#and i already had a distaste for england but that set me over the edge i literally never wanna hear a good word about england ever again

[oflgtfol]

i hate the english

[shurisneakers]

shut in [14]

Summary: When your high profile mission goes terribly wrong, you’re forced to hide in a safehouse with a man you’ve never met before. With seemingly nowhere else to go, you’re forced to work together to figure out who is trying to have you assassinated before it’s too late. (Sam Wilson x Reader, Hitman AU)

Warnings: anxiety, violence, guns, death, ptsd, swearing, abuse

Word count: 6.3k

A/N: last chapter you guys :’’’’) im too emo about a fanfic i s2g. there’s an epilogue but this is the official last chapter. 

i really appreciate feedback so if you would like to, please consider dropping me an ask or comment ly guys!

Previous Part || Shut In Masterlist

You had only heard of the warehouse before, never actually seen it.

Its reputation preceded it. It was only mentioned in passing as a place for the worst of the worst.

It was murky and smelled like rust, concrete and rotting corpses. You had no doubt a few of them would be littering the place. A few tube lights shone over you graciously like a spotlight, barely illuminating the area. 

The room you were in was utterly silent. The only exception were noises outside the door; loud shouts and clanging of metal. You assumed it to be people in the other rooms. Your assessment on how tight the ropes were coiled around you earned a few grunts and odd squeaks, but nothing major. 

You were bound to a chair, of course, with knots you had used before on others. It felt like a convoluted form of irony. It was firmly nailed to the ground to prevent you from using it against captors. You were gagged; pretty well, by the look of it. 

A noise from beside you threw you off track. A quick look to your left and you found Sam in a similar predicament. He shook his head slightly, implying that it was useless to find an opening. At least he was alive and breathing. 

“Are you done?” A voice came from behind you, echoing within the four walls. “I really want to get going and you’re taking too long.”

You knew who it was. It was impossible for you to mistake it at this point.

“Don’t mind the noise outside. We’re just torturing a bunch of people to death.”

You roll your eyes out of sheer instinct. The footsteps slowly moved towards the front of the room, heavy and deliberate. The expensive material of his suit shone under the light as he edged in front of you. Only he’d wear Armani to a murder.

The dramatic fuck clearly rehearsed it.

“Hey Buttercup,” Ransone smiled, distinctly proud of himself. Your bite on the bundle of cloth haphazardly shoved in your mouth tightened. “Been waitin’ on you for a while now. Wilson’s no good company.”

You sneak a glance at Sam’s side profile and he looks relatively untouched. There were a few cuts on his face that you could make out under the harsh light but that was it. 

“You can’t get out of those, if you're wondering.” He gestured to your current set up. “I told you, Sam. I save my warehouse for special guests. All your fun tools are gone. Took ‘em when you were brought in.”

As your eyes adjusted to the lighting, you faintly make out the presence of two men in the corners of the room, stiff as cardboard. His security. 

“Oh! Except this.” He brandished the paper airplane you had brought with you in the utility belt. He’d use anything to potentially get a rise out of you.

“Gettin’ sentimental now, are we?” He tested the tip of the plane with his finger. 

You prayed he wouldn’t destroy it. It had more value than he was willing to bet on. 

“You must be asking yourselves why you ended up here,” Ransone mused, looking at the plane from all angles. “No need to worry, I’ll tell you.”

You didn't expect anything less from him. Everything about this felt cinematic; the inconvenient lighting, the men standing in the corner. This man oozed drama over efficiency. 

“When I was just starting out, people warned me. Told me I wasn’t going to get anywhere, that we’d always stay in the same position because that’s how it’s been for all these years.” He tested the plane, holding onto the body sturdily.  

“There were too many big names already. We were one of them, of course. My father did a good job of giving us a solid foundation.” He pulled his wrist back like he was going to launch it, only to never actually do it. He carried it through the air, simulating its flight pattern.

“You remember my father, don’t you? The guy who cut off someone’s finger because they didn’t finish the job.” Ransone really only had one story to tell about his father and he worked it to death. Other than a few handful of times, his father never bothered about his presence much from what you heard. He favoured the ones who were brutal and Ransone- well, he was a glorified theatre kid. 

“Of course you do. He was an incredible man.” He laughed crisply. “But he had no real ambition. No drive. I told him we could have been at the top, the ones parents warn their kids about. He didn’t listen to me. He never really paid attention.”

His tone got wistful in the end, eyes distant like he was living the scene out in his head. 

“So obviously when he died, I had the chance to really make a difference. Really set us apart. Ten Rings and Hydra had their own niche; they had some ties with the military and the government and whatnot. Crazy motherfuckers, all of them.” He shook his dead in distaste. “But Serpentine- that was closer to home. Same market as us.”

You wondered how long he would take to get to the point. The only distraction you had were the noises that continued outside. An odd gunshot here and there really pulled your attention away from the story.

“Serpentine with their stupid code names. They really thought they were all that.” He sounded embarrassingly like a bitchy teenager. “Who do they think they were fooling with the Norse Gods thing, huh? Naming your leader Odin, his wife Frigga.”

“I fucking hated them,” he spat, face twisting into anger. “Told them to watch out, that I’d end their legacy. They laughed in my face.” 

He spun around, a wicked gleam in his eyes as he pointed to Sam, “That’s where you come in.”

Sam looked thoroughly irritated with the show that was going on in front of him. If he wasn’t gagged you had no doubt he’d have a few comments to pass. Ones that would get the both of you killed. 

“I told you to kill their leader. One job. You fucked that up.” Sam recalling the story of his first mission flashed in your memory. “Let that old nutjob into your head and allowed him to escape. We didn’t know where he was for years.”

“I let it go because I thought Serpentine was done for. Radio silence after Odin disappeared. And they were, until a few years ago when I get news that they have a new leader. Odin’s son, the new heir.” He waved around his hands, mocking the last part of his sentence. “Word on the street was that he wanted to kill whoever murdered his mother in front of his eyes.”

“I thought that was hilarious. You know why?” He laughed humourlessly. “Because that was you. You were the one who killed his mother. You remember that? Your big mission?”

“You killed my mom,” he jeered, unmoving.

“I’m sorry. I had to.” Your voice was quiet. Your hand clutched at the hood of the car to keep your balance. “But I don’t want to hurt you. Go.”

“He wasn’t supposed to be there. No one had even heard of him. His brother’s too soft to take on anything like this. He’s some farmer in England now. But he was supposed to be Odin’s only son. Yet somehow, the only person who could have known this other son existed and actually seen him… was you.”

“Turns out he’s like you. A secret adoption. No record of him anywhere.” You didn’t blink, not once taking your eyes off him in case he decided to go wild. “He should have died that day. You were supposed to kill them.”

Only Ransone would justify killing a kid because it fit his agenda. It wasn’t like he hadn’t done it before, and though he tried very hard to shove his ideology onto you, you never complied.

“Goes by Loki now, another stupid codename. Trained by his father who this idiot let go of.” He gestured to Sam callously, “and mad about the murder of his mother that you committed. Serpentine came back pretty quickly after he took control.”

A particularly loud sound of metal slamming would have made you jump had you not been tied down. Ransone swung around in anger, loudly cursing at them for ruining his train of thought. He muttered some more curses under his breath before plastering a fake smile on his face and continuing.

“I’ll admit, he’s a sneaky one. But they grew faster than any other cartel. They somehow knew all our connections, all our targets, our key players. It wasn’t possible,” he shook his head low as he paced up and down slowly. You knew where this was headed. “Unless we had someone giving them information from the inside.”

He stops to look at you.

“I would have forgiven you, Y/N, I really would. You know how I am about second chances.” He looked at you, eyebrows upturned with regretful eyes. “But then you had to go and spy on me for two years.”

You could see Sam turn to you from the corner of your eye, assessing your reaction. You didn't extend the same courtesy to him. You didn’t have any reaction.

“We found out very late, of course. I taught you well,” he chided, his inescapable  narcissism making an appearance once more. “But then we had to figure out why. Why you’d betray me and everything I’ve done for you.”

“I still can’t figure that out.” You wanted to scream at him, everything he had taken away from you, everything he forced you to be. “I treated you the best out of everyone I had. You had the best training, the best resources. You wouldn’t have made it anywhere if I didn’t drag you out of that shithole orphanage.”

You had heard of blissfully ignorant, but he was well beyond that at this point. 

“Didn’t take too long to connect the dots. What, with Wilson’s great act of charity and your lack of better judgement, both of you managed to fuck up enough to screw me over years later.”

“I initially was only going to have you killed, Buttercup,” he admitted nonchalantly, like your life had no value. “But then we found out that Sam’s been lying to me for a long time too. Been hidin’ his friend a few states away.”

“It was meant to be,” he cooed. “Such a similar past. You could have met each other before, you know? Pierce wouldn’t be the first time you were at the same house on the same day.”

You couldn’t help but wonder what it would have been like if you had known Sam earlier. Would you have been friends or would you have been forced to kill each other in his sick ‘survival of the fittest’ game?

“It felt poetic to have you both die together, you know? On a mission gone wrong. A full circle.” God, he spent too long planning something elaborate when he could have just put a bullet in your head and ended you the day he found out. Fucking weirdo.

“Made sure I sent you to the same place at the same time. Pierce was dead long before you came, the poor fuck. But then again, collateral damage. No mercy.” He shrugged. “Had everyone at the ready. You should have died that night.”

“But like everything you do,” his voice suddenly rose like a child throwing a tantrum, “you fucked that up for me too. Escaped with his stupid fucking car.”

“None of those useless agents could find you. How could they?” The beauty was that Ransone must have spent too long looking when you were basically right there, just miles away. “You didn’t go to one of our locations and Serpentine hides their safehouses well.”

You still remembered the relief when the door accepted your fingerprint. 

 It was a long shot but you didn't have anywhere else to go. You weren’t even sure that this house existed.

Another loud crash arrived from the outside with noises that sounded like more gunshots, making Ransone jump this time. Just how many people were being tortured here?

“Keep the volume down, you stupid fucking imbeciles!” he screeched, pounding at the metal door. The decibel reduced, but still continued on.  

He dragged his palm across his face in exasperation, talking under his breath to himself. He shook his head before turning back to you.

"Oh, by the way, don't think about escaping. Got every last one of my best agents out here after that stunt you pulled at Pierce’s house,” he says offhandedly.

He takes a second to regroup, get back into character.

“So we released your pictures to the public. Can’t go very far if people are looking for you constantly. It was the only way we could get you to stay in one place.” Ransone raised his shoulders casually. “We had every lowlife out there waiting for one of you to show up.”

“We eventually had someone report Wilson in a town a while away from Pierce. I was making my way there but then you sent me your location on your own. Had men outside your house that night.” He paused, peering at the plane in his hand.

He finally let it go, watching as it barely went any distance before nose diving to the ground. Your eyes trailed after it, hoping he wouldn’t crush it with his foot.

“This is the worst fucking paper plane I’ve ever seen. The balance is completely off.” He stared at it in wonder, picking it up again and shoving it back into his pocket. You let out a breath you didn’t realise you were holding. “Anyway one of them heard you talkin’ about how you’re leaving the next day so we just got ready at the door.”

“Et voila.” He grinned, spreading his arms. “Here we are. Brilliant, wasn’t it?”

Unnecessarily long, but you weren’t going to complain. 

“Oh, I forgot you can’t talk.” His mouth quirked downwards into a ‘whoops’. 

He took a long pause right in front of you before his hand reached out to cradle your face. “I wouldn’t let those idiots kill you, Buttercup. You deserved better than that.”

He stared unnervingly into your eyes, looking for a hint of anything, any sort of remorse. He wasn’t going to find any. You wished he saw nothing but hatred. 

“It’s why I had to kill you myself.” He sighed when you pulled your face away the best you could from his palm in disgust. “But I’ll do you a solid. I’ll give you a chance to beg for forgiveness. Maybe if you’re good enough I’ll let you go.”

You knew he was lying. He had no intention of doing that. He only wanted you to grovel in submission, plead for your life for a fucking power trip.

He ripped off the tape that was over your mouth, making you flinch at the burn. He pulled out the cloth faster than you could spit it out at him.

“Go ahead,” Ransone said smugly. His ego would outlive all of you. 

“Him first.” Your mouth was dry and your lips felt chapped. You had clearly been knocked out for a while by then. You had no idea how far away you were from the original location.

“What?” His smile dropped to a frown rather quickly.

“Him first.” You mentioned towards Sam with your head. 

“That’s cute.” He laughed, stopping when you didn’t join in. “Oh, you’re serious.”

“I’m not saying shit till he does too.” You were bemused, monotonous. You just wanted to get this over as quickly as possible. 

“Fine,” he huffed when your expression didn’t change. “It’d be fun to watch him beg anyway.”

You hear the rip of the tape from his face, the scrunch of the material before he balled it up and threw it on the floor.

Sam shook his head furiously, forcing Ransone to take a step back swiftly before he hit him. 

“Right.” Ransone clapped his hands together. “Let’s get star-”

He was interjected by another loud bang followed by a series of gunshots. Another victim massacred. He groaned in frustration, stamping his feet at the constant interruption. The universe was determined to not let him finish his monologue in peace, and for that, you thanked her.

You looked at Sam, nodding slightly. He gave you a small smile in return, calming the nerves you were beginning to feel.

“Where were we?” Ransone did not look happy; a vein was dangerously visible on his forehead. Now would not be the best time to do anything that angered him. “Yes, go ahead. Beg.”

“Ransone,” Sam began, exhaling lightly. “We knew.”

The smile on Ransone’s face faltered. “What did you say?”

“He said we knew,” you cut in. “You melodramatic fuck.”

Ransone’s grin faded abruptly and it was by far the most satisfying experience you had ever experienced.

“Yeah, we figured it out ourselves a while ago.” Sam had the slightest smirk on his face. “Y/N did, actually.”

“Fuck,” you cursed.

You could feel his muscle shift as he looked at you. 

“What’s wrong?” 

You opened your mouth but shut it again. How do you explain it to him without sounding utterly ridiculous?

“I need to tell you something and I need you to hear me out before saying anything,” you pulled away from him, shuddering at the sudden cold that enveloped you. 

“I’m listening.”

“I think it’s Ransone. He’s been trying to kill us.”

“Why?” He didn’t sound judgemental, hardly even fazed, like it was a completely plausible suggestion. You couldn’t express how glad you were.

“The guy you didn't kill, if he’s the old head of Serpentine, then... I know his son.” Your mouth was dry as your mind raced to piece it together. “He’s the one I didn’t kill.”

“What?” Sam’s eyebrows furrowed, and you could see him trying to figure out the connection. “How are you so sure?”

You closed your eyes, letting out a deep exhale. “I’m going to need you to not react to what I’m going to tell you.”

“Okay...” he trailed off. 

“I’ve been working with him for two years. Passing information on to him about Ransone.”

“Wait so that means-”

“I’m the spy. And I think Ransone figured it out. He wants to kill me.”

“You knew,” Ransone stated. He looked like he was in a daze.

Sam looked at you once before nodding. “If you would shut up and let someone else talk for once, we would have told you a while ago.”

“It helped that you confirmed details about Pierce’s death without us having to tell you.” The last conversation you had with him replayed in your head verbatim. “There’s no way you would have known he was dead before we got there unless we told you. Or you did it.” 

“We knew you had agents outside the house. Kinda expected that when we gave you the address,” you shrugged the best you could, “Sam’s security cameras got all of them.”

“Made sure that one fuck behind the tree could hear us planning outside,” Sam added. “He wasn’t very stealthy, by the way.”

“Have you decided on a day?”

You nod, looking straight ahead into the darkness. “Tomorrow.”

“You sure? Our timing has to be right.”

“Yeah.” Your voice is coarse. “I’ll have to tell him.”

He nodded, leaning his elbows on his knees. He was too tall for the stairs, almost like he was crouching instead of sitting.

His voice dropped to a whisper like it’s a secret only meant for you.

