#and your hands are black and stained and people look to you for healing you can't provide

[rainybubbles]

I need a whole story with Ghost and arranged marriage.

(and hybrids, I love the AU of the fandom about hybrids 141)

Something slow burn, angst where the reader is confident, but with social anxiety, maybe a f!reader?

She's a sacrifice, about to be married to another duke. But here comes a duchy long forgotten, tucked away in the shadow of the mountains, ruled by a mysterious Duke no one had seen in years.

A Ghost.

His name was Simon Riley, a widower, burdened with loss and cloaked in rumors. They said his heart was as dead as his wife, that a curse had taken not only her but every bit of warmth that could ever live in him. And so, when the black carriage came for you, no one in your village dared to offer you comfort.

You were the sacrifice—the black sheep sent to marry the Duke, an arranged match born out of fear, not love. Your family had seen you as expendable, a lamb to slaughter to secure their own futures.

You were confident in your spirit but burdened with the knowledge that your body didn’t fit the delicate mold others expected. (no one had courted you)

You never thought yourself beautiful, never thought you could inspire anything but pity or rejection. But it didn’t matter, did it? You weren’t meant for love. You were meant to survive.

When you arrived at the Duke’s castle, the silence that greeted you felt heavy, as if the very stones were holding their breath.

Simon Riley stood before you, a towering figure wrapped in shadows, with eyes that seemed carved from stone—cold, distant, and full of secrets.

He did not look at you the way men often did; there was no curiosity, no warmth, no appraisal. Instead, he seemed to be waiting, as if bracing for some inevitable end.

He didn't marry you for love, but because of his curse. Simon was fated to die within a year, and he needed someone to care for his kingdom and use their connections to maintain peace with other realms.

His people were not human, at least not fully. The hybrids, part-beast, part-man, served him with loyalty forged from some unspoken bond. There was Soap, whose wolf-like nature caused him to prowl the castle grounds in restless energy. Gaz, whose wings glinted like silver in the moonlight, was ever watchful, guarding the castle’s gates. And Price, the fiercest of them all, his dragon wings scorched from endless battles, often returned to you for healing.

You became their caretaker, stitching their wounds, reading old texts on werewolves to understand Soap’s habits, and joking with Gaz’s children when they visited.

Slowly, you found your place in this strange, otherworldly family.

And yet, Simon remained distant, an enigma wrapped in silence and sorrow.

He never sought your company, never looked for you, never asked for more than the duty of your presence.

He was a Duke, cursed and broken, and you were his sacrifice, meant to ensure his survival, not his happiness.

Days turned into months, and the weight of your loneliness pressed into your chest like a slow, relentless ache. You gave and gave—your time, your care, your heart—until you had little left for yourself. And one night, it became too much.

The walls of your room, once a sanctuary, closed in on you, and you cried. The sobs came softly at first, but then they grew louder, filling the quiet darkness with your grief, your exhaustion, your sense of never being enough.

Simon heard you.

He came to you in the dead of night, silent as a shadow, and found you curled up in the corner, tears staining your cheeks. He knelt beside you, his hand trembling as he reached for you, as if he wasn’t sure how to touch something so fragile. When his fingers brushed your skin, it was like a shiver of warmth had broken through the icy armor he wore.

“It means nothing,” he whispered, his voice rough and deep. He was speaking to himself as much as to you. “Comforting you means nothing.”

But his hands told a different story. He cradled you gently, pulling you into his chest, and for the first time, you felt his heart beating against yours. He held you, whispering words you couldn’t fully understand, telling himself that this was just duty, that you were just another sacrifice for his throne. But you both knew the truth.

He had fallen.

Bit by bit, Simon let you in, let you see the man behind the Duke, the man who had lost so much. He had never hoped for love—not after losing his wife, not after the curse had taken everything from him. But there you were, taking care of his people, offering comfort without expecting anything in return. And in the quiet moments, when you would tend to Price’s wings or read to Soap, Simon would watch you, a strange ache building in his chest.

He had fallen, and it was too late.

But Simon’s curse was not the only one. Another hybrid, König, appeared at the castle one day, his presence unsettling. He was larger, more menacing than the others, and his eyes lingered on you in a way that made your skin crawl. There was something in his gaze, something dark and possessive, that told you he was not just another visitor.

And then, you were gone.

On the day Simon was to meet his death—a death foretold by the curse—you were not there. He searched for you, frantic, the coldness of his impending doom creeping up his spine. But you were nowhere to be found.

König had taken you, hoping to break the curse for himself, hoping to claim you as his own. But what König didn’t know, what no one knew, was that you had the power to break the curse—not just for Simon, but for another. You were the key, the sacrifice whose heart could unlock the chains binding these cursed men.

But Simon… Simon had already decided.

He would not let you sacrifice yourself again. He had watched you give and give until there was nothing left for yourself. He had heard your cries in the dead of night, felt the weight of your despair. And now, he was ready to curse himself—for you. He was ready to bind his heart to yours, to live an eternity of torment, meeting you again and again across lifetimes if that’s what it took. He would endure the curse, relive the pain, as long as it meant you would be free.

And as Simon drew his last breath, his heart shattered—not from the curse, but from love. His love for you, the woman who had given so much, the woman he had fallen for too late.

And in the distance, far from the castle, you felt it. The weight of his sacrifice. The bittersweet ache of love lost, of a heart cursed not by magic but by fate.

You wept, not for yourself, but for him—for the man who had loved you in silence, in shadows, and in sacrifice. And as the winds whispered through the mountains, carrying his name on the air, you knew he was gone.

But Simon… Simon would return.

Again and again, across lifetimes. Searching for you. Loving you.

Even if it was too late.

Centuries later, he stood frozen, eyes locked on the new translator stepping onto the base. Your smile was polite, a stranger's greeting, but his heart ached as the weight of lifetimes crashed over him.

"You're back," he whispered, his voice trembling with emotion.

Yet, your eyes held no recognition—you didn’t remember him.

Yeah, I need a fic like that. 10 chapters, where I cry because damn, this man deserves happiness and so does the reader...

And bonus if the reader is on the fat, chubby side , because I need to see more of that.

[asharaks]

i get the gentle healer trope completely like i understand the appeal fo a character who drains themself for the sake of others of a character who is self sacrificing to the nth degree who dedicates their life to saving people, often at their own expense.

but also clerics are fucking crazy man especially clerics of death and the grave and stuff. i love clerics who cause more damage than they heal who can't touch without harming clerics whose blood runs necrotic and whose gods gifts are acid and poison and violence - not even evil clerics. people who are sworn to the dark and distasteful aspects of service, who perform their tasks with filthy hands, bloodstained faith.

people who are so devoted to their god they take on the things no one else is willing to do, who sacrifice their own innocence and their own peace in the name of faith.

[cordeliawhohung]

In Limbo [Chapter 13]

mafia!141 masterlist | In Limbo masterlist | general masterlist | taglist | playlist mafia!Simon Riley x fem!Reader

in limbo

cw: non-con (touching, groping, assault, attempted coercion/quid pro quo of a minor), major death, murder, blood and gore, depression, anxiety, PTSD, vomiting, passive suicidal ideation

wc: 7.5k

Suddenly, you are sixteen again. 

Your fathers face is printed onto a piece of paper, and he won’t stop staring at you. It’s an old picture. Grain thick and fuzzy, distorting the features of his face. Nose running into his cheeks running into his jawline, all morphing together until it’s a blob of flesh. It’s impossible to discern the color of his eyes through the flare. Terrible. Amateur. Your father never liked when people took photos of him. This was the only good one your mother could find before his wake. 

Someone soliloquizes on the podium before your fathers body. They speak into a microphone as they rattle off some meaningless eulogy that doesn’t quite reach your ears. The volume of their voice blares through the speakers, but it’s a waste. There’s not enough people in attendance for it to be of any use. A whisper would suffice. It’s only you, your mother, and a handful of blurry faces you don’t have the energy to attempt to place names to. 

All you can do is sit there and look at the memorial bulletin, and your father’s face when it was still warm and full of life. 

“Would you like to see him?” 

Paper crinkling in your hands, you shake your head. This version of your father, the one held delicately in your hands, is the only one you want to remember. Tears blur the image where they well and fester in the corner of your eyes. It stings. Bitter needles piercing through your scaleras. You swallow down the grief and look up at your mother, inflamed eyes staring back at you, burning as they desperately attempt to hold back her own sorrow from streaking down her face. It is then, that you realize, you have to go up there with her. For her sake. 

A few small steps disrupt the path to where your father lays peacefully in his casket, and each one you climb feels treacherous. Air grows thinner, gets caught in your nose and sears your throat as you try to force it through anyway. 

Head propped up on a pillow, he peeks out of the casket as if playing peek-a-boo. He wears a suit, something sleek and mostly black, and it does not fit his personality. Not the rambunctious, cheeky man that raised you. He looks… old. Like he hasn’t been long for this world for quite some time. Eyes closed, hands resting upon one another — he looks as if he’s sleeping. Immobile. Peaceful. 

Wrong. Contorting. Incorrect. This is not your father. Not this corpse with his scraped up fingers and tiny sutures attempting to conceal violent compound fractures. The bones aren’t straight. Can’t be set straight. There’s nothing living left to heal. And his lip. Busted. Fat and wide but not swollen — his face droops because of it. As if he’s melting. As if he’s been rotting all along. Poorly matched makeup stains the sides of his face, a waxy sheen obscuring an entry and exit wound that burrowed through his brain. A small hole by his temple. Then large portions of fractured skull gone and fixed up, erasing the violence that had been wrought upon him. 

This cordolium is too thick to swallow. Too blisteringly violent to go down easy. You stare because it is all you can do. Stare and think about how those fingers had once taught you to play cat’s cradle. How those lips used to curl with mirth as he held you tightly. Now, he is ruined. Broken apart and shoved back together for a hasty goodbye. He was alive, and now he is not, and he sits here in front of you as if trying to convince you otherwise. 

There is a desperate attempt in trying to remember him how he was. When he was still full of vigor with that shine in his eyes, but you can’t. It’s just him. With crooked fingers and deep lacerations and this suit he would never wear, he replaces all the versions of him you had ever grown to love. His death ruins him — ruins you — and you fear with that anguish inside of you, it’ll kill you too. 

Just as you feel yourself start to fall through the floor — down into the depths your father is soon to be buried in — a hand grounds you. It’s soft. Gentle as a feather as it rests on your shoulder. You blink and you are back in that building with that corpse and with those strangers. 

“I’m sorry for your loss. Truly.” 

That voice speaks with a Russian lilt and it has you turning your head to be met with a stranger. You’re unsurprised; there are very few people you recognize in this place. Murky eyes look at you the way everyone else has since your father’s passing; with pity. His hand falls from your shoulder as he glances at the body. The stranger does not flinch despite the proof of violence strewn before him. 

“It is hard, losing a parent,” he continues. “You will have to be stronger. Smarter. But you seem like an intelligent girl. One that knows how to stay out of trouble.” 

Something buzzes at the base of your skull. An incessant insect that traverses through your brain, leaving holes in its wake. Devouring everything but the neurons that allow you to fear. 

“Who are you?” It’s meant to be a gentle question. One in curiosity; a polite excuse to learn about this strange man. Instead, it bites. Still, the man does not flinch. 

His full attention returns to you with a courteous smile and an outstretched hand. He does not answer your question until you take it, and his fingers are ice cold as they wrap around yours. 

“Vladimir. A friend of your father.” A gentle vibration irritates his pockets as his phone goes off, and he releases your hand in favor of glancing at the screen. You watch him with a dull face as he smiles at you. “I’m afraid I can’t stay long. I hope you are able to find peace. My thoughts are with you, friend.” 

This man — Vladimir — excuses himself, but you don’t respond to his farewell. You’re tired of saying goodbye. You watch him leave, phone pressed against his ear as he escapes the building and vanishes into the bitter December air. 

Despite the well wishes bestowed upon you and your mother, peace doesn’t come easy for either of you. Each day is full of tears and wordless meals while your nights are plagued with bad dreams and a bed that doesn’t feel comfortable with your fathers absence in that empty home. Any attempt to soothe this throe is met with backlash. Movies offer no comfort without his aimless commentary. Delicious meals taste bland without his assistance. The walls are cold without his laughter. 

You are a shell. A husk void of all the feelings that make life worth living. 

Against your mother’s wishes, you return to school. She tells you to stay home. To not put too much pressure on yourself, but you rot in that place. Maggots fester in your skin the same as they do in your fathers except you waste away in the comfort of your bed — you cannot stand yourself. You cannot stand the fact that you draw breath while he does not. 

Your teachers try to tell you that you are allowed to take a longer bereavement period. That all of them had come to the same conclusion of exempting your end of term exams in favor of your mental health. Their concern falls on deaf ears as you continue to participate with glassy eyes and mindless doodles in the corner of your notes. They offer you resources. Counselors and books on healing. You speak to no one and read nothing. There are whispers shared between your classmates. Careful and benign questions flitter between one another as you play with the string in your hand. 

“She’s back already?”

“She looks like she hasn’t slept.”

“Don’t say that, that’s rude.” 

“I heard her dad was murdered.”

“Nonsense.”

“No, really. Shot, I heard.”

“Shot?” 

“You think it was the mafia?” 

It’s only natural for them to be curious. You remind yourself as much during meal times when the whispering becomes so overwhelming you can hardly hear your own thoughts. Perhaps it is for the best. To have someone else do the thinking for you, lest your brain tear itself apart cell by wretched cell. 

On the last day of exams, you are given a bouquet. Stunning sympathy flowers clump together with red ribbon, complete with a card signed by most of your classmates and teachers. Their handwriting is beautiful. Elegant swirling letters dance across the paper in some well meaning note, yet your eyes can’t focus on it. Just like everything else, your mind filters it out. Pushes it away. 

You walk home. It’s grueling in the frigid weather, and you’ve forgotten your tights to wear underneath your skirt. Or maybe you did it on purpose. To feel something, even if it’s pain. Bare skin tightens and freezes against the breeze, and even the petals of your flowers begin to wilt midway through your travels. They shrivel and curl into one another and against your chest as if huddling for warmth. You’re killing them slowly in your own selfish way, and yet they still cling to you as if you can save them any better than you can save yourself. 

The TV is on when you arrive home. Muffled voices drone through the speakers, none of which properly reaches you. Just like everything else, you’re experiencing it second hand. Through a film you can’t break through no matter how thin it seems — this veil is suffocating.

Ignoring both the sounds and the lack of oxygen, you don’t even bother to take your shoes off or announce your presence before slipping away into the kitchen. Over the weeks both you and your mother have been bombarded with floral arrangements from distant family members and friends. They’re much too lazy to offer their condolences in person. There’s bound to be a vase left over for you to resuscitate these poor withered plants in your hands. 

Your mother is in the kitchen, and she is sitting. Legs wide on the floor, back slumped against the cabinet, her eyes burn a hole into the floor in front of her. It isn’t until the tips of your shoes dip into thick cruor that you fully realize the blood on the ground. It’s everywhere. Spreading along the linoleum, soaking into the crack just under the sink — she is motionless and torn to shreds in front of you. Offals press out of her stomach just underneath where her hands rest, attempting to keep herself from spilling. Now, she cools on the floor with parted lips and dried tears on her face. 

“Mum?” 

She does not respond. She only stares at the floor. 

A hand clasps over your mouth before you’re able to process the mess in front of you. Pitiful feet squirm and thrash as you’re dragged through the room, flowers soaring through the air and  blood smearing on the soles of your shoes, before you’re violently spun and shoved against the wall. You attempt to make sense of the black hair and green eyes in front of you. Of the hips that pin you against the wall while this intruder leans back to get a better look at you. Yet, when he smiles with teeth just as sharp as the knife pressed against your throat, all you can do is stand there and panic. 

“Easy now,” the man warns. Each syllable washes over your nose with mint so strong it burns your eyes — like he’s trying to hide something vile behind the freshness but it isn’t quite working. “Pretty thing you are, aren’t you? Yeah… Yeah, let’s try to keep it that way. Gonna move my hand and you’re gonna keep those lips sealed, right? Not gonna give me any trouble.” 

The only thing you can think to do is nod. To confirm you’re not a threat. To do anything to ward off the blade against your throat. And still, when he removes his hand you whimper. Eyes wide with terror, you look over this man and find nothing recognizable. Not his attire nor grin — not even the heavy cologne that burrows into his clothes. There is only one thing that seems remotely familiar, and that is the heavy lids over his eyes, like he’s ravenous and he’s sizing up a good meal to eat. 

When he asks for your name it stumbles from your lips like it caught on your tongue on the way out, and he gives you his in return. Marco. He says it as if you are having a polite conversation; like your mother isn’t slouched against the cabinet by your feet. 

“Sorry about the mess. Dear mum wasn’t very cooperative. But you seem like a smart girl, yeah? So you’re gonna stay quiet and listen to what I have to say. Nod.” 

Just as ordered, you nod with a tremble, throat bobbing against the blade. Marco allows himself to drink in the sight of you. Blood stained shoes, long winter skirt, pristine coat — your mother had just ironed it for you that morning. Delicate hands working with grace to make sure you looked well and proper while off at school. It’s a sour memory, now. Those hands now cover a mortal wound she couldn’t save herself from. 

“I’d like to apologize about the loss of your father. Good man, he was. Hard worker. Managed to get himself in a bit of a mess though.” A wince tears through your throat at the pressure of his hips against yours, and he finally seems to register just how close he is to you. Offering you a smile in faux reverence, he moves back only an inch before pressing the tip of his knife against your sternum. You can’t feel its blade through your layers, but you feel the dread that stains the steel. “The type of mess that got him killed. That got your mum killed. One that’ll kill you too if you don’t play your cards right.

“Now, your sweet father works — well… worked — for a very important man named Vladimir Makarov. Heard of him before?”

Vladimir. Your mind reels, images of your father’s funeral flashing before your eyes as you remember that strange man and his cold grip. Is that the Vladimir he speaks of? The same man who offered you kind condolences? 

“He… he’s the one they’ve been talking about on the news,” you conclude. 

Marco’s smile is accompanied by a chuckle so saccharine it turns your stomach. “Yes. Yes, very good. Smart thing, you are. Everyone knows him. Makarov. The Russian Mafia. Your father worked for him.” 

Confusion rattles your bones as you shake your head, bottom lip jutting out and trembling. Marco sneers at it. At the twitching of your skin and the way you shudder against him. 

“But, no… No, my dad worked-” 

“Your daddy was a liar,” Marco interjects. “A fat fuckin’ liar, yeah? Sure he didn’t mean any harm by it, but daddy kept a lot of things from you. He worked for Makarov as a drug runner. Sure you know what that is, right? Makarov makes a lot of money off of that little side business of his. Lost a lot of cash for the big man the other night. Got himself killed trying to deliver a shipment. Lotta money we’re short on now. Care to venture a guess, babe? How much do you think we’re missing?” 

Numbers spin in your head like gambling machines and your eyes squeeze shut. This isn’t something you want to play. Some deranged guessing game with a knife pressing into your chest and a wall against your back. You wish he would kill you already. Leave you onto the floor next to your mother where you can cool and congeal in peace. You hope you’re buried between her and your father. You’d like to be able to reach out and touch them both again. 

