#for life is quite absurd and death's the final word ( crack )

[ikwhatyouaremikewheeler]

Invite me in: Steve Harrington and Eddie Munson

Note: it's not really a ship, they kiss once and that's it, so yeah enjoy!

Warning: death, gore mentions, Eddie Munson as a vampire, I killed Robin for the sake of the plot, a knife, Steve has a concussion and twisted ankle idk

Summary: Steve's locked in the family video break room, with Eddie wreaking havoc outside

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Steve wasn't sure how long it has been, 6 seconds or 6 hours. What he was sure of was that Eddie Munson, who was an assumed murderer and also known to be dead; was outside of the Family Video break room, currently tearing apart his best friend, Robin Buckley.

He couldn't exactly save her, and the things standing between him doing that was, a literal vampire, A door, a chair and a filing cabinet. But the image of Robin, the life leaving her eyes and Eddie basically ripped her spine out? Yeah that's not something Steve would forget anytime soon.

His muscles ached In protest as he tried to push the filing cabinet further against the door, making sure the chair was balanced enough to keep Eddie locked out. His pulse racing as he imagined what could've happened. Was he still outside, just waiting? Or had he left, going to kill someone else? Steve shuddered at the thought, jolting away from the cabinet as a loud bang was heard from the door.

"Oh little piggy, c'mon do I have to blow the house down?" Eddie's voice was light, cheerful even, like he hadn't just murdered Robin, and trying to supposedly do the same to Steve. The banging hadn't stopped, almost as if Eddie was throwing himself against the door, trying to break it down. Which caused Steve to move even quicker, the cabinet squeaking against the waxed floor as he groaned in protest, finally getting it snug again the doorway.

Honestly if you had told him a year ago that he'd be a 20 year old working a minimum wage job, that now had a crazy vampire trying to rip his throat out? Yeah he'd probably laugh in your face. But now? He'd definitely believe it. Or maybe not, this was absurd, even just thinking about it Steve didn't know whether or not to burst into laughter or throw up in the corner. So as a quick compromise his small giggles of disbelief slowly evolved into body wracking sobs, reality had sunk in.

Robin was dead, and he was next, to die at the hands of Eddie Munson, he was alone, in a dark room with the power cut off, and Eddie didn't show any signs of leaving soon, how long had it been since this started? It couldn't have been longer than a few hours, it was still dark outside. "Steveeee, go ahead and come out, I'm sure Robin is just Dying to see you" Eddie cackled from the other side of the door, the banging ceasing for a millisecond before starting once again, the taunts he threw at Steve almost being drowned out by the noise, which quite frankly Gave Steve some peace.

He had somehow managed to fall into a light sleep, over all the screaming and crashing going on outside, all courtesy of Eddie. Steve woke up, quickly jumping to his feet when he had heard Eddie outside, searching around for anything to use as a weapon, coffee canister, a butter knife and a paper towel holder... Wow, he's screwed. "let's make a deal, you come out so we can talk, and I don't go and gut Henderson, capiche?" Steve shook his head in the dark of the room, as if Eddie could see him and honestly, he couldn't form words. Eddie wouldn't hurt Dustin, he wouldn't dare. "don't- I'm not coming outside and you aren't hurting him... I'll tear you apart if you even try." Okay so Steve tried to sound threatening, and serious, but in reality he just sounded scared, and the crack in his voice didn't help. To which Eddie chuckled in response.

"Fine, we'll play it your way, if you aren't coming out....then I'm coming in."

The door had finally given way, no matter how much the chair and Filing cabinet had protested, the door slammed open, the wooden chair practically snapping in half while the cabinet had flung to the side, narrowly avoiding Steve as he jumped back, his head slamming against the wall. He could hear Eddie's gleeful laughter in the background, just barely above the ringing in his ears, still unable to see anything in the darkness. Blood dripped down his forehead, steadily falling, and landing on his shirt. He groaned, reaching a hand up to wipe away the blood, effectively stopping the cut for now. But his movements were slow, distorted, just like Eddie's voice as he seemed to whisper, like Steve's head was underwater. "Oh you're bleeding Stevie, do you want me to come check it out, maybe we can have our talk in here?"

Steve groaned in protest, using his free hand to push himself up against the wall, still clutching the butter knife as he practically almost slid back down in the corner. He was trapped and it was all over, Eddie was going to kill him. And then god knows who else. His body was shaking, but he wasn't crying this time, no, it was out of pure fear and adrenaline. So when he pushed himself off the wall, which took way too long, already feeling weak, his head pounding and his heart racing. "Did you hear me Steve, or are you a little too tired?" "Fuck off Eddie" Steve had managed to whisper, his voice barely audible over the ringing, which droned on in his head.

Steve watched as Eddie went to step through the doorway, but stopped as an invisible source held him back, almost like he had put pennies at the door. At first he was confused, maybe Eddie was taunting him, making a mockery of his last minutes alive, but no. Eddie looked confused too, using more and more force each time he tried to step through the door, and then it hit Steve. Family Video was a public place, but the break room was employees only, and if being Micheal from the lost boys for Halloween taught him nothing ( which it had)... Eddie had to be invited in. "Thank fucking God for stupid vampire rules.." Steve mumbled to himself, almost as if the words rolled off of his tongue without him realizing, his brain practically moving in slow motion. "Steve, Stevie, listen. Invite me in, c'mon." Eddie grumbled, practically pleading as he droned on to Steve, who was still in the corner, one hand slick with blood against the wall, the other holding out a butter knife at Eddie while shaking profusely.

"Go away! I'm not letting you anywhere near me! You're a fucking monster.." Steve spat out, the blood from his forehead slowly trickling into his eye, which didn't help with his vision. "yeah? It takes one to know one Stevie, or since you're so cold towards me, should I call you Harrington?" Eddie mused, slowly coming into view as Steve limped towards the door, having injured his ankle on the way into the breakroom. "you can't call me either, and I want you out of here!" To which Eddie laughed, well in reality it was more of a giggle, his shadow stepping closer into the doorway, until he fully blocked it, no more street light filling the room. Which Steve could almost be thankful for, that Eddie couldn't see how vulnerable he truly was

"Like I said, invite me in, and we'll talk this out, Big boy. But I'm guessing from the gash on your head you aren't thinking straight, which truly is a tragedy.. so repeat after me okay? I, Stevie, invite you Eddie Munson into the Family Video break room." Steve just stared in response, or at least what he thought was Eddie, he wasn't sure if he had turned around in the room or not. But his head was still spinning, and eventually, without even realizing it Steve had fallen to the floor, sinking on his knees with the knife loosely resting in his lap.

He was going to die here, that's all he knew, the sound of Eddie getting more and more aggravated brought him back to reality, his eyes snapping up to him, as he backed away, Steve got a clear view of the store, of Robin. Who was laying there, almost unrecognizable. His stomach churned, as he swallowed back the bile in his throat and took a breath, which really just sounded like a gasp.

"Go away Eddie! Please... Go away. You've already killed Robin" Steve pleaded with him, all the fight he had previously had gone, the man he loved was infront of him trying to rip his throat out with his teeth, and he couldn't do a damn thing about it. If he had any tears left, he'd curl up onto the floor and cry, sobbing and cursing who...no whatever turned Eddie into that.

Eddie had gotten sick of the act Steve had put on, basically a damsel in distress. He growled, slamming his hands against the door frame, watching as Steve flinched back. "you see the problem is, I came here to talk... And here you are Stevie, being a stubborn bitch and not letting me in." No matter how much he had persisted or tried to push, the invisible barrier wouldn't budge.

Steve had backed into the corner once again, his back pressing against the corner of the filing cabinet, the metal edge digging into his spine. It was almost dawn, all he had to do was wait Eddie out, and then he'd have to leave... wouldn't he? He had an idea, to save himself, maybe holding onto the hope that no matter how bad it was, Robin could still be alive. The idea was absolutely ludicrous, to Walk out of the break room, the only safe place and try to kill Eddie.

He had no advantages, except a butter knife that was (probably) made of real silver. So with a sigh, and an equally annoyed groan from the metal, he got up, stumbling forward and the narrow lighting. Steve made his way to the door, seeing Eddie who stood by one of the now broken windows. He stepped forward, a hand resting on the doorway as he stared at Robin, the blood cakes to her face and her eyes wide. His other hand, had hidden the butter knife in his back pocket, it was now or never.

"Eddie. I want-... I want to invite you in. You can..- you can come in." He Murmured, and within an instant it seemed Eddie was at the doorframe, his eyes blood red and his fangs on display as he grinned. "oh so you came to your senses? Well I'm glad to know we can have that... discussion Stevie" Eddie chuckled, his eyes dropping down to Steve's neck, trailing down to the blood that stuck to his shirt.

"Yeah... let's talk." Steve nodded, still standing in the doorway as he leaned closer to Eddie, staring at him with a blank expression, his hand trailing behind his back to grab the knife. He wasn't sure what had happened, but the next thing he knew, his lips were pressed to Eddie's, raising his knife clad hand up, a quick motion pressing it into his ribs, pulling away quickly after.

Eddie had stumbled back, gripping onto the knife stuck in his chest, giving Steve a betrayed look as he fell back, tripping over a shelf and landing into a patch of the carpet covered in sunlight. "Steve- Stevie..." He whispered, as Steve stood in the doorway for support, his head wound now re opened. He went over, kneeling beside Eddie but keeping a far enough distance, his hair shining softly in the morning light, now caked in blood, as Tears mixed with the dirt and blood stuck onto his face, leaving streaks. "Eddie.. I'm so sorry- i just...I can't let you hurt anyone." He sobbed, holding onto Eddie's free hand and watching as he slowly turned to dust, the knife clattering into it with a small puff into the air.

Eddie's last words had been Similar to Steve's. "you're a monster Harrington.." to which Steve laughed, air getting stuck in his throat before he whispered in his ear, driving the knife deeper. "yeah, well it takes one to know one."

THE END

[raichoose-moved]

“Can we - Can we pretend that airplanes in the night sky are like shooting stars? I could really, really use a wish right now ... ”

[xmedicus]

“She was your girl ... Until she saw my ninja info cards.” 

[staticfog]

“We don’t?”

[atlas-of-a-human-soul]

Draw your swords, pt. 7

Summary: In order to win, she might have to lose.

Warnings: angst, swearing, bit of fluff, sexual content

Part one // Part two // Part three // Part four // Part five // Part six  

=================================

Waking up to skies lit by the wintry sun is what Y/N expected. In the back of her mind, she remembers opening her eyes. Perhaps it’s her mind playing tricks on her, but she could swear she heard Aleksander’s voice softly speaking to her. 

Telling dreams from reality felt like an impossible task, but if it were a dream, would she really dream of him?

Death never crossed her mind. She was a soldier in an expendable army for most of her life, yet she never feared death. There was never a lingering sense of what if when they asked her if she believed in life after death, but she wondered now. Looking death in the eye had forced a realization upon her – she would die and achieve nothing. She married arguably the most powerful man in all of Ravka and she failed to utilize it. In the end, her name would be forgotten in history for her plans would all die with her.

Inhaling sharply, she wanted to open her eyes. A heaviness settles on her eyelids, making her groan. Her entire body felt dismantled, every nerve bare, inflicting pain.

“It’s alright”, a hand pressed to her forehead and Y/N frowns. Breathing heavily, she felt vulnerable, exposed.

Swallowing thickly, her eyes flutter open. With blurry vision, she looked up at the dark presence looming above her. Blinking fast, her lips part and before she can ask, cool liquid runs down her parched throat.

Taking a deep breath, her eyes closed again. She needed a moment to collect herself, to stop the world from spinning.

“It hurts”, she mumbles meekly.

“Shhh”, his voice reaches her. “I’m here”, she feels a gentle squeeze of his hand, “You’re safe.”

Resisting sleep, she opened her eyes once more. The sight of his tormented gaze leaves her nearly breathless. He’s still handsome, but it looks as if he’s aged ten years in just a few days.

“What happened?” Her voice is hoarse, still raspy from thirst and sleep.

“You’ve been in and out of consciousness for a week”, his forehead wrinkles, “We’ve just made it back.”

Despite the little voice in his head, the Darkling held onto his wife throughout the night. He kept her close to his chest, running his fingers through her hair. She was exhausted, injured so badly he could hear the strain her body was under with every breath she took.

Her eyes remained closed, her lips slightly parted and his pressed in a thin line. Absurd. It was absurd to think that someone like that – so delicate, so fragile, could have any power over him. It baffles him just how quickly he found himself attached to this woman who was unremarkable in every possible way – or so he told himself.

Truth be told, he couldn’t take his eyes off her since he first saw her. She radiates genuine beauty few possess, a confidence he’s never found in anyone in hundreds of years, and an air of mystery he couldn’t quite understand.

By the time morning light reached their tent, the Darkling just stared at her with care, studying every inch of her face as if it could be the last time he’ll ever be given a chance. He memorized the way she fit in his embrace, the rhythm of her beating heart in the dead of night and every labored breath as it threatened his sanity.

Anger was his best friend for so long, his shield against humanity, but his anger wasn’t all-consuming as it once was – it was directed to those who caused the swelling around her eyes and cuts across her cheekbones.

“General”, Ivan’s head peaked inside the tent only to swiftly disappear once he caught sight of a moment he was sure wasn’t meant for his eyes.

Rolling his eyes, the Darkling gently laid her head down. Caressing her cheek, he let a heavy sigh pass his lips. It’s been too long since he last felt so defenseless and helpless as he did now. He promised himself he’d never feel that way again and yet he found himself in the same cursed whirlwind of emotions as he was in when the fold came to be.

Biting his lower lip, he pushed it all down. If he’s distraught, his people would know. He cannot be emotional and still lead an army. He has to be strong – for Grisha and for Y/N.

“Ivan, we’ll have to find a healer soon”, Kirigan spoke in a hushed tone. Glancing at the tent, he felt a lump growing at the back of his throat. “I believe she’s developed a fever too.”

“Fedyor can try to cool her temperature”, Ivan offers, “He’ll slow her heart and keep her breathing. I’ll trade with him if necessary.”

Nodding, the general was satisfied with Ivan’s solution. For once, Ivan didn’t question why he wanted to protect her. This time, he was offered aid rather than words of discouragement.

“I’ll have to leave some of our own here”, Kirigan looks at the direction they came from. “The Fjerdans came too close and I need to know why. Why would they take my wife?”

Ivan lowers his voice, making sure he doesn’t wake up Y/N, “Perhaps it was a coincidence.”

“I don’t believe in coincidences. Not when her safety is at stake.”

Nodding, Ivan glances at Fedyor. He’d be the same if anyone touched his beloved. Suppressing a smile, Ivan finally realized it – no matter how vehemently the general denies it, his heart is no longer his.

“What are the orders? I’ll make the necessary arrangements.”

“Take back what they took, place their heads on a stake and wait. More should come soon and when they do, I want to know why they came so close to Little Palace and who ordered them to take my wife.”

Squinting, not in anger but to see him better, Y/N frowns, “A week?”

“Winter made it hard for us to move faster and you were in no shape to ride back.”

Letting out a shaky breath of air, she raised an eyebrow, “So you carried me?”

“Ivan and Fedyor kept you alive too.”

Wetting her chapped lips, she hesitated. Her fingers burned, itching to touch him, to intertwine with his.

“A healer should be here any minute now”, Aleksander informed, pulling his hand out of hers as if he could sense her inner battles and decided to help her by removing himself from it entirely.

“No”, she decided.

Standing abruptly, his jaw clenched. Despite his stern expression, his eyes hold all the sadness in the world, pleading eyes that both threaten and adore.

“No?” He repeats with disdain, “What do you mean by no?”

Holding her breath, she endures a sharp pain in her ribcage as she propped herself up on her elbows. Breathing heavily, she directed her determined gaze on him. “I’m human, am I not?”

Squinting at her, his lips part, “And?”

Struggling to prevent herself from laughing at the way he looked at her now, Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Humans aren’t allowed aid of a healer. We go to the medics.”

“You’re my wife”, he remarks almost instantaneously, slightly wishing she remained unconscious for a while longer. If she slept, the healer would have done their job and there would be no argument. There was no doubt about it, their truce was over.

“But I’m still a human. The rest of my kind don’t have the privilege of being married to you.” Her voice is stern, low and frustratingly righteous.

“You need a healer or you might not survive”, Aleksander insisted.

“Then let me die.” She stared at him, no signs of crumbling and it made him feel like he’s drowning.

Rubbing his forehead, the Darkling shut his eyes in frustration. After all the sleepless nights, his head felt like it would implode. All he had on his mind was her safety and now when he brought her home, she refused help.

“What do you want?”

Knitting her eyebrows, she glanced at his jaw as it clenched. “What?”

Her voice is higher, almost confused but he knew better than that. “I’ve known you for almost two months.” Two months too long, he thought. “I know when you’re trying to extort me.”

Covering her mouth, Y/N suppressed a laugh. Truth be told, it’s exactly what she’s doing, she just didn’t expect him to cave so quickly.