“You knew you were going to be ambushed.”

“No shit.” You nodded. 

The loud bangs continued outside the door but you paid no heed to it. The closer it got, the more your stomach jumped, hoping that more people you pissed off didn’t storm in. You had quite a list anyway.

“You knew they were coming,” Ransone appeared like he had gears turning in his own head, trying to add everything up on his own. “Then why didn’t you run?”

“Well, we kinda needed all of you in one place.” 

“Huh?” He blinked, not listening to all the commotion that was going on around him. If he didn’t, he was choosing to focus on this instead.

“We had to take out all of you at once,” you disclosed, fidgeting with the rope to see if it would give. “Kinda knew you were waiting to kill us yourself when we gave you the location and nothing happened immediately. You’re too much of a sissy to kill us without backup so we wanted you in one place with the rest of them.”

You tilted your head towards the two men standing in the corner.

“You knew all this while and lied,” Ransone jeered, face twisting into something rather indiscernible; a nice mix of shame and rage.

“Not like we had another choice, man.” You just knew Sam was rolling his eyes. “You think I would voluntarily listen to you monologue like an idiot?”

“You did gag us,” you added, trying to buy as much time as you could. “That’s on you.” 

The ropes were still tight as could be and the chair wouldn’t budge. Even your feet were too tightly tied together to do anything. It was what you expected, but that wasn’t going to stop you.

“Shut up!” Ranone’s face was hideously red.

“You rehearsed it, didn’t you?” Sam called out, taunt in his tone. “With the lighting and shit.”

“He doesn’t have to. He does one a week to some poor fuck who has to listen.” 

You couldn’t believe the both of you were teaming up to bully a man who literally held the fate of your lives in his hands. It was something you never imagined yourself doing.

“How do people take you seriously?” Sam laughed. More than yours, his remarks seemed to be ticking Ransone off. 

Ransone let out a guttural cry, knuckles so white you were afraid they were going to break. He whips around, stomping over to pull the gun from the hand of one of his bodyguards.

“Easy there, DeNiro, that’s not a stage prop.” Sam chided.

The concrete in front of him suddenly cracks loudly. He looked up, slightly taken aback. 

“Next time it’ll be your fucking face,” Ransone snarled, waving the gun around like a maniac. You send a cautionary glance to Sam, telling him to back off. Ransone was volatile. He would act without thinking. 

“Why did you kill everyone I was friends with, Vincent?” you asked slowly, trying to divert his mind. 

He turned to you, a crazed look in his eyes.

“Why did you take everyone from me?” The more you asked, the more it became about genuine curiosity rather than a distraction from shooting Sam in the head.

“Take everyone from- none of them were going to last anyway!” He throws his hands up in the air angrily. “I was saving you from yourself. From the eventual pain.”

His face was desperate, and you for a second forced yourself to think from his perspective. He looked like he truly believed in what he was saying, like he genuinely thought he was supporting you. Like he cared. The thought that maybe he truly wanted to help you was the only way you could comfort yourself for so many years. 

“If you were in pain, you wouldn’t perform. I was only pushing you to your full potential,” he continued, a wild smile on his face mixed with eyes rimmed red like he was ready to cry. 

Your stomach sank, even though you hated it. It wasn’t about you, it was about what he could get from you. 

There was silence. Even the noises outside seemed to have stopped, all waiting for your next move.

“You’re a sick, conniving fuck,” your words waver, and you hope it hits him as hard as it can, “And I can’t wait till you’re dead.”

His face morphed from one of helplessness to slow fury once more. Manipulative prick.

“Do I have to remind you that you’re the one tied up?” He wipes at his nose, voice returning to normal. “The only reason you’re alive right now is because I need to know why you let yourself be captured so willingly.”

Your incessant need to know everything stemmed from him and the paranoia he induced in you from when you were a kid. Everything you thought was wrong about you came from him.

“We told you, you overdramatic fuck.” Sam drew the attention away from you thankfully. You took a deep breath, stabilizing yourself. 

“What, that you needed the team in one place to take us out?” Ransone asked, to no one’s answer. “You and what army?”

“Well, the one who’s been here for a while now,” you pipe up.

No one says anything. Pin drop silence reigns free. 

“You said he’d be here,” Sam hissed at you. “How much longer do we keep this going?”

“He said he would,” you argued back, feeling the heat creep into your cheeks.

“What the fuck are you both talking about?” Ransone asked, but you continued to ignore him.

“What are we going to do if he-”

The door violently exploded off its hinges, sending debris flying everywhere. You clenched your eyes shut and ducked your head to avoid getting smacked in the face with rubble

The dust hadn’t even cleared before multiple rounds were fired. You flinched when your ringing ears hurt more at the sound of gunshots. 

You struggle against your ropes, trying to get to Sam. They only get tighter until suddenly your arms break free. Your neck and legs soon follow as you shrug off the ropes that were cleanly sliced off.

Your ears were still getting used to the chaos when you notice someone humming behind you. It took a second to register that it was a fucking Britney Spears song. 

“What took you so long?” You coughed, waving the air in front of you to clear it as you stumbled towards Sam.

“I wanted to make an entrance,” Loki said dismissively, following you. “I think I may have overshot it by a few seconds.”

You fell to your knees in front of Sam, quickly moving to untie the familiar knots. He lifted his head to look at you, a thin layer of dust covering his face.

“Are you okay?” you asked in concern, simultaneously untying as fast as you could. It was one you had used many times before; a complicated knot that guaranteed you wouldn’t have been able to make it out of the bondage.

“I think my leg’s asleep but other than that I’m good.” 

You give him a small smile, thankful that he wasn’t hurt enough to lose his dry sense of humour. Your hand involuntarily reached up to brush some dust off his cheekbone. The intensity with which he looked at you had you swallowing thickly.

You snapped out of it quickly, working on freeing his legs as Loki took a step behind his chair to cut the rest of him loose.

“This him?” Sam mentioned to Loki, massaging his wrist to return some feeling into it. 

“You can just ask me, you know,” Loki commented, but clearly not taking any offence. 

“I’m sorry about your family, man.” 

You didn’t expect Sam to say that, and from the looks of it, neither did Loki. He stopped for a moment, before continuing to cut the last rope.

“You let my father go,” he said, sawing the last part off, “and although I personally think you should have killed the miserable old bastard, he made it clear that he owed you one.”

The both of you stood up. You glanced around the room, noting how both of Ransone’s bodyguards were on the floor, bullet holes riddling their body. 

He himself was beside them, lying facefront on the ground. Armani suit be damned.

“How many more are outside?” Sam asked, tearing your attention away from the bodies on the floor.

“All taken care of.” Loki put the knife back into its sheath on his thigh. “We made quite a commotion. I’m surprised he didn’t do anything.”

“He’s a little dense,” Sam remarked. Most of the noises you heard earlier weren’t just other victims being tortured, although you knew that it was still a large fraction of it.

“Should we go?” you asked, doing a quick sweep of the room. You found nothing moving among the pile of rubble.

“Unless you got anything else left to do.” Loki gestured to the large hole in the wall where the door was.

“I think we’re done.”

He simply nodded, spinning on his heel to walk out the room when someone yelled from behind you. 

You all halted what you were doing, slowly turning to look at where the noise was coming from.

“Don’t take another step,” Ransone warned, a gun pointed straight at you, barely able to stand straight. He looked worse than you’d ever seen him. His suit was torn and he had a few streaks of blood down his face. His hair was tousled and unkempt, rougher than it had ever been before. “Or I swear I’ll-”

“Oh, shut up,” Loki interjected, firing a shot into Ransone’s stomach before anyone could even react. He returned the gun to its holster that you didn’t even notice was there on his waist. “He talks too much.”

Ransone staggered back until he hit the wall, knees buckling beneath his weight as he slid to the ground. The gun he pried off his bodyguards lay where he was standing previously. 

You ignored Sam’s uneasy questions as you took a step forward. 

You picked the gun up, cautiously making your way to Ransone. You crouched next to his body. He looked at you before looking down. You followed his line of sight, watching as he lifted his hands. They were covered in blood. 

“How’d he know where to find you?” Ransone’s voice was more subdued than you’d ever heard him.

You reached over, slipping your fingers into his jacket pocket and pulled out the paper airplane that was flattened due to the impact.

“Hey, you can put a message in it. Maybe one of those button trackers, a microphone. The possibilities are endless.” He laughed, folding another one out of the limited supply of paper he had left.

You unfolded it, letting a small object, not bigger than a button, fall into your palm. He stared at it before realisation dawned on him. 

“I knew you’d take all my weapons, but you wouldn’t get rid of this,” you disclosed, folding the paper plane back to what it was and gently putting it into your pocket. It was still salvageable. “Not if you could use it to hurt me.” 

You watched him take a shaky breath, flinching when more blood rushed out of him. 

“You can still help me, Y/N. We can get out of here together,” he rasped. “Think about everything we’ve been through. We can work it out. I love you.”

You involuntarily let out a strangled cry at the last part. It was nothing but a last ditch attempt to persuade you, pull you back in.

“Look- look at me. Buttercup,” he croaked when you wouldn’t oblige. “I love you. I’m your home.” 

You finally look at him. Look right into his eyes, red rimmed and fading. You look for it, the adoration he spoke of. The care he promised. Anything to make sense of why he would tear you apart time and time again. The love he had for you.

You find nothing. Gray eyes look back at you blankly, desperately, in pain.

“You never were,” you whisper, standing up abruptly. 

You raised your arm, pointing the gun at him. He sputtered out more half baked apologies, unaware of anything that was coming out of his own mouth.

You clench your eyes shut, pulling the trigger. He lets out a cry when the bullet lodges in his shoulder. 

You take a step back, letting the scene imprint itself in your brain of him powerless on the ground at your will. If you followed what he preached, you’d have ended his life right there. No mercy.

But you weren’t him. And you didn’t ever want to be.

“I need to do something too,” you heard Sam say. You can feel him near you, brushing against you for a moment as he gently reached for the gun you held. You gave it to him, feeling him squeeze your hand in reassurance. 

Ransone looked at Sam as he stood beside you. He fired a single shot into his leg, clearly hitting bone. You hear the same wail from before, mixed with sputtering as blood leaked from his mouth.

“That was from Riley. He says fuck you.” Sam let his hand fall again. “All yours, man.” 

“You already know what this is for,” Loki said simply. 

You chose not to look away as he shot the last round right into his forehead. Ransone’s head slumped over. Dead, glassy eyes stared beyond you. 

None of you say anything. Just stare at the lifeless body in front of you.

“It’s really over, huh?” Sam’s voice is quiet, like he's having trouble processing what just happened.

You don’t answer. Only take a step towards him, and intertwine your fingers with his, continuing to stare at the corpse of your lifelong abuser. 

____

The sun was beating down on you. You didn’t expect it to be evening when you stepped out of the warehouse. 

“Where are we?” you asked, shielding your eyes from the sudden brightness that left you squinting.

“Middle of nowhere, I’d say.” Loki stares with disdain at the old building that looked worse for wear. “Would it kill the man to have a bit of taste?”

That reminded you. “Thanks for the house. And… sorry we showed up uninvited.”

“You didn’t do too much damage to it, I hope.”

You looked at him guiltily, mind flashing to the many bullet holes that decorated the back wall. “I’ll pay for the repairs.”

“Forget it. It’s of no use since everyone knows it exists now.” He dismissed with a wave of his hand. “So, Y/N. I guess that concludes our deal?”

“I guess it does.” You nodded,

Sam wraps his arms around your shoulder and you lean into him with a sigh, allowing the comfort his touch brought to seep into you. 

“How’d you guys make a deal anyway?” he inquired. You closed your eyes, chest rising and falling steadily.

“Well, I was going to kill you at first,” Loki explained offhandedly, gesturing to you. “But then-”

He trailed off.

You remember, clear as day, when Loki confronted you in the early hours of the morning outside the park you went on runs. He had a gun pulled on you before you could fathom what was going on, before you could even realise who he was.

“But then?” Sam prodded.

“Did he make it?”

“He did,” you divulged the information you had found out a while ago. It was a messy confrontation to say the least but you got out unscathed.

“Saw something that I recognised,” he said dryly, eyeing you up and down. “We were both pulled into something we didn’t have a say in. Stuck, you could say. I just thought that it was a win-win situation if we worked together to kill that idiot back there.” 

“So you agreed to spy on him,” Sam concluded. “You got revenge. What was your incentive?”

You look at Loki who just smiled at you. You return one half heartedly.

“I’d say freedom is a pretty big reward, wouldn’t you?” And it was. You couldn’t even begin to explain the weight that would be lifted off your shoulders. “I can’t guarantee you’ll have a perfectly normal life. Might have to change your identity, move around a bit.”

“Everyone’s looking for us as wanted criminals,” Sam voiced everything you were forgetting about in the surge of emotions rushing through you.

“I got some connections,” Loki said dismissively. You peered at him from under Sam's arm. “I can have it traced back to a dead mobster in a warehouse, no problem. If they think it’s a gang war there’s no way they’ll try to get too involved. Consider it a gift from my father.” 

Sam nodded, relaxing slightly now that most things were taken care of.

“That’s sorted then.” Loki examined the barren land that surrounded you. “You’re going to need a ride back to civilization, aren’t you?”

“If that’s possible.”

“I’ll have someone drop you off. You got any place to go? At least to stay low for a while.”

You didn’t have anyone. The only one you had was the man beside you. Nothing was settling in at the moment, and you realised that it would be a long road until it did. But you had a shot. A real shot at something even resembling recovery. 

Sam and you looked at each other before he turned back to Loki and nodded.

“New Orleans.”

Next part

here’s my ko-fi if you’d like to support my writing <3

here’s a list of references/foreshadowing to the end all throughout the series!

[mgg-theprettiestboy]

cross my heart (pt. 2)

spencer reid x oc

cross my heart masterlist

word count: 2118

It was a week later that Spencer bumped into her again.

He had just gotten back from a four day case in New Mexico, and had hardly slept during the case, so he slept on the flight home. And when they landed at night, he was fully awake, despite it being 10pm. So, after hours of restlessness, he decided to go to his favourite little corner of the world.

This time, there was no chaos. There was no yelling, or cursing, or collapsing of books. There was the faint sound of music, and an overwhelming smell of coffee, and that ‘new book smell’, despite the fact that most of the books were in fact, rather old.

And the sight of Raye sitting cross legged on one of the sofas, reading. It wasn’t a Narnia book this time, but she looked just as invested in it.

“Reid, hey,” Tamara said, her voice strained. He dragged his eyes over to her, moving closer to the counter. It was only then that he saw her eyes were red and puffy, and she wasn’t making direct contact. He didn’t want to pry or overstep, but he was tired and he usually didn’t have a filter anyways, and concern drove his actions, “hey, are you okay?”

Tamara huffed a laugh, her eyes darting to Raye, before back to the doctor, “had a fight with my girlfriend. It happens, don’t worry. What can I get for you?”

It didn’t take a profiler to tell that she didn’t want to talk about it, so Spencer just ordered a coffee. Whilst she made it, he wandered over to the bookshelf to pick out a book. He had read them all already, but would happily reread them again. Tamara kept the book collection flawless, it was mostly classic literature, and older books, all of which Spencer would read. He didn’t think he would like there it as much, if it was all bad sci-fi and cheesy romances.

He glanced back to Raye, trying to sneak a peak at the title of her book. He was surprised to see her looking at him. They both looked away bashfully, Spencer trying to fumble with a book to make himself look busy, as Raye buried her face in her book, literally this time.

She thought he was kinda cute, obviously. Who didn’t? He had the kind of hair she wanted to rake her hands through, and these puppy dog eyes. Not to mention the fact that he was heads taller than her. He was wearing a purple dress shirt and tie, but last time she saw him, he had a cardigan on. And she couldn't help but notice the converse on his feet. That made her smile.

Plus, he had this wholesome vibe. He was always nothing but polite, and had such a kind face. Raye could bet he was a momma’s boy.

