy he felt when she talked to others but him. He chewed on his lip as his pupils began to expand. This song dug into some other part of Johnny that he did not know he had.

He did not understand why she was so special to him. Why he felt jealousy towards the people around her. Why he felt the need to keep her in his home. Why he felt the desire to even keep her alive. But here he was, listening to his favorite song and wondering about how her head would look like impaled on a fence pick.

They were supposed to hang out today at her house as her parents were gone on a trip. He wore his dark blue flares with a black shirt, a little reminiscent of his hunting outfit. He slicked his hair back to perfection and wore some bone jewelry Nubbins made him. It was easy for him to look good no matter what. That’s what brought in dinner, and dinner made the family happy. Family comes first, right?

Pulling into the driveway, Johnny sighed and glanced in the mirror one last time before getting out of his truck. He did not want to keep putting up his sweet country boy persona but he knew he had to. As annoying as it was, it lured everyone in. Made them believe the lies he spoke.

Knuckles rapping the door, he waited for her to come to his calling. He held no expression, his face at its natural state. As much as he tried to hide it, his natural face was very telling of who he was and what he was feeling. It was void of many attributes of what made a human being. It looked like it was an lifeless portrait.

As soon as she answered the door, his facial expression immediately changed. One that was grinning. “Hey sweet pea.”

She returned his smile. “Hey Johnny. Come in!”

Welcoming inside of her home, Johnny glanced around. He had been inside her home before, and he had the layout of it inside of his head. While she slept in her bed, he would wander around the house like a silent leopard. He was able to memorize all exit points.

He knew it was worth the trouble.

“So what’s the plan, babydoll?” He asked with a small smirk. He pulled her body flush to his as she blushed.

“I was thinking I make us some lunch and we can watch a movie. I got some tapes from the video store.” She said as Johnny peppered kisses on her face.

“How about no lunch and we get into the movie?” He lowered his hand to her ass, grabbing a handful. “Come on.”

She shook her head giggling. “No, Johnny. You already know the answer to that.”

His irritation had risen but he hid it well. “What’s the real reason, doll face? Ya’ been holdin’ out on me for months now.”

“I’m waiting until marriage. You know this.” She replied as Johnny sighed into her neck. She bit her lip, feeling a little guilty that she was holding out on Johnny, making him wait. He was a respectful and loving boyfriend, why should she make him wait?

But it was her choice. No one else’s.

“Guess I gotta’ marry ya’.” Johnny said with a small smile. “Keep ya’ away from everyone else too.”

She chuckled, not understanding what he was hinting at. This only made him smile wider. “Is someone jealous?”

His eye twitched, but she did not see. “Just don’t like other people around ya’.” Johnny said as he rested his hands on her waist. “That’s all.”

“Like who?” She asked jokingly.

“Everyone, doll face.” He replied back.

Still thinking he was joking, she giggled. “Why would you be jealous of everyone around me? You’re still my number one, Johnny.”

His eyes were now darkening and his facial expression was a little off-putting. Almost as if it was not Johnny, it was something else. “I want ya’ ta’ forever stay by my side. I don’t want anyone around ya’ but me.”

“Awww, you’re quite the romantic type.” She said as she burrowed her head into his shoulder.

He scoffed. “I don’t think yer’ understandin’ what I’m sayin’, I want to keep ya’ locked away. Be mine forever.”

The uneasiness began to settle in the pit of her stomach as she pulled away from Johnny for a moment. It was like looking at a stranger. His eyes were not inviting and warm like they once were, they were cold and void. His face was hardened, no smile or any emotion showing. “What do you mean by that?”

“Yer’ a smart girl.” He said lowly. “Piece it together, sunflower.”

Locked away forever? Away from everyone around her? She stepped back from him and he inched closer to her. His murderous aura was beginning to tense the room up. “You want me to be kept away from my friends and family?” She questioned, her fear being exposed through her words.

“Exactly. I hate everyone yer’ around. I want ya’ for myself, and only me.” Johnny now looked much scarier and bigger, his size increasing from what it seemed like to his girlfriend. “I want ta’ kill yer’ parents. Yer’ friends. I hate when they’re around ya’. Ya’ only need me.”

Breathing quickening, she continued to step back as her eyes were wide. Like a rabbit face-to-face with the wolf. Johnny flashed a smile, but it did not hold the same comfort it once did. “Johnny, I need you to leave.”

“Ain’t goin’ anywhere, doll.” He said back as he lunged for her. He narrowly missed her as she dodged his attack, barreling her way to the front door to leave her home. Her adrenaline pumped as Johnny trailed not so far behind her. “Ya’ better get back here ya’ bitch! If ya’ know what’s good for ya’!”

She picked up her pace faster, sprinting down the dirt road and screaming like a banshee for help. But to her dismay, not many people came down that road. It was her and Johnny.

Johnny hopped in his truck and quickly pulled out of her driveway. Pushing his foot as far as he could on the gas pedal, he sped after her. He smiled manically to himself. She was heading right into the direction of the Devil’s lair. The Sawyer home was not too far from hers, so this was going to be easy for him.

Panting and her sides in excruciating pain, she whipped her head back and forth to see how far Johnny was from her. He was pretty damn close to her, and she felt that it was quite unfair that he had the ability to chase her in his truck. Human legs were not always a match for a vehicle.

In the distance, she saw a sunflower field and a two-story home that brought her great relief. She could get help there. That was her way to safety. She quickly rerouted herself to go into the sunflower field making Johnny’s grin wider as he slammed his foot on the break. She was now in his territory. He knew those sunflower fields very well, unbeknownst to her.

The wolf lurched out of his truck and chased after his rabbit who had hopped into the maze of sunflowers. Breathing heavily and moving away the large stems out of her way, she hoped that she was able to escape Johnny this way, or at least throw him off of her path.

That was, until she didn’t hear any footsteps or scurrying behind her. She whipped her head around, attempting to catch her breath as well as look for Johnny, but she did not hear anything.

Just the birds chirping and the soft wind.

“Hey there!” Johnny laughed as he lunged at her from his position. She screeched, running in the opposite direction as he continued his chase once again.

It was not long as a sudden pain surged through her leg as she tumbled to the ground. Her yowling echoed in the field as Johnny smirked at her injured state. “Well well well, look at what the cat dragged in.”

She was caught in Nubbins’ trap. Tears streamed down her face from the amount of pain she was in. Her foot was mangled in the trap. She tried to back away from Johnny who inched closer to her, but it only made her pain worse.

“Sorry doll, it just had to be this way.” He said disappointingly as he kneeled down. “Don’t worry, when you wake up, you will feel better.”

Confused at his words, Johnny immediately slammed her head into the ground to knock her out. She was weak, it was too easy. Undoing the trap and setting it up once again, he picked up her limp body and carried her to his shed that the Sawyers kept on their property for his ‘guests’. As much as Drayton hated it, he did not want it in his home, so he made sure that Johnny kept them out. He made his way into his shack and wrapped her foot up hastily. He did not want to spend much time on her, he needed to prepare for his night.

‘You ran the night that you left me, put me in my place. Got you in a stranglehold baby, you better trust your faith.’

The ache chewed away at her, worsening when she awoke from her drowsy state. Her foot felt like it was searing, and it was extremely uncomfortable. Shifting around, she glanced around her surroundings and her heart dropped. It came flooding back to her where she was at.

Johnny had taken her hostage. Her limbs were tied up and she was laying on a dirty mattress with questionable stains. It was cold and dark. There were no signs of Johnny or anyone else for that matter. The structure she was in was small, almost like it was made to be a shed of some sort. A shed with hardly any light filtering in from the moon and with freezing temperatures.

She shivered while she looked around for an exit point. The door was locked shut and there was one small window. Not that she could fit through it. Attempting to stand up, she gritted her teeth in pain as she tried to walk on her bad foot. She landed right on her butt. It was too painful to get around. Her head throbbed from him slamming it into the ground.

Her thoughts went to her parents, her friends. She did not want to die here. Not from the hands of him. Someone who she trusted, loved. Someone she thought she had a future with. Her eyes watered at the fact that he had betrayed her.

But she could not weep for long as the door began to jiggle, and there was a sound of a key entering the key hole. Wipe her tears away, she looked as the Slaughter boy opened the door. He had a smirk on his face as he approached his piece of meat.

“I see yer’ awake, doll. Ya’ ready to meet the family?” He asked her as kneeled down in front of her. She glared at him, her eyes swimming with anger. “Awwe, don’t give me that look, pretty girl.” He held the back of his hand to her face and she moved her head away. How dare he touch her.

“Come on, let’s get ya’ up.” He said as he cut the rope around her ankles and pulled her up, making her practically scream at the weight she put on her injured foot.

“I can’t walk.” She said aggressively as she moved away from Johnny.

He rolled his eyes. “Figure it out, doll. I ain’t carryin’ ya.”

Limping and fighting back tears, she attempted to walk beside him. It was so painful. Blood oozed out of her wound, and the corners of her vision began to blacken. Johnny pulled her along faster, grumbling about her taking her sweet time, and the pain increased. She felt dizzy. She could not run from Johnny now, not in this condition.

He pulled her inside the house, leading her to the dining room where his family sat. Sissy whistled when her brought her to the table, forcing her to sit as he tied her to the chair.

“Ya’ really did pick a purty’ one, Johnny.” She purred as she eyed his girlfriend. “Ma’ names Sissy. I’ve never had a sister before.”

“Oh stop it, Sissy.” Johnny said flatly. “Now yer’ just kissin’ ass.”

Sissy frowned. “Rather it be that way than for me ta’ try cuttin’ her up.” The woman’s heart rate increased and her eyes began to dart around.

“Ya’ wouldn’t try nothin’.” said the Slaughter boy with a glare. “Not on my watch.”

“Be quiet both of ya’! Sit down and eat dinner.” Cook yelled at the two ‘siblings’. “This girl is more trouble than she’s worth.”

“Oh keep it quiet, old man.” Johnny snapped. “Ya’ couldn’t get it up if ya’ even wanted to. Don’t stick yer’ nose in my business.”

Nubbins doubled over in laughter while Bubba wrung his hands anxiously. Drayton’s face turned red as he narrowed his eyes at the young man. “Wait until yer’ mother finds out about yer’ foolishness! Ya’ created a mess for yerself’ Johnny!”

“It ain’t any of yer’ business.” Johnny stabbed into the unknown meat on his plate with a knife. “Don’t fuck with me and piss me off before dinner, old man.”

Drayton shut up and stared at his dinner plate angrily. The tension in the room was suffocating. She felt awkward. Johnny nudged her plate towards her while he chewed on a piece of meat. “Don’t be shy.”

Nausea twisted in her stomach as she grimaced. “I can’t.”

“Yes ya’ can. Try it.” He said encouragingly.

“What is it?” She asked, almost not wanting to know.

Nubbins giggled while Sissy grinned, exchanging a look with the twin. “Just try it sweetheart.”

Johnny stabbed in a chunk and held it to her lips. “Open wide, doll face.”

Not wanting to upset them this early, she bit into a small piece of it. She chewed slowly, tasting the seasonings and flavor.

Johnny couldn’t help his wide, sadistic smile on his face. “It’s good, isn’t it sweetheart?”

She nodded, swallowing it completely. “What is it?”

If his grin could get wider, then it definitely did. “Nothin’ much, just someone’s liver.”

Her face paled. Bile had risen up in her throat and she threw up on the table. Sissy recoiled back and Drayton looked at the girl like she was disgusting. “Now ya’ threw up all over dinner!”

She coughed and held her head down. Johnny t’sked as he shook his head. “Way to go. Now yer’ just bein’ ungrateful.”

Sissy approached her with a napkin, attempting to wipe away the bile from her face until Johnny grabbed her wrist harshly. “Now what do ya’ think yer’ doin’?”

“Cleanin’ her up since ya’ ain’t bein’ a gentleman.” Sissy replied with a roll of her eyes. “Why? Is that a problem?”

“Get yer’ filthy hands off of her. Ya’ ain’t allowed to touch her.” Johnny smacked at Sissy’s hands while she pulled away.

Sissy crossed her arms. “What are ya’ afraid of, Johnny? It’s not like I’m hurtin’ her.”

“Don’t act like yer’ sunshine and rainbows. Yer’ just as fucked up as the rest of us, Sissy. Cut the act.” Johnny was now angry.

Her eyebrows furrowed, and she clenched her jaw. “How about ya’ stop keepin’ her to yerself’ and start sharin’ the meat ya’ bring! She ain’t nothin’ else to ya’ but somethin’ to fuck.”

“Are ya’ jealous or just being bitchy?” Johnny asked with a huff. “It ain’t yer’ business what I’m doin’.”

They began to bicker back and forth. She felt herself spin as their voices got louder and louder. There was a piece of wood sticking out behind the chair that she began to rub the rope back and forth across. If it could cut through the rope, she would be free. All she had to do was bolt out the front door. If she could find it.

'Some people think they gonna die someday. I got news you never got to go.'

Their yells ensued to screams, ones that caused Bubba to rock back and forth while crying and Drayton to scream at them to shut up. Her ears rung, and the rope gave way. Waiting for the right moment, she pushed Sissy harshly out of the way, making her land on the ground.

“Get back ’ere!” Sissy screeched as she quickly got up from the floor to chase Johnny’s girlfriend. Johnny trailed after her, telling Sissy to leave it to him. She limped to the front door and unlocked it quickly, swinging it open and hitting Sissy and Johnny in the face. They both hit the floor, stunned and staring up at the ceiling as Drayton screamed at Bubba to get his chainsaw and Nubbins to chase her.

She ran, well, what she could only describe as running. Her ankle hurt terribly, blood coating the cloth Johnny had wrapped around it. Every step shot pain up her leg, but she was running on adrenaline. She screamed as loud as she could for help, but all she heard back was her own echoes and the revving of Bubba’s chainsaw. She continued to wail as Johnny started to catch up to her.

"Gotcha!" he yelled as he pulled her close to him and started to fight with her. She wrestled him as much as she good, putting all of her weight on her injured ankle despite how much distress the injury was in. More blood seeped out and stained the dirt road. Bubba's revving got closer and closer the more they continued to fight. Johnny grinned manically at her, grunting and taunting her while she wrestled him off. She was able to push him to the ground, sprinting off right before Sissy could slash her with her knife. Sissy yelled at Johnny to get his lazy ass up off the ground and continued the chase that Johnny couldn't seem to catch up with.

As much as he liked to play games, this one had more fight in her than he thought. She had never showed this side of her when they were dating. At least, not to this extent. Recovering from yet another stun, Johnny got to his feet and narrowed his eyes. He needed to put an end to it now. This was beginning to only piss him off more since Drayton decided to ruin their dinner with his two cents.

He started the chase again, sprinting as fast as he could and breathing heavily. He had to catch up with his prey and Sissy, and he hoped that Sissy wouldn't take his kill. She was his, not hers.

"That'll teach ya' ta' fuckin' push me!" Sissy said with a laugh as she slashed her knife at the girl, making her adrenaline peak more and more. Her wounds oozed red liquid that trailed behind her, and she felt the edges of her vision darken. She did not want to die here; she did not want to die at the hands of her captors. She had almost reached the edge of the property, and she had the entire family chasing her down. Even Drayton was in it, he was just last compared to his family, and he was screeching like a banshee to kill her.

Sissy grabbed her, but she turned around quickly to fight off the woman. Wrestling her like she did Johnny, she launched Sissy to the ground before taking off again. Sissy stared up at the night sky for a second before recollecting herself. Johnny passed her and teased her. "Guess ya' gettin' lazy too." She wanted to punch the Slaughter boy in the face for creating a huge mess.

She had now crossed over the edge of the Sawyer property. Lungs heavy and the pain hitting her, she felt weakened. But she was not out of the radar yet. She continued to run, as well as scream for help, as Johnny trailed behind her. The rest of the family did not follow him off the property. They knew that whatever took place outside of the property was something they did not need to witness. He was never nice with his punishments.

Suddenly, she was rolling on the ground with Johnny, dirt flying everywhere as he tackled her. He sat on top of her and held her arms down. She felt so angry. She was so close to escaping, yet here she was now. Underneath Johnny who stared down at her like a hungry wolf.

"You and your entire family are crazy! Let me go, Johnny!" She fought against his grip on her arms.

"Can't do that, sunshine." He said back, his facial features almost consumed in darkness. But she could still see those eyes. "Ya' caused a lot of trouble tonight. Too much. I thought ya' would be different."

Her heart dropped at his words. "There were more before me?"

"Did ya' really think I was some sort of virgin boy? Of course, there were more before ya', there was plenty." He smiled at her, but it was empty. "I just thought ya'd be different. I wished ya' were different."

"I would never stay with you. I would rather die than to be held captive by you! You are crazy!" She retorted back while her face scrunched up. Disgust filled her body. To think this was the man she wanted to marry one day, have a future with. And this is what he did to her.

His eyes darkened and he frowned. He grabbed her by the hair and held his hunting knife up to her throat. "Watch yer' mouth, girl. Ya' suddenly forget that I can easily kill ya'." Johnny did have a good point, and she whimpered quietly when he pressed the knife deeper to her throat. Her wide eyes locked with his, fear swimming in them. He felt goosebumps rise on his skin from seeing the fear. It was something he liked to see on his victims.

Johnny moved the knife away from her throat and smiled again. "There girl, don'tcha worry now." His gloved hand caressed the side of her face. "You'll come around; I promise ya' that. But I can't promise ya' that my family won't try to kill ya'. Ya' gave them a headache."

'You created it yourself,' she thought to herself when Johnny got to his feet and pulled her up. Her ankle yowled in pain. She did not want to go back to the Devil's Lair. She could not. Not when she got so far. Johnny did not make an effort to help her along, and she took another opportunity. Elbow ready, she rammed it straight into his crotch, making Johnny double over in pain. "God-fuckin' dammit!"

She took off again in the opposite direction, still screaming for help as she limped along. She wanted to get away no matter what. Despite how much agony her body was in and how much blood dripped from her wounds, she could not let them win. Johnny was in pain, but he was now aggravated. He had given her many chances to play nice, but she took advantage of his kindness. All because she wanted to control the situation. He did not like that.

He stumbled towards her direction to ease the pain that did not seem to let up. He knew he would have to tough this one out. He could not let his prey escape. Starting to jog, he trailed after her. He would catch up to her one way or another.

And he did. He tackled her once more to the ground, his hands wrapping around her throat and squeezing. He had a snarl on his lips as he tightened his grip. Choking out, she clawed at Johnny's hands and face to try to loosen his grip. But he only made it worse.

"This will be the last time ya' try to two-time me." Johnny muttered as he stared her down. "I wish it was different. I really do. But ya' made me do this."

Her eyes fluttered as she felt all the air escape her lungs. She could never escape him. Why did she think she could? Johnny Slaughter hardly let his prey get away.

Choking again, her arms splayed out next to her and her vision and hearing fading in and out, she was defeated.

With a crunch, Johnny snapped her neck. He breathed hard as he looked at his beautiful creation. He was an artist himself. He knew deep down inside she was worth all the trouble. But it was time to feed the family. He knew he owed it to them.

Picking up her limp body, he lifted her over his shoulder and began to walk back to the Sawyer house. There was never a chase he didn’t end up enjoying. No matter how much trouble they caused.

‘I got you in a stranglehold baby. That night I crushed your face.’

[snelbz]

Better Or Worse {Chapter One}

Nessian. Angst. Modern AU.

@snelbz x @theladyofdeath collab

Better or Worse Masterlist

A/N: We are so excited to share this one with you guys! As you know, angst is sort of our specialty and while this one will be pretty heavy, we’ve tried to sprinkle a good amount of fluff as well. We hope you love it and always, please let us what you think!

Chapter Warning: Language.

Nesta -

“I'm going to bed.”

My fingers come to a pause on my keyboard. I glance up and find Cassian leaning against the door frame of my office.

The clock in the corner of the computer screen tells me it’s 10:46. I know he’s not telling me to try and entice me to join him. No, he’d given up on that weeks ago.

My fingers go back to flying over the plastic keys, clicking as I try to pick back up the stream of consciousness I was working on when Cassian interrupted. “I want to get this draft finalized tonight. I only have a few chapters left. The publishing company will have my ass if it isn’t submitted before tomorrow afternoon.”

Excuse.

That’s all I’m full of anymore. Excuses.

Excuses as to why I’m always at my office downtown late or don’t ever want to go to dinner. Why I’m distant or never try to touch him.

“Can you at least try to make it home by six tomorrow night? Please?”

My gaze leaves the screen and lands on him again. “I’ll try. You know I’ve got deadlines I have to hit.”

He’s as handsome as always, even more so with the shadow of stubble across his jaw. He must not have shaved this morning, if the dusting of hair was any indicator. That wasn’t like him. Shaving was a part of his daily routine, quickly followed by his morning shower. My husband may be brash and blunt, but he’s a man who has and loves his routines.

Routines that often feel like they are smothering me, stifling any spark of spontaneity in my soul.

His arms are crossed over his muscular chest, his tattoos just barely peeking out over the neckline of his t-shirt. I know those tattoos intimately, can trace them with my eyes closed.

It’s been far too long since I’ve done that.

His voice pulls me from my thoughts of the ink adorning his skin. “I’ll cook. Get a bottle of your favorite wine. We don’t have to go anywhere.”

He sounds like he’s negotiating a hostage situation, not asking me to dinner. I hate it.

I stop typing, trying my best not to show my annoyance. “I don’t know. I’ll have to see.”

Cassian's reaction does not reflect any sort of satisfaction. “Come on, Nesta. We haven’t had a date night in months. I will literally bring date night to you—”

“I said I’ll have to see.” The moment the words come out of my mouth, I feel guilty. My tone is embarrassing, but I can’t control it, the snap. 

Cassian's mouth shuts and his jaw locks. “Fine.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

A beat passes between us before I start typing again. I can feel Cassian’s eyes blazing into the back of my head for a minute, then he’s turning around. “Night.”

“Goodnight,” I say, trying to sound as genuine as possible, but mostly I just sound stressed.

Which I am.

So damn stressed. 

I hear him walk down the hall and close our bedroom door. I stop typing yet again, my eyes shutting as I rub my temples. 

At least I’m honest. I could tell Cassian that I’d be home by dinner tomorrow, but then I would be late and he would just be disappointed and get pissed. It’s better to let him down up front rather than too late.

Being a best selling author isn’t all I was expecting it to be. Sure, seeing my book on shelves next to some of my all time favorites is awesome, but it’s daunting. My first book was self published, coming to life out of my own blood, sweat, and tears. So once it took off and I started working with a publishing company, I thought I’d made it. Things were going to get easier. All I had to do was get my words down onto paper and they’d do the rest.

Wrong.

Someone is always demanding something. Whether that’s a finalized draft, an update on an outline, or approval for cover artwork, I never have a moment to breathe.

As if the universe is laughing at me, a new text chimes on my phone, lying face down on my desk. I recognize the sound, immediately knowing it’s my agent, Eris.

I sigh, telling myself to ignore the notification. I’m already editing hours after I should be, but my eyes keep bouncing up to my phone. After reading the same sentence four times, not comprehending a single word, I snatch my phone up.

Got a phone call from the Velaris Times. They have an opening for an interview tomorrow afternoon.

An opportunity I can’t pass up.

Sounds like a plan. My office or theirs?

If I thought I would be able to focus back on my edits, I was wrong. Eris is typing back as soon as my text is received.

Over dinner, actually. Viviane Whittaker will meet you at Rita’s at 5:30.

My thumbs hover over the screen.

Can you at least try to make it home by six tomorrow night? Please?

Swallowing, I type out my reply.

I’ll be there fifteen minutes early.

I should go tell Cassian that there will be no date night tomorrow, but I think better of it. I’m already so tired and that is not a fight that I want to start so late at night. I’ll just text him about tomorrow.

I look back up at my screen and try to reset my mind, call back my concentration. Just as I begin reading, a jingling bell comes closer and a ball of fluff settles on my feet.

I look down at the chubby black cat and reach down to scratch him between the ears. “Hi, Greg.”

Greg shoots me a look full of judgment. 

“Don’t try to guilt me,” I say, straightening back up in my chair. “I already feel guilty enough.”

With a huff, Greg lays his head against the carpet and closes his eyes. I’m officially the only one in the house not fast asleep.

Cassian -

I haven’t gotten mind-numbingly drunk since college, but all I want to do once I get out of work is drink to forget. I’ve never been good at handling my anger, and I was already on edge, so when Nesta texted me saying that she had dinner plans and would be home late, I was automatically seeing red.

I just want one night with my wife but I should have known that was too much to ask for. It usually is. 

Already finding Rhys’ number in my phone, I hop in my truck and start the engine as he answers.

“We’re going out tonight. Drinks are on me,” I say, before he can even say hello. 

“It’s a Thursday,” he replies with a laugh, but I know he’d be there regardless. Out of all of us, Rhys was the one who had ended up with a real “big boy” job. He’s one of the most respected lawyers in Velaris, and having his own practice, he basically gets to make his own hours if he isn’t in court.

“Glad you can read a calendar.” I sound like a dick but I can’t bring myself to care. “I’ll be at Windhaven in fifteen.”

“Should I call Az or is he already on the way?”

“I texted him first. Didn’t want him to leave work and have to turn around.”

Azriel works in a tattoo parlor two blocks down from our favorite spot, but lives outside of town. With Elain being pregnant, there’s only so much time we get with our brother.

I look over at the empty spot in the garage next to mine and sigh.

A hole in my chest that has been progressively growing larger aches. I’ve always been proud of Nesta. She’s always wanted to be an author since the day I met her, and she’s living her dream. And she’s really damn good at it. She has a way with words that I could never understand, that I couldn’t even come close to matching. She was meant to be a writer.

But ever since she’s found success, I’ve come in second.

It’s not that I always have to be her first priority. I want her to live for more than me, but it would be nice to be a priority sometimes. It would be nice for her to put our marriage first, to make time for me, for us. I barely even see her, and when I do, her eyes are glued to her laptop screen. She didn’t come to bed until four, then was up again at seven, barely uttering a word to me before she left for her office. 

“Cass?”

I haven’t even realized that Rhys has been talking to me. “Sorry.”

“I’ll be there in half an hour,” he says, and his tone has softened, fully aware of where my mind has gone. “Get a booth.” 

“Alright.” I hang up, reading Azriel’s text on my screen once I pull the phone away from my ear.

Perfect. Had to tattoo a flower on an 80 year old woman’s ass today. I need a drink. 

Despite my current mood, I chuckle and pull out of the driveway. Keeping the radio off, I drive, wondering if I should send Nesta a good luck text. In all reality, she probably won’t reply, so I toss my phone in the passenger seat and let it be. 

If Nesta wants to talk to me, wants to spend time with me, she would be home for dinner for once. I know I’m being petty, but after a while, being neglected by the woman you married becomes exhausting. 

And I’m so damn tired. I need booze and bad food and my brothers. I’m man enough to admit when I need to get something off my chest, but not enough to do it sober.

Rhys’s instructions to get a booth were unnecessary. Azriel unsurprisingly beat me here and is sitting in our normal booth, the one with a direct line of sight to the bartender. A pitcher of beer sits in the middle of the table as well as three glasses. I appreciate my brother’s propensity to think ahead, but I need something harder than beer tonight.

Nodding to Az, I make a beeline to the bar. Breathing a sigh of relief, I see Ace is the one behind the bar tonight, not Devlon. The old man owns the bar and has never been a fan of me, Rhys or Az.

“You look like you need a free drink,” Ace says, as I make it to the bar and lean against the cool wooden top. 

“I always need a free drink.” The words sound pitiful coming out of my mouth. Ace just winks and pours me a glass of whiskey without even having to ask me what I want. “Thanks.”

“Always,” she says, patting my hand before I turn to walk to the booth. I’ll see her again shortly. I don’t expect the glass of whiskey to last too long before I need another. 

Azriel watches me approach, his glass already halfway gone. I nod to it as I sit across from him. “Has the image of elderly ass been erased from your mind yet?”

“No,” Azriel says, taking another drink. “But the memory looks better and better with every drink.”

I huff a laugh as I sip from my glass of whiskey, enjoying the burn as it slides down my throat and I pour a glass from the pitcher in the middle of the table. 

Rhysand appears beside me and slides onto the bench. I hadn’t even realized that he’d walked in, but in my defense, I’m hardly present. 

After pleasant hellos and Rhysand pouring his own glass, he asks, “So, is this when you tell us the reason you want to get plastered on a Thursday?” 