“Healers for the First army”, her lips twitch. Pursing her lips, she bites the soft flesh on the inside of her mouth to stop herself from smiling at all costs.

“No”, he spoke through gritted teeth.

Shrugging, she laid back down. “Alright then. I only regret I won’t be here to hear you explain my death to the Tsar and my father.”

Growling under his breath, he swipes his hand down his face. “One healer.”

“Two”, she argued, sitting up with a pained expression on her face.

“We can’t spare two”, the Darkling crosses his arms, his eyes darker than ever before.

Lifting her chin in defiance, she narrowed her eyes at her husband. “Two healers or no deal.”

Releasing a long, heavy breath in frustration, the Darkling felt his insides turn. “Two healers but only for those who can’t get better with a week long rest on their own.”

“Two healers for those who can’t get better in a few days of rest AND the same amount of food and water for the First army.”

Running a hand through his hair, the general’s nostrils flare. Cracking his neck to the left, to the right, he turned his death glare back on his wife. “Food and water are limited for Grisha as well.”

“I saw them eat grapes”, Y/N deadpans. “You have enough, so share. If the First army dies out, who will protect your precious Grisha?”

Folding her hands in her lap, she maintained eye contact with the general who refused to blink. He stared back at her, aghast. The woman was impossible! She made every word that passed her lips a contest of wills.

His jaw set, he moved closer to stand before her. He looked formidable with the relentless, firm pools of black ink for eyes devouring her with intensity, too hard in comparison to what she had seen in the tent. He looked like he could kill her without even putting a hand on her…something she still expected him to do.

What was stopping him? She was far behind enemy lines, no reinforcements and she saw what he can do – he could kill everyone who stood in his way.

“Fine”, he huffs. “Under one condition.”

Rolling her eyes, she nods, “What is it?”

“I want a kiss.”

Her eyes flashed to his. Ringed with golden bruises, she was still alluring – like a wildfire or a storm. No…she is wildfire, a storm. She is deadly and uncontrollable and slightly out of her wits and he’s asking her to be his ruination. It isn’t love, he tells himself, it’s obsession.

Raising her eyebrows, Y/N didn’t bother hiding her surprise. A kiss? Of all the things he could have asked, the big bad general who can summon shadows is asking for a kiss?

A part of her trusted Aleksander and that trust demanded intimacy. She wanted his hands on her – in her hair, his lips on her neck. She longed to be vulnerable and that’s what worried her. Trusting him, needing him, it’s bound to breed love and self-inflicted madness. If it were anything else, she would outright refuse him, but she has so many lives dependent on her answer.

“Tonight”, she decided. If her own sanity is the price to pay, she will do what she has to do.

Nodding, the Darkling retreated. Leaving the room, he opened the door for the healer to enter. Sparing her a quick look, he swallowed thickly as the thought of her willingly kissing him made his heart slam into the rib cage. Even his heart wanted to escape him as it too longed for her hands’ touch.

He didn’t make more than two steps outside the room when a Grisha joined him - one of his many spies.

“What do you have for me?”

The spy beckons him to the side, looking around wildly. “This could change everything.”

“What is it?” The Darkling speaks through gritted teeth, demanding an answer.

“There is talk”, the spy pauses, “Of a Sun Summoner.”

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

Healed, bathed and properly fed, Y/N had paced their room in anticipation of his arrival. She had seen the look in his eyes earlier that day – something between them has changed.

As the door opens, her breath halts inside her throat.

“I thought you were lost”, Genya admitted. “When they found your mare, I lost hope.”

Smiling, Y/N cupped her cheek. “I did too”, she sniffled.

The Darkling felt, more than saw, her presence as he entered the room. He turned slowly, his breath held. Her hair looked darker in the candlelight, its rich color gleaming against the green velvet of fresh sheets on the bed she leaned against. He could hardly speak. The nearness of her, the quiet room, the candlelight made him question the reality of what he was looking at.

“You look better”, Aleksander managed a curt smile, looking at Y/N and her attire. The sheer nightdress she wore was back, perfectly outlining her figure.

“Why did they take you?” Genya asked, unshead tears weighing heavily on her eyes. “Did they know?”

“No”, Y/N shakes her head, “But they found out.”

“How?”

“It doesn’t matter. Kirigan killed them all.” Y/N glanced at the door where she expected her husband to appear later on.

Chewing on her bottom lip, Y/N felt her heart flip. “It helped me realize something.”

Frowning, Genya waited for Y/N to explain.

“Your General does have a heart”, she states. His request for a kiss lingered in every thought her mind could concoct.

She stared at him then slowly untied the belt of her robe and it glided languidly over her smooth skin, falling to her feet.

His gaze roamed over her as if he is unable to fully comprehend her beauty. Only when he looked back at her eyes did he see she was troubled. 

“Of course he does”, Genya chuckles, “He was most worried when you were taken. He promised he’d kill them all and bathe in their blood.”

“I think I can use that.”

Knitting her eyebrows, Genya’s frown deepened. “How?”

Pressing her lips, Y/N sighed. “In order for me to win”, she paused, “He needs to believe he did.”

“Husband”, she spoke clearly. She feigned confidence, but inside she quivered.

She had barely finished the syllable when she was in his arms, being carried to their bed, his lips already fastened to hers. She felt his lips hit hers like a tornado, his admission of burning the world in her name spinning in her head. It could have been a fever dream, but she would bet her life it wasn’t.

Holding her chin in place, he rested his forehead on hers, heaving from the kiss. She couldn’t open her eyes, clinging to him for dear life, but even with eyes closed, Y/N could hear the emotions thick in his voice.

“I don’t want to do anything you’re not willing.” He whispered against his lips, all too prepared for his hands to roam her body now.

Y/N was afraid of herself as well as of him. He could sense it as he kissed her. He’d waited a long time for her to come to him and now it seems she was more than ready to give herself to him without his talk of her marital duty.

He expected anything but to find her with her arms wide open.  But even now, as he held her, he felt no great sense of triumph.

Pulling the sheet over her, he stood. “I can wait.”

The sheet accented her shoulders and the full swelling of her breasts. The candlelight deepened the shadow above the sheet. Her bare throat pulsed with life. Her face was set in a firm, serious expression that caused her eyes to darken. Her lips were hard, as if carved of marble and he ached to part them into a smile.

Turning away, he began undressing himself for bed, wondering how he could survive a night beside her if she remains as she is now.

She averts her gaze, whispering under her breath in confusion, “Wait?”

He laid beside her, barely dressed at all. She found herself achingly aware of his presence. The only light in the room was from the flames of candles she placed across the room. The light danced on her hair, played with the shadows of her delicate collarbones. At this moment, he remembered nothing of the arrangement their marriage was meant to be. He knew only that he was in bed with a desirable woman, one he never expected to claim. She seemed too headstrong to ever give into his charm, yet she bared herself before him and he couldn’t take advantage of her.

“Why don’t you want me?” She sat up, glaring at him. She let the sheet fall as his eyes met hers, bravely fixing him with her fiery gaze.

Rolling his eyes, he looks away. How can she torment him like this with no shame?

If anything, he felt like she’s attacking him. “I don’t want to hear about how a demon took you by force for the rest of my life.”

“It’s not force if I’m giving myself willingly, is it?” She raised an eyebrow, deciding on a tactic finally. Aleksander is a general, a conqueror at heart and she saw the desire in his eyes. If there was any hope of her plan to work, she had to harness his desire to convince him he won.

Licking his lips as he cracked a smile, Aleksander nodded in surprise, unable to keep his eyes from wandering lower to her breasts. “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?” He wanted to possess her, to claim this difficult, headstrong woman for himself. His mouth came down brutally hard on hers, claiming them, nearly bruising them.

Y/N fumbled with the sheet that wrapped around her, making Aleksander chuckle into the kiss.

“Let me help you,” Aleksander purred and tore the sheet away, pulling it from under the mattress.

Wrapping his hand around Y/N’s neck, his grip was oddly weak, gentle even. She laid nude before him, his gaze fixed on her. He stared at her in wonder; her full breasts, curvy waist, round hips. Then he looked back at her face, her eyes blazing. Her lips were reddened from his kiss, and suddenly there was no power on earth that could stop him from taking her.

“You make me feel”, he pauses in anguish, “You make me feel”, he said quietly, fiercely, “And I don’t like it. I want it to stop. Now.”

He pushed her into the mattress and Y/N saw the ruthless general in his eyes and for a moment she feared it. A general isn’t gentle at all, not like Aleksander could be. She feared the pain he’d cause and the tears that would follow. She feared what he’d do to her, but then the fear she felt dissipated as he spoke against her lips.

“I’ll go slowly.” Aleksander stopped himself, remembering she’s never had a man in her bed before and once he saw the fear in her eyes extinguish the flame he already adored, he reeled himself in.

“Your hands are bloody from murder”, she paused, “But I trust them completely.” Her voice had never been smaller, her hands never as desperate as she clung to him. She wanted to trust the sudden, overwhelming warmth in his unrelentingly tender gaze, but she still awaited the pain that was yet to come. He moved on top of her, his lips attaching to her neck gently as he pressed a kiss above her pulsating carotid, knowing she’s nervous as he felt the pace of her pulse.

With one thigh, Aleksander parted hers. He kissed her again, passionate and slow, distracting her as his hand moves lower, down to the intimate parts she never allowed another only man to see, to feel. Slipping his finger between her folds, he found if applied enough pressure a desperate moan escapes her without a fail. He feels her breathing change as he begins to rub circles, her thighs trying to push against his in a need of more friction. And that’s when control escapes her and she closes her eyes completely, letting the pleasure take over.

Unable to wait any longer, Aleksander pushed the head of his hardened length between the folds, feeling her wetness pooling over as nature’s lubricant. Feeling the membrane, he stops for a moment. Looking at her carefully for any signs of distress, he wonders if she even realizes what is about to happen.

“Do you want this?” He asks again, fearing she may change her mind.

Gripping his arm, she nods. “Yes”, she replies, breathless.

Pressing himself inside, he bows his head in the crook of her neck, growling lowly in pleasure. It’s not the first virgin he had, but it’s the first one that made him want to come on the first thrust.

“Go on.” She encourages him, surprising them both. Swallowing thickly, she sinks her nails into his back, anticipating the next thrust. It would be a lie if she said she wasn’t in pain, but she knew it would get easier as he moves again and she would feel the pleasure again – and she wanted the pleasure more than the pain.

Nodding, Aleksander starts moving in and out slowly, refusing to risk her pain for a little more pleasure he’d find in speed and his untimely release. Instead, he’s using deep, slow strokes with a relentless care for the nerve bundle between her folds. Every passing second draws louder moans from her until he feels her clench around him, his own mind blackening as he feels himself nearing the edge. She’s holding him so tightly to her body, so desperately as she unravels beneath him. Picking up pace, he finally loses control, jerking his hips to meet hers in a deep thrust only to finish deep inside her, allowing them both to breathe.

Rolling off her, Aleksander decided to stay quiet, allowing her to have control of the moment. If she wants his embrace, he’d do it for her and if she wants to talk, he’d talk to her, otherwise, he’d just sleep. It’s been so long since he truly slept – since the day they went for that ride.

He placed an arm around her for comfort alone, not pressing himself closer than necessary, closing his eyes once he realizes she’s not interested in him at all after she came down from her high.

Waiting for a few minutes, Y/N pretended to sleep. After the hurricane of emotions he’d given her, Y/N didn’t know how to feel. She wanted to relax, to sleep in bliss, but a part of her ached. She ached for who she used to be. Would her father hate her for what she just did? Would her people denounce her for sleeping with the enemy?

Her eyes opened wide, finding his are still closed. Lips quivering, she felt herself crumble as tears fled her eyes. She watched his sleeping figure and sighed deeply, telling herself to stop crying. She was supposed to be in control of him, to make him want her and crave her, yet she found it was the opposite. She didn’t love him, but she did feel a connection…perhaps it’s the kindness he showed her when he rescued her or the pleasure he had given her, but something inside her changed and the heart she hardened on purpose found a soft spot for the general.

=============================

Tags: @bruxa0007 @rangotangomango @kaitlyn2907 @thestoryofmylife9 @shelivesindaydreamswme @hxrgreeves @safetyhtom @kaqua @savannah-elliott @all-art-is-quite-useless  @azure23x @girlmadeofavocados @ashdab2611 @acciorudolphx @ladyblablabla @wckedheart @xceafh @sanna2020 @tarkanelima-blog @takethee @mellifluous-cosmos @marvel-ousnesss @tea-effect @starlightofsolaria @p3nny4urth0ught5 @blackbirddaredevil23 @sarcastic-and-cool @slytherinsbiggestproblem @within-thehollowcrown @notthatchhavi @musicconversedance @freakytillthemoon  @lgkoval @honeyofthegods @queenmalhinewahine @misselsbells06  @whatthefluffrichard @aami98 @britriestbr @itsfangirlmendes @padme-parker @readingsssssssss @runawayolives @thehighladyofasgard @emlynblack @keithseabrook27 @dailydoseofchoices @deceivedeer​

Part 8

[noteguk]

for science | jhs | m

— summary; in which Hoseok hears through the grapevine that you give one of the best blowjobs ever, and he needs to test it to be sure. 

— contents and warnings; blowjob (duh), dirty talk, praising and stupid pet names, cum eating, deepthroating (the oc has no gag reflex), Hoseok finds heaven, kind of crack? Idk don’t take this seriously, college!au, hoseok x reader (with a mention of past Jimin x reader), studying sessions being interrupted in the name of science 

— words; 5,1k

Requested by anon! 

Hoseok could be kind of clueless when it came to some science-related things (and his high school biology teacher could attest to that), but one thing he knew very well was the scientific method. All that hypothesis-testing-stuff, or whatever the hell that was (okay, maybe he didn’t know it that well) had taken him out of some trouble in the past. It helped him see some of his decisions in a more experimental light, avoiding the terrible Olympic-somersault-into-conclusions that had gotten so many of his friends into awkward situations. And it shouldn’t even be said that he took quite a bit of pride in that — it made him feel very intelligent and he would take any stroke to the ego that he could get. 

So, when Jimin got a bit too tipsy and started babbling on about how you gave him the best blowjob of his life, Hoseok was, at the very least, cautiously skeptical. 

“You’re such a drama queen.” Hoseok rolled his eyes before chugging down a bit more of his beer. He was nowhere near as intoxicated as Jimin was, and he wasn’t planning on changing that. It was a Wednesday night, for fuck’s sake. He had to leave some thrill to the end of the week. “It probably was like… alright. Good, even. But the best one ever? Please.” 

“It was so much more than alright, dude.” Jimin threw his head over the couch’s back, looking like he just got washed up on the shore. His hair was a mess of clear strands, exploding on his head like a failed science fair experiment. “It was the best suck of my liiiiife. I wish she didn’t hate me so I could have that again.” 

He scoffed. Hoseok had enough filter left in him to avoid telling Jimin that the reason why you hated him was entirely his fault — what did he expect from three weeks of ghosting? Besides, if the head was that good, he would surely stick around for just a bit longer than two months. “Sure. Like the time that you almost died riding a roller coaster.” 

“Hey. I almost did.” Jimin’s eyes opened, presenting his friend with a dazed-out, unfocused brand of frustration. He was getting tired of not being taken seriously — didn’t Hosoek know that alcohol makes you more honest? He wasn’t making things up. Not when they were as serious as the well-being of his dick, or actual death. “It was some Final Destination bullshit, I’m telling you. Pieces of metal flying and everything.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He waved it off, leaning closer to Jimin so he could take the almost-empty can of beer from his clumsy hands, and placed it on the center table. “I think you’ve had enough alcohol for tonight, man. You have a class at ten tomorrow.” 

“I’m serious, dude,” Jimin pressed on. It was past eleven and Hoseok only wanted to sleep, but the other boy was clearly clueless about the lack of mutual interest in that conversation. “Aren’t you two friends or something?”

“Kind of. It’s weird,” Hoseok answered. You two had lingered in a hazy friendship space for a long time now, and he didn’t know exactly how to explain your relationship. He didn’t really consider you two close by any means, but you weren’t strangers or casual friends either. To be honest, he hadn’t thought too much about it until that very moment. “Why? What does that have to do with anything?” 

Jimin sighed, fumbling against the sofa. Much to Hoseok’s delight, he was starting to get sleepy as well. “You could ask her to suck you off,” he mumbled, “then you can feel it for yourself.” 

He laughed at that, unable to believe what he was hearing. “Jimin, you’re out of your mind if you think that’s not gonna backfire.” 

He blinked heavily. “Hm? Why?” 

Hoseok blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “We aren’t that close, and we haven’t done anything remotely sexual before this. It would be super creepy.”

“That’s not true,” Jimin spoke lazily, as if the words were starting to get hard to find. There was a pause so long after his sentence that Hoseok thought his roommate had fallen asleep. “I know you guys made out like at the beginning of the semester. Taehyung told me so.”

He was going to murder Taehyung. “It wasn’t like that. We were both drunk and it was super awkward afterwards.” Hoseok got up from the couch, leaving Jimin to groan and spread out his legs over the cushions. “Listen, I’m glad you two had fun, and I’m sorry you ruined it. But I’m not gonna ask ____ to suck me off just so I can know if you’re being dramatic or not.” 