“Do you have any recommendations?” His voice broke her out of her trance, her eyes meeting his, “huh?”

“I trust your taste. Is that Austen?” Spencer said, tipping his head at the book she held, “between C. S. Lewis and Jane Austen, I think your opinions on books are solid, from my observations so far. So, do you have any recommendations?” As previous mentioned, Spencer had read all the books before. He didn't know why he was asking her. Actually, yes he did, he was just to embarrassed to admit it to himself.

“Have you ever read any Arthur Conan Doyle? Sherlock is one of my favourite characters to exist, like, ever. Movies and shows don't do him justice,” Raye said with a soft smile, her hand trailing up and down the spine go her book, as if it were a cat or something else comforting, “I think there’s a copy of The Hounds Of Baskerville on the shelf.”

Spencer didn’t even know he was smiling, until he realised it was border-lining a grin. He turned back to the shelf, scouring over the titles to find the one he suggested. All the while, Raye was trying to stomp at the butterflies in her stomach. She would squish them with her bare hands if she had to.

“Thanks for the recommendation,” he said once he found the book, turning to her, “I’ll be sure to give you my thoughts once I’m done.”

“Please, do. But if they're anything but positive, then I don't think we’ll be good friends,” she said with a smile. Spencer returned it, nodding at her before going to read a book that he had read 65 times already. But who was counting?

-

They continued doing this for weeks to come. If Spencer came back to the cafe at a ridiculous hour, she would be there. 96.4% of visits resulted in him seeing her. And he would give his thoughts on a book she had recommended, or vice versa, as he would begin to recommend books to her as well. 

They would never share a table, though. Never have a full, proper conversation. Spencer couldn’t figure out if he was being a chicken, or if he was picking up the right signals; that Raye didn't want to talk to him. She would always indulge his thoughts on literature, but as soon as the conversation would steer elsewhere, she would shy away. She wouldn't even look at him. Maybe she was shy? Nervous? Spencer understood that more than anyone. Still, he was nothing if not a gentleman, and never pushed any further.

But he figured that if he didn't push, he would never get anywhere with her. And did he want to get somewhere? He didn't know. But part of him was curious, part of him wanted to know more about her, more than just what she thought about writings. Was that odd? The last time he felt like this was with... was with Maeve. But this felt different. 

And he wanted to know more about her.

-

It had been three days since he saw her, and he was already getting antsy. It was a paperwork day for him, so he had no excuse to be awake, other than he was restless at the thought of her, alone, sitting in the cafe, completely absorbed in a good book, and content with a hot chocolate.

And his imagination was nothing if not accurate. She was reading Bronte this time, and an empty hot chocolate sat on the table beside her. She didn't seem as stressed, like she was last week, when reading Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. She seemed relaxed, and completely and utterly satisfied. A good book can work wonders, Spencer thought. 

Tamara wasn't working, which made this a little easier for him. One less set of watching eyes. Spencer ordered a cappuccino and hot chocolate, trying to steady his shaky hands as he brought the cups to her table. He couldn't even think of what to say, so he just simply sat the hot chocolate on her table.

“I didn't order-? Oh, Spencer, hello,” Raye relaxed at seeing him, before her brows furrowed in confusion, “what's this?”

“An apology hot chocolate, for my most recent recommendation. I know you didn't enjoy Frankenstein that much, I watched you as you read it,” he said, and she sighed, “was it that obvious?” “It was, yeah. Not a fan of the genre, I get it,” he said with a laugh, making her smile, “well, thank you. I owe you a coffee then.”

“No, don't be ridiculous, you don’t owe me anything. Except maybe another recommendation,” he said, a hint of teasing in his voice making her smile, “uh. okay. I think I can do that. The Da Vinci Code.”

He gave her a deadpanned look, making her throw her head back and laugh, “c’mon, we agreed to read whatever the other one suggested, regardless.”

“I saw the movie. Seriously?” He grimaced, and she giggled. He was quick to stop grimacing.

“I think you’ll enjoy it, really. Besides, the only make a movie if the book is popular. And books are popular, ‘cause they’re good,” she retorted. He nodded slowly in thought, “you pose a good point... fine. I’ll read it.”

Raye grinned in victory, before sitting up to rummage through her bag, “believe it or not, Tam doesn't actually have a copy of it in the shop, so I brought my copy from home. And whenever you're finished with it, just throw it on a shelf in here. Someone else can enjoy it, or I’ll find it again.”

Spencer took the book she handed him, smiling softly at seeing the worn edges and turned corners, “I’ll make sure to get it home safely, don't worry.”

There was a beat of silence, and before she could say anything, he spoke, “is it okay if I sit here?” “With me?” She asked, as if she was unsure of what he was asking. He replied, “with you.”

She nibbled at her bottom lip, but was quick to nod. Baby steps, Spencer thought. He sat down, sitting his cappuccino and newest read on the table, before smiling at seeing the book she held, “Vilette, huh?”

She smiled, holding the book close to her chest, “I’m a sucker for a good romance novel. Have you read it?”

“Years ago. I’ve already expressed my distaste for the romantics, but that is a classic,” he said, lifting his coffee to take a drink, “did you know that Charlotte Bronte’s first book was rejected by every publisher in England? They didn't approve of women authors. when she wrote to the poet Robert Southey, he replied saying that ‘literature cannot be the business of a woman’s life, and it ought not to be’.”

“Sexism’s a bitch,” Raye said with a sigh, resting her head in her hand as she looked Spencer over once, “how do you know so much? Every time you talk, its like you’ve memorised a million facts to support your own argument.”

He squirmed slightly in his seat, rubbing the back of his neck, “I, uh, I have an eidetic memory.”

“Whats that?” Raye asked. And for once, Spencer didn't hear any sort of confusion or disinterest in the question. She was curious.

Spencer stuttered, before he began to explain, “eidetic memory is a memory that retains everything you read. So everything I read, I remember. And I read a lot.”

“I watched you read one day, and I couldn't believe it. You finished a novel in like four minutes. That’s insane,” she said, and he blushed slightly, “I can read just over 20,000 words a minute.”

“Holy shit. That’s everything I’ve ever wanted! You–you can just binge read books in seconds, and then never forget them! You can memorise every amazing detail,” she exclaimed excitedly, before slumping back in her seat, “man, I’m jealous of you.”

He chuckled, “it does have its advantages, I’ll admit.”

She tilted her head, and Reid couldn’t help but compare her to a confused puppy in that moment, “are there disadvantages?”

He shrugged slightly, breaking eye contact to look at his hands, “sometimes I begin to ramble, because I just... I know a lot about something, and then I get excited because I think that people are like me, that they want to learn more about the world. They usually don’t. And then I feel so–“

“Then they’re assholes,” Raye interupted, and Spencer looked back to her. There was a slight redness to her cheeks now, “if someone shoots you down while you’re talking about something you’re passionate about, then they’re an asshole.”

He smiled softly, glancing down to his book bashfully, “thats nice of you to say.”

“Well, it’s the truth. I don't like bullies,” she said firmly, “and I think you're cool. And I think the things you know are cool too.”

He laughed softly, smiling down at his book. He felt all warm at her words, but was still to embarrassed to look back up at him.

“I like peonies,” Raye said randomly, before shaking her head as she realised how strange that sounded, “do you know any facts about peonies?”

Spencer looked up to her, before nodding slowly, “peonies represent wealth and honour. They’re the flower you traditionally receive on your twelfth wedding anniversary, did you know they’re native to...”

Spencer rambled on about peonies for another ten minutes, and talked about more and more flowers for the rest of the night. Raye clung onto his every word, smiling and nodding enthusiastically, responding when she could. And it was genuine. Spencer knew when someone was feigning interest, but not her. And for a brief moment, he let himself hope, that maybe, just maybe, she might want to know more about him too.

-

NEXT CHAPTER

yes, raye brought the book with her to the cafe, in the hopes that she would run into spencer and give it to him :)

taglist: @slutforthegubes @pinkdiamond1016 @itsmyblogandillreblogifiwantto @fallinallinmendes @beyonces-breastmilk @spencerlikesapplejuice @pastathighs @gcblers @hushfakebitches @ijustcomeheretoread @thelovelyrose @leam-2001 @madison-malfoy @averyhotchner @haylaansmi

[jjba-hell]

Fate and Fortune

I don’t know if this can be classified as Part 2.5 or Part 3... y’know let’s go with Part 3

Content warnings: pretty mild if not for the ominous feel, abandonment themes and some possible PTSD, nightmares and sleep paralysis (implied but not mentioned) and maybe some blood but not gore or violence.

So the big explanation I’m putting down for this one is that Vera holds the Wheel of Fortune as her stand- as I’ve said, my canon now, the one in canon do not exist ƪ(˘⌣˘)ʃ. I’ll probably elaborate on how it works later, for now- you’re getting breadcrumbs -w-

For the lovely @risottoneroo (please lemme know if I should cool it with the tagging lol (*´ω｀*)

Part 1

Part 2

1.4 K words

It had been a few months since the incident in the place Vera once called home. Sitting at a café, overlooking the river Nile, Avdol and Vera had just polished off a pot of tea together. It was somewhat a celebratory brunch, Muhammed Avdol had won custody over Vera Astbury- the big benefactor that was sponsoring her schooling abroad being what won the courts over in his favor.

“So, who is this oh so generous benefactor?” She asked as she brought the cup to her lips once more- hoping she was veiling her distaste at being shipped to a boarding school in the following months well enough behind polite banter. If this idea was Avdol’s or the benefactor’s idea, she was still unsure- but her reluctance remained.

“You’ll meet Mr Joestar as soon as he returns for business in England. You really don’t have to break your head about who he is until then. I’ll keep you updated.”

Avdol had a tendency to avoid speaking on the court processions for her custody. She’d been upset by both her families’ reluctance to take her in at her time of need, the bags she’d packed to be shipped to one them, standing in Avdol’s living room for one too many weeks. Until he cleared a room for her and asked her to unpack.

The smile tugged at the corner of her lips without her knowing. Avdol caught the gesture and calmly placed his cup of tea back in its saucer. “And now I wonder- what could have made my answer so amusing?”

Vera shrugged as she swirled the stray tea leaves around the bottom of her cup. “For a moment you sounded like my dad-“ her smile slid off her face as the tea leaves settled.

Divination by tea leaves was something she’d laughed at when Avdol first taught her about it but now- with all her readings, even the ones she did unintentionally as practice to get a feel for how much tea she needed to move the tea leaves around- all ended in the same black dog figure stalking the bottom edges of her cup.

To her, it felt as though she was plunged ankle deep into the tea in the bottom of the cup, as though the image mirroring her own grief and fear in the tea leaves would consume her as well.

A graceful brown hand stretched over the mouth of the cup, obstructing her view of the leaves.

“You know better than to read into your predictions now. You need to grieve first.”

Vera’s gaze met Avdol’s across the table, the concerned frown on his face enough to remind her that she wasn’t completely alone.

“Would you have me organise a psychologist at the boarding school for you?” He sighed as he withdrew his hand from her cup.

She chuckled and cringed at the same time. “I appreciate you looking out for me but I am not looking forward to leaving.”

“I know, Vera. But whatever or whoever was after you hopefully won’t leave Egypt for you. And… now don’t look at me like that. No matter how desperately you want revenge, you’re much too young to go out and look for that kind of trouble.”

Vera reverted her scowl to a smirk, she wasn’t going to fight him, the last thing she wanted was to seem ungrateful for what he was doing for her. “Watch out Avdol- if you let me get too far under your skin, I’ll give you grey hairs.”

His eyebrow shot up as he folded his hands into his robe sleeves- “You underestimate my tolerance, Vera. I know you jest most of the time, even if its just a way for you to cope.”

Vera’s words caught in her throat- the clever retort gone before she could give it some voice. With a clear of her throat she folded her hands on the table. “Perceptive. I’ll keep quite then, I know when I’m outwitted.”

“I thought so.” Avdol chuckled, signalling the waiter for the bill.

Living with Avdol had turned into an agreeable co-habitation, a bit of an adjustment for both of them but she felt safe under Avdol’s protection.

In terms of basic necessity she was well taken care of- physchologically she was still struggling.

To Vera, the development of her stand did the exact opposite to what she felt like it was supposed to do- or at least what Avdol had told her it would do. Instead of manifesting her own strength, she felt more vulnerable.

Avdol had shown his own stand to her once he realized she had some control over her own. Magician’s Red radiated an intense heat that felt like it would suffocate her if he left them out in the room too long. They were considerably larger and more opaque than her stand- intense glare matching their user’s.

“I call them Magician’s Red,” Avdol had explained. “You will find the name for your stand soon, I’m sure.” At the time she shrugged off her own ability as useless. She was just a bit more lucky whenever she hovered her stand’s extended hand over a dice. She couldn’t image her stand setting having any more power than that- the envy of seeing Magician’s Red starting the bonfire outside one evening making itself evident.

To Vera, her stand only hovered a few inches above the her bed’s edge, cross-legged like a cat watching her struggle to make her limbs move or violently jerk herself out of a nightmare. It only let her feel guilty as she playfully stole a win from Avdol in a game of cards. Only a few weeks later she realized her stand could do more than steal luck.

“Ahhh shit.”

Avdol’s head popped in around the corner at her cradling her bleeding palm over the kitchen sink.

“What happened.”

“I dropped the knife and caught it at the blade.”

Avdol cringed as he ducked back into the hallway. “I’m getting the first aid kit.”

She pulled the unplugged the water in the other sink and turned the water on to run over her wound.

Without warning her stand emerged and took hold of her hand out of the water.

The dial that replaced their wrists twisted as they hovered their palm over hers.

Obstructed for a moment, Vera couldn’t figure out what was going on until the blood drops in the sink disappeared. For a moment she thought the water had rinsed it away but as her stand’s hand moved away from hers the wound in her hand was gone. Not even a scab left in its place.

“Now THAT is a useful trick.” Avdol laughed as her stand de-materialized, Vera turning her hand in front of her in disbelief.

Time and Fortune moved in tandem to one another- at least that was what her stand had her believe. Like time marched beside the changing seasons of the world, time was tied to the Wheel of Fortune.

On her last day in Egypt, Vera sat across Muhammed on the rooftop of his home.

“I see you’ve gotten a good grip on summoning your stand.” He hummed at her stand hovering just over her right shoulder. “Their presence is strong, much less translucent than it used to be.”

Between them sat a tarot deck she had bought on a whim- it’s maker had gingerly opened the box and let her run her hands through the cards, it’s irredescent gold beauty captivating her.

“How much?” She said as she pulled her wallet from her bag.

It was her very own deck and now- with the cards already shuffled and placed face down between them for a reading, she was ready to start her first reading with them.

“Let’s hope there’s not a Death Card for this reading.” Avdol sighed.

She smiled, spreading the cards out onto the dealing mat. With her intent set, she picked two cards- a card that would represent what she had to leave behind and a card that would name her stand.

The first card was flipped and the smug smile on Avdol’s face was all she needed to see.

Six of Swords reversed- “the Resistence to transition.”

Her gaze shot up at the cocky bastard, Vera groaning in frustration. “Yeah yeah yeah, I need to stop fighting my relocation.”

In defiance she flipped the second card and to no surprise the Wheel of Fortune card looked back at her.

“I wish I could say I was surprised.” She sighed.

Avdol chuckler quietly, “So how do you refer to them in your mind?”

Vera shrugged as she put her cards back together. “I just keep calling them Fortune in my head.” Her gaze looked her own stand over- it wasn’t particularly impressive, looking like painted terracotta stacked in disks to make up a body not too different in shape from her own.

“Suits them.”

With a heavy sigh Avdol rose up and guided her down the stairs where her bags and the Speedwagon foundation security stood waiting for her.

She assumed her benefactor must have been a higher up within said foundation if he was going this far to make sure she got the boarding school safely.

Vera rolled her window down and peered up at Avdol, a bitter smile on her face as she sat in the car and he remained standing outside.