Swirling my glass, I watch as the whiskey moves through the ice cubes, the color diluting as they melt slowly. Bringing my drink to my lips, I drink deeply and set the glass down, staring at the table top.

“My marriage is falling apart.”

Neither of them speak.

Neither of them do anything.

I wasn’t expecting them to fall over themselves to comfort me, but I was at least expecting a back pat or an I’m sorry, man. Glancing up from the table, they both just stare at me.

The look in their eyes tells me they knew. Everyone knows. We haven’t been ourselves in months. I can’t think of the last time we were both at a family dinner.

“I don’t know what to do,” I go on, when neither of them say a word. “I’ve been trying…but every time I try, no matter what I try, I feel like I’m pushing her further away.” I take a drink. “I’m exhausted.”

I down what’s in my glass and motion for Ace to make me another. 

“I tried to give her a date night tonight,” I go on, working on my beer that’s quickly disappearing. My brothers simply watch me as I babble. “We haven’t had a date night in months. She never seems interested, so I stopped asking. Last night, I asked, for the first time in a long damn time.” I gesture around the table. “As you can see, I’m not with my wife.” 

“Where is she?” Azriel asks, when it’s clear I’d paused my rambling, at last. 

Another glass of whiskey is set in front of me. I give Ace a grateful look before shrugging. “With some reporter. Not sure where. They’re out to dinner and will probably be there until some ridiculous hour.” 

Azriel looks away from me, his eyes locking with Rhys and then I feel both of their gazes on me. I turn to Rhys, who is usually the one who takes the lead in awkward situations. Tonight is apparently no different.

“She won’t have dinner with you, but she’ll meet some skeezy reporter for dinner?” He asks, an eyebrow raised.

Shrugging my shoulders, I start on my second drink. “So it seems.”

He folds his arms atop the table and leans towards me. “And you didn’t ask where they were going? Or when she would be home?”

“I stopped asking what time she’d be home months ago.” My voice sounds hollow, empty. I wonder how long it’s sounded like that. “And begging for answers seemed pathetic.”

They make eye contact again and Azriel clears his throat. “You don’t…think she’s having an affair, do you?”

“Absolutely not.”

He sighs. “Cass—”

“She isn’t sleeping with anyone else.”

“Cass,” Rhys begins, his tone as placating as possible, slipping into the voice of the man who can convince anyone of anything. It’s what makes him such a good defense lawyer. It makes me want to break something. Makes me feel weak. “We know you love Nesta and that she loves you.”

“She wouldn’t cheat on me,” I snap, and I mean it. We might not be on great terms right now, but Nesta is loyal to those she loves.

And despite the distance between us, I have to believe she still loves me.

“Sorry,” I say, trying to calm myself down once the silence between us stretches on for too long. The air is thick. They know they had struck a chord and are surely deciding if they want to keep the conversation going. “I just…don’t think that’s the case.”

“If she’s not cheating, then what’s the issue?” Azriel asks, tentatively. “Her work?”

“Yeah, she’s busy,” I say, staring at my empty glass. “But…I don’t know. Honestly, I have no fucking clue how we got here. We barely talk. Most nights, she doesn’t even come to bed. I can’t even tell you the last time we had sex.” That was a lie. I remember it, and it was way too long ago for me to admit. “Every time we do talk, it ends in a fight. I’m just…at the end of my rope. I don’t know what to do.”

The table is quiet for another minute before Rhys asks, “Are you saying that you want to leave her?”

It’s not that the thought has never crossed my mind. Lately, I think about it often, filing for divorce, giving up, but hearing the words out loud make me feel sick to my stomach.

I don’t answer.

I wave to Ace for another whiskey.

The table is silent until she brings the drink and returns to the bar.

“I don’t see what other options I have.” My words are whispered, as if I can’t hear them, they aren't coming out. My words are starting to slur a bit, a good sign I should probably slow down.

I ignore that sign and take a drink.

“You two fought like cats and dogs when you first met,” Rhys reminds me, as if I could somehow forget. “What’s different now?”

“Those weren’t fights, that was sexual tension,” I admit, shaking my head. “Gotta have sex for there to be sexual tension.”

Azriel refills his beer. “She hasn’t said anything to Elain, as far as I know.”

“Or Feyre,” Rhys adds.

“You both know Nesta,” I start, looking between the two of them. “She doesn’t talk about her feelings with anyone, much less me or her sisters.”

They both frown, watching me with concern, seemingly at a loss for words. 

“Do you still love her?” Azriel asks.

“Of course I do,” I say, my anger fading as the alcohol calms me, consumes me. “But just because I love her doesn’t mean that it’s working anymore.”

“Don’t make any rash decisions,” Rhys says, calmly, refilling my beer for me before motioning to Ace for another pitcher. Seems I’m done with whiskey for the night. “I know you, don’t act out of anger. You have to tell Nesta how frustrated you are. You have to communicate.”

I know he’s right, know that communication has become a weakness in our marriage. I don’t  want to communicate, I don’t want to work for it, I just want my marriage to right itself, to return to the way it used to be.

And I want to fucking drink.

So that’s what I do, alongside my brothers, until I’m not thinking about my crumbling marriage at all.

[ighnari]

d3 . bookstore

# ... xingqiu x reader, bookstore!au, little bit of enemies to closer friends, 2k words.

& … cliffhanger / unfinished. at least, not in the nearest or near future. this was a draft i wrote for au august (2023 edition). the prompt was #bookstore. unfortunately, this idea was too large to handle & i learned a bit of xingqiu's personality that made me decide this story was not something i wanted to continue without major modifications. these 2k words are my blood, sweat, and tears of a total of... a few days, with the whole document (drafts & planning) being 3,939 words. so this draft means a lot to me and i don't want to delete it so soon.

“Where’s Xingqiu?” Xu asks, worry-scrunched face silently pleading for you to co-operate. Xu was busy doing his duty as a cashier for the past 40 minutes, so you can’t blame him for not noticing the stellar colleague has vanished.

However, you noticed.

Xingqiu has been missing for more than 40 minutes. (40 minutes and 12 seconds to be exact).

How would you know that? You’re more deserving of the title—stellar colleague—than that rascal. That’s the answer. Yet you’ve been starved from it for 2 months! That’s 2 books you could have taken for free! Your bag is void of a good book, and you do not appreciate it.

“I signed up to work part-time in a bookstore, not a day care.” You roll your eyes, crossing your arms to add an effect, but the moment the bell at the glass entrance rings, you straighten your back, clasp your hands in front of you and bow in greeting. The customer is unbothered, and only when he’s out of earshot do you glare at Xu.

Disappearing could be Xingqiu’s middle name if middle names were a thing. You aren’t against searching for that rascal, but the effort isn’t worth it when he always appears as if he wasn’t gone for who knows how long.

(20 minutes. He’s usually gone for around 20 minutes, not that you were counting. He’ll return just before the afternoon rush.)

To further dampen your spirits, beneath that customer smile he wears is a phantom smirk. After every attempt at finding where he went, when you gawk at him, his eyes gleam with knowing—he wants you to search for him, so his act of innocence is a declaration of his victory. He will never let you find him. It lasts for a second before you start to believe you’re hallucinating.

Xu has commented that you are more like Xingqiu than you think.

What a preposterous claim! You’re clearly the better employee because even if you might disappear sometimes (okay—you admit—you disappear every day the moment Xingqiu returns from his little “get away” because he’s perfectly capable handling the afternoon crowd with his lady-killer smile and dashing charisma), at least it’s only for a brief period of 10 minutes.

Xu must pick his poison, and personally, you believe you’re the better option. You have been for the past months as attested by your record of being the best employee.

In fact, you’re doing Xu a favour for tucking yourself in the storage room to read whatever book you managed to get for free that month. You and customers are not a good pair. You’d rather do things related to logistics—checking stock, ordering books misplaced by shoppers…

Shelf 910. A customer catches your attention.

You’ve seen him wander around the store a few times. He’s sincere in his love for books, although he has a habit hard to ignore. As he spreads the soft cover book open, you can practically hear its spine bending. He flips through the first 10 pages—this, you will admit to counting—and if he dislikes the book, he’ll place it back as if he did not just commit murder. If he likes the book however… he places it back as if he did not just commit murder, proceeds to take a fresh, untouched book off the shelf, and waltz to the counter.

You fume, turning to Xu.

You’re ready to report this sight to him, but Xu is not the person you should look for. He’ll probably brush it off that there’s not much can be done other than handing repeated warnings.

“You know what? I think I’d rather search for that rascal.”

“Be careful with your words,” Xu warns, wagging his finger. “He’s most likely going to be Feiyun Commerce and Book’s future heir—your boss.”

“When that happens, I will gladly resign.”

You twirl around and march off.

You look behind you to check if Xu notices you’re headed to the storeroom. He’s talking to that customer from shelf 910. You take a quick peak at the book he’s holding—martial art novels are growing in popularity—and decide you can always claim you gave up finding your future boss, choosing the most sensible alternative to look for a replacement for the book the customer just destroyed.

It’s hard to say if you want that future to happen sooner rather than later. Feiyun Commerce and Books is a large enterprise that pays decently, and they permit employees who work hard to grab a book for free. However, interacting with customers is not something you’ll want to break your back for. Perhaps it might be if you’re given a free book, but what’s the point in suffocating your annoyance when your rightful position has been stolen?

Sighing once the storeroom door closes behind you, you slide down and rest your head against the cold metal. Xingqiu didn’t care about titles. Why was he suddenly so eager to overthrow your plans? On the bright side, this anomaly of him disappearing for more than 20 minutes might mean you can claim a free book this month.

There’s a shuffle deeper in the storeroom. You grab a nearby broom, scanning the area for the source of the noise.

It could be a rat.

As you’re nearing your favourite spot to hide and snuggle with a good story during the afternoon peak, a familiar blob of blue hair occupies the supposedly empty space.

“Xingqiu?”

He looks up from his book.

“I was wondering when you’ll greet me.” He grunts as he gets on his feet, wiping his clothes to even out the creases. “I suppose the only reason you’re here is because I overran my leisure time, although I would say it was worth. The ending of this story was satisfactory.”

Staring at the cover, it’s the same book that the customer at shelf 910 bought.

“What are you doing here?”

He looks at you. It should be with an expression of confusion—you think—but he shows you a smile, one that’s different from what you’re used to seeing.

“This,” you point to the area he warmed with his bottom, “is my spot.”

“Ah. This is where you go to hide during the afternoon rush.”

“No! I mean, maybe? I mean, yes, but that’s not the point. You come here to read?”

“And why do you find that surprising? I wouldn’t be if you did that as well. Isn’t that why you try to attain Feiyun’s stellar colleague title every month?”

You narrow your eyes.

He smirks.

You’ve only imagined him holding such an expression—an illusion cooked in your head from his mien. Seeing him actually smirk causes you to narrow your eyes even more, the sight too… ghastly to take in. You don’t want to get used to it even if you think it suits who you believe is behind that perfect smile.

“How’d you…” you shake your head, dumbfounded. You wanted a peaceful moment away from the bustle of the bookstore, yet you find yourself a headache—not that you have one, although it is logical to have one now.

“You aren’t the only one who has eyes around here.” You feel there’s a double meaning behind his words with the way he tilts his head to look at you, but this isn’t literature class, and for the sake of your brain, you don’t want to read too much into it. Xingqiu takes a second to add, “I don’t think there’s any other spot to sit and read without worry about back issues.”

So that’s what he meant.

You put the broom aside, refraining yourself from using it to hit his head.

He gives a brief goodbye after handing you the book to take good care of it, and he’s out of the storeroom. Through the circular window of the door, you see his customer smile plastered on his face as he greets a man.

You eye the book in your hands.

The spine is in perfect condition.

Dang it. You forgot to tell him about the customer at shelf 910. Xingqiu would have known how to handle it.

...

It’s as if yesterday never happened as he does his task and you do yours—he handles the people while you fix the arrangements of books.

 Xingqiu disappears, then returns just before the spike in customers. Nothing strange. Xu doesn’t notice, at least not enough to complain.

Knowing your presence isn’t required with Xingqiu around, you slip through the storeroom to take a breather and decide it doesn’t hurt to read that book the customer of shelf 910 utterly killed during your self-imposed break. You can’t sell it looks like a family heirloom with its imperfect spine.

As you approach your comfort corner, you notice a few pillows and half-eaten snacks. A note is plastered to the wall.

Only one person will do such a thing.

It takes you 5 minutes to understand Xingqiu’s horrible handwriting, and to save you time, you end up guessing most of what it reads.

Don’t forget to clean up~ We wouldn’t want Xu to know of our secret spot, would we?

You roll your eyes. Of course. He’s taking advantage of you using the space after him. You can see the devil’s horn in the way he styles his hair. He once said it’s natural. It only proved your point.

You take a bite of the finger food regardless. After all, it is your favourite snack. You’ve brought it to the store on a few occasions when you were a newbie to calm down after interacting with more demanding customers.

The book in your hands isn’t bad for the first 10 pages either. If Xingqiu says the ending is good…

You eagerly flip the pages on a mission to prove he’s wrong. Unfortunately, your alarm chimes to signal the end of 10 minutes, and if you want to grab that stellar colleague title, you best get to work.

There’s a customer at shelf 218 that’s in front of the storeroom. You’ve never seen her before. Her eyes sweep across the books, a look of disdain on her pretty features.

She raises her hand for assistance even if you’re a few steps away, persistent on staring at book spines that displeases her. You ready yourself for service, but Xingqiu beats you to it. The lady turns her head, a gentle oh escapes her lips when she realises who is currently attending to her, and you slip through the bookshelves.

Unnoticed.

Just any regular day.

...

“You know,” you say without much thought. It’s the weekend, and Xingqiu does not work on weekends. At least, when he’s not trying to steal your employee benefits. “I don’t quite understand why Xingqiu is here. He has a whole franchise to inherit so he doesn’t need to fill his day with needless work.”

To make matters worse, it’s not like Feiyun is known for its books. He probably will thrive in other sectors of Feiyun’s business; charisma enough to make an elephant fall.

Sure, the store has a sizable crowd during peak hours, but if three employees—or Xingqiu and a cashier—can handle the afternoon crowd, it says something about their sales. What sustains the company is their larger trade. Only in recent years did they expand to do business with books. Hence why their name, Feiyun Commerce and Books, sounds like the latter is an afterthought.

“He might be lazy,” Xu quips, almost endearingly, while counting the cash inside the cashier, “but he can be passionate.”

“You’re giving him too much credit,” you scoff, but when preparing to fire a comeback, your tongue is empty of snide remarks. You won’t admit it, but you’ve seen the way he handles his books delicately, and at first, you thought he disappeared during work hours since he hated his job—forced to watch over the new venture of his family business—so you were surprised to see him enjoying himself with a book in his hands. But really, you should have seen it coming after accidentally eavesdropping on his conversation when a friend of his dropped by during his break and he rambled on martial art novels.

Passionate is a suitable word to describe the way he runs things in the store if you want to be generous.

“As I said, you’re more similar to him than you think, and I bet he knows it,” Xu says.

You roll your eyes.

“He’s the charm, I’m just the cog. You can’t even compare the two.”

[cuquitalocita]

the hot girl from physics class- rowaelin

AN: okay this has been sitting in my drafts for MONTHS and i just found it again. this is literally just self indulgent bickering with absolutely not plot in mind. also my first time writing rowaelin because i had no desire to butcher them so... anyway here’s to first tries and i hope you all enjoy!

main masterlist

~~

Rowan’s mouth tasted of metal.  Or maybe it was blood.  

The second thing that hit him was the inability to breathe through his mouth as he attempted to swallow a mouthful of nonexistent air.  The motion sent his eyes shooting open, immediately registering that while his mouth was covered, his nose was not, and he managed a large inhale of hot air before exploding into a rage of rough coughs that left him breathless and once again on the verge of blacking out.  Rowan thrashed in what seemed to be a chair, quickly realizing that both his arms and legs were bound tighter than he thought possible, and no amount of lacrosse training could prepare him for the fatigue he felt at that moment.  The dark spots in his vision didn’t seem to help either and his sweat shone skin seemed to melt in on itself as he took a few more breaths through his nose, slower this time until he was somewhat steady.  

It was only then he felt stable enough to figure out what the hell had happened.  The last thing he remembered was excusing himself to go to the bathroom before the bus was supposed to take off.  He had been walking down the empty hallway one moment and the last thing he could recall was the strange sensation of being as light as a feather before darkness overtook him.  And now he was here.  And… where was here exactly?

A sort of warehouse it seemed, with tall metal walls and a lofted ceiling, freezing regardless of the fact that it was barely fall meaning it was most likely abandoned.  Night shone through the glass windows he identified to his right and left and across from him sat-

“CELEANA?” Rowan attempted to scream out, his cloth-filled mouth muffling the sound to almost nothing.  But he was right, and his vision refused to fail him as his eyes widened at the hot girl from physics class who now sat across from him in a much more comfortable looking chair than his hard wooden one, sporting casual leggings, a stained t-shirt, an insanely messy bun, and the smuggest expression he had ever seen. Strands of golden hair sprang out every which way and Rowan was hit with the inherent desire to smooth it out himself. His heart did terrified somersaults as he took in her (clearly) laid back posture and bored eyes and he stiffened as Celeana pulled up one of her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around it, one of her hands clutching a small book.  It was only then he noticed the highlighter sticking out from between her teeth.  If he wasn’t gagged, he would’ve been gaping.  She was studying.  

“Well look who’s awake,” she mused, her voice somehow sounding deeper than it had before.  Rowan couldn’t deny how smooth it sounded and how naturally it suited her.  “Hey, sleeping beauty.”  There was no mistaking the smirk that curled onto her lips and the sparkle in her unique turquoise eyes as she gazed at him, her look solely calculating as she took him in from head to toe, zeroing in on something close to his head.  

The tip of the gun was colder than he imagined it would be, the hard metal sending a shock through his entire body and forcing a scream out of his mouth, damning the gag.  The sound was just as muffled as he thought it would be, barely loud enough to alert anyone within a four-foot radius to his whereabouts.  Still, he didn’t relent.  He screamed with everything.  He screamed with his anger, he screamed with his disgust, he screamed with his confusion, and he even screamed with his sadness, the emotion he hadn’t felt since his mother had died.

When the blonde had waltzed into his physics class for the first time two weeks ago sporting a bright grin and gleaming eyes, Rown hadn’t known what to expect. It certainly wasn’t the charming and positively addictive person he ended up meeting. Elegant and beautiful Rowan had been unable to tear his eyes away from her, even as she deliberately placed herself in the seat next to him, shooting him a brilliant smile. Celeana had been wholly consuming, something Rowan was now kicking himself for, and the two had fallen into an easy conversation, him unable to hold up his usually angry exterior when it came to her. They had flirted- quite a lot, if he remembered correctly and despite his constant lacrosse practices, Rowan had even found himself agreeing to help her with her physics homework. It had only taken one word from her cursing Einstein and Rowan knew he was done for. He hadn’t gotten the chance to ask her out yet- he had meant to do it after his game today. So what in hellas was he doing here?

Rowan screamed until his throat gave out, his wide eyes never faltering as he stared in what was pure shock at Celeana across from him, who seemed to be doing nothing but gazing at him, her eyes cold and calculating, a contrast to the small quirk at the corner of her lips.  By the time his throat gave out and his eyes yearned to drop shut in exhaustion, Celeana had closed her book and tucked the highlighter on top of her ear.  She wasn’t watching him anymore; instead, her gaze was fixed next to him, to the person who most certainly held the gun to his head.  A gun which Celeana seemed entirely unfazed by.  If anything, her eyes seemed to sparkle more and the other side of her mouth pulled up before she said,

“I win, pay up.”  A shift in sound and the gun behind him before a much deeper and older voice spoke now.

“Actually Miss, you said less than thirty minutes.  I said less than ten.  And it seems it was…” the gun was momentarily lifted from his head as the older man checked something on his arm, allowing him a sharp exhale.  “Seven minutes.  Which means, I won.”  The corner of Celeana’s mouth pulled down in a frown and she glared at the person behind him.

“Oh, you’re no fun Brullo,” she sighed.  “Fine.  I-” she was cut off as he commenced screaming again, louder this time after he had taken a lungful of air.  Her eyes widened for a smidge of a second in surprised shock which quickly faded into her smirk again.  When he finished screaming this time, it was because Celeana was looking him straight in the eyes, her gaze more powerful than should be possible for a girl her age.  And it told him everything he needed to know: he wasn’t going anywhere.  The sound fell from his voice and he glared fire at the girl across from him who only rolled her eyes when he attempted to open his mouth again. Her own fire blazed back at him. 

“Oh my god, are you done?” she asked in exasperation, the smirk no longer on her face, just pure teenage annoyance as she looked back at him.  He was at a loss for words as she put her book down on the ground next to her boots and looked back at him.  “Okay,” she said as if he was a wounded puppy she didn’t know how to approach.  She wasn’t afraid, just wary.  “I’m gonna take the gag off now and please, for the love of the gods, please Ro, don’t even try to scream.  With as much as I love your mouth, and believe me, I really do,” she gave him a wink and he let out a growl laced with disgust and ignoring the electricity in his blood at the look she gave him.  “I have no interest in hearing you any more than I have to today.  Got it?”

He said nothing, his glare unwavering as Celeana stood from her chair and approached him, the gun to his head tensing as if the bearer was more alert than he had been a moment ago.  Rowan wondered exactly how he was supposed to even move when his arms and legs were bound and just to prove it he went still as Celeana leaned forward, her blue eyes suddenly level with his as she reached towards the back of his head and untied the intricate knot in a quick movement of her hands. He attempted not to inhale her intoxicating scent- jasmine and lemon verbatim. She was back in her seat before Rowan could register the air on his mouth and he gulped down a few breaths as he looked at her again, unsurprised to find she was looking at him as well.  His heart did a relay in his chest as his green eyes met her blue ones and she arched a brow, smirking again.

“Like what you see?”  His answering glare said enough until the silence was too much.

“Who are you?” he growled and Celeana laughed coldly, either at him or something else, he didn’t know.  She tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear and Rowan tried not to focus on it.

“You know who I am,” was all she said.  

“I thought you were Celeana but apparently I don’t know shit considering you kidnapped me and tied me to a chair.”  His voice was ice as he snapped at her and Rowan enforced his point by shaking his arms and legs and wincing at the pain.  Celeana’s gaze showed no sympathy or remorse for him and his heart sunk at the realization that he wasn’t surprised.  He had no idea who this girl was, he realized.  Celeana leaned back in her chair, her posture lazy once more, and began to mess with her nails.  It was only then that Rowan realized they were dark red underneath and he swallowed, his gaze snapping up to Celeana’s.  She followed his eyes with her own in a bemused way until realization struck her and her eyes widened.

“I- oh god, chill out, it’s just Taki dust,” she assured him, holding up a purple bag of spicy chips she pulled out from under the chair as evidence.  She let out a huff of a laugh and shoved the open bag at him in a questioning gesture.  She shoved one in her mouth before asking, “Want one?”  Her voice was almost as muffled as his had been and he glared at her, his eyebrows shooting up to remind her of his arms and legs.  “Fine,” she muttered.  “Have it your way.”  Celeana’s eyes shot up to the person behind Rowan as she dusted her fingers off and something flashed in her eyes before the light weight of the gun was removed from his temple.  He exhaled.

“What do you want from me?  My aunt will-”

“Spare me the family connections pretty boy, we’re not interested.  I will say this, it isn’t personal.”

“Why the hell should I believe anything you said when everything you’ve said so far has been a lie?” he snapped, attempting to find some sort of ground. 

“Well, that just isn’t true.  I really do suck at physics, Ro,” she said smiling, pointing to the book at her feet.  “Hawking is kicking my ass this year,” she grumbled and if she was anyone else he would have laughed.

“Don’t bullshit me, who the hell are you?”  Her eyes sparkled at his defiance and he stiffened as the man who had been holding the gun to his head padded up next to Celeana.  He was easily a foot and a half taller than her, making her look like nothing more than a tiny ant in comparison to him, and he had to be at least his aunt’s age.  But the muscle that quivered beneath his leather jacket was enough of a difference for Rowan.  Celeana’s grin grew.

“Are you gonna drop the ‘woe is me hero act’ any time soon?  I’m just curious as to whether I should get some popcorn or not,” was all she replied.

“Pretty gutsy coming from a girl holding an innocent person against his will,” he snapped back. Faster than he could have thought possible Celeana’s playful expression had shriveled into cold hard menace, the look sending a spineful of shivers down his back and forcing his heart into his throat.  Gone was the girl who enjoyed witty bantering.  In her place was the monster he had painted her as from the moment he had opened his eyes.  Rowan realized he should have taken laid-back Celeana when he had the chance because there was no doubt in his mind that the girl in front of him could and would end his life when given the chance.

Celeana’s posture stiffened and the hand that had been playing with her hair stilled as the man beside her placed a hand on her shoulder.  Whether it was meant to be a warning or a comfort, Rowan didn’t know.  Celeana’s face turned cold, her playful pretense officially vanishing.

She sneered and leaned forward on her elbows until they were almost nose to nose.  Rowan refused to shrink back as much as he wanted to.  The feeling coursing through his veins was unfamiliar to him: fear.  “You know something, prince?” she asked.  Her smirk was purely feral.  “I don’t like you very much.  And I’m not beyond beating your ass to prove it.  So shut up, and do what you’re told and you might live.”  With that, Celeana pushed her hands off of her knees and leaned back in her chair as if nothing had happened.

Rowan swallowed, knowing there was no point in hiding his fear of her.  It was so strong she could probably smell it on him.

“Why am I here?” he snarled.

“That isn’t your concern, and frankly I don’t feel like explaining it to you.”  

“Are you ever going to give me a straight answer?”

“Why would I, when you seem so hell-bent on hating me?” How could he explain to her that he wanted to, gods did he want to. And yet he could still feel his emotions attempting to fight him.  

“Who are you?”

“You tell me.  I think you know.  I think that pretty face is for more than just looks.”  He gulped at the realization that this wasn’t a dream.  He was really sitting in a warehouse, bound to a chair, while full-fledged members of the mafia stared at him. He really hated his aunt sometimes. 

“You don’t look like the rest of them.  You’re-”

“Prettier?  Smarter?  Wittier?  Tell me something I don’t know.” Celeana was picking at her nails again. 

“So what are you supposed to be?  Good cop?”  Her answering smile chilled his bones.

“Something like that.  It would help to tolerate me.”

“You try being friendly with the people holding you prisoner.” Celeana’s smile vanished. 

“You’d be surprised.”

“The hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Like I’d tell you.”  Rowan was really wishing he had witty Celeana back because this one seemed to hate him just as much as he hated her.  “Now I really suggest shutting the hell up with the questions before that bullet ends up between those pretty little eyes of yours.”

“Miss, your uncle called.  He’ll be home at eight.”  A chill went down his spine as Celeana’s face went white.  He almost thought he was seeing things when something like fear flashed in her eyes for a moment before it was gone and replaced with her smirk again, this one which didn’t quite reach her eyes.  

“Well,” Celeana said, grunting as she stood up and hauled her backpack and book over her shoulder.  “This has been fun, but I’m gonna have to leave you boys to it.”  Rowan knew something was wrong when she blew him a kiss, barely looking over her shoulder as she opened the door to the warehouse, pausing with one foot out.

Celeana turned back to him, the side of her face even more beautiful in the reflecting moonlight. As her eyes met his, Rowan felt pinned in place by the intensity in her own. 

“Aelin,” she said quietly.  “My name is Aelin. My mom used to call me Celeana when we would sneak out of the house together,” she paused before adding, “It wasn’t all a lie.”  With that, she silently slipped out the door, shutting it solidly behind her and leaving Celeana staring at the empty place where she had just been.

It wasn’t all a lie.