Jimin smirked wickedly — or at least tried to, because his lack of facial control wasn’t doing him any favors. “Whatever you say,” he teased, “but I think you’re curious.” 

Truth was: Hoseok was beyond curious. The cogs in his head had started to move, and his brain was evoking lewd images of you so fast that he could barely follow. He would be pretending if he said that he never saw you under that light before, but, after the mess that was your makeout session, he had forced himself to jump into the friendzone before he managed to make things worse. 

Hoseok liked you very much, even if you two weren’t particularly close. He enjoyed spending time with you, he found you funny, smart, and way out of his league. But he wasn’t delusional enough to believe that you would actually say yes to sucking him off, especially so out of the blue. 

“I’m not curious,” Hoseok lied through his teeth, and he wanted to change the subject so much that his head was starting to hurt. “You’re gonna sleep here?” 

“Hm… yes… the couch is very comfortable.” Jimin closed his eyes and adjusted his body on the furniture. His baggy shirt was already halfway through his stomach and his pants had ran up to his waist, but the man didn’t seem to notice. “You don’t know what you’re missing out on.”

Hoseok rolled his eyes, moving towards the door. He needed to get Jimin some blankets, because the other was surely not getting up for the rest of the night. It was bad enough to babysit him for those few hours of intoxication, but infinitely worse to make him chicken soup if he got sick. Been there, done that. “I’m sure the couch is great.”

Jimin’s voice was soft and sleepy when he spoke up again. Hoseok was already in the corridor, and he almost didn’t hear him when he said, “I’m not talking about the couch.” 

Hoseok went to Jimin’s bedroom and grabbed his pillow and the blanket from his undone bed. Meanwhile, scenarios ran wild inside his head, having you as the main star. He didn’t know what was taking over him, but he wasn’t so quick to ignore Jimin’s story. Hoseok was faced with a fantastic scenario of a perfect blowjob, and the idea that it was so close to him was making his pulse quicken. Again: it would be absurd to ask you to do that, regardless of the motive behind it, and he knew that it would be awful for your already-strange friendship. 

No, he could never do that. He would not. 

But like… what if it worked, and you magically accepted his request? And what if, by some wonderful moment, some millennial alignment of planets, Jimin wasn’t actually being hyperbolic and you actually had the ability to give incredible blowjobs? Could he really let it pass without giving it a shot? 

He could see it as a scientific experiment, Hoseok thought, as a way to prove a hypothesis. It couldn’t hurt if he just— 

Oh my god, dude, shut the fuck up and forget about this. 

Coming back to his senses, Hoseok strutted out of his roommate's bedroom and walked toward the living room. By the time he came back with the blanket and the pillow, Jimin was already deep asleep.

~ 

Against his best efforts, that conversation remained stuck to the back of his mind for the next two weeks. Hoseok would find himself going back and forth on the idea of you having some strange, Marvel-worthy superpower when it came to sucking dick and, worst of all, the idea that his skepticism was making him miss out on it. Jimin was exaggerated when it came to, well, pretty much everything, but that didn’t mean that he would be wrong about that specific subject. That would be a logical fallacy, and that was also something that Hoseok knew very well. Bless his late nights on Reddit for that. 

Yet as the days moved along, and his curiosity was slowly turning into desire, he was forced to revisit the infamous night between the two of you, the one that Jimin had so mercilessly mentioned. Thinking back on it, it wasn’t surprising that your overconsumption of alcohol, added to the way that you two had grown close (both physically and mentally) had ended up with Hoseok laying on top of you, kissing the soul out of you and fondling your breasts in the middle of a party. It wasn’t the most dignified moment of either of your lives, but, well, it happened. 

One way or another, the night didn’t move forward. Even if Hoseok already had a tent in his pants, you two were far too intoxicated to consent, and were quick to fall asleep before the situation could escalate. Bottom line: Hoseok woke up with your tit in his hand, a nightmarish hangover, and the decision that the You-Subject would have to stay on hold for some time. 

And on hold it stayed. For an entire semester. And it would’ve remained that way if Jimin’s stupid mouth hadn’t started talking. 

So after two weeks of self-inflicted psychological torture, Hoseok slipped a hangout invitation amidst your texts. If you saw any second intentions behind his “haven’t seen you in awhile, wanna hangout? ;)” you didn’t let it show. The problem was that you weren’t really in the mood to go out, especially since you had a big exam coming up, so Hoseok ended up convincing you that he would stay quiet if you let him go over to your place. 

It was a bit harder not to notice the desperation in his proposal that time, but you ended up agreeing. Your thought process was that the boy would eventually realize that his hangout attempt was ridiculous and that he would leave you to study by yourself, and the two of you would reschedule that odd friendship session to when you weren’t drowning in textbooks. 

The problem was that you had been stupid enough to believe that your friend would actually keep his mouth shut. 

Hoseok was seated on the edge of your bed for so long that he was sure that his asscheeks were permanently imprinted on your sheets. Because he hated himself, he kept eyeing the digital clock to your right, and he was certain that he had spent the last fifty two minutes and thirty three seconds staring at the back of your head and trying to come up with a casual way to ask for a blowjob. 

He had tried a few times already, and each one constituted of him being unable to finish his sentence, instead looking at you like BooBoo The Fool until you turned back around to face your disorganized desk, sighing and trying to concentrate on your work. 

All things considered, he couldn’t actually believe he had escalated Jimin’s sailor tale to that point. He was out of his mind, that was a fact, and he had absolutely no clue how you would react once he (if he) found the words to ask you to sacrifice your mouth for science. 

God, he was an idiot. 

He cleared his throat and got ready to try one more time. “So… I…” 

You sighed heavily and turned around on the chair. “Hobi, this is the fifth time you’re starting a sentence and not finishing it,” you said, annoyed. “Can you tell me what the problem is? I have a test in two days and you promised you wouldn’t interrupt me if you came over.” 

“I’m sorry,” he didn’t like feeling like a kid being scolded, even if he kind of deserved that. Hoseok guessed it would be better to just take off the band-aid before he made an even bigger fool out of himself. “Let me just, like, explain the context of this. Otherwise it’s going to be even more strange.” 

Dropping your pen, you fully swirled the chair around, crossing your hands over your legs. He wasn’t expecting your complete attention anytime soon, and the seriousness in your stare made his courage falter for a second. It was such a stupid idea, you’d just end up hating him like you did Jimin. “As long as you make it quick,” you told him.  

Hoseok hesitated, running one hand through his hair. “Yeah, okay, so… like, a few weeks ago I was talking to Jimin,” he started, watching your face for any signal of an expression — confusion, disgust, anything. But he found nothing. “We were drunk, and he started talking about the time that you two were together. Like, sexually.” 

You blinked, unfazed. “And?”

“And… he told me that you give, like, the best blowjobs in history,” the words left his mouth before he could fully digest them. This time, he got a reaction out of you — a light raise of your eyebrows. “And, no offense, but I didn’t believe him. You know how extra he is about some stuff. Most stuff.” 

There was a moment of silence as you waited for him to go on, but Hoseok was too busy swallowing his thoughts down and feeling like he would collapse at any given moment. You sighed. “So what? You wanted to tell me that you don’t believe in my blowjob abilities? That’s all? Can I go back to studying now?” 

“No, that’s…” Now, things were starting to get complicated. Just take off the band-aid, Hoseok, don’t chicken out now. “I wanted to know if you could show me. Like, if you could suck me off. So I could... confirm that hypothesis.”

Every part of his brain was suddently hyperaware of how fucking stupid he just sounded. He had expected that another thick silence would follow, but his heart almost leaped out of your chest when you started laughing at him — like, full-chest, eyes closing, head rolling back laughing. “Are you serious?” You asked, taking one hand to cover your mouth before, at last, bursting out again. He felt like his ego was being stabbed with a rusty nail. “I can’t believe you, Hoseok. Took you all this time just to ask me if I could suck you off? For science?”

His mouth felt like it was full of cotton and he had to clear his throat before he found the force to answer you. “Yeah, I mean, only if you’re comfortable with it, of course,” he struggled to say, each word morphing into the next. His stomach had frozen up and the flight or fight response was starting to kick in. Had he really been that much of an idiot? When did his cock start dictating his words? “I… I know this is like, super creepy. I’m sorry. We can forget this ever happened and I’ll never talk to you again. I shouldn’t have said anything.” 

Suddenly sad, he waited as you settled back on the chair, wiping a small tear from the corner of your eye before you stared at him. There was still a smirk crawling up your lips, and he felt like the world was collapsing all around him  as the silence expanded around the two of you. He looked at the digital clock: it had taken him precisely three minutes to ruin everything. 

He sighed, shoulders falling. “Do you hate me? Why are you so quiet?” 

You bit down on your lip, your eyes narrowing as you took his form in. Hoseok was hot: point blank. He was also nice, and respectful enough to realize that he might have overstepped a few lines with his request — and, even if you couldn’t really understand it, you also weren’t bothered by it. And you certainly didn’t hate him. In a way, you were almost flattered. You would’ve been more if the comment had come from anyone else but your Danny Phantom ex. But that was a different story. 

The entire situation was just too funny to let it go. And, besides, you really wouldn’t mind sucking Hoseok off. It wasn’t as if you had never thought about that before. 

“I’m... considering it,” you told him, watching as his face lit up in a mixture of confusion and joy. He looked like a kid seeing Santa for the first time. “If you promise to shut up and let me study, I’ll do it. And if you agree to never talk about it again.” 

Hoseok blinked profusely, his mind short circuiting. “For real?” 

“Yeah.” You raised from your chair, walking closer to your bed. Hoseok swallowed hard and leaned back, placing his hands on the mattress for support. “But do me a favor: if it’s not that good, don’t tell me. It’ll hurt me.” 

“Yeah, alright.” He swallowed dry, every neuron in his brain trying to grasp what the fuck had just happened. His mind was the Spongebob office being set on fire, and he suddenly didn’t know how to deal with the anticipation booming in his chest. “I’m... not hard yet, though.” 

“It’s okay.” You kneeled in front of him, placing your hands on his inner thighs and slightly pushing them apart. Hoseok quickly got the cue, and opened a bit more so you could comfortably place yourself between them. “Just... relax,” your voice was almost a whisper then, and he felt his soul trying to leave him. That was insane. “Let me take care of you.”  

Your words managed to make him relax a bit, then he tensed all the way back at the feeling of your hands fumbling with his button. His breath hitched as you pulled the zipper down, fingers hooking on the edge of his pants before tugging them down his thighs. 

He felt exposed as his pants fell like a puddle around his ankles, his tongue coming out to wet his lips as you leaned in. Hosoek felt like he was dreaming when you started nibbling at his skin, kissing and licking his inner thighs as you slowly made your way closer to his aching member. 

“I can’t believe this is happening,” he barely got out before sighing, the tingles of your caresses on his skin shooting directly towards his cock, already semi-hard. 

You flicked your eyes up at him, humming against his thigh muscles. You were now so dangerously close to his underwear that he thought he would lose consciousness. “Were you daydreaming about it or something?” You teased. 

Maybe in a different position, he would’ve lied about it. But the truth came out before he could hold it back. “Ever since Jimin told me that, yeah,” he said. 

“Hmm… hope I live up to the expectation, then,” you purred, looking up at him with those doll-like eyes. Hoseok suddenly felt like he was losing his balance, his entire body burning in desire and expectancy. You looked like another one of his horny daydreams, but you were kneeling right there, in arms reach, and he didn’t know how he would deal with what was about to ensue. 

Your mouth was hovering above his clothed cock before he could notice and, delicately, you leaned down to place a kiss on it. The touch was tender, almost numb with the fabric standing between you two, and yet Hoseok shivered, biting down on his lip as one of your hands enveloped his erection. He watched, mesmerized, as you started lazily stroking him through his underwear, leaning your head to the side so you could place heavy kisses on him, at times giving his tip a few kitten licks until it was covered by a thin layer of your saliva. 

The sensation left him on edge, silently begging for more. By the time you moved back so you could undress him, Hoseok was a mess of shallow breaths and heavy swallows; his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as pleasure started to build up at the corners of his perception. Biting back a moan of relief, Hoseok raised his hips as you slowly pulled his underwear downward, allowing for his cock to spring free from its confinement. You had done a good job teasing him, because it was already fully hard when it bounced against his abdomen, red-tipped and leaking. 

His gaze oscillated between your face and his cock, watching for any reaction as you took one hand to his length, squeezing him firmly. “Fuck,” he let out a grunt, his overwhelmed body responding to the smallest of touches. 

You smirked at his reaction, taking a quick glimpse at his devastated features before moving back to what you were doing. Hoseok was so cute, you thought, liking the way he was so responsive. 

A shudder ran up Hoseok’s body when your tongue came out between your lips, placing delicate licks on his base. He loved the feeling of your warm muscle against his hardened member, his mind growing eager as you began tracing a path upwards, flattening your tongue against him. His breathing was ragged by the time that you reached his crown, a hum escaping your throat as you lazily swirled your tongue around his tip, covering him with your saliva. 

You took your time caressing his slit with your mouth, waiting until he was cursing and panting before you finally wrapped your lips around him. At first, you only took his tip in your mouth, sucking so slowly that Hoseok whined and buckled his hips from the bed, trying to make you move faster. 

Wordlessly, you simply placed your palm against his thigh and pressed him back down. Even if that was the last thing he wanted to do, Hoseok accepted your order and settled back against the mattress, grunting as you continued to tease him. 

“Please, put it all in,” he begged, starting to lose his trail of thought. “This is torture.” 

And maybe another day you would have taken a bit more time torturing him, but, that afternoon, you were kind of in a rush to finish studying. So you complied. 

“Oh, fuck, fuck.” His eyes shut and his head was thrown back as you fully sank down on his cock, your tongue flat against him. Before he could stop himself, his hand flew to your hair, yanking at the strands as you moved back up, your hand pumping the parts of him that you couldn’t reach. 

“God, your mouth feels so great…” He moaned, back arching as you reached his tip once again, licking it before sinking back down — you took him just a bit deeper that time, and the motion didn’t pass by unnoticed. He was really starting to believe Jimin, and he wondered if maybe he should’ve been more worried about the entire rollercoaster situation. “Ah, that’s it. Just like that.” 

You moaned around him, the vibrations making him cry out, desperate. Hoseok couldn’t hold himself back from moving closer to the edge of the bed, his other hand clenching your bedsheets between his fingers as you continued to swallow his cock like it belonged in the hot confinement of your mouth. 

“Oh— oh my god, baby,” he grunted, pulling at the strands of your hair. His mind was starting to get hazy, his chest fluttering in a mess of sighs and heavy breaths every time that you sank down on his member; every time you flicked your tongue against his sentitive slit or pumped his base. “That’s really good, you take my cock so well.”

You looked up just to see the mess that Hoseok had turned into. With his mouth parted and eyes glazed over, he looked like he was about to fall apart at any second. He was watching you in complete awe, his eyebrows falling to form a beautiful frown of concentration; tongue coming out to lick his lips. He was so fucked out that you felt yourself getting riled up by his image, a pool of wetness accumulating between your thighs. 

“You look so pretty like this.” He exhaled, unaware of his own words. Hoseok was too busy following your swollen, redden lips as they wrapped around his member, your cheeks hollowing after you sucked him with all that you had. Even the small amount of droll around your mouth was enough to make him throb in your hold, a grunt escaping him. “With these — fuck — those pretty lips around my cock, shit. I could watch you forever.” 

You hummed around his member again at his words, the vibrations shooting directly at his core, where a rising heat had dangerously grown stronger, signaling his upcoming orgasm. Hoseok loved the way you actually looked like you were enjoying yourself, moaning and whimpering around his cock as you took all of him in your mouth, eyes closing every time he throbbed inside you. The eagerness in which you took him in, like you were starving for his cock, was one of the filthiest images that Hoseok had ever seen, and it was one that he knew would haunt his dreams for the years to come. 

When you removed his cock from your mouth with a dirty wet sound, Hoseok was about to complain before he saw you licking down his length, one of your hands holding his cock away from your face as your tongue started to play with his balls. It was an odd feeling, but not an unwelcomed one, and it kept him on edge for a little while longer while you played with him. 

With a timid whimper, you looked up at him as you licked your way back up to his tip. The image was so hot that he almost fainted, a deep moan escaping his throat when you took him back inside your delicious mouth. 

And the truth was clearer than Hoseok had ever expected: Jimin was right. 

“Fuck, babe, how did you get this good?” Hoseok grunted, trying his best to focus on the picture-perfect image of your lips wrapped tightly around his throbbing cock. He could tell that his release was starting to build up at an alarming rate, his thighs growing weaker every time you took him inside you. “Oh my- Ngh! Fuck! Oh my god!” 

Hoseok’s mind was wiped clean when he felt his tip hitting the back of your throat, his hips buckling up as your throat clenched around him. He was pretty sure he was in heaven then — if he focused, he could hear angels singing all around him — , his pleasure overtaking every cell of his body as you continued sucking the soul out of him. 