“Don’t call me and tell me you’re lonely, this was your idea.” She taunted.

He rolled his eyes and then folded his hands over his forearms.

“I was hesitant to tell you this before but I think its fair you know.” He started and the words that followed had Vera floored.

“You’re the first person I’ve ever met to survive a stand fever. Keep that in mind before you think you’re too weak to go on your own.”

Vera’s widened gaze couldn’t look away from his face, as if her next blink was going to make him disappear before her very eyes.

“You’re serious? The first?”

That same sadness returned to Avdol’s eyes, but a mismatched smile returned briefly as he straightened up once again and with a fold of his hands into his sleeves said: “Don’t let that information go to your head.”

Vera smiled back, watching the window roll up between them and Avdol become smaller in the rear windscreen.

“Oh, this talk is far from over Muhammed Avdol.”

[squirrelacorngliterfarts]

Blood. 46.

“(y/n)! there is someone here to see you!” ubbe shouts as he comes into the hall, his eyes scanning for his young sister.she comes out from behind one of the pillars and smiles at him, her head cocked to the side in confusion.                                                                                                                                              

“who is it, ubbe?” she asks taking ubbe’s hand as she walks to his side.

“it is a secret” ubbe whispers, winking once he finishes his sentence, which makes (y/n) giggle.

they arrive outside of the hall and find lagertha standing by a few men and women, horses behind her.

(y/n)”s eyes widen and a grin overtakes her face.

“lagertha!” she cries out with joy, dropping ubbe’s hand and running towards the older woman.

lagertha laughs and bends low, picking the girl up and holding her tight to her chest, twirling her in her arms.

“hello, sweet (y/n)” lagertha greets, kissing the girls forehead.

lagertha pulls back and looks the darling child in her bright eyes, nodding her head towards her horse.

“i think he has something for you”.

(y/n) smiles towards the large stallion, noticing the satchel attached to it’s side.

lagertha carries the girl over towards the horse, poking at the brown bag.

“open it”.

(y/n) does as she’s told, hesitantly, and opens the bag, gaping when she sees it’s contents.

it is a small sewn doll, eyes replaced with two blue jewels, apparently the ones lagertha found on a raid once, long ago.

it was beautiful, one of the most eye dazzling things (Y/n) had ever seen.

“is that really for me?” (y/n) asks, looking from the doll to lagertha, only smiling wider when lagertha nods.

“it is. she’s all yours. she was finished being stitched up this morning”.

lagertha laughs as (y/n) wraps her arms around lagertha, hugging her even tighter.

“thank you!” (y/n) whispers, keeping the doll close to her chest.

“you are very welcome” lagertha says, feeling an almost empty ache in her heart.

it almost felt like having a daughter again.

little gyda would have loved (y/n) just as much as she did.

“(y/n)!”.

they both turn and find the eyes of aslaug peering at them from under her hood, a somewhat forced smile upon her lips.

“lagertha. i hadn’t known you were coming” aslaug says politely, pressing her two young sons ubbe and hvitserk into her sides, young sigurd running out as well.

“i was only passing through to see (y/n). i can’t stay-”.

“no” (y/n) cuts in, gaining both of the women’s attention. “don’t go. you can stay for a bit longer. please?”.

lagertha shakes her head, smiling softly.

“i have to go back to hedaby, but i will visit again soon, i promise” lagertha says, trying fight back the urge to take the girl with her.

“keep her safe for me?” lagertha asks, motioning to the doll, and (y/n) nods furiously.

“i will”.

“forever?”.

“forever” (y/n) says, squealing when lagertha tickled at her sides before setting her down.

“go on” lagertha says, watching with a fond grin as (y/n) gives her a wave before running up to aslaug.

“may i go play?” (y/n) asks looking up at aslaug with those pleading doe like eyes, and aslaug smiles, patting at the girls head gently.

“of course you can, but stay close by!” aslaug says, shouting at the girl who was already running full speed through the town of kattegat, hvitserk laughing and nodding to his mother.

“i’ll go with her”.

the women smile at the children, but it quickly fades once they’re out of sight.

“she loves you” aslaug says, gaining lagertha’s attention, quirking her brows at the woman in front of her.

“she’d do anything for you. she talks about you all the time. she truly admires you” aslaug continues, walking closer.

“there is nothing in this world that i want other than for my children to be happy. and you make her happy.......pass by whenever you want”.

lagertha stares at the woman in shock, but quickly hides it under a small smile.

“thank you, queen aslaug”. and though there is malice in the way lagertha says this, she can’t help but genuniely be happy to be able to see the little girl whenever she wanted.

“one day i’ll be gone, and she’ll need someone other than her brothers, i expect you to be there for her?”.

“of course”.

“good. and if  i can’t, i want you to be there for her whenever she is hurting” aslaug says, giving lagertha a nod before turnign and heading back for the hall.

but lagertha is confused.

“why would she be hurting?”.

aslaug pauses, looking over her shoulder at the blonde shieldmaiden

“she doesn’t know that i am not her real mother, or that my sons are not her brothers. she doesn’t know that we share blood. and i don’t want her knowing for a long time. but when that day comes i don’t know how she’ll react, she may hate me, curse me, leave me, but at least she can confide in someone like you if she does react that way”.

lagertha nods, understanding now.

“thank you, aslaug”.

“no, thank you”.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(y/n) opens her eyes slowly, squinting under the bright light of the sun that was peeking through the flap of her tent.

she groans softly, turning over on her stomach and hiding her face in her hands.

she looks between her fingers and finds a leg in her vision.

she sits up, and finds halfdan, in the most uncomfortable position by her bed in a chair, his head resting on his shoulder, mouth open.

he hadn’t left her, he had stayed all night

(y/n) can’t help but feel guilt overcoming her, her eyes squeezing shut at the ache that fills her heart.

she stands from the bed and walks over to the corner of her tent, quietly and quickly dressing before halfdan woke.

she sighs as she fastens her belt to her waist, another day, another battle, more killing.......

she shakes her head of those thoughts, she needs to keep moving, otherwise she knows she will fall ill of thoughts she’d never dare to think.

she laughs quietly to herself, how weak could she be?.

she reaches for the flap of the tent, looking at halfdan over her shoulder one last time.

“thank you” she whispers, before finally exiting her tent.

she inhales the cold morning air, and gives a gentle smile at her brothers who are huddled together by a fire, floki not far.

hvitserk notices her first, and raises his mug of ale to her, smiling under his hood.

“there is the great viking warrior!” hvitserk shouts, making his brothers turn and look towards the young girl.

chuckling to herself, she takes a seat beside ivar, just across from bjorn, and smiles thankfully to loki who handed her a warm mug of water, knowing she hated ale.

she settles in her seat, smiling at ivar when he adjusts himself closer to her, wrapping her up in the fur he was wearing, sharing it with her.

“it seems to me that the saxons are as timid as frightened women. their hearts are faint. i don’t think they can truly trouble us” ivar says, sipping at his ale, chuckling when (y/n) wrinkles her nose at the smell.

“you don’t know enough, ivar. you haven’t seen enough. these are brave men. i’ve fought against them, you haven’t” bjorn says almost cockily. and this makes (y/n) frown deeply, her eyes looking to bjorn with confusion.

what had suddenly gotten into him?.

“i can only see what my eyes tell me, bjorn. and what i see is frightened people running before us. i see their spineless god running away from our gods” ivar says, laughing teasingly, and shakes his head, offering up ivar more ale.

“for once, why don’t you listen to an older wiser brother? these people who are running away, they’re not warriors. they are not the ones who will stay and fight to defend this kingdom” ubbe says, now looking towards (Y/n).

“will you tell him? maybe he’ll listen to you”.

she’s silent for a moment, and her brothers turn in shock to see her actually agreeing with ivar, seeing her acting cold towards the idea of the english people just trying to protect themselves.

but, she speaks.

“most of them are like frightened women, i agree with ivar on that, but, the others, like the women, or the common man, they’re only trying to protect what they have, such as their homes, their children, their lives. they fear death”.

ubbe and hvitserk share a look before turning their heads towards sigurd who just started speaking.

“and protect their honor. for what is a warrior without his honor?” says sigurd, to which ivar rolls his eyes and smirks towards his brother.

“i don’t know, you tell me, brother. and, tell me again, how many battles have you fought?”.

ivar always had something to say.

sigurd’s expression towards ivar is full of annoyance and irritation, it almost makes (y/n) laugh, the both of them reminding her of children.

“same as you, brother, except i don’t ride around in a comfortable bloody chariot!” sigurd exclaims, throwing down his knife and edging closer to ivar.

“that is enough, now” (y/n) says, standing and gripping sigurds wrist, looking him in the eye with a raised brow, silently telling him to back off.

he sighs and wretches himself out of her grip, moving farther away from ivar.

“what you have to learn, ivar, is that if you break up this brotherhood, we shall not succeed. we have many challenges ahead of us. so, if you want to keep arguing and whining like a little girl, then i suggest you leave. we don’t need you”.

(y/n) stares at bjorn with widening eyes. how dare he say that? how dare he talk like that to his young brother?.

anger fills (Y/n)’s body, and she feels her jaw tightening and grinding with rage.

no one talks to ivar that way, no one.

but it doesn’t faze ivar, he simply smiles and replies.

“oh, but you do need me. why do you think father chose me to come with him to england? he had a reason for doing so. he told me i was the one who would act for him, who would make sure he was revenged” ivar says snarkely, eyeing bjorn with distaste a confidence.

bjorn reaches low and picks up the severed head of a deer, placing it over his face as he playfully spoke next.

“ if that’s what you want to think, then think it”.

everyone chuckles, all but floki, ivar and (y/n), they just stare with stone expressions.

ivar leans forwards, pointing his finger at bjorn.

“ i understand it must be hard for you to accept the true heir to the great ragnar lothbrok should turn out to be a cripple and a reject”.

ivars words cause ubbe to spit his drink out and look to ivar with complete surprise and amusement, and everyone is stunned silent.

and though (y/n) is happy ivar got to speak his true words. she couldn’t deny that it hurt her heart to hear him say that.

the true heir.......which she knew she wasn’t. it unsettles her, but she stays silent, knowing it was the best thing to do.

floki suddenly snickers, standing and looking to the lothbrok children with sadness.

“so this is what the grunting of the little pigs was all about!” he says, his eyes lingering on (Y/n) for just a moment longer before leaving the campsite, heading off to his own tent with helga and tanaruz.

(Y/n) thinks about his words for a moment, and remembers what her brothers told her days after ragnar had died.

how the little piggies will grunt, when they hear how the old boar suffered.

she was told by odin himself, face to face, even in his arms about her fathers death, and no such saying was said to her.

how? why? why had hers brothers heard-

oh.

she wasn’t blood. maybe that was why. she wasn’t an heir of ragnar, not even a relation, to him or her mother, or her brothers.

she feels ill.

“(y/n)?”.

she looks up and sees ubbe looking at her with concern.

“are you alright? you look pale-”.

“i’m fine. i need to walk for a bit” she says, turning away and walking in the direction of the shoreline, her brothers all looking towards one another in question.

“who wants to talk with her?”.

@darkwhisperswolf@youbloodymadgenius@blonddnamedhandz@thelastemzy@annekleyn @inforapound @supermassiveblackhope @captstefanbrandt @roonil-wxzlib @alostsoulinhumanity @syreni-dea

[thisunfoldinglife]

How I Came To Live in the Woods

Two years ago, my husband and I bought our dream house. This lovely seventies fixer-upper has robbed us of every last pound, consumed months of our time, and has signed us up for another decade of sweaty evenings and weekends spent painting, repairing, and renovating. We sometimes stop, paintbrush in hand, and ask each other, “any regrets?” Well…no—but we both pine for simpler times.  

I look around and marvel at this big house and everything we’ve accumulated since our move to England. We arrived eight years ago with only a few suitcases and a handful of hopes. Unlike normal people, we didn’t ship our furniture and household goods from America. Instead, we had a massive yard sale and sold the rest on Craig’s List. I said goodbye to my sewing machine, guitar, bike, and camping equipment. We had to rebuy everything from brooms to blankets, dishes to clocks, silverware to shoes. It’s amazing how long it takes to rebuild your collection of stuff, especially when money is scarce.

Yet all this didn’t faze me. I was already well versed in the art of minimalism. When I was twenty-eight, all my worldly possessions resided inside the boot of my car. They would remain there for two years, while I tried out life as a vagabond.  When you’re young, the promise of adventure can outweigh all fear. When it’s just you—no partner, no kids—just you and the great big sky, there are more chances you can take.

It all started after reading Brazilian writer Paulo Coelho’s book, “The Pilgrimage”, which sparked my desire to embark on a solo journey to Northern Spain to walk a 500-mile pilgrimage route that’s existed since the Middle Ages. Looking back, my decision to walk this ancient path set into motion a new trajectory for my life that wouldn’t be altered for several years. Walking the path for forty days, with nothing in my backpack but my journal, clothes, food, and water, certainly perfected my predilection for a minimal existence, but it was truly the time before and after the pilgrimage, that tested my resolve to embrace the unconventional life.  

I was desperate to get to Spain. I had travelled the length and breadth of The States, but outside of a quick hop to London, I hadn’t properly travelled overseas. I didn’t have any form of savings to purchase a plane ticket or even feed myself for the two months I’d be gone, yet still, I couldn’t ignore the pull to go. I had a sharp distaste for fear and regret, and a stronger desire to be the bold protagonist in my own life story, so I needed to find a way.

I was living at the time in Flagstaff, Arizona. This high-desert mountain town boasts turquoise blue skies and perpetual sunshine to beckon everyone outdoors. At 7,000 feet above sea level, it’s cooler than its neighbouring desert towns, and yields deep winter snows that will never meet the cacti of the south. Flagstaff’s natural beauty draws an alternative collection of hikers, skiers, hippies, and transients. The cost of living is high, but the desire to be there great, and so many people find whatever means they can to stay. I had heard about a few odd souls who camped in the surrounding national forest for weeks at a time. I would be one of them. It was the most feasible means of funding my travels. I was renting an apartment then, with a kindred friend, Marike. Partial to avoiding conformity, she too, knew the value in travel and adventure, and so she wasn’t hard to convince. Together, we gave up our apartment to head for the woods. I quickly sold my furniture, giving away everything that wouldn’t fit inside my small Toyota. All I had left were my books, photos, clothing and gear.

Marike and I set up our first camp in a clearing of aspens and pines a mile down a long dirt lane. It was close enough to make the morning trek to work, yet far enough from the main road to ease our minds about cops or potential serial killers. My tent was narrow and thin, but sufficient. We’d forage for firewood, heat cans of soup on the stove at night and pour water for each other to wash up in the morning. Every other day, we’d pay to shower at the local hostel. Being April, the snow still fell, and so the coldest nights would find us curled up in the car beneath heaps of blankets, where sleep was fickle and fragmented. It was challenging, uncomfortable, and at times scary, but also exhilarating. The difficulties were dotted with starry skies, deep conversations, and the perpetual fresh mountain air that magically invigorated us despite it all. I felt raw and alive, my eyes open and senses heightened. My inner strength was blossoming, and my fears grew smaller, giving way to a confidence that began to permeate all aspects of my life.

Soon after, I left for Spain. Walking the pilgrimage was an epic alter reality that inspired and stimulated me daily. The path had brought many wonders and gifts—among them, a thirst for freedom, both internal and external. I felt tethered to nothing and life’s possibilities seemed boundless. The journey had liberated me from nearly all my money and material possessions, so when I returned to Flagstaff, I wasn’t ready to buy furniture, pay rent, and adopt a normal life. So, I returned to the woods. Marike had left for other adventures, and I was on my own, uncertain of how long I’d be there.