~~

drink your water :) 

[liquid-luck-00]

Seven Deadly Sins x Maribat

Medieval Au

@maribat-bdbwm

Based on this idea

~~~~~~~~~~

Ten years ago.

On the outskirts of the city of Liones, of the capital of the country Liones, in the land of Britannia, homes destroyed, and countless holy knights laid butchered in the streets.

That day will go down in history for its infamy, the day the Seven Deadly Sins betrayed the country of Liones.

---

This is a tale of ancient times, an era before the human and non-human worlds were forever divided. When the Holy Knights, defended the realm, wielding their magical powers they were feared and highly respected. But among them a group emerged, that betrayed the kingdom, and became mortal enemies to all Holy Knights. They were known throughout the land as the Seven Deadly Sins.

---

Present day.

Near the Kaynes Village, there was a new tavern that was a buzz with customers.

“Here you go, drink up.” A young girl placed five steins of ale on the table. She had dark black hair that shown blue, pulled into twin pigtails by two pink ribbons, and bangs that framed her face and blue eyes. She wore a collared off-white shirt under a black vest with green panels. A pink skirt over leggings that reached halfway down her calf. And wore black and green boots. As more people come in, she directs them all with a smile.

“For a little lady, she is one hard working waitress.” A customer acknowledges.

“Oh no, I’m not the waiter, Buddy” She turns around. “I’m the owner of this place.” She turns to walk away.

“She’s the owner?!? A young kid like that.” But she doesn’t hear them.

“Alright, fresh from the oven. The meat pie that made the Boar Hat famous. Enjoy.” Three patrons dug into the pie, and promptly got sick. “You should have known. Our reputation is for having really good booze, but the food not so much.” She said with a completely straight face.

“Are trying to mess with us you little punk.” One shouted ready to fight.

“Wait guys, she’s packing a sword.” Another of the three pointed out. The handle was an emerald green and looked like a dragon with ruby eyes.

“Well, you guys, looks like we have a problem.” Her smile fell and she snapped her fingers. “Now let’s fix it.”

“Come on you call that a mess.” Out trotted a shiny black pig, wearing an earring tag. “Really what do you need me for?”

“Wait!!! That pig. He’s talking.”

“Yes, I’m a talking pig, what a bunch of dum-dums.”

“Plagg, we need to get this floor cleaned.” She spoke.

“Ugh, what a hassle.” Plagg complained. “Scrap disposal is a tough business.” He ate leaving, but before he did, he retorted. “Next time there better be some decent sized scraps.”

“You know I have an old family recipe for whole roasted hog.” She spoke to no one in particular, but with a deadpanned expression. Which changed Plagg’s tune quickly.

Then someone barged in. “I saw it. I really saw it.” He sat down. “I swear to all that is holy. I saw the wandering Rust Knight.”

“That’s just a made-up story, like how parents get their kids to stop misbehaving. The Seven Deadly Sins will come in blood rusted armor, oooh ahhh.”

“The Seven Deadly Sins?” She asks from behind the bar.

“You’ve never heard of them? They’re wanted posters are hanging everywhere, like those over there.”

She looks at the board and there were seven faces and seven names. Marinette, Chloe, Adrien, Luka, Felix, Lila, and Kagami.

“How long has it been? Ten years. When all those holy knights were slaughtered so fast, they couldn’t defend themselves. It was the Seven Deadly Sins that did it. From what I've been told the way the holy Knights’ grandmaster was killed was too gruesome for anyone to look at.” They began to talk amongst themselves.

“They say their captain, Marinette, is the scariest of them all. It's even said that she's brought down whole countries on her own.” Everything went quiet.

Until another patron spoke up. “Well none of them have been caught yet have not a single one.”

“They’re dead, they have to be the new Holy Knights would never let them live after what they've done.”

“Yeah you've got a point even now with the kings sick. The Holy Knights are making sure that the Kingdom stays safe for all its people. But those notices up on the board get updated every single year. Doesn’t that mean those seven criminals are still out there?”

“Yeah well some spooky knight walking around in rusty armor sounds pretty ridiculous to me.”

“You’re right.”

A crash, scraping, and banging was heard just outside the Tavern door.

“That smells an awful lot like rust to me.” Plagg sniffed the air and then cowered behind the counter.

The door opened and there stood the rusted knight. “The Seven Deadly Sins…” Hhe moaned as he entered the Tavern.

Screaming, panic, and everyone rushing out of the Tavern ensued. Fleeing from the rusted knight.

The girl jumped over the counter and stood her ground defiantly looking at the Rust knight. “Now who are you?”

The Rust knight swayed and then fell to the ground collapsed. His helmet rolled off of him. And then they saw his face, his eyes shut tight in the pain and exhaustion, his black hair short and messy stuck to his face from the sweat. And he wore a singular earring, a true blue engraved with something in red and gold.

“This kid is one of the Seven Deadly Sins?” Plagg asked the girl, and they took him up to the room taking the armor off of him. “He's just a boy.”

“Let’s just make sure.” The girl went up to the boy and started poking him first on his thigh, then his stomached, his bicep, she was leaning over him and was about to poke his cheek when his eyes flew open. “Yep, he's a boy.”

“Um, pardon me but what am I doing here?” He was quiet and soft spoken.

“Oh yeah you came into my bar then you passed out cold.”

“Your bar?”

“Yeah, the Boar Hat, my Tavern.”

“You’re the owner?”

“Is that so weird?”

“I just saw that sword, so I naturally assumed.”

“Oh, this old thing.” She motioned and pulled the sword from its scabbard. “Ha ha ha. Yeah, I guess if you only see the handle, it can fool ya huh.” All that rose up and out with her hand was the handle and a small stub was left of the blade, which was practically worthless in a fight. “It makes guests think twice about skipping out on their tabs.” She put the sword handle back into its scabbard on her back.

Which was when they moved downstairs to the raven again. Marinette cooked up something for the boy, and set the plate in front of him.

“First you nurse me back to health, now you're feeding me, how can I possibly thank you enough.” He barely choked out.

“First before saying thanks you should probably try the food first.” Plagg’s nasally voice cut into his words.

“What do you think? Awful isn't it.” She leaned down on the bar now watching him eat with a grin on her face.

“Yes.” He responded.

Which caused both her and Plagg to respond in unison. “Knew it was.”

But then something shocked them, he started to cry.

“Still its delicious.” Tears fell down his face.

“So what exactly were you doing walking around in that old armor, anyways?” She asked the boy.

“I'm on a personal quest to find the Seven Deadly Sins.” He answered.

“Why would you do that? You don’t even know if those guys are even still alive or not, and they’re serious villains.” Plagg reasoned.

That was when banging was heard on the tavern door, knights banged on the door, and ordered them to open up for them.

That was when she noticed the boy got slightly afraid at the mention of Knights.

After a moment of the Knights bickering to themselves, that gave her just enough time to think. She went and opened the door.

“Who are you?” One of the Knights asked her as she opened the door.

“I'm the owner of this place. What do you want?” She was relaxed.

“The Rust Knight is in there, send him out!” The same knight answered.

“Alright.” She turned around and looked back. “You might want to come out now.”

They all looked past her and saw Plagg dressed in the armor that the boy was wearing walk out.

“You have some nerve mocking the Knights of this land like this.” He grabbed her by the shirt and lifted her up off the ground. She was small, sure but he still held her up a meter off the ground.

That’s when the boy had snuck out of the back and made a run for it into the forest. Unfortunately, he was seen. “Look a boy just ran out, after him.”

The knight threw her back to the ground and she and Plagg shared a worried look.

The two of them ran after the boy and the Knights, Plagg mowed down, tackling each and every one, while she went after the boy. The last knight got pushed down off of the cliff at the edge of the forest by Plagg. While she and the boy were safely out of the way in one of the trees at the edge.

“So why are you looking for the Seven Deadly Sins anyways?” She asked him once they were back on the ground.

“To stop the Holy Knights.” He answered.

“Are you serious!! Why in the world would you wanna do that?” Plagg exclaimed. “The Holy Knights are the king’s men, the knights are here to protect us they are heroes.”

“But what if they were behind a plot to start a war in our country. Except for the king himself, the entire royal family was arrested and is being held by the Holy Knights.”

“Does that mean the king isn't really sick in bed?” Plagg asked the boy.

“That’s just a cover story the Holy Knights are using. I don't know what they think they can accomplish by driving the nation to war, but now they're drafting people. Taking men wherever they can get them they're preparing for war everywhere you look. So their reach will even extend all the way out here.” He shook his head.

“Yeah tough break, huh?” She finally responded.

“Wow you don't have any empathy at all. How does this tie back to the Seven Deadly Sins again?” Plagg shook his head.

“If there's even the slightest hope of preventing the Holy Knights from doing this. I know they're the only ones who can.” He was resolute.

“Just checking here.” She Butt in again. “You’re trying to find those guys even though you know what kind of people they are?”

“The Seven Deadly Sins are the most vile Order of Knights the Kingdom ever produced, made up of seven vicious bloodthirsty criminals each one branded with the mark of the beast. Ten years ago when they were suspected of trying to overthrow the Kingdom the Knights of the realm launched a full force attack scattering them to the four winds.”

“Well if you believe the rumors they each died a long time ago.” She spoke distractedly.

“Such amazing people wouldn't possibly let themselves get killed!”

“But they are criminals aren't they causing the suffering of the people right now?” She asked confused.

“When I was small, only five or six years old, my father would tell me stories about them and that's when I learned they are the most powerful Knights!”

A rumbling was heard and then the edge of the cliff they were on started to crumble and fall beneath them, dropping them down.

“I did not confirm whether or not they were people named in the report. Conclusion two individuals of unknown origin dead. What do you think men that sounds about right?” A man wearing red armor, silver grey hair and mustache.

“But Sir Twiggle, one of our knights was still under the cliff.”

“Simply put three fatalities in the report then.” Twiggle answered haughtily.

“But Sir, you can't! That’s too far even for you”

“How about seven fatalities instead?” The knight in red armor moved towards the rest of his men, but that was also when she jumped back up on to the cliff with not only the boy and Plagg in her arms but also the knight who fell.

“When I give a signal to you run into the forest got it.” She spoke quietly to the boy.

“Which one of them would you believe to be a member of the Seven Deadly Sins. Neither bears any resemblance to the wanted posters?” He then noticed something. “God is smiling upon me today, the crystal earring you're wearing is from the royal family. Conclusion you are Prince Jonathan!”

“Wait hold on Prince Jonathan?” The knights shouted.

“You're a Prince?” She added softly.

“Orders from the Capital are to determine your whereabouts. the order was to capture you alive and in healthy condition, but if you lost your life in an unfortunate accident…” Twiggle spoke aloud.

“I can't allow myself to get captured not yet!”

“Conclusion accidental death.” Sir Twiggle let off a shockwave of air magic chopping the entire forest down to the ground.

“Hi there, you alright?” She had pulled him down and covered him from the blast. “Plagg?”

“Seriously I'm a shaved pork on a skewer.” He cried. A single small little twig had splintered in his back. And he went off crying and screaming Tikki.

Johnathan stood and started to walk towards Twiggle. “Johnathan. Hey! What are you doing?” She called after him.

“There’s no escape.”

“Wait hang on you just said you couldn't afford to be caught or to give up.”

“Maybe if I surrender myself peacefully, he'll agree to take me back with him and your life can be spared.”

Sir Twiggle sent off another blast cutting into everything again, but she was able to tackle him out of the way just in time.

“Please get out of here while you still can.” He begged her.

“I think he wants to make sure neither one of us gets out of here alive.” She noticed as She was above him once more. After the attack ensuring he was fine yet again, the only real damage done to her, and that was her left sleeve was completely torn revealing her entire arm from shoulder to fingers. A mark barely visible on her shoulder.

“I was so happy when I met you. Searching for the Seven Deadly Sins, I so scared alone in that rusty armor. There wasn't any help I could ask for. Then you show up and show me such kindness, someone that you've never met before. I don't wanna see you hurt my problems anymore when I don’t even know your name.”

Memories flashed behind her eyes and a smile spread on her lips.

“Marinette. If you really wanna know.” She grinned from ear to ear.

“I… I don't believe it you can't be you're just.” Tears threatened to fall from his eyes.

That was when the knight who fell with them regained consciousness jumping up. “Where's the girl the one with the sword. I saw it when she saved me from the cliff the symbol it was right there. The symbol on her shoulder it… it… it’s her.”

Sir Twiggle struck again now closer, right on top of them. The magic was unleashed but Marinette stood up and was now facing the Knight.

“How is this possible? My technique was flawless I am certain my blade struck her!” Twiggle began to look even more and more frazzled. “But I was the one who felt the force of the blow. How could it have hit me?! And what is that in your hand?! A broken blade! Broken blade… now your face is beginning to look familiar. Truly it can’t! How can you look exactly the same as you did then?!? No matter your time's up! How dare you still exist!”

Their blades clashed their magic erupted, which sent Twiggle and his men flying high, high into the sky almost like a meteorite.

“Extraordinary power.” Johnathan breathed.

“Captain of the Seven Deadly Sins, the Dragon sin of Wrath, Marinette.” She announced.

~~~~~~~~~~

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Story Taglist: just ask because after the bio dad even I won’t add the Event Taglist

[iwaisa]

request. juabsba t h i r st Yamaguchi is an awkward mans but 🥵🥵 can you write something where him and the reader haven’t done a lot of stuff, and one day he lets her use his computer for homework and when she opens it there’s porn, where someone is being eaten out and Yamaguchi is like “akauanbabsba IM SO SORRY” and the reader is like “Can we do that 👉👈🥺 can you kiss me down there” hzshsg that scenario has just been in my mind - anon

a/n. ugh YES i love this so so much thank you for this beautiful ask nonnie 😽😽

(also i got wayyy too carried away with his HAHA)

► now playing... 

- pairing. yamaguchi x female reader

- genre. nsfw ! (characters are in their third year)

- warnings. smut, cunnilingus, one (1) kind of embarrassing situation? maybe two

- word count. 1.7k+

yamaguchi was a busy man - being captain of the volleyball team and all. his responsibilities only grew, leaving less time for the two of you to spend alone together. his desire to simply cuddle up with you on his bed or yours while watching a movie was becoming too much, and all he wanted to do was be with you.

not only was he starved of your affection, he was also beginning to grow antsy with each lingering touch he gave you. his hands stayed on your hips longer, his kisses began to trail down your jaw, and he couldn’t stop himself from checking your body out, even in the school uniform.

you noticed your boyfriend’s obvious antics of course, and you couldn’t deny that your desire to go further with your relationship was growing. thoughts of touching him in places he’s never been touched before plagued your mind, even in class. you even found yourself wondering what his moans would sound like.

yamaguchi seemed to be having a harder time with his lewd thoughts. since he got out of volleyball late each day due to captain duties, he wasn’t able to have you over at his house as often. dates were cut short by academic responsibilities as well, as being in higher classes meant less time for goofing off and more time for preparing for college.

yamaguchi resorted to watching porn in his free time, and he wondered if you did the same. if so, what kind of porn did you like? what positions intrigued you the most? how did you like to touch yourself? did you want him to touch you like those guys do in those videos?

any and all thoughts quickly dissolved by the time he met up with you, however, as he never wanted his taboo ideas to scare you off. it was only when he was alone in the comfort of his bedroom would he let his mind wander, imagining you in front of him on your knees instead of his fist around his pulsating cock. he was quick to think of himself as disgusting after he looked at his toned abdomen painted in his release, his insecurities getting the best of him. how would you react if you knew of the lewd way your boyfriend was imagining you?

today was going to be especially hard, he thought. his eyes failed to stay on the textbook in front of him, but who could blame him? the skirt you wore today was pretty damn short. but who was he to complain? he loved the view of your pretty lace panties, and he wondered if you had meant to wear those just for him.

he used his duvet to cover his unfortunate state, his boner growing each passing second he glanced over to see your exposed thighs from where you sat leaning against his bed. any noise you made caused him to jump, which didn’t go unnoticed by you.

“tadashi? you’ve been jumping a lot. like just now,” you pointed out. he was quick to pull himself together, practically forcing himself to tear his gaze away from your legs.

“i’m alright! just trying to figure out these equations,” he lied.

you nodded your head, “can i borrow your computer for a little bit? i left mine at home and i need to finish my draft for english.”

he was quick to respond by reaching in front of him to pick up the computer, handing it over to you. he let out a quiet sigh, forcing himself to focus on the paper in front of him. he was halfway through writing the answer to an equation when he heard a very sultry moan come from his computer.

yamaguchi’s eyes widened as he practically snapped his whole body to face you. there on full display, the screen showed a video of a man enthusiastically eating a woman out. yamaguchi felt his heart shatter into a plethora of bits at the idea that you’d think he’s a freak for watching this type of stuff, but he couldn’t help himself - he was only a teenager.

he finally broke out of his thoughts, standing up to quickly grab the computer from your grasp, ignoring the raging bulge in his joggers.

“i’m so sorry! shit, that’s really weird. i-i’m so so sorry f/n!” he was sweating bullets as he shut the computer lid with a loud snap, his hand quickly coming up to hide his crimson face. it seemed like an hour had passed before he heard your soft voice cut through the uncomfortable silence.

“tadashi? can we uhm...try that?”

his eyes flew open, watching you through the gaps in his fingers as your thighs clenched together, arousal shooting through your whole self. he nearly came right then and there at your proposal, his cock jumping at how innocent you looked and sounded.

“w-what?”

you cleared your throat and stood up, linking your fingers through his. “the uhm...video. do you want to do that?”

yamaguchi gulped, fighting the urge to pull his sweaty hands out of your grasp. he slowly removed his hand from his face, squeezing his eyes shut before landing his gaze on yours.

“are you sure? i-i don’t want you to feel like you have to just because you saw that. i mean of course i want to do that with you, i’m supposed to be a good boyfriend and please you and-”

you cut him off, “tadashi.” you raised your eyebrows, your gaze turning stern. “you’re an amazing boyfriend. the best, in fact. not to mention my first boyfriend. and...i’ve been wanting to do something with you for a while,” you trailed off, embarrassment creeping up your spine.

the two of you stood there for a few moments, before yamaguchi squeezed your hand, urging you to look at him. “tell me if you want to stop, okay angel?” you nodded, pushing your nerves away.

yamaguchi leaned in slowly, pulling your body flush against his. he whispered a quick ‘i love you’ before locking lips with you, his other hand wrapping around your waist. your free hand made its way up to rest on the nape of his neck, playing with his baby hairs.

he began backing you up towards the bed, breaking away from the kiss to let you lay on the duvet. he blindly shoved his textbooks and papers out of the way as he connected his mouth to yours again, massaging your tongue with his. your soft whimpers beneath him sent his blood straight to his cock, and it was becoming painfully hard for him to continue.

he began moving his kisses down your jaw, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses to your neck, grunting in response to your gorgeous mewls. lifting up your shirt, his eyes widened as he noticed there was no fabric covering your nipples.

he glanced up at you in surprise, watching as you bit your bottom lip in embarrassment. before you could open your mouth to defend why you weren’t wearing a bra, his mouth latched onto one of your nipples, his tongue slowly swirling around the hardening bud. the loud moan you let slip was music to his ears as he continued moving south, his hands fumbling with the waistline of your skirt.

he glanced up once more to get approval to slip your skirt down your plush thighs, finally being able to see you. he practically licked his lips as he stared at your panties, your arousal seeping through the material. yamaguchi couldn’t help but glance up at your flushed face once more, the look you gave him causing him to gulp once more.

he leaned down to press a quick kiss to your clothed cunt, his lips quirking into a slight smile at the lewd moan you made. he made quick work of slipping the garment off, tossing it somewhere in his room.

he watched in awe as your cunt clenched around nothing, your folds glistening in your slick.

“you’re so wet,” he mumbled out, quickly shooting his hand to cover his mouth. “sorry, that was really blunt. i- uh...you’re beautiful,” he mumbled quickly, using his finger to collect your juices.

“tadashi, please,” you pleaded, propping yourself up on your forearms. he nodded, gulping for the umpteenth time before leaning forward to lick a stripe up your folds. the moan that escaped your mouth was downright pornographic, and yamaguchi felt himself growing impossibly harder by the minute.

he continued licking up your arousal, using his middle finger to prod at your entrance. you gasped as he slid into you, your hands making their way to his olive tresses. your back was now pressed against the mattress as yamaguchi ate you out like a man starved. he was unable to stop himself from humping the duvet as your moans made their way to his ears.

he groaned against your folds, the vibrations coursing through your body causing you to buck your hips into his face. he used his free hand to pin your thighs onto the bed, continuing to attempt to relieve his own pent-up arousal.

you felt the coil in your stomach unwinding rapidly, your release approaching faster than you’ve ever experienced before. unfortunately for yamaguchi, he felt the same, his own orgasm threatening to hit him at any moment.

his fingers pistoned in and out of you, his lips and tongue continuing to pleasure your clit. you cried out as his finger pressed up against your spongey walls, forcing your orgasm to hit you full force. yamaguchi slowed his pace as he helped you through your high, internally smacking himself for the wet patch forming in his boxers. 

he pulled away, gently slipping his fingers out of your sensitive cunt. he attempted to hide himself, his face growing red from embarrassment and shame that he came in his pants. much to his dismay, you noticed, taking that time to tease him about it.

“tadashi, did you really cum in your pants from eating me out?” he stopped dead in his tracks at your words, sinking his teeth into his bottom lip.

“i-i’m sorry, it was just really...hot,” he mumbled, still refusing to make eye contact with you. you sat up on your knees, crawling towards your boyfriend, watching with a smirk as his eyes widened as your fingers rubbed over his clothed cock.

“it’s okay, angel. just let me help you out now.”

smut taglist. @otsut-writing​ @ash-writes-things​

[ollie-ollie-oxenfreee]

then came the morning (aka: the post - canon cuddle fic)

The work in progress is finally done! I’ve been chipping away at it for the past couple weeks now, and it’s gone through many drafts / iterations, but I think I’m finally happy with it. :)

Title from an album by the Lone Bellow. 

The first time the two of them “shared a bed” was about as awkward as one might imagine. The initiating circumstances were hardly any better.

 The heating apparatus in their quarters had given out a week or so back in a spectacular fit of dust - laden wheezing. The engineering crew called in to inspect it informed them that it couldn’t be fixed until they could pick up the right parts at the nearest trading post (which was naturally thousands of klicks away on the ragged edge of nowhere). With the ambient heat from the nearby engine room seeping through the wall, the conditions were deemed “unpleasant but survivable.” They were issued two extra threadbare blankets and told in tersely formal military - speak to deal with it. 

 And they’d dealt with it really well for a while! They grit their teeth and carried on like a couple of champs: Harrow, having been thoroughly warned against using her magic too frequently, layering on spare cloaks and sweaters until she almost disappeared under a mountain of black fabric; Gideon curling up close to the engine room wall and wincing when the cold sent spiteful twinges shooting through her still-very-busted knee. 

 But then one night their grand flagship of the revolution chugged through a particularly empty sprawl of space and began to slow down. The heat from the engine room guttered like a candle flame. Frost spiderwebbed across the thin plex of their window. Harrow’s breath showed in thin wisps of vapor as she huffed, glaring down at the pages of her book like she wanted to reprimand the cold for daring to interrupt her studies. 

 Gideon had half a mind to encourage her to try (that glare could stop a full - fledged Lyctor in their tracks, who knew what other horrifying powers it possessed?), but thought better of it when she saw the genuine exhaustion in the other girl’s eyes.

 “You doing alright over there, my vulturine vicar?” she asked. “I know it takes some time to absorb all that good bone knowledge, but you haven’t turned a page in like half an hour.”

 The thunderous look on Harrow’s face darkened further as she set her book aside with an exasperated thump. “This is ridiculous. I studied in the depths of Drearburh for years without any issue, and yet here I am struggling to focus like a novice. It isn’t even that cold.” She bit her lip as a shiver ran through her at the words. 

 “Evidence seems to suggest otherwise, o mistress of melancholy. Do you want me to go ask that guy in the supply room for another blanket? He still owes me for his son’s fencing lesson.”

 Supply room guy didn’t really owe her anything, but she knew that mentioning it would make Harrow feel better. If she could believe that the nice things Gideon did for her were actually for Totally Self - Serving, Debt - Settling reasons, she could accept them without feeling guilty.

 (Guilt had haunted Harrow more than ever upon returning to her own body, making it hard to breathe on good days and leaving her shaking with sobs on bad ones. 

It was one of those fun little things they had in common.)

 From the way Harrow’s shoulders stiffened, though, it seemed that Gideon Nav’s patented Guilt Workaround wasn’t going to be as effective as usual. She shook her head - a stiff little gesture that made her earrings rattle - then sighed. 

 “No. Thank you, though, it’s kind of you to offer.” 

 The thank you was sincere, and that was admittedly pretty nice, but all the sincerity in the world wouldn’t change the fact that Harrow was still  very obviously shivering. She looked miserable beneath her usual mask of face paint and stoicism. The dark red bead of blood-sweat trailing down her temple indicated that she'd probably tried using some kind of homeostasis theorem, but it wasn't working well enough. 

 There had to be a solution to this problem somewhere. Harrow's stubborn pride meant that she wouldn't accept help outright - she would sooner set her books on fire than admit what she thought of as a weakness - but if Gideon could play it just right, maybe she wouldn't have to. It would need to be done carefully - too sappy and she'd be uncomfortable, too straightforward and she'd balk.  Casual, Gideon decided. Nice and casual was the way to go. It would just be a matter of execution.

 "Soooo," she said at length, leaning back against the wall all cool and easy. (She folded her arms up behind her head as an afterthought, appreciating the way it made her still-atrophied-but-getting-there muscles stand out through the thin fabric of her shirt. Confidence boosts were going to be scarce and sorely needed in the conversation to come - she’d take them where she could get them.)

 Naturally, Harrow did not appreciate the change in tack or the cool-and-easy-ness. She did, however, manage to muster up a look so steeped in wary disapproval that it cut through her earlier frustration like a hot knife through bone marrow. “So.”

 “You sure about that blanket? Because really, it would only take me a second -”

 “I’m sure. Thank you.”

 “Then, um, did you want to borrow mine?”

 Harrow blinked. “You need yours.”

 “Yeah, I know! I meant that we could maybe - share. Pool our resources.” She patted the edge of her bunk gamely, then instantly regretted it when Harrow’s eyes narrowed even further. 

 “You want us to sleep together?”

 "No? I mean, technically, but no. In the literal way. Not the other way.” Well maybe the other way sometime if you wanted to but that’s a whole other weird conversation that we probably shouldn't touch with a ten foot pole or we might explode. 

 "How exactly would that work?" The caution was still heavy in Harrow's voice, but some of the disapproval had ebbed away. 

 "I mean. We'd probably need to use my bed, since my sheets aren't covered in gross bone gobbets, but you could bring your blankets over and layer 'em over mine and then we'd have twice the blankets! And, you know, body heat. Which has its perks." Even Gideon's cool-and- easy-ness faltered at that, but she bravely soldiered on. "The point is, we'd both be warm."

 "And it won't - make things weird?" 

 "Nope! Not weird. All perfectly chill, my shivering scion."

 Harrow paused for a moment, worrying her lip between her teeth. "I'll get ready for bed," she said at last, clipped and decisive. "And I'll think about it."

 "Take your time. I'll be here."

 Moments later, after the shivering scion had swept grandly out of the room, Gideon's Thinking Brain crashed unceremoniously into her Talking Brain. Things were not, in fact, going to be perfectly chill. There were going to be some logistical problems with this arrangement. Big logistical problems.

 Big logistical problems namely revolving around the mutually exclusive facts that the midnight monarch was not especially comfortable with touch, and Gideon Nav, space - bee slayer and resurrected badass, was a sleep cuddler.

 Or, well, she was in theory. She didn’t have much (any) “real world” experience to go on, but she’d woken up many, many times back on the Ninth with a bundle of blankets wrapped up in her arms or nestled close to her chest. The habit had never really embarrassed her back then - she actually kind of liked it. She felt warmer and less lonely when she had something to hold, even in the frigid emptiness of her cell. 

 But that was back then. Things were different in the here - and - now. Harrow was in the here - and - now, and Gideon would never forgive herself if she ruined things with Harrow right when their relationship was on the upswing. They were actually talking, slowly figuring out how to work together again. The furious, tearful intensity between them in the wake of their reunion had calmed and warmed into something almost like real friendship. 

 After all that had happened - everything that had gone wrong over the past year and a half - they’d found a fragile sort of peace. There was no way in Hell she was going to ruin that peace now.

 So while Harrow swished about getting ready for bed, Gideon leveled with herself and laid down some ground rules. Don’t make this weird, Nav. Make sure she’s comfortable, give her her space, and don’t think about cuddling with her. 

 ...even though it would probably be warmer, and she has shitty necro circulation and essentially no body mass so she needs all the warmth she can get, and she gets that kinda soft peaceful look on her face when - no, fuck, see? You’re doing it already. Even if she did like you like that, which she absolutely doesn’t because she’s got a good old-fashioned frostbite girl back home, that’s not what you’re here for. You’re her cav. Her sworn sword. You’re here to do your job and make sure she doesn’t get her thumbs bitten off again. That’s it.