“Holy fuck, do that again,” he begged, his voice much higher than before. You didn’t need to be asked twice, because, within a second, he was crying out at the feeling of your throat wrapping around his cock one more time; his hands holding tightly to the roots of your hair. The only reason why Hoseok hadn’t started fucking your mouth yet was because he wanted to have you in control, giving him the best head of his life without any interruption. “Fuck, fuck— Baby, you’re so fucking good at this, fuck.”

There was a vague raising of his hips to meet your movements, making him hit the back of your throat again and again, the lewd sounds you were making filling the room. Nothing in his life had ever compared to that instant, he had ever felt a pleasure as great as he did at that point, and he knew it was about to snap. 

“God, I’m gonna cum,” he sobbed, finally closing his eyes and letting the pleasure take over. “Fuck, you’re so good, I’m gonna—“ 

Hoseok filled your mouth with his cum, dripping down your throat when you swallowed around him. His head was spinning and his muscles were trembling, and that time he was unable to hold himself back from thrusting up against your mouth, trying to prolong that divine sensation for as long as he could before, at last, collapsing against the mattress with a final, shaky moan. 

He barely heard you when you got up to your feet, his mind floating above his body as he tried to get himself back together. With the little force that he still had inside him, Hoseok leaned on his elbows and stared at you like you were made of gold. “Fuck, ____.” He breathed out, and the only thing he could say was, “What the fuck?” 

You giggled at his reaction, thumb cleaning a bit of cum that had painted the corner of your mouth. “I appreciate your feedback,” you teased, pointing over your shoulder, to where your desk stood, forgotten. “Now that you have your answer, can I study in peace?” 

“Y-Yeah, sure,” he struggled to say. “I’ll... stay quiet.” 

You smiled brightly. “Thanks!” 

He thought about thanking you right back for giving him the best orgasm of his life, but he thought that would make everything much more pathetic. So he didn’t. 

Hoseok eventually found the motivation within him to put his cock back inside his underwear, clumsily pulling his pants back up. He found himself in the same position he was before everything went down: dumbfounded, staring at the back of your head as you worked on your textbook. The red numbers on the clock told him that just ten minutes had passed, and yet his life had completely changed. 

All that he wanted was to return the favor — it was the fair exchange, after all. Hoseok sat up at the edge of the bed and spoke up, filled by a newfound courage. “Wait. Don’t you want me to take ca—”

“Shut the fuck up, Hoseok.” 

His mouth fell shut and his courage deflated just as quickly. Maybe another time.

[seasonschange-butpeopledont]

The Last of Us: Part II

Pairing: Frankie Morales x F!Reader / Santiago “Pope” Garcia x F!Reader 

Warnings: Language, threats of violence, guns, blood and injury, a post-zombie apocalypse world ripped straight out of The Last of Us, first aid medical stuff (kind of?)

Word Count: 1,644

Author’s Note: The Triple Frontier Zombie Apocalypse AU no one asked for.  

Summary: After Frankie is injured, the boys find themselves in need of your help. 

Part I - Taglist Form - Masterlist - Part III

The gunshots outside your window set heart racing. Not an entirely uncommon sound in the world you lived in now, but the quiet of the last few days had given you the illusion of peace. 

That fantasy was promptly shattered when a large blonde man kicked your door in, covered in blood and carrying a metal pipe as a weapon. 

“Get him inside!” He ordered, speaking to someone you could not yet see. You’d been hiding behind the counter of the bar since the shots rang out, but it wouldn’t be long before these strangers discovered you there. Careful not to move too suddenly and make the old wooden floors creak under the shift of your weight, you craned your neck to peek around the corner. 

You watched two more men follow behind the first, carrying an unconscious man through the doorway. The metallic scent of blood hit you immediately. Someone had been injured. 

“Goddamnit,” The youngest blonde swore. “Where the hell did they come from?”

“Must have been following us,” One of the men reasoned. “Caught Fish in the back.” 

“You thinkin’ they were hunters?”

“Nah,” The first man shook his head. “That was amateur. Probably just desperate for some supplies.” 

“Right, and we aren’t?” The young blonde snorted. “This whole fuckin’ plan was stupid. Never should have come this far into the city.” 

“C’mon, Benny, quit complaining and help me move that jukebox in the corner. We’ve gotta barricade this door.” 

“With noise like that, we’ll be lucky if a damn horde ain’t at our doorstep in a few minutes,” The man, Benny, you presumed, grumbled as he began pushing the heavy machine across the floor. “Fuckin’ scavengers.” 

The third man was knelt on the ground, assessing the unconscious man’s wounds. 

“How bad is it?” The first man called. 

“I’ve seen worse,” He replied, placing his hands against the wound and applying pressure as best he could. He looked around the room in search of supplies, his gaze landing on the bar top. You shrank back, but you knew it was useless. He was on his feet and heading towards the place where you hid in the blink of an eye. 

When he came around the counter, he spotted you immediately, still crouched down on the floor. He was shorter than the rest of the group, with tan skin and greying curls. There was a fierceness in his eyes that told you he meant business. 

“Looks like we’ve got company, boys,” He called. 

You were ill-prepared for the confrontation, clutching the neck of a broken bottle as a makeshift weapon. If it came down to it, you doubted it would do you any good. You weren’t much of a fighter. 

“You know anything about this?” He demanded, unholstering his weapon and training it on you. He pointed to the injured man with his free hand. 

“What? No, I– I don’t know anything,” You shook your head, fumbling for a defense, caught off guard by how absurd the accusation seemed to you. “You broke into my bar, remember?” 

“Could be a trap. You sure you don’t have a buddy in the back that’s about to come shoot at us?” He countered evenly, the gun in his hands lowering slightly so that it was no longer pointed between your eyes. 

“If I was planning a robbery, don’t you think I’d be armed with something a little better than,” You paused, looking at the label of the bottle in your hand, “Peppermint schnapps?” 

At this, the man raised an eyebrow and looked towards his companions, seeming to ask for their assessment of the situation. The two men flanked him, watching you carefully. 

“She ain’t gonna hurt anybody,” The young blonde spoke up. Benny, you remembered. “Look at her, Pope. Poor thing’s scared to death.” 

You glared at him, clearly indignant at his observation. The man with the gun nodded finally, holstering the weapon before retreating towards the injured man to check on him once more.

The older blonde stepped in, holding out a hand to help you up off of the floor. You accepted it, pulling yourself to your feet. “Hey there,” He said with a calmness in his voice as he introduced himself, “I’m Will, and that’s my brother, Benny. Over there, that’s Pope– He’s a little spooked right now, so you’ll have to forgive his manners.” 

He pointed towards the man they’d dragged into the building, currently sitting on the floor with his back against one of the booths by the front wall. Pope was beside him, pressing a bloodied shirt against the wound at his friend’s shoulder. “And that’s Catfish. Look, we aren’t here to cause any trouble, but we could really use your help.” 

You gave him your name in a voice just above a whisper, your attention held by the wounded man. He wore a hat that shadowed his face, but something about his slumped figure tugged at your heart. His friends clearly cared about him deeply. That wasn’t something you came by often in this world, not anymore. These days, it was every man for himself. 

Your grip on the bottle loosened, and you put it away. “I have a first aid kit upstairs,” You informed them, turning back to Will and Benny. “I’ll go get it for you. There’s some clean dish rags under the sink to help stop the bleeding.” 

Relief washed over Will’s face. “Thank you,” He told you, his sincerity clear in his tone.

“Mind if we take this?” Benny asked you, holding up a bottle of whiskey. “I think it’s going to take a little more than those tiny antiseptic wipes to get that thing good and clean.”

“Go ahead,” You confirmed, heading towards the store room to grab the first aid kit off the shelf. Back in the bar, you could hear muffled groans of pain as the men poured the liquor to sterilize the wound. The agonizing sound went straight to your heart, making your stomach twist painfully. It’s been months, but you didn’t think you’d ever acclimate to the suffering you’d witnessed since the beginning of the outbreak.

“Thanks,” Pope murmured when you returned, handing the first aid kit to him. Benny and Will had taken up arms by the door, watching through the cracks in the boarded up windows for any signs of oncoming hordes. 

“Mind putting pressure on that for me?” He requested, taking his hands off of the wound to sift through your meager medical supplies. Your hands replaced his, pressing down on Catfish’s shoulder. His breath was coming out in short, even puffs. The bleeding seemed to be slowing, and a thin layer of sweat covered his face, dampening the hair that curled against his forehead. If the situation were different, you might have found him handsome. 

You looked back to Pope, watching him work. His eyes were focused on threading the needle to begin stitching, and you discovered that his fingers were trembling. It surprised you; these didn’t seem like the type of men who cracked under pressure. This Catfish fellow must have meant a lot to them. 

“Is he going to be okay?” You inquired softly. Pope swallowed hard, nodding slowly. 

“I think so. The bullet went straight through. If we can stitch it up, it’ll be fine, as long as there’s no infection. We should probably think about getting some food in him soon.” 

“That’s good,” You replied, trying to keep your tone optimistic. Infection was as big of a threat as anything these days, but you thought you thought he stood a good chance. A bottle of whiskey and some clean bandages were still miles better than the field medicine most people received. 

When Pope failed to thread the needle for the third time, you held out your hand to him expectantly. “Let me take over. I used to do a lot of sewing with my grandmother. Steady hands.” 

You offered him a reassuring smile, and he reluctantly relinquished the needle and thread to you. 

“Have you been here long?” He asked absentmindedly, sitting back on his heels as you worked. Your eyebrows drew together in concentration. 

“A while. The bar is pretty well stocked, all things considered.” You got the thread through the eye easily, carefully securing it before nudging Pope’s hands aside. You removed the dish rag and took out one of the antiseptic wipes, clearing away some of the remaining blood before you set to work on stitching the wound closed.

“Riding out the apocalypse at the bar,” Pope snorted softly. “Sounds like a nice plan. Wish I would have thought of that one.” 

“I used to live in the apartment upstairs, actually, before everything…” You trailed off, not eager to rehash the beginning of the end. “Well, you know what happened. When the QZ fell apart a few months later, I didn’t really know where else to go, so I ended up back here. I guess the owners of this place didn’t make it, but it seemed safe enough and there are plenty of supplies, if you don't mind beer nuts and pretzels. I’ve been hiding out here ever since.”

“Really? All by yourself?” He frowned. You seem to hesitate, swallowing a lump in your throat before answering. 

“Believe it or not, you and your friends are the first people I’ve spoken to in about two months.” 

“No kidding?”

You shook your head. It was a lonely existence you led these days, so different to the one you had when the city was full of life. 

“That’s too bad,” Pope told you, unable to ignore the pit that formed in his stomach when he noticed the sadness in your eyes. “I don’t think we made the best first impression. 

“That’s okay. It’s nice to meet you, Pope,” You said softly, trying off the final stitch. “Even under the circumstances.”

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[imagines-by-a-typical-fangirl]

Unexpected Places (Pt. 04 of 11)

Pairing: Ivar the Boneless X Reader/Bjorn X Reader

Word count: 3 K

Summary: As a princess, you've lived in a golden cage all your life, always a piece on someone else's game. But everything changed when the Norsemen came crushing down on Wessex, like waves in a violent storm. Their king spared your life and decided to take you with him to his kingdom, in what felt more like a rescue than a kidnapping. There, you were not only confronted with a completely different culture and lifestyle, but also with two of his sons. The oldest one has his eyes set on you, but it's the youngest one, Ivar, who gets who claimed your attention since the first sight. And he seems to have an unnamed interest in you. Of course you hoped whatever that was would pass, but when unexpected feelings start to flow a different way, things begin to change.

<- Previous part (03)

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{Vikings Masterlist}

×

Fit For a Princess

You're listening to the chattering between Aslaug and Helga, looking at pieces of jewelry at the market place. You say something every now and then, but you can't shake away Ivar's stare. On the last days, two weeks or so, he's right there, sitting across from you on every meal, eyes burning through you. Hvitserk said he's studying you, still expecting you to snap, to decide you had enough of all this and want to go back home. To Wessex, where your older brother now rules. And Ragnar already said he'd take you back if you wanted, so there's that.

But leaving Kattegat hasn't even crossed your mind, not before and not now. How could you trade all you have here, and slide back into the invisible chains you had on? It wouldn't be just stupid, it would be the death of you. You're finally understanding who you are, the things you like, the kind of people you like. In England, you had to play a specific role, because everything was political. Here, you're just who you are. And you do what you want to do. This is true freedom.

“I really like this one,” Helga says, as your eyes wander through the many rings, earrings, and necklaces. “I'd like those two as well.” She continues as you pace around, further away from both women, turning the corner and then walking to another store. The pieces they have here are all made of metal, delicately bent into beautiful shapes. You caress a bracelet with the tip of your fingers, wondering if it'd look good on you.

“Don't waste your time with these cheap things.” The voice, that you now recognize immediately, makes you turn around. Ivar comes from among the people, only stopping when he's standing next to you.

But despite his attention being on the jewelry, your eyes are on him. “You're tall.” It comes out suddenly, because he never stood beside you like this, so you couldn't have noticed.

“Well, you're tiny.” Ivar glances at you, playing with one of the rings. “Anyway, you shouldn't be looking at these things. They won't suit you very well.”

Giving the old man an apologetic look, you randomly pick a bracelet. You don't get why Ivar is being rude, but, judging by what Hvitserk had told you, his brother isn't one to hold back. He says what he thinks, it doesn't matter how mean it may sound to others. You're still trying to figure out if this level of brutal honesty is good or bad. “I really like this one.” Searching on the small bag attached to your dress, you take four coins, way more than what the bracelet is worth, handing it over to the man and putting the bracelet on. The silver color is beautiful, and the drawings carved on it remind you of the pattern you saw on one of the boats that brought you here.

Ivar rolls his eyes exaggeratedly, sighing. “You are such a kind princess.” Dropping the ring, he starts walking side by side with you when you set in motion through the market. You weren't expecting that.

“King Ecbert was king of Wessex. This isn't Wessex.”

“(Y/N)! Wait for us.” Aslaug calls and you stop, giving her a look and a nod before turning to face Ivar, who towers over you.

“Therefore, I'm not a princess anymore.” Shrugging your shoulders, you give him a small smile.

“That's a shame, isn't it?” He lowers his voice, leaning closer.

“Not really.” Shrugging your shoulders, you give a little step back, putting a strand of hair behind your ears before giving him a little wave, walking back to where both women are.

After they're done shopping, as you walk back home, the clouds push themselves apart just enough for the sunlight to appear. That makes you stop, taking in the warmth on your skin, but it soon disappears.

“Hey, (Y/N),” Hvitserk calls, coming from the beach with his father, Ubbe and Bjorn, who's walking behind them. “We're going to meet some traders. Wanna come?”

“Why not?” You mumble, elbowing Hvitserk when he's close enough.

“Go put on some pants then. We're riding there.”

“Oh.” It's so absurd it's stupid, how you can't seem to do the simple things people know by heart here. “I'm not very good at riding.” Whispering, you tell him, not wanting anyone else to listen.

“I'll help you out.” He nods, tilting his head to where Bjorn is. “Without cracking your head open in the process.”

Smiling you nod before heading inside to change out of the dress. You're just about to head out when Aslaug tells you to grab a cloak in case it rains later, so you have to make another trip to your room. But soon enough you meet Hvitserk and the others again, reading the horses.

“Which one is mine?”

“Over here.” Hviserk guides to a beautiful white horse. “Give me your leg.” He says, and for a moment you furrow your eyebrows, but soon enough you understand what he means. Raising your leg, Hvitserk grabs your calf and you push yourself up, successfully mounting on the horse with his help. It feels funny to be this tall. You have ridden before, but most of the time you used a carriage. There was no need for a princess to ride on the back of a horse at Wessex. It's wild though, and you've grown to love wild things. “Keep your feet like this on the stirrups at all times. Don't put of your feet all the way in or it might get stuck if you fall. If you touch her with your ankles, she'll move forward. Pull the halters and she'll stop. The same thing goes to pull her left or right, but since we'll ride together she'll just follow the other horses.”

“Got it.”

“Your ass might hurt at the end of the day, so be prepared.” He warns before jumping to the back of his horse. “If it'll help you feel more steady, you can hold on the saddle, but trust me, you'll get the hang of it once you lose the fear of falling.”

“Have you ever fallen from a horse before?” As you speak, the small group starts moving, and your mare does the same, keeping their pace, slow at first until everyone starts galloping, and all air leaves your lungs. You hold tightly to the saddle, scared at first, but you remember what Hvitserk just told you. If you let the fear of falling win, you'll never learn to ride properly, and you'll never enjoy it. Slowly, you let go of the saddle, holding only on the halters, making sure it's loose so she'll feel free to run.

And the sensation is amazing. The wind makes your hair whip your face over and over, and you lightly shake your head to get rid of it. Glancing at Hvitserk, you mirror his position, a smile creeping over your lips. The landscape, green, blue, and gray, passes by in a blur, and you try to take it all in. It's beautiful, breathtaking. Almost literally, because when you finally stop, you're struggling to catch your breath.