“Roughly three hundred thousand,” Marco eventually answers once he’s had a fill of your petrified silence. 

The number he names is astonishing and cruel. Your eyes open, body no longer trembling, and your mouth opens in an attempt to respond. Nothing comes out. All you can do is stare at the widening sneer growing on his lips. 

“I know. Bad, isn’t it?” he humors with a crass chuckle. “Imagine how we feel, getting shorted like that. Not very good. Of course he’s too dead to pay it back, so I tried to talk to good ol’ mum. Didn’t take too kindly to me visiting. Wasn’t very keen on wanting to pay back what your family owes. But you seem smarter than that. Smart enough to know what your options are, yeah?” 

Reading between the lines is easy when he’s carving the message into your throat. It’s your turn to pay. Your turn to right your father’s sin, and if you don’t? Linoleum can only hold so much blood. 

Maybe you wouldn’t mind joining your mother on the floor. You’d be too dead to care. At least this incessant void that continues to swallow you whole would be sated. There would be nothing left for it to feed off of. But then you look at Marco. Verdant eyes bore into you with more than just curiosity. More than a sick sense of power. There are things worse than death. A filthy wanton desire taints his lips as he wets them, and for a moment the stale viscera mixes with the mint on his breath and you think you’re going to be sick.  

“I… I don’t have that money. I-I’m still in school, I’ve…” Whatever you’re trying to say, it won’t come out right. It catches on your teeth, in the tight confines of your throat, and chokes you. 

“Quiet now,” Marco coos. Convinced that you’re not going to run, he drops the knife from your chest but the weight is still there. “I’m not a monster. Of course it’ll take time. We’ll work out a payment plan. Wait until you’ve got yourself a job, something proper without worrying about school. I’ll make things nice and easy for you. Always better that way, right? We have a deal then?” 

Before his words properly register, you’re already nodding your head. Desperate to get him off your back. Doing anything to fawn and appease this terror as he stares you down, lips peeling in a gibe. 

“Good. Good… wanna make another deal?” Before he continues he slips his hand into his pocket, stowing away that wicked blade after flicking it shut. With both hands free, he’s able to move easier. A warm hand settles on your waist and it burns through your uniform all the way to your skin, layers turning into ash underneath his fingertips. You don’t fully register what he’s doing until his other hand brushes against your cheek — your blood runs colder than your mothers. “I’ll knock the price down by a quarter if you let me fuck you.” 

This is your fault. You should have seen this coming. From the very moment your back was against the wall and Marco had you pinned, this was his idea all along. And instead of fighting, you froze. Let him close in on you until you were caged. Leashed. Attached to him by a string of infinity that you can’t seem to break through. He feels it, and you feel it too. That lure. That connection that allows him to take and take. 

A crucible ignites in your stomach as the hand on your waist ventures lower, the thick fabric of your skirt bunching as he moves it to the side. Your legs attempt to knock together, to shut him out before he even enters but he’s quicker. Faster. Stronger. His knee darts between them, and you try not to cry when he chuckles. This is his bread and butter. His favorite meal and the only sustenance he desires. 

“I’d be gentle, of course. Like I said, I’m no monster. Could show me your room. Bet your bed’s plenty soft. Like you, huh? Pretty, soft thing, aren’t you?” Greedy fingers sear the insides of your thighs as he travels up and up… the tears begin to fall when his fingers reach your underwear. You squirm, shoulders fidgeting and hands trembling as the foreign feeling taints you. “I’d knock it down by half if you’re a virgin.” 

You want to close your eyes. To pretend it’s not happening until it’s over. You don’t. You look anywhere but him as the tears mark your cheeks, and you swear they’ll create canyons in your face if they continue at this pace. Cutting deep until the flesh erodes away and there’s nothing but bone left. So you look away. You look at your mother. Her crumpled form hasn’t moved. She’s just the way she has been. The way you found her. Forever frozen in her last moment — with her final breaths — hands attempting to stitch together something she can’t. 

She still stares at the floor. At the linoleum that glistens with her blood. And they’re dead. Her eyes are empty — her eyes are dead, and she is dead, and you are glad. You are glad, because you don’t think you could survive her witnessing what’s about to happen to you. 

“Just say the word,” Marco eggs. He’s luring you in, fingers pressing harder, and it aches. You should be apoplectic. Should rage against him, but you don’t. 

Wavering hands slither between your body and Marco’s, palms flat against his chest as you attempt to melt into the wall behind you. Amused, he cocks his head. Avaricious eyes rake over your face, drinking in the sight of your tears like he wishes he could grab a taste for himself. When his body jolts, you fear he almost does. 

“I’ll pay the full amount,” you mutter. You can’t look at him when you speak. You can hardly even get the words out as is. “All of it. I’ll do it.” 

He huffs in a patronizing scoff that has his breath fanning across your face again. Menthol burns your eyes and evaporates the tears on your skin. You wish you would evaporate with it. 

“I’ll pay it, just… please stop…” 

There is a fleeting moment where you don’t think he will. You’re convinced he’ll continue to take, to ravage you on the bloodstained ground next to the corpse of your mother, but he relents. Hand sliding away from your thighs, your skirt covers yourself as he releases you. Without his weight pinning you like a specimen to an examination board, your legs give out, knees bending into jello as your back slides down the wall. He chuckles, and it is purely virulent. 

“Alright, alright,” he sighs. “Other half of the deal is still on, then. We’ll make arrangements at a later date. Best you stay in town, babe. Would hate to have to track you down somewhere else.” Marco pauses, filth stained hands shoving into his pockets as he glances around the mess he’s made of both you and your mother. “Call the police. You’ll need help cleaning up. Tell them you came home and found her like this, but don’t tell them about me. About anything else. I’ll know if you do. Makarov’s got eyes and ears everywhere.” 

Vision tunneling, you nod. It’s the only thing you can think of doing as you stare at the stain on the floor. Part of you wonders if it would have been better to deny him. To let him sink his blade into you so you can cry pitiful squeals as you come to some unkind demise. You wonder if you were ever really given a choice. If you said no, would he have even bothered to kill you? Would he have taken you to your room, undressed you, forced himself on you until he had his fill? Would he ever have his fill, or would he just continue to take, and take, and take, and —

“Hey.” His shoes come into focus as he stands in front of you, and he gently kicks the side of your leg, prompting you to look up at him. He’s amused. You’re nothing more than meat to him. “That other offer is still on the table. Just in case you find yourself changing your mind. I’ll be seeing you later, babe.” 

The door slams behind Marco as he leaves you. Crumbled flowers lay on the ground, feeding off of the blood as they rest next to your mother. You want nothing more than to crawl into her lap as if you were a child again. Aren’t you still a child? Sixteen and in school, uniform and all — you feel like an adult shoved into a child’s body. Or a child shoved into an adult’s. You’re fractured. Spiraling and sparkling like kaleidoscope fractals to be gawked at with wet lips and greedy tongue; you are in between a girl and a woman. 

In your prime state, you are now a meal, and he is everything more. 

It isn’t long before flashing blue lights smother your neighborhood like some village smothered under azure waves. The officers arrive before the ambulance does, and they find you curled up and shivering on the front steps of your home. The scent of decaying iron had become too much to bear. Trembling fingers clutch your phone as you stare at the pavement. Unlike the kitchen floor, it’s pristine and clean, void of all blood and gore, yet you still see it. It haunts you. Scarred deep into your retinas until all you see is red. 

When a new pair of shoes invades your vision, you’re certain it’s Marco again. Already come to collect your dues and more. This new figure is kinder. There is not a single shred of the violence you had been subjugated to before as they kneel in front of you, hand on one knee. They do not seem to care about their pristine pants as old dirt stains the uniform, nor do they grunt at the joints that pop and crack throughout their legs. 

“Hey, kiddo.” He’s a man. Voice amicable and soft, it coaxes you into glancing up to look him in the eyes. You squint, blue lights diffusing around the curves of his hat, and you see him smiling. You wonder how he can smile when there’s a corpse in the house behind you. “Come on. Why don’t we go somewhere to warm up?” 

For the next few hours, you are a broken record. Retelling your falsified story to investigators; reliving every gruesome detail except for the one that scares you most. It doesn’t feel good to lie. You hate lying. It makes you swelter, sweat beading along the back of your neck as if you’re cooking in an oven under their gaze. If they see your deceit, they don’t say anything, and so you keep repeating what you were instructed to. You walked home. You found her body. You called the cops. 

You walked home. You found her body. You called the cops. 

Somehow, after it’s evident that the fringes of your family died with your mother, you end up in the care of the same officer who cajoled you from the stairs of your home. You don’t argue with it. It’s certainly better than sleeping on the streets for the night. It’s quiet in his car — nothing but the hum of the engine and grind of the weathered road beneath the tires — but he breaks it to tell you about his daughter. She’s older than you, already moved out and engaged. It’s small talk. Something to keep your mind off of everything. You appreciate it until he shares that you remind him of her; you nearly apologize for it — that he might have a daughter like you. 

His wife calls him Chief when he brings you inside their home, but she freezes at the sight of you. Puzzled at your presence, she brushes it off quickly before welcoming you, too as if you’re old friends. You’re brought to a room that looks like a spare with plain sheets and walls, but you can tell it’s lived in. They already have spare clothes and toiletries on hand, and they’re left at the foot of the bed for you. It isn’t until you lay down that you realize they’re used to fosters. Vagabond, wayward children with nowhere else to go. 

You don’t sleep that night, even though you desperately want to. Anything to not have to be conscious through this new, miserable existence. Instead, you rot in that bed with your soiled body, still marked from Marco’s fingerprints, and you want nothing more than to burn them away. You think you’d have to burn yourself alive with it. Immolate yourself as an offering to whatever sick god decided you deserved this fate. As long as the memory lives on, so does the crime, and so does your shame. 

Shame for being alive. Shame for enduring what you had to. Shame for surviving it. 

Come morning, you slip into the bathroom to try and clean yourself up properly. To wash your hair and face and forget the blood that stains the soles of your feet. Chief and his wife provide everything, and don’t skimp on it either. When you exit your shower, your skin has never felt softer, and for a simple, fleeting moment you’re convinced you might be able to sleep despite the sun’s position. 

Everything falls apart when you go to brush your teeth. 

Mint floods your mouth, smothering your tongue with its cooling burn, and it hardly begins to foam before you’re freezing. Your stomach recoils; twists and thrashes at the flavor and you try to will the nausea away, but you can’t. Because underneath the menthol and frigid bite, there is your mother. There is your mother, and her offals, and her dead, glossy gaze, and there is Marco — and there is you; too weak to do anything. 

Your toothbrush clatters to the floor just as your knees do. Torso curved, stomach constricting, you hardly make it to the toilet before you throw up. It’s vile. Bitter bile coating your tongue, washing away the aftertaste of the horror with acid. You pray it torches your senses. Renders them completely useless so that you’ll never have to think about that man or that kitchen or the mess ever again. 

“You alright in there, sweet pea?” The question comes with a gentle knock and a fair amount of concern from Chief’s wife. Feet shuffle just underneath the door in your periphery, and you try to quiet yourself. 

You spit the last remains of vomit out of your mouth. “I’m alright.” 

Christmas passes by in a blur you can’t remember. There are vague conversations that stick, but nothing of value. Just muffled voices to be added to the soupy mess of your brain. Disconnected. Disjointed. Bereaved, you spend your days wandering this strange home like a ghost as you try to plot out the rest of your seemingly decreasing lifespan. Marco’s threats still ring fresh in your mind. As do his hands on your skin. Surprisingly, it’s a very simple life. Work, pay, repeat. Pray Marco doesn’t hurt you. Repeat. Try to forget. Repeat. 

Repeat. 

What you don’t account for are the nightmares. The lack of sleep. The way you can still so clearly smell everything, feel everything. Breath against your cheek. Hand between your thighs. Fear boiling your blood. Mint mixing with gore and death. Something clean attempting to conceal something rotten. It follows you. Clings to you. Burrows into your skin. No, it’s deeper than that — it’s not some superficial wound. It slices through thick muscle and sinew, drills deep into bone and into the soft tissue of your head. Frying synapses until all you can think about is the despondent ache that pulses in place of your heart. 

Unfortunately, Chief can sniff out death better than a cadaver dog, and you’re smothered in the scent. 

“Now, you’re not in trouble,” he says, but his voice carries a sense of authority that nearly has you trembling as you sit on the couch. He stands in front of you with his arms crossed over his chest as you stare at the photo in your hand. “I just need you to tell me the truth this time.” 

It’s Marco. A grainy, CCTV image of him, but you don’t think you’d be able to forget his face even if you tried. You see him with his hands shoved in his pockets just outside your house. Your real house. The one your mother still haunts. You swallow thickly as the picture stares through you — you want to look away but it won’t allow it. 

“Who is that man?” Chief asks. 

You shake your head. “I don’t know.” 

He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t fight and call out your obvious lie. Instead, he kneels just like he did when he first found you on those icy steps. Soft eyes try to peer into yours, but you can’t stop staring at Marco. Not even the fuzz can obscure the smirk on his face, and you feel your stomach churn at the sight. 

“I know this isn’t easy,” he says, voice soft yet still carrying the authority of an officer. “We’ve seen the video. Watched this man walk into your home. Watched you enter long before he left. It’s not easy facing men like that, someone terrible enough to take a life so flippantly. I’m sure he said a lot of things. Made a lot of threats trying to get you to keep quiet. I promise, whatever he told you isn’t going to happen. Not while I’m around.” 

His confidence is almost laughable, and you would laugh if you weren’t terrified. Marco’s words echo in your head the same way they have for the last two weeks. Makarov has eyes and ears everywhere. Are they listening now? Are they testing you? Trying to see how easily you’ll crumble if given a way out? If tempted with even the mere thought of escaping this life so viciously forced upon you? 

“I can’t,” you stutter out. It’s weak. Poignant and miserable, especially when accompanied by the tears that mark your cheeks. You cry so often these days you think the well will never run dry. “I can’t, he’ll kill me.” 

“What did I tell you? That’s not going to happen while I’m around,” Chief assures. “Is he part of any syndicate? Is he on his own? I just need a little bit of information — a name, anything you have — and I can put him away for good. Please. Let me help you.” 

A part of you believes him. There’s a quiet flicker of hope that has you praying he’s right. Perhaps most of what Marco said was an empty threat. Something to get you to be complacent and easy to abuse. Aren’t you, after all, still a child? Gullible and pathetic? The conflict roars in your chest; manifests as shaky hands and a chest that cracks with every beat of your heart. 

“I…” This is going to kill you to say. It’s not easy being brave — it’s nothing but asperity. “His name is Marco. He works for a man named Vladimir Makarov and he… he…” 

Everything wants to spill out. The blood, tears, and bile — the hands slipping underneath your skirt and the dead eyes that watch your defilement. It’s too much to hold by yourself. You don’t know what to do with it besides let it fester and metastasize inside of you. When you look up at Chief and see the look in his eyes, you can tell he already knows. That he’s known for a long while. He could see the cracks through your skin like dry desert clay long before you ever showed them. 

He hugs you when you begin to cry, and it feels like your father is holding you. It’s the first fraction of comfort you’ve received since either of your parents died, and you’re unable to hold back the sorrow. You are a leaking faucet. Something that has no choice but to make a mess, and still he holds you through it all.

When your crying quells enough that it no longer racks your body, Chief asks you if you’ll go to the station with him to give an official statement. He promises that it won’t go public, that it will stay classified until everyone who could ever want to hurt you is rotting behind bars. Still sniffling back snot, you agree. 

This might be the only chance you have to avenge your parents — to avenge the girl Marco ravaged and left to decay in that house.

New Year's Eve leaves all of London terribly crowded. Jobs close up shop early, public transportation is packed, pedestrians swarm walking paths like schools of fish; all of it leaves you and Chief in tightly knit traffic. Each stoplight you run into seems to last an eternity, and it only aggravates the already untamable anxiety that dwells in the pit of your stomach. A time bomb ticks away somewhere just out of your reach, forever slipping through your fingers, and it only gets louder as you weave throughout the city. 

Halfway through the drive, Chief calls someone. His tone is clandestine, hushed and soft as if you’re in some other room and not in the passenger's seat next to him. Only a few of his words cut through the tempest in your mind. He mentions your name. The homicide case involving your parents. Marco and Makarov. The streets you’re passing on the way to the station. Lighthearted complaints about the traffic. His voice shakes when he laughs. You think he might be scared. 

There is a moment in time when everything shifts. The air becomes thicker. Your body feels lighter after your confession, yet, there’s a trepidation that hangs so tightly around your neck you’re certain you’ll choke. But you’ve been choking all along, haven’t you? Marco’s had a hold of his end of the rope this whole time, slowly pulling and pulling as the noose constricts around your throat like a viper. 

You suck in a breath of air as best as you can, eyes wandering over to Chief. He’s still on the phone, but you can’t understand what he’s saying. His mouth moves, jaw bobbing with his words, but it’s nonsense. Silence. Gibberish through static. When you exhale, you look at the steering wheel. One hand guides the car. Firm fingers keep it straight as he drives through the intersection. 

When you blink, those fingers suddenly look like your father’s — crooked and wrong. 

Pop!

Your vision is plunged into darkness as gunshot-like bangs deafen you. Muscles along your spine tense and harden as your body is jerked around, seat belt digging into your chest and hips as you’re helplessly tossed — a ragdoll in the hands of a merciless child. Something hits the side of your head, and your ears scream with a high pitched squeal by the time the movement ceases. Your eyes are open, but you can’t see anything. It’s blotchy. Underdeveloped images that fade in and out of existence. Sparkling glass. A white airbag. Blood on your fingertips. 

Something shakes you. Prods you to look elsewhere. Your senses move slower than your body does. You’ve turned your head but your eyes don’t catch up until moments later. Chief looks at you, shouts something that makes your ears hurt, and yet you still can’t hear him. His brows furrow as his hand reaches for the side of your head, and when he retracts it, his fingers are red. 

Everything begins to stitch itself together as you glance around. Crystalline shards of glass litter your lap, small pieces of it embedding themselves into your arms where beads of blood poke through your jumper. Frigid air hits your face through the broken window, and when you look to your left, you notice the door is bent. Metal morphing inwards as if to crush you in its maw. 

A thick veil lifts from your body, but it does so agonizingly slow. Pain rages inside your skull as more blood trickles down the side of your face, and you’re finally able to make out the words Chief says, though he sounds like he’s underwater. 

“We’ll get out of this kiddo, just try to stay still. Of course the tossers had to hit your side,” he grumbles. 

As you turn your attention to him — vision still lagging behind your movements — you notice someone standing by his door. Your brain tells you it’s the driver of the other car, the one that hit you. He’s coming to check on you. To right his wrong. But your gut screams something tremulous. 

When the door opens and you see the flash of a knife, you know there’s nothing you can do but sit there and watch. No scream leaves your lips as the blade sinks into Chief’s stomach. The assailant does it so easily. A practiced motion. One executed with too much confidence. There’s no sound that accompanies it. No clink of metal or sickening smack. There is only silence. 