 “You’re staring.”

 Harrow’s voice cut sharp as a bone shard through Gideon’s nervous thought - spiral. Having apparently completed her grim evening rituals, she’d settled lightly on the far edge of the to - be - shared bed, countless dark layers poofing out around her like the feathers of a posturing crow. Her face was flecked with dots of gray from scrubbing off her paint, and her short hair stuck up in messy licks of black fluff despite her increasingly irritated attempts to smooth it flat. 

 It shouldn’t have been endearing. It really, really shouldn’t have. 

 It was.

 Gideon was so screwed.

 “Shit,” she muttered, scrubbing a hand over her face to ground herself. She glanced over to meet Harrow’s eyes (and wow, was that a mistake, they were as mesmerizing a swirl of black and gold as ever), then forced a smile like she wasn’t screaming internally. “Sorry. Zoned out a little. You good to go?”

 The wryly exasperated glint in Harrow’s eyes made them glow even brighter in the dim light. “Yes, I’m ‘good to go,’ thank you. Are you, though? You look … troubled.” 

 Shit. Shit. Shit. Think nice, normal thoughts. Don’t let her know. She cannot know. 

 “I’m always good, my chthonic countess,” she lied, smooth as could be, throwing in a roguish wink for good measure. That was distractingly stupid enough, it was bound to work.  

 Harrow frowned. “Why are you blinking like that?”

 The roguish wink apparently had not worked. 

 “No reason! Just dust. In my eye. Lots of very rude dust landing right in my eye. Anyway. How are we doing this?”

 A flicker of genuine, anxious concern ghosted over Harrow’s face as her frown deepened. 

 “Gideon,” she began, in that slow, reluctant way of hers that heralded Incoming Indignity. “I know that you were the one to suggest this, but I want to impress upon you that if you aren’t - certain about it, there is another possible solution.”

 She cast around the room for a moment and reached for a massive, dusty tome at the top of a nearby stack, flipping determinedly through the pages. “I've had the idea for some time, but I only just managed to convince our commanding officer that I could use theorems 'responsibly' without their constant supervision, so I haven't been able to test it until now. Small - scale thanergetic fission reactions produce sparks of flame that, if handled extremely carefully, could give off enough heat - "

 “Wait.” Gideon held up a hand, her own anxious brain jolting back online at the word flame. “Wait, wait, wait. Harrow. Seriously? The concern is sweet, don’t get me wrong, but your other solution is death - fire?”

 “I said that it was a possibility,” she snapped back, that old brittle defensiveness calcifying over the vulnerability in her voice. Her posture straightened with a great rustling of robes: shoulders back, chin high, eyes gleaming with disdainful pride as the bones scattered about their room twitched to life. Looking for all the world like she had when they were ten - twelve - fourteen - sixteen, bitter and vicious and spoiling for a fight. 

 She seemed to realize it right when Gideon did. Her eyes widened, then closed. The bowstring tension in her shoulders slowly ebbed away as her half - formed constructs clattered to the floor. “Sorry,” she said at last, her voice a threadbare murmur. “I’m sorry. That was - uncalled for.”

 “It’s a reflex. I get it.” And she did - she’d done the same thing countless times, had a hand on her sword and a barbed insult on her tongue without even thinking about it. 

 Another one of those fucked up things they had in common. 

 An uneasy silence settled between them, broken only by the rumbling hum of the engines, the thud of footsteps in the hall. 

 “I meant it, you know,” Harrow said, after a long moment. “About other options. It was a half - baked and immature attempt, but I wanted to give you an out if you were uncomfortable.”

 “Yeah, I know, my sepulchral sage. I appreciate it. Half - baked immaturity and all.” She bumped her shoulder gently against Harrow’s, then flopped back on the bunk to stare up at the low ceiling. “Are we, like, committing to honesty hour tonight? How deep into feelings do you want to get?”

 “As deep as is comfortable.”

 “That’s what she said.”

 “It’s a reasonable thing for her to say.”

 Another hush fell over them, marginally more comfortable than the last, as Gideon worried her lip between her teeth and counted the cracks in the ceiling above her. There were nine of them in total. Go fucking figure.

 A bony finger poked her in the side after a few cycles of counting. “Were you going to elaborate, or was that all just a set - up for one of your charming jokes?”

 “I can’t believe it took you eighteen years to finally admit that they’re charming, but no, that’s not why I said it. I’ll lay bare my tender squishy heart for you, penumbral lady. Because you asked so nicely.” 

  Because I think you might already have it. 

 No avoiding it now. Might as well bite the bullet and dive in. 

 “I was on board with the cuddle thing from the beginning, but I felt like you wouldn’t be, and I panicked. You probably already knew that because you’re way more creepily observant than you have any right to be, but there it is. Out in the open.” 

 She squeezed her eyes shut, wishing she could just run away and hide from the other girl’s piercing gaze. “I just don’t want to fuck things up with you, Harrow. I feel like we’ve got a kind of good thing going now. You haven’t called me a useless halfwit in forever, and I haven’t called you a heinous bitch in forever, and I haven’t wanted to. That’s unheard of for us. I don’t want it to go away.”

 Her voice cracked, and the most damning words burst forth like flowers through concrete: “I don’t want to give you a reason to shut me out again.”

 The memories of those nine months flashed in fragmented mosaic through her mind - the slick stone walls of the well, the freezing churn of the water, the burn in her muscles as she desperately thrashed up toward the surface and reached for someone who didn’t even know she was there. The gut - wrenching loneliness that defined her entire fucking life coalescing in that pit of brackish darkness. The chant rattling on loop in her mind as the water pulled her under: Harrow, what happened, what did you do, why the fuck did you leave me here, I had a purpose, I threw myself on that goddamned rail for a reason, was that not enough for you? 

 Was I not enough for you?

 A cool, fine - boned hand laced with hers and squeezed, just once. The memories blurred. 

 “Gideon,” the voice that had haunted her all that time said. “You know - you have to know that isn’t why I did it.”

 “Why did you, then?”

 A tiny hitch of breath. A soft, almost incredulous laugh. Then:

 “Because I loved you.”

 The words hung heavy in the frozen air. 

 “You - what?”

 “I loved you.” She said it so simply. Like it was something she’d come to terms with long ago. “I loved you beyond reason, and for once in my life I wanted to do right by you and keep you safe as you did me. The motivation doesn’t justify a moment of it, I won’t pretend it does, and I can’t even begin to erase the hurt it caused you. But I need you to understand that it was never because of something you did wrong. You are good, darling. Good to the core. You always have been.”

 Bright spots bloomed before Gideon’s eyes as her reeling mind fought to catch up. Three thoughts sprang unbidden to the forefront:

 Mmf.

 And: Darling?

 And:

“Loved. You said ‘loved.’ Why the past tense?”

 She sat there, staring blankly up at the ceiling, half - expecting a don’t be presumptuous, Griddle or something even remotely normal, at least. What she got instead was another laugh, halting and shaky and suddenly deeply bitter. The hand in hers went rigid and drew away. 

 “I came to my senses. I remembered the countless awful things I’ve done. Saw myself for the leech that I am. I’ve taken and taken and taken from you, over and over again, torn away at your life like a scavenger, I can’t steal anything more  - “

 “Who said anything about stealing?”

 For the first time since the grand awkward commencement of honesty hour Gideon felt a genuine smile bloom across her face. “Come on, Nonagesimus, give me some credit. You honestly think I would have stuck around this long if I didn’t know what I was giving you? If I wasn’t getting something out of it too?”

 “What could you possibly be getting out of it?”

 “You. I like you. Like, a lot. More than I ever thought I would. And I know the brain weasels are going to start yammering about how that’s impossible, and you don't deserve it, and we've still got a mountain of baggage left to work through, but I’ve thought about it a lot and I really mean it. Having you with me has made this whole shitty thing infinitely less shitty."

 With a surge of sudden bravery and dizzy emotion, she reached out to take Harrow's hand again and, giving her ample time to pull away, pressed a feather - light kiss to the back. “If you want me here too, sunshine - as your cav or your friend or something else - then I'm not going anywhere."

 Harrow closed her eyes, took a deep shuddering breath, and - smiled. A real one, slow and hesitantly sweet, lighting up her careworn face. "I need to think about it - we both should think about it. But I do want you here, in whatever way you want to be."

 "Yeah? Cool."

 "Cool."

 Silence settled upon them for the third time that night, but this time it was different. It was soft and tentative, fragile and new, like budding grave - flowers reaching for the sun. First flowers, the both of them, clawing up out of the grit and finding a way to bloom.

 "Should we go to sleep now?" Harrow asked at last, her rasping voice low and quiet. "It's getting late."

 "We probably should. Cam and Pal are gonna kill us if we're not up by 6:00 tomorrow. Are you still up for this, though? Like, the whole 'two girls, chilling in a military bunk, zero feet apart 'cause they're freezing and also maybe like each other' thing?"

 "Yes. On one condition."

 "Anything."

 "This might be difficult for you."

 "Seriously, Harrow, just tell me. Name it and it's done."

 "No sex jokes."

 She heaved a sigh, mock - exasperated and so stupidly fond. "As you wish, my dearest darling death omen. As you wish."

 It took a while to get comfortable - with Harrow's knobby elbows jabbing Gideon in the stomach, Gideon's clunky knee brace getting tangled in the sheets, the blankets collectively giving up and puddling on the floor at least ten times - but eventually, like everything else, they made it work. They fumbled through the sleep - cuddling confession with an admirable lack of panic on both sides, culminating in a firm agreement that they would let each other know the moment they were at all uncomfortable and an "I trust you" from Harrow so pure in its sincerity that it would be ringing through Gideon's mind for at least a myriad.

 Harrow was the first to fall asleep, curled up tight in a cocoon of black fabric, the dark crown of her head just barely brushing the sunburst scar on Gideon's chest. Her shallow breaths fell into an even, steady rhythm, interspersed with whistling snores that Gideon was definitely going to tease her about when her heart was less of a melted puddle of goo. 

 The minutes slipped by warm and slow as drops of honey as her own eyes grew heavier, fluttering closed. She gave her necromancer - her Lyctor - her beautiful baneful bone empress one last sleepy smile, and drifted off.

 (When Camilla went to shake her sparring partner awake the next morning, she found the two of them still sound asleep, wrapped up in each other's arms and looking more peaceful than she'd ever seen them. She huffed a laugh, muttered "finally," and let them be.)

[whump-town]

See, How The Most Dangerous Thing Is Love

Where you go I'm going So jump and I'm jumping Since there is no me without you

She can’t stop running and, like an idiot, he keeps chasing. 

warnings: i don’t think there is anything to warn against which seems odd... considering... but I did use some weird fucking metaphors and I don’t know if they make any sense... 

Hotchniss

If the tension between Aaron Hotchner and Emily Prentiss wasn’t apparent upon their reunion following Elle’s leave, it was painfully clear after Tobias. Eggshells be damned. He inquires around her compartmentalization, tone dark, and judging where JJ had just meant to build a bridge. He had aimed to tear one down. To remind her just how out of place she is in this unit.

There can only be one lone wolf in the pack.

“You came off of a desk job--”

She narrows her eyes, feet shifting. He’d come out of nowhere, as she’s finding he often does, and that just aggravates her even more. She’s a trained spy and Interpol agent, he shouldn’t be able to sneak up on her. The shield she throws between them does nothing when he already has his own firm in place. Feet planted in preparation for her attack.

Her revenge is sweet.

It starts with the way her back draws tight as a bow.

“No, stop. Stop. All right everybody right now-- what’s my worst quality?”

The flip of her dark hair, drawing the limp branch of a tree towards her chest. Poised ready to strike out towards him and the tight coil of childish glee derived from mischief in her chest. Her words the fiery snap of its release, the edge catches his cheek to leave an open, jagged wound. “You don’t trust women as much as men.” The room’s attention lays in the silence of that lashing. Their eyes watching the dark crimson of his blood trickle down his cheek.

And he wipes it away. Unflinching as he powers on. He can see it in their eyes, the way they keep looking back at the wound on his cheek. Thinking about the words and their implications. How they each drew back and laid into him with their strikes.

He can see it in Emily, the way she awaits her second chance. She’ll draw that branch back again. There are more branches, he suspects, in her forest of mistrust and impatience with him. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t have a few branches of his own he’d like to hit her with.

It is only in the most fundamental way that they trust one another.

“Don’t get me wrong, Johnny.”

A drop of sweat runs along his hairline and down the back of his neck. The heat of Alabama in August is worse than Virginia and even stripped of his suit jacket, the weather is insufferable. The rickety old pisshole of a house groans under the weight of the four adults standing in the attic. With no draft and dust covering every visible surface, it smells like something’s crawled up here and died. He suspects, if he were to look hard enough, he’d find that to be true.

Johnny and Mark Wrights have been murdering and raping teenage girls from the local high school. Grown men covered in grim and old denim-- the epitome of the white trash that comes to mind when they set out to solve these kinds of cases. It makes Hotch feel a deep shame for being raised anywhere near the south. Now, as he stands pinned to Johnny’s chest, the heavy scent of pig shit and sweat covering the man, he feels deep condemnation for the south.

He wants to get as far from this town as possible.

Prentiss’ gun is steady. As far as agents to come to have his back, he’s lucky that it’s her. Her brows raise a fraction when she steps into the room, surprised that it’s him. It takes him off guard that she’s choosing empathy with these men. She repeats her earlier statement. “Don’t get me wrong, boys,” she shakes her head and her eyes flicker to Hotch. “That’s my boss you have there.”

Johnny digs the barrel of his gun into Hotch’s face, the metal biting his flesh. He’s antsy. Emily must see that… surely, she must know that she won’t be able to talk her way out of this.

“Now,” she smirks. Her inflection has risen to nonchalance as if talking to a friend. Her shrug of indifference makes his chest feel dangerously tight. “He’s a dick,” she informs them. “Makes my life a living hell.” His eyes glued to her index finger. She’s talking and moving and if she’s distracted him with her words then she’s distracted the Unsubs too. “He’s got a little boy at home though,” her eyes flick to him.

He’s hit with a sudden understanding.

“So…” he watches her back once again. A bow, bending to snap. He ducks, this time, when her branch comes flying back at his face. Throwing his weight to the side, he takes Johnny by surprise, and before he can blink there are two quick shots that ring the end.

For a stunned moment, he’s laid out on his back. His eyes are on the ceiling just breathing and shaking.

She comes to stand at his side, offering him a hand up.

He takes it.

“Don’t,” she says before he can thank her. Her eyes are dark. She’s displeased. Not only with him and the stupidity that got them in this mess, to begin with, but for the girls. Emily had wanted to bring those girls justice. To sit at Johnny and Mark’s court hearings. To drink herself numb and to see them thrown in jail so they’d never see the light of day ever again.

Executed in the attack of some rickety old house just isn’t the same.

He nods his head.

They part ways.

But he can see her back.

And she sees his hands.

She lashes out and he pulls scabs apart. He agitates old wounds. His thumb works across his finger, picking at a scab, and then he draws blood and she watches as he dumbly looks down at his hands. As if he’s confused at why it would bleed.

A serial arson typically leaves little room for emotional collateral but, of course, he makes an exception. He digs his thumb into his finger, rubbing back and forth, voice breaking, and attention split as he makes connections that no one else sees. Gideon steps to his side, calming Hotch and stopping the trickle of blood over his callused hands. Holds his own hands over the wounds.

She sees that day, the scars that litter his ledger. The scabs… Aaron Hotchner is an open wound. He can’t let anything go. Won’t let the wounds heal. He needs the pain the way she needs the bows. She hates that she’s starting to understand this man that she hates so passionately.

Hearing him shout, the pain in his voice as he tears viciously after Evan Abby makes her falter. There he goes again, picking at wounds that should have healed. Who exactly is he saving? It’s not Abby. The man is a walking corpse, riddled with cancer. Watching as Hotch sinks into Morgan’s arms, his dread and hopelessness bringing him to his knees.

The blood falls down his hands.

But he picks at a wound that makes her bow and all is right, once again, in their little world.

“I want you on that plane with me.”

She finds him on a bender a few days later. The case is solved but that doesn’t mean she feels any better about the way that they left things. A boy swept up in their carnage-- “the boy brought me this last one. Didn’t even ask him to.” She sits down one barstool away from him and wonders if he’s thinking about that too.

But he’s scratching. Not at his hands but at the tumbler he twirls lazily around, mesmerized by the amber liquid in it. He throws what little is left into his mouth and grimaces, not at the taste but at the scab he’s just pulled free. She watches the blood fall.

He gets good at stopping her attacks.

“There’s nothing we could have done,” he breathes, the hurt in his voice the only reason she doesn’t shoot him down with a scowl. For some reason, he takes the seat across from her and pushes a coffee to her. She looks at the mug and then at him. His head dipped, eyes on the sludge he’s calling a peace treaty.

She wraps her hands around the mug. The effect of the warmth is immediate. “I know,” she admits, sipping at the liquid. God, that pisses her off. He always makes the coffee perfect. She can’t even make her coffee the way she likes.

He hums, shaking his head. “I think…” he glances at her and looks out the window. “I think I’m still trying to convince myself that.” The soft admission is so… unlike him. Where is the gruff push? The fire in his eyes. She finds only hard truth. Standing rooted where he is, he frowns with something he can’t convince himself isn’t worry.

Where does she go? Tonight, he will go home and find it empty. Which is fine because he can’t be around Haley and Jack on a night like this. He is no husband. No father. He needs to remind himself of the emptiness that is Aaron Hotchner. The pain and the torture. He’s not meant to be a father and he pushes his father’s legacy a little harder each day he pretends his marriage is a happy one.

If she can not get lost in these faux realities… What does she do?

Him. She does him.

For a month he convinces himself that he can fix the little pieces of his marriage but finds his hands covered in the jagged wounds of the glass carnage. As it turns out, some things simply refuse to go back together. He bleeds and bleeds and Emily, of all people, comes to mend his aches. Moving him away from the fragments, forcing him to let go.

The sex is harsh. He’s rough and she lets him. Urging him on with the roll of her own hips, his hair gripped tightly in her hand. They’ve hurt one another gravely and to know his weaknesses makes her that much better at drowning out his pleasure. She’s surprised to find that his mouth isn’t just good for smart ass remarks.

It sparks something deep within them both.

“Garcia thought she heard…” JJ tightens her mouth, forcing her smile down. She glances over at Garcia, the two sharing smiles that can’t be hidden. For the first time in a while, Garcia came with them on a case. Meaning their usual splitting of the rooms didn’t work so Emily, instead of rooming with JJ, roomed with Hotch.

Garcia smirks at Emily, “I just heard someone up last night.”

Emily knows exactly what they heard. She feigns innocence none-the-less. “Late?” she asks. “I was in bed as soon as we got back.” Which is true because she had Hotch pinned to the wall with a hand down his trousers before the door could swing completely shut behind them. It didn’t take long for him to flip the script and have her on the bed. “I doubt it was anyone from the team, weren’t you all exhausted?”

Garcia accepts that as an answer. For now, that’s reasonable enough. It’s rather silly, is it not, to assume something is going on between Hotch and Emily, of all people. They really sell their pitch with the heated, just under their breath, argument that they have only an hour later. Though it isn’t to save face but because he’s an asshole sleep-deprived and she’s, truly, exhausted for the same reason. JJ and Garcia both feel rather stupid for having thought the commotion the night before could be them.

Six months later, it happens again.

“We were arguing,” Emily offers with hefty-sigh. She’s not just selling her role. Lately, they’ve had to repeatedly come to a heated, uncomfortable debate. Their relationship, what it is and what is really isn’t, is being questioned. Are they enough to power through the last year? Should they be something that makes it through the next?

She rubs at her eyes, careful to keep her hair brushed over her neck. While she’d checked and double checked this morning for any marks on her neck, Hotch has been rather nippy (in all sense of that word) and the last thing she needs is explaining some rogue hickey he’s placed. Unlike him, she doesn’t have a high collar to hide behind.

JJ raises an eyebrow but says nothing. The two of them are going through something, the whole team has noticed. Though, if they’re honest, they don’t suspect the rocks and tumbles of a relationship getting onto its feet. They’re waiting for one of them to snap. Whether it be Emily, who will likely pack up her belongings and leave. Regardless of her love for the team. Hotch… well, he’s losing his grip on his so solidly built and reinforced shields. His pain and discontent are slipping through his armor.

“Arguing?”

Emily sighs, nodding. “He’s an asshole,” she mumbles. “What do you want me to say?” Her tone, tense and defensive, raises a little more attention than she meant it to. Lowering her head, she digs her fingers into her temples. She’s not sure if it’s better or worse that Hotch notices immediately as he walks into the room. There’s a tense moment, the two of them just staring at each other, before he clears his throat and jumps right back into the problem at hand.

The case always comes first. Their relationship after every other conceivable thing.

It makes sense, for them, until it doesn’t.

“This isn’t what you signed up for.”

Up until that moment, he’d considered himself hiding fairly well behind his scowl. Aaron is safely nestled where Hotch can’t hurt him and, what scares him even more, is how protected he is from Prentiss. Because Emily might have tears streaming down her face right now but he knows he’s looking at Prentiss. From the steel in her dark eyes to the conviction that feels, and is, so misplaced.

He swallows around the stupidity that tries to come fumbling out of his mouth. Something sentimental, foolish. “I don’t understand,” he manages. It has taken him his entire adult life to admit to that. To find the courage to say when he doesn’t follow and all for what? To sit here, at her hospital bedside, and grit out the confession. He can’t fucking say I love you but he can consume the poison of letting go.

To succumb where he should fight.

“Please,” she whispers, softly. But she hadn’t been the other half watching. Unable to do a damn thing while her screams, the muffled sounds of her body hitting the walls, had filled his head. He’d listened as Cyrus beat her. In a way, no he didn't sign up for this. No one in a relationship wants every thought about their partner to be about the end. Will it come soon? Leaving one partner to grieve the other longer than they knew each other? To answer to that mourning call-- what is left when all you are is taken? What parts of him are really her?

“If it’s what you want.” he rasps.

She turns her head, barring to him the sight of the bruise that takes up the right side of her jaw. That’s answer enough.

Dave takes her home from the hospital that evening, wondering what exactly it is that’s happened. He noticed the two of them today. He’s not stupid. “How are you feeling?” he asks, looking over at her on his passenger seat. Getting hurt happens but this is the first time she’s ever had to call someone to pick her up. Dave knows, in that way a parent knows that the silence of their children spells encroaching doom, who was supposed to drive her home tonight. One might call it, also, parental intuition.

She doesn’t lift her head from the window. Doesn’t even look at him. “Fine.”

Dave knows Hotch will answer with the same answer Monday when they return from the office.

Calling the two of them tense is an understatement.

Emily returns to work and they steer clear of her. The whispers follow her weary body around like a cloak. That she can manage. That is nothing.

It’s his absence that she feels.

Her coffee tastes odd. She’s grown used to the way that he makes it. Too strong and with no creamer but no matter what she does it just doesn’t taste the same. He’s even ruined tea. His mouth always tasted of Earl Grey or the bitter remnants of his coffee. Now, even smelling Earl Grey twists a knife within her. One she buried herself.

He’s fucking everywhere.

It’s driving her mad.

The worst part is that he’s not there.

In her bed, she rolls over. Throwing a leg over where his hips would usually be. She finds nothing but soft, used cotton. Not even the pillow carries the lingering scent of him.

His sweater hangs over a chair in her room but it’s absent of his warmth. She’s worn it too often and now she can’t even bring it to her face to pretend he’s here.

Nightmares plague her sleep and she wonders if this is penance for breaking his heart or if he’d just kept them away.

She watches, one night, as her nightmares crawl out of her ears sneer right back at her.

“Where’s Hotch?” Emily falls into step with JJ.

The blonde shrugs, “I called him twice. He’ll just have to meet us here when he wakes up.”

Though she falters, body stiffening and pausing, she tries to carry on unbothered. Seemingly unbothered by this progression. Hotch never lets his phone go to voicemail.

She’s the one that finds him four hours later. Lying supine, unresponsive in a hospital bed. The doctor’s words roll right off her, she takes in only that he will, eventually, be okay. And she wonders what it would have been like to really lose him. Not to just yearn for him but to not even avoid his eye in the hall. To hover with her finger over his contact and for there to be no possibility that he’ll answer.

Dead.

He could have died.

Stupidly, foolishly, she takes his hand. His eyes crack open and she pretends she doesn’t see his immediate relief followed far too closely by the pain. Physically brought on by the wounds of both her hands and Foyet’s.  “I almost lost you,” she says.

He closes his eyes when she kisses him but when they pull apart he grimaces. Consciousness is painful, miserable. Her hand clutched by his, he manages a few weak breaths. Each one builds the strength to speak. “You can’t lose what you never had,” he answers, a moment later. By the time the cruelness of his truth has hit her, he’s slipped back under the drugs. His hand limp and clammy.

He’s right, though.

They both knew where he was coming in. The ins and outs of his embrace. That he’d pull her in and push her away in the same breath. Afraid, too afraid, to try at this again and, yet, he’d tried. He might not have had the strength to manage love but he’d held her through the nights. He knew her favorite foods and was never shy about tearing her apartment apart for missing the heating pad if she needed.

And what had she done for him?

She’d tricked him. Lured him in with the lies that she could do this. But she’s still drawn tightly. A bow that lashes out. Hurting others before they have a chance to hurt her and, as a result, she’s killed him more than Foyet could have dreamed.

Mostly, what he means is that she never allowed herself to have him. She never had him and, yet, she misses him every step of the way.

They have one another one last time.

She settles her hips over his and looks everywhere but the agitated, raised scars across his chest. He’s not cleared for strenuous activity but if he can’t have her, can’t feel her lips moving up his jaw and her fingers snaking up his side he’s certain that will kill him far sooner than any strain to his body. He’d rather die by her hand anyhow.

After that, there is no more, but it lingers thickly in the air.

She’s still Emily when her name comes out of his mouth. She still watches his lips, wondering if she were to capture them with her own if they would still taste the same. He looks for her first when things get dangerous and it’s his name she wakes up crying.

Haley dies. Emily puts distance between them but he still looks for her first.

“Please,” she places her hands on his chest. Forcing his body away even though just the feeling of her palms pressed to his chest sends yearning straight down her spine. “Aaron,” his name comes choked. “Please, if you knew me, if you had any idea of the things that I have done you’d run. I need you to run, don’t you understand that?”

He looks down at her, mouth open. Can she not see him? That he is a man made up of scars and scabs. A wound that bleeds. He picks and pokes and he bleeds all over everything. “I don’t run,” he says. He hadn’t run from the carnage of his marriage. Can’t she remember picking him up after that whole affair. Digging the glass from his hands where he’d stabbed and ripped himself to shreds to catch the falling debris of a life he thought he still had.

She deflates, sinking into the realization that her love is the worst thing for him right now. It’s a drug to him and she’s given him far too much. “I know,” she says, a tear slipping down her cheek. “Because you never know what’s good for you.”

His fingers ghost over her cheek and holds her face in his hand. “You let me decide what’s good for me,” he whispers. “I can protect myself, Emily.”

Not against this, she thinks. Not against her. He’s never known when to pull away and when to fight harder. It’s going to get him killed.

But it’s her laying on the ground, impaled, gasping for breath.

Hotch sees her blood all over Morgan’s hands. The hitch in the younger man’s choked breath as he recounts what happened. Attempting and failing to keep the details straight as he tells Hotch, in great detail, what happened. The way she’d lost reality for glimpses. Asked for him. Called out for Aaron, not Hotch, but Aaron. And Hotch doesn’t know what to say when Morgan rises to his feet and challenges-- “What the fuck was that about? What did you two do?”

But it’s fine because JJ comes out and places Morgan right back into his chair, silencing him with seven words. All hitting a little harder, too solidly across his shoulders. “She never made it off the table.”

Emily Prentiss never let herself love Aaron Hotchner but that never stopped him. And, in the end, she’d been there. Through Foyet, she’d been there. Where was he when she needed him?

He sends her to London with JJ, his goodbye rushed, and guilt.

She’s in London. He goes to Afghanistan. Neither make it home entirely alive.

She should have known. 