“You ok?”

“Yeah.” You answer, and Hvitserk nods before moving to stand next to his father and brother. You see a small troop approaching, riding up the hill.

“You're quite good at this,” Bjorn says, guiding his horse away from his siblings and near you. “A few more lessons you'll be riding like a true Viking.”

“I really like it. Its... Thrilling.” You're finally calming down, and your thighs ache a little bit.

“Wanna see the traders coming?” Turning his horse around, he gestures at a cliff, not too many miles away. “We could go up there, it'll give us a nice view.”

“Isn't it a little high?”

“The horses are used to it. C'mon.” Without waiting for your answer, he starts galloping away.

Glancing at Hvitserk, you hold the halter tightly to keep the mare from moving. “You think I should?”

“Sure, it has a nice view. But if you feel like the trail there is too much you come back here, alright? The horses are used to it but you're not.”

“Alright.” Touching the mare with your ankles, you loose the halter and she immediately moves, following Bjorn's horse. It doesn't take much until you're deep inside the woods, the horses now trotting. Bjorn keeps silent, giving you a few glances since you're slightly behind him.

“That way.” He says, and you just let your ride follow his. The smooth ground soon starts changing, with more rocks, and becomes unravel. When you see a steep slope, with apparently nothing to hold on to, you pull the halters, making the mare stop.

“I think it's too craggy.” You speak up, getting Bjorn's attention. “I don't want to fall on my first try.”

“She's used to this kind of inclination. You'll be fine.”

Considering it and also what Hvitserk said, you decide to leave the cliff viewing for another day, when you feel more secure on the horse. “I think I'll pass, Bjorn. Maybe another cliff where I can go on foot.”

“Don't be a pussy. It's not that craggy.” Then, he kicks his horse hard and it sets in motion. It doesn't surprise you, but when the mare moves as well, following him, you're startled, and in the sudden change, you let the halter fall.

Holding on the sell, you can only watch as Bjorn's horse easily climbs the slope, at a fast pace, and yours do the same. But when it suddenly turns left, around a huge rock, you lose your balance, and since there's nothing to hold on to, both your feet escape the stirrups, and you're pulled to the ground hard. Losing your breath, a sting on your ankle makes you yelp as you roll down the slope, only stopping once the ground is flat again. Rolling on your back, you take deep breaths, trying not to move the left leg since the pain is spreading through your foot and calf. “Damn it!” You exclaim, removing the hair from your face.

“(Y/N)!” It takes only a few seconds until you see Bjorn kneeling by your side. “Are you alright?”

“I just fell from a horse and rolled down a hill!” You speak fast, the pain on your back making itself aware. “Of course I'm not fine!”

“Let me take you–” He says as he starts to pull you up.

“No.” You cut him off, slapping his hands away. Bjorn has done enough for today. If he wasn't trying to be a freaking show-off, this wouldn't have happened. “Go get–”

“(Y/N)?” You hear his voice and breathes out relief. “I heard a yell.”

“Over here. Lying on the ground.” Annoyed, you cover your eyes with both hands. “Can you please see if my ankle is broken?”

“What happened?” He asks in a low voice, and you uncover your eyes to see him jumping to the ground, kneeling next to your stretched out leg.

“Bjorn made his horse bolt up the slope and mine followed.” You explain, giving him a hard glance, groaning when Hvitserk lifts your leg to remove your boot. “Easy there!”

“Sorry.” He mumbles. “But calm down, it's not broken, just sprained.”

“Shit.” Taking a deep breath, you sit up taking off the other boot as well and throwing it at Bjorn. “You can't keep yourself from getting me hurt, can you?”

“Me? Everything you had to do was hold on. The horse–”

“I'm not a Viking!” Bursting out, you look up at him. “I'm not some shieldmaiden, I'm still trying to fit in here and learn things. You can't expect me to follow your pace.”

“I just–”

“Bjorn, you should get back. Help father with the traders, I'll take her back to Kattegat.” Hvitserk interrupts him, and Bjorn leaves after a grunt, saying something you couldn't understand.

“And he thinks he has the right to be pissed!” Lying back down, you groan. “I think this is a sign to stay away from him. Every time he's in the situation, I get hurt.”

“Alright, c'mon.” Hvitserk pulls your arm until you're seated again. “You need to put some ice on this ankle, let's go.” Hvitserk takes your mare first, tying her up with his horse before mounting and pulling you up to ride with him.

Despite the slow pace he keeps, your back still hurts. Resting your head on his back, you sigh. “Why are you so quiet?” You ask after a while.

“I'm thinking about the right words to tell this to mother. She won't be happy.” He answers, a hand resting on his thigh as the other holds the halter. “She's not very fond of Bjorn already.”

“It was partially my fault too, I think. I let the halter slip and had nothing to hold on to.”

“You're know Bjorn likes you, right?” Hvitserk suddenly says, and you pinch your eyebrows together. This thought hasn't crossed your mind. “That's probably why he did that. That's how he... Gets a woman's attention.”

“Would you do the kindness of telling him it's not working?” Muttering, you rest both your arms on his back folding them as if his shoulders were a table. “Actually, I've been meaning to tell you... I met Ivar at the market place today.”

“...And?” He asks after a few seconds of silence.

“Nothing, just... It was nothing, really.” It's hard to understand exactly what you want to tell Hvitserk. You just can't seem to put your feelings or thoughts together. “I was looking at these things and he said they wouldn't suit me.” Stretching out your arm, you show him the bracelet. “I bought this there.”

“That's nice. But cheap.” Rolling your eyes, you remember Ivar said pretty much the same thing.

“He also said I'm kind. But that was probably in a mocking tone, so...” You get into Kattegat, and Hvitserk greets some people. “I don't know.”

“I believe it's safe to assume Ivar doesn't hate you.” Hvitserk slows down the horse when a group of kids run by. “If he did, he wouldn't put himself on your way like that... Or look at you the way he does.”

“And how does he look at me?” The words come out slowly because you're not sure if you want to know.

“The only thing I can say for sure is that he never looked at a woman like that.” You finally get to Ragnar's house, and Hvitserk asks a man to help you down. Once you're safe on the ground, he jumps off, telling the man to take the horses. “And I mean it in a good way.”

He puts a hand around your waist, helping as you jump on the right foot until the table in the main hall. “Do you think he–”

“What happened this time?” Aslaug asks, her voice already giving out that she's not happy.

“Twisted ankle. She fell from the horse.”

“Take her to her room, Hvitserk.” The Queen mutters, saying something to the girls who were following her. “And carry her this time if that isn't too much to ask.”

“Alright.” He replies, picking you up with a hand on the small of your back and another under your legs, quickly finding the way to your chambers.

Giggling, you give him a look “I love when your mother–”

“Careful with the teasing this time. I might just drop you to the floor and I don't care if your a princess who fell off a horse.” The fake angry tone makes you laugh again.

“My bad, Prince Hvitserk.” You snap back, rolling your eyes.

Aslaug has her maids help you bathe first, cleaning the dirt that is attached to your face and hair before lying you on the bed again and applying a piece of fabric with cold water on your ankle, keeping it elevated with some pillows. She isn't happy to know the whole story, despite you assuring her it's alright now. You could've died, she said, breaking your neck. But it's useless to worry about what could've happened. The best thing to do now is to focus on the ankle, which she said will be better in a few days, and let the whole incident go.

Later that night, you give little jumps to the main hall to eat something. It's just Ubbe and Bjorn, seated on a table at the corner. Nodding at them, not wanting to chat with Bjorn at the moment, you sit at the edge of the table in the middle, your back turned at both men, taking the jar and pouring yourself something to drink.

“How's your ankle?” Ubbe asks, and you look over your shoulder.

“It's fine. I'll be able to walk normally in a few days. But my back still hurts.” Completely ignoring Bjorn's existence, you turn away from them again.

Drumming your fingers on the table, you wait for the Queen's maids to bring your meal. When you feel someone moving behind your back, you assume it's them, and place your cup further away to open some space. But instead of the bowl with rabbit stew, a necklace is put down before you. And it's absolutely beautiful, with three blue stones surrounded by a golden metal, delicately molded around it. It's different from anything you've ever seen in Wessex. Taking it in your hands, you see Ivar dropping to the seat next to you, and you turn to look at him.

“What is it?” You ask, unable to hide the smile that comes to your lips.

“A necklace.” He simply says, and you roll your eyes at his tone. What a way to ruin the mood.

“Yeah, I noticed.” The smile slowly drops as your eyes go back to the piece, fingertips caressing one of the stones.

“This was made for a princess. Not those cheap things.” He gestures at your bracelet, and you giggle.

“Well, this is absolutely beautiful.” Glancing at him, you find he was already staring. “Is it for me?” You inquire in a lower voice, not wanting to make any assumptions that might embarrass you.

Ivar nods, lightly pushing your shoulder. “Turn around. Let me put it on.”

Doing as he says, you turn your back at him. Ivar takes the necklace and places it around your neck, and you hold your hair up so he can close it on the back. Once he's done, you let the hair fall before turning to face him, folding your left leg and carefully laying the wounded ankle on the bench between you and Ivar. “How does it look?”

You wait for an answer, but it doesn't come. Ivar's eyes were fixed on the necklace, but slowly, they come to meet yours. Tilting your head to the side a little, you feel heat spreading through your cheeks.

Shaking your head lightly and looking down, you take a deep breath. “Have you heard that I fell from a horse this afternoon?” You're glad you got your brain to function, changing the subject. “Twisted my ankle.”

Ivar's stare falls to your bare feet on the bench, the skirt of your dress pulled up to your knee. “Mother told me it was someone else's doing.” As he speaks, Ivar gives an angry stare at where his two brothers are, and it's obvious who he's looking at. “But I think you'll survive.” You feel his fingers caressing your skin, from your knee and down through your calf, so softly you wonder if he's really touching you.

“I will.” You assure him, biting back a smile.

“Ivar,” Ragnar calls, and it does take a while until you both look at where he's standing, near the thrones. “Your mother wants to speak with you.”

“What now?” He asks, annoyed.

“I don't know. Go ask her.” And he disappears.

“Guess I'll have to go.” He glances at you, grabbing the clutch.

But before he can push himself up, you grab his arm. Perhaps you shouldn't do it. Perhaps this whole thing is just some kind of joke he's pulling on you, but still, the necklace is beautiful and he was... Kind. So you lean closer to him, placing a soft kiss on his cheek. “Thank you for the gift. It's very beautiful.”

Ivar is frozen, even after you let go of his arm. He stands there, blue eyes locked on yours. Slowly, painfully slow, a smile comes to his lips. And it feels different. True, genuine. “You're welcome, princess.” He whispers before pushing himself up to his feet and walking away.

You're still a little dazed when the rabbit stew comes, and you can do nothing but play with the spoon. But heavy footsteps get your attention, and when you look at your side, you catch a glimpse of a very angry Bjorn disappearing inside.

He saw everything. And it takes you by surprise to notice that, the moment you laid eyes on Ivar, you immediately forgot Bjorn and Ubbe were here. Everything just... Faded away, and there was nothing else, just you and him. And this is not the first time it happens.

×

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[goblinkingdomsblog]

Hello I hope you are doing well !! I was wondering if it okay to request the mafia universe where they meet the agent y/n have a moment but then the agent smile and go away in like we will meet again kinda way I’m sorry if it’s too much you don’t have to do it I appreciate your writing and love it thank you for your hard work 💕

They get hurt while running away from the police, but agent y/n helps them - part 1

Members: hyung line.

Genre: mafia!AU, reaction.

Premise: during a police chase, one of the mobsters ends up getting injured. Suddenly, you appear when he least expected it, willing to help him. You say you will see each other again in the future. With complete certainty: after all, you will guarantee it yourself.

TW: (V) = Violence.

Mafia Series Masterlist

Mafia Series Plot

Hii!! I hope you enjoy this post, and that it meets well your request!

I'm really happy to know that you like the things that I write! Thank youu!!! 💜❤😁

+ Sorry for the delay, I wanted to make a long version of this reaction. The part 2 is already posted!

"We'll see each other again, don't worry."

Namjoon:

The damn right leg. It was always that damn leg.

Namjoon gasped, lowering himself against the wall of the dark alley. The smell there was not at all pleasant, and the humidity certainly wouldn't leave his expensive suit unpunished, but he was too busy to care about that at the moment.

Everything happened in a flash: one hour, he was sitting comfortably on a soft leather sofa, talking to the leaders of the other two most important gangs in Seoul (maintaining good relations between partner companies was essential); on the other, he was running down the wet sidewalk, after escaping from the building through a side door. The damned police had somehow discovered the secret meeting, probably through a traitor, and had invaded the place, trying to kill three birds with one stone.

Even his security guards had stayed behind, exchanging shots with the police to give him enough time to escape. He hated having to escape, looking like a coward, but he knew it was necessary.

Another thing he hated: he couldn't run fast without dropping at least one of his weapons, or himself. It was in a fall on the wet street that he had injured his leg, the same one that had broken twice before, and that now was hurting again thanks to his shitty motor coordination. He knew he was being chased, so he got up and forced himself to run for several more blocks, until the pain became too unbearable to walk. It was at that moment that he hid in the alley, where he was until now.

Suddenly, the sound of heavy footsteps echoed in the wet darkness. Without a gun, he could do nothing but watch, hoping his bad luck wasn’t that glaring that day.

When you turned into the alley with your weapon in your fists, using its wall for protection, you saw him immediately.

The mafia boss, sitting on the floor, with an empty expression.

Frowning, you checked if that was a trap and if there was someone around, but he seemed completely alone. Raising your voice, you announced your presence, and the first thing he saw was your well-equipped uniform.

- Hands up. Put them behind your head. - you said, with controlled calm.

Namjoon sighed, obeying slowly.

- I'm unarmed. You don't need to be alarmed.

- Get up and come over here. - you ordered, ignoring his words.

The mobster started to get up, but then he slid back down the wall. He tried a couple more times, until he gave up and lay motionless on the floor.

- Hurry up.

- I am unable. I think I broke my leg again. - he murmured, almost as if admitting it was a shame.

Suspicious, you didn't move forward initially. You checked the alley again, but no one was in sight. So, you decided to use a different strategy: you approached with the gun pointed at his head, after all, none of the henchmen would dare threaten the life of their leader (or at least that was what you hoped to be true).

- If you try anything "funny", I swear I'll kill you, okay? - you hissed, bending down in front of him.

The man's legs were stretched out in front of him, and the right was in an ugly position, proving that he was telling the truth. The bone must have torn the flesh, because a bloody wheel was beginning to form in his pants. It would be disgusting to anyone who was not used to brutality.

- How did you get hurt like that?

- Let's say that this specific bone is not the strongest. It is already the third incident that occurs with the poor thing. - he tried to laugh, perhaps to feel better about himself, but the pain prevented him.

You then took a deep breath. You couldn't leave the man bleeding there, even if he wasn't the best of people. It went against your values.

By slowly lowering the weapon (but keeping it within immediate reach), you began to roll up your uniform sleeves. The basic first aid classes you took when you joined the police would have to do.

- What will you do? - he asked, lost in hesitation and fear, as he noticed your approach.

- I will help you not to bleed a river. But it will really hurt, and it will be a really temporary solution. - you answered, seriously.

Without saying anything more, the man just fell silent, a thoughtful expression appearing on his face.

You put your hands firmly on his leg and, using the techniques you had learned, started to push. The pain was absurd, but he preferred to bite his lip until it bled rather than scream. Of course, being a fugitive from the police should be part of the motivation for not making too much noise.

The cracking of bones when they went back to place was hollow and dark, but at least the meat stopped being kept open. Taking a serious look at him, you noticed that the man was pale with pain, looking like he was about to pass out.

- Breathe in. The worst is over. - you replied, rummaging through your belt until you found the bandages you always carried along, in case of personal emergencies.

Carefully but firmly, you started to bandage his leg, just to stop the bleeding and keep the leg in place for as long as possible.

- Don't move too much, or you could make your situation even worse.

The man remained silent for a few minutes, just watching your serious expression and your nimble hands as you bandaged his leg. He wasn't sure about how to react, after all, that kind of situation was not quite what a mobster would expect from a police agent.

- Uh... why are you helping me?

You lifted your head, facing him directly.

- One of the most important parts of doing justice involves not letting anyone bleed to death. And even if your wound is not that deadly, I believe that waiting for a long time in a wet alley is not the most ideal healing scenario. - letting go and wiping your hands on the leftover gauze, you took your gun out of your belt and stood up - I'll give you the advantage of not immediately telling them where you are. But hope your henchmen find you fast.

He watched you walk away, going back cautiously to the exit of the alley.

- But... I... - unable to formulate a coherent sentence and not wanting to look like an idiot, Namjoon just gave up asking questions - I suppose that's what it means to be on the good side. Thank you anyway.

Surprisingly, you turned around one last time. The smile that shone on your face exposing all your teeth and lifting the corners of your mouth, giving you an air of extreme cleverness, took away the little breath that was left to Namjoon.