Ichor flows freely from the wound as the knife is yanked free, and Chief paws helplessly at it with a gasp. A begging plea for it all to stop leaves your lips, but this man with his dull eyes says nothing as he retrieves the cell phone lying on the floor of the car. He begins to pick it apart, hardware and internals ripped open just like the dying man next to you, parts being removed and shoved into pockets. 

“Maybe I was wrong about you.” 

The repugnant voice of Vladimir Makarov drowns out the ringing in your ears as he leans through your broken window. Your head only snaps to look at him when he presses against the wound on your head, and he grins at your surprise. He stares at the blood marking his fingers like it’s a trophy, and you want to scream but your brain refuses to relay the message.

“You’re not as smart as I thought you were, after all. Not witty enough to keep out of trouble,” he chastises with a titter. “Let this be a lesson to you. I don’t like teaching the same thing twice.” 

More slurred nonsense leaves your lips as Makarov leans away from the window, attention turning to the man ravaging Chief’s phone. He nods to himself, tossing the phone back onto the floor before looking to his superior. The man dying before him is nothing more than collateral. 

“Come, Andrei. We’ll have guests soon,” Makarov orders. 

They fade into the mess of the commotion around you. Melting away like ghosts you can’t seem to catch nor escape. Dark figures joining the void. You’re always one step behind. Just another piece in a game you don’t know how to play. 

“Chief,” you choke out. Your voice is raw and tight, vocal cords twisting and threatening to snap. “I-I don’t know what to do, please help me, what do I-”

He’s dead by the time you’re able to turn your attention back to him. Hazy eyes stare through the cracked windshield as stained hands rest over his stomach. It is the same thing all over again. A vicious cycle that spins around you. You’re at the epicenter. Approaching the event horizon that will soon rip you to shreds. For now, it lets you live, but it’s impossible to forget the gravity slowly dragging you in. 

Just like you did with your mother, you sit and cry as the body next to you begins to cool. Each sob pierces through you, electrifying every nerve until you’re rendered nothing but a thrashing mess. Your arms flail, glass sent flying as you attempt to free yourself from your seat belt. Other people have approached the wreck, but their voices and warnings to stay calm do nothing to soothe you. They don’t understand. No one understands. The only person who even could is lying dead next to you.

Each moment that passes is a painful reminder of what you wrought upon yourself. Of the blood that stains your hands. You should have known better than to even attempt to harbor some useless meliorism. As if you could outrun voracious greed. No. There is only one way out of this game — this hell — this limbo you’ve trapped yourself in — and it involves death. It has to be yours. It will be yours, someday. 

Until that day, you’ll continue to rot with the corpses that fall due to your negligence and stupidity. There’s no use in fighting. You’ll only ever be clean from this sin when the mortician washes you postmortem to lay you in your casket.

[after-witch]

Late Night Break In [Yandere Uvogin x Reader]

Title: Late Night Break In [Yandere Uvogin x Reader]

Synopsis: You never expected to find your soulmate. After all, it’s not like there were lots of people named “Uvogin” out there.

Word count: 3000ish

notes: yandere, soulmate AU, breaking and entering

Another Friday night alone. 

But it’s okay. You won’t wallow in self-pity and think about the couples who were out and about the city on romantic dates, or snuggled up on the couch prepping for a night of passionate (or not so passionate, depending on the strength of their relationship) sex. 

Life’s too short to wallow. And it’s not like you were exactly alone.

You’ve got your movie collection and your antique figurines and your latest purchase, a vintage sofa with restored upholstery that means you get the benefit of the original aesthetic without the downside of years of stains, rips, and potential bed bugs. 

And you have friends. Maybe you don’t see them very often, admittedly because you got tired of being asked when you were going to find your soul mate, whether or not you’d consulted a searching service to find them, if you were interested in one of them paying for the service if you didn’t have the money…

Sure, some people might get a little lonely without their soulmate. Someone who you were meant to be with forever and ever, until one or both of you died. And your coworkers who’d long since found their soul mates or who were actively searching day-after day (usually using those paid services that were perfect for such things--not that you wanted to spend your money on that) sometimes looked at you with these awful pity-filled expressions that made you want to roll your eyes.  

More so than your friend’s worried clucks and glances between each other, because at least you knew your friends were coming from a place of worry and not from a place of “why haven’t you done this thing society expects you to do?” like your coworkers.

And, really--

It wasn’t your fault that you hadn’t found your soul mate. 

It’s not like there were tons of people in your home city named “Uvogin,” after all. 

At least his name was well-hidden on your body. It was written, as everyone’s was, in a neat cursive scrawl in black ink that would never come off. You’d heard stories of people who had gone so far as to cut off the skin that contained their soul mate’s name--fighting destiny and all that--only for the name to pop up somewhere else or sometimes even on the same spot, black as ever on the healing, mangled skin.

It wasn’t something you were going to try. 

Uvogin’s name, whoever he was, was on the back of your neck,  low, between your shoulder blades. You liked it that way. It meant you couldn’t be the target of scammers or people who’d been unable to find their real soulmate and were obsessively, dangerously desperate to get someone (anyone) to be with them.

And you? Well. You wouldn’t deny that it might be nice to find your soulmate. Some of your friends and coworkers and passers-by-on-the-street certainly seemed happy to be together. 

But you weren’t going to stop living your life just because you were still on your own. So if you spent your evenings watching movies or rearranging your decorations or making the perfect beef-and-wine stew for one, what was so wrong with that? 

--

You don’t wake up when someone breaks through the wood of your door with a simple stab of their fingers, slides their hand in, undoes the lock, and turns the door knob to enter without any more fanfare.

You don’t wake up when someone’s eyes dart around your apartment, looking for your bedroom.  You don’t wake up when your bedroom door opens with only the tiniest creak.

You only wake up when a hand is slapped over your mouth, and you jolt from a dead sleep with a dizzying suddenness that leaves your head swimming.

You’re awake--you think--and there’s someone above you, a big, heavy presence that seems to take up everything in your field of vision. The taste of salt and flesh is on your mouth, a big hand pressed over your lips and jaw to keep you from moving them.

To keep you from screaming.

“Where is it?” The voice asks, and you can tell it’s a man. But he’s huge, tall as anything, and even in the dimness of your room you can see he has a wild shock of hair that makes him look more like a lion than anything else. The thought is almost silly in the fogginess of your head, but as reality comes in, clearing the way, there’s nothing to laugh about right now.

“Where’s what?” You ask, or try to ask, though you can’t do more than mumble against the large meat of his hand against your face.

  It takes him a moment to register that you can’t actually answer. You can see, barely, his eyes narrow down at you.

“Don’t be stupid,” he says, and you won’t be. He wants money, presumably, and you can give him that. Or your TV. Or whatever he wants. As long as you make it out alive.

Slowly, he removes his hand, as if waiting to see if you’ll try to scream.

You don’t. As he moves his hand away, your thoughts come quick, untethered, flitting about the unfairness of the situation. You haven’t really lived yet, and you’re too young to die, and you hope he doesn’t hurt you at all but if he does just let him not kill you at least, is that too much to ask, God, you hope not--

“Where is it?” He repeats. And maybe it’s just your imagination or the fear getting to you, but he seems like he’s lowered his voice a little, sounding less harsh and more considerate. Maybe because you didn’t scream and you aren’t making trouble. That’s a good sign, maybe. It’s hard to tell. 

You swallow. You wish he would move back, so you weren’t lying on your back in bed. But he does no such thing, so all you can do is stare up at him, heart hammering, mouth dry.

“Where’s what?” 

He snorts. 

”Your soulmate’s name.” 

Does your heart stop? No, but it feels like it does. You expected him to say something else. Like. Your money or your safe or your most valuable items. But your soulmate’s name? Is he some sort of deranged loner who couldn’t find his soulmate and he thinks you’re itt? 

Or… 

You swallow, thick, as the thought finally comes to you. It’s not something you thought about often, because most people weren’t worried about things like this. But sometimes your soulmate was someone Not Very Nice. Someone that Hunters might be tasked to go after. And this man, bulky and strong and intimidating as hell, could definitely be a Hunter.  

More often than not, they went after civilian soulmates when catching the criminals proved to be too difficult--though no one could say for sure what might be done to them afterward. 

Some of them were used as bait. Some of them were taken to the authorities to help track down their not-so-law-abiding soulmates. And some… well. You’d heard rumors that killing a soulmate could hinder certain types of criminals. 

“None… none of your business.” Your teeth clack against each other, a thin, quick pain that seems to linger on in your mouth. 

The man’s lips twist into a frown, half-shadowed by the darkness in the room, although as your eyes adjust you can see more of him. It doesn’t make you feel any less worried about what’s going to happen, though. 

“No?” 

You see his arm move, and think he’s about to slap his hand over your mouth again, but what he does instead is shove his arm right in front of your face.

You blink.

And stare.

And it takes you a moment to realize what you’re looking at--on his arm, bulky as it is, scared as you are. 

It’s your name. In a nice, neat scrawl. Unmistakable and permanently stained on his skin.

This man isn’t a Hunter sent here to kidnap you or drag you into a station or kill you. And he certainly isn’t here to steal your wallet or your television or your collection of rare comic books.

He’s your soulmate.

Uvogin.

“B-Back… back of my neck,” you say, stammering. 

He hums. And then he shifts over on the bed, and you instinctively sit up in your bed, glad to no longer be prone underneath him. 

“Let me see,” he says, gruff. But there’s a gradual lessening of heaviness in the air, now that you know he isn’t here to kill you or rob you or who knows what else. That still doesn’t excuse breaking into your apartment and doing this, but…

You lean forward, and with a surprising gentleness considering his size, he pulls down the back of your nightshirt enough to see what’s underneath. 

“Heh, there it is, huh…”

 He lets the fabric go and you lean back, looking at him. He stares down at you, his weight sagging your mattress, his bulky frame taking up most of the bed.

“You gonna scream?” 

You think. You bite your cheek. You shake your head.

“You gonna try to run?”

You breathe out through your nose. And you think. And you shake your head. You won’t scream, you won’t run--you can tell without asking that neither of those would do you any good. And… do you really need to? There’s a strange sort of curiosity that’s building inside you, now that you know who he is--your soulmate. 

He nods, tilting his head back a little, craning his neck as if to stretch it.

“Hope so. Would be stupid if you tried, and I hope my soulmate isn’t that stupid. You get me?”

You nod again, and your breath hitches just a little when he stands up and begins to stretch his neck again. He sighs, evidently pleased by the releasing of tension, or maybe pleased that he’s found you and you didn’t shriek like a wild banshee and try to get away.

You could still try to run. Your fingers grip on your sheets, still uneasy. Sure, he was your soulmate but… soulmates didn’t usually burst into people’s rooms at night and tell them not to scream. Usually.

Uvogin, like his name, was definitely an outlier. 

He leans against the wall next to your bed, looking down at you with appraising eyes. It almost makes you wish you weren’t sitting in bed wearing an old nightshirt, eyes bleary, hair messy. It wasn’t exactly a good first impression. 

“Been looking for you for a while,” he tells you. “I thought maybe you were good at hiding… Shalnark’s soulmate kept him out of the loop for a while.” He chuckles to himself, reliving some private memory. “But looks like you’re just that much of a nobody.”

Something inside your chest bristles.

“Excuse me?” You sit up straighter, and finally get the nerve to lean over to your bedside table and flick on the lamp. Your eyes squint for a moment. The addition of new light doesn’t make your soulmate look any less intimidating. But it does make you feel less like some helpless rabbit in the dark, at least.

He raises his eyebrows, and there’s a small part of you--a churning in your stomach--that tells you to sit down and shut up. But you’re not about to be 

“That’s rude,” you say, as calmly as you can. “I’m not a nobody just because you couldn’t find me. Maybe it means you’re bad at looking.”

There’s a pause, a beat. You wonder if you’ve pissed him off. But then he throws his head back and laughs. 

“Fair enough,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “Fair enough.” He sighs, then, and looks up at the ceiling. “There is the question of what to do with you, though.”

Ah, there it is again. That churning in your stomach. A growing pit, tight and electric. 

You sit up straighter, and piece what little you know of these puzzles together in your mind. It doesn’t add up to anything particularly wholesome, even with giant chunks missing. 

“I… I’m guessing you wouldn’t be okay with a long distance relationship,” you mutter. 

He scoffs, a little laugh. “Oh? What gave you that idea?”

He leans forward, and you don’t know exactly what you expected him to do, but it wasn’t to pat you on the head. But he does. 

“Smart,” he says, while his voice is teasing there’s something that sounds a little genuine in there. Or were you imagining it? Was it just part of the soul mate bond, maybe, to automatically see things your soulmate did as pleasant? 

He sits back down on the bed. The bed frame creaks. You aren’t keen on spending money to replace it, but you aren’t keen on scolding your very large, very strong soulmate right now either. So you keep mum.

He leans forward and rests his hand on his palm, keeping his elbow on his knee.

“Well. I don’t exactly got a house with a white picket fence. Or without one, for that matter.” He rubs at his nose, and it strikes you, how casual this conversation is… your soulmate, sitting on your bed, after breaking into your apartment in the dead of night. You take the moment of his consideration to lean over and look through your bedroom door, which faces the entryway. You can just make out the busted wood of your front door… fuck. What would your landlord say?

“Some of the others got one place they keep their soulmates, suppose I should think about it…” He glances at you, gauging something. “Makes it easier when you have one place to go, ‘stead of dragging your soulmate everywhere.”

His words finally do let you feel a sense of unease. You don’t know who the “others” are, or why they would need to be dragging their soulmates everywhere. He wasn’t a Hunter, but maybe something like it. Something that kept him moving. Or, more likely considering the circumstances of your first meeting, something that kept him on the run.

The thought of being dragged around or even taken to some sort of strange house brings back that churning in your stomach, an awful, lurching feeling. Your eyes dart around your room, to everything you’ve set up in your life up until now. 

Every inch of your apartment was carefully chosen, down to the rugs on the floor and the color of the tension rods you’ve shoved into the windowsill. But it’s not just the decor. It’s… your whole life. Your job, the coworkers you’d carefully built relationships with, the fact that you have a favorite diner for breakfast and takeout spot for the weekends. 

“I… don’t want to leave here.” Your voice is soft and at first you think he doesn’t hear you, but when you see him raising his eyebrows and lean forward, you get the nerve to continue.

“If-if that’s possible,” you add, a little quickly. “I’d like to stay here. This could be your… the place where you keep me. Or whatever.” The last words come out mumbled. They’re almost embarrassing to say, like you’re some kind of pet.

He doesn’t say anything for a little while. You almost start talking again, some half-baked plead, but he leans a little closer to you. His look is serious.

“How could I trust that you won’t just run away after I leave?”

Your lips press together. 

“I worked hard for this place. For this life. I would hate…” And you search for the words, lost somewhere in the dimness of your room. “I would hate for it all to become worthless.” 

You sit up straighter, before leaning towards him. Maybe it will be easier to convince him if you don’t act so rigid, so scared. You can do that. 

“If you let me stay here, or-or even if you just let me take my favorite things with me, I’ll be… good?”

He snorts. There’s a hint of a smirk as he leans forward.

“Yeah? You’ll be good?”

Warm flushing creeps to your cheeks, and for the first time you think about what it really means to be someone’s soulmate. Togetherness. Intimacy. 

Your words come out halted, and fumbling. But you mean them, as long as it guarantees that you don’t have to give up your life. Your apartment, your spots, every carefully curated bit of your existence here. Or even--and the thought is desperate--if he is going to take you away, it would be enough if you could keep your belongings. Just enough. 

“I’ll do what you want?” You shrug, keeping your eyes downcast on  your lap, though you can see him shift out of the corner of your gaze.. “Cook or clean or… whatever.”

There’s a hand on your chin, but this time he doesn’t cover your mouth. Instead he tilts your chin up and holds it there, forcing you to keep eye contact.

“So what? You want to make a deal? I let you keep some furniture, and you’re going to be a good little housewife for me?”

“I didn’t--” You say, practically spluttering the words out. “I didn’t say that.” Your cheeks feel impossibly hot. 

He laughs, and lets go of your chin. You don’t look down.

“No, I like it. It’s cute.” He grins at you. “I’m lucky. Some of the others, well…” He rolls his eyes, and you don’t press him on it. 

He drums his fingers against the bed. 

You look up at him, eyes wide, hopeful. 

He sighs, then gives you a lopsided grin that makes your stomach churn in a different way than before. Though the feeling is just as unnerving.

“All right,” he says, with a casual sort of finality. “You can stay here.” A pause. “For now. If you try anything--and I mean anything, like going to the cops, telling your friends, whatever…” He moves his wrist around in a gesture that you can only take to mean “all of this goes away.” He looks at you with a seriousness that makes you want to press yourself through the headboard and into the wall. “Got it?”

You nod.

But then…

“There’s… one thing I need you to do before morning, then,” you say, voice tight and quiet but determined. “Uvogin,” you add, hoping that using his name might make him a little less intimidating. It doesn’t, but maybe that comes with time. 

Both of his eyebrows raise. You almost think he’ll just shut you down, but instead he asks--

“Yeah? What’s that?” 

You gesture towards your open bedroom door, towards the front of your apartment.

“You have to fix that door first. My landlord will have a fit.”

For the second time since meeting you, Uvogin throws back his head and laughs. 

[hatsukeii]

if you're too shy (let me know) / bsf!osamu miya x reader

genre(s): fluff! + bsf to lovers!! they're both kinda stupid but i respect it! this is an apology from me to you for all the shit i've put you through in the past few angsty fics

warning(s): suggestive at the end, but no explicit nsfw, and you can interpret it as literally never happening as well! mc had one meh/bad experience w a hookup and it's mentioned in passing but nothing graphic

wc: 1.7k

tldr; the five kisses that osamu thinks he'd like to give, and the time that he does

#5: Miya Osamu would like to kiss into the palm of a hand

Osamu's hands have been calloused, bruised, and battered from youth. His fingers have caught flying volleyballs by the bloodied tips, knuckles have beaten up Atsumu countless times, palms have scraped and squeaked against the floor of the school gymnasium every day and night. Osamu doesn't remember what it feels to run his fingers across the smooth lines of his palms, or how it feels to touch his bare skin without some scratching sensation from the hardened rounds that decorate his hands.

Tonight, Osamu lies on the rooftop of some bar, the twenty-something people here for Atsumu's MSBY victory party shaking the walls and collapsing the ceiling with bouts of dancing and screaming. The fake grass beneath him cushions his body, bending and curving under his weight, and the weight of another beside him. His head tilts to glance over at you, limbs splayed out across the ground.

"What... whatdya lookin' at... 'samu?"

His head fogs, eyes spinning as he turns back to the starry sky, and the white dots in a backdrop of black begin to draw spirals around his head as he subconsciously rubs at the calluses on his fingertips and picks at the dried skin peeling off his palms. You. He's looking at you. Tonight, he thinks he'll use the sky as an excuse.

"Stars... they're pretty."