Admittedly, she is a little wine drunk. Tipsy, really. Inhibitions lowered in the warmth of Dave’s living room. She’s missed them all so terribly that the ache of their absence being lifted has left her exhausted. She’d been in a near daze when she’d taken her wine and moved to the couch. Leaning into Dave’s side when he’d taken the seat beside her. While Jack and Henry recount the events of every day she’s missed according to their greatest accuracy.

Their silly little stories are well worth the soft laughter it draws from the others.

“Where are you going?”

So now, as she stands and leaves Dave’s side cold-- she’s not sure what she was expecting to find in the depths of his eyes but the fear is startling. “Water,” she says, holding up her empty glass. “Water and to pee, I’ve had way too much wine.” She tips the glass and winks at Jack. Trying her best to lighten the mood she hadn’t realized she’d tank just by standing.

Garcia peels herself from the chair she’s sharing with Morgan, ignoring the way he seems to startle at the aspect of losing her pressed into his side. “I’ll join you on the bathroom run, pumpkin,” she says, collecting her glass and Morgan’s from the table at their side. “Another drink, my chunky hunky?”

Morgan smirks but shakes his head, “no thanks, Baby Girl. Someone has to be sober for the drive home.”

As good as that plan sounds, Hotch still grunts. The room’s attention shifting to their leader. He’s been startlingly silent, even for him, all afternoon. Seemingly tucked away from every encounter they’ve had amongst themselves. “You’ve all had too much to drink to drive home,” he says. “You should… calls cabs.” The strength of his interjection leaves his voice as Emily meets his eyes. He lowers his gaze and with it, the point of his statement.

Dave does not fail to notice this. Clearing his throat, he agrees. “I’ll go call your cabs.” He stands, rubbing a hand down his face. Fingers working into the creases of his lips. “Aaron,” he nods his old friend over. “Give me a hand?”

That sets about the motion of the room.

Emily’s making her way down the hall when Garcia catches her. “What is it,” Emily asks, playfully. She waits for Garcia to catch up to her, holding out her hand for what she’s expecting to be a trip full of the secrets of her and Derek’s relationship. Something good. A win.

“Can you make him stay?”

Emily desperately wants to pull from Garcia’s hold. Her grip is intense, desperate. She tries to pull away from Garcia’s hold. “What?” she asks softly, looking over her shoulder for some help. “Who? Who needs to stay?”

The desperation in Garcia’s eyes is unsettling. She lowers her voice even more pulling them closer. Her voice breaks as she says it. Tears swelling and running against the mascara over her eyelashes-- “Hotch.” She clenches her teeth, showing the most self-restraint Emily’s seen since they stepped foot in this hall. “He left us,” she breathes, sadly. “A month after you were gone. I went to his office--” her eyes dart as she speaks. “I started bringing him coffee every morning to cheer him up.”

Emily swallows thickly around the guilt that creeps up. Her death had broken them. She’d known that, of course. She just hadn’t considered Hotch. Brave and strong and it’s so hard to tell when he’s hurting. Then to bare her lie? Another cross on his back. More weight on his shoulders.

“I went in--” the tears fall as Garcia’s voice shakes. “He wasn’t there. He’d cleaned his office up and you know how he is.” That big oak desk is always littered with paperwork. One side to the other. He stacks it everywhere. Leaving pens from one end of the room to the other. You can’t even sit on that old couch of his without getting stabbed in the ass by a pen he’s lost. “Clean,” Garcia whispers. “He just left, in the middle of the night. By the time we came in, by the time we could find him he was already over there. Afghanistan.”

The word makes Emily’s chest tighten. What the hell could he be doing over there? That station is always looking for profilers but it’s a death trap. Hotch had said it himself, warning her when they’d sent her the special request. They’ve been operational for five years and gone through seven profilers. All of which have died. No one makes it out of that station alive.

And he’d gone.

“Why would--” she doesn’t even want to finish the question. Doesn't want to put the truth into action. Admit that she knows exactly why he did it.

At least over there he’d die a hero. Leave his son a flag and another parent to bury.

It’s faster than anything he could swallow over here.

Garcia squeezes Emily’s arm, bringing her back to the present moment. To the thing in question. “Can you bring him back,” she whispers frantically. “Can you make him stay?”

Emily doesn’t honestly know. Has she ever been able to make him do anything? “Garcia, I--” Her mouth snaps shut as the man in question steps into the hall. His eyes dart between them and Emily feels rather like a mouse caught in a trap.

He clears his throat and scratches uncertainly at the beard he’s let grow back in. “I was just…” he looks at Garcia and then back at Emily. Clearly caught off guard. “Dave-- I… You’re, ah, the hotel is close to me. I thought I’d save you the cab fare if you wanted to ride back--”

“Yes.” Emily nods, far too quickly. “Thanks,” she says, looking anywhere but at him. “I’d, ugh, I’d appreciate that.”

Hotch looks between Garcia and Emily, before nodding and ducking his head. He leaves the hall, with a slightly awkward nod and steps out. Hands going to his pocket. Hiding.

“Will you try,” Garcia whispers.

Emily watches him walk away. The apprehension in his hesitant movements. His hand scratching at the back of his head until he can hide behind the shield of Jack’s eager talking. Sinking down beside the boy on the couch and hiding himself there. “I don’t know,” she admits, honestly.

The only person that can pull him from the ledge is Hotch and she’s seen him toe it once before.

Packing things up is simple enough.

Hotch stands towards the edge of the hall, Jack slowly falling asleep in his arms.

“Sleepy,” Emily asks Jack, running her fingers through his soft brown hair. Jack shakes his head but doesn’t raise it from Hotch’s shoulder. Hotch has wrapped him in his jacket rather than choosing to fight the boy into it. It’s more a blanket. She pulls it up around him a little better. “You’re not tired,” she asks. “I am. I can’t wait to get to bed.”

Jack smiles but doesn’t admit to the exhaustion weighing his little bones down. “Are you gonna sleep with us?” he asks. He looks down at her with the soft of his father’s. Same impossible depth is hidden behind light brown iris’. It breaks her heart to see the turmoil within him.

Emily frowns but she’s not forced to tell the little boy no. Instead, Hotch’s hand comes to the back of his head. Cupping his neck as Hotch turns to face her. “You don’t have to do anything,” he clarifies with an all too familiar look in his eyes. Mischief. A plan. “We do have the guest room. With clean sheets. You could come home with us.”

Home.

To a real bed.

“I…” she can’t force out the polite no her mother has solidified in her mind the answer to be. No because that’s not fair or right or-- she really wants to sleep in a normal bed.

He bumps her shoulder, “just say yes.”

She looks at him and then at Jack. It’s not a hard thing to want to go home with the two of them. After Foyet, she’d spent many nights camped out on their couch. Waiting for father or son to wake in a panic. He’d done the same in the hospital after Doyle, sleeping on an uncomfortable little cot just so the first thing she saw each time she woke up was someone she knew.

Now it’s different. The dynamic has changed. While he might not know the course of the night has changed, she does.

She just doesn’t know it’s a futile battle.

There is no use fighting over stupid things like sleeping. He tucks Jack into his bed and meets her in his room. She’s already pulled on his shirts over her head. Refraining, forcing herself from burying her face in the material.

It doesn’t stop her from curling into bed beside him. Pressing her face into his shoulder and focusing solely on his hand slipping under her shirt. “You tired…” he asks. She shakes her head. He hums as he thinks. Dragging his thumb over her hip bone, stroking the soft skin. “First crush,” he whispers, ghosting his lips over her neck.

She laughs at that, twisting in his grip to tilt her hips across his. Settling closer to his chest. Drawing her hand up she draws against his skin. “This girl named…” she taps at his chest as she fails to remember the girl’s name. “I can’t remember her name,” she admits, faintly. Blushing. “Does that surprise you?”

Hotch’s eyes have slipped shut, his face turned into her hair. He hums, scrunching his eyebrows. “Surprised about what,” he asks softly. “That you can’t remember her name or that it’s a she?” He pulls her closer, wrapping an arm around her hips.

Emily just… looks at him. He hasn’t even opened his eyes. He’s not even going to comment? She bites her lip and lowers her head back down. “What about you?”

“None. It’s… I’ve only ever--” he blushes, averting his eyes. “Only Haley and you.” He clears his throat… “That’s why I always tried,” he whispers. “Why I tried so hard…”

“It’s not like I didn’t try,” she defends, pulling away from his embrace. “I was trying to protect you from this whole mess. You’re the one who didn’t know when to stop.”

“I don’t know where you get off blaming me,” he says, pulling himself away. He sits up in the bed, turning himself so she can sit and stare at the wall of his back. Little scars marking up his back as he places his arms on his knees. “You ran, Emily. Every single time, you run. Not me.”

Neither look at the other.

“I’m sleeping on the couch,” he announces. “Stay. Don’t make me explain to Jack why you’re not here in the morning.”

She stays where she is. She turns this over in her mind. His words are an open palm slap to the face. She sleeps in his bed, holding onto his pillow and burying her face into the scent. She doesn’t leave but only because she doesn’t want to have to walk past him. This feels like winning so she stays. She eats breakfast with them in the morning, playing and laughing with Jack like she always has.

Like she always does.

“I leave Thursday, if you care.”

She says nothing which is perfect because he’s not sure he can handle anything she might think of.

She knows, without having to be told, that they blame her for not being to keep him here. And, maybe it’s her fault, because she didn’t really try, did she? She did what also does, she hurt him. Now she’s sitting here all alone, wondering what she could have done differently.

Everything.

“We’ll see you when you get home.”

She stands at the back of the group, watching the other’s pull him into hugs. Dave holds Hotch for a long moment, speaking softly so only the two of them can hear what’s being exchanged. Hotch pulls away from that hug with tears falling down his cheeks. “Don’t make me bury another son, Aaron. Please be careful.” And that’s when he sees her.

Derek pushes her forward and she feels all of them watching as she makes her way to him.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” he confesses. He doesn’t care that the others are watching. They know enough. They’ve always known.

She feels guilty and she should. “You told me goodbye,” she reminds him. He’d kissed her right before they sent her to London with a packet of new names and passports. To be someone other than Emily. For a second chance. “It--” she looks away. She’s running, again, she knows. And she has to stop running. “It was the only thing that kept me alive, Aaron. I couldn’t let you leave without having told you the truth--”’

He glances up and back to her. Just for a moment, he wonders if the others should be hearing all this but--maybe they’re past all that. Pretending is how people get killed, they learned that with Emily, and he really doesn’t feel like being their repeat.

“I love you,” she confesses. “I know you love me, you always have. I’m sorry that I keep--” fucking it up. “I love you and I need you to come home, okay? So I can stop running.”

He doesn’t believe her. He wants to believe her but everything about Emily Prentiss always hurts and he knows it’s stupid to trust her. “Okay,” he says, afraid anything more will send her for the hills before he can even leave the country. And like an idiot, he bends his neck into her touch. Letting her rise up on her toes to kiss him. “I promise,” he whispers.

Jessica gets the call at midnight. The Bachelor finale had ended hours ago but she’d been sucked into some History channel rerun about ancient Mesopotamia. It’s the haze of the light hour, the warmth of the undertones of sand, the steady deep voice narrating, and the blanket curled around her shoulders that puts her to sleep. She doesn’t stand a chance after the day she’s had.

The call comes at 12:34 and the urgent ringing of her cell-phone makes her heart kick painfully at her chest. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes with one hand, she accepts the call without looking to see who it is. Not that her tired eyes would have recognized the caller anyway.

Not serving as a soldier, the process for notifying the family of any health changes requires a different take. For Aaron Hotchner, it’s put into the FBI’s hand. He’s their tool after all, not the US Army’s.

“I’m sorry to wake you, ma’am,” the voice offers.

Jessica scowls at the formality, sitting up on the couch and desperately searching for the remote. She kills the screen and the room is bathed in silence, aiding her ability to understand and think about what’s going on. “Ugh, can I help you?” She pushes her hair up out of her face, searching the ground and coffee table for a spare hair tie.

“I’m calling in regards to Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Hotchner. I understand this number is supposed to be the personal line of Jessica Brookes? You’re his emergency contact--”

He deployed in October. Giving her only a week’s heads-up. He’d had the decency to look ashamed of himself, of the state of being he’s caused for them all. She’d understood his situation. Losing his friend had broken him irreparably and he’d wanted to talk about that even less than he had Haley. At least he’d warned her, she knows he hadn’t extended his team the same courtesy.

The man on the line goes on. Something about moving bases and a promise to get back to her as soon as possible.

“Thank you for your service,” the man concludes.

Jessica blinks, frowning at the phrasing. Aaron wasn’t serving. He was punishing himself. This was penance.

“Goodnight.”

She sits back on the couch, eyes vacantly taking in the wall in front of her. He’s on his way home. That’s good but she can’t help but… he’s hurt. Hurt enough for them to discard him back here. How bad is it?

Emily can’t deny her horror.

His eyes move to the blanket. To the empty space of where his limb once was. “It’s… It’s just a leg,” he whispers. He blinks heavily once, twice, and sighs softly as he fails to keep his eyes open. Humming, he parts his chapped lips but can’t find any more words. He’s too tired. “Could be…” his voice slurs and he exhales a heavy breath. “...worse.”

Emily wants to hit him but she’s done being defensive. She’s tired of being the first one to pull away. For once, she just needs to be the one that holds onto a hug a little longer. That lingers. “You could have died,” she whispers thickly. Gently, hesitantly she touches his hand. To her surprise he is the one to move, intertwining their fingers. She sits by his side, eyes glued the empty part of the bed. The nothing of where his leg is supposed to be. Does it really matter that much, though? A single leg?

Not to her. She’s had months to pretend. Every night she has escaped to a new reality with him. Come up with every variety of reality that might occur. What she’d do if he’d come perfectly fine and how they’d have kids and he’d never wake in the middle of the night with nightmares because she’d kill his monsters. How she would cope if he came home horribly disfigured or entirely different. Would it matter? They’d still be Aaron and Emily.  

“I’ll never walk again,” he informs her. His head is tilted into the pillows, casually watching his news wash over her. He wants to know if she’ll stay if he can’t go. If all these years were about the chase, would she stay if he can no longer follow?

She sits down in the chair pulled up to the side of the bed. People have been in and out all afternoon but she’s the first one to receive this news. The other’s don’t really matter because he knows the script, can imagine how each of them react. Garcia will cry. JJ will too but not until she’s leaving. Dave will take it well but he’ll utter something strangely sentimental and sober with the realization that walking was never the priority of Hotch coming home. Morgan and Reid are his wild cards and he doesn’t want to tell them at all. But that’s just not how this works.

“At least you won’t go running off on me.”

He knows what she means, the implication and the diversion. With a huff he raises an eyebrow, “I’ve never been a runner, Emily.”

Emily.

No, she supposes, he never has. “If you can’t run,” she says, heart skipping around in her chest. She feels it pulsing in her throat, tossing itself around in her stomach. “If you can’t run then I won’t run.” She stands, swallowing thickly around the swell of fear in her throat. He watches her, looking up at her as she hovers for just a moment. When she kisses him there are no sparks. Something cold, icy runs it’s fingers into the grooves of her spine but she’s not gripped by any startling realizations.

It’s too late for that.

But he tastes like Aaron and to a girl who’s never had a home in one place, she’s only ever running. Here, against him, she knows what people mean they say a person can be a home. Because she wants to curl into him and forget the edges of Emily. Aaron. It’s always been Aaron.

It surprises him that she stays. She waited until things got hard.

“I’m going to have to go to physical therapy every week.”

She shrugs, “I’ve got a library of books waiting for me to read them. I’ll tackle my reading list.”

“I can’t walk,” he reminds her.

She raises an eyebrow, “so? I didn’t love you before because of your ability to walk.”

“Emily--” he needs her to understand this isn’t as easy as she’s making it. Using the bathroom, showering, sex isn’t even going to be easy. She can’t just brush it off like it’s not going to bother her. It’s bothering him! “Emily, I can’t hold your hand when we go downtown. I’m going to need your help taking a shower and getting to the bathroom. I’m going to have to look for a new apartment because the one I have, there’s no way I can work a wheelchair around in it. It’s-- I’m not the same! We’re not the same!”

She knows. Yesterday she asked Morgan to rig up something in the bathroom. She spent hours with Morgan trying to put a handle or a rail in beside the toilet without ruining the wall. Ordered a shower chair last week that Morgan is probably putting together right now. Garcia and JJ are looking for apartments with larger floor plans because she doesn’t want to be presumptuous and assume he’d want to move into a house with her. But she’s waiting for the right time to bring it up.

“Maybe that’s for the best,” she says. “That we’re not the same. I’m different too.” Does she need to create her own list? Dedicating it all to words for him to comb over. She can’t sleep through the night. Even though it had been a wooden stake that had “killed” she can’t hold a knife. Her hands tremble, this weakness she can’t explain. Her abdomen is just scars, riddled with ugly skin hardened by trauma. Is he prepared to see that?

“Look at me,” she says, squeezing his hand. “It’s been me and you for years. You’re the only thing I really know. So, I’ll take you as you come. However you come. You loved me when I ran, I can love you with a little baggage.”

He frowns, trying to find an out. Not or himself but for her. But she’s unwavering. “Baggage,” he finally caves. He smirks, shaking his head. “Of all the words in the language you know and you pick baggage?”

She cringes, shrugging, “I didn’t really think about it. It just came out.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

She smiles, “you love it.”

He hesitates for a moment but nods, “I do.”

[manikas-whims]

Troublesome New Girl

Sequel to A Place Good Enough

[Read on AO3]

Characters: Inej Ghafa, Jesper Fahey, Kaz Brekker

Summary: Inej has newly joined the Dregs. She goes to return Kaz's coat in the presence of many members. *cue the teasing & jokes*

Jesper meets Inej & evidences of Jesper's crush on Kaz (tiny bit of angst).

Kaz is his usual self & sets an example. A violent one :)

Note:

I just noticed this complete written fic has been sitting in my drafts for a month now. I'm so dumb 〒_〒

PLEASE DO READ THE PREVIOUS PART IN THIS SERIES TO UNDERTAND THIS SEQUEL.

Hope you guys enjoy!

Inej

The constant noise of banging against wood rouses Inej from her sleep. She looks around haphazardly only to find herself lying on a cot in an unknown room, her torso covered by a grey coat. Sun's rays blind her eyes momentarily as she turns her face, an open window staring back at her, not the daunting walls of the Menagerie. Memories of the previous night flood back and her shoulders deflate in relief. She takes a long breath to calm her rapidly beating heart. She doesn't need to endure Heleen's beatings or sell her body anymore. She is free of that life. Free.

“Oi new girl!” a voice calls, followed by more knocking at the wooden door to her small room. “Brekker told me to bring you some clothes. I’m leaving a pair out here.”

Right! Kaz Brekker had promised her better clothes. She leaves the comfort of the cot but by the time she unlocks the door to thank whoever was on the other end, the person is gone. She catches a short glimpse of a feminine figure with blond hair at the stairs and vows to thank her later. Picking up the clothes, she closes the door.

Jesper

When Jesper had heard his fellow Dregs gossiping about Dirtyhands bringing back a girl with him late at night, he hadn’t given it much thought. He had ignored Anika when she had said that she was literally asked by Kaz himself to provide the said girl with some clothes. In fact, he had completely shooed away anyone who came up to fill his ears with rumors about this unknown Suli girl and the bastard of the barrel. So when a small, bronze-skinned girl bumps into him on the third floor of the Slat, he's stunned.

"Ohhh—", The girl waves her hands frantically, her pupils dilating in concern, "I'm sorry."

But Jesper doesn't bother with apologies for he's too busy appraising her. Now she does match the rumored descriptions and is even donning Anika's lame clothes. But what actually piques his interest is a neatly-folded coat in the deepest shade of grey held between her dainty hands. He doesn’t need to think long to guess who it belongs to. There’s only one person who doesn’t indulge in the colorful fashion sense of the barrel— Kaz “Dirtyhands” Brekker.

He feels his insides fuming. But no way is he going to act like an idiot and jump to conclusions. Just because here's a girl he’s never seen before and she happens to have a coat, doesn’t mean that every single narrative he's heard about this whole situation is true.

He narrows his eyes in what he assumes is his best look of suspicion as he towers over the girl. “Where did you get that?”

"Um", she looks down at the piece of clothing and mumbles in the most innocent tone, "Mr. Brekker lent it to me."

Mr. Brekker!? The hell kinda way is this to address a man you slept with? Or whatever the heck it is that Dirtyhands prefers to do with girls..

"Why?" he asks. From Jesper's experiences, the young lieutenant of the Dregs isn't big on kindness. "Why did he lend it you?"

The girl's brows narrow in thought. It seems she herself is unsure of the reason. Her left palm clutches her right forearm in apprehension. "I guess..because I wasn't in a very decent attire."

Alarms go off in Jesper's head again. What exactly happened between her and Kaz? His heart needs answers yet he knows that its none of his business so he suppresses the unease welling in his belly.

"Well Kaz is up there." He gestures in the direction of the attic. "I'm headed there right now so I can give it to him."

The girl frowns. "I can't let a stranger do that for me. Besides," she twirls a strand of her hair, her eyes alight with some indescribable emotion, "I must properly thank him myself."

Jesper is familiar with this look. It mirrors his own when he was still a newbie at the Dregs and wanted to prove himself, wanted to repay Kaz for saving his ass. And not just by helping him pluck stupid pigeons but also by adding extra sums of profits to his ledger. Jesper can empathize with her on this.

"He saved you too," The Zemeni asks carefully, "didn't he?"

She stares at him, gauging the understanding in his expression and simply nods.

He rubs the side of his neck awkwardly. "Well, wanna go up together?"

Her eyes widen and she involuntarily takes a few steps back. Distrust. Fear. He can empathize with this action as well. In the barrel, it'd be foolish to believe a complete stranger within few moments of the first encounter.

"Then," he smiles the smile that many have called charming and starts his ascend upstairs. He only looks back once to wink at her, hoping it'll quell her anxious mind a bit, "follow my lead?"

"I can do that." she mumbles, more to assure herself and takes the first step of many that will become the foundation to their sibling-like friendship.

Kaz

When it comes to change, development and fresh ideas, Per Haskell always cowers and dismisses the topic. People like that will never achieve anything if they aren't willing to take risks. The restoration of that abandoned fifth harbour would already be in motion if Kaz hadn't chosen to waste another of his precious mornings trying to convince his boss that investing in it may prove fruitful to the Dregs. And so, after a pointless argument he had had earlier with the old man, he's decided to take matters into his own hands.

Huffing audibly, he continues explaining every member present in his room their respective job for the day. The boisterous throng huddled around him, begins dispersing all of a sudden. Curiously, Kaz looks up to find his faitful right-hand man Jesper Fahey walking in, a mischievous glint in his silver irises.

"We bumped into each other on our way up here." Jesper gestures behind him.

And it is then that Kaz notices her presence— Inej Ghafa, the strange Suli girl he had brought back from the West Stave. Oddly, he had felt her presence moments ago but had brushed it off as a mere byproduct of his rest-deprived mind playing tricks on him. Turns out his intuition hadn’t been wrong at all.

"Its that Suli girl."

"The one that Brekker took up to his bed?"

"Who would've thought Haskell's rabid dog had such exquisite tastes."

The one that Brekker took where? Haskell's rabid what? Kaz isn't sure which remark he finds more insulting towards his reputation. Although he does realise he has no one except himself to blame. He should'nt have let the girl follow him up to the attic last night. As usual, he'll have to cover this small err with fresh tales about himself that are even more gruesome than the previous ones. But for now he must find out why the new girl is here.

Anika’s clothes are baggy on her small frame— a deep green shirt so loosely-fitted that she has tied its ends into a double knot just above her belly-button whilst the fawn-colored trousers hang tastefully around her hips. He watches her long, silky hair sway behind her as she walks gracefully in his direction, determination glimmering in her dark brown irises. Shock briefly flits across his gaze but before he can even think of stopping her, she shoots out her hands in which he (dreadfully) recognizes, she’s holding his coat. He can feel all eyes in the room already settling on him. They collectively stare in a mix of shock, curiosity and..is this jealousy he's witnessing on a few faces?

"What do you think you're doing?" He grits out. He hears a muffled snickering which he's sure is Jesper's and wonders if the two somehow managed to become friends in the short span of their climb up the stairs. And that they both planned this prank together on their way.

However, Inej only furrows her brows, debunking his ridiculous theory. She seems to be wondering what she's done wrong as she answers confidently, "I forgot to return it last night."

More interested staring ensues. The new pen in his palm snaps.

Is this girl serious right now? It took him long, unrelenting years to rise to the position he's at. He's spilled his blood, sweat and tears to scatter the seeds of terror about him throughout the expanse of Ketterdam. Even people who come across him for the first time, visibly shiver and turn pale. So what part of their last conversation has given her this courage to approach him so casually? She seems to have forgotten the fact that he’s an infamous barrel thug, feared by merchers, stadwatch and gangsters alike. She isn’t supposed to saunter up to him and return his coat, making this whole exchange appear to be a scandalous affair to the curious bystanders. She isn't supposed to crumble Dirtyhands' hard-built reputation with just a few words!

"Stand aside, I'm busy." He mutters, because he truly has no idea how to get out of this predicament and hopes that his caustic tone will get the message across just like it does with everyone else.

To his utter dismay, Inej seems to be far more tactless than Jesper, who still hasn't stopped snickering. She tucks the coat back in her arms and bites her lip as if suppressing herself from saying something mean. Her eyes quietly regard his own, an unspoken understanding settling between them. She is aware that if she doesn't wish to be thrown back into the Menagerie, she must behave properly with him. And yet, her nostrils flare as she responds, "I just wanted to pay my gratitude-"

"You can pay your gratitude," Kaz hisses back, glaring up at her from his perched position, "with your services." And its only after uttering those words does he realise the ambiguous implications hinted in them. Jesper's shoulders are shaking uncontrollably now, his palms tightly clamped around his mouth to muffle his laugh.

"Slow down, Dirtyhands." comments someone from the back and the whole room bursts into a howl of laughter. Inej brings a palm to her lips, gasping in mortification.

Kaz massages his eyes. Dealing with these ruffians has already been a headache. Now this new girl just walks in and takes the cake. She's proving to be far more dangerous– scratch that– far more more troublesome than he had expected.

He lets them have their fun as he pulls out a knife from his coatsleeve and gets up. He ambles towards Dirix, his steps slow and deliberate. He's sure it was Rotty who'd made the joke but Dirix is standing closer and it doesn't really matter who said what. Dirtyhands just needs to set an example.

The young boy is suddenly looking very pale. Kaz grabs his right hand, the dominant one and digs the blade along the joints of his fingers. The knife easily tears through his skin and goes deeper into the muscle beneath. Dirix is now screaming whilst everyone else hold their breath. From his peripheral vision, he catches the horror on Inej's face and rolls his eyes. Surely she must've heard of his violent endeavors at the menagerie. She shouldn't have approached him in the first place if she's going to be so shocked everytime he spills someone's blood.

He roots out the knife before it can completely sever Dirix's limbs. "Get 'em patched up." The boy is already running out.

He walks back and tosses the knife to the desk, its loud clang making everyone flinch in fright. "Pipe down before I actually start chopping tongues."

The threat silences everyone.

"This is Inej Ghafa." He points at her and the girl cowers slightly. Not at all the abrupt attention on her, he notices, but from him. "She's to be a new spider."

This one simple statement seems to piece together everything for them. Though he has an inkling that his previous act of brutality also plays a major part. They nod and whisper amongst themselves. He almost scoffs. Of course its easier for them to believe that Kaz Brekker took up a girl to his room for information. Not some spicy dalliance.

"Now get to work." He orders and one by one they shuffle out of the room, Rotty nodding respectfully. He knows he was spared merely by luck.

Jesper is the last one. He winks at Inej before taking his leave. "See you around, new girl!"

And with all of them gone, Kaz turns to Inej. She inhales a breath in anticipation.

"Let's start your training."

So hopefully that was as fun reading as it was for me writing :3

Coming parts will have Inej's training and ofc her picking her canon outfit.

.

SoC Masterlist

( divider by @firefly-graphics )

[writefightandflightclub]

Nightmares and daydreams

Summary: you have a nightmare centred on Poe meeting a bitter end, and so you have to see for yourself that he’s alright. Major angst, eventual fluff.

Author’s note: not super happy with how this turned out, but it’s been sat in my drafts unfinished for so long that I just need it gone. Plus, I cried a few times writing it (at the same bit each time) and I can’t take it anymore. Yikes :P

Warnings: nightmares, sweats, fear, reference of character death / war (not too graphic), crying, arguing / fighting, angst. Gendered terms WRT to reader e.g. “girl”, sexual themes but no explicit smut.