I was a vulnerable single woman alone in the forest, but through either ignorance or grace, I felt protected. I enjoyed the town and the trails by day and spent time with friends in the evening. I’d often find my way to the local bookstore before bed. Their late hours gave me a pseudo living room to read and write before driving back to the forest. On my way to the woods, I’d roll down the window to inhale the sweet smell of wood smoke escaping from well-lit houses, where people sprawled happily on couches, glasses of wine in hand. The line between liberating and lonely began to blur as winter closed in, but still, I was in a pleasant state of surrender. I believed life would shepherd me to extraordinary things, and magically it did.

At a random party, in a place I had never been, I met a married couple, Vickie and Bruce, who were soon to sail around the coast of Mexico for three months. I foolishly disregarded them as a wealthy privileged pair whom I’d have nothing in common with. Yet as our conversation grew, I quickly realised that they were making sacrifices to pursue their dreams, the same as I. And, when they asked me to look after their pets and home while they were away, I was humbled with euphoric gratitude. It was a blessed encounter that, not only granted me a home during the cold winter months but brought me a lasting friendship. For this couple, who were once two strangers, became dear friends. And their home became a haven of warmth and stability, to write, relax, and even grieve when my father unexpectedly died months after. And, two years later, when I met my husband, Vickie presided over our wedding.

Vickie and Bruce went on several long jaunts to Mexico, in which I was always happy to look after their home and pets. And in between, I found several other house-sitting jobs. I stayed in homes with hot tubs and hammocks, along rivers and among mountains. The most remote dwellings were quiet and wild, and I’d spy elk, coyote, and bear. Some were affluent, and afforded me weeks of luxury, soaking in big baths, lounging on plush furniture and dining in stylish kitchens. Others were more rustic. One January, I looked after a cat in a converted camper van on the edge of town. Without any electricity or water, the camper had only a small built-in wood burner to shield me from the worst of the winter cold. In three feet of snow, I’d chop logs into kindling and fall asleep to a roaring fire that demanded to be rebuilt several hours later, yanking me from sleep to action.

When one job finished, another would harmoniously begin. I only occasionally camped in the woods in the interims. Everything seemed to fall into place to facilitate this unconventional existence. It gave me courage, trust, confidence, and the precious gift of time. In escaping from the rat race, I bought myself time—to simply be—a luxury I have so little of now. It’s hard to believe I lived like that for two years. But in my wandering spell, I’d somehow cultivated true peace within myself. And even now, in life’s most constricting moments, my soul still wanders free because of it.  

My vagabond days eventually proved their limitations, and I began to crave a place of my own. With great resistance, I exchanged my car—which brought me such freedom—for an apartment, where I acquired a rescue cat, a collection of mismatched furniture, and soon after, my husband.

I look around now at all this stuff—sofas and beds, tables and toys. I never thought I’d accumulate so much. Yet instead of weighing me down, it pleasantly anchors me. I think children need rooms and toys to call their own. As do I. And from the comfort of my couch, I now enjoy the smell of wine and wood-smoke from my own chimney. Someday I might don my backpack again and set off on another pilgrimage. Maybe I’ll even find a quiet spot in the forest to dwell for a while. But first, this house needs work and love, and as it’s filled to the brim, there is no more room for regret.

[kieren-fucking-walker]

I Find My Peace With You - (Brotzly)

“I think,” Dirk says after a moment, keeping his voice quiet. “What I’d really like to do is just…” he looks up through his lashes, and the shyness is genuine this time, “stay here with you.”

Todd’s stupid traitor heart skips a beat.

Sometimes the universe is quiet, sometimes they get lazy days.

It's kind of perfect.

(A fluffy fic full of fluff where our boys get a much deserved break.)

(AO3)

There’s rain at the window, pitter-pattering against the glass in a way that makes Dirk think he’s back in England for a split second when he first wakes up. The cold air against his toes where they’re just peeking out under the covers is enough to let him know his original assumption was wrong though, when left alone Dirk never uses the covers, that’s someone else’s doing. Someone else who is missing, but has left a warm spot that Dirk immediately rolls into as soon as he notices, sighing in contentment.

His sigh is mirrored not long after, following the sound of a door closing and bringing the smell of coffee and tea with it.

“You’re on my side of the bed,” it’s trying to be grumpy, rough with sleep but there’s no hiding the fondness to his tone. Dirk grins where he’s buried his face into the pillow and turns his head to blink his eyes open. Todd is the first thing he sees, hair ruffled and sleep soft with pillow creases still lining his face, and Dirk has never had a better start to the day.

“My side is warm too,” he offers, not making the slightest indication that he might move. Todd rolls his eyes and smacks his shoulder with the paper he’s holding out to him, but he relents a moment later when he crawls into bed alongside him. Dirk takes the paper, setting it aside without sparing a glance, choosing instead to watch Todd scrunch his nose up at his first sip of coffee. Dirk still can’t work out why he takes it black if he doesn’t like it that way, Todd insists he does and that it just takes a moment to get used to but Dirk watches every morning for that little scrunch of distaste that proves him right. Todd catches on quicker today, only a second after he’s done it and raises an eyebrow in the face of Dirk’s knowing smile.

“Don’t you dare,” he warns, the wrong thing to say when Dirk’s smile turns up to meet the mischief in his eyes.

“I haven’t got any idea what you’re talking about Todd,” he states primly, pulling himself up so he can drink his tea. He’d tried while lying down a fair few times before now and it had never worked out.

“Good,” the look Todd gives him is inherently suspicious nonetheless. “Keep it that way.”

“It’s just, you do know that sugar exists don’t you?” he says, peering innocently at him over the edge of his mug.

“Considering I’ve just poured half a bag into your ridiculous monstrosity of a drink, I think it’s fair to assume I do,” the look he gives Dirk’s drink tells him exactly what he thinks of that. Knowing that he did it anyway has him curling his toes into the blankets happily.

“You’re supposed to say something about how you’re sweet enough already,” it’s teasing more than anything and Todd snorts, shaking his head.

“When has anyone ever considered me sweet?” he challenges. Dirk, never one to back down from a challenge from Todd, takes it happily.

“Well there was that little old lady the other day who told me you looked sweet.”

“Yeah, because she didn’t speak to me.”

“She also told me my tie was exquisite, so she clearly knows what she’s talking about.” It had been a particularly good one he'll admit, and she'd called him charming. Dirk liked her.

“Your tie had tiny cat faces all over it,” he says, like this negates the point and having no idea how wrong he is.

“And she loved it, proving that she has perfect taste. Or at least that her taste matches mine, and my tastes happen to include you, ergo she was right.”

“You are so full of shit.”

Dirk takes another sip of his tea and gives Todd a pointed look. “I think you’re sweet.”

He gets eyebrows in return, scornful and disbelieving. “And we’ve just established that you’re full of shit, so I’m not sure that proves anything.”

“If I asked you to go to the bakery round the corner and get me a muffin you would go.”

“I’d tell you to go fuck yourself.”

“Well, yes. But you’d go anyway, within the hour usually.” Dirk delights in the way Todd visibly struggles to find a way to deny that, knowing they both know it's true.

“To shut you up!” it's a protest, but not one he finds particularly convincing so he just smiles and presses on.

“No, I’ve tested it. I only have to ask once. I’m working on the timings next, seeing if I can work out exactly how far in advance I have to ask you to get me something in order to have it by the time I need it. It’s very sweet.”

“I-” Todd fumbles for a moment, seemingly outraged by the accusation but Dirk knows better, particularly when he's close enough to see the way his cheeks are starting to flush. “That’s not sweet! It’s not on purpose. I always go there for coffee anyway.”

Dirk gives him a moment of silence to show exactly what he thinks of that before conceding, “no, you’re right Todd. You’re an utter bastard, what was I thinking?”

Todd stares disbelievingly, rolling his eyes and turning back to his coffee when it becomes clear he's not going to get any further by arguing his case into the ground. “Shut up. Read your paper,” he grumbles into his mug, it’s too early for this.

Dirk’s smile softens, shaking his head as he leans into his space, “I don’t need to. Not today,” there’s no call to go out looking, no tugging in his gut, and no white noise in his head. The universe is blissfully, perfectly silent for once and he closes his eyes to enjoy the quiet of it, resting his head on Todd’s shoulder.

“No cases today?” he’s clearly surprised and Dirk can’t blame him, even if cases tend to drop into his lap he usually goes looking for them anyway, trying to get there first and give himself a head start.

“No anything today,” he corrects, voice soft to match the stillness he can feel where the uncomfortable pushing and pulling usually is. For now it seems, the universe is happy that everything is perfectly in its place, and it sings along the core of his being like the stars have aligned inside of him. The absolute certainty that only usually comes with the quick moments of clarity when he solves a case, filled with an overwhelming sense of right.

It's a bit dizzying, actually.

“Isn’t it, I don’t know, bad? If the universe isn’t telling you anything?” trust Todd to try and make this into a negative, Dirk rolls his eyes even if he keeps them closed.

“The universe is telling me things, it’s just not telling me to go anywhere. In fact, I think it may get very angry if I even think about moving from this bed.”

Todd is quiet for a very long moment, takes a sip of his coffee before he asks “are you trying to bullshit me?” Dirk doesn’t even have chance to start telling him how utterly offended he is at that accusation. “I know you never want to get out of bed, but using the universe as an excuse is a new one.”

“Most people would probably find it romantic that the universe thinks we’re so perfectly suited that the only time it wants me to stay put is when I’m in bed with you,” he’s more haughty about it than he should be and it’s mostly down to the fact that he can’t believe he’d never thought of that excuse before.

“Perfectly suited?” there’s something odd about his voice that Dirk can’t quite put his finger on.

“Well, usually I only get feelings about something being wrong and needing to be put right. But right now, here, with you, it just feels… calm. Quiet. Kind of,” he wiggles his fingers in front of him, looking for the words, “like when you finish a jigsaw puzzle or you organise your socks and everything is just so. Right where it needs to be. That’s what it feels like. The whole universe in perfect balance.”

Dirk doesn’t talk a lot about what the universe feels like, Todd knows it’s because he finds it frustrating that nobody can ever seem to understand him no matter what words he uses. He’s never quite realised before the scale on which that feeling operates though, and he turns his head to look at the mess of hair resting on his shoulder.

“Is it like that all the time? Not good, obviously, but- is it really that much... stuff? The whole universe?” he sounds a mix of uncertain and awed even though the implication of it has him frowning.

“Well, yes.” Dirk fidgets his fingers, unsure if he’s suggesting it’s a bad thing or not. “Usually it’s just background noise and I can block it out except for the really insistent bits, but I can always hear it,” he shrugs, the movement a little stiff. “If I really try to focus on it I can feel it all… everywhere. I don’t do that a lot, if I do then... Sometimes I get sort of stuck? Like my body stops being mine and I don’t know how to get back. If things are particularly messed up or I’ve been ignoring something for too long it can get far too loud to ignore and that’s a whole other problem in itself,” he falls quiet for a moment but Todd doesn’t interrupt him, just waits him out. “It’s rather like having a constant headache which, I suppose, is why it’s nice that it’s...quiet.” There’s a note Dirk always gets to his voice when he’s said something important but doesn’t know how it’s going to be received, it’s something Todd kind of hates.

“Because it’s… perfect?” he asks into his coffee cup, mostly because perfect is not a concept to be thrown around lightly, and because using it makes him feel like a silly teenage girl with a crush.

“Perfect,” Dirk agrees, much more confident with it. “I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be,” he turns his smile on Todd, bright and sunny when their eyes meet and it’s quite possible that the ‘silly teenage girl with a crush’ feeling isn’t going anywhere soon.

“I guess I can live with that,” he sounds like he’s just finished running a marathon. God help him.

“Good. You’re going to have to, because I don’t have any intention of letting either of us go anywhere,” Todd graciously doesn’t point out that he could likely take Dirk in a fight if he really wanted out.

“Is that so?” he asks, watching with interest as Dirk takes his mug and sets it aside so he can climb into Todd’s lap, looping his arms around his neck.

“I’m sorry, did you have something more important to do?” his eyes are wide, head tilted into a picture of innocent curiosity, and Todd wishes he was wearing his tie so he could pull him in and kiss the look off of his stupid face. He can’t though, because he isn’t, so instead he lets his hands rest on Dirk’s sides, sliding them down to settle at his waist.

“I don’t know. The kitchen needs cleaning, you still haven’t done your paperwork so I’m going to have to do it at some point, we probably need to do some laundry,” he says it like he's seriously considering leaving the bed for any one of these reasons, but that doesn't keep the amusement out of his eyes.

“Oh I see,” he lowers his lashes, aiming for something more demure, “so paperwork is more important than paying attention to me?”

“I don’t know about that, but the guy I work with can be a bit of an asshole, and he never does his fair share so it kinda piles up and if I've got a day off…” Todd shrugs, and Dirk narrows his eyes.

“Well, in that case…” he leans in like he's going to kiss him, lips barely brushing before he's pulling back suddenly leaving Todd looking confused and a little betrayed. “I suppose I should let you get to it. Clearly this is very important to you, your boss sounds simply terrible.”

Todd raises an eyebrow and tightens his grip on Dirk’s hips as if to prevent him from going anywhere. “I don't remember saying he was my boss,” he looks stupidly pleased with himself and Dirk hates it.

“It's fairly obvious that he is though.”

Todd looks sceptical, tilting his head when he says, “Is it?”

Dirk doesn’t even give it a seconds thought. “Absolutely.”

“I don't think so.” Todd is trying not to smirk, he can see it in the curl of his mouth and if they weren’t in the middle of something very important Dirk would kiss it away.

“Well,” the look on Todd’s face is distracting, and it takes him a moment to find his argument. “If he's making you do paperwork and has the power to give you the day off then it stands to reason that he's your boss.”

“I think you're drawing ridiculous conclusions based off of limited evidence. Not great, for a detective,” Dirk’s eyes narrow, and he uses his extra height and position in Todd's lap to lean into his space and crowd him against the wall so he has to tilt his head back a little to see him properly. It’s a petty move, but it makes him feel better.

“I think you're just upset that you've ended up in a situation where you've found the one authority you don't want to rebel against. It's not in your nature.”

Todd’s eyebrows shoot up at that. “You think you're an authority?”

“Yes, Todd. I am the one in charge,” the disbelief in Todd’s voice makes him a little more snippy than he usually would be.

“Oh, no, okay, I get it,” his voice turns to the one he uses when he’s trying to explain what he thinks is a simple concept to a person who isn’t getting it at all. He doesn’t appreciate it. “You're confusing being the boss with being bossy,” Dirk pulls back looking scandalised.

“I am not-” he doesn't finish his sentence, huffing instead in the face of Todd's raised eyebrows, daring him to finish that sentence. “It's called knowing what you want,” he says, haughty and turning his nose up. Todd has to fight to keep the smile off his face, inching his thumbs up under Dirk’s worn out t-shirt and rubbing them against his skin.

“What do you want then?” Todd's voice is just a fraction lower but it's enough to pull Dirk’s interest, looking at him from the corner of his eye before foregoing a verbal answer in favour of cupping his jaw and pulling him into a kiss.

There's nothing of the softness of the morning in it, instead it's hot and wet and not far off being downright filthy in a way that has Todd letting out a surprised sound and digging his fingers in where he's still holding onto Dirk. It doesn't take him long to catch up though, using his grip to pull him in closer, curling his tongue in the particular way that will make Dirk inhale sharply against his mouth. If Dirk is going to play dirty Todd is more than willing to give as good as he gets.

It doesn’t stay that way though, settling into something softer, deeper, the kind of kiss that shudders through him and pools a happy kind of warmth into his stomach. The kind that makes him want to keep on doing this forever and ever and ever and never have to let go. It speaks to something deeper than desperation, something far more important than a simple press of bodies. It’s the kind of kiss you can only give if you really, really mean it, with far too much behind it to ever be considered casual.