#4: Miya Osamu would like to kiss the top of a forehead

The earliest kiss Osamu can recall is from none other than his own mother, who held his face so gently in her equally calloused palms as her thumbs rubbed at the bruise on his forehead, earned from running into a glass panel wall. It must've hurt, Osamu! Be careful! She had said, inevitable tenderness seeping from her angry brows and worried eyes as she pressed a soft kiss into the bruise. The purple stain must've disappeared then and there, healed by a kiss, Osamu thought.

You roll over to lie on your side, and shuffle towards Osamu, who's still picking at nothing on his hands. A whiff of hot breath fans the skin of his ear, and Osamu freezes up at the proximity, shifting in the grass.

"...'samu! areyouuu drunk?"

His ears are red at the tips when you giggle stupidly into them, almost scalding to the touch, like they will melt skin and boil blood at direct contact. You haven't changed one bit since graduating from Inarizaki, still a lightweight, still whiny when alcohol begins flowing through your veins. If he could, he would pick you up, and tuck you into the nearest bed with the blankets up to your chin, just the way you like it, as he usually does when you show up at his house like this on random midnights. This time, he swears the alcohol is getting to his head too.

"Nooo...?"

The ground beneath him collapses when your fingers come up to flick his forehead. He twitches, before shooting up and rubbing at the sore spot. He curses himself for forgetting about the shots from before settling in when his mind blanks and his body sends itself straight back into the grass, the impact forcing a grunt from his chest. You cackle at him, and Osamu thinks he could definitely use a kiss on the forehead right now.

#3: Miya Osamu would like to kiss someone on the cheeks

Whenever Atsumu brings his team along to the store, brooding, foreign men soften into mounds of affection, teddy bears who engulf Osamu in all-encompassing embraces, and push sloppy pecks into both of his cheeks. In these situations, Osamu isn't sure what else to do but stand and let every teammate have their turn. He made an offhanded comment once to Atsumu, something along the lines of not understanding why a kiss on the cheek was the default greeting for foreigners. Atsumu, with grains of rice decorating the corners of his mouth, laughed at his question, and told him, it's the cheeks that smile back.

"Hey...'samu?"

You've propped your head up in your hand, elbow digging into the grass beside Osamu's motionless figure as you lie sideways on your hips, face angled above his own. Your eyes travel to his that stare at the sky, and you swim in intoxicating pools of mercury, bedazzled by the reflections of rhinestones sewn into the night sky. Osamu tries to look at the stars, he really does, yet his noticeable glances at your flushed cheeks are enough to catch your attention. Somewhere downstairs, a bet has been won as fists slam into tables and cheers erupt from the bar. Somewhere on this roof, your hair hangs loose in the elastic that's unwinding from your head, a silk cover draping over a Roman statue.

"Can weee... try something?"

#2: Miya Osamu would like to kiss along the side of a neck

Osamu likes to make fun of you the mornings after you stay over at his place, from the second you shoot up from his bed and storm into his kitchen, where he prepares onigiris to shake away the hangover from the night before. Once, a few years ago, he had to run to the nearest convenience store for bruise cream, all to help ease away purple marks the size of someone else's mouth on your neck. He deliberately fucked around when helping you, poking at different spots until you slapped him and snatched the canister of cream from his hands. Whose fault was it that you now look like you can't 'curl your hair?' He had spat out. Osamu knows that he only made fun of the purple splotches because they weren't his own.

"Are you...sure?"

"Yeaah!"

Osamu is cautious, hands hovering above your waist as the two of you lie on your sides. What he's doing, he isn't sure. After all, in his twenty-four years of living amongst the likes of you, and in eight of those years spent watching you from the corners of his eyes, he has never touched anyone like this. Not their hands, not their face, not their waist. He moves away from your waist, opting to graze his pinky with yours instead. You tangle your fingers with his, holding his hand tight against your own. His calluses are hard beneath your soft palms, toughened through trials of time and effort. You lead his hand up to the side of your neck, and release it there. Osamu lets it mold into the shape of you, palm fitting on your body as if it was carved for only his touch.

"Feels right?"

"...Feels good, 'samu."

You return his touch with a hand cupping his cheek, and something unfamilar, more dizzying than the shots he took, surges through Osamu's entire being. He turns his face to your touch, and his mouth just makes contact with the lines on your palm. They're soft, so warm against his lips, and he presses them a little deeper, a satisfied hum voicing itself from your throat.

"Do you...like that too?"

"I...do. Is it okay if you keep going?"

He nods, pulling your face towards him as he turns away from your palm, and planting a kiss on your forehead instead. Your breathy sigh is music to his ears, and he lets his lips linger on your skin. But Osamu is only doing this for a friend, a friend who is confused about what feels good, and what feels wrong. A friend who hasn't felt genuine touch since the night they showed up at his house, hickeys decorating their neck. He remembers your grumbles beneath your breath as you slathered the cream across every single purple stain, fuck, it hurts. He didn't get it then, and he doesn't get it now. How could this touch ever hurt, when everything about it seems tailor-made for the mouth that gives?

"Was that okay?"

"...Yeah, that was nice."

Osamu's eyes migrate to your cheeks now, flushed and red even in the guise of darkness that encompasses the air around you. He wants to see them smile. He moves from your forehead, and his vision darts between each of your eyes. Your breath hitches at his staring, and it gets stuck in your throat when fluttering warmth lands on your left cheekbone, then your right. His hair tickles your forehead, body now impossibly close to yours as his hands massage and stroke at your neck. You think about slipping your hands beneath his shirt, so you can touch him the way he's doing to you, bare skin and all, and you smile.

"Do you want a few more?"

You don't want just a few more, you want it all.

"Yeah, do what feels right, 'samu."

He grins, dipping into your neck as he peppers kisses across its length. You squirm and giggle at the sensation, his breaths and hair tickling your sensitive skin.

"'S-samu! That tickles! Something else! Please!"

He laughs into your neck, before coming back up to meet your eyes. Your figure is getting blurry beneath his vision, either from the alcohol still running through his system, or something else- something better, more addicting too.

Then Osamu's got his lips on your own, and you're slipping your hands beneath his shirt the way that you thought you wanted to. His torso is smooth beneath your fingertips, and he shivers, sending trembles from his body to yours. He can't see a thing beneath his eyelids, but his hands find the skin of your waist instinctively. His hands were made for this, he thinks. Not to pick at his calluses or to trace lines into his palms. No, they were made for you, made to hold your waist against his own. Your hands travel from his torso to his back, feeling for the dip in his spine as you push him close, even closer than he already is.

"Do you like me, 'samu?" You mumble against his lips at the chance, and he gives you a shit eating, albeit smitten smirk in response.

"I think you know that already. But maybe…”

His head inches towards the side of your own, sending a hot breath into your ear. His hand slides towards the centre of your stomach from your waist, irritatingly slow.

“…I would like you better if you took off your clothes."

#1: Miya Osamu would like to kiss you

author's note:

i'll kiss u fr if u know what song this is made from because i can't get it out of my head like it's SO GOOD also i need osamu like this too he's a YEARNING MAN HERE!!! this is the apology for all the angst i've been pumping out lately i know i've hurt a few souls but it's nothing a yearning osamu fic can't fix bbs

anyways tags!!

@chuuya-brainrot @starlysama @catsoupki @akaakeis @fiannee @bailey-reeds @hiraethwa @iiwaijime

ok bye bye see u next fic pookies love u guys

[gardens-light]

On The Run

After discovering Optimus Prime in your family barn, normality seemed to briefly throw itself out of the window.

The leader of the Autobots couldn't be anymore in your debt. For as you spend every waking moment putting him back together- repairing and replacing parts of him to the best of your skill.

Admittedly, he almost gave up on humanity. As time seemed to prove itself that they would always look after their own, and protect what's theirs- no matter the cost. Betrayal unleashed it's ugly face to him multiple times, slapping him with the reality that Earth may not be safe for him and his Autobots anymore.

Yet here you stand before him. A warm smile with an aura of glittering hope, burning away his darkness of doubt. It was as though the Universe itself spoke through you, giving Optimus a warmth he thought was forgotten long ago. But he cannot help wander... how far could his trust in you really go...?

Content: Mild coarse language. Events takes place in Transformers- Age of Extinction. (Minor spoilers.) Mention of weaponry. Reader insert.

Word count- 2,800k

Sparkmate Series: Part 1 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 (End)

"Don't move like that."

Your hands pressed against Optimus' chest plate as you stood upon the scaffolding.

"The welds are still fresh. Transforming back into your truck form could ruin them- it would be like undoing stitches on a wound."

His Spark burst like small firecrackers as your delicate fingers brushed across his chassis. Jolts of electricity rush through his wires, as your touch run up towards his neck. Heat swept through his metal plates, as you reached up towards his cheek.

"You still need to heal, Big Guy. You of all people should know these things takes time..."

Optimus' optics snapped open. Your touch still lingering upon his chest plate like a ghostly inferred sensation. The memory of the previous hours of the day, playing on repeat within his processors. The haze of sleepiness soon rubbed off, his surroundings becoming faminular again.

His optics scanned the barn, the nocturnal wildlife outside disturbed the still night air. Your small whimpers of your voice caught his attention, Optimus' spark gave a warming glow as he looked down at you.

Engine grease staining your hands, as you curled up upon an old couch. Sleeping peacefully on your side, resting your head in the crook of your elbow.

Optimus' servo touched his lower abdomen, his digits feeling a fresh weld stretching up his side. A gentle sigh left him.

She must of pulled another all nighter.

Grabbing a blanket with his free servo, Optimus carefully draped it along your body. Allowing the tip of his index finger to trace your curves.

His Spark hummed, filling his chest with gentle warmth. Optimus quickly pulled away from you, placing his servo over his Spark.

No. Closing his optics, a heavy sigh left his mouth. Shaking his helm before the thought could permanently fixed itself to his processors. Nothing like that exists. It's just a romanticide idea...

---

"Y/N!" Tessa's voice shouted from the porch.

Stopping mid-weld upon Optimus' side. Gently tapping on the metal sheet, signaling for the Autobot to hold it in place while you pulled down your goggles around your neck.

"I don't like the tone of her voice..." you looked up at Optimus. He saw the worry shining in your eyes. "Hold that tightly, it's only half welded. Hide in there."

His optics followed your pointed finger, "go underneath the floorboards. It might be cramped for you, but it keep you be safe. Don't come out till I say."

Quickly leaving the barn and closing the door behind you. Swallowing down your nerves, as the sight of multiple black cars parked all across the gravel driveway and front lawn. Followed by your dad's truck.

"Oh no..."

A helicopter hovered a few meters away from the house. Disturbing the still air. As soon as the black vehicles parked, multiple heavy armoured individuals got out and scouted the farm.

A man wearing a leather jacket and sunglasses approached you, as your dad came to your side.

"Sweetie..?"

"I donno, Dad-"

"Mr Cade Yeager, my name is James Savoy. I'm a federal agent." Savoy took a look around the property. "My men and I are trying to track down an abandoned truck."

You watched one of the men walk past Tessa. Her eyes staring something in her hands, her fingers playing with the object. You saw her adjusting her breath to a calm rhythm, before looking up in your direction.

"It's a nice spread you've got here." Your attention turned back to Savoy. "Too bad she's up for sale."

"Thanks, and she's not." Cade boldly spoke. "And do you mean that truck?" he pointed to an vintage ute covered in rust, the grass and flowers started to reclaim it for many years now.

"Afraid not... y'know Mr Yeager. We received a call from someone whom is concerned about this truck. That wasn't you?"

You briefly glanced daggers to Tessa's direction. She quickly shook her head rapidly, using her index finger to draw a cross over her heart.

"The only thing I'm concerned about is you being on my property without permission."

Savoy scoffed at your dad's words.

"You know, there's a rule about people messing with people from Texas-"

"And we don't know what truck you're talking about."

Savoy took a step towards you, taking off his sunglasses allowing his narrowed stare to burn into your eyes. "The kind that cost American lives!... Ma'am..."

Savoy studied your firm expression before turning back to his men, "search the property!"

"What? What you mean 'search the property'? You don't have a warrant!" Cade protested.

Savoy glared at him, stepping into Cade's personal space. "My face is my warrant"

You swallowed nervously, trying to keep steady shallow breaths as you watched the men move throughout the farm. Roaming into the house and approaching the barn. Voices scratched over their radios, as the buzz of drones flew above.

Cade turned and looked at you, "what is going on Y/N?-"

"I don't know, Dad..."

His brown eyes studied you, "you sure?... I'm happy to vouch for you but I need to know what it is."

You hesitated before speaking, " I. Don't. Know..."

---

"The fuck is all this junk?"

"A hoarder's yard. That's what."

Optimus looked up at the floorboards, hearing voices and footsteps of the agents entering the barn. Trying to lower himself further down in the cramped floor space, his face wincing in pain as the half welded sheet dug into his thighs. Automatically covering it up with his servo.

"Clear!"

"Clear!"

A groan escaped from an agent's lips. His footsteps retreating back to the barn doors, "there's no signs. We've got nothing."

Optimus rested his helm against the dirt wall.

"Sir! We have a live armed missile in the trash!"

The Autobot's wide optics quickly glanced up back up.

Oh no... Y/N!!

---

"Shit..." you hissed under your breath. Feeling Cade's questioning daggers immediately turning your way.

"I-I thought it was a dud." You lowly admitted. Hands clenched into fists.

Savoy's glaze switched between you and Cade.

"Look! Okay, yes. Yes, I found a truck. All right!" you admitted.

Tessa kept shaking her head. Cade leaned towards you, muttering your name.

"I towed it back for the parts, and left it here on the driveway last night. This morning it was gone." You gazed at Savoy. "When? Where? I don't know- I swear to God. That's as much as I know about him!"

You tried to approach Tessa. Eyes staring at the ground, Cade's voice shouted questions at you as he followed. But Savoy grabbed your arm.

"Ma'am-"

"What?-"

"You just said 'him'." Savoy smiled as your terrified expression told him everything. "Take them down!"

Your heart jumped into your throat. Fear running up your spine, as the agents forcefully grabbed Cade and Tessa, throwing them down against the grass.

"They don't know about the truck!" you protested. "I know! I know about it! Please, let them go!"

Savoy grabbed your jaw, forcefully making you look at him. "What kind of woman betrays her flesh-and-blood brethren, for some alien metal?"

"He's more human than you ever be!"

He groaned, wiping your spit away from his face. Savoy's fist made contact with your face, two agents restrained you by the arms holding you up. As Savoy grabbed your jaw again.

Clicking his fingers, the agents restraining Cade and Tessa pulled out their weapons. Clocking the gun and removing the safety.

"You'd kill my family?!-"

"If I have to. You've got ten seconds to tell me where the truck is."

Cade fought against the agent whom knelt against his back. "Don't you fucking dare touch my daughters! Hurt them and I'll kill you!"

Tears ran down Tessa's face as she yelled out for you and Cade. The sound of a gunshot made you flinch.

"Next one will go through your father's head." Savoy warned. "Now, the truck-"

"I've told you everything I know!" you protested. "He was here, and now he's gone! That's all I swear!"

---

"I'm telling you the truth!" your voice cried. Hearing the pain in your tone made Optimus' Spark weep. "He's not here! I swear! He's not here!"

"Tell your men to back off! Don't you dare fucking shoot my daughters!"

"Y/N! Y/N! Please!"

The cries from you and your family wurld around Optimus' head. Hearing Savoy countdown from ten, as he continued yelling his demands at you.

Optimus withdraw his cannon from his back plates. Clocking it, allowing the weapon to light up and wurl. Allowing his face guard to untuck from his faceplate and cover his mouth.

Let's roll!

Erupting from underground, Optimus opened fire at his enemies. Blowing them out of the way, and reducing the barn to splinters.

"Here I am!" his machical voice roared, standing at his full height. Allowing all to see him.

His Spark pulsating fast as his optics laid on you. Rage filled him as he changed the output of his cannon, firing non-lethal EMP's in your direction.

"Stay away from her!"

You knelt to the ground, using your arms to shield you from the blast as the agents flew away from you. Tessa and Cade quickly rushed to your side.

"What the fuck is going on?" Cade yelled over the comotion.

"Run Y/N!" you looked up at Optimus as his cannon returned to deadly rounds. "They're going to kill you! Get out of here!"

Heeding the Autobot's warning, grabbing your sister and dad by their hands. Running towards the wheatfield on the left of the farm. Two missiles came from above. Turning your once family home into nothing but rubble.

Without warning the sound of a car engine roared in the air, quickly stopping at the bottom of the wheatfield. As a white Hatchback raced down the hill, and came skidding to a halt before the three of you.

The passenger door flew open. "Hurry! Get in the car!" the male driver yelled.

"Daddy! Y/N! Get in the car!" Tessa shouted. Shoving your dad into the front passenger seat, and trying to pull you into the back with her.

"What about Optimus? We can't just leave him!-"

"Stop protesting, Y/N! And get in the car!"

"Perimeter! Optimus moving your way!" Savoy yelled into the receiver of his radio.

Optimus looked ahead. Breathing a little easier, once his scanners assured him you were at a safe distance. Seeing the Hatchback race down the road, a low groan escaped Optimus' mouth as he crouched down. Forcing his metal plates to shift, loud churning noises rumbled throughout his mechanical body, as he transformed back into a truck.

You and Tessa clung onto the roll cage for dear life, as the hatchback raced down the open fields.

"What's happening, baby? Who are these guys?" the male driver asked Tessa, looking at her reflection through the rearview mirror.

"It's the truck!" she yelled over the engine. "They want my sister's truck!-"

"Truck?! What truck?!" Cade looked at you over his shoulder. He turned to Tess, "who are 'they'?" his attention fell back onto the male driver. "Who are you? And who the hell are you calling, 'baby?'-"

Tessa and the driver paused.

"I know you heard me!-"

"He's Tessa's boyfriend!" you cried out.

Cade's eyes widened, "what?-"

"His name is Shane! I saw him leaving Tessa's room in his underwear!"

"What?!-"

Tessa punched your arm, "well Y/N brought home a Transformer!"

You punched her back. "If you're going to tell a secret. At least get it right! Optimus was already in the barn!"

"At least I tried to keep your secret!-"

"If we survive this. You two girls have a lot of explaining to do!" Cade shouted.

You and Tessa slouched back in the rear seats.

Shane bit his lip, hesitating for a moment before speaking. "Mr Yeager, this was not how I wanted us to meet ok?-"

"Introduction later!" Cade yelled. "Just shut up and drive the car!"

Two black cars appeared in Shane's rearview mirror. Putting the accelerator closer to the ground, the Hatchback raced through the neighboring paddocks.

"I'm going to try and lose them in the cornfield!" Shane spoke over the roaring engine, as he took a sharp right turn. Driving down a dirt road, kicking up dust and dirt behind him.

A scream left your mouth, as your wide-eyed gaze saw one of the black cars quickly emerging from the tall corn. "Watch out!-"

"Brace for impact!"

Heeding Shane's warning, you and Tessa grabbed hold of the handles above the passenger door. Reaching out for one another, as the car t-boned into the side of Shane.