GIF by @hupperts​ (I use this GIF so much, oops.)

Word count: 2.6k

You are barrelling down the hallway in a cold sweat, tears coursing down your face. You know it doesn’t make sense -it’s not logical- but your nightmare had seemed too real. You had to get to him. You had to see for yourself that Poe was ok. You needed to shake that image of him; skin cold and bloodied, eyes vacant -as glassy and unlit as empty cockpits. You needed him in front of you, living and breathing; and so, you woke and you ran.

This was the second time you had run to him today.

It had been a typical dogfight. A typical close-call. Poe had pulled some reckless stunt and his X-Wing had taken a hit. Smoke trailing behind him and flames licking the cockpit, his stuttering engine had barely carried the battered craft home. You had landed bumpily behind him as you watched his ship thump and skitter across the runway, jumping out and tearing over towards him at full pelt as you watched him clamber out of the cockpit, swaying slightly and patting down his lightly smoking flight suit. You had been inexplicably angry with him, trembling with white hot rage as you tore into him for his actions. You had pulled your helmet off and smashed it on to the duracrete floor, had screamed at him and he had screamed back, spitting vitriol at one another until you were practically chest-to-chest in the airfield.

The ground troops had to wrangle you apart, siphoning Poe off towards the med bay -despite his very vocal protestations- and dragging you towards the command room. Still bubbling with a boiling rage in the pit of your belly, your incessant accusations of Poe’s folly hissed from your lips like irrepressible steam. The General ordered you to take a walk and cool off, and so you had looked at her as if betrayed and stormed-out of the command room, leaving a fraught scene in your wake.

You had walked into the forest surrounding base, not knowing where to, until night descended and turned the air biting cold. Until the heat has dissipated from you, figuratively and literally. Until you just felt numb. By this time, the exhaustion was hitting you, and all you wanted was to fold yourself into darkness, perhaps before any regret had a chance to take hold of you. You’d retired sullenly to your quarters, stripping off everything except your underwear and tossing it to a heap on the floor, then you had climbed under the covers, still covered in smoke and dirt and blood and not caring.

You were exhausted, so sleep came to you immediately, but it was encumbered by the residual adrenaline and stress wracking your body. The events of the day twisted and flailed in your mind like wisps of smoke which became whips, cracking at you with violent and jarring intensity. Flashbacks of actual terrors mingled with imagined terrors came as an onslaught until you were trapped in a vivid vortex of despair, the fear you held deep in your bones right at the centre, seeding the tangled vision.

Poe. Poe dead. Poe dead and gone.

You were jolted awake by your own cries and thrashing, your heart pounding and skin slick with sweat, your jagged breaths heaving in the pitch-dark. Alone in the night, you desperately tried to sift through the events of the day to understand what was real. You were sure that you had screamed at him on the runway- that he’d made it home. Hadn’t he? Even so, the nightmare had plucked at a deep-seated fear. The fear that you carried religiously with you into every mission. As sure as you would zip-up your flight suit and harness, load your munitions, and put on your helmet, your fear that Poe wouldn’t make it this time was bundled into the cockpit with you, crammed into the spare spaces. The fear always settled around you, lightly at first like wisps of smoke, clinging to your hair and skin. At moments where he came too close to harm, those wisps would become whips again, and the only way to stave off the inevitable pain was to become fierce, like a lion. To become angry.

You routinely masked your feelings with anger, but the truth is, you are terrified. Terrified you’ll lose him. Now, when you are too exhausted to muster any further defences, the whips are cutting you deep. The wounds they’re inflicting might not be physical, but the pain you are feeling is wholly real.

That was how you ended up at his door in the night, banging your closed fist against it persistently.  You didn’t care that you were half-naked and dishevelled, the thought having barely entered your head. You simply need to see him.

Poe opens the door wearily, still in his flight suit despite the late hour. He is still sweaty, still covered in blood and dirt, his hair a knot of confused curls and thick stubble sprouting over his jaw; but even this weak show of energy seems positively vital, radiant in comparison to the macabre vision in your nightmare. He registers it is you standing there, and in all the terrible situations Poe has seen you face, you’d swear he can’t have seen you this distraught before. His eyes instantly flash with concern.

“What is it, what’s happened?” Poe asks, his voice creaking under the strain like he can’t possibly take anything else horrible today. Even so, he’s looking at you like he’d run out and fight the whole galaxy for you if you could just tell him what hurt you like this. But him being in front of you is all you needed. You simply dive forward and cling to him in relief. Like you should have done when he touched down. Like you should have done in every moment you possibly could have before now.

He yields to you slowly, as if he is starved of touch, perhaps as if your affection is a shock to him after all of the times you’ve been too harsh. After all of the times you’ve stubbornly, selfishly tried to push him away. Slowly, as if you may be a cruel trick, a vision or a wisp of smoke yourself, Poe brings one arm around your waist, one hand up to wrap securely at the nape of your neck. He must find you slick with sweat, your bare flesh cloying and trembling beneath his palms, but he doesn’t recoil. He simply holds you as deliver stifled sobs of relief into his shoulder.

After a few moments like this, upon realising there is no external danger -the threat is evidently an inner turmoil- Poe shuffles you delicately into his room so the door can close behind you. “You’re ok. You’re safe.” he soothes, as your hands ball into his chest. “Do you want to tell me what’s up?” He coaxes, without pressuring you, bringing his hands to your shoulders to gently part you from him, to make you look him in his eyes. You find them still full of concern as well as weariness.

The softness of him, given without question, is almost too much for your vulnerable heart to bear and so you bite back cruelly. “You’re a stupid, preposterous man.”

Poe’s jaw tightens, and you half expect him to come at you, but instead, he lets your words bounce off him. Instead, the palm of his calloused hand comes up to your face, rough pad of his thumb gently swiping the tears off you. “I know that, but what’s new?” he teases, with a whispered voice and soft smile, though his eyes remain turbulent with worry. His other arm comes back to your waist, his broad hand warm and reassuring at your back.

You’re not equipped to counter such disarming tenderness. All you know how to do anymore is to deflect it. “I hate you sometimes.” you insist stubbornly.

This time Poe purses his lips, his eyes hardening slightly. But you’re looking hungrily between his eyes and mouth, your pupils blown out, your hands now fisting at his lapels, your breath seething in and out of you.

You’re almost chest-to-chest, as you were earlier that day, except this time, his hand is on your bare skin, his fingers drawing circles on your back, his dark eyes intent on you, infused with heat but not with anger. He continues to caress your face with his palm, and to both your surprise your mouth moves to him, your soft lips brushing over his fingers, a needy moan billowing over them. 

His own breathing becoming uneven, he cocks his head inquiringly at you. “And the rest of the time?”

The rest of the time? When you weren’t telling yourself you hated him?

Thinking about that invites buried, denied feelings to the surface. Your palms paw at his chest. An urge talking hold of you which is so strong, so irrevocable, that you feel almost powerless against it. Your hands slip down his torso in something like defeat, tugging at the flight suit at his hips, pulling him on to you. Both his hands move to your back now, his fingers tracing his touch on you like a spark running along a fuse line.

“Poe.”, you breathe. Still resisting, pawing, whimpering.

“What do you need? Tell me. Say it and it’s done.” his gruff, throaty request is like the striking of a match.

With it, you do tell him. Tears still drying on your cheeks, your lips work all of the words into him that you can’t find, the feelings that you have buried and can’t yet name. Your mouth presses to his in a crush of lips as if you are trying to pin your slippery heart safely between you. As if you will die if you ever lose this contact. Poe responds immediately, urgently; without pause, as if he’s always been ready for this. As if he’s always been expecting it, and everything else is simply an interruption - a break from the inevitability of kissing you.

He tastes like oak and spice and caramel, his tongue against yours sending a trail of fierce heat down into the pit of your stomach as if you’ve just taken an intoxicating swig of him into your mouth; a warming sensation like the burn of whisky, your body thrumming with this buzz. And it’s still not enough of him. You want to be drunk on him. He moans into your mouth. His tongue is no longer biting and bickering, but warm and supple and in agreement with yours.

It’s the kind of kiss that is both desperately sad and desperately joyous because you waited so long for it.

Poe’s thigh thrusts in between your own, his muscled leg pressing up against your core as you feel his desire growing against your hip. His hands slip up into your hair, his touch growing frenzied, more desperate, and you tip your head back to give his lips access to the column of your neck, his stubble grazing and tongue soothing the tendinous flesh there as you moan into the air for him.

Your hands can’t decide where they want to be, and you want to touch all of him at once, his body both soft and strong under your touch. You just know you need his skin on you, and so you clutch desperately at his flight suit, up against the logistics of getting him naked with all manner of belts and holsters impeding you, your haze of desire not helping you accomplish your task. 

Poe senses your urgency and groans into the junction of your neck, hating himself for the interruption he knows he has to deliver. “Wait.” he breathes, before tearing himself reluctantly away from you and stepping back a fraction. “Wait. This is happening really fast... Is this ok?”

“We have to, Poe, we have to. We can’t wait.” you plead, and something in your voice seems to have the opposite effect to what you’d hoped for.

“Baby, there’s no rush.” Poe slows, the concern returning to his eyes again, a result of the emotion and insistence in your tone.

“No! There’s not enough time!” you blurt out, voice desperate and broken and high-pitched. And there it is. The thing you have to acknowledge. That fear you hold deep in your bones is resurgent all over again, and it instantly causes tears to spring forth from you. “There’s not enough time, Poe.” You repeat weakly and in defeat, voice filled with so much pain that Poe steps imperceptibly back from you, as if he is being hurt vicariously. “I dreamed you were gone. I dreamed that you were dead.” you admit, and Poe’s eyes swim instantly with sadness. Almost with guilt. He sags as if he’s been punched in the gut.

“That’s what you were upset about?” he questions in the smallest of voices. “That’s why you’re here?”

Realising that the mood has gone and feeling sombre, you fold at the knees and sink down, perching on the end of Poe’s bed. Solemnly, he sits down next to you. He looks positively broken.

“I can’t stop thinking about it, Poe. It could happen. On any single mission. It could be either one of us.” You look at him in apology, and although you can see your words are hurting him you don’t seem to have the strength left to contain your confession any longer. “I already wasted so much time trying to tell myself I hated you that... I’m scared. I’m so scared that I’m gonna run out of time to love you. Poe.”

His face twists in distress, and he’s staring wordlessly at a very particular spot on the floor, seemingly unable to lift his eyes to yours. He wants to reassure you. You can see the effort shudder through his body. You see him try and flail for words of comfort, each attempt dying in his throat. Instead, his brows knit together and his face contorts. Your heart breaks seeing the pain there, and he shakes his head as if in apology as tears begin to overflow onto his cheeks too. He knows your fear is valid and there’s little he can do to allay it. You know he feels this because when he finally looks back up at you, you recognise the very same fear in his eyes too.

When he finally speaks, his voice cracks with emotion. “I don’t want to run out of time to love you either.“ Agreement is seemingly all he can offer you. You sit there together in momentary silence, reaching out to grasp one another’s hands tightly in the space between you on the bed, becoming joined by the hands and joined by your shared fear.

Suddenly, everything seems so bleak, and you wonder if you’ve made a mistake. If anger would be easier. If love is too much pain. But then, you think back to your dream, to those lifeless eyes of his, vacant and glassy and unlit as cockpits. The pain in him now stems from a living, breathing love. At least that’s something. And suddenly, it seems like everything. Poe holding you? Alive? Kissing you?

Poe is surpised when a small smile inches its way over your face. “It’s ok, Poe. It’s ok. I’m wrong. I’m tired, and I’m scared, and I’’m wrong.”

He wipes his tears away with the heel of his hand. He shakes his head in mild confusion.

When you speak again, your voice is stronger, more certain. “We haven’t wasted any time. We found each other, didn’t we? We made it this far? Maybe we don’t know if everything will be ok. How much time we have left. But we have this second and the next and then the next. And when I’m sitting here with you, this second, you’re more than enough for me.” You reach over to twine your fingers in his curls, gazing at him fondly. “How lucky am I that you came back today, and that I get to hold you? That doesn’t sound like a waste to me. If I get to hold you one more time or 1000 or a million, I want to make each one count.”

He leans into your touch, and you realise how wrecked he is. How wrecked you are. He nods, softly, another single tear coursing down his cheek. You kiss it away from him. Finally, a small smile echoes your own.

“We’ve got time?” he asks you, voice tinged barely with hope. 

“We’ve got time. We don’t have to rush. I’ll be here in the morning, and if you want me to, I’m gonna kiss every inch of you and make love to you. And I’m gonna take my sweet kriffing time with it, ok?”

He brightens ever so slightly at that. “If I want you to? Are you kidding me?”

You smile a little more broadly at him. “Can I kiss you?”

He nods, and you bend to press a feather light, chaste kiss to his mouth. He closes his eyes against it and tugs in a deep, slow breath.

“What now?” he asks tiredly. 

“I’m tired.” you state, and Poe nods in agreement. He mumbles something to you and momentarily retreats to the refresher, returning with a damp cloth.

“What are you doing?” you ask in confusion, and he stands before you, cupping your chin in his hand.

“Baby, you’re beautiful, but you’re a mess. Just let me take care of you a minute, ok?” Ever so gently, he runs the cloth over your face, your neck, your arms, your torso. He washes away the dirt and blood and sweat, and with each gentle, intimate caress he seems to wash away some of the weight of the day along with it.

Once this sweet man is done, you slowly return the favour, helping him unbuckle himself and slip out of his flight gear- a much easier prospect when your fingers are calm, your hands steady. He steps out of his clothes and even with how tired you are you can’t help but appreciate his body, your eyes running over his form before you stand to ease the cloth over his face and his tired muscles too. “How do you look good even when you look like shit, Dameron?”

He throws a small, lopsided grin at you before chucking the cloth in the direction of the refresher, the mess would be tomorrow’s problem.

“Come on. We’re gonna sleep.” he pats your thigh affectionately and encourages you into his bed, laying down beside you in turn and curling his warm, sturdy body around you. “Only sweet dreams from here on in, ok? I’ve got you, sweet girl.”

It feels so good to have him wrapped around you. Still, right now, you just want to hold him fully, want to encase him and comfort him too. “Hmm, this is all wrong, Poe.”

“Huh?” he questions, already groggy and tumbling towards sleep.

“Don’t you wanna be little spoon?”

“Yeah.”, he admits, swivelling around sleepily under the sheets so you can slot yourself around him. 

He hums in happy satisfaction and you can’t help but snicker softly into the back of his neck.”You make happy beeps too?” you ask, referencing the sweet sounds Poe’s astromech comes out with. 

“What can I say? I like it when you don’t hate me. Took you long enough to figure it out though.”, he chides, good-naturedly. 

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“None o’ my business.”

You smile into his hair as you pull him into you even more tightly.

You had known love could hurt, but you’d never known it could hurt so much that you would fail to recognise it as love. However, as you hold him like this, you feel something happy begin to blunt the edges of your pain. You had mistaken love for a cruel beast to keep at bay; to counter by becoming equally ferocious. But now that you had confronted your nightmare, you saw that this love could only stop hurting you if you welcomed it. This love only bared its fangs when you tried to fight it.

“Poe,” you say softly, before he drifts off. “I’m so sorry. For being so angry.”

“Me too, sweetie.”

Your heart swells and you finally close your eyes again. As you hear Poe’s breathing become softer and sleep-ridden you whisper softly into his curls as you tug him close.

“I’ve got you too, sweet boy. Sweet dreams from here on out.”

THE END

Like this? I hope the story brought you some joy and that’s more than enough. However, if you do have the energy and inclination, I would love to hear from you! Feedback in an ask or comment genuinely makes my day! ILY.

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[worstloki]

What if Loki made scented candles, but like candles with oddly specific scents? I’m not entirely sure where this thought came from but I wanted to share it with you because I figure you’d appreciate it

Because I wanted to, I decided to write on this. You’re welcome.

---

While readying for his attack on New York - a location he had picked due to a very specific landmark that he believed ought to attract the heroes’ attention sooner rather than later- Loki finds himself with a rather large block of free time.

Leaving the SHIELD base with Clint and Selvig had, predictably, but also to his immense disappointment, proven to be an ingeniously efficient way to gain the required research and to amass enough villainous hands to actualise the equipment to open a portal; members of the spying business such as Barton do tend to have useful knowledge on a wonderfully large amount of people, especially of the opposing side, after all. 

Having been touched by the mind stone, Selvig carries out the scientific theory aspects of the wormhole generator without assistance. Hawkeye’s ability to successfully market a sales pitch that should not be appealing in the least (re: “trying to help an alien prince conquer the world, you interested?”, “I’ll owe you one if you can find the time to help build a portal machine to space” and “there’s free food in it for you if you join with no questions asked”) has resulted in enough people contributing to get the work done.

From there everyone began to organise themselves, and Loki had been thoroughly left with nothing to do. Nothing world-saving (or, as everyone else will insist, ‘world-dominating’) at least.

As is often with Loki, his best ideas occur when he is completely and utterly bored. And right then, sitting in the dark sipping on hot chocolate (yes, he had invested in a drink machine. He has employees and just because he may be perceived as such, he is not actually a monster. Not enough to say no to coffee for Barton.) he looked out at the assortment of people scurrying about to get work done, and he realised he was bored. It was nice of Clint to offer him the sweet drink, but he could not spend the next few days occupying himself with cocoa beverages.

Loki knew his physical capabilities were a bit tenuous at the moment and it would be unwise to take part in any activities that would take up too much energy, but sitting on a step in the dark watching his workers buzz about, helping simply because they could, Loki decided they should be rewarded with a token gift at the very least.

Sitting on a step in the dark Loki decided; using the smell of the sickeningly sweet drink to ground him to the present, using the heat of the mug in his palms to warm his hands, tracing the pattern on the painted ceramic to hide the slight tremors in his fingers that hadn’t seemed to be lessening despite having left the company of his extremely kind patrons a full day ago, with the taste of the flavoured milk on his tongue, Loki decided he would gift them each with something of equal value. Something that would calm their anxieties and ground them, give them warmth, and if he could figure out how, he would even get the candles to induce taste.

After a full five minutes combining a creation spell meant for refilling candelabras with one meant to draw on memories to scent the air Loki is able to create the first candle.

It is, in appearance, a regular wax candle; not unlike one expected to be found in a normal Midgardian store. After some thought he adds a casing made of green and black stained glass and places a gold bordered sticker reading “loki”.

When lit Loki knows the candle will not only warm the vicinity more than a single flickering flame ought to, but will also smell of and provide the comfort he felt as he drank the chocolatey beverage, to whomever lights the candle, for as long as the flame burns. The candle will also last a tad bit longer than regular candles and Loki sincerely hopes no one will notice something like that.

Such simple spells of creation should not require much time or effort to make on his part and the candles will provide the perfect personalised gift to thank the people working under him who for whatever reasons seem disinclined to accept monetary payment. It is, in his opinion, the ideal gift as it can be used for decorative or pragmatic purposes and can be theoretically placed anywhere and still induce the calming effect the scent will have.

He begins drafting ideas for memories he believes would be suited for each worker on a notepad he’d purchased on his way from escaping the SHIELD base.

His task force is not too large but considering moments which he would wish to share into each candle, moments which they would enjoy as much as himself, requires some thought. Despite the amount of thought he is putting into what smell different people would find comforting he assures himself that he is gifting these candles out of a sense of duty as it would be dishonourable not to pay the people who are genuinely helping him… for the sake of helping him. They are, after all, his workers, and only a portion of them even required the sceptre. Servitude should be rewarded, even if they refuse to be paid in cash or gold.

Despite not harbouring any care (not even a drop of care, honestly speaking) for the humans around him he spends most of the afternoon brainstorming smells and matching his people to experiences he thinks they would like.

---

After a quick walk around to gauge the rate at which progress is being made, he takes a seat on the side of the room and starts coaxing the first candle into existence. He is annoyed when he feels The Other pulling his attention, but projects himself away anyways as it would be quite rude to ignore. (And is quite mentally agitating to ignore.)

“The Chitauri grow restless.” The Other states.

Not even a hello? Loki thinks bitterly before replying: “Let them go at themselves - I will lead them into glorious battle.”

“Battle?” The Other all but spits, “Against the meagre might of Earth?”

“Glorious, not lengthy”, Loki assures him, wondering if The Other realises he is insulting the very reward Loki had agreed to (bargained for), before deciding that No, The Other wouldn’t recognise an insult if it slapped him across the astral plane. To prove his own point he continues, “…if your force is as formidable as you claim”.

“You question us? You question HIM? He, who put the sceptre in your hand, who gave you ancient knowledge and new purpose when you were cast out, defeated?”

Not at all, Loki thinks, in fact, I did not utter a single question.

Just to see how off-topic he could veer their conversation this time, he decides to reply with the first petty thought that comes to mind.

“I was a king! The rightful king of Asgard! Betrayed!” he yells, as he instead concentrates on the feeling of his feet sinking into white sand and the sharp smells of the salty expanses of water that appear in southern Alfheim during the rainier seasons.

He already decided he is got everything he was going to get out of this conversation, and so he continues creating the candle on Earth, paying only enough mind to keep the conversation going.

“Your ambition is little, born of childish need.” The Other reprimands, “We look beyond the Earth to greater worlds the Tesseract will unveil.”.

“You don't even have the Tesseract yet.” Loki points out, pointedly.

The issue with dividing your conscience is that sometimes you forget the brain to mouth filter needs to be left on.

When The Other moves as if to attack him for his insolence he makes sure to console the six-handed-one’s ego enough to not get him to dig into his brain and cause him pain with his mental capabilities. Limited though The Other’s mind-bending powers are, he would not allow himself to stop it because his flimsy cover of being on the dark side would be blown.

It would also be inconvenient for The Other to realise he was thinking of sandy beaches and only had 34% of himself paying attention to him while the other 66% was thinking about Alf beaches in the monsoon.

The rest of the conversation with The Other was unimportant, and as usual he was dismissed with a sharp pain in his head.

It did not matter. When he returned his full consciousness to himself, he grimaced for only a second before looking down at the unassuming candle laid before him. Its casing was of purple and black stained glass and there was a white label with fancy gold outline and the word “Barton” in black calligraphy.

---

By the time it was morning Loki had finished distributing the candles. He’d made 143 of them; one for everyone in his service, and 2 extras for the men that had broken down into tears and dropped their candles the first time around.

Apparently, though these people had joined him of their own volition, they were still people. Most of them had been driven to a negative lifestyle by their living conditions and society’s discrimination which apparently had no system in place to give hospitality to all who came under their governance and needed assistance.

He found himself wondering if he actually should try to take over this world; the planet is clearly in need of a central governing system to prevent all their internal spats. The fact that they could discriminate within their own species to such extents was shocking, even to Loki: even indecisive enough to contemplate what to wear weeks in advance as he tended to do, it had only taken him going through a few academic papers to come to the opinion of humans as monstrous. Not all of them, of course - only a select few were truly abhorrent, and yet what a select few they were.

No, he thought, even I would not be able to fix this mess without blood, sweat, and tears. Not that he cared for Earth or anyone else in the realm.

---

He lasted as long it took for Clint to say he had a plan before he succumbed and made everyone a spare candle. Just in case.

He would not want Hawkeye to miss the salty tang of air that would soothe his nerves and remind him of the softer sounds in the world when his hearing aids or childhood memories suddenly cropped up to trouble him. He would not want Samson to miss out on the sensation of Asgard’s warm sunlight brushing his skin on a day when his terminal illness sent his chill bone deep. He wouldn’t want to deprive Demerton the smell of grass and the feeling of happiness Loki had felt when he tried to throw a knife onto the target and for the first time it actually landed – not that Demerton needed to know the unimportant details about the self-esteem boost –with his image issues the feeling would be something he needed.

Loki would not want his gifts to go unused simply because one of the foolish mortals managed to break their candle before they got the chance to light it.

“Tell me what you need,” Loki had answered Barton.

As they worked through the plan together, Loki tried not to think about what good gifts he had come up with, and how generous he was to be bestowing not just one, but two of the candles onto each member of his misfit group of helpers. Not altruistically of course: he hoped his workers would gain him the favour of earth through the candles. Somehow.

---

Twenty minutes into being in a glass cage had Loki deciding that it would be wrong of him to simply abandon all who were helping him, especially since he was planning on being defeated. This was fine for himself since he had made the decision to take a role as a villain, but them? Not even one of them had been given a choice when the universe forced them out of their homes or jobs or family. With nothing else to turn to except a life of crime or death, of course they had decided to live. As someone who had once chosen the latter option, he could not simply abandon them.

He sent most of his consciousness to a building across from Stark’s with 72 floors. It was not as tall as Tony’s, but it did not need to be. While monitoring Earth in his preparations for coming to ‘take over’ the realm, he had taken the building for loan when it had been on sale around a year ago.

It had cost a hefty price since it was across The Stark Tower™ and had been built over land that had previously held a building that looked near as old as Odin, but the price was nothing to him. Not after he bought it with Stark’s money (and the billionaire fool had not even noticed since it did not dent his net-worth, not that he was complaining… Stark’s credit cards were useful).

For now, he sat in a glass cage clearly not built for him (they could never have predicted someone as glamourous as himself showing up in time to have built this). But he also stood in an apartment building kilometres away from the Helicarrier.

He walked around using powered gestures to renovate the building. He would leave behind enough for his group to have the choice between villainy and an honest living.

The hours passed and the Loki in the skyscraper (an adequate name for such buildings) had put together the most therapeutic and entertaining of centres; it had candles and spas and facilities for every relaxation method imaginable but combined the space with recreation for all ages with indoor water rides and arcades and laser tag.

The hours passed and the Loki in the glass cage hadn’t required any of his attention at all; he may have spoken to the Black Widow but with 12% of his consciousness holding the conversation he could not be sure his guise of genocidal maniac had held up – he honestly would’ve liked to meet her under different circumstances, but hoped she hadn’t been able to tell he wasn’t completely present when talking with him.

---

After a nice chat where he blatantly revealed to Stark that his plan had been to lose this entire time, Loki attacked New York. The battle, as he had promised The Other, had indeed been glorious and not lengthy, although anyone actually siding with the villains would disagree. Luckily, Loki was not actually siding with the villains and had no qualms about being smug in his victory (no matter what others thought this was).

Before he left the realm in chains, he had been sure to announce to his batch of subjects that each of them had a job available with Ikol Industries anytime. (Barton, Selvig, and the few others which had the mind stone’s influence upon them had of course been excluded from this job offer.).

Most of the people under him had accepted the deal happily. A lot had teared up about it. Some cried shamelessly. Even less had declined, but Loki had not wanted those spies to stick around anyways.

Loki may have ended up fighting the Avengers with a depleted amount of magic, but that did not matter. He had lost. Everything had gone according to plan.

He may have even left some unassuming therapy candles for each of the Avengers to indulge in, courtesy of Ikol Industries. Each in a glass cover with their colours with names in gold over a white label, it was not difficult to imagine the Avengers becoming regular customers and nicely asking if they had more of ‘their’ candles from those that had assisted him in his faux attack. They wouldn’t even be wrong in assuming the candles were theirs. Loki had themed a floor of relax and rec after each of the avengers and the scents they enjoyed were indeed always magically in stock.

As a keeper of secrets it was incredibly easy for him to inexplicably know what scent and sensations would calm their mind if they were ever in need; especially Banner, who would indeed find his special green candle strong enough to silence the Hulk within him. Tony would not find himself waking in the night in distress if he had a candle by his bedside. Steve would find the dull ache in his chest reduced even when he thought of the life he had left behind when he dove into the ice. Natasha would accept her past actions without any inflation of guilt if she lit the candle during her morning stretches. Clint would always know it was not his fault as the salty tang reinvigorated his senses and reminded him that he could not be blamed for a past he could not control and the lives he could not save. Thor’s candle had a green flame and smelt of his rooms on Asgard.

Perhaps their super-secret boy band would question the individualisation of the candles. Perhaps they would notice the candles lasting a tad bit longer than regular candles. Perhaps Stark being unable to read anything on the composition of the candles would be suspicious. Perhaps they would joke about Ikol Industries being ‘Loki’ Industries and would joke about the ridiculously badly thought-out palindrome and the magical voodoo of the candles which had no apparent source location but were never out of stock. Perhaps they would recognise the workers as previous criminals. Perhaps they would realise the decisions that led them to that life had been circumstantial. Perhaps they would follow their suspicions up and Loki would be unable to answer: either locked away in a cell or dead.