Todd’s breath catches on an inhale when Dirk pulls away, blinking his eyes open blurrily like he’s seeing the morning for the first time all over again. He’s being watched right back, just as quiet, just as full of that something as Todd is. It’s ridiculous, really, the way his heart flutters in his chest when a smile creeps its way onto Dirk’s face, how he feels like he suddenly doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Dirk reaches up to cup his jaw and Todd feels the way it makes a blush spread over his cheeks. It’s worth it, for the way the sight makes Dirk duck his head to hide his smile.

God. He’s screwed.

“I think,” Dirk says after a moment, keeping his voice quiet. “What I’d really like to do is just…” he looks up through his lashes, and the shyness is genuine this time, “stay here with you.”

Todd’s stupid traitor heart skips a beat.

“C’mere,” his throat is far too dry to manage anything else, but he doesn’t need more. Dirk sighs happily, cuddling into him and resting his head on his shoulder. Todd wraps his arms around him enough to keep him close even though he knows he isn’t going anywhere.

“Do you believe in fate?” Dirk asks after a long moment, whisper soft where it’s pressed into his skin.

“I…” it’s a question he would have scoffed at before now, something he wouldn’t even have considered. Like this it’s far harder to dismiss the concept. Dirk saves him from having to answer.

“I’m connected to everything, you know? Well. Everything is connected to everything, and there’s a lot of everything, but…” he trails off, and for a minute Todd thinks he isn’t going to pick back up.

“I think… Or, it would be nice to think, with everything… that we were always tied together. That all of these connections, all of these things that I spent years trying to make add up just had to be that way, because if they weren’t… I never would have ended up here. With you. It… if that’s the case, if we’ve always been connected, always heading here then…” Todd finds himself holding his breath, heart racing in his chest while he waits for whatever it is that Dirk wants to say. “It makes it bearable. All of… that. Leading here makes it worth it.”

Todd can’t do anything for a moment except tighten his hold, turning his head so he can press his nose in against Dirk’s hair, eyes squeezed shut because he thinks he might cry, or maybe he already is. There are too many emotions welling up in him to name them all right now, too many things he can’t explain, things he’s never felt before and never wants to let go of, never wants to lose.

He never wants to lose Dirk.

“I don’t know if I believe in fate,” he tells him softly. “Or destiny, or anything like that but…” he’s going to have to force the words out, because he wants to say them, he’s just never been good at this. Feelings, talking about feelings, about anything that could get thrown back in his face is terrifying to him. Somehow with Dirk it feels less scary. “I believe… I believe in you. And I believe in this, in us.” He swallows, forces himself to keep going. “And I can’t tell you if it was worth it or not, because that’s your thing and you have to decide that, but if doing everything I did the way I did it is what got me here then… Even if parts are shitty, and there are so many things I’d want to change… I’d do it all again. Exactly the same.”

Dirk is silent, and it does nothing to ease Todd’s nerves. His hands feel clammy, throat closing up so even if he could think of anything more to say he couldn’t get it out. Like he’s waiting for something he’s said to be wrong. When Dirk speaks up it knocks all of the air out of him.

“Loving you is the easiest thing I’ve ever done.”

He says it so simply, like he doesn't have any idea how much he's just shaken Todd to his core. Like he doesn't know how quickly the guilt swells in his stomach, because that's not right at all.

“I'm not-” he reaches for the right words but he can't find them, struggling through the conflicting overwhelming feelings he's having right now. “Dirk. That's not- I'm not-”

“I know,” he cuts him off, smoothing his hand over Todd's shoulder, squeezing his hand at the back of his neck. “I'm not saying that you're an easy person to love, neither of us are, nobody is,” and he wants to argue that of course he is, that Dirk is obviously easy to love, but then he thinks about all the ways in which Dirk can be irritating, the ways he'll throw himself into something without thinking of the consequences, of all the times he seems like he's never going to just stay put for a second. Todd wouldn't change any of it, not the things that make him himself, but that doesn't mean it's always easy to deal with.

“I'm just saying that… I never have to think about it. I never have to question it, and you… you never make me wonder either. I don't have to… I love hearing you say it, but even if you never did I'd still know you love me and that's-” his sigh is soft, a little shaky but not enough to mean he's upset. Todd knows. “It's amazing, and it's easy. I'm always telling people that it's easier just to let the universe put them where they need to be, but I've never felt it before. And maybe for a long time I thought that I never would, that there wasn't a place for me anywhere, but it turns out there is and it's here, with you, like this.” Somewhere along the way his voice had turned to little more than a whisper, shoulders loosening as he relaxed against him. “The universe is… it's so quiet, Todd. Everything is so perfect, so balanced right now it's like…” he shakes his head and it's a motion Todd is familiar with in the rare moments Dirk talks about this. “All of creation, perfectly in tune,” he can hear the smile in his voice, the one that says he knows what he sounds like but there's no better way to put it. “I wish you could feel it. Not all of it, not the rest of the time, but when it's good. Like this.”

Todd's hands haven't stopped stroking their way up and down Dirk’s back since he started talking. He's a warm weight pressed to his front, heavy where he's wrapped himself around him, face pressed against Todd's neck and hair tickling his cheek. The room around them is quiet, sun climbing higher in the sky and bathing the room in a golden glow, clothes strewn across the floor and empty mugs on the side table where their phones lay untouched, unanswered. They have nowhere else to be right now but here. Todd wraps his arms around him a little tighter, closing his eyes to breathe him in.

“I can feel it,” he tells him, whispered into the space between them. He's not... Holistic, he doesn't have any of the connections that Dirk has, but he knows for a fact there's no other way to describe the way he feels right now. The way this feels. It's okay to put his feelings out there, he thinks, especially when there's only Dirk around to hear it. “Of course I can feel it.”

Dirk presses in a little closer, smiling happily to himself. “So, what is it telling you?” he asks, playful.

“What, the universe?” knowing that Dirk knows full well it doesn't tell him anything, he likes to humour him sometimes though.

Dirk hums in confirmation and Todd sighs, moving to run his fingers through his hair.

“That you're a dork,” he smiles, teasing for a moment before swallowing, feeling suddenly nervous. “That… there isn't anywhere else I need to be right now than with you.”

There’s a silence that makes Todd’s heart race, the way it always does when he says something he’s not that comfortable admitting to. It’s worth it when Dirk laces their fingers together, pressing a kiss to the back of Todd's hand.

“Good thing I'm not going anywhere then,” the tension in his chest unwinds and he wonders why he ever worried in the first place.

“You’d better not be,” he’s committed to this now, once they’d decided to waste the day together there was never any chance he’d be convinced to do anything else.

“Don’t worry,” Dirk pulls back just enough to smile at him, a smile Todd knows nobody else gets to see. “I’m exactly where I need to be.”

[peaky-yamyam]

Outside Talent - Part Three

(image credit)

Part One | Part Two | Part Three

@readsalot73 I know this has taken an absolute age for me to get out and I’m not sure it’s entirely what you’ll have been expecting, but I hope you enjoy it regardless.

ALFIE

For weeks Alfie has been unable to think of anything else but the woman he’s hired to dispatch the man who’s been causing him so much trouble. Many a time his hand has hovered over the phone ready to speak to Thomas and express his distaste at the choice of hitman he sent from Birmingham, but every time a little voice tells him to stop, to give Cora a chance, that if Thomas trusts her so should he. Alfie tries to convince himself that that’s what his uneasy feeling is; distrust in her and her abilities, and not - as another little voice keeps telling him - that he’s concerned for her safety. A conscience has never troubled him before and Alfie will be damned if it starts now.

Although, after some debate he decides that, purely in regards to building some trust, he’ll follow her to where he knows his target will be.

CORA

It only takes a few days for me to pin down this target for Alfie, an up and coming gangster who thinks he deserves to rule over Camden named Harry Kravitz. He doesn’t seem too difficult, he’s big no doubt about that, huge in fact. In my few days of following him I’ve seen him win two bar fights, in both of which he managed to haul the other blokes above his head to launch them over the bar. But size has never been something to stand in the way of an assassination. He also never seems to have too many people around him which sets my back up. It’s easy. Too easy and it makes me wonder why Alfie hasn’t taken it out himself. I’ve split my time between following the target and Alfie, so I know he’s not one to shy away from getting his hands dirty; in fact he seems to relish in it. For all my stalking and investigating though, I can’t seem to put my finger on why Alfie wouldn’t take this guy out himself, and that sets me on edge.

I take my time, following Kravitz around, learning his routine, his acquaintances, his businesses, all while blending seamless into the background. For safe measure, I make sure I’m disguised each time, but my effort seems unnecessary and I’m confident Kravitz has never glanced in my direction more than once. But nothing arrises to clue me in on to why Alfie wouldn’t just dispatch this man himself.

Disturbed by the possible implications, I do something I haven’t done in a long time: read a paper. In fact I read dozens. I read books and articles and any other scrap of paper I can get my hands on that might help me understand Kravitz better. I bribe my way to a copy of his birth certificate and with it discover that Mr Kravitz was originally from Russia and fled to England with an aunt and his cousins: the Solomons’.

Like a bullet the realisation hits me hard and I curse myself for making no connection before. Alfie can’t kill Kravitz himself because he’s family.

ALFIE

The lass is taking her time and Alfie is nervous. Less that she won’t do it and more that Harry will get to him first and, cursed with some kind of familial bond he’ll be unable to defend himself and Harry will take Camden. Probably the whole of London before he gets too cocky and loses it all to the gypsies. Following Cora has done nothing to ease his nervousness, her undercover work, although impressive, doesn’t seem to be leading her to competing the hit and Alfie is tired of waiting. Phone in hand he opens his mouth to ask to be put through to Thomas when the very woman that’s been plaguing him, walks through the door.

“He’s your cousin?!” she barks, throwing her palms down into the desk in a way that, we’re he not twisted in some net of frustration and fear, would no doubt have excited him.

She looks like a picture, perfectly manicured and dressed, dark lips stained darker with lipstick and hair styled perfectly beneath her hat.

“He is indeed. And that, well that is some detective work that I’m not paying for,” Alfie says, leaning back in his chair and hoping he gives of a sense of calm and omnipotence. Like she hasn’t just twisted his gut with her words.

“You’ll pay me for whatever it takes to finish the job and that includes knowing who he is. Why didn’t you tell me?”

Alfie pouts out his bottom lip and holds his hands to the side, even in front of the beautiful woman he can’t drop his persona, so engrained into him now that he doubts it’s even a separate entity anymore. “Didn’t ask did you?”

“I asked who he fucking was! That would have been the time to say. ‘Hey Cora, Harry Kravitz is his name, thinks he’s a gangster and he wants my territory. Oh also, he’s me cousin.’ How difficult was that?” she fumes, her voice taking on what he assumes is meant to be an imitation of his own accent as she speaks.

“What’s eating you up so much about it love? That I’d bump off one of my own?”

She shakes her head and smiles, her anger dissolving as she pulls out the chair in front of him. Her actions are all deliberate, he’s noticed that as he watched her before, each turn of her wrist and flick of her hair seemed to be timed perfectly to entrance those around her and Alfie was ashamed to say he was falling for it all, caught on her hook after only a few minutes of face to face interaction.

“Doesn’t bother me at all. Wasted a lot of my time while I tried to figure out what was so dangerous about him that you couldn’t take him out yourself. But other than that, I have no problem that you’re too soft to put a bullet into someone who’s trying to take everything you have, just because they’re family.”

Alfie doesn’t miss the teasing, and he’s sure that’s what it is; she harbours no negative feelings about him because of it, and of that he’s glad.

“And I’m sure you’ll charge me for that time…”

“I will most certainly be charging. In fact-“ she rummages in her pocket and slides a piece of paper across the desk to him. “There’s a breakdown of all my costs, you’ve already paid a deposit which I’ve taken off for you, total amount is at the bottom.”

For a second Alfie has a fleeting twinge of panic that she’s actually done, but it subsides when he remembers exactly what Harry had promised to do.

“So it's all done then? Your jobs finished, sorted, put to bed?”

She nods at him and finally pulls off her hat giving him a clear view of the face he’s been unable to get out of his mind. “You seem a little apprehensive,” she says.

“No. No, not a chance,” he lies. What’s done is done and now he doesn’t need to worry about the constant looking threat of usurpation. “In fact, I believe I promised you a night at a fancy restaurant once you’d done this job.”

Cora acts as if she’s forgotten about it, her mouth pursed as she pretends to have to search the furthest reaches of her mind for a reminder of his reward. “That does ring a bell actually. I’m free now,” she says.

Although not dressed in the attire he’d want to show himself in, Alfie can’t help but snap the offer up. No doubt any delay would mean him having to chase over Birmingham to be granted this opportunity again. He grabs the coat draped over the back of his chair and his hat from the rack  “Now it is then.”

[elfnerdherder]

The Unquiet Grave: Chapter 10

You can read Chapter 10 on Ao3 Here

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Chapter 10: What Tired Eyes do See

           “You’re Will Graham.”

           Will looked up, his gaze stopping just shy of meeting someone’s eyes. He paused mid-bite and held his sandwich, poised as a shield of sorts between him and the man in front of him.

           “Yes.”

           He was a stout, average-sized man clad in a suitcoat and aged dress shoes. His darker skin was pockmarked, wrinkled from time and hard work. FBI by the looks of him, although Will was certain that most people he met with these days were FBI. Graduating from the academy and going on to university did that, he supposed; he was an E-3, and everything he’d learned from psychiatrists to lecture halls to the Channel 5 news taught him that that was indeed a rare thing to be.

           “Can I sit down?”

           Will glanced to the blanket he had spread out underneath him, and he nodded an assent, swallowing a half-chewed bite of food with difficulty. He’d have to wash it later, but one thing he knew without really having to know was that you didn’t say ‘no’ to an FBI agent, especially if you wanted a job from them the way he did after graduation.

           “My name is Jack Crawford,” he said, although he didn’t extend a hand to shake. Will’s hands were gloved, but he appreciated that this Jack wasn’t going to risk something like that, all for the sake of common social expectations. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

           “Director of the EBAU?”

           “Yes.”

           Will nodded and set his sandwich down, brushing stray crumbs from his gloves. They were nice, just thin enough that he didn’t feel as though his hands were bulky, but not so thin that they threatened to come apart. They’d been a gift from one of his teachers.

           “It looks like you’ve got promise, based off of what your reports say,” Jack said lightly. “You’re interested in the EBAU?” 

           “I’ve been considering it, yes,” said Will, and he turned a chip over in his palm before he popped it into his mouth. “I’ve heard some good things and some bad things about empaths in the EBAU.” 

           “What have you heard?” Jack asked. 

           “They get burnt out pretty quickly with the constant work,” Will replied after a moment of thought. School taught him tact, the way to speak to someone while avoiding offense. Common sense taught him that he would be right to say his words with care when speaking to someone that could be his potential boss someday. “It’s grueling.” 

           “It’s grueling,” Jack Crawford agreed. “And there’s no guarantee of success. I’ve had people go into the FBI-EBAU training and ultimately fail. I’ve had them walked out, and I’ve had them carried out. It’s not an easy job.” 

           “Nope,” Will agreed. 

           “So my question for you, Will Graham, is why you’re interested in doing it? As an E-3, there are a lot of career opportunities that could be lined up for you without you having to risk your psyche.” 

           Will’s psyche was common enough talk. He’d grown used to it, over the years, the casual way people mentioned his state of mind. It was like the cancer patient sitting at the dinner table, everyone discussing their condition without any true consideration to the one actually enduring it. 

           He looked across the lawn, tracked a few people making their way to class. He wasn’t much in the way of friends at the Academy, much to the woes of his teachers. He couldn’t quite track their casual mannerisms, their behaviors and mode of speech. More often than not, he was off to the side of them, hearing but not entirely listening. They were disquieted by him as much as he was uncomfortable by them.

           “…I want to help people,” he said at last, and he picked up his sandwich to take another bite. He spoke around his food, gauging Jack’s reaction to the lack of general manners. “I thought about my career, and…I have these gifts. They’re troublesome at times, but they’re useful. I could be useful to you.” 

           “Do you think so?”

           “Yes.”