Screams filled the car, as everyone tried to shield their eyes from the rain of glass. Forcing the Hatchback off the dirt track and into the tall field, Shane kept surprising control of the car. The vehicle swerved in and out of trees.

The speed chase continued onto the main road. Shane weaved in and out of oncoming traffic, effortlessly changing lanes and avoiding pedestrians. Other drivers bleeped their horns and flashed their headlights.

Tessa scrunched up her face, as the sound of crashing cars piled up behind as Shane drove through red lights. And sped through traffic.

Your heart beat hard against your ribcage. Anxiety and adrenaline raced through your veins. Closing your eyes and placing a hand over your stomach as Shane drifted around a corner.

"Great! Now they're firing at us!" Tessa said as bullets ricocheted off the Hatchback.

You and her quickly braced yourselves against the driver and front passenger seat.

"Man! I don't know how I'm driving so good!" Shane exclaimed with a smile. "It's like, today I've gone to a whole other level-"

"Road! Focus!" Cade shouted.

"Shane! Look out!" he drifted around another corner as Tessa's warning came to him.

Your stomach turned into a sickening knot, "I honestly don't know how long I can hold myself together-"

"Y/N! If you throw up on my jeans. I will never forgive you!"

You looked up at Tessa, giving her questioning eyes. "That's your concern right now?!-"

"Hang on!" Shane momentarily stopped the car. Skidding to the side, before putting his foot down on the pedal again and crashing through an empty cafe.

Exiting through the back alley and down an old, forgotten road.

"Lose them through the factory, Shane!"

"You got it, Babe!"

Racing around the empty car park of an abandoned factory. Swerving around corners and driving through large gaps in the building.

"I thought you knew how to drive this thing!" you shouted, as it appeared nothing Shane did was working in losing the tail chasers.

Optimus' Spark raced through his wires, as he drifted and turned through the factory. His scanners having a hard time keeping track of the little Hatchback. Metal plates shifted and groaned as he unleashed his full height, jumping from roof to roof of the factory in an attempt to keep up with you.

You quickly looked out the back window, as Optimus' voice called out for you. Your eyes widening as he rolled in the way of the black cars, causing them to slam into him and setting alight upon collision.

"Take them upstairs!" Tessa pointed from the backseat.

"We're gonna lose them on the fifth floor!" Shane agreed.

The knot in your stomach tightened as the Hatchback entered a multi-story car park. Your skin turned pale, bracing yourself against the back of your dad's seat, as the car drifted around corners and moved up the levels.

"Do that thing, Shane!"

"You know it-"

"What? What thing?" your panicky tone questioned.

"What we're about to do is gonna be kinda scary." Somehow Shane's tone didn't sound much of a warning, as he failed to hide the excitement in his tone.

Pressing the accelerator fully against the floor, Shane looked at Tessa through the rearview mirror. "Ready, Babe?"

"Got it" she said, leaning as far forward as she could. Grabbing onto the handbrake.

"Three. Two. One.. Pull!"

At Shane's command, Tessa pulled the handbrake as hard as she could. Causing the car to sharply stop, then turn right and continue racing towards a ramp that hung out of a window.

"No! No! No!" Cade cried.

The pit of your stomach lifted during the brief seconds of weightlessness. Until it dropped hard once gravity pulled you back down. A high pitch scream left your mouth, hands clutching into the back of Cade's seat, ripping the fabric. As you closed your eyes tightly.

By some miracle the Hatchback roughly landed on a ramp upon the ground. The two black cars behind you wasn't so lucky.

"You two girls are so grounded!" Cade shouted, as Shane drifted around one more corner.

Churning and clunking noises begun to erupt from the engine. The car finally came to an abrupt halt, as Shane slammed on the breaks.

Smoke begun to leak out of the hood.

"Shit! We gotta go!"

Shane and Cade quickly got out of the Hatchback. Optimus blared his horn, rolling up a few feet behind.

"Optimus!" you shouted as Cade helped you get out of the car.

The four of you ran towards the rusty truck. Quickly dodging the rain of bullets from above. Once safely inside, the Autobot sped out of the car park and raced towards the entrance to the highway.

[yois2aki]

੭୧ if i can't save you... . ۫

chishiya shuntaro x g!n reader

— warnings: fluff, descriptions of typical aib violence, fits both manga and live action, one singular suggestive remark, no use of y/n.

— summary: you arrive from a particularly rough game to an almost empty beach, thankfully there's still a specific doctor awake to treat your wounds.

— word count: 2.4k

your leg barely healed from the last game, and you had to play again already.

it was a wonder why there were so many people left in the borderlands. if it weren't for your high ranking on the beach's hierarchy and the minor hope you had to leave this world once all the cards were collected, you would have probably given up. 

it was tiring and stressful. even though so many people were living life as if deathly games weren't waiting for them the next day, you just couldn't brush away the fear of a laser hitting you on the head out of nowhere or waking up with once again new rules to the games.

you waddled to the beach's main hall entrance with the few survivors from the game you played. the three of spades should have been easy, but even you underestimated it, getting scratched violently by a black panther in between. all that mattered was that you were alive, and soon the wound would heal itself like every other did (not really, your leg was full of dried blood, stopping the wounds from opening, but still in critical condition.)

all you had to do was go to your room, take a shower, and go to sleep. there was an executive meeting going on, but you were too unbothered to even care about the hatter's waste of time. you realized everyone you knew would be either sleeping, partying, or at the so-called meeting, which was more of a lecture.

while walking around the hotel rooms, you relished the quietness. it had been a while since you were able to rest, and all you needed was a bed and a pillow to pass out on. that was until a figure in a white jacket showed up in one of the corners of the hall.

"what the-!" you gasped, jumping back at the surprise and placing a hand almost immediately on your chest while trying to catch your breath. dramatic? maybe a little. but you did get scared at his sudden presence.

chishiya stood in place while staring at you. upon regaining your composure, you looked up and noticed he had his signature raised eyebrow look, and you felt the need to explain what went on. "i didn't expect to see you there. aren't you supposed to be at the meeting?"

in reality, you had never been that close to chishiya, apart from the usual small talk due to being both executive members. you had no idea what was going on inside his head at any moment; his expression was definitely unreadable. every time you two were placed together somewhere, the awkwardness made itself present. even if you'd try and engage in a little chat, he'd end it too quickly for you to feel stupid for even trying. if he knew your name, you would be surprised.

instead of answering, chishiya kept silent. usual, you thought to yourself. as your mind ran around looking for ways to end this awkward situation, chishiya's gaze seemed to be elsewhere. your eyes finally met his, but his didn't meet yours. instead, he fixed himself on your legs. 

"you're bleeding," he said bluntly.

"oh..." you looked down at your own legs, bending slightly to take a look at the situation. your mouth opened agape once you noticed just how bad your wounds looked.

you didn't realize it the moment you got it, but the scratch from earlier must have messed up with some other of your past injuries, opening both of them up. a trail of blood was running down your legs, and as you glimpsed to the floor, you realized it was also stained by so. for how long has it been like this? you wondered. 

"yes, i'll take care of it later..." you mumbled pathetically.

it was quite embarrassing to be in this position, especially in front of chishiya. for some reason, you always messed up your words when talking to him or anyone superior overall. maybe it was because you'd picture a whole dialogue in your mind before speaking, and when actually doing it, words came out messed up and switched.

you finally looked up with the stupidest expression on your face, realizing chishiya's eyebrow had only raised more. you bit your lip in embarrassment as he spoke up again. "if you take care of that the same way you did with your other wounds, you'd be better leaving it how it is."

if you could be more ashamed than you were, you would. perhaps he was just trying to get under your skin, but the only thing you wanted to do was get out of this situation. 

you stood there awkwardly as your gaze never met his, unsure of what to say next. instead, he was the one to break the silence.

"follow me." he said after a sigh left his mouth.

and you did exactly so. or at least you tried. you noticed that chishiya didn't even bother to look behind to see if you were actually following, but you also noticed he was moving slower than he usually did, probably because he knew you could barely hold yourself on your own two feet. you weren't even sure how you knew how fast he normally walks.

your thoughts were interrupted as you realized he was actually taking you to his room. you knew this path like the back of your hand since you would always watch where he was going after the executive meetings. this was where you registered that you had been analyzing every single one of chishiya's movements without even knowing it. you probably looked like a creep as soon as you grasped it all.

chishiya opened the door to his room and finally looked at you, as well as at the trail of blood you left behind. something in his gaze — you could not understand what — changed as his movements hurried slightly.

"sit down in a comfortable position," he demanded with a voice that almost seemed caring, pointing to his bed.

you did as asked, although you struggled to be in a pleasant posture due to your legs almost opening apart. 

this seemed all too weird to you. the chishiya that barely looked your way for more than five seconds was the same chishiya that was now leaving his suite with a first aid kit, seemingly prepared to treat your wounds without even asking.

"why are you doing this?" you couldn't help but interrogate. his latest actions were way too out of character, at least to the chishiya you made up in your mind.

"i was bored," he replied sarcastically, a tone of irony present in his voice. now this was more like the chishiya you knew, even though it was obvious that wasn't the real motive.

you wanted to keep smothering him with questions because your mind was way too confused to function properly, but your line of thought was put back as you saw him kneel before you and open the box he positioned on the bed. you would have folded and turned into a blushing mess right there and then, if it weren't for the agonizing pain that decided to come back.

you got a quick glimpse of what the box held: gauze roles, sterile gauze pads, eye pads, a roll of adhesive tape, elastic bandages, sterile cotton balls... your head started almost immediately hurting looking at all the utensils that you had barely any idea what did.

"relax. focus on staying awake." chishiya said it with that same voice from way before, tense but almost sweet. he gathered something on one of the cotton pads; you could not figure out what, as your mind almost went blank. "this will hurt."

and as he finished his sentence, not a single second was left for you to process as he started patting your wounds with it. you immediately hissed at the pain, tears threatening to spill from your eyes as you bit into your hand in a way to muffle your whimpers.

your head moved away from the scenario. even though you wanted to keep your eyes on such a focused chishiya, you would have probably passed out from looking at the amount of blood leaving your leg. especially now that, with the alcohol-coated cotton, which you developed a deep hatred for, he had removed the thin layer of dried blood left, securing your wounds.

he moved the piece of pad very quickly around your wounds, removing the blood as fast as he could, probably to make the process faster and less hurtful. the thing is that, if he were more patient, the pain would probably not be half as bad as it is right now. however, you were too dazed to tell him to be more gentle. tears finally ran down your cheeks as you did your best to keep one hand holding you on the bed and the other brushing them away and covering your mouth at the same time.

even through all the pain, your biggest worry was how stupid you probably looked in front of a guy who must have had something to do with the medical department — you assumed by the way he seemed so professional right now.

"calm down. the worst part is almost over." he said, not bothering to look up to guess that you were driving yourself crazy with tears from your whimpers and constant sniffling.

his words managed to comfort you for about 3 seconds, as he finally stopped moving the torturing device on your leg and you opened up your eyes, only to realize he was just picking up another one and coating it with alcohol once again.

before you could even process it, you audibly groaned in disapproval, almost forgetting who was just below you. 

he suddenly stopped, his head finally lifting to look at you with that unbothered classical look, his mouth slightly open. you looked at him hesitantly, your eyes still coated with tears and your face somewhat puffy, quickly realizing your mistake.

"would you prefer for me to leave your leg as it is?" he said it with a superior tone. even though the sentence was formed as a question, you could tell he definitely didn't mean it as one. more like a reprimand.

"sorry..." you muttered under your breath, your eyes immediately drifting away from his, trying to avoid getting his confront once more.

he kept his eyes on you for a second before sighing and shaking his head, his attention going back to your leg as he started to move the cotton pad once again. you hissed between your teeth, your hand moving back to your mouth as you closed your eyes as strongly as you could to avoid any tears from spilling.

to your benefit, this part ended quickly as he finally finished cleaning your wounds. you sighed in relief, now only a sharp but endurable pain left on your leg as you finally relaxed your muscles until he spoke up again.

"your injuries aren't that serious. you were lucky you ran onto me." he commented, staring at his newly finished job. so much, it almost made your head hurt. "there is a specific cut that would normally need to be sewn together, though. however, we don't want to hear any more whining tonight, do we?"

his words traveled immediately to your heart, your face heating up for the nth time during this whole interaction, unable to even stare at him. 

from this moment on, your mind just went somewhere else as he finished patching up your leg. you couldn't lie and say that by the time he was finished, you didn't feel much fresher and calmer, being able to look at your leg and see it coated in white instead of red. 

he finally got up with a sigh and stored everything back into his first aid kit box, entering his suite and placing it back wherever he hid it.

"thank you; sorry if it was an inconvenience," you said in a low voice when he came back. your eyes stuck on your leg, moving it around as if you never had two functional limbs before.

he stared at you, seemingly having fun with your own stuff, with a smirk on his face that, if you had caught onto it, you would have died of embarrassment once again.

"now, be careful not to get wounded like that again." he commented, turning his back to you and moving around the bed, looking for something you didn't pay attention to on one of his shelves. "i might not be as gentle as i was this time."

you were brought back from the moon as he finished his sentence. that was him being gentle? you could practically hear the smirk on his face when he said that, but it still managed to get you thinking. you knew better than to complain, though.

"what were you before coming here?" you remembered wondering a few moments before, due to his skills in treating you. the question came out without thinking twice.

you could hear him stop while looking for whatever it was when you asked that, to which he answered quickly. "i studied medicine. i wasn't a doctor yet, though."

if chishiya could have gotten any hotter to you, he just did. you bit your lip, breaking your process of thinking before your thoughts led you elsewhere. 

"that doesn't mean i wasn't smarter than most of the fools that call themselves doctors at the hospital i studied at." 

there was that snarky response chishiya was missing, you thought. you turned around to see him, finally realizing that he was actually looking for something between his shirts. you tried to peek into it, but he suddenly pulled something out that looked like a soda can, with a few cables around it. he finally moved closer to you again, handing you the item.

"it's a bomb," he added, as you rolled it around your fingers, trying to figure out how it worked. "so you can be more prepared when playing. make sure not to use it on yourself."

he clearly meant the last part as a joke, but that was something that the percentage of happening wasn't zero, you had to admit. "thanks."

even though chishiya seemed stern, there was something about him that attracted you. and something that made him help you tonight, about which you still weren't sure, happened to make you more confused. you wondered about asking him again, but knowing the littlest bit about him would make you sure that he'd just avoid the question once again. at least your leg was patched up, and you could go to sleep peacefully tonight.

— a/n: aaahh im debuting on this account... hope you guys like this little babble i made a few days ago. aib fever is back and i have a lot to say, might as well spill it out! i will make a masterlist soon enough. feel free to leave requests (if it's working) (╥﹏╥)

[sunflowersteves]

hello lovely!! can i request some protective!miguel who saves his love from a villain?

jo!!! my love!!! of course u can 😌 i made it so miguel loves r so much he gives up canon events HELLO I-

pairing || miguel x f!reader

warnings || injury, blood, violence, angry miguel, protective miguel, we're also pretending his venom heals, this is so much more angsty than i thought

Blood.

The thick, dripping red liquid started to stain the concrete floors of the abandoned building. Miguel smelt the coppery substance before his eyes landed on the ground, then following the source and he could feel every single muscle on his body tense.

Your abdomen.

Miguel wasn't sure when it happened. You weren't sure when it happened.

One minute you were swung to safety by Miguel as he fought Carnage, and the next your body was pushed up against the wall as an iron rod pierced your lower abdomen.

Your eyes widened in shock before your hands immediately attached to the metal. Your breath hitched as pain radiated through your body—the adrenaline that coursed through your veins didn't seem to be helping all that much.

"Miguel." You whispered. It was so quiet—too quiet. Your vision started to become hazy as the blood continued to seep into your pretty black-laced dress.

Today was a special day. It was June 28th—the day that you met Miguel.

You had been stuck in the Upper West side of the city when someone attacked your work building. You had been late that day as your alarm clock had failed to do its job that morning.

You had rushed to put on clothes and ran down to the subway lines. You knew you were fucked if you were late today. However, a giant lizard had put a stop to your plans as it scaled the skyscraper.

You just stood in shock from across the street as you clutched your bag and put a hand over your mouth.

Then, you heard a deep voice from behind. "You need to get out of here."

You could only smile fondly at the memory. Today, Miguel had surprised you into bringing you flowers after work. He was gonna take you to a special spot—his favorite restaurant.

You cried out in pain as the building rumbled from the force of Miguel's attack onto the enemy. You looked down and whimpered—the loss of blood seemingly piling around you more.

"Miguel." You whispered, hoping that you could stay awake.

~

Miguel wasn't sure exactly what had happened. All he could see was your blood. All he could smell was your blood.

It made him feel red. It made him see red.

"Voy a matarte. Te lo prometo." It was deep. A growl vibrated at the base of his throat and the whole sentence sounded like a groan. He promised.

He promised that Carnage would not see another day.

His claws swiped and dug into carnage's black goo flesh. Carnage just laughed before staring at the pure crimson of Miguel's eyes. Something clicked inside of him—something dark and brewing as the sight of your blood was played over and over in his head.

Carnage groaned in pain as Miguel continued to dig and claw his way through. Eventually he managed to slice through Kletus' skin on his abdomen, all while carnage screamed in pain of the host.

He swiped again, and again. Again and again. Rage bubbled to the surface at the picture of your eyes closed. Sadness enveloped his heart as the future attempted to flash before his eyes of a funeral dedicated to you.

Is this a canon event?

"Miguel, I-" Your sentence was cut off by a cough. Miguel's head whipped over to you and his heart palpitated by fatigued look on your face.

He wasn't sure how he had heard you. He doesn't have spider hearing like the rest of the spider-people or have spidey senses. Honestly, he didn't care.

His fist stopped mid air—paused between punches and claws. He looked at the man before him. Blood seeped through the blackened goo of Carnage. Bits of flesh clung to Miguel's suit. If he wasn't preoccupied by you, he would have realized that Miguel almost killed him.

His moved fast, desperately darting to you and pressing a hand against your cheek. "I'm here, querida. I'm here. Don't—don't fall asleep, okay? I'm right here."

He pleaded. He begged.

You gasped out a breath as Miguel's shoulders sagged in relief. You're awake. You're alive.

"Miguel. It hurts." You whimpered. Another drop of blood dripped from your wound.

"I know, baby. I know. I've got you."

In his head, though, he was panicking. The metal rod had completely gone through your back and was lodged into the wall behind you. You were stuck.

Tears pricked his eyes as his breath started to rapidly build. You were going to die. You were going to die. It all seemed to repeat over and over in his head.

He can't lose you. He can't lose another family again. Not again.

His eyebrows furrowed as he stared at your fading figure. His hands settled themselves onto your hips and he gently pulled you closer to him to get the rod out of your body.

Your screams echoed into the abandoned building. The rod sliced through each muscle and tissue of your abdomen as he continued to pull. "I know, please. Lo siento, lo siento—"

He rested his forehead onto yours for comfort. You screamed his name again as he seemed to pull harder. "Miguel! Please, please, please—"

"I know, cariño. P-Please—just—" Your body fell limp into his arms as he successfully pulled the rod out.

your eyes were snapped shut as the pain became too much. Your breathing was haggard and Miguel knew he didn't have much time left.