- Oh, but you don't need thank me now, because we will meet again. And next time, I'm not going to be that good. - clicking your tongue, you took a step towards the darkness - You better be well prepared.

So, you're gone, leaving him alone in the alley until the moment he would be found by the other gang members (which took a little longer than it should have).

Seokjin:

Shit!

That whole day was being terrible. First, Jin had started by clashing with members of a rival gang. Then the police arrived, shooting anyone they saw ahead. It was in the middle of so many fights that he ended up being shot in the palm of his hand, and his dominant hand!

Pressing his hand against his now-stained shirt chest, he continued walking through the seemingly empty industrial quarter, unsure of how to hold his revolver straight.

Everything should have been a simple negotiation, but things got off track too quickly.

His palm had already bled so badly that the entire front of his shirt was red. In addition, he could no longer move his fingers, which was a really bad signal. Containing a sob, he let a few tears roll down his face.

He was concerned with his own hand, but his biggest concern was if it would lose its usefulness forever. How would he be a hacker after that, without being able to type?

It was at that moment that you found him wandering alone and desperate. You had been looking for the fugitives in the more distant streets, to make sure they didn't get far. However, when you found the boy crying, a part of the adrenaline that dominated your mind dissipated. He barely held a gun, after all.

With patience, you announced your presence. When he saw you, he threw his head back in mourning, as if he were indignant at the heavens.

- I can't handle it right now! - he whimpered.

Rolling your eyes, you approached, your gun in hand.

- Don't worry, I won't shoot if you don't do anything stupid.

Eyes widening, he pulled his hand away from the body, in a strangled cry.

- How would I do it if there's a hole in my hand?!

Even a few feet away, the fact that it was possible to see through his hand was disturbing. The bullet had gone in and out, leaving a hole with color of blood, bones and nerves showing. Yes, the boy's despair was justified. You just kept calm because you've seen a lot of complicated situations like that before.

- You have to stop the bleeding!

- How am I going to do this with one hand?! - the silent tears continued to run down his face.

Sighing, you finally approached, scaring him by holding his hand.

- What is this?!

- A basic aid, considering that the nearest hospital is two kilometers from here. - you replied simply, taking improvised bandages from inside the jacket of your uniform.

There was not much to do about that hand other than to stop the bleeding. Avoiding looking at his blood-soaked shirt (which was not a pleasant sight at all), you began to wrap the wound with the fabric, covering the hole and tightening the bandage tightly.

He let out a sob of pain, but he didn't back down, knowing he needed to put up with it.

- Take good care of this wound.

He wiped his wet face with his healthy hand, sniffling.

- I don't even know if I'll have a hand after this! - the reaction would be comical if it weren't tragic. The panic in his voice was real.

So, you closed your expression, getting completely serious.

- You will take care of your hand and you will stop being pessimistic. It'll be there the next time we meet. - so, you gave a smile of certainty, small but absolute.

Then, moving away, you raised your weapon again, passing by him.

It took a few seconds for Seokjin to understand what you had said. The pain left him with slow thinking.

- Hey, next time?! - he exclaimed, turning in your direction.

Unfortunately, you were too far away to be stopped. He watched you leave for a much longer time than the expected.

Yoongi:

He was no longer able to walk, so he didn't force himself anymore. It didn't matter that he was inside the same building that the police were still in: he just couldn't get away anymore.

Limping painfully for a few more steps, he sat down in the narrow hall, resting his back against one of the walls. He and his two customers had been caught during the delivery of a shipment of heroin, and one of the damned customers had stabbed him to have time to escape. Literally.

With a small knife stuck in his thigh, Yoongi was actually slower than the others, easier to be captured. He was just lucky to be in the company of his most trusted friends, who came into conflict with the police just so he could run. He was worried about them now, of course, and he couldn't even repay their sacrifice and really escape. The pain was so much, and the blood on his clothes was so much, that his veins seemed to be filled with acid, which caused a burning sensation in his entire body.

Closing his mouth to try to hold his breath and feeling the sweat on his forehead, he leaned his head against the wall, looking at the ceiling for a few moments. The knife was still stuck in his leg and needed to be pulled out. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and counted to three. Then, lifting his trembling hands, he put them on the handle of the knife. That gesture alone was enough to make more cold sweat run down the back of his neck.

Then, as he prepared to pull the knife out, you appeared at the end of the hall. Wide-eyed, you observed the injured man and what he intended to do.

- Wait! Don't pull it! - you exclaimed, startling him.

I mean, Yoongi got scared, but the only thing he did was to turn his head slowly towards you, without really expressing fear.

You turned the other way, knowing that your colleagues were close. Specifically, a colleague who hated mobsters, and who would certainly have no mercy when shooting a man who was already injured. There was even a trail of drops of blood on the carpet, which went as far as the dealer was left.

- Why not? Sometime it will have to go. - he said, in a weak voice, with the tone of someone who no longer cared.

You slowly lowered your weapon when you realized that he was not carrying any gun. Then you looked at him again, snorting when you realized that you would need to act quickly.

Too many people had been hurt that day. You needed to fix the situation. Then, running up to him, you bent down in front of the man.

- You were stabbed in your thigh, that is full of important blood vessels. In addition, you are already bleeding too much. - you said, scolding him with some anger - If you pull the knife, it can make the situation worse and cause a much worse bleeding. Even though it hurts, the knife seems to be stopping the wound.

Too impressed by how straightforward you were, he just remained silent, nodding his head to signal that he would obey. In the distance, you heard your angered colleague's voice. Then you faced the mobster again, running your hands over his shoulders.

- I'm going to get you out of here and put you in a place where you're not in the immediate sight of a gun. But I can't do anything else. You will need hospital care.

Yoongi opened his eyes wide when you started to help him up, shocked by the situation as a whole.

- Why are you doing this? - he asked, his voice low and strangled with pain.

With effort, you managed to get him upright, but you were practically carrying his full weight.

- Because I think people should go through a fair trial, and not just get shot in the head like will happen if I leave you here. - striving to walk, you started down the corridor, towards the basement of the building - And make sure that your leg does not leave a trail of blood behind us, even if you have to tighten the fabric of your pants around the wound.

Again, he obeyed without protest, containing a cry of pain as he prevented the blood from dripping on the floor. He was shaking and sweaty, and the pain he was enduring must have been scary. Still, that was better than leaving him to die.

You followed as quickly as possible to the staircase, and each step was a sacrifice for Yoongi. The black mask you were wearing, part of the uniform, prevented him from seeing your face, but your eyebrows were frown at the smell of blood and the man in agony.

When you reached the basement, you hid the man behind a tall and heavy closet. The place was small, dusty and probably untouched for months. Still, you left him on the floor, sitting.

Stretching your aching back, you searched for the bad and cheap phone you used when you went to work, for emergencies. You turned it on and handed it over to the injured man, just before standing.

- Use this to call someone who can help you. It's the most I can do for you. - you said, as soon as he held the little electronic device.

Pale but with lively eyes, Yoongi took another deep breath to be able to speak through the pain.

- Thanks. - he said simply, closing his eyes when a flash of pain passed through his body. Then, he opened his eyes again - Isn't this phone tapped? It would be pretty easy to track me, then.

With a mysterious expression, you walked away. Even though you were wearing a mask, he could see the corners of your mouth going up to form a mysterious smile.

- You will have to find it out until the next time we meet. - you replied, taking your weapon from the belt just before leaving by the same staircase you had traveled before - Do not expect me to help you again.

Hoseok:

Hoseok was crying, something he hated to do. However, getting shot in the chest was not something that happened every day, and it was okay to cry in a situation like that.

With his hands pressed to the bleeding wound, he staggered down a deserted road in the hot dry night. The road was flanked by plantations, since it was located in the countryside, and the only noises there were that of the plants moving with the wind and that of the nocturnal animals.

He was afraid of those animals, after all, he smelled of blood. Still, nothing too dangerous should be there, as farmers would exterminate any creature. Even the "creature" himself, probably, if he appeared bleeding and wanted by the police in one of the houses far from the road.

He stumbled forward, needing to lean on one of the wooden fences. The pain in his chest was so strong that he had no idea where he was running to.

Suddenly, he felt the cold muzzle of a gun at the back of his head. As he bent over the fence, he stopped paying attention to the environment, and didn't notice when you approached silently.

- Hands up! - you hissed between teeth.

With a high-pitched cry, he remained in place.

- I'm using my hands to stop the bleeding from the shot your colleague gave me in the chest! - he exclaimed, his voice exuding real pain.

Swallowing hard, you wondered if it was true, and ordered him to turn around. When he did it, weak, the front of the shirt soaked in blood was proof enough.

The man's luck was that the shot had hit the right side of his chest and not the heart. The bullet was still lodged in his chest, but the bleeding was not aggressive enough to had hit an artery. That man was very, very lucky.

- Give me your gun. - you said, forcing the man to hand over his revolver. As soon as you made sure he was unarmed, you lowered your own weapon - Let me see.

By taking the man's hands away and looking more closely at the wound hole, you were sure that no very important veins had been hit. Then you started to take off the man's coat.

- Hey, what are you doing?! Isn't it enough that you invaded our place and killed 4 people?! - he exclaimed, irritated and scared.

Hearing those words was not pleasant, but they were true. So you didn't answer, just folding the jacket efficiently and wrapping it diagonally around his body, tying it tightly on his back.

- I'm helping you, you bastard.

Arching his eyebrows, he realized you were telling the truth.

- Why? - he asked, confused.

- Because nobody else is going to die today. I'll make sure of that. - you answered seriously - Now tighten the wound again. Prevent too much blood from being lost.

The man was already pale, but when he heard of blood, he became even more so. He swallowed hard, his face still wet with tears.

- Are you sure that I will not die?

You started to smile wryly, wanting to laugh at his crybaby face. However, as you watched his expression, you realized that his panic was real. You then changed your expression, smiling without showing your teeth but confidently.

- I am sure. We will meet in the future, because I will keep you alive. - you said, walking away - Now, run to the house after this plantation behind you and ask for help. I have to go back to the mission.

He wanted to say something else, but you were already walking away. The courage you gave him through your steady smile was enough.

He had the strength to run to the nearest house and ask for help.

Maknae line here.

The images used on this post are not mine, credits to the owners!

Kisses from the Goblin Kingdom! :)

[kindlyones]

Diary of Baldwin Montclair

Diary of Baldwin Montclair

Dear Diary,

I haven’t written in you in quite some time! But I found you in my hiding place at Sept Tours and I have a lot on my mind and would like to organise my thoughts. No one has managed to crack the code Pater and I devised when he orchestrated the death of Caesar, so I feel safe enough confiding in you.

What’s bothering me today is the continued pattern of “vampire murders” in the news. I hope to the Gods it isn’t Matthew. He seems happy enough holed up in his laboratory. Miriam swore to look after him and she would speak up if something were really wrong.

Strong armed Knox into giving a statement to the press saying there was nothing supernatural about the murders. He seems more receptive to Gerbert than myself, so I had to convince Gerbert to approach him. Gerbert gave me the go around, but eventually agreed to do it, as if our entire way of life didn’t depend on this.

Dear Diary,

Saw an advert for some Hercules musical production on Broadway. Thinking about Pater. I wonder if he really thought of Matthew as his son?

Dear Diary,

Saw Katerina. Feeling much more relaxed. I’m keeping an eye on China today. Looking into steel futures.

Dear Diary,

I’m in London. It rained a lot and now my house smells odd. I shall need to call someone to check for mould.

Dear Diary,

There is mould in my wine cellar. I repeat, there is MOULD in MY WINE CELLAR. As the youths on Twitter say, this is not a drill. I need to call in a specialist. My London wine collection cannot simply be moved as if they were bottles of Coca Cola.

Dear Diary,

I refitted my Thames penthouse for my most precious and delicate bottles of wine. Going to bid on the ‘45 Romanee-Conti from Drouhin’s cellar. I drank the last one when I thought it was at a risk of mould. Matthew sent me an email about it. He likes me to know he still has spies watching me.

Dear Diary,

Mixed news today. I got the ‘45 Romanee-Conti, but some cunts from China drove up the price and I had to pay $558,000 in USD. Absurd that I have to pay that much after all I did to set up trade routes to introduce wine to France in the first place. Everyone keeps asking me what I’m going to do with it. Obviously, I am going to drink it by myself while I pull my hair out over Matthew’s latest drama. He has abducted a witch. I can’t contact him. Everyone looking to me for answers, as if I understand one ounce of what’s in that libertine’s brain.

Dear Diary,

It is so much worse. He didn’t abduct her. They are in love. Marcus claims they are mating. He is usually reliable, but barely over three hundred. What the fuck does he know. Going to Sept Tours. The witches are very keen to speak to this woman, so I’m going to use her as a bargaining chip to stop them from seeking retribution against Matthew. They get their witch and Matthew gets to live another day to ruin my life yet again. Everyone is hell bent on some mythical quest involving the Book of Life. As if. I remember when we didn’t even have books, we had scrolls and tablets. If it were that important, it would be written in stone, like all important documents. How could a book tell us about something that happened thousands of years before I was born? If he had wanted to know of our origins, he should have spent more time with Pater. I saw more in his blood than any “book” could ever tell me.

Dear Diary,

What the actual fuck. I went to get the Bishop witch from Sept Tours, aka MY HOUSE on MY LANDS that I earned from TWO THOUSAND YEARS OF SERVICE TO MY FATHER AS HIS ONLY SURVIVING SON only to find she had already been taken by a flying witch. Why do I even bother showing up for Congregation meetings if this is what is achieved. Matthew was flailing. I had to talk him through it and remind him that witches don’t fly that far and he built most of the castles in the area himself. Finally we ended up pulling the witch out of an oubliette in the Cantal. No one was guarding her. Extremely suspicious. There is nothing particularly special about her. She can barely do magic. I suspect she might be spellbound, but she doesn’t seem insane enough. The best and easiest course of action would be to simply eliminate her from the board, as it were, but Ysabeau managed to find some semblance of her old terrifying self and put her petite foot down. I gave the witch the best advice I could and left. She is even less of a strategist than Matthew. If she listens to me, perhaps she will have a chance. Perhaps I should have just left and let her get herself killed, but Pater made me promise to protect the family when he made me paterfamilias and that includes Matthew. At least the witches’ trespass on de Clermont land has given the Congregation something else to talk about and now they no longer have the moral high ground as the injured party.

Dear Diary,

I am tired of everyone acting like being the de Clermont family head is something I just love doing. Like I want to be up in everyone’s personal business, managing them like children. Pater gave me a job to do. Pater never gives easy jobs, least of all to me. Wonder how long before the killing starts.

Dear Diary,

Thinking of Eva. I always thought I would see her again before I died. Does she think I didn’t pay dearly for what I did? Does she think I am not still paying for it now? I live under the weight of the consequences of my actions every day. I wrote her an email and deleted it before I sent it. She is in America now, close to New York. I wonder if she ever comes into the city.

Dear Diary,

Well, it’s started, and first on the docket is ME. Had to vote against my own execution today. That’s a first. They wanted to behead me and burn me, presumably still alive. Why did we never update that part of the charter? I’m going to replace the librarian with someone I can trust. That was too close for comfort.

Dear Diary,

Matthew and the witch have vanished. I am trying to locate them. Had the damnedest time getting into the Bishop house. No matter which way I turned, it kept showing me to the door. Regardless, I found no trace of them leaving the property recently. If I can’t follow them, at least no one else can.

Dear Diary,

Matthew must be enjoying playing the Boy Scout for his witch because there has not been a whiff of them anywhere. Where could they possibly be, the caves of Afghanistan? I would very much like to speak with them about whatever developments they’ve made with the Book of Life. If it will restore witches to their former power, I don’t want anyone else having it.

Dear Diary,

I dyed my hair grey. I must be having some sort of crisis. It’s nice to look somewhat as old as I feel. These past few months have aged me more than the last hundred years. I’ve taken to wearing all black. I have a right to be a bit angsty. I can’t even manage to lead the way Pater did on my own for a measly hundred years without our entire way of life falling apart as well as the legacy of our family. I keep asking myself what he would do. People obeyed his orders because they loved him. Nobody loves me. Philippe was everyone’s hero, and when I do exactly as he did, I’m a tyrant and a bully. Ysabeau told me she hated me to my face for the first time. I wish I could get drunk but it’s really not the time. I could be needed at a moment’s notice. They don’t love me, but they still need me. And I made Pater a promise.

Dear Diary,

Bloody Marcus is the head of the Knights of Lazarus. The child takes part in a single revolution and thinks he is some beacon of hope to the world. Meanwhile, the vampire murders have stopped. I really hope it isn’t Matthew. That would be the last thing we need right now. I am a veteran of hundreds of wars, let alone battles. I should lead the Knights. Marcus wasn’t even alive when there were knights. He isn’t a knight. He just plays at one.

Dear Diary,

My house has been overrun with daemons and witches. I try to turn up at unexpected times to see if I can catch them plotting against me. The revolution is being fomented from inside my own house. No word on Matthew.