           “What makes you think that?” Jack asked. 

           He swallowed a mouthful and wiped his mouth. “I know your wife has cancer, and she’s dying. I know your air conditioner in the car must be broken, and I know that your cat can only rub up on your leg for so long before it’s a pain and you nudge them away.” 

           Jack looked like a sour mix between pleasant surprise and mild distaste at being read so bluntly. His lips puckered, twisted at the mention of his wife and he turned his head to survey the other empaths hurrying to and from class, Will part of them but just not quite part of them. 

           “…You got all that from a glance?” Jack asked once he could control his voice rather than sound annoyed.

           “No.” 

           “Then how’d you know?” he demanded. 

           “Teachers talk about your wife all of the time,” Will said, ticking off his fingers as he spoke. “Your dress shirt and jacket are wet and smell like Freon, and there’s cat hair on the bottom of your leg. Only about halfway around the cuff, so they started to rub up on you and you stopped them.” He shrugged carelessly, lowering his hands and avoiding Jack’s suspicious expression. 

           “…That’s observant of you,” Jack said slowly. 

           “If I can glean all that just from being observant and listening, just think what happens when I actually use my gifts,” Will said, and he took a mildly triumphant sip of soda. He was eighteen, and the world felt more or less at the tips of his fingers, despite being an empath. “You don’t just want me for the EBAU, Agent Jack Crawford. You need me.” 

          Will is just about to open his file when he gets a call.

           He should have opened it the night before, but the chilling thought of Dr. Lecter being part of the things happening around him was too much; he’d paced the confines of his house for most of the night before succumbing to a restless sleep. He drags his fingers around the corner edge of the file and answers his phone, mulling over an odd feeling in his gut, like he’s committing a grievous sin just by having these.

           He deserves the truth, though, doesn’t he? Even the parts of it that hurt?

           “Graham.”

           “Will, it’s Jack. I’m sending an address, and I need you here, stat.”

           “Is it Dolarhyde?” Will asks. He stands up from his dining room table and scoops the files into his bag, propping his phone up by his ear. The idea of Dolarhyde striking so soon (probably striking against Slowinski, wherever they were) makes his skin tingle, and he zips up his bag with jittery fingers.

           “It’s the stag-man, Will.” Jack sounds aged, old and weathered. “I told them you’re already up to your elbows in this, but he’s struck again and the Feeler can’t get a good grip on it. I said you could swing by.”

           Not Dolarhyde, but the copycat. The stag-man, Jack called him. Will mulls that over, pausing by his wallet and keys near the door. The dogs watch with rabid attention, and he pets Buster who was tenacious enough to climb onto the armchair for one last pet.

           This is the sort of thing you have the capacity to be.

           “Jack…”

           “I know you’re working hard on the case, but they need help. Can you do it?”

           It’s an innocent question, but it raises the hairs on the back of his neck. He supposes that it’s that damn tone once again that sets his teeth on edge. Can you do it, like he has enough on his plate without Jack giving him something else to worry over, something else to do. Can you do it, like empaths left and right can’t see his walls cracking, like sooner or later this is going to make him spill over the edges of his finely crafted safe space until there’s nothing left of him but the memories and feelings of everyone else crammed inside.

           Can you do it? Jack asks him.

           “You need me, Jack, I’m there,” Will says, and he’s out the door, locking it behind himself. At this point and time, he can’t afford to say no. The tingle, the lingering sensation sits just against his skin, a reminder that he is being watched, even now. Even now, there is someone that lurks, taking notes and making observations that more than likely determine his future within the EBAU, whether he likes it or not.

           “Thanks, Will,” Jack says, pleased. “I’ll text the address.”

-

           It’s a house of mirrors that Will is led to, and he has to wade through curious onlookers nearby in order to reach the police line. People whisper, quick hisses like sharp needles, and he is careful with his sleeves as he brushes by them, avoiding their eyes. Large crowds, and he has to focus especially hard on his walls, how sturdy they are. Dreamers have imaginations that run the gauntlet, shift and become realities as well as their distortions. He glances to the side, spies a spilled slushie, and he can see the child that tripped as their mother hurried them along.

           He ducks beneath the police line, the corner of it dragging across his ear –the officer that put it up was impatient, harried. Death was common, but not this sort. Not in this town, not in his repertoire.

           He spies Dr. Lecter standing near Alana, but he doesn’t acknowledge them. There’s an odd twist in his gut, their dipped heads and quick mouths turned from the breeze that sluices through the various carnival stands to nip at exposed skin. His nose is cold already, and he rubs it, continuing his path towards the walkway where Jack waits.

           He can’t trust Alana –she’s employed by the EBAU. He can’t trust Hannibal?

           The Caverns of the Grave I’ve seen, and these I show’d to England’s Queen. But now the Caves of Hell I view, Who shall I dare to show them to?

           Me, Agent Graham; you show them to me.

           It’s a bitter thought that his words shared within the confines of their space could become twisted, used against him. Even when he sees Hannibal Lecter turn towards him out of the corner of his eye, he doesn’t pause to acknowledge him. Lecter potentially sharing his uncomfortable sexual encounters with Jack is fine. Hannibal sharing any bouts of instability, however…

           “How are you, Will?” Jack asks.

           “Cold,” he says, and he follows him along the steps to the house of mirrors.

           Overhead, in cheerfully oblong letters, the neon lights glow and flicker in welcome. Will ducks his head underneath and blinks into the shaded gloom that smells of the sweat of children, the stale smell of vomit, and bleach cleaner. It’s warmer, though, more contained.

           The mirrors bounce his reflection about, first short and fat, then skinny and oblong. Each turn and curve of his person is reflected through the mirrors on every which side with reckless and random shapes, and it’s with a slow, unsteady gait that he navigates behind Jack towards where the body is. At one particular corner, when he opens his mouth to ask Jack the particulars, his mouth gapes and his teeth look far too large. Predatory. He closes his mouth and counts the many angles and distortions of his person with every passing mirror.

           “Victim is Randall Tier, male, twenty-two years old,” Jack says, pausing at a corner. He turns back to Will and frowns, the deep lines of his face grooved and unpleasant. “It’s messy.”

           So was the Hobbs house. Will nods seriously, steels himself, then steps into the other room with his walls firmly intact.

           It’s messy.

           He has to stare for a long, long time before he can quite talk himself into lowering his walls. The Dreams are already unfolding, though, taking him to a space in which he can’t quite grasp onto any of his footholds, and when he takes a breath he can almost feel his pupils expanding as he falls into the eyes of the person long dead, even as his hands that are suddenly ungloved comes down to rest at his shoulders.

           You who hide, you who lurks beneath this mask, this façade where all is well and good, where your innermost thoughts are tamped down through chemicals and strict schedule; just where do you place your dreams?

           Eye to eye we look, yet yours are glazed, distanced. There is nothing more to you than the fact that your heart beats, your lungs expand and contract. You exist, but to what end? To what end can you live when the only thing that you can say with utmost assurity is that you are alive?

           Each swift, smooth cut of the scalpel is magic. Each layer that curls and peels down, sinew clinging to the space where muscle and skin would connect creates a sheen until it splits and allows the skin to lay flat, revealing the truth beneath.

           Revealing the monster beneath.

           He stops at the neck, having peeled away the skin that shows the man, revealing the muscle and bone in grotesque manner that reflects by the thousands within the mirrors abound. Mirrors, mirrors that reflect, distort, change reality until there is nothing there of the truth any longer. With calm hands they work, a steady breath. Their heartbeat keeps even time, as this is not the first time they have killed, nor is it the last.

           I who Dreamed you this world in which you could be who you were meant to be; you who trusted me to show you just how wonderful this life could become. I harbor no ill will at your choice to let them sedate you, allowing them to Change you.

           You are now no more than a tool, though, a tool to help another change and grow:

           Can you see, Agent Graham? Do you not understand what they’re trying to force you to be?

           Will throws his barriers up at the question, the ringing clarity that reflects and refracts around his walls. Can you see? Can you see?

           Can you see?

           “He’s an empath,” Will says, and his voice trembles. He looks around for Jack, but it is with startling realization that he’s alone in the room, alone and ultimately vulnerable as he sees himself the way the rest of the world probably does: oblong, obscure, rendered in shadows and ultimately disarming. His knees are in the puddle of blood that’d collected around the body, and he stands up with a start, ungloved hands flexing and curling to fists. When had he ungloved them? When had he moved so close?

           Can you see?

           “Jack?” he calls out, and he skirts the victim whose skin peeled back from their face rests just at knee-height, slumped into a fashion of kneeling. Randall’s hands reach for his neck, grasping, as though he could tear away the fabric that he constructed around himself, all for the sake of keeping everyone around him happy.

           Can you see?

           He winds through the halls, but there is no Jack. There is only his face, his gaunt and horrifyingly twisted face staring back at him, and he’s just beginning to lose his breath when he is grabbed from behind and is wrenched around sharply.

           “I-”

           “Agent Graham,” Hannibal says lightly, calmly. His grip is not hard, although it is firm. He passes a hand along Will’s shoulder, then stops and releases him, lips twitching into a frown. “Are you alright?”

           “…Yes,” Will says slowly, and he takes a step back. Just over Dr. Lecter’s shoulder, his eyes are the size of pinpricks, although his forehead juts out comically. “Where’s Jack?”

           “He received a call and stepped outside,” he replies. “I thought to come in and see if you’re alright.”

           “I’m fine,” he lies, and he curls his bottom lip into his mouth.

           Lecter cants his head just-so, although whatever thought crosses his mind doesn’t show through his eyes. It’s the first time Will finds himself frustrated at the fact, truly and honestly bothered by it because if he could just see then he’d know whether or not it was safe to tell Hannibal Lecter what was going on.

           Can you see?

           “…The…the killer here is an empath,” Will says because he can tell that Dr. Lecter is waiting for him to say something, anything other than ‘I’m fine.’ “He…he knew his victim. He dreamed him walls, barriers, potentials for what he could be, but…when the victim didn’t take the offer, he instead killed him.”

           “You felt his empathic abilities?”

           “I heard him,” Will whispers. His hands flex, curl, then stretch as he swings his arms. Over Lecter’s shoulder, his face twists and bows in. “He’s…he’s taunting me.”

           “Taunting you?”

           “He’s-”

           Will stops himself right there, though, pausing on the expression in Lecter’s eyes. In truth, it’s a micro-expression –if he hadn’t been staring so intently, he’d have missed it.

           Excitement. Curiosity.

           “He’s?” Lecter prompts gently.

           Can you see?

           “…It feels like a taunt, at least,” Will says instead, and he looks away from Lecter. How far can he backtrack before Lecter is certain of his instability? Has he already said too much, given too much? Were his words poised to become weapons against him, and he only just barely caught Lecter’s excitement in finally having the excuse to tell jack to pull the plug? He pats aimlessly over his pockets, trying to find his gloves, and he gives a start when Lecter reaches for him in the gloom of the mirrors and grabs his hand, stilling it. His own hands are gloved from the chill outside; perhaps that is the only reason he was comfortable in reaching.

           “Agent Graham, you don’t have to censor yourself,” he says lightly. “I’m here to be a grounding rod for you in cases such as this.”

           Will very carefully pulls his hand from Lecter’s grasp, nodding mutely.

           “I should find Jack,” he says, and he shifts, turning about to hunt for the exit.

           Out of the corner of his eye, Will sees Lecter prepared for a mild fight; after a tense breath, though, the expression fades to a congenial, calm expression, and he nods.

           “To Agent Crawford, then,” he says, and he leads Will out of the house of mirrors.

           Outside, Jack is still on the phone, although he nods in understanding when he sees Will. Will wonders if the blood on the knees of his slacks will stand out in the fall afternoon, or if he wore a dark enough shade to hide it.

           “…Is something the matter, Will?” Dr. Lecter asks. His back is to Jack, and Will can practically feel the unspoken attempt at meeting his eyes. He can’t look at him, though; he thinks of the articles that he’s read so many times the words are imprinted on his eyelids, and he grits his teeth. He wants to trust Lecter. He needs to trust Lecter.

           “You’re my psychiatrist, aren’t you, Dr. Lecter?”

           “Yes. Was that not clear before?”

           “You’re employed by the FBI, though.”

           “They did hire me, yes.” He shifts, crowding into Will’s personal space. “You’re shutting me out. Has something happened?”

           Had something happened? Will watches the forensics team heading into the room of mirrors, the annotator nearby, watching him with an expression of distaste, seeing as how he’d managed to slip in there without her. The cold air stings his cheeks, and he shrugs, non-committed.

           “I think I’m just tired, Dr. Lecter.”

           “You have been withdrawn since returning from Louisiana.”

           “Maybe it was the invasive questions about my sex life,” Will returns hotly. “Who knows?”

           Rather than match his snark with aggression, Lecter has the grace to look away from him. He tracks Jack’s pacing, much like Will does, tucking his hands into his pockets.

           “I would apologize, but you know that I’m not sorry,” he says lightly. “However, if I ask any question from you that you find to be invasive, please tell me in the future. I am here to be of help to you, not a hindrance.”

           “…I don’t care about you knowing about my sex life,” he says heavily. “What would you do with that sort of information?”

           “Wonder at your lack of any emotional ties that extend from the FBI. You have no outlet for your troubles, no emotional support in times of need.”

           He isn’t wrong, although it sting. It was something much like what Abigail said, sitting side-by-side in a hospital garden.

           You’re so…alone.

           “If you had access to the truth, Dr. Lecter, would you want to know?” Will asks. “No matter how ugly, how damning it was, wouldn’t you want it?”

           “Yes,” he replies without hesitation, and he rocks back onto his heels. Just a short distance away, Jack is hanging up the phone. “Ignorance is bliss, but anyone can make a paradise from their reality if they’re tenacious enough to take it.”

           Jack walks over before Will has a chance to reply, and he shifts, putting some distance between them. His fingers rub together, confined in their gloves, and he tucks his hands behind his back so that he can better remove them without notice.

           “He’s an empath, Jack,” Will says, and Jack pauses, mouth open and slack with the words he was about to say. His mouth snaps shut, and he shifts, looking between Hannibal and Will. He suddenly looks much older.

           “An empath.”

           “Sounds like a Dreamer, and one powerful enough to weaponize it,” Will explains. “He knew him personally.”

           “I got some records pulled from this guy by Zeller back at HQ.”

           “I thought that he was working on Dolarhyde?”

           “They need their best on this, Will,” Jack says wearily. “If he’s a Dreamer, it’s no wonder our Feelers can’t get anything from him.”

           “Can empaths use their gifts as weapons like this?” Hannibal asks.

           Will and Jack exchange a look before Will glances over and nods slowly, once.

           “It’s not…common,” he says. “It’s actually illegal.”

           So is hiding an empath right underneath the nose of the FBI. So is stealing confidential files from your boss.

           “Would it be an agent, then?”

           Will gives Jack a look, and they shift about uncomfortably. Awkwardly. “Another RA?” Will asks quietly. “I didn’t get that impression. This was calculated, not…a fractured mind.”

           “I’ll get a hold of Director Purnell,” Jack says reluctantly. “You’re sure it’s not Dolarhyde?”

           “Dolarhyde felt as though he was…slipping downhill. This person is in complete control of everything they do.” Even as they taunted you with it.

           Can you see, Agent Graham? Do you not understand what they’re trying to force you to be?

           “We may have to do a full empath examination,” Jack says, and god he just sounds so tired. “Time that with Dolarhyde, we just don’t-”

           “I’ll find him, Jack,” Will promises, and he sounds so sincere that even Will almost believes the words as he says them. As he passes by Jack, he allows his hand to glide along his back, pausing to pat his shoulder ever-so-slightly. “Don’t worry. I’ll find Dolarhyde. Then we’ll find this guy.”

           He waits until he’s far enough away that Jack won’t notice him sliding his gloves on, palms tingling with the secrets that he was able to steal.