He had no time left.

He gently moved the strap of your dress. His fingers brushed against your soft skin and his mind reeled from the idea of never hearing your laughter again. Is this a canon event? He asks once more.

In a panic from his thoughts, his teeth sunk into your flesh and he let his venom flow through your veins. He let the venom heal the broken parts of your skin. He bunched up the side of your dress so he could watch as the wound started to slowly heal itself.

He looked down to see that your breathing had evened in your slumber. He made a promise to himself as he carried you back home. You would be protected. You would be unharmed. You would be safe.

Miguel will make damn sure of that for the rest of his waking life. Nothing and no one will ever do harm to you. Ever.

He tucked you neatly into bed and pressed a kiss to your hair line. "I'm never letting you go."

He held in his breath. He felt tears start to prick his water line again. "Te amo." He whispered into the dark. He felt his chest blossom with guilt, relief, and happiness all at once.

One day, he might say that to your face and watch as your eyes lighted with joy. For now, he was going to show you his earth-shattering love through bandage changes and cuddles.

Fuck the canon and fuck Carnage.

[hero-of-the-wolf]

This is for the lovely @la-sera , based on this comic here. I really admire your art, and you're such a kind person, so I wanted to write a little something for you :) I hope you like it!!!

Hyrule wasn’t a squeamish person. He couldn’t afford to be with his line of work, but even before he’d taken up sword and shield to fight for his beloved land he’d never been one to shy away from the reality of death. He’d do all in his power to spare the people of Hyrule from it, whether they appreciated it or not, and in turn administered it to every fell beast and monster that plagued his home. That was simply what heroes did.

And so battle after battle, with his eight new brothers in arms, he strove to help in every way he could. He knew that he wasn’t the strongest fighter, but he could hold his own in a fight well enough, and he had spells that the others didn’t know. Hyrule pulled on his magic now, jumping up over a moblin to slash at its head. It roared in outrage, clumsily swiping at him, trying to snatch him out of the air. But Hyrule was faster. He landed and, using his momentum, spun around to thrust his sword through the monster’s back. With a dying gurgle it collapsed at his feet and exploded into black smoke.

This particular battle had been especially brutal. They’d already been low on healing supplies when they’d gotten ambushed, and it’d only gotten worse from there. With no more red potions or fairies, it was all down to Hyrule and his magic.

He rushed to Wind and Four’s sides next. He couldn’t linger for too long trying to catch his breath; the others needed his help. The little pirate had been shot, felled by an archer’s arrow. Already Wind had tears shining in his eyes but he stubbornly refused to let them fall.

“I can’t move my left leg,” he rasped, his voice shaking from the force of the surpressed emotion. “Does my leg have to be amputated? Like a pirate—”

“You’re already a pirate, Wind,” Four chastised gently.

Hyrule looked over the wound. The arrow was still firmly embedded into the sailor’s calf, blood slowly oozing out and dripping down his leg.

It could have been much worse.

“No, your leg doesn’t need to be amputated.” Hyrule held out a spare rag. “Here, bite this.”

“I’ll draw this arrow on the count of three,” Four added. “Ready?”

Wind nodded, a traitorous tear finally leaking free.

“One.”

Hyrule leaned forwards, waiting for his cue.

“Two!”

Four swifty pulled the arrow free. Wind flinched back, a startled cry tearing from his lips. Hyrule wasted no time, placing his hands against the puncture wound and summoning his life spell.

It didn’t take much magic to heal. When he was done Wind smiled at him gratefully, the color already returning to his face. Then he shot a glare at Four. “You could have waited till three.”

Certain that Wind was okay, Hyrule tuned out their conversation and turned his attention back to the battle around them. Four could handle it from here, the traveler’s help was needed elsewhere. The others weren’t faring much better, either.

He caught sight of Warriors next, sitting on the ground and clutching at his shoulder. As he drew closer he realized that the captain was bleeding heavily. He had his scarf pressed tightly against the wound, trying to stem the blood all by himself.

He looked up as Hyrule knelt at his side, his gaze glassy and unfocused. “You don’t… need to heal me, Rule.”

“I want to help you,” Hyrule insisted, reaching out to gently pull the sullied blue cloth away. That would be a hard stain to get out, he knew from experience.

“ ‘s too much… blood….”

Hyrule gently shooed away the captain’s resisting hands. “I don’t mind. Now let me see and heal your shoulder, before you lose more blood!”

Warriors finally relented, letting his hands fall limply into his lap and closing his eyes. Hyrule placed his own hands against the wound as gently as he could, closing his eyes as well and summoning his magic again.

There was so much blood. Hyrule wondered how long the captain had been bleeding, unwilling to call out for help. He resolved to be more observant in the future. None of his brothers would suffer needlessly, not if he could help it.

He’d barely even mended the wound back together when he heard a pained cry ring out across the field. His head snapped up, searching the chaos until he found the source of the noise. The champion had fallen, his body a reddish heap on the ground. Legend stood over him, not letting any monster get too close.

Warriors saw it, too. He squeezed the traveler’s arm in thanks. “Thank you. You’ve done enough.”

Hyrule nodded, squeezing his arm in return, before rushing over. Legend turned at his approach, relief washing over his face. He kneeled down with Hyrule, pulling Wild up into his arms.

“What happened?” Hyrule asked, assessing the damage. He could feel that familiar exhaustion already pulling at him, a clear indication that he was quickly running out of magic. He ignored it.

“Wolfos,” Legend panted. “Can you heal him?”

“Of course.”

Hyrule reached for the wound, summoning his magic yet again. Slowly, the flesh knit back together. Hyrule poured in every last drop. The wounds were deep, but he had enough to do the job. He had to.

Once he was satisfied that it was fully healed the traveler leaned back, his head swimming.

Legend noticed immediately. He reached into his bag, pulling out a bottle. “I have a green potion for your magic.”

Another scream. The sound of it sent Hyrule’s heart racing, every hair standing on end, before it abruptly cut off. Then there was the muffled thud of a body hitting the ground.

This battle wasn’t going well for them at all.

Hyrule accepted the potion gratefully, tipping it back and drinking the whole thing in one go. Then he rushed over to where the sound had come from to find Twilight cradling Time’s body. Hyrule’s breath caught at the sight.

“Time, why did you protect me?” Twilight was crying. He placed his hand at the back of Time’s head, pulling him closer. Blood ran down the side of the old man’s face, nearly obscuring it with crimson red. “No, Time! Open your eyes! Please, do-don’t leave me….”

It was hard to tell from a distance whether he was even still alive or not. That wasn’t going to stop Hyrule from doing what he could.

“I’m ready,” Hyrule panted, sliding to their sides. Twilight’s head snapped up at his sudden appearance, looking almost comically surprised. He reluctantly pulled back, letting Hyrule lean in to assess the damage.

Hyrule pressed his fingers against Time’s neck, ignoring a nearby clash of steel against steel that was far too close for comfort. The old man’s pulse was sluggish, but still strong. He turned his attention to the wound next. Head wounds were always tricky, but he knew that he could help.

He could feel Twilight’s eyes on him as he worked, watching with bated breath. The rancher always worried so much, but he seemed to especially lose his composure whenever Time was the one that was injured. It was hard not to wonder why.

By the time he’d finished healing their appointed leader and finally pulled back the battle around them had fallen silent. Hyrule got up, looking around once again. He spotted the chosen hero standing a ways away from the group, still heaving for breath. His tunic was steadily growing red, but either he didn’t notice or he didn’t care.

Hyrule marched over to the knight. “Sky! Let me heal your wound!”

Sky held his hands up placatingly, giving Hyrule a reassuring smile. “Oh, no need, Hyrule. I’m fine, it’s just a scratch.”

Ignoring his words, Hyrule reached out to poke around the wound, trying to gauge how bad it was. Sky immediately collapsed into a heap on the ground, gasping in pain.

Hyrule went down with him, placing a steadying hand on his back and frowning in concern. “Your wounds are deep. This can be dangerous if not treated immediately.”

Resigned to his fate, Sky didn’t resist as Hyrule finished off his magic, mending the wound back together. He gave him a grateful smile when he was done, one that the traveler gladly returned.

The battle over and everyone taken care of, Hyrule stepped away and let himself sit down roughly on the ground. His brothers were all okay.

He needed a nap.

The others set up camp around him, chatting quietly, the sound a pleasant hum washing over him. One by one each of the others came over, leaving gifts. Twilight’s pelt, Sky’s sailcloth, potions and milk and even an entire apple.

Hyrule got to work cutting the apple up into smaller pieces, struggling to stay awake, his eyes nearly crossing from the effort of keeping them open. He lifted his head from where it'd started to droop and resolved to himself to go to sleep after he finished eating the gifted fruit.

“Ouch!”

A sharp prick immediately brought him back to his senses. He stared down at his finger uncomprehendingly, nicked by his own knife.

Bleeding.

He was bleeding.

He yelled, drawing on the very last of his magic to heal the meager cut. Too close. That was far too close.

He felt eyes staring at him. Hyrule flushed, turning around to see the rest of the chain’s attention fully on him.

“You… okay, Rule?”

“Yeah. Yep.” He pulled the cloaks hanging off his shoulders tighter around him. “Sorry.”

“No need to apologize,” Legend waved him off.

One by one, they went back to their conversation. The traveler looked back down at his apple, his ears bright red.

Hyrule wasn't a squeamish person. With his line of work he couldn't afford to be. But the sight of his own blood… the sight of his own blood had always made him feel sick. And knowing now that it was cursed too….

It was best not to leave his cuts unhealed, no matter how small they were.

[theglamorousferal]

Persephone's Binding Part 5

AO3 Prompt Part 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12

Jason woke from a start to someone pounding on his bedroom door.

"Jason!" yelled the sing-song voice of the High Prince. Jason shoved his head back into the pillow and groaned.

"Come in!" He yelled after raising his head again. He swept the covers off and sat on the edge of the bed, stretching his shoulders out.

Danny floated in, today he was in his other form, the one he showed the previous night. Unlike last night however, he was now wearing armor. studded leather armor stained black covered his torso, forearms and legs. Held around his shoulders with a stylized D clasp was a fabric cloak with black fur lining, the inside however looked like the fabric of reality. It was like staring into space when traveling with Kori, he looked away to not get too focused on it.

"So, did'ja sleep okay?" Danny asked flying in lazy circles around the chandelier near the ceiling.

"Like the dead." Jason deadpanned. He stood and made his way to where his usual clothes and armor were neatly folded, cleaned and mended. "We heading straight to spar, or do we have time for me to like, eat?" He took the pile of clothes and made his way to the bathroom, and kept the door cracked so he could hear Danny's response.

"We can grab breakfast burritos from the kitchen on our way to the training grounds."

"Okay, fine by me." Once dressed, Jason latched on all of his armor. He stomped out of the bathroom then gathered his helmet, which he held under his arm against his side. "Weapons allowed? And what kinds?"

Danny stopped circling the lighting and floated down to eye-level with Jason. He appraised him for a moment. "We'll start with hand-to-hand and see where you stand, we can move onto non-lethal weapons after that. I don't think Jazz would forgive me if we use projectiles against each other."

"Fair enough, lead the way." Through the corridors Jason was led once again.

"So Jazz mentioned you said the city you live in is cursed? What's that like?" He floated on his back facing Jason not seeming to need to pay attention to where he was going. The cloak billowed around him as if he were in water, galaxies rippling.

"Yeah, Gotham, home sweet home. It's a pretty messed up place. We've got quite a few rogues in out city, and then there are times outside threats come and try and mess with it. It's got the highest crime rate in the country, one of the rogues polluted the water with his special brand of insanity and now we have fish mutated to have a human death grin. That's not even counting the Lazarus Pit under the city."

"Lazarus Pit?"

"Yeah, bubbling glowing green liquid that heals those near death and kills those that are healthy. The Demon Brat's grandfather has one he's used to keep himself alive for 600 years. I was pushed into it when I was basically catatonic and came back with my mind and most of my previous injuries healed."

"Shit that sounds powerful. And another thing that could help in tracking down your dimension." He flew ahead to where a pair of yetis were looking over a scroll. He spoke to them for a moment before returning to Jason. "K that should help a bit more. So you mentioned something yesterday that I wasn't familiar, what's a meta-human?"

"Oh, they're probably called something different on your Earth. So it's people either born with the meta-gene or are powered due to their species or otherwise have extra-human powers. Like, my brother Duke is a meta because he has the meta-gene, but Superman is a meta because his species naturally has extra-human capabilities. Another hero, Beast Boy, got his powers from a lab somehow, he didn't give much details and I wouldn't share it anyway."

They went through a set of dark wooden doors and the delicious smell of chorizo floated past Jason's nose. In the kitchen was a woman who looked like the lunch ladies from school but floating, glowing, and with green skin.

"Hey Lunch Lady, how're those burritos coming?" Danny floated in, careful to stay away from anything cooking or on the counters.

"Oh hello dearie, I was just wrapping them up. I do wish you'd stay and eat a full meal." She said smiling at him. "Oh hello there, you must be the young man who appeared suddenly and set this castle into a tizzy. I hope you're doing alright?"

"Yes ma'am. I've been treated very well since I've arrived." He felt the need to be polite, she just seemed like a sweet grandma.

"Good good, now you two enjoy these and go play." She handed each of them a burrito wrapped in tin foil. They made their way out of the room.

"Jazz mentioned that originally the people studying ghosts thought they were all evil, but every ghost I've seen so far has been extremely kind and nice. What led them to think they were all evil?"

"Oh, don't be fooled, Lunch Lady gave me a run for my money several times. She was the first humanoid ghost I fought, she turned into a giant meat monster because my friend got the menu changed to vegan for a week. It was a whole thing." He rolled his hand. "And I mean, ghosts say 'Hi' by play-fighting. To be fair, I didn't know that at first either and it caused quite a bit of confusion. Once that bit was cleared up I was able to talk with my rogues and they backed off and made sure to keep the fights away from civilians."

"Right, Jazz mentioned you fighting ghosts. So you were a hero then?"

Danny sighs. "Yeah, once I started to gain control of my powers and defeated my first big ghost, I realized I could use my power to fight anything that came through the portal. I had the whole deal, villain of the week, a nemesis who later was redeemed and became a mentor, a cloning mishap, an evil alternate timeline, the whole shebang." He rolled his eyes. "I had the whole secret identity thing for a while too." He smirked.

"Oh, do you normally have a mask on when in one of your forms?"

Danny laughed. "No, no, just turns out face blindness is a common thing in my home town. Even though I'm literally just a palette swap, no one figured it out without me transforming in front of them." He turned serious for a moment. "The town found out in the last battle. It's been a bit of a learning curve for people to get used to." His tone turned bitter. "That the scrawny little Fenton kid could possibly be the town's hero? As if." He scoffed.

"Fenton? I thought your last name was Nightingale?" Jason asked. Danny froze mid-air with his eyes wide.

"Forget I said that, you weren't supposed to hear that. Do not mention it to Jazz." Danny's face was three inches from Jason's and glowing that horrible Lazarus green. He nodded.

"Will do, heard nothing, locked away." He made the motion of zipping his lips and tossing the key over his shoulder. Danny stared at him for a moment before nodding his head once and flying in the direction of a set of stairs ahead in the hallway. Jason jogged to catch up.

At the base of the stairs was what appeared to be a medieval training grounds with several paddocks, one paddock with obstacles for mount riding, one for racing, another had what seemed to be a military-grade obstacle course and yet another held a free-running course. Outside of the paddocks, there were several rings for dueling and weapon racks along the fences and an archery course along one side of the grounds. A green dome was above the entire field, presumably to keep projectiles from hitting passersby.

There were a few different mounts around. Some that looked to be unicorns but had sharp teeth like a predator, some had wings but similar teeth, all the horse-adjacent were colors from blue, to green, to black to purple. There was a large cat with long fangs and a pair of horns, it had a long fur coat that was patterned plum and lavender stripes sleeping in top of one of the lean-to's that held benches for resting. A mechanical horse with Egyptian regalia stood beneath it as it huffed not liking being ignored by the cat.

Jason whistled impressed. "Impressive grounds, reminds me of what I've heard of Themyscira." Activity began to stall at their approach, a tall black suit of armor with flaming purple hair came up to Danny.

"My liege, do you wish us to clear the grounds?"

"No Fright Knight, we are just going to use one of the sparring rings for a bit of the morning once we've finished breakfast."

"Very good." The knight nodded and then turned to the others scattered about the grounds. "Back at it you all!" Fright Knight went back to brushing his humungous black alicorn.

Danny directed them to one of the resting spots next to an empty ring. "Here, let's finish our breakfast and then did you wanna warm up?"

Jason sat and took a large bite as Danny was asking the question and thought for a moment before nodding and chewing. The chorizo burrito with egg, bell peppers and spinach was delicious. Once finished, he worked his way through his usual pre-patrol warm-up. He expected to go a few rounds before Danny was tired of playing with him.

Danny worked his way through some warm ups, stretching in ways even Dickie would flinch at, then made his way to the ring. Jason followed and they faced each other, and for the first time that morning, Danny's feet were firmly on the ground.

"So, best two out of three in hand-to-hand then we move onto weapons?" Danny suggested.

Jason considered for a moment. "Yeah, sounds good to me."

"Alright then," Danny smirked and got into position, "bring it on."

[gh0stsp1d3r]

Right after bob’s death, stevo stays at your place because staying at his was too much. Basically just the reader loving on stevo is all. Their relationship doesn’t really matter as long as its clear that they are soulmates in some capacity. I think stevo just needs to let himself be loved. Grief and depression is horrible to go through alone so its great to have someone who gets it with you as you heal you know?

𝒪𝓃𝓁𝓎 𝓎ℴ𝓊

A/n: This was kinda hard to write, but I definitely needed to

Taglist: @abriefnirvana

Warnings: death, angst to fluff, grief

He wiped the tears away as he got into his car, he breathed a shaky breath as he looked at himself in the car mirror. He was disheveled, with a tangled mop of hair and wrinkled clothes.

Stevo's mind raced with thoughts of where to spend the night. And then it hit him - you were the only other person he wanted to be with right now. You would know what to do now.

Without a second thought, he stepped on the gas pedal and raced towards you as fast as his old car could go.

As he rushed towards your apartment, no matter how hard he tried to stop them, the tears streamed down his cheeks while Bad Religion blared on the radio.

He found himself thinking about Bob. Was he a bad friend for leaving him like that? He felt horrible, but he wasn’t sure about what else to do.

The image stayed in his mind, almost causing a crash as his thoughts raced, his hands acting faster than his head.

Finally, after what felt like the longest drive in history, he reached your place. He looked at a bottle of beer on the side of his door, drinking it as if he was a college kid who had just been dared to. He would need it tonight. Then he laid his eyes on someone outside.

As you were taking out the trash, you saw a small baby cat nearby and smiled. You knelt, and the cat shyly approached you. It rubbed against your leg as you looked into its curious eyes and pet it with care.