But for all the trouble Loki had caused and for those he had brought suffering upon - even if his intentions had been good - his calmest and happiest memories were the least he could leave behind this world to assist in their recovery.

[riviae]

so anyway... did anyone ask for a regis-centric character study set during his time in beauclair in ‘lady of the lake’ ft. angouleme? no? well i wrote it anyway lol:

Beauclair was a fairytale place—that much Regis was certain of. However, even fairytales bore monsters, gave blood and bone to things that were better off not existing at all. And, more often than not, fairytales gave birth to monsters in the shape of men. 

The land was an illusion of peace, a mirage of vineyards and bustling cities that fed the monsters that thrived there. Where there was peace, there would also be strife. Where there was laughter, there were also tears. Where there were innocents, so also were there those who sought to spill blood. Regis had not spilled blood in a long time, but some of his more... tumultuous memories resurfaced during the full moon, the urge to fly high above the castle battlements and walls giving way to more long-repressed desires. 

He wanted to fly. He also desired a drink—though this wasn’t confined to full moons. He settled on walking and humming the melody of some tawdry ballad that Dandelion had composed when they reached the Sansretour Valley. Regis could have misted through the cobblestone streets as a barely perceptible fog—in fact, it was how he had favored to travel before his encounter with Geralt and his rag-tag hansa—but his time spent traipsing the narrow pathways of Beauclair with his companions had made him oddly nostalgic. Walking at a human’s pace allowed him the chance to reminisce, to commit the sprawling array of shops and houses to memory. 

To his right, he saw a row of apartments painted a soft peach, dark green ivy climbing over an overhanging trellis and up the façade of the building. In the mornings, there was often an elderly woman that sat on one of the stoops with her cat. She had a faint Nilfgaardian accent and spoke animatedly with Cahir, who, to Regis’ surprise, smiled and laughed brightly. Regis could count on one hand the number of times Cahir had laughed in his company, which was only once more than Geralt. 

Without the winged helmet and cape, Cahir looked almost boyish, his tan, freckled skin and dark hair giving the impression of someone who worked hot summer days on his parent’s farm. In truth, with just his sword at his side, Cahir did not look like a soldier or even a knight. It was only in his most basic mannerisms such as the way he postured himself as he walked, the subtle way he mapped a room with his gaze, his back always pressed to a wall, that betrayed his years of service as a soldier. War had not yet taken the kindness from his eyes or the gentleness by which he spoke to Milva, Angouleme, Regis, Dandelion, and, at times, Geralt. So, along with his politeness, it was only natural that he would be popular with the older generations. 

Regis stopped in front of the elderly woman’s door, his eyes shining silver in the flickering lamplight. In the dark, he could see that she did not choose to close her window, the drapes within the first-floor bedroom moving almost imperceptibly due to the mild draft.

In a fairytale, a monster would materialize from the shadows to crawl through the window. It would approach the woman’s bed, its rows of teeth poised over her, only to have its head lobbed off by some kindly knight. 

The vampire approached the window. He could hear her snoring loudly, heard her shaky intake of breath and then a brief stutter. It was a moment where she had stopped breathing, but Regis was not worried. Most sleep apneas were generally harmless and he did not hear any other telltale signs of more serious ailments such as excess fluid in her lungs. In fact, her lungs and even her heart seemed strong. It was likely nothing more than apnea brought on by the muscles of her throat relaxing, something that could be treated by learning to sleep on her side or abdomen. 

Quietly, and without difficulty, he misted into the room. He locked the window and closed the drapes before disappearing again, this time the dark fog of his incorporeal form crawling underneath the space between the stoop and the door. When he reappeared, he was human-shaped and he suddenly felt the lateness of the night tugging at his eyelids. Sleep was not always necessary for his kind, but it was a luxury he had been spoiled with ever since coming to reside in Beauclair castle. 

It had become a habit thanks to Angouleme’s insistence on sleep being a ‘good fucking elixir to any ailment’—her diction taken, more or less, from Regis, but sprinkled with her choice of vulgarities. It was quite endearing. And it also explained why he spent some afternoons in the shared common area within their wing of the castle, tome in hand, dozing now and again on a wide chaise lounge while the flaxen-haired girl snored in his ear. Sometimes even Milva would join them, though she took to the adjacent sofa and either played cards with Cahir or sharpened her arrowheads. Geralt, on the exceedingly rare days where he wasn’t tangled up with Fringilla Vigo or taking on a contract, sat in the armchair and scribbled in his own personal bestiary, gazing now and again discreetly at his dozing company with an expression that could almost be described as tender. 

Perhaps he truly was getting old even for vampire standards, he thought, returning to the present. Giving a very human yawn that he covered reflexively with his palm, Regis turned away from the apartment and immediately met the gaze of two teenagers. One of which who had brandished a small, curved hunting knife. 

If they had seen Regis reappear from a spindle of smoke, neither teen acted as if it mattered. As if all he had done was but an elaborate parlor trick, as evident by the way that more muscular teenager pressed the blade silently and fervently to his neck. The vampire allowed himself to be pushed into the nearby alley and against a brick wall as the blade pressed deeper into his skin. 

A few beads of red dripped down the knife, splattering onto the ground in a star-like shape. The pain barely registered to the vampire, though his nostrils flared at the scent of sweat and alcohol. The teenager with the knife to his throat was sober, though possibly high on fisstech if his dilated pupils were any indication, but the other boy, lean and dressed in black with a sabre at his side, had definitely been drinking. He smelled of cheap beer and blood—many people’s blood. 

“Looks like you’ve caught us a meddler, Boris,” said the boy with the sabre. He pulled a metal flask from his belt and took a swig, wiping the excess with the back of his hand. “Listen here, grandpa, we’ve been casing this place for weeks. So instead of worrying about some elderly wench, you should focus on yourself.”

Boris flashed a grin that sent a sinking feeling to the pit of Regis’ stomach. It was a wholly familiar grin. One that he had given long ago, so long ago that it felt like he had dreamed it. “This guy looks like a fucking tax collector, doesn’t he? Hey, gramps, you’ve got any coin on you? You must, it’s Beauclair, after all.” 

“I’d bet he has more coin than common sense. Only a senile old coot would walk around alone at night, ” the other boy added, snickering. “It’d be almost a mercy to kill him.”

It was, disturbingly, like looking into a mirror of his youth. The jeering, the recklessness, the utter lack of respect or dignity for life—they were young, stupid, and thought the world owed them something. Something that they had no qualms taking violently. 

This is what I was like before, he thought to himself. I only cared about myself. I lived to drink—and died for it, too. How pitiful.  

His inner thoughts were interrupted by a swift strike to his cheek. Boris had dropped the knife in favor of using his fists, one hand curled around the vampire’s throat while the other prepared to punch him squarely in the jaw. Regis fought the urge to snarl, settling on a frustrated huff. If they realized he was not human, he would likely have to kill them. He did not want to—bloodshed no longer suited him. At least that was what he kept telling himself whenever the option for violence arose. 

Regis did not fear many things. He did not fear fighting or war or even death, really. But he also knew that there were many fates worse than death. He feared returning to the habits and mindset of his youth, of losing the respect he had for others that had taken centuries to come to fruition. Regis was not naturally kind; kindness did not come easy to him. But he was naturally good at learning through observation and, like any skill, kindness could be cultivated—even in the worst of people if given the time to change. Or so he believed.

“Listen to us when we’re talking to you, old man,” Boris hissed none too kindly, this time reaching to tug at Regis’ greying hair. “Vinny, let’s just kill the guy already and go rob that wench.” 

“No,” Vinny replied, his tone almost playful. “I’m just starting to have some fun.” 

The words echoed loudly in the vampire’s ear, alchemizing into a voice that he recognized as his own. 

“I’m just starting to have some fun,” Regis remembered himself saying as he rose from the barstool, lips pulled into a sneer. In a blink of an eye he had crossed the entire distance of the tavern to seize a drunken man by the scruff of his neck. 

“Now, now, there’s no need for tears, my good fellow,” he said calmly, pulling the man closer. “We’re just having a party and need your… contribution.” Fangs met flesh then, the man’s outcry cut short as Regis dug his teeth cruelly into his neck. The vampire rolled the body away from himself when he was done, barely sparing it a second glance. He was already thinking of where he could get his next drink now that the last human patron of the tavern was dead, adding to his morbid pile of bodies. 

Back in the present, the lean, dark-haired teenager had traded places with Boris, choosing instead to point his sabre directly at the vampire’s Adam’s apple. 

Again… must I always have swords pointed at my throat? 

Vinny blinked, dark eyes widening in surprise. “Huh, well I’ll be damned. The old man’s got a sense of humor.” 

Regis, who had not realized he had spoken his previous thought aloud, hid his own shock with a hum of agreement. “Amongst other things,” he said, voice calm and polite. “Anyway, I’d be more than willing to part with some of my coin if you would be so kind as to lower your weapon. I am not in any mood to fight.” 

“But what if I’m looking for a fight?” Vinny goaded. 

Regis sighed. Perhaps he couldn’t talk his way out of a confrontation. He was tempted to use hypnotism, to simply have the pair fall into a drunken slumber beside the nearest gutter, but there was no guarantee that they wouldn’t prey on some other innocent citizen the moment they awoke. “I’m sorry,” Regis began, tone and expression severe, “But a fight with me is equivalent to courting death.” 

“This old fuck must be on something…” Boris muttered, a full-body shudder wracking his muscular frame at Regis’ tone. “Let’s go, Vin. Something doesn’t feel right about all this.” 

Before Vinny could respond he was cutoff by a distinctly raucous laugh from the mouth of the alleyway. “Hey, uncle!” a familiar voice chirped. “Need a hand?” 

“Angouleme?” Regis breathed, watching as the teen approached, both hands shoved casually in her pockets. 

As she approached, her grin grew even wider. It was an expression that very much reminded Regis of a feline who had gotten its claws hooked into a canary. “Oho, now look at what the cat dragged in! Vinny and Boris, it’s been awhile, you whoresons.” 

“Angouleme,” Boris greeted, giving a nervous look to Vinny. “What are you doing all the way in Beauclair? Thought the Nightingales didn’t travel this far south.” 

“They don’t—I’m not a part of their shit gang anymore. They’re also all very, very dead.” At this, Angouleme flashed another wide grin, giving the two boys a wink. “So maybe don’t bother my Uncle Regis anymore if you don’t wanna end up in the ground.” 

“Fuck this,” Vinny groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. He lowered the sabre from Regis’ throat with a frown and stepped away. “Ang, we were just casing some house when your uncle or whatever showed up.” 

Regis took the brief interlude to fix the collar of his shirt, smoothing out the creases in the dark fabric. His gaze then returned to Angouleme who had now stepped in front of him, acting as a barrier between him and the two teenagers as much as her petite, lithe frame would allow.

“I’m sure you were,” Angouleme agreed. “But y’know what else I think, Vinny? I think you’re just out looking for someone to kill. Steal from whoever, I don’t care—but watch your blade. Too many murders in one area and people are bound to notice.” 

“Almost sounds like you’ve gone soft, Angouleme,” Boris said, tone neither accusatory nor playful—as if he was only stating a very obvious fact. 

“Almost sounds like I should’ve let Uncle Regis kill you two,” Angouleme replied icily. Her right hand twitched, ready to reach for the blade she kept hidden in her boot—a gift courteous of Milva after she had lost her own. “No one’s going soft, especially not me. Go find some drunk in a ditch to rob if you must and then get the fuck out of Beauclair.” 

“And what if we don’t want to leave?” Vinny asked with obvious bloodlust. “What’ll you do then, Ang? Because I don’t believe for a second that your geriatric, grey-haired babysitter could even throw a punch before I have him gored on my sword.” 

Angouleme cackled, a feral glint in her eyes. “Since uncle doesn’t like resorting to violence very much and I’m feeling particularly nice tonight, I’d be sure to kill ya both myself. And since we used to run in the same circles, I’d make it a quick death too. You’d both be bleeding out before you even had a chance to piss yourselves in fear. Call it a friendly discount—two quick, painless deaths. Hell, I’ll even bury your bodies so the birds don’t dine on your insides.” 

“Now there’s the girl I remember,” Vinny said, whistling appreciatively. “You always had a way with words. You were all bark and bite. But now I wonder if you’ve been muzzled; why else would you be traveling around with a man who looks like a bank teller?” 

“If I may interject?” Regis asked, raising a hand politely. Angouleme whipped her head back to shoot the vampire a confused look. 

Regis cleared his throat. “I think there’s another way we can settle this. Without bloodshed.” Not waiting for a reply, Regis turned his gaze to Vinny and Boris, sighing. He addressed the dark-haired man first. “Vinny, was it? You like killing, don’t you?” 

Vinny nodded, tone expressionless. “It’s fun. I like hearing ‘em scream. Why do all these people get to live cushy, painless lives here in the city? What’d they do to deserve a good life? Nothing. I’m just here to settle the score. Be the monster all these rich folk told me I’d be growing up. It’s a bonus that I enjoy it.” 

Boris gawked at the other teen. “What the fuck? Why’re you admitting all that? Have you gone fucking mad?” 

Regis continued, ignoring Boris’ outcry. “So you feel that you have some right to kill? Because you were wronged in life?”

“Yeah, I do. I’m good at stealing and killing. It came with practice. Do anything long enough and you learn to develop a taste for it.”

“I see…” Regis trailed, now turning his attention to the other teen. “Boris. Why do you follow Vinny? I can tell that you have less of a stomach for murder than him. Though it seems as if you are fine with violence… within reason. ” 

“He’s a right bastard but he’s also my only friend. I can’t abandon him no matter how much I want to sometimes. He likes getting into trouble—starting brawls, drinking till he pukes, murdering when he doesn’t have to, racking up as many bounties on his head as he can without it being chopped off—and it’s up to me to keep him from going too far. From getting himself killed.” 

Regis smiled sadly. “You think you’re helping him. But in actuality, you are enabling him. I don’t blame you, however; it’s often difficult to tell the difference.” 

“So what’re you gonna do with ‘em, uncle?” Angouleme piped up, eyes wide with admiration for the vampire. “Wish you could teach me how to hypnotize people… seems like it’d come in handy,” she added, kicking at a loose stone. 

“Hmm… well, I’ll actually leave that to you, Angouleme. You know them better than I do. Do you have a solution? We can’t just leave them to their own devices.” 

At this, Angouleme paused, brows furrowing. She deliberated for a few moments, tilting her head from side to side until she snapped her fingers. “I’ve got it! Keep ‘em still for a second, uncle.” 

Regis nodded, focusing on keeping the two teens in place. 

Swiftly, and without any preamble, Angouleme landed a solid kick to Vinny’s right arm, relishing in the loud crack that followed. The teen howled then, the pain freeing him from Regis’ influence. 

“Fuck!” He cursed, falling to his knees to curl up into a ball. His outcry was jarring enough to snap Boris from his own trance, panic flooding the teen’s face at the sight of his friend curled on the ground. 

“Hey, Boris,” Angouleme drawled casually, smile curling even wider at the way the larger teen steps back instinctively in fear.“ Do me a favor, will ya? Take Vinny and get out of here. Help him heal and teach him how to control his anger. Not everyone in the world is out to get ya; you don’t need to take a swing at every person you come across. So if I hear about you two causing any sort of ruckus I’ll make sure to break more than an arm. Got it?” 

With a shaky nod, Boris helped Vinny back to his feet. In mere moments the pair had disappeared, skittering out of the back alley as fast as they could. 

“Thank you, Angouleme,” Regis said, smiling in his own gentle way, the tips of his fangs peaking out from beneath his lips. “You were able to defuse the situation rather brilliantly—with no bloodshed. Impressive.” 

At the genuine praise, the flaxen-haired teen looked away, embarrassed. She didn’t want Regis to see how her cheeks had reddened at his words. Praise was rare; before joining Geralt’s hansa, she had only been praised for her prowess at killing and stealing. This was different. She wasn’t doing something because she wanted the praise or attention or the safety that came with being stronger and more dangerous than her peers—she was simply doing what she thought was right. 

As they walked back to the castle, Angouleme gave a contented sigh, tilting her head up towards the full moon. 

“It’s a nice night, isn’t it?”

“It is, my dear Angouleme. It certainly is.” 

Angouleme smiled, gaze softening. “Think we’ll get more nights like this?” 

“I hope so,” Regis replied, voice thick with something akin to melancholy. 

At that, Angouleme snickered, nudging the vampire’s shoulder playfully. “Heh, you sounded so sentimental there. Don’t tell me you’re gonna miss going on long walks with a brat like me. ” 

“…I’m going to miss a lot of things about Beauclair. Mostly, though, I think I’m going to miss all these fragile moments of peace.  I know even good times must end—we still have a quest to complete, after all. Geralt’s ward is still in danger. But being here was nice. And I especially enjoyed our walks, Angouleme.” 

Together, they walked the winding road back to the castle. Home, Angouleme thought a moment later. They were going home. It was the first time that she had ever thought of a place as home. There had been houses, small huts and backwater inns that she had lived in, sure—but home implied belonging. She had a place where she belonged with the friends she now saw as family. 

And if Regis noticed the few stray, happy tears that brimmed in her eyes, he politely didn’t mention it.

He too was busy reminiscing--his life had changed the moment he decided to follow Geralt, to join his company and work to save his ward. Even if it amounts to nothing but ash, Regis thought, I won’t regret my choice. Here, with everyone, is where I know I belong. I don’t know if this story will end like a fairytale or a nightmare, but at least I won’t be alone. Not anymore. 

[starkrogerrs]

when we got so close, so close to love;

i’ve been writing this for a month now, and it’s finally done. i just love this idea deeply and really hope i did it justice. shoutout to @oluka and @plonid for painstakingly reading through my numerous drafts and providing valuable feedback and being my hype people in general.

also on ao3.

The cell reeks of animal carcass, damp wood and terrifying unfamiliarity. Tony can hear the skittle of spiders across the walls, a welcome sound amidst the deafening silence. 

A light breeze swoops into the chamber, and Tony draws his robes closer around himself. 

Tony is used to the darkness, but not the kind that goes on for days on end, with no relief in sight. 

Murmuring ancient words under his breath, he waves his hand through the freezing air. 

He is greeted by the same, silent void. 

A loud clang echoes through the chamber. The door of the cell opens, flooding it with white light, and in spite of the fact that he needs the light so desperately, he finds himself shielding his eyes against it. 

The light is gone as quickly as it had come. He hears the crunch of feet on the stone floor and a soft click, as fire bursts into the room, flooding it warm amber. 

"Food for today," says the man from behind the flaming torch, as he stoops down to place a wooden plate before him. 

Tony doesn't know if it is the hunger that is making him see differently, but the food looks absolutely ravishing. 

"What coven do you belong to?"

They have been through this before. Three days in a row in fact. Tony would've almost called it their little game. 

He doesn't answer, reaching out to the plate, but the hunter draws it back. Atleast, he assumes the man is a witch hunter, given the circumstances. 

"What coven do you belong to?" he repeats. 

Tony lifts his head to gaze at the hunter. Icy blue eyes that seem almost green when reflecting the yellow flame, greet him. 

"Why am I here?" he retorts, choosing to ignore his question as always. 

Two days he had said nothing, and the hunter had merely taken his food away and not returned until the next night. 

Not a muscle on the man's face moves as he gazes at him steadily. 

"You're lucky that you have a pretty face, hunter," Tony adds, when he says nothing. "Or I would've slaughtered you long ago."

Truth be told, Tony is terrified. He has no idea what the man's intentions are with him, there is no way he can guard himself against whatever the man has planned for him. He can't, however you, let him know that. 

"You can't move a hair on my skin, witch," the hunter murmurs through gritted teeth. 

The flame cackles between them as they stare each other down, and Tony is all too aware that their breaths are not synchronous. 

"I am looking for someone," the hunter finally admits. Something flickers across his features for a moment and then it is gone. 

Tony huffs, unamused. "I can assure you that it isn't me."

"I haven't told you who I am looking for, yet."

"You don't need to. I know you're not looking for me."

The hunter glances at him irritably, a single muscle clenching in his jaw. They say nothing for a moment. 

The hunter stands up then, but not before pushing the plate towards Tony and placing the torch into one of the holders in the wall; and is gone. 

*

Tony has never missed Jarvis, his familiar as much as he does at this moment. The looming darkness dulls against the ache of missed company. 

The hunter - Steven, he has learned- visits frequently now. They have the same conversation everyday but that doesn't stop the man from trying again. Steven grills him at an increasing degree everyday, but hasn't resorted to physical torture. Yet. 

He's had days to prepare himself for the worst, to talk a bargain if he can. Because here, in the dusty cell, he is completely at Steven's mercy. 

To infuriate him more, he has learnt next to nothing about the hunter, save for the fact that he is looking for someone. A witch. A witch that is not him. 

His powers still don't work; the familiar tingle in his body as he chants spells that have been engraved in his mind, is now fainter than ever. There must be some sort of spell over the cell to render him powerless, he is sure of that. 

Tony wonders if Steven had used and perhaps, killed another witch to have the place warded. 

An all too familiar clang shocks him out of his thoughts and he backs up against the wall feebly. By his calculations, it is almost an hour past midnight and definitely not the time for another visit from the hunter. 

The door opens and Steven stumbles in; bent over and almost collapses before him. Tony blinks against the light as he leaps forward involuntarily. 

"What in the Heaven..," he murmurs to himself. 

A large cut runs across Steven's front, extending from his left shoulder to the middle of his belly. His torn shirt clings on to his sweat covered torso as he heaves, struggling to breathe. 

"I-I was attacked," Steve manages throatily. "By- by a werewolf."

For a moment, a sickening sense of pleasure rushes through Tony. He forgets that there is a dying man before him. The door of the cell, wide open and inviting, beckons to him. "Run away," it whispers. 

"Please-," Steven whispers, reaching out to grasp Tony's arm. "-please, help me."

Even as he speaks, blood pools beneath the hunter. 

Despite the fact that relations between mortals (most hunters included) and witches have improved significantly over the last decade, Tony doesn't know if he should even consider helping his captor. His captor, a man of whom he knows so little. 

Steven squeezes his arm again, his face beaded with sweat and dirt. "P-please."

"My magic doesn't work here," Tony finds himself saying, even though his obvious choice should be to rush out the dingy cell and never see it again. 

"Out.. side," Steven croaks, gasping as he tightens his grip on Tony's arm. 

Tony doesn't think twice, all second thoughts leaving his mind at once. His coven was unlike most black witch covens. They believed in treating humans with respect, helping them in dire situations. When he had been baptized to become a witch, he had also taken an oath as a healer to always save those in need, no matter the species. Torn as he was, about helping someone who was possibly a witch hunter, he had to help him. 

Steven was a mortal first, after all. 

That very oath rings in his ears as he removes his robe and tears a long strip from the hem. Wrapping the cloth around the wound as gingerly as possible, he helps Steven sit up. Then, he pulls Steven's left arm around his shoulders and hauls them outside. 

For a moment, as soon as they step outside, he freezes. He feels his body buzz as the spell instantly lifts, primordial magic flowing through his veins again. 

Steven guides Tony to a small room leading off of the landing. A row of fire against the wall of the room, illuminates what looks like a mini infirmary. He gently sets Steven onto the tiny bed in the far corner, and checks his pulse. His breathing is ragged and Tony can feel him burning up against his skin. 

He eases Steven out of his already torn shirt. There are tiny cuts everywhere, a million paper cuts if you will, that probably hurt more than the actual wound itself. 

Tony chants spells that heal the paper cuts easily but the large gash across his front is persistent. It runs deep, cutting into his flesh and right to the bones. Two smaller, but equally deep gashes flank the larger one. Some of the torn skin hangs loosely at the edges, as more blood continues to ooze out. 

Tony has never seen a more gruesome sight. He can tell that it, most definitely, is the mark of a werewolf. 

How Steven managed to walk home with his guts spilling out, Tony will never know. 

In his desperation to help the man, Tony reaches over to the array of herbs and plants stocked up on the shelves behind him and concoct the quickest healing potion. Steven groans behind him, and Tony can almost sense that his heart is giving out. He summons whatever plants he can remember and mixes them together before rushing over to Steven. 

He cleans up as much of the blood he can, so as to save the wound from being infected. 

"This might hurt," he advises, before pressing the paste onto the wound. 

Steve screams in agony, reaching over to clutch Tony's arm. He flinches as his nails dig into his skin, but continues to spread the paste around. The blood flow has slowed down but if Tony doesn't act fast, he knows that it would kill him. The paste can only do so much. 

Summoning magic that is as old as time itself, he chants a spell he's never used before. Before he can even complete it, the wound starts to glow white. Tony can feel the familiar tug in his gut as he continues to whisper the spell, Steve's grip still firm on his arm. 

There is a blinding flash as he finishes and the world comes to a stand still. 

Tony's eyes flutter open as he leans against the wall, panting. Three angry red lines still run down Steve's chest but the skin has stitched itself. The hunter's passed out but is fortunately alive. 

Tony saved him. His captor. It was his duty to help him, and it seemed like the right thing to do in spite of everything. He's done more than his share for the hunter and now that he's asleep, he can finally make a break for it. 

The thought exhilarates him. 

Despite his powers being feeble at the moment, he rushes out of the room, but not before he casts the hunter one, last look. His features seem gaunt, which is natural, considering that he has just been on the brink of death; ghost-like skin caked with dust, hands greasy and bloody. 

Tony tears his gaze away from the man then, the thought of escaping clouding his mind already. Adrenaline courses through him, heart beating wildly at his chest at the thought of freedom. At the thought of seeing familiar faces again. He almost grins as he reaches the main door and yanks it open.

Cool, midnight wind sweeps towards him and sends shivers down his spine but the euphoria of freedom keeps him warm. He steps outside, a little too excitedly, grin plastered on his face but is immediately flung backward into the hallway and lands on his back with a thud. 

He groans, feeling pain shoot up his back from the rough landing. Thankfully, nothing seems to be broken. 

A force-field spell. 

"Absolutely brilliant," Tony mutters angrily as he sits up. Trapped. He is truly trapped. His captor, who he just healed in an act of stupid nobility is asleep and he can do nothing except wait. He almost wants to go back to the hunter and slit his throat, even though he's never, in all of his years on the planet taken a life. 

White hot anger burns through him. 

Having used most of his magic on the healing spell, he cannot even attempt to break the spell that surrounds the house. The spell, he realises, must be the work of a white witch. 

He slams his fist into the ground, frustrated at how pathetic and helpless he feels.

In the face of spending a lifetime trapped with a hunter of all people, death seems like the most welcome choice. 

*

Tony wakes to find Steven sitting up on the bed, looking less gray than he had just a few hours ago.

Dejected, Tony had set up camp in the infirmary and fallen asleep by the table. 

"You healed me," Steven says raspily and moves to stand up. His wounds, although closed, must still hurt because he falls right back onto the bed with a loud groan. 

Tony walks over to help him ease back into the bed, hand gripping his back. The gash across his front, although stitched, is still an angry red and the skin around it seems to be infected. 

"Why?" Steven whispers, and Tony is forced to ask himself the same question. Why did he ever take that oath? It had forced him to help a hunter. Satan knew his kind would hate him forever.. 

"You need to rest," he whispers, ignoring the hunter's question altogether. He falters as Steven reaches over to grip his hand. From what he can gather, Tony knows that he must be in incredible pain. 

Tony goes over his options. The only two options that swirl in his head over and over. He can either leave Steven to die and hope that the spell breaks once he does or he can help him heal and ask for freedom in exchange for his service.

Helping a witch hunter of all people would definitely be frowned upon by his coven. But his magic is still weak, (he had hoped it would return once he was awake, but to no avail) and he's not sure if he can force Steven to set him free. He has noticed the strange symbols on Steven's arm and back; symbols he doesn't recognise. Who knows what spells against witches his body is warded by. 

Resigned to his fate, Tony decides that the latter of the two choices is a better and more probable option. Maybe, just maybe, Steven was of the benevolent kind and would hear him out. It was a risk he'd have to take, otherwise, once he had learnt what Steven had planned on doing with him, he'd think over the more... dire options. 

Steven looks up at him then, blue steel meeting warm brown and Tony has to look away when something spikes inside him, hot and strong. He frees his hand from Steven's grasp, as the latter looks on. 