-

           That night, the files sit on his table, tempting him. He paces before the only mirror in the house –the one in his bathroom–before he stops in front of it and grabs onto the counter, staring at himself.

           Staring into his eyes.

           He doesn’t fall into them the way that he does with everyone else. According to Abigail, though, that is something that he needs to learn to do, to crawl within the spaces of his own mind so that he can see what other empaths could see.

           He stares at his eyes for a long time. The awkward seconds roll to minutes. Minutes become an hour. Then two.

           After two and a half, he gives up and sits down on the toilet seat, head in his hands. Apparently, the only person that can’t see into his mind, is him.

           Then again, he could very well be distracted by what he gleaned off of Jack when he brushed against him earlier:

           Keep watching Graham –if he continues to go and see Abigail Hobbs, let me know.

           We’re going to try and track down Slowinski, maybe beat Dolarhyde to him. He’s getting revenge, you know. We’ve pissed off an E-2 that knows how to weaponize his gifts.

           No, Graham never learned to weaponize his talents. I’d know it if he had.

           If he learns how, I’ll find out. We’ll retire him.

I’m not concerned, though. Will Graham needs us as much as we need him.

           He thinks of whoever it is that’s now killed two people, two people that Will didn’t know, but now knows in a fundamentally wrong way. They are trying to tell him something, show him something –just who are they that know his troubles and rather than run and tell the FBI, they instead want to help him? Just who are they that see the way blood drips through the crevices of his mind and can somehow see the beauty of it rather than the obscenity?

           Can you see?

A special thanks to my patrons, @hanfangrahamk @matildaparacosm @starlit-catastrophe @sylarana Duhaunt6 and Superlurk! You’re the best!!

[bellabooks]

Fanfiction to Published Novelist Finalist #1: “The Rocky Road to Dublin” by BatWingsandBlackCats

The Rocky Road to Dublin by BatWingsandBlackCats Work: Carmilla Pairing: Carmilla and Laura   1891, London, England Laura was greeted at the ring with laughter. It didn’t faze her. That’s how she was greeted whenever she fought somewhere new. The venue didn’t look any different than any other she’d been in. Just another dank, dingy, disgusting pub basement with a fenced ring in the middle and stands situated around the large room, a balcony of sorts up above for more spectators. The room was hot and smelled like stale beer and sweat and pipe tobacco, packed with people. When Laura had walked in, the greasy man at the door with the missing front teeth regarded her with a raised eyebrow, taking in her shabby appearance, which, honestly, wasn’t so out of place at a venue like this. Street rats came to the fights as often as those dressed in fine tweeds and lace, gambling their meager savings in hopes of making it big. In her worn black slacks, boots, and button down white (more like a light brown at this point) shirt with the hole in the right shoulder and a couple buttons missing, she would blend in, if it weren’t for her size. When she said she was there to fight, he’d laughed a great, wheezing laugh that gave away years of a pipe habit, and when he finally calmed down, he gave her a wicked look, chuckled once more and handed her a slip of paper with her opponent’s name, and wished her one of the most insincere good lucks she’d ever heard. She’d glanced around the room as she made her way to the edge of the ring, looking for a familiar face. She didn’t find it, but she didn’t worry. Laura knew she’d be there eventually. It wasn’t long before a loud hammer-like sound rang around the room, commanding the attention of spectators and fighters alike. Laura pulled off her loose shirt, revealing a men’s tank top underneath, and several people around her gave her distasteful looks, but she shrugged it off. “First round!” roared the same man from the door. Laura looked down at the slip of paper in her hand. She was to be in the first round. So that’s where that landed Laura. Greeted by hysterical laughter as she stepped into the ring, dressed in men’s clothes, a foot shorter than her opponent. Laura smirked. Across from Laura, a brutish man entered the ring. He was broad but a little short, his face screwed up in a scowl. He walked a bit like a troll, heavily muscled and top heavy, Laura noted. A flicker of confusion crossed his face as he took her in, and he began to laugh. “I can’t fight a girl!” he roared, his gut shaking with the force of his laugh. “Go home lass, you have no place here!” The crowd’s laughter only grew louder at his taunt. Laura rolled her eyes. Men. “I’m not going anywhere,” she said simply, her voice ringing out across the room. “either fight me or forfeit!” The man smirked and rolled his shoulders. “As you wish, sweetheart,” he grinned, and then charged at her. Laura smirked. Men like him always went barreling into a fight like a bull. She easily side-stepped him and spun around, aiming a heel kick to his lower back, sending him sprawling face first into the fence. The crowd was silent for a moment before bursting into raucous laughter. Laura laughed with them. “Come on! Get up!” she cried. The man got to his feet, rage etched into his face. Laura felt a swell of confidence rise up in her. That had been the plan. Get him angry, because when they get angry, they get sloppy. It was a little dirty, but she had to make up for her size somehow. “You’re gonna be sorry you ever stepped foot in here, bitch,” he spat, and swung at her face. Laura grunted as she blocked him with her right arm and aimed a punch at his lower ribs, figuring it was a safe bet that he’d probably have a floating rib or two if the smell of alcohol on his breath was anything to go by. She quickly blocked another jab to her gut and kneed him in the groin. That’s when Laura heard her. “Bets!! I’ll take your bets on Laura Hollis!! Care to bet on the underdog?!” The crowd parted, spectators shifting around the woman who walked towards the ring, taking slips of paper bearing bets as she went. Laura smiled as she saw her, dressed in red and black and looking every bit a vision. She knew Carmilla would make it. If she wasn’t already beet red and starting to sweat from the fight and the sheer heat of the place, she would have blushed when Carmilla winked at her. Suddenly, a fist like a boulder slammed into Laura’s left cheek, sending her sprawling into the dirt. It was a moment before the sound of the crowd came rushing back to Laura as she found herself on the dirt floor, her head ringing and the world spinning. She shook her head, trying to shake the spinning sensation, and got to her feet, raising her fists. “Not so cocky now are yeh, girl?” her opponent laughed. “Come and find out,” she grinned. He rushed at her again and ducked down, grabbing her around her hips and hoisting her up, slamming her into the side of the fence. She gasped as the wood slammed into her lower back, but didn’t let it slow her down. She aimed a couple hard hits to the side of his head with her elbow and brought both fists down hard on his right shoulder, the one he’d hit hardest on his collision earlier with the fence. His grip loosened enough for her to wriggle out of his arms, and she ducked down and zipped out from between his legs to cheers from the crowd. Laura smiled. They were warming up to her. She could still hear Carmilla calling for bets in the background, but she was determined to not get distracted this time. Her cheek was still throbbing and was starting to feel a little tight, and she really didn’t want another hit to the face. And Will would tease her if she got a fat lip. Her opponent spun around and threw a punch at her which she deflected with several slaps up his arm, and slammed her fist into his cheek, causing a very satisfying crack to sound from his jaw. While his eyes were still closed, she slapped both sides of his head over his ears, causing them to ring, disorienting him further, and snuck in another body shot. He stumbled back and she bowed to the crowd, earning a few more good-natured laughs this time. She quickly spun around to face him again, just in time to catch a jab to her side and then one to her back, the first causing her to stumble and expose her blind spot. It wasn’t the hit to her back that made her see red. It was the slap on her ass. Carmilla had taken nearly two dozen handsome bets by now, and stood by the ring, watching the fight. Laura was doing well. Very well. The crowd seemed to like her, and after a few punches started betting on her left and right. Her gut clenched with each hit Laura took, but it relaxed again with every hit she dealt or deflected. Laura was a very good fighter and won consistently, against men bigger than her current opponent sometimes, but she still worried. Her wince when Laura was hit the on her back turned into a growl, the papers in her hand crumpling when Laura’s opponent had the balls to slap her ass. Laura recovered quickly, her teeth gritted as she stared at the man across from her. He was laughing, obviously pleased with himself. In one fluid movement, Laura dragged her boot across the dirt floor and then kicked, flicking dust into his eyes. Taken off guard, he blindly jabbed at her, which she easily deflected, and then slapped him across the face. Her other hand swung out in a punch, hitting him hard in his already weakened jaw, her right fist flying towards his stomach. When his head snapped back from the impact of her punch, she thrust her arm forward again, the heel of her hand slamming into his nose with a satisfying crack. The final blow sent him sprawling on his back in the dirt, utterly dazed. Laura stood there for a moment, her chest heaving before she took the few steps forward and stood over him. He looked up at her blearily with blood streaming from his nose, his eyes squinted in pain. “Don’t call me sweetheart,” she said with gritted teeth, and then made her way out of the ring to cheers from the crowd. Carmilla met her at the entrance of the ring, gently taking her hand right away. “Sorry I was late, cupcake,” she said, and kissed Laura’s good cheek, causing Laura to blush, her mood lightening already. “I got turned around a few streets away,” “It’s okay, Carm, I knew you’d make it,” Laura smiled, and then winced. Smiling hurt a bit. Carmilla lightly ran her thumb over Laura’s swollen cheek, studying it for a moment before looking back to Laura. “It’s swelling,” she said, “I’ll go get our winnings and then we’ll go home.” Her concerned look turned into a proud grin. “You made almost five hundred pounds,” Laura’s eyes lit up, and she grinned despite the pain in her cheek. “What?” she gasped, “That’s rent for a year! And we made that, not just me.” Carmilla smiled, shaking her head a little. “I’ll be back in a moment, Liebling.” She tilted Laura’s chin up and kissed her gently, and then turned to go meet the man behind the bar who had their money. Laura took a seat by the door and watched Carmilla cross the room, grinning like an idiot. A lot of things made her happy, but few things made her happier than Carmilla and winning a fight. And when Carmilla was there when she won a fight. Across the room, Carmilla stepped up to the bar, where a young man in a grubby top hat stood behind the counter, polishing glasses. “Evening, miss,” he nodded politely. “What can I do for you?” “Would you be JP?” she asked, ignoring the leering gentleman beside her. “Indeed I am,” he said with a smile. “Well, in that case, I’m here to collect Laura Hollis’ winnings,” she said with a smirk, handing over the wad of papers in her hand. JP took them and counted them out, letting out a low whistle. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a newcomer draw so many bids,” he said, setting the papers down and reaching for the cash box under the counter. Carmilla’s smirk widened to almost that of a smile, her chest filling with pride. “She always does.” She took the bundle of notes from him when he was finished counting them out, and placed one on the bar. “I’ll take a bottle of champagne if you don’t mind,” she said as she tucked the rest into her corset, and then pointed to the shelf on the wall filled with tall green bottles. “Sure thing,” JP nodded and turned to get one down for her. “Hey gorgeous, fancy a drink?” the man to her right asked. The one who was leering at her. “I’m spoken for,” Carmilla drawled in a bored voice, not even looking at him. “Well, where is he?” the man chuckled. Carmilla looked at him this time. “She,” she said shortly. She raised an eyebrow, realizing that he was the man that Laura had fought in the ring. The corner of her lip turned up minutely as she realized, now that she was up close, what a number Laura had done on him. His nose was very clearly broken, though it had stopped bleeding, and both eyes were looking rather purplish. “She?” he chuckled. “Well, maybe she would fancy a drink too,” He said with a lecherous grin. Anger flared in Carmilla’s chest, but she just smiled sweetly. “I don’t think she would, considering she’s the one who broke your nose.” Carmilla chuckled, watching his expression darken. “But I suppose the least we could do is buy you a beer, considering you’ve practically paid our rent for the next year,” She said, lightly patting her corset just under her breast, where she’d put the money. “JP? I’d like to buy a beer for the gentleman here,” JP raised an eyebrow but nodded. “Of course,” he said, and placed a brown bottle in front of Carmilla. Carmilla took it and held it out for the man, but just as he was about to take it, she spun the bottle in her hand, gripped the neck, and brought it down on his hand that rested on the bar, shattering both the bottle and his hand with a crash and a splatter of beer. The man screamed and clutched his shattered hand, his face screwed up with pain. “You bitch!” he spat, his teeth bared. Carmilla grabbed his face hard, a snarl on her lips. “You lay a finger on her again, or on any woman, the next bottle will be smashed over your head,” she growled, and then shoved him off the bar stool. “Carm?” Laura gasped, getting up as Carmilla made her way towards her. “What happened?” “The slimy bastard thought he could have his way with me, and when I told him I was with you, he thought he could have both of us,” She said, her eyes flashing as she carefully laced her fingers with Laura’s. Laura’s stomach turned and she made a face. “I’m not surprised,” She grumbled and followed Carmilla out of the pub basement and into the night air. “Yes, well, he has a shattered hand now, I’m sure,” Carmilla said with a smirk. “he won’t be slapping anyone for a while.” Laura chuckled and pressed a kiss to Carmilla’s cheek. She noticed a flash of green in Carmilla’s hand and quirked an eyebrow. “What’s that?” Carmilla raised the bottle of champagne and smiled. “I thought we should celebrate,” She said, “that was a rather impressive victory, cupcake,” ——- When they arrived home, Laura made her way to the bathroom after giving Carmilla a kiss and assuring her that she was alright and that she’d be fine washing up on her own. Carmilla had begrudgingly agreed and gone off to their bedroom to change out of her dress while Laura cleaned herself up. Carmilla looked up from the candles she was lighting as Laura entered the room. “Hey,” she said, setting the matches down on her nightstand, next to two flutes filled with champagne, “come to bed, sweetheart.” Laura pushed off the door frame and climbed onto their bed with a few winces, which caused worry to grow in Carmilla’s eyes. “Come here, Liebling,” Carmilla said softly, reaching out and placing a hand on Laura’s hip. She scanned Laura’s body, looking for any alarming injuries, but found none. Laura turned around as Carmilla scooted back against the pillows, and settled into her front, sighing as her sore muscles relaxed. Carmilla gingerly wrapped her arms around Laura’s bare waist under her shirt, dropping a kiss or two on the warm skin of Laura’s shoulder with a contented sigh. “Well, you’re a bit banged up but it’s not nearly as bad as that time you insisted on going up against that nine-foot Scotsman,” Carmilla murmured between little nibbles on Laura’s neck. Laura huffed and rolled her eyes, pointedly ignoring Carmilla’s warm lips on her neck. “You’re never going to let that one go, are you?” She grumbled. A year earlier, Laura had been paired with a giant of a man from Scotland, who Carmilla had begged her to forfeit the fight to, but Laura hadn’t listened. She’d been stuck in bed for over a month with five broken ribs and a severe concussion, among other injuries. Carmilla let out a breathy chuckle and pressed her nose into Laura’s neck. Despite the joke, she couldn’t help the relief that settled in her chest once she knew that Laura really was okay. “Carm?” Laura asked quietly after a moment, turning her head a little to look at her out of the corner of her eye. “Hmm?” Carmilla hummed, opening her eyes again and looking up at her. Her thumbs stroked gentle circles into Laura’s stomach as Laura leaned back into her. “Are you okay?” Laura asked, her brows knitted together. “I’m alright, cupcake,” Carmilla sighed. “I just…” She let out a small, frustrated huff. She never was good with the feelings thing. “I’m glad you fight, because you love it, and I’d never get in the way of that, but…I can’t help but worry sometimes.” She rested her forehead against Laura’s shoulder to avoid looking her in the eye. Laura turned around with a wince and cradled Carmilla’s face between her bruised hands. “I know,” She said, and pressed a kiss to her lips. “if it makes you feel any better, though, I promise to never again accept a fight against an opponent that’s more than two feet taller than me,” She said with a cheeky smile. Carmilla rolled her eyes but smiled nonetheless. “Deal,” she murmured against Laura’s lips before pressing her own to them, harder this time. Laura pulled back after a moment to breathe, sighing contentedly. “I love you, you know that right?” she murmured, tucking Carmilla’s hair behind her ears. Carmilla looked at Laura, starry-eyed like she did the first time she saw her, three years ago. “I do,” she said quietly, smiling softly as she pulled Laura closer, nuzzling her cheek. “I love you too…more than anything, ever.”   You can vote for this entry, here. http://dlvr.it/PxvnHk