Dear Diary,

Gallowglass and Fernando have materialized. Verin is headed for Sept Tours for the first time since Pater. My jet is fueling up and I am on my way home. The family isn’t gathering without me for no reason. I will gather them all together and exercise my rights as head of family and make them tell me what is going on. This has gone on long enough.

[savagenutella46]

And Thus With A Kiss I Die

Jasonette 1/1 - A fic I wrote for @moonlitceleste because she’s amazing

All quotes/title in bold italics derived from Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet.

"Banishèd' is banished from the world, and world's exile is death."

There's no finite end to where white and black meet. Everything is shades of grey; infinite on a foreboding scale of fate and destiny: entities that push you to make the choices you do.

It had ended with a flash of light—real or her imagination, she had witnessed it between her own eyes. The kind of flashing light that tells you, "you've died."

Ladybug could still hear the shrieks and screams of civilians echoing ringingly around her, confused, scared, as to why an akumatized villain was hurting them the way that it was; this wasn't how akumatizations usually went, maybe a few scratches, worn out knees, but never this.

(—And to think, it had started out as a normal day.

Marinette rose out of bed with the same grogginess lingering at the corner of her eyes, brushed her teeth, kissed her Maman on the cheek as she ran to school, late.

You'd never suspect you were going to die on a day so normal, so domestic.)

What had this person been through before submitting to Hawkmoth with such a vicinity? How had Hawkmoth prayed to a cacophony of emotions like this—to kill, order, destroy everything in its path? Marinette would never catch an inkling, dying and all that jazz.

It's easy to see the world through a rose-colored lens. To believe that people do the things they do because they're bad. (but no one ever talks about why they do the things they do because they're good.)

And Marinette, masked in all her red-and-black glory, had pushed a frozen-with-fear civilian out of harm's way, an absurd amount of unleashed dark magic from the akuma hurtling its way toward them, and she'd taken the hit. Rolled on the ground for yards from the sheer force that the akuma's magic had flew and stricken her and pierced the skin, blood splattering and trailing as she slapped and hit the street from every possible angle.

Ladybug can't move, can't call for help when she desperately needs to, because her partner is miles away trying to fight what has her plastered to the ground, laying limp underneath her dead weight, breathing muffled and heavy underneath her physical detriment.

Ladybug's eyes droop under the weight of exhaustion, barely running on fumes before she had run out in an attempt to defeat what was supposed to be an everyday activity.—Crazy, how something can seem so domestic until its so, so much more.—A hemothorax forming in her chest where Marinette had been hit, a very open thoracic cavity filling up with blood, and she's spluttering for breath, because her throat is closed up, filled with blood from where the akuma hit her to where it burned.

It burns real bad, almost like an explosion stemming from her chest to the nerve endings on her toes. Marinette feels like she's being tortured with every meek twitch of her wrist as she lays on the ground, unable to see over the car shouldering her path, the pain burning behind her eyes, the white-hot disappointment in her heart.

—And she knows it's time. Because this is the work of fate. Her life in its hands. It had seemed miles away from Marinette just this morning, and how she wished she could go back and cherish the moments since she'd arisen from unpremeditated slumber.

She cannot. This is her destiny, as it seems. No one can be saved if Ladybug cannot save herself, can't will herself to detransform and heal herself because she can't, and she feels a gripping amount of remorse before emotions hit her all around—she should've told Adrien something, she can't recall what it is—should've told her Maman she loved her before running out the door in such a rush—should've squealed about the hot superheroes in America with Alya one last time, before she feels nothing.

Nothing except for the white light. And then dark again. Absolutely nothing.

                                               _________________

It's dark when she opens her eyes, and she blinks to make sure her eyes are actually open, and sees a big, fat, load of nothing.

Marinette's—the ladybug suit had disappeared, her normal clothes taking its place—body feels light, floaty, and utterly weightless against the dark mass she's standing atop of. Her head feels eerily light, calm without the weight of the world on her shoulders, and a calm feeling washes over her.

Her voice echoes against endless sound barriers as she utters her first words since death.

"This is what death feels like, huh?" Utterly amazing. Marinette can't believe she didn't do this earlier.

—But, for a moment, she feels empathy. Empathy for the people stuck in Paris, wondering if this was the day they were going to die, the people all around the world living in fear of something so inevitable.

She closes her eyes for just a second, a moment of vengeful peace. Opens them again, and this time, she's somewhere different.

She's in a library. Unfamiliar, but welcoming all the same. The smell of crisp, unopened books float idly in her senses, a synthetic warm feeling creeping up behind her back. Distantly, she realizes that she recognizes the place, tables placed and shelves abundantly filled with books, ranging from science fiction to classic literature, and it feels exactly how it did all those years ago.

Years ago, when she'd first visited the United States of America, the first place her Maman and Papa took her was a public library in Gotham City, New Jersey. It had welcomed her so openly that she couldn't help but smile a little, slip under from her parent's grasp, and wander toward a vast section of William Shakespeare, someone she'd heard so much about in her eight—nine years, she couldn't help but be pulled toward the ordain shelf.

She'd even met someone, too. Her mother would forever deny—if Marinette had still been alive, but Marinette was convinced the little boy sitting against the mass of wooden shelves had been very, very real. Marinette had smiled at him, sat down next to him, even if he gave her a wary, and borderline aggressive look, she'd introduced herself.

"Hi, I'm Marinette." She'd said with a horrible stutter and an almost unintelligible accent. The boy closed his book—a black and white cover with words she couldn't quite understand the meaning of as well as a simple name like Shakespeare's, and she smiled a little harder.

"Jason," He'd said in a heedful voice, staring at her curiously. "Whadda' you want?"

Marinette shrugged as best she could with weak shoulders, and turned her head from the person next to her to drink in every corner of the library that she could see without moving from her increasingly-uncomfortable crouch on the ground.

"Nothing. Just wanted to see what you're reading." She leaned over his shoulder, monosyllabic and complex English text alike filling her view, so many words that blurred together, and she felt a heat at the top of her head in frustration.

She couldn't read English.

The boy next to her—Jason, had seemed to recognize her distress and pull the book closer to him, floundering for a moment before he exhaled loudly, and started to read.

Words flowed out of the him, smooth and languid, and she found herself trapped in the moment, mesmerized by such an eloquent reading from a boy who looked just her age.

"What cursèd foot wanders this way tonight to cross my obsequies and true love's rite?" He reads off, breaking unevenly for gulps of air, and dove back right where he stopped without much distraction, and moments, minutes passed under his voice.

And the memory fell away from view. She opened eyes she didn't realize had closed when a voice seemed to float from the corner of her vision, a body stepping into view and a realized this wasn't imagination.

Another boy, dressed in tattered—but comfortable looking jeans finds his way over to her, a curious glint in his magnificent blue eye and a raised eyebrow, though he looks troubled, aged where he ought to look youthful.

"Who're you?" He mumbles, lips barely moving around syllables as he stares at Marinette, defensive, yet hopeful.

His voice. Despite the clearly street-wise accent, his voice is beautiful. A voice that could recite hundreds of words and never get old in the canals of her ears. Marinette found herself wanting to hear more.

"Marinette." She blinks, seems to realize the way he seems nervous, and, "You like jazz?" Blurts out the first thing that comes to mind, which, just so happens to be the only sentence capable of such utterance in damning—literally—times like this one.

Jason finally cracks a smile after a few more moments of cricket-inducing silence, and the newfound tension in her shoulders seems to melt away again, just as it did with her entrance to a magnificent limbo such as this. "Not in particular, but I do like to read." His smile is utterly contagious, and Marinette feels it spread its way along her own face, eyes crinkling under the weight of emotion.

They spend their days in an endless limbo like that, reading, laughing, sometimes in the comfortable chair in the library, and sometimes they're gazing upon clouds, feeling the prickly sensation of grass under their backs as they lie next to one another under a cool breeze and warm sun—which is the scene they're settling in, when Marinette turns her head toward the boy next to her.

"It's been," She pauses for a moment, adding up the days since they've both died—it had to be around the same time—and Jason turns his head toward her in a similar fashion, an eyebrow raised. "A few months? And..." She trails off, suddenly feeling less confident in a horrid question.

She knows the way she had died hadn't been peaceful, and if the boy she'd grown so close to in months of passing had died as painfully, he might doubt their budding friendship, as new as it is.

But then Jason reaches over and covers her hand with his, a blooming warmth enveloping her hand all the way to her heart, her vision snaps back to where it had wandered down to the rest of her body, reliving a turret of emotions. "Marinette," Jason stares at her in earnest, "You can ask."

Another thing she'd never understand was Jason's ability to read people so well. He'd always know her intentions, as bad or good as they may be, like something mundane, a book she'd eyed for a few minutes before he'd sighed heavily and got up to get it for her, or when Marinette wanted to be left alone. Just for a minute, to pull herself back together.

"How did you die?" She watches as Jason closes his eyes, curling in on himself despite the foretold question, and waits.

She's good at waiting. (A familiar feeling of heat creeping up to her cheeks, the same way it did with someone else, not so long ago, but in a different lifetime.)

"It started out when I tried to steal Batman's tires—" Marinette widens her eyes in surprise.

Oh, so they're going way back then, huh?

But by the time Jason finishes speaking, pats his sweaty hands down on the slacks he wore that day that came from God knows where, Marinette finds the humor and her mood had dimmed significantly.

And Jason, he looks terrible. Like it was the first time he'd said something about it since, well, death. Almost hyperventilating, Jason is breathing heavily, gripping onto his pants with malice and intent, almost as if stopping himself from something. He'd told his beginning to end with an increasingly shaky voice, cracking at the edges where he'd relived the fear and abandonment he felt when trapped in an unfamiliar country, in a dirty warehouse, trapped in his own feelings in a suit that he thought would always protect him.

Without a dad that he'd thought would always protect him.  

Marinette feels a little sick. The boy next to her had died so brutally, alone, scared and slowly.

"I don't regret it. Being Robin." He adds quietly after a moment of hesitation. It's small, but it's there and plain. He doesn't regret something that changed his life, but— "Just the death part."

He would want to change his death, and she couldn't agree more.

If only it meant they could've still met despite living, that is.

She doesn't say that. Instead, she laughs a little. "You and me both." Marinette reaches over to hold his hand once more, and pretends not to see the tears climbing out of his eyes.

"So early waking, what with loathsome smells, and shrieks like mandrakes torn out of the earth, that living mortals, hearing them, run mad—?"

How it felt to tear his way out of the ground, shivering, shaking, flinching at the way his fingernails tore away with every claw and scratch at the unyielding wood before him. Jason was vaguely aware of a horrible groaning noise that might've been his own, but when his hand stuck through to crisp Gotham air, dirt flinging and spilling down on his face as he gasped and choked for breath, he could only think of a single quote from such a cliche play.

He thought of it while tearing out the bloody uvula of his victim, spurred on by the Pit and Talia's ruthless training, starving for the sound of screaming that rung in his ear, continued to clang loudly even in sleep, when it bestowed itself upon him.

Because he couldn't think about anything else. Wouldn't allow himself to, because then he would start thinking about her.

About how she left him.

Jason had turned to retrieve a book from their peaceful library limbo one day, muttering to himself about something so mundane that he didn't even remember, but he'd grabbed the book—a simple fiction, because they were both bored of astronomy—and turned around to silence, instead of the shiny mop of dark hair he was expecting.

"Marinette?" Jason calls, swiveling his head around when the chair previously occupied by her stood empty.

Jason waits.

He doesn't know how long he waits, searches, but she isn't there.

And the feeling of disappointment and fear runs up his spine again, before he knows it, he's kneeling on the ground, trying to catch his breath as tears run down because he's been abandoned again, and it's just as damning as the first time.

His father, his brother, his mother, his birth mother, and now his friend.

Jason breaks down again, gripping harshly onto his hair while he cries, where he'd usually hold onto Marinette's hand.

So he doesn't think of much at all, really. Not when he turns on murder mode, not when he forces himself to stare into the eyes of the person he's killing while they die, because he wants to remember how it felt. How it felt before he met another superhero torn away from her life almost as harshly as he was ripped away from his own.

He wants to go back. Before he flew to Ethiopia unsupervised and unprepared, before he took the Robin mantle, before he decided to make quick cash off of the Batmobile, before his mother died by her own hands, loosely holding a syringe and shaking, shuddering from her overdose.

Jason wants to go back to Before. He can't stand living in the After, where he makes the choices he does.

He’s supposed to be good.

permanent taglist: @nathleigh @stainedglassm @officiallydarkgeek @certainmuffinbagelcalzone @buterflies-and-ladybugs @maskedpainter

[youllallriseintheink]

Repeating the Cycle

I thought I’d write a little story about ink infection, as well as Sammy’s role after he was transformed. It’s inspired by Shazzbaa’s theories (I’d say which, but we don’t want spoilers, now do we?)!

I’ll tell you guys later tonight about the future writing projects I have planned.

---

Sammy awoke in his sanctuary, as he had many times before. He hadn’t been to his apartment in... well, days anyhow. He felt better when he was near the ink. He tried the door to exit his private sanctuary, and it was locked. “Is this a sign?” he asked his lord. “Is it time?”

Yes, his lord spoke back.

Sammy smiled- smiled rather weakly, as the pain from his ink infection had been wearing on him heavily. “Finally.”

All the waiting. All the sickness. All the fear. It was time to see what it was all for. And his lord had assured him, with the comforting voice of a father to a young son, that it would be worth it.

Sammy dragged himself over to the leaking pipe that hung from the ceiling of his sanctuary and turned on the ink supply. Ink sputtered down onto Sammy’s face and clothes, and he fell to his knees, hands outstretched and mouth open as though he was staring into heaven itself. His heart was pounding. He was shaking from adrenaline, and not even being surrounded with, covered in, and consuming the ink that normally numbed his symptoms seemed to be helping. This had to be fear instead of withdrawal.

Do not be afraid, the voice comforted, you will have ascended in mere hours. I promise, you will be safe and healthy. I promise, it will be better than anything you’ve ever experienced.

“Thank you! Bendy, hear my praise! I want what you have for me! I crave your embrace!”

Sammy took a long suck of ink from the pipe, then laid down on the floor. He was weak. so weak.

That’s it. You’ve made it. You need only wait now.

Sammy trusted Bendy. Bendy told him that everything he’d done and experienced in his life- even the nightmarish last few years- was leading to something. It told him that everything was okay.

Sammy didn’t know how much time had passed when he felt Joey tying up his ankles. With some struggle, he sat up and tried to push Joey off of him, but it had little effect. Before long, Joey had finished on Sammy’s ankles and was straddling his chest to tie up his hands. The last thing he saw with his biological eyes was Joey’s knife slitting his throat.

When Sammy woke up, the voice of his lord was gone. By trying to make a toon out of him, Joey had robbed him of his ascension and severed his connection to him.

---

Grant awoke in his office to the horrid ticking of his Bendy clock and the array of whispering voices that had plagued him since early in his infection. The clock’s small hand pointed to six, but Grant had no idea whether it was morning or evening. Months of ink infection had ruined his sense of time. He tried the door to his office and found that it had been locked from the outside by chain and padlock. Grant laughed at the absurdity of it all- his life had spiralled into a nightmarish fever dream.

“Does this mean it’s time?” Grant asked.

Yes. Your time is almost up, the voice answered, and for once, Grant trusted it. He felt almost too tired from illness to care.

“I’ll do anything you ask to stop it.”

No response, except for those muttered voices. Grant hadn’t expected one- the voice rarely had his best interests in mind. He shuffled over to his desk and pushed aside some papers to go back to sleep- possibly for the last time.

And then he saw it- a report from Joey that he’d received mere days before his symptoms had started- ending with the words “Fix this or I’ll have your head!” angrily scrawled at the bottom.

That was it. Joey had done this to motivate him. He just had to figure out how to keep the studio from bankruptcy and he’d be cured!

Yes! Yes! You’re right. Fix it! the voice yelled.

Adrenaline flooded Grant’s system as he jerked open his filing cabinet with shaking hands in search of the necessary files to fix the budget. This was his one chance to survive. The muttering voices were screaming in his head- ear-piercing. His head felt ready to explode.

“Shut up and let me focus!” he screamed.

Ink will soothe your symptoms.

That was something that the voice had told him frequently. He hadn’t given in to it yet- not much, anyhow- because common sense told him that ink was inedible. It was also his sincere belief that the voice wanted to kill him. The voice had told him, back before the physical symptoms had become obvious, that he was merely losing his mind and needed to hide it from everyone, lest he be institutionalized. Then, as soon as the physical symptoms had taken root, it had changed its tune- he was losing his mind, because he was ill with an incurable, supernatural disease, and no hospital could help him, and going to one would only guarantee that he would be a test subject for the limited time he had left. Listening to it then had gotten him into this position, and he wasn’t eager to listen to it again.

But this was life or death. He opened the supply on the ink pipe that Thomas- for some reason he didn’t understand- had installed in his office, and drank deeply.

The voice- the muttering- the headache- it all stopped. Silence. Finally.

Grant’s hands were covered in ink now, and were sure to soak any paper he used. I can’t let that stop me. He dropped to his knees and started painting calculations on the floor.