He stumbled out of his car door, the sound making you turn your head and the cat also turn its head to him.

“Stevo?” you mumbled to yourself. You recognized the blue hair quickly, and he looked at you. He was…crying?

"Stevo," you said, as you dropped your trash on the floor and hurried towards him. He was crying uncontrollably, and when he saw you, he wrapped his arms around you. You were taken aback by the sudden embrace, but you rubbed his back to give him some sort of comfort. "Oh, Stevo," you whispered softly.

He cried, tears staining your shirt as he buried his head in your shoulder. People came outside when they heard the cries.

“You're the only one I have left.” he cried into your shoulder.

“C’mon, let's go inside, okay?” you weren't sure what had happened, but it made your heart break.

You had been lifelong friends since middle school and stuck together like glue. Despite your longstanding feelings for him, you never told him how you felt in fear of him not having the same feelings.

He thought you were too sweet to him, too nice in this cruel, unjust world.

The little cat watched as you both walked up the stairs. Stevo looked back at its copper eyes and black fur, following his moves like a lucky cat in a store.

You led him inside, his sobs became more quiet and slowed down as he rubbed his eyes with his hand and sat down on a chair at your table. He felt like a loser, a poser. But you were one of the only people he knew wouldn’t judge him.

You shut the door and turned to him. It was silent for a moment while you both stared at each other.

“What happened?” you asked softly, making your way to the chair next to him.

He looked down at the ground while he explained what happened this morning. Bob had died of an overdose, your eyes widened as you listened and looked at him with sadness.

“I’m.. so sorry. Steven.. that’s horrible.” You said once he finished.

Steven. You hadn’t used his real name in ages.

He didn’t know how to respond, he simply just looked down.

“Uhm… you want me to call for you? So you don’t have to? I can tell them what happened so he can get buried, and everything else…”

He looked up now. “You’d do that?”

You nodded and smiled at him.

"Stevo, I am here for you, whether you need anything or want to talk. I’m here for you.”

“Thank you.” he mumbled, feeling himself about to cry again.

You went over to him, he stood up and hugged you again, when you both pulled away you smiled softly and wiped his tears away.

"You can stay for as long as you need, okay?" you spoke softly.

You led him into your room, telling him to chill in there for a second while you called the police. They said they had to question you, but you did not mention Stevo at all, so as long as he didn’t have to, you were fine with it.

You hung up and sighed, rubbing your forehead. You felt horrible for Stevo, who had to see his best friend and roommates dead body in front of him, crying for him.

You entered the room for and climbed into the bed beside him. He gazed at you with red, tired eyes, and wrapped his arms around your body. You reciprocated the gesture, holding him close and not wanting to let go, playing with his hair as he rested his head on your chest.

You kissed the top of his head, and in any situation, he would've questioned the action. But right now it was just what he needed.

He fell asleep quickly in your arms, his eyes heavy. You wished it happened under better circumstances.

[reonnex]

Kaz is the first person Wylan tells about how he really ended up in the Barrel.

There's nothing special about that day. It was just an ordinary day as any in Ketterdam. The only thing different Wylan could think of was Jesper was visting Colm back in Novyi Zem.

Maybe thats why Wylan felt the urge to seek out the Bastard of the Barrel. The only one who could connect to Wylan in a way the others couldn't.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of a councilman vist?" Kaz had said as Wylan entered his office. The man was hunched over his desk, flicking through papers.

"I need to tell you something- personal."

"Do I look like a therapist?" Kaz had grumbled, but sighed. "But fine, what do you want to tell me?"

"I didn't run away." The words felt heavy on his tounge as Wylan spoke. He felt frozen in place, not being to move from the spot in the doorway.

Kaz made no motion to look up to Wylan as he continued to write.

"How I ended up in the Barrel. I-I didn't run away from my father like everyone thought I did."

Kaz had seemed to know where Wylan was going before he could even speak. He didn't look up to Wylan still, but his writing flattered, and Wylan could see a glint in the man's eyes as if he was silently telling Wylan to continue.

And Wylan did.

He admitted everything through shaky breaths. How he was so thrilled to be leaving for this music school, but also heartbroken that he was being sent away.

He told him how he watched the Barrel lights dance through the night on the boat.

How hands wrapped around his neck, and he just accepted his fate in that momment.

How Miggson and Prior got distracted, and Wylan jumped overboard into the water below.

How he swam for who knows how long back to the Barrel. The will to live being the only thing on his mind. He still wanted to live. He wanted to live.

And Wylan told him that he clung onto hope his father didn't know Wylan was almost killed. That his father still cared for him. That was until he opened the papers.

By the time Wylan was done, he was a sobbing mess. Tears caked his cheeks as his knuckles were white from gripping his pant legs.

"He tried to kill you because he replaced you already." Kaz had finally said after a few minutes of silence.

"Yes. He said he wanted the world to forget he had a son."

Kaz had nodded at that before standing up and walked closer to Wylan. He pulled out a hankerchief and handed it to Wylan, who glady took it to wipe his eyes and blow his nose.

"Do you believe in the eye for a eye? Or do you still cling onto your morals?"

Kaz had a deeper meaning to that. Wylan knew that immediately. "I believe it now...But it shouldn't end death." No matter what they did."

"I see." Kaz said. "Thank you for telling me this. If there is anything else you wish to talk about. My office is always open."

And Wylan had left.

The next day, news broke out that Van Ecks throat had been slashed in his cell. It wasn't deep enough to kill him and oddly seemed to be shallow enough to avoid all the major arteries. They had called a healer, but she had been held up helping a lost man with a limp who couldn't read directions know where he was and by the time she arrived, all she could do was stop the bleeding. She couldn't heal the scar it would leave.

He would still be able to talk, but it would be much limited then before.

When Wylan visted Kaz again that day, he had asked him about the attack.

"Despite Hellgates reputation Wylan, people in there have family's still. Sons and daughters they had to leave behind. Family means everything to them. They will do anything to protect those who hold a place in their lives." Was all Kaz has said before ordering Wylan to leave, and that he was busy with papers.

Even with his black gloves freshly clean, they could never get the stain of blood off of them. Wylan noticed the spot of red that was still left on. And knowing Kaz, he would never leave that on him unless he wanted it to be seen.

Sometimes water can wash away the history that has been around it forever. It can erode the stone, break apart land and have its sentiments sink onto the bottom. But it never forgets. The waters will never forget.

[robin-writess]

Could u do a Kieran x reader angst scenario where reader is attacked while patrolling because she wandered too far, they steal her horse and she stumbles back into camp with whatever injuries you decide!! Maybe she passes out as soon as someone starts yelling for help, but she stops really talking much (stops visiting Kieran in the mornings etc) so he takes it into his own hands to get her horse back cuz he is in love and would do anything do hwr 🥹

Yes ofc! Thanks for the request <3

🎀 Bruises and Apologies 🎀

Kieran Duffy x fem!Reader

Warnings: violence, blood, slight angst (reader ignores Kieran for a while)

A/N: Sorry if this isn’t the best, I’m not the best author on this app but I really hope you’re satisfied with it<33

You sigh as you stare off into space. You don’t know how long you’ve been out there, but you know it won’t be anytime soon for you to go back. This is exhausting. Standing around for hours at a time to guard camp. For what? Nothing ever happens. You’re just wasting time.

You’re too lost in your own thoughts to hear the group of men making their way to you. Each man carrying his own weapon. But you’re soon brought back to reality when one of them hit you in the back of your head with his gun.

You let out a grunt and quickly turn around to try to fight back, but the man hits you in the face before you could do anything. You could already feel the bruises forming, blood running down the back of your head to your back, staining the shirt you were wearing.

Your weapon falls from your hands onto the ground. You can see a few more men behind him, one of them running off with your horse. “Hey!” You yell after him, the man in front of you quickly covering your mouth so you don’t draw any attention to them.

“Shut your damn mouth lady,” he says and starts beating on you more. You can tell he’s an O’Driscoll by the way he talks and how he looks.

Whimpers and soft cries escape your mouth as you try to defend yourself from these men. He gives you a final strike to the face before him and the other guys run off.

Blood spills out from your nose, your left eye swollen and sore. Your face is covered in blood, bruises and cuts.

'What the hell just happened,' you thought as you stumble back into camp.

"Hey!" you call out, finally making it back. Your breathing gets heavier, and your vision starts to get blurry, black surrounds your peripheral vision.

"Oh my god, y/n, are you okay??" you hear Mary-Beth as she runs over to you.

She places a hand on your shoulder as she calls out for help. Before you know it, you're surrounded by people. Miss Grimshaw, Arthur, Dutch, Sean, Kieran..

Then everything went black. Your body hits the ground and Miss Grimshaw immediately picks you up and brings you to your tent.

—————

Mary-Beth nearly jumps out of her seat as you begin to stir in your seemingly forever nap. Soon you open your eyes, a soft grunt escapes your lips as you raise your hand to your throbbing head.

"You're awake," Mary-Beth says under her breath, resting her hand on yours. "Are you okay?"

You take a deep breath, and another soft grunt comes from you. "Mm, my head hurts," you manage to croak out.

"You passed out... Miss Grimshaw took care of you." Mary-Beth says, "I helped stitch up that cut over your eye there," she points towards the injury she mentioned.

"Thank you for that, Mary-Beth," you smile, trying to sit up.

"Hey, you're going to need more rest. You're not doing good right now, lay back down and I'll come check on you later, alright? I'll bring you some food and water." She says before walking out of your tent.

You sigh, annoyed at your condition. You absolutely did not want to stay in bed all day. It drove you crazy, bored out of your mind just lying there with nothing to do. Even worse, you don't know how long it'll take for you to heal enough to get up and be out there with everyone else.

Not long after, Mary-Beth came back with some fresh stew and a cup of water.

"Here you go," she sets the food in your lap, and you take the water from her hands, downing it almost immediately. "Kieran's real worried about you, y/n."

"I'll be fine," you say dismissively, setting the cup down and stuffing food into your mouth like you've never eaten before.

"Well whether you're fine or not he's still worried." She continues. "You should talk to him when you're better."

You sigh before nodding, "Okay."

She walks out again, leaving you alone. Your own thoughts eat you alive like they always do as you finish the food she brought you.

—————

The next day eventually comes, and you decide to finally get out instead of being stuck in your tent all day. Cool air hits you as you walk around camp. You look around, taking in the view. Some people were working, some were sitting around the fire laughing and talking, and others just relaxing. Your eyes soon land on the horses, you see Kieran with Branwen as he usually is, and then it hits you... they took your goddamn horse.

You were too annoyed at the fact that you had to stay inside all day to even remember that. It hurt, it felt like you lost a part of yourself too. That horse was special to you, he (or she) was like any other one you had. You sigh and roll your eyes, walking off to find a place to clear your mind.

A few hours pass and Kieran starts walking over to where you were. You hadn't moved, too lost to even think straight.

"Hey..." he says, twiddling his thumbs as his feet are restless, constantly moving from one spot to another.

You don't answer him, no, you just sit there, staring off into space just like you were hours earlier.

"uhm.." he grows antsy, fidgeting with his fingers more. "y/n..."

Still no response from you. This shocked Kieran, as you were usually always so happy to see and talk to him. A wave of sadness overcomes him, and he tries one last time to speak to you.

"Uhm.. I noticed your horse is uh.. missing..." he stammers out.

You let out a dramatic huff and roll your eyes before storming off, the only response he's had out of you. This just hurt him even more. Tears begin to well up in his eyes, but he doesn't let himself cry. He thinks he's just being a baby.

"It's okay, she just needs space..." he whispers repeatedly to himself as some sort of comfort.

He thinks that all you need is time alone, so he respects it, he gives you your space.

A week goes by and still no word from you... Then another week, and another. At this point he has no idea what to do. He's hurt, confused, and annoyed. He'll do anything to get you back.

Then he remembers your horse is gone. The horse you've always loved more than anyone.

Kieran doesn't even ask Dutch if he can leave camp, he just goes. Alone. He has no weapons, no protection, nothing. Just him and his desire to get your horse back. All he wants is for you to be happy.

No one even noticed his absence, not even you. That was until a day or two passed and Mary-Beth came to you out of nowhere and asked where he was.

"Y/n, do you know where Kieran might be?" She asks, "I haven't seen him anywhere around camp."

This gets your attention. "No... I don't know.." You reply.

Now you're worried. You feel horrible. Ignoring him for weeks, acting like he doesn't exist, and now he's missing...

You just wanted to curl up in your cot and cry. You get jumped by damn O'Driscolls, your horse gets stolen, and now.. your beloved Kieran goes missing... And the worst part is you don't even know if he's dead or not.

And so that's what you do. You run to your tent and just cry your eyes out. A million thoughts racing through your mind as you sob uncontrollably about everything that has happened.

It feels like forever has passed until your emotional breakdown finally came to an end. You just lay motionless on your cot. Your pillow soaked with tears, eyes puffy, tear-stained cheeks and mouth slightly agape. And there you are again, stuck staring off into space, except this time there were no thoughts eating at you, just a painful feeling of agony and grief. Your heart is heavy, and you're completely drained of energy.

You don't know how long you've been lying there, but you started hearing some commotion outside. Not normal chats between camp members, and you know they're not having a party. Part of you wants to go out and see what's happening, but you don't. Too tired to even care.

Not long after, the flaps of your tent open then close, and in walks Kieran. He's a mess, he's dirty, his old torn up clothes are worse than they were before.

"Kieran!" you quickly sit up, staring with relief and happiness.

"Hey, y/n-" he's interrupted by you practically jumping into his arms.

"Oh my God, Kieran!" a tear falls from your eye as you laugh with joy, "Where did you go?? What happened???"

You finally let go of him, looking into his eyes, smiling brightly, which earns you a smile back from him.

"I uh, got you your horse back..." He says with a soft smile.

More tears drop and you hug him again. "Thank you so much, Kieran.. Oh my God I was so scared, I didn't know if you were okay-" Kieran interrupts you, placing both of his hands on each of your shoulders.

"It's okay.." he says softly, "I'm okay, y/n, I'm okay."

He grabs your hand and leads you to your horse. "I fed him and made sure he was okay for you." he says, afterwards receiving another grateful response from you.

You smile and happily pat your horse, the large animal returning the affection by nudging you softly with his nose.

"Kieran..." you say, looking over to him. The same smile still plastered across his face, he's so proud of himself.

"I am so sorry.." you continue, earning a confused look from Kieran. "For ignoring you... and just.. I don't know, everything. I'm sorry,,"

"Hey," he says, "It's okay, I understand."

You smile softly. "I love you, Kieran."

"I love you too." He plants a soft kiss to your forehead and pulls you into a warm hug.

[whats-she-gonna-post-next]

If you have time feel free to write whatever you want, I like fluff, hurt/comfort and AUs but feel free to do with that what you want

Also when I recieve your gift, I'll write you one two if you want

I have given up on the concept of a drabble, I am terrible at them. This one got away from me like... big time... it was the worst attempt yet at drabble yet... just... please enjoy the 1.7k words I ended up writing. It's Flower Rancher (or well... Ranchers with a future Flower Ranchers agenda) and both an au and hurt/comfort... I might continue this in the future. We will see.

-

Tango and Jimmy were just having a quiet night in when there was a knock on the door. They trade a look, eyes furrowed. They were off duty for the night, nothing short of something world ending should have need for them, and they hadn’t ordered any takeout.

As two of the cities biggest superheroes - Tek and Solidarity, respectively - Tango and Jimmy very rarely got nights completely off. Usually they were on call to some extent, but it had been more or less quiet, and so the two had requested just a single night to not get called away. The city had other heroes who could take care of things.

With a sigh, Tango pulled himself off the couch, waving away Jimmy’s attempts to get up with him.

“I’ll grab it. With any hope, it’s nothing important.”

It was the work of less than 30 seconds to make his way across the house, half regretting the fact that they lived in hero appointed housing - they should have just gotten the cute farm house in the country he had seen in the paper the month before.

Peaking out the peephole revealed nothing, but the motion lights on the porch were turned on. Maybe some kids playing nicky nicky nine doors, or something similar. It’s not a common occurrence, but it happens on occasion.

He debates just leaving it at that, but something in his gut tells him that he should open the door.

In the end, he goes with his gut, pulling open the door to be met with a shock of cyan hair. He pulls back, like opening the door had burnt him - a funny metaphor since that would be near impossible - and pulling in a gasp of air.

"Smajor!"

Smajor was his and Jimmy's biggest rival, a menace with ice powers and one of the few people who could just completely counter his fire and Jimmy's water, and always following at the heels of his partner in crime Xornoth, as they tried to take over the city every other week.

But something was... Off.

He felt more than heard as Jimmy came up behind him in the narrow entry hall, looking over Tango's shoulder to see the villain on their porch.

Smajor, for his part, was hunch over, leaned against the door frame in a way that Tango wouldn't have seen through the peep hole, but it didn't seem malicious, in fact, it looked as if he had simply leaned on the nearest available surface. He wasn't in his villain costume, gone were the flowing white and blue robes and boots. He had on not a single piece of jewelry, the gold antler crown wasn't nestled among the cyan waves of his hair, long gone were the gloves that covered his hand. He was in a pair of black leggings and a deep blue shirt that seemed to be torn, his left arm was pulled tight to his chest, his right hand gripped tightly to the doorway, light blue painted nail chipped and scratched, and as his hand move, Tango could see there was a bloodstained left behind.

After a tense moment, Smajor lifted his head. There was no mask on his face, just a mess of bruising and cuts. Bright blue eyes seemed dull and lifeless, the left ringed in fresh dark bruises, on his right cheek was an older bruise, yellowing around the edges. He swallowed, tongue darting out to wet split lips, revealing blood stained teeth. Lower, Tango can see rings of overlapping bruises around his neck in various stages of healing.

When he speaks, his voice is shot.

"I'm sorry-I just-I didn't know where else to go."

And Tango-

This could be a set up, Smajor could have people waiting around to catch them unawares, to take then out, but Tango barely gives that a passing thought, moving to bring the injured villain into their house.

Jimmy seems to have the same idea, not even saying anything as they move further into the house, clearing some clutter off the dinning room table and heading towards the first aid box they keep in the bathroom. Tango has to support Smajor most of the way, energy seeming to be gone and limp in one leg leaves him mostly unhelpful, but he is almost concerning light. He sits him gently in one of the dining room chairs, immediately moving to get a bowl of warm water from the sink and some rags to go along with it, bringing it back to the table and moving seamlessly with Jimmy, who had returned with the first aid box, to clean up Smajor. They work in tandem, wrapping cuts, trying to minimize bruises, quietly soothing the villain when he flinches from their touch,

Finally, when he seems to be more bandage than cuts, they pull back. Jimmy moves to make tea, and Tango pulls out soup from the night before to hest up, both of them keeping an eye on the slightly shivering form at the table, who seems to be mostly out of it.

He seems to startle out of it when the tea and soup is placed before him.

"You," He clears a rough throat, "You don't have to do that."

"Nonsense." Jimmy counters before Tango gets the chance, voice gentle but firm in conviction, "Have some tea and est up. At the very least, your throat could use it."