"You need to rest," he repeats, gulping, as he turns to grab some of the paste he had made before. 

*

"I don't generally do this free of charge," Tony muses, handing Steven - Steve - the bowl of soup, prepared from whatever the hunter had stocked in his kitchen. 

Steve laughs through his nose as he sips the soup, moaning as it warms his throat. 

Tony knows that he should be hating Steve. That he should be poisoning the soup that's brewing before him, knows that he should run away from someone who could possibly be his mortal enemy. 

And yet, he can not bring himself to. Satan damn him but he can not. It isn't because Steve is just so bloody gorgeous, although he does admit he'd love to bed him if he weren't his captor. But he doesn't know what it is either. 

Steve's dependent on him now, because he isn't fully healed yet. It is exactly what he had wanted; to ask Steve for freedom when he was most vulnerable. And yet, Tony finds himself straying from that very thought and showing Steve concern no hunter deserves. 

The hunter has given him access to the entire house but he is still bound, unable to contact his coven or his familiar or anything that is not Steve. 

His magic, to add to his misery, continues to remain at sub par levels. 

"You want freedom," Steve comments, as if reading Tony's thoughts and walks over to place the bowl into the kitchen sink. 

"Glad you noticed," Tony chides, his white knuckled hand grasping at the spoon handle tightly. 

Steve hums, and there it is again; that swooping feeling inside Tony's stomach that raises a million red flags in his head. 

"My mother was murdered by a witch."

The shock that rocks through Tony at his words leaves him grasping at his chest. In all the days they spent together, they never talked much. Tony healed Steve and the latter made sure that Tony was comfortable. Well, as comfortable a prisoner could be. 

"She was beautiful and kind.. and I was seven. Only seven and it was just us," he says, voice cracking and Tony does all but reach out to pat his shoulder. 

"Just me and ma, when a witch murdered her right in front of me."

"I was in another room, watching from behind a wall when it happened. I ran away to the woods and.. n-never looked back. I don't know what happened to her body."

A single tear rolls down his cheek and Tony feels his chest tighten. 

A mortal. Killed by his kind. 

Tony can't fathom what Steve must have gone through. He had to witness his mother's murder at such a tender age and be on his own from then on. Tony himself lost his mother when he was ten, but he had his coven and father to turn to. Although the loss was irreplaceable, Tony was never alone. 

Steve turns to him, vulnerability shining bright in his eyes. He cannot help but sympathise with the man; ache for him. Even if he shouldn't be because he's being held captive, for Satan's sake. 

How cruel the ways of the universe could be. 

"I joined the Barnes' Hunters Guild then. They took me in when I was eighteen. It's been my mission to catch my mother's killer then," he says grimly. 

"And that is why I need to know what coven you belong to."

Tony purses his lips. 

"Do you know the witch that killed your mother?"

"No. But I am aware of the coven they belong to."

Tony sighs. He might as well let him know. He was at his mercy after all.

"I belong to the Church of Lilith."

A shadow passes over Steve's face. 

From his pant pocket, he draws a piece of charcoal and begins to sketch something on his hand. Tony watches impatiently, as the drawing looks more and more familiar with every stroke until- 

"That's the symbol of the Church of Lilith!"

Steve looks up at him, a muscle twitching in his jaw. 

"The murderer was from your coven."

Tony deadpans as the implication dawns on him. 

"I may have been alive for over seventy-five years, hunter, but I have never killed a mortal."

Steve says nothing at first, only looks grim and distant. 

"I believe you," he says after a moment, looking up at Tony. 

"You healed me, your captor. I don't think those hands could kill an innocent mortal."

Tony doesn't know what to say. Steve seems to be more trusting of him, and he doesn't know what to think. Or feel. 

"Then let me go," Tony says, "- repay me by giving me what is my right."

Steve's features darken. 

"That is the one thing I cannot give you. I need you to help me find the murderer."

Tony bursts into laughter at that, disbelief shining in his eyes. 

"I healed you when I could have left you to die. I am now nursing you back to health, as you hold me captive, against my will. And now," he snorts, "-you want my, a witch's, help to kill another. Are you out of your mind?"

Steve wrings his hands and sighs. 

"I just might be. I've been looking for the killer for so long and you're the closest I've gotten to finding them. I don't want you to work for me, I need you to work with me."

"You want me to help find a witch from my coven and hand them over to you. Work with you and against my own coven. You cannot possibly, be asking me this."

"But I am. I will return your powers in exchange for your help in finding the killer. Once we find them, you are free to go."

Tony takes a shaky breath.

What Steve wasn't telling him was that he didn't really have a choice. It was either help or refuse and face certain death. 

Besides, Tony did want to catch the traitor. The witch had broken the very oath that made the coven different from the others and followed a path of its own. Broken the new rules that reigned over mortals and witches and encouraged them to be friends and not enemies. The high priest of their coven might not even be aware that such a thing had happened. And why had the witch killed an innocent mortal, anyway? What were their intentions?

"How do you even know if the witch is still alive?"

Steve rubs his thumb against the palm of his hand. 

"Let me show you."

*

Tony stares at the wall with dread. Four, neatly cut newspaper clippings stare back at him. 

Steve flinches as he rests his back against the wall. "These are the murders committed by that witch. At least, supposedly. I've looked at the bodies myself. And on all of those-," he points at the symbol drawn on his hand, "-this symbol had been left. The most recent one happened two weeks ago."

Tony scans the clippings. The first of the four, Tony realises is about Steve's mother's death. 

"Has it occurred to you that the witch might not be from my coven at all?"

Steve nods. "All the more reason for you to look into this. Someone is framing your church for these murders."

Inspite of himself, Tony finds himself being impressed at how convincing and tactile Steve can be. 

"If you want me to help you, we will need to go places. If I'm out, how will you ever get me to help you?" he asks, although he already knows the answer. 

"If you leave with me, you are bound to me automatically by the spell that guards the house. There is no escape, Anthony," Steve answers and Tony wonders if he imagines the reluctance in his voice. "I need you to help me."

But Hell, he hates him so much. And yet, he can't help but admire the cunning Steve possesses. It is almost witch-like. 

And, as much as he hates to admit it, Steve is right. If working with a hunter was the cost he had to pay to restore his coven's glory, so be it. There was a chance that Steve might be lying about setting him free, but he had to take the risk. 

"Fine. I will help you," Tony says and much to his dismay, Steve purses his lips in sympathy. "As if I have another choice. But first, I want you to return all my powers. Second, I need you to make a blood pact."

Steve looks at him questioningly. 

"An oath bound to your blood; You will never bother me or my coven again, after I help you. Fail to deliver and your blood will turn to poison."

The hunter stares at him for a moment, undoubtedly considering his options. 

"I guess I do owe you that much for saving my life."

"Oh, you owe me so much more," Tony shoots back and Steve chuckles brazenly. 

*

"We should get to my coven as soon as possible," Tony says later that night, as he stands by the window, watching the moonlight dance on the roaring waves. He massages the palm of his hand absentmindedly. The cut on his hand from the blood pact although healed, still hurts. 

Steve looks up from his seat at the infirmary table, "I don't think I can walk much yet."

Tony casts him a wry glance. "I know. At this rate, it will take you a millennia to recover."

"You should eat," Steve says, turning back to the book open before him. 

"Your concern for me is absolutely heart-warming," Tony comments sarcastically. 

Steve laughs through his nose.

"I don't want you staying here for long either," he says. "But you need to eat, you can't die on me."

Tony feels a slight pang in his gut at his words. 

He dismisses it quickly, before pouring himself some of the hot broth he had made. 

*

Tony doesn't think he and Steve are becoming friends. 

He still doesn't trust the hunter much; although with the pact, chances of him betraying him are small. 

But Tony finds himself relaxing more in Steve's presence, finds himself liking the way they shoot each other down while also being equals in some ways. 

He rolls the last of the gauze from the box as Steve sits on top of the kitchen counter, clenching his teeth and red-faced. 

"Quit being such a chicken, will you," Tony mumbles, gesturing at Steve to hold out his arms. He starts to bandage his torso with the fresh gauze. 

"It hurts," Steve mutters, gasping when Tony presses too tightly. 

"’Could've done this myself, you know?" 

Tony glances at him irritably. "And I would have to hear you grunting and ooh-ing and aah-ing until it drove me mad."

Steve bites his lip at that, face reddening even more. Tony has to look away because he finds it way too endearing for it to be alright. 

*

"I've never actually killed a witch," Steve admits as they sit pouring over books, in the amber light of the tiny library that the hunter himself built. Several rows lay stacked with ancient books that he somehow possesses. 

"You keep calling me witch hunter, but I've never really killed a witch."

Tony looks at him questioningly, jaw set. He doesn't know if he wants to discuss this. It is easier to justify his choice of helping Steve if he pretended that he wasn't really a hunter. "I find that hard to believe."

"I know. But it's true. I've only ever caught a handful; some of which had nothing to do with the Church of Lilith, and some who-who-," he glances awkwardly at Tony, "-I had to torture to get information out of."

He looks almost ashamed and full of regret but that doesn't douse the fire that spikes through Tony at that instant. He shouldn't have been surprised or upset to find that Steve did all of those things that hunters did. 

"I'm going to go get some rest," he says, standing up abruptly and storming out of the room. In hindsight, it was a bad decision to have shown any sort of emotion really but Tony was crushed. 

He crashes onto his bed heavily, feeling that hot anger flash through him in bursts. He misses his coven, his friends and familiar more so than ever. James, Happy and all of his friends must be looking for him as well. The thought twists at his heart. 

He is truly trapped and the weight of it seems to have finally settled in, because tears begin to brim in his eyes. 

Just then a loud knock resounds in the room, and he has to bury his face into the pillow. Steve, although his only company, is the last person he wants to talk to right now.

"Tony, if you can hear me, know that I regret all of it. I've never admitted this to anybody, but if I could take it all back, I would. Please believe me," Steve's muffled voice comes through the door. 

There is no reason for Steve to have walked up all those stairs to tell Tony this, and maybe that's why, a part of him wants to forgive him. But a lot of him still hates that his freedom is just a mirage; that pretend as he much as he'd like, Steve would always be a hunter. 

He decides not to respond, burying himself deeper into the mattress. He doesn't know how long he stares out of the window sullenly, or when it is that Steve leaves but the night seems to draw on for eternity, until he finally succumbs to the exhaustion. 

*

Next morning, Tony finds Steve bent over himself on the floor, clutching his chest. 

"What happened?!" he yells as he rushes to Steve’s side. 

He holds out bloody hands in answer. 

Tony learns, after healing Steve with a quick spell, that a part of his wound had opened up when he'd been cooking that morning. He had patched him up silently, some of the anger from last night still burning through his being.

"Hey?" Steve murmurs, grasping his hand when Tony turns to leave. "Can we talk?"

Tony shuts his eyes and massages the bridge of his nose. 

"Tony, I did what I had to do," he adds softly, regret full and genuine in his voice. 

And that's what Tony hates, hates that Steve is so genuine, so real. Despises the fact that a part of him trusts him, wants to help him while the other tears its hair in frustration. 

Steve is messing with his head and a strange, new anger burns inside him. 

"I don't care, hunter. You can do whatever you want. I just want to get out of here as soon as possible," he spits out, letting the anger roll of his tongue.

Steve's face visibly falls at that, and he lets go of hand and Tony suddenly feels cold all over. He turns away, not wanting to fall victim to the tricks his mind seems to be playing.

Only tricks, he repeats to himself as he storms to his room. They're only tricks. 

*

He finds Steve in the library, hunched over books as usual, after he had spent the entire day avoiding the hunter. The only thing that is odd about the sight is the bottle of rum and a half full glass beside him, on the table. 

Tony slides in next to him on the high chairs wordlessly. Steve watches silently as Tony takes the glass and brings it to his lips. Throwing his head back, he downs the liquid to its last drop, before slamming the glass onto the table. 

Steve throws him an amused look, a subtle smile playing at his lips. "By all means, make yourself at home."

"You're messing with my head," Tony declares, turning to look at Steve. He seems to be half drunk too, which he can tell from the half-open eyes and slur. 

Steve frowns at him, suddenly looking serious. 

"How?"

"Oh, don't act like you don't know," Tony retorts, rolling his eyes. He reaches over to grab the bottle but Steve pulls it away from his reach. 

"I don't know," Steve replies, flipping the book shut and pushing it (and the bottle) to the far corner of the table. 

Tony squints at Steve. "I've done things that I regret too, you know?"

Steve cocks his head. "I'm sure you have."

"But I've tried to be better. Do better-"

"Why do-" Steve interrupts but Tony places a finger against his lips, silencing him. A tinge of red dusts Steve's cheeks but Tony's already slipping under the alcohol's influence and doesn't notice. 

"O’ Hell, would you let me finish?"

Steve nods and Tony drops his hand. 

"I've regretted them every second I have lived. And now I am here, sitting with you, a hunter I saved. Should be the biggest regret of my life."

Steve looks down at his palms. "You keep saying that. But I'm not a hunter."

Tony doesn't say anything for a moment, only breathes heavily. Steve blurs a little out of his vision before his outline comes into focus again. 

"Say what you will. Believe what you will. You are and will always be a hunter. And I should hate you," he says, the words sounding like poison on his tongue. 

Steve adverts his eyes and Tony's gut twists. 

"But I can't."  His words are almost a whisper, he’s not entirely sure if he said them out loud.

Steve looks up at that, blinking. 

"I.. I regret everything I have ever done. Perhaps, ma would've hated me for choosing this path. F-for wanting to avenge her. But she was my mother and I was seven. It's no excuse but.. if it hadn't happened...I wouldn't be here. Nor would you," he says, voice raspy as if he's struggling to get the words out. 

Tony glances awkwardly at the glass and then back at him. Steve's eyes are shining with tears and Tony's heart almost stops.

"I never wanted to harm another person but the hatred that my guild has towards your kind...it fueled my need to find the killer," he says, and he's sobbing now; this hunk of a man who suddenly seems so small, so tiny, as he curls into himself. 

"I-I don't know what I've become. But hunting for her killer.. it's all I've ever known."

Tony reaches over to hold Steve's hand, his body acting on its own accord. A heartbeat passes as Steve stares up at him with big, round eyes.

"Promise me," Tony says, staring into those ocean eyes, "Promise me, that you'll stop once you've caught the killer." 

Steve blinks at him, making the tears spill faster than ever. "It was what I had planned. I would stop once I found the wretched bastard. But.. I-I promise.."

A strange calm washes over Tony at his words. He blames it on the alcohol, but knows in his heart that it isn't the liquor that makes him do what he does next. 

He pulls Steve close and kisses him, a strange fire bursting through his body at the contact. Steve, to his mild surprise doesn't pull back, instead, only slumps against him, as if all of the strings restraining him had been cut off. Tony let's his hands curl through Steve's hair, feeling the rush of blood and alcohol roar in his ears. He can taste the last of the rum on his lips and mint; freshness that sets his body humming. 

Steve wraps his arms around him eliciting a moan from him. His hands drop to Steve's shoulder, as Steve untucks his shirt out of his pants. He pulls away for a moment, hesitating as his hands ghosts the front of Steve's shirt. The latter chases after him, staring intently at the dip of lips like he wants them and Tony knows better than to push him away. 

Before long, Steve's shirt is on the floor. Tony can see the now dark red scars down his front and he hesitantly runs his finger over them. Steve shudders at his touch. 

"I never thanked you for healing me. For agreeing to help me. I don't know why you did it, but- but I am grateful. And. And I am sorry. For making you go through all of this," Steve whispers against his lips, words tumbling over one another in his effort to be earnest. 

"You should've never been a part of this," he adds, lifting Tony's chin with one finger. He looks alert all of a sudden, as if coming to a realisation. His words slur but his tone is fierce when he says, "I set you free, Tony. I am sorry we had to meet this way. I am sorry I kept you against your will."

The words settle over Tony like thick skin. He is finally free from his chains. He could walk out the door  right now, the very thing he has been thinking about since he got here, and never come back, never see Steve again. 

The thought leaves him feeling empty in a tiny part of his heart. His mind is its own master at the moment, all of his feelings and desires oozing out of his being unfiltered.

Deep in their hearts, perhaps they both knew that there was something indescribable between them. Something more than raw attraction, but also not something that was always meant to be.

It had simply been woven into existence when their paths had crossed. 

Tony decides to not say anything in answer and pulls Steve into him again, shutting off the myriad of feelings and thoughts hurtling through his brain. He hopes that his actions convey what he wants to say. That for once, he let that one part of him rule over the other. That for once, he wants this, as complex as it might make things. He runs his free hand over the curves and lines of Steve's body, committing them to memory. 

He could always leave tomorrow.

"Kiss me like you mean it,”  his eyes seem to say.  And so, Steve does.

Everywhere that Steve touches him, grazes his teeth against, sends a sliver of sparks down Tony's back. The bliss of alcohol and Steve's gentle touches and squeezes is nothing short of electric. 

If Tony didn't know better, he'd have thought it was magic. 

*

Tony jolts up in his bed, as if he's been shaken awake. It is still dark outside but the first tendrils of dawn are starting to blossom across the sky. 

He winces when the vein in his temple throbs slightly. All of the rum that he unceremoniously downed last night is finally taking affect. 

Last night. 

Tony can still feel the ghost of Steve's lips in places that make him blush, still taste him on the tip of his tongue, still smell him in the sheets strewn around him. 

And then it hits him, the realisation that Steve isn't there next to him. Where is he? 

A dull thud comes from somewhere outside the room just then, startling Tony. Straining his ear, he hears loud voices coming from below. His body reacts before he can and the hairs on his neck stand up. Before he can take action of any sort, the handle on his door turns and someone slips in. 

It's Steve. 

"Satan's Horn, you scared me," he breaths, clutching the sheets to his chest but falters when he sees the look on Steve's face. 

"The other hunters... they are here. They know about you," Steve says, a frantic look in his eyes. 

Tony looks at him, shocked. For a horribly numbing moment he thinks Steve has double-crossed him. After everything they went through and last night-  he opens his mouth in question but Steve answers him before he says a word. 

"I didn't tell them, I swear. They must've put a spell on this place. I've told them to wait downstairs so I can fetch you." 

Tony blinks at him, heart beating wildly against his chest. Was he to die today? His mind seems to have shut down, fear seizing his body completely. 

"I can't hand you over," Steve says, gripping his shoulders. "I've never lied to you, Tony. I need you to believe me. I- I like you. You saved me and in spite of everything, I fell for you, as the gods would have it. I need you to trust me."

Everything seems to be moving at the speed of lightning. Mere hours ago, he had been in Steve's embrace and now Steve is asking him to run away.

Tony's body tingles with electricity, feeling the adrenaline rush through him as his powers take control, ready to defend him. A billion questions burn through his mind and he blurts the first thing that comes to him. 

"Steve, you're not fully healed-"

"I almost am. I'll tell them that you fled, I'll make up some excuse. I can hold them off. They cannot harm me," Steve says, handing Tony his clothes that he immediately shimmies into. 

"You could tell them that I'm not like the other witches-"

"They won't listen. They'll burn you before they give you a chance to speak, you need to go. Now,"

As if on cue, Tony picks up footsteps coming up the staircase. Steve glances at the door and then pushes him frenziedly towards the large window beside the bed. 

Tony hesitates as he climbs atop the bed. He could stay. He could help Steve fend off the other hunters. He could run away with him and they could start afresh.

"I could stay and help you fight," he breathes, trying to shake off the cold feeling that's turning his stomach to concrete. 

Steve shakes his head. 

"No more of that. I already freed you last night and...” he stops for a moment, seeming lost but shakes himself out of it seconds later. 

“I, Steven Grant Rogers of the Barnes' Guild, free Anthony Edward Stark, heir to the Church of Lilith from his binding," he chants quickly, eyes wide with fear. 

The effect is almost immediate; Tony feels like a blanket has been lifted off of him. 

There is a dull knock on the door and Tony's heart threatens to burst out of his chest. 

"Run," Steve whispers assertively and Tony sees remorse and... something else in those azure eyes. He wants to look away, lest it burn him completely. He can't bring himself to. Instead, he pulls Steve close and kisses him, with the passion of a thousand burning suns. He tastes fire, regret and a flash of the future that leaves him gasping for air. 

“Memento mei,” he whispers against his lips, letting the power of the words settle into Steve’s being.

When they break away, Steve grabs his hand before he can climb onto the window sill. The remorse in his eyes has been replaced by something brighter and in his heart, Tony knows just what it is. 

"I'll find you," Steve breaths, eyes glinting like wildfire and Tony nods meekly, at a loss for words. 

Steve seems to sense his hesitation and squeezes his hand. 

"I'll find you," he says again, finally letting go of his hand and nodding reassuringly. 

There's promise in the way he smiles at him, a little dazed but with such surety that Tony can't help but believe him. 

With that promise and the image of crinkling blue eyes, Tony summons his broom and leaps into the darkness below. 

[elizabeth-234]

The Hourglass

Previous Chapter Five: Honey Bear and Tony to the Rescue 

Thank you to everyone who has been reading. Here is day six of Whumptober: "Stop Please" and our 6th chapter of this story. It's a day late in my posting schedule but I finished the rough draft of all the chapters so it should be regular from now on.

warning: mentions of character death

Chapter Six: Dreams

There were leather restraints around his wrists connecting to the wall behind him. Peter was in the center of the room, about five steps from the door, but it could have been a million miles and it wouldn’t have made any difference. If there was no lock and the door was opened wide, he wouldn’t have left.

Smoke filtered through the gaps and crevices in the walls. It snacked on along the ground, gaining momentum and building higher. Peter got to his legs and tried to stand on the cement seat under him but the cuffs restricted his movement. The smoke climbed higher and higher, and he strained his face up to the cleaner air but every breath added a new layer thick smog coating his lungs. His eyes watered and his throat closed. He was so lightheaded he fainted, his arms were behind him tugging on the restraints. Peter fell into darkness.

He was floating. No, he was falling. Air breezed around him. Its gusts billowed through his clothes and into his skin. The temperature of this weightless atmosphere chilled him to the bone. The ground rose up to greet him; fast until nothing could stop it. His arms flailed around. He tried to grab onto something but he was alone. They moved forward in hopes of bracing his fall and Peter’s breath was knocked out of him on impact. With a groan he curled into himself. It was a pitiful attempt to protect himself. He blinked and the emptiness was gone.

Peter was lying on the floor in his living room. Footsteps moved down the hallway slow and heavy. He sat up, sending stars in his vision, and moved away from the intruder as fast as he could. His back collided with the couch but he forced himself to still.

May walked in with a bowl of popcorn in her hands.

“What are you doing down there, sweetheart?” She said indicating with a nod his crouched position on the floor.

The air caught in his chest at her appearance. She came over to him, sitting the popcorn down on the small coffee table and grabbing the controller. Instead of moving back to the couch, May sat next to him on the floor before grabbing the popcorn back. She passed him the bowl; it was just salty enough and flavor combined with the orange juice that appeared on the coffee table perfectly. Her eye brows furrowed when he missed whatever she said to him. He was too busy staring at her.

Peter reached out. His hand hovered over her skin before he pressed it against her cheek; eyes widening at the warmth that felt real. His vision blurred with forming tears but before she could see his wonder he closed his eyes. If he could remember the smile on her face as she walked into the room and spied him on the ground he would be forever grateful to whatever this torture was.    

Her skin turned cold under his hand and the air grew dense. It pressed against him, weighing so heavy on his hand he was tempted to take it off her cheek. But he couldn’t let that happen. She would be gone again if he did and so he held on.

Gravity turned and he was lying on the ground again. Apprehension tickled his mind but he opened his eyes and found himself next to May. Her expression wasn’t anything like he knew before. May’s eyes were dull with glassy smog hiding them. She was on the ground with her hand tucked under her body. The base of her arms sitting in a pool of dark liquid. His hand, still resting on the side of her face, was covering something lumpy and there was a sticky material connecting them. It was the same liquid on the ground. He pulled his hand away. The bodies temperature was cold and there was maroon stained on his palm. It dribbled out of the perforated wound on the side of her head. This was not the May he was trying to remember.

“No.” He screamed out, fisting his other knuckles into his mouth. “Please… Please, stop.”


He didn’t know who he was yelling at or if they would hear. Fresh wounds of grief tore into his chest and the yelling helped numb him. He screamed again. Peter became an outlet for the emotions welling inside of him. Incoherent words and noises tumbled out of his mouth until his throat seized and he was voiceless against the pain.

Something landed on his shoulder.

Rhodes was staring at him from beside the bed. He opened his eyes with the dream with on his mind. His hand tingled and he scrambled up. Peter pushed the covers down, ignoring the sweat stains on them and stared at his palm. There was no trace of blood. It was truly just a dream.

His hands fell beside him and he stared at the wall.

The torrent residing in him spoke to more than a dream. They were almost memories and he lost himself in them; welcomed the searing burn as they trickled out of the corners of his mind. Rhodes continued to sit next to him without speaking. He placed a hand on Peter’s shoulder and the weight brought him back to reality, back to the blue room.

The correct course of action would be to politely shake the hand off, thank the man, and be done with it. It wasn’t right to take comfort from strangers, to burden them with problems that weren’t their own. You could be sitting right next to someone but be worlds away when it mattered.

But then Peter remembered his fourteenth birthday. He’d been a freshman in high school and like middle school, the odd man out. He had no friends to speak of, ate in the bathroom enough to have concern for the hygiene of doing so, and rode the subway there and back alone. Second semester rolled around and they changed seat partners in biology. He was partnered with a kid named Ned. He was a talker and throughout their classes he drew Peter in.

More often than not they finished with their labs earlier than their classmates. The term was ending. On that day, Peter was preoccupied with his coming birthday and how it landed in summer. He would have to do it then and there. Peter glanced at Ned under his eye lashes and grasped the table with his hands. Ned continued to chat away about how Peter should join some club he was in after school. He wore an easy smile. It never failed to make him feel warm and although they only knew each other through school, Peter couldn’t help but want to see if they could become real friends.

“Hey, uh, Ned. Do you maybe want to hang out? And-and want to come over for cake in August?”

Ned smirked as they began packing their bags.

“Is this a roundabout way of inviting me to your birthday? I know it’s August10th.”

“How do you- Oh, Mr. Harrington’s board, right?”

“Yep and I’ve been wanting to ask if you were doing something for the longest time. I just didn’t know how.” He said rubbing the back of his neck before chuckling. “So, this is great. Be warned my mom makes the best cassava cake and I’ll probably bring enough for an army.”

Peter couldn’t wait to tell May. True enough, a month and many hangouts outside of school later, Ned arrived carrying two plates of the delicious cake. His family sat around him. They sang much to his embarrassment and he and Ned shared a look at May’s attempts to document the whole night with her camera.

Later, tucked away in their sleeping bags they whispered about their summer plans and the distant school year. It was quiet for a moment; the air full between them and Peter couldn’t keep the smile off his face. Ned turned around to face him. Peter mimicked the action, tucking his elbow to prop his head up.

“Hey Peter.” He said.

“Hey Ned.”

“I wanted to say thanks man, for inviting me. I know it’s not cool to say and all, but I’d been thinking all winter semester how to ask you to hang out and never got out the nerve. I’m, uh, really glad we’re friends.”

Ned smiled again and turned over. Peter swallowed. He scooted his bedding closer and with un unsure hand he reached to rest of on Ned’s shoulder. His friend’s muscles relaxed with a sigh and Peter closed his eyes in sleep.

The air in the blue bedroom was not full of blossoming friendship like it had been that night many years ago. Peter’s muscles were tense under Rhodes’ hand. His energy unwelcoming to the man’s help. But still he remained next to him providing a lifeline away from his dreams and memories.

He had butterflies in his stomach before reaching out to Ned. He could also remember his friend’s bashful smile under the Christmas lights in his room. Peter wondered if Rhodes was feeling the same nervous vulnerability of reaching out to someone new even though he was an adult. And he knew how Ned felt. The same sense of appreciation made him fidget for this stranger next to him.

In the cold hours of the morning, nightmares and memories all mangled in his mind, Peter didn’t feel alone for the first time in a long time. He stared out at the lake, barely visible through the gaps in the curtains, and admired the desolate environment. The wind blew moving the snow around and a bush still with bits of green sat unswayed by the cold.

“Thank you.” He whispered into his pillow. He knew the man heard by the gentle squeeze following his words.

Thank you!

Next Chapter Seven: He’s Warming up to Them