The numbers didn’t add up. Not a single one. Was his mind was too frayed to do basic mathematical functions?! How could he fix anything, let alone this insurmountable debt, while he could barely think straight?! Calm down. Stay calm. Try again. Life or death. Time is money. What will Joey say?!

From the cracks within the wall, Sammy watched as Grant spiralled into panic and tears, and turned his office inside out trying to find anything that could help, expressing his fears through wall-writing, and attempting escape the room. Poor thing, Sammy thought, remembering the pain and uncertainty of his own ink infection, but soon I’ll be able to teach him the truth.

It had been years since Sammy’s sacrifice. Not only did Sammy still work for Joey now that he was a failed toon, Joey had him on a schedule. Every day at 11:00 AM, Sammy would ooze through the walls of Joey’s office for their morning meeting. Sammy wasn’t particularly happy about doing anything for the man who had turned him into a failed Boris just as he was about to fulfill a higher destiny, but the voice had once told him that to follow Joey was to follow his lord, and now those previous words (which Sammy had recorded and studied every day) were all he had left as a doctrine to follow. Sammy hoped that with enough obedience and service, his lord would see past his ruined body and grant him his destiny.

Joey’s demands were often difficult, but they were simple: sacrificing specific people into specific toons, and looking after the infected. Joey rarely sacrificed people on his own anymore, and instead relied on Sammy to do the dirty work of knocking people out, killing them on pentagrams, and then dealing with the resulting dead body, blood and ink-stains on the floor, and whatever abomination came out of the ink machine. Looking after the ink-infected was easier: keep an eye on them, and once they become too infected to be useful, lock them in their offices or in infirmary rooms and take them to their prison in the basement come night. Sammy had overseen the infection of nearly thirty people by now and had sacrificed dozens.

Thankfully, Joey’s demands were not very time-intensive, and he had plenty of time for his passion: teaching the lost ones about their lord and saviour, Bendy.

The lost ones lived in a prison in the very basement of Joey Drew Studios, along with the failed toons. Sammy’s sermons were some of the only times they were allowed out of their cages, and so they were always happy to see him.

Some agreed with him. Often, these were the same ones who had heard a comforting voice as they were infected- generally those with a religious background. Others thought him insane. Their voice had been different- wrong- hallucinatory- and quite often threatening. Sammy had these lost ones do penance in order to find their way to Bendy. Some found him, leaving Sammy feeling accomplished, but also jealous that he could never have what they had. Hopefully, his lord would see the wonderful work he was doing and one day ascend him along with the rest of them- because surely, that was not their final form.

Today’s meeting was like any other. Sammy waited in the walls until Joey’s 10:30 client left, and then slithered out before him.

“Anything to report?” Joey asked casually, as he looked over some paperwork. These meetings were usually uneventful.

“Two people are currently under quarantine. Three more are infected but still able to work for now. Everything is fine- except for one small detail. One of the people under quarantine is destroying his office out of fear. If you’d like, I could tie him up snug until he transforms, or force-feed him ink to speed the process along.”

Joey considered this. "Hmm... well, I do need an Edgar. He would work as well as any. Are you sure he’s close to transforming?” All ink-infected people had strange beliefs and delusions (except for Sammy, of course- his visions were absolute truth), but by this point in their infection, they were generally too tired to do anything destructive- especially ones like this one, who had increased the duration of their infection by resisting the urge to drink ink.

“It will be a matter of hours,” Sammy assured.

“Well, that’s not convenient, but I do have lunch right after this. I’ll get the Charley down to the basement, and you get the Barley and Edgar. The Barley’s name is Lacie Benton, and I’d suggest you knock her out before taking her anywhere- she’s a tough one. But the Edgar shouldn’t be a problem, right?”

“No... I suppose not.” Severely ink-infected people were, without exception, very weak, and Sammy was stronger now than he’d ever been as a human.

“Alright! See you down there as soon as possible.”

Sammy nodded, slunk back into the walls, and cursed everything, especially his order to obey Joey Drew. A severely ink infected person had never, and would never, produce a good toon- part of their souls had already been connected to the other lost ones. Joey must have known that, but he still insisted on stealing the people that were meant to be Sammy’s to guide, probably because in Joey’s mind, killing a person was murder but killing a lost one (or someone who soon would be a lost one) was not. Joey didn’t see his people as equally human, and it sickened Sammy. Nonetheless, he slithered through the walls until he came upon Grant’s office.

The office looked like a madhouse. The floors and walls were coated with repetitive writing. Furniture had been strewn about. Grant himself was curled against the ink pipe in his office, covered in so much ink that Sammy had thought he was already transformed before he realized he still had hair. The poor thing had tried so hard, while so sick, at something so futile. Sammy had his orders, but he wasn’t going to lay a hand on his sheep-that-wouldn’t-be until he had to.

Sammy slithered out of the wall- slowly, so as not to scare him.

“Who are you?” Grant asked. He sounded so tired of all the supernatural surprises that he barely cared.

“I’m here on behalf of Joey Drew,” Sammy began.

“I’m so sorry. I tried... but I couldn’t. I suppose you’re here to kill me, aren’t you?”

“No. I’m here to give you congratulations. The others in your department were able to use these brilliant calculations,” Sammy gestured widely at the messily scrawled gibberish on a wall, “to make a plan. The studio is going to avoid bankruptcy, and you’re going to be cured. Come with me.” Sammy offered Grant his hand. Grant took it, and Sammy helped him up.

“I-I don’t understand. I don’t understand how-” All of those calculations... Grant would have guessed that they were worthless.

“Shh... you’ll be clearer-headed soon. Just come with me, now. I can’t be out there where everyone can see me, but go to the elevator, go to the bottom floor, and I will be there. I promise- you will be fine.”

“Thank you so much. But, my door-”

Sammy slithered back into the wall. Grant heard the click of a door unlocking, followed by the clink of chains falling limp. His office door was unlocked. Do I trust him? Grant asked himself. This day kept getting stranger. If I don’t, I’m guaranteed to die. I have nothing to lose.

Sammy slithered into the wooden floor of the elevator and only reappeared once the elevator hit the very bottom.

“I’m sorry,” Sammy lamented “I want to lead you to Bendy. I want you to find peace as one of my followers. But it is not in the cards.”

The two made brief eye contact- or would have, if Sammy’s face weren’t covered in mask. Grant, obviously, had no idea what Sammy was talking about. Then, Sammy grabbed Grant’s hair, slammed his head against the wall a few times to knock him out, tied him up for sacrifice, and left to find Lacie Benton.

[raichoose-moved]

They got in trouble for stealing the Grimoire from IMP to go to the human world and possess a Subway, Eat Fresh. 

[xmedicus]

“It’s hard to explain. My body is just too intense with my ninja info cards.”

[staticfog]

“We are a serious hotel with serious values.”

[wlwhovian]

Lost

Thirteenth Doctor/Reader

Word count: 2119 Genre: Whump & hurt/comfort Summary: You’d hoped she’d be here by now. No Doctor and no TARDIS, you find yourself lost in the middle of nowhere with nothing and no one to turn to. Usually it would be fine, only the forest has things hiding in it that you would rather not meet face-to-face. You just hope the Doctor finds you in time. Warnings: Big bugs

It’s getting dark.

You shiver as the cold settles in futher, a chill running down your spine, and try to keep your teeth from chattering as you huddle up, trying to reserve what body heat you still have left.

You’ve managed to find an alcove in one of the trees that succesfully blocks most of the wind, but every now and then when the breeze picks up, it seems to puncture your meager shelter like paper. The forest is silent, save for stray critters skittering around, looking for food, and your own heavy breathing. You blow air into your freezing palms and rub them together. Fuck, it’s cold.

It’s been hours now. There’s no sign of the Doctor, or the TARDIS, and their striking absence is slowly forcing you to consider the chance that maybe she’s not coming, and if that really is the case, then you can’t afford to stay here and wait, slowly freezing to death. No, you have to do something. Right now. What that is, though, you aren’t so sure. Shelter is pretty high on the list of priorities, and you kick yourself for not thinking about any of this earlier, because now the sun is well past setting and finding anything useful will be, if not impossible, very, very difficult. Not to mention that you’d have to leave your meager cover and exchange it’s relative safety for a temperature that’s dropping lower by the second.

You think, once again, how the Doctor told you to stay close, to not get separated, to stay with the bloody group, but here you are all on your lonesome, lost in the middle of the woods. You just can’t listen, can you? You never can. And this time, it just might be the slow, unforgiving death of you.

You jump when something cracks in the distance. You quiet your breathing and try to remain as still as humanly possible, but you can’t keep your hands from trembling, and proceed to stuff them under your arms with a curse under your breath. You’re not sure if it’s the sudden surge of adrenaline or if it’s just the fucking cold.

You can see movement beyond a fallen tree, about ten feet away from where you’re hiding, and your stomach lurches when you get a better look at the source of the noise. It’s not the Doctor. It’s not even humanoid.

Halfway hidden by the treeline you can see a lengthy arching back, covered in some kind of plating, and what looks like dozens of little wiggling legs. Well, little might be an understatement. Try something more like the size of your forearm. They all move in unison with a thick, wet, squelching sound that makes your stomach turn. It slithers over the fallen tree, landing with a soft thump against the ground, and in the encroaching darkness you can see a pair of antennae wiggling in the air as it takes in it’s surroundings. When it gets closer you manage to get a better look and you can tell the creature is, in fact, a massive centipede, and it is headed right towards you with an uncanny determination that makes you wonder if it already knows you’re there. You need to run. Or hide. Anything. You can’t just sit here, for fuck’s sake! You shift your position against the tree, preparing to crawl through the foliage, or run for your life if you have to.

Your heart skips a beat when the ground crumbles under your foot and a whole patch of earth comes loose, sending gravel flying down the hill, cascading over the centipede in rock-hard rain. It turns it’s head on the spot and lets out a deafening screech that forces you to clamp your hands over your ears. The creature shoots towards you at an absurd speed, tiny legs shifting and scuttling and you back away as far as you can, but as your back hits solid stone, you have no choice but to admit that you’re trapped. You cover your face as the centipede rears up, throwing half it’s body in the air, and roars, slathering you in thick, gooey spit that smells like gasoline and spoiled food. You try to breathe in, but the air is heavy with the odour and your chest keeps tightening, like your lungs are being held hostage by your own ribs. You let out one final cry, a little high pitched hiccup, before the creature descends upon you, ready to rip you into shreds.

A flash of light. An electronic whirring. Very potent cursing spiced with a strong Yorkshire accent, followed by another screech from the insect before it crawls away into the distance. Hurried footsteps.

Something heavy and soft is dropped on your shoulders, and you dig deep into the warmth like your life depends on it. A hand lands on your shoulder, but you can’t bear to look up. Your neck is frozen in place, and you sit there, violently shivering, your entire body shaking with uncontrollable tremors. You hear rustling, before your head is gently guided towards someone’s chest, where it is held by a soft, warm hand. You try to breathe in, and listen to their heartbeat. Heartbeats. Plural.

”Doctor?” you manage to mumble, words coming out in a thick slur.

”Shh,” she says, and runs a hand through your sweat-soaked hair. ”It’s alright.” She bends down until her face is in right in front of yours, offering you a sympathetic smile. ”I’ve got you.”

A choked sob escapes from your lips, but it turns into a frenzied gasp that leaves you dry-heaving, and as you weakly nod in confirmation, your head lurches forwards. The Doctor grabs your shoulders and lets you rest in the crook of her neck, where you allow yourself to close your eyes for a moment. It doesn’t help though, because no matter how much you try to make yourself calm down, how many times you try to get yourself to just breathe, air refuses to enter your lungs and you’re left to claw at your throat with feeble, trembling hands.

The Doctor takes your hand in hers and gives it a squeeze, before she presses it against her lips. The simplicity of the intimacy in the gesture makes you press yourself tighter against her, as if you could burrow into her, somewhere she could always keep you safe.

”It’ll be okay. Promise,” she says. Her voice is strained and her brow is furrowed, and she looks so awfully sad that you want to kick yourself for not being able to do anything about it. ”You’re in shock. We need to get you somewhere warm and safe, ok? The TARDIS is just around the corner, we’ll be there in no time.” She pauses. ”Are you hurt?”

You shake your head what meager amount you can.

”Right. That’s good. Proper good.”

You wait for a moment, trying to get the words straight in your head before you try and actually speak them aloud. The Doctor’s chest rises and falls, and you try to focus on the motion instead of the swimming in your head. Eventually, you finally manage to open your mouth despite your tongue feeling dry as sand. ”I’m sorry.”

It’s such a small sentence, only two words, and yet, saying it feels like climbing a whole slew of mountains.

The Doctor shimmies you around until she has you in what she deems an acceptable grip, before rising to her feet, with you carefully secured against her. She takes a few tentative steps before settling into a steady walking pace. Once she’s sure that she’s not going to drop you, she looks down and makes sure she catches your eye. ”None of that now, love. There’s nothin’ to be sorry for.”

Her voice is so gentle, steady like a rock in the middle of a raging sea, that it makes you want to cry. You try to make yourself as small as possible, but all your extremities are numb and you’re not sure if moving would only make it harder for the Doctor to carry you. There’s a weight in your eyelids that’s getting harder and harder to resist, and you have to fight a losing battle to keep them from shutting.

The Doctor takes notice, and offers you an encouraging smile. ”Don’t you go fallin’ asleep on me just yet.” She speeds up to a jog, and you do your best to hold on to her shoulders, but your fingers keep slipping and your hands shake so bad that you can barely get them moving. ”We’re almost there.” She glances a the forest in front of you, before muttering under her breath: ”Really should’ve parked closer.”

You swear you had only closed your eyes for a second, but suddenly you’re being engulfed by the light flowing from the TARDIS, and Graham is ushering the two of you inside. The doors shut with a slam, and when your whole body is drowning in warmth and silken light, you find the world slipping away as deep, comforting darkness takes over.

You awaken to a great, throbbing headache and the scent of raspberries. It smells like safety, like home and saturday mornings spent with a cup of tea, and you let yourself bask in the quiet for a moment. Opening your eyes, you can immediately tell that you’re in your own bedroom, with the lights dimmed and softly playing music easing you back into the waking world. You’ve been stuffed under several thick blankets, but there’s still a persistent chill somewhere deep under your skin. You try taking a deep breath, and this time your chest rises and falls just as it should. The scent of raspberries only gets stronger with each draw of air.

”Gave us quite the scare, you did.”

You jump, but under the heavy weight, nobody but you can probably tell. You turn your head, wincing as pain shoots down your neck, and end up face to face with the Doctor. She’s sitting cross legged in a chair drawn up next to your bed from it’s usual place, holding what looks to be a cheap erotic romance novel, and a cup of tea in her hand. That explains the smell, at the very least.

You sigh. ”I’m sorry,” you say, eyes strictly trained on the frayed edge of the blanket. The Doctor places the book down on the armrest, before turning to fully face you.

”There you go again,” she says with a lop-sided smile. ”With the sorries and the apologies. I told you,” she pauses as she shifts to hold her cup more securely, ”You’ve nothin’ to be sorry for. Pinkie swear.” She holds out her little finger and you take it with yours. ”Unless you try to get up before you’re ready, in which case I’ll have no choice but to detain you.”

”Detain me?” you ask with a snort.

”Made you laugh,” the Doctor says, smiling mischieviously. You throw one of your pillows at her.

”Oh, shut up.”

”I’m serious!” she says. ”Bedrest is nothin’ to be laughed at, you know. Plenty of things get much better by having a lie down.”

”You’re one to talk. The last time I saw you in bed was probably two weeks ago.”

”But I’m not human, am I?”

You look away, sheepish. ”No.”

”And humans need their rest. Lots of it.”

”Fine,” you say, rolling your eyes. ”Have it your way.”

The Doctor grins at you. ”That’s more like it.” She drains her cup and stands up, giving her back a hefty stretch. ”You just try and sleep, alright? Doctor’s orders.” She turns to leave, and you find your hand shooting out from beneath the blankets to hold hers. The Doctor turns, surprised and a little confused. You can’t make yourself look her in the eye.

”Could you stay with me?” you ask, and you can already feel heat creeping up your neck, covering your cheeks in a flush. A second passes by. To you, it’s one too many, and you draw your hand back to where it was, an apology already on your lips, before the Doctor interrupts you.

”Of course.”

You’re not really sure what you expected, but upon being granted your request, you’re not sure what to do. The Doctor grins. ”Do you want me to hop on the bed too, or should I stay in me chair? I could read you this literary masterpiece,” she says, gesturing at the book that’s still open on the armrest.

”Come here?” you ask, your voice quiet and shy. The Doctor beams. She picks up the book and crawls over you, so that she’s leaning against the wall, her legs crossed on top of you.

”Right! Alright, so, in the previous chapter..”

You try to listen. You really, really do, but the comforting narration of the Doctor combined with the abysmal plot of the book has you falling back asleep in minutes. The last thing you remember before nodding off is her taking your hand in hers, holding it carefully as she lightly draws circles on your skin with her thumb. You only wonder how you ever got this lucky.