Smajor opens his mouth, likely to argue, but seems to decide against it. He sips slowly at the tea and manages to eat about half the soup before pushing it away. Tango purses his lips at that a little, given that he hadn't given him a ton to begin with, but he doesn't say anything about it.

"You're probably wondering why I'm here," Scott begins, head hung low. refusing to make eye contact.

"You said you had nowhere else to go." Tango replied, "That paired with those injuries are more than enough for me to understand that whatever it is isn't good, and that's enough for me."

That seemed to get something of a smile out of him, his shaking, which had never stopped, seemed to pick up some more.

"You heroes. Always too nice for your own good."

Tango notices the tears that fall down his cheeks now, and he wants to reach across and take his hands, but he stops himself. One look at Jimmy proves, however, that it's a mutual feeling.

"Honestly, I just needed to get you information. Xornoth, they-" He cuts himself off with a shiver, choking back a sob, "Somethings gone wrong. They've gone off the deep end. Their plans aren't-"

He stops talking, shaking in his seat with his eyes closed tight. Tango doesn't know who moves first, but both he can Jimmy are out of their seats and comforting Smajor.

"We had rules," He forces out, "I only followed along because they're my sibling, and they asked. They swore to me we would follow my rule, but now they-"

Tango felt his heart drop. He'd always gotten the feeling that there was something else going on with Smajor, while he had dutifully followed Xornoth and helped with his plan, he always did seem more preoccupied with fighting Jimmy and Tango, keeping them off of Xornoth. He'd never known they were sibling, however.

"I told them no," the words were a mere whisper the two could only hear due to the new closeness they had, "I told them they were taking things too far and they-"

"I told them I'd have no part in their plans and they didn't like it."

Tango hadn't thought his stomach could sink any lower, but with his mind filling in the blanks, he realized he was wrong.

He tried to remember when the last time he'd seen Smajor.

A week or two at least.

Had this been happening the whole time?

The idea of it make Tango feel sick. Sure they were enemies - or had been, up until this evening - but for all the villainy and the trying to take over the city and such, he would never wish thos on him, even if he was completely evil.

"You don't have to worry anymore," Jimmy said, meeting Tango's eyes. No words had to pass for them to completely understand each other, "You've got us protecting you, and we will stop Xornoth's plans as well."

Smajors finally looked up, meeting first Jimmy's eyes, then Tango's. He wasn't sure what he was looking for, but he seemed to find it, finally relaxing into the seat with a whoosh of breath.

"Thank you," the words were sincere, more tears welling in his eyes, but Tango saw nothing but relief beneath it, "Thank you do much, I can- I'll tell you everything I know, I promise, I just-"

"Need rest," Tango cuts him off, guiding him out of his chair, and towards the guest bedroom, "You can tell us more when you don't seem like you're two seconds away from passing out."

"But I-"

"Tango's right," Jimmy jumps I'm, not letting Smajor get a word in edge wise, "Give yourself a moment to rest, you can tell us more when you wake up."

Smajor doesn't try to fight anymore, a likely testimate to how tired he is.

"I'll be right back, Tango," Jimmy says as Tango supports Smajor, peeling himself away for a couple of minutes and coming back with what looks like one of his own shirts and a pair of Tango's joggers - both of which will likely be large on the other man - meeting them as they get to the room.

"Here you are Smajor, so you can put on something fresh."

"I- Thank you guys, really, I don't- I don't know what I would have done without you two."

"Just happy to be able to help, Smajor," Tango replies, "We'll leave you alone. Get some rest, and if you need anything, just call."

The couple turns to leave, plans to talk and probably contact people in their near future, when Smajor's voice stops them.

"My name's Scott, by the way. It's a little better than Smajor."

They turn back, smiling at him.

"Alright then, rest up, Scott."

[pixiekiwi]

Left Behind | Newt

Hiii!! First post after a year and a half of inactivity!! Im finally going to start writing again becuz my bf has inspired me to start sharing my work again!! This is a very old one shot and I barely touched it b4 actually posting it because I need something to get my account bumpin again!! Anyways I hope you enjoy, hopefully I’ll post more soon :)

𝐍𝐞𝐰𝐭 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

Inspired by Wait by the River, by Lord Huron!

Warnings: Angst, terribly written (written a year ago and just now posting!) also long asf.

Words: 1,634

•*´¨`*•.¸¸.•*´¨`*•.¸¸.•*´¨`*•.¸¸.•*

People say time heals. But to you, time was the opposite of what you wanted. The more time passed, the more you missed Newt. The longer you spent apart from him, the more your heart ached, and burned.

He healed you, and without him- time is nothing but an aggravating evil.

Your heart tore in two pieces the day he left the Glade, choosing your brother over Newt. You were scared to leave, all you knew was the Glade. You remember the look of defeat on Newt’s face, how he welled up with tears as you gave him one last goodbye. How tight he held you before he was hurried by Thomas. You wished he never let go, you wished he never left you.

You were afraid, terrified even, but as you watched the love of your life leave the only home you’ve ever known you broke. Shattering like a mirror - splitting your ideals from reality. To follow him, you’d risk your life to do it.

Gally was watching you closely, you knew it. His eyes never left you when the blonde left you behind, he had a firm grip on your shoulder for comfort. You knew it was to also keep you within the Glade.

It was minutes later, your shoulder ripped from Gally’s hold, throwing yourself into the maze. Shouts of protest bubbled from the remaining boys in the Glade. Gally’s shout was the loudest, his own footsteps following behind you.

You weren’t worried about him catching you, as you had always been faster than him. You didn’t know the maze, for fucks sake you were a gardener with Newt, but you had seen the map. Minho was one of your closest friends, he shared everything with you. You had helped Minho study the map with Thomas, so you remembered generally where you were supposed to go.

The hard part was trying to fight the feeling that you were losing control of your own body. Your fingers had grown numb and your eyesight had fallen hazy. The further you ran down the path of the Maze, the less yourself you felt. You felt angry, angry that Newt would truly leave without you, angry with Thomas for cutting your goodbye so short. You couldn’t explain it, but you were angry with the world.

You had lost Gally minutes ago, you didn’t care. You needed to reach the group.

When you reached the Griever Hole you stopped in your tracks, and everything went black.

—

There you were again, you were in a new place, your surroundings electronic and gray. As the hazy feeling in your body faded you saw in front of you were your friends, Newt, Thomas, Minho- but something was wrong. Chuck, on the floor, bleeding.

That’s when you felt it, a flame of pain erupted in your chest. Looking down to your hand you realized you had something in your hand. A gun. You thought.

No, no, no, no-

You looked down to where the pain was in your chest, seeing a large sharp pole sticking what felt like, straight through your heart. You tried to gasp, as time seemed to pick up its pace, two bodies rushed to you. One catching you before you fell to the ground.

The two bodies were Newt and Minho, it seemed as though chaos was erupting around them and you. Light poured into the room, you could only hear Newt’s desperate cries.

“Please (Y/N) stay with me-” salty tears trailed down the blonde's face as he held you closely to his own body. Newts free hand grazed your dirt stained and sweaty face. Your skin was so pale, it made him sick. Minho stood above him, his face filled with fear. He was yelling at someone across the room, his angry words too distant to understand.

The soft touch of Newt’s hands sent you into a flurry of unexplainable emotions. You felt like you couldn’t breathe when he was holding you, although - the spear sticking out of your chest probably had something to do with that.

“I..” you tried your best to gasp out a few words, sorrow coating your tone, “I’m.. I’m so.. So sorry.” Tears welled up in your lashes, you couldn’t see anymore. Your vision was failing.

“(Y/N) please-” Newt’s voice echoed through your once again hazy mind, you could tell he was crying; his voice raspy, “Please don’t leave me, I.. I love you please baby.”

His heart wrenching pleas were the last thing you heard as you faded into nothingness once again.

–

Months passed without Newt, unsure if he was even alive. You and Gally had been saved by Lawrence and his group. Only being picked up moments after Newt had been snatched up by WCKD. It was scary, leaving the only home you’ve ever known, knowing you killed the sweetest boy you’ve ever met, Chuck.

After telling Gally how you weren’t even conscious when it happened; he tried to convince you it was WCKD who was controlling you. And although you knew this was true, you couldn’t help but feel as though it was you the whole time. You remember feeling angry before, but you never wanted to kill anyone.

And now here you were, perched on the large windowsill in Lawrence’s office, gazing out into the Scorch as your brother patrolled the outside of the Last City.

You were close with Lawrence, he grew to be like a father figure over you and Gally. You had confided with him about Newt and your friends in the Glade, and he understood. Lawrence himself lost a lot of friends, especially since he was half cranked-out.

Gally had been a big support system for you as well, he had comforted you through the nights you had cried yourself into exhaustion, missing the one person who made you feel whole.

You missed the warm summer nights in the Glade you spent with Newt, under the starry sky - wrapped up in his arms. He held you so tight, like he never wanted to let go - but he did.

“Y/N,” Lawrence’s raspy voice startled you from your thoughts, looking to the older man you noticed he was holding an orchid gazing at you quizzically, “Where did you go?”

You pulled your legs up to your chest, glancing out the window once more as you hummed in response, “Oh you know, wonderland.” You scoffed slightly at your own words, turning back to Lawrence.

Lawrence chuckled in response, his focus shifting back to the roses he was watering.

You sighed, your head resting on the window pane next to you. Closing your eyes tiredly - before you could pass out you heard commotion in the hallway. You sighed frustratedly, tucking yourself further behind the plants that guarded the windowsill. Maybe it was Gally finally coming back from patrol, you didn’t care though as you really just wanted to get some shut eye.

The door of Lawrence’s office flew open, causing your own eyes to snap open. You were hidden far enough in the window that you couldn’t make out who it was that had barged in so rudley.

“Gally- I’m glad to see you made it back, Jasper told me what happened,” the Crank man hummed his words.

“It was a slaughter,” The gruff voice of your brother seemed to cut through the eerie environment of Lawrence’s office, “there was nothing we could do against those guns.” Your heart sunk, you didn’t want to hear anymore - tuning out Lawrence’s response you played with your hands. Ignoring the aching feeling of sorrow in your chest, more people dead in an already deserted world.

Lawrences sudden sternness of voice caught your attention, causing you to tune into the conversation once more, “Now. Who are these people? Why are they here?”

Gally brought someone to Lawrence?

There was a tense pause of silence, and you held your breath, awaiting the unknown person to speak.

“We need to get into WCKD.”

The familiar voice sent you into a spiral of emotions, your body freezing up and going numb, was it really Thomas? You made a move to stand as Thomas continued speaking - “Gally said you can get us through the walls.” Your heart stopped, it really was him, his voice was more serious than it was back in the Glade, maybe even a bit fearful.

You froze before moving into sight of the others. You were preparing for the worse, what if Newt wasn’t with him? What if… You didn’t even want to think about it - your eyes welled up with tears as you hesitantly moved from behind the wall of plants.

You froze, looking to where the familiar group stood in front of you - each of their eyes now on you. Every expression showed surprise, but you didn’t care about that - your own eyes meeting the one person you missed so dearly. Newt.

You gasped - the tears that threatened to fall earlier now trailing down your face.

The blonde boy lurched forward, his arms around your frame immediately, crushing you with a force you didn’t know he had. His own shoulders seemed to shake - he was crying too.

You broke a sob as your arms wrapped weakly around his waist. You never expected to see him again, you thought he was gone.

“Newt- I’m so sorry,” your sobs broke through his chest as your arms pulled him closer to your body.

He shushed you immediately “No (Y/N), I shouldn’t have ever left you,” his own cries broke his composure- pulling you closer than ever.

Your head shook, apologizing over and over again while Newts lips kissed the top of your head, whispering how much he loved you.

This time, he truly would never leave you behind.

[xer-melody]

A Worshiper of Magic (For a Date) Part 1

Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

Wednesday Addams x Male!Witch!reader

Warnings: Descriptions of injury, blood, passing out, stitches, and murder.

Words: 1603

Summary: There were many kinds of people at Nevermore academy, to Wednesday you were just another purple clad body in the school's supernatural crowd. You have never interacted with each other in your time there, so why did you show up at her door, covered in your own blood after a spell goes wrong?

(A/n: my very first fic on this blog, and it's a two-parter (maybe) hope you enjoy)

One thing you hated about being a sorcerer was the sheer amount of pain you had to endure. Magic hurts, every spell burns your veins, every incantation gives you a headache, and every hex makes you bleed. And yet you still practiced it, day in and day out. Because despite your hate for the pain, you loved the result.

After a small ceremony with a few other sorcerers, you were on your way back to your dorm, feeling a sense of pride, for yourself and your fellow sorcerers. There was just something so powerful in successfully casting a spell of that size. You'd essentially created a sort of security system for the school. Anything that crosses the barrier of the spell can be recorded and therefore replayed. A sort of camera that cannot be disabled by anyone but you or one of your fellow spell casters.

There was a burning in your chest from the spell, but it wasn't as bad, considering the backlash of the spell was spread amongst seven people.

You’ve taken this route dozens of times, you were more familiar with it than you were with any other part of the school.

Mindlessly, you climbed the stairs, more so looking at the moon, and the clouds that covered it, than paying attention to your path. The corridor was nearly pitch black as a particularly heavy cloud passed over the full moon, but just as quickly as it covered the moon, it passed it again.

‘It might rain.’ you thought, ‘I should put out a bucket,’

Then, as though it happened only to interrupt your peace, you got a headache, painful and pulsing on your forehead. You groaned in a mix of pain and annoyance. Just another side effect of magic. You need to get home, make a nice healing tea and hope it works in time for you to get some sleep. Pushing forward, you felt something warm and wet drip down your face and then onto your shoulders. Just rain, you assumed.

It slid down your face and into your eye, and, for a moment, half of your vision was entirely red.

You paused, lifting your hand to your face, only to pull it back and see that, no, it wasn’t rain, it was blood. Coming from a large, painful gash on your forehead.

You groaned as you ran your fingers over the open wound again. Taking a deep breath, you pushed forward. Despite having to wipe the blood out of your eyes every few seconds, you're sure you're going the right way.

Then, just as your headache started, the mild burn in your chest flared and in a moment of visual clarity you could see your purple uniform began to stain red.

You felt light, clinging onto the railings as you walked, barely able to see as blood blurred and discolored your vision.

The world around you darkened for a moment as another heavy cloud passed over the moon.

You moved forward anyways, taking turns you didn’t mean to, and missing the ones you did. Holding onto the rail until there was no more rail to hang on to. Holding yourself up against the wall, trying to find somebody, anybody to help you.

You felt a sudden dip in the wall and leaned against it, banging against it a few times with your open palm, which decided now would be the perfect time to open more wounds. Your head was spinning and you were losing a lot of blood, but you tried to keep yourself conscious and grounded.

Then, the dip, which you correctly assumed was a door, opened behind you, you didn’t even realize it until you hit the floor.

You were cold when you woke up. Yawning, you pushed yourself up, the blanket falling off your shoulder only to reveal that you were mostly undressed, and covered in bandages. You ran your hand over the neat wrappings, sighing as you remembered the night before. The sun was shining through the half-colored window, you made it through the night without dying, so this was a success in your book.

“Enid wouldn’t let me leave you outside.” A voice said from across the room.

Looking up you saw a girl, dressed in a monochrome version of your school's uniform, with a long braid laying on each shoulder. She looked more annoyed by you than anything else. You must be on her side of the room, considering the dark decor and utter lack of color on this side.

“I’m sorry,” you said, your voice slightly hoarse. “I was actually trying to get to Stocker hall.”

“Then you made a few wrong turns, you're in Ophelia hall.”

You tried to remember the school map for a moment, then cringed at how badly you missed your mark.

Pushing yourself up and out of the bed, your feet landing on the cold, wooden floor, you said, “Well, thank you, for cleaning me up and letting me borrow your bed, but I should really be going.”

Just as you stood she walked over quickly and pushed you back down.

“Actually, I have a few questions.” She said in her completely monotone voice.

Despite her tough demeanor, the questions were pretty easy, and it was over quickly.

You got yourself dressed, luckily she’d washed your clothes for you, and you, of course, thanked her again. Then you were on your way back to your dorm, running into the girl- Wednesday's roommate who had a million questions but ended up leaving before you could answer any of them.

Your roommate had his own questions as well when you arrived, I mean, look at you! You were gone all night then walked in looking like a mummy and thought you’d get away with it.

You didn’t, and half an hour of explaining the situation later he finally let you make your healing tea.

Luckily, your first period was canceled so you got to rest for the next hour.

Classes went by painfully slow, both literally and metaphorically. But you were healing, the gashes that opened on your head, and hands had healed and the utter abomination that was your stomach gash was slowly closing itself back up. Again, you were thankful for Wednesday. After taking a break during lunch to change your bandages you saw just how much work she’d done for you. Sewing up a giant circle-shaped wound could not have been easy.

You were in your bed, having just finished your sixth cup of healing tea for the day (which you were really getting tired of) when you heard a knock on the door. Your roommate was out at some party you were in far too much pain to care about, and it was far too early for him to be back.

With a sigh, you pushed yourself up and to the door. You unlocked the door with a quick little click, then pulled it open.

“Wednesday?”

She stood in front of you, a piece of fabric clutched in her hand.

“Y/n,” was all she said before she moved past you and into your room. “You seem to be doing much better.”

Closing the door you turned to see her examining your side of the room. Then she turned back to you, sticking her hand out and subsequently the bloodied fabric in her hand.

“You left this,” she said as you took it.

Unraveling it to reveal your tie, which you hadn't ever realized was missing before now.

“Oh, thank you,” you said, looking up from the tie.

She stood at your desk, flipping through the pages of an open spell book, touching all of the little trinkets, then she picked up a bag and shook it. A low clinking came from inside. She turned to look at you, a questioning look on her face.

“Teeth,” you said, without her even having to ask.

That only made her more interested in the little bag, pulling it open and sticking her fingers in, pulling out a fully intact canine.

She hummed in approval before putting the bag back on your desk with a clicking thud.

“I never asked,” she said, “what kind of spell were you attempting to cast last night?”

As though the very mention of the spell had suddenly made the wound on your stomach flare up in pain. With a small groan, you moved past her, to the portable kettle on your desk (definitely not the best place to keep it considering it's been boiling tea all day and is still very, very hot.). Grabbing your mug and pouring yet another cup of healing tea.

“Multiple people have been killed on campus.” you started, “So I called a few friend to help put up a surveillance system.”

“But it failed?”

“No, we just underestimated the backlash of the spell, it's still up, I can feel it.” you paused, taking a sip of your tea, “Literally, I can feel everyone on campus right now. It's… discomforting, but for the safety of everyone here I can handle it.”

She didn't say anything for a moment.

“Did Weems approve of this?” her voice was just as calm and even as ever.

You almost laughed at the question, “She did not. She was actually against it, something about it being an invasion of privacy, whatever..”

Wednesday’s face quickly turned to one of confusion.

“I have to go,” she said.

Turning to leave the room, she'd barely laid a hand on the doorknob before she was suddenly taken over by a vision. Her head flew back, her eyes strained open, and a moment later, Wednesday collapsed.

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